-, f V >■> -••r:; ;;,JV'* II yuif ".,^ ^ pKr- l^yf; ■•.;:* ?.^^'' ibW I* ^^ '^„/i.^ or ESTATE OF CAROLINE E. LE CONTE ¥IT AND HUMOR, SELECTED FROM THE ENGLISH POETS; WITH AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY, AND CKITICAL COMMENTS. BY LEIGH HUNT NEW YORK: WILEY & P U 1' N A M , 1 G 1 B R A D W A Y 1846. ^;// ^^*^' p.. Cbaioqead's I'ower Press, Ua Fulton Street PEEFACE. This book was announced for publication last autumn ; and it would have appeared at that time but for a severe illness which the editor underwent during the progress of his Stories fi^om the Italian Poets, and the consequences of which conspired with other untoward circumstances to delay- it till now. ¥/hat additional amount of indulgence there- fore may be required by his portion of the work, the good- natured reader will not withhold. Luckily, the far greater part of the volume cannot fail to amuse ; and in order to make amends for that absence of prose wit and humor which its limitation to verse rendered at once unavoidable and provoking (considering how much some of the best of the writers excelled in prose, often to the far greater ad- vantage of their pleasantry), the Introductory Essay has been plentifully supplied Avitli examples of both sorts. Comedy, indeed, has had comparatively little to say for itself in verse, even in Shakspeare. Wit and satire, and the ob- servation of common life, w^ant, of necessity, the enthusiasm of poetry, and are not impelled by their nature into musical utterance. They may call in the aid of verse to concentrate their powers and sharpen their effect ; but it will never be of any high or inspired order. It will be pipe and tabor music ; not that of the organ or the orchestra. Juvenal n7i:> *> t Q^n vi PREFACE. ssometimcs gives us stately hexameters ; but then he was a very serious satirist, and worked himself up into a lofty indignation. One of the perplexities that beset the Editor in his task was the superabundance of materials. They pressed upon him so much, and he overdid his selections to such an ex- tent in the first instance, that he was obliged to retrench two-tliirds of them, perhaps more ; and plenty of matter re- mains for an additional volume, should the public care to have it. x\t the same time, he unexpectedly found himself imable to extract a great deal of what is otherwise excellent, on account of the freedom of speech in which almost all the wits have indulged, and which they would in all probability have checked, could they have foreseen the changes of custom in that respect, and the effect it would have in bounding their admission into good company. It was la- mentable and provoking to discover what heaps of admirable passages the Editor was compelled to omit on this account, from the works of Beaumont and Fletcher down to Do?i Juan. It was as if the greatest wits had resolved to do the foolishest things, out of spite to what was expected of them by common sense. But excess of animal spirits helps to account for it. Should health enough be spared him (as change of air and scene has enabled him to hope), it is the Editor's in- tention to follow up this volume next year with the third of tlie series announced in the preface to Imagination and Fancy ; namely, a selection, edited in the like manner, from the Narrative and Dramatic Poets, under the title of Action and Passion. The reason why so much of the book is printed in italics, was explained in the Preface above mentioned ; but to those PREFACE. vii who have not seen the explanation, it is proper to s-tate, that it originated in a wish expressed by the readers of a periodical work, who liked the companionship which it im- plied between reader and editor. Otherwise, the necessity of thus pointing out particular passages for admiration in the writings of men of genius is rapidly decreasing, espe- cially in regard to wit and humor ; faculties, of which, as well as of knowledge in general, of scholarship, deep think- ing, and the most proved abilities for national guidance, more evidences are poured forth every day in the newspaper press, than the wits of Queen Anne's time, great as they were, dreamed of compassing in a month. And the best of it is, — nay, one of the great reasons of it is, — that all this surprising capacity is on the side of the Great New Good Cause of the World,— that of the Rights of the Poor ; for it is only from the heights of sympathy that we can perceive the universal and the just. Meantime, he is preparing for pubhcation a volume apart from the series, and on quite another plan ; its object being to produce such a Selection from Favorite Authors, both in prose and verse, as a lover of books, young or old, might like to find lying in the parlor of some old country-house, or in the quietest room of any other house, and tending to an impartial, an unlimited, and yet entertaining and tranquilliz- ing review of human existence. It is a book, he hopes, such as Mrs. Radcliflfe would have liked in her childhood ; Sir Roger de Covcrley in his old age ; or Gray and Thomson at any time. And all those interesting persons will have their part in it. Wimbledon, Sept. 22, 1846. CONTENTS. PACK AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY ON WIT AND HUMOR 1 SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE 50 CHARACTERS OF PILGRIMS 54 THE friar's tale; or, the summoner and the devil 69 THE pardoner's WAY OF PREACHING 79 THE merchant's OPINION OF WIVES 4 SO GALLANTRY OF TRANSLATION 82 THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE FAIRIES S3 SELECTIONS FROM SHAKSPEARE, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE S5 THE COXCOMB S7 UNWITTING SELF-CRIMINATION SS THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 89 SELECTIONS FROM BEN JONSON, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE lOS TO MY MUSE I OS THE FOX 110 SELECTIONS FROM BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE 1-4 THE PHILOSOPHY OF KICKS AND BEATINGS 12'j DUKE AND NO DUKE 132 ANONYMOUS- • l-ia THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER 142 CONTENTS. ^^ PAOE SELECTIONS FROM RANDOLPH, AtlTHTOTTlCAL NOTICE 145 FEAR, RASHXESS, AND FOLLY 146 PRETENDED FAIRIES ROBBING AN ORCHARD 150 SELECTIONS FROM SUCKLING, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE 15G THE CONSTANT LOVER 157 THE REMONSTRANCE 157 A SESSION OF THE POETS ] 5S THE BRIDEGROOM 163 THE BRIDE 161 SELECTIONS FROM BROME, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE 166 OLD MEN GOING TO SCHOOL. .*. 166 SELECTIONS FROM MARVEL, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE 1G9 ON BLOOD STEALING THE CROWN 170 DEs^CaiPTION OF HOLLAND 171 FLECNOE, AN ENGLISH PRIEST AT ROME 172 SELECTIONS FROM BUTLER, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE 175 DESCRIPTION OF HUDIBRAS AND HIS EQUIPMENTS 177 SAINTSHIP versus CONSCIENCE ! 181 THE ASTROLOGERS 1S3 A statesman's CONVERSATION 133 HEROES OF ROMANCE IS 1 SELF-POSSESSION 184 MISCELLANEOUS PASSAGES 185 CAUTION AGAINST OVER-REFORM 187 LOFTY CARRIAGE OF IGNORANCE 187 CAUTION AGAINST PROSELYTISM 187 HOLLAND AND THE DUTCH ISS SELECTIONS FROM DRYDEN, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE 1S!> CHARACTER OF LORD SHAFTESBURY. 191 CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM 104 FOPPERIES OF THE TIME 195 THE CATHOLIC AND THE PROTESTANT CLERGY 196 SELECTIONS FROM PHILIPS, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE 199 THE SPLENDID SHILLING 199 SELECTIONS FROM POPE, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE 204 THE SYLPHS AND THE LOCK OF HAIR 205 TROUBLES FROM BAD AUTHORS 212 # CONTENTS. • - v^ •j|^ PAGE CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF^HARTON 214 CHARACTER OF ADDISON 215 CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM 217 CHARACTER OF THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH 218 CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF CHANDOS 219 CHARACTER OF NARCISSA 221 CHARACTER OF CHLOE 222 THE RULING PASSION 223 SELECTIONS FROM SWIFT, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE 225 THE GRAND QUESTION DEBATED 226 MARY THE COOK-MAID's LETTER TO DR. SHERIDAN 232 AN CIENT DRAMATISTS 233 ABROAD AND AT HOME 234 VERSES ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT 235 SELECTIONS FROM GREEN, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE 242 REMEDIES FOR THE SPLEEN 243 SELECTIONS FROM GOLDSMITH, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE 247 THE RETALIATION 248 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON 252 SELECTIONS FROM WOLCOT, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE 25G CONVERSATION ON JOHNSON, BY MRS. PIOZZI (tHRALE), AND MR. BOSWELL 257 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSA3& ON WIT AND HUMOR. The facetious Dr. King, the civilian, one of the minor, or rather the minim poets, who have had the good luck to get into the Col- lections, tells us, that he awoke one morning, speaking the fol- lowing words " out of a dream," — Nature a thousand ways complains, A thousand words express her pains ; But for her laughter has but three. And very small ones, Ha, ha, he ! This seems to be a very tragical conclusion for " poor human nature ;" but the Doctor had probably been taking his usual potations over-night, and so put his waking thoughts into plain- tive condition ; for had he reflected on that " art of wit " which he professed, and opposed pleasures to pain^', instead of " laugh- ter," as the correct wording of his propositibn required, he would have discovered that laughable fancies have at least as many ways of expressing themselves as those which are lachrymose ; gravity tending to the fixed and monotonous, like the cat on the hearth, while levity has as many tricks as the kitten. I confess I felt this so strongly when I began to i*eflect on the present subject, and found myself so perplexed with the demand, 2 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY that I was forcfl /^ '-/ r 1 \. ^vv^n/g ^^(Aj dnd he was not right fat^ I undertake. But loked holwe, and therto soberly. Ful thredbare was his overest courtepy. and play on the rote. There was nobody to be compared with him for a good story. His neck was as white as a lily , but that did not hinder his being a very champion for strength. He knew every tavern-keeper, tapster, and ostler about the country, better than he did any beggar, sick or well. Indeed, it is not proper for such as he to go herding with sick beggars. It would not be respectable or useful. The friar's duty lies among the rich, and with people who keep eating-houses. Where any profit could come of it, who could humble himself as he did ? who show so much activity ? He was the best beggar of his house, and rented the district he went about in, so that none of his brethren might interfere. If a widow had but an old shoe, he would get a farthing out of it ere he left her ; so pleasant was his in principio. He made a great deal more of his lease than he paid for it. An Oxford Scholar was among us, who had long passed his examin- ation. His horse was as lean as a rake, and he himself was not much fatter. He had hollow cheeks, a grave expression of countenance, and a £^ 64 CHAUCER. For he hadde goten him yet no benefice Ne was nought worldly to liavc an oflTice ; For him was lever han at his beddcs hcd Twenty bokes, clothed in blake or red, Of Aristotle and his philosophic Then robes riche, orfidel or sautrie : But all be that he was a philosophre. Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre,^^ But all that he might of his frendes hente On bokes and on learning he it spente, And besily gan for the soules praie Of hem that yave him wherewith to scolaie, Of studie toke he moste cure and hede ; Not a word spake he more than was nede, And that was said in form and reverence. And short and quike, and ful of high sentence. Souning in moral vertue was his speche, And gladly wold he lerne and gladly teche.^"^ A Sergeant of the Lawe ware and wise, That often hadde yben at the paruis, Ther was also, ful riche of excellence ; Discrete he was, and of grete reverence ; He semed swiche, his wordes were so wise : For his science and for his high renoun Of fees and robes had he many on : So grete a pourchasour was no wher non : All was fee simple to him in effect ; His pourchasing might not ben in suspect : coarse threadbare cloak ; for he had got no living yet, and he was not the man to push for one. The finest clothes and the merriest playing on the fiddle were nothing in his estimation compared with a score of old books at his bed's head, of Aristotle and his philosophy, bound in red or black. His philosophy was no philosopher's stone. All the money that friends gave him, he laid out on books and learning ; and the moment he received it, he would begin praying for their souls. Study, study was what he cared for. He never used more words than were necessary, and they were all according to form and authority, very emphatical and sententious. Every- thing which he uttered tended to a moral purpose ; and gladly would he learn, and gladly teach. We had a Sergeant-at-Law with us, a very wary and knowing gen- tleman Many a consultation had been held with him. You might know what authority he had, his words were so oracular. His knowledge and fame together had brought liim a prodigious number of fees and fine things. Everything in fact turned to fee-simple in his hands, and all with a justice CHAUCER. 65 A'o wher so besy a man as he ther n' as ; Jlnd yet he semed hesier than he was.^^ In termes hadde he cas and domes alle That fro the time of King Will, weren falle ; Thereto he coude endite and make a thing ; Ther coude no wight pinche at his writing ; And every statute coude he plaine by rote. He rode but homely in a medlee cote Girt with a saint of silk with barres smale. A Shtpman was ther, woned fer by west ; For ought I wote he was of Dertemouth : He rode upon a rouncie, as he couthe, All in a goune of falding to the knee. A dagger hanging by a las hadde hee About his nekke under his arm adoun ; The hole summer hadde made his hewe all hroun , And certainly he was good felaw ; Ful many a draught of win he hadde draw From Burdeux ward while that the chapman slepe : Of nice conscience toke he no kepe. If that he faught and hadde the higher hand. By water he sent hem home to every land. But of his craft to reken wel his tides. His stremes and his strandes him besides, His herberwe, his mone, and his lodemanage. There was non swiche from Hull unto Cartage. and propriety that nobody could think of disputing. There wasn't such a busy man in existence ; and yet he seemed busier than he was. He knew every case and judgment that had been recorded since the time of King William ; and could draw out a plea with such perfection, not a flaw was to be found in it. As to the statutes, he knew them all by heart. He was dressed plainly enough in a suit of mixed colors, with a silken sash all over small bars. There was a Captain of a Ship there, who came a long way out of the West. I think he was from Dartmouth. He had got a horse upon hire, which he rode as well as he was able. He wore a falding that reached to his knee, with a dirk hanging under his arm from a string round the neck ; and his skin was all tanned with the sun. A jovial companion was he. He had helped himself to many a swig of wine at Bourdeaux, while the merchant was asleep. Conscience was not in his line. If he got the bet- ter of a vessel at sea, he always sent the men home by water. As to his seamanship and his pilotage, his knowledge of rivers and coasts, of sun and moon, and his heavings of the lead, there wasn't such another from Hull to Carthage. He was both audacious and cautious. With many a tempest 6<3 CHAUCER. Hardy he was, and wise, I undertake ; JVit/i many a tempest hadde his herd be shake He knew wel alle the havens as they were Fro Gotland to the Cape de Finistere, And every creke in Bretagne and in Spaine : His barge ycleped was the Magdelaine." had his beard been shaken. He knew the soundings of every harbor from Gothland to Cape Finisterre, and every creek in Brittany and Spain. His vessel was called the Magdalen. \ " Whanne that April," &c.— What freshness and delicacy in this exordium ! It seems as if the sweet rains entered the ground, purely to reappear, themselves as flowers. 8 " The holy blissful mar^y/-."— Thomas a Becket — the great pan- tomimic shifter from a favorite into a saint. 3 " In Southwerk at the Ta6arc?."— Readers hardly need be told, that this Tabard inn is still extant, under the misnomer of the Talbot. It is worthy of any gentleman's " pilgrimage," from the remotest regions of May-Fair. The Borough is one of the most classical spots in England. It has Chaucer at one end, and Shakspeare at the other (in the Globe Theatre) ; besides Gower, and Fletcher, and Massinger, lying in the churches. * " He was a veray parfit getitil knight." — And a very perfect line is it that so describes him. It would be a pity it did not conclude the portrait, but for the good sense and sobriety of what follows, and the smutted state of the knight's doublet, caused by his coat of mail. This renders the conclusion still better, by showing the crowning point of his character, which is the preference of sub- stance to show, and action before the glory of it. He is a man who would rather conclude with being a perfect knight than with being called one. 6 " With lockis crull ds they were I aide in presse."— And perhaps the sly poet meant us to understand that they were ; for manliness in youth is not always above the little arts of foppery. 8 " Jlnd car/ before his fader at the table." — A custom of the time, and a far more civilized one than that of assigning the office to old gentlemen and delicate ladies. ' *' And all was conscience and tendre herte." — A lovely verse. CHAUCER. 67 8 " Amor vincit omnia" — Love conquers all things. We are to take this quotation from Ovid in a religious sense ; whatever charitable thoughts towards others the good nun might combine with it. 9 " Preestes i/ir^,"— The Prioress, for all her fine boarding-school breeding, fed heartily as well as nicely, and was in good buxom condition. We are not to suppose that the " Preestes thre" were less so, or fared ill at her table. One of them, indeed, who is called a " sweete Preest," and a " goodly man," is described as having a " large breast," and looking like "a sparrow-hawk with his eyen." It is he that tells the pleasant fable of the Cock and the Fox. 10 « ^ Frere ther was, a wanton and a mery, A limitour, a ful solempne man." This audacity of style, making the Friar at once merry and solemn, is in the richest comic taste. He is a '■'■ful solempne man ;" that is to say, excessively and ultra solemn, while he is about it ; so much so, that you see the lurking merriment in the excess. He shakes his head and cheeks, speaks hollow in the throat, and in a nasal tone of disapprobation. He particularly excels in deprecating what he approves. Next to money-getting, he would object to luxury. He had joined numbers of young women in marriage " at his own cost ;" that is to say, for no better pay than being the merriest fellow at the wedding-dinner, and looking forward to every possible good thing in the household. If a widow had but a " shoe" left, he would get a farthing out of it. I have seen such jolly beggars in Italy. One of them, a fine handsome young man, who was having his paoniers filled at a farmer's door (for he went about with a donkey), invited me to a pinch of snufF with all the unaffected grace of his country ; and on my praising the beauty of the place (it was at Maiano, on the Fiesolan hills, looking towards Florence), he acquiesced with a sort of deprecating admission of the fact, worthy of his brother in Chaucer ; observing, while he piously turned up his eyes, that it was " good enough for t^iis world." 11 " Litel gold in cofre." — A hit at the philosopher's stone ; or, by inference, at the poverty of philosophy in general. 68 CHAUCER. Povera e nuda vai, Filosofia. Petrarch. Naked and poor-goest thou, Philosophy. But the twenty books at the bed's head pay for all. " " And gladly wold he lerne and gladly teche." — The consumma- tion of a real unaffected lover of knowledge. Yet I cannot help being of opinion with Warton, that the three lines beginning "not a word spake he," are intended to imply a little innocent pedantry. Tyrwhitt supposes the credit of good letters to be concerned in our thinking otherwise. (Moxon's edition of Chau- cer, p. 175.) But Chaucer thought that good letters could bear a little banter, without losing their credit. All purely serious scholars in those times had a tendency to pedantry and formality. Chaucer only escaped it himself by dint of the gayer part of his genius. '3 <' JVo wher so hesy a man as he ther n'as ; And yet he semtd besier than he was." One is never tired of repeating this exquisite couplet. So Lawyer Dowling, in Tom Jones, wishes he could cut himself into I forget how many pieces, in order that he might see to all the affairs which he had to settle. '■* " His barge ycleptd was the Magdelaine." — This gentle peniten- tial name has a curious effect in connection with a man who had no nicety of conscience. Was it meant to show the frequently irrelevant nature of the names of ships ? or to imply that the rough seaman had a soft corner in his heart for penitents of the fair saint's description ? The line about the tempest-shaken beard is an effusion of the finest poetry. It invests the homely man with a sudden grandeur ; as though a storm itself had risen in the horizon, dignifying his rude vessel with danger. CHAUCER. 69 THE FRIAR'S TALE ; OK, THE SUMMONER AND THE DEVIL. A Summoner finds himself riding in company with a Devil, and makes an agreement with him which turns out to be of an unexpected nature. A Summoner was a church officer, who cited offenders into the ecclesiastical court. The friars and the dignified clergy were at great variance in Chaucer's time ; and therefore it is a friar who relates the following anmsing and exquisitely complete story, in which I have omitted nothing but a superfluous exor- dium. — And so befell, that ones on a day This Sompnour, waiting ever on his prey. Rode forth to sompne a widewe, an old ribibe,* Feining a cause, for he wold ban a bribe. And happed, that he saw beforn him ride A gay yeman under a forest side ; A bow he bare ; and arwes bright and kene He had upon a courtepy of grene. And hat upon his bed with frenges blake. Sire, quod the Sompnour, haile and wel atake. Welcome, quod he, and every good felaw. Whider ridest thou under this grene shaw ? (Saide this yeman) wolt thou fer to-day ? A summoner, who was ever on the watch for prey, rode forth one morn- ing to cheat a poor old woman, against whom he pretended to have a com- plaint. His track lay by a forest-side ; and it chanced, that he saw before him, under the trees, a yeoman on horseback, gaily equipped with a bow and arrows. The stranger was in a short green cloak : and he had a hat with a black fringe. " Good-morrow, sir," quoth the summoner, overtaking him. " The same to you," quoth the yeoman, " and to every other jolly com- panion. What road are you bound upon to-day through the green wood ? Are you going far ?" * Ribibe was a word for the musical instrument called also a rebec (a sort of guitar). Why it was applied to old women the commentators can- not say ; Tyrwhitt thinks, perhaps on account of its sharp tone. 70 CHAUCER This Sompnour him answerd, and saide, Nay, Here faste by (quod he) is min entent To ridcn, for to reiscn up a rent That longeth to my lordes duetee. A ! art thou than abaillif ? Ye, quod he. {He dorsth not, for vcray filth and shame. Say that he was a Sompnour, for the name). Depar Dieux, quod this yeman, leva brother, Thou art a baillif, and I am another ; I am unknowen as in this contree ; Of thin acquaintance I wol prayen thee. And eke of brothered, if that thee list. I have gold and silver lying in my chist; If that thee hap to come into our shire, Al shal be thin, right as thou w^olt desire. Grand mercy, qaod this Sompnour, by my faith. Everich in others bond his trouthe laith For to be sworne brethren til they dey. In daliaunce they riden forth and pley. This Sompnour, which that was as ful of jangles. As ful of venime ben thise wariangles,* And ever enguering upon everythi?ig, Brother, quod he, wher is now your dwelling, Another day if that I shuld you seche ? This yeman him answerd in softe speche, " No," replied the summoner. "My business is close at hand. I'm only going about a rent that's owing to my master." " Oh, what, you are a bailiff", then ?" quoth the yeoman. " Just so," returned the summoner. He had not the face to own him- self what he was ; the very name of summoner was such a disgrace. " Well now ; that's good," said the stranger ; " for I'm a bailiff" myself; and as I am not very well acquainted with this part of the country, I shall be glad of your good offices, if you have no objection to my company. I have plenty of money at home ; so if you travel into our parts, you shall want for nothing." " Many thanks," cried the summoner ; " I 'm yours, with all my heart." The new friends gave their hands to one another, and pushed on their horses merrily. The summoner, who always had an eye to business, and was besides of an inquisitive nature, and as fond of poking his nose into everything as a wood-pecker, lost no time in asking the stranger where he lived, in case he should come to see him. The yeoman, in a tone of singular gentleness, answered, that he should * Wariangles, wood-peckers. CHAUCER. 71 Brother, quod he, fer in the north contree,* Wher as I hope sometime I shall thee see. Or we depart I shall thee so wel wisse, That of min hous ne shalt thou never misse. Now brother, quod this Sompnour, I you pray Teche me, while that we riden by the way (Sith that ye ben a baillif as am I) Som subtiltee, and tell me faithfully In min office how I may moste winne ; And spareth not for conscience or for sinne. But, as my brother, tell me how do ye. Now by ray trouthe, brother min, said he. As I shal tellen thee a faithful tale. My wages ben ful strait and eke ful smale ; My lord is hard to me and dangerous. And min office is ful laborious. And therefore by extortion I leve ; Forsoth I take all that men wol me yeve : Al gates by sleighte or by violence Fro yere to yere I win all my dispence : I can no better tellen faithfully. Now certes (quod this Sompnour) so fare I ; I spare not to taken, God it wote, But if it be to hevy or to hote. What I may gete in conseil prively, No maner conscience of that have 1. N'ere min extortion I might not liven, Ne of swiche japes wol I not be shriven. be very glad of his visit ; that he lived indeed a great way off, in the north ; but that before they parted, he would instruct him so well in the locality, that it should be impossible for him to miss it. " Good," returned the summoner. " And now, as we are of one accord and one occupation, pray let me into a secret or two, how I may prosper in my employment. Don't mince the matter as to conscience or sin, or any of that kind of nonsense ; but tell me plainly how you transact busi- ness yourself " Why, to say the truth," answered the yeoman, " I have a very hard master and very little wages ; and so I live by extortion. I take all that people give me, and a good deal more besides. I couldn't make both ends meet else ; and that's the plain fact." " Precisely my case," cried the summoner. " I take everything I can lay my hands on, unless it be too heavy or too hot. To the devil with The supposed locality of devils. 72 CHAUCER. Stomak ne conscience know I non ; I shrew thisc sliriftc fadcrs cvcrich on : Wei be we met, by God and by Seint Jame. But, leve brother, tell me than thy name, Quod this Sompnour. Right in this menh V'hile This yeman gan a litel for to smile. Brother, quod he, wolt thou that I thee tell ? I am a fend, my dwelling is in hell ; And here I ride about my pourchasing To wote wher men wol give me anything : My pourchas is th' effect of all my rent ; Loke how thou ridest for the same entent : To winnen good thou rekest never how : Right so fare I, for riden wol I now Unto the worldes ende for a praye. A, quod this Sompnour, benedicite ! what say ye 7 I wend ye were a yeman trewely ; Ye have a mannes shape as wel as I : Have ye then a figure determinat In helle, ther ye ben in your estat ? Nay, certainly, quod he, ther hrve we non ; But whan us liketh we can take us on, Or elles maUe you wene that we ben shape Sometime like a man, or like an ape, Or like an angel can I ride or go ; It is no wonder thing though it be so; A lousy jogelour can deceiven thee. And parde yet can I more craft than he. conscience and repentance, say I. Catch me at confession who can. Well are we met, by the Lord. What is your name, my dear fellow ?" The yeoman began smiling a little at this question. " Why, if you must know," quoth he, " my name, betwixt you and me, is Devil. I am a fiend, and live in hell ; and I am riding hereabouts to see what I can get. Your business and mine is precisely the same. You don't care how you get anything provided you succeed ; nor do I. I'll ride to the world's end, for instance, this very morning, sooner than not meet with a prey." " God bless me," cried the summoncr, crossing himself, " a * devil' do you say ? I thought you were a man like myself. You have a man's shape. Have you no particular shape then of your own .-"' " Not a bit of it," quoth the stran'.;er. " We take what likeness we please ; sometimes a man's, sometimes a monkey's ; nay, an angel's, if it suits us. And no marvel. For a common juggler can deceive your eyes in such matters ; and it is hard if a devil can't do it better than a juggler." CHAUCER. 73 Why, quod the Sompnour, ride ye than or gon In sondry shape, and not alway in on ? For we, quod he, wol us swiche forme make As most is able our preye for to take. What maketh you to han al this labour ! Ful many a cause, leve Sire Sompnour, Saide this fend. But alle thing hath time ; The day is short, and it is passed prime. And yet ne wan I nothing in this day ; I wol entend to winning if I may. And not intend our thinges to declare ; For, brother min, thy wil is al to bare To understand, although I told hem thee. But for thou axest why labouren we ? For sometime we be Goddes instruments, And menes to don his commandements Whan that him list, upon his creatures In divers actes and in divers figures : Withouten him we have no might certain. If that him list to stonden theragain. And sometime at our praiere han we leve Only the body and not the soul to greve ; Witnesse on Job, whom that we diden wo ; And sometime han we might on bothe two This is to sain, on soule and body eke : And sometime be we suffered for to seke Upon a man, and don his soule unrest Anc" not his body, and all is for thebeste. Whan he withstandeth our temptation, It is a cause of his salvation ; " But why," inquired the summoner, " not be content with some one shape in particular ?" " Because," replied the other, " the more disguises, the more booty." " That is taking a great deal of trouble, is it not ?"' asked the summoner. " Why couldn't you take less ?" *' For many reasons, good Master Summoner," quoth the devil. " But all in good time. The day wears, and I have got nothing yet, so I must attend to business. Besides, you couldn't understand the matter, if I told it. You haven't wit enough for its comprehension. But if you ask why we trouble ourselves at all, you must know, that God wills it, and that devils themselves are but instruments in his hands. We can do nothing at all if he doesn't choose it ; and do what we may, we can sometimes go no further than the body. We are not always permitted to touch the soul. Witness the case of Job. Sometimes, on the other hand, we are permitted to torment a man's soul, and not his body : and all is for the best. Our very temptations are the cause of a man being saved, if he resists them. 5 74 CHAUCER. Al be it that it was not our entente He shuld be sauf, but that we wold him hente. And sometime be we servants unto man, As to the Archebishop Seint Dunstan, And to the Apostle servant eke was I. Yet tell me, quod this Sompnour, faithfully. Make ye you newe bodies thus alway Of elements ? The fend answered. Nay. Sometime we feine, and sometime we arise With dede bodies, in ful sondry wise. And speke as re'nably, and faire, and wel. As to the Phitonesse did Samuel ; And yet wol som men say it was not he : I do no force of your divinitee. But o thing warne I thee, I wol not jape ; Thou wolt algates wete how we be shape ; Thou shalt hereafterward, my brother dere. Com wher thee nedeth not of me to lere. For thou shalt by thin owen experience Conne in a chaiere rede of this sentence Bet than Virgile, while he was on live. Or Dant also. Now let us riden blive. For I wol holden compagnie with thee Til it be so that thou forsake me. Nay, quod this Sompnour, that shal never betide. I am a yeman knowen is ful wide ; My trouthe wol I hold to thee, my brother. As I have sworne, and ache of us to other, Not that we have any such good intention. Our design is to carry him away with us, body and soul. Sometimes we are even compelled to be servants to a man. Archbishop Dunstan had a devil for a servant ; and I served an Apostle myself." " And have you a new body every time you disguise yourselves," in- quired the summoner ; " or is it only a seeming body .'" " Only a seeming body sometimes," answered the devil. " Sometimes also we possess a dead body, and give people as good substantial words, as Samuel did to the witch ; though some learned persons are of opinion that it was not Samuel whom she raised, but only his likeness. Be all this as it may, of one thing you may be certain, my good friend ; and that is, that you shall know more of us by-and-by, and be able to talk more learnedly about it, than Virgil did when he was living, or Dante himself. At pre- sent, let us push on. I like your company vastly ; and will stick to you, as long as you do not choose to forsake mine." *' Nay," cried the summoner, " never talk of that. I am very well known for respectability; and I liold myself as firmly pledged to you, as CHAUCER. 75 For to be trewe brethren in this cas, And bothe we gon abouten our pourchas. Take thou thy part, what that men wol thee yeve. And I shall min, thus may we bothe leve ; And if that any of us have more than other, Let him be trewe, and part it with his brother. I graunte, quod the devil, by my fay ; And with -that word they riden forth her way ; And right at entring of the tounes ende To which this Sompnour shope him for to wende, They saw a cart that charged was with hay. Which that a carter drove forth on his way. Depe was the way, for which the carte stood ; The carter smote, and cried as he were wood, Hcit, Scot ; heit, Brok ; what, spare ye for the stones ? The fend (quod he) you fecche, body and bones, As ferforthly as ever ye were foled. So mochel wo as I have with you tholed. The devil have al, bothe hors, and cart, and hay. The Sompnour sayde, Here shal we have a praye ; And nere the fend he drow, as nought ne were, Ful prively, and rouned in his ere ; Herken, my brother, herken, by thy faith ; Herest thou not how that the carter saith ? Hent it anon, for he hath yeve it thee. Both hay and cart, and eke his caples three. Nay, quod the devil, God wot, never a del ! It is not his entente, trust thou me wel : Axe him thyself, if thou not trowest me ; Or elles stint awhile, and thou shalt see. you do yourself to me. We are to ride and prosper together. You are to take what people give you ; I am to take what I can get ; and if the profits turn out to be unequal, we divide them." *' Quite right," said the devil ; and so they push forward. They were now entering a town ; and before them was a hay-cart which had stuck in the mud. The carter, who was in a rage, whipped his horses like a madman. " Heit, Scot ! heit, Brok !" cried he to the beasts ; " What ! it's the stones, is it, that make you so lazy .-' The devil take ye both, say I. Am I to be thwacking and thumping all day.? The devil take you, hay, cart, and all." " Ho, ho !" quoth the summoner, " here's something to be got." He drew close to his companion, and whispered him : " Don't you hear ?" said he. " The carter gives you his hay, cart, and three horses." *' Not he," answered the devil. " He says so, but he doesn't mean it. Ask him, if he does. Or wait a little, and you'll see." 76 CHAUCER. This carter thakketh his hors upon the croupe, And tht'if begoiine to drawen and to stot/pe. Heit tiow, quod he ; ther, Jesu Crist you hiesse. And all his hondes werk, bothe more and Icsse ! That was Wtl twight, mine owtn Liard hoy : I pray God save thy body and Seint Eloy. Now is my cart out of the slough, parde. Lo, brother, quod the fend, what told I thee. Here may ye seen, mine owen dere brother. The cherl spake o ining, but he thought another^ Let us go forth abouten our viage ; Here win I nothing upon this cariage. Whan that they comen somwhat out of toun. This Sompnour to his brother gan to roune ; Brother, quod he, here woneth an old rebekke, That had almost as lefe to lese hire nekke As for to yeve a peny of hire good : I wol have twelf pens, though that she be wood. Or I wol somone hire to our office; And yet, God wot, of hire know I no vice ; But for thou canst not as in this contree Winnen thy cost, take here ensample of me. This Sompnour clappeth at the widewes gate ; Come out, he sayd, thou olde very trate ; I trow thou hast som frere or preest with thee. Who clappeth .' said this wif, benedicite ! The carter thwacked his horses again, and they began to stoop and to draw. "Heit now; — gee up; — matthy wo; — ah, — God bless 'em — there they come. That was well twitched, Grey, my old boy. God bless you, say I, and Saint Elias to boot. My cart's out of the slough at last." " There," said the devil ; " You see how it is. The fellow said one thing, but he thought another. We must e'en push on. There's nothing to be got here. The companions continued their way through the town, and weie just quitting it, when the summoner, pulling his bridle as he reached a cottage door, said, " There's an old hag living here, who would almost as soon break her neck as part with a halfpenny I'll get a shilling out of her, for that, though it drive her mad. She shall have a summons else, and that'll be worse for her. Not that she has committed any ollence, God knows. That's quite another business. But mark me now : and see what you must do, if you would get anything in these parts." The summoner rattled the old woman's gate, crying, *' Come out, old trot ; — come out ; — you've got some friar or priest with you I" " Who's there .'" said the woman. " Lord bless us ! God save you, sir ! What is your will ?" CHAUCER. 77 God save you, sire, what is your swete will ? I have, quod he, of somons here a bill : Up peine of cursing loke that thou be To-morwe before the archedekenes knee, To answere to the court of certain thinges. Now Lord, quod she, Christ Jesu, King of kinges, So wisely helpe me as I ne may, I have been sike, and that full many a day : I may not go so fer (quod she") ne ride But I be ded, so priketh it my side. May I not axe a libel, Sire Sompnour, And answere ther by my procuratour To swiche thing as men wold apposen me ? Yes, quod this Sompnour, pay anon, let see, 'Twelf pens to me, and I will thee acquite : I shall no profit han therby but lite ; My maister hath the profit and not I. Come of, and let me riden hastily ; Yeve me twelf pens, I may no lenger tarie. Twelf pens ! quod she ; nov/ Lady Seint Marie So wisly helpe me out of care and sinne. This wide world though that I shuld it winne, Ne have I not twelf pens within my hold. Ye knowen wel that I am poure and old ; Kithe your almesse upon me, poure wretche. Nay then, quod he, the foule fend me fetche " I've a summons for you," said the man. " You must be with the archdeacon to-morrow, on pain of excommunication, to answer to certain charges." " Charges !" cried the poor woman. " Heaven help me ! there can be no charges against a poor sick body like me. How am I to come to the archdeacon .' I can't even go in a cart, it gives me such a pain in my side. Mayn't I have a summons on paper, and so get the lawyer to see to it ?" " To be sure you may," answered the summoner, " provided you pay me down — let me see— ay, a shilling. That will be your quittance, and all. I get nothing by it, I assure you. My master has all the fees. Come, make haste, for I must be going. A shilling. Do you hear .'" " A shilling ?" exclaimed she. " Heaven bless us and save us ! Where, in all the wide world, am I to get a shilling .' You know I haven't a pen- ny to save my life. It's myself, that ought to have a shilling given to me, poor wretch !" " Devil fetch me then, if you won't be cast," said the summoner ; " for I shan't utter a syllable in your favor." 7S CHAUCER. If I thee excuse, though thou shuldest be spilt. Alas ! (juod she, God wot I have no gilt. Pay me, qu^d he, or by the swetc Seinte Anne As I wol here away thy newe panne For dette which thou owest me of old, Whan that thou madest thyn husbond cokewold, I paied at home for thy correction. Thou liest, quod she, by my salvation ; Ne was I never or now, widow ne wif, Sompned unto your court in all my lif, Ne never I n'as but of my body trevre. Unto the devil rough and blake of hew^e Yeve I thy body and my panne also. And whan the devil herd hire cursen so Upon hire knees, he sayd in this manere ; A'^ow, Mabily, min oiven moder dere. Is this your will m earnest that ye say 7 The devil, quod she, so fetche him or he dey, And panne and all, but he wol him repent. Nay, olde stot, that is not min entent. Quod this Sompnour, for to repenten me For anything that I have had of thee : I wold I had thy smok and every cloth. J\''ow, brother, quod the devil, be not wroth ; Thy body and this panne ben min by right : Thou shalt with me to helle yet to-night, " Alas !" cried she, "God knows I'm innocent ! I've done nothing in the world." " Pay me," interrupted the summoner, " or I'll carry away the nev/ pan I 866 yonder. You have owed me as much years ago, for getting you out of that scrape about your husband." " Scrape about my husband !" cried the old widow. " What scrape ! You are a lying wretch. I never was in any scrape about my husband, or anything ; nor ever summoned into your court in all my born days. Go to the devil yourself. May he take you and the pan together." The poor old soul fell on her knees as she said these words, in order to give the greater strength to the imprecation. " Now, Mabel, my good mother," cried the devil, " do you speak this in earnest .'" " Ay, marry do I," cried she " May the devil fetch him, pan and all ; that is to say, unless he repents." " Repent !" exclaimed the summoner : " I'd sooner take every rag you have on your bones, you old reprobate." " Now, brother," said the devil, " calm your feelings. I'm very sorry, but you must e'en go where the old woman desires. You and the pan are CHAUCER. 79 WTier thou shall knowtn of our privetee More than a maister of divinitee. And with that word the foule fend him hent Body and soule : he with the devil went Wher as thise Sompnours han hir heritage. THE PARDONER'S WAY OF PREACHING. Lordings, quod he, in chirche whan I preche, I peine me to have an hautein speche, And ring it out as round as goth a belly For I can all by rote that I tell. My teme is always on, and ever was, ** Radix malorum est cupiditas."^ ***** Than peine J me to stretchen forth my necke. And est and west upon the peple I becke. As doth a dove sitting upon a berne : Myn hondes and my tonge gon so yerne. That it is joye to see my besinesse. Of avarice and swiche cursednesse Is all my preching, for to make hem free To yeve hire pens, and namely, unto me ; For min entente is not but for to winne. And nothing for correction of sinne : mine. We must arrive to-night ; and then you'll know more about us all and our craft, than ever was discovered by Doctor of Divinity," And with these words, sure enough, the devil carried him off. He took him to the place where summoners are in the habit of going. Gentlemen (said the pardoner), whenever I preach in the pulpit, I make a point of being as noisy as possible, ringing the whole sermon out as loud as a bell ; for which purpose I get it by heart. My text is always the same, and ever was : — "Radix maloriira est cupiditas.'' I stretch forth my neck and nod on the congregation right and left, like a dove sitting on a barn ; and my hands and my tongue go so busily together, that it is a pleasure to see me. I preach against nothing but avarice, and cursed vices of that sort; for my only object is to make the people disburse freely ; videlicet, unto myself. My sermon has never any other purpose. 80 CHAUCER. I recke never whan that they be beried, Though that hire soules gon a blake-beried. * * * ^e * Therefore my teme is yet, and ever was. Radix malorum est cupjditas. ' •' Radix malorum est cupiditas." — Covetousness is the root of all evil. — Those critics who supposed that Chaucer, notwithstanding his intimacy with the Latin and Italian poets, and his own hatred of " mis-metre," had no settled rules of versification, would have done well to consider the rhythmical exactitude with which he fits Latin quotations into his lines. See another instance in the extract entitled Gallantry of Translation. He is far more particular in this respect than versifiers of later ages. THE MERCHANT'S OPINION OF WIVES. A wif is Goddes yefte veraily ; All other maner yeftes hardely, As londes, rentes, pasture, or commune, Or mebles, all ben yeftes of Fortune, TJiat passen as a shadow on the wall : But drede thou not if plainly speke I shal ; A wif wot last and in thin hous endure Wei lenger than thee list — paraventure. I care nothing for the amendment of the disbursers. When the sexton is ready for them, I have done with them. They may go where they please for me, by millions, like black-berries. Therefore my only text, I say, is still, and always was, " Radix malorum est cupiditas.^' A wife is the gift of Heaven : — there's no doubt of it. Every other kind of gift, such as lands, rents, furniture, right of pasture or common, — these are all mere gifts of fortune, that pass away like shadows on a wall ; but you have to apprehend no such misfortune with a wife. Your wife will last longer, perhaps, even than you may desire. CHAUCER. 81 A wif ? A ! Seinte Marie, benedicite ! How might a man have any adversite That hath a wif 7 certes I cannot seye. The blisse the which that is betwix hem tweye Ther may no tonge telle or herte thinke. If he be poure, she helpeth him to swinke ; She kepeth his goods, and wasteth never a del ; All that hire husbond doth, hire liketh wel : She saith not ones, JVay, whan he saifh, Ye • Do this, saith he ; Al redy, sire, saith she. O blissful ordre, o wedlok precious ! Thou art so mery and eke so vertuous. And so commended and approved eke, That every man that holt him w^orth a leke. Upon his bare knees ought, all his lif, Thanken his God that him hath sent a wif. Or elles pray to God him for to send A wife to last unto his lives end ; For than his lif is set in sikerness, He may not be deceived, as I gesse. So that he werche after his loives rede ; Than may he boldly beren up his hede, They ben so trewe, and therwithal so wise ; For which, if thou wilt werchen as the wise, Do alway so as women wol thee rede. A wife ? Why, bless my soul, how can a man have any adversity that has a wife ? Answer me that. Tongue cannot tell, nor heart think, of the felicity there is between a man and his wife. If he is poor, she helps him to work. She takes care of his money for him, and never wastes anything. She never says " yes," when he says " no." " Do this," says he. " Di- rectly," says she. blessed institution ! precious wedlock ! thou art so joyous, and at the same time so virtuous, and so recommended to us all, and so approved by us all, that every man who is worth a farthing should go down on his bare knees, every day of his existence, and thank Heaven for having sent him a wife ; or if he hasn't got one, he ought to pray for one, and beg that she may last him to his life's end ; for his life, in that case, is set in security. Nothing can deceive him. He has only to act by his wife's advice, and he may hold up his head with the best. A wife is so true, — so wise. Oh! ever while you live, take your wife's advice, if you would be thought a wise man. 5* S2 CHAUCER. . GALLANTRY OF TRANSLATION. In the fable of the Cock and the Fox, the Cock, who has been alarmed by a dream, and consulting about it with his wife Dame Partlet, quotes a Latin sentence which tells us, that " woman is man's confusion," but he contrives at once to retain the satire, and make the lady feel grateful for it, by the following exquisite version : — But let us speke of mirthe, and stinte all this. Madame Pertelot, so have I blis, Of o thing God hath sent me large grace : For whan I see the bcautee of your face, '"' Ye ben so scarlet red about your eyeii. It maketh all my drede for to dien ; For, al so sicker as In principio, MULXER EST HOMINIS CONFUSIO. Madame, the sentence of this Latine is, JVoman is mannesjoye and niannps blis} ' " Woman is mannes joy and mannes blis." — Or as the same words would have been written at a later day : — Woman is m.an his joy and man his bliss. The Latin quotation is from the writings of a Dominican friar, Vincent de Beauvais. Sir Walter Scott was much taken with this wicked jest of Chanticleer's. " The Cock's polite version," says he, " is very ludicrous." (Edition of Drydon, vol. xi., p. 340.) Dryden's translation of the passage is very inferior to the oritrinal : — O' *' Madam, the meaning of this Latin is, That woman is to man his sovereign bliss." But let us speak of mirth, and put an end to all .this. Madame Partlet, as I hope to be saved, Heaven has shown me special favor in one respect ; for when I behold the beauty of your face, you are so scarlet red about the eyes, it is impossible for me to dread anything. There is an old and a true saying, the same now as it was in the beginning of the world, and that is, Mulier est hominis confusio. Madam, the mean- ing of this Latin is, — Woman is man's joy and man's bliss. CHAUCER S3 The conventional phrase " sovereign bliss," is nothing compared with the grave repetition and enforcement of the insult in Chaucer : — Woman is mannes /oy and mannes blis. ' THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE FAIRIES. In olde dayes of the King Artour, Of which that Bretons speken gret honour. All was this lond fulfilled of Faerie ; The Elf queue with hire joly compagnie Danced ful oft in many a grene niede ; This was the old opinion, as I rede ; I speke of many hundred yeres ago, . But now^ can no man see non elves me; For now the grete charitee and prayeres Of limitoures and other holy freres, That serchen every land and every streme. As thikke as motts in the sonne heme, Blissing halles, chambres, kichenes, and boures, Citees and burghes, castles highe and toures, Thropes and bernes, shepenes and dairies. This maketh that ther ben no Faeries : For ther as wont to walken was an elf^ Ther walketh now the limitour himself In undermeles and in morweninges, And sayth his matines and his holy thinges As he goth in his limitati'oun. Women may now go safely up and down ; In the old days of King Arthur, which the Bretons hold in such high estimation, this land was all full of fairies. The Elf-Queen, with her merry attendants, was always dancing about the green meads. Such at least was the opinion a long time ago, — many hundred years. Nowadays we see them no longer ; for the charity and piety of the begging friars, and others of their holy brethren, who make search everywhere by land and water, as thick as the motes in the sun-beams, blessing our halls, chambers, kitchens, bowers, cities, boroughs, towers, castles, villages, barns, dairies, and sheep-folds, have caused the fairies to vanish ; for where the fairy used to be, there is now the friar himself. You are sure to meet him before breakfast and dinner, saying his matins and holy things, and going about with his wallet. Women may now go up and down in 84 CHAUCER. In every hush, and under every tree, Ther is non other Incubus but Ac' safety ; for though they may see things in the bushes and under the trees, it's only the friar. There is no other incubus but he. > " Ther is non other incubus hut Ac"— The incubus was the suc- cessor of the ancient Faun ; and, though a mischievous spirit, was supposed to be sometimes in love. Hence a twofold satire in the allusion. SHAKSPEARE. 85 SHAKSPEARE. [See the volume entitled ^^Imagination and Fancy, ^^ page 106.] Shakspeare had as great a comic genius as tragic ; and every, body would think so, were it possible for comedy to impress the mind as tragedy does. It is true, the times he lived in, as Hazlitt has remarked, were not so foppish and ridiculous as those of our prose comic dramatists, and therefore he had not so much to laugh at : and it is observed by the same critic, with equal truth, that his genius was of too large and magnanimous a description to delight in satire. But who doubts that had Shakspeare lived in those inferior times, the author of the character of Mercutio could have written that of Dorimant ? of Benedick and Beatrice, the dialogues of Con- greve 1 or of Tioelfth Night and the Taming of the Shrew, the most uproarious farce ? I certainly cannot think with Dr. Johnson, that he wrote comedy better than tragedy ; that " his tragedy seems to be skill, and his comedy instinct." I could as soon believe that the instinct of Nature was confined to laughter, and that her tears were shed upon principles of criticism. Such may have been the Doctor's recipe for writing tragedy ; but Irene is not King Lear. Laughter and tears are alike born with us, and so was the power of exciting them with Shakspeare ; because it pleased Nature to make him a complete human being. Shakspeare had wit and humor in perfection ; and like every possessor of powers so happy, he rioted in their enjoyment. Mo- liere was not fonder of running down a joke : Rabelais could not give loose to a more " admirable fooling." His mirth is com- mensurate with his melancholy : it is founded on the same know- ledge and feeling, and it furnished him with a set-ofF to their op- 86 SHAKSPEARE. prcssion. When he had been too thoughtful with Hamlet, he " took it out" with FalstalT and Sir Toby. Not that he was ha- bitually melancholy. He had too healthy a brain for that, and too great animal spirits ; but in running the whole circle of thought, he must of necessity have gone through its darkest as well as brightest phases ; and the sunshine was welcome in pro- portion. Shakspeare is the inventor of the phrase, " setting the table in a roar ;" of the memory of Yorick ; of the stomach of FalstafT, stuffed as full of wit as of sack. He " wakes the night- owl with a catch;" draws "three souls out of one weaver ;" passes the " equinoctial of Queubus" (some glorious torrid zone, lying beyond three o'clock in the morning) ; and reminds the " unco righteous" for ever, that virtue, false or true, is not incom- patible with the recreations of " cakes and ale." Shakspeare is said to have died of getting out of a sick-bed to entertain Tiis friends Drayton and Ben Jonson, visitors from London. He might have died a later and a graver death, but he could not well have had one more genial, and therefore more poetical. Far was it from dishonoring the eulogizer of "good men's feasts;" the recorder of the noble friends Antonio and Bassanio ; the great thorough-going humanist, who did equal justice to the gravest and the gayest moments of life. It is a remarkable proof of the geniality of Shakspeare's jest- ing, that even its abundance of ideas does not spoil it ; for, in comedy as well as tragedy, he is the most reflective of writers. I know but of one that comes near him in this respect ; and very near him (I dare to affirm) he does come, though he has none of his poetry, properly so called. It is Sterne ; in whose Tristram Shandy there is not a word without meaning, — often of the pro- foundest as well as kindliest sort. The professed fools of Shak- speare are among the wisest of men. They talk ^Esop and Solomon in every jest. Yet they amuse as much as they in- struct us. The braggart Parolles, whose name signifies words, as though he spoke nothing else, scarcely utters a sentence that is not rich with ideas ; yet his weakness and self-committals hang over them all like a sneaking infection, and hinder our laughter from becoming respectful. The scene in which he is taken blindfold among his old acquaintances, and so led to SHAKSPEARE. S7 vilify their characters, under the impression that he is gratifying their enemies, is ahuost as good as the screen-scene in the School for Scandal. I regret that I can give nothing of it in this volume, nor even of FalstafF, and Sir Toby, nor Benedick, nor Autolycus, &c., &c., almost all the most laughable comedies of Shakspeare being writ- ten in prose. But if it could have been given, how should I have found room for anything else ? The confinement to verse luckily does not exclude some entertaining specimens both of his humor and wit. THE COXCOMB.! Hotspur gives an account of a noble coxcomb, who pestered him at an unseasonable moment. Hotspur. My liege, I did deny no prisoners. But, I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress'd. Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new reap'd, Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest home ; He was perfumed like a milliner : And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon He gave his nose, and took 't away again ; — Who, therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff" ;2 — and still he smil'd and talk'd: And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He called them — untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse Betwixt the wind and his nobility. With many holiday and lady terms He questioned me ; among the rest demanded My prisoners, in your Majesty's behalf. I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold. To be so pestered with a popinjay. Out of my grief and my impatience, Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what ; 88 SHAKSPEARE. He should, or he should not ;— for he made me mad. To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet. And talk so lUxc a waiting gentlewoman. Of guns, and drums, and wounds {God save the mark!). And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth Was parmaceti, for an inward bruise ; And that it was great pity, so it was. That villainous saltpetre should be digg'd Out of the bowels of the harmless earth. Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd So cowardly ; and, but for these vile guns, He would himself have been a soldier. This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, I answer'd indirectly, as I said ; And, I beseech you, let not his report Come current for an accusation, Betwixt my love and your high m?ijesty. 1 " The Coxcomb."— One fancies an ancient Brummell described in this picture, and is led to give Hotspur's contemptuous mimicry a corresponding tone of voice, and doubtless with propriety. For coxcombry, like greater qualities, is the same in all ages, — a compound affectation of exquisiteness, indifference, and hollow superiority. Hotspur's nobleman, Rochester's Jack Hewitt, Etheredge's Flutter, Vanbrugh's Lord Foppington, Pope's Sir Plume, &c., &c., down to Brummell himself, all, we may rest assured, spoke in the same instinctive tone of voice, fleeting modes apart. 2 " Took it in snuff." — A pun ; meaning, in the phraseology of the time, in dudgeon. But the pettiest of figures of speech ac- quires here a singular force of propriety, from its conveyance of contempt. UNWITTING SELF-CRIMINATION. In this pleasant specimen of the way in which a complainant may be led into self-committals by the apparent good faith of leading questions, I have stopped short of the lecture which the Abbess proceeds to give the wife. The remark with which she SHAKSPEARE. 89 commences it, includes the whole spirit of it in one epigram, matic sentence. The passage is in the Comedy of Errors ; a play, I think, which would be more admired, if readers were to give its perplexities a little closer attention. Enter the Abbess, Abb. Be quiet, people. Wherefore throng you hither .' Adriana. To fetch my poor distracted husband hence. Let us come in, that we may bind him fast, And bear him home for his recovery. Angela. I knew he was not in his perfect wits. Merchant. I am sorry now that I did draw on him. Abb. How long hath this possession held the man ? Adr. This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad, And much, much different from the man he was ; But, till this afternoon, his passion Ne'er brake into extremity of rage. Abb. Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck at sea ? Buried some dear friend ? Hath not else his eye Stray'd his affection in unlawful love ? A sin prevailing much in youthful men, Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing. Which of these sorrows is he subject to ? Adr. To none of these, except it be the last ; Namely, some love, that drew him oft from home. Abb. You should for that have reprehended him. Adr. Why, so I did. Abb. Ay, but not rough enough. Adr. As roughly as my modesty would let me. Abb. Haply in private. Adr. And in assemblies too. Abb. Ay, but not enough. Adr. It was the copy of our conference : In bed, he slept not for my urging it ; At board, he fed not for my urging it ; Alone, it was the subject of my theme ; In company, I often glanc'd at it ; Still did I tell him it was vile and bad. Abb. And therefore came it that the man was mad. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. All the scenes, actual or implied, in which the Shrew under- 90 SHAKSPEARE. oroes her course of taming, are brought together in these extracts ; so that, as in the instance of the Fairy Drama, selected from the Midsummer Nighl^s Dream, in the volume entitled Imagination and Fancy, they present a little play of themselves. The Taming of the Shrew, for its extravagance, ought rather to be called a farce than a comedy ; but it is none the worse for. tliat. A farce, in five acts, full of genius, may stand above a thousand comedies. The spirit of comedy is in it, with some- thin fr more. Several of Moliere's comedies are farces ; and so are those of Aristophanes. People whose will and folly are generally in such equal portions as those of shrews, may be frightened and kept down by wills equal to their own, accompa- nied with greater understandings ; but they are not to be tamed in the course of two or three weeks, even supposing them to be tameable at all, or by anything short of the severest rebukes of fortune. Shakspeare knew this, and has poetized his farce and put it in verse, the better to carry off the high and jovial fancy of Petruchio ; who, it muSl be allowed, was the man to succeed in his project, if ever man could. He is a fine, hearty compound of bodily and mental vigor, adorned by wit, spirits, and good na- ture. He does not marry Katharine merely for her dowry. He likes also her pretty face; and, in the gaiety of his animal spirits, he seems to have persuaded himself, that one pretty woman is as good as another, provided she be put into a comfortable state of subjection by a good husband. Let the reader, however, note the concluding line of the play. I think Shakspeare meant to intimate by it, that even the gallant Petruchio would find his victory not so complete as he fancied. Scene, in front of the house of the Bride's father, Baptista. Enter Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, Katharina, Bianca, Lucen- Tio, and Attendants. Baptista. Signior Lucentio \to Tranio], this is the 'pointed day That Katharine and Petrucliio should be married. And yet we hear not of our son-in-law : SHAKSPEARE. 91 What will be said ? What mockery will it be, To want the bridegroom, when the priest attends To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage ? What says Lucentio to this shame of ours ? Katharine. No shame but mine : \ must, forsooth, be forc'd To give my hand, oppos'd against my heart. Unto a mad-brain'd rudesby, full of spleen ; Who woo'd in haste, and means to wed at leisure. I told you, I, he was a frantic fool. Hiding Jiis bitter jests in blunt behavior : And, to be noted for a merry man. He'll woo a thousand, 'point the day of marriage. Make friends, invite, yes, and proclaim the banns ; Yet never means to wed where he hath woo'd. Now must the world point at poor Katharine, And say, — " Lo, there is mad Petruchio's wife, If it would please him come and marry her." Tranio. Patience, good Katharine, and Baptista too ; Upon my life, Petruchio means but well. Whatever fortune stays him from his word. Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise ; Though he be merry, yet withal he's honest. Kath. 'Would Katharine had never seen him though ! [Exit, weeping, followed hy Bianca and others. Bap. Go, girl ; I cannot blame thee now to weep ; For such an injury would vex a saint. Much more a shrew of thy impatient humor. Enter Biondello. Bion. Master, master ! News, old news, and such news as you never heard of. Bap. Is it new and old too ? how may that be ? Bion. Why, is it not news to hear of Petruchio's coming ? Bap. Is he come ? Bion. Why, no, sir. Bap. What then .' Bion. He is coming. Bap. When will he be here ? Bion. When he stands where I am, and sees you there. Tra. But say, what : — To thine old news. Bion. Why, Petruchio is coming, in a new hat and an old jerkin; a pair of old breeches, tKrice turned ; a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled and another laced ; an old rusty sword ta'en out of the town armory, with a broken hilt, and chapeless ;* with two broken points ;t his * Chapeless^ without a catch to hold it. f Points, tags. !92 SHAKSPEARE. horse hipped* with an old mothy saddle, the stirrups of no kindred ; be- sides, possessed with the glanders, and like to mose in the chine ; troubled with the lanipass,* infected with the fashions,! full of wind-galls, sped with spavins, raied with tlie yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots ; swayed in the back, and shoul- der-shotten ; ne'er-legged before ; and with a half-checked bit, and a head- stall of sheep's leather ; which, being restrained to keep him from stum- bling, hath been often burst, and now repaired with knots : one girth six times pierced, and a woman's crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name, fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with pack- thread.* Bap. Who comes with him ? Bio7i. 0, sir, his lackey, for all the world caparisoned like the horse ; with a linen stock on one leg, and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with a red and blue list; and old hat and The Humor of Forty Fanciest pricked in't for a feather : a monster, a very monster in apparel ; and not like a Christian foot-boy, or a gentleman's lackey. Tra. 'Tis some odd humor pricks him to this fashion !— Yet oftentimes he goes but mean apparell'd. ****** Enter Petruchio and Grtjmio. Pet. Come, where be these gallants ? who is at home ? Bap. You are welcome, sir. P(;t, Where is my lovely bride .' How does my father ? Gentles, methinks you frown : And wherefore gaze this goodly company, As if they saw some wondrous monument, Some comet, or unusual prodigy .' Bap. Why, sir, you know this is your wedding-day : First were we sad, fearing you would not come ; Now sadder, that you come so unprovided. Fye ! doff this habit, shame to your estate, An eye-sore to our solemn festival. Tra. And tell us, what occasion of import Hath all so long detain'd you from your wife. And sent you hither so unlike yourself ? Pet. Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear ; Sufficeth, I am come to keep my word. Though in some part enforced to disgress,§ Which, at more leisure, I will so excuse * Lamp ass y a lump in the mouth. t The fashions, the farcy, a species of leprosy. X The Humor of Forty Fancies, supposed to be a collection of songs. § Disgress, deviate from the ordinary course. SHAKSPEARE. 93 As you shall well be satisfied, withal. But where is Kate ? I stay too long from her ; The morning wears, 'tis time we were at church. T7'a. See not your bride in these unreverent robes : Go to my chamber, put on clothes of mine. Pet. Not I, believe me ; thus I'll visit her. Bap. But thus, I trust, you will not marry her. Pet. Good sooth, even thus ; therefore have done with words; To me she's married, not unto my clothes. Could I repair what she will wear in me. As I can change these poor accoutrements, 'Twere well for Kate, and better for myself. But what a fool am I to chat with you, When I should bid good-morrow to my bride, And seal the title with a lovely kiss ? lExeunt Petruchio, Grumio, and Biondello. Ty-a. He hath some meaning in his mad attire. We will persuade him, be it possible. To put on better ere he go to church. Bap. I'll after him, and see the event of this. \_Exit. The rest discourse of other matters, and then follow Baptista. The wedding ensues ; the particulars of which are thus gathered from one of the persons present : — Enter Gremio. Tranio. Signior Gremio ! come you from church ? Gre. As willingly as e'er I came from school. Tra. And is the bride and bridegroom coming home .' Gre. A bridegroom, say you ? 'tis a groom, indeed, A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find, Tra. Curster than she ? why, 'tis impossible. Gre. Why, he's a devil, a devil, a very fiend. Tra. Why, she's a devil, a devil, the devil's dam. Gre. Tut ! she's a lamb, a dove, a fool to him, I'll tell you. Sir Lucentio : When the priest Should ask, if Katharine should be his wife, Ay, by gogs-wouns, quoth he ; and swore so loud, That, all amaz'd, the priest let fall the book ; And, as he stoop'd again to take it up. The mad-hrained bridegroom took him such a cuff. That down fell priest and book, and book and priest : "Now take them up," quoth he, "if any list." Tra. What said the wench, when he arose again ? 94 SHAKSPEARE. Gre. Trembled and shook; for why, he stamp'd and swore, As if the vicar meant to cozen him. But after many ceremonies done,' He calls for wine : " A health,"" quoth he ; as if He had been aboard carousing to his mates After a storm ; quafled off the muscadel, And threw the sops all in the sextants face ; Having no other reason. But that his beard greiv thin and hungerly. And seemed to ask him sops as he was drinking. This done, he took the bride about tho neck, And kissed her lips with such a clamorous smack. That, at the parting, all the church did echo. I, seeing this, came thence for very shame ; And after me, I know, the rout is coming : Such a mad marriage never was before ; Hark, hark ! I hear the minstrels play. {Music Enter Petruchio, Katharina, Bianca, Baptista, Hortensio, Grumio, and Train. Pet. Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains : I know you think to dine with me to-day. And have prepar'd great store of wedding cheer : But so it is, my haste must call me hence. And therefore here I mean to take my leave. Bap. Is't possible you will away to-night ? Pet. I must away to-day, before night come ; — Make it no wonder ; — if you knew my business, You would entreat me rather go than stay. And, honest company, I thank you all, That have beheld me give away myself To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife. Dine with my father, drink a health to me ; For I must hence, and farewell to you all. Tra. Let us entreat you stay till after dinner. Pet. It may not be. Gre. Let me entreat you. Pet. It cannot be. Kath. Let mo entreat you. Pet. 1 am content. Kath. Are you content to stay .' Pet. J am content you shall entreat me stay ; But yet not stay, entreat me how you can. Kath. JVow, if you love me, stay. Pet. Grumio, my horses. SHAKSPEARE. 95 Gru. Ay, sir, they be ready ; the oats have eaten the horses. Kath. Nay, then, Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day ; No, nor to-morrow, nor till I please myself. The door is open, sir, there lies your way. You may be jogging while your boots are green ; For me, I'll not be gone, till I please myself: — *Tis like you'll prove a jolly surly groom, That take it on you at the first so roundly. Pet. 0, Kate, content thee, pr'ythee, be not angry. Kath. I will be angry ; What hast thou to do .'' Father, be quiet ; he shall stay my leisure. Gre. Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work. Kath. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner : I see a woman may be made a fool. If she had not a spirit to resist. Pet. They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command : Obey the bride, you that attend on her : Go to the feast, revel and domineer. Be mad and merry, — or go hang yourselves ; But for my bonny Kate, she must with ine. Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret ; I will be master of what is mine own : She is my goods, my chattels ; she is my housCy My household stuff, my field, my barn. My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything ; And here she stands, touch her whoever dare; I'll bring my action on the proudest he That stops my way in Padua. — Grumio, Draw forth thy weapon, we're beset with thieves ; Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man : — Fear not, sweet wench, they shall not touch thee, Kate ; I'll buckler thee against a million. lExeunt Petruchio, Katharina, and Grumio, Bap. Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones ! Gre. Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing. Tra. Of all mad matches, never was the like ! Scene. — A Hall in Petruchio^s Country House. Enter Grumio. Gru. Fye, fye on all tired jades ! on all mad masters ! and all foul ways ! Was ever man so beaten ? was ever man so rayed ?* was ever man so weary ? * Rayed, bewrayed, bemired. 96 SHAKSPEARE. I am sent before to make a fire, and they are coming after to warm them. Now, were not I a little pot, and soon hot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, ere I should come by a fire to thaw me. Holla! hoa! Curtis. Curt. Who is that, calls so coldly ? Giu. A piece of ice. If thou doubt it, thou may'st slide from my shoulder to my heel, with no greater ruti but my head and my neck. A fire, good Curtis. Curt. Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio .' G7U. 0, ay, Curtis, ay, and therefore fire, fire ; cast on no water. Curt. Is she so hot a shrew as she's reported ? Gru. She was, good Curtis, before this frost : but thou knowest, winter tames man, woman and beast ; for it hath tamed my old master, and my new mistress, and myself, fellow Curtis. We came down a foul hill, my mas- ter riding behind my mistress. Curt. Both on one horse .'' Gru. What's that to thee ? Curt. Why, a horse. Gru. Tell thou the tale. — But had'st thou not crossed me, thou should'st have heard how her horse fell, and she under her horse ; thou should'st have heard, in how miry a place : how she was bomoiled, how he left her with the horse upon her ; how he beat me because her horse stumbled ; how she waded through the dirt to pluck him off me ; how he swore ; how she prayed — that never prayed before ; how I cried ; how the horses ran away, how her bridle was burst, how I lost my crupper ; — with many things of worthy memory which now shall die in oblivion, and thou return inex- perienced to thy grave. Curt. By this reckoning, he is more shrew than she. Gru. Ay, and that thou and the proudest of you all shall find, when he silence ! 1 hear my master. Enter Petruchio and Katharina. Pet. Where be these knaves ? What, no man at the door, To hold my stirrup, nor to take my horse ! Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip .' All Serv. Here, sir ; Here, sir. Pet. Here, sir! here, sir ! here, sir ! here, sir ! — You logger-headed and unpolish'd grooms ! What, no attendance .'' no regard .' no duty .' — Where is the foolish knave I sent before ? Gru. Here, sir ; as foolish as I was before. Pet. You peasant swain ! Did I not bid thee meet me in the park. And bring along these rascal knaves with thee.' Grti. Nathaniel's coat, sir, was not fully made, SHAKSPEARE. 97 And Gabriel's pumps were all unpink'd i' the heel ; There was no link to color Peter's hat. And Walter's dagger was not come from sheathing : There were none fine, but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory ; The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly ; Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you. Pet. Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper in. — lExeunt some of the Servants. " Where is the life that late I led"— [ Sings. Where are those Sit down, Kate, and welcome. Soud, soud, soud, soud !* Re-enter Servants, with supper. Why, when, I say ? — JVay, good sweet Kate, be merry. Off with my boots, you rogues, you villains ; when ? " It was the friar of orders grey [ Sings. As he forth walked on his way : — " Out, out, you rogue ! You pluck my foot awry : Take that, and mend the plucking off the other. IStrikes him. Be 7nerry, Kate : — Some water here ; what, ho ! Where's my spaniel Troilus .' — Sirrah, get you hence, And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither : [^Exit Serv. One, Kate, that you must kiss, and be acquainted with. — Where are my slippers ? — Shall I have some water .-' [^ bason is presented to him. Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily I Servant lets the ewer fall. You villain ! will you let it fall .' {Strikes him. Kath. Patience, I pray you ; 'twas a fault unwilling. Pet. A beetle-headed, flat-ear'd knave ! Come, Kate, sit down ; I know you have a stomach. Will you give thanks, sweet Kate ; or else shall I .' — What is this ? mutton ? 1st Serv. Ay. Pet. Who brought it ? 1st Serv. I. Pet. 'Tis burnt, and so is all the meat : What dogs are these ? — Where is the rascal cook ? How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser. And serve it thus to me that love it not ? There, take it to you, trencher, cups, and all. {Throws the meat, ^c, about the stage. * Soud, Soud, an expression of heat and weariness. 6 98 SHAKSPEARE. Yon heedless joltheads and unmanner'd slaves ! What, do you grumble ? I'll he with you straight. Kath. I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet ; The meat was well, if you were so contented. Pet. I tell thee, Kate, 'twas burnt and dried away; And I expressly am forbid to touch it, For it engenders cholcr, planteth anger ; And better 'twere that both of us did fast, Since, of ourselves, ourselves are cholerick, — Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh. Be patient ; to-morrow it shall be mended. And, for this night, we'll fast for company : — Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber. {^Exeimt Petruchio, Katharina, and Curtis. A^'ath. {adva7icing). Peter, didst ever see the like ? Peter. He kills her in her own humour. Re-enter Curtis. Grum. Where is he .' Curt. In her chamber, Making a sermon to her., And rails, and swears, and rates ; that she, poor soul, Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak ; And sits as one new risen from a dream. Away, away ! for he is coming hither. ^Exeunt. Re-enter Petruchio. Pet. Thus have I politickly begun my reign, And 'tis my hope to end successfully. My falcon now is sharp, and passing empty ; And, till she stoop, she must not be full-gorg'd. For then she never looks upon her lure. Another way I have to man my haggard,* To make her come, and know her keeper's call, That is, — to watch her, as we watch the kites That bate,t and beat, and will not be obedient. She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat ; Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not ; As with the meat, some undeserved fault I'll find about the making of the bed ; ^7id here Vll fling the pillow, there the holster. This ivay the coverlet, another way the sheets : — * To tame my wild hawk. f Bate, flutter. SHAKSPEARE. 99 Ay, and amid this hurly, I intend That all is done in reverend care of her : And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night: And, if she chance to nod, I'll rail and brawl, And with the clamor keep her still awake. This is the way to kill a wife with kindness ; And thus I'll curb her mad and headstrong humour. — He that knows better how to tame a shrew, Now let him speak ; 'tis charity to shew. {Exit Scene, a Room in the same House. Enter Katharina and Grumio. Gru. No, no ; forsooth, I dare not, for my life. Kath. The more my wrong, the more his spite appears : * What, did he marry me to famish me ? Beggars that come unto my father's door. Upon entreaty, have a present alms ; If not, elsewhere they meet with charity : But I, — who never knew how to entreat, — Am starv'd for meat, giddy for lack of sleep : With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed : And that which spites me more than all these wants. He does it under nayne of perfect love ; As who should say, — if I should sleep, or eat, ^Twere deadly sickness, or else present death. I pr'ythee go and get me some repast, I care not what, so it be wholesome food. Gru. What say you to a neafs foot ? Kath. ' Tis passing good : I pr'ythee let me have it. Gru. I fear it is too cholerick a jneat : How say you to a fat tripe, finely broiled ? Kath. I like it well ; good Grumio, fetch it me. Gru. I cannot tell ; I fear, 'tis cholerick. What say you to a piece of beef and mustard ? Kath. A dish that I do love to feed upon. Gru. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little. Kath. Why, then the beef, and let the mustard rest. Gru. JVay, then I will not ; you shall have the mustard. Or else you get no beef of Grumio. Kath. Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt. Gru. Why then the rnustard without the beef. Kath. Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave. That feed' st me with the very name of meat : [Beats him. 100 SHAKSPEARE. Sorrow on thee, and all the park of you. That triumph thus upon my misery ! Go, get thee gone, I say. Enter Petruchio, with a dish of meat, and Hortensio. Pet. How fares my Kate ? What, sweeting, all amort?* Hor. Mistress, what cheer ? Kath. 'Faith, as cold as can be. Pet. Pluck up thy spirits ; look cheerfully upon me. Here, love ; thou see'st how diligent I am. To dress thy meat myself, and bring it thee. [Sets the dish on a table. I'm sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks. What, not a word ? Nay, then, thou lov'st it not ; And all my pains is sorted to no proof : — Here, take away this dish. Kath. ' Pray you, let it stand. Pet. The poorest service is repaid with thanks ; And so shall mine, before you touch the meat. Kath. I thank you, sir. Hor. Signior Petruchio, fye ! you are to blame ! Come, Mistress Kate, I'll bear you company. Pet. {aside to Hortensio). Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lov'st me. — {Aloud to Katharina.) Much good do it unto thy gentle heart ! Kate, eat apace : — and now, my honey love. Will we return unto thy father's house ; And revel it as bravely as the best, With silken coats, and caps," and golden rings, With ruffs, and cuffs, and farthingales, and things ; With scarfs, and fans, and double change of bravery. With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knavery. What, hast thou din'd ? The tailor stays thy leisure, To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure. Enter Tailor. Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments ; Enter Haberdasher. Lay forth the gown. — What news with you, sir .' Hab. Here is the cap your worship did bespeak. Pet. Why, this was moulded on a porringer ! A velvet dish ; — fye, fye ! Why, 'tia a cockle, or a walnutshell, * Dead in spirit. SHAKSPEARE. 101 A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby's cap ; Away with it ; come, let me have a bigger, Kaih. I'll have no bigger ; this doth fit the time, And gentlewomen wear such caps as these. Pet. When you are gentle, you shall have one too, And not till then. Hor. {aside). That will not be in haste. Kath. Why, sir, I trust, I may have leave to speak ; And speak I will ; I am no child, no babe : Your betters have endured me say my mind ; And, if you cannot, best you stop your ears. My tongue will tell the anger of my heart ; Or else, my heart, concealing it, will break ; And, rather than it shall, I will be free Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words. Pet. Why, thou say'st true ; it is a paltry cap, A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie ; Hove thee well, in that thou lik'st it not. Kath. Love me, or love me not, I like the cap : And it I will have, or I will have none. Pet. Thy gown 7 why, ay : — come, tailor, let us see't. mercy, God ! what masking stuff is here ? What's this ? a sleeve .'' 'tis like a demi-cannon : What! up and down, carv'd like an apple-tart? Here's snip, and nip, and cut, and slish, and slash Like to a censer in a barber's shop : — Why, what, o' devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this ? Hor. I see, she's like to have neither cap nor gown. {Aside.) Tai. You bid me make it orderly and well. According to the fashion and the time. Pet. Marry, and did ; but if you be remember'd, 1 did not bid you mar it to the time. Go, hop me over every kennel home. For you shall hop without my custom, sir; I'll none of it; hence, make your best of it. Kath. I never saw a better-fashioned gown. More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable : Belike, you mean to make a puppet of me. Pet. Why, true ; he means to make a puppet of thee. Tai. She says, your worship means to make a puppet of her. Pet. O monstrous arrogance ! Thou liest, thou thread. Thou thimble. Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail. Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter cricket thou : — Brav'd in mine own house with a skein of thread .' Away, thou ragy thou quantity, thou remnant ; 102 SHAKSPEARE. Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard, As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv'st ! I tell thoe, I, tlrat tliou hast marred her gown. ****** Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid ;— {aside). Go, take it hence ; be gone, and say no more. Hor. {aside). Tailor, I'll pay thee for thy gown to-morrow. Take no unkindness of his hasty words ; Away, I say ; commend me to thy master. {Exit Tailor. Pet. Well, come, my Kate ; we will unto your father's, Even in these honest mean habiliments ; Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor : • For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich ; And as the sun breaks through the darkest cloud. So honor peereth in the meanest habit. What, is the jay more precious than the lark, Because his feathers are more beautiful ? Or is the adder better than the eel. Because his painted skin contents the eye ? 0, no, good Kate ; neither art thou the worse For this poor furniture, and mean array. If thou account'st it shame, lay it on me : And therefore, frolick ; we will hence forthwith. To feast and sport us at thy father's house : — Go, call my men, and let us straight to him ; And bring our horses unto Long-lane end ; There will we mount, and thither walk on foot — Let's see ; I think, 'tis now some seven o'clock. And well we may come there by dinner time. Kate. I dare assure you, sir, 'tis almost two : And 'twill be supper-time, ere you come there. Pet. It shall be seven, ere I go to horse : Look, what I speak, or do, or think to do. You are still crossing it, — Sirs, left alone : I will not go to-day ; and ere I do, Jt shall be what o'clock I say it is. Hor. Why, so ! This gallant will command the sun. {Exeunt. Scene. — A Public Bead. Enter Petruchio, Katiiarina, and Hortensio. Pet. Come on, o' God's name ; once more toward our father's. Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon ! Kath. The moon ! the sun ; it is not moonlight now. SHAKSPEARE. 103 Pet. I say it is the moon that shines so bright. Kath. I know it is the snn that shines so bright. Pet. Now, by my mothei-'s son, and thafs myself. It shall be moon, or star, or what I list. Or ere I journey to your father's house : — Go on, and fetch our horses back again, — Evennoi'e crossed, and cross'd ; nothing but cross'd .' Hor. Say as he says, or we shall never go. Kate. Forward, I pray, since we have come so far. And be it moon, or sun, or what you please : And if you please to call it a rush candle. Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me. Pet. I say, it is the moon. Kath. I know it is the moon. Pet. Nay, then you lie ; it is the blessed sun. Kath. Then, God be bless'd, it is the blessed sun : — But sun it is not, when you say it is not ; And the moon changes, even as your mind. What you will have it named, even that it is ; And so it shall be so, for Katharine. Hor. {to himself) Petruchio, go thy ways ; the field is won. Pet. Well, forward, forward : thus the bowl should run. And not unluckily against the bias. But soft; what company is coming here ? Enter Vincentio, in a travelling dress. Good-morrow, gentle mistress ; Where away ? — [To Vijvcentio. Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too. Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman ? Such war of white and red within her cheeks ! What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty, As those two eyes become that heavenly face i* — Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee : — Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake. Hor. 'A will make the man mad, to make a woman of him. Kath. Young budding virgin, fair, and fresh, and sweet. Whither away : or where is thy abode .' Happy the parents of so fair a child ; Happier the man, whom favorable stars Allot thee for his lovely bed-fellow ! Pet. Why, how now, Kate ! I hope thou art not mad ; This is a. man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither'd ; And not a maiden, as thou say'st he is, Kath. Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes. That have been so bedazzled with the sun. 104 SHAKSPEARE. That evcrythina; I look on scemeth green : JVow I perceive thou art a reverend father ; Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking. The bride and bridegroom have now arrived at their place of destination, and the gentlemen of the party are talking in a room by themselves : — Scene. — A Room in Lucentid's house. Bap. Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all. Pet. Well, I say — no ; and therefore, for assurance. Let's each one send unto his wife ; And he, whose wife is most obedient To come at first when he doth send for her. Shall win the wager which we will propose. Hor. Content : What is the wager .' Luc. Twenty crowns. Pet. Twenty crowns ! I'll venture so much on my hawk, or hound. But twenty times so much upon my wife. Luc. A hundred, then. Hor. Content. Pet. A match ; 'tis done. Hor. Who shall begin ? Luc. That will I. Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me. Bion. I go. [Exit. Bap. Son, I will be your half, Bianca comes, Luc. Pll have no halves ; Pll bear it all myself, Re-enter Biondello. How now ! what news .' Bion. Sir, m.y mistress sends you word That she is busy, and she cannot come. Pet. How, she is busy, and cannot come ! Is that an answer .' Gre. Ay, and a kind one too. Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse. Pet. I hope, better. Hor. Sirrah Biondello, go, and entreat my wife To come to me forthwith. {Exit BiondelIiO. Pet. Oho! entreat Acr.' JVay, then she nvust needs come. SHAKSPEARE. 105 {Exit Grumio. Hor. I am afraid, sir, Do what you can, your's will not be entreated. Re-enter Biondello. Now, Where's my wife ? Bion. She says you have some goodly jest in hand ; She will not come ; she bids you come to her. Pet. Worse, and worse ; she will not come ! vile. Intolerable, not to be endur'd ! Sirrah, Grumio, go to your mistress. Say, I COMMAND her come to me. Hor. I know her answer. Pet. What ? Hor. She will not Pet. The fouler fortune mine, and there an end. Enter Katharina. Bap. Now, by my holidame, here comes Katharina ! Kath. What is your will, sir, that you send for me ? Pet. Where is your sister, and Hortensio's wife .' Katli. They sit conferring by the parlor fire. Pet. Go, fetch them hither ; if they deny to come. Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands : Away, I say, and bring them hither straight. Luc. Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder. Hor. And so it is ; I wonder what it bodes. Pet. Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life. An awful rule, and right supremacy ; And, to be short, what not, that's sweet and happy. Bap. Now fair befall thee, good Petruchio ! The wager thou hast won ; and I will add Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns, Another dowry to another daughter. For she is chang'd, as she had never been. Pet. Nay, I will win my wager better yet ; And show more sign of her obedience ; Her new-built virtue and obedience. Re-enter Katharina, with Bianca and Widow, See where she comes ; and brings your froward wives As prisoners to her womanly persuasion. — Katharine, that cap of yours becomes you not ; Off with that bauble ; throw it under foot. [Katharina pulls off her cap and throws it down, Wid. Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh. Till I be brought to such a silly pass ! 6* \_Exit Katharina 106 SHAKSPEARE. Bian. Fye ! what a foolish duty call you this ? Luc. I would your duty were as foolish too; The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, Hath cost me a hundred crowns since supper time. Bian. The more fool you for laying; on my duty. Pet. Katharine, I charge thee, tell these headstrong women Wliat duty they do owe their lords and husbands. Wid. Come, come, you're mocking ; we will have no telling. Pet. I say she shall ; and first begin with her. Kath. Fye, fye ! unknit that threat'ning unkind brow ; And dart not scornful glances from those eyes, To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor : It blots thy beauty, as frosts do bite the meads : Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds ; And in no sense is meet or amiable. A woman ynov'd is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, iU-seeming, thick, her eft of beauty : And, while it is so, none so dry or thirsty Will deign to sip, or touch one drop of it. Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, Thy head, thy sovereign ; one that c-ares for thee, And for thy maintenance : commits his body To painful labor, both by sea and land ; To watch the night in storms, the day in cold. While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe , And craves no other tribute at tl)y hands, But love, fair looks, and true obedience ; — Too little payment for so great a debt. Such duty as the subject owes the prince. Even such a woman oweth to her husband : And, when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour. And not obedient to his honest will, What is she, but a foul contending rebel, And graceless traitor to her loving lord .' — I am asham'd, that women are so simple To offer war, where they should kneel for peace ; Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway, When they are bound to serve, love, and obey. Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth, Unapt to toil and trouble in the world. But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts .' Come, come, you froward and unable worms ! My mind hath been as big as one of yours. My heart as great ; my reason, haply, more. To bandy word for word, and frown for frown ; SHAKSPEARE. 107 But now, I see our lances are but straws ; Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare, — That seeming to be most, which we indeed least are. Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot, And place your hands below your husbands' foot : In token of which duty, if he please. My hand is ready, may it do him ease. Pet. Why, there's a wench ! — Come on, and kiss me, Kate. Luc. Well, go thy ways, old lad, for thou shalt ha't. Pet. Come, Kate, we'll to bed ; We three are married, but you two are sped. Hor. Now go thy ways, thou hast tam'd a curst shrew. Luc. 'Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tam'd so. 2 \_Exeunt. 1 ''His horse hipped," &c., &c.— If Ben Jonson had poured forth this profusion of horse-dealer's knowledge (a little overdone, it must be confessed, even for farce), it would have been charged against him as ostentation. ^ " 'Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will he tani'd so." — He means to intimate that he does not think her tamed after all. A woman, by the way, like Katharine, could never have uttered those beau- tiful words about "a fountain troubled," &c. But this is the constant exception to Shakspeare's otherwise perfect nature. He makes all his characters, unless they are downright fools, talk as well as himself. JOS BEN JONSON. BEN JONSON. (See Imagination and Fancy,'" p. 140.) The greatest portion of Ben Jonson's comic writing is in prose ; but the reader is here presented with a striking specimen in verse, — indeed, the best scene of his best production. Ben Jonson's famous humor is as pampered, jovial, and dicta- torial as he was in his own person. He always gives one the idea of a man sitting at the head of a table and a coterie. He carves up a subject as he would a dish ; talks all the while to show off both the dish and himself; and woe betide difference of opinion, or his " favorite aversion," envy. He was not an envious man himself, provided you allowed him his claims. He praised his contemporaries all round, chiefly in return for praises. He had too much hearty blood in his veins to withhold eulogy where it was not denied him ; but he was somewhat too willing to can- cel it on offence. He complains that he had given heaps of praises undeserved ; tells Drayton that it had been doubted whether he was a friend to anybody (owing, doubtless, partly to this caprice) : and in the collection of epigrams printed under his own care, there are three consecutive copies of verse, two of them addressed to Lord Salisbury in the highest style of pane- gyric, and the third to the writer's muse, consisting of a recanta- tion, apparently of the same panegyric, and worth repeating here for its scorn and spleen : — TO MY MUSE. Away, and leave me, thou thing most abhorr'dy That hast betrayed me to a worthless lord : BEN JONSON. 109 Made me commit most fierce idolatry To a great image through thy luxury. Be thy next master's more unlucky Muse, And, as thou'st mine, his hours and youth abuse. Get him the time's long grudge, the court's ill will. And, reconcil'd, keep him suspected still. Make him, lose all his friends ; and, which is worse. Almost all ways to any better course, (This is melancholy.) With me thou leav'st an happier Muse than thee. And which thou brought'st me, welcome Poverty. She shall instruct my after thoughts to write Things manly, and not smelling parasite. But I repent me : — stay. Whoe'er is raised For worth he has not, he is tax'd, not praised. This is ingenious and true ; but from a lord so " worthless," it hardly became the poet to withdraw the alms of his panegyric. He should have left posterity to do him justice ; or have reposed on the magnanimity of a silent disdain. Lord Salisbury was the famous Robert Cecil, son of Burleigh. Ben Jonson had proba- bly found his panegyric treated with neglect, perhaps contempt ; and it was bold in him to return it ; but it was proclaiming his own gratuitous flattery. It has been objected to Ben Jonson's humors, and with truth, that they are too exclusive of other qualities ; that the characters are too much absorbed in the peculiarity, so as to become per- sonifications of an abstraction. They have also, I think, an amount of turbulence which hurts their entire reality ; gives them an air of conscious falsehood and pretension, as if they were rather acting the thing than being it. But this, as before inti- mated, arose from the character of the author, and his own wil- ful and flustered temperament. If they are not thoroughly what they might be, or such as Shakspeare would have made them, they are admirable Jonsonian presentations, and overflowing with wit, fancy, and scholarship. no BEN JONSON. THE FOX. Scene, — A Room in Volpone's House. Enter Volpone and Mosca. Volp. Good morning to the day : and next, my gold ! — Open the shrine, that I may see my saint. [Mosca withdraws the curtain, and discovers piles of gold, 2>late, jewels, Sfc."] Hail the world's soul, and mine ! more glad than is The teeming earth to see the long'd-for sun Peep through the horns of the celestial Ram, Am I, to view thy splendor darkening his ; That, lying here, amongst my other hoards, Show'st like aflame by night, or like the day Struck out of chaos, when all darkness fled Unto the centre. thou son of Sol, But brighter than thy father, let me kiss, With adoration thee and every relic Of sacred treasure in this blessed room. Well did wise poets, by thy glorious name, Title that age which they would have the best; Thou being the best of things, and far transcending All style of joy, in children, parents, friends. Or any other waking dream on earth. Thy looks when they to Venus did ascribe. They should have given her twenty thousand Cupids : Such are thy beauties and our loves ! Dear saint. Riches, the dumb god, that giv'st all men tongues. Thou canst do naught, and yet mak'st men do all things ; The price of souls ; even hell, with thee to boot, Is made worth heaven. Thou art virtue, fame. Honor, and all things else. Who can get thee. He shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise Mas. And what he will, sir. Riches are in fortune A greater good than wisdom is in nature. Volp. True, my beloved Mosca. Yet I glory More in the cunning purchase of my wealth, Than in the glad possession, since I gain No common way ; I use no trade, no venture ; I wound no earth with ploughshares, fat no beasts To feed the shambles ; have no mills for iron, Oil, corn, or men, to grind them into powder : BEN JONSON. Ill I blow no subtle glass, expose no ships To threafnings of the furrow-faced sea ; I turn no monies in the public bank, Nor usure private. Mas. No sir, nor devour Soft prodigals. You shall have some will swallow A melting heir as glibly as your Dutch Will pills of butter ; Tear forth the fathers of poor families Out of their beds, and coffin them alive In some kind clasping prison, where their bones May be forthcoming, when the flesh is rotten : But your sweet nature doth abhor these courses ; You lothe the widow's or the orphan's tears Should wash your pavements, or their piteous cries Ring in your roofs, and beat the air for vengeance. Volp. Right, Moses ; I do lothe it. Mos. And besides, sir. You are not like the thresher that doth stand With a huge flail, watching a heap of corn. And, hungry, dares not taste tiie smallest grain. But feeds on mallows, and such bitter herbs ; ^ Nor like the merchant, who hath fill'd his vaults With Romagnia, and rich Candian wines. Yet drinks the lees of Lombard's vinegar : You will lie not in straw, whilst moths and worms Feed on your sumptuous hangings and soft beds ; You know the use of riches, and dare give now From that bright heap, to me,- your poor observer. Volp. (^Gives him money.) Take of my hand ; thou strik'st on truth in all, And they are envious term thee parasite. I have no w^ife, no parent, child, ally. To give my substance to ; but whom I make Must be my heir : and this makes men observe me : This draws new clients daily to my house, Women and men of every sex and age. That bring me presents, send me plate, coin, jewels, With hope that when I die (which they expect Each greedy minute) it shall then return Ten-fold upon them ; whilst some, covetous Above the rest, seek to engross me whole. And counter-work the one unto the other. Contend in gifts, as they would seem in love : All which I suffer, playing with their hopes. And am content to coin them into profit. 112 BEN JONSON. And look upon their kindness, and take more, And look on that ; still hearing them in hand, Letting the cherry knock against their lips. And draw it by their mouths, and back again. IKhocking without. Volp. Who's that ? Mos. 'Tis signior Voltore, the advocate ; I know him by his knock. Volp. Fetch me my gown. My furs and night-caps ; say, my couch is changing. And let him entertain himself awhile. Without i' the gallery. {Exit Mosca.) Now, now, my clients Begin their visitation ! Vulture, kite. Raven, and gorcrow, all my birds of prey, That think me turning carcase, now they come ; I am not for them yet Re-enten Mosca, tjoith the gown, 8fc. How now ! the news .' Mos. A piece of plate, sir. Volp. Of what bigness .' Mos. Huge, Massy, and antique, with your name inscribed, And arms engraven. Volp. Good ! and not a fox Stretch'd on the earth, with fine delusive sleights. Mocking a gaping crow ? ha, Mosca ! Mos. Sharp, sir. Volp. Give me my furs. (Puts on his sick dress.) Why dost thou laugh so, man .' Mos. I cannot choose, sir, when [ apprehend What thoughts he has without now, as he walks : That this might be the last gift he should give ; That this would fetch you ; if you died to-day, ^ And gave him all, what he should be to-morrow ; What large return would come of all his ventures ; How he should worshipp'd be, and reverenced ; Ride with his furs, and foot-cloths ; waited on By herds of fools, and clients ; have clear way Made for his mule, as letter'd as himself; Be call'd the great and learned advocate : And then concludes, there's naught impossible. Volp. Yes, to be learned, Mosca. Mos. O, no : rich Implies it. Hood an ass with reverend purple. BEN JONSON. 113 So you can hide his two ambitious ears Jlnd he shall pass for a cathedral doctor. Volp. My caps, my caps, good Mosca. Fetch him in. Jifos. Stay, sir ; your ointment for your eyes. Volp. That's true ; Dispatch, dispatch : I long to have possession Of my new present, J\fos. That, and thousands more, I hope to see you lord of. Volp. Thanks, kind Mosca. Jfos. And that, when I am lost in blended dust. And hundred such as I am, in succession Volp. Nay, that were too much, Mosca. Mos. You shall live. Still, to delude these harpies. Volp. Loving Mosca ! 'Tis well : my pillow now, and let him enter. {Exit Mosca. Now, my feign'd cough, my phthisic, and my gout, My apoplexy, palsy, and catarrhs. Help, with your forced functions, this my posture, Wherein, this three year, I have 7nilk'd their hopes. He comes ; I hear him — Uh ! {coughing) uh ! uh ! uh ! — Re-enter Mosca, introducing Voltore, witli a piece of plate. Mos. {to Volt.) You still are what you were, sir. Only you, Of all the rest, are he commands his love ; And you do wisely to preserve it thus, With early visitation, and kind notes Of your good meaning to him, which, I know, Cannot but come most grateful. Patron ! sir ! Here's signior Voltore is come, [Speaking loudly in his ear. Volp. {faintly) What say you ? Mos. Sir, signior Voltore is come this morning To visit you. Volp. I thank him, Mos. And hath brought A piece of antique plate, bought of St. Mark, With which he here presents you, Volp. He is welcome. Pray him to come more often. Mos. Yes. Volt. What says he ? Mos. He thanks you, and desires you see him often. Volp. Mosca. Mos. My patron ! 114 BEN JONSON. Volp. Bring him near, where is he ? I long to feel his hand, Mos. The plato is here, sir. Volt. How fare you, sir ? Volp. I thank you, signior Voltore ; Where is the plate ? mine eyes are bad. Volt {putting it into his hafids) I'm sorry To see you still thus weak. Mas. (aside) That he's not weaker. Volp. You are too munificent. Volt. No, sir ; would to heaven, I could as well give health to you, as that plate ! Volp. You give, sir, what you can : I thank you. Your love Hath taste in this, and shall not be unanswered : I pi- ay you see me often. Volt. Yes, I shall, sir. Volp. Be not far from me. Mos. Do you observe that, sir ? Volp. Hearken unto me still ; it will concern you. Mos. You are a happy man, sir ; know your good. Volp. I cannot now last long Mos. You are his heir, sir. Volt. Am I .' Volp. I feel me going : Uh ! uh ! uh ! I'm sailing to my port. Uh ! uh ! uh ! uh ! And I am glad I am so near my haven. Mos. Alas, kind gentleman ! Well, we must all go Volt. But, Mosca Mos. Age will conquer. Volt. 'Pray thee, hear me Am I inscribed his heir for certain ? Mos. Jire you ! 1 do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe To virite me in your family. All my hopes Depend upon your worship : I am lost. Except the rising sun do shine on me. Volt. It shall both shine and warm thee, Mosca. Mos. Sir, I am a man that hath not done your love All the worst offices: here I wear your keys. See all your coffers and your caskets locked. Keep the poor inventoi'y of your jewels. Your plate and monies ; am your steward, sir, HusbaJid your goods here. Vol. But am I sole heir ? Mos. Without a partner, sir ; confirm'd this morning : BEN JONSON. 115 The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry Upon the parchment. Volt. Happy, happy, me ! By what good chance, sweet Mosca ? Mos. Your desert, sir ; J k7iow no second cause. Volt. Thy modesty Is not to know it ; well, we shall requite it. Mos. He ever liked your course, sir; that first took him. I oft have heard him say, how he admired Men of your large profession, that could speak To every cause, and things mere contraries. Till they were hoarse again, yet all be law ; That, with most quick agility could turn. And [re-] return ; [could] make knots, and undo them ; Give forked counsel ; take provoking gold On either hand, and put it up : these men, He knew, would thrive with their humility. And, for his part, he thought he should be blest To have his heir of such a suffering spirit. So wise, so grave, of so perplex'd a tongue, And loud withal, that would not wag, nor scarce Lie still, without a fee : when every word Your worship but lets fall, is a chequin ! \_Knocking without. Who's that ? one knocks ; I would not have you seen, sir. And yet — pretend you came, and went in haste : I'll fashion an excuse and, gentle sir. When you do come to swim in golden lard. Up to the arms in honey, that your chin Is borne up stiff with fatness of the flood. Think on your vassal ; but remember me : I have not been your worst of clients. Volt. Mosca Mos. When will you have your inventory brought, sir ? Or see a copy of the will ? Anon ! — I'll bring them to you, sir. Away, begone. Put business in your face. \_Exit Voltore. Volp. {springing up). Excellent Mosca ! Come hither, let me kiss thee. Mos. K^eep you still, sir. Here is Corbaccio. Volp. Set the plate away ; The vulture's gone, and the old raven's come ! Mos. Betake you to your silence, and your sleep. Stand there and multiply. {Putting the plate to the rest.) Now shall we see 116 BEN JONSON. A wretch who is indeed more impotent Thau this c^ia feign to be ; yet hopes to hop Over his grave Enter Corbaccio. Signior Corbaccio ! You're very welcome, sir. Corb. How does your patron ? Mos. Troth, as he did, sir, no amends. Corb. What ! mends he ? Mos. No, sir ; he's rather worse. Corb. Thafs well. Where is he ? Mos. Upon his couch, sir, newly fall'n asleep. Corb. Does he sleep well ? Mos. JVo wink, sir, all this night. JYor yesterday ; but slumbers. Corb. Good! he should take Some counsel of physicians : I have brought him An opiate here, from mine own doctor. Mos. He will not hear of drugs. Corb. Why I myself Stood by while it was made, saw all the ingredients : And know, it cannot but most gently work : My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep. Volp. {aside) Ay, his last sleep, if he would take it. Mos. Sir, He has no faith in physic. Corb. Say you, say you ? Mos. He has no faith in physic : he does think Most of your doctors are the greater danger. And worse disease, to escape. I often have Heard him protest, that your physician Should never be his heir. Corb. Not I his heir .' Mos. Not your physician, sir. Corb. 0, no, no, no, I do not mean it. Mos. No, sir, nor their fees He cannot brook : he says, they flay a man Before they kill him. Corb. Right, I do conceive you. Mos. And then they do it by experiment ; For which the law not only doth absolve them. But gives them great reward : and he is loth To hire his death, so. BEN JONSON. 117 Corh. It is true, they kill With as much license as a judge. Mos. Nay, more ; For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns. And these can kill him too. Corb. Ay, or me ; Or any man. How does his apoplex ? Is that strong on him still ? Mos. Most violent. His speech is broken, and his eyes are set. His face drawn longer than 'twas wont ? Corh. How ! how ! Stronger than he was wont .-' Mos. No, sir .: his face Drawn longer than 'twas wont. Corh. O good ! Mos. His mouth # Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang. Corb. Good. Mos. A freezing numbness stiffens all his joints, And makes the color of his flesh like lead. Corb. 'Tis good. Mos. His pulse beats slow, and dull. Corb. Good symptoms still Mos. And from his brain Corb. I do conceive you ; good. Mos. Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum, Forth the resolved corners of his eyes. Corb. Is't possible ? Yet I am better, ha ! How does he, with the swimming of his head ? Mos. O, sir, 'tis past the scotomy ;* he now Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort : You hardly can perceive him, that he breathes. Corb. Excellent, excellent ! sure I shall outlast him : This makes me young again, a score of years. Mos. I was a-coming for you, sir. Corb. Has he made his will .'' What has he given me ? Mos. No, sir. Corb. Nothing ! ha ? Mos. He has not made his will, sir. Corb. Oh, oh, oh ! What then did Voltore, the lawyer, here ? Mos. He smelt a carcase, sir, when he but heard Darkness coming over the eyes. 118 BEN JONSON. My master was about his testament ; As I did urge him to it for your good Corb. He came unto him, did he ? I tliought so. Mos. Yes, and presented him this piece of plate. Corh. To be his heir .' Mos. I do not know, sir. Corb. True : I know it too. Mos. {aside) By your own scale, sir. Corb. Well, I shall prevent him, yet. See, Mosca, look, Here, I have brought a bag of bright chequines, Will quite weigh down his plate. Mos. {taking the bag) Yea, marry, sir. This is true physic, this your sacred medicine ; No talk of opiates to this great elixir ! Corb. 'Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile. Mos. It shall be minister'd to him, in his bowl. Corb. Ay, do, do, do. Mos. Most blessed cordial ! This will recover him. Corb. Yes, do, do, do. Mos. I think it were not best, sir. v Corb. What ? Mos. To recover him. Corb. O, no, no, no ; by no means. Mos. Why, sir, this Will work some strange effect, if he but feel it. Corb. 'Tis true, therefore forbear ; I'll take my venture : Give me it again. Mos. At no hand ; pardon me : You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I Will so advise you, you shall have it all. Corb. How ? Mos. All, sir ; 'tis your right, your own : no man Can claim a part : 'tis yours, without a rival, Decreed by destiny. Corb. How, how, good Mosca ? Mos. I'll tell you, sir. This Jit he shall recover. Corb. I do conceive you. Mos. And 071 first advantage Of his gairCd sense, will I re-importune him Unto the making of his testament : And show him this. iPointing to the money. Corb. Good, good. BEN JONSON. 119 Mos. 'Tis better yet. If you will hear, sir. Corb. Yes, with all my heart. Mos. Now, would I counsel you, make home with speed j There, frame a will ; whereto you shall inscribe My master your sole heir, Corb. And disinherit My son ! Mos. O, sir, the better : for that color Shall make it much more taking. Coi'b. O, but color ? Mos. This will, sir, you shall send it unto me. Now, when I come to inforce, as I will do. Your cares, your watchings, and your many prayers, Your more than many gifts, your this day's present. And last, produce your will ; where, without thought. Or least regard, unto your proper issue, A son so brave, and highly meriting. The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you Upon my master, and made him your heir ; He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead. But out of conscience, and mere gratitude Co7'b. He must pronounce me his ? Mos. 'Tis true. Corb. This plot Did I think on before. Mos. I do believe it. Corb. Do you not believe it ? Mos. Yes, sir. Corb. Mine own project. Mos. Which, when he hath done, sir — Corb. Publish'd me his heir ? Mos. And you so certain to survive him — Co?'b. Ay. Mos. Being so lusty a man Corb. 'Tis true. Mos. Yes, sir Corb. I thought on that too. See, how he should be The very organ to express my thoughts ! Mos. You have not only done yourself a good Corb. But multiplied it on my son. • Mos. 'Tis right, sir. Corb. Still, my invention. Mos. 'Las, sir ! heaven knows, It hath been all my study, all my care, (I e'en grow grey withal) how to work things 120 BEN JONSON. Corb. I do conceive, sweet Mosca. Mos. You are he, For whom I labor here. Corb. Ay, do, do, do : I'll straight about it, \_Going. Mos. Rook go with you, raven ! Corb. I know thee honest Mos. {aside) You do lie, sir ! Corb. And Mos. Your knowledge is no better than your ears, sir. Corb. I do not doubt, to be a father to thee. Mos. Nor I to gull my brother of his blessing. Corb. I may have my youth restored to me, why not ? Mos. {ill an under tone) Your worship is a precious ass ! Corb. What say'st thou ? Mos. I do desire your worship to make haste, sir. Corb. 'Tis done, 'tis done ; I go, \Exit. Volp. {leaping froni his couch) O, I shall burst ! Let out my sides, let out my sides — Mos. Contain Your flux of laughter, sir : you know this hope Is such a bait, it covers any hook. Volp. 0, but thy working, and thy placing it ! I cannot hold ; good rascal, let me kiss thee : I never knew thee in so rare a humor. Mos. Alas, sir, I but do as I am taught ; Follow your grave instructions ; give them words ; Pour oil into their ears, and send them hence, Volp. 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare punishme7it Is avarice to itself ! Mos. Ay, with our help, sir. Volp. So many cares, so many maladies^ So many fears attending on old age. Yea, death so often caWd on, as no wish Can be more frequent with them, their limbs faint. Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going, All dead before them ; yea, their very teeth. Their instruments of eating, failing them; Yet this is reckon' d life ! nay, here was one. Is now gone home, that wishes to live longer ! Feels not his gout, nor palsy : feigns himself Younger by scores of years, flatters his age With confident belying it, hopes he may. With charms, like .Mson, have his youth restored : And with these thoughts so battens, as if fate — BEN JONSON. ]21 Would be as easily cheated on, as he. And all turns air ! \_Kno eking within. "] Who's that there, now ? a third ! Mos. Close, to your couch again; I hear his voice : It is Corvino, our spruce merchant. Volp. {lies down as before) Dead. Mos. Another bout, sir, with your eyes. [^Anointing them.'] — Who's there ? Enter Corvin^o. Signior Corvino ! come most wish'd for ! 0, How happy were you, if you knew it, now ! Corv. Why .' what ? wherein ? Mos. The tardy hour is come, sir. Corv. He is not dead .' Mos. Not dead, sir, but as good : He knows no man. Corv. How shall I do then ? Mos. Why, sir .' Corv. I have brought him here a pearl. Mos. Perhaps he has So much remembrance left, as to know you, sir : He still calls on you ; nothing but your name Is in his mouth. Is your pearl orient, sir ? Corv. Venice was never owner of the like, V^olp. {faintly) Signior Corvino ! Mos. Hark. Volp. Signior Corvino ! Mos. He calls you ; step and give it him. — He's here, sir, \_Bawling to Volpone. And he has brought you a rich pearl. Corv. How do you, sir ? Tell him, it doubles the twelfth caract. Mos. Sir, He cannot understand, his hearing's gone ; And yet it comforts him to see you Corv. Say, I have a diamond for him, too, Mos. Best show it, sir ; Put it into his hand ; ^tis only there He apprehends : he has his feeling, yet. See how he grasps it .' Corv. 'Las, good gentleman ! How pitiful the sight is ! Mos. Tut ! forget, sir, The weeping of an heir should still be laughter Under a visor. Corv. Why, am I his heir ? 7 123 BEN JONSON. Mos. Sir, I am sworn, I may not show the will Till he be dead : but here has been Corbaccio, Here has been Voltore, here were others too, I cannot number 'em, they were so many ; All gaping here for legacies : but I, Taking the vantage of liis naming you, Signior Corvino, Signior Corvino, took Paper, and pen, and ink, and there I asked him. Whom he would have his heir ? Corvino. Who Should be executor ? Corvino. And, To any question he was silent to, I still interpreted the nods he made. Through weakness, for consent ; and sent home th' others^ Nothing bequeath'd them, but to cry and curse. Corv. O, my dear Mosca \ \_They embrace.'] Does he not perceive us ? Mos. No more than a blind harper. He knows no man,. No face of friend, nor name of any servant. Who 'twas that fed him last, or gave him drink ; Not those he hath begotten, or brought up, Can he remember. Corv Has he children ? Mos. Bastards ; Some dozen, or more ; but he has given them nothing. Corv. That's well, that's well ! Art sure he does not hear us ? Mos. Sure, sir ! why, look you, credit your own sense. \_Shouls in Vol.'s ear The pox approach, and add to your diseases,. If it would send you hence the sooner, sir, For your incontinence, it hath deserv'd it Thoroughly, and thoroughly, and the plague to boot ! — You may come near, sir. — Would you would once close Those filthy eyes of yours, that flow with slime. Like two frog-pits ; and those same hanging cheeks, Cover'd with hide instead of skin — Nay, help, sir — That look like frozen dish-clouts set on end ! Coi-v. {aloud) Or like an old smoked wall, on ivhich the rain Ran douyn in streaks ! Mos. Excellent! I could stifle him. Corv. Do as you will ; but I'll be gone. Mos. Be so : It is your presence makes him last so long. Corv. I pray you, use no violence. Mos. No, sir ! why .' Why should you be thus scrupulous, pray you, sir ? Corv. Nayj^ at your discretion. Mos. Well, good, sir, begone. BEN JONSON. 123 Corv. I will not trouble him now, to take my pearl. J\fos. Puh ! nor your diamond. What a needless care Is this afflicts you ? Is not all here yours ? Am not I here, whom you have made your creature, That owe my being to you ? Corv. Grateful Mosca ! Thou art my friend, my fellow, my companion, My partner, and shalt share in all my fortunes. ^Exif Corv. Mos. Now is he gone : we had no other means To shoot him hence, but this. Volp. {leaping from his couch) My divine Mosca ! Thou hast to-day outgone thyself. — Prepare Me music, dances, banquets, all delights ; The Turk is not more sensual in his pleasures, Than will Volpone. 124 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER [See •' Imagination and Fancy, ^^ page 150.] Since expressing, in the above volume, the surprise which every- body feels at the astounding mixture of license and refinement displayed by these poets (for the grossness of earlier writers is but a simplicity compared with it), I have come to the conclusion that it was an excess of animal spirits, encouraged by the demand of the times, and the intoxication of applause. They were the sons of men of rank : they had been thrown upon the town in the heyday of their blood, probably with a turn for lavish expenditure ; they certainly wanted money as they advanced, and were glad to get it of gross audiences ; they had been taught to confound loyalty with servility, which subjected them to the dissolute influence of the court of James the First ; they came among the actors and the playwrights, with advantages of position, perhaps of education and accomplishments, superior to them all : their confidence, their wit, their enjoyment was un- bounded ; everybody was glad to hear what the gay gentlemen had to say ; and forth they poured it accordingly, without stint or conscience. Beaumont died young; but Fletcher, who went writing on, appears to have taken a still greater license than his friend. The son of the bishop had probably been tempted to go farther out of bounds than the son of the judge ; for Dr. Fletcher was not such a bishop as Grindall or Jewel. The poet might have been taught hypocrisy by his father ; and, in despising it as he grew up, had gone to another extreme. The reader of the following scenes will observe the difference between the fierce weight of the satire of Volpone, in which BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 125 poison and suffocation are brought in to aggravate, and the gayer caricature of Beaumont and Fletcher. It is equally founded on truth — equally wilful and superabundant in the treatment of it, but more light and happy. You feel that the writers enjoyed it with a gayer laugh. The pretended self-deception with which a coward lies to his own thoughts, — the necessity for support which induces him to apply to others as cowardly as himself for the warrant of their good opinion, and the fascinations of vanity which impel such men into the exposure which they fancy they have taken the subtlest steps to guard against, are most entertain ingly set forth in the interview of Bessus with the two bullies, and tlie subsequent catastrophe of all three in the hands of Bacurius. The nice balance of distinction and difference in which the bullies pretend to weigh the merits of kicks and beat- ings, and the impossibility which they affect of a shadow of imputation against their valors, or even of the power to assume it hypothetically, are masterly plays of wit of the first order. The scenes entitled Buke and No Bake are less perfect writing, but they would be still more effective in representation. The folly is " humored to the top of its bent ;" and the idea of Ma- rine's being deprived of his titles by the whisk of a sword, be- sides being a good practical jest, is a startling reduction of such honors to their first principles THE PHILOSOPHY OF KICKS AND BEATINGS. From the play of " King and No King." Bessus, a beaten poltroon, applies to a couple of professional bullies, also poltroons, to sit in judgment on his case, and testify to his character for valor. They accompany him to the house of Bacurius to do so, and bring an unexpected certificate on the whole party. Scene, a room in the house of Bessus. Enter Besstjs, two Swordmen, and a Boy. Bes. You're very welcome, both ! Some stools there, boy ; And reach a table. Gentlemen o' th' sword, 126 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. Pray sit, without more compliment. Begone, child ! I liavc been curious in the searching of you. Because I understand you wise and valiant. 1 Sw. We understand ourselves, sir. Bes. Nay, gentlemen, and dear friends o' the sword. No compliment, I pray; but to the cause I hang upon, which, in few, is my honor. 2 Sw. You cannot hang too much, sir, for your honor. But to your cause. £cs. Be wise and speak the truth. My first doubt is, mp beating by my prince. 1 Sw. Stay there a little, sir ; Do you doubt a beating? Or, have you had a beating by your prince ? Bes. Gentlemen o' th' sword, my prince has beaten me. 2 Sw. Brother, what think you of this case ? 1 Sw. If he has bcateti him, the case is clear. 2 Sw. If he have beaten him, I grant the case. But how ? we cannot be too subtle in this business. I say, but how ? Bes. Even with his royal hand 1 Sw. Was it a blow of love, or indignation ? Bes. ' Twas twenty blows of indignation, gentlemen ; Besides tivo blows o' th' face. 2 Sw. Those blows o' tli' face have m.ade a new cause on H ; The rest were but anhonorable rudeness. 1 Sw. Two blows o' th' face, and given by a worse man, I must confess, as the swordmen sdij, had turned The business: Mark me, brother, by a worse man: But, being by his prince, had they been ten. And those ten drawn ten teeth, besides the hazard Of his nose for ever, all this had been but favors. This is my flat opinion, which I '11 die in. 2 Sw. The king may do much, captain, believe it ; For had he crack'd your skull through, like a bottle. Or broke a rib or two with tossing of you. Yet you had lost no honor. This is strange. You may imagine ; but this is truth now, captain. Bes. I will be glad to embrace it, gentlemen. But how far may he strike me .' 1 Sw. There's another ; A new cause rising from the time and distance. In which I will deliver my oj)inion. He may strike, beat, or cause to be beaten ; For these are natural to man : Your prince, I say, may beat you .so far forth Jis Im dominion reaches ; that 's for the distance ; BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 127 The time, ten miles a day, I take it. 2 Sw. Brother, you err, 'tis fifteen miles a day ; His stage is ten, his beatings are fifteen. Bes. ' Tis of the longest, but we subjects must — 1 Sio. Be subject to it. You are wise and virtUGUs. Bes. Obedience ever makes that noble use on't. To which I dedicate my beaten body. I must trouble you a little further, gentlemen o' th' sword. 2 Sw. No trouble at all to us, sir, if we may Profit your understanding. We are bound. By virtue of our calling, to xitter our opinion Shortly and discreetly. Bes. My sorest business is, I've been kick'd. 2 Sw. How far, sir ? Bes. J^^ot to flatter myself, all over : My sword lost, but not forced ; for discreetly I render'd it, to save that imputation. 1 Sw. It show'd discretion, the best part of valor. 2 Sw. Brother, this is a pretty cause ; pray ponder on't : Our friend here has been kick'd. 1 Sw. He has so, brother. 2 Sw. Sorely, he says. Now, had he set down here Upon the mere kick, 't had been cowardly. 1 Sw. I think, it had been cowardly, indeed. 2 Sw. But our friend has redeem'd it, in delivering His sword without compulsion ; and that man That took it of him, I pronounce a weak one, J[nd his kicks nullities. He should have kick'd him after the delivering. Which is the conJirniatio7i of a coward ? 1 Sw. Brother, I take it you mistake the question; For say, that I were kick'd. 2 Sw. I must not say so : JVor I must not hear it spoke by th' tongue of man. You kick'd, dear brother ! You are merry 1 Sw. But put the case, I were kick'd. 2 Sw. Let them put it^ That are things weary of their lives, and know Not honor ! Put the case, you were kick'd ; 1 Sw. I do not say I was kick'd 2 Sw. No ; nor no silly creature that wears his head Without a case, his soul in a skin coat. You kick'd, dear brother ! Bes. Nay, gentlemen, let us do what we shall do. Truly and honestly. Good sirs, to the question. 1 Sw. Why, then, I say, suppose your boy kick'd, captain 12S BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 2 Sw. The boy, may be supposed, is liable. But, kick my brother ! 1 Sw. A foolish forward zeal, sir, in my friend. But to the boy : Sujijwse the boy were kick'd. Bes. I do suppose it. 1 Sw. Has your boy a sword ? Bes. Surely, no ; I pray, suppose a sword too. 1 Sw. I do suppose it. You grant, your boy was kick'd then. 2 Sw. By no means, captain ; let it be supposed still. The word " grant" makes not for us. 1 Sw. I say, this must be granted. 2 Sw. This must be granted, brother ? 1 Sw. Ay, this must be granted. 2 Sw Still, this must 1 1 Sw. I say, this must be granted. 2 Sw. Ay ! give me the must again ! Brother, you palter, 1 Sw. I will not hear you, wasp. 2 Sw. Brother, I say you palter ; the must three times together ! I wear as sharp steel as another man. And my fox bites as deep. Musted, my dear brother ! But to the cause again. Bes. Nay, look you, gentlemen ! 2 Sw. In a word, I ha' done. 1 Sw. A tall man, but intemperate ; 'tis great pity. Once more, suppose the boy kick'd. 2 Sw. Forward. 1 Sw. And, being thoroughly kicked, laughs at the kicker. 2 Sw. So much for us. Proceed. 1 Sw. And in this beaten scorn, as I may call it. Delivers up his weapon ; where lies the error ? Bes. It lies i' the beating, sir ; I found it four days since. 2 Sw. The error, and a sore one, as I take it. Lies in the thing kicking. Bes. I understand that well ; 'tis sore indeed, sir. 1 Sw. That is according to the man that did it, 2 Sw. There springs a new branch : Whose was the foot .' Bes. A lord's. 1 Sw. The cause is mighty ; but, had it been two lords. And both had kick'd you, if you laugh'd, 'tis clear. Bes. I did laugh ; but how will that help me, gentlemen ? 2 Sw. Yes, it shall help you, if you laugh'd aloud. Bes. As loud as a kick'd man could laugh, I laugh'd, sir 1 Sw. My reason now : The valiant man is known By suffering and contemning : you have had Enough of both, and you are valiant. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 129 2 Sw. If he be sure he has been kic/t^d enough : For that brave sufferance you speak of, brother. Consists not in a beating and away. But in a cudgelTd body, from eighteen To eight afid thirty ; in a head rebuked With pots of all size, daggers, stools, and bedstaves: < This shows a valiant man. Bes. Then I atn valiant, as valiant as the proudest ; For these are all familiar things to me : Familiar as my sleep, or want of money ; All my whole body's but one bruise, with beating. I think I have been cudgell'd with all nations, Jind almost all religions. 2 Sw. Embrace him, brother! this man is valiant; I know it by myself, he's valiant. 1 Sw. Captain, thou art a valiant gentleman. To bide upon, a very valiant man. Bes. My equal friends o' th' sword, I must request Your hands to this. 2 Sw. 'Tis fit it should be. Bes. Boy, Get me some wine, and pen and ink, within. — Am I clear, gentlemen ? 1 Sw. Sir, when the world Has taken notice of what we have done. Make much of your body ; for I'll pawn my steel. Men will be coyer of their legs hereafter. Bes. I must request you go along, and testify To the lord Bacurius, whose foot has struck me. How you find my cause. 2 Sw. We will ; and tell that lord he must be ruled ; Or there be those abroad will rule his lordship. [Exeunt. ScEjvE. — The house of Bacurius. Enter Bacurius and a Servant. Bac. Three gentlemen without, to speak with me ? Sei'v. Yes, sir. Bac. Let them come in. Enter Bessus, with the two Swordmen. Serv. They are enter'd, sir, already. Bac. Now, fellows, your business ? Are these the gentlemen ? Bes. My lord, I have made bold to bring these gentlemen. My friends o' th' sword, along with me. 7* 130 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. Bac. I am Afraid you'll fight, then. Bes. My good lord, I will not ; Your lordship is mistaken ; fear not, lord. Bac. Sir, I am sorry for' t. Be^. I ask no more III ho7ior. — Gentlemen, you hear my lord Is sorry. Bac. Not that I have beaten you. But beaten one that will be beaten ; One whose dull body will require a lamming. As surfeits do the diet, spring and fall. Now, to your swordmen : What come they for, good Captain Stockfish ? Bes. It seems your lordship has forgot my name. Bac. No, nor your nature neither ; though they are Things fitter, I must confess, for anything Than my remembrance, or any honest man's : What shall these billets do ? be piled up in my wood-yard ! Bes. Your lordship holds your mirth still, heaven continue it ! But, for these gentlemen, they come Bac. To swear you are a coward ? Spare your book ; I do believe it. Bes. Your lordship still draws wide ; They come to vouch, under their valiant hands, I am no coward Bac. That would be a show, indeed, worth seeing. Sirs, Be wise and take money for this motion, travel with't : And where the name of Bessus has been known. Or a good coward stirring, 'twill yield more than A tilting. This will prove more beneficial to you. If you be thrifty, than your captainship, And more natural. Men of most valiant hands. Is this true ? 2 Sw. It is so, most renowned. Bac. 'Tis somewhat strange. 1 Sw. Lord, it is strange, yet true. We have examined, /row your lordship's foot there To this man's head, the nature of the beatings ; And we do find his honor is come off Clean and sufficient. This, as our swords shall help us. Bac. You are much bounden to your bilbo-men ; I am glad you're straight again, captain. 'Twere good You would think some way how to gratify them ; They have undergone a labor for you, Bessus, Would have puzzled Hercules with all his valor. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 131 2 Sw. Your lordship must understand we are no men Of the law, that take pay for our opinions ; It is sufficient we have cleared our friend. Bac. Yet there is something due, which I, as touch'd In conscience, will discharge. — Captain, I'll pay This rent for you. Bes. Spare yourself, my good lord ; My brave friends aim at nothing but the virtue. Bac. That's but a cold discharge, sir, for the pains. 2 Sw. Oh, lord ! my good lord ! Bac. Be not so modest ; I will give you something. Bes. They shall dine with your lordship, that's sufficient. Bac. Something in hand the while. You rogues, you apple -squires. Do you come hither, with your bottled valor. Your windy froth, to limit out my beatings ? IKicks them. 1 Sw. I do beseech your lordship. 2 Sw. Oh, good lord ! Bac. 'Sfoot, what a bevy of beaten slaves are here! — Get me a cudgel, sirrah, and a tough one. {^Exit servant. 2 Sw. More of your foot, I do beseech your lordship. Bac. You shall, you shall, dog, and your fellow beagle. 1 Sw. 0' this side, good my lord. Bac. Off with your swords ; For if you hurt my foot, I'll have you flead. You rascals. 1 Sw. Mine's off, my lord. \,They take off their swords. 2 Sw. I beseech your lordship, stay a little ; my strap 's tied. Now, when you please. Bac. Captain, these are your valiant friends ; You long for a little too ? Bes. I am very well, I humbly thank your lordship. Bac. What's that in your pocket hurts my toe, you mungrel ? 2 Sw. {takes out a pistol). Here 't is, sir ; a small piece of artillery. That a gentleman, a dear friend of your lordship's. Sent me with to get it mended, sir ; for, if you mark, The nose is somewhat loose. Bac. A friend of mine, you rascal ? I was never wearier of doing nothing, Than kicking these two foot-balls. Enter Servant. Serv. Here's a good cudgel, sir. Bac. It comes too late ; I am weary ; pr'ythee, Do thou beat them. 2 Sw. My lord, this is foul play, I'faith, to put a fresh man upon us : Men are but men^ sir. 132 BEAUMONT AND FLP^TCHER. Bac. That jest shall save your bones. — Captain, rally up your rotten regi- ment, and begone. — I had rather thresh than be bound to kick these rascals, till they cried, " ho !" Bcssus, you may put your hand to them now, and then you are quit.— Farewell ! as you like this, pray visit me again ; 't will keep me in good health. {^Exit. 2 Sw. He has a devilish hard foot ; I never felt the like. 1 Sw. JVor /,- a7id yet, I am sure, I have felt a hundred. 2 Stv. If he kick thus i' the dog-days, he will be dry-foundred. What cure now, captain, besides oil of bays .' Bes. Why, well enough, I warrant you : you cayi go 7 2 Sw. Yes, Heaven be thank'd ! but I feel a shrewd ache ; Sure, he's sprang my huckle-bone. 1 Sw. I ha' lost a haunch. Bes. A little butter, friend, a little butter ; Butter and parsley is a sovereign matter : Prohatum est. 2 Sw. Captain, we must request Your hand now to our honors. Bes. Yes, marry, shall ye. And then let all the world come ; we are valiant To ourselves, and there's an end. 1 Sw. Nay, then, we must be valiant. Oh, my ribs ! 2 Sw. Oh, my inside ! A plague upon these sharp-toed shoes ; they're murderers. [Exeunt, DUKE AND NO DUKE.* . An intriguing wife and her companions persuade Mount-Ma- rine, a foolish gentleman (for the purpose of keeping him in town and spending his money), that the king, besides conferring on him a variety of other titles, has made him a duke. Afterwards, in prosecution of the same design, they pretend they have been ordered to unmake him. Scene — A room in the house of Marine. Enter LoNGUEviHiE to Marine and others. Long. Where's Monsieur Mount-Marine .' Gentleman. Why, there he stands ; will ye aught with him ? * Taken from the play entitled " The Noble Gentleman." BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 133 Long. Yes. Good-day, Monsieur Marine ! Mar. Good-day to you. Long. His majesty doth recommend himself Most kindly to you, sir, and hath, by me. Sent you this favor : kneel down ; rise a knight ! Mar. I thank his majesty ! Long. And he doth further Request you not to leave the court so soon ; For though your former merits have been slighted, After this time there shall no office fall Worthy your spirit (as he doth confess There's none so great) but you shall surely have it. Gent, {aside to Mar.) Do you hear ? If you yield yet, you are an ass. Mar. I'll show my service to his majesty In greater things than these : but for this small one I must entreat his highness to excuse me. Long. I'll bear your knightly words unto the king, And bring his princely answer back again. \^Exit. Gent. Well said ! Be resolute a while ; I know There is a tide of honors coming on ; I warrant you ! Enter Beaufort. Beau. Where is this new made knight ? Mar. Here, sir. Beau. Let me enfold you in my arms, Then call you lord ! the king will have it so : Who doth entreat your lordship to remember His message sent to you by Longueville. Gent. If you be dirty, and dare not mount aloft. You may yield now ; I know what I would do. Mar. Peace ! I will fit him. — Tell his majesty I am a subject, and I do confess I serve a gracious prince, that thus hath heap'd Honors on me without desert ; but yet As for the message, business urgeth me, I must begone, and he must pardon me. Were he ten thousand kings and emperors. Beau. I'll tell him so. Gent. Why, this was like yourself ! [Aside. Beau. As he hath wrought him, 'tis the finest fellow That e'er was Christmas-lord ! he carries it So truly to the life, as though he were One of the plot to gull himself. [Exit, 134 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. Gent. Why, so! You sent the wisest and the shrewdest answer Unto the king, I swear, my honor'd friend, That ever any subject sent his liege. Mar. Nay, now I know I have him on the hip, I'll follow it. Enter Longueville. Long. My honorable lord ! Give me your noble hand, right courteous peer. And from henceforward be a courtly earl ; The king so wills, and subjects must obey : Only he doth desire you to consider Of his request. Gent. Why, faith, you are well, my lord ; Yield to him. Mar. Yield? Why, 'twas my plot — Gent. Nay, 'Twas your wife's plot. Mar. To get preferment by it. And thinks he now to pop me in the mouth But with an earldom .^ I'll be one step higher Gent. It is the finest lord ! I am afraid anon He will stand upon't to share the kingdom with him. [^^side. Enter Beaufort. Beau. Where's this courtly earl ? His majesty commends his love unto you, And will you but now grant to his request, He bids you be a duke, and choose of whence. Gent. Why, if you yield not now, you are undone ; What can you wish to have more, but the kingdom 1 Mar. So please his majesty, I would be duke Of Burgundy, because I like the place. Beau. I know the king is pleased. Mar. Then will I stay, And kiss his highness' hand. Beau. His majesty Will be a glad man when he hears it. Long, {aside to the Gent.) But how shall we keep this from the world's ear. That some one tell him not, he is no duke ? Gent. We'll think of that anon. — Why, gentlemen, Is this a gracious habit for a duke .' Each gentle body set a finger to, BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 135 To pluck the clouds (of these his riding weeds) From off the orient sun, off his best clothes ; I'll pluck one boot and spur off, \_They pluck him. Long. I another. Beau. I'll piuck his jerkin off. Getit. Sit down, my lord. — Both his spurs off at once, good Longueville ! Andj Beaufort, take that scarf off, and that hat. Now set your gracious foot to this of mine ; One pluck will do it ; so ! Off with the other ! Long. Lo, thus your servant Longueville doth pluck The trophy of your former gentry off. — Off with his jerkin, Beaufort ! Gent. Didst thou never see A nimble tailor stand so in his stockings, Whilst some friend help'd to pluck his jerkin off, To dance a jig .' Enter Jaqxjes. Long. Here's his man Jaques come, Booted and ready still. Jaques. My mistress stays. Why, how now, sir ? What does your worship mean, To pluck your grave and thrifty habit off? JUar. My slippers, Jaques ! Long. O, thou mighty duke ! Pardon this man, that thus hath trespassed, In ignorance. Mar. I pardon him. Long. Jaques ! His grace's slippers ! Jaques. Why, what's the matter ? Long. Footman, he's a duke : The king hath rais'd him above all his land. Enter Lady in plain apparel. Gent. See, see my mistress ! Long, {aside.) Let's observe their greeting. Lady. Unto your will, as every good wife ought, I have turn'd all my thoughts, and now am ready. Mar. Oh, wife, I am not worthy to kiss The least of all thy toes, much less thy thumb. Which yet I would be bold with ! All thy counsel Hath been to me angelical ; but mine 136 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. To thee hath been most dirty, like my mind. Dear duchess, I must stay. Lady. What ! are you mad, To make me dress and undress, turn and wind me, Because you find me pliant ? Said I not The whole world should not alter me, if once I were resolved ? and now you call me duchess : Why, what's the matter ? Mar. Lo ! a knight doth kneel. Lady. A knight ? Mar. ' A lord. Lady. A fool. Mar. I say doth kneel An earl, a duke. Long. In drawers. Beau. Without shoes. Lady. Sure you are lunatic ! Gent. No, honor'd duchess, If you dare but believe your servant's truth, I know he is a duke. Lady. Your grace's pardon. » « * * * Long. The choicest fortunes wait upon our duke ! Gent. And give him all content and happiness ! Beau. Let his great name live to the end of time ! Mar. We thank you, and are pleased to give you notice We shall at fitter times wait on your loves ; Till when, be near us. Long. May it please your grace To see the city ? 't will be to the minds And much contentment of the doubtful people. Mar. I am determined so. Till my return, I leave my honor'd duchess to her chamber. Be careful of your health .' I pray you be so. Gent. Your grace shall suffer us, your humble servants, To give attendance, fit so great a person, Upon your body ? Mar. I am pleased so. — Long, {aside) Away, good Beaufort ; raise a guard sufficient To keep him from the reach of tongues ; be quick ! And, do you hear ? remember how the streets Must be disposed for cries and salutations — Your grace determines not to see the king .' Mar. Not yet ; I shall be ready ten days hence To kiss his highness' hand, and give him thanks. As it is fit I should, for his great bounty. Set forward, gentlemen ! BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 137 Groom. Room for the duke there ! IT/iey issue forth. Room there afore ; sound ! Room, and keep your places, And you may see enough ; keep your places ! Long. These people are too far unmanner'd, thus To stop your grace's way with multitudes. Mar. Rebuke them not, good monsieur : ' Tis their loves. Which I will answer, if it please my stars To spare me life and health. 2 Gent. God bless your grace ? Jkfar. And you, with all my heart. 1 Ge7it. Now Heaven preserve you 1 Mar. I thank you too. 2 Gent. Now Heaven save your grace ! Mar. I thank you all. Beau. On there before ! Mar. Stand, gentlemen ! Stay yet a while ; I'm minded to impart My love to these good people, and my friends, Whose love and prayers for my greatness Are equal in abundance. Note me well. And with my words my heart ; for as the tree Long. Your grace had best beware ; 't will be inform'd Your greatness with the people. Mar. I had more, My honest and ingenuous people : but The weight of business hath prevented me ; 1 am caW d from you ; But this tree I speak of Shall bring forth fruit, I hope, to your content. And so, I share my bowels amongst you all. All. A noble duke ! a very noble duke ! {^Exeunt. Scene. — A Hall in Marine's House. Enter Marine and Jaques. Mar. Not gone unto my tenants, to relate My grace, and honor, and the mightiness Of my new name, which would have struck a terror Through their coarse doublets to their very hearts ? Jaques. Alas, great lord and master, I could scarce With safety of my life return again Unto your grace's house : and, but for one That had some mercy, I had sure been hang'd. Mar. My house ? Jaques. Yes, sir, this house ; your house i' th' town. Mar. Jaques, we are displeased ; hath it no name ? 138 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. Jaques. What name ? Mar. Dull rogue ! what, hath the king bestow'd So many honors, open'd all his springs, And shower'd his graces down upon my head, And has my house no name ? no title yet ? Bvrgundy-honse, you ass ! Jaques. Your grace's mercy ! And when I was come off, and had recover'd Burgundy-house, I durst not yet be seen, But lay all night, for fear of pursuivants, In Burgundy wash-house. Mar. Oh, sir, 'tis well ; Can you remember now ? But, Jaques, know, Since thy intended journey is so crost, I will go down myself this morning. Jaques. Sir ? Mar. Have I not said this morning ? Jaques. But consider That nothing is prepared yet for your journey ; Your grace's teams not here to draw your clothes. And not a carrier yet in town to send by. Mar. I say, once more, go about it. You're a wise man ! you'd have me linger time. Till I have worn these clothes out. Will you go ? lExit Jaques. Make you ready, wife ! Enter Lady. Lady. I am so, mighty duke. Mar. Nay, for the country. Lady. How, for the country ? Mar. Yes ; I am resolved To see my tenants in this bravery. Make them a sumptuous feast, with a slight show Of Dives and Lazarus, and a squib or two. And so return. Lady. Why, sir, you are not inad ? Mar. How many dukes have you known mad 7 Pray speak. Lady. You are the first, sir, and I hope the last : But you are stark horn-mad. Mar. Forbear, good wife. Lady. As I have faith, you're mad ! Sir, you shall know There is a greater bond that ties me here. Allegiance to the king. Has he not heap'd Those honors on you to no other end, BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 139 But to stay you here ? and shall I have a hand In the offending such a gracious prince ? Enter Beaufort, Longueville, Gentleman, and Maria. Lady. Oh, gentlemen, we are undone ! Long. For what ? Lady. This gentleman, the lord of Lome, my husband, Will be gone down to show his playfellows Where he is gay. Beau. What, down into the country ? Lady. Yes, 'faith. Was ever fool but he so cross .-' I would as fain be gracious to him. As he could wish me ; but he will not let me. Speak faithfully, will he deserve my mercy .' Long. According to his merits, he should have A guarded coat, and a great wooden dagger. Lady. If there be any woman that doth know The duties 'twixt a husband and his wife. Will speak but one word for him, he shall 'scape : Is not that reasonable .' But there's none. {.Aside) Be ready therefore to pursue the plot We had against a pinch ; for he must stay. Long, {aside) Wait you here for him, whilst I go. And make the king acquainted with your sport, For fear he be incensed for your attempting Places of so great honor. lExit. Lady. Go ; be speedy. Mar. What, are you ready, wife ! Lady. An hour ago. Mar. I cannot choose but kiss thy royal lips, Dear duchess mine, thou art so good a woman. Beau. You'd say so, if you knew all, goodman Duckling ! \^Jlsid€. Clerimont. {a foolish kinsman) This was the happiest fortune could be- fall me ! [^Jlside. Now, in his absence, will I follow close Mine own preferment ; and I hope, ere long. To make my mean and humble name so strong As my great cousin's ; when the world shall know I bear too hot a spirit to live low. The next spring will I down, my wife and household ; I'll have my ushers, and my four lacqueys. Six spare caroches too : But mum, no more ! What I intend to do, I'll keep in store. Mar. Montez, montez ! Jaques, be our querry ! . Groom. To horse there, gentlemen, and fall in couples ! Mar. Come, honor'd duchess ! 140 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER Enter Longuevelle. Long. Stand, thou proud man ! Mar. Thieves, Jaques ! raise the people ! Lo7ig. No ; raise no people ! 'Tis the king's command Which bids thee once more stand, thou hutighty man ! Thou art a monster ; for thou art ungrateful ; And, like a fellow of a rebel nature. Hast flung from his embraces : not return'd So much as thanks; and, to oppose his will. Resolved to leave the court, and set the realm A-fire, in discontent and open action . Therefore he bids thee stand, thou proud man, Whilst, with the whisking of my sword about, J take thy hotwrs off: This first sad whisk Takes off thy dukedom ; thou art but an earl. Mar. You are mistaken, Longueville. Lono-. Oh, 'would I were ! This second whisk divides Thy earldom from thee ; thou ait yet a baron. Mar. JVo more ivhisks, if you love me, Longueville! Long. Two whisks are jftist, and two are yet behind Yet all must come : but not to linger time. With these two whisks I end. Now, Mount-Marine, For thou art now no more, so says the king ; And I have done his highness' will with grief. Mar. Degraded from my honors ? £,on^. 'Tis too certain. Lady. Oh, my poor husband ! what a heavy fortune Is fallen upon him ! Beau. Methinks 'tis strange. That, Heaven forewarning great men of their falls With such plain tokens, they should not avoid 'em : For the last night, betwixt eleven and twelve, Two great and hideous blazing stars were seen To fight a long hour by the clock, the one Dress'd like a duke, the other like a Mng ; Till at the last the crowned star o'ercame. Gent. Why do you stand so dead, Monsieur Marine ? Mar. So Caisarfell, when in the capitol They gave his body two-and-thirty wounds. Be warned, all ye peers ; and, by my fall. Hereafter learn to let your wives rule all ! Marine is finally permitted to think himself a Duke, but only in secret. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 141 Gent, {aside to Marine) Hark ye, sir ; The king doth know you are a duke. Mar. No ! does he ? Gent. Yes ; and is content you shall be ; with this caution — That none know it but yourself ; for, if you do HeUl take H away by act of parliament. Mar. Here is my hand ; and whilst I live or breathe, JVb living wight shall know I am a duke. Gent. Mark me directly, sir ; your wife may know it. Mar. Mayn't Jaques ? Gent. Yes, he may. Mar. Mayn't my cousin ? Gent. By no means, sir, if you love life and state. Mar. {out loud) Well then, know all, I'm no duke. Gent. No, I'll swear it. Mar. Know all, I am no duke. Lady. What say you .' Mar. Jaques, \_Aside to him Jaques. Sir ? Mar. I am a duke. Both. Are you ? Mar. Yes, 'faith ; yes, 'faith, But it must only run amongst ourselves. Lady, {aside) As I could wish. {Aloud) Let all young sprightly wives, That have dull foolish coxcombs to their husbands. Learn by me all their duties, what to do. Which is, to make 'em fools, and please 'em too ! 142 ANONYMOUS. ANONYMOUS. THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER. This is a banter by some " fine old Queen Elizabeth gentleman" (or somebody writing in his character) on the new and certainly far less respectable times of James the First ; an age in which a gross and unprincipled court took the place of a romantic one, and greatness became confounded with worldliness ; an age in which a lusus naturcE was on the throne, — in which Beaumont and Fletcher were spoilt, the corruption and ruin of the great Bacon completed, Sir Walter Raleigh murdered, and a pardon given to Lord and Lady Somerset. However, I must not injure the pleasant effect of an old song by pitching the critical prelude in too grave a tone. It is here printed, as given with corrections in Percy's Reliques^ from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys collection of Ballads, Garlands, &;c., preserved at Magdalen College in Cam- bridge. This Pepys is " our fat friend" of the Memoirs, — now a man of as jovial a reputation, as he was once considered staid and formal. He must have taken singular delight in the song before us ; for though a lover of old times, and an objector upon princi- ple to new, he had an inclination to the pleasures of both. The song is admirable ; full of the gusto of iteration, and exquisite in variety as well as sameness. It repeats the word " old " till we are enamored of antiquity, and prepared to resent the impertinence of things new. What a blow to retiring poverty is the " thump on the back with the stone !" and what a climax of negative merit is that of the waiting-gentlewoman, who, when her lady has dined, " lets the servants not eat !" ANONYMOUS. 143 I should not wonder if it had been written by Decker. It has all his humor, moral sweetness, and flow. An old song made by an aged old pate Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a great estate. That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate ; Like an old courtier of the queen's. And the queen's old courtier. With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages, That every quarter paid their old servants their wages. And never knew what belong'd to coachmen, footmen, nor pages. But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges ; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old study fiU'd full of learned old books ; With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks ; With an old buttery hatch, worn quite off' the hooks ; And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks ; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old hall hung about with pikes, guns, and bows ; With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows, And an old frieze coat to cover his worship's trunk hose ; And a cup of old sherry to comfort his copper nose ; Like an old courtier, &c. With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come, To call in all his old neighbors with bagpipe and drum, With good cheer enough to furnish every old room. And old liquor able to make a cat speak and a man dumb ; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds. That never hawk'd, nor hunted, but in his own grounds. Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds. And when he died, gave every child a thousand good pounds ; Like an old courtier, &c. But to his eldest son his house and land he assign'd, Charging him in his will to keep the old bountiful mind. To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbors be kind ; But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'd : Like a young courtier of the king's. And the king's young courtier. 144 ANONYMOUS. Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land. Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, And takes up a thousand pounds upon his father's land. And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand ; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare. Who never knew what belong'd to good house-keeping, or care, Who buys gaudy-color'd fans to play with a wanton air. And seven or eight different dressings of other women^s hair ; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new^-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood. Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good ; With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood. And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon no victuals ne'er stood ; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets and plays, And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays ; With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days. And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws and toys ; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on, On a new journey to London straight w^e all must begone, And leave none to keep house but our new porter John, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone , Like a young courtier, &c. With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is complete ; With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat; With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat. Who, when her lady has din^d, lets the servants not eat ; Like a young courtier, &c. With new titles of honor bought with his father's old gold. For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold ; And this is the course most of our new gallants hold. Which makes that good house-keeping is now grown so cold, Among our young courtiers of the king, Or the king's young courtiers. RANDOLPH. 145 RANDOLPH. BORN, 1605 DIED, 1634. Thomas Randolph, who died fellow of Trinity College, Cam- bridge, aged twenty-nine, was one of the favorite disciples of Ben Jonson. He had a vein of comedy gayer and more natural than his master's, which might have rendered him a favorite with posterity, had he outlived the influence of his training. He had as much learning for his time of life, more animal spirits, and appears to have been very amiable. His brother collected and published his writings, with an introduction full of love and re- spect. He lost a finger once in endeavoring to part two combat- ants ; and, instead of bewailing the mishap, turned it into a sub- ject for epigram, and said he hoped to " shake hands with it in heaven." Randolph's best known play, the Muses^ Looking- Glass, which is to be found in late collections of the old drama, is singularly full of life, considering it is one continued allegory, and didactic withal. And his dramatic pastoral, called A7nyntas, or the Im- possihle Dowry (from an imaginary fairy investiture), deserves to be known quite as well, for its gaiety and graceful fancy. If he had but understood " the art of arts, the art to blot," he would have been popular to this day. But who did, in his time, even the greatest ? Who thoroughly understands it any time ? And what heaps of inferior poets have since gone, and are going, to oblivion, who took him doubtless for some obsolete gentleman, oppressed with a quaint love of talking, while they fancied their own garrulity to be the right " soul of wit ?" In the following scene from the Muses^ Looking-GIass, the poet, under the Greek names of Deilus, Aphobus, and Colax, 8 146 RANDOLPH. presents us with caricatures of Fear, Rashness, and Flattery. The excessive double-dealing of Flattery, in his asides to the two others, is very ludicrous ; and the extravagances of Fear have a foundation in truth, not unworthy to stand side by side with the honest poltrooneries of the heroin John Paul."^ FEAR, RASHNESS, AND FLATTERY. Deilus undergoes jiaroocysyns of terror from the near conversation of Aphobus. — C01.AX {aside) adulates them both ,• but ultimately rids himself of their company, on finding that he gets nothing by it. Deilus. Good Aphobus, no more such terrible stories : I would not for a world lie alone to-night : I shall have such strange dreams ! Aphobus. What can there be That I should fear .' The gods .' if they be good, 'Tis sin to fear them : if not good, no gods ; And then let them fear me. Or are they devils That must affright me ! Deil. Devils ! where, good Aphobus .•' I thought there was some cotifuring abi'oad ; ' Tis such a terrible wind ! here it is ; Now it is here again ! still, still, still. Apho. What is the matter .' Deil. Still it follows me ! The thing in black, behind ; soon as the sun But .shines, it haunts tne ? Gentle spirit, leave me ! Cannot you lay him ? What ugly looks it has ! With eyes as big as saucers, nostrils wider Than barbers' basons ! Apho. It is nothing, Deilus, But your weak fancy that from every object Draws arguments of fear. This terrible black thing ■ Deil. Where is it, Aphobus .' Apho. Is but your shadow, Deilus. Deil. And should we not fear shadows 7 Apho. ' No, wliy should we .'' Deil. Who knows but they come leering after us. To steal away the substance .?' Watch him, Aphobus. Apho. I fear nothing. Colax. {aside to Aphobus) / do commend your valor. That fixes your great soul fast as a centre. Not to be mov'd with dangers. Let slight cock-boats * FtdeMr. Carlyle's admirable translation of Tales from the German. 1 RANDOLPH. 147 Be shaken with a wave, while you stand firm Like an undaunted rock, whose constant hardness Reheats the fury of the raging sea, Dashing it into froth. Base fear doth argue A low degenerate soul. Deil. {In answer to x\phobus) Now 1 fear everything. Colax. {aside to Deilus) ' Tis your discretion. Everything has dan- ger, And therefore everything is to he feared. I do applaud this wisdom. 'Tis a symptom ^ Of wary providence. His too confident rashness [ Secretly making a gesture towards Aphobus. Argues a stupid ignorance in the soul, A blind and senseless judgment. Give me fear To 7nan the fort ; 'tis such a circumspect And wary sentinel ; but daring valor, Uncapable of danger, sleeps securely. And leaves an open entrance to his enemies. Deil. What, are they landed 7 Apho. Who ? Deil. The enemies That Colax talks of. Apho. If they be, I care not ; Though they be giants all, and arm'd with thunder. Deil. Why, do you not fear thunder 7 Apho. Thunder ? No ! No more than squibs and crackers. Deil. Squibs and crackers ! I hope there he none here! s'lid, squibs and crackers ! — The mere epitomes of the gunpowder treason .' Faux in a lesser volume !^ Apho. Let fools gaze At bearded stars. It is all one to me, As if they had been shav'd. Thus, thus would I Out-beard a meteor ; for I might as well Name it a prodigy when my candle blazes. Deil. Is there a comet, say you ? Nay, I saw it ; It reach' d from Paul's to Charing, and portends Some certain imminent danger to the inhahitants 'Twixt those two places. I'll go get a lodging Out of its influence.^ Colax. Will that serve you ? — I fear It threatens general ruin to the kingdom. Deil. I'll to some other country. Colax. There is danger To cross the seas. 148 RANDOLPH. Deil. Is there no way, good Colax, To cross the sea by land 7 O the situation^ The horrible situatio7i of an island ! Colax. {aside to Aphobus) You, sir, are far above such frivolous thoughts. You fear not death. Apho. Not I. Col. Not sudden death. Apho. No more than sudden sleeps. Sir, I dare die. Deil. I dare not. Death to me is terrible. J will not die.* Apho. How can you, sir, prevent it ? Deil. Why, I will kill myself. Col. A valiant course ; And the right way to prevent death indeed. Your spirit {aside to Deilus) is true Roman ! — But yours {aside to Apho- bus) greater. That fears not death, nor yet the manner of it. {Aloud) Should heaven fall Apho. Why, then we should have larks. Deil. I shall never eat larks again while I breathe. Col. Or should the earth yawn like a sepulchre. And with an open throat swallow you quick ? Apho. ' Twould save me the expenses of a grave. Deil. I had rather trouble my executors by th' half. Apho. Cannons to me are pop-guns. Deil. Pop-guns to me Are cannons. The report will strike me dead. Apho. A rapier's but a bodkin. Deil. But a bodkin / Jfs a most dangerous weapon. Since I read Of Julius Csesar's death, I durst not venture Into a tailor's shop for fear of bodkins. Apho. that the valiant giants should again Rebel against the gods, and besiege heaven, So I might be their leader. Col. {aside to Aphobus) Had Enceladus Been half so valiant, Jove had been his prisoner. Apho. Why should we think there be such things as dangers ? Scylla, Charybdis, Python, are but fables ; Medea's bull and dragon very tales ; Sea-monsters, serpents, all poetical figments ; Nay, hell itself, and Acheron, mere inventions ; Or were they true, as they are false, should I bo So tim'rous as to fear these bug-bear Harpies, Medusas, Centaurs, Gorgons .-* Deil. O good Aphobus, RANDOLPH, 149 Leave conjuring, or take me into the circle. What shall I do, good Colax ? Col. Sir, walk in. There is, they say, a looking-glass, a strange one Of admirable virtues, that will render you Free from enchantments. Deil. How ! a looking-glass 7 Dost think I can endure it 1 Why there lies A man within'' t i?i ambush to entrap me. I did but lift my hand np, and he presently Catch" d at it. Col. 'T was the shadow, sir, of yourself; Trust me, a mere reflection. Deil. {mustering up all his forces) I will trust thee. Apho. What glass is that .-' Col. {aside to Aphobus) A trick to fright the idiot Out of his wits ; a glass so full of dread, Rend'ring to the eye such horrid spectacles As would amaze even you, sir. I do think Your optic nerves would shrink in the beholding. This if your eye endure, I will confess you The prince of eagles. Apho. Look to it, eyes : if ye refuse this right. My nails shall damn you4o eternal night. Col. {aside to himself) Seeing no hope of gain, I pack them hence. 'Tis gold gives flattery all her eloquence. ^ Who knows but they come leering after us To steal away the substance ? A very poetical apprehension, and very poetically expressed. The word leering has a fine comic mystery in it ; which is always an aggravation of horror, upon the principle of extremes meet- ing ; — malice in benevolence. 3 Squibs and crackers ! The mere epitomes of the gunpowder treason ! Faux in a lesser volwne ! The wording of this extravagance is just as if Charles Lamb had written it. But indeed, in the pregnancy as well as coloring of his style, he was one of our old wits come back again. ^ Til go get a lodging Out of its influence. 150 RANDOLPH. The caricatures of Fear, after all, are not caricatures. It is the only passion lliat cannot be overdrawn. Multitudes of people in civilized countries have been known to do things as ridiculous as this ; liave believed in the end of the world because a mad- man announced it, and gone out of town to avoid an earthquake next Wednesday ! « " I will not And d* er -inform^ d the tenement of clay, j A daring pilot in extremity. Pleased with the danger when the loaves went high. He sought the storms ; but, for a calm unfit, Would steer too nigh the sands to show his wit. Great wits to madness surely are allied. And thin partitions do their bounds divide y' Else, why should he, with wealth and honor blest, Refuse his age the needful hours of rest ; Punish a body which he could not please. Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease. And all to leave what with such toil he won. To that unfeathefd two-legged thing, a son ,-' Got, while his soul did huddled notions try. And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy ? In friendship false, implacable in hate, Resolv'd to ruin or to rule the state. To compass this the triple bond he broke, ^ The pillars of the public safety shook, > And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke ; 3 Then, seiz'd with fear, yet still affecting fame, Usurp'd a patriot's all-atoning name. So easy still it proves, in factious times. With public zeal to pancel private crimes. How safe is treason, and how sacred ill, Where none can sin against the people* s will / i DRYDEN. 193 Where crowds can wink, and no offence be known. Since in another's guilt they see their own. Yet fame deserv'd no enemy can grudge ; The statesman we abhor, but praise the judge. In Israel's courts ne'er sat an Abethdin* With more discerning eyes, or hands more clean ; Unbrib'd, unsought, the wretched to redress ; Swift of despatch, and easy of access. Oh ! had he been content to serve the crown With virtues only proper to the gown. Or had the rankness of the soil been freed From cockle that oppress'd the noble seed, David for him his tuneful harp had strung. And lieaven had wanted one immortal song. 1 " Character of Lord Shaftesbury:'— Anthony Ashley Cooper, first Earl of Shaftesbury, a mercurial and ambitious man, not very well principled where powder was to be obtained, but not indis- posed to be just and patriotic when possessed of it. Even the famous reply which he is said to liave made to a banter of Charles the Second, contained a sort of impudent aspiration, which must have at once disconcerted and delighted the merry monarch ; for it implied that his majesty and he stood in a very remarkable state of relationship. The King. Shaftesbury, I believe thou art the wickedest dog in my dominions. Shaftesbury (with a bow). May it please your majesty, of a subjectt I believe I am." ^ " Great wits to madness surely are allied. And thin pai'titions do their bounds divide." The truth of this striking couplet may seem to be exemplified in the history of Swii\ and others ; but it is not the greatness of the wit that is allied to the madness ; it is the weakness or vio- lence of the will. Rabelais was no madman, Moliere was none, Sterne was none, Butler none, Horace, Aristophanes, Ariosto, Berni, Voltaire, Shakspeare, Cervantes. The greater the wit, for the most part, the healthier the understanding, because it is tho- roughly wisest and well-balanced. Some physical irregularity * A Jewish word for judge. Shaftesbury had been Lord Chancellor. 10 194 DRY DEN. or accident is generally at the bottom of the madness of men of genius. Lee was a drinker, and used to lie at night in the streets. Swift had a diseased blood. Poor Collins probably got the seeds of his malady in the gay life he once led " about town," a very unfit one for his sensitive and sequestered turn of mind. Cowper was driven mad through an excessive delicacy of organization frightened by Methodism ; instead of being soothed, as it ought to have been, by the liberal opinions natural to his heart and good sense. 3 " To that unfeather'd two-legg'd thing, a son." — Father of the third Earl of Shaftesbury, the philosopher ; who with all his philosophy never forgave Dryden this attack on the parental insignificance. CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. Fro7n the same poem. A numerous host of dreaming saints succeed. Of the true old enthusiastic breed : 'Gainst form and order they their power employ. Nothing to build, and all things to destroy. But far more numerous was the herd of such. Who think too little, and who talk too much. These out of mere instinct, they knew not why, Ador'd their fathers' God, and property ; And by the same blind benefit of fate, The Devil and the Jebusite did hate ; Born to be sav'd, even in their own despite. Because they could not help believing right. Such were the tools ; but a whole hydra more Remains of sprouting heads too long to score. Some of their chiefs were princes of the land. In the first rank of these did Zimri stand ; A man so various, that he seem'd to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome ; Stiff in opi7iio7i, always in the wrong, Was everything by starts, and nothing long ; " George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham, son of the favorite of Jame8 and Charles the First. DRYDEN 195 But, in the course of one revolving moon. Was chemist, fiddler, statesynan, and buffoon ; Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking. Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. Blest madman, who could every hour employ With something new to wish or to enjoy ! Railing and praising were his usual themes. And both, to show his judgment in extremes ; So over violent, or over civil. That every man with him was God or Devil. In squandering wealth was his peculiar art ; JVothing went unrewarded hut desert. Beggar'd by fools whom still he found too late, He had his jest, and they had his estate. He laugh'd himself from court ; then sought relief By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief: For spite of him the weight of business fell On Absalom and false Achitophel Thus, wicked but in will, of means bereft. He left not faction, but of that was left.^ ' " Character of the Duke of Buckingham." — The duke intrio-ued o against a giddy and unprincipled court out of pure similarity of disposition. Dryden's attack on him was partly in payment for offence received in the critical comedy of The Rehearsal. His Grace was very angry, and replied in a wretched pamphlet, which is forgotten. — See the interesting notes on Walter Scott's edition of Dryden, vol. ix., p. 272. ^ " He left not faction, but of that was left.""— See in the present volume, the rival portrait of Buckingham from the hand of Pope. FOPPERIES OF THE TIME. {Being the Epilogue to Etherege's " Man of Mode, or Sir Foplino Flutter." Most modern wits such monstrous fools have shown, They seem not of Heaven's making, but their own : Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass. But there goes more to a substantial ass : J 96 DRYDEN. Something of man must be expos'd to view. That, gallants, he may more resemble you. Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ, The ladies would mistake him for a wit, And when he sings, talks loud, and cocks,* would cry, " I vow, methinks, he's pretty company ;" So brisk, so gay, so travell'd, so refin'd. As he took jiains to graff upon his kind. True fops help Nature's work, and go to school, To file and finish God Almighty's fool. Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him, can call; He'? knight o' th^ shire, and represents you all. From each he meets he culls whate'er he can ; Legion 's his name — a people in a man. His bulky folly gathers as it goes. And, rolling o'er you, like a snow-ball grows. His various modes from various fathers follow ; One taught the toss, and one the new French wallow. His sword-knot this, his cravat that design'd ; And this, the yard-long snake he twirls behind f From one the sacred periwig he gain'd, Which ivind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat profaned. Another's diving how he did adore. Which, with a shog, casts all the hair before ; Till he with full decorum brings it back. And rises with a water-spaniel shake. As for his songs, the ladies' dear delight. These sure he took from most of you who write. Yet every man is safe from what he fear'd. For no one fool is hunted from the herd. THE CATHOLIC AND PROTESTANT CLERGY. From the " Hijvd and the Panther." A plain good man whose name is understood]: (So few deserve the name of plain and good) Of three fair lineal lordships stood possess'd. And liv'd, as reason was, upon the best. — * Videlicet, his hat. t I know not what he means by this. X James H. — Dry den was at this time a Catholic. DRYDEN. 197 His house with all convenience was purvey'd The rest he found, but rais'd the fabric where he pray'd.* And in that sacred place his beauteous wife Employ'd her happiest hours of holy life. Nor did their alms extend to those alone, Whom common faith more strictly made their own A sort of Devest were hous'd too near their hall, Who cross the proverb, and abound in gall. Though some, 't is true, are passively inclin'd, The greater part degenerate from their kind ; Voracious birds, that hotly bill and breed. And largely drink, because on salt they feed. Small gain from them their bounteous owner draws ; "l Yet, bound by promise, he supports their cause, > As corporations privileg'd by laws. } Another farm he had behind his house, Not overstock'd, but barely for his use • Wherein his poor Domestic Poultry fed. And from his pious hands receiv'd their bread.J Our pamper'd Pigeons, with malignant eyes. Beheld these inmates and their nurseries : Though hard their fare at evening and at morn (A cruise of water and an ear of corn),i Yet still they gvudg'd that modicum, and thought A sheaf in every single grain was brought : ^^ Fain would they filch that little food away, #^^ Wliile unrestrain'd these happy gluttons prey ; _ i^^ And much they griev'd to see so nigh their hall, "^ ^ The bird that warn'd St. Peter of his fall f That he should raise his mitred crest on high. And clap his wings, and call his family To sacred rites ; and vex the Ethereal powers With midnight matins at uncivil hours ; Nay more, his quiet neighbors should molest Just in the sweetness of their morning rest. Beast of a bird,^ supinely when he might Lie still and sleep, to rise before the light. What if his dull forefathers us'd that cry. Could he not let a bad example die ? ^ The world was faiPu into an easier way: This age knew better than to fast and pray. *• The Catholic chapel set up by James in Whitehall, t The clergy of the Church of England. It is amusing to see them re- presented as living on the " alms" of the barely tolerated king. X The Catholic clergy maintained by the king. 198 DRYDEN. Good sense in sacred worship would appear, So to begin, as they mij^ht end the year. Such feats in former times had wrought the falls Of crowing chanticleers in cloister'd walls. ExpcU'd for this, and for their lands, they fled; 1 And sister Partlet with her hooded head* > Was hooted hence because she would not pray a-bed. ) The way to win the restifl' world to God. Was to lay by the disciplining rod, Unnatural fasts, and foreign forms of prayer : Religion frights us with a mien severe. 'T is prudence to reform her into ease, And put her in undress, to make her please. A lively faith will bear aloft the mind, And leave the luggage of good works behind. * " A cruise of water and an ear of corny — The ideal monastic regimen ! very different from that of monks in general. " " The bird that warn'd St. Peter of his fall." — This verse is from Spenser : — " The bird that warned Peter of his fall." Spenser, whom chance had put on the side of the Puritans (for no mjn^ould naturally have been more for a gorgeous creed than he),^^r unwillingly omitted the title of Saint to Peter. The Catholic Dryden as willingly availed himself of the abbreviated past tense to restore it. The reader may remember Sir Roger de Coverley's perplexity at the successive rebukes he received, when a little boy, from a Catholic for asking his way to " Mary- bone," and from a Puritan for restoring the saint her title. 3 " Beast of a J/r<;."— What a happy anomaly, and vigor of alliteration ! How well it comes, too, after the fond pathos of the luxury of the line before it ! * The Nuns. PHILIPS. 199 PHILIPS. BORN, 1676 DIED, 1708. John Philips was a young and lively writer, who, having suc- ceeded in a burlesque, was unfortunately induced to attempt serious poetry, and devoted himself to it with a scholarly dulness which he would probably have seen the folly of in any one else. His serious imitations of Milton are not worth a penny ; but his burlesque of the style of Paradise Lost, though it no longer possesses the novelty which made it popular, is still welcome to the lover of wit. The low every-day circumstances, and the lofty classic manner with its nomenclatures, are happily inter- woven ; the more trivial words are brought in with unlooked-for effect; the motto is particularly felicitous ; and the comparison of the rent in the small-clothes with the ship that has sprung a leak at sea, and founders, concludes the poem with a tremendous and calamitous grandeur, only to be equalled by tlie exclamation of the Spaniard ; who said he had torn his " breeches, as if heaven and earth had come together." THE SPLENDID SHILLING. " Sing, heavenly muse. Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme ;^^ j3 shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire. Happy the man, who, void of cares and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling : he nor hears with pain 200 PHILIPS. New oysters cry'd, nor sighs for cheerful ale ; But with his friends, when ni!j;htly mists arise, To Juni4)er's Magpye, or Town-hall repairs ; Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye Transfix'd his soul, and kindled amorous flames, Chloe or Phyllis, he each circling glass Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, Or pun ambiguous or conundrimi quaint. But I, whom griping penury surrounds. And hunger, sure attendant upon want, With scanty offals, and fimall acid tiff ( TVretched repast /) my meagre corpse sustain : Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and icith a unarming puff Regale chilVd fingers ; or from tube as black As winter- chimney, or well polish'd jet, Exhale inundungus, ill-perfuming scent. A'^ot blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, Smo/ces Cambro-Briton (vers'd in pedigree. Sprung from Cadtvallador and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic tale) when he O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff. Upon a cargo of fam'd Cestrian cheese, High over-shadowing rides, with a design To wend his wares at the Arvonian mart. Or Maridnnum, or the ancient town Fclej)\l Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream Enci rcles Jiriconium , fruitful soil ! Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie With Massic, Setin, or renown'd Falern. Thus, while my joyless minutes tedious flow, With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun^ Horrible mo7ister ! hated by gods and men, ' To my aerial citadel ascends.* With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, With' hideous accent thrice he calls ; I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. What should I do .' or whither turn .' Amaz'd, Cunfuundrd, to the dark recess I fly Of wood-hole ; straight my bristling hairs erect Through sudden fear ; a chilly sweat bedews My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to tell !) My tongue forgets her faculty of speech ; * To-wit, his garret. PinLIPS. 201 So horrible he seems ! His faded brow Entrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard. And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints, Disastrous acts forebode ; in his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves. With characters and figures dire inscrib'd, Grievous to mortal eyes (ye gods avert Such plagues from righteous men !) Behind him stalks Another monster, not unlike itself. Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar call'd '' Jl Catchpole^ whose polluted hajids the gods With force incredible, and magic charms. First have endued : if he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay Of debtor, straight his body to the touch Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont) To some enchanted castle is convey'^d. Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, In durance strict detain him, till, in form Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. Beware, ye debtors ! when ye walk, beware, Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave. Prompt to enchant some inadvei'tent wretch With his unhallow'd touch. So (poets sing) Grimalkin to domestic vermin sworn An everlasting foe, with watchful eye Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, Portending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice Sure ruin. . So her disembowell'd web Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads Obvious to vagratit flies : she secret stands Within her woven cell ; the humming prey, Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils Inextricable, nor will aught avail Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue. , ^ The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone. And butterfly proud of expanded wings Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares. Useless resistance make ; with eager strides, She towering flies to her expected spoils : Then with envenom'd jaws the vital blood Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags. 10* 202 PHILIPS. So pass my days. But when nocturnal shades This world envelope, and th' inclement air Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood , Me, lojieiy sitting, nor the glimmering light Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk Of loving friend, delights; distress'd, forlorn, Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts My anxious mind ; or sometimes mournful verse Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, Or desperate lady near a purling stream, Or lover pendent on a willow-tree. Meanwhile I Jabor with eternal drought, And restless wish, and rave ; my parched throat Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose : But if a slumber haply does invade My weary limbs, my fancy, still awake. Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream. Tipples imaginary pots of ale ; In vain ; — awake I find the settled thirst Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarr'd. Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays Mature, john-appje, nor the downy peach. Nor walnut in rough -furrowed coat secure. Nor medlar fruit delicious in decay ; Afflictions great ! yet greater still remain. My galligaskins, that have long withstood The winter's fury and encroaching frosts, By time subdued {what will not time subdue!) An horrid chasm disclose with orifice Wide, discontinuous ; at which the winds Eurus and Auster and the dreadful force Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, f Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship. Long sails secure, or through the jEgean deep. Or the Ionian, till cruising near The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush On Scylla or Charybdis {darigerous rocks) She strikes rebounding; whence the shatter'd oak. So fierce a shock unable to withstand, Admits the sea. In at the gaping side The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage. PHILIPS. 203 Resistless, overwhelming. Horrors seize The mariners ; death in their eyes appears ; Tfiey stare, they lave, they j)ump, they swear ^ they pray. (Vain eflforts) still the battering waves rush in. Implacable, till, delug'd by the foam. The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss. ■204 POPE. POPE. BORN, 1688 DIED, 1744. Besides being an admirable wit and satirist, and a man of the most exquisite good sense, Pope was a true poet ; and though in all probability his entire nature could never have made him a great one (since the whole man contributes to form the genius, and the very weakness of his organization was in the way of it), yet in a different age the boy who wrote the beautiful verses, Blest be the man whose wish and care, would have turned out, I think, a greater poet than he was. He had more sensibility, thought, and fancy, than was necessary for the purposes of his school ; and he led a sequestered life with his books and his grotto, caring little for the manners he drew, and capable of higher impulses than had been given him by the wits of the time of Charles the Second. It was unlucky for him (if indeed it did not produce a lucky variety for the reading world) that Dryden came immediately before him. Dryden, a robuster nature, was just great enough to mislead Pope ; and French ascendency completed his fate. Perhaps, after all, nothing better than such a honey and such a sting as this exquisite writer de- veloped, could have been got out of liis little delicate pungent nature; and we liave every reason to be grateful for vviiat they have done for us. Hundreds of greater pretensions in poetry have not attained to half his fame, nor did they deserve it; for they did not take half his pains. Perhaps they were unable to take them, for want of as good a balance of qualities. Success is generally commensurate with its grounds. POPE. 205 Pope, though a genius of a less masculine order than Dryden, and not possessed of his numbers or his impulsiveness, had more delicacy and fancy, has left more passages that have become proverbial, and was less confined to the region of matter of fact. Dryden never soared above earth, however nobly he walked it. The little fragile creature had wings ; and he could expand them at will, and ascend, if to no great imaginative height, yet to charming fairy circles just above those of the world about him, disclosing enchanting visions at the top of drawing-rooms, and enabling us to see the spirits that wait on coffee-cups and hoop, petticoats. But more of this in the notes. My limits have allowed me to give only a portion of the Rape of the Lock, but it is the best and most important, containing the two main points of the poem, — the Rape itself, and the leading operations of the sylphs. From his other poems I have also selected such passages as are at once the wittiest and of the most ordinary interest, — the cha- racters which he drew from life. THE SYLPHS AND THE LOCIv OF HAIR. From *' The Rape of the Lock." What dire ofTence from amorous causes springs. What mighty contests rise from trivial things, I sing. — This verse to Caryl, muse ! is due ; This ev'n BeUnda may vouchsafe to view : Slight is the subject, but not so the praise. If she inspire, and he a;pprove my lays. Say what strange motive, goddess! could compel A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle ? O say what stranger cause yet unexplor'd, Could make a gentle belle reject a lord ." In tasks so bold can little men engage ? And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage .'— Not with more glories in th' ethereal plain, The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams Launch'd ou the bosom of the silver'd Thames. 20G POPE. Fair nymphs and well-dressed youths around her shone, But every eye was lix'd on her alone. On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, lllnch Jews might fciss and Infidels adore. Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those : Favors to none, to all she smiles extends ; Oft she rejects, but never once offends. Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike. And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride. Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide : If to her share some female errors fall. Look on her face, and yoxCll forget them all. This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, Nourish'd two locks, which graceful hung behind In equal curls, and well conspir'd to deck With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. With hairy springes we the birds betray : Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey ; Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare. And beauty draws us with a single hair. Th' adventurous Baron the bright locks admir'd ; He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspir'd. Resolv'd to win, he meditates the way. By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; For when success a lover's toil attends. Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends. For this, ere Phcebus rose, he had implor'd Propitious Heav'n, and every power ador'd ; But chiefly Love — to Love an altar built. Of twelve vast French romances neatly gilt. There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves. And all the trophies of his former loves. With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre. And breathes three amorous sighs to light the fire. Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize. — But now secure the painted vessel glides. The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides ; While melting music steals upon the sky. And softcn'd sounds along the waters die ; Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, Belinda smil'd, and all the world was gay, POPE. 207 All but the sylph. With careful thoughts opprest, Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast.\ He summons straight his denizens of air ; The lucid squadrons round the sails repair ; Soft o'er the shroud aerial whispers breathe^ That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath. Some to the sun their insect wings unfold, Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold ; * Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight. Their fluid bodies half dissolv'd in light, Loose to the wind their airy garments flew. Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew, Dipp'd in the richest tinctures of the skies. Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes. While every beam new transient colors flings, Colors that change whene'er they wave their wings. Amid the circle on the gilded mast, Superior by the head was Ariel plac'd -^ His purple pinions opening to the sun, He raised his azure wand, and thus begun : " Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief give ear ; Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and daemons, hear ! Ye know the spheres, and various tasks assign'd By law eternal to th' aerial kind : Some in the fields of purest aether play. And bask and whiten in the blaze of day; Some guide the course of wandering orbs on high, Or roll the planets through the boundless sky ; Some, less refin'd, beneath the moon's pale light Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, Or suck the mists in grosser air below, Or dip their pinions in the painted bow. Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main. Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain : Others on earth o'er human race preside. Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide ; Of these the chief the care of nations own. And guard with arms divine the British throne. " Our humbler province is to tend the fair. Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care ; To save the powder from too rude a gale, JVor let the imprisoned essences exhale : To draw fresh colors from the vernal flowers : To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in showers, A brighter wash ; to curl their waving hairs. Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs ; 20S POPE. JVay, oft in dreams, invention loc bestoWy To change ajiouticcy or add a furbelow. " This day, black omens threat the brightest fair That e'er Jesorv'd a watchful spirit's care ; Some dire di.saster, or by force, or slight; But what, or where the fates have wrapp'd in night. Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, Or some frail China-Jar receive a flaw ; Or stain Iter honor, or her new brocade: Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade ; Or lose her heart, or necklace at a ball ; Or whether Heaven has doomhl that Shock must fall. Haste then, ye spirits ! to your charge repair ; The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care; The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign : And, MoraentiUa, let the watch be thine; Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favorite Lock ; Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. " To fifty chosen sylphs, of sjtecial note. We trust tic imjiortant charge, the petticoat ; Oft have we known that seven-fold fence to fail, Though stiff with hoops, and arm'd with ribs of whale. Form a strong line about the silver bound. And guard the wide circumference around. " Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large. Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertakc his sins, Be stopped in vials, or transfix'd with jnns : Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie. Or wedg'd ichole ages in a bodkin''s eye ;^ Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain. Or alum styptics with contracting power Shrink his thin essence like a shrivell'd flower : Or, as Ixion flx'd, the wretch shall feel The giddy motions of the whirling mill ; In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, And tremble at the sea that froths below .'" He spoke ; t})e spirits from the sails descend ; Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend; Some Ihrid the mazy ringlets of lier hair ; Some hang upon the pendants of her ear ; With beating hearts the dire event they wait. Anxious and trembling for the birth of fate. Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with flowers, Wliere Thames with pride surveys his rising towers. POPE. 209 There stands a structure of majestic frame, Which from the neighboring Hampton takes its name. Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home ; Here thou, great Anna ! whom three realms obey. Dost sometimes counsel take — and sometimes tea. Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; In various talk th' instructive hours Ihey past. Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last ; One speaks the glory of the British (lueen, And one describes a charming Indian screen ; A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes ; jlt evei'y word a reputation dies. Snvff, or the fan, svpply each pause of chat. With singing, laughingy ogling, and- all that.* O thoughtless mortals, ever blind to fate, Too soon dejected, and too soon elate ! For lo ! the board with cups and spoons is crown'd, The berries crackle and the mill turns round : On shining altars of Japan they raise The silver lamp ; the fiery spirits blaze : From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, While China's earth receives the smoking tide. At once they gratify their scent and taste. And frequent cups prclong the rich repast. Straight hover round the fair her airy band ; Some, as slie sipp'd, the fuming liquor fann'd ; Some, o'er her lap their careful plumes display'd, Trem.bling, and conscious of the rich brocade. Coffee {which ??iakes the politician wise, And see through all things with his half-shut eyes) Sent up in vapors to the Baron's brain New stratagems the radiant Lock to gain. Ah cease, rasli youth ! desist ere 'tis too late. Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate ! Chang'd to a bird, and sent to flit in air. She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair 1^ But when to miscliief mortals bend their will. How soon they find fit instruments of ill ! Just then Clarissa drew with tempting grace A two-edg'd weapon from her shining case ; So ladies, in romance, assist their knight, Present the spear, and arm him for the flight. He takes the gift with reverence, and extends The little engine on his fingers' ends : 210 POPE. This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, As o'er the frajjjrant steams she bends her head. Swift to the Lock a thousand sprites repair, A thousand witigs, by turns, blow back the hair ; And thrice they twitched the diamond in her ear ; Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near. Just in that instant anxious Ariel sought The close recesses of the virgin's thought. As on the nosegay in her breast reclin'd, He watch'd th' ideas rising in her mind, Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art, An earthly lover lurking at her heart. <5 Amaz'd, confus'd, he found his power expir'd, Resign'd to fate, and with a sigh retir'd. The Peer now spreads the glittering forf ex wide, T' inclose the Lock ; now joins it, to divide. E'en then, before the fatal engine closed, A wretched sylph too fondly interposed ; Fate urg'd the shears, and cnt the sylph in twain {But airy substance soon unites again) ; The meeting points the sacred hair dissever From the fair head for ever and for ever ! Tlien flash'd the living lightning from her eyes. And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies. Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, When husbands, or when lap-dogs breathe their last ! Or when rich China vessels, fall'n from high. In glittering dust and painted fragments lie ! " Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine (The victor cried), the glorious prize is mine ! While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, Or in a coach-and-six the British fair. As long as Atalantis shall be read,^ Or the small pillow grace a lady's head, While visits shall be paid on solemn days. When numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze. While nymphs take treats, or assignations give, So long my honor, name, and praise shall live !" I All but the Sylph, with careful thoughts opprest, Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast. lie had appeared to Belinda in a dream, and warned lur ajjainst a lover. ] Superior by the head was Ariel plac'd. — Pope's fairy reiiioii, compared with Shakspeare's, was what a drawing-room is to the POPE. 211 universe. To give, therefore, to the sprite of the Rape of the Lock the name of the spirit in the Tempest was a bold christening. Prospero's Ariel could have puffed him out like a taper. Or he would have snuffed him up as an essence by way of jest, and found him flat. But, tested by less potent senses, the sylph spe- cies is an exquisite creation. He is an abstract of the spirit of fine life; a suggester of fashions; an inspirer of airs; would be cut to pieces rather than see his will contradicted ; takes his sta- tion with dignity on a picture-card; and is so nice an adjuster of claims, that he ranks hearts with necklaces. He trembles for a petticoat at the approach of a cup of chocolate. The punish- ments inflicted on him when disobedient have a like fitness. He is to be kept hovering over the fumes of the chocolate ; to be transfixed with pins ; clogged with pomatums, and wedged in the eyes of bodkins. Only (with submission) these punishments should have been made to endure for seasons, not " ages." A season is an age for a sylph. Does not a fine lady, when she dislikes it, call it " an eternity ?" 3 With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that.— Imagine a com- mon-place poet (if some friend had written the rest of this couplet) trying to find a good pointed rhyme for the word " chat." How certain he would have been not to think of this familiar phrase, precisely because he was in the habit of using it in daily par- lance : — how certain, out of an instinct of dulness, to avoid his own conventional language, on the only occasion which could render it original. * She dearly pays for JVisus' injur'd hair. — Nisus the father of Scylla, and king of Megaris, had a lock in his hair, on the pre- servation of which depended the fate of his capital. Minos be- sieged the capital. Scylla fell in love with the besieger, cut off the lock, and was changed into a bird by the gods. See the story in Ovid, at the beginning of Book the Eighth. ^ An earthly lover lurking at her head.— He had warned her against it in a dream. ^ As long as " Atalantis" shall be read.—X book of fashionable scandal written by Mrs. Manly. Marmontel, in his translation of the Rape of the Lock (generally a very close and correct one), *ias confounded it with the Atlantis of Bacon ; concluding, per- 212 ropE. haps, according to the opinion then prevailing in Paris, that " philosopliy" was a fashionable study witli the belles of London. TROUBLES FROM LAD AUTHORS. (From the Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot.) Shut, shut the door, good John ! fatigued I said : Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. The dog-star rages ! nay, 't is past a doubt, • All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out : Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide .-' They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide. By land, by water, they renew the charge ; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the church is free, Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me: Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy! to catchmc—Just at dinner time. Is there a parson, much bemu.'Cd in beer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross. Who pens a stanza, when he should engross ? Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls With desjyerate charcoal round his darken'd walls ? All fly to Twit'nara, and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws. Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause : Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope. And curses vnt, and jioctry, and Pope. Friend to my life ! (which did you not prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song), What drop or nostrum can this plague remove .' Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love .•• A dire dilenmia! either way I 'm sped ; If foes they write, if friends, they read me dead. Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge, how wretched I ! Who can't be silent, and who will not lie : To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace ; And to be grave, exceeds all power efface. POPE. 213 I sit with sad civility/ I read With honest ant^uish, and an aching head ; And drop at last, but in unwilling ears. This saving counsel, " Keep your piece nine years." " Nine years !" cries he, who, high in Drury Lane, Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes e'er he wakes, and prints before term ends, Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends : " The piece, you think, is incorrect ? Why take it ; I'm all submission ; what you'd have it, make it," Three things another'' s modest wishes bound. My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon se'hds to me : " You know his grace ; I want a patron : ask him for a place." Pitholeon libell'd me — " But here's a letter Informs you, sir, 't was when he knew no better. Dare you refuse him ? Curll invites to dine. He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine." Bless me ! a packet. — " ""T is a stranger sues, A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse." If I dislike it, ^'furies, death, and rage .'" If I approve, " Commend it to the stage." There (thank my stars), my whole commission ends. The players and I are luckily, no friends. Fir'd that the liouse reject him, " 'Sdeath ! I'll print it. And shame the fools — Your interest, sir, with Lintot." " Lintot, dull rogue ! will think your price too much :" " Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch." All my demurs but double his attacks : At last he whispers, " Do ; and we go snacks." Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door ; " Sir, let me see your works, and you no more." ' Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me, just at dinner-time. The precincts of the Mint, in those clays, included a jail for debtors. It was shabby of the poor devils of authors to take advantage of the poet's dinner-hour ; but was it quite magnani- mous in the poet to say so ? If his father had not left him an independence, he might have found even himself hard pushed sometimes for a meal. Pope was a little too fond of taking his pecuniary advantages for merits. He did not see (so blind respecting themselves are the acutest satirists) that this inability 214 POPE. to forego a false ground of superiority originated in an instinct of weakness. 8 Curll invites to dmc— Curll was the chief scandalous bookseller of that time. CHARACTERS AND RULING PASSIONS. CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF WflARTON. Manners with fortunes, humors turn with climes. Tenets with books, and principles with times. Search then the Ruling Passion : there, alone, The wild are constant, and the cunning known ; The fool consistent, and the false sincere ; Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here. This clue once found, unravels all the rest, The prospect clears, and Wharton stands confest. Wharton the scorn and wonder of our days. Whose ruling passion was the lust of praise : Born with whate'er could win it from the wise. Women and fools Tnust like him, or he dies: Though wondering senates hung on all he spoke. The club must hail him master of the joke. Shall parts so various aim at nothing new .' He'll shine a TuUy and a Wilmot too. Then turns repentant, and his God adores. With the same spirit that he drinks and whores :^ Enough if all around him but admire. And now the punk applaud, and now the friar. Thus with each gift of nature and of art And wanting nothing but an honest heart ; Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt ; And most contemptible, to shun contempt ; His passion still to covet general praise ; His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways ; A constant bounty, which no friend has made ; An angel tongue, which no man can persuade ; A fool, with more of wit than half mankind ; Too rash for thought, for action too refin'd A tyrant to the wife his heart approves ; A rebel to the very king he loves ; POPE. 215 He dies, sad outcast of each church and state, And, harder still ! flagitious, yet not great. Ask you why Wharton broke through every rule ? 'Twas all for fear that knaves should call him fool.^" ® Then turns repentant, and his God adores. With the same spirit that he drinks and whores. The reader must bear in mind that all which is considered coarse language now, was not so considered in Pope's time ; and that words, which cannot any longer be read out loud in mixed company, may still have the benefit of that recollection, and be silently endured. " Ask you why Wnarton broke through every rule ? 'Twas all for fear that knaves should call him fool. Perhaps, if it were required to select from all Pope's writings the passage most calculated to have a practical effect on readers in want of it, it would be this couplet. The address of it is ex- quisite. The obvious conclusion is, that it is better to be thought a fool by a knave than by a man of genius. CHARACTER OF ADDISON. A man's true merit is not hard to find ; But each man's secret standard in his mind {That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness) Tliis, who can gratify 7 for who can guess ?" The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown. Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown ;n He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left; And he who now to sense, now nonsense leaning. Means not, but blunders round about a meaning ; And he whose fustian's so sublimely bad. It is not poetry, hut prose run mad ; All these my modest satire bade translate. And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe, Aud swear not Addison himself was safe. Peace to all such ! But were there one whose fires True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires ; 2IG POPE. Blest witli each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease; Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear like the Turk no brother near the throne ; View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise ; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, ^nd without sneering teach the rest to sneer ; Willing to wound and yet afraid to strike. Just hint a fault and hesitate dislike ; Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend, A timorous foe and a suspicious friend ; Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieg'd, And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged ; Like Cato, give his little senate laws. And sit attentive to his own applause; While wits and templars every sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praise Who but must laugh, if such a man there be 7 Who would not weep, if Atticus iverc he ?'^ n — Each man's secret standard in his mind {That casting- weight pride adds to emptiness) This, who can gratify 7 for who can guess 7 Exquisite discernment, as exquisitely expressed. This is the whole secret of arrogance, and (in ninety-nine cases out of a hun- dred) of ordinary sullenness and exaction. The standard is in- visible, and no arbiter is allowed. " The bard whom pilfer' d pastorals renown. Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown. This was Ambrose Philips, a man of genius, whose half-jest, ing, half-serious poems in short verses were of a delicacy not sufiiciently appreciated ; and whose mistake in pastoral writing was, at all events, not so bad as Pope's, who never forgave the superiority awarded to him in that direction by Steele and others. Wliat is meant by the pastorals being "pilfered," 1 forget ; if tiiat they were imitated from Spenser and otiiers, Pope's may be said to have been all pilfered from classical common-places. The accusation of the half-crown is, of course, not true ; and if it were, would be no disgrace but to tlie accuser and tiie bookseller. Suppose Philips had described Pope as the man Who turns a page of Greek for eighteen-pence ! POPE. 217 The tales here alluded to were the delightful Persian Tales, translated from the French of Petit de la Croix. They arc of genuine Eastern origin, and worthy brothers of the enchanting Arabia?! Nights. '3 Who would not weep, if jltticus were ^e.— It is well known and obvious that this character of Atticus was meant for Addison. A doubt has existed whether Pope was right in supposing Addison to have been jealous ; and perhaps he was not : but the coldness, reserve, and management, in the disposition of the lord of Button's Coffee-house, not unnaturally gave rise to the suspicion : and the exquisite expression of the language in which it is conveyed has all the eloquence of belief. CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend. And see what comfort it affords our end. In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half hung,'* The floor of plaster, and the walls of dung, On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw. With tape-ty'd curtains never meant to drawt The George and Garter dangling from that bed Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red. Great Villiers lies — alas ! how chang'd from him. That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim ! Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove, The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love ; Or just as gay at council, in a ring Of mimick'd statesmen, and their merry king. No wit to flatter, left of all his store ! No fool to laugh at, which he valued more. There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. '< In the worst inn's worst room, Sfc. — It is a pity that Pope wrote this character of Buckingham after Dryden's; for, though cele- brated and worth repeating, it is very inferior, and, in the details, of very questionable truth. In fact, the superlative way of talk- ing throughout it (the " worst inn's worst room," the introduction 11 218 POPE, of the " George and Garter," &c.) is in a manifest spirit of exag^- geration, and defeats the writer's object. A gentleman of the Fairfax connexion, who was a retainer of the Duke's, and wrote a memoir of him, says that he died in his own house. CHARACTER OF THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH. But what are these to great Atossa's mind P^^ Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind ! Who with herself, or others, from her birth Finds all her life one warfare upon earth ; Shines in exposing knaves, and painting fools. Yet is, whate'er she hates and ridicules : No thought advances, but her eddy brain Whisks it about, and down it goes again. Full sixty years the world has been her trade ; The wisest fool much time has ever made : From loveless youth to unrespected age, No passion gratify'd, except her rage : So much the fury still outran the wit, The pleasure miss'd her, and the scandal hit. Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from hell. But he's a bolder man who dares be well. Her every turn with violence pursued. Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude : To that each passion turns, or soon, or late ; Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate. Superiors .' death ! and equals ? what a curse ! But an inferior not dependant .' worse. Offend her, and she knows not to forgive ; Oblige her, and slie'll hate you while you live : But die, and she'll adore you — then the bust And temple rise — then fall again to dust. Last night her lord was all that's good and great ; A knave this morning, and his will a cheat. Strange ! by the means defeated of the ends. By spirit robb'd of power, by warmth of friends. By wealth of followers ! without one distress Sick of herself, through very selfishness ! Atossa, curs'd with every granted prayer ; Childless with all her children, wants an heir. To heirs unknown descends th' unguarded store. Or wanders, heaven-directed, to the poor. POPE. 219 15 Great Atossa's mind.— The Duchess of Marlborough, widow of the great Duke, — famous for her ambition and arbitrary temper, and the ascendency which she lost over Queen Anne. CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF CHANDOS, AND DESCRIPTION OF HtS VILLA. At Timon's villa let us pass a day ;i6 Where all cry out, " What sums are thrown away !" So proud, so grand ; of that stupendous air. Soft and agreeable come never there. Greatness with Tiraon dwells, in such a draught As brings all Brohdignag before your thought. To compass this, his building is a town, His pond an ocean, his parterre a down . Who but must laugh, the master when he sees, A puny insect, shivering at a breeze ! Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around ! The whole a labor'd quarry above ground. Two Cupids squirt before : a lake behind Improves the keenness of the northern wind. His gardens next your admiration call : On every side you look, behold the wall ! No pleasing intricacies intervene. No artful wildness to perplex the scene ; Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother. And half the platform just reflects the other The suffering eye inverted nature sees. Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees ; With here a fountain never to be play' d ; And there a summer-house that knows no shade ; Here Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowers. There gladiators fight or die in flowers ; Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn, And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn. My lord advances with majestic mien, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen: But soft — by regular approach — not yet — First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat ; And when up ten steep slopes you 've dreigg'd your thighs. Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes. 220 POPE. His study ! with what authors is it stor'd ? In books, not authors, curious is my lord : To all their dated backs he turns you round ; These Aldus printed, tliosc Du Sucil has bound. Lo, some arc vellum, and the rest as good For all his lordship knows, but they arc wood ! For Locke or Milton 't is in vain to look; These shelves admit not any modern book. And now the chapel's silver bell you hear. That summons you to all the pride of prayer : Light quirks of music, broken and uneven. Make the soul dance upon a jig to heaven. On painted ceilings you devoutly stare. Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre, Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie. And bring all paradise before your eye. To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite. Who never mentioJis hell to ears polite. But hark ! the chiming clocks to dinner call ; A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall : The rich buffet well-colored serpents grace, And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face. Is this a dinner .' this a genial room ? JVo, 't is a temple, and a hecatomb. A solemn sacrifice perform'' d in state. You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear Sancho'8 dread doctor and his wand were there. Between each act the trembling salvers ring. From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King. In plenty starving, tantalized in state. And complaisantly help'd to all I hate. Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my leave Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve ; I curse such lavish cost, and little skill. And swear no day was ever pass'd so ill. Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed ; Health to himself, and to his infants bread The laborer bears. What his hard heart denies, His charitable vanity supplies. Another age shall see the golden ear Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre. Deep harvests bury all his pride lias plann'd. And laughing Ceres re-assume the land. le ♦« At Timon's villa let us pass a day. — The character of Timon POPE. 221 (though Pope denied the application) was universally thought, and still is, to have been intended for that of James Brydges, First Duke of Chandos, whose princely buildings at Canons, and equally princely style of living, with his chapel, his choir, and Handel for his composer, — rendered the satire applicable to him alone. The prophecy at the conclusion was singularly borne out by the event ; and the pedestrian who now visits Edge- ware seldom suspects that he is on ground so famous. People in the neighborhood are still said to talk of the " Grand Duke." His locks and hinoes were of silver and gold. CHARACTER OF NARCISSA. Narcissa's nature, tolerably mild, To make a wash would hardly stew a child ;" Has e'en been prov'd to grant a lover's prayer. And paid a tradesman once to viake him stare ; Gave alms at Easter, in a Christian trim ; And made a widow happy, for a whim. Why then declare good nature is her scorn. When 'tis by that alone she can be borne ? Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name ? A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame : JVow deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs ; JVow drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres ; Now conscience chills her, and now passion burns. And atheism and religion take their turns ; A very Heathen in the carnal part. Yet still a sad good Christian at her heart. " JVarcissa's nature, tolerably mildj To make a wash would hardly stew a child. This is very ludicrous and outrageous. Can this Narcissa have been intended for Mrs. Oldfield the actress, who is under- stood, with great probability, to have been the Narcissa spoken of in a passage extracted further on 1 If so, she does not appear to have deserved the character, — at least not the worst part of it. The widow, whom she is described as making happy " for a whim," bore the most affectionate testimony to her generous 222 POPE qualities ; and she gave a pension to Savage. See her " Life," by Maynwaring ; which, thoiigli a catchpenny publication, easily shows what we are to believe in it, and what not. CHARACTER OF CHLOE. " Yet Chloe, sure, was form'd without a spot."— 1« Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot. " With every pleasing, every prudent part. Say, what can Chloe want?"— She wants a heart. She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought ; But never, never reach'd one generous thought. Virtue she finds too painful an endeavor — Content to dwell in decencies for ever So very reasonable, so unmov'd, As never yet to love or to be lov'd. She, while her lover pants upon her breast, Can mark the figures on an Indian chest ; And when she sees her friend in deep despair, Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. Forbid it, heaven ! a favor or a debt She e'er should cancel — but she may forget. Safe is your secret still in Chloe's ear ; But none of Chloe's shall you ever hear. Of all her dears she never slandered one. But cares not if a thousand are undone. Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead .' She bids her footman put it in her head. Chloe is prudent — (would you too be wise ?) Then never break your heart when Chloe dies. '^ Yet Chloe i sure, was formed without a spot. — Chloe is thoUf^ht to have been Lady SufTolk, the supposed mistress of George the Second. She had offended Pope by not doing something for Swift, which, according to the Dean and his friends, she had led him to believe she would. But Swift was full of fancies ; and Lady Suffolk, by consent of all that were in habits of intimacy with her, was a most amiable as well as even-tempered woman. POPK 223 THE RULING PASSION. In this one passion man can strength enjoy. As fits give vigor just when they destroy. Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand. Yet tames not this ; it sticks to our last sand. Consistent in our follies and our sins, Here honest nature ends as she begius. Old politicians chew on w^isdom past. And totter on in business to the last ; As weak, as earnest, and as gravely out. As sober Lanesb'row dancing in the gout. Behold a reverend sire, whom want of grace Has made the father of a nameless race, Shov'd from the wall, perhaps, or rudely press'd By his own son, that passes by unbless'd ; Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees, And envies every sparrow that he sees. A salmon's belly, Heiluo, was thy fate ; The doctor call'd, declares all help too late: *' Mercy !" cries Heiluo, " mercy on my soul ! Is there no help ? — alas ! — then bring the jowl." The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend. Still strives to save the hallow'd taper's end. Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires. For one puff more, and in that puff expires. *' Odious ! in woollen ! 'twould a saint provoke" (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke), " No, let a charming chintz, and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face : One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead — And, Betty, give this cheek a little red."^® The courtier smooth, who forty years had shin'd An humble servant to all human kind, Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir : *' If— where I'm going — I could serve you, sir ?" " I give and I devise" (old Euclio said. And sigh'd) " my lands "and tenements to Ned." *' Your money, sir ?" " My mone}', sir ! what, all ? Why, if I must — (then wept) — T give it Paul." " The manor, sir ?" " The manor ! hold !" he cried ; " Not that, — I cannot part with that "—and died. '9 And, Betty, give this cheek a little rfrf.— The " little red " is a 224 POPE. poetical addition ; but it really appears, from the " Life" above mentioned, that Mrs. Oldfield was handsomely dressed in her coffin, bv her own direction. The charmer of the stage could not bear to fancy herself in mortal attire. SWIFT. SWIFT. BORN, 1667 DIED, 1745. For the qualities of sheer wit and humor, Swift had no superior, ancient or modern. He had not the poetry of Aristophanes, or the animal spirits of Rabelais ; he was not so incessantly witty as Butler ; nor did he possess the delicacy of Addison, or the good nature of Steele or Fielding, or the pathos and depth of Sterne ; but his wit was perfect, as such ; a sheer meeting of the extremes of difference and likeness ; and his knowledo;e of character was unbounded. He knew the humor of great and small, from the king down to the cook-maid. Unfortunately, he was not a healthy man ; his entrance into the church put him into a false position ; mysterious circumstances in his personal history conspired with worldly disappointment to aggravate it ; and that hypochondriacal insight into things, which might have taught him a doubt of his conclusions and the wisdom of patience, ended in making him the victim of a diseased blood and angry passions. Probably there was somethino; morbid even in his excessive coarseness. Most of his contemporaries were coarse, but not so outrageously as he. When Sv/ift, however, was at his best, who was so lively, so entertaining;, so orio;inal ? He has been said to be indebted to this and that classic, and this and that Frenchman ; — to Lucian, to Rabelais, and to Cyrano de Bergerac ; but though he was ac- quainted with all these writers, their thoughts had been evidently thought by himself; their quaint fancies of things had passed through his own mind ; and they ended in results quite masterly, and his own. A great fanciful wit like his wanted no helps to 11* 2.26 SWIFT. the discovery of Brobdignag and Laputa. The Big and Little Endians were close to him every day, at court and at church. Swift took his principal measure from Butler, and he emulated liis rhymes ; yet his manner is his own. There is a mixture of care and precision in it, announcing at once power and fastidious- ness, like Mr. Dean going with his verger before him, in flowing gown and five times washed face, with his nails pared to the quick. His long irregular prose verses with rhymes at the end, are an invention of his own ; and a similar mixture is discernible even in those, not excepting a feeling of musical proportion. Swift had more music in him than he loved to let " fiddlers" sup- pose ; and throughout all his writings there may be observed a jealous sense of power, modifying the most familiar of his im- pulses. After all, however, Swift's verse, compared with Pope's or with Butler's, is but a kind of smart prose. It wants their pregnancy of expression. His greatest w^orks are GuIliver^s Travels, and the Tale of a Tub. THE GRAND QUESTION DEBATED.i WHETHER Hamilton's bawn should be turned into a barrack OR A MALT-HOUSE, 1729. Thus spoke to my lady the knight full of care : " Let me have your advice in a weighty affair. This Hamilton's bawn, whilst it sticks on my hand, I lose by the house what I get by the land. But how to dispose of it to the bast bidder, For a barrack or malt-house, we now must consider. First, lot me suppose I make it a malt-house : Here I have computed the profit will fall V us : There's nine hundred pounds for labor and grain ; I increase it to twelve, so three hundred remain ; A handsome addition to wine and good cheer, Three dishes a day, and three hogsheads a year. With a dozen large vessels my vaults; shall be stor'd ; No little scrub joint shall come on my board ; And you and the Dean no more shall combine To stint me at night to one bottle of wine ; SWIFT. 227 Nor shall I, for his humor, permit you to purloin A stone and a quarter of beef from my surloin. If I make it a barrack, the crown is my tenant^ My dear, I have ponder'd again and again on 't : In poundage and drawbacks I lose half my rent ^ Whatever they give me, I must be content. Or join with the court in every debate ; And rather than that, I would lose my estate." Thus ended the knight : thus began his meek wife : " It must, and it shall be a barrack, my life. I'm grown a mere mopus ; no company comes, But a rabble of tenants, and rusty dull rums.* With parsons what lady can keep herself clean ; I'm all over daub'd when I sit by the Dean. But if you will give us a barrack, my dear. The captain, I'm sure, will always come here : I then shall not value his deanship a straw. For the captain, I warrant, will keep him in awe ; Or should he pretend to be brisk and alert, AVill tell him that chaplains should not be so pert ; That men of his coat should be minding their prayers ^ And not among ladies to give themselves airs." Thus argued my lady, but argued in vain ; The knight his opinion resolv'd to maintain. But Hannah, who listen'd to all that was past, And could not endure so vulgar a taste. As soon as her ladyship call'd to be drest, Cry'd, " Madam, why surely my master's possest. Sir Arthur the maltster ! how fine it will sound ! I'd rather the bawn were sunk under the ground. But, madam, I guess'd there would never come good, When I saw him so often with Darby and Wood.f And now my dream's out ; for I was a-dream'd That I saw a huge rat — O dear, how I scream'd ! And after, methought, I had lost my new shoes ; And Molly, she said I should hear some ill-news. " Dear madam, had you but the spirit to tease. You might have a barrack whenever you please : And, madam, I always believed you so stout. That for twenty denials you would not give out. If I had a husband like him, I purtest. Till he gave me my will, I would give him no rest ; * A cant word in Ireland for poor country clergymen, t Two of Sir Arthur's managers. 22S SWIFT. And rather than come in the same pair of sheets With such a cross man, I would lie in the streets. But, madam, I beg you, contrive and invent. And worry him out, till he gives his consent. Dear madam, whene'er of a barrack I think. An I were to be hang'd, I can't sleep a wink : For if a new crotchet comes into my brain, I can't get it out, though I'd never so fain. I fancy already a barrack contriv'd At Hamilton's bawn, and the troop is arriv'd ; Of this to be sure Sir Arthur has warning. And waits on the captain betimes the next morning. Now see, when they meet, how their honors behave : ' A^oble captain, your servant^' — ' Sir Arthur, your slave f ' You honor me much ' — ' The honor is mine' * 'T was a sad rainy night' — ' But the morning is fine.' ' Pray how does my lady ?' — ' My wife's at your service.' ' I think J have seen her picture by Jervas,' ' Good-morrow, good captain ' — ' Vll wait on you down.' ' You sha'n't stir a foot.' — * You'll think me a clown.' ' For all the world, captain, not half an inch farther.' ' You must be obey'd ! — Your servant. Sir Arthur/ My humble respects to my lady unknown.' ' I hope you will use my house as your own.' " " Go bring me my smock, and leave off your prate. Thou hast certainly gotten a cup in thy pate." " Pray, madam, be quiet ; what was it I said ? You had like to have put it quite out of my head. Next day, to be sure, the captain will come, At the head of his troop, with trumpet and drum. JVow, madam, observe how he marches in state ; The ma7i with the kettle-drum enters the gate: Dub, dub, adub, dub. The trumpeters follow, Tantarum, taritara ; while all the boys hollow. See now comes the captain all daub'd with, gold lace : O la ! the sweet gentleman .' look in his face ; And see how he rides like a lord of the land. With the fine flaming sword that he holds in his hand ; A?id his horse, the dear creter, it prances and rears, With ribbons in knots at its tail and its ears: At last comes the troop, by the word of command. Drawn up in the court ; when the captain cries, stand ! Your ladyship lifts up the sash to be seen {For sure I had dizen'd you out like a queen). SWIFT. 229 The captain, to show he is proud of the favor. Looks up to your window, and cocks up his beaver {His beaver is cock'd, pray, madam, mark that ; For a captain of horse never takes off 7iis hat, Because he has never a hand that is idle : For the right holds the sword, and the left holds the bridle) ; Then flourishes thrice his sword in the air, As a compliment due to a lady so fair ; {How I tremble to think of the blood it has spilt /) Then he lowers down the point and kisses the hilt. Your ladyship smiles, and thus you begin : ' Pray, captain, be pleas'd to alight and walk in.' The captain salutes you with congee profound. And your ladyship curtsies half way to the ground. ' Kit, run to your master, and bid him come to us ; I'm sure he'll be proud of the honour you do us. And, captain, you'll do us the favor to stay, And take a short dinner here with us to-day ; You're heartily welcome ; but as for good cheer, You come in the very worst time in the year ; If I had expected so worthy a guest ' ' Lord, madam ! your ladyship sure is in jest : You banter me, madam ; the kingdom must grant — ' ' You officers, captain, are so complaisant!'" " Hist, hussy, I think I hear somebody coming !" " No, madam ; 'tis only Sir Arthur a-humming. To shorten my tale (for I hate a long story). The captain at dinner appears in his glory ; The Dean and the doctor have humbled their pride, For the captain's entreated to sit by your side ; And because he's their betters, you carve for him first ; The parsons for envy are ready to burst. The servants amaz'd are scarce ever able To keep off their eyes, as they wait at the table ; And Molly and I have thrust in our nose To peep at the captain in all his fine clo'es. Dear madam, be sure he's a fine-spoken man ; Do but hear on the clergy how glib his tongue ran ; And ' madam,' says he, ' if such dinners you give. You'll ne'er want for parsons as long as you live. I ne'er knew a parson without a good nose ; But the devil 's as v;-elcome wherever he goes. G — d — n me ! they bid us reform and repent,^ But z — nds ! by their looks they never keep Lent. Mister Curate, for all your grave looks, Tm afraid You cast a sheep's eye on her ladyship's maid : 230 SWIFT. I wish she would lend you her pretty white hand In mending your cassock, and smoothing your band^ (For the Dean was .so shabby, and looJf'd like a ninny. The captain supposed he was curate to Jinny).* • Whenever you see a cassock and gown, A hundred to one but it covers a clown. Observe how a parson coincs into a room ; G — d — n me ! he hobbles as bad as my groom ; A scholard, when just fiom his college broke loose. Can hardly tell how to cry bo to a goose ; Your NOVEDS, and bluturcks, and omurs, and stufF,t By G — , they dotft signify this pinch of snuff. To give a young ge7itleman right education. The army's the only good school in the nation ; My schoobnaster caWd me a dunce and a fool. But at cuffs I was always the cock of the school : I never could take to my book for the blood o' me, And the puppy coiifess'd he expected no good o' me. He caught me one morning coquetting his wife ; But he mauld me, I ne'er was so mauld in my life : So I took to the road, and, whafs very odd. The first man I robb'd was a parson, by G — . Now, madam, you'll think it a strange thing to say. But the sight of a book makes me sick to this day.' " Never since I was born did I hear so much ivit. And, madam, Ilaugh'd till I thought I should split So then you look scornful, and snift at the Dean, As who should say, JVow am I skinny and lean 7 But he durst not so much as once open his lips, And the doctor was plaguily down in the hips." Thus merciless Hannah ran on in her talk. Till she heard the Dean call, " Will your ladyship walk ?" Her ladyship answers, " I'm just coming down :" Then turning to Hannah, and forcing a frown. Although it was plain in her heart she was glad, Cry'd, " Hussy, why sure the wench is gone mad ! How could these chimeras get into your brains ? — Come hither and take this old gown for your pains ; But the Dean, if this secret should come to his ears, Will never have done with liis gibes and his jeers : For your life not a word of this matter I charge ye ; Give me but a barrack, a Jig for the clergy." * Dr. Jinny, a clergyman in the neighborhood. t Ovids, Plutarchs, and Homers. SWIFT. 231 ' The Grand Question Delated. — " Hamilton's Bawn " was a large old house belonging to Sir Arthur Acheson, Bart., ancestor of the Earls of Gosford. His lady was Anne Savage, daughter of an Irish Chancellor of the Exchequer. A merry war, perhaps not always pleasant, was in the habit of passing between her and Swift, in which he bantered her thinness, and Sir Arthur used to take his part. She is the heroine of the witty but coarse verses, beginning — " Sure never did man see A wretch like poor Nancy, So teas'd day and night By a Dean and a Knight ; To punish my sins .Sir Arthur begins, And gives me a wipe With Skinny and Snipe : His malice is plain. Hallooing the Dean. The Dean never stops. When he opens his chops. I'm quite over-run With rebus and pun." 2 G — d — n me, they hid us reform and repent, &c. — [ do not apolo- gize to the reader for repeating these oaths, because Swift's object in recording them was intended for anything but approba- tion of swearing — a practice which, though accused of having been a swearer himself, he held in special contempt, and officers of the army (it must be added) along with it. He looked upon them as a set of ignorant coxcombs ; and, doubtless, too many such persons are to be found mixed with their betters in the service, especially in the regiments raised in the provinces. The reader would be surprised if he knew how much ignorance of common writing and reading was betrayed in communications of country officers with head-quarters. Fielding seems to have had his eye on this passage when he introduced his Ensign Northerton in Tom Jones. It is one of the happiest in Swift's verses ; exquisite for its ease, its straightfor- wardness, its humor, its succession of pictures, its maid-servant tone of mind. 232 SWIFT. MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER TO DR. SHERIDAN.s Well, if ever I saw such another man since my mother hound my head ? You a gentleman/ marry come up ! 1 wonder where you were bred. I'm sure such words do not become a man of your cloth ; I would not give such language to a dog, faith and troth. Yes, you call'd my master a knave : fie, Mr. Sheridan ! 'tis a shame For a parson, who should know better things, to come out with such a name. Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan ! 'tis both a shame and a sin ; Ayid the Dean, my master, is an honester man than you and all your kin : He has more goodness in his little finger, than you have in your whole body : My master is a parsonable man, and not a spindle-shank'' d hoddy-doddy. And now, ivhereby I find you would fain make an excuse. Because my master one day, in anger, call'd you a goose ; Which, and lam sure I have been his servant four years since October, And he never calPd me worse than sweetheart, drunk or sober: Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge, Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late in your college. You say you will eat grass on his grave : a Christian eat grass/ Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose or an ass : But that's as much as to say, that my master should die before ye : Well, well, that's as God pleases ; and Ido7i't believe that's a true story: And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my master ; what care I ? And I don't care who knows it ; 'tis all one to Mary ; Every one knows that I love to tell truth and shame the devil ; / am but a poor servant ; but I think gentlefolks should be civil. Besides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was here: I remember it was oti a Tuesday of all days in the year. And Saunders the man says you are always jesting and mocking : Mary, said he (one day as I was mending my master's stocking), My master is so fond of that minister that keeps the school, I thought my master a wise man, but that man makes him a fool. Saunders, said I, I would rather tha?i a quart of ale Jj^ He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a dismmout to his tail. And now I must go and get Saunders to direct this letter ; For I write but a sad scrawl ; but my sister Marget, she writes better.* Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my master comes from prayers ; And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up stairs ; Whereof \ could say more to your verses, if I could write written hand : And 80 I remain in a civil way, your servant to command, Mart. SWIFT. 233 3 Mary the Cookmaid's Letter — Dr. Sheridan, one of Swift's friends and butts, was a schoolmaster of considerable wit and scholarship, and progenitor of a distinguished family, in which genius is hereditary. The closing words of the preceding note will apply still more characteristically to the present effusion. Swift delighted in showing his knowledge of servants, — their phraseology, and ways of thinking: or rather, perhaps, it should be said, that he delighted in showing up every species of igno- rance and self-importance ; for he was equally au fait at the small talk of fine life, or what he called Polite Conversation ; of which he has left a record, singular for the quantity of it, and startling, nowadays, when we consider the quality of the speakers. But his satire helped to reform the mode, if it did not very much improve the matter. Common-mindedness will be common- mindedness always, whether betrayed in the proverbial slang which he drove out of the drawing-room into the kitchen, or in the better-bred common-places of the chatterers of Mrs. Gore. * For I write but a sad scrawl ; hut my sister Mar get, she writes better. — This exquisite kind of irrelevancy, which I have no doubt is taken from the life. Swift was fond of. He had used it before with equal, if not greater felicity, in the masterly satire on Nun- neries which he contributed to the Taller (No. 32). See the passage in the Essay at the beginning of this volume, p. 13. ANCIENT DRAMATISTS.^ TO DR. SHERIDAN. Wh?ite'er your predecessor taught us, I hav^ a great esteem for Plautus ; And think your boys may gather there-hence More wit and humor than from Terence. But as to comic Aristophanes, The rogue too vicious and too prbphane is. I went in vain to look for Eupolis Down in the Strand, just where the JVew Pole is ;* The fact may be true, but the rhyme cost me some trouble.— Author.-" I 234 SWIFT. For I can tell you one thing, that I can (You will not find it in the Vatican). He and Cratinus u.s'd, as Horace says, To take his greatest grandees /or asses. Poets, in those days, us'd to venture high; But these are lost full many a century. Thus you may see, dear friend, ex pede hence. My judgment of the old comedians. Proceed to tragics : first, Eurijndes (An author where I sometimes dip a-days) Is rightly censured by the Stagirite, Who says his numbers do not fadge aright. A friend of mine that author despises '1 So much, he swears the very best piece is, > For aught he knows, as bad as Thespis's ; ) And that a woman, in these tragedies. Commonly speaking, but a sad jade is. At least, I'm well assur'd, that no folk lays The weight on him they do on Sophocles. But, above all, I prefer JEschylus, Whose moving touches, when they please kill us. And now I find my muse but III able, To hold out longer in trisyllable. I chose those rhymes out for their difficulty ; Will you return as hard ones if I call t' ye? 5 Ancient Dramatists.— Swift is here emulating the rhymes of Butler. ABROAD AND AT HOME. As Thomas was cudgcl'd one day by his wife. He took to the street, and fled for his life : Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble. And sav'd him at once from the shrew and the rabble ; Then ventur'd to give him some sober advice ; — But I'om is a person of honor so nice, Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, That he sent to all three a challenge next morning : Three duels he fought, thrice ventur'd his life; Went home, and was cudgel'd again by his wife. SWIFT. 235 VERSES ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT.« As Rochefoucault his maxims drew From nature, I believe them true : They argue no corrupted mind In him ; the fault is in mankind. This maxim, more than all the rest. Is thought too base for human breast : " In all distresses of our friends We first consult our private ends ; While nature, kindly bent to ease us, Points out some circumstance to please us." If this perhaps your patience move. Let reason and experience prove. We all behold with envious eyes Our equals rais'd above our size. Who would not at a crowded show Stand high himself, keep others low ? I love my friend as well as you : But why should he obstruct my view 1 Then let me have the higher post ; Suppose it but an inch at most If in a battle you should find One, whom you love of all mankind. Had some heroic action done, A champion kill'd, or trophy won; Rather than thus be over-topt. Would you not wish his laurels cropt ? Dear honest JVed is in the gout. Lies racked with pain, and you without : How patiently you hear him groan ! How glad the case is not your own ! What poet would not grieve to see His brother write as well as he ? But, rather than they should excel. Would wish his rivals all in hell ! Her end when emulation misses, She turns to envy, stings, and hisses: The strongest friendship yields to pride, Unless the odds be on our side. Vain human kind ! fantastic race ! Thy various follies who can trace ? Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, Their empire in our hearts divide. Give others riches, power, and station, 'Tis all to me an usurpation 236 SWIFT. I have no title to aspire ; Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. in Pope I cannot read a line. But U'ith a sigh I wish it mine. TVhen he can in one cmipietjix More sense than I can do in six, It gives me such a jealous jit, I cry " Pox take him and his wit /" I grieve to be outdone by Gay In my own liumorous biting way. Arbuthnot is no more my j'ritnd, Wlio dares to irony pretend. Which I was born to introduce, Refin'd it first, andshow'd its use.'' St. John, as well as Pulteney, loiows That I had some repute for prose : And, till they drove me out of date. Could maul a minister of state. If they have mortified my pride, And made me throw my pen aside, If with such talents heaven hath bless'd 'em, Have I not reason to detest 'em .' To all my foes, dear Fortune, send Thy gifts ; but never to my friend : I tamely can endure the first ; But this with envy makes me burst. Thus much may serve by way of proem ; Proceed we therefore to our poem. The time is not remote when I Must by the course of nature die ; When, I foresee, my special friends Will try to find their private ends ; And, though 't is hardly understood Which way my death can do them good. Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak : " See how the Dean begins to break ! Poor gentleman, he droops apace ! You plainly find it in his face. That old vertigo in his head Will never leave him, till he's dead. Besides, his memory decays : He recollects not what he says ; He cannot call his friends to mind ; Forgets the place where last he din'd ; Plies you witli stories o'er and o'er ; He told them fifty times before. SWIFT. 237 How does he fancy we can sit To hear his out-of-fashion wit ? But he takes up with younger folks, Who for his wine will bear his jokes. Faith ! he must make his stories shorter. Or change his comrades once a quarter. In half the time he talks them round There must another set be found. " For poetry he's past his prime ; He takes an hour to find a rhyme ? His fire is out, his witdecay'd, His fancy sunk, his muse a jade. I'd have him throw away his pen : — But there'' s no talking to some men .'" And then their tenderness appears By adding largely to my years : " He's older than he would be reckon'd, And well remembers Charles the Second. He hardly drinks a pint of wine ; And that, I doubt, is no good sign. His stomach, too, begins to fail : Last year we thought him strong and hale ; But now he's quite another thing ; I ivish he may hold out till spring !" They hug themselves and reason thus: ^'Itis not yet so bad with us .'" In such a case, they talk in tropes, And by their fears express their hopes. Some great misfortune to portend, JVo enemy can match a friend. With all the kindness they profess, The merit of a lucky guess When daily how-d'-ye's come of course. And servants answer, " Worse and worse .'^^ Would please them better, than to tell That, " God be praised, the Dean is well." Then he who prophesy' d the best. Approves his foresight to the rest ; " You know I always fear'' d the worst. And often told you so at first." He'd rather choose that I should die, Than his predictions prove a lie. Not one foretells I shall recover ; But all agree to give me over. Yet, should some neighbor feel a pain Just in the parts where 1 complain : 23S SWIFT. How many a message would he send ! What hearty prayers that I should mend.' Int}uire what regimen I kept: Wliat gave me ease, and how I slept ? And more lament when I was dead, Than all the snivellers round my bed. Mv good companions, never fear ; For, though you may mistake a year. Though your prognostics run too fast. They must be verify'd at last. Behold the fatal day arrive ! " How is the Dean ?" — " He's just alive." Now the departing prayer is read ; He hardly breathes — The Dean is dead. Before the passing bell's begun, The news through half the town is run. " Oh ! may we all for death prepare ! What has he left ? and who's his heir ? I know no more than what the news is ; 'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses. To public uses ! there's a whim ! What had the public done for him ? Mere envy, avarice, and pride : He gave it all — but first he died. And had the Dean in all the nation, No worthy friend, no poor relation ? So ready to do strangers good. Forgetting his own flesh and blood !" Now Grub-street wits are all employ'd ; With elegies the town is cloy'd : Some paragraph in every paper. To curse the Dean, or bless the Draper.* The doctors, tender of their fame. Wisely on me lay all the blame. " We must confess, his case was nice ; But he would never take advice. Had he been rul'd, for aught appears, He might have liv'd these twenty years : For, when we open'd him, we found That all his vital parts were sound." From Dublin soon to London spread, I 'Tis told at court, " The Dean is dead ;" And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, Runs laughing up to tell the Queen. * For the papers which he wrote on Irish affairs, under that title. SWIFT. 239 The Queen so gracious, mild, and good. Cries, " Is he gone ! 'tis time he should He's dead you say ; then let him rot. Pm glad the medals* were forgot. I promis'd him, I own ; but when ? I only was the princess then ; But now, as consort of the king. You know, 'tis quite another thing." Now, Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee, Tells with a sneer, the tidings heavy ; " Why, if he died without his shoes," Cries Bob, " I'm sorry for the news : Oh were the wretch but living still, And in his place my good friend Will If Or had a mitre on his head. Provided Bolingbroke were dead !" Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains: Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains ! And then, to make them pass the glibber, Revis'd by Tibbald, Moore, and Cibber, He'll treat me as he does my betters, Publish my will, my life, my letters ; Revive the libels born to die : Which Pope must bear as well as I. Here shift the scene, to represent How those I love my death lament. Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day. St. John himself will scaixe forbear To bite his pen, and drop a tear. The rest will give a shrug, and cry, '• I'm sorry — but we all must die !" Indifference clad in Wisdom's guise. All fortitude of mind supplies : For how can stony bowels melt, In those who never pity felt ! When we are lash'd, they kiss the rod. Resigning to the will of God. The fools, my juniors by a year, Are tortur'd w4th suspense and fear ; ^^ Who wisely thought my age a screen, ^ When death approach'd to stand between : * "Which the Dean (he says) in vain expected, in return for a small present he had sent to the Princess." t Sir Robert Walpole's antagonist, Pulteney. I 240 SWIFT. The screen remov'd their hearts are trembling ; They mourn for me without dissembling. My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learn'd to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps : " The Dean is dead : ( Pray what is trumps ?) Then, Lord have mercy on his soul ! {Ladies, 111 venture for the vole.) Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall : (1 wish I knetv what king to call.) Madam, your husband will attend The funeral of so good a friend. No, madam, 'lis a shocking sight; And he's engag'd to-morrow night : My Lady Club will take it ill. If he should fail her at quadrille, He lov'd the Dean — (/ lead a heart) But dearest friends, they say, must part, His time was come ; he ran his race ; We hope he's in a better place." Why do we grieve that friends should die .' No loss more easy to supply. One year is past ; a different scene ! No farther mention of the Dean, Who now, alas ! no more is miss'd. Than if he never did exist. Where's now the favorite of Apollo ? Departed : — and his works must follow. Verses on the Death of Dr. Swift.— \ give these verses (which comprise about half the original) as a true specimen of Swiftian wit and humor, but not at all (some obvious banter excepted) as agreeing with the spirit of them, or counting them among the evidences of his wisdom. The Dean's prodigious discovery, as- sisted by his brother wit Rochefoucault, just amounts to this : — that Nature in her kindly wisdom has prevented mankind from feeling as much for the pangs of others as for their own ; and that when a misfortune happens to a neighbor, they cannot, in spite of their condolence, help congratulating themselves on hav- ing escaped it. There are exceptions, — many, — even to these conclusions ; and what do the conclusions prove ? Why, simply, that existence would be nothing but misery if human beings were otherwise constituted ; that the best people would have the power SWIFT. 241 neither to receive nor to give enjoyment ; and that meantime (by the same kind providence of nature against worse consequences) they do suffer and sympathize greatly on occasion, often to a far greater degree than the author chooses to think. The sick neighbor feeling for the dying man endures but half the anguish of many (I do not say of all) who are here called " snivellers round a bed," and who would sometimes gladly die instead of the sufferer ? What ? Have not millions of lives been thrown away for less things than love ; and are we to be told by a loveless misanthrope, girding his own friends, that affection never grieves for a death beyond a " month" or a " day ?" Nonsense. I mourn with, and admire Swift, who was a great man, notwith- standing what was little in him ; but (wit excepted) he fell to the level of the vulgar when he " sunk in the spleen," Yet how handsome the opportunity he takes of complimenting Pope and others at his own expense, and how pleasantly it tells both against him and for him ! 7 Refiri'd it first, and show'dits wse.— A bold claim, after Butler and all the other wits and poets who excelled in it ! and, indeed, quite unfounded. 12 242 GREEN. GREEN. BORN, IGOG DIED, 1737. The author of the Spleen, a poem admired by Pope, and quoted by Johnson, was a clerk in the custom-house, and had been bred a quaker. He was subject to low spirits, and warded them off by wit and good sense. Something of the quaker may be ob- servable in the stiffness of his versification, and its excessive en- deavors to be succinct. His style has also the fault of being oc- casionally obscure ; and his wit is sometimes more labored than finished. But all that he says is worth attending to. His thoughts are the result of liis own feeling and experience ; his opinions rational and cheerful, if not very lofty ; his warnings against meddling with superhuman mysteries admirable ; and he is re- markable for the brevity and originality of his similes. He is of the school of Butler ; and it may be affirmed of him as a rare honor, that no man since Butler has put so much wit and reflec- tion into the same compass of lines. There is an edition of Green's poems by Dr. Aikin, whicli de- serves to be the companion of all who suffer as the autiior did, and who have sense enough to wish to relieve their sufferings by the like exercise of their reason. In printing the following extracts I have not adopted the aste- risks commonly employed for the purpose of implying omission. I always use them unwillingly, on account of the fragmentary air they give to the passages; and the paragraphs closed up so well togetlier in the present instance, that I was tempted to waive them. But tiie circumstance is mentioned in order to prevent a false conclusion. GREEN. 243 REMEDIES FOR THE SPLEEN.^ To cure the mind's wrong bias, spleen, Some recommend the bowling-green ; Some hilly walks : all, exercise ; Fling but a stone, the giant dies. Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been Extreme good doctors for the spleen ; And kittens, if the humor hit. Have harlequivbd away the fit. If spleen fogs rise at close of day, ^ I clear my evening with a play, > Or to some concert take my way, 3 The company, the shine of lights, ^ The scenes of humor, music's flights, > Adjust, and set the soul to rights. } In rainy days keep double guard. Or spleen will surely be too hard ; Which, like those fish by sailors met. Fly highest while their wings are wet. In such dull weather so unfit To enterprise a work of wit, When clouds one yard of azure sky. That's fit for simile, deny, I dress my face with studious looks, And shorten tedious hours with books. But w^hen dull fogs invade the head. That mem'ry minds not what is read, I sit in window dry as ark. And on the drowning world remark ; Or to some coffee-house I stray For news, the manna of a day, And from the hipp'd discourses gather, That politics go by the weather. Then seek good-humor'd tavern chums. And play at cards, but for small sums ; Or with the merry fellows quaff', And laugh aloud with them that laugh ; Or drink a joco-serious cup With souls who've took their freedom up ; And let my mind, beguil'd by talk. In Epicurus' garden walk, TVho thought it heav'n to be serene ; Pain, hell ; and purgatory, spleen. 244 GREEN. Sometimes I dress, with women sit. And chat away the gloomy fit ; Quit the stiff garb of serious sense, And wear a gay impertinence. Permit, ye fair, your idol-form, Which e'en the coldest heart can warm, May with its beauties grace my line, While I bow down before its shrine. And your throng'd altars with my lays Perfume, and get by giving praise. With speech so sweet, so sweet a mien. You excommitnicate the spleen. Which fiend-like Jiies the magic ring You form with sound, when pleased to sing. Whate'er you say, howe'er you move, We look, we listen, and approve. Your touch, which gives to feeling bliss. Our nerves officious throng to kiss. By Celia's pat, on their report, The grave-air'd soul, inclin'd to sport, Renounces wisdom's sullen pomp, And loves the floral game, to romp. But who can view the pointed rays, That from black eyes scintillant blaze .'' Love on his throne of glory seems Encompass'd with satellite beams. But when blue eyes, more softly bright. Diffuse benignly humid light. We gaze, and see the smiling loves. And Cytherea's gentle doves. And raptur'd fix in such a face Love's mercy-seat and throne of grace. Shine but on age, you melt its snow ; Again fires long-extinguish'd glow. And charm'd by witchery of eyes, Blood long congealed liquefies ! True miracle, and fairly done By heads which arc adored tvhile on.^ Such thoughts as love the gloom of night, I close examine by the light; For who, though brib'd by gain to lie. Dare sunbea77i-written tmiths deny, And execute plain common sense On faith's mere hearsay evidence .•• GREEN. 245 That superstition mayn't create, And club its ills with those of fate, I many a notion take to task. Made dreadful by its visor mask. Thus scruple, spasm of the 7nind, Is cur'd, and certainly I find ; Since optic reason shows me plain, I dreaded spectres of the brain ; And legendary fears are gone. Though in tenacious childhood sown. Thus in opinions 1 commence Freeholder in the proper sense. And neither suit nor service do, Nor homage to pretenders show, Who boast themselves, by spurious roll. Lords of the manor of the soul ; Preferring sense, from chin that's bare. To nonsense throii'd in whisker'd hair. Thus, then, I steer my bark, and sail On even keel with gentle gale ; At helm I make my reason sit. My crew of passions all submit. If dark and blust'ring prove some nights. Philosophy puts forth her lights ; Experience holds the cautious glass. To shun the breakers, as I pass, And frequent throws the waiy lead. To see what dangers may be hid ; And once in seven years I'm seen At Bath or Tunbridge to careen. Though pleas'd to see the dolphins play, I mind my compass and my way.^ With store sufficient for belief. And wisely still prepar'd to reef. Nor wanting the dispersive bowl Of cloudy weather in the soul, I make (may Heav'n propitious send Such wind and weather to the end) JVeither becalmed nor overblown. Life's voyage to the world unknown. * The disorder here called the Spleen, was of old called Melan- choly, or Hypochondria; then it became Vapors or the Hyp^ then the Spleen, then the Nerves or Low Spirits. The designa- 240 GKKEN tion now varies between Nerves and Biliousness. Melancholy signifies Black Bile, as Hypochondria does a region of the stom- ach ; and there is no doubt that all the disorders, great and small, connected with low spirits, are traceable to the stomach and state of digestion, sometimes in consequence of anxiety or too much thought, oftener from excess, and want of exercise. Too much eating (sometimes wrongly exchanged for too little) is the unro- mantic cause of nine-tenths of the roman'rtc melancholies in exist- ence. Your pie-crust is a greater caster of shadows over this life, than all the platonical " prison houses" the poets talk of. »" % heads which are ador'd while on."— A felicitous allusion to the imposture of St. Januarius, a cheat still practised at Naples. Clotted blood is brought forward in a vial ; and at the approach of the head of the saint it is pretended to liquefy. ^ This couplet was quoted by Johnson in the course of some excellent advice given to Boswell. — See his Life, edit. 1839, vol. vii., p. 287. Boswell. By associating with you, sir, I am always getting an accession of wisdom. But perhaps a man, after knowing his own character — the limited strength of his own mind — should not be desirous of having too much wisdom, considering, quid valennt humeri, how little he can carry. Johnson. Sir, be as wise as you can ; let a man be aliis Icctus, sapiens sibi : *' Though pleas'd to see the dolphins play, I mind my compass and my way " You may be wise in your study in the morning, and gay in company at a tavern in the evening. Every man is to take care of his own wisdom and his own virtue, without minding too much what others think. GOLDSMITH. 247 GOLDSMITH. BORN, 1729. DIED, 1774, Goldsmith is so delightful a writer, that the general impression on his readers is that of his having been a perfect sort of man, at least for amiableness and honhomie, and the consequence is, that when they come to be thoroughly acquainted with his life and works, especially the critical portion, they are startled to find him partaking of the frailties of his species and the jealousies of his profession. So much good, however, and honesty, and sim- plicity, and such an abundance of personal kindness, still remain, and it seems likely that so much of what was weak in him origi- nated in a painful sense of his want of personal address and at- tractiveness, that all harsh conclusions appear as ungracious as they are uncomfortable : we feel even wanting in gratitude to one who has so much instructed and entertained us ; and hasten, for the sake of what is weak as well as strong in ourselves, to give all the old praise and honor to the author of the Vicar of Wake- field and the Deserted Village. We are obliged to confess that the Vicar, artless and delightful as he is, is an inferior brother of Parson Adams ; and that there are great improbabilities in the story. But the family manners, and the Flamboroughs, and Moses, are all delicious ; and the style of writing perfect. Again, we are forced to admit, that the Traveller and Deserted Village are not of the highest or subtlest order of poetry ; yet they are charming of their kind, and as perfect in style as his prose. They are cabinets of exquisite workmanship, which will outlast hundreds of oracular shrines of oak ill put together. Goldsmith's 248 GOLDSMITH. most thorouglily original productions are his comedies and minor poems, particularly She S/oops to Compter, and the two pieces of wit and humor extracted into this volume. His comic writing is of the class which is perhaps as much preferred to that of a staider sort by people in general, as it is by the writer of these pages, — comedy running into farce ; that is to say, truth richly colored and overflowing with animal spirits. It is that of the prince of comic writers, Moliere (always bearing in mind that Moli^re beats every one of them in expression, and is a great verse writer to boot). The English have no dramatists to compare in this re- spect with the Irish. Farquhar, Goldsmith, and Sheridan, sur- pass ihem all ; and O'Keefo, as a farce-writer, stands alone. Goldsmith, with all his imprudences, never forgot the one thing needful to a good author, — the " Porro unum necessarium,'' —style. Observe in the followinc!: poems how all the words fall in their right places, and what an absence there is of the unfit and super- fluous. RETALIATION.' Of old, when Scarron'^ his companions invited. Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united. If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish, Let each guest bring himself , and he brings the best dish Our Dean-^ sliall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; Our Burhe shall be tongue., with a garnish of brains : Our Will' shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavor, And Dick^ with his pepper shall heighten their savor ; Our Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall obtain. And Douglas" is pudding substantial and plain ; Our Garrick's a salad ; fur i?i him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, a7id saltness agree ; To make out the dinner full certain I am That Ridge' is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb, Tliat Hickcy's" a capon, and by the same rule. Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. At a dinner so various, at such a repast, Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? GOLDSMITH. 249 Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, Till all my companions fall under the table ; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, Let me ponder and tell what I think of the dead. Here lies the good dean, re-united to earth. Who mixt reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth : If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt ; At least in six weeks I could not find 'em out ; Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em, That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; Who born for the universe, narrow'd his mind. And to party gave up what was meant for mankind ; Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat To persuade Tommy Townshend^ to lend him a vote ; Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining. And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining : Though equal to all things, for all things unfit. Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; For a patriot too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient ; And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. In short 't was his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir. To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor .^'^ Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint. While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in 't ; The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along. His conduct still right, with his arguments wrong; Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam. The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home : Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none ; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at; Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet ! What spirits were his ! What wit and what whim, JVow breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ! Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball ! Now teazing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! In short so provoking a Devil was Dick, That we wish'd him full ten times a day at old JVick: But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein. As often we wished to have Dick back again. Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts. The Terence of England, tlie mender of hearts ; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 12* 250 GOLDSMITH. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And Comedy wonders at beitig so fine : Like a Tragedy Queen he has dizen'd her out. Or rather, like Tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone. Adopting his portraits, are pleas'd with their own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault? Say, was it that vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf. He grew lazy at last, and so drew from himself.' Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax. The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks; Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, Come and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines When satire and censure encircled his throne, I fear'd for your safety, I fearM for my own ; But now he is gone, and we want a detector, Our Dodds" shall be pious, our Kendricks'^ shall lecture ; Macpherson'^ write bombast, and call it a style, Our Townshends make speeches, and I shall compile; New Landers and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over. No countryman living their tricks to discover : Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, A7id Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark. Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can. An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart. The man had his failings, a dupe to his art ; Like an ill-judging beauty, his colors he spread. And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 'Ihvas only that when he was off, he was acting. With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day : Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sicky If they were not his own by finessifig and trick. He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack. For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came. And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; GOLDSMITH. 251 Till his relish grown callous almost to diseasCt Who peppered the highest, was surest to please. But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys," and Woodtalls'^ so grave, What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ? How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd. While he was be-Iioscius'd, and you were be-prais'd ? But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies. To act as an angel, and mix with the skies ; Those poets wlio owe their best fame to his skill, Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; Old Shakspeare, receive him with praise and withJ.ove, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature. And slander itself must allow him good-nature ; He cherish'd his friends, and he relish'd a bumper ; Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser : I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser : Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat .' His very worst foe can't accuse him of that : Perhaps he confided in men as they go. And so was too foolishly honest ? ah no ! Then what was his failing ? come, tell it and burn ye, — He was, could he help it ? a special attorney. Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind. He has not left a wiser or better behind. His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland ; Still born to improve us in every part. His pencil our faces, his manners our heart ; To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering. When they judg'd without skill, he was still out of hearing : When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios and stuffy He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.^° ' " First printed in 1774, after the author's death. Dr. Gold- smith, and some of his friends, occasionally dined at St. James's Coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, and, at the next meeting, pro- duced the poem." — (Note in old edition.) 252 GOLDSMITH. '■^ Scarron, the famous French wit, who was so poor that his friends made a pic-nie of their dinners at his house. ^ Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland, afterwards Bishop of Limerick, and of Killaloe. * William Burke. * Richard Burke. * Dr. afterwards Bishop Douglas, who detected the forgeries of Lauder's pretended plagiarism, and Bower's History of the Popes. ' A gentleman at the Irish bar. ^ A.n eminent attorney. ' The once famous statesman. '° Burke's digestion was delicate, and cold mutton his standing dish. " Dr. Dodd, the unhappy clergyman. " Dr. Kenrick, a petty author, and troublesome critic of that day. '^ The famous compiler of Ossian. '■* Hugh Kelly, author of some clever sentimental comedies, of the success of which Goldsmith condescended to be jealous. ' William Wood fall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. ''^ Sir Joshua Reynolds was so deaf as to be under the neces- sity of using an ear-trumpet. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. A POETICAL EPISTLE TO 1X)RD CLARE, 1765. Thanks, my lord, for your venison ; for finer or fatter Ne'er rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter ; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so wliite, and the lean was so ruddy. Though my stomach was sharp I could scarce help regretting To spoil fixich a delicate picture bi/ eating ; I had tlioughts in my chamber to place it in view, To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu :' As in some Irish housc-i, where thiny lord, it's no bounce ; I protest in my turn, It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.* To go on with my tale : — as I gazed on the haunch I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch ; So [ cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose, 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's. But in parting with these I was puzzled again. With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There's H d,and C y, and H rth, and H ff, I think they love venison — I know they love beef. There's my countryman Higgins — Oh ! let him alone For making a blunder or picking a bone : But hang it — to poets who seldom can eat. Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; Such dainties to send them their health it might hurt, IVs like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt. While thus I debated in reverie centr'd. An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd; An under-bred fine-spoken fellow was he. And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison and me. " What have we got here ? — why this is good eating ! Your own, I suppose or is it in waiting ?" " Why, whose should it be ?" cried I with a flounce, " I get these things often :" (but that was a bounce) " Some lords my acquaintance, that settle the nation. Are pleas'd to be kind ; but I hate ostentation." " If that be the case then," cried he, Very gay, " I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; No words — T insist on't — precisely at three; We'll have Johns-on and Burke ; all the wits will be there ; My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. And now that I think on"t, as I am a sinner, We wanted this venison to make out the dinner ! What say you — a pasty ; it shall, and it must ; And my wife^ little Kitty ^ is famous for c7-ust> 234 GOLDSMITH. Here, porter — this venison with me to Mile-end; No stirring, I bog, my dear friend, my dear friend." Thus snatching his hat, ho brush'd ofi'like the wind, And the porter and eatables Ibllow'd behind. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf. And " nobody with me at sea but myself,"" Tliougli I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were things that I never dislik'd in my life, Though clogg'd with a coxcomb and Kitty his wife. So next day in due splendor to make my approach, I drove to his door in my own hackney coach. When come to the place where we all were to dine (A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine). My friend made me welcome, but struck me quits dumb With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; " For I knew it," he cried ; " both eternally fail. The one with his speeches and t'other with Thrale ; But no matter. I'll warrant we'll make up the party With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotsman, the other a Jew, They're both of them merry, and authors like you. The one writes the ' Snarler,' the other the * Scourge ;' Some thinks he writes ' Cinna' — he owns to ' Panurge.' " While thus he described them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came. At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen ; At the sides there was spinage and pudding made hot ; In the middle a place where the pasty was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion. And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian : So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round : But what vex'd me most, was that d — n'd Scottish rogue. With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue. And " Madam," quoth he, " may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on : Pray a slice of your liver ; thougli, may I bo curst, But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." '* The tripe !" quoth the Jew, with hi-s chocolate cheek, ** I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week : GOLDSMITH. 255 / like these here dinriers so pretty and stnall ; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." " Oh, oh !" quoth my friend, " he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : There's a pasty" " A pasty !" repeated the Jew ; " I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." *' What the de'il, mon, a pasty !" re-echo'd the Scot; " Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that" " We'll all keep a corner,'^ the lady cried out; " We'll all keep a corner" was echo'd about. While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd. With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid ; A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her ? That she came with some terrible news from the baker : And so it turn'd out ; for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — And now that I think on't, the story may stop. To be plain, my good lord, it's but labor misplac'd, To send such good verses to one of your taste ; You've got an odd something — a kind of discerning — A relish, — a taste — sicken'd over by learning; At least, it's your temper, as very well known, That you think very slightly of things all your own : So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss. You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. ^ Lord Clare's nephew. ^ A passage in the love-letters of the then Duke of Cumberland (George the Third's brother) to Lady Grosvenor, which were making a great noise at the time. 2oG WOLCOT. W L C T . (PETER PINDAR.) BORN, 1738— DIED, 1819. WoLCOT was successively a clergyman, a physician, a pensioner on the booksellers, and, it is said, on government. He had a taste for painting ; introduced his countryman Opie to the world ; and lived to a hale old age, mirthful to the last in spite of blind- ness. He was a genuine man of his sort, though his sort was not of a very dignified species. There does not seem to have been any real malice in him. He had not the petty spite and peevishness of his antagonist Gifibrd ; nor, like him, could have constituted himself a snarler against his betters for the pay of greatness. He attacked greatness itself, because he thought it could afford the joke ; and he dared to express sympathies with the poor and outcast. His serious poems, however, are nothing but common-places about Delias and the Muse. Nor have his comic ones the grace and perfection which a sense of the serious only can bestow. Wolcot had an eye for little that was grave in life, except the face-makings of absurdity and pretension ; but these he could mimic admirably, putting on at one and the same lime tlieir most nonchalant and matter-of-course airs, while he fL'tchcd out into his countenance the secret nonsense. He echoes their words, witli some little comment of approval, or change in their position ; some classical inversion, or exaltation, which ex- poses the pretension in the very act of admitting it, and has an irresistibly ludicrous effect. But those points have been noticed in the Introductory Essay. WOLCOr. 207 Peter wrote a good deal of trash, even in his humorous pieces: for they were composed, like the razors in one of his stories, " to sell." But his best things are surpassed by no banter in the lano-uage. I am sorry its coarseness prevents my repeating the story of the Pilgrims and the Peas ; the same objection applies to passao-es of the Lousiad ; and there are circumstances in the history of George the Third, which would render it unbecoming to extract even the once harmless account of his Majesty's Visit to Whiibread^s Brewlwuse. I have therefore confined myself to Pindar's other very best thing, — his versification of passages in Bos well and Thrale, — masterly for its facility and straightfor- wardness, which doubles the effect of the occasional mock-heroic inversions. To compare great things with small, and show that I commend nothing strongly which has not had a strong effect on myself, I can say, that Lear does not more surely move me to tears, or Spenser charm me, than I am thrown into fits of laugh- ter when I hear these rhyming Jolinsoniana. I can hardly, now this moment, while writing about them, and glancing at the copy which lies before me, help laughing to myself in private. This is not a good preface to a joke ; but, if anybody can afford it, I think it is Peter. CONVERSATION ON JOHNSON, BY MRS. PIOZZl (THRALE) AND MR. BOSV/ELL. Madame Piozzi. — Dear Doctor Johnson was in size an ox. And from his Uncle Andrew learn'd to box, A man to wrestlers and to bruisers dear. Who kept the ring in Smithfield a whole year. The Doctor had an Uncle, too, ador''d By jumping gentry, call'd Cornelius Ford; Who jump' d in boots, which jumjyers never choose. For as a famous jumper jumped in shoes. Bozzy. — When Foote his leg, by some misfortune, broke. Says I to Johnson, all by way of joke, *' Sam, sir, \n paragraph will soon be clever. And take off Peter better now than ever."* On which, says Johnson, without hesitation, " George^ will rejoice at Foote's depeditafion." '25S WOLCOT. On which, says I, a penetrating elf.' " Doctor, Vju sure you coined that word yourself.^* The Doctor own'd to inc I liad divin'd it, For, bona Jldr, he had really coin'd it. " And yet, of all the words I've coin'd (says he), I\Iy Dictionary, sir, contains but three." .Mad. Piozzi. — The Doctor said, " hi literary matters^ A Frenchman goes not deep — ne only smatters ; Then ask'd, what could be hop'd for from the dogs, Felloivs that He'd eternally on frogs 7 Bozzy. — In grave procession to St. Leonard's College, Well stufi'd with every sort of useful knowledge, We stately walk'd as soon as supper ended ; The landlord and the waiter both attended ; The landlord, skilPd a piece of grease to handle. Before us march'd, and held a tallow candle : A lantern (some fam'd Scotsman its creator) With equal grace was carried by the waiter. Next morning from our beds we took a leap. And found o^irsclvcs much better for our sleep. Mad. Piozzi. — In Lincolnshire, a lady show'd our friend A grotto that she ivish'd him to commend. Quoth she, " How cool in summer this abode !" " Yes, madam (answered Johnson), /o/- a toad." Bozzy. — Between old Scalpa's rugged isle and Rasay's, The wind was vastly boisterous in our faces ; ^T loas glorimis Johnson'' s figure to set sight on — High in the boat he looked a noble Triton ! But lo ! to damp our pleasure Fate concurs, For Joe, the blockhead, lost his master's spurs ; This for the Rambler's temper was a rubber, V/ho wonder'd Joseph could be such a lubber. JUad. Piozzi. — I ask'd him if he knock'd Tom Osborn down,^ As such a tale was current through the town : — ' Says I, " Do tell me. Doctor, what befell."— •' Why, dearest lady, there is naught to tell : I pondcr'd on the properest mode to treat him — The dog was int2>udcnt, and so I beat him ! Tom, like a fool, proclaim'd his fancied wrongs ; Others that 1 belabored, held their tongues." WULCOT. 259 Did any one that he was happy cry — Johnson would tell him plumply, 7 was a tie. A lady told him she was really so ; On which he sternly answer'd, " Madam, no! Sickly you are, and ugly foolish, poor ; And therefore caii't be happy, I am sure. 'T would make a fellow hang lumself, whose ear Were from such creatures forc'd such stuff to hear." Bozzy. — I wonder'd yesterday, that one John Hay, Who serv'd as Cicerone on the way, Should fly a man-of-war — a spot so blest — A fool ! nine months, too, after he was prest. Quoth Johnson, " No man, sir, would be a sailor. With sense to scrape acquaintance with a jailor " Mad. Piozzi. — I said I lik'd not goose, and mention'd why ; — One smells it roasting on the spit, quoth I, " You, Madam," cry'd the Doctor, with a frown, " Are always gorging — stuffing something down. Madam, 't is very nat'ral to suppose. If in the pantry you will poke your nose. Your maw with ev'ry sort of victuals swelling, That you must want the bliss of dinner-smelling, Bozzy. — Once at our house, amidst our Attic feasts. We likened, our acquaintances to beasts ; As, for example, some to calves and hogs. And some to bears and monkeys, cats and dogs ; We said {which charmed the Doctor much no doubt). His mind was like of elephants the snout. That could pick pins up, yet possess'd the vigor For trimming well the jacket of a tiger. Mad. Piozzi. — Dear Doctor Johnson left off drinks fermented. With quarts of chocolate and cream contented ; Yet often down his tliroat's enormous gutter. Poor man ! he pour'd a flood of melted butter ! Bozzy. — With glee the Doctor did my girl behold ; Her name Veronica, just four months old. This name Veronica, a name though quaint, Belong'd originally to a saint ; But to my old great grandam it was giv'n — As fine a woman as e'er went to heav'n ,• '260 WOLCOT. And what must add to her importance, muchy This lady's genealogy was Dutch. The man wlio did espouse this dame divine Was Alexandir, Karl of Kincardijic ; JVho pour\l along my body, like a sluice. The noble, noble, noble blood of Bruce ! And who that own^d this blood could well refuse To make the icorld acquainted with the iicws 7 But to return unto my charming child — About our Doctor Johnson she was wild ; And when he left ofl" speaking, she would flutter, Squall for him to begin again, and sputter ; And to be near him a strong i/.nsh expressed. Which proves he was not such a horrid beast. Her fondness for the Doctor pleas'd me greatly, On which I loud exclaim'd, in laiiguage stately, JVay, if J recollect aright, I swore, rd to herifortu7ie add five hundred more. Mad. Piozzi. — In ghosts the Doctor strongly did believe. And pinn'd his faith on many a liar's sleeve. He said to Doctor Lawrence, " Sure I am, I heard my poor dear mother call out ' Sam,' I'm sure," said he, " that I can trust my ears ; And yet, my mother had been dead for years." JBozzy. — When young ('twas rather silly I allow), Much was I pleas'd to imitate a cow. One time at Drury Lane with Doctor Blair, My imitations made the playhouse stare ! So very charmitigwas I in my roar. That both the galleries clapp'd and cried " Encore." Blest by the general plaudit and the laugh, I tried to be di jack- ass and a calf : But who, alas ! in all things can be great ? In short, I met a terrible defeat ; So vile I bray'd and bcUow'd, I was hiss'd ; Yet all who knew me wondered that I missed. Blair whisper'd me, " You've lost your credit now ; Stick, Boswell, for the future, to the Coiv." ' Peter Garrick, who had a wooden leg. He was brother of the actor. "^ " George" was George Faulkner the printer, who prose- cuted Foote for lampooning him. WOLCOT. 261 ^ Osborne the bookseller. Johnson, while in poor circum- stances, had been employed by him. The melancholy author happened lo be guilty of one of those delays, which are some- times occasioned to conscientious men by the wish to do their best. Osborne, who had no understanding for such refmed motives, broke out into a coarse strain of abuse, such as the trade would now be ashamed of; and Johnson was so provoked, that happening to have one of the man's folios in his hands at the moment, he knocked him down with it. THE END. HOME USE CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT MAIN LIBRARY This book is due on the last date stamped below. 1-month loans may be renewed by calling 642-3405. 6-month loans may be recharged by bringing books to Circulation Desk. Renewals and recharges may be made 4 days prior to due date. ALL BOOKS ARE SUBJECT TO RECALL 7 DAYS AFTER DATE CHECKED OUT. m 1 1 1975 6 ^/>y IflCDMVC JW B^9^ 'AOG t 6 im "lif ^'-•^^ RECEIVED &i ^.fpni98^ ORcmMio^^P^'^- LD21 — A-40m-l2,'74 General Library (S2700L.) University of California Berkeley CD31fl2^hfil 7^ THE UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA LIBRARY L ■ -'l . 1 >■ vH U'S^/k^ .^ a ■•/^^'.i Air)' '1 i^^^ aJ>^^4^ *^i^^^/ ':-^^.^*^r Xvi^A^A.'J i W/^.:f