"Oh! the world's nothing more than a cobbler's stall,Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!And mankind are the boots and the shoes on the wall;Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!The great and the richNever want a new stitch;They fit like a glove before and behind,Are polished and neat, and always well lined,And thus wear till they come to life's ending:But the poor and the meanAre not fit to be seen,—They are things that none would borrow or steal,Are out at the toes, and down at the heel,And are always beyond any mending.So the world's nothing more than a cobbler's stall,Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!And mankind are the boots and the shoes on the wall;Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!
"Oh! the world's nothing more than a cobbler's stall,Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!And mankind are the boots and the shoes on the wall;Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!The great and the richNever want a new stitch;They fit like a glove before and behind,Are polished and neat, and always well lined,And thus wear till they come to life's ending:But the poor and the meanAre not fit to be seen,—They are things that none would borrow or steal,Are out at the toes, and down at the heel,And are always beyond any mending.So the world's nothing more than a cobbler's stall,Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!And mankind are the boots and the shoes on the wall;Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!
"Jacob!—Jacob Kats, I say!" exclaimed a shrill female voice.
"Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!" continued the singer.
"Are you deaf, mynheer?"
"And mankind are the boots and the shoes on the wall."
"Do leave off your singing, and open the door; the burgomaster will be angry that I have stayed so long."
"Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!"
"You are enough to provoke the most patient girl in Dort. Open the door, Jacob Kats! Open the door this instant, or you shall never have any more work from me!"
"Ya?" drawled the cobbler interrogatively, as he slowly opened the door of his stall.
"Is this the way you behave to your customers, mynheer?" asked a smartly-dressed, plump-faced, pretty little woman, in rather a sharp tone;—"keeping them knocking at the door till you please to open it? It's not respectful to the burgomaster, Jacob Kats!"
"Ya!" replied the mender of leather.
"Here, I want you to do this very neatly," said the girl, producing a small light shoe, and pointing to a place that evidently wanted repairing.
"Ya!" said Jacob Kats, examining with professional curiosity the object spoken of.
"The stitches have broken away, you see; so you must fill up the place they have left, with your best workmanship," she continued.
"Ya!" he responded.
"And mind you don't make a botch of it, mynheer!"
"Ya!"
"And let me have it in an hour, for the burgomaster has given me leave to go to a dance."
"Ya!"
"And be sure you make a reasonable charge."
"Ya."
"I shall be back in an hour," said the little woman, as she opened the door to let herself out of the stall; "and I shall expect that it will be ready by that time:" and away she went. "Ya!" replied Jacob for the last time, as he prepared to set briskly about the job, knowing that his fair customer was too important a personage to be disappointed. "It is not every cobbler that can boast of being employed by a burgomaster's nursery-maid," thought Jacob; and Jacob was right.
Now every one knows what sort of character a cobbler is; but a Dutch cobbler is thebeau idéalof the tribe, and the cobbler of Dort deserved to be king of all the cobblers in Holland. He was the finest specimen of "the profession" it was possible to meet with; a profession, by-the-by, which his forefathers from time immemorial had followed, for none of them had ever been, or ever aspired to be, shoemakers. Jacob could not be said to be tall, unless a height of five feet one is so considered. His body was what is usually called "punchy;" his head round like a ball, so that it appeared upon his shoulders like a Dutch cheese on a firkin of butter; and his face, having been well seamed by the ravages of the small-pox, closely resembled a battered nutmeg-grater, with a tremendous gap at the bottom for a mouth, a fiery excrescence just above it, for a nose, and two dents, higher still, in which were placed a pair of twinkling eyes. It will easily be understood from this description, that our hero was by no means handsome; but his father and his grandfather before him, had been remarkable for the plainness of their looks, and therefore Jacob had no earthly reason to desire to put a better face on his business than his predecessors. Much cannot be said of his dress, which had little in it differing from that of other cobblers. A red woollen cap ornamented his head,—a part of his person that certainly required some decoration; long sleeves, of a fabric which could only be guessed at, in consequence of their colour, cased his arms; half-a-dozen waistcoats of various materials covered the upper part of his body; and his nether garments were hid under an immense thick leather apron,—a sort of heir-loom of the family.
But Jacob had otherhabitsbeside these; he drank much—he smoked more—and had an equal partiality for songs and pickled herrings. Alone, which is something like a paradox, he was the most sociable fellow in existence; he sang to himself, he talked to himself, he drank to himself, and was evidently on the most friendly terms with himself: but when any one made an addition to the society, he became the most reserved of cobblers; monosyllables were all he attempted to utter; nor had he any great variety of these, as may have been observed in the preceding dialogue. His stall was his kingdom; he swayed his hammer, and ruled his lapstone vigorously; and, as other absolute monarchs have done,—in his subjects he found histools. His place of empire was worthy of its ruler. It had originally been an outhouse, belonging to one of those low Gothic-looking dwellings with projecting eaves and bow windows that may be seen in the unfashionable parts of most Dutch towns; and its interior, besides a multitude of objects belonging to the trade, contained a variety of other matters peculiar to himself. Such spaces on the wells as were not hidden from view by superannuated boots and shoes, were covered withcoloured prints from designs by Ostade, Teniers, and others, representing boors drinking, playing at cards or at bowls, and similar subjects. On a heavy three-legged stool, the throne of the dynasty of the Kats, sat the illustrious Jacob, facing the window to receive all the advantages the light could give: before him were the paraphernalia of his vocation: on one side was a curious old flask, smelling strongly of genuine Schiedam, which invariably formed "a running accompaniment" to his labours; and on the other was an antique pipe, short in the stem, and having a bowl on which the head of a satyr had been carved, but constant use for several generations had made the material so black, that it might have been taken for the frontispiece of a more objectionable personage.
Jacob Kats had been diligently waxing some flax preparatory to commencing the repairs of the burgomaster's nursery-maid's shoe, occasionally stopping in his task to moisten his throat with the contents of the flask, which, either from a prodigal meal of pickled herrings having made him more thirsty than usual, or the Schiedam appearing more excellent, had been raised to his mouth so often that day, that it had tinged his nose to a more luminous crimson, and had given to his eyes a more restless twinkling, than either had known for some time; when, having prepared his thread, laid it carefully on his knee ready for immediate use, and placed the object on which his skill was to be exercised close at hand, he turned his attention to his pipe,—it being an invariable rule of his progenitors never to attempt anything of importance without first seeking the stimulating influence of the Virginian weed. On examining his stock of tobacco, he discovered that he had barely enough for one pipe.
"Donner und blitzen! no more? Bah! I wish to the Teufel my pipe would never want refilling," exclaimed the cobbler of Dort, filling the bowl with the remains of the tobacco; and then, having ignited it with the assistance of flint, steel, and German tinder, puffed away at the tube, consoling himself with the reflection that, when his labour was done, he should be able to procure a fresh supply. He smoked and stitched, and stitched and smoked, and smoked and stitched again, and, while his fumigations kept pace with his arms, his thoughts were by no means idle; for, to tell the exact truth, he became conscious of a flow of ideas more numerous and more ambitious than he had ever previously conceived. Among other notions which hurried one another through his pericranium, was one particularly interesting to himself. He thought it was high time to attempt something to prevent the ancient family of the Kats becoming extinct, as he was now on the shady side of forty, enjoying in single blessedness the dignities of Cobbler of Dort, and, if such a state continued, stood an excellent chance of being the last of his name who had filled that honourable capacity. He could not help condemning the taste of the girls of his native town, who had never looked favourably upon his advantages: even Maria Van Bree, a fair widow who had signified her affection every day for fifteen years by repeating a joke upon his nose, only last week had blighted his dearest hopes by marrying an old fellow with no nose at all. Jacob thought of his solitary condition, and fancied himself miserable. He became sentimental. His stitches were made with a melancholy precision, and in the intensity of his affliction he puffed his miserablepipe; but, as song was the medium through which he always expressed his emotions, his grief was not tuneless: in tones that, without any exaggeration, were wretched to a degree, he sung the following exquisite example of Dutch sentiment:
"Ach! had ik tranen kon ik schreijen,De smart knaagt mij het leven af;Neen wanhoop spaargeen folte ringen,Stort bij Maria mij in't graf."
"Ach! had ik tranen kon ik schreijen,De smart knaagt mij het leven af;Neen wanhoop spaargeen folte ringen,Stort bij Maria mij in't graf."
Which is most appropriately rendered thus:
"Ah! had I tears, so fast they'd spring,Nought from these eyes the flood could wipe out;But had I songs, I could not sing,—The false Maria's put my pipe out."
"Ah! had I tears, so fast they'd spring,Nought from these eyes the flood could wipe out;But had I songs, I could not sing,—The false Maria's put my pipe out."
The conclusion of this pathetic verse brought to his mind the extraordinary circumstance of his pipe (the one he had been smoking) continuing to be vigorously puffed long after it had usually required replenishing. He might have exhausted three in the same time. He also became conscious of a curious burning sensation spreading from immediately under his red cap to the very extremities of his ten toes. The smoke he inhaled seemed very hot; and the alarm which his observations on these matters created was considerably increased by hearing a roar of small shrill laughter burst from under his very nose!
"Donner und blitzen!" exclaimed the bewildered cobbler, as he took the pipe out of his mouth and looked around him to discover from whence the sounds proceeded.
"Smoke away, old boy! Smoke away! You won't smoke me out in a hurry, I can tell ye."
Jacob directed his eyes to the place from whence came this strange address, and his astonishment may be imagined at perceiving thatthe words were uttered by his pipe!The ill-looking, black satyr, carved on the bowl, seemed to cock his eye at him in the most impertinent manner, twisted his mouth into all sorts of diabolical grimaces, and laughed till the tears ran down his sooty cheeks. Jacob was, as he himself expressed it, "struck all of a heap."
"You know you wished to the Teufel your pipe would never require refilling," said the voice as plainly as it could, while laughing all the time; "so your desire is now gratified. You may smoke me till the day of judgement."
Jacob, in fear and trembling, recalled to mind his impious wish; and even his regret for having been jilted by the widow Van Bree was forgotten in the intensity of his alarm.
"Smoke away, Jacob Kats!—I'm full of capital tobacco," continued the little wretch, with a chuckle.
The terrified cobbler was thinking of refusing, yet too much afraid of the consequences; while his tormentor, distorting his hideous features into a more abominable grin, shrieked out in his shrill treble,
"Youmustsmoke me—no use refusingnow! Here I am, old boy, with a full bowl that will never burn out—never, never, never! so you'd best smoke." And then, as if noticing his indecision, he exclaimed, with a fresh burst of horrid laughter, "Well, if you won't,I'll make you: so, here goes!" and, before his wretched victim was aware of the manoeuvre, he jumped stem foremost into his mouth.
"Now, smoke away, old boy, or worse will follow!" said the little satyr threateningly.
Jacob was in such a state of fright that he did not dare to refuse; but the first mouthful of smoke he inhaled seemed to choke him, as if it was the burning flames of sulphur, and, gasping for breath, he brushed the pipe from his mouth.
"Smoke away, Jacob!—capital tobacco!" screamed the voice in a roar of more fiendish mirth, as he immediately regained his position. In vain, with one hand after the other, the miserable cobbler knocked the pipe from between his teeth: as fast as he struck it away, it returned to the same place. "Smoke away, old boy!" continued his unrelenting enemy, as often as his fits of laughter would allow. "Smoke away!—capital tobacco!"
Jacob Kats seemed in despair, when, casting his eyes upon his lapstone, a way of getting rid of the accursed pipe presented itself to his mind. He threw down the grinning demon on the floor, and with his lapstone raised above his head was about to crush it at a blow. "Smoke away, old boy!" fixing itself again firmly between his teeth, before Jacob had time to put his intention into execution, jeeringly continued the detested voice; "smoke away!—capital tobacco!"
With one great effort, such as great minds have recourse to on great occasions. Jacob let fall the stone, with a vigorous grasp caught hold of the grinning pipe, and, as he thought, before it could make a guess as to what he was about to do, dashed it into a thousand pieces upon the lapstone at his feet.
"Donner und blitzen!" cried the delighted cobbler; "I have done for you now!"
Alas for all sublunary pleasures!—alas for all worldly convictions!—instead of his enemy being broken into a thousand pieces, it was multiplied into a thousand pipes,—every one a facsimile of the original, each possessing the same impertinent cock of the eye, each disclosing the same satirical twist of the mouth, and all laughing like a troop of hyenas, and shouting in chorus, "Smoke away! smoke away, old boy!—capital tobacco!"
The patience of a Dutchman may be great, but the concentrated patience of all Holland could not stand unmoved on so trying an occasion as that which occurred to Jacob Kats. He saw his multitudinous tormentors form into regular rank and file, and then, as if his mouth had been a breach which he had "armed to the teeth," they presented their stems like so many bayonets, and charged in military fashion, screaming, laughing, and shouting, in a manner sufficiently terrible to scare the senses out of all the cobblers in Christendom. Slowly the trembling wretch retreated before the threatening phalanx; but he was surrounded—his back was against the wall—there was no escape; and with one leap the enemy were in the citadel. Extraordinary as it may appear, Jacob did not lose his presence of mind. As they were all jostling, and giggling, and crying out to be smoked, the unconquered cobbler firmly grasped the whole mass of his foes in both his hands to make a last attempt at their destruction, by throwing them into a tub of water, in which he soaked his leather, that happened to be just within reach; but, ina manner inexplicable to him, he felt that the more vigorously he grasped them in a body, the more rapidly they seemed to shrink from his touch, till nothing was left but the original pipe, which suddenly slipped out of his hands.
"Well then, youwon'tsmoke me," coolly remarked the sooty demon;—"but," added he, in tones that made the marrow in Jacob's bones turn cold as ice, "I'll smoke you!"
While the last of the family of the Kats was reflecting upon the meaning of those mysterious words, to his increasing horror he observed the well-smoked features of the satyr gradually swell into an enormous bulk of countenance, as the same process of enlargement transformed the stem into legs, arms, and body, proportionately huge and terrific; but the monstrous face still wore its original expression, and seemed to the unhappy Dutchman as if he was looking at the cock of his eye through a microscope. Without saying a word, the monster, with the finger and thumb of his right hand, caught up Jacob Kats by the middle, just as an ordinary man would take up an ordinary pipe, and with his left hand twisted one of his victim's legs over the other, as if they had been made of wax, till they came to a tolerable point at the foot; then, taking from a capacious pocket at his side a moderate-sized piece of tobacco, with the utmost impudence imaginable, he rubbed it briskly upon Jacob's unfortunate nose, which, as would any fiery nose under such circumstances, was burning with indignation; and the weed immediately igniting, as the poor cobbler lay with his head down gasping for breath, he thrust the flaming mass into his mouth, extended a pair of jaws that looked like the lock of the Grand Canal, quietly raised Jacob's foot between them, and immediately began to smoke with the energy of a steam-engine! Miserable Jacob Kats!—what agonies he endured! At every whiff the inhuman smoker took, he could feel the narcotic vapour, hot as a living coal, drawn rapidly down his throat, through his veins and out at his toes, to be puffed in huge volumes out of the monster's mouth, till the place was filled with the smoke. Jacob felt that his teeth were red-hot,—that his tongue was a cinder,—and big drops of perspiration coursed each other down his burning cheeks, like the waves of the Zuyder Zee on the shore when the tide's running up. Jacob looked pitiably at his tormentor, and thought he discerned a glimpse of relenting in the atrocious ugliness of his physiognomy. He unclosed his enormous jaws, and removed from them the foot of his victim. The cobbler of Dort congratulated himself on the approach of his release.
"Jacob Kats, my boy!" exclaimed the giant, in that quiet patronising kind of voice all great men affect, carelessly balancing Jacob on his finger and thumb at a little distance from his mouth, as he threw out a long wreath of acrid smoke; "Jacob, you are a capital pipe,—there's no denyingthat. You smoke admirably,—take my word for it;" and then, without a word of pity or consolation, he resumed his unnatural fumigations with more fierceness than ever. Jacob had behaved like a martyr,—he had shown a spirit worthy of the Kats in their best days; but the impertinence of such conduct was not to be endured. He would a minute since have allowed himself to have been dried into a Westphalia ham, to which state he had been rapidly progressing, but the insult he had just received had roused the dormantspirit of resistance in his nature; and, while every feature in his tyrant's smoky face seemed illuminated with a thousand sardonic grins, having no better weapon at hand, Jacob hastily snatched the red cap off his head, and, taking deliberate aim at his persecutor, flung it bang into the very cock of his eye. The monster opened his jaws to utter a yell of agony, and down came the head of Jacob Kats upon the floor, that left him without sense or motion.
How long the cobbler of Dort remained in this unenviable situation it is impossible to say, but he was first recalled to consciousness by a loud knocking at the door of his stall.
"Jacob! Jacob Kats!" exclaimed the well-known voice of his fair customer, in a tone of considerable impatience; and Jacob, raising himself on his elbows, discovered that he had fallen back off his stool; and the empty flask at his side, and the unfinished work on his lap, while they gave him a tolerably correct notion of his condition, did not suggest any remedy for the fatal consequences of disappointing the burgomaster's nursery-maid. It is only necessary to add, that, with considerable difficulty, he managed to satisfy his important patroness; but, to the very day of his death, Jacob, who proved to be the last of the long dynasty of Kats who enjoyed the dignity inseparable from the situation of Cobbler of Dort, could not, with any degree of satisfaction, make up his mind as to whether the strange effects he had that eventful day experienced had been caused by extraordinary indulgence in the luxury of pickled herrings,—or too prodigal allowance of Schiedam,—or intense disappointment for the loss of the widow Van Bree.
On Sabbath morn two sisters rise,And each to chapel goes;Fair Caroline to close her eyes,And Jane to eye her clothes (close).
On Sabbath morn two sisters rise,And each to chapel goes;Fair Caroline to close her eyes,And Jane to eye her clothes (close).
All Flora's friends have died, it seems, before her:—I wish my wife had been a friend of Flora!
All Flora's friends have died, it seems, before her:—I wish my wife had been a friend of Flora!
FROM THE GREEK OF MUSÆUS.
The lamp that saw the lovers side by sideIn furtive clasp; the swimmer bold o' nights;The close embrace Aurora never spied,Sing Muse! and Sestos, nest of their delights,Where Hero watched, and Eros had his ritesDuly performed. My song is of Leander,And lovingly the beacon-lamp requites,Which lured him o'er the ocean's back to wander,Sweet Hero's message-light, love's harbinger and pandar.Zeus should have placed that signal-light above,(Their love-race ended) 'mid the constellations,And called its name the bridal star of love,As minister of rapture's keen sensations,The cresset, by whose aid they found occasionsOf sleepless nights—till blew the fatal blast.Come, Muse! and join with me in lamentationsFor that clear night, by which love's bidding past,And for Leander's life, extinguished both at last.Sestos is opposite Abydos, nearAnd neighbour cities—parted by the sea:Love with one arrow scorched a virgin there,And here a youth; the fairest Hero she,The handsome bachelor, Leander, he.Stars of their cities, but resembling eachThe other. Sestos keeps her memoryWhere Hero's lamp was wont his way to teach,And for Leander moans Abydos' sullen beach.Whence grew Leander's passion? Whence againDid the same fire sweet Hero's heart devour?Priestess of Cypris, and of noble strain,Untaught in Hymen's rites, and of love's powerUnconscious, Hero in a sea-side tower,An ancient and ancestral pile, was dwelling,—Another Cypris, but a virgin flower,In sensitive white purity excelling,The slander and the touch of license rude repelling.She went not where the light-foot choir assembled,Shunned ribalds, and the breath that Envy blew,(The fair hate those are fairer,) and she trembledAt thought of young Love's quiver,—for she knewHis mother favoured every shaft he drew;Prayers to the mother, and with girlish artCates to the son she offered: nathless flewFrom the sly urchin's bow the fire-plumed dartStraight to its destined mark, the maiden's trembling heart.What time came round the Sestian festival,Sacred to Cypris, and her Syrian fere,All who inhabited the coronalOf sparkling isles their way to Sestos steer;Some from Emonia gather far and near;Others from Cyprus; in Cythera nowNo woman stays; in Sestos now appearThe Phrygian, and the dancer on the browOf spicy Lebanon, as thereto bound by vow.Thither the virgin-hunters thick repair,As is their wont; a rash and reckless race,Whose prayers are only offered to the fair.There moved our Hero with majestic pace;A star-like glory scattered from her faceSparkles of light, as when the moon disclosesAmong the stars her cheek's clear-shining grace;Like a twin-rose, one white, one red, reposesOn either snow-white cheek the blushing bloom of roses.You'd say her limbs were rose-buds; for a lightOf rose-like hues fell from them; you might seeThe rose-blush on her feet and ankles white;And from her limbs with every movement freeFlowed many graces: they who feigned them threeSaid falsely, for in Hero's laughing eyesA thousand graces budded. Such was she—Fit priestess of the beauty of the skies,For without question hers was mortal beauty's prize.Into the young men's minds her beauty entered:Who wished not loveliest Hero for his wife?Where'er she paced the temple, still she centredAll eyes, hearts, wishes. "I have seen the strifeFor beauty's prize in Lacedemon, rifeWith virgins radiant, with love's dazzling splendour;But never there, nor elsewhere in my life,Saw I a girl so dignified, yet tender;She surely is a Grace: Oh, would Queen Cypris lend her—"Or give her me! I've tired, not filled mine eyeWith gazing. Let me press her dainty side,And die! A god's life on Olympus highWould I refuse, had I that girl for bride:But, since to me thy priestess is denied,Queen! let my home with such a one be gladdened."Thus spake one bachelor; another triedTo smile and mock, as tho' he were not saddened,Hiding the secret wound, which all the time him maddened.But thou, Leander, wouldst not hide the wound,And vex thy secret soul; but when DesireSurprised thee looking on the maid renowned,Tamed by the sudden darts of arrowy fire,Thou wouldst not live without her; fiercer, higher,Flamed love's hot torch, and pierced into thy marrow,Fed by her eye-beams. Loveliness, entireAnd blameless, sharper is than any arrow,Reaching the heart of man thro' channel sure tho' narrow.The liquid fire from hers to his eye glides,Thence passing inward, dives into his breast:A sudden whirl of thoughts his mind divides;Amazement at her loveliness confest;Shame at himself soon caught; fear, love's unrest,And hope, impatient for love's recompense;But love to this delirious whirl gave zest,And furnished him with resolute impudenceTo venture, and outface that glorious innocence.He turned on her askant his guileful eye,With speechless nods the damsel's mind assailing:She gladly saw his love, and silentlyHer sweet face ever and anon was veiling,And then with furtive nods her lover hailing,Bowed to him in return. He with delightObserved she saw, nor scorned his love. Then, trailingHis robe of beams, the Day departed quite,(Leander watched the hour,) and rose the star of night.Nor, when he saw the dark-robed mist, he lingered,But hastened boldly to the maid beloved,And with a sigh her rosy palm he fingered.But, drawing back her hand, the virgin movedIn silence from th' intruder; unreproved,For he had seen her nods, and they were kind,He pulled her broidered robe, and, as behoved,He drew her gently to the gloom behind:She slowly followed him, as if against her mind.And then with art and language feminineShe threatened him:—"Why pullest me, lewd ranger?Pursue thy way, I beg, and leave me mine.To touch a priestess is a deed of danger;A virgin's bed is not for any stranger."She spake as virgins should; and yet she missedTo frighten him, who reckoned soon to change her,When he her chiding heard; for well he wistThat women chide the most when they would fain be kissed.Kissing her polished, fragrant neck, he cries:"After the fairest Cytherea, fair!And after the most wise Athena, wise!For with Jove's daughters thee will I compare,And not with any dames that mortal are;Happy thy father! happy she who bore thee!But hear, and pardon, and accept my prayer;I come for love; for love I now implore thee;Perform love's ministry with me, for I adore thee."A virgin priestess to the Cyprian Queen!No grace in virgins Cytherea trows;To marriage only point her rites, I ween;Then if to her thy heart true service vows,Accept me for thy lover and thy spouse,Whom Eros hunted as a spoil for thee.As Hermes of the gold-wand (Fame allows)Led Hercules to serve Queen Omphale,So Cytherea now, not Hermes, leadeth me."The tale of Atalantis too is known,Who fled the couch of Prince Milanion,To keep her virgin flower; but wrath was shewnBy Cypris, who, for scorn to marriage done,Him once she loved not, made her dote upon:Beware lest thou too anger her." CommentingThus cunningly, the maiden's ear he won,And willing mind, to dulcet words consenting,To love's soft eloquence, that genders love, relenting.In silence on the ground she fixed her eyes,And gently turned aside her glowing cheek,And shuffled her small feet, and modest-wiseDrew round her graceful neck, and bosom sleek,Her robe yet closer. These are signs that speak;A virgin's silence ever means consent;The bitter-sweet of love was hers, and ekeThe glow of heart, hopeful, but not content,While yet the thoughts are lost in love's first wonderment.This for Leander gentle Hero felt;But, while she downward looked, his greedy eyesFed on her neck. With words that dew-like melt,While blossom on her cheek the moist red diesOf modesty, she says: "Such power there liesIn thy sweet eloquence, that it might moveThe flinty rock; who taught the harmoniesOf such enticing words? What impulse droveThee hither? Who thy guide? Oh was it, was it Love?"Perchance thou mockest me; but how canst thou,A stranger and unknown, my love enjoy?I never can be thine by open vow;My parents shut me up. Can we employArt for our secret, love? Oh, men destroyWho trust them! ever babbling in the streetOf what they do in secret. Wilt decoyA trusting heart to ruin? yet, as meet,Speak truth; thy fatherland and name to me repeat."My name is Hero; my abode is lonely,A tower that lifts its echoes to the sky,For so my parents will; one handmaid onlyDwells with me there; no choirs e'er court mine eye,Nor friends of equal years. The shores close byRebellow; night and day the roaring tideRings in mine ears, and eke the clanging cryOf the sea-winds." She spake, and sought to hide,Shamefaced, her rosy cheek, her words to chide.Leander then did with himself advise,How in love's contest he might best contend;For wily Love, though wont to tyrannise,Heals whom he wounds, and ever loves to lendHis subjects wit, their counsellor and friend.He helped Leander, then, who deeply sighed,And said: "Dear virgin! for our wished-for endI dauntless on the rugged surge will ride,Tho' in it ships be whelmed, and o'er it lightnings glide."Seeking thy bed, I tremble not, nor cowerAt ocean's angry roar and frightful front:A dripping bed-mate, nightly to thy towerWill I swim o'er the rapid Hellespont;Abydos is not far from Hero's haunt.But promise me to shew a lamp, to beMy nightly star; and it shall be my wont,E'en like a ship, to swim across the sea,Thy lamp the blessed star that guides my course to thee."And, watching it, I ne'er will turn mine eye onSetting Boötes, nor th' unwetted Wain,Nor on the sworded, storm-engirt Orion,But, guided by the lamp, I soon shall gainSafe anchorage and sweet. Strict guard maintainAgainst the blasts, for fear my safety-lightThey rudely quench, and in the howling mainI perish so. Leander am I hight,And Hero's happy spouse." Thus they their love-vows plight.She from her tower to shew a lamp agrees,And he from the swelling waves at night to cleave:Then to her tower the anxious maiden flees,While he must in a pinnace Sestos leave,And in Abydos wait till he receiveThe promised signal, his appointed guide,When he must swim, not sail. Till they achieveLove's celebration, rest is them denied.Haste, Night! and canopy the bridegroom and the bride.In veil of darkness Night ran up the sky,Bringing on sleep, but not for Hero's lover;He, where the swelling waves roared mightily,For by the shore, stood waiting to discoverThe lamentable lamp that lured him over—To death at last. But Hero, seaward turning,Perceived the gloom, and for her ocean-roverKindled the signal; but on his discerningIts promised flame, he burned with love, as that was burning.At first he trembled at the ringing roarOf the mad surge, but with the soothing spellOf hopeful words took courage; "What is moreCruel than love, or more implacableThan ocean? in moist ruin this doth swell;That in the heart, a burning furnace, raves.Fear not, my soul! why shouldst thou fear the hellOf waters? Aphrodite from the wavesSprung, and rules over them, sways our love pains and saves."He then put off his vest with playful glee,And twined it round his head; and from the shorePlunged fearlessly into the surf o' the sea;And where the signal shone, he hastened o'er,Ship, sail, and oars himself. But yet beforeHe reached his port, how oft the Sestian flowerKept off the breezes with the robe she woreFrom the trimmed lamp! It is her nuptial hour—Leander comes at last, and now ascends her tower.With a mute clasp she welcomed to her homeThe panting youth, and to her chamber led,While from his hair fast dropt the salt sea-foam:She rubbed his limbs with rose-oil, and then ledHer lover to her virgin couch, and said,Embracing him the while, and softly willing"Enough of brine and odours which bred:No bridegroom but thyself was ever willingTo run such risk, such toil none else but thou fulfilling."No longer lies our joy and us betweenThat envious sea—now lay thee down to rest."Silence was there, and Night drew round her screen;Their nuptial troth was by no minstrel blest;The bridal pair were in no hymn addrest;No choir danced round them; and no torches lightenedAbout the genial bed; no marriage guestLed the gay dance; nor hymeneal heightenedThe joy, approving it; no parent's smile there brightened.Silence arranged the couch, and Darkness drewThe curtains; paranymph and bridemaid noneHad they beside. Aurora ne'er did viewLeander lying, when the night was done,In Hero's arms. He was already gone,—Already wishing for the night again.The wife at night, by day a virgin shone.As thought her parents wise; while she was fain,Of night, to welcome him who made their wisdom vain.Thus they enjoyed awhile their furtive pleasure,He to his bed-mate nightly swimming o'er;But soon their life's bloom fell, and scant their measureOf bridal hours. When came the winter frore,And brought the cold blast and the whirlwind's roar,Sharp gusts the bottom of the deep confounding,And lashing up the main from shore to shore,Whirling and rushing, roaring and rebounding,The watery paths above and shaken depths astounding—What time a desperate pilot, who no moreAmid the waters wild his course could hold,Had run his ship upon a fork o' the shore;Not then the tempest checked Leander bold,For Hero's signal-light her summons told.Oh! cruel, faithless light of love! to scout himOn such a night! to plunge him in the coldAnd hissing waves, that rudely toss and flout him!Why could not Hero sleep, while winter raged, without him?But love and fate compelled her; light of love,Drawn by desire, she shewed not, but the blackTorch-gloom of fate. The winds collected droveVolumes of gusty darts upon the trackOf the sea-broken shore; but on the backOf raving ocean lost Leander went.The water stood in heaps; with fearful crackThe winds ran counter, and were madly blent,Rushing from every side, in wildest minglement.Wave upon wave! ocean with ether mixt!Mighty the crash! How could Leander ride onThe monstrous whirl? Sore tost, he one while fixtIn prayer on Cypris, then on King Poseidon,And e'en the fierce and frantic Boreas cried on,Who then forgot his Atthis. Lover lorn!None helped him, none! Love, whom he most relied on,Averted not his fate; tost, tumbled, torn,By every counter wave he was at random borne.He can no longer ply his hands or feet;Drench'd with the brine, his strength is failing fast;On him the cruel waves remorseless beat;The lamp is now extinguished by the blast,And with it his young life and love at last:But while the waves his lifeless body drove,How many a glance poor Hero seaward cast!In vain into the gloom her glances rove;Her anxious thoughts a pool of spectred troubles move.The morning came, nor yet Leander came!Upon the sea's broad back her glance was thrown,If haply, missing that unfaithful flame,He wandered there; but soon she spied him strownA mangled corse below. She tore her gown,And shrieked, and for Leander madly cried,And from the tower fell whizzing headlong down.Thus, on her husband dead sweet Hero died,And who were joined in life, then death did not divide.
The lamp that saw the lovers side by sideIn furtive clasp; the swimmer bold o' nights;The close embrace Aurora never spied,Sing Muse! and Sestos, nest of their delights,Where Hero watched, and Eros had his ritesDuly performed. My song is of Leander,And lovingly the beacon-lamp requites,Which lured him o'er the ocean's back to wander,Sweet Hero's message-light, love's harbinger and pandar.
Zeus should have placed that signal-light above,(Their love-race ended) 'mid the constellations,And called its name the bridal star of love,As minister of rapture's keen sensations,The cresset, by whose aid they found occasionsOf sleepless nights—till blew the fatal blast.Come, Muse! and join with me in lamentationsFor that clear night, by which love's bidding past,And for Leander's life, extinguished both at last.
Sestos is opposite Abydos, nearAnd neighbour cities—parted by the sea:Love with one arrow scorched a virgin there,And here a youth; the fairest Hero she,The handsome bachelor, Leander, he.Stars of their cities, but resembling eachThe other. Sestos keeps her memoryWhere Hero's lamp was wont his way to teach,And for Leander moans Abydos' sullen beach.
Whence grew Leander's passion? Whence againDid the same fire sweet Hero's heart devour?Priestess of Cypris, and of noble strain,Untaught in Hymen's rites, and of love's powerUnconscious, Hero in a sea-side tower,An ancient and ancestral pile, was dwelling,—Another Cypris, but a virgin flower,In sensitive white purity excelling,The slander and the touch of license rude repelling.
She went not where the light-foot choir assembled,Shunned ribalds, and the breath that Envy blew,(The fair hate those are fairer,) and she trembledAt thought of young Love's quiver,—for she knewHis mother favoured every shaft he drew;Prayers to the mother, and with girlish artCates to the son she offered: nathless flewFrom the sly urchin's bow the fire-plumed dartStraight to its destined mark, the maiden's trembling heart.
What time came round the Sestian festival,Sacred to Cypris, and her Syrian fere,All who inhabited the coronalOf sparkling isles their way to Sestos steer;Some from Emonia gather far and near;Others from Cyprus; in Cythera nowNo woman stays; in Sestos now appearThe Phrygian, and the dancer on the browOf spicy Lebanon, as thereto bound by vow.
Thither the virgin-hunters thick repair,As is their wont; a rash and reckless race,Whose prayers are only offered to the fair.There moved our Hero with majestic pace;A star-like glory scattered from her faceSparkles of light, as when the moon disclosesAmong the stars her cheek's clear-shining grace;Like a twin-rose, one white, one red, reposesOn either snow-white cheek the blushing bloom of roses.
You'd say her limbs were rose-buds; for a lightOf rose-like hues fell from them; you might seeThe rose-blush on her feet and ankles white;And from her limbs with every movement freeFlowed many graces: they who feigned them threeSaid falsely, for in Hero's laughing eyesA thousand graces budded. Such was she—Fit priestess of the beauty of the skies,For without question hers was mortal beauty's prize.
Into the young men's minds her beauty entered:Who wished not loveliest Hero for his wife?Where'er she paced the temple, still she centredAll eyes, hearts, wishes. "I have seen the strifeFor beauty's prize in Lacedemon, rifeWith virgins radiant, with love's dazzling splendour;But never there, nor elsewhere in my life,Saw I a girl so dignified, yet tender;She surely is a Grace: Oh, would Queen Cypris lend her—
"Or give her me! I've tired, not filled mine eyeWith gazing. Let me press her dainty side,And die! A god's life on Olympus highWould I refuse, had I that girl for bride:But, since to me thy priestess is denied,Queen! let my home with such a one be gladdened."Thus spake one bachelor; another triedTo smile and mock, as tho' he were not saddened,Hiding the secret wound, which all the time him maddened.
But thou, Leander, wouldst not hide the wound,And vex thy secret soul; but when DesireSurprised thee looking on the maid renowned,Tamed by the sudden darts of arrowy fire,Thou wouldst not live without her; fiercer, higher,Flamed love's hot torch, and pierced into thy marrow,Fed by her eye-beams. Loveliness, entireAnd blameless, sharper is than any arrow,Reaching the heart of man thro' channel sure tho' narrow.
The liquid fire from hers to his eye glides,Thence passing inward, dives into his breast:A sudden whirl of thoughts his mind divides;Amazement at her loveliness confest;Shame at himself soon caught; fear, love's unrest,And hope, impatient for love's recompense;But love to this delirious whirl gave zest,And furnished him with resolute impudenceTo venture, and outface that glorious innocence.
He turned on her askant his guileful eye,With speechless nods the damsel's mind assailing:She gladly saw his love, and silentlyHer sweet face ever and anon was veiling,And then with furtive nods her lover hailing,Bowed to him in return. He with delightObserved she saw, nor scorned his love. Then, trailingHis robe of beams, the Day departed quite,(Leander watched the hour,) and rose the star of night.
Nor, when he saw the dark-robed mist, he lingered,But hastened boldly to the maid beloved,And with a sigh her rosy palm he fingered.But, drawing back her hand, the virgin movedIn silence from th' intruder; unreproved,For he had seen her nods, and they were kind,He pulled her broidered robe, and, as behoved,He drew her gently to the gloom behind:She slowly followed him, as if against her mind.
And then with art and language feminineShe threatened him:—"Why pullest me, lewd ranger?Pursue thy way, I beg, and leave me mine.To touch a priestess is a deed of danger;A virgin's bed is not for any stranger."She spake as virgins should; and yet she missedTo frighten him, who reckoned soon to change her,When he her chiding heard; for well he wistThat women chide the most when they would fain be kissed.
Kissing her polished, fragrant neck, he cries:"After the fairest Cytherea, fair!And after the most wise Athena, wise!For with Jove's daughters thee will I compare,And not with any dames that mortal are;Happy thy father! happy she who bore thee!But hear, and pardon, and accept my prayer;I come for love; for love I now implore thee;Perform love's ministry with me, for I adore thee.
"A virgin priestess to the Cyprian Queen!No grace in virgins Cytherea trows;To marriage only point her rites, I ween;Then if to her thy heart true service vows,Accept me for thy lover and thy spouse,Whom Eros hunted as a spoil for thee.As Hermes of the gold-wand (Fame allows)Led Hercules to serve Queen Omphale,So Cytherea now, not Hermes, leadeth me.
"The tale of Atalantis too is known,Who fled the couch of Prince Milanion,To keep her virgin flower; but wrath was shewnBy Cypris, who, for scorn to marriage done,Him once she loved not, made her dote upon:Beware lest thou too anger her." CommentingThus cunningly, the maiden's ear he won,And willing mind, to dulcet words consenting,To love's soft eloquence, that genders love, relenting.
In silence on the ground she fixed her eyes,And gently turned aside her glowing cheek,And shuffled her small feet, and modest-wiseDrew round her graceful neck, and bosom sleek,Her robe yet closer. These are signs that speak;A virgin's silence ever means consent;The bitter-sweet of love was hers, and ekeThe glow of heart, hopeful, but not content,While yet the thoughts are lost in love's first wonderment.
This for Leander gentle Hero felt;But, while she downward looked, his greedy eyesFed on her neck. With words that dew-like melt,While blossom on her cheek the moist red diesOf modesty, she says: "Such power there liesIn thy sweet eloquence, that it might moveThe flinty rock; who taught the harmoniesOf such enticing words? What impulse droveThee hither? Who thy guide? Oh was it, was it Love?
"Perchance thou mockest me; but how canst thou,A stranger and unknown, my love enjoy?I never can be thine by open vow;My parents shut me up. Can we employArt for our secret, love? Oh, men destroyWho trust them! ever babbling in the streetOf what they do in secret. Wilt decoyA trusting heart to ruin? yet, as meet,Speak truth; thy fatherland and name to me repeat.
"My name is Hero; my abode is lonely,A tower that lifts its echoes to the sky,For so my parents will; one handmaid onlyDwells with me there; no choirs e'er court mine eye,Nor friends of equal years. The shores close byRebellow; night and day the roaring tideRings in mine ears, and eke the clanging cryOf the sea-winds." She spake, and sought to hide,Shamefaced, her rosy cheek, her words to chide.
Leander then did with himself advise,How in love's contest he might best contend;For wily Love, though wont to tyrannise,Heals whom he wounds, and ever loves to lendHis subjects wit, their counsellor and friend.He helped Leander, then, who deeply sighed,And said: "Dear virgin! for our wished-for endI dauntless on the rugged surge will ride,Tho' in it ships be whelmed, and o'er it lightnings glide.
"Seeking thy bed, I tremble not, nor cowerAt ocean's angry roar and frightful front:A dripping bed-mate, nightly to thy towerWill I swim o'er the rapid Hellespont;Abydos is not far from Hero's haunt.But promise me to shew a lamp, to beMy nightly star; and it shall be my wont,E'en like a ship, to swim across the sea,Thy lamp the blessed star that guides my course to thee.
"And, watching it, I ne'er will turn mine eye onSetting Boötes, nor th' unwetted Wain,Nor on the sworded, storm-engirt Orion,But, guided by the lamp, I soon shall gainSafe anchorage and sweet. Strict guard maintainAgainst the blasts, for fear my safety-lightThey rudely quench, and in the howling mainI perish so. Leander am I hight,And Hero's happy spouse." Thus they their love-vows plight.
She from her tower to shew a lamp agrees,And he from the swelling waves at night to cleave:Then to her tower the anxious maiden flees,While he must in a pinnace Sestos leave,And in Abydos wait till he receiveThe promised signal, his appointed guide,When he must swim, not sail. Till they achieveLove's celebration, rest is them denied.Haste, Night! and canopy the bridegroom and the bride.
In veil of darkness Night ran up the sky,Bringing on sleep, but not for Hero's lover;He, where the swelling waves roared mightily,For by the shore, stood waiting to discoverThe lamentable lamp that lured him over—To death at last. But Hero, seaward turning,Perceived the gloom, and for her ocean-roverKindled the signal; but on his discerningIts promised flame, he burned with love, as that was burning.
At first he trembled at the ringing roarOf the mad surge, but with the soothing spellOf hopeful words took courage; "What is moreCruel than love, or more implacableThan ocean? in moist ruin this doth swell;That in the heart, a burning furnace, raves.Fear not, my soul! why shouldst thou fear the hellOf waters? Aphrodite from the wavesSprung, and rules over them, sways our love pains and saves."
He then put off his vest with playful glee,And twined it round his head; and from the shorePlunged fearlessly into the surf o' the sea;And where the signal shone, he hastened o'er,Ship, sail, and oars himself. But yet beforeHe reached his port, how oft the Sestian flowerKept off the breezes with the robe she woreFrom the trimmed lamp! It is her nuptial hour—Leander comes at last, and now ascends her tower.
With a mute clasp she welcomed to her homeThe panting youth, and to her chamber led,While from his hair fast dropt the salt sea-foam:She rubbed his limbs with rose-oil, and then ledHer lover to her virgin couch, and said,Embracing him the while, and softly willing"Enough of brine and odours which bred:No bridegroom but thyself was ever willingTo run such risk, such toil none else but thou fulfilling.
"No longer lies our joy and us betweenThat envious sea—now lay thee down to rest."Silence was there, and Night drew round her screen;Their nuptial troth was by no minstrel blest;The bridal pair were in no hymn addrest;No choir danced round them; and no torches lightenedAbout the genial bed; no marriage guestLed the gay dance; nor hymeneal heightenedThe joy, approving it; no parent's smile there brightened.
Silence arranged the couch, and Darkness drewThe curtains; paranymph and bridemaid noneHad they beside. Aurora ne'er did viewLeander lying, when the night was done,In Hero's arms. He was already gone,—Already wishing for the night again.The wife at night, by day a virgin shone.As thought her parents wise; while she was fain,Of night, to welcome him who made their wisdom vain.
Thus they enjoyed awhile their furtive pleasure,He to his bed-mate nightly swimming o'er;But soon their life's bloom fell, and scant their measureOf bridal hours. When came the winter frore,And brought the cold blast and the whirlwind's roar,Sharp gusts the bottom of the deep confounding,And lashing up the main from shore to shore,Whirling and rushing, roaring and rebounding,The watery paths above and shaken depths astounding—
What time a desperate pilot, who no moreAmid the waters wild his course could hold,Had run his ship upon a fork o' the shore;Not then the tempest checked Leander bold,For Hero's signal-light her summons told.Oh! cruel, faithless light of love! to scout himOn such a night! to plunge him in the coldAnd hissing waves, that rudely toss and flout him!Why could not Hero sleep, while winter raged, without him?
But love and fate compelled her; light of love,Drawn by desire, she shewed not, but the blackTorch-gloom of fate. The winds collected droveVolumes of gusty darts upon the trackOf the sea-broken shore; but on the backOf raving ocean lost Leander went.The water stood in heaps; with fearful crackThe winds ran counter, and were madly blent,Rushing from every side, in wildest minglement.
Wave upon wave! ocean with ether mixt!Mighty the crash! How could Leander ride onThe monstrous whirl? Sore tost, he one while fixtIn prayer on Cypris, then on King Poseidon,And e'en the fierce and frantic Boreas cried on,Who then forgot his Atthis. Lover lorn!None helped him, none! Love, whom he most relied on,Averted not his fate; tost, tumbled, torn,By every counter wave he was at random borne.
He can no longer ply his hands or feet;Drench'd with the brine, his strength is failing fast;On him the cruel waves remorseless beat;The lamp is now extinguished by the blast,And with it his young life and love at last:But while the waves his lifeless body drove,How many a glance poor Hero seaward cast!In vain into the gloom her glances rove;Her anxious thoughts a pool of spectred troubles move.
The morning came, nor yet Leander came!Upon the sea's broad back her glance was thrown,If haply, missing that unfaithful flame,He wandered there; but soon she spied him strownA mangled corse below. She tore her gown,And shrieked, and for Leander madly cried,And from the tower fell whizzing headlong down.Thus, on her husband dead sweet Hero died,And who were joined in life, then death did not divide.
"Signor Giacomo caro, non vi accorgete che sete un giovane senza pare? Nobile, bello, dotto, e robusto, ed alto quasi egualmente, or lingua or mano ad oprando, a dire e fare ogni bene?"
So, in or about the year of Grace 1582, wrote Sperone Speroni the Paduan, to James Crichton the Scotchman:
"Dear James, do you not know that you have no equal? Noble, handsome, learned, and robust,—equally apt to use the tongue or the hand,—to say or to do what is excellent?"
There cannot be the smallest doubt that James knew all this himself; and now, since the appearance of Mr. Ainsworth's romance, all the world knows it. Wherefore, as the Admirable has suddenly become an object of admiration, we are moved to say a few words about him.
A number of learned people, remarkable chiefly for the dullness of their learning, have on various occasions undertaken to prove the egregious quackery and pretension of the famous Scot. Such-like people are, naturally enough, given to such researches; for they cannot endure in any shape the rebuke of an obvious superiority. "How now, thou particular fellow?" said Jack Cade to the man who sought to recommend himself on the score of being able to write and read; and, "How now, thou particular fellow?" is the exclamation of plodding pedants to the illustrious Crichton, when, instead of approaching them covered with the dust of folios, he bounds into their presence beaming with grace and beauty, the idol of the gay and the young, the observed of all observers, crowned with the favours of women, and followed by the applauding shouts of men!
We are not pedants, and therefore we have faith in Crichton. How otherwise? In philosophy and learning was he not a Bayle's Dictionary? In the universality of his literary accomplishments, a perfect Bentley's Miscellany? Who shall impugn the opinions of the most classic time of Scotland, or set up his dogmas against the generous acknowledgments of Italy in her golden day? And was not Crichton so beautiful in body only because he was in mind so beautiful;—for, where true beauty exists, who would separate body from mind? Shade of the Admirable, forgive your poor detractors, for the sake of the true worship your memory has inspired! It was natural that to the sight of many men, before whom in life you strode on so far, you should have dwindled in the distance; but now, after many years, you reappear again, graceful as ever in form, and wonderful in accomplishments. We hail you as we should some missing star that once more "swims into our ken!"
And what sort of fame is that, the reader possibly asks, which may seek from the hands of some novelist or romancer its privilege of continuance in the mouths of men? Let that reader first ask himself how many brilliant actions there are which pass away and are forgotten—while a thousandth part of the effort that produced them, embodied in a few words, might have lived for ever. It was the remark of an old writer, that words harden into substances, while bodies moulder away into air. Even Cæsar and Alexander weighlittle in comparison with Virgil and Homer. Now Crichton might have been a Cæsar or an Alexander, if he had had legions at his back; or, without the legions, if his youth had been allowed to ripen into age. The great principle of his being was a stirring and irrepressible activity. His learning was as prodigious as his accomplishments; but how, in the short six or seven years of his public life, could he have exhibited them to the admiration of Europe, if he had set to work in the fashion of the schoolmen? With a probable forecast of his early doom, he bethought himself of a different way. He made up for the brevity of his life, by its brightness. He kindled all its fires at once. Resolved to abate no single particle of his brilliancy among the great men of his time, he rose at once to the topmost height of his possible achievements, careless whether he should fall among posterity, dark as a spent rocket, and recognizable by a few fragments of faded paper only. But what of that? What he designed to do, he did. He struck the blow he had desired to strike. And which of the Great Men has done more? How many have done lamentably less! We see the beauty and the learning of Crichton reflected back from the most intellectual minds of the greatest day that ever shone upon Scotland or Italy. What nobler mirror?
Justly Mr. Ainsworth remarks—"It is from the effect produced upon his contemporaries, andsuchcontemporaries, that we can form a just estimate of the extent of Crichton's powers. By them he was esteemed a miracle of learning—divinum planè juvenem: and we have an instance in our own times of a great poet and philosopher, whose published works scarcely bear out the high reputation he enjoyed for colloquial ability. The idolized friend of Aldus Manutius, of Lorenzo Massa, Giovanni Donati, and Sperone Speroni, amongst the must accomplished scholars of their age,—the antagonist of the redoubted Arcangelus Mercenarius and Giacomo Mazzoni, men who had sounded all the depths of philosophy,—could not have been other than an extraordinary person." The allusion to Coleridge here is not altogether out of place. Coleridge, like Crichton, though in a humbler sphere, preferred prompt payment to the tardy waiting for posterity. With both it was in some sort necessary that the effort and the applause should go together. To Coleridge, for instance, so strong had this habit of excessive talking become, even the certainty of seeing what he wrote in print the next day was too remote a stimulus for his imagination; and it was a constant practice of his to lay aside his pen in the middle of an article, if a friend happened to drop in upon him, and to finish the subject more effectually aloud, so that the approbation of his hearer and the sound of his own voice might be co-instantaneous. But what would Coleridge have done, if, besides having to write an article for the Courier, in which he was to unravel some transcendentalism about humanity and universal brotherhood into a slavish support of the Allies—(a difficult task we admit),—if, besides this, the ball-room, the ladies' chamber, the hunting-fields, the riding-house, the lists at the Louvre, and some profoundly learned controversies with the doctors of Navarre or Padua, had all, nearly at the same instant, awaited him? Poor Coleridge would have died at twenty, untouched by opium, and unknown, except by the admiring testimonies of his less accomplished contemporaries.
Mr. Ainsworth has omitted, by-the-by, a very characteristic, and, we think, a very decisive opinion of Crichton, by the famous Joseph Scaliger. "He was a man of very wonderful genius," observes that laborious and self-satisfied person; "but he had something of the coxcomb about him. He wanted a little common sense." Here is an unbiassed opinion. What Joseph means by the coxcombry is obvious enough. Why, thinks Joseph, should a scholar have cheerfulness of blood? All the women ran after Crichton,—a most indecorous thing, and a certain evidence of coxcombry to a person who cannot get a woman to run after him,—"Nor were the young unmarried ladies," as Sir Thomas Urquhart remarks in his jewel of a book, "of all the most eminent places of Italy anything respected of one another, that had not either a lock of Crichtown's haire, or a copy of verses of his composing." Who doubts his coxcombry, or that it was other than a very delightful thing in him?
A want of common sense, in Scaliger's notion, was probably an over supply of modesty. Nothing is so remarkable in Crichton as the modesty which in him united with the most perfect confidence. He proved that a coxcomb and a confident man may possess the truest modesty. There is a charming anecdote told of him at a great levee of learned men in Padua, where, having exposed the errors of the school of Aristotle with equal solidity, modesty, and acuteness, and perceiving that the enthusiasm of his audience was carrying them too far in admiration of himself, he suddenly changed his tone, assumed an extreme playfulness of manner, and declaimed in exquisite phrase upon thehappiness of ignorance. Nothing could have been so perfectly devised to self-check any exuberance of pride. But in all things his modesty was remarkable, when taken in connexion with his extraordinary powers. Observe it in the circumstance of his melancholy death, where a romantic sense of what was due to his prince and master induced him to throw aside his unmatchable skill, and present himself naked and defenceless to the dagger of an assassin. This was not weakness in Crichton. Himself the descendant of rulers of the earth, of princes and bishops,—(shall we ever forget that perfect model of ecclesiastical fitness, Bishop George Crichton of Dunkeld, "a man nobly disposed, very hospitable, and a magnificent housekeeper, but in matters of religion not much skilled"?)—a weak and unmanly feeling would have given him presumption, not deference,—would have thrown insult in the face of Gonzaga, and not ill-required chivalry at his feet.
But what more need we say of Crichton? Have not three volumes of brilliant writing been just devoted to the delineation of two days of his matchlessly brilliant life? We may refer the reader, whether he is curious after the Admirable Crichton, or after his own amusement solely, to William Harrison Ainsworth's last romance. An expression of character equally poetic and dramatic, a rich glow of colouring which diffuses itself through every part of the work, and a generally easy and effective style, have secured for this book a high and permanent place in the literature of fiction.