Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 76

CANTO II

After seven hours' sleep, to commute for pains taken, A man of himself, one would think, might awaken; But riding, and drinking hard, were two such spells, I doubt I'd slept on, but for jangling of bells, Which, ringing to matins all over the town, Made me leap out of bed, and put on my gown.

With intent (so G.o.d mend me) t' have gone to the choir, When straight I perceived myself all on a fire; For the two forenamed things had so heated my blood, That a little phlebotomy would do me good: I sent for chirurgeon, who came in a trice, And swift to shed blood, needed not be called twice, But tilted stiletto quite thorough the vein, From whence issued out the ill humours amain; When having twelve ounces, he bound up my arm, And I gave him two Georges, which did him no harm: But after my bleeding, I soon understood It had cooled my devotion as well as my blood; For I had no more mind to look on my psalter, Than (saving your presence) I had to a halter; But, like a most wicked and obstinate sinner, Then sat in my chamber till folks came to dinner: I dined with good stomach, and very good cheer, With a very fine woman, and good ale and beer; When myself having stuffed than a bagpipe more full, I fell to my smoking until I grew dull; And, therefore, to take a fine nap thought it best, For when belly full is, bones would be at rest: I tumbled me down on my bed like a swad, Where, oh! the delicious dream that I had!

Till the bells, that had been my morning molesters, Now waked me again, chiming all in to vespers: With that starting up, for my man I did whistle, And combed out and powdered my locks that were grizzle; Had my clothes neatly brushed, and then put on my sword, Resolved now to go and attend on the word.

Thus tricked, and thus trim, to set forth I begin, Neat and cleanly without, but scarce cleanly within; For why, Heaven knows it, I long time had been A most humble obedient servant to sin; And now in devotion was even so proud, I scorned forsooth to join prayer with the crowd; For though courted by all the bells as I went, I was deaf, and regarded not the compliment, But to the cathedral still held on my pace, As't were, scorning to kneel but in the best place.

I there made myself sure of good music at least, But was something deceived, for 'twas none of the best: But however I stay'd at the church's commanding Till we came to the 'Peace pa.s.ses all understanding,'

Which no sooner was ended, but whir and away, Like boys in a school when they've leave got to play; All save master mayor, who still gravely stays Till the rest had made room for his worship and's mace: Then he and his brethren in order appear, I out of my stall, and fell into his rear; For why, 'tis much safer appearing, no doubt, In authority's tail, than the head of a rout.

In this rev'rend order we marched from prayer; The mace before me borne as well as the mayor; Who looking behind him, and seeing most plain A glorious gold belt in the rear of his train, Made such a low conge, forgetting his place, I was never so honoured before in my days: But then off went my scalp-case, and down went my fist, Till the pavement, too hard, by my knuckles was kissed; By which, though thick-skulled, he must understand this, That I was a most humble servant of his; Which also so wonderful kindly he took, (As I well perceived both b' his gesture and look,) That to have me dogg'd home he straightway appointed, Resolving, it seems, to be better acquainted.

I was scarce in my quarters, and set down on crupper, But his man was there too, to invite me to supper: I start up, and after most respective fashion Gave his worship much thanks for his kind invitation; But begged his excuse, for my stomach was small, And I never did eat any supper at all; But that after supper I would kiss his hands, And would come to receive his worship's commands.

Sure no one will say, but a patron of slander, That this was not pretty well for a Moorlander: And since on such reasons to sup I refused, I nothing did doubt to be holden excused; But my quaint repartee had his worship possess'd With so wonderful good a conceit of the rest, That with mere impatience he hoped in his breeches To see the fine fellow that made such fine speeches: 'Go, sirrah!' quoth he, 'get you to him again, And will and require, in his Majesty's name, That he come; and tell him, obey he were best, or I'll teach him to know that he's now in West-Chester.'

The man, upon this, comes me running again, But yet minced his message, and was not so plain; Saying to me only, 'Good sir, I am sorry To tell you my master has sent again for you; And has such a longing to have you his guest, That I, with these ears, heard him swear and protest, He would neither say grace, nor sit down on his b.u.m, Nor open his napkin, until you do come.'

With that I perceived no excuse would avail, And, seeing there was no defence for a flail, I said I was ready master may'r to obey, And therefore desired him to lead me the way.

We went, and ere Malkin could well lick her ear, (For it but the next door was, forsooth) we were there; Where lights being brought me, I mounted the stairs, The worst I e'er saw in my life at a mayor's: But everything else must be highly commended.

I there found his worship most n.o.bly attended, Besides such a supper as well did convince, A may'r in his province to be a great prince; As he sat in his chair, he did not much vary, In state nor in face, from our eighth English Harry; But whether his face was swelled up with fat, Or puffed up with glory, I cannot tell that.

Being entered the chamber half length of a pike, And cutting of faces exceedingly like One of those little gentlemen brought from the Indies, And s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g myself into conges and cringes, By then I was half-way advanced in the room, His worship most rev'rendly rose from his b.u.m, And with the more honour to grace and to greet me, Advanced a whole step and a half for to meet me; Where leisurely doffing a hat worth a tester, He bade me most heartily welcome to Chester.

I thanked him in language the best I was able, And so we forthwith sat us all down to table.

Now here you must note, and 'tis worth observation, That as his chair at one end o' th' table had station; So sweet mistress may'ress, in just such another, Like the fair queen of hearts, sat in state at the other; By which I perceived, though it seemed a riddle, The lower end of this must be just in the middle: But perhaps 'tis a rule there, and one that would mind it Amongst the town-statutes 'tis likely might find it.

But now into the pottage each deep his spoon claps, As in truth one might safely for burning one's chaps, When straight, with the look and the tone of a scold, Mistress may'ress complained that the pottage was cold; 'And all 'long of your fiddle-faddle,' quoth she.

'Why, what then, Goody Two-Shoes, what if it be?

Hold you, if you can, your t.i.ttle-tattle,' quoth he.

I was glad she was snapped thus, and guessed by th' discourse, The may'r, not the gray mare, was the better horse, And yet for all that, there is reason to fear, She submitted but out of respect to his year: However 'twas well she had now so much grace, Though not to the man, to submit to his place; For had she proceeded, I verily thought My turn would the next be, for I was in fault: But this brush being past, we fell to our diet, And every one there filled his belly in quiet.

Supper being ended, and things away taken, Master mayor's curiosity 'gan to awaken; Wherefore making me draw something nearer his chair, He willed and required me there to declare My country, my birth, my estate, and my parts, And whether I was not a master of arts; And eke what the business was had brought me thither, With what I was going about now, and whither: Giving me caution, no lie should escape me, For if I should trip, he should certainly trap me.

I answered, my country was famed Staffordshire; That in deeds, bills, and bonds, I was ever writ squire; That of land I had both sorts, some good, and some evil, But that a great part on't was p.a.w.ned to the devil; That as for my parts, they were such as he saw; That, indeed, I had a small smatt'ring of law, Which I lately had got more by practice than reading, By sitting o' th' bench, whilst others were pleading; But that arms I had ever more studied than arts, And was now to a captain raised by my deserts; That the business which led me through Palatine ground Into Ireland was, whither now I was bound; Where his worship's great favour I loud will proclaim, And in all other places wherever I came.

He said, as to that, I might do what I list, But that I was welcome, and gave me his fist; When having my fingers made crack with his gripes, He called to his man for some bottles and pipes.

To trouble you here with a longer narration Of the several parts of our confabulation, Perhaps would be tedious; I'll therefore remit ye Even to the most rev'rend records of the city, Where, doubtless, the acts of the may'rs are recorded, And if not more truly, yet much better worded.

In short, then, we piped and we tippled Canary, Till my watch pointed one in the circle horary; When thinking it now was high time to depart, His worship I thanked with a most grateful heart; And because to great men presents are acceptable, I presented the may'r, ere I rose from the table, With a certain fantastical box and a stopper; And he having kindly accepted my offer, I took my fair leave, such my visage adorning, And to bed, for I was to rise early i' th' morning.

CANTO III.

The sun in the morning disclosed his light, With complexion as ruddy as mine over night; And o'er th' eastern mountains peeping up's head, The cas.e.m.e.nt being open, espied me in bed; With his rays he so tickled my lids that I waked, And was half ashamed, for I found myself naked; But up I soon start, and was dressed in a trice, And called for a draught of ale, sugar, and spice; Which having turned off, I then call to pay, And packing my nawls, whipt to horse, and away.

A guide I had got, who demanded great vails, For conducting me over the mountains of Wales: Twenty good shillings, which sure very large is; Yet that would not serve, but I must bear his charges; And yet for all that, rode astride on a beast, The worst that e'er went on three legs, I protest: It certainly was the most ugly of jades, His hips and his rump made a right ace of spades; His sides were two ladders, well spur-galled withal; His neck was a helve, and his head was a mall; For his colour, my pains and your trouble I'll spare, For the creature was wholly denuded of hair; And, except for two things, as bare as my nail, A tuft of a mane, and a sprig of a tail; And by these the true colour one can no more know, Than by mouse-skins above stairs, the merkin below.

Now such as the beast was, even such was the rider, With a head like a nutmeg, and legs like a spider; A voice like a cricket, a look like a rat, The brains of a goose, and the heart of a cat: Even such was my guide and his beast; let them pa.s.s, The one for a horse, and the other an a.s.s.

But now with our horses, what sound and what rotten, Down to the sh.o.r.e, you must know, we were gotten; And there we were told, it concerned us to ride, Unless we did mean to encounter the tide; And then my guide lab'ring with heels and with hands, With two up and one down, hopped over the sands, Till his horse, finding the labour for three legs too sore, Foaled out a new leg, and then he had four: And now by plain dint of hard spurring and whipping, Dry-shod we came where folks sometimes take shipping; And where the salt sea, as the devil were in 't, Came roaring t' have hindered our journey to Flint; But we, by good luck, before him got thither, He else would have carried us, no man knows whither.

And now her in Wales is, Saint Taph be her speed, Gott splutter her taste, some Welsh ale her had need; For her ride in great haste, and * *

For fear of her being catched up by the fishes: But the lord of Flint castle's no lord worth a louse, For he keeps ne'er a drop of good drink in his house; But in a small house near unto 't there was store Of such ale as, thank G.o.d, I ne'er tasted before; And surely the Welsh are not wise of their fuddle, For this had the taste and complexion of puddle.

From thence then we marched, full as dry as we came, My guide before prancing, his steed no more lame, O'er hills and o'er valleys uncouth and uneven, Until 'twixt the hours of twelve and eleven, More hungry and thirsty than tongue can well tell, We happily came to Saint Winifred's well: I thought it the pool of Bethesda had been, By the cripples lay there; but I went to my inn To speak for some meat, for so stomach did motion, Before I did further proceed in devotion: I went into th' kitchen, where victuals I saw, Both beef, veal, and mutton, but all on 't was raw; And some on't alive, but soon went to slaughter, For four chickens were slain by my dame and her daughter; Of which to Saint Win. ere my vows I had paid, They said I should find a rare fricasee made: I thanked them, and straight to the well did repair, Where some I found cursing, and others at prayer; Some dressing, some stripping, some out and some in, Some naked, where botches and boils might be seen; Of which some were fevers of Venus I'm sure, And therefore unfit for the virgin to cure: But the fountain, in truth, is well worth the sight, The beautiful virgin's own tears not more bright; Nay, none but she ever shed such a tear, Her conscience, her name, nor herself, were more clear.

In the bottom there lie certain stones that look white, But streaked with pure red, as the morning with light, Which they say is her blood, and so it may be, But for that, let who shed it look to it for me.

Over the fountain a chapel there stands, Which I wonder has 'scaped master Oliver's hands; The floor's not ill paved, and the margin o' th' spring Is inclosed with a certain octagonal ring; From each angle of which a pillar does rise, Of strength and of thickness enough to suffice To support and uphold from falling to ground A cupola wherewith the virgin is crowned.

Now 'twixt the two angles that fork to the north, And where the cold nymph does her basin pour forth, Under ground is a place where they bathe, as 'tis said, And 'tis true, for I heard folks' teeth hack in their head; For you are to know, that the rogues and the * *

Are not let to pollute the spring-head with their sores.

But one thing I chiefly admired in the place, That a saint and a virgin endued with such grace, Should yet be so wonderful kind a well-willer To that whoring and filching trade of a miller, As within a few paces to furnish the wheels Of I cannot tell how many water-mills: I've studied that point much, you cannot guess why, But the virgin was, doubtless, more righteous than I.

And now for my welcome, four, five, or six la.s.ses, With as many crystalline liberal gla.s.ses, Did all importune me to drink of the water Of Saint Winifreda, good Thewith's fair daughter.

A while I was doubtful, and stood in a muse, Not knowing, amidst all that choice, where to choose.

Till a pair of black eyes, darting full in my sight, From the rest o' th' fair maidens did carry me quite; I took the gla.s.s from her, and whip, off it went, I half doubt I fancied a health to the saint: But he was a great villain committed the slaughter, For Saint Winifred made most delicate water.

I slipped a hard shilling into her soft hand, Which had like to have made me the place have profaned; And giving two more to the poor that were there, Did, sharp as a hawk, to my quarters repair.

My dinner was ready, and to it I fell, I never ate better meat, that I can tell; When having half dined, there comes in my host, A catholic good, and a rare drunken toast; This man, by his drinking, inflamed the scot, And told me strange stories, which I have forgot; But this I remember, 'twas much on's own life, And one thing, that he had converted his wife.

But now my guide told me, it time was to go, For that to our beds we must both ride and row; Wherefore calling to pay, and having accounted, I soon was down-stairs, and as suddenly mounted: On then we travelled, our guide still before, Sometimes on three legs, and sometimes on four, Coasting the sea, and over hills crawling, Sometimes on all four, for fear we should fall in; For underneath Neptune lay skulking to watch us, And, had we but slipped once, was ready to catch us.

Thus in places of danger taking more heed, And in safer travelling mending our speed: Redland Castle and Abergoney we past, And o'er against Connoway came at the last: Just over against a castle there stood, O' th' right hand the town, and o' th' left hand a wood; 'Twixt the wood and the castle they see at high water The storm, the place makes it a dangerous matter; And besides, upon such a steep rock it is founded, As would break a man's neck, should he'scape being drowned: Perhaps though in time one may make them to yield, But 'tis prettiest Cob-castle e'er I beheld.

The sun now was going t' unharness his steeds, When the ferry-boat brasking her sides 'gainst the weeds, Came in as good time as good time could be, To give us a cast o'er an arm of the sea; And bestowing our horses before and abaft, O'er G.o.d Neptune's wide cod-piece gave us a waft; Where scurvily landing at foot of the fort, Within very few paces we entered the port, Where another King's Head invited me down, For indeed I have ever been true to the crown.

DR HENRY MORE.

This eminent man was the son of a gentleman of good family and estate in Grantham, Lincolnshire. He was born in 1614. His father sent him to study at Eton, and thence, in 1631, he repaired to Cambridge, where he was destined to spend the most of his life. Philosophy attracted him early, in preference to science or literature, and he became a follower of Plato, so decided and enthusiastic as to gain for himself the t.i.tle of 'The Platonist' _par excellence_. In 1639, he graduated M.A.; and the next year, he published the first part of 'Psychozoia; or, The Song of the Soul,' containing a Christiano-Platonical account of Man and Life.

In preparing the materials of this poem, he had studied all the princ.i.p.al Platonists and mystical writers, and is said to have read himself almost to a shadow. And not only was his body emaciated, but his mind was so overstrung, that he imagined himself to see spiritual beings, to hear supernatural voices, and to converse, like Socrates, with a particular genius. He thought, too, that his body 'exhaled the perfume of violets!' Notwithstanding these little peculiarities, his genius and his learning, the simplicity of his character, and the innocence of his life, rendered him a general favourite; he was made a fellow of his college, and became a tutor to various persons of distinguished rank. One of these was Sir John Finch, whose sister, Lady Conway, an enthusiast herself, brought More acquainted with the famous John Baptist Van Helment, a man after whom, in the beginning of the seventeenth century, the whole of Europe wondered. He was a follower and imitator of Paracelsus, like him affected universal knowledge, aspired to revolutionise the science of medicine, and died with the reputation of one who, with great powers and acquirements, instead of becoming a great man, ended as a brilliant pretender, and was rather an 'architect of ruin' to the systems of others, than the founder of a solid fabric of his own. More admired, of course, not the quackery, but the adventurous boldness of Helment's genius, and his devotion to chemistry; which is certainly the most spiritual of all the sciences, and must, especially in its transcendental forms, have had a great charm for a Platonic thinker. Our author was entirely devoted to study, and resisted every inducement to leave what he called his 'Paradise' at Cambridge. His friends once tried to decoy him into a bishopric, and got him the length of Whitehall to kiss the king's hand on the occasion; but when he understood their purpose, he refused to go a single step further. His life was a long, learned, happy, and holy dream. He was of the most benevolent disposition; and once observed to a friend, 'that he was thought by some to have a soft head, but he thanked G.o.d he had a soft heart.' In the heat of the Rebellion, the Republicans spared More, although he had refused to take the Covenant. Campbell says of him, 'He corresponded with Descartes, was the friend of Cudworth, and, as a divine and a moralist, was not only popular in his own time, but has been mentioned with admiration both by Addison and Blair.' One is rather amused at the latter clause. That a man of More's ma.s.sive learning, n.o.ble eloquence, and divine genius should need the testimony of a mere elegant wordmonger like Blair, seems ludicrous enough; and Addison himself, except in wit and humour, was not worthy to have untied the shoelatchets of the old Platonist. We were first introduced to this writer by good Dr John Brown, late of Broughton Place, Edinburgh, and shall never forget hearing him, in his library, read some splendid pa.s.sages from More's work, in those deep, mellow, antique tones which flavoured whatever he read, like the crust on old wine. His chief works are, 'A Discourse on the Immortality of the Soul,' 'The Mystery of G.o.dliness,' 'The Mystery of Iniquity,' 'Divine Dialogues,' 'An Antidote against Atheism,' 'Ethical and Metaphysical Manuals,' &c. In writing such books, and pursuing the recondite studies of which they were the fruit, More spent his life happily. In 1661, he became a Fellow of the Royal Society. For twenty years after the Restoration, his works are said to have sold better than any of their day--a curious and unaccountable fact, considering the levity and licentiousness of the period. In September 1687, the fine old spiritualist, aged seventy- three, went away to that land of 'ideas' to which his heart had been translated long before.

More's prose writings give us, on the whole, a higher idea of his powers than his poem. This is not exactly, as a recent critic calls it, 'dull and tedious,' but it is in some parts prosaic, and in others obscure.

The gleams of fancy in it are genuine, but few and far between. But his prose works const.i.tute, like those of Cudworth, Charnock, Jeremy Taylor, and John Scott, a vast old quarry, abounding both in blocks and in gems --blocks of granite solidity, and gems of starry l.u.s.tre. The peculiarity of More is in that poetico-philosophic mist which, like the autumnal gossamer, hangs in light and beautiful festoons over his thoughts, and which suggests pleasing memories of Plato and the Alexandrian school.

Like all the followers of the Grecian sage, he dwells in a region of 'ideas,' which are to him the only realities, and are not cold, but warm; he sees all things in Divine solution; the visible is lost in the invisible, and nature retires before her G.o.d. Surely they are splendid reveries those of the Platonic school; but it is sad to reflect that they have not cast the slightest gleam of light on the dark, frightful, faith-shattering mysteries which perplex all inquirers. The old shadows of sin, death, d.a.m.nation, evil, and h.e.l.l, are found to darken the 'ideas'

of Plato's world quite as deeply as they do the actualities of this weary, work-day earth, into which men have, for some inscrutable purpose, been sent to be, on the whole, miserable,--so often to toil without compen- sation, to suffer without benefit, and to hope without fulfilment.

OPENING OF SECOND PART OF 'PSYCHOZOIA.'

1 Whatever man he be that dares to deem True poets' skill to spring of earthly race, I must him tell, that he doth mis-esteem Their strange estate, and eke himself disgrace By his rude ignorance. For there's no place For forced labour, or slow industry, Of flagging wits, in that high fiery chase; So soon as of the Muse they quickened be, At once they rise, and lively sing like lark in sky.

2 Like to a meteor, whose material Is low unwieldy earth, base unctuous slime, Whose inward hidden parts ethereal Lie close upwrapt in that dull sluggish fime, Lie fast asleep, till at some fatal time Great Phoebus' lamp has fired its inward sprite, And then even of itself on high doth climb: That erst was dark becomes all eye, all sight, Bright star, that to the wise of future things gives light.

3 Even so the weaker mind, that languid lies, Knit up in rags of dirt, dark, cold, and blind, So soon that purer flame of love unties Her clogging chains, and doth her sprite unbind, She soars aloft; for she herself doth find Well plumed; so raised upon her spreaden wing, She softly plays, and warbles in the wind, And carols out her inward life and spring Of overflowing joy, and of pure love doth sing.

EXORDIUM OF THIRD PART.

1 Hence, hence, unhallowed ears, arid hearts more hard Than winter clods fast froze with northern wind, But most of all, foul tongue! I thee discard, That blamest all that thy dark straitened mind Cannot conceive: but that no blame thou find; Whate'er my pregnant muse brings forth to light, She'll not acknowledge to be of her kind, Till eagle-like she turn them to the sight Of the eternal Word, all decked with glory bright.

2 Strange sights do straggle in my restless thoughts, And lively forms with orient colours clad Walk in my boundless mind, as men ybrought Into some s.p.a.cious room, who when they've had A turn or two, go out, although unbade.

All these I see and know, but entertain None to my friend but who's most sober sad; Although, the time my roof doth them contain Their presence doth possess me till they out again.

3 And thus possessed, in silver trump I sound Their guise, their shape, their gesture, and array; But as in silver trumpet nought is found When once the piercing sound is pa.s.sed away, (Though while the mighty blast therein did stay, Its tearing noise so terribly did shrill, That it the heavens did shake, and earth dismay,) As empty I of what my flowing quill In needless haste elsewhere, or here, may hap to spill.

4 For 'tis of force, and not of a set will, Nor dare my wary mind afford a.s.sent To what is placed above all mortal skill; But yet, our various thoughts to represent, Each gentle wight will deem of good intent.

Wherefore, with leave the infinity I'll sing Of time, of s.p.a.ce; or without leave; I'm brent With eager rage, my heart for joy doth spring, And all my spirits move with pleasant trembeling.

5 An inward triumph doth my soul upheave And spread abroad through endless 'spersed air.

My nimble mind this clammy clod doth leave, And lightly stepping on from star to star Swifter than lightning, pa.s.seth wide and far, Measuring the unbounded heavens and wasteful sky; Nor aught she finds her pa.s.sage to debar, For still the azure orb as she draws nigh Gives back, new stars appear, the world's walls 'fore her fly.