MASQUE AT LUDLOW, 
 
 AND 
 
 ©tijcr ^lommusrjues. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF “MARY POWELL.’ 
 
 THE BANQUET HALL AND NORMAN CHAPEL, LUDLOW CASTLE. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SAMPSON LOW, SON, AND MARSTON, 
 
 \_The Right of Translation is reserved.] 
 
>) )i? HifV 
 
THE 
 
 MASQUE AT LUDLOW. 
 
 •E Eamanesque* 
 
 a dream 
 
 On summer eve, by haunted stream. 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 Benign Reader, 
 
 It was surely superfluous of Snug 
 the joiner to tell the company he was not 
 really a lion ; and I hope it is equally unne- 
 cessaiy for the joiner of the present conceits 
 and scraps of old-world lore to assure you 
 they are not what they pretend to be. 
 These letters have no pedigree, unless forged 
 by the Cheat’em Society, of which, in an 
 innocent way, I am a member. 
 
 As said Duke Theseus in his gracious 
 humanity towards the Athenian clowns and 
 
Prologue. 
 
 their play of ten lines, — “The best in this 
 kind are but shadows ; and the worst are no 
 worse, if imagination mend them.” Credit 
 my poor shadows, then, with your ima- 
 gination ; and, wherein they fall shortest — 
 amend them. 
 
 I know not if it be more audacious to 
 make John Milton write than to make him 
 speak ; but, having twice already been guilty 
 of that impertinence towards him who dared 
 put words e’en into mouths of archangels, it 
 seemed but simple, after showing him in his 
 prime and decadence, to attempt an outline 
 of him at an earlier age, full of promises 
 that were to be richly fulfilled. 
 
 I only know the Lady Alice through 
 Warton’s notes. Questionless, she must 
 have been a rare girl of thirteen, that could 
 personate even passably the Lady in Comus. 
 
“ How small a part of time they share, 
 That are so wondrous sweet and fair ! 
 
 Lady Alice Egerton married Richard Lord 
 Vaughan, Earl of Garber}’, to whom Jeremy 
 Taylor, his chaplain, dedicated his “Holy 
 Living and Hying setting his honoured 
 name, he says, before his book, that all 
 those who see it shall, by the fairness of 
 such a frontispiece, be inrited to look 
 into it. 
 
 Xow, the hteral frontispiece of my copy 
 of the Holy Hying * is a curiosity. It pour- 
 trays a goodly lady’s chamber (Lady Alice’s 
 in fact), paved with lozenges of black and 
 white marble, and richly draped ; while, on 
 a toilette near the large lattice -window that 
 might have supported a mirror, is a ghastly 
 
 “ Fourteenth Edition. London, printed by M. 
 Flesher for Prichard Eoyston, Bookseller to His most 
 Sacred Majesty, mdclxxxvi.” 
 
Prologue, 
 
 framed picture of a Death’s head and ske- 
 leton. To this griesly Memento Mori, the 
 goodly chaplain in gown and hands is di- 
 recting the attention of his patroness. A 
 grave and potent signor on her other hand, 
 bearded and leaning on his staff, draws back 
 in evident alarm ; and a little boy, though 
 not her own (for she had no children), drags 
 her away by her dress ; but the gentle lady 
 herself regards the chill emblem without 
 dismay, as though she were saying : 
 
 “ These things mcay startle well, but not astound 
 The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended 
 By a strong-siding champion, Conscience.” 
 
 Jeremy Taylor presented his Holy Dying 
 to Lord Vaughan and Carbery on the anni- 
 versary of her death ; and he says, — 
 
 “ This book was intended first to minister 
 her piety ; and she desired all good 
 
Prologue. 
 
 people should partake of the advantages 
 which are here recorded. She knew how to 
 live, rarely well ! and she desired to know 
 how to die ; and God hath taught her by an 
 experiment. But since her work is done, 
 and God supplied her with provisions of his 
 own, before I could minister to her and 
 perfect what she desired, it is necessary to 
 present to your Lordship those bundles of 
 cypress which were intended to dress her 
 Closet, but come now to dress her Hearse.” 
 Here then, let these Shakspearian lines be 
 added to sweet Lady Alice’s funeral chaplet : 
 
 
 0, how much more doth beauty wondrous seem 
 By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! 
 The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
 For that sweet odour which in it doth live. 
 
 The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye 
 As the perfumed tincture of the roses, 
 
 Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly 
 When summer’s breath their masked buds discloses 
 
Prologue. 
 
 But, for their only virtue is their shew, 
 
 They live unwooed, and unrespected fade ; 
 
 Die to themselves ! Sweet roses do not so — 
 Of their sweet deaths are sweeter odours made. 
 
FROM MRS. LANFEAR TO FRANCES, COUNTESS 
 OF BRIDGEWATER. 
 
 This 2>^th of June^ 1634. 
 
 Madam, 
 
 For your exceptions to y^ Lady 
 Alice’s silence, she through me, humbly 
 craves your Ladyship’s pardon ; having at 
 present a whitlow on her forefinger, which 
 hindereth her use of the pen. I am happy 
 to report well in all other respects of my 
 gracious young pupill. What shall I say, 
 or rather, not say, of her most sweet con- 
 ditions ? I think Clotho and Lachesis must 
 have been under the influence of Aglaia and 
 her smiling sister graces when they twined 
 
her thread of life. Her memory is won- 
 derful : at once or twice reading she repeats 
 long passages, whether of prose or verse, 
 perfectly by rote, with the most graceful 
 gesture and charming utterance. Her pro- 
 gress in the classics is commendable ; the 
 justness of her remarks improving what she 
 reads, surprises me ; but I am careful not 
 to betray my opinion of her by word or look, 
 rather leaning to a grave severity, making 
 light of her performances, and averring that 
 they fall below the mark. And now, pray- 
 ing that your Ladyship, my Lord, and all 
 your noble family, may enjoy felicity in 
 this world and in that which is to come, I 
 remain your Ladyship’s poor servant to 
 command. 
 
 i Mary Lanfear. 
 
 i 
 
 ! 
 
II. 
 
 FROM FRANCES, COUNTESS OF BRIDGEWATER, 
 TO MRS. LANFEAR. 
 
 Lanfear, 
 
 Alice’s finger had best be poulticed 
 with bread and milk, applied warm but not 
 hot ; and afterward, when healing, ye shall 
 apply y^ following : — 
 
 Put a quarter of an oz. of benjamin, 
 storax, and spermaceti, two-pennyworth of 
 alkanet root, a large juicy apple chopt, a 
 bunch of black grapes bruised, a quarter of 
 a lb. of unsalted butter, and two oz. of bees’ 
 wax, into a stewing-pan. Simmer gently 
 the wax, &c., be dissolved, then strain 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 thro’ a liimeii. When cold, melt it again, 
 and put into small pots, and applie freely to 
 the wownd. 
 
 Your commendation of Alice, my good 
 Lanfear, joys my heart ; but ye must not 
 imperill her humbleness and simpleness by 
 bewraying aught of y^ same. Let the child 
 be a child as long as she can ; especially 
 with so many elder sisters, some of ’em not 
 so pretty as herself. Sneap and snub her 
 when she needs it. Eating little and 
 speaking little will never do a girl hurt. 
 Young folks put themselves forward now- 
 a-day ; more fools the mothers that let 
 them ! 
 
 My Lord comes down to Ludlow shortly, 
 to take his state in the presidency, and 
 we shall be accompanied by a great con- 
 course of nobility and gentry to grace his 
 entry. We shall pick you and the children 
 
The Masque at Ludlo^c. 
 
 up by the way, or else send you on before. 
 Since the death of my Lord’s Countroller 
 of the Household we are all at sixes and 
 sevens. 
 
 “ He that provides not for his kin, 
 The Lord will not pro\ide for him,” 
 
 and so cousin Dick is preferred to the office ; 
 but I doubt how he will fill it. My Lord 
 has no fears. 
 
 Tell Alice though she cannot practise her 
 lute till her finger is heal’d, she may ex- 
 ercise her voice to your playing. Harry 
 Lawes says he has no pupils of better pro- 
 mise and performance than my Penelope, 
 Mary, and Alice ; but he thinks Alice, as 
 she advances in years, will pass her sisters. 
 Ye need not to tell her this. We shall 
 bring down Lawes ; and I have desired him 
 compose something for y“ occasion that 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 shall exercise the children’s wits and me 
 inories. Let Alice drink freely of tamarind 
 water if she is feverish. 
 
 Thine, my good Lanfear, 
 
 Frances Bridgewater. 
 
 A 
 
III. 
 
 HEI^RY LAWES TO JOHN MILTON. 
 
 My Friend, 
 
 Lady Bridgewater hath commissioned 
 me to prepare a Masque, or Interlude, to 
 grace my Lord President’s entry into Wales ; 
 and does me to wit that I may employ some 
 passable good poetaster to supply verses 
 tolerable enough for her children to learn 
 by rote, and for me to hang music upon. 
 In a word, will you write them ? The 
 credit will be little or none, the obligation 
 great to 
 
 Your friend and servant, 
 
 Henry Lawes. 
 
 
My Friend, 
 
 No office of your imposition can be 
 without credit ; yet am I not so greedy of 
 the voice of those who in the general extol 
 or censure amiss, as to care to be known for 
 her Ladyship’s poetaster. 
 
 So you may command me, good Mr. 
 Hany Lawes, in this matter, since you 
 think it worth the asking, on the sole but 
 express condition that my incognito shall be 
 inviolably preserved. 
 
 Granted the Mask, then, you have the 
 Masque. Let me know the number and 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 ages of the intended enactors, and any other 
 matter that may assist 
 
 Your sincere friend and servant to com- 
 mand, 
 
 John Milton. 
 
HENRY LAWES TO JOHN MILTON. 
 
 My very WORTHY AND ESTEEMED GOOD 
 
 Friend, 
 
 Your mauner of granting my request 
 enhances its graciousness and my gratitude ; 
 and since you insist on the Mask, it shall be 
 scrupulously respected. You know I am 
 not a novice at this work ; last year I set to 
 music a Masque presented at Whitehall on 
 Candlemas night by the gentlemen of the 
 four Inns of Court ; and the music was 
 worthy of the versing, and the versing of 
 the music, for both, sooth to say, were in- 
 different ; yet Ives and I received each one 
 
hundred pounds well counted. And though 
 I know not whether our Countess’s liberality 
 will extend to that mark, doubtless she will 
 requite us proportionably to her own state 
 and our deservings. 
 
 Set your wit nimbly to work, I pray 
 you, for till I get copy from you I can do 
 nothing. The enactors are to be my Lord 
 Brackly, Mr. Thomas Egerton, the Lady 
 Alice, and your humble servant. You may 
 powder freely with classical conceits (the 
 more the better to my Lady’s taste), for 
 Lord Brackly, now in his twelfth year, is of 
 rare endowments and acquirements ; and 
 Mr. Thomas, turned of eleven, comes not 
 behind him in stature or gifts. 
 
 For the Lady Alice, how shall I describe 
 her ? She, the youngest and fairest of 
 eleven fair sisters, hath numbered but thir- 
 teen summers, but might pass for fifteen. 
 
12 
 
 The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 The justness of her stature, comeliness of 
 her features, symettry of her proportions, 
 and pure tincture of her complexion, might 
 make her supposed one of Calypso’s youngest 
 nymphs ; yet her outward graces are sur- 
 passed by those of her mind. I think 
 Clelia and Cornelia at the same tender 
 years must have been of her mould ; or you 
 might deem her Virginia with her satchel, 
 tripping to school. She hath the same turn 
 for study as had Lady Jane Grey and the 
 daughters of More ; yet with infinite cheer- 
 fulness and pleasantness of humour, frank 
 with all, without the least pride. 
 
 For music, her voice and ear are most 
 excellent ; and she hath that rare felicity so 
 much insisted on by my good old master 
 Giovanni Coperario (whose real appellation, 
 as I think you know, was Johnny Cooper), 
 that the management of her voice adds such 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 an agreeableness to her countenance, with- 
 out any constraint or effort, as that her 
 singing is as lovely to the eye as to the ear. 
 
 Now, lest you should think I am writing 
 of a goddess rather than of a woman scarce 
 beyond a child, and in the vein of an in- 
 amorato rather than of a sober, prudent, 
 music-master, I will break off and conclude 
 with an abstrackt of what lately befel these 
 three noble scions of the house of Egerton. 
 
 You must know that they, their tutor, 
 and governess, have lately been on a visit at 
 a house of one of the Egerton family in 
 Herefordshire ; and in passing through Hey- 
 wood Forest they were benighted, and the 
 Lady Alice was even lost for a time. Her 
 brothers, I think, had gone too far into the 
 wood to find her wild strawberries, and she, 
 hunting for them, came upon some wild, 
 uncouth people, who affrighted her sadly by 
 

 The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 their rough abord and outlandish jargon ; 
 but happily, her brothers, with a country 
 servant they call Cherrycheeks, came up to 
 her in a little while, and no harm resulted 
 beyond the fright. 
 
 And now no more from your faithful, 
 grateful friend and servant, 
 
 Henry Lawes. 
 
VI. 
 
 JOHN MILTON TO HENRY LAWES. 
 
 Good Mr. Henry Lawes, you have told 
 me too much and yet too little ; more than 
 enough to set my fancy to work, and too 
 little to satisfy it. The young lady you 
 speak of must be the rarest creature that 
 ever tripped on the green sward, and will 
 needs be a marvel of perfect womanhood 
 when she attains riper age. The incident 
 of the losing in the forest will aptly form 
 the theme of our piece ; and you, as Cherry- 
 cheeks, elevated for the nonce into Thyrsis, 
 11 speak a prologue, telling how that — 
 
A noble peer, of mickle tnist and power, 
 
 Has in his charge, with tempered awe to guide, 
 An old and haughty nation proud in arms ; 
 
 and so forth 
 
 Where his fair offspring 
 
 Are coming to attend their father's state. — 
 
 but get lost in the wood ; whereon you, 
 Thyrsis (in seeming, that is, but a guardian 
 angel in reality) have flown swiftly to the 
 rescue ; knowing, by reason of your supernal 
 intuition, that great danger impends from a 
 fell enchanter haunting the aforesaid wood, 
 and offering to every belated traveller he 
 encounters a crystal cup drugged with a 
 potion that, once tasted, turns men into 
 beasts. 
 
 Having set all this forth, you step aside 
 and make way for this same enchanter, 
 
 ght CoMUS (Intemperance), who entereth 
 
r 
 
 The Ma^sque rxt Ludlovx 
 
 with a charming-rod in one hand and the 
 fatal glass in the other ; and with him a 
 rout of monsters, headed like sundry sorts 
 
 women, well apparelled. These make antic 
 gestures and noises ; and then Cornus (I 
 know not who shall fill the part) recites 
 what you mil find here inclosed. The lines 
 should nin off the tongue glibly; and then 
 all knit hands and dance a fantastic mea- 
 sure, the accompaniment to which may have 
 clashing of cymbals, blowing of horns, &c., as 
 at a han^est-home or Whitsun-ale. In the 
 midst, Comus, perceiving that something of 
 virtue and purity beyond common, alto- 
 gether foreign and adverse to the scene, 
 draweth nigh, makes his riotous rabblement 
 break off and hide among the trees (whence 
 their elvish, satyric faces may from time to 
 le peep out) while he awaits the intruc 
 
 1 
 
 '\ 
 
 li of wild beasts, but otherwise like men and 
 
 1 / 
 
 c 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 Then (to softest music, mark you, which 
 ceases before her balmy lips unclose) enters 
 our Lady bright ; not in any terror or con- 
 sternation, but in some natural anxiety at 
 her belated state, and looking wistfully 
 about for those whose voices and music had 
 drawn her to the spot. She enlargeth on 
 her strait in soliloquy, and sings a hymn to 
 Echo (which I send you in the rough) in 
 the hope to make her voice the farther 
 heard. Note, that echo-songs always win 
 favour of the audience : but there is no 
 absolute need to repeat the usual trick of 
 surprising by repetitions of sound, as in 
 Browne’s Inner Temple Masque; since this 
 is simply an invocation. 
 
 To her enters Comus in the guise of 
 a shepherd; and with his artful, specious 
 tongue pretends passionate admiration of 
 L' singing, which she, though so young 
 
The Masque at Ludloiv. 19 
 
 and unsuspecting, values at no more than it 
 is worth ; but yet addresses him for counsel 
 how to find her brothers, whom he pretends 
 to have seen. And here ensues a dialogue, 
 terse and epigTammatic, which speedily 
 issues in her submitting herself to his 
 guidance. And so they pass out. 
 
 Then enter the two brothers — 
 
 As smooth, as Hebe’s their unrazored lips — 
 
 (I have seen the young gentlemen — Lord 
 Brackly is black-haired, ruddy, and comely ; 
 the younger brother hath blue eyes and 
 yellow locks). AMiat they say you shall 
 know in my next, if this jejune sketch 
 seems to you of promise. 
 
 Your friend, as ever, 
 
 John ^Milton. 
 
i 
 
 VII. 
 
 HENRY LAWES TO JOHN MILTON. 
 
 The fragments you have sent me are 
 transcendant. Lose no time, I beseech you, 
 in supplying the rest ; and hold yourself 
 in readiness to obey a summons to Ludlow 
 Castle. We are quite at a loss for a suitable 
 Comus, for my Lady says she won’t have 
 bearded men play with her children ; solely 
 excepting your highly honoured friend and 
 servant, 
 
 Henry Lawes. 
 
VIII. 
 
 JOHAXXES MILTOX PATPJ S.P.D. 
 
 Paucis diebus abliinc, Comitissa de 
 Bridgewater fabellam, vel, ut ita dicam, 
 bpafjLa 'EarvpLKov, a me postidavit. Cujus 
 consilii auctor fuit musicus ille peritissimus, 
 noster Henricus Lawes. Opys autem ea 
 ratione conficiendum est, ut ego camiinibus, 
 ille cliordis apte congruentibus, personas 
 in scenam inducamus apud Castellum de 
 Ludlow, quo, rei bujus ordiendm causa, si 
 mihi quidam per te liceat, a nobis est 
 eundum. Cura, igitur, de voluntate tua 
 certiorem me facias, mi pater, atque lioc tibi 
 persuasum habe, te filium habere ut semper 
 amoris et officii erga te plenissimum. 
 
IX. 
 
 MR. MILTON TO HIS SON JOHN. 
 
 Hokton, Bucks, 
 
 This 2.^th July, 1634. 
 
 Son John, 
 
 I have received your Latin letter, 
 and am well content therewith, despite of 
 its shortness, which is not generally the 
 fault you run into, as your sentences are apt 
 to get long-winded so as that a man scant 
 of breath can scarce fail to draw it at the 
 wrong place. I suppose I need not to 
 remind you of the fable, whether of Esop 
 or Babrius, of the two pots, one of iron, the 
 other earth, that came into collision. My 
 Lord of Bridgewater is the iron pot and you 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 23 
 
 the other ; take care that you be none the 
 worse for him. We have never yet curried 
 favour with the great man, and though he 
 and I live, as it were, next door, I obliged 
 him about the fishing, and he sent me, 
 unaskt, a quarter of doe venison, when I 
 would as lief have had a buck, or else my 
 own mutton. You have not sought him, 
 however, in this matter, but he, or rather 
 his lady, you. We will talk it over next 
 time you come home, but I don’t think thy 
 mother much affects it. If you do go to 
 Ludlow, vie with none of them ; rather 
 affect an honest plainness. Neither flatter 
 nor be flattered ; be courteous and pleasant 
 with all, but ever with a comely sobriety. 
 Remember, my son, thine own descent and 
 thine own deservings ; so shalt thou less 
 need that others always remember them. 
 Money you shall have, for use, not for show 
 
 
The Masque at Ludloiv. 
 
 or waste ; still less for the pernicious games 
 idle retainers kill time with, hut in pro- 
 portion to my means. 
 
 With regard to your Masque, I can have 
 no doubt it will be well done, since you have 
 the doing it. Many traditions still linger 
 among us, especially in country places, 
 wherewith poetry may be aptly enriched. 
 I need not remind you of the precious ore, 
 along with mica, in the old chronicles of 
 Bede, Geoffrey of Monmouth, and others. 
 Whatever you touch you will turn to gold ; 
 but, if you would please your father, let it 
 have a flavour of the old Falernian, a smack 
 of the old classicality with it. Nor yet go 
 too far afield for a subject — 
 
 “Xunquani aliud natura, aliud sapientia dixit.” 
 
 To say more would be to teach him who 
 needs not my teaching. Your mother would 
 
send you her blessing, but she knows not I 
 am writing, being busy in her still-room, 
 wasting ever so many bushels of charcoal to 
 make as many pottles of waters, borage, 
 fumitory, and all the rest, that you and I 
 shall have to dodge the drinking of. Your 
 loving father, so long as you live in the love 
 of God, 
 
 John Milton. 
 
X. 
 
 JOHN MILTON TO EDWARD KING. 
 
 Since you say (though I scarce believe) 
 you have so villainous a cold as to be 
 blind of your Latin eye and deaf of your 
 Latin ear, I will thank you for your letter 
 in the vernacular. You question me as to 
 what I am about, and will perhaps smile 
 in high scorn when you are told. Neque 
 semper arcum tendit Apollo; and I the 
 rather indulge in a transient sport of fancy, 
 that it is to serve the behest of a tried and 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 The only time you graced my father’s 
 modest roof at Horton, I took you, as you 
 may remember, to Ashridge, anciently a 
 royal palace, in the parish of Gaddesden, in 
 Herts, though bordering upon Buckingham- 
 shire. Do you remember my telling you it 
 was the seat of Sir John Egerton, Earl of 
 Bridgewater, and relating several traits of 
 his character 1 And while we sate discours- 
 ing, astride a gate overlooking a meadow 
 pied with daisies and fragrant with cows’ 
 breath, were we not, as thou rememberest 
 (’tis not so long agone), o’ sudden startled 
 by the sharp, snapping bark of dogs, evi- 
 dently engaged in some petty warfare, which 
 drew us to the scene of it ? Two noble 
 imj^s, with vermeil-tinted cheeks and ardent 
 eyes, were inciting a couple of hounds to 
 attack an urchin or hedge-pig that was 
 setting up its bristling quills in self-defence. 
 
The Masque at Ludlov:. 
 
 Those lads Avere Lord Brackly, and his 
 brother, Mr. Thomas Egerton, sons of the 
 Earl of BridgeAvater. Upon urgent request 
 I am ANU’iting a little play, or satpic drama, 
 in AAdiich these young gentlemen and their 
 youngest sister shall Avelcome Lord Bridge- 
 AA’ater to LudloAV. The commission jumps 
 AAutli my humour, and I fulfil it AAuth a 
 peaceful conscience ; for I hold that A^dlen 
 God did enlarge the universal diet of man’s 
 
 body, and add to every Avholesome fruit 
 and root the beast of the field, the bird 
 of the air, and the fish of the river and 
 sea. He then also, as before, left arbitrary 
 the dieting and repasting of our minds, 
 AAuthout particular laAV or prescrij)tion, 
 A\Lolly to the demeanour of each several 
 man. So that one shall apply to divine 
 philosophy, another to the Fathers, an- 
 other to Aristotle, another to poetry, and 
 
 
The Masque at Ludloio. 
 
 another even to the drama, so it be pure 
 and chaste. 
 
 Misdoubt me not, then, nor contemn me, 
 for ^vriting a Masque, wherein may be intro- 
 duced pagan and pastoral conceits with no 
 unnatural strangeness. It may be, notwith- 
 standing, that you had heard nought of it, 
 but that I find myself in want of a book 
 you have in your study, of which I would 
 gladly ask the loan. I mean Lavaterus, De 
 Bpectris et Lemurihus, which lies in your 
 window-seat, along with Olaus ^Magnus and 
 Georgius Agricola. I found some curious 
 reading in it one day when you kept me 
 waiting. You may send me the others too, 
 if you have a mind, for I shall use them and 
 you wiU not. I believe you wiU think your- 
 self weU repaid for them if I bring you a 
 great beaupot of roses, coronations, colum- 
 bines, sunflowers, and daffadowndillies ; 
 
30 
 
 The Masque at Ludloiu. 
 
 perhaps a pound of my mother’s best butter, 
 3"ellow as a cowslip, and printed with a cow 
 in high relief. 
 
 Your loving friend, 
 
 John Milton. 
 
 t 
 
EDWARD KING TO JOHN MILTON. 
 
 No, that I deny ! A pat of butter is not 
 an equivalent for a posy, nor a posy for a 
 rare book, especially if sunflowers and dan- 
 delions be cheek by jowl with roses and 
 sops-in-wine. I send you herewith not one 
 book but all three ; but let my guerdon be 
 a sight of the manuscript when finished. I 
 am hugely curious to see your management 
 of a Masque, encrusted, as it doubtless will 
 be, with dainty allusions. It is a form of 
 composititon which neither Ben Jonson nor 
 Carew have despised. Where lies the 
 scene ? In Arcadia, no doubt. Who are 
 
The Masque at Ludloiu. 
 
 tlie persons ? jMany or few ? SlieplierJs 
 and shepherdesses, of course. A love-story 
 running through the web like a golden 
 thread. Lovers made happy at last. Then 
 all come forward hand in hand, group in 
 attitudes, sing a chorus, lout low to the 
 noble company, and so an end. 
 
 Edward King. 
 
XII 
 
 JOHX XILTOX TO ED^AED KIXG. 
 
 There may be a higher interest than 
 that of love. My argument is a gTave Tem- 
 perance and holy Chastity. The characters 
 will be few. I am not going to drag in 
 
 Glaucmnque, Medontaque, TEersiloclimiique, 
 
 merely to knock them on the head Two 
 brothers will hold an amicable contest be- 
 tween fact and philosophy. The younger 
 draws his arguments from the ob\dous ap- 
 pearance of things ; the elder proceeds on 
 knowledge, and argues 
 
 D 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 abstract principles. These interlocutors give 
 place to a lady and an enchanter in a stately 
 palace set out with all manner of delicious- 
 ness ; and here the interest turns on the 
 enchanter’s keeping the lady spell-bound in 
 her chair, while her mind, not consenting to 
 his temptations, rises superior to the vain 
 sophistry of his arguments, that would make 
 Pleasure the Supreme Fair. 
 
 I cannot send you the manuscript; first, 
 because it is not finished, and next, because 
 it is impatiently awaited by the composer 
 who is to set it to music ; but hereafter you 
 shall have a fair copy. 
 
 John Milton. 
 

 XIII. 
 
 HEIs'RY LAAVES TO JOHN MILTON. 
 
 Last night I was spell-bound to my seat 
 like the lovely lady, till I had finished your 
 divine drama. I never met with anything 
 to match it. The action, perhaps, is slow, 
 but the poetry transcendant. The greater 
 part must be rehearsed in measured speech 
 or plain tune, with here and there an 
 introit. The poet hath done so much as 
 to leave the musician little work, for which 
 I sincerely thank you. There is the echo- 
 song, the invocation to Sabrina, a round 
 when the satyrs dance in the forest, and a 
 chorus at the end — that’s all you have given 
 
me to do ; so, that I may not eat the bread 
 of idleness, I am to play Thyrsis. The 
 young gentlemen are already fonvard in 
 their parts, and Lady Alice pores over hers 
 all day and repeats it on her pillow, I fancy, 
 after her prayers. AYhat we shall do for a 
 Comus is now the problem, which you, the 
 arch-magician, may help us to solve. Who 
 could take the part better than yourself? 
 You have played the Lady, ere now, in col- 
 lege rehearsals. Do come, ’beseech you ! 
 
 “Locus est, et pluribus umbris.” 
 
 In default of you, we have none to look 
 to but a gawky seventh cousin of her Lady- 
 ship’s, a florid, saffron-haired }^outh, vdth 
 cheeks as round as pippins, and somewhat 
 too thick a tongue. He will maul your 
 verses horribly. Think twice of it. 
 
XIY. 
 
 JOHN MILTON TO HENRY LAWES. 
 
 K 
 
 Instead of thinking twice, I dare not 
 think once of your ensnaring proposal. I 
 should never hear the last of it ! The tide 
 hath turned here, and is now altogether 
 adverse to my going to Ludlow, for reasons 
 wherewith you need not be troubled. Al- 
 ready I in some sort despise myself for 
 having taken any share in such toys, which 
 are now somewhat roughly cast at my head. 
 In some sort I have brought it on myself : 
 the hedgehog, if he did not patrol the 
 orchards after dark, could never have been 
 accused of carrying away pears and aj3pl 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. . 
 
 OD liis quills. After all, men come into the 
 world for better objects than sounding of 
 brass and tinkling of cymbals ; and have too 
 manifold temptations already to hinder and 
 disinure them, without needlessly going 
 astray after vail o’ th’ wisps dancing over 
 miry and darksome places : so have I been 
 told vithin the last few hours. As for 
 plays, masques, interludes, and all such 
 gauds, they do but lure us from our severe 
 but wholesome schoolmistress Truth, at 
 whose feet meekly to sit and aptly to learn 
 is the best docility. 
 
 In brief, that young carrotty-poll may 
 play Comus an’ he will — and can. But O, 
 the sin and shame of committing my glib 
 verses to his thick tongue ! Prompt him, 
 pinch him, persecute him into some con- 
 ception of his part ; else shall the whole 
 be marred through the 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 one lubber. You may cudgel him into 
 some parrot repetition, but unless the spirit 
 of the character be in him, it will never 
 come out of him. 
 
 To conclude, send me news of the Castle 
 and of the Masque. 
 
 Thine, 
 
 John Milton. 
 
XV. 
 
 HENRY LAWES TO JOHN MILTON. 
 
 We are progressing amain. The cub who 
 takes Comns hath learnt his part not amiss 
 as for perfectness ; hut for any beauty of 
 action or accent, we insist on them in vain. 
 Lady Alice openly laughs at him, which 
 only makes him open his gooseberry eyes 
 the wider, and grin like a dog in return ; 
 hut he will take no raillery from any other 
 quarter without going into the dead sulks. 
 Had you condescended to the part (alas, 
 that you cannot !), then indeed we might 
 have made another guess affair ot the 
 
r 
 
 The Masque at Ludlovj. 
 
 Masque ; but since you will not or must not, 
 we must e’en do as we can. 
 
 Lady Bridgewater sends some of us in 
 advance of her to Ludlow next week, whence 
 you may expect to hear from me. 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 ;l 
 
 ■j 
 
 :i 
 
 ii 
 
 jl 
 
 H. Lawes. 
 
XYI. 
 
 HEXEY LAWES TO JOHN MILTON. 
 
 Ludlow Castle. 
 
 Since you desire an account of this 
 place, and are unlikely to see it, I will not 
 delay to gratify your wish by wasting time 
 on the mischances of the journey, but take 
 up my parable at the journey’s end. In 
 Shakspearian phrase, 
 
 “ Tliis castle hath a pleasant seat ; the air 
 Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself 
 Unto the senses.” 
 
 It is founded on a rock overlooking the 
 er Corve, and was built by Eoger Mont 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 43 
 
 gomery in the reign of Henry the First. 
 Many of the original towers still remain, 
 overhanging a great fosse, but some of them 
 are ruinated, and even certain of the royal 
 apartments lie open to the weather, overrun 
 with ivy, and prankt with stonecrop and 
 snap-dragon. 
 
 The habitable part of the Castle was 
 chiefly rebuilt by Sir Henry Sidney when 
 lord president, including twelve goodly 
 rooms and a wardrobe. He also repaired 
 Mortimer’s Tower, and made it a receptacle 
 of the ancient records, perishing for lack of 
 safeguard. All the new building over the 
 gate is owing to Sir Henry Sidney ; and he 
 also restored a fair room under the court- 
 house, and made a great wall round the 
 wood-yard, and a brave condyt within the 
 inner court. 
 
 All this have I learnt of the old grey- 
 
 
The Masque at Ludloiv. 
 
 haired warden who had the place in 
 charge. 
 
 The great Hall has a groined roof, and 
 richly painted windows, flinging or, azure, 
 and gules on the ancient stone floor. In 
 one of them is an impalement of St. An- 
 drew’s Cross, with Prince Arthur’s arms. 
 Also there’s a great stone escutcheon of 
 Prince Arthur’s arms. On the left side 
 of this hall, which indeed is exceeding 
 magnifical, are the arms of my lord Earl 
 of Warwick, the Earl of Derby, Earl of 
 Worcester, Earl of Pembroke, and Sir 
 Henry Sidney. On the other side, the 
 arms of North and South Wales ; two 
 red lions and two golden lyons for Prince 
 Arthur. At the end of the hall is a 
 pretty device, how the hedgehog broke 
 his chain and came to Ludlow from Ire- 
 land. (Query, may not another hedgehog 
 
0 ^^ 
 t 
 
 The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 break his chain and come to Ludlow from 
 Horton ?) 
 
 There is at the entrance of the hall a 
 great iron portcullis of huge weight, also a 
 music gallery, and oaken screen. At the 
 upper end a dais and long oaken table 
 running across ; two inferior tables running 
 down the hall. In my Lord’s private dining- 
 room, cupboards for plate, and a table to 
 play shuffle-board. 
 
 Now, for the Chapel, it is so trim and 
 bravely painted with the arms of many 
 English kings and of the lords of the castle, 
 that you need not wish a fairer place for 
 devotion. The bell rings (or will ring when 
 we all come together) for prayers a quarter 
 of an hour before breakfast, during which 
 time the retinue make ready for covering 
 the tables, but do not cover. Before the 
 breakfast, which is at eight o’clock, the 
 
46 
 
 The Masque at Ludlou\ 
 
 castle keys are brought in ; also during 
 dinner and supper. 
 
 I need not remind you that Prince Ar- 
 thur, son of Harry Seventh, died in this 
 castle ; it being the palace of the Prince of 
 Wales, appendent on his principality. But 
 many of the state chambers are altogether 
 unusable, given over to the bats and owls, 
 yet with frequent tokens of ancient pomp 
 peeping out from amidst the rubbish of 
 their mouldering fragments. They are re- 
 ported haunted ; so as that my guide 
 averred the maids would not approach that 
 wing of the building after dark, save in 
 
 couples. ^ 
 
 Over the stable-doors are the arms of 
 Queen Elizabeth, Lord Pembroke, &c. Some- 
 thing less than twenty years ^ago, the creation 
 of Prince Charles to the principality was 
 solemnized here with uncommon splendour. 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 47 
 
 I spare you tlie various courts, staircases, 
 nests of turret-chambers, galleries, offices, 
 &c. The landscape on all sides is agreeably 
 diversified ; the prospect in some directions 
 ranging over woods, in others over large and 
 beautiful meadows, dotted with sheep and 
 cattle. The pleasance, or garden-plot within 
 the castle, has been greatly neglected ; and 
 the hangings, where there are any, are 
 dropping from the walls ; but large provision 
 of furniture is hourly arriving in baggage- 
 carts, and the damp old walls echo to many 
 and cheerful voices. 
 
 Yester-even, what time the crescent moon 
 peered with pale visage through the silvered 
 clouds, I strayed about the precincts and 
 lone deserted courts, — buttresses and battle- 
 ments casting strange unearthly shadows on 
 the weedy ground, — and anon I conjured up 
 myself the old place in all its bravery 
 
& 48 
 
 The Masque at Ludloiu. 
 
 when Prince Arthur and his six-months’ 
 bride, Doha Catalina, arrived here in all the 
 glory of youth and love, to take their state 
 upon them — she being mounted on a palfrey 
 with velvet housings, attended by eleven 
 ladies, and received at the castle gates with 
 loud blaring trumpets and deafening huzzas. 
 
 Methought how soon all this bravery 
 paled, and the fair }mung Prince, plague- 
 smitten, lay in the pangs of death, while the 
 young Spanish girl wept over him ; and 
 mysterious shades seemed to float past me, 
 sighing as they went. All at once these 
 sad shadows were dispersed by the lively din 
 of young voices and mocking laughter ; and 
 Lady Alice and Lord Brackly darted into 
 the court, he clutching at her skirts and 
 trying to get from her something which she 
 held beyond his reach, high above her head. 
 
 This morning, I was straying round the 
 
The Masque at Ludloiu. 
 
 49 
 
 Castle, marking well her bulwarks, and con- 
 sidering her towers, when, just over against 
 Mortimer’s Tower, the Lady Alice came up 
 to me, bearing a fair white lily, accompanied 
 by Lord Brackly and a gTeat stag-hound ; 
 and quoth she, “We are to have Scambling- 
 day. Master Lawes, because that the carts 
 have brought plenty of tables and stools, 
 but no mugs nor trenchers, pots nor pans ; 
 and the clerk of the kitchen was ready to 
 hang himself, till we told him we would 
 
 dine on bread and cheese, spread on the 
 grass.” 
 
 “ That will be mighty pleasant,” quoth I. 
 “ And pray, where may be the spot selected 
 for your Ladyship’s refection ? ” 
 
 “ Under yonder hawthorn,” said she, 
 “where the gTound is carpeted with eu- 
 phrasy and wild th3Tne. Come and see it.” 
 
 re all walked together to the sp^^ 
 
50 
 
 The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 and when we reached it, my Lord Brackly 
 exclaimed, “ 0, what a goodly stage to play 
 ' Love’s Labour’s Lost,’ without need of scene- 
 shifting ! Sister, you shall be the Princess, 
 and I’ll be Boyet, and carve the capon.” 
 “What part will your Lordship fit upon 
 me ?” quoth I. 
 
 “You,” said he, “shall be Costard, and 
 cry, ‘ 0, sweet guerdon ! eleven-pence far- 
 thing better than remuneration ! ’ ” 
 
 “ Nay,” said Lady Alice, “ Master Lawes 
 shall not be condemned to so rough a part, 
 but play Biron.” 
 
 On which I fell a posturing, and mouthed, 
 
 ‘ ‘ "What ! I ? 7 love ? I sue ? I seek a wife ? ” 
 
 till they tired ’emselves with laughing. 
 Said I, “Why not stick to the matter in 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 51 
 
 serious rehearsal of our Masque, which I am 
 fain to think we are not too forward in ? ” 
 Aye, that is well thought of,” said Lady 
 Alice. “ Go, brother, and call Tom.” 
 
 “ I will save your Lordship that trouble,” 
 said I, “and also hunt up Cuthbert Curly- 
 pate, who is no doubt slumbering in some 
 sunny nook.” 
 
 At this point Madam Lanfear came sail- 
 ing out, starched as buckram, crying, “ What 
 are you all about ? ” 
 
 “We are going to rehearse the Masque,” 
 says Lord Brackly. “ Here’s a marvellous 
 convenient place for our rehearsal. ‘ This 
 green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn- 
 brake our tyring-house ; and we will do it 
 in action as we will do it before the 
 Duke.’ ” 
 
 “ Oh then, I will play audience,” says she. 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
The Masque at Ludloiv. 
 
 “ Aye, goody, or peer througli tlie bushes 
 for one of Comus’s court,” said my Lord, 
 lightly, which I could see she liked not. 
 
 In brief, we severally returned to the 
 Castle for what we wanted ; and Cuddy, 
 being summoned to the rehearsal, made a 
 Jack-in-the-Green of himself, and, encou- 
 raged by his disguising, gave forth his 
 versings lustily, but altogether broke do\vn 
 in the second scene; so that the brothers 
 rushed in before their time, and belaboured 
 him with their foils. Too much of this. 
 
 Thy friend, 
 
 H. Lawes. 
 
 Si- 
 
 
XYII. 
 
 JOHN HILTON TO HEXEY LAYTES. 
 
 i 
 
 Not a word too mucli. Continue your 
 diumall, I beseech you. 
 
 I despise myself somewhat for being so 
 concerned in this toy ; but one would not 
 willingly let die the fruitage of one’s brain. 
 Can this Lady Alice be but thirteen? I 
 happen never to have seen her, and am 
 concerned to know whether she be indeed a 
 
 I 
 
 I just representative of my Innominata, or 
 
 I whether, indeed, I have not made my lady 
 
 i 
 
 I too old and sententious for so young a 
 
THE LADY ALICE EGERTOX TO THE COUXTESS 
 OF BRIDGE^yATER. 
 
 Madam, 
 
 I trust that this may find my ho- 
 noured parents in good health. May it 
 please your Ladyship to grant your poor 
 daughters humble request, that for the 
 ensuing pageant I may have a white silk 
 gown shot with silver threads, and pearls 
 for my hair. Your Ladyship knoweth I do 
 not in usual affect much finery, but this 
 once I hope you will grant the humble 
 request of 
 
 Your LadyshqD’s unworthy child, 
 Alice Egertox 
 
XIX. 
 
 THE COUNTESS OF BRIDGEWATER TO LADY 
 ALICE EGERTON. 
 
 Daughter Alice, 
 
 At your time of life, I never once had 
 anything finer than dimity or cloth, accord- 
 ing to the season, and two silk suits for 
 festivals, one red, t’other green, which lasted 
 me till I grew out of ’em. And I think 
 
 taffeta quite fine enough for a child of your 
 years, for though you’re tall, you’re but a 
 chit ; and moreover, Alice, you droop your 
 head too much, which lessens your height 
 and will make your nose red. ’Tis not the 
 but the carriage that makes 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 lady. However, you shall have the gown, 
 on condition you learn to bridle. And I 
 trust you will keep your heart in all hum- 
 bleness and lowliness, not puffed up as the 
 manner of some is, but submitting yourself 
 to those that have the rule over you. And 
 so long as you do that, be sure of the love 
 and blessing of your mother, 
 
 Fkances Bridgewatek. 
 
 Ye ought to make much of your golden 
 opportunities now, Alice, for they will never 
 occur again. For me, I cannot command a 
 quarter of an hour’s leisure. 
 
XX. 
 
 THE COUNTESS OF BRIDGEWATER TO 
 RICHARD EGERTON. 
 
 Cousin Dick, 
 
 You shall please direct the marshals 
 and ushers of the hall to order the carriages 
 and conveyances for the stuff, when my 
 Lord changeth house ; how they shall be 
 occupyde, how appointed ; and that matters 
 shall not be left undone, or but half done, to 
 the last, so as that on the day of my Lord’s 
 departour, only the hanging-stuff and beds 
 shall remain to be removed. As to say, the 
 stuff in my Lord’s chamber and mine, the 
 
The Masque at Ludloiv. 
 
 stuff in the great chamber, and in the 
 chamber wherein my Lord maketh ready, 
 &c. And my Lord’s stuff shall be removed 
 in three carts, and mine in three carts ; and 
 one cart for stuff over and above remaining. 
 And two carts for the children’s stuff ; and 
 one cart for the officers following, to wit, the 
 gentlemen carvers, sewers, cup-bearers, and 
 waiters, for carrying their five beds, and 
 none other to be allowed them. 
 
 For all the stuff pertaining to the sellar, 
 pantry, and buttery, one cart; and none 
 other to be allowed ’em. 
 
 For the kitchen, squillery, larder, and 
 pastry, two carriages. And everything be- 
 longing to the bakehouse and brewhouse, 
 one carriage. 
 
 Item, the workmen of the household, 
 which is to say, the joiner, smith, j^ainter, 
 minestrels, and huntsmen, to have one cai’t 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 for their stuff; and none other to he al- 
 lowed ’em. 
 
 Number of all the carriages employed 
 in the removal, besides the chariot, seven- 
 teen. 
 
 Cousin Dick, the removal of this great 
 household with all its stuff is a gveat charge. 
 Thou art in office to see that other men 
 mind their offices ; see that thou mindest 
 thine own office, so shall thy Lord have 
 pleasure in thy duty. Be not given to 
 wine, wherein is excess, and let not thine 
 hand know a bribe. Suffer not the catour 
 to make any entries till the things are 
 brought in. Let the clerk of the kitchen 
 take account betimes what shall need to be 
 provided for so great a company as will soon 
 be at Ludlow ; as, so many bucks, so many 
 swans, . so many beeves, muttons, veals, so 
 many baskets of fish, so many partridges 
 

 
 
 
 The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 6i 
 
 cranes, herns, wypes, woodcocks, ruffs and 
 reys, &c. And that no herbs be wastefully 
 bought, seeing that the cooks may have 
 enough and to spare out of my Lord’s 
 gardens. Also that the clerks of the 
 kitchen cast up daily the cheque-roll, and 
 see that the accounts tally with the emp- 
 cions in the catour’s journal-book. If he 
 defraud but a peppercorn a day, ’tis three 
 hundred, sixty, and five peppercorns by the 
 year. 
 
 Note, that the clerks of the brevements 
 breve every stranger by name that cometh 
 to my Lord’s house, else shall tag, rag, and 
 bobtail be walking in upon us ; and what is 
 to hinder them of the spoons ? 
 
 And at all odd times, Cousin Dick, I 
 charge you to 'peruse over the Booke of 
 Riwles of the Household, till ye have them 
 at your fingers’ ends, which shall in some 
 
62 The Masque at Ludlow, 
 
 sort serve in stead of long experience. And 
 so rest you meiTy, and keep you faithful to 
 my Lord. 
 
 Your kinswoman and well-wisher, 
 
 Frances Bridgewater. 
 
XXL 
 
 TO FRANCES, COUNTESS OF BRIDGEWATER. 
 
 Madame, may it lik your Ladyship, see- 
 ing that my Lord’s clerk coumptroller being 
 deceast, another is put in his place, I would 
 hint in your ear, that ye shall bid the new 
 clerk coumptroller dailly to have an ey to 
 the slaighter house when any viaunds shall 
 be slain there; and there to see the suitt 
 clean taken out without any bribe, and 
 there weighed and then brought into the 
 stor-house, and from thens delivered by the 
 clerks to the chaundler at dew time or 
 times : and so shall the slaighter-man make 
 the vailles no larger than he ought to do 
 
The Masque at Ludloiv. 
 
 and his horable Lordship and your Ladyship 
 not be defrauded of your owne. 
 
 Your Ladyship’s servant to command 
 (except in name), 
 
 Robin Nameless. 
 
XXII. 
 
 THE COUNTESS OF BRIDGEWATER TO 
 RICHARD EGERTON. 
 
 Cousin Dick, 
 
 Read what’s writ overleaf, and see 
 how your predecessor was befooled. One 
 had need have as many eyes as Argus to 
 spy out all the cheats in an overgrown 
 house. I am not so sure that Master 
 Nameless himself may not heretofore have 
 had a hand in the peculation ; else, how 
 comes he to be so knowing ? I depend 
 much on you, Cousin Dick ; see you requite 
 my reliance. 
 
 Frances Bridgewater. 
 
XXIII. 
 
 THE COUifTESS OF BRIDGEWATER TO 
 MRS. LANFEAR. 
 
 Laxfear, 
 
 I think the young gentleman that 
 the Masque must have meant to make 
 us all water-drinkers — however, that may 
 pass. It will do no harm to warn the 
 children as^ainst winebibbing and glutton- 
 ishness. I have looked through the fair 
 copy Lawes sent me, and find no fault, 
 except prolixity. I hope we may not fall 
 asleep, and vex the children, esj)ecially just 
 after supper. 
 
 You will get the beasts’ heads when we 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 come ; some of them are excellently put out 
 of hand. You must make the best you can 
 of Cuddy; he’s a head higher than Alice, 
 and won’t look the part amiss. There could 
 not be a better Thyrsis than Lawes. ’Tis a 
 pity he cannot take both parts. Mary 
 would like hugely to be Sabrina, if it were 
 not playing second to her younger sister, 
 but she cannot be spared from court ; so 
 Lettice can take the part, having a passable 
 voice ; and it may get her a husband, for 
 her face is her fortune ; but don’t let her 
 step out of her place. My good Lanfear, I 
 write to you as if you were an alter ego. 
 State brings weight ; never wish yourself 
 other than you are. I have promised Ahce 
 the white and silver gown ; doubtless the 
 child will look a very angel in it. For the 
 nymph Sabrina, a pretty habiliment might 
 be copied that was devised for a water 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 n3"mpli in Ben Jonson’s masque, enacted 
 when King James’s eldest son w^as created 
 Prince of Wales. Her head-dress was a 
 murex-shell, ornamented with coral ; a veil 
 of silver gossamer depending therefrom ; a 
 bodice of water-blue silk, branched with 
 silver sea-weed, a half-tunic of silver gauze, 
 brocaded mth gold sea-weed ; and a train of 
 river-blue silk, figured with columns of 
 white lace, sea-weed pattern. I’m afraid if 
 we dress Lettice in these fallalls, we shall 
 turn her head for life. Inferior water- 
 nymphs in satin tunics of palest river-blue, 
 with silver flowers ; their long hair hanging 
 loose in waving curls, crowned with water- 
 lilies. Girls are glad enough to be fantas- 
 tically dressed. 
 
 Fraxces Bridgewater. 
 
XXIV. 
 
 MRS. FYTTOX TO MRS. LAXFEAR. 
 
 Esteemed good Friexd, 
 
 When you acknowledge the buckram 
 suit, sent herewith, prithee let me have 
 news of the state entry, and all thereto 
 belonging. I remember Mr. HaiTy Lawes 
 when he was a chubby-cheeked chorister in 
 Salisbury cathedral, with a pipe as sweet as 
 any lark’s. 
 
 Your assured good friend, 
 
 Henrietta Fyttox. 
 
XXV. 
 
 MKS. LAXFE.\E TO MES. FYTTOX. 
 
 Lvdlow Castle, 
 
 Sept. 30, 1634.* 
 
 My good and dear Friend, 
 
 The entry was very fine. All the 
 county assembled to do it honour, as well 
 as others from distant parts. My Lord Pre- 
 sident, in his collar and mantle, on his 
 managed steed, with velvet housings. My 
 Lad}^ in wondrous good liking, on her white 
 horse, richly caparisoned. She was in 
 purple velvet, fringed and buttoned with 
 
 * The Masque was presented on ;Micliaelmas Night. — 
 ■\Vartou, 120. 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 gold, and a velvet hat laced with gold, and 
 surmounted by three feathers. Six drums 
 and six trumpets at the gate sounded at 
 their approach. Also guns were fired. 
 Four-and-twenty young ladies of the prin- 
 cipality, who afterwards danced in the 
 Masque, with Lady Alice at their head, as 
 fair as May, received them with flowers. 
 The cornets, sackbuts, and drums, could 
 hardly be heard for the huzzas ; and flags 
 were streaming in all quarters. Then the 
 deputy-lieutenant did make a fair speech 
 to my Lord, who made a fair speech in 
 reply. My Lord and Lady, and all the fine 
 company, then alighted, on scarlet cloth laid 
 over the stones ; and a herald made procla- 
 mation ; and two gentlemen-ushers did lead 
 the way into the castle with their rods of 
 office, crying, By your leaves, gentlemen, 
 stand by ! ” My Lord and Lady following 
 
The Masque at Ludloiv. 
 
 after, band in hand, with train-bearers, my 
 Lord Brackly and Mr. Egerton, and tlie 
 goodly bevy of daughters (no finer family 
 can England boast), and money being scat- 
 tered among the people, for whom also 
 casks of ale were set running, and sheep 
 roasted. 
 
 Then we all went to prayers in the chapel, 
 which was full to overflowing ; and then in 
 gTeat order they all went in procession to 
 make the circuit of all the castle, the music 
 still sounding, beginning with the great hall, 
 where supper was being spread, and ending 
 with the kitchen, where cooks in white 
 nightcaps were fuming over the fires, that 
 the company might see the preparations 
 making for the sack-posset, in a vessel 
 nearly as big as Guy of Warwick’s porridge- 
 pot. 
 
 I had had thrust upon me the charge of 
 
The Masque at Lvxllovj. 
 
 Master William Egerton, a most rebellious, ' 
 disobedient young gentleman, aged five, 
 •whom I much regretted his grandmamma 
 had given me in charge ; for he rollicked 
 and rantipoled to that degree that it was 
 misery to look after him ; and he dragged 
 my gown apart at the gathers. 
 
 When the company perambulated the 
 castle, he must needs rush down a dark 
 passage, bawling “ Whoop ! whoop ! ” and I 
 must therefore follow after him, hallooing 
 him to come back, because of a ruinated 
 doorway at the end. He, bouncing through 
 it, went clean down a gap w^here had once 
 been a stair-landing, and so into a water- 
 butt with an awful splash. ’Twas no good 
 to shriek, though I did it, nor could I jump 
 after him, but must needs go round. I 
 tremble to think how it might have gone 
 with the child had he lain there top-side 
 
The Masque at Ludloiu. 
 
 ’totlier-way till I reached him. However, 
 providential to relate, a young man chancing 
 to be in the court and see the babe project 
 himself in that way through the ruined 
 doorway and fall into the butt, pulled him 
 out by the leg, roaring pretty lustily, but 
 more frightened than hurt. I was wetted 
 to the skin by merely taking him in my 
 arms ; however, I carried him off to his bed, 
 after thanking the young man, who was one 
 of the many strangers drawn to Ludlow by 
 the shew. I think I lookt into twenty bed- 
 rooms on my way to the nursery, without 
 finding a woman-servant at her post — all of 
 ’em off duty, scaring about and gaping after 
 the shew, leaving their mistresses’ caskets, 
 trinkets, and maybe money, open to any 
 that had a fancy to help themselves. I was 
 mad with ’em for it, because Master William 
 was no regular charge of mine, only made 
 

 
 
 
 The Masque at Ludloiv. 
 
 75 
 
 over to me to keep out of the Countess’s 
 way ; and I could not leave him till I had 
 pulled off his wet things and laid him in 
 bed, where he insisted on holding my hand 
 till he fell asleep, because the maids had 
 told him Ludlow Castle was full of ghosts. 
 
 Meantime, the window being open, I 
 heard the sounds of far-off merriment, that 
 to a younger woman had been tantalizing 
 enough ; and whenever I tried to draw my 
 finger out of his little hot hand, he would 
 open his eyes wide and say, “ Lanfear I are 
 you there ? Oh ! ” 
 
 Presently, a voice under the window said, 
 in surprise, What, J ack ! you here after 
 all?” 
 
 To which another responded, “Indeed, 
 you lured me hither, but I have done 
 myself wrong, have I not ? ” 
 
 The first rejoined, “How should that be 
 
76 
 
 The Masque at Ludloiv. 
 
 You can have done yourself no wrong that 
 I know of, and for certain you come to do 
 us good ; though so late in the day that no 
 lodging has been assigned for you. I will 
 speak immediately to the chamberlain.” 
 
 Then the other interrupts : “ Trouble not 
 thyself, good Hany, for I come but for a 
 single night, somewhat to the discontent 
 of elder people. Let me but have a 
 corner of thy chamber for this night, and it 
 sufFiceth.” 
 
 “ Right welcome shall you be to it. Jack,” 
 said the first, whose trick of speech I now 
 felt assured I knew. “ But now come along, 
 for I am wanted, and may not tarry. I will 
 just get you a cup of wine, and then carry 
 you to our green-room.” 
 
 “You may spare the wine,” says the 
 other, “ for I never care to drink it ; so let 
 repair to the green-room at once.” ^ 
 
The Masque at Ludlovj. 
 
 All this was spoken rapidly and with 
 jocundity, as between familiars. I loosened 
 my finger from the hold of Master William, 
 who was now fast asleep, and spying from 
 the lattice, saw Master Lawes quitting the 
 court, along Avith the young gentleman 
 who had pulled the child out of the water- 
 butt. 
 
 I now pinned in my gathers, and then 
 rummaged out an idle baggage named 
 Audrey, who, like all the others, had been 
 gadding. Her I well rated, as representing 
 the rest ; then sent her, in spite of the 
 pouts, to sit by Master William till Mrs. 
 Nurse returned. 
 
 After this I posted off at my best speed 
 to the chamber we call the green-room, 
 where all the preparations were made for 
 the Masque that was to be enacted as soon 
 as the supper-tables were withdrawn. 
 
78 
 
 The Masque at Ludloiu. 
 
 Here I found a scene of confusion impos- 
 sible to describe ; people capped with heads 
 of horses, asses, oxen, wolves, wild boars, 
 pigs, and geese, slipped on over their own 
 heads, and amusing themselves by howling, 
 braying, and grunting in character. These 
 were selected from the mixed company, 
 many of ’em persons of quality, who had no 
 regular part set down for them, but were to 
 leap about, and glare through the trees, as 
 the rabble rout of Comus. 
 
 Also the nymph Sabrina, in river-blue 
 silk and silver, with water-lilies in her hair, 
 very fantastical and pretty, with inferior 
 nymphs attending. 
 
 I passed all these to get at my Lady 
 Alice, seated in her magic chair, arrayed in 
 her gown of white silk shot with silver, 
 feeling assured she would eclipse ’em all; 
 but, to my consternation, I perceived her 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 shedding of tears, while Lord Brackly was 
 red with anger, and Mr. Thomas looking full 
 of mischief. 
 
 Cuthbert, habited as Comus, garlanded 
 and smeared with berries, and his eyes 
 set in his head, was absolutely sottish and 
 drunken, he having found his way to the 
 sack-posset, and taken so much of it on 
 pretence of getting up his courage to play 
 his part, that he was now absolutely dis- 
 guised with drinking. 
 
 I heard broken utterances of “ the masque 
 must be given up,” — ‘‘he will disgrace us 
 all,” — “he hath lost all memory of his part;” 
 — and meanwhile an usher, with his “by 
 your leave, gentlemen,” comes from the 
 great hall, to say my Lord and Lady, and all 
 the noble company, are waiting. 
 
 “ Go and tell them, Brackly,” says Lady 
 
 Alice, crying, “the masque is spoilt.” 
 
8o 
 
 The Masque at Luclloiv. 
 
 “ In faith, then, I will not,” says my lord. 
 “ I’ll try first whether I cannot thresh this 
 numskull till I’ve heat the sack out and 
 the sense in.” 
 
 ‘'There’s no sense to beat in,” says Mr. 
 Thomas, turning on his heel. “ What ! is 
 there no one of all this goodly company that 
 will play Comus for us at a pinch ?” 
 
 Oh, they would any or all have been so 
 glad to do it (I believe ’em !) if they had 
 known it in time ! only it was too late now 
 to con the part. 
 
 “ But you shall be prompted aU through,” 
 urges Mr. Thomas, looking from one to an- 
 other, “prompted in an audible voice.” 
 
 But no, not one of ’em was bold enough 
 (and in faith I think they were right) ; they 
 could roar, cackle, bray, as long as you 
 would, but not recite a long part at one 
 
 reading. Meanwhile Cuddy was 
 
The Masque at Lucllovj. 
 
 8i 
 
 to blubber and rub bis head (nay lord 
 having rapped it pretty smartly with the 
 flat of his sword, a real one), and Mr. Lawes, 
 taking him by the arm, pulled him away 
 a little, to where the strange young gen- 
 tleman, whom I shall call Innominato, 
 stood apart, calm, quiet, attent, and frown- 
 ing a little, but most beautiful of aspect, 
 strangely contrasting with the monsters 
 about him. 
 
 “ Recover yourself. Cuddy,” says Mr. 
 Lawes, not unkindly, “for the conjuncture 
 is pressing. All this large company will be 
 disgraced, and the assemblage in the hall 
 disappointed, if you collect not yourself sufii- 
 ciently to repeat your part without blunder. 
 Compose yourself, and try at it once more ; 
 you shall have enow of prompting.” 
 
 Cuddy, after one more ubbaboo, bursts 
 forth in stentorian stutterinsf : — 
 
82 
 
 The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 “Welcome, welcome, Joy and Feast, 
 Welcome — (plague it) Bird and Beast — 
 Midnight shout and Revelry, 
 
 Tipsy rout and . . . 
 
 
 “ 0, murder, murder ! ” cries Innominate, 
 clapping his hands to his ears ; while Cuddy, 
 quite beside himself, begins to prance like 
 a Mohawk in the war-dance, bawling out 
 Hip, hip, hurra,” and then suddenly falling 
 all along on the ground. 
 
 I never saw a creature look more dis- 
 gusted than Lady Alice ; while some openly 
 laughed, and others cried shame. All the 
 while, Mr. Lawes kept plucking his friend’s 
 sleeve, and saying, You know the part — 
 you do it ! ” — and the other, “ Ho, no and 
 putting him off. 
 
 Of a sudden, Mr. Lawes goes up and 
 whispers Lady Alice and Lord Brackly, who 
 start, and look towards the Innominate with 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 curiosity and pleasing awe ; then, after a 
 word or two among themselves, my lord 
 takes Lady Alice by the hand and leads her 
 with gracefullnesse to the stranger, to whom 
 she, once lifting her humid eyes and no 
 more, makes request, in what words I know 
 not, being only near enough to catch the 
 prettiness of the action ; but he, I could see, 
 bent low, yet with the mien of a prince, 
 and said in a rich, most harmonious utter- 
 ance, as if every word had a value and 
 beauty of its own, — 
 
 “Your ladyship’s behest has my obe- 
 dience.” 
 
 And without another word, he picked 
 Cuddy’s ivy- wreath from the ground, set it 
 on his own graceful, redundant locks, and, 
 throwing on a kind of domino which lay at 
 hand, took up the charming-rod, and stood 
 looking calmly around with the austere 
 
14 84 
 
 The Masque at Ludloiu. 
 
 majesty of Prospero rather than the tipsy 
 jollity of Comus. 
 
 An irrepressible smile of triumph shone 
 on Mr. Lawes’s features. I never saw crea- 
 tures look more relieved or grateful than 
 Lady Alice and her brothers. She said : 
 
 “ Sir, I can never forget this goodness. 
 You have nobly come forward to help us in 
 our strait.” 
 
 “ 0, name it not, madam ! ” said he. 
 The only requital I sue for is, that my 
 share in the Masque, and my proper name, 
 may remain unmentioned.” 
 
 “ You may rely on us,” said she, softly. 
 Meanwhile, a whisper ran round, “Who 
 is he ? ” And Mr. Thomas, who loves fun, 
 put it about, “ A duke’s son in disguise 1 ” 
 Mr. Lawes, having now gone on the stage 
 as Thyrsis, was reciting his prologue; and 
 the prompter, now coming in to say Comus 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 35 
 
 would be wauted immediately, Innominato, 
 who had been standing with folded arms in 
 deep reverie, probably recalling his part, 
 which, it appeared, he knew by rote already, 
 instantly went forward and stepped upon 
 the stage ; we crowding every coign of 
 vantage where we might see and hear. 
 
 For my part, I stood on a table behind 
 one of the great screens, and could see about 
 three-fourths of the stage pretty well, over 
 the heads of others; but the audience on 
 the dais I saw not. What a clapping of 
 hands there was when he went on, followed 
 by such a silence, you might have heard a 
 pin drop. 
 
 Nothing could be more charming than 
 his declamation, which yet had a certain 
 measuredness and severity that the theme, 
 me thought, demanded not. However, all 
 were mighty attent, with a kind of strained 
 
The Masque at Ludlovj. 
 
 attention to a very grave exercise of the 
 intellect. 
 
 They relieved themselves by dancing the 
 Measure with due jocundity ; and then all the 
 inferior players fell back among the manufac- 
 tured trees, which were real greens tied on 
 frames, to make way for the lovely Lady. 
 
 I never saw Lady Alice look more sweet ! 
 She had already been listening with con- 
 centrated attention to Innominato’s reci- 
 tation ; and, reaching up to my hand where 
 I stood, squeezed it and whispered, “Now, 
 Goodie, I have full confidence. Nothing 
 can put me out now ! ” I was so glad to 
 hear the dear Child say this ; and to see her 
 go forward with such wonderful and beau- 
 tiful composedness ; articulating every word 
 so distinctly and sweetly as to be heard in 
 every part of the hall. In the echo-song, 
 she outdid herself, though at first her voice 
 
trembled a little ; but I loudly whispered, 
 “Let my Lord President hear the words,” 
 which fixed her thought on him and not on 
 the company. 
 
 Innominato, with his grave, harmonious 
 voice, then resumed; she, with more vi- 
 vacity, replicated ; he, bending his serious 
 regards on her with kindliness, rejoined ; 
 she responded with artless brevity. Thus 
 one, then the other, alternated in graceful 
 question and reply ; she looking full at him 
 with her honest blue eyes, and with an 
 amused smile now and then playing about 
 her honey-sweet lips — he never once laying 
 aside the mien and delivery of a young 
 Sage ; and, when she reached 
 
 “ Shepherd, lead on,” 
 
 conducting her away by the hand amid con- 
 
The Masque at Ludloiu. 
 
 This scene gave the key-note to all that 
 followed. The noble Brothers gave their 
 dialogue with marvellous spirit ; and when 
 Mr. Lawes, who in the rehearsals had been 
 quite the master actor, re-appeared, he 
 seemed in comparison tame ; being in fact 
 only up to his usual level, whereas they 
 had transcended theirs. In young people, 
 stimulated by unwonted applause, this is 
 easily accounted for. 
 
 But then came the touch-stone ; to wit, 
 the scene in Comus’s stately palace, set out 
 with all manner of deliciousness ; which was 
 simply represented by withdrawing the 
 frameworks with greens and discovering the 
 lower end of the hall, hung with scarlet and 
 gilt leather, and having a corner cupboard 
 and sideboard of plate, with a table spread 
 as for feasting. This scene, I knew, would 
 the great test of Lady Alice. As 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 Innominato, we already had a dim per- 
 ception of what was in him, for he had 
 given the tone and colour to the whole 
 piece ; a classic gravity, more consistent 
 with a Greek play than a mumming inter- 
 lude ; but though this would have less 
 savour for the mixed crowd about the doors, 
 there were those on the dais could appre- 
 ciate it. 
 
 My Lady Alice, then, is discovered in the 
 enchanted chair, from which she essays to 
 rise ; but the magician, in dumb show, puts 
 her back, offering her the Cup of Intem- 
 perance, which she refuseth. 
 
 That noble colloquy then ensued, in 
 which I no more seemed to see and hear a 
 girl of thirteen, but a woman ripe in all 
 virtue, eloquence, and wisdom ; for the 
 words put into her mouth seemed by the 
 justice and force of their delivery, her own. 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 As again and again lie tempted her, there 
 was something of passionateness in her 
 utterance of : 
 
 “ ’Twill not, false traitor ! 
 
 ’Twill not restore the truth and honesty 
 
 That thou hast banished from thy tongue with lies ! 
 
 Was this — {looking about her with flashing eyes) 
 
 Was this the cottage and the safe abode 
 
 Thou told’st me of? What grim aspects are these ? 
 
 These ugly-headed monsters ? Mercy guard me ! ” 
 
 She almost shrieked out this ejaculation, 
 and the rest was lost in a murmur of ap- 
 plause. 
 
 Then the deep, earnest voice, with its 
 bitter sarcasm, rejoined, — 
 
 “ 0 foolishness of men ! that lend their ears 
 To those budge doctors of the Stoic school. 
 
 And fetch their precepts from the Cynic tub ! 
 Praising the lean and sallow Abstinence.” 
 
 Never was Intemperance preached in a 
 way so unlikely to win disciples. Lady 
 
Tlie Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 91 
 
 Alice seemed scarce able to hear the sophis- 
 tical argument to an end — again and again 
 essaying to leave her chair^ yet unable ; and 
 then, when she burst in with her withering 
 rebuke, a pause ensued ; and in yet deeper, 
 more soul-subduing accents, he went on 
 with, — 
 
 “ She fables uot ! I feel that I do fear 
 Her words, set off by some supernal power.” 
 
 Suddenly, a clash of swords, and disturb- 
 ance without. The brothers, beautiful as 
 Castor and Pollux, rushed in wuth drawn 
 swords — dashed the cup out of his hand 
 and shivered it to atoms. The rabble rout 
 closed them round and a grand melee en- 
 sued ; but finally they and Comus were 
 driven out. Here was a fine, moving scene. 
 There remained a striking picture. The 
 brothers, lowering their swords, approached 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 tlieir sister — she remained charmed to stone 
 in her chair, her senses all bound up in 
 alabaster ! 
 
 This, though little in the telling, was as 
 effective as anything in the whole piece ; 
 so rarely did Lady Alice personate the cha- 
 racter. 
 
 The attendant Spirit comes im “ Wliat !” 
 cries he, “ have you let the foul Enchanter 
 ’scape ? Oh, you mistook ! you should have 
 snatched his wand, and bound him fast ! ” 
 
 Too late ! The brothers, in grief, seek to 
 know what is to be done. The Spirit tells 
 them there is a certain nymph not far from 
 thence, by name Sabrina, who is goddess of 
 the river Severn, and who has power to 
 reverse the spells of malign enchanters, if 
 duly invoked in song. 
 
 On this, Mr. Lawes gave us a charming 
 cantata, invoking Sabrina to “ rise and heave 
 

 The Masque at Ludlov:. 
 
 93 
 
 her rosy head from her coral-paven bed ; ” 
 and then Sabrina, attended by water- 
 n}Tnphs, did enter in most graceful guise 
 and reverse the spell. And so the Lady is 
 disenchanted, the brothers embrace her, and 
 the Spirit leads them, amid singing and 
 dancing, up to the dais, to present them to 
 my Lord and Lady, vrho embrace them all 
 round, every one pressing upon them with 
 compliments and felicitations. Then, the 
 musicians pla}dng loudly in the gallery, 
 there ensues a general dance. 
 
 But amidst this, my Lady Alice, being 
 wondrously flushed and overwrought, obtains 
 in a whisper, leave of her lady-mother to slip 
 away to her own chamber and go to bed; 
 and the dear Child puts me off from follow- 
 ing her, saving, “Xo, Goody, no — I need to 
 be alone — you must stay for the posset.” 
 Meanwhile my Lord President calls aloud 
 
94 
 
 The Masqvue at Ludloiv. 
 
 for Comus, that he may compliment him 
 handsomely. But Comus, strange to relate, 
 is nowhere to be found, he has vanished 
 into thin air, as an enchanter should. This 
 causes wonder, laughter, and is presently 
 forgotten ; for the sack-posset is being 
 wheeled in, on a huge stand, by ever so 
 many cooks and butlers, with cornets flou- 
 rishing ; and every one is anxious to have a 
 taste. 
 
 Sure, never was so inconsequent a sequel 
 to a Masque preaching Temperance ! The 
 healths began, first in spoons, then in silver 
 cups ; and though the healths were many, 
 and a great variety of names given to them, 
 it was observed after one hour’s hot service 
 that the posset had sunk in the vessel only 
 one inch I So then my Lord called in all 
 the household and hangers on, including 
 many strangers, and they upon their knees 
 
The Masque at Ludlow. 
 
 95 
 
 did drink my Lord President’s health in 
 brimful tankards. This lasted till midnight. 
 
 Oh, what a parody on the Masque ! And 
 there lay Cuddy in his remote turret, dis- 
 graced by drinking a pint of sack, while all 
 these were swilling quarts ! However, his 
 default had procured us the rarest Actor 
 ever seen, so nobody could owe him a 
 grudge. 
 
 My Lady, having made me drink her 
 health and my Lord President’s, and the 
 healths of all the noble family, sent me with 
 a cup of the posset to my Lady Alice, to 
 warm her and do her good. But I was 
 checked, on going in, by seeing the good 
 young creature at her prayers ; and when 
 she rose from her knees and I offered her 
 the drink, she said, 
 
 “ Feel how my hands burn already. 
 Goody ! Pm sure I want no hot drinks. 
 
96 
 
 The Masque at Ludloiu. 
 
 And do you know, the gentleman that 
 played Comus, said aside to me ere he went, 
 ‘Too much acting will be to you the poi- 
 soned cup — shun it, like wine ! ’ — Oh ! how 
 well it went off, after all ! but what a 
 feverish dream it has been ! I don’t think 
 I shall want to act again.” 
 
 Her pretty lip quivered as she spoke, but 
 I feigned not to perceive it ; and, since she 
 protested against even a mortice of wax, 
 I left her, as she desired, in quiet and 
 darkness. 
 
 There was no quiet in any other quarter 
 of the Castle ! Even in the far-off nursery. 
 Master William had been woke up and was 
 roaring. Few men went sober to bed. Oh, 
 what a parody ! — And now, it has all faded 
 away — and 
 
 “ E’eu like the baseless fabric of a vision, 
 Left not a wrack behind.” 
 
IMMEEITUS EEDIVIVUS, 
 
 ^ 2^0tnanesque ; 
 
 SETTING FOETH HOW ENGLAND’S AECH-POET WENT INTO 
 Y® NOETH COUNTEIE ; AND WHAT ENSUED CON- 
 CERNING THE FAIR MISTRESS ROSALIND. 
 
I. 
 
 TO THE WOESHIPFULL, MY VERY SINGULAR 
 GOOD FRIEND, MR. GABRIEL HARVEY, FEL- 
 LO\Y OF TRINITY COLLEGE IN CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Ewebuchts, June ^ 1578. 
 
 Good Mr. Gabriel, 
 
 It is easy to be perceived, by your 
 most courteous and kindlie letter, that dis- 
 tance hath no ill effect upon your friendship : 
 and, that you may be certified how much I 
 am in all things your humble servant, I pro- 
 ceed forthwith to answer every one of your 
 inquiries ; the rather that in this remote 
 and salvage corner of the world, leisure and 
 inclination are no longer, as they have too 
 often been, unnaturally divorced. 
 
 H 2 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 First, for my whereabouts — Truly, me- 
 thinks my father in his forecast for cheap 
 and quiet quarters, where I might study my 
 fill at the lowest charges, needed not to have 
 sent me so nigh unto the extremest verge 
 of civilisation. In this remote and pelting 
 farm-house, on the skirts of a lonely moor, 
 with a deep forest and sundry mountainous 
 bleak hills betwixt it and the nearest town, 
 one might as well wear a sheepskin at once, 
 and browze on all fours. Neighbours there 
 are none ; and, from day-dawn to dusk, when 
 the men are all afield, not a soul is on the 
 premises except myself to defend the women, 
 (who, in regard of looks, are libels on their 
 sex,) from the intrusions of such Turlurus 
 and Jacks-o’-Bedlam as, with roaring voices 
 and sturdy importunities, find their way into 
 even such lone corners as these, to scare the 
 female folk with wild looks and threats, and 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 obtain from their fears what they could not 
 look for from their charity. 
 
 Next, for my kindred. I must confess to 
 you I never did suppose there had been anie 
 of the name of Spenser so rude and un- 
 fashioned as these my poor cousins .- nor 
 that such uninformed minds could claim 
 kindred, not only with your poor Immerito, 
 but e’en with Chloris and Phyllis and sweet 
 Amaryllis, and all the dear Spenserian girls 
 at Althorp. We sit and feed in one huge 
 common hall or kitchen, with the hinds, the 
 only distinction being made by the salt. 
 They have a peculiar Doric of their o’wn, 
 wherein gate stands for goat, sicker. for sure, 
 ken for know, greet for weep, and so forth, 
 ad infinitum, whereby I am but just be- 
 ginning to see my way through the difficul- 
 ties of an unknown dialect. As I sit at the 
 casement, conning Theocritus by the last 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 rays of the setting sun, Wlmr’s Hobby? 
 says one. Hob ’s afield, ansAvers another. 
 A’ must be astir by three o’clock the mor- 
 row’s morn, quoth one, to clout the leg o’ th’ 
 auld ewe that fell headlong into the dyke, 
 unluckie beast, and unjointed baith her 
 banes. . . . Better get Gammer Gaff to 
 
 reede a spell o’er her, says another. . . . 
 
 Spell me nae spells, sayth the first, I mis- 
 doubt they ’re uncanny : — mought her neck 
 but a’ been jointed, a’ trow she ’d a needed 
 nae spell. Gie me the milk, 1 11 e’en feed 
 the cosset-lamb and sae turn in. Anon he 
 comes back with the empty bicker, draws 
 back a sliding pannel, scufiles off his brogues, 
 and in two minutes you hear him snoring. 
 Jenny clears away the remains of our homely 
 supper, consisting of curds, cracknels, ewe- 
 milk cheese, and marvellous weak oaten ale, 
 and brings mine uncle his flapped cloth 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 103 
 
 nightcap, which she ties aneath his chin. 
 He calls on one to sing, another to pipe ; 
 and Cuddy, who bleats like one of his own 
 lambs, commences a border ballad, to which 
 the bagpipe aptly joins the doleful cries of 
 the wounded. One of these rustical rounde- 
 lays hath a burden of Hey ho, holiday,” so 
 much to my fancy, that I have endeavoured 
 to adapt it to less uncouth rhymes, and to 
 indoctrinate therewith the minds of these 
 young dullards : howbeit, after sundrie vain 
 efforts to commit them to memory, they 
 pronounced “ the auld was better.” Mcdgre 
 their verdict, I shall appeal to a higher 
 court, wherein, should it be confirmed by 
 your better judgment, I shall have nought 
 to say in its arrest. And so, with greeting 
 to all friends, I rest, good Mr. Gabriel, 
 your loving 
 
 Immerito 
 
104 
 
 Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 Sta sano ed amami . — Show the roundel 
 to none, unless it be to Master Philip 
 Sidney. 
 
II. 
 
 A thousand sithes I curse that careful hour 
 'Wherein I went the neighb’riug town to see, 
 And eke ten thousand sithes I bless the stour 
 Wherein I saw soe fayr a sight as she. 
 
 Spenser’s Shcpheard ' s Calendar, 
 
 Good Mr Gabeiel*, 
 
 Having patiently awaited your an- 
 swer these three weeks, which period me- 
 thought might reasonably elapse before my 
 looking for it, I could no longer brook sus- 
 pense, and resolved to undertake mine own 
 errand to the next town, where, belike, the 
 precious missive might be lying in negligent 
 and unsafe hands. Taking a stout staff 
 rather for my companion than defence, I 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 footed it across the moor with no worse nor 
 better co-mates than mine own thoughts ; 
 when, o’ suddain, from out a hollow tree, 
 there starts me a creature, half man, half 
 fiend, tricked, salvage-fashion, in leaves and 
 branches, twined over and about the poor 
 tattered rags that appeared aneath his 
 foliage. I do protest he had so much of the 
 faun about him as that I lookt at his feet to 
 see if they were cloven ; but albeit he had a 
 hare-lip, he did not divide the hoof, and his 
 uncouth gibbering betrayed him a hopeless 
 Bedlamite, rather than an evil creature of 
 sylvan or infernal origin. Money he would 
 none ; a few suckets I chanced to have 
 about me were willingly accepted, and after 
 sundry mowings and congees, he sprung 
 away into j" woods like a squirrel. 
 
 This satyr-like apparition so haunted my 
 fancy, that, in the wild wood-paths into 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 which I now struck, I seemed to behold 
 ever and anon contorted forms and grinning 
 visages gleaming amid the gnarred trunks 
 and leafy alleys ; while the occasional vague 
 sounds of unseen life were easily modulated 
 into the whispers of Hamadryades. 
 
 While I was footing it along in a pleasing 
 enough kind of fool’s paradise, revolving 
 thoughts, some of which were idle, some 
 serious, I was aware of a soft stir among the 
 branches ; and presently, with no ungentler 
 w^arning, there issues forth, along a little 
 grass-grown bridle-track, a fair young lady, 
 all in black bedight, mounted on a silver- 
 grey ass ; at whose heels followed a de- 
 formed urchin of some ten or twelve sum- 
 mers, who bare, in lieu of a cudgel, which 
 the light-footed animal seemed not to need, 
 a wallet or fardel almost beyond his might. 
 I had scarce time to ask myself whether 
 
 
io8 
 
 Iimneritus Bedivivus. 
 
 no this were a vision of y® Queen of the 
 Fairies, when y^ fair creature and her at- 
 tendant fleeted past me and soe away 
 among y^ boughs ; leaving me agape like a 
 clown at what should rather have trans- 
 formed a clown into a worshipper of the 
 ideal. I know not of a certainty, Master 
 Gabriel, how long I may have stood or 
 strayed in this amazed fashion, when a few 
 pattering drops proved y^ precursors of a 
 most violent rain-storm, which presently 
 drove me into the thickest covert I could 
 find. Now, had I, like the manikin in the 
 Christmas tale, strewed my path with 
 crumbs, I might with some certainty have 
 retraced it. ’Stead of which, when the rain 
 bated, I found so many foottracks tending 
 hither and thither, that if the path to 
 heaven were equallie difficult to make out, 
 methinketh there be few would attain unto 
 
Im'meritus Redivivus. 
 
 109 
 
 Eternal Life. My judgment being thus de- 
 faulted, I was special glad to behold a girl 
 with a pitcher on her shoulder, wending 
 through the wood. I made towards her 
 with speed ; but, alack, the rude damsel no 
 sooner caught sight of me than she took to 
 her heels as though her life lay on the 
 wager, I following ; nor ever stopt till she 
 reached the door of a poor wattled cabin 
 propped up atween a couple of old oaks that 
 inclined their arms towards each other like 
 Baucis and Philemon. Herein she entered, 
 all panting, and set the door against me ; 
 nor should I have been likely to make good 
 mine entrance but for the sudden re-appear- 
 ance of my Queen 0’ the Fairies, who, light- 
 ing from her ass, which of itself forth^^dth 
 trotted under cover, added her voice to the 
 light tap which, methiuketh, would scarce of 
 itself have unclosed that inhospitable portal. 
 
no 
 
 Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 and thereat obtained prompt admission ; I 
 following, neither let nor hindered. Now, 
 withinside of this crazy tenement, by the 
 glooming light of a drowsy fire, there sate 
 an old crone, nigh doubled in two with age, 
 stone-blind, and little short of stone-deaf, a 
 mumbling o’er a wooden rosary, the which, 
 it escaped me not, her daughter whipt from 
 her hands and hid away among a parcel of 
 old rags, while y*^ young fair lady was busied 
 a drawing forth a loaf from the poke borne 
 by the hunch-backed urchin. Quoth she, 
 since thou, goody, canst no longer spare 
 Gillian to fetch thy dole, lo, I have brought 
 it to thee . . . praise God, not me, for 
 
 what thou hast, and let me have an old 
 woman’s blessing. 
 
 After some farther parley, she cast to- 
 wards me a look of inquiring wonderment ; 
 whereon I professed my business to be none 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 Ill 
 
 other than to ask my way and await the 
 overblowing of the storm. Since that is all, 
 quoth she, methinks, we shall now both find 
 that the rain hath stayed ; and, concerning 
 your path, which I know not how you can 
 well have missed, you have but to follow on 
 my track some hundred paces and it will lie 
 plainly before you. To guide the blind and 
 set travellers on their way, my father was 
 wont to reckon among the acts of mercy. 
 
 Quoth I, if it may please you, gentle 
 mistress, I would fain see you through 
 the wood without immediate hurrying on 
 mine own errand, for there is one in the 
 forest who, perhaps, may waken fear in the 
 young and tender. She looked at me in 
 pretty wonder, and made answer, I have 
 known every dell and dingle from childhood, 
 and never had reason to fear. ... At 
 what would you scare me ? . . . There 
 
12 
 
 Imonevitus Itedivivus. 
 
 is a wild man in the woods, quoth I, who 
 lapt forth hut now from a hollow tree. 
 
 . . . She laught, and lightly replied, Do 
 
 you mean my foster-brother, poor Lime- 
 blossom ? he is neither elf nor warlock, but 
 a poor harmless lunatick, that loves me well, 
 and oft brinofs me his little offerinofs of dew- 
 berries, cloud-berries, and birds’ eggs, and 
 posies of dog-roses and dame violets. I left 
 him a loaf in his nest but now. There is no 
 harm in him, sir . . . his hollow roof 
 
 rendereth him unintelligible of speech, and 
 the heat of his brain prevents his sleeping 
 save i’ the open air ; but the poor afflicted 
 creature sayeth his prayers after a fashion, 
 and never raised his hand against anything 
 bigger than a weasel. 
 
 So saying, she layd her hand on the 
 silver-grey ass, saying Stand still, thou gad- 
 g, and sprang lightly into her seat, when. 
 
Immeritus Reclivivus. 
 
 113 
 
 at the mere shaking of her white rein, it 
 commenced a quick amble which required 
 my brisk walking to keep up with. 
 
 Sure, madam, quoth I, determined not to 
 let the conversation drop, the hovel we have 
 just left might all to pass for the stronghold 
 of Superstition and Ignorance. ... Of 
 helpless Eld and Penury say, rather, if you 
 needs must personify, quoth she. The girl 
 
 is an epilepticke, and ’twas well you frighted 
 her not into one of her fits. I am oblmed, 
 ever and anon, w'hen I see them coming, to 
 take her by the arm and shake her well. 
 The old crone, her mother, was born before 
 the blessed advent of Truth amongst us, and 
 I know of no other way to show her times 
 are mended than to supply her temporal 
 wants, for, alack, the avenues to her inner 
 being are weU nigh closed. Methinks, 
 )th I, your appearance in their cell 
 
H 
 
 Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 seem like the coming of Tmth and Light 
 unto them. Nay, quoth she, the old dame 
 holds quite otherwise, and esteems me as 
 benighted and heteroclite as the times. In 
 her opinion, the old were better. 
 
 And, in some sort, were they not ? quoth 
 I. How mean you ? quoth she. Soe then, 
 to show off my learning, and enjoy a free 
 gallop on my hobby, I must needs read her 
 a lecture on times and seasons since the 
 world began, commencing at the golden age, 
 with all that poets and sages have said and 
 sung of the reign of Astrsea. She heark- 
 ened unto me at first with her pretty eye- 
 brows slightly raised, and her rosy lips, half 
 parted, yielded ever and anon unto a smile ; 
 but, as I went on extolling the Egyptians, 
 Greeks, and Romans, beyond all the people 
 that existed before or since, her brow 
 clouded more and more, she was once 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 twice about to interrupt me, but each time 
 checked herself until I had run myself out 
 o’ breath ; when, having made quite sure I 
 had sayd my say, she opened her lips and 
 with sweet austerity replied — 
 
 The wisdom of man is foolishness with 
 God. Where mil you find your vaunted 
 age of virtue, whenas the only book that 
 never lieth tells us that sin entered the 
 world with the very first pair, and fratricide 
 with the second ? while, in the days of the 
 sixth from Adam, the general corruption 
 had become so great that the thoughts of 
 men’s hearts were only of evil continually. 
 Do you say, then, you find it in the age 
 immediately succeeding the flood, when the 
 world was young and fresh baptized, and the 
 arch of hope first spanned the sky ? . . . 
 
 or among the dwellers in the sacred land ? 
 or in wiser Egypt ? Alas ! you are still 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 seek ; and as for your Greek fables of 
 Astraea, Bacchus, and Hercules, we know 
 too well of them that framed them, that, 
 professing themselves wise they were as 
 fools, and glorified not God, neither were 
 thankful. As to the calculations of your 
 Ptolemy, and your fears that the sun, who 
 hath so far strayed to y^ south since the 
 learned Egyptian took his height, may yet 
 fall off so as that we may at length lose 
 his light altogether, I trust, for all that, 
 to be lighted by him at grey dawn and 
 throughout the livelong day as long as I 
 breathe ; remembering the promise of Him 
 who made the sun stand still, that, while 
 the world endure th, night and day, seed- 
 time and harvest shall not fail. And now, 
 sir, there lies your path : fare you well. 
 
 In sooth, having now reached the border 
 the wood, we came upon the wide bleak 
 
Imineritus Redivivus. 
 
 moor, with a cart-road running straight 
 across, on and on, and ever on, as it would 
 seem to an illimitable distance : and I lift 
 up mine eyes and beheld a file of pack- 
 horses laden with their stuff, wearily pur- 
 suing this road a good way in advance, with 
 a man beside them, bending forward against 
 the wind, and holding on his slouched hat. 
 He was making for the town of which I 
 was in quest ; and when I turned about to 
 thank my guide so charming, she had won 
 away among the brakes without so much as 
 a rustle. 
 
 At nightfall, I questioned all and sundry 
 concerning her, but could get no answer 
 beyond, I dinna ken. Of the salvage man, 
 more news was to be had, albeit vague and 
 contradictory. One held him harmless ; 
 another vouched him for malign. They 
 called him not Limeblossom, but Lob 
 
i8 
 
 Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 i’-tii’-sun ; because that Colin, seeking a 
 strayed lamb, had once stumbled on him 
 in a parcel of dried leaves, among which 
 nought of him was to be descried but a pair 
 of great brown eyes, the very reflexes of 
 lazy enjoyment. And, on Colin’s making 
 him comprehend his loss, the salvage man 
 did bestir himself without a word, to help 
 him in his quest, and did, in fact, shortly 
 appear with the weary lamb on his shoul- 
 ders, cast about his neck like a necklace. 
 Cuddy, on t’other hand, deponed to having 
 come unawares upon his lair while nutting 
 in the wood ; and, whilst examining with 
 curiosity its intertexture of wool, mosses, 
 and rushes, and its hoard of berries, apples, 
 and dry crusts, the Sylvan flew upon him 
 from behind, lapt on him like a panther, 
 and so fought him about the eyes as that he 
 was glad to make a hasty retreat, and took 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 I 
 
 good heed never to go nigh the hollow 
 tree thenceforward. Howbeit, he admits he 
 might have been harder hit. 
 
 Multum vale . — Commend me to E. K., 
 and to that other esteemed person you wot 
 of. I enclose a few more ragged rhymings, 
 the fruit of much leisure and a vagrant 
 fancy, which I, strangely enow, submit to 
 the umpire whose condemnation is most 
 feared by his undeserving friend. 
 
 Never more truly y^ 
 
 Immerito. 
 
III. 
 
 Dear Mr. Gabriel, 
 
 I hold myself the humble debtor of 
 the worshippful Master P. Sidney for his 
 exprest opinion of my poor versing : in 
 special, for his saying that it seemed to him 
 as though Tityrus had left his reed-pipe 
 beside some sylvan fountain among tufts of 
 asphodel and wild hyacinth, where, after 
 lying long unknempt, it had at length been 
 found by the only hand that could master 
 its stops. 
 
 This praise is, I know, far beyond my 
 desert ; nathelesse, as prophesies sometimes 
 fulfil themselves, so the commendation 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 12 
 
 the masters of our craft oft inciteth to a 
 self-emulation and heavenly daring, which 
 lead to success that our efforts had else 
 ne’er attained. 
 
 Touching his considerable objection to 
 the union of Scottish dialect with Arcadian 
 manners, I may answer that my dialect is 
 not Scottish, nor even wholly North Coun- 
 trie, any more than my Colin and Cuddy 
 are the Colin and Cuddy of Ewebuchts 
 farm. I do opine, that, after all writ and 
 said by master-spirits aforetime, the mate- 
 rials that still lie about us on every side are 
 so infinitely various, as that a man who 
 hath a turn for any one branch, say pas- 
 torals for instance, may copy neither Virgil 
 nor Theocritus, and yet make up a rural 
 world of his own, as complete in its several 
 parts as the Arcadian ; something which 
 never hath been nor shall be, but so con 
 
122 
 
 Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 sistent and lively in itself that all shall 
 admit it well might have been. 
 
 Now if, having achieved this much and 
 othermuch, our poet doth furthermore of his 
 ovm caprice and vdlding will find his plea- 
 sure in here and there displaying a certain 
 sleight of hand and masterful cunning in 
 
 translating, rendering, or imitating, here 
 such a line, there such a passage, from such 
 a favourite predecessor, ’tis no plagiary, 
 much less thievery, but an allowed license 
 granted and made use of through all time, 
 that is to say, very likely from the days 
 of the second or third that ever wTote 
 at all. 
 
 Now, with respect unto obsolete words, 
 dra^vn, for example, from old Dan Geotfrey’s 
 pure well-head of poesy, Mr. Sidney knoweth 
 that Tully says ho^v an ancient, solempne 
 word doth oftentimes make the style seem 
 
Immeritus Bedivivus. 
 
 I 
 
 grave, and, as ’twere, reverent, like as be 
 the grey hairs of old age, for which we 
 instinctively feel a kind of religious regard. 
 
 This much in defence of mine Aegino- 
 mon Logi . . . my Goatherds’ Tales, 
 
 wherein, if I now and then take a word by 
 the nape of the neck and bend it to the 
 shape I list, or cap its head, or cli]3 its feet, 
 or dress it alia Francesa or all’ Italiana, 
 what matter or what marvel, considerinof 
 that I have high authority for the same ? 
 These words be our bricks, which we 
 builders clip and fit to our purpose ; which 
 is, by whatever w^anton heed we will, to fill 
 and surprise the mind with a pleasing ten- 
 derness and concern, and lead it whither we 
 list, as a strong man armed leadeth his 
 captive. 
 
 Herewith I send you an Hlclogme in part 
 imitated from the second Idyl of Bion 
 
m *24 
 
 Immeritus Reclivivus. 
 
 . . . I know beforehand what you will 
 
 say of my overivent and forthy. Indeed, 
 simple is the matter, and the manner rude 
 and rusticall, yet carrieth some delight ; 
 e’en the rather because of the rudeness and 
 rusticity it affects. 
 
 — No, there is no lack of unbroken 
 ground. The Ptolemaic theory forbade not 
 the squaring of a new system by Copernico : 
 the discovery of America, with its new 
 people, nations, and languages, hints to us 
 how much may remain to explore. There 
 be people, I have heard say, in Africa, do 
 drink living blood and pave their courts 
 with skulls : another race, someways in 
 Asia, live wholly upon fish, and build their 
 houses of the bones. On Martin Belem’s 
 chart are mapped certain temtories with 
 the warning annexed that Syi'ens sing along 
 those coasts. The early Spanish navigators 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 125 
 
 were told by the Indians of an island 
 peopled by beautiful women, that floated 
 away whensoever it was approached. Some 
 depone to having seen mermen and mer- 
 maids. There is no certainty that rational 
 as well as irrational tribes may not be so 
 constituted as to live under water. There 
 is certainly, ’tis said, a nation of Pygmies, 
 and also of Amazons. Who knoweth but in 
 some northern latitudes, where monstrous 
 whales, dragons, and porcpisces do inhabit, 
 there may be, within the recesses of those 
 frozen caves, a race of Titanic giants ? The 
 region of unhouseled spirits may lie, for 
 aught we know, somewhere about the centre 
 or at the poles. Who can image the un- 
 heard-of metals that may be lying undis- 
 turbed in their mines ? What gems, unlike 
 to chrysolite, onyx, opal, chalcedony, sar- 
 donyx or chrysoprasus ? what lively £ 
 
 I 
 
126 
 
 Immeritus Redlvivus. 
 
 powerful medicines ? what subtile poisons ? 
 Time would fail me to consider what undis- 
 covered regions may lie in the southern 
 seas ; some, maybe, higher in polity and 
 antiquity than our own ; others, unnurtured 
 and undreaming of any humane population 
 beyond their own little world. Enow hath 
 been said to suggest that much remaineth 
 to plant our standard upon, even in this 
 material universe ; how much more then, 
 by parity of reasoning, in y^ universe of 
 thought ! 
 
 Commend me heartily unto E. K., but 
 pray him of his kindnesse to urge my father 
 no more touching my recall home. I am 
 well satisfied to be hereaway at this present ; 
 the silence of the place being provocative of 
 thought and favourable to study. I have 
 learned, whatever fare is set upon the board, 
 therewith to be content, and have sundry 
 
LnmerUus Redivivus. 
 
 matters in hand I would fain carry on 
 where I am, and so I remain, good and dear 
 Mr. Gabriel, your loving 
 
 IMjSIERITO. 
 
IV. 
 
 October 20 . 
 
 Good Me. Gabriel, 
 
 You bid me send you another pic- 
 ture-letter, and keep my critiques and cogi- 
 tations for Christmas. To say sooth, Master 
 Gabriel, I am ill disposed to paint or write 
 pictures at this present, more by token I am 
 not over-well pleased at the currency my 
 former epistle of that sort obtained, albeit 
 the hands into which it passed were of the 
 highest honour. There be confidences, me- 
 thinketh, which friends should not betray, 
 even to other and esteemed friends ; and it 
 diminishes the ease and familiarity with 
 which a man communicateth the fresh 
 
Immeritus 'Redivivus. 
 
 risings of his thoughts to the fidus Achates 
 of his bosom, when he apprehendeth they 
 will be coolly handled and turned over by 
 an indifferent spirit, of however high a 
 quality. Thus much premised, I will not 
 by another word hurt you as you have, in 
 truth, hui-t me, but will at once proceed to 
 fulfil your behest to my utmost power ; the 
 more so that of late my unquiet spirit has 
 had some need of a gentle mind whereon to 
 rest. 
 
 Of Jack-i’-the-Green, as you call him, I 
 saw absolutely nothing for many weeks 
 after our first encounter ; and it might have 
 been well for me had we ne’er crost each 
 other’s path again. Of my fairy princess I 
 saw no more than of the wild man, though 
 I promise you ’twas not for want of asking. 
 But there is an indescribable doltishness in 
 the people of these parts, which prevents 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 Immeritu^ Redivivus. 
 
 their either knowing or caring to know 
 aught beyond the merest concerns of tlieir 
 lives and livelihoods. So I buried myself 
 among my books, and, for recreation, formed 
 for myself a kind of dream-land, peopled 
 with I know not what eccentric inhabitants, 
 which day by day, or rather, eve by eve, 
 became less and less obscured by the con- 
 fused mass of vapours in which they were at 
 first enfolded ; until, at length, they took 
 a semblance which will perchance, soon or 
 late, present itself to you in a somewhat 
 unlooked-for guise. Meantime, the sun had 
 silently pursued his path from Cancer to 
 Yii'go, and was beginning to make himself 
 hotly felt, even in this northern district, 
 where primroses unfold themselves about 
 the same tinie as your roses ; and so it came 
 to pass, on a certain day, that having 
 wearied myself with o’ermuch study, I set 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 131 
 
 my face woodwards, with Chaucer instead of 
 a cudgel for my companion, intending to 
 find sweet solace in him when I became 
 weary of mine own thoughts. Howbeit, 
 there was so much without to divert from 
 care within, that I had no need of my book. 
 Firstly, there was the fresh, pure air, far 
 keener and more invigorating here at all 
 times than in Kent : next the endless sha- 
 dows fleeting over the grass ; then the gay 
 carolling of the lark, and the hoarse croak 
 of the crow, spying out some poor dead 
 lamb the shepherd hath long hunted for in 
 vain. And anon the deep glooming shade 
 of the greenwood, where the squirrels lapt 
 from bough to bough, or sate percht securely 
 at their barky doors far aloft. Here was a 
 writhen trunk, minding me of old Laocoon, 
 struggling with the serpent : there, an invo- 
 luted mass that grouped like Olindo and 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 Sophronia bound to the stake. And once 
 and again the tap of the woodpecker’s beak 
 against some hollow beech, and the rush of 
 a j^heasant through the brake : add to 
 which, when I had gotten some way into 
 the wood, and a good deal farther into my 
 own dream-land, I Avas aAvare of some mys- 
 terious call among the hedges, of what bird 
 or animal I knoAv not. And, about that 
 time, I found my feet entangled in I cannot 
 say what kind of hidden net or mesh, which 
 made me stumble and plunge hither and 
 thither, whereon, wdth a sudden growl from 
 out the brake lapt forth the Salvage Man, 
 who flung a stone that hit my left temple, 
 and made me stagger ; and or ever I could 
 right myself, the hairy Philistine was upon 
 me from behind with his whole weight upon 
 my shoulders, beating me about the eyes 
 and ears. I would have given Chaucer that 
 
minute for my cudgel and freedom of its 
 use, but could not find it in me to use my 
 dagger on the poor lunatick ; add to which, 
 he had pinioned mine arms to my sides, and 
 the blood from my cut temple nigh blinded 
 me. We were struggling on, pretty silently, 
 for, beyond his first outcry, the twain of us 
 uttered never a word, but were far too 
 earnest in our duello, when, by the blessing 
 of heaven, I heard voices composedly talking 
 no great way off, and presently a lad brake 
 through the boughs, followed by his mis- 
 tress, no other than my Fairy Queen. I 
 heard cries of surprise, and felt mine op- 
 pressor’s hold relax, while my gentle ally in 
 tones somewhat savouring of authority, ex- 
 claimed, “What, Limeblossom, is it thus I 
 find thee ? What are you about ? Fie, fie, 
 upon thee, to let me see thou canst maltreat 
 a stranger, when I have come all the way 
 
Immeri tus lied Iv i vu s. 
 
 from the glen this bright morning to be- 
 speak of thee a pair of rushen slippers, 
 quilted with thistle-down and trimmed with 
 lords-and-ladies. Shame on you, how came 
 you to fly upon him thus V’ 
 
 In reply to this undaunted query, the 
 great hairy lubbard, instead of bursting 
 forth into a roaring rejoinder, did commence 
 a low, murmuring mutter, that for its in- 
 articulateness, and I know not what of 
 l^laintive strangeness, had such a touching 
 cadence in it as I never in my life heard 
 anything to equal in its searching of the 
 heart. What he meant or she made out 
 was quite beyond my power of divination ; 
 but ’twas plain they understood each other, 
 and at her very first word he had releast me 
 from his unfriendly embrace ; leaving me to 
 smear my face, I doubt not, in mine efforts 
 clear mine obscured vision and stanch 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 135 
 
 the wound. There we stood, all three on 
 the green sward, agaze at one another, as 
 judge, plaintiff, and defendant; and the first 
 syllable that broke from my lips, were, with 
 somewhat surly aggrievement, “ Indeed I 
 am not so bulky as Goliath, but yet bigger 
 than a weasel !” 
 
 She could not refrain from a smile. 
 '' May you not, sir,” quoth she, be more 
 frightened than hurt ? Let me see this 
 deadly wound ; Limeblossom shall fetch us 
 some heal-all and wound-wort from his nest, 
 where I warrant he hath store. Nay, but 
 Tis deeper than I thought ; I must press the 
 sides together : I do not hurt you, do I ? ” 
 Not much,” I briskly replied, though it 
 smarted like sin. “ Come, Tis worse than I 
 wotted of,” quoth she, and, if clumsily 
 strapt up, may spoil your looks for a good 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 your face; so you had better come home 
 with me to my mother, and she will put it 
 out of hand in a professional fashion. . . . 
 I warrant you have heard of the Wise Lady 
 of the Glen ? She who hath the key of 
 the Holy Well.” ‘‘Not exactly,” quoth I. 
 “That’s to say, not at all,” rejoined she, 
 laughing. . . . “ See what fame is 1 it 
 
 cannot travel across a five -mile moor ! 
 However, she is known far and near on 
 this side the wood, and I will tell you more 
 of her cures as we go along. So now, press 
 your finger on the vein, thus, and ’twill not 
 bleed more than will do you good. See, 
 how sorry poor Limeblossom looks ! forgive 
 him before you go. You had broken his 
 snares, and spoilt his chance of a dinner. 
 Hist, Limeblossom ! kiss his hand, and bear 
 in mind my commission of the slippers. 
 See, here is my measure.” 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 I 
 
 And setting her pretty foot on y^ moist 
 clay, she left thereon its print, which the 
 salvage, falling on his knees, was about, 
 methought, to kiss, but he only fell to 
 taking the len^h and breadth of it with a 
 piece of rush, which we left him measuring 
 with much earnestness. She shook her 
 bridle, and turned into the wood, I following 
 close at the near-side. “ Poor wretch,” 
 quoth she, laughing, I have changed his 
 current of thought . . . nonsense goes 
 
 farther than sense with fools and madmen. 
 ’Twas lucky, sir, for you, I chanced this way 
 . . . I never knew him vicious before. 
 
 How long had you been fighting, and how^ 
 fell you out ?” 
 
 When I had told her, she fell into a muse, 
 which I presently ended by sa3ung, I feared 
 her lady-mother would be offended at y® 
 advent of a stranger. Not at all,” replied 
 
Immeritus Rediviviis. 
 
 she, rousing up, “she hath heard of you 
 already as the gentleman who talked of 
 Ptolemy in the wood” — laughing, as she 
 spoke, with a kind of innocent raillery, 
 wherewith ’twas impossible to be offended, 
 and yet which hindered me not from feeling 
 a little foolish. “ My mother,” resumed she, 
 “ is all kindness ; she would sleep the worse 
 o’ nights, were her rosary of good deeds not 
 made up.” . . . “ You said she had the 
 
 key of a Holy Well,” quoth I. “ Oh yes,” 
 quoth she, “of a well, that is, which, from 
 time immemorial hath had the reputation of 
 holy. ’Tis famous spring- water at any rate. 
 And ’tis hard by the Church in the Wood, 
 where, at all events, a holy Anchorite once 
 lived ; and people still resort to it from time 
 to time for the cure of sore eyes, sprains, 
 cramps, evil dreams, the bite of a mad dog, 
 rheumaticques, noises in the head, warts. 
 

 Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 whitlows, and suchlike ailments. Howbeit, 
 my mother alwa}^s gives them somewhat to 
 fit them, as she sayeth, to do the holy water 
 justice ; but it gets the credit of her cures 
 for all that.” . . . She does cure, then,” 
 
 quoth I. . . . “ I warrant you she doth,” 
 
 quoth she. “ Indeed, of the only two cases 
 of dog-bitten persons we have had, it turned 
 out that the dogs were not mad, but that 
 was no fault of the well. And the con- 
 sumptive patients always get a drink of new 
 milk ; and the weak-eyed have a dose of 
 medicine and a penny to get their hair cut, 
 and they that have warts are made to rub 
 them with elder-juice. As to witches and 
 ghosts, we hear of none such any longer 
 among us, for they who were infested by 
 them had their heads cleared of their dis- 
 I tempered humours by a syrup of my father’s 
 that never fails of effect.” . . . “ Your 
 
father practises medicine, too, then, madam,” 
 I said. '' He did, while he lived,” she sadly 
 replied ; “ we lost him two years agone. 
 He was a skilful physician, who had no lack 
 of reputation, even in foreign parts ; but a 
 wearying malady and a spice of contempt 
 for the ill-humours of a court life, made him 
 shut himself up in this glen.” . 
 
 “ Hay, but why,” quoth I, should one who, 
 I question not, was erudite and ingenious, 
 deem amiss of courts, wherein the brave and 
 good and witty soe oft herd together and 
 find their meet level?” “You must answer 
 your own question,” replied she, smiling, 
 “ since I never was at court myself . . . 
 
 what good have you ever found there?” 
 “Foremost,” quoth I, “there is that sove- 
 reign grace of courtesy, which is plainly 
 derivative from no other than court-usd — 
 the usage of courts.” “ Aye,” quoth she 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 “my father was wont to commend their 
 manners more than their morals ; hut he 
 called it a deceitful gloss laid over a worth- 
 less substance. Doth any true love for 
 one’s neighbour flourish there, think you ?” 
 “ As for love,” quoth I, “ sure that must 
 needs abound there plenteously, for all the 
 walls and windows of every ante-chamber 
 are scrawled with nothing else than love 
 and love and love, and love me dear ! and 
 as for friendship, till you ask a man for 
 something you really want, you would never 
 guess a lack of it.” She smiled and said, 
 “ I see your estimate and my father’s 
 amount to much the same thing. As for 
 courtesy, I hope our country manners are 
 not so bad but that we can express kind 
 feelings in kind words, if not in fine ones. 
 And, save for fine words and fine clothes. 
 
 I imagine we clowns have the best of it. 
 
. . . “ The court ladies would, however,” 
 
 quoth I, “ find a remote life intolerably 
 dull.” “ Very likely,” returned she with in- 
 difference, ‘'albeit I never have a moment 
 that hangs heavy on my hands, nor a day 
 without its prevised allotments of business 
 and pleasure. As thus : o’ Mondays, to 
 work for the ragged ; Tuesdays, feed the 
 hungry ; Wednesdays, pray with the dying ; 
 Thursdays, teach the ignorant ; Fridays, fast 
 for the unconverted ; Saturdays, distil medi- 
 cines ’gainst winter ; and Sundays, praise 
 God.” 
 
 “ But how if the snow be on the ground, 
 on winter days ?” quoth I. “ Well,” quoth 
 she, “my good father hath left us store of 
 books in five or six different tongues, the 
 most crabbed of which I can make out more 
 or less, with my mother’s assistance.” “ She 
 must needs,” quoth I, “ be a lady of singular 
 
conditions. . . . from what I can gather, 
 
 a rare composition of most excellent gifts.” 
 She looked at me doubtfullie for a mo- 
 ment, and then replied, “ We shonld not 
 praise onrselves, and it seemeth to me 
 almost like self-praise to praise her, we are 
 so knit up together, yet, God knows I owe 
 all to her, and she nothing to me . . . 
 
 belike, I have spoken too much already to a 
 stranger.” 
 
 I was ready to tell her she had not 
 spoken half enough ; but did not. So we 
 went on awhile quietly, until she of herself 
 resumed, as ’twas likely a woman would. 
 Quoth she, I have now met you, sir, these 
 two times, and served you a little each time, 
 yet know not how you are styled, nor 
 whence you come . . . are you sojourn- 
 
 ing in these parts V’ 
 
 I made answer, “ I am a poor Cambridge 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 scholar, come thus far from home for health 
 and quiet study beneath the roof of some 
 rustic cousins. My father, who is separated 
 as far from his kindred as Abraham was 
 from his cousins in Mesopotamia, hath sent 
 me afield as Jacob sent Joseph, to seek out 
 my brethren and ask them how they do.” 
 
 In a kind of bantering tone, she pursued. 
 And what may your kinsmen call you 
 I answered i’ the same vein, “ At their 
 wittiest, the Colledge Bookworm, and at 
 their civiUest, Cousin Ned.” 
 
 “ And what may their servants call you ?” 
 continued she. “ Their servants,” quoth I, 
 “ call me Maister Edmund.” “ But what,” 
 she persisted, “do you call yourself?” 
 “ Why, madam,” said I, laughing, “ I call 
 myself your faithful Immerito.” 
 
 “Well, Signor Immerito,” quoth she, a 
 little impatiently, “ I see you know how 
 

 ImmeritiLs Red i vivus. 
 
 keep a secret, and wish it noav be worth 
 your care. TTe country folks are commonly 
 not ashamed of our names.” “ Xor am I,” 
 quoth I, “for mine is Edmund Spenser, a 
 name weU known in Lancashire and Xorth- 
 amptonshire, and some parts of Kent.” 
 . . . “ V ery likely his known to my 
 
 mother,” quoth she, “ for she is of kin to the 
 Dry dens of Xorthamptonshire ; and we may 
 soon ask her, for there she is.” 
 
 And suddenly, amidst o’ the wood, we 
 found ourselves at a high, ornamented iron 
 gate,- through which we looked out of the 
 deep green shade into a garden all aflare in 
 the sunshine, laid out in square pai-terres, 
 flaming with pinks, marygolds, Turks’-caps, 
 Aaron’s -rod, bellamours, sunflowers, and 
 pauncies, as gorgeous as y- Hebrew high- 
 priest’s breastplate ; wherein was taking her 
 pastime a lady in a Cyprus stole, who at 
 
 L 
 

 Tmmeri tus Redivivus. 
 
 
 first looked like a blot on this gay picture, 
 and yet was comely and fair to see, with 
 a fan of kingfisher’s feathers in her hand. 
 To her my Bellamie cryed out, “ ^lother, 
 see, I bring you a wounded knight, who is, 
 I wis, not very dangerously mangled ; but 
 Limeblossom hath fallen upon him savagely 
 for breaking his toils, and took him so at 
 unawares that mischief might have ensued, 
 yet he was careful not to hurt the poor 
 insane creature.” 
 
 Quoth the lady, “ He the more deserves 
 my help ; who, Rosalind, is your patient 
 
 “ Master Spenser,” quoth the daughter, 
 “ but see, mother, ho'w he bleeds.” There- 
 with the lady opened the gate, and I was 
 about to make my duteous reverence ; 
 ’stead of which, my head o’ sudden, seeming 
 to spin round, I staggered a few paces and 
 fell at her feet, as prone as Sisera ; and 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 
 when I re-opened mine eyes, ’twas to find 
 myself in a fair, spacious oak-pannelled 
 chamber, with a strong, clownish -looking 
 youth at my side, who doubtless had con- 
 veyed me thither, and my two fair hosts 
 standing by with looks full of concern. 
 Also, there was a strong aroma of some 
 mighty pleasant essence, like unto camphire 
 and cinnamon, and the elder lady did apply 
 to my brow somewhat that made it sting 
 like a nettle, but eftsoons asswaged the 
 pain, while the younger made me drink 
 from a long, narrow, greenish glass I know 
 not what cordial, but ’twas marvellous sweet 
 and fragi’ant. Mine ears still rang with 
 confused murmurs, like as of bees amonof 
 lime-tree blossoms, and wdien I assayed to 
 speak, ys elder lady imposed upon me 
 silence for awhile, saying I had best remain 
 I was for a time, to recover from the 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 effect of my s wound. Thereupon, having 
 with a light hand bandaged my brow, she 
 dismissed the youth, and turned to her 
 tapestry- work, at which her daughter joined 
 her ; both of ’em working at the same piece, 
 with their backs to me, where I lay on y^ 
 settle ; and I marked the youngest con- 
 tinually whispering into her mother’s ear, 
 the circumstantials of our rencounter, I 
 question not, with the air of most entire 
 confidence and assurance of sympathy ; after 
 which they pursued their work in silence. 
 I could not but secretly marvel, to find 
 myself thus domesticated and carefully 
 tended by persons of whom I knew not so 
 much as the names ; and thought there 
 must be something of Providence in it. 
 Questionless, there was something of ro- 
 mance. The likeness and yet distinction 
 
 between mother and daughter was singular 
 
 
Immeritus Rediviviis. 
 
 149 
 
 both were tall, but the mother stooped a 
 little, yet seemingly not from age ; the 
 daughter was as straight as an arrow, and 
 lithe as a corn stalk swaying in the summer 
 air. The mother was fair, but colourless : 
 the tints of the other reminded one of a 
 pearl and a peach. The hair of the elder, 
 of a rich chesnut hue, wavy and thick, was 
 a little streaked with silver : that of y^ 
 younger was some shades darker, long, and 
 smooth parted ; the dirizzitura, as the 
 Italians have it, fine and even as a thread. 
 The one had quick, lively gray eyes, the 
 other’s were of dark blue, with thick lashes ; 
 but about and around the eyes of both 
 were those soft, grayish shadings which 
 give so great an appearance of softness and 
 modesty. Both had marvellous white teeth, 
 but the daughter’s were smaller, and set in 
 the finest convex I ever saw. In short 
 
50 
 
 Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 never were two creatures more rarely gifted 
 by nature ; and the love of the younger for 
 the elder seemed unto me to have some- 
 thing in it passing the love of woman ; for, 
 whereas, the love of a mother for a child is 
 proverbial, that of a daughter for a mother 
 is nowhere quoted in Scripture or the 
 classics as being alike instinctive ; but this 
 young lady kissed her mother’s lips directly 
 they met, albeit they could not have been 
 long parted; and whensoever the mother 
 coughed, which she did slightly from time 
 to time, the daughter’s eyelids almost im- 
 perceptibly quivered, and she seemed to 
 wince secretly. All this, and more, I noted 
 as they sate at their sewing : also, every- 
 thing about the chamber, which was all 
 good and handsome, but not unfit for daily 
 use. Also the books on the shelves, where 
 marked that a mischievous spider had 
 
spun his web across Ariosto, Boccace, and 
 C}Tithio’s Xovelle ; but that Seneca, Epic- 
 tetus, and Marcus Antoninus betrayed fre- 
 quent use ; whence I guessed that I had not 
 lighted on a poetical family. Also two pic- 
 tures on the wall over against me, better 
 painted than common ; one a landskip, 
 with two small figures in it of an angel, 
 rainbow-winged, a-comforting a woman ; but 
 she could not be Hagar, for the vale was 
 like Tempe, with no lack of water. The 
 other was a fair woodland slope by the 
 water-side at sun-set, with a cii'cle of she]> 
 herds and shepherdesses dancing their hey- 
 de-guys on the gTass, to a pipe and tabor, 
 while a young couple, perchance newly 
 married, sate a little above and apart. 
 Xow, while I noted these things, a blue- 
 coated serving man came in and announced 
 
 dinner, and mv benign hostess. 
 
52 
 
 Iinmeritiis Reclivivus. 
 
 about, said, “ Come, sir, you must do us the 
 grace to share our barn-door fowl and cole- 
 wort to-day, after which I trust your faint- 
 ness will have so passed off as to be no 
 farther lett unto you.” 
 
 So w^hat could I do ? I was but too glad 
 to stay ; and yet too dizzy to have the full 
 relish of my privilege ; yet I knew, all the 
 time, I was happy, though I could not feel 
 it. After dinner, the gardener’s lad lent 
 me his guidance through the wood, with 
 whom I discoursed of sundry matters well 
 worth y^ coin I gave him, and I reached 
 home with pleasant thoughts for my com- 
 pany all the way. Howbeit, mine eye was 
 by that time so nigh closed, as to look like 
 a parcel-ripe plum ; so that all I could do 
 that evening and the next was to sit i’ the 
 chimney nook, to the gneat pitying of all 
 the household, who came about me after the 
 
r 
 
 Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 flocks were folded, and assayed their might 
 to amuse me by tale-telling. What tales 
 they were ! . . . not exactly of a cock 
 
 and a bull, but of a kid and a goat, and of a 
 fox and ape that went to see the world, such 
 a world as you and I have yet to see. For 
 mine own part, I repaid them with such a 
 dish of magic and fairy-lore that they were 
 ready to sit up till midnight ; and Hobby, 
 in a kind of enthousiasmos, at length cried 
 out, “ Why, Cuddy, he ’s amaist as good as 
 Colin Clout !” On my asking who this 
 Colin Clout might be, they could only say 
 he was a shepherd-swain, lived and dyed 
 long ago, famous for his piping and poesy, 
 none of which, it would seem, existed 
 among them, even in fragments. Indeed, 
 he appeared to be a kind of myth, a north- 
 countrie Orpheus, who had whilome aimed 
 tame the salvages hereabouts. I have 
 
Immeritus Redwivus. 
 
 ever since been dubbed Colin Clout among 
 ’em ; a piece of wit suited to tlieir capacities. 
 
 When I described to them where and 
 with whom I had been, Cuddy cries, “ AVhy, 
 Hobby, ’tis the widow’s daughter i’ the Glen 
 he ’s been harping about all along. Who ’d 
 a’ thought it, after all his making her out 
 to be fairer and finer than Ruth, Rachael, 
 Rabshekeh, and all y^ rest of them shep- 
 herdesses ?” So little skill and appreciation 
 of what is perfect have uncultivated minds. 
 
 So now farewell, my good Mr. Hervey. I 
 think this tedious tale will prevent your 
 sueing for another picture-letter some while 
 to come. 
 
 Your faithful 
 
 Immerito. 
 
Good Mr. Gabriel, 
 
 ’Tis at your own good pleasure to 
 show, or save y^ showing, of y^ inclosed bald 
 rhymings to your noble friend. Mine own 
 apprehension is, that b}^ overmuch cloying 
 his delicate ear, I may gather a contempt of 
 myself rather than any commendation ; but 
 the relish you and he have already ex- 
 pressed for my sorry attempts, inclines me 
 to annihilate mine own determinations in 
 respect to your better judgment, insofar as 
 my versings are concerned ; for, as re- 
 gardeth m}^ prose communications, they are, 
 as I have aforetime insisted on, for your eye 
 and yours alone. 
 
Imoneritus Redivivus. 
 
 I know not whether to take advantage of 
 your own declaration in my behalf, that ’tis 
 false to imagine the life of shejdierds inca- 
 pable of any refinement, or that their senti- 
 ments may not at times soar above the 
 grassy leas on which batten their flocks. 
 For certayn, our real Hobby and Cuddy 
 know little beyond the names of a few roots 
 and a few stars ; but this, as far as y^ art 
 poetick is concerned, is not of moment. 
 King David, who was called from y^ sheep- 
 folds, was the rarest of poets ; and e’en our 
 dear Lord likened himself unto a shepherd. 
 Howbeit, I begin alreadie to aim at a 
 higher flight than I have yet taken among 
 these poor hinds ; the method of which, as 
 well as some unconnected samples, I shall 
 herewith send you. ’Tis, in fact, a dark 
 conceit, or continuous allegory, wherein I 
 intend to pourtraict in King Arthur, before 
 
Immeritus RedAvivus. 157 
 
 I he was king, the image of a perfect gentille 
 !' knight, illustrated in twelve notable vir- 
 
 I tues ; each of which, it is like, I may exem- 
 
 I pkfy in a separate book, agayne subdivided 
 into cantos. And, in furtherance of this 
 conceit, it Ls my intent to represent Arthur, 
 after the completion of his long education 
 by Timon, as beholding in a vision the 
 I Faery Queen, with whose excellent beauty 
 I enamoured, he, on awakening, resolves to 
 seek her out. Now, this same Queen o’ the 
 I Fairies is no other than Glory in my general 
 1 intention: but in my particular, I jjurpose 
 ,1 shadowing forth our liege Lady Elizabeth. 
 Agayn, Arthur himself is to be the incarna- 
 tion of Magnanimity; and my subordinate 
 knights will each personify a severall virtue. 
 The Faery Queen, you must understand, 
 keeps an annual feast of twelve days’ du- 
 
 ration ; upon which twelve severall da 
 
 ' 
 
58 
 
 Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 twelve severall adventures happen, which 
 are undertaken by twelve severall knights, 
 the first of whom, St. George, otherwise the 
 Red -cross Knight, I herewith commend 
 unto your acquaintance, being self-satisfied 
 he hath at all events more claim to it than 
 have Cuddy and Hobbinol. 
 
 . . . So you would hear farther news 
 
 of my Rosalind. And yet Rosalind is not 
 her true name, neither. And yet, ’tis all 
 you will ever have for it. And yet, if you 
 had the skill, you might spell her right 
 name out of it too. 
 
 I proffer you my most grateful thanks, 
 good Mr. Gabriel, for your so cordial offer 
 to procure a letter from Mr. Eras. Dryden, 
 albeit I desire not y^ same ; firstly, because 
 I must then needs gratify your not unna- 
 tural curiosity concerning ye name of my 
 lady-love, and second, because, in 
 

 Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 sooth, I have no need of a better introduc- 
 tion than hath chanced to rne already, 
 through a certain happiness I have often 
 and now again had, of being taken on trust 
 after short acquaintance ; so that, thanks to 
 the unsuspiciousness and little ceremony of 
 remote parts, I am now as familiar (I fear 
 me !) with my fair one as I am ever like to 
 be. ’Tis an innocent pride of mine, me- 
 thinks, to make mine own friends. No 
 friends are such good ones as those we make 
 for ourselves; and I made you mine for 
 myself — mine own Mr. Hervey ! 
 
 ’Twas a full se’nnight or ever I was fit for 
 any lady to set eyes on, after Limeblossom’s 
 assault. On the Sabbath afternoon, having 
 wandered across y^ moor to the skirts of the 
 greenwood, I heard the tinkling of a bell, 
 which meseemed to denote a call to some 
 forest sanctuary, and therewith struck into 
 
(4 
 
 Immeritiis Redivivus. 
 
 tlie woods, in tlie hope to trace it out. 
 Howbeit, the hell had long ceased, and the 
 service had had time enow to he ended or 
 ever I made my way through the maze. 
 Just as I had given over the search, I all 
 o’ suddain found myself confronting the 
 prettiest little Chiu'ch in the Wilderness 
 that man ever set eyes upon ; lowly as a 
 hermitage, erected on consecrated ground, 
 for here and there were some mossy head- 
 stones of long - forgotten graves peering 
 thorow the turf, but occupying a very small 
 portion of the ground-plan of y^ original 
 structure; amid the which it stood like a 
 lodge in a garden of cucumbers. This little 
 Chapel in the Wood was so smothered in 
 girlonds of wild ivy, that ’twere difficult to 
 say whereof its walls were built ; hut the 
 window-sills and lintels were of rough wood, 
 and in front it had a little Doric portico. 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 pillars whereof were the trunks of unbarked 
 trees. As I came close upon it in the glade, 
 I heard the murmur of female voices within- 
 side, either praying or reading ; and stealing 
 round, towards y^* porch, did find Lime- 
 blossom lying at length right in front of it, 
 so as to bar all ingress save over his long 
 body, and so as to hear every word spoken 
 withinside himself. He eyed me, and I 
 him ; but, despite his shaggy looks, there 
 was some softening influence of time or 
 place upon him, that perhaps rendered him 
 gentler to behold than myself, with my 
 black eye. Having no conceit to disturb 
 his solemnised mood, I turned about, and 
 paused awhile aneath the open casement, 
 through which, to my inexpressible delices, 
 I could hear the voice of Rosalind holding 
 forth some wise like this. 
 
 his 
 
 Blessed are they who keep 
 
 ii. 
 
Immeritus Rediviviis. 
 
 monies, and seek Him with their whole 
 heart.’ . . . Their whole heart, thou 
 
 hearest. Goody. . . . ’Tis no good to 
 
 give Him half an one . . . you or I 
 
 would not accept it, and how should He ? 
 ‘ For they who commit no iniquity, walk 
 in his ways.’ Only they who commit no 
 iniquity ; ... as long as we allow our- 
 
 selves in any known sin, though but picking 
 up a few sticks on a Sunday, Dame Halli- 
 day, we may be sure we are not walking in 
 his ways. And what ways they are ! I am 
 sure, dear Joyce, stone-blind as you are, you 
 have found them ways of pleasantness and 
 peace. ‘ Thou hast charged us that we 
 should diligently keep thy commandment.s.’ 
 Ah, yes, nothing short of diligence will do, 
 and yet how slothful e’en the best of us are ! 
 . . . ' Oh that my ways were so directed 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 I 
 
 our own fault if we will not look at the 
 direction ; he that runs may read it, even if 
 he cannot read anything else. ‘ Then shall 
 I not be confounded, when I have respect 
 unto all thy commandments.’ Here lies 
 the whole pith of the matter : we are con- 
 tinually put to rebuke, or expecting to be 
 so, because we break some one or other 
 of his laws we keep some, but 
 
 not all.” 
 
 Thus much, and othermuch i’ the same 
 vein, did I hear with great reverence for the 
 lady’s godliness and simplicity ; after which 
 I departed as quietly as I came, with 
 thoughts parcel-wove of song and sermon. 
 
 So soon as I was fit to be seen, I bent my 
 steps towards the house in the glen, as well 
 to return thanks for past favours' received, 
 as to inquire for my Chaucer, which I had 
 never set eyes on since the event of my 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 s wound, and which, being a gift of yours, 
 my good Mr. Gabriel, I could not readily 
 part with. I resolved to be brave, and put 
 on my taAvny-coloured doublet, slashed and 
 lined with satin. Cordovan boots, and a hat 
 of the newest block, I would fain have 
 ta’en my love a nosegay, but, in lieu of the 
 roses, lilies, and coronations that cluster in 
 the pleasaunce of Penshurst- place, there 
 is nought in this wi'etched kail -yard but 
 southernwood, borage, and a few poppies, 
 and rosemary bushes. I had a mind to 
 offer Jacquet a tawdry lace for her cosset- 
 lamb, which is as white as a snowball, but 
 doubted whether the lady would accept it 
 at my hands, or thank me for my pains : so 
 resolved to eschew Eastern usages, and j3re- 
 sent myself empty-handed. As I went 
 through the wood, all nature seemed to 
 on me, and bid me good speed ; 
 
Immeritus Reclivivus. 
 
 i6 
 
 thouofh I a^ain marked the contorted trunks 
 Avhich had aforetime minded me of Olindo 
 and Sophroni^, they no longer seemed to 
 bear out the resemblance with equal close- 
 ness, but to writhe themselves away into 
 arabesques, wherein we see forms rational 
 and irrational, lapsing into flourishes and 
 foliage. Arrived at the iron gate, I saw 
 withinside it, seated at her mother’s knee, 
 and with a book on her lap, my lady-loved, 
 not clad in black as afore, but in white that 
 seemed to attract and concentrate on itself, 
 and on her own fair face, the sun’s purest 
 rays ; and whenas she lookt up and saw 
 me through the gate, I saw what Petrarch 
 meant when he wrote of II Lampeggiar dell’ 
 Angelico Riso. “Here is Signor Immerito,” 
 quoth she : and the ahord of the mother 
 was as friendly as that of the daughter. 
 Soon we were all three sitting on a garden 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 seat, bard by a fountain, where we were 
 presently joined by a young lady called 
 Florise, or Fleurice, a friend of Rosalind’s, 
 but not pretty. The mother took the lead, 
 and asked me divers questions about 
 Kentish and Northamptonshire families ; in 
 which Rosalind, ceasing to take interest, 
 continued dipping hither and thither in her 
 book, which I had, from the first, espied to 
 be my Chaucer. Presently she sayd, “ This 
 volume seems to be yours, Mr. Spenser. 
 . . . We found it but now, and were de- 
 
 bating how and where to return it to you.” 
 I made answer that it was at her service 
 as long as she pleased to keep it, and was 
 honoured in attracting her favour. She did 
 not seem to hear me, still turning it over ; 
 but presently said, “ I don’t know whether I 
 favour it or no. . . . The portraictures 
 
 are lifelike, and here and there are beautiful 
 
Immeritus Bedivivus. 
 
 lines. . . . How comes he never to 
 
 have finished this tale about Canace ? I 
 should like to know some more about this 
 good king of Sarra and his brave sons, and 
 the young lady who knew the language 
 of birds. . . . Howbeit, ’tis all vain 
 
 versing.” ... I made answer, “ Say not 
 vain versing ; versing is not vain. They do 
 the jDoet injustice, who deem his aim to be 
 only that of tickling the ears. ’Tis a high 
 and lofty gift, through the fancy to enslave 
 the heart, and one that even holy prophets 
 have not despised. Indeed, the true and 
 holy poet hath somewhat of prophetick mis- 
 sion.” . . . She smiled ironically, and 
 
 sayd, “ What, do you belong to the craft ? I 
 knew not I spake to a brother of the guild. 
 Here, sir, take back your book. ... I 
 thank you, but will none of it. . . . 
 
 never met with poet yet who did not 
 
Immeritus Red ivivus. 
 
 overbalance what I liked with somethins^ 
 I disliked. I love words of truth and 
 soberness better than any old wives’ tales, 
 or e’en than tales told by franklins and 
 squires.” 
 
 And othermuch to same purport, whereby 
 I know not whether I were most provoked 
 or attracted. The elder lady and Fleurice 
 took my part, but the battle went hard 
 agaynst me ; and I think the mother was 
 afraid Rosalind had a little overstept the 
 bounds of politeness, for her own manner 
 became doubly bland, and, at parting, she 
 courteously exprest a wish to see me agayn. 
 Never was request more readily complied 
 withal. The next time I went, I carried 
 in mine hand a bold attempt at finishing 
 Dan Geoffrey’s broken thread, in the vayn 
 fancy it might please Rosalind, despite her 
 avowed judgment, to hear somewhat more 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 about Canace. AVe had a mighty sparring 
 of wits ; but she consented to read it, and 
 give me her unqualyfide opinion. . , . 
 
 I expect it will be unqualyfide enough ! 
 Our party, this time, was enlarged by the 
 presence of a heavy, handsome, loutish 
 ; young man, who spake little, and that little 
 
 ' wide of the mark. T would do you no good 
 
 , to know whether he were named Percy or 
 
 Murray, so I shall call him Menalcas. He 
 
 i 
 
 broached one or two laboured jokes that 
 were dead failures ; and finding that Rosa- 
 lind, with all her spirit of contradiction, 
 
 i 
 
 I affected me rather than him, turned sulky, 
 I and was quiet a good while ; when, with a 
 ' species of well-digested malice, he abruptly 
 asked me where I lodged ? whether I was 
 
 of kin to the Spensers of Ewebuchts ? and, I: 
 
 i! 
 
 by a species of Socratic questioning I had |; 
 scarce o-iven so hard-headed a fellow credit 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 for, drew from me many moitifying parti- 
 culars about tlieir homeliness, which I could 
 not with truth deny, nor with good humour 
 parry. I thought the lady-mother was a 
 little impressed to my disadvantage there- 
 with ; but Kosalind unexpectedly pro- 
 claimed herself mine ally, and roundly ac- 
 cusing Menalcas of impertinence, bade him 
 take example by my truthfulness and good 
 temper, which she said she was sure pro- 
 ceeded from no lack of spirit. And so left 
 the spiteful cub discomfited. 
 
 ’Tis to no use I write all these things. 
 
 . . . A plough for the furrow, a sickle 
 
 for the corn, and a scourge for the fool,” 
 which I take a lover to be. And e’en in 
 the teeth of this axiom, I am ready to de- 
 clare with the wise king’s mother, that the 
 price of a good woman is^above rubies : her 
 own works are her praise. 
 
I m meritus Red i vi vus. 
 
 I/I 
 
 Farewell, good Mr. Herveyl Do not, of 
 your gentleness, keep me too long in sus- 
 pense, touching your opinion of my Faery 
 Queen. 
 
 Your faithful 
 
 
VI. 
 
 . . . Your praise, Mr. Hervey, falls 
 
 on a dull ear, that heareth not the voice 
 of the charmer, charm he never so wisely. 
 ’Tis line of you to desire me to forgive 
 you for shewing yourself somewhat too 
 pleasantly disposed in a sad matter ; and 
 ’tis easy for you to say the spirit of love 
 ever bears a man upward, towards all that 
 is high and grand, raising him above the 
 damp mists of earth, and animating and 
 refining his being. Successful love may ; 
 disappointed love may, when the pursuit 
 has long ago been given over, and the heart 
 
mastered ; but . . . far other^Nuse the 
 
 case of lover stands, who knows what hell 
 it is to be off and on, to-day expecting, to- 
 morrow vexing, this while pursuing, the 
 next relaxing, now offended, then forgiving, 
 now her offending, then by her not imme- 
 diately forgiven, to-night resolving to ap- 
 proach her no more, to-morrow taking or 
 making the merest occasion ... to 
 scorn one’s self, to hate one’s rival, to loathe 
 one’s food, to forget one’s own kindred, to 
 forget one’s own health, purposes, duty, 
 study, business ... in a word, to be 
 most foolish where he should be most wise, 
 most stupid when he would be most pleas- 
 ing, most idle -when he should be most 
 laborious, most beside himself when he 
 should be most self-possessed, a pitiable | 
 spectacle in the eyes of men, women, and I; 
 
174 
 
 Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 ’Tis not for one in such case to do any- 
 thing to the glory of God or man. Un- 
 wisely weaveth he that takes two webs in 
 hand. Versing, to be worth anything, de- 
 mands a vacant head. Grief never found in 
 poetry a vent for the fresh fulness of its first 
 excess. It will not babble of its pain. ’Tis 
 when the storm is over-past, and the long, 
 low wave runs sighing along the shore, that 
 precious things are found upon the sands, 
 and the clouds part, and heaven’s dear blue 
 reappears. Besides, after all, what is fame ? 
 what is success ? — even when they are 
 gotten. And we all know pretty well what 
 it is to strive, and pant for them, and get 
 them not. 
 
 I, Fame, am born of sorrow, and sit apart 
 on my lonely hill. Long patience have they 
 that quietly wait for me : they may seek 
 me early, but they cannot find me. I know 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 my children, but am not known of them. 
 I love not all that love me, and I am some- 
 times found of them that sought me not. 
 Afar off they pant for me ; afar off they 
 seek me ; they cannot attain unto me ; the 
 sandy hill-sides give way under their feet. 
 They stretch forth their hands unto me, but 
 mine are claspt behind me. Then they fall, 
 they die, and I descend upon their graves, 
 and write their names upon a stone. 
 
 . . . She is a most singular creature 
 
 (I don’t mean Fame), of bright and search- 
 ing wit, and subtile and delicate fancy : one 
 that for tenderness and delicateness you 
 might suppose would scarce adventure to 
 set the sole of her foot upon the ground, 
 and yet that hath no greater pleasure than 
 in practical duties that carry some spice 
 of roughness and hardness. She knows 
 nothing deeply, but almost everything 
 
1/6 
 
 Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 superficially; perhaps as much of anything 
 as ’tis well a woman should know ; and she 
 persisteth most obstinately in making up 
 her opinions for herself, some of them bear- 
 ing perversity on their very face : as when 
 she mocketh at reputation, and gloiy, and 
 good report, which she calls the vulgar’s 
 common breath ; and even at honourable 
 competition and emulation, calling them the 
 ill parents of three ugly children, to wit, 
 envy, hatred, and malice, maintaining them 
 to be in direct opposition to the Apostle’s 
 command, “ Let each esteem the other 
 better than himself,” and declaring there is 
 no safe and innocent rivalry, save with one’s 
 own self. 
 
 And, in faith, there ’s some sense in her 
 saying. 
 
 As for poetry . . . she sayeth that 
 
 my images are far-fetcht, and my metaphors 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 177 
 
 extravagant, that my descriptions are over 
 abundant, and my morals tedious, my words 
 uncouth, and my sentences ungrammatical, 
 my wit heavy, my wisdom light of weight, 
 and, in short, my composures generally 
 odious and not to be borne. 
 
 ’Tis to no purpose I write her the most 
 flattering valentines, drop sonnets in her 
 paths, and hang acrosticks on the trees ; 
 she despiseth them for matter and manner, 
 and me for assailing her with them. 
 
 She is indignant at me for wondering she 
 should ride alone so fearlessly through the 
 woods and bye-lanes, and sayeth there were 
 once twin brothers called Sans-peur and 
 Sans-reproche, who fared merrily together, 
 and set the world at nought. At y^ last, 
 Sans-peur thought he could shift without 
 his brother and go through the w’orld alone. 
 . The issue was that Sans-reproche 
 
 N 
 
78 
 
 Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 died of melancholy, and Sans-peur got his 
 head broken for his pains. But she sayeth 
 they have resuscitated for all that, and are 
 better friends than ever ; and that she hath 
 them for her constant equerries during her 
 rides. Besides, quoth she, with malice, that 
 day you were talking to me of Ptolemy, 
 there was my foster-father ploughing o’ the 
 other side the hedge, and heard every word 
 you sayd. 
 
 Listeners hear no good of themselves. 
 Approaching the iron gate one day, I heard 
 one say to another within y^ walls. He ’s so 
 little ! Quoth the other. If he ’s little, he ’s 
 good. . . . Thought I to myself, that ’s 
 
 me ! Eosalind objecteth to me that I can’t 
 carry my head as high as Hsemus, and 
 Fleurice insisteth that though I am little, I 
 am good. Oh, Fleurice ! I wish I could 
 love you instead of Rosalind, but I cannot. 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 I am no eves-dropper ; but, whether I 
 would or no, I heard said of whosoever 
 might be the party referred to ; he wears 
 his hair so short ! . . . I suppose you 
 
 will tell me ’tis town fashion. 
 
 Sweet Rosalind, if ’twill but find favour 
 in your sight, it shall grow like the locks of 
 a very Nazarite. I will have it but dipt 
 twice a-year, like a hornbeam hedge ; Absa- 
 lom polled his but once ; being ne’erthelesse 
 so much of the beau, that, according to 
 Josephus, he powdered his glistening locks 
 wdth gold. 
 
 I would not have you to suppose that my 
 suit is unknown to, or disapproved by, the 
 lady mother. I would as lief steal her 
 purse as her child ; ’twould give her by tax- 
 less pain : but I have openly sought and 
 obtained her good-will, albeit Menalcas is 
 fellow suitor. But Menalcas his father 
 
is jo}Tit guardian with her mother of my 
 lady-loved ; and his grace, as you may guess, 
 I obtayn not ; howbeit, Rosalind careth as 
 little for him as she seemingly doth for me. 
 . . . I say seemingly, for she openly 
 
 commends my truthfulness, and what she is 
 pleased to term my sweet temper ; and even 
 affects my conversation, and reads while she 
 abuses my rhpnes ; in short, likes me in 
 every sense but that of a lover, in which 
 character she will not endure that any man 
 shall approach her. There is some occult 
 reason for this, I will if I can make out. 
 Her mother privately telleth me, even with 
 tears in her eyes, that she feareth she is 
 herself the cause of Rosalind’s repulsing so 
 many forward lovem in her prime, who will 
 not so readily present themselves to her 
 when she is left orphaned and unfettered. 
 But she tells me that Rosalind hath so gg 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 j 
 
put off this supposal, that she cannot well 
 recur to it, and is e’en so involuntarily glad 
 to keep her to herself during the short term 
 she knoweth she shall continue, that she is 
 willing to let things take their chance, or 
 rather take the turn in which a good Pro- 
 vidence directs them ; and counsels me to 
 do the same. 
 
 Farewell, good Mr. Gabriel, I would I 
 could write on some other matter, or more 
 hopefully on this. My father seems now as 
 impatient for my return as he was indif- 
 ferent to it when I importuned for my 
 recal ; but I must wait now till this coil is 
 unravelled. Sta sano eel amami. 
 
 Your faithful 
 
 Immerito. 
 
■ 1 
 
 YII. 
 
 February, 1579. 
 
 Good Mr. Gabriel, 
 
 Colin Clout is coming home ! He 
 hath broken his pipe, packed his wallet, 
 shaken the dust, or rather the snow, from 
 off his feet against north countrie and 
 its villainous ways, and is setting his face 
 toward y^ south. 
 
 We have had a most inclement winter. 
 I had no notion what the rigour of y^ cold 
 in this latitude might amount to : I think 
 it freezes people’s hearts ; it froze poor 
 Limeblossom’s in right earnest. When the 
 frost broke up, he was found dead 
 
his hollow tree, stiff as a log ; with a dead 
 robin, too, in ’s breast, that he had tried to 
 keep alive there as long as he had life him- 
 self. When Rosalind heard this, she shed 
 warm tears, would ’a thawed anie heart not 
 as dead-froze as his. 
 
 I had no notion, neither, of the fatigue, 
 peril, and bodily suffering of a shepherd’s 
 life in winter. Let Tityrus pipe on his reed 
 for me the livelong summer holiday, and 
 Corydon plait rushen crowns and find straw- 
 berries for Phyllida . . . give me a 
 
 warm corner i’ the ingle-nook, a lamp o’er 
 my head, a book on my knee, and a crab i’ 
 th’ fire simmering for supper, instead of 
 having to double my plaid about me, clap 
 on my frozen brogues, and set my face as a 
 flint against the midnight sleet, to ascertain 
 whether an avalanche hath buried the fold 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 Siicli dismal stories, too, as the hinds 
 have had a mind to tell o’ nights, instead of 
 their summer fables of silly kids, and foxes 
 that have seen the world, and fairies 
 dancing their moonlight mazes. Nothing 
 
 will fit them now, I promise you, but gashly 
 murders beside low pools, apparitions with 
 bleeding sides, blue lights seen in church- 
 yards, men lost in the snow, and such like. 
 When they have made ’emselves too scared 
 to go to bed, mine uncle gives a loud hem ! 
 opens the Word of God, reads some peacify- 
 ing portion, and sayeth, Let us pray.” 
 
 My reel is ravelled. Afore the frost set 
 in, I found myself o’ suddain out of favour 
 at the house in the glen, where scarce any 
 one but Fleurice would speak to me. 
 Driven nearly crazie for awhile, I at length 
 guest by Menalcas his malicious looks who 
 was the authour of the mischief ; and, hav- 
 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 ing got a character for playn dealing, re- 
 solved for once to benefit by it, by demand- 
 ing an explanation. Meeting Rosalind just 
 returning from one of her rustic progresses, 
 I roundly told her of my grievance and my 
 suspicions, and did, in short, clearly make 
 out that Menalcas had forged an impudent 
 lie of my having wooed Jacquet, the dairy- 
 maid at Ewebuchts. I promised Rosalind 
 the satisfaction of the testimony of Jacquet’s 
 rustick sweetheart, a good-tempered fellow, 
 who always spends his evenings in mine 
 uncle’s kitchen, and a hearty partizan of 
 mine. She thanked me, but protested she 
 required no such satisfaction; firstly, be- 
 cause mine own speech carried conviction 
 with it ; and, next, because it was a matter 
 of indifference to her whether I admired 
 Jacquet or no, further than that she should 
 be sorry for a gentleman to mis-ally himself. 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 or to break a poor lass’s heart. Thereupon 
 I spake ; pled as hard as a man could do for 
 his life ; could get never a word hut No. 
 I admitted her great deserts, and my gi'eat 
 demerits : she sayd Twas not that. I sayd 
 her mother loved her too dearly to wish to 
 keep her single : she sayd that was another 
 reason why she should wish it herself. I 
 sayd, maybe she liked some one better : she 
 sayd, maybe she did. . . . However, 
 
 coiTecting herself directly, she sayd that was 
 a lie, which ought not to be spoken, even in 
 sport. I sayd, was there an^Thing I could 
 alter in, anything I could achieve, to make 
 her like me better ? she sayd No ; she liked 
 me very well already, as times went — a 
 great deal better than Menalcas. Well, 
 then, I sayd, I should live in hope. She 
 askt, of what? I sayd, that times might 
 alter. She smiled, and sayd they might. 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 187 
 
 but she should not alter her mind. Then I 
 called her cruel ; and she askt, in what ? I 
 sayd she would have my death at her door. j! 
 
 She sayd she had not thought I could speak |j 
 
 so like a fool, and that she loved her liberty 1 1 
 
 as well as I loved her, and did not see why | 
 
 she should make herself unhappy by marry- j| 
 
 ing a man, just because he would be un- i| 
 
 happy for a little while if she did not ; 
 she had never askt any one to love her, 
 
 ’twas at their choice. I sayd ’twas involun- 
 tary, and no choice ; to which she made 
 answer that ’twas equallie involuntary in 
 her to keep of her own mind ; and if one 
 was no fault in the one, neither was the 
 other in the other. As to my talking of 
 dying, ’twas just like the Israelites, the 
 minute they had swallowed their last meal, 
 before they were even hungry ... 
 nothing but die, the veiy first word. I was q 
 
i88 
 
 Immeritus Reclivivus. 
 
 as little like to die as they were, or as any 
 one she knew, and she ho|)ed would live 
 long to he useful and happy; neither of 
 which she thought me likely to be at Ewe- 
 buchts farm ; and therefore should be glad 
 to hear of my returning unto polished 
 courts and learned colledges, where she was 
 sure I was formed to be both useful and 
 ornamental ; and she spake not out of book 
 neither, having seen something of the world 
 for as young as she was, having been twice 
 to Carlisle and once to Cyprus, albeit that 
 was when she was a child. I sayd, Rosa- 
 lind, you might learn somewhat more of 
 the world than you have seen yet, if you 
 could look into the little world of mine 
 own heart, wherein you have called into 
 being as many struggles as there are in a 
 great city. . . . You would see affec- 
 
 tions you might engross ; admiration you 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 
 
 189 y 
 
 might command ; aspirations you might 
 confirm, strengthen, and ennoble. If I won 
 you, I say it not in vain boasting, but 
 from an uncontroulable conviction, I could 
 make you immortal ! 
 
 She sayd, I know Avhat you mean, but it 
 moves me not. I desire immortality ; but 
 not the sort of immortality you could con- 
 fer ; make your O’wn name immortal first, 
 and then offer your love an amaranth 
 wreath. Howbeit, I am not deriding your 
 forecast of immortality ; the strong convic- 
 tion of success often argues the power to 
 obtain it. The energy needful in the effort 
 will be the best cure for disappointed- love. 
 And to a gentle and yet strong mind, such 
 as I think yours is, an unsuccessful passion 
 may in time bring forth a far richer harvest 
 than the happiest love. 
 
 I will not tell you of the hot tears I 
 
brushed away as I went through the wood ; 
 nor how, when I went to take formal leave 
 of one who, when absent in the body, will 
 ever be present with me in the spirit, I 
 heard her, whether I would or no, giving a 
 much shorter answer to Menalcas than she 
 had given me, and flatly accusing him of his 
 falsehood and ill-offices towards me. He 
 came through the iron gate, foaming with 
 rage, which, as soon as he cast eyes upon 
 me, found vent, after his lubberly fashion, 
 in the following manner : — 
 
 I wunna be overheard ! I wunna be cir- 
 cumvented ! And gin ye come prowling 
 about hereaway to circumvent and overhear 
 me, I ’ll give ye something that shall put it 
 past your might to set foot in these pre- 
 mises agayn. I wull : I ’d as lief do it as 
 gie ye a slap in the face. 
 
 In his own speech, I made answer, Na, 
 
Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 191 
 
 ye wunna ; and, collaring him, did give him 
 such a shake as sent him staggering; ex- 
 pecting, I confess, to have him upon me the 
 next minute, with all the savage strength of 
 poor Limeblossom ; ’stead of which, he stood 
 rubbing his shoulders and looking amazed, 
 while I, passing through the iron gate, 
 bolted it after me, and walked in-doors at a 
 breathing pace. 
 
 Rosalind, to mine infinite contentment, 
 had seen passage of arms from her lattice. 
 Her first words were — Signor Pegaso, you 
 are, for spirit, tempered with humanity, 
 a match for any man in Christendom or 
 Kent . . . 
 
 “ Con la penna, e con la spada, 
 
 Nessun val quanto Torquato.” 
 
 . . . ’Tis a playful proverb of hers, 
 
 touching Kent, that ’twas the last county 
 
I in England that remained unbaptised and 
 i unconverted in the days of King Ethelbert. 
 
 ; Her last words . . . Good so, what 
 
 an unseemly blot have I made on my paper. 
 
 I Go to ! There was not much in them, ex- 
 
 i 
 
 cept to the party most interested. Kindly, 
 
 ' too ; and elevating . . . My first kiss 
 
 i was my last ! 
 
 , I have only one thing to require of you, 
 Mr. Gabriel, as you tender my friendship, 
 and to desire of you, as you value my love ; 
 that you will out of hand burn every one of 
 the letters you have received from me since 
 I came to this place ; and never hereafter, 
 i by inquiiy, allusion, quip, or inuendo, refer 
 : to the lady in question. Time, resolution, 
 
 and the gi'ace of God may cure me : nothing 
 can, short of all these three. 
 
 Your faithful 
 
NOTES. 
 
 I. ROSALIND. , 
 
 That Speuser, in early youth, visited some cousins 
 near Carlyle — that he there fell in love with a young 
 lady, “the widow’s daughter in the glen,” whose name, | 
 
 he says, was and yet was not Rosalind — and that, though | 
 
 wooed, she was not won by him— are particulars ga- | 
 
 thered by a careful study of his works. He often alludes j 
 
 to her casually, it might almost be said irrelevantly, in I 
 
 his poems. Thus, in “ Colin Clout’s come Home again ” 1 1 
 
 {i.e., come hack to Ireland — “ Colin Clout ” being one of f 
 
 his fancy names for himself), there occurs this passage : | 
 
 Indeed,” said Lucid’, “I have often heard 
 Fair Rosalind of divers foully blamed, 
 
 For being to that swain too cruel hard ; 
 
 That, her bright glory else, hath much defamed — 
 
 But who can teU what cause had that fair maid 
 To use him so that used her so well ? 
 
 Or who with blame can justly her upbraid 
 For loving not ? for who can love compel ? ” 
 
 O 
 
194 ^^otes to Immeritus Redivivus. 
 
 II. LIME-BLOSSOM. 
 
 In book vi. canto 4, of “The Faery Queen,” is the 
 rescue of Serena by the “salvage man,” who comes 
 bounding towards her “as swift as any buck in chase,” 
 and, at whose impetuous attack, her assailant — 
 
 “ ’Gan cry aloud with horrible affright, 
 
 And shrieked out ; a thing uncomely for a knight. ” 
 
 The poor salvage has no language but a confused 
 murmur of words without sense, and shows his reverence 
 for Serena by ‘ ‘ creeping like a fawning hound ” to her 
 side, kissing his hands, and other signs. He “makes 
 great moan, after his salvage mood ” or fashion, for her 
 and Calepine, whose wounds he staunches with a herb, 
 and then brings them to his mossy dwelling and makes 
 them welcome to his own vegetable diet. Calepine is 
 soon healed ; but Serena’s wound from the teeth of the 
 Blatant Beast (Slander) no herb can cure, it being ‘ ‘ in- 
 wardly unsound.” 
 
 III. IMMERITO. 
 
 The reader is referred to the few letters extant which 
 passed between Spenser and Gabriel Harvey, which may 
 be found in vol. vi. of Spenser’s Works, edited by 
 lies, 1750. Harvey calls him “my loving friend 
 
Mr. Immerito,” “Signor Immerito,” &c. In one of 
 Harvey’s letters, he says, “Think upon Petrarch’s 
 
 ‘ Arbor vittoriosa, trionfale, 
 
 Onor d’ imperadori e di poete,’ 
 
 and perhaps it will advance the wings of your imagina- 
 tion a degree higher, at the least, if anything can be 
 added to the loftiness of his conceit whom gentle Mis- 
 tress Rosalind once reported to have all the intelligences 
 at commandment, and, another time, christened Signor 
 Pegaso. ” 
 
 o 2 
 

 THE 
 
 DAUGHTER OF GALILEO, 
 
 FRAMMENTI ATTRIBUITO ALLA MARIA GALILEI, 
 FIGLIA DEL SOMMO FILOSOFO. 
 
 ■^1 
 
 
THE 
 
 DAUGHTER OF GALILEO. 
 
 “ Ah ! che non sol qnelle, ch'io canto e scrivo 
 Farole son ; ma quanto temo e spero, 
 
 Tutt’ e menzogna, e delirando io vivo ! 
 
 Sogno della mia rita e il corso intero. 
 
 Deh tu, Signor ! quando a destarmi arriyo, 
 
 Fa ch’io trovi riposo in sen del vero.” 
 
 Metastasio. 
 
 ** Quei, che di nuova luce il Ciel fe’ vello, 
 
 D’astri nuovi ammirabile immortale, 
 Discopritor no vello, 
 
 Quei, che volo su gU altrui voU, e feo 
 Del ver giudice il guardo, e co’ pianeti 
 Commerci ebbe segreti.” 
 
 Filicaia. 
 
 Aecetei, 1615. 
 
 When I applied to my father, just now, 
 for help in a little toy I was making, he 
 said, laughingly, “ Invent, invent I — use your 
 
200 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 own mind ! When I was a lad, I was con- 
 tinually driven to invention, in default of 
 knowledge.” 
 
 — Down went this trifling remark, with 
 some anecdotes that followed, into the note- 
 book of Vittorio Viviani, who certainly loves 
 my father with an ardour and veneration 
 little short of idolatry. 
 
 These boy-authors are so conceited I — I 
 am sure I could, if I had a mind, note my 
 father s sayings more correctly than Viviani, 
 and more secretly, too. 
 
 Well I recollect the first time that my 
 father ever spoke to me about the revolu- 
 tions of the heavenly bodies ; I had used 
 the expression ^‘from year’s end to year’s 
 end.” “And how. Miss Maria,” said he, 
 playfully, and drawing me to him, “would 
 you pretend to know when the year came to 
 end, if you had never been told ? ” 
 
I “ Oh, father ! a question so easily an- 
 I swered ! ” I replied, laughing. 
 
 I 
 
 ' “Very easily answered, you think, who 
 know all that is vulgarly known of the 'dis- 
 tribution of times and seasons,” he rejoined ; 
 
 I “ but, believe me, the roughest calendar that 
 I ever was made required an immense amount 
 j of time and industry. Come, now; what 
 I would mark to you that twelve months have 
 passed since this time last year ? ” 
 
 ! I said, “ The return of the swallow.” 
 
 I “ Ha ! ” he cried, and paused. “ That is a 
 I good answer of yours, little girl. In like 
 ' manner, the Egyptians might have noted 
 it by the annual overflow of the Nile. 
 But there are lands the swallow never 
 visits. There is only one land watered by 
 the Nile. Can you think of any yearly 
 recurrences that are universally to be 
 
202 
 
 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 I paused, and said, “ I suppose, the revo- 
 lutions of the heavenly bodies. At a certain 
 time every year, the sun approaches nearer 
 to the south. I know this, because I re- 
 moved my crimson gown two following years 
 from the peg on which it hung, to prevent 
 its fading.” 
 
 Yes, little Maria ; you are now feeling 
 out your way very nicely. The year runs 
 round in a ring, and recommences whence 
 it started; or, as the Greeks said, returns 
 into itself ; hence, its name annus, from 
 annulus: but to mark its length with ex- 
 
 actitude, demanded patient observation and 
 close reflection. And, without the union of 
 these two things, we shall never discover 
 anything that is worthy to be discovered. 
 To observe is more natural to us than to 
 reflect, and reflection is one of the highest 
 attributes of the human mind ; but few 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 us take the trouble to observe accurately ; 
 and, owing to this, the most absurd theories 
 have been raised by men gifted with extra- 
 ordinaiy powers of reflection. This was the 
 fault of Aristotle’s disciples ; they reflected, 
 but they did not observe ; they built 
 splendid houses on foundations of sand. 
 Xow, with regard to the peg in your 
 chamber, on which hung your crimson gown, 
 you observed that the sun shone on it at a 
 particular season of the year, and you re- 
 flectedj that it must do so because it had 
 approached nearer to the south. Always 
 follow this mental process when you can. 
 Instead of taking for granted, go and see ; 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 I shall not readily forget the impression 
 my father made upon me on my return to 
 him, this time, from Pisa, where I had made 
 a lengthened stay with my aunt. He had 
 just ceased looking through his telescope,* 
 and was gazing upwards in the dhection to 
 which it pointed, with an intense expression 
 in his keen eye, but yet as if it were T\dth 
 his imuard eye that he beheld something 
 new and amazing. All at once, he heard 
 my step, and, turning round, caught me in 
 his arms, exclaiming, My little Maria I 
 Pargoletta ! Animetta ! ” mth sundry ca- 
 resses and terms of endearment ; then, hold- 
 ing me from him at arm’s length, “ How you 
 are grown ! how improved ! Nay, you are 
 too beautiful for a cloister, Maria ! And yet 
 
 * Telescopes were not as yet known by this name, but 
 we are supposed to be rendering the writer’s ideas in 
 modern English. 
 
Tlie Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 20 
 
 . . . shall I give unto the Lord that which 
 costeth me nothing?” 
 
 Why do I repeat and cherish his fond 
 praise ? as the expression of affection — 
 nothing more. And yet, there is pain in it, 
 too. Ginevi-a is as worthy to be loved as I, 
 but she is not pretty. Does her loss, then, 
 cost him nothing? 
 
 Coming into my father s study somewhat 
 unexpectedly this morning, I heard him say, 
 with some little acerbity, to Monna Lisa, 
 You speak as if her vocation were decided, 
 but I have ulterior views for her.” If he 
 meant me, what can they be, I wonder ? 
 When I came from my convent, I had no 
 other wish than to profess as soon as pos- 
 sible; yet now . . . the world seems so 
 pleasant ! When I see the Amo pursuing 
 its placid course through the smiling cham- 
 gn, dotted with clean cottages and cheer 
 
2o6 
 
 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 ful villages, all of them inhabited, I question 
 not, with such happy people ! each with 
 their own dear friends, favourite pursuits, 
 and easy duties, it seems to me so pleasant 
 and innocent a thing to live abroad, and 
 move to and fro, and make others happy, 
 and still to find time enough to praise God ; 
 nay, to praise him in a more heartfelt 
 manner ! 
 
 Again, to sit unnoticed in the corner of 
 my father’s study, at my embroidery, while 
 distinguished men come and go, and talk 
 over all that is doing, and saying, and in- 
 venting, and discovering, in the world with- 
 out, with their various speculations, and my 
 father’s comments ; — seems to me more than 
 innocent, very improving, as well as very 
 delightful. I wonder what Ginevra would 
 say of it ? 
 
 If my father’s talk were all of geometry 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 207 
 
 and astronomies, I should, indeed, soon cease 
 to listen to parallaxes and parabolas — soon 
 stiteh down my thoughts to the passion- 
 flower I am working ; but, as Bronzino says 
 of him, “ only those who familiarly converse 
 with him, and hear from his own mouth his 
 oracular sayings, and familiar and poetical 
 illustrations, can judge either of the pro- 
 fundity of his knowledge or the universahty 
 of his genius.” He has the rare and happy 
 art of being all things to all men.” With 
 Duke Cosmo he converses on science, lite- 
 rature, and court afiairs ; with Pinelli on 
 gems, medals, and manuscripts ; with Pas- 
 signano, on perspective and design; ^vith 
 Cigoli, on colouring ; with Scaccia, on music. 
 He will put down his compasses to answer 
 any of the boy-difficulties of my brother 
 Yincenzio, or of his somewhat older school- 
 fellow, Yiviani, and talk with Salviati about 
 
2 o 8 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 his vineyard. Cigoli was here, just now, to 
 refer a new design to his judgment : my 
 father proposed his painting my portrait ; 
 and, as I happened to be caressing a dove 
 which Viviani had given me, Cigoli was 
 pleased with the accidental attitude and 
 grouping, and made a sketch on the spot. 
 I am glad of this ; the dove gives me some- 
 thing to look at, and I shall have nothing 
 to do but to hear my father’s and Cigoli’s 
 delightful conversation. 
 
 Passignano was criticising, overnight, that 
 line of Rota’s, in one of his sonnets on his 
 wife — 
 
 “ Feano i begl’ occM a se medesmi giorno,” 
 
 which he thought too bold and h3rperbolical ; 
 but to me it appears quite simple. I am 
 sure my eyes make a daylight for them- 
 

 selves ; that is to say, my inward eyes 
 throw an imaginary light upon different 
 objects, investing them Avith a sunshine that 
 does not always belong to them. Under 
 this impression, I have been trpng to vTite 
 some verses, but I am afraid they are not 
 very good ones. . . . My father says we 
 should aim to express thoughts rather than 
 feelings. 
 
 I cieli raccontano la tna gloria, 0 Dio, 
 
 Ed i fiori, con che questo il tuo bel colie si vesta, 
 E i valli, si jdeno di biade che fanno gran festa, 
 
 E anche il mio core esulta in te, signor mio ! 
 
 La mia voce tn ascolterai al spnntar di giomo 
 Ma anche I’udirai al meriggiana, 0 Dio ! 
 
 Benche tntt’ i miei si prendono siesta attomo, 
 Poiche tu sei meco, signor, no, non donniro io ! 
 
 Yincenzio burst out laughing at Monna 
 
 o o 
 
 Lisa for asking whether there were actuallv 
 
lO 
 
 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 any configurations in the heavens, agreeing 
 with the names given them of Serpens, 
 Draco, and so on ; but my father checked 
 him, saying, it was a natural question for 
 his worthy housekeeper to ask ; and that, 
 though in fact the names of the constel- 
 lations were quite arbitrary, and very ill- 
 chosen as assistants to the eye and memory, 
 yet it was singular that the same, or nearly 
 the same, figures and designations had been 
 given to the heavenly bodies in different 
 countries, which led us to suppose that in 
 early times they must have had some com- 
 munication on the subject. The pursuit of 
 such matters at all, he said, in an uncul- 
 tivated age, argued an aspiration of the soul 
 to things higher and better than those 
 
 which address themselves merely to the 
 senses ; but fancy, imagination, and super- 
 stition soon mingled with the higher ele 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 21 I 
 
 ments and led it astray. Many false guesses 
 must needs be made before we leap to a 
 great truth ; but the false guesses of the 
 early astronomers led them by seducing 
 paths far away from where true knowledge 
 is to be found, and made them fancy the 
 stars endued with such power over the dis- 
 positions and fortunes of men that at length 
 they worshipped them. Facts and ideas did 
 not go hand in hand ; they reflected, but 
 did not accurately observe ; whence, in sub- 
 sequent times, arose many false hypotheses, 
 as that of Aristotle, that the heavier of two 
 falling bodies would reach the ground sooner 
 than the other; ‘'whereas,” he continued, 
 laughing, “I showed, by letting different 
 weights fall from the leaning tower of Pisa, 
 that all bodies would fall from the same 
 height in the same time, if not unequally 
 retarded by the resistance of the air ; and 
 
212 
 
 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 yet there Avere goosecaps present who w^ould 
 not believe the evidence of their own eyes ! 
 But — magna est veritas et prevalebit” 
 Vincenzio and I amused ourselves by 
 trying this simple experiment, by dropping 
 balls from the balcony. 
 
 Yet it seems that my father entertains 
 the highest possible opinion of some of the 
 early Greek astronomers : of Hipparchus, 
 for example. 
 
 Well, then, may I regard him with pro- 
 found veneration. To me, it is absolutely 
 amazing how with such imperfect instru- 
 ments he should have made such notable 
 discoveries. It was something for Anaxi- 
 mander to make out the sun’s oblique path 
 between the tropics, and to conceive of the 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 213 
 
 this was made out, men must have been 
 strangely at fault — for how did they suppose 
 the sun slipped round from the west to the 
 east during the night ? It is difficult, truly, 
 to distrust the superficial evidence of our 
 own eyes, as that the earth is flat, &c. ; but, 
 as soon as we begin to think, we are driven 
 to conclude that there must be phenomena 
 to contradict the apparent evidence of our 
 senses. 
 
 Again, the prediction of eclipses of the 
 moon, by the Chaldeans, appears to me very 
 wonderful. It is true, they were aided in 
 this by their cycle of eighteen years, at the 
 end of which the lunar eclipses begin to 
 return in the same order ; but this required 
 gi'eat patience, close observation, to turn to 
 account, 
 
 I like to fancy them standing, on starry 
 niofhts, at the summit of some tall 
 
214 
 
 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 i 
 
 Babylonian tower, fixed, wrapt, motionless, 
 like the statues on the top of some of our 
 cathedrals. How petty the squabbles of 
 daily life must have seemed to them ! How 
 little they could have cared for the news ! 
 How little it mattered to them, whether a 
 certain city, a certain province, belonged to 
 a Seleucus or an Antiochus ! 
 
 Meton — he came first of the Greeks — four 
 centuries and more before Christ. To him 
 we owe the Golden Number. He corrected 
 the cycle, so as to make the lunar and solar 
 years pretty nearly correspond. But Meton’ s 
 cycle is one of the things I am too stupid, 
 as yet, to understand. 
 
 Nearly about the same time, lived Anax- 
 agoras. Vincenzio tells me that this great 
 man was preceptor to Socrates and Euri- 
 pides. To him an altar was raised, in- 
 
 ibed Tkuth and Mind. They were 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 2 
 
 dear to him ! He was, literally, a philoso- 
 pher — a ‘‘lover of knowledge.” He taught 
 the doctrine of a Supreme Intelligence, and 
 'was the first Greek who conceived the 
 primary active principle of the universe to 
 be mind, existing apart from, and indepen- 
 dent of, matter. Yet he was accused of 
 impiety, for teaching that the sun was a 
 burning mass of stone, herein robbing it of 
 its divinity. He made out that the rainbow 
 is produced by the reflection of the solar 
 rays from a dark cloud, and that wind is 
 produced by the rarefaction of the air, and 
 sound by its percussion. Yet some of his 
 guesses at truth, Yincenzio tells me, are 
 sufficiently absurd. 
 
 Who was the Greek that Yincenzio next 
 told me of? Oh, Calippus. He corrected 
 Meton’s cycle, about six years before the 
 death of Alexander. 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 Then, Hipparchus, who was at once a 
 lover of truth, a patient, intelligent, accurate 
 observer, and a man of genius. From view- 
 ing a tree on a plain in various directions, 
 he made out the doctrine of the parallax, 
 and, applying it to the planets, ascertained 
 which of them were nearest and which of 
 them farthest from him. Parallax is the 
 apparent motion of an object, arising from 
 our own change of place. Those poplars, 
 along the Arno, if I were to walk or run 
 towards my right hand, would appear to 
 move at the same rate towards the left ; 
 while the woods and hills beyond them 
 would appear to advance to the right, in 
 relation to the poplars ; and, again, the 
 heights of Yallombrosa, yet more distant, 
 would gain upon them. This is called their 
 parallactic motion. It enables us to judge 
 their relative proximities. That which 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 2 
 
 seems to gain on the other, and advance as 
 we advance, is the farthest off from us. And 
 this must have been observed, in an unintel- 
 ligent way, by thousands of peojDle before 
 Hipparchus ; but he reasoned upon it, and 
 applied it to bodies whose relative distances 
 could be measured in no other manner. 
 How many things we all see, without rea- 
 
 soning upon I 
 
 The distance of the fixed stars from us 
 is incomparably greater than that of the 
 planets. It is impossible to discover, almost 
 impossible to imagine, their distance. My 
 father’s speculations about them set my 
 head spinning. Perhaps, some amazing dis- 
 coveries about them will yet be made. 
 Perhaps, by him ! 
 
 The grand discovery of Hipparchus,* on 
 which my father founds his exalted opinion 
 him, was that of the epicycle. 
 
 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 “The planets move in circles round the 
 sun,” said the old astronomers. “ No,” says 
 Hipparchus, “ they move in ellipses, or 
 ovals ; and hence they all have an elliptic 
 inequality, i. e., equation, of the centre. 
 Your theoiy of revolving circles is incoiTect. 
 The sun’s path, about the earth, also, is not 
 circular, but elliptic ; and his motion is 
 apparently most rapid when he is at the 
 nearer end of his ellipsis ; in other words, in 
 his perigee, at his nearest point to the earth. 
 How shall we account for this ? Let us 
 take a planet — Venus, for example — whose 
 accustomed course is from west to east, but 
 who, at certain times, seems to retrograde. 
 Let us suppose her placed on the rim of an 
 invisible wheel, turned edgeways towards us, 
 so that w^e see it in perspective. The centre 
 of this wheel revolves from west to east, 
 carrying Venus with it; but when she 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 reaches the farther side, she will appear to 
 us to pursue a retrograde course, though, in 
 fact, she has not turned back, but is only 
 carried round. This imaginary wheel I call 
 an epicycle. By it I account for many 
 apparent anomalies or irregularities which 
 have hitherto puzzled us.” 
 
 . . . To think of my putting words, 
 
 my own words, into the mouth of Hip- 
 parchus ! However, I am, in fact, teach- 
 ing myself, or turning to account my 
 father’s teaching, while I pretend to make 
 Hipparchus teaching his brother astro- 
 nomers. 
 
 To discover, you must prove — if your dis- 
 coveries are to be admitted by those who 
 are reluctantly compelled to give up their 
 own faulty and favourite theories. This he 
 did. But I cannot tell how. He had to 
 ascertain the magnitudes, distances, and 
 
220 
 
 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 positions of his ellipses, to assign a place to 
 the perigee, and a time for the sun to reach 
 it. And he did. 
 
 After this, he applied the same principle 
 to the moon, which was much more difficult, 
 as her motions are much more complex. I 
 am often surprised to see how she shifts 
 round the horizon ; now, rising opposite to 
 my window, which is due east ; now, to 
 Yincenzio’s, which is due west. If she left 
 a trail behind her, it would be like a tangled 
 skein of silver thread. But Hipparchus 
 could follow its windings. He made an 
 exact calculation of her eclipses for a period 
 of six hundred years. 
 
 With wffiat intelligent pleasure he must 
 ever have regarded the staiTy heavens ! A 
 young Englishman, who lately called on my 
 father, quoted some lines by one of his poets, 
 which my father, amused at their fallacy. 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 got Lim to set down in the original, 
 they are ; — 
 
 Here 
 
 “ Those earthly godfathers of heaven’s lights, 
 
 Who give a name to every several star, 
 
 Have no more profit of their shining lights, 
 
 Than those who walk, and wot not what they are.” 
 
 Ginevra has written her letter to the 
 Vicar Apostolic, and leaves San Matteo to- 
 morrow, to partake, for two months, of the 
 pleasures of this outer world, before she 
 leaves it for ever. As Madonna Lucrezia is 
 to be the madrina, Ginevra will be with 
 her at the Villa Salviati ; but I shall see 
 a good deal of her, nevertheless, as kind 
 Madonna Lucrezia has invited me to spend 
 
 I some days with her. 
 
 i 
 
222 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 I never saw any one look more interesting 
 than Ginevra did yesterday, when she came 
 to us in the abbess’s parlour. Pretty she 
 may not be ; but she looked so holy and 
 intellectual, and with just the faintest rose- 
 tint of emotion at seeing us, yet with no 
 flutter, no eagerness to take her short 
 draught of pleasure ... to me she was 
 lovely. I thought her much more attractive, 
 then, in her simple boarder’s dress, than 
 after her grand toilette, in her blue satin 
 gown, with all those pearls in her hair. She 
 tells me she shall be very glad when all this 
 fuss is over, and would much sooner have 
 taken the veil without it. She has not a 
 wish beyond the convent walls ; not that 
 she never feels dull or sad within them ; but 
 that, as she says, is the condition of human 
 life, without which we should never aspire 
 to a better. Yet there are girls among her 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 223 
 
 companions, as there were among mine, who 
 loathe the thought of professing, and who 
 yet will be driven to it by the opinion of the 
 world and family reasons. What a pity ! 
 They would very likely make good wives, 
 mothers, and mistresses of families. 
 
 We accompanied Ginevra this morning 
 to the convent, to make her formal request 
 to the abbess. There were a good many 
 people. My father had taken her on his 
 knee, the previous evening, and asked her, 
 in the kindest manner, whether she were 
 really prepared to take the veil. The gen- 
 tleness of his tone, I think, made her falter 
 a little ; but she said yes. So, then, he 
 kissed her, and seemed very glad ; and I 
 ought to feel so too, I suppose, but I cannot, 
 like her so much, that I wish we were y) 
 
 
224 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 always together. I said as much to her 
 overnight, and that I should like to be in 
 the same convent. She smiled, and said, 
 “ You will never be a nun.” 
 
 The abbess seemed overjoyed to see her. 
 I think she loves her sincerely ; and there 
 is no one to whom, in comparison, Ginevra 
 owes so much kindness. After the business 
 of the day, which was soon over, we had 
 chocolate and the most delicate sweetmeats. 
 Then, dressing, driving about, sight-seeing, 
 and visiting, filled up the day. The sposina 
 is the object of general attention. 
 
 I do not know how Ginevra can stand all 
 this excitement ; but I know it makes me 
 feel very dissipated. A little of it was very 
 well, but I am beginning to have too much 
 of it now. On the other hand, she, who at 
 first only regarded it as a necessary evil, 
 begins now, as she says, laughingly, to enter 
 
into the spirit of it ; and she actually had her 
 hair dressed three times to-day ; first fancy- 
 ing flowers, then pearls, and then flowers 
 after all. I thought this silly of her, and 
 the cameriera was a little annoyed ; hut 
 Madonna Lucrezia enjoyed it. Ginevra, 
 however, was dissatisfied with herself ; and, 
 I at bedtime, said, with a sigh, “I cannot 
 
 I think w^hat has made me so inconsistent 
 
 j to-day.” 
 
 Ginevra has undergone her examination 
 to-day. She was fluttered beforehand, and 
 trembled a good deal ; but, about an hour 
 before the vicar came, she requested to be 
 left alone, and, I am sure, prayed. She 
 afterwards came forth, composed enough, 
 though her eyes showed that she had been 
 crying. When he was gone, she gave 
 
deep sigh, and said, “Well, I am glad that 
 is over.” Afterwards, we went to the 
 Gallery, which Ginevra never tires of, being 
 endowed by nature with a strong relish for 
 excellence in the fine arts. Next to Scrip- 
 ture pieces, landscapes please her most, for 
 she cannot endure mythological subjects. 
 Of natural scenery, also, she is passionately 
 fond ; and I have heard her say that fine 
 clothes, fine dinners, and fine people could 
 be renounced by her with infinitely more 
 indifference than change of scene, and free 
 exercise in the open air. She says she 
 cannot think it wrong to love mountains, 
 and rivers, and trees, and wild flowers ; but 
 that since those who are wiser and better 
 than she is have restricted her from the 
 enjoyment of them, she submits. 
 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 Too mucli hurried and engaged, of late, to 
 take any regular notes, or make any regular 
 progress in anything ; but we shall soon be 
 quiet enough — Ginevra takes the white veil 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Madonna Lucrezia is quite taken up with 
 the bridal dress and chaplet of roses ; but I 
 can do nothing but cry. Oh, that she had 
 never left San Matteo ! It would have been 
 far easier to her and to me, but for this 
 draught of innocent delight in each other’s 
 company, and the not equally innocent 
 whirl of gaiety, dress, flattery, and excite- 
 ment. Poor Ginevra’ s few lonely hours 
 have been spent in tears, and on her knees. 
 Often she has said, with an accent of im- 
 patience, “ Oh, that it were over ! ” And 
 yet, when she heard of an entertainment at 
 which some persons peculiarly dear to her 
 were to be present next week, the tears 
 
228 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 started into her eyes ! — I could not forget 
 her look at that moment — it haunted 
 me all the rest of the day, and made 
 my e}’es fill whenever I remembered it. 
 At night I prayed for her with unusual 
 fervour ; and my senses being quickened 
 to every outward impression, I thought 
 I heard the sound of something falling 
 in her chamber, and could not help steal- 
 ing in. She was lying on her face u]:»on 
 the floor, in the moonlight, with her hands 
 clasped over her head; and, on being dis- 
 turbed by me, cried out, with the utmost 
 irritation, ‘^Go away, go away’” which I 
 did, pierced to the heart. To-day she is 
 quiet and composed enough, and there is 
 plenty to do ; the dress to try on, farewells 
 to take, presents to make, &c. What I 
 value more than all the pretty things she 
 has given me, are some verses she 
 
Tlte Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 229 
 
 a little time ago, and a long tress of her 
 hair. 
 
 All is over now ; and it is of no use for 
 Monna Lisa to try to comfort me, for cry I 
 must ’Tis all very well for her to say, 
 ‘‘ Tut, tut ! thus wept I when my younger 
 sister married I ” but the cases are different, 
 nevertheless. 
 
 Well — she is the bride of heaven; and at 
 this moment, prostrate before the crucifix 
 in her little cell, is, perhaps, calmer, more 
 composed, already, than I am. But this 
 morning was dreadful. We can never part, 
 for ever, from any one whom we love, with- 
 out an agony of the heart, even though 
 the separation should be for our welfare. 
 Ginevra had, I am sure, not closed her 
 eyes all night : she was white as ashes, and 
 
30 
 
 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 Madonna Lucrezia, who is a worldly woman, 
 would fain have given a little artificial 
 colouring to her cheeks, but Ginevra would 
 not hear of it; so, then, the Madonna said, 
 “ Ah, well — 
 
 ‘ Non e palidezza, ma candore.’ 
 
 — She was rosy enough, afterwards, when 
 she rose from lying on her face, while the 
 requiem was sung over her. I suppose it 
 had not lasted more than fifteen minutes, 
 but they seemed to me hours ; and I 
 thought, if she had any regrets and mis- 
 givings, then must have been the time for 
 feeling them. But, perhaps, there will be 
 many a more trying season in her lonely 
 cell ; and the excitement, probably, kept her 
 up, for when she rose, she looked bright and 
 cheerful, and she went round kissing the 
 nuns Avith great cordiality. My firther gave 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 23 
 
 a great sigh, and muttered, ‘‘Vattene in 
 pace, alma bianca ! ” which was the strongest 
 expression of feeling that had escaped from 
 him ; and yet I think he felt a good deal, too. 
 Afterwards, there were numerous friends 
 dropping in to congratulate, and eat sweet- 
 meats, and drink chocolate, and talk over 
 the news of the day; but I escaped from 
 them as soon as I could, and left them to 
 Monna Lisa, who was quite in her element. 
 One might have thought it had been her 
 daughter’s wedding. Bronzino, meeting me 
 on the stairs, cried, gaily, “Well, I sup- 
 pose your turn will come next.” But I 
 turned my face to the wall, and could not 
 answer. 
 
 After a storm, a calm, 
 understand a little 
 
 I am trying, now, 
 more clearly about 
 
232 
 
 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 epicycles and eccentrics. Yiviani has been 
 taking great pains with me. 
 
 “ How different your father is,” he said to 
 me, just now, “from what I had supposed 
 him before I knew him. Hearing his report 
 only as the great lecturer on mathematics, 
 the royal philosopher, the antagonist of the 
 Aristotelians, the inventor of the telescope, 
 the discoverer of the mountains in the 
 moon, the circumjovian satellites, and so 
 forth, I expected to find him like one of 
 those passionless and spiritualized old Chal- 
 dean star-gazers, rather than a man of like 
 affections and inclinations with ourselves ; 
 and was accordingly disappointed. And, 
 yet, who knows but it may have been the 
 same with those ancient men of thought ? 
 They had kindred, I suppose, and family ties 
 and interests ; and hungered and thirsted, 
 i grew weary, and were rested ; and i 
 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 pain, and doubt, and despondency, and self- 
 disappointment, in their day, like the rest of 
 us. Only, they could struggle more against 
 these things ; they had resources to divert 
 their thoughts from them ; they had trea- 
 sures which no man could give or take 
 away ; richly-stored memories, boundless 
 fields of speculation, wondrous powers of 
 calculation, and great self-discipline and 
 mastery of the mind over the body : and 
 herein lay their might and their glory. 
 Thus is it with your father ; and though my 
 first impression was of disappointment, yet, 
 on the whole, I love him better for being 
 what he is — impetuous, vivid, impressible, 
 and sometimes even irritable and unreason- 
 able — than I could have done had he been 
 the impassive, unhumanized sort of per- 
 sonage I took him for. I should have re- 
 verenced him more, and loved him less.” 
 
 

 234 
 
 - 
 
 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 Viviani tells me that my father was the 
 first to advance a single step in mechanics 
 since Archimedes, who lived two thousand 
 years ago. 
 
 Though I hate quarrels, I could hardly 
 forbear smiling at a war of words which 
 occurred, this morning, between my father 
 and a Dominican, named Caccini ; a little, 
 fat man, with a shiny red face, and some- 
 thing most unpleasant in his small black 
 eyes and beetle brows. 
 
 I felicitate you, my son,” he began, 
 “on having recently given a daughter to 
 heaven.” 
 
 “I am very glad,” returned my father, 
 dryly, “that heaven does not expect such an 
 expensive present from me every day.” 
 
 Humph !” said Caccini, and paused. “I 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 had understood that her vocation was de- 
 cided ; and that, moreover, your younger 
 daughter might be expected soon to follow 
 the blessed example.” 
 
 “ My youngest daughter may or may not 
 fulfil those expectations,” returned my 
 father ; “ but I should be very well pleased 
 if her future destinies were left in the hands 
 of the only person who has a right to rule 
 them.” 
 
 “Very good, very good,” ejaculated the 
 Dominican. “ Y ou will, however, admit 
 
 that it is an unusual, not to say a dan- 
 gerous, and still less to say an indelicate 
 thing, for a young, unmarried person to be 
 living at home, under no — ” 
 
 “Under no eye but that of her natural 
 guardian,” interposed my father. “ Yes, it 
 is, as you say, an unusual thing. I suppose 
 you may have heard, before now, of a Donna 
 
236 The Daughter of GalUeo. 
 
 Lucia de Medrano, who publicly lectured on 
 the classics at Salamanca ; and of a Donna 
 Francesca de Lebrija, who filled the chair of 
 rhetoric, at Alcala. What, if I intend to 
 train my Maria for a professorship at Pisa, 
 or for a member of the Lyncean academy ? 
 Wliat should you say ? ” 
 
 “ I should say it was a veiy godless and 
 dangerous experiment,” replied the Do- 
 minican. What good has knowledge done 
 to women, from the days of Eve to those 
 of Yittoria Colonna? It serves no pur- 
 pose but to make them free-thinkers and 
 heretics.” 
 
 That depends upon what sort of know- 
 ledge it is,” said my father. 
 
 All secular knowledge,” pursued Caccini, 
 “all that comes under the Apostle’s deno- 
 mination of ‘vain babblings;’ for such, say 
 what you may, is the beginning, middle 
 
and end of a woman s learning. It makes 
 them heady, perverse, and vain-minded. 
 ^Ve see what has come of it in heretical 
 England ; and even in our own favoured 
 land it has been the perdition of a Vittoria 
 Colonna and an Olimpia Morata. They 
 must needs read forbidden books, I war- 
 rant you ! and have their ears tickled by 
 heterodox preachers, until at length they 
 come to fancy themselves worthy to be 
 classed with Lydia, the seller of pui'ple, 
 because they sheltered and comforted cer- 
 tain false teachers, or, shall I not rather 
 say, wolves, that had crept into the fold, 
 and went about from house to house, taking 
 captive silly women, laden with divers 
 sins — ” 
 
 “ Hold,” said my father ; Pietro Martiro 
 and Bernardino Ochino were none of these 
 even our Bembo has left it on record 
 
238 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 that the latter was the holiest man he ever 
 knew.” 
 
 ''Tell me not of his holiness, tell me of 
 his doctrine,” returned the monk. "How 
 shall I call a man holy who decided that 
 religious vows were hurtful and wicked, our 
 holy church unscriptural, and justification 
 by faith the one thing needful ? He was 
 richly endowed with powers of persuasion, I 
 grant you ; his snow-white head and beard, 
 pale countenance, and musical voice, made 
 him, no doubt, highly interesting; but all 
 these good letters of recommendation were 
 used to an ill purpose ; and even the aus- 
 terity and simplicity which won for him 
 men’s hearts were borrowed from the 
 cloister.” 
 
 " I shall not dispute the matter with 
 you,” said my father ; " though, certainly, if 
 you fast as rigidly as men say he did, you 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 239 
 
 are very little indebted to outward appear- 
 ance for a silent witness to it.” 
 
 “ What need had he to fast at all ? ” re- 
 torted the Dominican, nettled a little at the 
 sarcasm, yet evading it ; he, who pre- 
 tended there was no merit in good works 1 
 why should he, then, have practised them ? ” 
 
 “ Simply for their own sake, it would 
 seem, rather than for the praise of men or 
 for their market value with God,” returned 
 my father ; “ therein proving himself a sad 
 fool, I admit.” 
 
 “ Ah ! my son,” said Caccini, “ you men of 
 genius know little of what you are about, 
 when you attempt to handle any of the 
 weapons of the celestial armoury. Sines 
 and cosines you may be great in ; but when 
 you get upon holy ground . . . heaven 
 defend me from you ! Even on your own 
 ground you wander, no reasonable man can 
 
tell whither, for want of simple adherence to 
 the canon of Scripture.” 
 
 “But it was because Ochino adhered to 
 the simple canon of Scripture,” interrupted 
 my father, “ that you thrust him out of the 
 church.” 
 
 “ What I say is,” pursued Caccini, raising 
 his voice, “that many of your new dogmata 
 are equally opposed to Scripture and to 
 common sense. What ! shall I believe that 
 the sun, whose circuit, we are told in Holy 
 Writ, is to the ends of the earth, does not, 
 in fact, pursue his course round it, but that 
 the earth moves round the sun ? How 
 should the earth be spherical ? Will you 
 persuade me that there are living and 
 moving beings on the other side of it, with 
 their feet turned upwards towards mine, 
 and their heads hanging downwards ? The 
 would 
 
 run up into their heads.” 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 ‘SJust so/’ returned my father, in the 
 same tone ; “ and if a boy were canying 
 along a jug of milk, the milk would fall out, 
 and make a milky way in the heavens ; and 
 the boy must jump up after his jug if he let 
 it fall, and stoop down to catch his hat if 
 the wind blew it towards the clouds, even at 
 the risk of tumbling into the sky. The 
 best proof of his not doing so, however, is 
 that we are precisely in the same situation 
 with him once in every twenty-four hours, 
 and yet we do not fall into infinite space. 
 There is a geometrical necessity for the 
 globular form of the earth ; and I am sur- 
 prised that you, my good father, should 
 make as though it were a new idea to you, 
 when the doctrine was held by the Greek 
 philosophers.” 
 
 “Aye, its spherical shape, but not its 
 movement round the sun, which I remember 
 
242 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 that Aristotle denied,” returned Caccini. 
 
 Neither did he maintain the opposite 
 hemisphere to be inhabited,” 
 
 “ Why, no,” said my father ; “ it would be 
 hard if he had left us nothing to discover, 
 all these long centuries. What say you, for 
 instance, to the mountains in the moon ? ” 
 “The idea is novel, and altogether abo- 
 minable,” replied the Dominican. “ Moun- 
 tains in the moon, forsooth ! — wheugh ! . . . 
 I have heard of moonstruck men becoming 
 lunatic, and have lived to see it verified. — 
 Believe, believe me, my son, you will incur, 
 with greater reason than Socrates did, the 
 charge of corrupting our youth, if, in place 
 of modestly adhering to what is written, you 
 draw a set of inquisitive young fellows 
 around you (Viviani, &c., had by this time 
 joined the conference), who gape after some 
 new thing, like the Athenians of old, fancy 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 243 
 
 themselves your Simmias, your Critias, your 
 Phaedo, and are prepared to swallow any 
 monstrosity, even to the moon being full 
 of populous cities, like Borne and like 
 Florence.” 
 
 They have never been asked to swallow 
 any such monstrosity by me,” said my 
 father. “What I said, and what I say is, 
 that I do not believe the lunar body to be 
 composed of earth and water, or to produce 
 vegetable and animal life, like our own 
 sphere. The length of the nights and days 
 and the vicissitudes of its seasons must be 
 widely different from our own.” 
 
 And he went on to illustrate this at some 
 length, very little to the edification of the 
 shallow and wrongheaded monk, who only 
 reiterated, “Shew it me in Aristotle . . . 
 neither of us, I suppose, presume to be wiser 
 than he . . . only shew it me in Aristotle ” 
 
244 Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 . . . wliicli ridiculous answer at length pro- 
 voked my father to exclaim, “And what 
 have you Aidstotelians, you servile followers 
 of a famous but mistaken man, done 1 
 Have you added a single acre, rood, or perch 
 to your master’s field ? Instead of glorify- 
 ing him, you only bring his name into dis- 
 repute, by arguing on his false premises, 
 and stra3dng farther and farther from the 
 truth. I don’t know him, say you 1 Oh 
 yes, I know him well, and his followers too. 
 I know all your quips and hair-sphttings, 
 your divisions of things that are and are 
 not, that at once appear and appear not ! — 
 your contrasts and oppositions, your limited 
 and unlimited, rest and motion, void and no 
 void. Did any good ever result from such 
 questions as. How can before and after 
 apply when time is not ? or. How can time 
 ,\j be, when motion is not ? Do such imper- 
 
 ■ = 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 245 
 
 tinent inquiries advance the student one 
 step in physical science? Trifles all, sir, 
 trifles all ! Words, conceits, hypotheses, 
 that fade away before experimental science 
 and pure mathematics as the dreams of the 
 night vanish before the cheerful light of 
 morning ! ” 
 
 ‘Won talk me down and will not hear 
 me,” said the Dominican, ‘^but I know 
 I’m in the right, after all ; yes, and that I 
 have the voice of the church with me. You 
 have it all your own way just now. Signor 
 Galileo, and your disciples and partisans 
 may laugh and back you up; but, rely 
 upon it, your doctrines are very unsafe, 
 veiy unsafe.” 
 
 And muttering “Very unsafe, very un- 
 safe,” as he heavily descended the stairs, 
 which creaked at every step, he left my 
 father laughing at him. Yincenzio was 
 
246 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 indignant at what he called the hestialis- 
 sima ostinazione ” of the monk ; but my 
 father said it was no new thing to him 
 to meet with an Aidstotelian who would 
 disbelieve nature herself rather than his 
 master. 
 
 He then quoted to my brother, in Greek, 
 a saying of Ptolemy’s, to the effect that he 
 who would be a tme philosopher must be a 
 freeman in mind. 
 
 All this heard I, sewing with Monna Lisa, 
 behind the green curtain. 
 
 I saw Ginevra last night in my dreams. 
 Met bought she was very sad, very pale, and 
 in tears, though she said she was happy. 
 Afterwards, I seemed following her through 
 ever so many dark passages, she just in 
 advance, yet out of sight, and saying to me 
 
“ Come on ; fear not ; another has been this 
 way before.” At length we reached the 
 chapel, and there was heavenly music, and 
 the smell of incense ; and just as the whole 
 scene became overpowering, I awoke with 
 tears on my face, and became aware of real 
 music under my window. At first I thought 
 my dream had not ended, but the inferiority 
 of the music soon settled that; and, just as 
 I was wishing it would go away, I heard my 
 father’s window open, and something said 
 by him, to which voices answered from 
 below; and then, with a stifled laugh, he 
 shut the casement. A sudden thought 
 struck me ; I started up, sprang to the 
 window and peeped out. Two or three men 
 with guitars were standing under it and just 
 moving away. I could not make out their 
 faces, but thought I could recognise the 
 figure of one, a little apart, not quite hidden 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 by his cloak. I stole to bed again, but not 
 to sleep .... oh ! so happy ! 
 
 This morning, my father was so busy 
 about something that he could not break- 
 fast in a regular way, but took huge mouth- 
 fuls of a thick slice of bread and draughts 
 from a basin of milk Monna Lisa had placed 
 near him, without laying down his com- 
 passes. When he had finished his problem 
 he finished his crust, and said, laughing, 
 “ That ofoes for nothinsf . . . now I shall 
 help you with the figs . .• . nothing 
 
 like working before breakfast to make a 
 man hungiy.” Then, reaching one hand 
 towards the figs, which were from Selve, 
 with the other, he drew from his pocket 
 some dog’s-eared scraps of paper, which he 
 turned over as he ate ; saying, “ Our Viviani 
 

 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 249 
 
 is a clever youth, aye, and an original 
 thinker, and a promising mathematician, 
 though he does jot down his matters on such 
 Sony scraps. \\Tiat has he been about, now? j 
 ‘ Suppongo che’ ... . Hum I Make it 
 
 out, if you can, Tincenzio, for I can decipher 
 no more than his 'suppongo che! A wise 
 man vill always write his thoughts so that j 
 
 they can be fluently read.” Vincenzio read ' 
 
 off without much difficulty, Suppongo che i 
 gl’ impediment! de’ mobile precedent! dalle 
 velocita sole, crescano coUa proporzione delle 
 medesime velocita ; e che i precedent! dalle 
 sole quantita, crescano coUa proporzione de’ ; 
 luoghi, che occupano nel medesimo mezzo le ! 
 medesime quantita” ... 
 
 V ery fair,” said my father : “ that is 
 what the boy was talking of yesterda}*, but | 
 hammered over a good deal, and could not 
 express clearly. Aow, I was thinking over y i 
 
it last night, in bed, when my rheumatism 
 prevented me from sleeping, and made it 
 out clearly, as you shall see. Supposing — ” 
 And then they went off to their A C and 
 D E, and parabolas and pendulums, and 
 momentums and gravitations, very much to 
 their own satisfaction, I dare say ; at the 
 end of which my father took another fig, 
 saying, Which was to be proved.” 
 
 “And so then you went to sleep,” said 
 Vincenzio. 
 
 “ I should have done so, no doubt,” re- 
 plied my father, coolly, “ but for some one 
 under Miss Maria’s window, I fancy, who 
 seemed tickling a guitar into fits.” 
 
 Vincenzio burst into one of his merry 
 laughs, and then stopped short, with more 
 discretion than I should have given him 
 credit for. 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 251 
 
 Father Caccini has been ridiculing my 
 father from the pulpit, and preaching on the 
 text, “Ye men of Galilei, why stand ye 
 looking up into heaven ? ” My father is 
 only amused at it ; and says, “ Never mind ! 
 it will never be said of Caccini as Charles 
 the Fifth said of Ochino — ‘ That man would 
 make the stones weep.’ He can command 
 neither tears nor laughter, except by his 
 absurdity.” 
 
 I wish, however, that my father were less 
 careless of offending the prejudices and pro- 
 voking the malice of such people. Weak 
 men may be dangerous enemies. In the 
 present case the Dominican is not upheld by 
 the general of his order, who has written an 
 apology for him to my father. Minds of the 
 lower sort are insensible to the weight of 
 argument, and cannot be convinced by the 
 clearest demonstration ; but it is of no use 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 to assail them with satire and ridicule : 
 their wounds rankle, and they await the first 
 opportunity of cowardly revenge. Among 
 my father’s intimates are some who utter, in 
 confidence, strange opinions concerning our 
 church. I question if they are sound ; and 
 yet there is much plausibility in what they 
 say. When they quote, half timidly or 
 quite openly, the opinions of Peter Martyr 
 on justification by faith, &c., I sometimes 
 doubt whether I am right in listening, like 
 Sarah, behind the tent door; and yet my 
 father knows I am there, and calls to me, 
 from time to time, for one thing or another. 
 Some of them are good men, too ; and they 
 seem to make me love Jesus more and the 
 conventual system less . . . one thing 
 
 is good, but must not the other be evil ? I 
 suppose I must mention this at my next 
 confession. 
 
This morning, coming out of church, a 
 letter was put into my hand. It proved to 
 be from the Senator Pandolfini, and Avas so 
 foolish that I burnt it as soon as I reached 
 home. 
 
 Jacopo Mazzoni was urgent with my 
 father, yesterday, to say whether he held 
 Ariosto or Tasso to be the finer poet. My 
 father said, comparisons were odious ; he 
 thought Tasso the most beautiful, though 
 Ariosto pleased him the most. The one 
 gave you words ; the other, things. 
 
 And when Mazzoni commended my 
 father’s own style, he modestly answered, 
 that, if he had any merit, he OAved it to 
 the repeated reading of Ariosto, of whom 
 he would say, in the Avords of Dante, — 
 
 “ lo non lo lessi tante volte ancora 
 Ch’ io non trovassi in lui nuova bellezza. ” 
 
The Daughter of Galileo, 
 
 Mazzoni inclined to place Ariosto above 
 Tasso in invention : my father said that 
 they borrowed too freely, and, perhaps, 
 studiously, from the ancients — that what 
 they had cultivated as a beauty, would, per- 
 haj^s, hereafter be looked on as a blemish : 
 men could not at once follow and lead the 
 way. Mazzoni said there might be a chro- 
 nological following : my father said there 
 was more than that in Tasso’s and Ariosto’s 
 imitation of Yirgil, which proceeded less 
 from want of creative power than from com- 
 pliance with the tastes of their readers, as 
 well as with their own. Few have inven- 
 tion ; but there is nothing so sure of taking 
 its place, and keeping it. Finally, he pro- 
 duced, with a little hesitation, a large 
 bundle of papers, filled with passages from 
 the two poets, which he had collated, and 
 written remarks on, at odd times. Mazzoni 
 
pounced on this ; and my father willingly 
 consented to lend it to him, stipulating, 
 however, for its return, as he said the 
 subject might yet amuse an idle hour. 
 Mazzoni promised ; but my father says, 
 “ he misdoubts the rogue.” 
 
 I was disquieted beyond expression, this 
 morning, by my father’s telling me that the 
 old Senator Pandolfini, whom I have only 
 seen once, while Cigoli was painting my 
 picture, wanted to marry me. I clung to 
 him with unaffected horror, and said, “ Oh 
 pray, father, do not think of it ! Let me 
 rather go at once into San Matteo.” He 
 smiled, encouragingly, and said, “ You need 
 not be afraid, Maria. It shall not be ; 
 neither need you go at once into your 
 
256 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 convent. It is a compliment that lie has 
 paid us, however.” 
 
 I was so fluttered about this, that, at 
 confession, I quite forgot all about Peter 
 Martyr. Besides, I don’t think it did me 
 any harm : what was there to confess ? — 
 One thing troubles me ... I fancy I 
 
 owed the serenade, not to , but to the 
 
 senator. What a difference it has made in 
 my feelings about it ! I need not have 
 looked so conscious, the next time we met. 
 At least, if ... I wish I knew ! 
 
 Bellosguardo, Jan. 28. 
 
 . . . My head is still so tender, in 
 
 consequence of my fail, that I find I cannot 
 yet write ... I had hoped to be equal, 
 at least, to copying those nearly-effaced 
 lines of Ginevi'a’s ; but the more effort 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 brings on that distressing fluttering. I 
 must be patient. What a dreary season 
 winter is ! And this house never seems 
 like home. — Yet it is not duller than a 
 convent ; and I have the same God to pray 
 to here as there. Ah, Ginevra ! worthy, 
 indeed, were you to be his servant for ever 1 
 While I — can only steep your hymn with 
 tears . . . 
 
 My father will come here to-morrow. 
 Though I miss him so sadly, it is well to be 
 away from him a little, sometimes. We 
 may be occasionally too long in the enjoy- 
 ment of the highest moral and intellectual 
 
 communion with another mind, whereby 
 that inward sense, through which the soul 
 can alone gather true intimations of her 
 nature and destiny, becomes somewhat 
 

 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 s 
 
 impaired. It was well, therefore, that I 
 should be brought, however reluctantly, to 
 commune with myself in a seclusion, where 
 the works of God are immediately before 
 me, and where no dearer voice drowns the 
 voice of conscience and of nature. Here I 
 have leisure, if I have but sense, to seek 
 for wisdom, for holiness, for submission, and 
 to converse chiefly with God, until at length 
 (oh, how sad an at length !) I shall, perhaps, 
 find a gulf has insensibly opened between 
 me and the objects that were once too 
 dangerous, so as to separate us for ever. 
 
 My father has come. Dii'ectly I ap- 
 proached him, I began to cry. He said, 
 “Why, Maria, how is this?” and took me 
 kindly in his arms. I said, “ I don’t know, 
 am sure ; I have been veiy weak, I think 
 
The Daughter of Galileo, 
 
 259 
 
 ever since that fall.” He said, “ I can’t 
 make out about that fall. Little Tiviani 
 says, he was running up the marble stair- 
 case with the bride-favours, and crying out 
 that his brother was married, when you, 
 r unnin g against him, stumbled, and fell to 
 the stair-foot. Could not you see the child 
 coming?” 
 
 I said, “ Oh, yes, my father, I saw him 
 coming — that is — I” — and knew not what 
 
 to say. 
 
 I said, “We have spread the supper 
 beneath your favourite vine ; and there are 
 roast larks for you. Are you hungry ?” 
 
 “ Yes,” said he, starting from a reverie ; 
 “ but I don’t like to see my own sweet lark 
 with a broken ’vving.” 
 
 “ A broken heaxl, father, would be nearer 
 the mark, if you mean me,” said I, 
 
 laughing. 
 
26 o The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 '' Ah, well, something is broken,” said he, 
 “ that will presently be mended, I make no 
 doubt, with a little time and care. That’s 
 what the old wiseacre of a watchmaker said 
 when I took him my watch. ‘ There ’s 
 something wrong here,’ quoth he, very 
 sapiently. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘that’s why I’ve 
 brought it to you. I could have mended it 
 myself, I fancy, if I had not grudged the 
 time and trouble.’ Old Bartolomeo, you 
 know him, Maria ? And he pulled the old 
 thing completely to pieces, till it did not 
 look good for anything ; and then he pored 
 over it, and said the works were good for 
 nothing, and that there was very little pure 
 gold in it ; and yet he was willing to set a 
 just value on what gold there was ; and I 
 know and believe he can put it together 
 again, and make it go, and go well. That 
 just what God sometimes does with 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 261 
 
 Maria. He shatters ns at a blow, and 
 shows how little worth we are — makes us 
 feel there is no strength in us, and that, as 
 the Reformers say, our works are nothing 
 . . . and just as we have learnt it and 
 
 confessed it, he sets us going again — going 
 well.” 
 
 At supper-time, he chatted most cheer- 
 fully and pleasantly of all the Florence news 
 — how that Bronzino and he had supped 
 together, and amused themselves with 
 making enigmata of his discoveries, which 
 they intended to print in a newspaper, for 
 the sake of puzzling the uninitiated; how 
 he had played the lute, when his eyes were 
 too inflamed for study ; how the churchmen 
 were railing at what they call his infidelity ; 
 how Marc Antonio had brought to him, as a 
 wonderful novelty, an invention of his own, 
 when he was a lad, which he had never 
 
262 The Daughter of Galileo, 
 
 thought it worth while to make' patent ; 
 how Mazzoni laughed at his verses, and 
 praised his criticisms : Caffarelli’s last wit- 
 ticism, Bertini’s last foolery, and Vincenzio’s 
 tragedy, the first act of which took an entire 
 evening to read. 
 
 “ Oh,” continued he, “ you will likewise 
 wish to hear news of the wedding. You 
 must know, then — ” 
 
 ‘'Dear father,” said I, “the pain in my 
 head has been coming on for some time, and 
 is now what you would call an insopport- 
 ahile molestiaT 
 
 “You shall go to bed, then,” said he; 
 “ you shall go to bed,” but continued detain- 
 ing me; we sate in perfect, yet sociable 
 silence, watching the rising of the stars ; 
 and, at length, rather by way of breaking 
 the silence than anything else, I said “ The 
 night cometh, when no man can work !” 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 '' Not the astronomer?” said my father, 
 smiling. Our Lord never meant us to 
 strain the metaphor that far. Besides, he 
 was speaking of the night of death, which, 
 again, is a metaphor not to be overstrained ; 
 for, as the apostle says of its approach, " The 
 night is far spent . . . the day is at 
 
 hand.’ ” 
 
 “ Dearest father,” said I, subtle hair- 
 splittings like these make Friar Caccini and 
 others call you a heretic.” 
 
 “ Loggerheads,” said he, smiling. “ Scrip- 
 ture can stand the test of reason and com- 
 mon sense. If it could not, it would no 
 longer have the witness in itself of being 
 the work of God. He tells us many things 
 above our reason ; nothing contrary to it. 
 Is it not self-evident, with regard to this 
 very test of yours, that, in the night, the 
 astronomer does work ? Welcome, then 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 Night ! solemn, brilliant Night ! Were it 
 not for you, all these glories would be 
 unrevealed to us ! The thin veil between 
 us and them would be impenetrable. We 
 should know of no fellow-planet but the 
 sun — the sun, that makes dark to us the 
 millions of worlds all around I” 
 
 — “Ah,” said I, after a pause, “what 
 futurity’ short of eternity will suffice us, 
 dear father, to explore all those worlds ? 
 Fancy a group of joyous, grateful, forgiven, 
 re-united spirits, starting together on the 
 glad errand !” 
 
 “ Forgivenf repeated he, softly; “yes, 
 that will be the condition, sure enough. 
 There ’ll be no star-gazing in hell.” 
 
 “ Fancy yourself and me, dearest father,” 
 pursued I, — “ for I think you would let me 
 bear you company — and Copernicus, and 
 Kepler, all starting off together, this way. 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 265 
 
 some of those nebulae in the Pleiades, or of 
 Prassepe, which your tube has enabled you 
 to discover/’ 
 
 '^Ay,” said he, drawing a deep inspira- 
 tion, “ that would be grand.” 
 
 ^¥ill be grand,” said I ; ‘‘I think the 
 time will come.” 
 
 God gi'ant it !” said he, heartily. “ Re- 
 member me in your prayers, little 'girl, to- 
 night. . . . How is your insoppovtabile 
 
 molestia ? ” 
 
 “ Quite gone ! ” said I. 
 
 “ Ah,” said he, smiling, “ no remedy like 
 a little star-gazing for taking our thoughts 
 beyond ourselves. I knew that well 
 enough, all the time I held you fast. 
 Good night ! ” 
 
 
266 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 My father was busy writing all this morn- 
 ing ; I beside him at my needle. Suddenly, 
 looking up at me, as he dipped his pen, he 
 said, “ Maria ! what are you doing ? ” 
 
 Working,” said I, starting, and drawing 
 out my silk. 
 
 “Nay,” said he, “you were crying. I 
 saw a tear fall and glitter between me and 
 the tapestry. Come hither, dear ; what ails 
 you, hey ? Come, tell me. Come.” 
 
 I said, sighing deeply, “ Father, I know 
 not. It may be want of faith, want of 
 health, want of work. I pray for faith, I 
 try to bear languor and sadness, and — ” 
 
 “ And you are willing to try hard work. 
 You shall have it, my daughter. Maria, I 
 need no telling that you are vexed about 
 something that has occurred; I am vexed 
 too, I confess to you ; what can we do ? 
 othing ? Nay, we can do much ; we can 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 discipline, we can conquer ourselves. You 
 are dear to me, my child — I will help you 
 all I can. I have already been turning in 
 my mind what to set you about, for, Maria, 
 yours is no common soul or mind. Your 
 best, your greatest time is to come. You 
 may, if you will, be a Lucia de Medrano — a 
 Francesca de Lebrija.” . . . 
 
 “ Ah,” said I, deeply sighing, “ I would 
 sooner be a Vittoria Colonna, an Olimpia 
 Morata, if I knew them to be in the 
 right.” 
 
 “ They were both noble women, divine 
 women,” said he ; “ however, we must allow 
 them to have been a little heretical ; and I 
 don’t wish you, child, to be that. ’Tis ugly 
 and unfeminine. However, for the present 
 occasion, here is something quite in your 
 own way — sound divinity, I give you my 
 word for it. Here have I written thirty or 
 
 
268 
 
 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 forty pages, and shall perhaps write as many 
 more, to defend my conviction that the 
 Scriptures must be read by the light of 
 common sense, and that it is in reality as 
 difficult to reconcile the Ptolemaic as the 
 Copernican system to the expressions con- 
 tained in them. You shall make a fair 
 copy for me ; for, in spite of what I said to 
 the boys one day about a wise man writing 
 a legible hand, my own, I confess it, is as 
 crabbed as the Aristotelian dialectics.” 
 
 So to work I went, and have yet much 
 to complete. The letter is to the Grand 
 Duchess Cristina. I may be partial, but I 
 think he handles his difficult subject ad- 
 mirably. He expresses his conviction that 
 the Scriptures were designed to instruct us 
 concerning our salvation, not to teach us 
 science or philosophy; — the powers of our 
 own minds were given us for that. 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 269 
 
 patience and labour a man may discover the 
 course of the planets, whether he do so or 
 not; and is therefore left to his unassisted 
 reason ; but he could never discover the 
 scheme of his redemption, therefore it is 
 revealed to him. 
 
 Salviati dined with us to-day. My father 
 read him what he had written. He ap- 
 proved of it as a piece of reasoning, but said 
 he feared it would only increase the irrita- 
 tion of his enemies ; and recommended the 
 softening of one or two expressions, observ- 
 ing, You must bear in mind, my Galileo, 
 that not only sarcasm, but genius itself, 
 requires, by such minds as these, to be 
 forgiven.” 
 
 I am beginning to learn logic, and like 
 it extremely ; only that my father, who is 
 
2;o 
 
 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 amused at my facility in illustrating every 
 new term, says, lie fears my head is too full 
 of complex images at present for that of a 
 good logician. 
 
 — He is cited to appear at Rome I Oh 
 heaven, what will be the issue of this? 
 Will he hold out? will he recant? What 
 can I do but pray ? 
 
 . . . And what will not prayer do ? 
 
 What has it not done ? Oh God, strengthen 
 him in this hour ! 
 
 — I am to go into San Matteo till his 
 return. Till his return ! Will he ever ? 
 
 How selfish, how sentimental were my 
 late griefs, compared with this ! — This is 
 
 sorrow. 
 

 
 
 
 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 271 
 
 He is gone. We had a short but eager 
 conversation before he departed ; and I 
 tremble to say I think he vacillates. What 
 a strait for a daughter ... to have no 
 alternative but to wish her loved father may 
 abide the vengeance of the Inquisition, or 
 that he may abjure the truth ! No, I can- 
 not ! — I cannot wish the first ; but I will 
 not, dare not wish the last ! Oh my father ! 
 if I could suffer for you ! 
 
 [A pause of some months in Maria’s jour- 
 nal leaves us to suppose her with her sister, 
 Ginevra, in the convent of San Matteo, dur- 
 ing Galileo’s first citation to appear before 
 the Inquisition, which assembled to consider 
 the charges against him in February, 1615. 
 They were to the effect that he maintained 
 the motion of the earth and the stability of 
 
2/2 
 
 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 tlie sun, in contradiction to the canon of 
 Scripture — that he taught this doctrine to 
 his pupils, corresponded on the subject with 
 German mathematicians, and had published 
 remarks on it, with Scriptural references, 
 addressed to Mark Yelser. Galileo was 
 sentenced to renounce these obnoxious doc- 
 trines, and to pledge himself that he woidd 
 neither teach, defend, nor publish them in 
 future, or else to be cast into prison . . . 
 
 and he recanted, and was dismissed. 
 
 These proceedings kept Galileo in Rome 
 till the following March. The Pope, re- 
 garding him as reclaimed, received him 
 graciously, his society was courted, and he 
 was completely in fashion during his brief 
 triumph, delighting all listeners by the wit, 
 sarcasm, and brilliancy of his conversation. 
 Meantime, an arrow had pierced his daugh- 
 s heart : it rankled with a poison that 
 
The Daughter of Galileo, 
 
 273 
 
 was slowly to consume her. He had for- 
 feited her respect and esteem, while she 
 loved him as tenderly, more compassionately 
 than ever. At length he returns ; and she 
 returns to him and to her studies ; but 
 the sunshine of her life is gone. Add to 
 this, her lengthened stay in the convent 
 has strengthened her religious impressions, 
 which begin to be tinctured with mysticism, 
 and she has a strong desire to take the veil] 
 
 . . . My father combats this desire 
 
 with all his powers of reasoning and per- 
 suasion, which are immense, and makes the 
 conventual system appear so useless and 
 despicable, that, at times, I have not a 
 single reply to make ; and yet it is the only 
 refuge of a broken heart. Besides, I cannot 
 tell him, nor any one but my confessor. 
 
 T 
 
274 
 
 The Daughter of Galileo . 
 
 what has poisoned my life ; and am I to 
 abandon him to a cheerless old age for one 
 great fault, one weakness of character ? 
 How can I ? 
 
 — Besides, he is ill now, and requires me 
 as a nurse ; and is not ministry to the sipk 
 one of the acts of mercy ? I may fulfil it in 
 a spirit as completely unworldly as if I had 
 abjured the world. He requires my con- 
 stant exercise of such powers of amusement 
 as I possess ; for the appearance of these 
 three comets, which are attracting the 
 attention of all the philosophers of Europe, 
 and which he is unable to see, continually 
 occupies the mind of my dear restless 
 father, whenever I cannot otherwise divert 
 it. And though he cannot make a single 
 observation upon them, he has, nevertheless, 
 contrived to involve himself in the many 
 disputes they have occasioned, and obliges 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 me to act as his amanuensis, while he 
 makes himself feverish by dictating a pro- 
 digiously long letter, if it swell not even 
 into a book, addressed to Virginio Cesarini. 
 
 The sight of my father’s right eye is 
 much impaired from over use, and it weighs 
 on his spirits to think that he may even 
 lose it altogether. This prevents his amus- 
 ing himself as he might otherwise do, by 
 reading in bed, but we play chess together 
 a good deal, though he beats me too often 
 to find me a very exciting antagonist. But 
 my attention strays to other things ; and 
 then we begin talking, and go on from one 
 subject to another, till we forget the game, 
 which is no great matter as long as he also 
 ‘ forgets his pains and his apprehensions. 
 Seeing him thus dependent on me, how can 
 I think of leaving him ? Besides, I fancy I 
 have a sort of mission, as regards his soul 
 
2/6 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 I never dispute with him if I can help it ; 
 but neither do I ever neglect an opportunity 
 of saying a word in season. Thus, one day, 
 when we had just concluded a little dia- 
 logue, I dropped the remark quite simply. 
 It seems to me that a capacity for reason- 
 ing increases the capacity for believing.” 
 He chewed the cud, so to say, a good while 
 upon this. Another time I said, “Apply- 
 ing, of course, as you do, father, in mecha- 
 nics as well as ethics, the principle of great 
 things to small ones.” He said nothing at 
 the time ; but a few days after, when there 
 was question of sending some false excuse 
 about a trifle, he recast his message — “ for 
 the sake. Miss Maria,” said he, “ of ‘ apply- 
 ing the principle of great things to small 
 ones!’” Ah, my dear father! I wish that 
 you had always resolution to do this ! It is 
 the lie, not the occasion of it, of which 
 
/ 
 
 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 we can never say, '' Is it not a little 
 one r 
 
 The good Archbishop of Florence is fond 
 of coming to see him, and sometimes plays 
 chess with him. So do Monsignori Picco- 
 lomini, Medici, and Ciampoli : and they 
 contribute very much to his amusement, as 
 long as conversation does not degenerate 
 into controversy. On these occasions I re- 
 tire to my embroidery frame, but dare not 
 go beyond call. This exposes me to some 
 society I could very well spare — that of 
 Rinuccini and Sertini, for example, both 
 of whom have offered me marriage, and 
 neither of whom will take no for a negative. 
 This makes me feel the defencelessness of 
 my situation : sure, never was woman so 
 entirely without female friends ! I cannot 
 think how it is, for my father is very much 
 patronised by women of high birth when 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 goes into society; but I suppose they are 
 too grand to take notice of his daughter, 
 and I suppose my mother’s connections were 
 too low for him to like me to take notice of 
 them. I wonder I have thought so little 
 about this. 
 
 I was turning in my mind what I had 
 just witten, when my father, rousing up, 
 said, “ Maria ! what are 3mu musing about V 
 I said, “ I was thinking how strange it is 
 never to have known the care of a mother.” 
 “The care of a mother?” repeated he, 
 turning restlessly on his pillow, “ why, have 
 not you always had the care of a loving 
 father ? Is there anything, child, you 
 would wish me to have done that I have 
 neglected to do for you ?” 
 
 I took his hand, and said, “ Oh no, dear 
 
 father! I am soiTy I told my thought — 
 
 only you asked me, you know ; 
 
 ; and people ^ 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 Tvill have futile thoughts and wishes, some- 
 times.” 
 
 After a pause, during which I thought he 
 was sleeping, he said, feelingly, “ I had 
 hoped, my poor, sweet child, that Monna 
 Lisa had never let you feel the want of a 
 mother.” 
 
 “ Ah ! she is very good ! very kind !” said 
 I. “ V ery dearly do I love her ; hut yet not 
 as I could love a mother. For you know, 
 dear father, she has no mind, no education.” 
 
 “ No, indeed,” said he, very decidedly. 
 “ Never had, nor never will have !” And, 
 turning about, went to sleep. 
 
 [Alaria’s susceptible spirit was doomed, 
 from this period, to have little rest or peace. 
 Knitted, with the closest, purest affection, 
 a soul which, with all its mighty powers, 
 
28 o The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 was less holy, less self-sacrificing, less cou- 
 rageous than her owm, she w^as torn and 
 harassed by ineffectual or conflicting emo- 
 tions. Now, her own peculiar position; 
 now, the new provocations which Galileo 
 gave his enemies ; now the dread that he 
 would be unable, any more than before, to 
 abide the wrath he so carelessly provoked, 
 preyed on the heart, and ruined the health 
 of this poor girl ; till her father, reluctantly 
 compelled to believe that she was pining for 
 the convent, and that there were mental 
 trials which science might fail and religion 
 might succeed in alleviating, consented to 
 her entering on her novitiate. Before she 
 took the black veil, he provoked the enmity 
 of the Inquisition anew, by publishing his 
 defence of the Copernican system, in four 
 dialogues, brilliantly and convincingly writ- 
 , but preceded by an “Address to the 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 281 
 
 Prudent Reader/’ which is of itself a master- 
 piece of imprudence. The insulting and 
 irritating terms in which he spoke of the 
 decree under which he had formerly suf- 
 fered, were not such as the Romish Church 
 could endure. The Tuscan ambassador, at 
 Rome, was instructed to obtain for Galileo a 
 written statement of the charges against 
 him, that he might prepare his defence ; but 
 even the friendship of the Grand Duke of 
 Tuscany could not procure him this favour. 
 He was summoned to Rome, which he 
 reached in a state of severe ill-health ; his 
 anival was officially announced to the Holy 
 Office, and he was hospitably entertained by 
 the Tuscan ambassador, till the time fixed 
 for his trial anived, when he was removed, 
 not into a solitary dungeon, but into apart- 
 ments in the house of the fiscal of the 
 
282 
 
 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 Galileo’s defence, being an evasive one, 
 was not considered by bis judges to have 
 any weight, but rather to aggravate his 
 offence. The fact was, there was a mighty 
 point at issue, the truth of which they alto- 
 gether disbelieved, and the truth of which 
 he was unprepared to die or to suffer for. 
 Therefore, they decreed, and he submitted 
 to, a disgraceful and entire recantation of 
 the facts that were burnt into his very soul. 
 On the 22nd of June, 1638, he was clothed 
 in a penitential dress, and conducted into 
 the presence of the Inquisition. A long 
 and elaborate sentence was pronounced, de- 
 tailing his repeated delinquencies, and re- 
 minding him of the penalties they justly 
 deserved, but absolving him from all those 
 consequences, if, with a sincere heart and 
 unfeigned repentance, he should abjure and 
 curse the heresies he had cherished, as well 
 

 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 as every other heresy against the Catholic 
 Church. At the same time, that he might 
 not go altogether unpunished, but be a 
 salutary warning to others to abstain from 
 like offences, his Dialogues were to be 
 publicly prohibited, he was to be condemned 
 to the prison of the Inquisition during its 
 pleasure, and, for the three following years, 
 he was to recite once a week the seven 
 penitential psalms. 
 
 The scene that followed had a terrible 
 solemnity and abasement in it. Clad in a 
 penitent’s sackcloth, the mighty, self-relying 
 philosopher and genius fell upon his knees, 
 and, with his hands laid on the Holy Evan- 
 gelists, declared that he abjured, detested, 
 and would never again teach the doctrine of 
 the sun’s stability and the earth’s motion. 
 Having confirmed his oath in writing, and 
 
 r promised to perform the enjoined penance, 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 he rose from his knees, a pardoned man ; 
 and, turning about to one of his friends, 
 stamped on the ground, and pronounced, in 
 an emphatic whisper, Eppure si muove.” 
 He was then, in conformity with his sen- 
 tence, reconveyed to the prison of the 
 Inquisition. Could he have looked the 
 stars in the face that night ? Not with an 
 untroubled mind. 
 
 His sentence of abjuration was ordered to 
 be publicly read at the several universities. 
 At Florence, his disciples and friends were 
 especially cited to hear their leader’s re- 
 cantation proclaimed in Santa Croce. Some 
 of his adherents were reprimanded ; others, 
 deprived of their official situations. 
 
 Galileo had remained only four days in 
 imprisonment, when he was permitted to 
 reside with certain of his friends, on con- 
 dition of his restricting himself to the limits 
 
 ■- 
 
of their palaces. In the course of a few 
 months, he was furthermore permitted, by 
 the indulgence of the Inquisition, to return 
 to his own house, at Arcetri.] 
 
 VINCENZIO GALILEI TO VITTOEIO VIYIANL* 
 
 You wiU gi’ieve, my Viviani, to hear 
 that we have lost our Maria. Her health 
 had, as you are aware, long been under- 
 mined ; and the grief and suspense occa- 
 sioned by my father’s citation and sentence, 
 but, above all, the extreme shame she felt 
 at what she considered the ignominy of his 
 recantation, broke her too feelino; heart ! 
 . . . She was struck dovm, as if by the 
 
 * Vincenzio Yiviani, who has left us a brief hiogra 
 phical sketch of Galileo, did not become an inmate of 
 his family till after Maria’s death. 
 
 I 
 
 
286 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 fall of some heavy weight, the moment she 
 heard of it ; but, presently rallying what 
 little strength she had, she undertook for 
 him what she had good reason for doubting 
 his ever performing for himself — the weekly 
 recitation of the seven penitential psalms. 
 The fulfilment of this sacred duty was well 
 suited to her tender nature ; and I am well 
 assured that the chapel pavement was never 
 bathed with the tears of profounder humi- 
 liation than those which, in her vicarious 
 office, she poured forth for him. After some 
 months of this penitential exercise, she was 
 acquainted by us with the news of his ap- 
 proaching return, and was permitted by her 
 abbess to welcome him home. Alas ! that 
 meeting, so coveted by both, was only one of 
 sobs and heart-breaking sighs. His thought 
 was only for her; hers only for him. She 
 immediately sickened, and, to her inexpres- 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 287 
 
 sible grief, 'was unable to continue tbe pro- 
 secution of her pious, self-imposed penance. 
 My father, seeing her languish, instantly 
 lost his accustomed energy of nature ; and 
 his old and painful complaints returned 
 upon him with increased severity. During 
 the few weeks she was permitted to con- 
 tinue in this world, they were seldom apart. 
 I have heard him reading the appointed 
 psalms to her in a voice stifled with emo- 
 tion. She, on her part, hved but in his 
 presence, continually gazed on him, held his 
 hand, and, from time to time, addressed to 
 him short sentences of counsel and comfort. 
 At last, the weary spirit fled to a realm 
 where tears will be known no more. The 
 bulwarks of my father’s heart then seemed 
 to break down altogether ; his manliness 
 was continually quenched in floods of bitter 
 weeping ; and his eyesight, which has Ion 
 
288 The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 been departing, has certainly been impaired 
 by the many tears he has shed. He is now 
 waning away so fast that I fear we shall 
 hardly save him. His pulse intermits, his 
 appetite is gone, and he fancies himself con- 
 tinually called by Maria. So strongly has 
 the impression of his impending dissolution 
 taken hold of him that he will not let me 
 quit him, to make a hasty journey to you. 
 
 Oh, my Viviani ! what a sister, what a 
 companion have we lost ! I say we, for she 
 was once as much so to you as to me, and 
 we all three passed the happiest of our 
 youthful hours together. How graceful she 
 was; how winning!^ how quick of appre- 
 hension ! how lively in fancy ! how cheerful, 
 unaffected and unselfish ! You ma)^ re- 
 member she often shielded us from rebuke. 
 
 Come leggiadra ! come graziosa ! 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 often made sweet excuses for us, and always 
 put the kindest construction upon every- 
 thing. Never did we hear an ill-natured 
 sarcasm from her lips ; she took no pleasure 
 in hearing the defects of others recapi- 
 tulated, nor in contributing to their un- 
 easiness. On the contrary, to see others 
 afflicted, however deservedly, always made 
 her unhappy. Her genius was carried with 
 an utter unconsciousness of possessing it. 
 I have seen Cigoli admiring her graceful 
 attitudes and charming countenance with 
 
 perfect impunity. To be beautiful is not, 
 necessarily, to be vain ; I have kno\vn some 
 of the handsomest women the least con- 
 ceited. Her piety seemed spontaneous to 
 her ; she was a saint out of the cloister, she 
 wmuld have been a saint in it, and now she 
 is a saint in heaven. But why do I say all 
 this to you, who entertained for her the 
 
The Daughter of Galileo. 
 
 most cordial brotherly affection ? She bade 
 me remember her kindly to you ; and I 
 enclose you a ringlet of your old playmate’s 
 hair. Farewell !” 
 
 BRADBURY, EVANS, AND €0., PRINTERS. WHITEFRIARS.