OLIVER OLDSCHOOL.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
About the year 18—, there lived in a populous neighborhood, in the state of Virginia, a lady and gentleman named Sanford. They possessed considerable wealth, which was to be inherited by their only son, whom they called Hugh. The life of this worthy couple, was as quiet and easy as an unruffled stream, save when some slight differences of opinion would occasionally arise, respecting the management of Hugh. But one point on which they always agreed, was, that he should never be thwarted in any wish of his heart.
At the time our story commences, Hugh Sanford was twenty, and had just left college. Whether he ever distinguished himself there, I have not been able to ascertain. However, I know with certainty, that he was by nature gifted with good sense, and he had many fine qualities of the heart. I know not whether the reader will think so, from the sketch I am about to write, but he must bear in mind, that Hugh's natural disposition was so warped by continual indulgence, that not until the fever of youth had subsided, was it truly developed.
A large party had been invited to spend several days at Mr. Sanford's, and his wife had promised them a little dance. We shall pass over the preparations which were made for the party, and which, in the country, always produce so much bustle and excitement; we will even say nothing of the more important business, (to the girls at least) of thetoilette;but shall follow them all to the drawing room, which was brilliantly lighted.
Among the girls, Mary Linden, was the most commanding; her splendid dress and jewelry, gave her quite amagnificentair. She was the daughter of arichwidower. Ellen Lorval (the only child of apoorlawyer,) was also much admired. Her light muslin dress and simple wreath of wild flowers were peculiarly becoming.
"My dear Hugh," said Mrs. Sanford, "I wish to speak with you a moment before the dancing commences. Does not Mary look beautiful? Do go and engage her as your partner immediately."
"Not so fast mother," said he smiling.
"My son," said she, "I love Mary as my daughter: could I but think that she would be one to me." She looked at him intently, but he appeared not to understand her meaning, and turning the conversation, he went to join a group of young men.
The scene changes. The enlivening sound of the violin is heard; the couples are beginning to take their places on the floor, when Hugh, to the dismay of his parents, is seen leading out Ellen Lorval. Mary Linden is surrounded by beaux, and it seems has capriciously given her fair hand to the least deserving of them, a would-be-wit, whose whole conversation consists of long words and jests, which have been in print for ages. The party went off well, and all seemed to enjoy themselves, except some few unfortunatewall-flowers, for whom, however, Mrs. Sanford procured partners towards the close of the evening.
Hugh would probably never again have thought of his attentions to Ellen, had not his mother kept himin custodythe next morning, while she spokehermind on the subject. She represented to him "the folly of falling in love with her, when Mary Linden was in the house;" and she even went so far as to say that "there would be agreat improprietyin his falling in love with Ellen."
Hugh was greatly astonished at hearing all this, for the idea of falling in love had never entered his imagination. He was sorry to see his mother pained, but since she had put such notions into his head, he could not but see, that if he could be so fortunate as to fall in love, and meet with opposition, it would give a peculiar zest to the monotony of his country life. So he stalked off to the drawing room, andbeganto think Ellen very interesting. The few succeeding days were passed as they usually are by a large party in the country. They read, talked, rode and played at battledoor; but at length the guests departed, and Mr. and Mrs. Sanford returned to the enjoyment of their usual tranquillity; but Hugh did not feel quite at his ease, as he was conscious that he had pained his parents, not so much by his attentions to Ellen, as by failing to fall in love with Mary Linden. Weeks passed on;—Hugh continued to meet Ellen at all the dinners and parties in the neighborhood, and to pay her attention. Mr. and Mrs. Sanford had seen all their hopes respecting Mary Linden laid low, and they had fretted themselves into ill humor about Ellen: a calm was now ensuing, they began to look on the bright side of things, and even to fancy that Ellen was to be their future daughter.
"My son," said Mr. Sanford, "I wish you to consult your own happiness in every thing. You love Ellen; you have now the consent of your parents to address her."
"Really father, I——." He stammered out something that was unintelligible.
"Say no more, I see you are embarrassed."
"Hear me father——."
"Not a word more at present; good bye."
There is an old saying, that "competition is the life of trade," and I think it is no less true, that "opposition is the life of love," or of something that is frequently mistaken for it bygreenhorns, and very young ladies just from school. Now that all opposition was at an end, Hugh was somewhat surprised to find himself entirelyOUTof love with Ellen; and indeed, he shrewdly suspected he had never beenINlove with her. The gentle girl had seemed pleased with the attentions of the handsome Hugh Sanford, though she acted with the most perfect delicacy, nor have I ever found out whether she imagined him to be serious. I am sorry to say, that the utmost partiality cannot throw a veil over the conduct of Hugh in this instance; and many will say that he does not deserve the title of ahero. "Pshaw!" says a little girl, "I thought all heroes were perfect!" And so they are, in English novels, but not in Old Virginia!
Mrs. Sanford had a widowed sister living in the southern part of the state. Her name was Harrington, and she was the mother of two daughters, who were dashing belles and beauties. Thither Hugh now went, to pay a visit. On a bright evening, he came in sight of his aunt's dwelling. It was situated on a smooth green hill, which gradually sloped to the river ——, which was not very wide here. A tiny canoe was presently visible in the middle of the stream, and much to his surprise he perceived in it a single female figure. "Can that be one of my cousins?" said he; "what mad freak could induce her to go alone?" But, when he arrived at the house, he found both of his cousins and his aunt sitting together. They received him cordially, and while he was answering their inquiries, a light step was heard in the passage, and an eager voice exclaimed: "Oh, Mrs. Harrington, my pigeon flew away from me to the other bank, and I was so much afraid of losing it, that I went over for it by myself." The speaker entered the room, holding the bird triumphantly in her hand; but perceiving a stranger, she was retreating, when Mrs. Harrington recalled her, and she was introduced to Hugh by the appellation of Amy Larone. She was bright as a sunbeam, and beautiful as the roses of spring. Her hazel eyes were large; a delicate carnation bloomed on her cheek, and her brown hair was parted over her smooth brow, and gracefully twisted at the back of her head. She was below the middle size, and the plainest suit of mourning was neatly fitted on her slender shape. Hugh's interest was strongly excited by the air of mystery with which he fancied she was surrounded, and he seized the first opportunity to inquire who she was. Her simple story was soon told. She was nearly sixteen, and was the orphan child of poor and obscure, though honest parents. Her mother died when she was four years old, and she was left to the care of her father, an illiterate, although well-meaning man, who had no idea that education was at all necessary: if he could see his daughter neatly dressed, and hear the neighbors say how beautiful she was, he cared for nothing more. Her beauty and modesty were talked of by rich and poor. Her father had not been dead more than seven or eight months; and Mrs. Harrington pitying her forlorn condition, had taken her to her house. Maria and Theresa Harrington were kind to her, and were anxious to repair somewhat the total neglect of the education of the warm hearted Amy. She was grateful, but as her taste for study had not been formed in childhood, it was with reluctance that she now attempted thedrudgeryof learning, and, so far as concerned herself, she wished that the makers of books had never existed.
She seemed, however, to possess an instinctive knowledge of what was right and proper to be said or done, even on occasions that were perfectly novel to her; and when a subject was started of which she was ignorant, she actedwisely, and saidnothing;or if in the course of conversation a few errors were committed by her, her transcendent beauty was sufficient to atone for all. True, her beauty was not of the spiritual kind, "the rapt soulbeamingin the eyes;" but it was just such as is always admired by enthusiastic young men.
Company came in, and Hugh obtaining a seat near Amy, entered into conversation with her, in which to do her justice, she supported her part quite well. He rallied her upon her excursion after her truant bird. She replied—"It was the last thing my father ever gave me, and I love it for his sake."
Several weeks had been passed by Hugh at his aunt's, and he had become deeply interested in the orphan. Amy appeared dejected, and very rarely joined the family party in the sitting room. This conduct only strengthened Hugh's interest. He was now really in love—"fairly caught," as the young ladies express it. Walking out one evening by himself, he encountered Amy unexpectedly, and a gleam of joy lighted up his handsome features.
"Miss Larone," said he, "why have you deserted us; the time has been too, too long since we met."
"Three days, sir," said Amy, slightly smiling.
"I can hardly believe it possible," said he, "for it seems almost as many months to me."
Amy assumed a look of coldness, and said she did not understand him; but her countenance betrayed that she did.
They walked on in silence to the bank of the river, and Hugh looking on the beautiful stream and its romantic banks, said, "Could I but think that you would walk here after I am gone, and think of me—Amy, I will confess that from the first moment I saw you, I felt the strongest interest in you. Nay more, that I do now love you most ardently. Will you give me your heart?" She remained silent and agitated, and at length tears came to her relief. "Oh, why do you weep? Say to me Amy, that I may at least hope you love me!" She raised her mild tearful eyes, and that glance betrayed that her heart was his.—"Now, heaven bless you Amy, let us record our vows, and you will be my bride ere long." "Mr. Sanford," she said, "'tis true that I love you, but yet I can never be yours. Your parents would never receive me as their daughter." "Hush Amy," said he, "my parents love me too well to withhold their consent." Struggling with her emotion, she said, "There are other weighty reasons why I cannot be your wife. No, no, it cannot be." "Amy, you distract me; whatever those reasons are, theyshallbe overcome." She shook her head, and darted off from him ere he was aware of her determination. Hugh was bewildered; but he resolved to seek another interview with Amy. The next day he entreated her as a last favor, to walk with him. Soreasonablea request could not be refused. He told her that unless she changed her determination, on the morrow he would depart, whither he neither knew or cared. Hercompassionwas so much excited, that before their return to the house, she had permitted him to hope. He told her he would set off directly for his home, and that he would return in a few weeks,—adding that he would write to her immediately. It was not until after much entreaty, that she consented to receive his letters; but when he requested her toanswerthem, her agitation knew no bounds. Poor Amy!
The next day he took leave of all; and ere long, a letter fraught with expressions of the most tender regard, was handed to Amy.She did not answer it.Another soon followed, gently chiding her for her silence. After this,all were answered. Mrs. Harrington and Mariawere in arms about the match. His parents yielded a reluctant consent; and at the appointed time they were married. Hugh wrote to his mother to apprize her of it, and to appoint a time for their arrival at the home of his childhood—he now thought himself perfectly happy. Thehoney-moonwas nearly past, when, one day as he was gazing with rapture on the loveliness of his young bride, Mrs. Harrington entered, saying, "Here is a letter directed to 'Mrs. Hugh Sanford,' from my sister, I think." She handed Amy the letter, with a look of peculiar significance. Amy broke the seal mechanically, blushed deeply, and bent her eyes on the ground.—"Amy," said Hugh, "why do you not read my mother's letter?" She sank down, and could only say, "Forgive me—oh, forgive me!" "For what, dearest? You that never in thought or word offended. Look up, Amy," said he, smiling, "you have no need of forgiveness." "Oh, you do not know; I—" She could scarce articulate; but at length came the terrible confession, that she could scarcely read, andcould not write!
We have mentioned the total neglect of her education, and the "weightyreasons" which she told Hugh would prevent her from marrying him. All is now explained. But how, you may ask, did she manage to answer his letters, when she was unable to write? She made Theresa Harrington her confidant; andshe, without thinking of the consequences, answered them in Amy's name. The deception was cruel; but Amy's conduct is not entirely without some palliation. Her love of Hugh, and the shame of her ignorance, combated fiercely in her bosom; andshe did refuse him—partly.
Hugh had first been won by her beauty and her destitute condition; her refusal of his offered hand had only added fuel to the flame. Absence, "making the heart grow fonder," and the letters he received, all conspired to blind him. Sincerely was he to be pitied, for he possessed many fine qualities, and was nobly disinterested. The veil was now removed from his eyes, and the dream of love was fast deserting him, like shadows of the morning, when the bright sunlight rises o'er the hills. They went to his parents. We shall pass over the various mortifications which Hugh had to endure. Amy idolized her husband, and he was too kind-hearted to be proof against her fondness. He exerted himself day after day to instruct her, but I do not believe she went much beyond learning to read and write legibly. His parents lived only a few years after these events, and his beautiful wife was attacked about four years after they were married with a slight cough, which was soon followed by that bright flush, which is too frequently the harbinger of death. A southern climate, and every possible means were resorted to, for her restoration to health, but in vain! Her last prayers were offered up for her husband, and a daughter then two years old. Hugh never married again. He continued to live at the family mansion, occupied almost entirely with the education of Eva. When she was ten years of age, she was sent to New York to school. Her life has been attended with circumstances which are not without romance. Should any curiosity be felt on the subject, I may at a future time give a sketch of the life of Eva Sanford.
Years have passed since these events transpired, and the once young and handsome Hugh Sanford is now an old man. His appearance is very much changed, and his faults and foibles have been lost in his progress through life, or have become softened by the hand of time. Certain it is, he is now a very estimable man, and is looked up to with reverence both in public and private life.
A.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
An unpublished Drama, by the author of "Herbert Barclay," and translator of Schiller's "Don Carlos."
An unpublished Drama, by the author of "Herbert Barclay," and translator of Schiller's "Don Carlos."
ACTI.Scene 2. New York, towards the end of the summer of 1780.
Sir Henry Clinton. Colonel Robinson. An Old British Officer.
Sir Henry Clinton. Colonel Robinson. An Old British Officer.
SIRH. CLINTON.
Rebellion's tatter'd banner droops at last,Wanting the breath of stirring confidence.Discord, twin-brother to defeat, now liftsWithin the Congress walls her grating voice—Fit sound for rebel ears—and in their camp,Lean want breeds discontent and mutiny:The while o'er our embattled squadrons wavesHigh-crested victory, and flaps her wings,Fanning the fire of native valor. SoonShall peace revisit this oppressed land,So long bestrid by war, whose iron heelWith her own life-blood madly stains her sides.
ROBINSON.
Our arms' success upon the southern shore,—Whose thirsty sands are saturate with streamsFrom rebel wounds,—and the discomfitureOf new-born hopes of aid from fickle France,Brought on by Rodney's timely coming, haveEv'n to the stoutest hearts struck black dismay.
OLDOFFICER.
Cast down they may be, but despair's unknownTo their determin'd spirits. Washington'sThe same as when in seventy-six he pass'dThe Delaware, and in a darker hourThan this is, rallied his dishearten'd troops,And by a stroke of generalship, as shrewdAs bold, back turn'd the tide of victory.
ROBINSON.
But years of fruitless warfare, sucking upAlike the people's blood and substance, weighUpon th' exhausted land, like heaped debtsOf failed enterprise, that clog the stepOf action.
OLDOFFICER.
Deem ye not the spirit dull'd,Which first impell'd this people to take armsAnd brave our mighty power; nor yet the hopeExtinct which has their roused energiesUpheld against such fearful odds. The bloodThey've shed, is blood of martyrs—precious oil—Rich fuel to the flame that's boldly litOn Freedom's altar, and whose dear perfume,Upward ascending, is by heroes snuff'd,Strength'ning the soul of patriotic loveWith ireful vengeance.
SIRH. CLINTON.
Whence, my vet'ran Colonel,Comes it, that you, whose scarred body bearsThe outward proofs of inward loyalty,Do entertain for rebels such regard?
OLDOFFICER.
Custom of war has not so steel'd my heart,But that its pulse will beat in admirationOf noble deeds, ev'n though by foemen done.Nor does my sworn allegiance to my kingForbid all sympathy with men, who fight—And fight too with a valiantness which naughtBut conscious justice could inspire—for rightsInherited from British ancestors.
SIRH. CLINTON.
Their yet unconquer'd souls, and the stern frontThey have so long oppos'd in equal strifeTo our war-practis'd soldiery, attestTheir valor: and for us to stint the meedOf praise for gallant bearing in the field,Were self-disparagement, seeing that stillThey hold at bay our far-outnumb'ring host.But for the justice of their cause,—the wrong,Skill'd to bedeck itself in garb of right,Oft cheats the conscience broad credulity,And thus will vice, with virtue's armatureEngirt, fight often unabash'd. UnlooseThe spurs, wherewith desire of change, the prideOf will, hot blood of restless uncurb'd youthWanting a distant parent's discipline,And bold ambition of aspiring chiefs,Do prick them on to this unnatural war;And then, how tam'd would be their fiery mettle,Heated alone by patriotic warmth.
OLDOFFICER.
My General, I know this people well.And all the virtues which Old England claims,As the foundations of her happinessAnd greatness,—such as reverence of lawAnd custom, prudence, female chastity,And with them, independence, fortitude,Courage and sturdiness of purpose,—haveBeen here transplanted from their native soil,And flourish undegenerate. From these,—Sources exhaustible but with the lifeThat feeds them,—their severe intents take birth,And draw the lusty sustenance to mouldThe limbs and body of their own fulfilment,So that performance lag not after purpose.They are our countrymen. They are, as wellIn manly resolution as in blood,The children of our fathers. WashingtonDoth know no other language than the oneWe speak: and never did an English tongueGive voice unto a larger, wiser mind.You'll task your judgment vainly to point outThrough all this desp'rate conflict, in his plansA flaw, or fault in execution. HeIn spirit is unconquerable, asIn genius perfect. Side by side I foughtWith him in that disastrous enterprise,Where brave young Braddock fell; and there I mark'dThe vet'ran's skill contend for masteryWith youthful courage in his wondrous deeds.Well might the bloody Indian warrior pause,Amid his massacre confounded, andHis baffled rifle's aim, till then unerring,Turn from "that tall young man," and deem in aweThat the Great Spirit hover'd over him;For he, of all our mounted officers,Alone came out unscath'd from that dread carnage,To guard our shatter'd army's swift retreat.For years did his majestic form hold placeUpon my mind, stampt in that perilous hour,In th' image of a strong-arm'd friend, untilI met him next, as a resistless foe.'Twas at the fight near Princeton. In quick march,Victorious o'er his van, onward we press'd;When, moving with firm pace, led by the ChiefHimself, the central force encounter'd us.One moment paus'd th' opposing hosts—and thenThe rattling volley hid the death it bore:Another—and the sudden cloud, uproll'd,Display'd, midway between the adverse lines,His drawn sword gleaming high, the Chief—as thoughThat crash of deadly music, and the burstOf sulphurous vapor, had from out the earthSummon'd the God of war. Doubly exposedHe stood unharm'd. Like eagles tempest-borneRush'd to his side his men; and had our soulsAnd arms with two-fold strength been braced, we yetHad not withstood that onset. Thus does heKeep ever with occasion even step,—Now, warily before our eager speedRetreating, tempting us with battle's promiseOnly to toil us with a vain pursuit—Now, wheeling rapidly about our flanks,Startling our ears with sudden peal of war,And fronting in the thickest of the fightThe common soldier's death, stirring the bloodOf faintest hearts to deeds of braveryBy his great presence,—and his every act,Of heady onslaught as of backward march,From thoughtful judgment first infer'd.
ROBINSON.
If thatYou do report him truly, and your wordsBe not the wings to float a brain-born vision,But are true heralds who deliver thatWhich will in corporal doings be avouch'd,Then was this man born to command. And shallIngrate revolt be justified by fate,And Britain's side bleed with the rending offOf this vast member; they will find it so,Who seek to gain a greater libertyThan does befit man's passion-guided state.Jove's bird as soon shall quail his cloud-wet plumage,Sinking his sinewy wafture to the flightOf common pinions,—or the silent tideBreak its mysterious law at the wind's bidding,Remitting for a day its mighty floodUpon this shore,—as that, one recogniz'dTo have all kingly qualities, shall notAssert his natural supremacy,And weaker men submit to his full sway.Power does grow unto the palm that wields it.The necks that bend to make ambition's seat,Must still uphold its overtopping weight,Or, moving, be crush'd under it.
OLDOFFICER.
And headsThat quit the roof of shelt'ring peace, and bare themTo war's fierce lightning for a principle,Do crown the limbs of men, each one a rockBaffling with loftiness ambition's step,Whose ladder is servility. Were theySusceptible of usurpation's sway,This conflict had not been; and then the worldHad miss'd a Washington, whose greatness isOf greatness born. Him have they rais'd becauseOf his great worth; and he has headed themFor that they knew to value him. Had heBeen less, then they had pass'd him by; and hadTheir souls lack'd nobleness, his tow'ring trunk,Scanted of genial sap, had fail'd to reachIts proper altitude. No smiling timeIs this for hypocritical ambitionTo cheat men's minds with virtue's counterfeit.What made him Washington, makes him the chiefOf this vast league,—and that's integrity,The which his noble qualities enlinksIn one great arch, to bear the sudden weightOf a new cause, and, strength'ning ever, holdCompact 'gainst time's all-whelming step.
SIRH. CLINTON.
What nowYou speak, you'll be reminded of, belike,Ere many weeks are past. And well I know,Your arm will not be backward, if there's need,To prove your own words' falsity. Meanwhile,Hold you in readiness for sudden march.
[Exit Old Officer.]
ROBINSON.
A better soldier than a prophet.
SIRH. CLINTON.
Yet,Scarce does his liberal extolment stretchBeyond its object's merits; for, were heNot rooted in his compeers' confidence,And in his generalship unmatched, this leagueHad long since crumbled from within, and o'erIts sever'd bands our arms had quickly triumph'd.In all his mighty spirit's ordinant,The while his warriors, rang'd in council round him,Listen to plans of learned generalship.Within the Congress is his voiceless willPotential as the wisest senator's.Ever between their reeling cause and us,Comes his stern brow to awe fell Ruin's spirit.'Tis a grand game he plays, and, by my soul,Worthy the game and player is the stake.A fair broad continent is't for a kingdom:If he can win't, he's welcome to't.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
I have heard it remarked, that the study of our early poets was like a journey through a country of rich groves and pleasant gardens. There surelyissomething pleasing in the study of old poetry. A ripeness of feeling meets us on the yellow and stained page, which, gradually mingling with the legitimate feelings of our own hearts, "makes us to glow with a rich fervor."
But this pleasure, like all other exquisite pleasures, is rather of the inexpressible kind. To impart it, condensation is necessary: and to condense it, is like bottling fragrance, or gathering foam into a beaker.
The reader may therefore prepare himself for nothing more than a straight forward story—broken in upon at intervals, by such rambling episodes of "remark" as I may think suitable.
I. Geoffry Chaucer, the poet
has ever stood first among the writers who have drunk at "the well of English undefiled."2He has been called the father of English verse, and properly. He travelled several times into the countries of the south, and, as great minds are seldom idle ones, we might infer, without the proof which exists in so many shapes, that he became a pupil to the Italian masters.
1Lydgate.
2The term "well of English undefiled," was applied to Chaucer by Spenser, because he arranged and settled the language—stripping it of many barbarisms and foreign incumbrances. I am aware that he introduced as many foreign words as he cast out; but the rejected were corrupt fragments of the Norman French, which yet (though soft compared with the Saxon,) bore in part a mark of its parentage; and the selections made for the purpose of replacing them, were from theLangue D'Oc—the most beautifully musical of all tongues. He consequently did notdefilethe English language.
He was a student, and returned to England laden with the fruits of his study. It was his fate to come between the scholars of that and preceding ages, who worked their religious and scientific instructions intoheavyLatin metre, and the court minions, who sang to their mistresses and patrons in Norman French, and lay a solid foundation out of the scattered fragments of real English poetry. With little fancy, less imagination, and the little of the first clipped, by his matter-of-fact employment aswool inspector, he has succeeded in story-telling better than any of his successors. In a tale, the more vivid the picture drawn, the more interesting the tale. To be minute and particular in description, is to beget a vivid picture: and this is the secret of Chaucer's popularity. He writes as if he were taking an inventory of, rather than describing, things around him. Ages after, when this same talent for descending skilfully into particulars, was used in the description of natural scenery and of the workings of the human breast, it gave Spenser's Pastorals, and the tragedies of Shakspeare and poor Shelly, a beauty which in the first two, men have long ago learned to appreciate, and which in the course of time, will place the last on the seat to which he is entitled. The whole secret of Chaucer's charm is, as I have said, particularity. If he had used this talent in describing the many workings of the human heart, he would probably have failed—for no man can describe that of which he is ignorant.3If he had turned his attention to pastoral poetry, hemighthave succeeded; and indeed, in the descriptions of nature scattered throughout his various poems, he has succeeded admirably. But something more is wanting than this power of description, in the song of a shepherd. From his wild and unrestrained life among the hills of a legendary country—surrounded as he is, by "kids and lambs, and blithe birds," we not only look for minuteness of description, but affecting plaintiveness and imaginative imbodyings. This last is one great aid to Spenser's pastoral poetry. But I am anticipating my subject.
3Chaucer has the reputation of being a great "painter of characters;" but he excels in describing manner, bearing, dress, &c.—not in picturing the workings of the "human heart."
Chaucer was the founder of a style which after poets have often attempted to imitate. Dryden and Pope have paraphrased his works; and Keates tells us that he is too weak to do other than "stammer where Dan Chaucer sung." The Canterbury tales were modelled after, and for the most part copied from the Decameron of Boccacio. The prologue to these is the most perfect thing of its kind extant. His satires are strong, and chiefly aimed against the enemies of Wickliffe, and his patron John of Lancaster. Chaucer was a philosopher too—a great one for his age. His treatise on the Astrolabe, intended for the benefit of his son, manifests more information than we would look for in the reign of Edward III. His satires against the opponents of Wickliffe are rather political than religious. In religious matters he seems to have possessed a praiseworthy spirit of toleration—a quality unknown for ages after to the "agents elect" of a peace-loving Christ.4Altogether, Chaucer was a wonderful man, and certainly, for his time, a poet as "parfite" and as "gentil" as his own knight.5His Canterbury tales are hisgreatworks: they gave a tone to English poetry. In these days, when all literature has lost its freshness, it would be a pleasant thing if we could
I should like to believe in the Pythagorean doctrine, if only for the pleasant consciousness that old Geoffry Chaucer had left his spirit behind him. He died on the 25th of October, (the same day of the same month on which died King Alfred,) in the year 1400; and was buried in Westminster Abbey, where for a long time these words were upon his tomb:
4It is in a letter to his son, where he is remarking upon the merits of the different sects that we find this odd similitude—"There are many roads leading to Rome." He was not narrow brained enough to believe that there was but one.
5"He was a veray parfite gentil knight."—Prol. Can. Tales.
6Milton's Il Pensoroso, in allusion to the Squire's tale in Chaucer.
II. Before passing on to the celebrated poets of the time of Henry VIII, I will make a few remarks upon the ancient ballad of "Chevy Chase."
Little or nothing more than the name of the author of this fine old heroic ballad, is at present known. Dr. Percy's conjecture with regard to the date of its composition, may or may not be correct. But I will assume it as an accurate one. The manuscript copy belonging to the Harleian Library, has the name of Richard Sheale attached to it. Sheale perhaps lived in the reign of Henry VI, and as probably was from the north country. He may indeed have been a minstrel in the Percy family; but this is mere conjecture. In reference to some of the characteristics of this ballad, it strikes me that Sir Philip Sidney's remark, in his "Apology for Poetry," is in very bad taste. After regretting that so fine and stirring an old song should be "apparelled in the dust and cobwebb of that uncivill age," he asks, "what would it not work trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of Pindar?" Dr. Percy speaks of the song as one "recommended to the most refined, and endeared to the most simple reader, by genuine strokes of nature and artless passion." Are gorgeous eloquence and nature fit comates? Would the natural and manly simplicity, for which the greatest works of man are so renowned, be well exchanged for the diffuse and ornate style of a Grecian lyric poet? I think not. As for this old ballad's roughness, I thinkthatrather a merit. Bating some uncouthness, I think the language really better, much better adapted to the subject than our own more polished diction might be possibly. Dr. Johnson, in a paper of the Rambler, treats of the adaptation of sound to meaning; and quotes many examples illustrating his ground, from Greek, Latin and English poetry. He certainly is correct to a certain extent, if not wholly, and I will apply his rules to the present case.
"Through the hunt and battle, the author's style is fiery and severe, with the exception of a stanza or more, in which Percy and Douglass rest upon their swords, and after the manner of Homer's heroes, applaud each the other's gallantry. The poet in this place, seems to pause in the same graceful rest which he has given his heroes. But the battle renews; and his metrepersonatesits stormy vigor. At last the minstrel sinks from his high place into the hollows of grief; for the 'weeping widows' are before us, with 'birch and hazel biers,' carrying the dead men to their burial. And then with what skill does he shake off individual tenderness, and proclaim the 'national regret!'"
All in all—beauty on beauty— Chevy Chase has never been matched, and does much better "unapparelled in the gorgeous eloquence of a Pindar." Truly, the obscure author of this one ballad stands alone—the father of English heroic poetry.
But he has attained excellence, without following the path which Homer "has shown;" and without using Homer's "numbers," has sung a great song.
III. Next on the list of those poets to whom the English language and English literature are indebted, stand Wyatt and Surrey. With regard to the first, I will hardly say more than that he was an Anacreon compared with his contemporaries. Rather gentle in his genius, he wrote love verses intuitively, and added in no slight degree to the melody of the language.
But Surrey added more. His love for the fair haired Lady Geraldine sent him "knight-erranting" among the romances and romantic grounds of Italy; and he is said to have been so well acquainted with the Tuscan tongue, and so well read in Italian authors, as to be a marvel, even in the days when Venice was the Paris of young English noblemen, and the Appenines their Switzerland. It may be as well to quote a few lines from Surrey's poems, as he has the reputation of having introduced much of the southern softness into English verse.
"Lines writ by Henry Howard Lord Surrey—being a complaynt that hys Ladie, after she knew of hys love, kept her face always hydden from hym.
The reader will recognize this as a paraphrase, or indeed almost literal version of one of Petrarch'scanzoni. He may, if curious enough, amuse himself by studying it with the original, not for the purpose of detecting the very visible theft, but for comparing a specimen of English verse, while not nearly escaped from its rudeness, with the Tuscan of perhaps the most musical of all bards.
The sonnet, so frequently used by Surrey, and after him by Shakspeare and nearly every other English poet, was (according to Sir W. Jones,) introduced from Arabia into Italy: thence, with other stanzaic structures into England by Chaucer, who in one of his visits to the south, is reported to have met Petrarch and made his friendship, in Genoa. Surrey was doubtless the most skilful sonnet-weaver of his day, and though too fond of the inversion, for which Milton is so much blamed, for the most part pleases both ear and understanding. His end was an unfortunate one. Henry VIII added the poet lover to the list of those whom tyranny brought to the scaffold. He was beheaded in the year 1500.
IV. Sir Philip Sidney was famous throughout all Europe for his intellectual and personal accomplishments. He was spoken of as a candidate for the throne of Poland on the death of Sigismond Augustus, but Elizabeth was unwilling to lose the "prime jewel of all England," and retained him at the English court. It is more than probable that he would have been defeated; for the claim of a Duke of Anjou, pleaded by so wily an advocate as Montluc, "the happy embassador," would have been more than strong enough to vanquish that of an honest, open-minded British gentleman.
The character of Sir Philip Sidney was without reproach. Not unlike Lord Surrey in his renown, he was yet more a hero than his illustrious precursor. Lord Surrey was an accomplished and illustrious patrician, the first of his age; but Sidney was a refinement upon nobility. He was like the abstract and essence of romantic fiction, having the courage (but not the barbarity) of thepreux chevaliersof ancient time—their unwearied patience—their tender and stainless attachment. He was a hero of chivalry, without the grossness and frailty of the flesh. He lived beloved and admired, and died universally and deservedly lamented. He is the last of those who have passed into a marvel; and he is now remembered almost as the ideal personification of a true knight.
Sir Philip Sidney's poetry was not without the faults of his time. It abounds with conceits and strained similes, and the versification is occasionally cramped. Nevertheless, many of his sonnets contain beautiful images and deep sentiment, (such as the 31, 82, 84, and others,) though a little impoverished by this alloy. But Sidney's reputation was won upon crimson fields, as well as upon poetic mountains. He wooed Bellona, as well as the Muses; and his last great act, when dying at Zutphen, is of itself enough to justify the high admiration of his countrymen.7
7Vid. article "Poetry," in No. LXXXIII of Edin. Review, April 1825.
V. Edmond Spenser—Dryden's "father," and Southey's "dear master"—the poet who "threw a rainbow across the heaven of poetry," was born in London. He found, at the age of eighteen or thereabout, that a cousin whom he loved would not receive his suit, and went into Cumberland, where, to pour out his sorrow, he wrote the most mournful portions of the "Shepherd's Calendar." He was for some time Secretary in Ireland,8under Lord Grey de Wilton, where his Fairy Queen was conceived and partly written; and died A.D. 1598, aged forty-five years.
8If I mistake not, Edmund Burke spent a portion of his boyhood within sight of the garden where Spenser composed much of his Fairy Queen. What better spot could there be for the education of genius? This life, among scenes constantly exciting associations of the most poetical and refined nature, may have assisted in giving Burke's mind the poetic coloring for which it was so remarkable.
Spenser and the other "fathers" of the English schools of poetry should rather be called "masters of ceremonies," for they certainly did notbegettheir different orders of composition. Italy was the cradle of these orders, not England. I will however adopt the first and common title, and call Spenser father of the English allegorical and pastoral poetry. And on these I will say a few words before I proceed to his more striking excellencies.
The ancients were particularly fond of allegory. A field as vast as could be desired was here opened for their poets. The whole heathen mythology was a splendid allegory. Virgil's Ænead may be called an allegory. As Eneas conducted the remnant of his countrymen from the Trojan ruins to a new settlement in Italy, so Augustus, from the ruins of the aristocracy, modelled a completely new government. I have not leisure to pursue the parallel. Homer has in the Odyssey many allegorical fables; as for instance those of Circe and Calypso. In imitation of these, Virgil introduced his Dido. Going farther on we find the love of allegory increasing in Italy. Ariosto's Alcina and the Armida of Tasso are "copies from the copy" of Virgil; and coming on English ground we find Spenser stealing from Tasso. As for the kinds of poetry in which allegory should be used—In an epic, persons of the "imaginary life," such as Virgil's
and Spenser's "gnawingJEALOUSYsitting alone and biting his bitter lips"—should by no means enter into the action of the poem. Virgil knew this and made them nothing more than "gate posts to his entrance into Hades."9The introduction of allegorical personages into the drama is unpardonable. Even in ages when men were laid open by superstition to the insinuating beauty of allegory; when the ignorant imagined every rock to be the pent-house of some spirit; when the timid walked abroad in fear and trembling, and when in consequence of this feeling allegorical paintings even of a wild sort seemed natural and agreeable to truth, its introduction into the drama met with but little applause. Æschylus has often been criticised severely for his frequent errors of this sort; one of which is his introduction ofSTRENGTH, as a character who assists Vulcan in binding Prometheus to his rock.
9All lavish embellishment—such as Tasso's description of the bower of bliss, in his "Jerusalem," which the reader will find transplanted into the second book of Spenser's Fairy Queen—should likewise be excluded from the epic. This species of poem—the grandest ofallspecies—should be superior to such embellishment.
Though excluded from epic and dramatic poetry, it may be used with great aptness in poems of a descriptive nature. We thus find that pastoral poetry often admits of an allegorical vein. Spenser knew this, and has given us a happy instance in that eclogue of his Shepherd's Calendar, in which he represents the union of the rivers Briqoq and Mulla. He has still happier instances inÆcloga tertiaand inÆcloga quinta.
Spenser likewise acted as master of ceremonies to pastoral poetry in its introduction to English literature. The great father of this order was Theocritus. His follower was Virgil, who combined very skilfully themerum rusof the Idyllia with his own courtly grace. Tasso in his Aminta imitated Virgil, and was in turn imitated by a host of contemporary and subsequent poets among his countrymen. Without copying Tasso in this as in other things, Spenser became the head of English pastoral poetry, and has never yet been excelled.
Mr. Pope's remarks in the preface to his pastorals are evidently correct. "The simplest states of life and feeling best suit this style of poetry." Spenser's early pastorals, written
are minute and beautiful pictures of the country and of country life. Indeed, one of his poems may be likened to a country scene. Here are musical brooks; there old woods cloaked in ornamental foliage; here a succession of bold thoughts shaped into a chain of tall hills; there the low vale of quiet unobtrusive beauty—all this, too, mellowed by the gawsy twilight of love. Such are Spenser's early pictures, but after mingling with the world, and losing his primitive simplicity of temper, the elegance and refinement which gave such a charm to the "Fairy Queen," spoiled his rural poetry. It was no longer a picture of nature: his plant was a hot house one: his fruit had thehortus siccusflavor: his nightingales were caged, and sang from an embayed window. This difference may be seen by comparing "Colin come home again" with its predecessors.
But the Fairy Queen is his wonderful work. The elegant and sometimes magnificent beauty of that lay, where the "great bard"
has elevated his name to the high place which it fills with such brilliancy. Every poetic palate will relish "the grapes of hidden meaning so abundant under the vine-leaves of his exquisite allegory."
On the whole, as for Spenser as anaturalpoet, all unite in pronouncing him imaginative, bold, and even witty: as an artist, oreducatedpoet, skilful, elegant, and full. His language is, for the most part, rich and expressive; his verse (remarkably various in arrangement) could scarcely be more melodious and pleasing. I will close this portion of my remarks with a quotation, the source of which I forget, but which I find pencilled upon the margin of my Chaucer.
"Spenser and Chaucer, instead of being forced into death by their antiquated language, will, by their use of it, perpetuate its remembrance. The ancient English is their servant. They are not and never will be its victims."
VI. These are biographical times. A moiety of centuries ago, not even a Shakspeare could find a biographer willing to follow the windings of his career. We know nothing more of himcertainlythan that he remained on the Avon with his wife Anne Hatheway—his senior by eight years—and three children, the last two of which were twins—until ambition led him to London. That there his plays were written; and his evenings spent with Ned Alleyne, Ben Jonson, Marlow and others, in drinking canary wine, and in "tilting in the lists of literary controversie." We have little knowledge of their pleasant discussions—
but in such a company, wit and humor must have been gods of the entertainment. We are told that in table debate, "Jonson was like a great Spanish gallion, and Shakspeare an English man of war. Master Jonson was built far higher in learning; solid but slow in his performances. Shakspeare lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, and take advantage of all winds by the quickness of his wit and invention." We can easily fancy the plethoric Ben writhing and chafing under the quickness of his adversary's attacks.
Within the last twenty years Shakspeare has become popular with the German critics—the best perhaps of the age. The critical mania has been imparted to the English, and I have observed lately in the English Magazines several articles pretty much in the German tone. One writer, for example, is engaged in building up a "life" of the poet from rather strangemateriel—his sonnets. This idea was started by Schlegel, I believe—and is certainly a happy one: for all authors have sorrows, and at times must seek relief by giving them utterance. Indeed the works of an author's leisure moments are usually all of one piece—all of the same tone—all harping upon the one black thread in his fortune. Shakspeare asks in one of his sonnets—
This brooding and inward looking is a common habit.10Chatterton, Kirk White, and Dermody, have dissected their very hearts. Byron lives in his vagrant "Childe," and bating some most disgusting affectation in his Corsair—Lara—Giaour. Shelley groans with his Prometheus—breathes in his Laon—and draws his own image with the life of his Helen.11This may have been the case with Shakspeare. Giving free scope to his heart's inmost workings, he has given posterity, in his sonnets, a record of feeling so expressed as to render it easy to build upon it a fabric of fact—a true and accurate 'life.'
10Bulwer says in the Disowned, that hiseffortis, at all times to "avoid a self-picture in his writings." The very fact that aneffortmust be made, proves the existence of this yearning egotism. In writings never intended for the world's eye there is no drawback to the inclination, and it is followed. Shakspeare's sonnets were not "writ for the world."
11This self-identity is not so visible in the tragedies of Byron and Shelley, for the simple reason, perhaps, that these are more the works of art—more the creatures of the brain than heart—abound more in skill than feeling.
His sonnets, as they now stand, are hardly intelligible, but when placed in proper order, tell one unbroken story. We learn,inter aliathat Shakspeare had amalefriend whom he loved most dearly: that this friend "broke a two-fold truth"—and the question is, in what manner. Searching farther we gain the clew, and find that the poet had imbodied his vision of poetic loveliness—hisIris en air—in one, whom in the midst of his dream of purity and beauty unearthly, he found "as black as hell and as dark as night." That friend wins her to his arms, and this is where he is "led to riot" and to break a "two-fold truth." The poet finally discovers her wretched nature and asks—
Then pauses in the midst of the deeply affecting portraiture of self-feeling, to whisper the exquisite self-excuse: "How could
Perhaps self-portraiture might be even detected in his plays. Goethe's comprehension of the incomprehensible Hamlet, (viz. That with a great and philosophic mind he was too shrinking and sensitive for the execution of his high resolves—in a word, that like a porcelain jar attempting to enfold the roots of an oak, until shattered in the attempt, his shrinking nature tottered under the pressure of a purpose too mighty,) may have been a picture of Shakspeare's self: violent ambition acting upon the poet's fine nature, as other passions did upon that of Hamlet.
I have occupied so much space with that part of Shakspeare's history little known, that it has given me an excuse for shunning the beaten track altogether. I will however quote Dryden's eulogy, as it is short and famous for its pith.12
"He was the man who of all modern and perhaps all ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously but luckily: when he describes any thing, you more than see it, you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him the greater commendation: he was naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature; he looked inwards and found her there. I cannot say he is every where alike; were he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat, insipid; his comic wit degenerating into clinches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when some great occasion is presented to him: no man can say he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then raise himself as high above the rest of poets,