"One thinks theSouleisaire; anotherfire;Anotherblood, diffus'd about the heart;Another saith, theelementsconspire,And to heressenceeach doth giue a part.Musiciansthinke ourSoulesareharmonies,Phisicianshold that theycomplexionsbee;Epicuresmake them swarmes ofatomies,Which doe by chance into our bodies flee." (p. 26.)
"One thinks theSouleisaire; anotherfire;Anotherblood, diffus'd about the heart;Another saith, theelementsconspire,And to heressenceeach doth giue a part.
Musiciansthinke ourSoulesareharmonies,Phisicianshold that theycomplexionsbee;Epicuresmake them swarmes ofatomies,Which doe by chance into our bodies flee." (p. 26.)
In Nemesius, c. 2. § I, the 'headings' are: "I. The severall and different Opinions of the Ancients concerning the Sovl, as whether it be a Substance; whether corporeall, or incoporeall, whether mortal or immortal P. II. The confutation of those who affirme in general that the Sovl is a corporeall-substance. III. Confutations of their particular Arguments, who affirme that the Sovl is Blood, Water, or Aire." These are all common-places of ancient 'opinion' and of the subject; and anything less poetical than Nemesius' treatment of them is scarcely imaginable. Here if anywhere Davies' indebtedness must have been revealed; but not one scintilla of obligation suggests itself to the Reader.Again in the Poem, after a subtle and very remarkable 'confutation' of the notion that the Soul is a thing of 'Sense' only, there comes proof "That the Soule is more than the Temperature of the humours of the Body;" and nowhere does Davies show a more cunning hand than in his statement of the 'false opinion.' Turning once more to Nemesius c. II. § 3, these are its 'headings:'—"I. It is here declared, that the Soul is not (as Galen implicitly affirmeth) a Temperature in general. II. It is here proved also, that the Soul is no particular temperature or quality. III. And it is likewise demonstrated that the Soul is rather governesse of the temperatures of the Body, both ordering them, and subduing the vices which arise from the bodily tempers." Here again we would have expected some resemblances or suggestions; but again there is not a jot or tittle of either. Thus is it throughout. One might as well turn up the words used in "Nosce Teipsum" in a quotation-illustrated Dictionary of the English Language (such as Richardson's) and argue 'plagiarism' because of necessarily agreeing definitions, as from a few scattered places in "Nosce Teipsum" discussing the same topics, allege appropriation of Nemesius. Your mere readers of title-pagesand contents, or glancers over indices are constantly blundering after this fashion. Dalrymple was one of these.
The headings of the successive sections—removed in our text from the margins to their several places—suffice to inform us of the original lines of thought and research and illustration pursued in "Nosce Teipsum" and thither I refer the Reader. The merest glance will show that in "Nosce Teipsum" you have the whole breadth of the field traversed—and that for the first time in Verse. I can only very imperfectly illustrate either the depth or the originality of the poem. Almost as at the opening of the book, take these uniting both:—
"And yet alas, when all our lamps are burnd,Our bodyes wasted, and our spirits spent;When we haue all the learnèdVolumesturn'd,Which yeeld mens wits both help and ornament:What can we know? or what can we discerne?WhenErrorchokes the windowes of the minde,The diuers formes of things, how can we learne,That haue been euer from our birth-day blind?WhenReasone'slampe, which (like thesunnein skie)ThroughoutMan'slittle world her beames did spread;Is now become a sparkle, which doth lieVnder the ashes, halfe extinct, and dead:How can we hope, that through the eye and eare,This dying sparkle, in this cloudy place,Can recollect these beames of knowledge cleere,Which were infus'd in the first minds by grace?So might the heire whose father hath in playWasted a thousand pound of ancient rent;By painefull earning of a groate a day,Hope to restore the patrimony spent.The wits that diu'd most deepe and soar'd most hieSeeking Man's pow'rs, haue found his weaknesse such:"Skill comes so slow, and life so fast doth flie,"We learne so little and forget so much.For this the wisest of all morall menSaid, 'He knew nought, but that he nought did know';And the great mocking-Master mockt not then,When he said, 'Truth was buried deepe below.'For how may we to others' things attaine,When none of vs his owne soule vnderstands?For which the Diuell mockes our curious braine,When, 'Know thy selfe' his oracle commands.For why should wee the busie Soule beleeue,When boldly she concludes of that and this;When of her selfe she can no iudgement giue,Nor how, nor whence, nor where, nor what she is?All things without, which round about we see,We seeke to knowe, and how therewith to doe;But that whereby wereason, liue and be,Within our selues, we strangers are thereto.We seeke to know the mouing of each spheare,And the strange cause of th' ebs and flouds ofNile;But of that clock, within our breasts we beare,The subtill motions we forget the while.We that acquaint our selues with eueryZoaneAnd passe bothTropikesand behold thePoles,When we come home, are to our selues vnknown,And vnacquainted still with our owneSoules.We studySpeechbut others we perswade;Weleech-craftlearne, but others cure with it;We interpretlawes, which other men haue made,But reade not those which in our hearts are writ." (pp. 18-20.)
"And yet alas, when all our lamps are burnd,Our bodyes wasted, and our spirits spent;When we haue all the learnèdVolumesturn'd,Which yeeld mens wits both help and ornament:
What can we know? or what can we discerne?WhenErrorchokes the windowes of the minde,The diuers formes of things, how can we learne,That haue been euer from our birth-day blind?
WhenReasone'slampe, which (like thesunnein skie)ThroughoutMan'slittle world her beames did spread;Is now become a sparkle, which doth lieVnder the ashes, halfe extinct, and dead:
How can we hope, that through the eye and eare,This dying sparkle, in this cloudy place,Can recollect these beames of knowledge cleere,Which were infus'd in the first minds by grace?
So might the heire whose father hath in playWasted a thousand pound of ancient rent;By painefull earning of a groate a day,Hope to restore the patrimony spent.
The wits that diu'd most deepe and soar'd most hieSeeking Man's pow'rs, haue found his weaknesse such:"Skill comes so slow, and life so fast doth flie,"We learne so little and forget so much.
For this the wisest of all morall menSaid, 'He knew nought, but that he nought did know';And the great mocking-Master mockt not then,When he said, 'Truth was buried deepe below.'
For how may we to others' things attaine,When none of vs his owne soule vnderstands?For which the Diuell mockes our curious braine,When, 'Know thy selfe' his oracle commands.
For why should wee the busie Soule beleeue,When boldly she concludes of that and this;When of her selfe she can no iudgement giue,Nor how, nor whence, nor where, nor what she is?
All things without, which round about we see,We seeke to knowe, and how therewith to doe;But that whereby wereason, liue and be,Within our selues, we strangers are thereto.
We seeke to know the mouing of each spheare,And the strange cause of th' ebs and flouds ofNile;But of that clock, within our breasts we beare,The subtill motions we forget the while.
We that acquaint our selues with eueryZoaneAnd passe bothTropikesand behold thePoles,When we come home, are to our selues vnknown,And vnacquainted still with our owneSoules.
We studySpeechbut others we perswade;Weleech-craftlearne, but others cure with it;We interpretlawes, which other men haue made,But reade not those which in our hearts are writ." (pp. 18-20.)
Again:—
In what manner the Soule is united to the Body.
But how shall we thisunionwell expresse?Nought ties thesoule; her subtiltie is suchShe moues the bodie, which she doth possesse,Yet no part toucheth, but byVertue'stouch.Then dwels shee not therein as in a tent,Nor as a pilot in his ship doth sit;Nor as the spider in his web is pent;Nor as the waxe retaines the print in it;Nor as a vessell water doth containe;Nor as one liquor in another shed;Nor as the heat doth in the fire remaine;Nor as a voice throughout the ayre is spread:But as the faire and cheerfullMorning light,Doth here and there her siluer beames impart,And in an instant doth herselfe vniteTo the transparent ayre, in all, and part:Still resting whole, when blowes th' ayre diuide:Abiding pure, when th' ayre is most corrupted;Throughout the ayre, her beams dispersing wide,And when the ayre is tost, not interrupted:So doth the piercingSoulethe body fill,Being all in all, and all in part diffus'd;Indiuisible, incorruptible still,Not forc't, encountred, troubled or confus'd.And as thesunneaboue, the light doth bring,Though we behold it in the ayre below;So from th' Eternall Light theSouledoth spring,Though in the body she her powers doe show. (pp. 61-2.)
But how shall we thisunionwell expresse?Nought ties thesoule; her subtiltie is suchShe moues the bodie, which she doth possesse,Yet no part toucheth, but byVertue'stouch.
Then dwels shee not therein as in a tent,Nor as a pilot in his ship doth sit;Nor as the spider in his web is pent;Nor as the waxe retaines the print in it;
Nor as a vessell water doth containe;Nor as one liquor in another shed;Nor as the heat doth in the fire remaine;Nor as a voice throughout the ayre is spread:
But as the faire and cheerfullMorning light,Doth here and there her siluer beames impart,And in an instant doth herselfe vniteTo the transparent ayre, in all, and part:
Still resting whole, when blowes th' ayre diuide:Abiding pure, when th' ayre is most corrupted;Throughout the ayre, her beams dispersing wide,And when the ayre is tost, not interrupted:
So doth the piercingSoulethe body fill,Being all in all, and all in part diffus'd;Indiuisible, incorruptible still,Not forc't, encountred, troubled or confus'd.
And as thesunneaboue, the light doth bring,Though we behold it in the ayre below;So from th' Eternall Light theSouledoth spring,Though in the body she her powers doe show. (pp. 61-2.)
Further, "An Acclamation":—
An Acclamation.
O! what is Man (great Maker of mankind!)That Thou to him so great respect dost beare!That Thou adornst him with so bright a mind,Mak'st him a king, and euen an angel's peere!O! what a liuely life, what heauenly power,What spreading vertue, what a sparkling fire!How great, how plentifull, how rich a dowerDost Thou within this dying flesh inspire!Thou leau'st Thy print in other works of Thine,But Thy whole image Thou in Man hast writ;There cannot be a creature more diuine,Except (like Thee) it should be infinit.But it exceeds man's thought, to thinke how hieGodhath raisdMan, sinceGod a manbecame;The angels doe admire thisMisterie,And are astonisht when they view the same. (pp. 81-2.)
O! what is Man (great Maker of mankind!)That Thou to him so great respect dost beare!That Thou adornst him with so bright a mind,Mak'st him a king, and euen an angel's peere!
O! what a liuely life, what heauenly power,What spreading vertue, what a sparkling fire!How great, how plentifull, how rich a dowerDost Thou within this dying flesh inspire!
Thou leau'st Thy print in other works of Thine,But Thy whole image Thou in Man hast writ;There cannot be a creature more diuine,Except (like Thee) it should be infinit.
But it exceeds man's thought, to thinke how hieGodhath raisdMan, sinceGod a manbecame;The angels doe admire thisMisterie,And are astonisht when they view the same. (pp. 81-2.)
Again:—
That the Soule is Immortal, and cannot Die.
Nor hath he giuen these blessings for a day,Nor made them on the bodie's life depend;TheSoulethough made in time,suruives for aye,And though it hath beginning, sees no end.Her onelyend, isneuer-endingblisse;Which is,th' eternall face of God to see;WhoLast of Ends, andFirst of Causes, is:And to doe this, she musteternallbee.How senselesse then, and dead a soule hath hee,Whichthinkshissouledoth with his body die!Orthinkesnot so, but so would haue it bee,That he might sinne with more securitie.For though these light and vicious persons say,OurSouleis but a smoake, or ayrie blast;Which, during life, doth in our nostrils play,And when we die, doth turne to wind at last:Although they say, 'Come let us eat and drinke';Our life is but a sparke, which quickly dies;Though thus theysay, they know not what to think,But in their minds ten thousand doubts arise.Therefore no heretikes desire to spreadTheir light opinions, like theseEpicures:For so the staggering thoughts are comfortèd,And other men's assent their doubt assures.Yet though these men against their conscience striue,There are some sparkles in their flintie breastsWhich cannot be extinct, but still reuiue;That though they would, they cannot quite beebeasts;But who so makes a mirror of his mind,And doth with patience view himselfe therein,HisSoule'seternitie shall clearely find,Though th' other beauties be defac't with sin. (pp. 82-3.)
Nor hath he giuen these blessings for a day,Nor made them on the bodie's life depend;TheSoulethough made in time,suruives for aye,And though it hath beginning, sees no end.
Her onelyend, isneuer-endingblisse;Which is,th' eternall face of God to see;WhoLast of Ends, andFirst of Causes, is:And to doe this, she musteternallbee.
How senselesse then, and dead a soule hath hee,Whichthinkshissouledoth with his body die!Orthinkesnot so, but so would haue it bee,That he might sinne with more securitie.
For though these light and vicious persons say,OurSouleis but a smoake, or ayrie blast;Which, during life, doth in our nostrils play,And when we die, doth turne to wind at last:
Although they say, 'Come let us eat and drinke';Our life is but a sparke, which quickly dies;Though thus theysay, they know not what to think,But in their minds ten thousand doubts arise.
Therefore no heretikes desire to spreadTheir light opinions, like theseEpicures:For so the staggering thoughts are comfortèd,And other men's assent their doubt assures.
Yet though these men against their conscience striue,There are some sparkles in their flintie breastsWhich cannot be extinct, but still reuiue;That though they would, they cannot quite beebeasts;
But who so makes a mirror of his mind,And doth with patience view himselfe therein,HisSoule'seternitie shall clearely find,Though th' other beauties be defac't with sin. (pp. 82-3.)
Further, "An Acclamation":—
An Acclamation.
O ignorant poor man! what dost thou beareLockt vp within the casket of thy brest?What iewels, and what riches hast thou there!What heauenly treasure in so weak a chest!Looke in thysoule, and thou shaltbeautiesfind,Like those which drowndNarcissusin the flood:HonourandPleasureboth are in thy mind,And all that in the world is countedGood.Thinke of her worth, and thinke that God did meane.This worthy mind should worthy things imbrace;Blot not her beauties with thy thoughts vnclean,Nor her dishonour with thy passions base;Kill not herquickning powerwith surfettings,Mar not herSensewith sensualitie;Cast not her serious wit on idle things:Make not her free-will, slaue to vanitie.And when thou think'st of hereternitie,Thinke not thatDeathagainst her nature is;Thinke it abirth; and when thou goest to die,Sing like a swan, as if thou went'st to blisse.And if thou, like a child, didst feare before,Being in the darke, where thou didst nothing see:Now I haue broght theetorch-light, feare no more;Now when thou diest, thou canst not hud-winkt be.And thou, mySoule, which turn'st thy curious eye,To view the beames of thine owne forme diuine;Know, that thou canst know nothing perfectly,While thou art clouded with this flesh of mine.Take heed ofouer-weening, and compareThy peacock's feet with thy gay peacock's traine;Study the best, and highest things, that are,But of thy selfe, an humble thought retaine.Cast down thy selfe, and onely striue to raiseThe glory of thy Maker's sacred Name;Vse all thy powers, that Blessed Power to praise,Which giues the power tobee, anduse the same. (pp. 114-16.)
O ignorant poor man! what dost thou beareLockt vp within the casket of thy brest?What iewels, and what riches hast thou there!What heauenly treasure in so weak a chest!
Looke in thysoule, and thou shaltbeautiesfind,Like those which drowndNarcissusin the flood:HonourandPleasureboth are in thy mind,And all that in the world is countedGood.
Thinke of her worth, and thinke that God did meane.This worthy mind should worthy things imbrace;Blot not her beauties with thy thoughts vnclean,Nor her dishonour with thy passions base;
Kill not herquickning powerwith surfettings,Mar not herSensewith sensualitie;Cast not her serious wit on idle things:Make not her free-will, slaue to vanitie.
And when thou think'st of hereternitie,Thinke not thatDeathagainst her nature is;Thinke it abirth; and when thou goest to die,Sing like a swan, as if thou went'st to blisse.
And if thou, like a child, didst feare before,Being in the darke, where thou didst nothing see:Now I haue broght theetorch-light, feare no more;Now when thou diest, thou canst not hud-winkt be.
And thou, mySoule, which turn'st thy curious eye,To view the beames of thine owne forme diuine;Know, that thou canst know nothing perfectly,While thou art clouded with this flesh of mine.
Take heed ofouer-weening, and compareThy peacock's feet with thy gay peacock's traine;Study the best, and highest things, that are,But of thy selfe, an humble thought retaine.
Cast down thy selfe, and onely striue to raiseThe glory of thy Maker's sacred Name;Vse all thy powers, that Blessed Power to praise,Which giues the power tobee, anduse the same. (pp. 114-16.)
Finally, here is a simile well-wrought in itself and accidentally to be for ever associated with a celebrated criticism:—
The Motion of the Soule.
.... how can shee but immortall bee?When with the motions of bothWillandWit,She still aspireth to eternitie,And neuer rests, till she attaine to it?Water in conduit pipes, can rise no higherThen the wel-head, from whence it first doth spring:Then sith to eternallGodshee doth aspire,Shee cannot be but an eternall thing. (p. 85.)
.... how can shee but immortall bee?When with the motions of bothWillandWit,She still aspireth to eternitie,And neuer rests, till she attaine to it?
Water in conduit pipes, can rise no higherThen the wel-head, from whence it first doth spring:Then sith to eternallGodshee doth aspire,Shee cannot be but an eternall thing. (p. 85.)
The second stanza contains a metaphor that was stolen and murdered as well, by Robert Montgomery. Concerninghisuse of it Macaulay thus wrote in his merciless review:—"We would not be understood, however, to say that Mr. Robert Montgomery cannot make similitudes for himself. A very few lines further on we findone which has every mark of originality and on which we will be bound, none of the poets whom he has plundered will ever think of making reprisal:—
'The soul aspiring, pants its source to mount,As streams meander level with their fount.'
'The soul aspiring, pants its source to mount,As streams meander level with their fount.'
"We take this to be on the whole the worst similitude in the world. In the first place, no stream meanders, or can possibly meander level with its fount. In the next place, if streams did meander level with their fount, no two motions can be less like each other than that of meandering level and that of mounting upwards." True; but none the less is the original 'spoiled' and despoiled metaphor, accurate and vivid.
If the Reader will surrender himself to the task, he will be rewarded for studying and re-studying the entire poem of "Nosce Teipsum;" and, unless I very much mistake, will then regard Hallam's judgment on it as inadequate rather than exaggerate, as (with intercalated remarks), thus: "A more remarkable poem [than Drayton's and Daniel's] is that of Sir John Davies, afterwards Chief Justice of Ireland [a mistake], entitled, 'Nosce Teipsum,' published in 1599, usually, though rather inaccurately, called 'On the Immortality of the Soul.' Perhaps no language can produce a poem, extending toso great a length, of more condensation of thought, or in which fewer languid verses will be found. Yet, according to some definitions [of poetry] the 'Nosce Teipsum' is wholly unpoetical, inasmuch as it shows no passion [a greater blunder still] and little fancy [a third mistake]. If it reaches the heart at all, it is through the reason. But since strong argument in terse and correct style fails not to give us pleasure in prose, it seems strange that it should lose its effect when it gains the aid of regular metre to gratify the ear and assist the memory. Lines there are in Davies which far out-weigh much of the descriptive and imaginative poetry of the last two centuries, whether we estimate them by the pleasure they impart to us, or by the intellectual vigour they display. Experience has shown that the faculties familiarly deemed poetical are frequently exhibited in a considerable degree, but very few have been able to preserve a perspicuous beauty without stiffness or pedantry (allowance made for the subject and the times), in metaphysical reasoning, so successfully as Sir John Davies."[48]The alleged "no passion" is contradicted by the various pathetic autobiographic introspections and confessions brought out in this Memorial-Introduction, and not less so by the outbursts of adoration and praise that thunder up like the hosannahs before the great White Throne. The similarly alleged "little fancy" is one of manifold proofs that the critic was the most superficial of all imaginable readers with so much pretention. "Nosce Teipsum" is radiant as the dew-bedabbled grass with delicacies of fancy, not a few of the "fancies" being as exquisitely touched as divine work.
Campbell in his "Essay on English Poetry" (prefixed to his "Specimens") may be read with interest after Hallam. Accepting from Johnson as Johnson from Dryden the name of "metaphysical poets," he observes:—"The term of metaphysical poetry would apply with much more justice to the quatrains of Sir John Davies and those of Sir Fulke Greville, writers who, at a later period, found imitators in Sir Thomas Overbury and Sir William Davenant. Davies's poem on the Immortality of the Soul, entitled "Nosce teipsum," will convey a much more favourable idea of metaphysical poetry than the wittiest effusions of Donne and his followers. Davies carried abstract reasoning into verse with an acuteness and felicity which have seldom been equalled. He reasons undoubtedly with too much labour, formality, and subtlety, to afford uniform poetical pleasure.The generality of his stanzas exhibit hard arguments interwoven with the pliant materials of fancy so closely, that we may compare them to a texture of cloth and metallic threads, which is cold and stiff, while it is splendidly curious. There is this difference, however, between Davies and the commonly-styled metaphysical poets, thatheargues like a hard thinker, andthey, for the most part, like madmen. If we conquer the drier parts of Davies' poem, and bestow a little attention on thoughts which were meant, not to gratify the indolence, but to challenge the activity of the mind, we shall find in the entire essay fresh beauties at every perusal: for in the happier parts we come to logical truths so well illustrated by ingenious similes, that we know not whether to call the thoughts more poetically or philosophically just. The judgment and fancy are reconciled, and the imagery of the poems seems to start more vividly from the surrounding shades of abstraction."
The 'coldness' of 'cloth and metallic threads' which the critic applies to the 'hard arguments' ofNosce Teipsumis a mere imagination. But besides, the 'metallic threads' are not for warmth but for splendour. The lining of the 'splendidly curious' garment is to be looked for for warmth. Similarly the 'hard arguments' would have been unpoetical as unphilosophical had they been 'warm' with the warmth of the 'clothing' in similes and fancies. The 'hardness' is where it ought to be—in the thinking: but it is a hardness like the bough that is green with leafage and radiant with bloom and odorous with 'sweet scent' and pliant to every lightest touch of the breeze. The leaf and bloom start from the 'hard' bough rightly, fittingly 'hard' to its utmost twig. The alleged 'too much labour' is singularly uncharacteristic. As for the 'madness' I can but exclaim—Oh for more of such 'fine lunacy' as in Donne is condemned! His and compeers' 'madness' is worth cart-loads of most men's sanity.
In our own day Dr. George Macdonald has spoken more wisely if still somewhat superficially of "Nosce Teipsum" in his charming "England's Antiphon." Having explained that by "Immortality of the Soul" is intended "the spiritual nature of the soul, resulting in continuity of existence," he proceeds:—"It [Nosce Teipsum] is a wonderful instance of what can be done for metaphysics in verse, and by means of imaginative or poetic embodiment generally. Argumentation cannot of course naturally belong to the region of poetry, however well it may comport itself when there naturalized; and consequently, although there are most poetic no less than profound passages in the treatise, a light scruple arises whether its constituent matter can properly be called poetry. At all events, however, certain of the more prosaic measures and stanzas lend themselves readily, and with much favour, to some of the more complex of logical necessities. And it must be remembered that in human speech, as in the human mind, there are no absolute divisions: power shades off into feeling; and the driest logic may find the heroic couplet render it good service." (pp. 105-6). The 'scruple' must be 'light' indeed that has to decide whether the 'reasoning' of "Nosce Teipsum" be or be not 'poetry.' It is astounding that at this time o' day any should attempt to exclude the highest region of the intellect and its noblest occupation from poetry. Poetry I must hold absolutely is poetry, whatever be its matter and form if the thinking be glorified by imagination or tremulous with emotion. It is sheer folly to refuse to the Poet any material within the compass of the universe. Especially deplorable is it to have to argue for possibilities of poetry in the greatest of all thinking, viz., metaphysics, in the face of such actualities of achievement as in Davies and Lord Brooke and Donne.
A second characteristic of "Nosce Teipsum" that calls for notice is itsperfection of workmanshipshown in themastery of an extremely difficult stanza, as well as its solidity of material. Here unquestionably Sir John Davies far excels Lord Brooke and Donne, and later, Sir William Davenant in "Gondibert." The two former are occasionally (it must be granted) semi-inarticulate, and the last is very often monotonous and trying. "Nosce Teipsum" is throughout articulate and unmistakeable, and never flags. You have a fear o' times that a metaphor will prove grotesque or mean: or a vein of thought pinch and go out from ore to bare limestone. But invariably an imaginative touch, or a colour-like epithet, or a thrill of emotion, lifts up the mean into a transfiguring atmosphere as of sun-set purples and crysolites, and gives to grotesquest gargoyles (as of cathedrals) a strange fitness. Then when a thought or illustration seems about to end, debasedly, another forward-carrying and ennobling, swiftly succeeds.
There is more than dexterity, there is consummate art—the art of a conscious master—in the inter-weaving of the lines and stanzas of "Nosce Teipsum." Professor Craik recognised the difficulty and the triumph, but fails by ultra-ingenuity in accounting for either theselection of the measure or the miracle of its continuous success. His criticism is worth recalling, thus:—"A remarkable poem of this age ... is the 'Nosce Teipsum' of Sir John Davies ... a philosophical poem, the earliest of the kind in the language. It is written in rhyme, in the common heroic ten-syllable verse, but disposed in quatrains, like the early play of Misogonus, already mentioned, and other poetry of the same era, or like Sir Thomas Overbury's poem of 'The Wife,' the 'Gondibert' of Sir William Davenant, and the 'Annus Mirabilis' of Dryden, at a later period. No one of these writers has managed this difficult stanza so successfully as Davies: it has the disadvantage of requiring the sense to be in general closed at certain regularly and quickly-recurring turns, which yet are very ill adapted for an effective pause; and even all the skill of Dryden has been unable to free it from a certain air of monotony and languor,—a circumstance of which that poet may be supposed to have been himself sensible, since he wholly abandoned it after one or two early attempts. Davies, however, has conquered its difficulty; and, as has been observed, 'perhaps no language can produce a poem, extending to so great a length, of more condensation of thought, or in whichfewer languid verses will be found.' (Hallam, as before.) In fact, it is by this condensation and sententious brevity, so carefully filed and elaborated, however, as to involve no sacrifice of perspicuity or fulness of expression, that he has attained his end. Every quatrain is a pointed expression of a separate thought, like one of Rochefoucault's maxims; each thought being, by great skill and painstaking in the packing, made exactly to fit and to fill the same case. It may be doubted, however, whether Davies would not have produced a still better poem if he had chosen a measure which would have allowed him greater freedom and real variety; unless, indeed, his poetical talent was of a sort that required the suggestive aid and guidance of such artificial restraints as he had to cope with in this; and what would have been a bondage to a more fiery and teeming imagination, was rather a support to his."[49]
Most of this must be readcum grano salis. Davies elected his measure and stanza with evidently entire spontaneity; and it is an odd reversal of the simple matter of fact to ascribe the 'artificial restraints' chosen, to an absence 'of a fiery and teeming imagination,' when, as all observation demonstrates, the morefiery and fecund the imagination of a Poet, the more exquisitely obedient is he to the subtlest and most intricate movements of his measure—just as the bluest-blooded race-horse is a law to itself whereas your stolid dray-cart or plough-drawer needs the "artificial restraints" of all kinds of gear, and the constraint of whip and blow and vociferation. I can well suppose that but for the "Fairy Queen" Sir John Davies might have chosen its stanza, but just as to-day "In Memoriam" has taken to itself its form and music to the exclusion of every other—though a very ancient English measure—so Spenser's immortal poem precluded "Nosce Teipsum" following in the same. I cannot admit "artificial restraints" in the sense of needed restraints or aid. There was the stanza, and the genius of Sir John Davies appropriated it—since Spenser's, in all worship, could not be taken—and, like a great Vine, clad its natural slenderness and poorness of build with wealth of bright green leafage and clustered fruitage. The nicety and daintiness of workmanship, the involute and nevertheless firmly-completed and manifested imagery of "Nosce Teipsum" wherewith this nicety and daintiness are wrought, place Sir John Davies artistically among the finest of our Poets. Southey wrote decisively on this:—"Sir John Davies andSir William Davenant, avoiding equally the opposite faults of too artificial and too careless a style, wrote in numbers which, for precision and clearness, and felicity and strength, have never been surpassed." For 'felicity' I should have said 'flexibility.'[50]
Again our examples of the mastery and perfection of workmanship must be brief; but take these:—
"Nor can her wide imbracements fillèd bee;For they that most, and greatest things embrace,Inlarge thereby their minds' capacitie,As streames inlarg'd, inlarge the channel's space.All things receiu'd, doe such proportion take,As those things haue, wherein they are receiu'd:So little glasses little faces make,And narrow webs on narrow frames be weau'd;Then what vast body must we make themindWherin are men, beasts, trees, towns, seas, and lands;And yet each thing a proper place doth find,And each thing in the true proportion stands?Doubtlesse this could not bee, but that she turnesBodies to spirits, bysublimationstrange;As fire conuerts to fire the things it burnesAs we our meats into our nature change.From their grossemattershe abstracts theformes,And draws a kind ofquintessencefrom things;Which to her proper nature she transformes,To bear them light on her celestiall wings:This doth she, when, from thingsparticular,She doth abstract theuniversall kinds;Which bodilesse and immateriall are,And can be lodg'd but onely in our minds:And thus from diuersaccidentsandacts,Which doe within her obseruation fall,She goddesses, and powers diuine, abstracts:AsNature,Fortune, and theVertuesall." (pp. 42-44.)
"Nor can her wide imbracements fillèd bee;For they that most, and greatest things embrace,Inlarge thereby their minds' capacitie,As streames inlarg'd, inlarge the channel's space.
All things receiu'd, doe such proportion take,As those things haue, wherein they are receiu'd:So little glasses little faces make,And narrow webs on narrow frames be weau'd;
Then what vast body must we make themindWherin are men, beasts, trees, towns, seas, and lands;And yet each thing a proper place doth find,And each thing in the true proportion stands?
Doubtlesse this could not bee, but that she turnesBodies to spirits, bysublimationstrange;As fire conuerts to fire the things it burnesAs we our meats into our nature change.
From their grossemattershe abstracts theformes,And draws a kind ofquintessencefrom things;Which to her proper nature she transformes,To bear them light on her celestiall wings:
This doth she, when, from thingsparticular,She doth abstract theuniversall kinds;Which bodilesse and immateriall are,And can be lodg'd but onely in our minds:
And thus from diuersaccidentsandacts,Which doe within her obseruation fall,She goddesses, and powers diuine, abstracts:AsNature,Fortune, and theVertuesall." (pp. 42-44.)
Again:—
Are they not sencelessethen, that thinke the SouleNought but a fine perfection of theSense;Or of the formes whichfanciedoth enroule,Aquicke resulting, and aconsequence?What is it then that doth theSenseaccuse,Both offalse judgements, andfond appetites?What makes vs do whatSensedoth most refuse?Which oft in torment of theSensedelights?Sensethinkes theplanets,sphearesnot much asunder;What tels vs then their distance is so farre?Sensethinks the lightning borne before the thunder;What tels vs then they both together are?When men seem crows far off vpon a towre,Sensesaith, th'are crows; what makes vs think them men?When we inagues, thinke all sweete things sowre,What makes vs know our tongue's false iudgement then?What power was that, wherebyMedeasaw,And well approu'd, and prais'd the better course,When her rebelliousSensedid so withdrawHer feeble powers, as she pursu'd the worse?DidSenseperswadeVlissesnot to heareThe mermaid's songs, which so his men did please;As they were all perswaded, through the eareTo quit the ship, and leape into theseas?Could any power ofSensetheRomanemoue,To burn his own right hand with courage stout?CouldSensemakeMariussit vnbound, and proueThe cruell lancing of the knotty gout?Doubtlesse inManthere is anaturefound,Beside theSenses, and aboue them farre;'Though most men being in sensuall pleasures drownd,'It seems theirSoulesbut in theirSensesare.'If we had nought butSense, then onely theyShould haue sound minds, which haue theirSensessound;ButWisdomegrowes, whenSensesdoe decay,AndFollymost in quickestSenseis found.If we had nought butSense, each liuing wight,Which we callbrute, would be more sharp then we;As hauingSense's apprehensiue might,In a more cleere, and excellent degree.But they doe want thatquicke discoursing power,Which doth in vs the erringSensecorrect;Therefore thebeedid sucke the painted flower,Andbirds, of grapes, the cunning shadow, peckt.Senseoutsides knows; the Soule throgh al things sees;Sense,circumstance; she, doth thesubstanceview;Sensesees the barke, but she, the life of trees;Senseheares the sounds, but she, the concords true. (pp. 35-38.)
Are they not sencelessethen, that thinke the SouleNought but a fine perfection of theSense;Or of the formes whichfanciedoth enroule,Aquicke resulting, and aconsequence?
What is it then that doth theSenseaccuse,Both offalse judgements, andfond appetites?What makes vs do whatSensedoth most refuse?Which oft in torment of theSensedelights?
Sensethinkes theplanets,sphearesnot much asunder;What tels vs then their distance is so farre?Sensethinks the lightning borne before the thunder;What tels vs then they both together are?
When men seem crows far off vpon a towre,Sensesaith, th'are crows; what makes vs think them men?When we inagues, thinke all sweete things sowre,What makes vs know our tongue's false iudgement then?
What power was that, wherebyMedeasaw,And well approu'd, and prais'd the better course,When her rebelliousSensedid so withdrawHer feeble powers, as she pursu'd the worse?
DidSenseperswadeVlissesnot to heareThe mermaid's songs, which so his men did please;As they were all perswaded, through the eareTo quit the ship, and leape into theseas?
Could any power ofSensetheRomanemoue,To burn his own right hand with courage stout?CouldSensemakeMariussit vnbound, and proueThe cruell lancing of the knotty gout?
Doubtlesse inManthere is anaturefound,Beside theSenses, and aboue them farre;'Though most men being in sensuall pleasures drownd,'It seems theirSoulesbut in theirSensesare.'
If we had nought butSense, then onely theyShould haue sound minds, which haue theirSensessound;ButWisdomegrowes, whenSensesdoe decay,AndFollymost in quickestSenseis found.
If we had nought butSense, each liuing wight,Which we callbrute, would be more sharp then we;As hauingSense's apprehensiue might,In a more cleere, and excellent degree.
But they doe want thatquicke discoursing power,Which doth in vs the erringSensecorrect;Therefore thebeedid sucke the painted flower,Andbirds, of grapes, the cunning shadow, peckt.
Senseoutsides knows; the Soule throgh al things sees;Sense,circumstance; she, doth thesubstanceview;Sensesees the barke, but she, the life of trees;Senseheares the sounds, but she, the concords true. (pp. 35-38.)
Once more:—
I know my bodie's of so fraile a kind,As force without, feauers within can kill;I know the heauenly nature of my minde,But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will:I know mySoulehath power to know all things,Yet is she blinde and ignorant in all;I know I am one of Nature's little kings,Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.I know my life's a paine and but a span,I know mySenseis mockt with euery thing:And to conclude, I know my selfe aMAN,Which is aproud, and yet awretchedthing. (p. 24.)If the pathos and grandeur of Pascal be anticipated inthese lines, Pope has certainly appropriated Davies'favourite metaphor of the 'spider.' Witness the Senseof Feeling illustrated:—Much like a subtill spider, which doth sitIn middle of her web, which spreadeth wide;If ought doe touch the vtmost thred of it,Shee feeles it instantly on euery side. (p. 70).
I know my bodie's of so fraile a kind,As force without, feauers within can kill;I know the heauenly nature of my minde,But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will:
I know mySoulehath power to know all things,Yet is she blinde and ignorant in all;I know I am one of Nature's little kings,Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.
I know my life's a paine and but a span,I know mySenseis mockt with euery thing:And to conclude, I know my selfe aMAN,Which is aproud, and yet awretchedthing. (p. 24.)
If the pathos and grandeur of Pascal be anticipated inthese lines, Pope has certainly appropriated Davies'favourite metaphor of the 'spider.' Witness the Senseof Feeling illustrated:—
Much like a subtill spider, which doth sitIn middle of her web, which spreadeth wide;If ought doe touch the vtmost thred of it,Shee feeles it instantly on euery side. (p. 70).
So in theEssay of Man:—
"The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine,Feels at each thread, and lives along the line."
"The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine,Feels at each thread, and lives along the line."
Another now familiar 'metaphor' also occurs in "Nosce Teipsum":—
"HeereSense's apprehension, end doth take;As when a stone is into water cast,One circle doth another circle make,Till the last circle touch the banke at last." (p. 72.)
"HeereSense's apprehension, end doth take;As when a stone is into water cast,One circle doth another circle make,Till the last circle touch the banke at last." (p. 72.)
These two characteristics, viz., (1)deep and original thinking, (2)perfection of workmanship, or mastery of an extremely difficult stanza—embrace that in "Nosce Teipsum," regarded broadly, which I am anxious to have the Reader recognize and 'prove' for himself. Subsidiary to them is one other thing—not shared with many ofour Poets and therefore demanding specific statement—viz. itscondensation throughout. Hallam and Craik have called attention to this; and the student cannot fail to be struck with it. It is not simply that the stanzas are as so many rings of gold each complete in itself—much as Proverbs are—but that whether it be idea or opinion or metaphor there is no beating of it out, as though yards of gold-leaf or tin-foil were more valuable than the relatively small solid ore that has been so manipulated: or the common mistake of imagining that a pound of feathers is heavier than a pound of lead. From Dean Donne until now "comparisons are odious." Nevertheless when one recalls the attenuated thought and the blatant verbiage of not a few of our Poets, this resolute sifting out of everything extraneous is not less noticeable than commendable. It assures us that the Poet was conscious of his resources—of his unused wealth of thought and imagination and fancies. He who compacts his carbon into a Koh-i-noor has infinite supplies of it. Similarly a Poet who could and did so lavishly add great thought to great thought and vivid metaphor to vivid metaphor, and still go on adding in smallest possible compass, declares his intellect to be of the highest. I take two stanzas as illustrative equally of condensed thought and condensed metaphor concerning ourFirst Parents:—
When their reasons eye was sharpe and cleare,And (as an eagle can behold the sunne)Could haue approcht th' Eternall Light as neare,As the intellectuall angels could haue done:Euen then to them theSpirit of LyessuggestsThat they were blind, because they saw not ill;And breathes into their incorrupted brestsA curiouswish, which did corrupt theirwill.
When their reasons eye was sharpe and cleare,And (as an eagle can behold the sunne)Could haue approcht th' Eternall Light as neare,As the intellectuall angels could haue done:
Euen then to them theSpirit of LyessuggestsThat they were blind, because they saw not ill;And breathes into their incorrupted brestsA curiouswish, which did corrupt theirwill.
Your Rhetorician-poet would have expatiated on his 'Eagle' through a hundred lines. Your mere Metaphysician would have entangled himself with distinctions between 'wish' and 'will' endlessly. Similarly how succinctly memorable is this of man's un-willinghood to know himself—every stanza a perfect circle but all the circles interlinked:—
We studySpeechbut others we perswade;Weleech-craftlearne, but others cure with it;We interpretlawes, which other men haue made,But reade not those which in our hearts are writ.Is it because the minde is like the eye,Through which it gathers knowledge by degrees—Whose rayes reflect not, but spread outwardly:Not seeing it selfe when other things it sees?No, doubtlesse; for the mind can backward castVpon her selfe, her vnderstanding light;But she is so corrupt, and so defac't,As her owne image doth her selfe affright.As in the fable of the Lady faire,Which for her lust was turnd into a cow;When thirstie to a streame she did repaire,And saw her selfe transform'd she wist not how:At first she startles, then she stands amaz'd,At last with terror she from thence doth flye;And loathes the watry glasse wherein she gaz'd,And shunnes it still, though she for thirst doe die:Euen soMan's Soulewhich did God's image beare,And was at first faire, good, and spotlesse pure;Since with hersinnesher beauties blotted were,Doth of all sights her owne sight least endure:For euen at first reflection she espies,Such strangechimeraes, and such monsters there;Such toyes, suchantikes, and such vanities,As she retires, and shrinkes for shame and feare.And as the man loues least at home to bee,That hath a sluttish house haunted withspirits;So she impatient her owne faults to see,Turnes from her selfe and in strange things delites.For this fewknow themselues: for merchants brokeView their estate with discontent and paine;Andseasare troubled, when they doe reuokeTheir flowing waues into themselues againe. (pp. 20-22.)
We studySpeechbut others we perswade;Weleech-craftlearne, but others cure with it;We interpretlawes, which other men haue made,But reade not those which in our hearts are writ.
Is it because the minde is like the eye,Through which it gathers knowledge by degrees—Whose rayes reflect not, but spread outwardly:Not seeing it selfe when other things it sees?
No, doubtlesse; for the mind can backward castVpon her selfe, her vnderstanding light;But she is so corrupt, and so defac't,As her owne image doth her selfe affright.
As in the fable of the Lady faire,Which for her lust was turnd into a cow;When thirstie to a streame she did repaire,And saw her selfe transform'd she wist not how:
At first she startles, then she stands amaz'd,At last with terror she from thence doth flye;And loathes the watry glasse wherein she gaz'd,And shunnes it still, though she for thirst doe die:
Euen soMan's Soulewhich did God's image beare,And was at first faire, good, and spotlesse pure;Since with hersinnesher beauties blotted were,Doth of all sights her owne sight least endure:
For euen at first reflection she espies,Such strangechimeraes, and such monsters there;Such toyes, suchantikes, and such vanities,As she retires, and shrinkes for shame and feare.
And as the man loues least at home to bee,That hath a sluttish house haunted withspirits;So she impatient her owne faults to see,Turnes from her selfe and in strange things delites.
For this fewknow themselues: for merchants brokeView their estate with discontent and paine;Andseasare troubled, when they doe reuokeTheir flowing waues into themselues againe. (pp. 20-22.)
How daintily-put and how divinely ennobled by the sacred reference is this of the soul's yearning after that higher ideal that is ever receding horizon-like to our vision:—