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94-96. 9 














^' How sweet in morning hours, 
When vernal airs stir the fresh-blowing flowers, 
The light that shines reflected from the past !** 


VOL. I. 















Hadkigh^ Suffolk. 
April, 1827. 



VOL. I. 

No. Page 

I. Introductory.— On the moral and literary 
associations connected with the spring of 
the year. Two sonnets ... 1 

II. On the influence of an early acquired love for 

literature. Epistles of Pliny . . 13 

III. The Cliffords of Craven : Historical and hio- 

graphical view of their singular and ro- 
mantic annals . . . .53 

IV. The same^ continued . . . 89 
V. Memoirs of sir Philip Sidney and his sister. 

Critique on their joint version of the 

Psalms . . 113 

VI. The same^ continued .151 

VII. The same^ concluded . . .175 

VIII. The Cliffords of Craven, continued . . 211 

IX. The banks of the Esk. — Drummond of Haw- 

thornden . . . . ' 247 

X. The same, concluded.-^Ramsay, Mackenzie, 

sir Walter Scott . . . . 283 

XII. Biographical notice of John Mason Good, 
"M.D. F.R.S., &c. &c. Observations on 
his writings. Sonnet to his memory . 322 



No. I. 

Sweet Springs in vest of emerald htie. 

With daisy buds embroidered fair. 
Calls the gray sky-lark to renew 

Her morning carols, high in air. 

Soul of the world ! thy cheering rays 
Bid my full heart with transport bum ! 

Again on Nature's charms I gaze^ 
And youth's delightful days return. 


The sensations with which, during every stage of 
our existence, we contemplate the Return of Springs 
are amongst the most delightful which can animate 
the human breast. Nearly the whole vegetable, and 
a great part of the minute animal world, have for 
weeks and months lain buried beneath the darkness 
and desolation of winter ; we have from day to day 
looked abroad, and beheld nothing but torpor and 
sterility on the face of the earth : scarcely a vestige 

VOL. I. B 


of what had once clothed the hill and the valley 
with beauty is to be discovered ; and it would appear 
almost as if the pulse of life stood still. 

Yet a little while and a miracle the most stu- 
pendous bursts upon our view : Nature seems again, 
as in the primal hour of her existence, to start into 
life and splendor ; for the word of her Creator has 
gone forth, and light, and heat, and animation are 
once more diffusing their blessings through air, and 
earth, and water. The sun, that secondary fountain 
of being, has awakened like a giant refreshed from 
his slumber ; and " the desert and the solitary place 
is glad, and the wilderness springs and blossoms as 
the rdse."*" There seems to be, as it were, a resur- 
rection from all the chambers of the dead, and not a 
breeze is wafted to us but brings on its renovating 
wings millions of new. awakened creatures, to people 
and enjoy every element around us. 

But it is more especially to the heart of man that 
this annual revivescence of the world around him 
opens a source of inexhaustible gratitude and praise ; 
for not only, in common with the inferior tribes of 
being, does he feel the vital spirit of renewal breathing 
fresh life and vigour through his frame, but he ac- 
knowledges it also to be the season when most power- 


fully and impressively the goodness and benevolence 
of the Deity are seen through all his works, and 
when, in tones of endearment not to be resisted, he 
speaks more directly to the moral and intellectual 
part of his creation. It is in Spring, in fact, whilst 
all that lives is rejoicing, when not only the fig-tree 
and the vine have put on their promise, but one 
general song of bliss and harmony is ascending to 
heaven, that our hearts kindle with the love of 
nature, and respond to the noblest promptings of 
philanthropy ; that we most intimately feel our re- 
lationship with the great family of the Father of all 
things ; and that we best learn to associate his image 
and his attributes with all that, in the boundless 
beneficence of his will, he has called into being and 

To those on whom life, with all its loveliest tints of , 
prcnnise, is just opening. Spring conies with a peculiar 
congeniality of aspect and feeling. There is, indeed, 
between the youth of the year, and the youth of 
human life, a similitude the most striking ; both are, 
in fact, the peculiar season of gaiety and hope, and 
both appear vested, as it were, in paradisaical beauty, 
and fresh from the hands of their Creator. It is, 
consequently, at this interesting period of our earthly 


pilgrimage, when, whilst every sense is stimulated 
by the charm of novelty, and every pulse thrills with 
innocent delight, when we are yet looking forward 
with an unchilled imagination which paints goodness 
and happiness as the general lot of mortality, that 
the heart, as yet uncontaminated by any admixture 
with a guilty world, joins its purest homage to that 
which universal nature, during the spring-tide of 
the year, seems more especially offering up at the 
throne of the Deity ; a homage which at no after 
period of time can, with man, be equally sinless and 
unpolluted; and which is, indeed, peculiarly and 
almost exclusively the property and the privilege of 
our youthful days. 

To tho^e youthful days with what avidity do we 
turn in the subsequent portion of our career, when 
the toils, and cares, and passions of manhood have 
involved us in a vortex of business and ambition. 
More intensely, however, are we reminded of the 
innocent enjoyments of opening life, when the season 
of the prinirose and the lark revisits our dwellings. 
It is then we look back on the similar season of 
our existence with associations and feelings which, 
though mingled with some sensations of regret, are 
yet singularly soothing and delightful; and more 


particularly do we revert, during this retrospection, 
to that spot 

Where Spring its earliest visit paid ; 

for, as hath been beautifully said, " there are na 
remembrances like those of our youth. The heart, 
crushed or hardened by its intercourse with the 
world, turns with affectfonate delight to its early 
dreams. How we pity those whose childhood has 
been unhappy ! To them one of the sweetest springs 
of feeling has been utterly denied ; the most green 
and beautiful part of life liud waste. But 'to those 
whose spring has been what spring should ever be, 
fresh, buoyant, and gladsome, whose cup has not 
been poisoned at the first draught, how delicious 
is recollection! they truly know the pleasures of 
memory *J" 

If, on the minds of those who are midway on 
their journey through the valley of life, the return 
of Spring comes associated, as if by an indissoluble 
catenation, with the endearing pictures of childhood 
and opening youth, with perhaps yet greater power 
of impression does it call up the recollections of early 

♦ Improvisatrice^ p. 193. 



happiness and simplicity in the bosoms of the aged. 
It is, indeed, one of the characteristics of those 
advanced in life, that whilst the events of the noon- 
tide and evening of their days, and even the occur- 
rences of the preceding week, are often buried in 
utter oblivion, or remembered but faintly and indi- 
stinctly, such has been the strength, such the inde- 
lible nature of the imagery which has accompanied 
the morning of their existence, that the features of 
that happy period, when the heart was guileless, 
and the mind unsullied, rise up again with a fresh- 
ness and vividity of colouring that rival the ten- 
derest hues of Spring, and place before the pilgrim, 
laden with the snows of time, a fairy vision of re- 
membered bliss, regions of green pastures and still 
waters, rendered still more bright and lovely by the 
contrasting darkness which surrounds them *. 

* I must here be allowed to quote a short passage from a 
little volume published at Derby^ and sold by Longman and Co. 
London, in 1823^ and entitled ^' Essays and Sketches in Prose. 
By George Miller^ jun.^ author of Stanzas written on a Sum- 
mer's Evenings and other Poems." The poems alluded to in 
the title-page I have not seen ; but I can truly say> that the 
Essays are valuable alike for the purity of their sentiments 
and the beauty of their style. There is^ indeed, a sweetness 
and tenderness of thought about them which cannot fail to 
endear their pages to every reader^ and I feel peculiar pleasure 


Nor, even where memory serves in old age to 
recall the entire tissue of past events, how seldom 
is the picture of our opening days made less dear 
and interesting to us by recollected scenes of sub- 
sequent innocence and enjoyment! It is then, in- 
deed, that too frequently an appalling contrariety 

in bearing this testimony to their literary and moral excel- 
lence. The passage to which I allude is in perfect accordance 
with the subject of my present paper. The author is speaking 
of infancy as '* the sunshine of our existence^" and he then 
adds^ *' If there be one topic upon which the aged love to dwell 
more than another^ it is this : With what enthusiastic glee 
will they repeat the actions of their earlier years ! Who has 
not seen the faded eye lighted up with a new lustre^ and the 
withered cheek overspread with a momentary glow^ at the 
mention of some infant-deed which they well remember? 
and how firmly attached are they to the place where they 
first began their youthful sports. — The sun in other lands 
may shine as bright, but it does not rise over the little hill, 
nor set behind the green wood, where, in infancy, we were 
wont to view it. The sky, in a distant province, may appear 
studded with as many stars, but it is not so dear to us as when 
we gazed upon it from the footpath by our native cottage. 
Even the old gate, which opens into the small garden, has a 
sacredness about it which we love to cherish ; and although 
some cold calculating philosophers may laugh, and tell us that 
it is only composed of a few pieces of wood, yet we can smile 
in return, since we have truth and reason, and the holiest of 
feelings on our side." 


is formed between the passions and vices of maturer 
life, and the calm and simple happiness of the spring- 
time of our years ; and, striving to forget the inter- 
mediate stages of guilt and folly, we fix our eyes 
vnih a deep yet melancholy delight on that portion 
of our being when the breath of Heaven seemed to 
blow around us with hope and rapture on its wings, 
and awakened in our youthful hearts the purest love 
of nature and of nature'^s God. We may, indeed, 
adopt the language of cme whose peace of mind was 

unhappily altogether limited to the brief period of 
his childhood, and, addressing the aged of the earth, 


Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along. 

The feeble Veterans of some former throng ; 

Whose friends, like Autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd^ 

Are swept for ever from this busy world ; 

Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, 

%Vliile Care^ as yet, withheld her venom *d tooth : 

Say, if Remembrance days like these endears^ 

Beyond the rapture of succeeding years? 

Say, can Ambition's fever 'd dream bestow 

So sweet a balm, to soothe your hours of woe ? 

Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son^ 

Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won^ 

Can Btars^ or ermine^ man's maturer toys, 

(For glittering baubles are not left to boys) 


Recall one scene, so much beloved to view^ 

As those^ when youth her garland twined for you ? 

Ah, no ! amidst the gloomy calm of age. 

You turn with faltering hand life's varied page. 

Peruse the record of your days on earth. 

Unsullied only where it marks your birth ; 

Still, lingering, pause above each chequer'd leaf. 

And blot with tears the sable lines of grief ; 

%Fhere Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw. 

Or weeping Virtues sigh'd a faint adieu; 

But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn. 

Traced by the rosy finger of the Morn ; 

When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of Truth, 

And Love, without his pinions, smiled on Youth. 


Thete is yet, to those who rest their hopes upon 
a better world, another consolation from the return 
of Spring, which he, alas ! whose lines I have just 
now quoted, there is reason to be apprehensive 
never knew. For not only is the renewal of the 
year associated in their minds with the spring of 
life, when all was comparative purity and joy, but 
they are led by an analogy the most strict and satis- 
factory to look onwards to that changeless Spring 
which beams beyond the confines of mortality, to 
that resurrection of the body from the insensate 
mansions of the grave, which' will not only restore 
us to the society of those whom best we loved on 


earth, but will place us in the immediate presence 
of One in whom " there is no variableness nor 
shadow of turning,'^ and who, on the renovation 
of our being, has assured to us an ever-during 
exemption from vicissitude and decay. 

Such are a few of the many moral analogies which 
the return of spring is fitted to suggest to youths 
and manJioodj and old age ; but should we pass be- 
yond this field of similitude, various, and almost 
innumerable, are the associations which the morn- 
ings of this delightful season might usher to the 
mind ; and among these, none, after due precedence 
has been given to topics of a weightier nature, can 
in these volumes more appropriately find a place 
than those which are blended with a cursory retro- 
spection of the favourite studies of our juvenile 
days, and, by a further closely-connected analogy, 
with the infancy or day-spring of our country''s 
literature, and the simple, but impressive and ro- 
mantic features of former times. 

It will be the business, therefore, of the following 
papers, after slightly touching on the first of these 
topics, as forming not unfrequently the very cast 
and colour of our subsequent literary career, to 
select from the ample stores of English history and 


biography a picture illustrative of a portion of our 
days of yore, as well in a domestic as a public light ; 
to offer a few critical remarks on three or four of 
the earliest and most eminent cultivators of our Ian- 
guage and literature, as well as to bring forward 
one or two neglected poets who have, towards the 
close of the last century, endeavoured to recall the 
attention of the public to topics connected with our 
elder annals and poesy; in doing which, I shall 
gladly seize every opportunity which the subject 
will admit, for the introduction of short but, I 
trust, interesting sketches of the character, costume, 
and incidents of times long gone by, the youth and 
spring-tide, as it were, of our national existence. 

I close this first number of my work with a me- 
trical delineation of some of the sentiments and 
imagery which have already been given in the 
humbler garb of prose, merely adding, that the 
second of the following sonnets was suggested since 
the earlier part of this paper was written, by the un- 
expected and lamented death of a beloved brother. 



Alas ! for those whose life at opening morn 
No type hath shown of Nature's smihng spring, 


Whose childhood, ipretding iu light aiure wing, 
Hath felt rude blight, and dioop'd at once forlorn ! 
For oil, how sweet, nhilit vernal breezes borne 
From bud and flower their gladsome odours fling. 
Of early and of bappydays to ahig, 
Wlien all was fresh, and joy without a tham : 
And sweeter still, if mid life's closing hours. 
When time hath turn'd our once dark tresses gray, 
Loved children bloom around the parent bowers. 
Laughing and blithe and innocently gay. 
Eager to blend their buoyant thoughls with ours. 
And chase the sorrows of the world alray ! 



Our spring of life ! How sweet, how passing sweet. 
Together did we spend that season dear. 
My brother .' And since, for many a year. 
How seldom bath it been our chance to meet '. 
And now hath Death, insatiable and fleet, 
Tby course artesUng in its bright career. 
Placed thee lamented on a timeless hier. 
And seal'd our parting in this world complete ! 
Yet shall we meet again, I fondly trust. 
Where pain and grief shall know no second birth. 
To hail that greater spring which waits the just. 
Mid friends beloved on this dim speck of earth, 
' And where, near streams that vital freshness give. 
The pure in heart shall see their God and live ! 

No. II. 


Hec stadia adolescentiam alunt, senectutem oblectant^ 
secondas res mmant^ adversis perfugium, ac solatium prebent, 
delectant domi^ non impediunt foris, pemoctant nobiscom^ 
per^;rinantur^ rosticantur. — Cicero. 

These studies affi>rd nourishment to our youth, delight 
our old age, adorn prosperity, supply a refuge and solace in 
adversity, are a constant source of pleasure at home, are no 
impediment while abroad, attend us in the night-season, and 
accompany us in our travels and retirements. — Knox. 

Theke are no retrospections, perhaps, more de- 
lightful than those which spring from a review of 
the feelings and pleasures which accompanied our 
first voluntary excursions into the fields of literature, 
when life was new, and all things fresh around us. 
If the process of education itself, compulsory as, in 
its primary steps, it necessarily must be during the 
years of childhood, soon bring with it excitements 
and gratifications of no ordinary interest, and which, 
in after life, are often remembered with peculiar 
complacency; with what augmented satisfaction 
must we recur to that period of our youthful days, 
when, having surmounted the first formidable dif- 


ficulties which obstruct the avenues to learning, the 
world of intellect bursts upon us with all the in- 
- toxication of novelty, with a charm and vigour of 
impression which, as long as memory shall last, no 
subsequent events, nor even the pressure of age, can 
obliterate; and which, indeed, it is our wish and 
dearest employ to recollect and cherish. 

It is, in fact, to this portion of our being, to this 
green pasis, as it were, in the journey of existence, 
that we generally turn for the very foundation of 
what has since constituted our character and modes 
of thinking through mature and even advanced 
years. More especially at this critical epoch is the 
literary bias formed for life, when the mind, just be- 
ginning to emerge from the discipline of the schools, 
is free to make her own election, and with imagina- 
tion unchecked as her companion, ranges at will 
through the ever-varying scenery of what may be 
termed an intellectual paradise. 

Most vividly, indeed, do I yet recollect the ex- 
quisite pleasure which, at this era of my early life, 
I felt in the liberty then first allowed me of choosing 
from the stores both of classical and vernacular 
literature whatever best suited my taste and inclina- 
tions; and with what rapture, in the latter branch, I 


hung over the pages of Spetiser, Milton, Thomson, 
and Gray ; and from the treasures of the former, 
how dear to me, notwithstanding the difficulties 
which had accompanied the eflTorts to master their 
language, were the Georgics of Virgil, and the 
Epistles of Pliny. 

I am acquainted, indeed, with no book in the whole 
range of Roman literature better calculated, in every 
point of view, to excite and keep alive in the breasts 
of the young and ingenuous an exalted love for 
virtue, and an ardent spirit of literary enthusiasm, 
than the letters of the younger Pliny. The moral 
character of this accomplished patrician, estimating 
it, as in charity we ought to do, not by a comparison 
with the Christian standard, but with that which 
then constituted the general tone and colour of the 
best informed society in the heathen world, was, we 
may venture to say, nearly perfect. It would appear, 
in truth, from all that can be inferred,^ either from 
his own works or the testimony of his contempo- 
raries, that in all the relations of life, public or 
private, social or -domestic, he was alike the bene- 
factor of his country and of his friends, as well pri- 
vately, indeed, as professionally, the stay of the 
helpless, and the vindicator of the oppressed. There 


isy in short, scarcely an epistle in the collection 
which, notwithstanding some occasional instances of 
display and self-complacency, does not, either directly 
or indirectly, impress us with a conviction of the 
great goodness and benevolence of the writer's heart ; 
with an assurance, in fact, as firm and undoubting 
as must have fallen to the lot of any one of his con- 
temporaries, that the influence, the eloquence, and 
the property of Pliny, were resources on which in- 
digent genius and portionless virtue could always 

If we now turn from the moral to the literary 
features of Pliny, the topic to which, in illustration 
of the happy influence of an early-acquired love for 
letters, I shall devote the residue of this paper, a fresh 
field for esteem and admiration is opened before us ; 
for it was invariably the wish and the endeavour of 
this amiable man to excite in others, and especially 
in the rising generation, the same pure taste for and 
ardent thirst of literature, which animated his own 
bosom. It is this feature predominating throughout 
the greater part of his epistles which has given to 
their perusal so peculiar a charm, a zest and flavour, 
indeed, no where else discoverable amongst the writ- 
ings of the ancients in an equally poignant degree. 


Thinking then, as I avowedly do, that it is scarcely 
possible for the young and educated mind to become 
acquainted with these pleasing productions without 
imbibing from them a passion for letters which shall 
last through life, I have often been surprised at 
finding them so little known and taught in our 
public schools, where, assuredly, their influence could 
never altogether fail in ameliorating either the head 
or heart. I can hardly imagine, indeed> any apathy 
of intellect in early life, short of that arising from 
defective organization, which could be totally proof 
against the delightful spirit of enthusiasm which, 
on subjects at least connected with literature and 
the fine arts, breathes throughout these epistles. 

Nor are they less calculated to awaken in those 
whom business or dissipation may have long and 
almost exclusively absorbed a renewed appetite for 
literary pleasures and occupations; so fascinating 
are their style and manner, and with such persuasive 
eloquence do they plead for pursuits of which it may 
-with truth be said, that whether embraced in youth, 
or manhood, or old age, they indisputably form one 
of the most permanent and unalloyed sources of 
human happiness. . 

With such an estimate as I have now brought 

VOL. I. c 


forward as to the value and tendency of the writings 
of the younger Pliny, and after such endearing 
reminiscences of early life as I have acknowledged 
to be, in my own case, indissolubly associated with 
dietn, it will excite no surprise in my reader, should 
I wish to incorporate with my volumes a few fa- 
vourite passages from these epistles on the subject 
bf literary taste and enjoyment ; more especially as, 
I again repeat, I think it scarcely probable that any 
<Mie can study them without catching, for a time at 
least, on such topics, the devoted attachment of their 
author; an attachment which, just in proportion as 
it shall prove p^rtaaanent, must, I am persuaded, be 
considered as a blessing. 

Jn giving these extracts I shall annex, with the 
view of accommodating those who may not be per- 
fectly at home as to the language of the Roman, 
the translation pf Mr. Melmoth. It is one of great 
elegance and beiauty, and exhibits at the same time 
no small poition of epistolary ease and freedom ; 
but it frequently deviates from the character of the 
original in being too diffuse, a result which was 
'iBcarcely to be expected from one who has told us in 
his Preface, that ^^ what a celebrated ancient has 
observed concerning the style of the famous Grecian 


painteF, Timanthes, is extremely ap^icableto tliat 
of -Pliny, ^^ intelligitur plusseniper quam pingiPur; 
his meianing is generally much fuller than his ex- 
pression.*" It shmild, however, in justice be added, 
that whilst the sense of his original has beai correctly 
preserved, Mr. Melmoth has adopted a style which, 
though not altogetha* in unison with that of the 
model before him, is perhaps even better adapted'to 
epistolary composition than the terse and conceihtrated 
diction which that model presented. 

From these preliminary observations I now turn 
to select such instances as will, I have no doubt, 
substantiate ihe character which I have given of 
the general tendency and bearing of the writings of 
Pliny. The first is taken from the third letter in 
the collection addressed to Caninius UufuSy 'who 
appears, from the close of it, to have been a man of 
genius and learning,' but somewhat too diffident of 
his own abilities. 

" Quid agit Comum tuae, meaeque delicise ? qura 
suburbanum amoenissimum ? quid ilia porticus, vema 
semper ? quid itKoLravwv opacisaimus ? quid Euripus 
viridis, et gemmeus?- quid subje<5tus, et serviens 
lacus? quid ilia mollis, et tamen solida gestatio? 
quid balneum illud, quod plurimus sol implet et 



circumit? quid triclinia ilia populariaf quid ilia 
paucorum ? quid cubicula diurna nocturaaque ? 
possidentne te^ et per vices partiuntur ? an, ut sole- 
bas, intentJone rei familiaris obeundse^ crebris ex- 
cursionibus avocaris : si te possident, felix beatusque 
68 : sin minus, unus ex raultis. Quin tu (tempus 
est enim) humiles et sordidas curas aliis mandas : et 
ipse te in alto isto pinguique secessu studiis ad seris. 
Hoc sit negocium tuum, hoc ocium, hie labor, haec 
quies, in his vigilia, in his etiam somnus reponatur. 
Eflinge aliquid et excude, quod sit perpetuo tuum. 
Nam reliqua rerum tuarum post te alium atque 
alium dominum sortientur : hoc nunquam tuum de- 
sinet esse, si semel coeperit. Scio, quem animum, 
quod horter ingenium. Tu modo enitere, ut tibi ipse 
sis tanti, quanti videberis aliis, si tibi fueris. Vale.*" 
" How stands Comum *, that favourite scene of 
yours and mine? What becomes of the pleasant 
villa, the vernal portico, the shady plane-tree-walk, 
the crystal canal so agreeably winding along its 
flowery banks, together with the charming lake-f- 

• The city where Pliny was born. 

t The lake Larius, upon the banks of which this villa 
was situated : this noble lake is not less than fifty miles in 
lengthy from three to six in breadth, and from forty to six 
hundred feet in depth. 


below, which serves at once the purposes of use and 
beauty ? What have you to tell me of the firm yet 
soft gestatio*, the sunny bath, the public saloon, the 
private dining-room, and all the elegant apartments 
for repose both at noon and night f? Do these 
enjoy my friend, and divide his time with pleasing 
vicissitude ? Or do the affairs of'the world, as usual, • 
call him frequently out from this agreeable retreat ? 
If the scene of your enjoyment lies wholly there, you 
are happy : if not, you are under the common error 
of mankind. But leave, my friend (for certainly it 
is high time), the sordid pursuits of life to others, 
and devote yourself, in this calm and undisturbed 
recess, entirely to pleasures of the studious kind. 
liCt these employ your idle as well as serious hours ; 
let them be at once your business and your amuse- 
ment, the subjects of your waking and even sleep- 
ing thoughts : produce something that shall be really 
and for ever your own. All your other possessions 

* A piece of grouud set apart for the purpose of exer- 
cising either on horseback or in their vehicles ; it was ge- 
nerally contiguous to their gardens^ and laid out in the form 
of a circus. 

t It was customary among the Romans to sleep in the 
middle of the day> and they had distinct apartments for that 


will pa9s on from one master to another : this alone, 
when once it is yours, will remain yours for. eyiar. 
As I well know. th?. temper and genius of, him to 
whom I am ^dresaUig myself, I must exhort you 
to think as well of your abilities as they deserve : 
do ju3tia$ tp those excellent talents you possess, 
and the world, believe me, will certainly do so too; 

Comum^ of which Pliny speaks in this letter with 
so much fondness^ tme^ me^eque deUciie, has bonie 
and still bears, in fact, an^pl^ and grateful testimony 
to the virtues and munificence of its celebrate 
citiz^. Nothing, indeed, can more decisively prove 
that the life, of I?liny was in: perfect correspondence 
with the tenor of his writings, than the fact, that he 
was not only the cherished and familltu* friend of 
the first and wisest of his day, of Trajan, Tacitus, 
Suetonius, and Quintillan, but m object of love, aad 
veneration ta eveiy raofe and class of his ooBten). 
poraries. The inhabitants of Comum, more espe- 
cially, had evfery motive for their affection, for he 
founded a school in their city, and liberally endowed 
it ''^ ; he established a fund for the support of their 
free cMldren ; he buift* a temple, to receive the busts 

* Lib. iv. Epist. 13. 


of the emperors which he had previously ^ven to 
them^, and he erected in their ancient temple of 
Jupiter a statue of. Corinthian, brass of the most 
masterly execution^ dignum templOy dignum Deo 
donum f . The gratitude of Comum has, as we have 
hinted above, descended to the present day ; f pr we 
are told that in the front of their present elegant 
Gothic cathedral " there is a statue of Pliny, with 
basso relievos alluding to his writings ; and on each 
i^de of the grand entrance is an inscription in his 
honour J.*' 

It would appear from the letter just quoted, that 
Pliny, like his uncle, coveted nothing so ipuch as 
the opportunity of literary retirement; and that, 
despising the allurements of vulgar popularity ond 
common-place ambition, his views of immortality 
were exclu&iyely built on the cultivation of his in- 
tellectual powers, on the hope, of surviving in hh 
writings^ to distant ag^s, and of becoming, through 
their medium, the instructor and benefactor of hk 
species. We need not wonder, therefore^ that to a 
mind thus nobly and rationally engaged, the ordinary 
business of life should seem what^ in fact, it toa g^ 

* Lib. X. E]^. 24. t Lib. iii. Ep. 6. 

X Eustace's Classical Tour> 4 to edition^ vol. ii. p. 364. 


nerally is, especially on a retrospective glance, a series 
of impertinent trifles ; nor that the following letter, 
whilst it paints with its author^s characteristic but 
delightful enthusiasm the enjoyments of a studious 
retreat, should hold not only the pleasures, but even 
the graver occupations of a dissipated capital in 


^' Mirum est, quam singulis diebus in urbe ratio 
aut constet, aut constare videatur, pluribus cunc- 
tisque non constet. Nam, si quem interroges, ^ hodie 
quid egisti ?' respondeat, * officio togse virilis inter- 
fui; sponsalia aut nuptias frequentavi; ille me ad 
signandum testamentum ; ille in advocationem, ille 
in consilium rogavit.^ Hsec quo die feceris, neces- 
saria; eadem si quotidie fecisse te reputes, inania 
videntur : multo magis cum secesseris. Tunc enim 
subit recordatio, quot dies, quam frigidis rebus ab- 
sumsi? quod evenit mihi postquam in Laurentino 
meo aut lego aliquid, aut scribo, aut etiam corpori 
vaco, cujus fulturis animus sustinetur. Nihil audio, 
quod audisse, nihil dico quod dixisse pceniteat. 
Nemo apud me quemquam sinistris sermonibus 
carpit : neminem ipse reprehendo, nisi unum me. 

MORNINtiS IS Sl>ltlK64 SS 

cum parum commode scribo : nulla spe, nullo timore 
sollicitor, nuUis rumoribus inquietur, mecum tantum 
et cum libelUs loquor. Rectam sinceramque vitam ! 
dulce ocium honestumque, ac psene omni negotio 
pulchrius ! O mare ! O littus, verum secretumque 
f^sasrjv, Quam multa invenitis, quam multa dic- 
tatis ? proinde tu quoque strepitum istum, inanemque 
discursum, et multum ineptes labores, ut primum 
fuerit occasio, relinque, teque studiis — trade *.*" 

" When one considers how the time passes at 
Rome, one cannot but be surprised, that take any 
single day, and it either is, or at least seems to be, 
spent reasonably enough ; and yet, upon casting up 
the whole sum, the amount will appear quite other- 
wise. Ask any one how he has been employed to- 
day ? he will tell you, perhaps^ * I have been at the 
ceremony of investing the manly robe f ; this friend 
invited me to a wedding ; that desired me to attend 
the hearing of his cause ; one begged me to be a 
witness to his will ; another called me to a consulta- 

* Lib. i. £pi8t. 9. 

t The Roman youths^ at the age of seventeen^ changed their 
habit> and took up the Toga virilis, or manly gown, upon 
which occasion they were conducted by the friends of the 
family with great ceremony, either into the Forum or CapitoI> 
and there invested with this new robe. 


tion.' These are offices which seem, while one is 
engaged in them, extremely necessary; and yet, 
when in the silence of retirement we look back upon 
the many hours thqs employed, we cannot but con- 
demn them as solemn impertinencies. At such s^ 
season one is apt to reflect, Hozv much of my life hag 
been spent in trifles! At least it is a reflection 
which frequently comes across me at Laurentinum.^, 
after I have been employing myself in my studies, 
or even in the necessary care of the animal machine ; 
(for the body must be repaired and supported, if we 
would preserve the mind in all its vigour). In that 
peaceful retreat I neither hear nor speak any thing 
of which I have occasion to repent. I suffer none 
to repeat to me the whispers of malice ; nor do I 
censure any man, unle88.myself, when I am dissatis- 
fied with my compositions. There I live undisturbed 
by rumour, and free from the anxious solicitudes of 
hope or fear, conversing only with myself and my 
books. True and genuine life ! pleasing and honouiv 
able repose ! more, perhaps, to be desired than em- 
ploym^Qits of any kind! Thou solemn sea and solitary 
^ore, best and most retired scene for contemplation, 
^ith how many noble thoughts have you inspired 

» The winter-villa of Pliny. 


me I Snatch, then, ray friend, as I have, the first 
occaiaon of leaving the noisy town, with all its very 
empty pursuits, and devote your days to study.'' 

It must, indeed, to every sober and reflecting 
mind, appear the height of absurdity, that of an 
existence so transient as that which has been allotted 
to our pilgrimage on earth, any portion should be 
spent in the pursuit of mere trifles. When man, 
condemned, as- with few exceptions he is, to earn his 
bread by the sweat of his brow, shall have satisfied 
those demands which nature imperiously urges upon 
him for his own support and that of his ofispring, 
how small a part of his brief life remains for the 
cultivation of those mental powers which seem alone 
to place him above the beasts that perish ! It is 
enough, however, if seized with avidity and judg- 
ment, for every moral and intellectual purpose eon*^ 
nected with our being here; and he who places b^oce 
us any strong incentive towards such ap application 
of it may be justly considered as entitled to ouc 
warmest gratitude. With what energy and elo- 
quence the evanescency of human life hasibeen dwelt; 
upaa by Pliny, as a motive towards quickening the 
industry of the literary stud^^nt, the subsequent 
pai»sage ir^m a le^tier to Caninius will abundaiUily 


show. He is describing the death of that ardent 
admirer of Virgil, Silius Italicus, the last survivor 
of all those who, during the reign of Nero, had been 
raised to the consular office ; and adds, in allusion 
to this proof of rapid mortality, 

'^ Quod me recordantem fragilitatis hu manse mi- 
seratio subit. Quid enim tarn circumcisum, tarn 
breve, quam hominis vita longissima ? Annon videtur 
tibi Nero modo fuisse, cum interim ex his, qui sub 
illo gesserant consulatum^ nemo jam superest ? Quan- 
quam quid hoc mirorP nuper Lucius Piso, pater 
Pisonis illius, qui a Valerio Festo per summum 
facinus Africa occisus est, dicere solebat, * neminem 
se videre in senatu, quem COS. ipse sententiam roga- 
visset,* tam angustis terminis tantse multitudinis 
vivacitas ipsa concluditur, ut mihi non venia solum 
dignse, verum etiam laudse, videantur illse regise 
lacrymae. Nam ferunt Xerxem, cum immensum 
exercitum oculis obiisset, illacrymasse, quod tot 
millibus tam brevis immineret occasus Sed tanto 
magis hoc, quicquid est temporis futilis et caduci, 
si non datur factis (nam horum materia in aliena 
manu), nos certe studiis proferamus: et quatenus 
nobis denegatur diu vivere, relinquamus aliquid, quo 
nos vixisse testemur. Scio te stimulis non egere ; 


me tamen tui caritas evocat, ut currentem quoque 
instigem, sicut tu soles me. Ayx^rj B'spify cum in- 
vicem se mutuis exhortationibus amici ad amorem 
immortalitatis exacuunt. Vale *.*" 

" When I consider this circumstance, I cannot 
forbear lamenting the transitory condition of man- 
kind. Is there any thing in nature so short and 
limited as human life, even in its most extended 
period ? Does it not seem to you, my friend, but 
yesterday, that Nero was upon the throne ? and yet 
not one of all those who were consuls in his reign 
now remains! But why should I wonder at an 
event so common ? Lucius Piso, the father of that 
Piso who was infamously assassinated by Valerius 
Festus, in Africa, used to say, he did not see one 
person in the senate who sat in that house when he 
was consul : such multitudes are swept away in so 
short a space ! I am, therefore, so far from think- 
ing those tears of Xerxes need any apology, that in 
my judgment history does honour to his character, 
which informs us, that when this prince had at- 
tentively surveyed his immense army, he could not 
forbear weeping, from the rej9ection that so many 
thousand lives would so soon be extinct. The 

* Lib. ili. Epist. 7. 


more ardent therefore should our eadeaYours be to 
lengthen out this short portion of existence, by 
acquisitions of glory, if not in the active scenes of 
life (which is not always in our own power), yet, 
however, in those of literary occupations ; and since 
it is not granted us to live long, let us transmit to 
posterity some memorial that we have at least Uved. 
I well know you want not any incitement ; but the 
warmth of my affection inclines me to fcnrward you 
in the course you already pursue ; as I have often 
found myself encouraged in mine by yoiir generous 
exhortations. How glorious is the contention, when 
two friends thus strive who shall toimate each other 
moAt in their pursuits of immortal fame ! Farewell.*^ 
To live in the esteem and admiration of post^ty 
is, without all doubt, a consummation devoutly to 
be wisliod ; for it is a result which necessarily im- 
plies in him who has attained it virtue and talent 
of no ordinary kind. The desire, in fact, ^f pro- 
tracting the footsteps of our existence beyond the 
very brief period to which, in the common course of 
nature, our being on this earthly stage is limited, 
seems implanted, in a greater or less degree, in 
every human breast ; and, as far as such desire is 
connected with the ambition of being good as well 


as great, 'merits every possible encouragement. The 
impulse, however, like every other associated with 
the free agency of man, is liable to abuse, and it 
has too often happened, that he who has been un- 
able or unwilling to build his immortality on the 
gratitude, of mankind, has not hesitated to found it 
on the execration due to spl^idid crime and de- 
solating power. 

Of the various modes to which human ingenuity 
has had recourse for the perpetuation of a name, 
no one, either in durability or utility, can rival that 
which is based on literary eminence. Of empires 
oace wide in their extent, and renowned for wealth 
and power, scarcely a vestige, save what their 
literature has preserved, remaifis behind ; nay, the 
very monuments of gigantic bulk and strength, on' 
which their founders had engraven, as they fondly 
thought, a record for eternity, have either sank into 
the dust of which they were composed, or stand 
namdess and unappropriated, the sepulchres of 
baffled pride and di^ppointed ambition. There is 
also this immense advantage, almost certainly ac- 
companying an immortality founded on intellectual 
superiority, that it can travel to posterity only for 
good ; for though innumei^able productions of a per- 


nicious tendency have, in all ages and rountries, 
issued from the pen or press, and for a season have 
caused extensive mischief, yet has no work decidedly 
and absolutely immoral, whatever may have been 
the talent exhibited in its construction, ever reached 
a distant age. The general sense and well-being of 
mankind have uniformly interposed to arrest its 
career, and though buoyed up for a time, perhaps, 
by intrinsic genius, or extrinsic circumstances, it 
has, in a century or two at farthest, .dropped into 
deserved oblivion. 

No one, perhaps, was ever more avowedly anxious 
for a perpetuity of fame, resulting from intellectual 
pursuits, than the younger Pliny ; and, amongst the 
writers of ancient Rome, no one was ever, on the 
plea of moral tendency, in his life and writings, 
better entitled to what he wished for. We have 
already seen pictured in his own emphatic lan- 
guage the almost impassioned enthusiasm of the 
man in favour of study and literary composition; 
and in a letter to his friend, Capito, he thus undis- 
guisedly declares the wishes of his heart : 

^^ Suades, ut historiam scribam, et suades non 
solus : inulti hoc me saepe monuerunt, et ego volo : 
non quia commode facturum esse confidam (id enim 


temere credas, nisi expertus) sed quia mihi pul- 
chrum imprimis videtur, non pati occidere, quibus 
setemitas debeatur, aliorumque famaiH cum sua ex- 
tendere. Me autem nihil seque, ac diutumitatis 
amor et cupido sollicitat : res homine dignissimae, 
praesertim qui nullius sibi conscius culpse, posteri- 
tatis memoriam non reformidat. Itaque diebus ac 
noctibus cogito, 

Si qua me quoque possim 


** You are not singular in the advice you give me 
to undertake the writing of history: it is a work 
that has been frequently pressed upon me by several 
others of my friends, and in which I have some 
thoughts of engaging. Not because I have any 
confidence of succeeding in this way (it would be 
presuming upon the event of an experiment which I 
have never yet made) ; but because it is a noble em- 
ployment to rescue from oblivion those who deserve 
to be eternally remembered, and by extending the 
reputation of others, to advance at the same time 
our own. Nothing, I confess, so strongly stimu- 
lates my breast as the desire of acquiring a lasting 

• Lib. V. £pi8t. 8. 

VOL. I. i> 


name — a passion highly worthy of the human hearty 
especially of his^ who^ not being conscious of any ill^ 
is not afraid of being known to posterity. It is the 
continual subject therefore of my thoughts. 

By what fair deed I too a name may raise.*^ 

Of the few epistles in the collection of Hiny which 
are addressed to characters whose writings have 
reached our own times, none are so interesting as 
those whose superscription bears the name of Tacitus. 
The intercourse which subsisted between this Cele- 
brated historian and our amiable author appears to 
have been of the most close and confidential kind ; 
and the letter which I am about to quote will prove 
not only how mutual was their regard from a simi- 
larity of disposition and manners, but with what 
friendly zeal they sustained each other's reputation, 
and kept up a constant interchange of literary good 
offices. It is an example which, I regret to say, there 
is still reason to wish was more closely followed in 
the republic of letters. 


^^ Librum tuum legi, et quam diligentissime potui 
adnotavi, quae commutanda, quse eximenda arbi- 


trarer. Nam et ^;o verum dicere assuevi^ et tu 
lih^ter audire; neque enim uUi patientius repre- 
henduntur, quam qui maxime laudari merentun 
Nunc a te librum meum cum annotationibus tuis 
expecto. O jucundas ! O pulcfaras vices 1 quam me 
delectat, quod si qua posteris cura nostri, usque- 
quaque narrabitur, qua concordia, simplicitate^ fide 
vixerimus. Erit rarum et insigne^ duos homines^ 
setate, dignitate propemodum ^equales, nonnullius 
in literis nominis (cogor enim de te quoque parcius 
dicere, quia de me simul dico), alterum alterius 
studia fovisse^ Equidem adolescentulus, cum jam 
tu fama, gloriaque floreres, te sequi tibi longo, sed 
proximus, intervallo et esse, et haberi concupisce- 
bam. Et erant multa clarissima ingenia, sed tu mil^i 
(ita similitudo naturae ferebat) maxime imitabilis, 
maxime imitandus videbaris. Quo magis gaudeo, 
quod si quis de studiis sermo, una nominamur, quod 
de te loquentibus statim occurro. Nee desunt, qui 
utrique nostrum praeferantur. Sed nihil interest 
mea, quo loco jun^mur. Nam mihi primus, qui a 
te proximus; quin etiam in testamentis debes ad- 
notasse (nisi quis forte aiterutri nostrum amicissi- 
Dnus), eadem legata, et quidem pariter accipimus. 
^uae omnia hue q^ectant, ut invicem ardentius dili- 

I) 2 


gamus, cum tot vinculis nos studia, mores, fama, 
suprema denique hominum judicia constringant. 


\" I have perused your book with all the attention 
I was master of, and have marked the passages I 
think should be altered, and those which I am of 
opinion ought entirely to be thrown out. It is as 
habitual to me to speak truth, as it is agreeable to 
you to hear it ; and indeed none are more patient of 
censure than those who have the best claim to ap- 
plause. I now expect in return your observations 
upon that treatise of mine which I lately sent you. 
How agreeable^ how noble is such a commerce ! 
and how am I pleased with the thought, that pos- 
terity, if it shall at all concern itself with us, will 
not cease to mention with what harmony, what 
freedom, what fidelity we lived together ! It will be 
an instance as remarkable as it is uncommon, that 
two persons nearly of the same age and rank, and 
of some character in the republic of letters (for 
since I join myself with you, I am obliged to speak 
of your merit with reserve), should thus mutually 

* Lib. vii. Epist 20. 


assist and promote each other's studies. When I . 
was a very young man, and you in the prime of 
your glory and reputation, I endeavoured to follow 
your steps, and was desirous to l?e considered as 
next in fame to you, 

But next^ with many a length between * ! 

And though there were, at that time, many cele- 
brated geniuses in Rome, yet you of all others ap- 
peared to me, not only most worthy to be my model, 
but from a similitude of our dispositions, most easy 
for me to copy. It is particularly agreeable to me, 
therefore, to find, that in all companies where learn- 
ing is the topic of conversation, we are always men- 
tioned together, and that my name immediately 
follows yours. It is true, there are some who prefer 
you to me, as others, on the contrary, give me the 
advantage ; but I am little solicitous in what order 
we are placed, so that we stand together ; for, in 
my estimation, whoever is next to you must ne- 
cessarily precede every one else. You even see in 
wills^ (unless in the case of particular friendship to 

♦ Virgil's iBneld^ Pitt's translation. 

t '* It was the peculiar custom of Rome for the clients and 
dependents of families to bequeath at their death to their 
patrons some considerable part of their estates, as the most 


, either of us) we are always equally considered, and 
that the legacies bequeathed to us are generally the 
same both in number and value. Since therefore W€ 
are thus united by a similitude of studies, manners, 
reputation, and even testamentary donations, those 
last instances of the world'^s good opinion ; should 
not these circumstances tend to inflame us mutually 
with the most ardent affection ? Farewell.'*' 

There are few lovers of literature and elegant re- 
tirement to whom a description of the manner in 
which Pliny spent his leisure whilst resident at his 
summer and winter villas would not be a delineation 
of high interest and value. Fortunately we are in 
possession of a draught from his own pencil which 

effectual testimony of their respect and gratitude; and the 
more a man received in this way^ the more it redounded to 
his credit. Thus Cicero mentions it, to the honour of Lucullus, 
that, while he governed Asia as Proconsul, many great estates 
were left to him by will. And Nepos tells us, in praise of 
Atticus, that he succeeded to many inheritances of the same 
kind, bequeathed to him on no other account than of his 
friendly and amiable temper. Cicero, when he was falsely 
reproached by Antony with being neglected on these occasions, 
declared in his reply, that he had gained from this single 
article about two hundred thousand pounds." 

Middieton's Life of Cicero, vol. ii. p. 514. 


places before us this very subject, and, as might be 
expected, in the most fascinating colours. It is 
one also which, after the glowing sketches already 
brought forward of the literary enthusiasm of this 
accomplished writer, very appropriately completes 
the picture. 


*^ Quseris, quemadmodum in Tuscis diem sestate 
dispcmam: evigilo, cum libuit, plerumque circa 
horam primam,'s8epe ante, tardius raro, clausse fene- 
strse manent : mire ehim silentio, et tenebris animus 
alitur. Ab iis, quee avocant, abductus, et liber, et 
mihi relictus, non ocules animo, sed animum oculis 
sequor, qui eadem quse mens vident, quoties non 
vident alia. Cogito si quid in manibus, cogito ad 
verbum scribenti emendantique similis: nunc pau- 
ciora, nunc plura, ut vel difficile, vel facile componi, 
tenerive potuerunt. Notarium voco, et, die ad- 
misso, qilse formaveram, dicto ; abit, rursusque re- 
vocatur, rursusque remittitur. Ubi hora quarta vel 
quinta (neque enim certum, dimensumque tempus) : 
ut dies suasit, in xystum me, vel cryptoporticum con- 
fero, reliqua meditor, et dicto, vehiculum ascendo. 
Ibi quoque idem, quod ambulans aut jacens. Durat 


intentio, mutatione ipsa refecta: paulum redomiioy 
dein ambulo, mox orationem Grsecam Latinamve 
dare et intente, non tam vocis causa, quam stomacbi, 
lego : pariter tamen et ilia firmatur. Iterum am- 
bulo, ungor, exerceor, lavor. Coenanti mihi sic 
cum uxore vel paucis, liber legitur^ post coenam 
comoedus, aut lyristes: mox cum meis ambulo, 
quorum in numero sunt eruditi. Ita variis ser- 
monibus vespera extenditur, et quanquam lotigissi- 
mus dies, cito conditur. Non numquam ex hoc 
ordine aliqua mutantur : nam si diu jacui, vel am- 
bulavi, post somnum demura lectionemque, noa 
vehiculo, sed quod brevius, quia velocius, equo 
gestor. Interveniunt amici ex pu*oximis oppidis, 
partemque diei ad se trahunt, interdumque lassaito 
mihi, opportuna interpellatione subveniunt. Venor 
aliquando, sed non sine pugillaribus, ut quamvis 
nihil ceperim, non nihil referam. Datur et colonis, 
ut videtur ipsis, non satis temporis, quorum mihi 
agrestes querelas literas nostras, et haec urbana opera 
commendant. Vale*;' 


" You desire to know in what manner I dispose 

• Lib. ix. Epist. 36. 


of my time in my summer villa at Tuscum. I rise 
just when I find myself in the humour^ though 
generally with the sun ; sometimes, indeed, sooner^ 
but seldom later. When I am up, I continue to 
keep the shutters of my chamber-windows closed, as 
darkness and i^ence wonderfully promote medita- 
tion. Thus free and abstracted from those outward 
objects which dissipate attention, I am left to my 
own thoughts, nor suffer my mind to wander with 
my eyes, but keep my eyes in subjection to my 
mind : by these means they are not distracted with 
a multiplicity of external objects, and see nothing 
but what the imagination represents to them. If I 
have any compositi<m upon my hands, this is the 
time I choose to consider it, not only with respect to 
the general plan, but even the style and expression, 
which I revise and correct as if I were actually 
writing. In this manner I compose more or less, as 
the subject is more or less difficult, and I find my 
memory able to retain it. I then call my secretary, 
and, opening the shutters, dictate to him what I 
have composed; after which I dismiss him for a 
little while, and then call him in again. About ten 
or eleven of the clock (for I do not observe one fixed 
hour), according as the weather proves, I cither walk 


ii|Kin tfiy terrace, or in the covered portico; and 
there I iumiiuuv. to meditate or dictate what remains 
iifion the Nubject in which I happen to be engaged. 
Frimi tlinico I get into my chariot, where I employ 
tnyM'lf an before, when I was walking or in my study, 
and find thix changing of the scene refreshes and 
«tiliv4?n» my attc*tition. At my return home I rqiose 
myM'lf, then take a walk, and after that repeat 
aloud Morne (}rc*ek or Latin oration, not so much for 
tlie Naki* (yf strengthening my voice as my digestion*; 
though huleecl t)ie [M)wer of the voice at the same 
time \n hnproved by this practice. I then walk 
again, am anointed, take my exercises, and go into 
the bath. At supiKT, if I have only my wife or a 
few friends witli me, some author is read to us ; and 
after su|:^)er we are entertained either with music 
or an interlude. When that is finished, I take my 
walk with my family, in the number of which I am 
not without some persons of literature. Thus we 

• '' By the regimen which Pliny here follows^ one would 
imagine, if he had not told us who were his physicians, that 
the celebrated Celtui was in the number. That author ex- 
pressly recommends reading aloud, and afterwards walking, 
as beneficial in disorders of the stomach : si quis stomacko 
lahorat, legere dare debet, post lectionem ambulare,^* &c. 

Celsi Medic. Lib. i. c. 8. 


pass our evenings in various conyersation ; and the 
day, even when it is at the longest, steals imper- 
ceptibly away. Upon some occasions I change the 
order in certain of the articles above mentioned. 
For instance : if I have studied longer or walked 
more than usual, after my second sleep and reading 
an oration or two aloud, instead of using my chariot 
I get on hm'seback, by which means I take as much 
exercise and lose less time. The visits of my friends 
from the neighbouring villages claim some part of 
the day; and sometimes, by an agreeable inter- 
ruption, they come in very seasonably to reheve me 
when I am fatigued. I now and then amuse myself 
with spmting, but always take my tablets into the 
fidd, that if I should not meet with game, I may at 
least bring home something. Part of my time, too, 
is allotted to my tenants, though indeed not so much 
of it as they desire: and I return from settling 
their rustic controversies with a better reUsh to my 
studies and more el^ant occupaticHis. Farewell.'^ 

To the same onrespcxident, who in a subsequent 
letter had requested to know what alterations his 
friend made in the disposal of his time when at 
Laurentinum during the winter season, he replies. 


*^ Nihil, nisi quod meridianus somnus eximitur, 
multumque de nocte vel ante, vel post diem sumitur : 
et, si agendi necessitas instat, quae frequens hieme, 
non jam comcjedo, vel lyristae post ccenam locus : 
sed ilia quae dictavi, identidem retractantur, ac simul 
memoriae frequenti emendatione proficitur. Habes 
aestate, hieme consuetudinem : addas hue, licet, ver 
et autumnum, quae inter hiemem aestatemque media, 
ut nihil de die perdunt, ita de nocte parvulum ac- 
quirunt. Vale*." 

** None, except abridging myself of my sleep at 
noon, and employing several hours both before day- 
light and after sunset in study : but if any public 
business requires my early attendance at Rome 
(which in winter very frequently happens), instead 
of having interludes or music after supper, I me- 
ditate upon what I have previously dictated, and by 
often revising it in my own mind, fix it the more 
strongly in my memory. Thus I have given you a 
general sketch of my mode of life both in summer 
and winter, to which you may add the intermediate 
seasons of spring and autumn : in these, as no part 
of the day is lost in sleep or dissipation, as in sum- 

^ Lib. ix. Epist. 40. 


mer, so some time is gained for business or study by 
the nights being shorter than in winter. Farewell.^ 

Such was the manner in which, during the vigour 
of his days, Pliny employed the leisure that was 
spared to him from the fatigues and anxieties of 
public life, looking forward to advanced years as to 
a period when, released from the cmres of business, 
he might apply himself more methodically, and with- 
out interruption, to his favourite studies. As a 
model in these respects which he was ambitious to 
imitate, he had ever before his eyes the character 
and conduct of his friend Spurinna, a senator of 
great opulence and unblemished reputation, who had 
passed uncorrupted through the various offices of 
state, had governed many provinces with the most 
dinnterested vigilance, and, after a manhood of inde- 
. fatigable toil, was enjoying a virtuous old age in 
learned ease and elegant retirement. ^^ I am so 
much pleased,^ he tells his correspondent Calvisius, 
" with the uninterrupted regularity of his way of 
life, that if ever I should arrive at old age, there is 
no man whom I would sooner choose for my model. 
I look upon a stated arrangement of human actions, 
especially at that advanced period, with the same sort 


of pleasure as I behold the settled course of* the 
heavenly bodies. In youth, indeed, there is a certain 
deviation from precise rule by no means unbecoming : 
but in age, when business is unseasonable, and am- 
bition indecent, all should be composed and uniform. 
This maxim Spurinna religiously pursues through- 
out his whole conduct.'^ He then proceeds to de- 
scribe in what manner this venerable old man em- 
ployed his day : the first part of the morning, he 
informs us, he devoted to study ; at eight he dresaed 
and walked about three miles for the double purpose 
of contemplation and exercise. On his return, con- 
versation, reading, and a subsequent slight reposeg^ 
occupied his time until noon. He then ordered his 
chariot, and, either with his wife or a friend, took an 
excursion of about seven miles, adding generally to 
this little tour, ere he retired to his study, the ad- 
ditional exercise of walking another mile. About 
two in sunmier and three in winter he went into the 
' bath ; on coming out of which he played for a con- 
siderable time at tennis, and then, throwing himself 
upon his couch, had a favourite author read to him 
until about six o'clock, when with his friends, who 
had in the mean time been at perfect liberty either 
to enter into his amusement, or employ thqnselves 


as they thought fit, he sat down to am elegant repast 
served up on antique silver, a meal that was fre- 
quently enlivened by the recital of some dramatic 
composition, and which, though often prolonged to 
an advanced hour of the night, never proved — such 
was uniformly the afialnlity, politeness, and good 
humour of the host— either trifling or tedious to his 

The passage which immediately succeeds this detail 
I shall give in the author^s own emphatic w(H*ds. 

^^ Inde illi post septimum et septuagesimum annum 
aurium oculorumque vigor integer, inde agile et vi- 
vidiim ccH^us, solaque ex senectute prudentia. Hanc 
ego vitam voto et oogitatione praesumo, ingressurus 
avidissime, ut primum ratio aetatis receptui canere 
permiserit *." 

" By this method of living he has preserved all 
his senses entire, and his body active and vigorous 
to his seventy-eighth year, without discovering any 
symptoms of old age but the wisdom. This is the 
scNTt of life which I ardently aspire after, and which 
I purpose to enjoy, when I shall arrive at those 
years which will justify a retreat from business.^ 

• Lib. iii. Epist 1. 


As it might probably be inferred from the instance 
of Spurinna, that, in Pliny'^s estimation, opulence 
was a necessary adjunct for the enjoyment of a 
literary life, I am anxious to set aside such a sup- 
position, by bringing forward, in the pe^rson of bis 
beloved friend Suetonius, a very decided proof that 
he considered a taste for literature as the best pre-, 
parative for content^ and the surest mode of reoHi- 
ciling a man to a parsimonious distribution of the 
favours of fortune. In a letter to the emperor 
Trajan *, whilst soliciting a privilege in behalf of 
Suetonius, he declares that he entertained so high 
an idea of the probity, learning, and amiable dis- 
position of this ingenious historian, as to have long 
since invited him into his family as his domestic 
friend and constant companion ; and that his affec- 
tion for him had increased in proportion as he had 
become acquainted with his character. For such a 
man, and in circumstances too which, as we learn 
from the epistle I am about to quote, required a 
strict attention to economy, it was in perfect con- 
sonance with what we know of Pliny, that he should 
exert himself with the most delighted industry ; and 

* Lib. X. Epist. 95. 


it fortunately happens, that in one of his private 
applications for this purpose, which time has spared 
us, he has incidentally described, not only the mo- 
derate wishes of his learned guest, but his own per- 
suasion, that he who is rich in intellectual wealth, 
who can blend 

Repose with dignity^ with quiet fame« 

has little else to sigh for, and that 

Small change of scene, small space his home requures. 
Who leads a life of satisfied desires*. 


^^ Tranquillus, contubemalis meus, vult emere 
agellum quern venditare amicus tuus dicitur. Rogo 
cures quanti aequum est emat, ita enim delectabit 
emisse. Nam mala emptio semper ingrata, eo 
maxime, quod ex probare stultitiam domino videtur. 
In hoc autem agello (si modo arriserit precium) 
Tranquilli raei stomachum raulta sollicitant, vici- 
nitas urbis, opportunitas viae, mediocritas villse^ 
modus ruris, qui avocet mt^s, quam distringat* 
Scholasticis porro dominisy ut hie est, sufficU abtmdc 

• Rogers' Epistle to a Friend. 
VOL. I. £ 


tantum soli, ut relevare captU, r^ere oculos, rep- 
tare per limitemy unamqtie semitam terere^ omnesque 
viticulas suas nosse et nnmerare arbusculas, Haec 
tibi exposui, quo magis scires, quantum iile esset 
mihi, quantum ego tibi debiturus, si prasdiolum istud, 
quod commendatur his dotibus, tam salubriteremerit, 
ut poenitentiae locum non relinquat. Vale *." 


^^ My friend and guest, Tranquillus, has an in- 
clination to purchase a small farm, of which, as I 
am informed, an acquaintance of yours intends to 
dispose. I beg you would endeavour he may obtain 
it upon reasonable terms; which will add to his 
satisfaction in the purchase. A dear bargain is 
always disagreeable, particularly as it is a reflection 
upon the buyer's judgment. There are several cir- 
cumstances attending this little villa, which (sup- 
posing my friend has no objection to the price) are 
extremely suitable to his state and desires : the con- 
venient distance from Rome, the goodness of the 
roads, the smallness of the building, and the very 
few acres of land around it, which are just enough 

• Lib. 1. Epist. 24. 


to amuse, but not to employ him. To a man of the 
literary turn that Tranquillus is^ it is sufficient if 
he have hut a small sjpot to relieve the mind and 
divert the eye^ where he may saunter round his 
grounds^ traverse his single walk^ grow Jamiliar 
with his two or three viiies^ aitd count his little 
plantations, I mention these particulars to let you 
see how much he will be obliged to me, as I shall 
be to you, if you can help him to this convenient 
little box, at a price which he shall have no occasion 
to repent. Farewell.^ 

To the passages which I have now selected from 
the epistles of Pliny, many more of a similar tendency 
might be added ; for there are but few letters in the 
collection which do not, either in a moral or literary 
point of view, deserve to be treasured up in the 
memory. As pictures, indeed, of the happiness to 
be derived from an ardent attachment to literature, 
whether such shall have been conceived in youth or 
old age, under the influence of wealth, or the re- 
striction of narrow circumstances, they are perhaps 
without a parallel. To the epistles of Cicero on 
topics of public debate and political importance, 
they may be allowed, both in matter And manner, 

E 2 


to yield the palm ; but in all that concerns the heart 
and affections, in all that relates to domestic life and 
Jitterary enjoyment, in urbanity of style and philan- 
trophy of feeling, they are not surpassed, and, in- 
deed, not equalled, by the letters of this celebrated 
orator; and have, certainly, in these respects, no 
rivals among the productions of modem times. 

No. III. 

Too often those who entertain amhition 
Expel remorse and nature. 


There is occasionally to be met with in the page 
of history, especially in that department of it which 
enters into minute local inquiry, incidents as extra- 
ordinary and romantic as any which the power of 
imagination may have embodied for the purposes of 
fictitious narrative. 

Of this description is a large portion of the re- 
cords of the house of Clifford of Craven, in the 
county of York, which, as not only highly interest- 
ing in point of personal character and adventure 
but as exhibiting much also of the manners and cus- 
toms of periods of singular importance in the annals 
of our country, I feel strongly inclined to bring be- 
fore my readers, in a form and manner better cal- 
culated for general perusal than has been hitherto 

In fact, the volumes to which recourse has been 


chiefly had for the circumstances detailed in this 
essay, and the subsequent papers on the same sub- 
ject, are of a kind either so expensive or so volumi- 
nous^ as to preclude access to many who enjoy not 
the convenience of a public library. Whilst on this 
topic, I cannot omit particularizing one production, 
as that to which I have been more peculiarly in- 
debted, namely, Whitaker's History of Craven ; a 
work that, to a depth and elaboration of research, 
which might satisfy the most rigid antiquary, has 
added, what is but too seldom found mingled with 
the labours of the topographer, the imagination of 
the poet and the painter, yet chastised by pure taste 
and correct judgment, and clothed in a style at once 
nervous, rich, and elegant. I can well remember 
the delight with which, two years after I had visited 
at Skipton the remains of the castle of the Cliffords, 
I first read, in 1807, this admirable though bulky 
quarto, an impression which time has little impaired, 
and which is yet indeed, notwithstanding such a 
length of intervening period, one of the principal 
inducements to the present undertaking. 

The barony, or honour and fee of Skipton in 
Craven, had been, before the Norman conquest, the 
property of earl Edwin, son of Leofwine, and brother 


of Leofric, earls of Mercia. On the establishment, 
however, of William on the throne of England, the 
estates of the Saxon chieftain, which were very con- 
siderable, became forfeited, and the lands which he 
held in Craven were granted by the conqueror to 
Robert de Bomille, one of his adventurous followers, 
and who built the castle of Skipton. By marriage, 
this barony descended to the house of Albemarle, 
in whose possession it continued until, in the. ninth 
year of Edward the First, John de Eshton, tlie heir- 
at-law of the earldom of Albemarle, surrendered it, 
for a consideration, to the crown, in which it con- 
tinued vested till the first of Edward the Second, 
who, almost immediately after his accession, be- 
stowed it on his minion. Piers de Gaveston, The 
reign of this favourite however was very short ; and 
the year 1311, the fourth of Edward the Second, 
saw it transferred, by the king's gift, to Robert 
de Clifford, whom he had previously created earl 
marshal of England. 

Robert de Clifford, the descendant of an an- 
cient and powerful family, which had long held con- 
siderable property in the marches of Wales, and in 
Westmoreland, was born, it is supposed, at Appleby 
castle, about the year 1^74. Inheriting the mili- 


tary enthusiasm of his progenitors, he became, at 
an early age, so great a favourite with Edward the 
First, that, when not more than nineteen years of 
age, we are told, in the record of the plea of the 
fourteenth of that warlike monarch, fftetit in servicio 
regis JUXTA latus suum. 

After such a decisive proof of confidence, it was 
not long before Edward intrusted this aspiring 
young nobleman with employment suited to his en- 
terprising dispo^tion. In 1^97 he appointed him 
governor of Carlisle, with the view of repressing the 
incursions of the Scots; and almost immediately 
afterwards, lord Robert, entering Annandale with 
what troops the garrison could supply, defeated 
the Scots near Annan Kirke, with considerable 
slaughter; a piece of service which was speedily 
followed by a grant from the king, to him and his 
heirs, of the castle of Carlavrock, in Scotland, to- 
gether with all the estates of Robert Maxwell and 
William Douglas. Nor did the favour of Edward 
stop here. He nominated him chief justice of his 
forests beyond Trent; summoned him four times 
to parliament as one of the peers of the realm ; and 
when, in 1301, he wrote to pope Boniface, claiming 
the seignpry of Scotland, lord Clifford signed this 


celebrated letter by the title of ChatcUain of Ap^ 
pkby. It would appear indeed that the honours 
and possessions thus bestowed were amply recom- 
pensed to the English monarch, not only by what 
Cliffi)rd had already done, but by what he subse- 
quently achieved; for we are told that in 1806, 
almost immediately after the coronation of Robert 
Bruce, he entered Scotland with the earl of Pem- 
broke, and defeated the newly-created king at St. 
John^s Town*. 

We cannot but entertain, indeed, a high opinion 
of the character and conduct of Robert de Clifford, 
from beholding him thus patronised by one who has 
been not unjustly termed " the wisest of English 
kings f .'^ Nor is he less entitled to admiration for 
his skill and prudence, when, under the subsequent 
turbulent reign of Edward of Caernarvon, we find 
him, though intrusted with the first offices of state, 
both military and civil, steering so cautiously and 
judidously through the broils and dissensions which 
distracted his native country, that whilst he pre- 
served the patronage of his sovereign, he lost not 

• Holinshed^ vol. i. p. 842. 

t Vide sir Matthew Hale*s Memoirs of the Cliffords, as quoted 
by Whitaker, p. 241. 


the affection and esteem of the nobles and commons. 
It was to the successful execution of this difficult 
task that he owed his property in Craven; for 
when he reflected upon the precarious tenure by 
which he held the lands in Scotland, allotted to him 
by Edward the First, which either the chances of 
war or the stipulations of peace might in a moment 
snatch from his grasp, he became anxious for pos- 
sessions more stable ; and the castle and domain of 
Skipton, being situated at a convenient distance 
from the Scottish border, and enjoying, both by 
nature and art, the means of defence, he had only, 
on the death of Gaveston, to point out the advan- 
tages which might accrue to himself, his "eovereign, 
and the kingdom, by his occupation of this barrier, 
to obtain what he eagerly sought. 

The barony of Skipton, thus conferred on Robert 
de Clifford, is situated in the central and most beau- 
tiful part of Craven, extending east and west from 
the river Wharf to the river Air, and included 
within its limits various parks and demesnes, occu- 
pying not less than an area of six miles by four. 
To the castle which Romille, tempted by the im- 
posing strength and altitude of the situation, had 
founded on the verge of an almost perpendicular 


rock at Skipton, and which consisted, according to 
the military architecture of that period, of a square 
tower and spacious bailley, this first Cliflford added 
so many important parts, including seven round 
towers connected by rectilinear apartments, and 
forming a kind of quadrangular court within, that 
his celebrated descendant, Anne, countess of Pem- 
broke and Montgomery, describes him as the chief 
builder of the most strong parts of Skipton castle, 
which had been out of repair and ruinous from the 
AlbemarW time*. 

Any long enjoyment, however, of this property 
was not vouchsafed to the first lord Clifford of 
Craven; -for in the year 1814, being the third only 
after his accession to the barony, he accompanied 

Edward the Second from Skipton to the fatal field 
of Bannockburn . 

Of this celebrated battle, so decisive of the ascend- 
ancy of Bruce and of the independency of Scotland, 
and in which Robert de Clifford bore so conspi- 
cuous a part, I cannot resist the temptation of copy- 
ing for my readers the following account, by far the 
most accurate and circumstantial which has hitherto 

* WhitakcT, p. 32^. 


been given, of a conflict, which plunged for a time 
almost every rank of society in England into terror 
and distress. 

" Edward the Second, continuing his father's 
claim to Scotland, resolved by one effort to reduce 
that turbulent nation to subjection. In the year 
1814 he assembled an army of above a hundred 
thousand men. Robert Bruce, grandson of him 
who had been competitor with Baliol, raised an 
army against Edward of thirty thousand men, and 
took his station in the neighbourhood of Stirling, 
behind the river Bannockbum. The English army 
coming up encamped near Torwood. The defeat of 
a detachment of eight hundred cavalry, despatched 
by lord Clifford to the relief of Stirling, inspired 
the Scots army with courage for the general engage- 
ment. At length, on Monday, June S4th, 1314, 
appeared the dawn of that important day, which 
was to decide whether Scotland was henceforth to 
be an independent kingdom, or subjected to a fo- 
reign yoke. Early all was in motion in both armies. 
Religious sentiments were mingled with the military 
ardour of the Scots. A solemn mass, in the manner 
of those times, was said by Maurice, abbot of Inch- 
chanfry, who also administered the sacrament to the 


king and the great officers about him^ upon a hill 
near the camp, probably Cockshot-hill, while in- 
ferior priests did the same to the rest of the army. 
Then, after a sober repast, they formed in order 
of battle, in a tract of ground now called Nether 
Touchadam, which lies along the declivity of a 
gently rising hill, about a mile due south from the 
castle of Stirling. This situation had been pre- 
viously chosen on account of its advantages. Upon 
the right they had a range of steep rocks, now 
called GillieVhill, in which the hill abruptly ter- 
minates. In their front were the steep banks of the 
rivulet of Bannockburn . Upon the left lay a morass, 
now called Milton Bog, from its vicinity to a small 
village of that name. Much of this bog is still un- 
drained, and a part of it is at present a mill-dam. 
As it was then the middle of summer, it was almost 
dry; but Robert had recourse to a stratagem, in 
order to prevent any attack from that quarter. He 
had some time before ordered many ditches and 
pits to be digged in the morass, and in the fields 
upon the left, and these to be covered over again 
with green turf, supported by stakes driven into the 
bottom of them, so that the ground had still the 
appearance of being firm. He also caused calthrops. 


or sharp-pointed irons^ to be scattered through the 
morass, some of which have been found there in 
the memory of people yet alive. By means of 
these artificial improvements, added to the natural 
strength of the ground, the Scottish army stood as 
within an intrenchment, and the invisible pits and 
ditches answered to the concealed batteries of mo- 
dem times. 

" The Scottish army was drawn up in three di- 
visions, and their front extended near, a mile in 
length along the brink of the river. The right, 
which was upon the highest grounds, was com- 
manded by Edward Bruce, brother to the king ; 
the left was posted on the low grounds, near the 
morass, under the direction of Randolph ; and the 
king himself took the charge of the centre. Men- 
tion is also made of a fourth division, commanded 
by Walter Lord High Stewart, and James Douglas, 
both of whom had that morning been knighted by 
their sovereign. As they stood in this posture, 
waiting for the enemy, the trumpets, clarions, and 
horns continued to blow with so hideous a noise as 
made the neighbouring rocks and woods to echo 
the sound. 

" The enemy were fast approaching in three great 


bodies, and led on by the English monarch in per- 
son, and the earls of Hereford and Glocester, who 
were ranked among the best generals that England 
could at that time produce. Their centre was formed 
of infantry and the wings of cavalry, many of whom 
were armed cap-a-pee. Squadrons of archers were 
also planted upon the wings, and at certain distances 
along the front. Edward was attended by two 
knights, sir Giles de Argentine and sir Aymer de 
Vallance, who rode one upon each side of him : 
hence according to the phrase of those days, they 
were said to be at his bridle. That monarch, who 
had imagined that the Scots would never face his 
formidable host, was much astonished when he be- 
held the order in which they were drawn up, and 
their deterinined resolution to give him battle. As 
he expressed his surprise to those about him, sir 
Ingram Umfraville took the opportunity of sug- 
gesting, a plan, which was likely to ensure a cheap 
and bloodless victory. He counselled him to make 
a feint of retreating with the whole army, till they 
had got behind their tents ; and as this would 
tempt the Scots to break their ranks, in order to 
plunder the camp, they should suddenly turn about 
and fall upon them. This counsel was rejected, 


Edward being of opinion, that there was no need 
of any stratagem in order to defeat so small a hand- 
ful of men. 

** Amongst the other occurrences of this memora- 
ble day, historians mention an incident of a singular 
nature. As the two armies were upon the point of 
engaging, the abbot of Inchchanfry, having posted 
himself before the Scots, with a crucifix in his hand, 
they all fell down upon their knees in an act of de- 
votion. The enemy, observing them in so uncom- 
mon a posture, concluded that they were frightened 
into submission ; and that, by kneeling when they 
should have been ready to fight, they meant to 
surrender at discretion, and only begged their lives ; 
but they were soon undeceived when they saw them 
rise again, and stand to their arms with steady coun- 

" The English began the action by a vigorous 
charge upon the left wing of the Scots, commanded 
by Randolph, near the spot where the bridge is 
now thrown over the river, at the small village 
of Chartres-hall. Thereabout was the only place 
where the river could be crossed in any sort of order. 
A large body of cavalry advanced to attack in front, 
while another fetched a compass to fall upon the 


flank and rear ; but before they could come to a close 
engagement, they fell into the snare that had been 
laid for them ; many of their horses were soon dis- 
abled by the sharp irons rushing into their feet ; 
others tumbled into the concealed pits, and could 
not disentangle themselves. Pieces of their harness, 
with bits of broken spears, and other armour, still 
continue to be dug up in the bog. Randolph knew 
full well how to improve an accident which he had 
looked for ; taking an immediate advantage of the 
disorder and surprise into which it had thrown the 
oiemy, he charged them with vigour. While these 
transactions were going on in these parts, the battle 
was q>reading along the front, and was fought with 
much valour on both sides. 

'< In the b^inning of the engagement, an inci- 
dent happened, which, though in itself of small mo- 
ment, was rendered important by its consequences. 
Robert was mounted on horseback, Barbour says, 
upon a little palfry, carrying a battle-ax in his hand, 
and upon his helmet he wore a purple hat in form of 
a crown, by way of distinction. This singularity of 
dress, together with his activity, rendered him very 
conspicuous as he rode before the lines, observing 
their order, and encouraging them with the cheer^ 

VOL. I. V 


fulness of his ooiintenance. An Englieii knigb 
named Henry Bohun, cousin to the earl <^ Hereftirc 
who was ranked amongst the bravest in Eldwaid 
army, came gallojnng furiously up to him, in oidc 
to engage with him in single combat, expecting, fa 
so eminent an act of chivalry, to put an end to tl 
contest at once, and gain immortal renown to hin 
self. But the enterprising champion, having misse 
his first blow, was immediately struck dead with tli 
king^s battle-ax, the handle of which was broke 
by the violence of the stroke. This was a sort c 
Mgnal for the charge. So bold an attack upon die 
king filled the Scots with sentiments of revenge 
and the heroic achievement performed by him ht 
fore their eyes raised their spirits to the highe 
pitch. Their courage was too warm to suffer n 
strwnt, and their confidence too great to listen i 
advice; they rushed furiously upon the enem^ 
who gave them a warm reception. The ardour c 
one of the Scottish divisions having carried diei 
too 60*9 occasioned their being sorely galled by 
large body of English ardiers, who charged thei 
in tiaxik ; but these were soon dispersed by Edwar 
Bruce, who came behind them with a party of ipeai 
men ; or, according to other accounts, by sir Robe] 


Kdtb, whom the king despatched to their rehef, 
with a company of five hundred horse. Prince 
Edward, however, soon found himself standing in 
need of the same relief which he had so timely 
affiarded to others. A strong body of the enemy's 
cavalry charged the right wing, whidi he com- 
manded, with such irre^stible fury, that he bad 
'been quite overpowered, if Randolph, who appears 
to have at that time been disengaged, had not 
marched to his assistance. The battle was now at 
the hottest ; and it was yet uncertfun how the day 
was to go. The En^ish still continued to charge 
with unabated vigour: the Scots received them 
with aa inflexible intrepidity, and fought every one 
as if victory had depended upon his single arm. A 
singular occurrence, which' some accounts represent 
as aU' accidental sally of patriotic enthusiasm, others 
as a premeditated stratagem of Robert, sudd^y 
altered the face of aftairs, and contributed gijeady 
to the victory. All the servants and attendants of 
the Scottish army, who are said to have amounted 
to above fifteen thousand, had beeii ordered, befcn^e 
the battle, to retire with the baggage behind .Gillies- 
liill ; but having, during the engagement, arranged 
Aemselves in a martial form, some on foot^ and 

F 2 


others mounted on the baggage hordes, they inarched 
to the top of the hill, and displaying white sheets 
fixed upon long poles instead of banners, moved 
towards the field of battle with hideous shouts. 
The English, perceiving this motley crowd, and 
taking them for a fresh reinforcement advancing to 
support the Scots, were seized with so great a panic, 
that they began to give way in great confusion. 
Buchanan says, that the king of England was the 
first that fled ; but in this he contradicts all other 
historians, who affirm that that monarch was among 
the last in the field. Nay, according to some ac- 
counts, he would not be persuaded to retire, till sir 
Aymer de Vallance, seeing the day lost, took hold 
of his horse's bridle and led him off. Sir Giles de 
Argentine, the other knight who waited on Edward, 
would not consent to leave the field ; but, putting 
himself at the head of a battalion, made a vigorous 
effort to retrieve the desperate state of affairs, but 
was soon overpowered and sliun. He was a cham- 
pion of great renown ; and, having signalized 
himself in several battles with the Saracens, was 
reckoned the third knight for valour in his day* 

*' The Scots pursued, and great was the slaughter 
among the enemy, especially in passing the river. 


where they could keep no order, because of the 
irregularity of the ground. A short mile from the 
field of battle lies a plot of ground, which goes by 
the name of the Bloody-fold^ where, according to 
tradition, a party of the English faced about and 
made a stand ; but, after a dreadful slaughter among 
them, were forced to continue their flight. This 
tradition corresponds to what we find in several hi- 
storians concerning the earl of Glocester, who, seeing 
the rout of his' countrymen, made an eflfort to renew 
the battle at the head of his own military tenants ; 
and, after having done much execution with his own 
hand, was, together with the most of his party, cut 
m pieces *. 

With this martial prince, Gilbert de Clare, earl 
of Glocester, and nephew of Edward the Second, 
perished, fighting side by side, Robert de Clifford^ 
first lord of the honour of SJcipton. Their he- 
roism had excited the admiration of Bruce ; and as 
they had been companions on the field, they were 
not separated after death, their bodies being sent 
together by the conqueror to Edward at Berwick, 

* Nimmo's General History of Stirlingshire^ 8vo. London^ 


to be interred with the honours due unto their 

The result of this disastrous engagement^ in 
which there fell on the side c^ the En^ish not less 
than one hundred and fifty-four earls, barons, and 
knights, seven hundred gentlemen, and more than 
ten thousand common soldiers^ was long a theme 
of exultation and triumph to Scotland and her min- 
strelsy. From one of her best and oldest effui^ons 
on this 8ul]gect, entitled ^^ The Song of the Scot- 
tish Maidens,"" a few stanzas will fully evince to 
what a tone of fiery and taunting energy her bards 
could raise their strains of jubilate on this occasion. 

Here comes your lordly chivalry 

All charging in a row ; 
And there your gallant bowmen 

Let fly their shafts like snow. 
Look how yon old man clasps his hands. 

And hearken to his cry — 
'^ Alas^ alas^ for Scotland^ 

When England's arrows fly !" 
Yet weep, ye dames of England, 

For twenty summers past 
Ye danced and sang while Scotland wept— 

Such mirth can never last. 

* Walsingham, p. 105. T. de la More, p. 69%. 


And how can I do less than laugh, 

^yhen England's lords are nigh ? 
It is the nudds of Scotland 

Must learn to wail and sigh ; 
For here spars princely Hereford — 

Hark to his clashing steel ! 
And there's sir Philip Musgrave, 

All gore from helm to heel ; 
And yonder is stout d'Argentine ; 

And here comes with a sweep 
The fiery speed of Gloucester — 

Say wherefore should I weep ? 

Weep^ all ye English maidens, 

Lo, Bannockbrook 's in flood ! 
Not with its own sweet waters, 

But England's noblest Uood. 
For see, your arrow shower has ceased, 

The thrilling bow-string 's mute ; 
And where rides fiery Gloucester ? 

All trodden under foot. 
Wail^ all ye dames of England^ 

Nor more shall Musgrave know 
The sound of the shrill trumpet — 

And Argentine is low. 

Thy chivalry, proud England, 
Have tum'd the rein to fly ; 

Ami on them rushes Randolph- 
Hark ! Edward Bruce's cry. 

'Mid reeking blood tlie Douglas rides. 
As one rides in a river ; 


And here the good king Robert comes — 

And Scotland 's free for eTer. 
Now weep, ye dames of England, 

And let your sons prolong 
The Bruce — the Bruce of Bannockbum— 

In many a sorrowing song. 

The body of Robert de Clifford was forwarded 
by Edward for interment at Bolton Abbey, near 
Skipton. Bolton had been, under the Saxon dy- 
nasty, the seat of earl Edwin^s barony ; but, in the 
twelfth century, Aaliza, the grandaughter of Ro- 
bert de Romille, heiress of the castle and honour 
of Skipton, and who had married William Fitz- 
Duncan (a chief, who, after laying waste Craven 
by fire and sword, had been established there by 
his uncle, David, king of Scotland), parted with 
this property to the canons of Embsay, who built 
on the site of an ancient Saxon church, and in one 
of the most romantic situations in Craven, the beau- 
tiful structure of Bolton Priory*. 

* The following tragical event has been assigned by tra- 
dition as the reason why lady Aaliza parted with this pro- 
perty ; but, as will be seen at the close of the note^ though 
probably true as to incident, its application for the purpose 
just mentioned cannot be correct. 

'* In the deep solitude of the woods betwixt Bolton and 


Robert de Clifford had by his wife, Matilda, one 
of the daughters and coheirs of Thomas de Clare, 

Barden, the Wharf, suddenly contracts itself to a rocky chan- 
nel little more than four feet wide, and pours through the 
tremendous fissure with a rapidity proportioned to its con- 
finen^ent. This place was then^ as it is yet^ called the Stride 
from a feat often exercised hy persons of more agility than 
prudence, who stride from hrink to brink, regardless of the 
destruction which awaits a faltering step. Such, according 
to tradition^ was the fate of young Roniille, who inconsider- 
atdy bounding over the chasm with a greyhound in his leash, 
the animal hung back^ and drew his unfortunate master into 
ihe torrent. The forester who accompanied Romille, and 
beheld his fate^ returned to the lady Aaliza^ and^ with despair 
in his countenance, inquired ' What is good for a bootless 
bene ? * To which the mother, apprehending that some great 
calamity had befallen her son, instantly replied, ' Endless 

'' The language of this question, almost unintelligible at 
present^ proves the antiquity of the story, which nearly 
amounts to proving its truth. But ' bootless bene' is unavail- 
.ing prayer; and the meaning, though imperfectly expressed, 
seems to have been, * What remains when prayer is useless?' 
" This misfortune is said to have occasioned the transla- 
tion of the priory from Embsay to Bolton, which was the 
nearest eligible site to the place where it happened. The 
lady was now in a proper situation of mind to take any im- 
pression from her spiritual comforters ; but the views of the 
two parties were difierent ; they spoke, no doubt, and she 
thought, of proximity to the scene of her son's death ; but it 
was the fields and woods of Bolton for which they eecrctly 


two sons, Roger and Robert, of which the first had 
nearly perished on the scaffold, in consequence of his 

^* Thus far I have cojaed," adds Dr. Whitaker, '^ and 
even reasoned upon^ the vulgar tradition ; in which Dods- 
worth^ Dr. Johnston^ and Dr. Burton, have successively ac- 
quiesced^ without reflecting that this drowned son of the 
second foundress is himself a party and witness to the charter 
of translation *. Yet I have little douht that the story is true 
in the main^ but that it refers to one of the sons of Cecilia 
de Ronull^^ the first foundress^ both of whom are known to 
have died young." History of Craven, p. 368. 

This singular occurrence, which, whether it apply to 
Cecilia or Aaliza Romille, is of little consequence in a poetical 
point of view, has furnished more than one of our living 
bards with a theme for his muse. I annex the lines of Mr. 

" Say, what remains when hope is fled }" 
She answer'd, " Endless weeping !" 
For in the herdsman's eye she read 
Who in his shroud lay sleeping. 

At Embsay rung the matm-bell. 
The stag was roused on Bar deii*fell ; 
The mingled sounds were swelling, dying, 
And down the Wharfe a hem was flying : 
When near the cabin in the wood. 
In tartan clad and forest-green. 
With hound in leash, and hawk in hood, 
The boy of Egremond was seen. 

* Sec Monnst. Anglic, vol. ii. p. 102. 


rashly taking part with the earl of Lancaster in his 
unsuccessful contest with Edward the Second, and his 

Blithe was his song— a song of yore ; 
But where the rock is rent in two> 
And the river rushes through^ 
His voice was heard no more ! 
Twas but a step ! the gulf he passed ; 
But that step— it was his last ! 
As through the mist he wing'd his way^ 
(A cloud that hovers night and day) 
The hound hung back^ and back he drew 
The master and Ills merlin too. 
That narrow place of noise and strife 
Received their little all of life ! 

There now the raatin-bell is rung ; 
The " Miserere !" duly sung ; 
And h<^y men^ in cowl and hood^ 
Are wandering up and down the wood. 
But what avail they ? Ruthless lord. 
Thou didst not shudder when the sword 
Here on the young its fury spent, 
The helpless and the innocent. 
Sit now^ and answer groan for groan ; 
The child before thee is thy own ; 
And she who wildly wanders there. 
The mother^ in her long despair^ 
Shall oft remind thee^ waking, sleeping. 
Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping ; 
Of those who would not be consoled 
When red with blood the river roU'd. 


favourites, Hugh Spencer and son. In fact, it was 
only owing to the severity of his wounds, which 
were thought to be mortal, that he escaped decapi- 
tation ; for, on his unexpected recovery, the resent- 
ment of the king having subsided, his life was spared. 
Nor was his property, which had of course been 
forfeited to the crown by his rebellion, long with- 
held from his family ; for Robert, who, on failure 
of issue, succeeded him as third lord of Skipton, 
being a great favourite with Edward the Third, 
obtained a reversal of the judgment against his 
brother, in the fourth year of that monarches 

From this period to the reign of Henry the 
Fifth, when John lord Clifford, seventh 


sovereign to the conquest of France, nothing re- 
markable occurs in the slight memorials which have 
been preserved of the earlier Yorkshire Cliffords. 
This seventh lord was not only like the generality 
of his progenitors, of a martial disposition, but had 
one of the finest fields which the kingdom has ever 
afforded for the display of his prowess. His career, 
however, as a soldier, which commenced in the 


fourth of Henry the Fifth *, was terminated in the 
tenth of the same reign, and only a few months be- 
fore the death of his victorious prince, at the siege 
of Meaux, where, says Goodwin, May, 1422, fell 
the lord Clifford, who was brought over and buried 
in the church of the canons of Bolton in Craven, in 
Yorkshire J". 

By his marriage with Eliza, only daughter of 
Henry Percy, son of Henry Percy earl of Northum- 
berland, John lord Clifford had a son and heir, 
Thomas, eighth lord of the honour of Skip- 
ton, who was bom in the year 1414. This noble- 
man appears to have taken for his model the cha- 

* ** The contract was to this effect, that this lord^ with 
fifty men-at-arms, well accoutered, whereof three to bee 
knights^ the rest esquire?^ and a hundred and fifty archers^ 
whereof two parts to serve on horseback^ the third on foote^ 
should serve the king from the day hee should bee ready to 
set sayle for France^ taking for himself 4s. for every knt. ; 
for every esquire Is. ; for every archer 6d. per diem, 

" This was the usual meanes whereby the kings in those 
times furnished their armys with men of value ; and it was 
counted no dishonourable thing for persons of honour upon 
this kinde of traffick to make themselves an advantage : in- 
deed^ it was in these martial times the trade of the nobility 
and great men." Sir Matthew Hale's Memoirs of the Clif- 
fords, apud Whitaker^ p. 246. 

t Goodwin^ p. 325. 


racter and conduct of Robert, first lord of Skipton ; 
for whilst he preserved the favour of Henry the 
Sixth, he 90 managed as not to forfeit the respect 
and esteem of the nobility. Indeed the times were 
such as to call for the utmost wariness and circum* 
spection, for the pretensions of the house of York 
were beginning to appear, and discontent and dis- 
affection were spreading rapidly throughout the 

It was impossible, however, to avoid taking a 
decided part when the claims of the rival houses 
were put to the arbitration of the swcnrd ; and, 
although by the marriage of his aunt Maud . de 
Clifford, daughter of Thomas, sixth lord of Skip- 
ton, with Richard Plantagenet, earl of Cambridge^ 
this eighth lord was allied to the house of Ycnrk, 
and, in fact, resided with his family the greater 
part of the year at Conisburgh castle, which the 
countess of Cambridge, then a widow, possessed in 
right of her dower ; yet, from some disagreement, 
probably originating, on the part of thePlantagenets, 
from the magnitude and long tenure of this very 
dower by the relict of the earl, it is certain that a 
dislike amounting to the bitterest enmity was en- 
gendered between the two families, and induced 


lord Clifford and his son not only to support ^itk 
zeal the hoase of Lancaster^ but to become the most 
implacable foes of the Yorkists. 

It was the fate of the father, however, to perish 
early in this disastrous contest ; for in the first 
battle fought between the contending parties at St. 
Albans, on May 22, 14s55, in which Henry the 
Sixth was defeated and taken prisoner, this noble- 
man, together with other chieftains of his faction, 
was slain in attempting to turn the fortune of the 
day. To this event Shakspeare alludes in the 
openiisg of his Third Part of King Henry the 
Siarih^ where, speaking df the king as having se- 
cretly withdrawn from the field, he adds — 

Wheveat the great lord of Northumberland^ 
Whose warlike ears could never brook retreat^ 
Cheer'd up the drooping army ; and himself^ 
Lord Clifford, and lord Stafford^ all a-breast^ 
Gharged our main battle's fronts and^ breiddug in^ 
Were by the ewinda of common soldiers slain. 

The representation of the poet is here founded 
on fact, for such, according to the statemoit of the 
dittttiiders, were the circumstances which f»*eceded 
the death of lord Clifford ; but, in admitting these 
lines, the bard had forgotten that, at the close of 
the preceding play, he had given Clifford his death- 


wound from the hand of the duke of York, evi- 
dently with the design of accounting for the savage 
ferocity with which John, the son of this Clifford, 
avenged himself on every individual of the race of 
Plantagenet who was unfortunate enough to fall 
within his power. The passions, however, which 
this unnatural war set afloat, and which, in nume- 
rous instances, alike bade defiance to every tie of 
humanity and consanguinity, wanted not the aid of 
fiction to account for the miseries which they in- 
flicted ; for by man, habituated to deeds of violence, 
freed from the restraints of law, and uninfluenced 


by morals or religion, what enormity has not been 
committed ? 

Thomas lord Clifford was interred with his uncle, 
Henry Percy earl of Northumberland, and Hum- 
phrey earl of Stafford, in the lady chapel of the 
monastery of St. Albans, having entered the forty- 
first year of his age, and leaving one son, the above- 
mentioned John, by Joan, daughter of Thomas lord 
Dacre, of Gillesland. 

John lord Clifford, ninth lord of the 

HONOUR OF Skipton, and sumamed, probably from 

the unrelenting sternness of his features, black- 

faced Clifford, was bom on the 8th of April, 1430, 


at Conisburgh castle in Yorkshire, under thie same 
roof which had witnessed the birth of the very duke 
of York whom he is represented to have killed, and 
who was the son of Richard earl of Cambridge, by 
his first wife, Anne Mortimer, his second lady, who 
survived him, being, as I have stated before, Maud 
Clifibrd; thus forming an alliance which, instead 
of cementing the two families in the bond of peace, 
seems to have produced nothing but alienation and 

Lord John appears to have been early initiated 
into all the horrors of civil discord, for at the death 
of his father, in 1455, he had been three years en- 
gaged in the struggle between the houses of York 
and Lancaster; a school in which, according to 
every account, he had imbibed a more than com- 
mon portion of the rancour and cruelty so prevalent 
in those days of bloodshed and confusion* 

It was at the battle of Wakefield, which took 
place on December 30th, 1460, between Richard 
duke of York, and queen Margaret, in which the 
former was totally defeated, that the vindictive fe- 
rocity of Clifibrd became such as to leave an eternal 
blot upon his chai'acter. Leland says, " that for 
slaughter of men at Wakefield, he was called the 

VOL. I. G 


butcher;^ but the action which oti that day has 
more peculiarly stained his memory was the slaugh- 
ter of the young earl of Rutland^ second son of the 
duke of York, who is represented by Hall and 
Holinshed as not being more than twelve years of 
age, though the countess of Dorset and Pembroke, 
in her Summary of the Lives of her Ancestors, con- 
tends, with the view of, in some measure, mitigating 
the horror of the deed, that he was seventeen. As 
the chroniclers, however, describe him as beuig at- 
tended by his tutor, and paint him with the man- 
ners and apprehensions of a child, it is scarcely pro- 
bable that he could be so old. ^^ Whilst this battle 
was in fighting,^^ says Hall, *^ a jmest called sir Ro- 
bert Aspall, chaplain and schoolmaster to the young 
earl of Rutland, second son to the above-named duke 
of York, scarce of the age of xij years*, ajMr 
gentleman, and a maiden-like person, perceiving 
that flight was more safe-guard than tarrying, both 
for him and his master, secretly conveyed the earl 

* Peacham^ in his '^ Complete Gentleman/' in general an 
acurate writer^ repeats this assertion. *' Edmund Flaiita- 
genet^ son and heir of Richard duke of York^ earl of Rut- 
land (who> being a child scarce twelve years of age^ was 
stricken to the heart with a dagger by the lord Clifibrd, at 
the battle of Wakefield), had, &c."— Edition of 1634, p. 169. 


out of the field, by the lord Clifford's band, toward 
the town ; but or he could enter into a house, he 
was by the said lord Clifford espied, followed, and 
taken, and by reason of his apparel demanded what 
he was. The yoimg gentleman^ dismayed^ had not 
a word to speak^ but kneeled on his Jcnees^ imphrvng 
mercy y and desiring gracCf both with holding tip 
his hands ^ and making dolorous countenance yjbr 
his speech wa^ gofneforfearT 

On this, and the similar account by Holinshed, 
Shakspeare, following the track of an elder dra- 
matic poet, founded the following pathetic scene, 
which, there is much reason to suppose, little, if at 
all, exaggerates the fell and cruel rage which in- 
flamed the breasts of nearly all the leaders in this 
merciless warfare. 

^^ Plains near Sandal Castle, 

Alarums. Excursions. Enter Rutland arid his Tutor. 

Rut. Ah, whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands ! 
Ah, tutor ! look where hloody Clifford comes ! 

Enter Clifford and Soldiers. 

(Mtffl Chaplain^ away ! thy priesthood saves thy life. 
As for the brat of this accursed duke^ 
Whose father slew my father^ — he shall die. 

Tut, And I, my lord, will bear him company. 

Cliffl Soldiers^ away with him. 



l}uU Ah^ Clifford ! murder not this innocent child^ 
Lest thou be hated both of God and man. 

[Exit, forced off' by Soldiers, 

Cliff. How now ! is he dead already ? Or is it fear 
That makes him close his eyes ? — I '11 open them. 

Rut. So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch 
That trembles under his devouring paws : 
And so he walks^ insulting o'er his prey ; 
And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder. — 
Ah^ gentle Cli£fbrd^ kill me with thy sword^ 
And not with such a cruel threat'ning look. 
Sweet Cliflfbrd, hear me speak before I die; — 
I am too mean a subject for thy wrath^ 
Be thou revenged on men^ and let me live. 

Cliff. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy ; my father's blood 
Hath stopped the passage where thy words should enter. 

Rut. Then let my father's blood open it again ; 
He is a man^ and^ Clifford, cope with him. 

Cliff. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine 
Were not revenge sufficient for me ; 
No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers* graves. 
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains. 
It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart. 
The sight of any of the house of York 
Is as a fury to torment my soul : 
And till I root out their accursed line. 
And leave not one alive, I live in hell. 
Therefore [Lifting his hand. 

Rut. O, let me pray before I take my death : — 
To thee I pray ; sweet Clifford, pity me ! 

Cliff. Such pity as my rapier's point affords. 

Rut. 1 never did thee harm ; why wilt thou slay me ? 


Cliff: Thy father hath. 

Rut. But 'twas ere I was born. 

Thou hast one son^ for his sake pity me ; 
Lest, in revenge thereof, — sith God is just, — 
He be as miserably slain as I. 
Ah, let me live in prison all my days ; 
And when I give occasion of oflPence, 
Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause. 

Cliff. No cause ? 
Thy father slew my father ; therefore, die ! 

[Clifford stabs him *." 

It is some satisfaction to know that the per- 
petrator of this inhuman deed, after having acted 
a part nearly as savage and relentless at the death- 
scene of the duke of York, which almost imme- 
diately followed, or, as some say, preceded, the 
murder of his son, was himself killed about three 
months afterwards, near Ferrybridge in Yorkshire, 
after having defeated and slain the lord Fitz waiter, 
"who had been stationed by king Edward IV. to 
maintain the pass at the bridge. It was in his re- 
treat from this rencontre, which took place on Sa- 
turday the 28th of March, 1461, that, in a small 
valley called Dittengale, situated between Towton 
and Scarthingwell, having either from heat or pain 

* Third Part of King Henry VI., Act i. Sc. 3. 


put off his gorget, he was suddenly wounded in the 
throat by a headless arrow, and instantly expired. 

This event, which occurred on the night of Sa- 
turday — for lord Fitzwalter was roused from his 
bed by the tumult of the attack — ^preceded but by 
fifteen hours the great battle of Towton, fought on 
Palm Sunday eve, 1461, and in which fell 87,000 
Englishmen. In a period of such conftision and 
dismay, and on the verge of one of the most dread- 
ful actions which ever happened between the rival 
houses, it is probable that the body of Clifford was 
left uninterred on the field ; for it is the tradition 
of the family that it was thrown into a pit with a 
promiscuous heap of the slain, in all likelihood after 
the battle of Towton had been decided. 

Shakspeare, who has tlirown, intentionally, I have 
no doubt, the two actions into one, has finely availed 
himself of this liberty in depicting the death of Clif- 
ford. He represents him, in conformity with the 
relation of Holinshed, dying from the wound in his 
throat ; but, just as he is in the act of expiring, he 
brings his bitterest foes, Edward, George of Cla- 
rence, Richard of Gloucester, Montague and War- 
wick, to the spot. They are retiring in exultation 
from the field of victory, and as the wretched Clif- 


ford groans and breathes his last, Edward, starting, 
exclaims — 

'' Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave ? 

Rich. A deadly groan^ like life and death's departing. 

Edw, See who it is : and^ now the battle 's ended^ 
If friend or foe^ let him be gently used. 

Rich, Revoke that doom of mercy^ for 'tis Clifford ; 
Who not contented that he lopp'd the branchy 
In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth^ 
But set his murdering knife unto the root 
From whence that tender spray did sweetly springs 
I raean^ our princely father^ duke of York. 

fFar. From off the gates of York fetch down the head, 
Your father's head^ which Clifibrd placed there : 
Instead whereof let this supply the room ; 
Measure for measure must be answered. 

Edw. Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house^ 
That nothing sung but death to us and ours : 
Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sounds 
And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak. 

[Attendants bring the Oody forward 

War, I think his understanding is bereft : — 
Speak^ Clifford^ dost thou know who speaks to thee ?— 
Dark cloudy death o'ershades his beams of life^ 
And he nor sees^ nor hears us what we say. 

Rich, Oy would he did ! and so^ perhaps, he doth ; 
'Tis but his policy to counterfeit^ 
Because he would avoid such bitter taunts 
Which in the time of death he gave our father. 

Geo, If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words. 

Rich» Clifibrd^ ask mercy^ and obtain no grace. 


Edw, Clifford^ repent in bootless penitence, 

IVar, Clifford^ devise excuses for thy faults. 

Geo, While we devise fell tortures for thy faults. 

Rich, Thou didst love York, and I am son to York. 

Edw. Thou pitied'st Rutland, I will pity thee. 

Geo, Where 's captain Margaret, to fence you now ? 

ff*ar. They mock thee, Clifford ! swear as thou wast wont. 

Rich. What ! not an oath ? nay, then the world goes liard. 
When Cliffbrd cannot spare his friends an oath : — 
I know by that he 's dead ; and, by my soul. 
If this right hand would buy two hours* life. 
That I in all despite might rail at him. 
This hand should chop it off*; and with the issuing blood 
Stifle the villain, whose unstaunched thirst 
York and young Rutland could not satisfy. 

IFar. Ay, but he's dead: Off* with the traitor's head, 
And rear it in the place your father's stands *." 

John, ninth lord of Skipton, married Margaret, 

daughter of Henry Bromflete, lord Vesey , by whom 

he had two sons, of which the eldest, as we shall 

find in a following paper, was, in consequence of 

the attainder of his father, in the first of Edward 

the Fourth, deprived of his inheritance for many 


[To be continued,'] 

• Third Part of King Henry VI., Act II. Scene VI. 

No. IV. 

The shepherd^s homely curds^ 
. His cold thin drink out of his leather hottle ; 
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade 
(All which secure and sweetly he enjoys)^ 
Is far heyond a princess delicates ; 
His viands sparkling in a golden cup ; 
His body couched in a curious bed ; 
When Care^ Mistrust^ and Treason wait on him. 


There cannot, either in national or private hi- 
story, be found a greater opposition of character 
than that which subsisted between John lord Clif- 
ford, whose death I have recorded at the close of 
my first paper on this subject, and Henry his son, 
afterwards tenth lord of the honour of Skip- 
ton. To adversity, that best of all schools for the 
growth and cultivation of the noblest virtues of the 
human heart, we may, in a great measure, attribute 
this happy contrast on the part of the son ; for it was 
his lot, in times of inordinate ambition and strife, 
to pass his youth in the shades of obscurity and 
poverty, a lesson which for ever guarded his breast 
against the intrusion of those dark and daring ma- 


chinations which had so deeply stained the memory 
of his immediate progenitors. 

At the death of his father, Henry Clifford was 
but six years of age, being bom in 1454 ; and in 
1464, being the fourth year of Edward the Fourth, 
the castle, manor, and lordship of Skipton^ which 
had been forfeited by the attainder of lord John, 
were granted, in the first instance, to sir William 
Stanley, and subsequently, about the fifteenth of the 
same reign, to Richard duke of Gloucester, who 
held them until he lost his life and crown at the 
battle of Bos worth. 

In the mean time, it became necessary to conceal 
the son and heir of one who had rendered himself 
more than commonly obnoxious to the reigning fa- 
mily, not only by his prowess in the field against 
them, but by his ferocious slaughter of the young 
earl of Rutland. Banishment, imprisonment, or 
death, would certainly have been the fate of the 
child had he been discovered ; but, fortunately for 
him, he possessed, in the love, activity, and re- 
sources of his affectionate mother, a sufiicient pro- 
tection against the impending danger; for, at the 
age of seven years, he was clothed in the habit, and 
placed in the condition, of a shepherd's boy at 


Londesborough, where his mother then chiefly re- 
aided. In this sequestered spot, confided to the 
care of peasants, whose wives had been servants in 
his father^s family, and, as attendants on the nurse 
who had given him suck, familiar to him from his 
infancy, he the more readily submitted to his hard 
lot ; more especially, as they took care to impress 
upon his mind the conviction, that his life depended 
upon his being perfectly resigned to a state of po- 
verty and humiliation. 

It was whilst thus occupied at Londesborough^ 
and when he had reached his fourteenth year, that 
his mother's father, Henry Bromflete, lord Vesey, 
died, an event which, giving rise to a report, at the 
court of Edward the Fourth, that his daughter's 
two sons were alive, their mother was closely ex- 
amined on the subject. From her answers, which 
satisfied for a time her inquirers, and lulled their 
suspicions asleep, it appears, that immediately after 
the death of her lord, she had sent both her sons to 
the sea-ade, with an intention of embarking them for 
the Low Countries, but only Richard, the younger, 
had passed over to the continent, where he died 
shortly afterwards, whilst Henry was secretly re- 
oonveyed to Londesborough. With an equivoca- 


tion, therefore, readily to be pardoned in a mother 
thus trembling for the safety of her only child, she 
declared that she had given orders for their con- 
veyance beyond seas, for the purpose of their edu- 
cation, and that she knew not whether they were 
dead or alive. 

About this time, or at least before the twelfth 
of Edward the Fourth, for a charter or deed of ar- 
bitration * of this period mentions their union, lady 
Clifford married her second husband, sir Lancelot 
Threlkeld, knight, of Threlkeld in Cumberland, 
a man of unblemished honour and integrity, and 
who seems to have been equally solicitous with his 
wife to save and protect young Henry Clifford from 
the malice of his enemies. When, therefore, as was 
soon afterwards the case, a murmur of his being in 
existence and concealment was revived, and his in- 
creasing years rendered his danger every day more 
imminent, they sent him, with the peasantry and 
their families, to whose society he had been habi- 
tuated, to Threlkeld in Cumberland, to be brought 
up simply as a shepherd ; and at this place, under 
the vigilant eye of his father-in-law's kindred, or on 

* Vide Whi taker, p. 250. 


the borders of Scotland, where it was necessary he 
should sometimes retreat, and where sir Lancelot 
hired land for the convenience of the shepherds who 
accompanied him, he was frequently, though very 
secretly, visited both by the good knight and his 
affectionate mother. 

In this lowly disguise, bred up in forests and 
mountain fastnesses, the child of nature, and inured 
to every privation, did Henry lord Clifford pass 
twenty-five of those years which are usually esteemed 
the best and fairest of our lives. Yet, though de- 
prived of the honours and the luxuries to which the 
nobility of his house should have entitled him, he 
was more than compensated by higher and better 
gifts; for his heart was uncorrupted and his inte- 
grity unassailed. He possessed, we are told, a strong 
natural understanding, and an amiable and con- 
templative disposition : in one thing only was l\e un- 
fortunate; for, under the apprehension that any 
show of learning might lead to the detection of his 
birth, his education was so entirely neglected, that 
he could neither write nor read ; and it was only 
after his restoration to the honours and possessions 
of his family that he was taught to write his name. 

He wanted not, however, the pleasures which 


healthy activity, and conscious innocence could be- 
stow ; nor, if what I have now to bring forward be 
correct, did he want, during this his long period 
of enforced concealment^ those consolations which 
spring from the tenderest of all afiecticHis, from the 
interchange of faithful and enduring love. 

There is reason indeed to conclude that the ex- 
quisitely pathetic ballad, entitled <^ The Nut-brown 
Maid,'^ was founded on what really had occurred 
between this young nobleman and the object of his 
attachment, during the latter part of his seclusion 
in the Fells of Cumberland. 

Dr. Whitaker, taking it for granted that t&ere 
was no edition of Arnold's Chronicle, in which the 
ballad of the Nut-brown Maid first made its ap- 
pearance, prior to 1591, and coupling this date 
with the circumstance of the lover " specifically 
describing WestmoreUmd as his heritage,^ conjec- 
tured that Henry, first earl of Cumberland, and the 
son of the shepherd lord of whom we are now speak- 
ing, was the hero of the poem, adding, that ^^ the 
barony of Westmoreland was the inheritance of this 
Henry Clifford alone *.'*' 

♦ History of Craven, p. 256 — note. 


To the individual, however, of the Clifford fa- 
mily thus fixed upon by Dr. Whitaker, in his 
otherwise very probable hjrpothesis, an insuperable 
objection has been raised by an ingenious writer in 
the Censura Literaria. " The last entry,'* he ob- 
serves, <^ in the list of mayors and sheriffs in the copy 
of Arnold in my possession has the date, xviii Hen. 
vii, or 1502, in which year the book appears to have 
been printed. The subsequent edition, described 
by Oldys, carries down the list of mayors, &c. to 
the xii or xiii of Henry viii, or 1521. Now as the 
Nut-brown Maid is printed in both editions^ it can- 
not be assigned to a later origin than 1502, and 
at that time the Henry Clifford spoken of by Dr. 
Whitaker was only nine years old ; that he was the 
hero of the ballad is therefore impossible. I mean 
not, however ^^ he shortly afterwards adds, " to take 
it from the Cliffords." 

" The barony of Westmoreland,*" says Dr. Whi- 
taker, " was the inheritance of Henry piifford 
alone. It was also the inheritance of his father, 
Henry lord Clifford; he whom the circumstances 
of the times made a * shepherd'*s boy,* who was 
obliged to put on various disguises to secure him- 
self from danger ; and instead of giving the festive 


treat in the halls and palaces of his ancestors, was 
forced to seek his own scanty portion in the moun- 
tain solitudes and woodland recesses. He then 
may be truly said to have been (as the ballad re-' 
presents him) a ^ bannished man,^ and an ' out- 
lawe.' For nearly thirty years he was obliged to 
forego the patrimony of his fathers, and in that 
period, if, as I surmise, he was the real hero of the 
Nut-brown Maid, the adventure recorded in the 
poem took place. The great lynage of the lady, 
and her being a baron's childe^ agree perfectly with 
the descent of his first wife, Anne, daughter of sir 
John St. John of Bletsoe *." 

This account of the origin of the Nut-brown 
Maid carries with it a high degree of probability 
and veri-similitude ; it accords remarkably, not only 
with the language, ^tyle, and orthography of the 
composition, which are those of the period imme- 
diately preceding the accession of Henry VII., 
but it coincides throughout with the extraordinary 
circumstances which accompanied the youth and 
opening manhood of this persecuted nobleman ; and 
in its denouement it points, with singular precision, 

* Censura Literaria^ vol. vii. pp. 96, 97, 98. 


to what were, in fact, his prospects and expecta- 

We may, in short, infer from the closing stanzas 
of the poem, that the interview which it comme- 
morates took place almost immediately after it was 
known to lord Henry that the attainder of his house 
had been reversed, and before any intimation of such 
a change of fortune could have reached the ears of 
the object of his affections. 

Interesting as the ballad of the Nut-brown Maid 
must assuredly be deemed merely as a work of 
fiction, yet does it become incomparably more strik- 
ing and affecting, when it is discovered to have 
been built on the basis of reality; and a reality, 
too, of which the circumstances are, at the same 
time, in a high degree romantic and extraordinary. 

Intimately connected, therefore, as is this antique 
ditty with one of the most remarkable transactions 
in the life of lord Henry Clifford, forming, as it 
were, an important part of his history, and deriv- 
ing, in fact, from this association no inconsiderable 
portion of its charm, I cannot but be persuaded that 
its introduction in this place will, from the conse- 
quent facility of application and reference, be felt 
by A great majority of my readers as peculiarly 



calculated to illustrate its beauties^ and lo enforce 
its impression on the mind. 

It may be necessary, however, to premise^ that in 
dobg this I have followed preciady, as to phrase- 
dogy and orthography^ the copy printed in die first 
edition of Amold^s Chronicle, namely, that of 150S, 
inserting, at the bottom of the page the. various 
readings to be found in the reprint of Dr. Percy, 
as given in his Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, 
and which the doctor professes to be chiefly con- 
structed on that published by Capel in his Pro- 
lusions, with some additional readings from a copy 
in the possession of the late James West, esq^ It 
need scarcely be remarked, however, that the only 
authentic impression of this ballad is the one which 
I am about to transcribe. 


Be it rights or wrong, these men among on women do 

AfFenAyog this, how that it is a labour spent in vaine 
To loye them wele ; for never a dele they love a man aga]we ; 
For lete a man do what he can ther favour to attayne. 
Yet yf a newe to them pusue, ther furst trew lover than 6 
Laboureth for noug^t^ and from her thought he is a ban- 

nished man. 

Ver. 5. do them. 


I say not nay^ bat that all day it is bothe writ and sayde^ 
That woman's fayth isj as who saythe^ all utterly decayed; 
But, ney*thelesy right good witnes in this case might be layde^ 
That they love trewe, and contynew, recorde the Nut-browne 

maide> 10 

Whiche from her love, whan her to prove, he earn to make 

his mone, 
Wolde not departe, for in her herte she lovyd but hym allone. 

Than betwene us lete us discusse;^ what was all the maner ; 
Betwene them too we wyl also telle all they peyne in fere 
That she was in. Now I begynne, soo that ye me an* 
swere. 1$ 

Wherfore ye, that present be, I pray you geve an eare ; 
I am the knyght ; I cum be nyght, as secret as I can, 
Sayng alas, thus standy th the cause : I am a banisshed mail. 


And i your wylle for to fulfylle in this wyl not refuse. 
Trusting to shewe, in wordis fewe, that men have an ille 

use, 20 

To ther owne shame, wymen to blame, and causeles them 

Therfore to you I answere now, alle wymen to excuse; 
Myn owne hert dere, with you what chiere ? I prey you 

telle anoon ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you allon, 

Ver, II. Which, when her love came her to prove. 

To her to make his mone. 
Fer, 14. the payne, and fere. 
Fer. 10. all ye. 
Fer, 18. the case. 




It stondeth so a dede is do^ wherfore rooche harme shal 
growe ; «S 

My desteny is for to dey a shamful dethe^ I trowe ; 

Or ellis to flee^ the ton must bee ; none other wey I knowe. 

But to withdrawe as an outlaw^ and take me to my bowe ; 

Wherfore adew, my owne hert trewe ; none other red I can ; 

For I muste to the grene wode goo alone a bannysshed 
man. 30 


liorde^ what is this worldis blisse^ that chaungeth as the 

mone ; 
My somer's day in lusty May is derked before the hone ; 

1 here you saye, farwell ; hay^ nay, we departe not soo sone : 
Why say ye so ? Wheder wyl ye goo : alas, what have ye 

done ? 
AUe my welfare to sorow and care shulde chaunge yf ye 

were gon ; S5 

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. 


I can beleve it shal you greve, and shomwhat you distrayne ; 
But, aft yrwarde, your paynes harde within a day or tweyne 
Shal sone a slake ; and ye shal take comfort to you agayne. 
Why shuld ye nought? for to make thought your labor 
were in vayne ; 40 

And thus I do, and pray you, loo, as hertely as I can ; 
For I muste too the grene wode goo, alone a banysshed man. 

Ver. 25. grete harme. 

Ve7\ 40. Why sholde ye ought ? 

Ver. 41. pray you to. 

- — ■- ■■ il II ■" • I V T" r .*•■ -■ 



Now syth that ye have shewed to me the secret of your 

1 sbal be playne to you agayne lyke as ye shal me fynde ; 
Syth it is so that ye wyll goo^ I wol not leve behynde. 45 
Shal never be sayd^ the Nutbrowne Mayd was to her love 

Make you redy^ for soo am I^ although it were anoon ; 
For^ in my mynde^ of all mankynde I love but you alone. 


Yet I you rede^ take good hede^ whan men wyl thinke and 

Of yonge and olde it shal be tolde^ that ye be gone away 50 
Your wanton wylle for to fulfylle^ in grene wood yon to 

And that ye myght from your delyte noo lenger make delay. 
Rather than ye shuld thus for me be called an ylle woman. 
Yet wolde I to the grene wodde goo, alone a banysshed man. 


Though it be songe of olde and yonge that I shujd be to 
blame, 55 

Theirs be the charge that speke so large in hurting of my 

For I wyl prove that feythful love it is devoyd of shame. 

In your distresse and hevynesse to parte with you, the same ; 

And sure all thoo, that doo not so, trewe lovers ar they noon ; 

But in my mynde of all mankynde Hove but you alone. 60 

Ver. 49. to take — what men. 
Ver, 60. For in my mynde. 


I ooonoel yow, remembre how> iC is noo maydens lawe^ 
Nothing to doughty but to renne out to wod with an outkwe. 
For ye must there in your hande here a bowe to here and 

And, as a theef, thus must ye lyeve, ever in drede and awe ; 
By whiche to yow gret harme myght grow : yet had I lever 

than 65 

That 1 had too the grene wod goo alone a banysshed man. 

I thinke not nay ; but, as ye saye, it is noo mayden's lore : 
But love may make me for your sake, as ye have said before. 
To com on fote to hunte and shote to gete us mete and store ; 
For soo that I your oompany may have, I aske noo more; 70 
From whidie to parte it makith myn hert as oolde as ony 

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but yon alone. 

For an outlawe this is the lawe, that men hym take and 

M^ythout pytee hanged to bee, and waver with the wynde. 
Yf I had neede, as God forbede, what rescous coude ye 

finde ; 75 

For, sothe, I trowe, you and your bowe shul' drawe for fere 

behynde : 
And noo merveyle ; for lytel avayle were in your councel than, 
Wherfore I too the woode wyl goo alone a banysshed man. 

Ver. 63. redy to drawe. Ver. 65. Wherby to you. 

Ver. 68. as I have sayd. Ver. 69. in store. 

Ver. 76. ye ami your bowe for fere wolde drawe behynde. 
Ver. 78. I wyll to the grene wode go. 



Fill wel knowe ye that wymen bee ful febyl for to fyght ; 
Noo womanhed is it indeede to bee bolde as a knight ; 80 
Yet in sache fere yf that ye were amonge enemys day and 

I wdde wythstande with bowe in hande to greeve them as I 

And you to save, as wymen have, from deth many one: 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. 


Yet take good hede ; for ever I drede that ye coude not 

sustdn 85 

The thomey wayes, the depe valeis^ the snowe, the frost, 

the reyn, 
The odde, the hete ; for, drye or wete, we must lodge on 

the playn ; 
And us above, noon other rove {roof) but a brake bussh or 

Which sone shulde greve you I beleve ; and ye wolde gladly 

That I had too the greuewode goo alone a banysshed 

man. gp 


6yth I have here ben partynere with you of joy and blysse, 
I must also parte of your woo endure, as reason is ; 

Ver. 79. Ryght wele. 

Ver. 80. it is. 

Ver. 81. with enemyes day or nyght. 

Ver. 83. men many one. 


Yet am I sure of oo (one) plesure^ and shortly^ it is this^ 
That^ where ye bee^ meseemeth perde, I coude not fare 

Wythout more speche, I you beseche that we were soon 

agone ; 95 

For^ in my mynde^ of all mankynde I love but you alone. 


Yf ye goo thedyr^ ye must consider^ whan ye have lust to 

Ther shel no mete be fore to gete, nor drinke, bere^ ale^ ue 

wine ; 
Ne shetis clene, to lye betwene, made of thred and twyne : 
Noon other house but levys and bowes, to kever your bed 

and myn. 100 

Loo, myn herte swete, this ylle dyet shuld make you pale 

and wan. 
Wherfore I to the wood wyl goo alone a banysshid man. 


Amonge the wylde derc, suche an archier, as men say that 

ye bee, 
Ne may not fayle of good vitayle, where is so grete plente. 
And water cleere of the ryvere shal be ful swete to me, 105 
Wyth whiche in hele I shal right wele endure, as ye shall 

And, er we goo, a bed or twoo I can provide anoon, 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. 

Fer, 98. be for you gete. 

Fer. 101. O myne. 

Fer. 102. Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go. 

Fer, 107. or we go. 



Loo yet, before^ ye must doo more^ yf ye wyl goo with me^ 
As cutte your here up by your ere; your kirtel by the 

knee^ 110 

Wyth bowe in hande for to withstonde your emnys^ yf nede 

And this same nyght before daylyght^ to woodward wyl I 

And ye wyl all this fulfylle^ doo it shortely as ye can : 
Ellis wil I to the grene wode goo alone a banysshyd man. 


I shal as now do more for you than longeth' to woman- 
hod^ 115 

To short my here^ a bowe to here, to shote in tymc of nede : 

O my swete moder^ before all other^ for you have I most 

But now adiew ; I must ensue^ wher fortune duth me leede. 

All this make ye ; now lete us flee ; the day cum fast upon ; 

Ytfty in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you 
alone. 120 


Nay^ nay^ not soo; ye shal not goo; and I shal telle you 

Your appetyte is to be lyght of love^ I wele aspie ; 

For right as ye have sayd to me^ in lyke wyse hardely 

Ye wolde answere^ who so ever it were^ in way of company. 

It is sayd of olde, sone bote sone colde ; and so is a wo- 
man. 125 

Wherfore I too the woode wyl goo alone a banysshid man. 

Ver. 113. Yf that he wyll. Ver, 123. For, lykc. 


Yef ye take hede^ yet is noo nede suche wordes to say bee 

For ofte ye preyd, and longe assayed^ or I you lovid^ perdee; 
And thoagh that I of aunoestry a baron's doughter bee. 
Yet have you proved how I you loved, a squyer of lowe 

degree; idO 

And ever shal, what so befalle ; to dey therfore anoon ; 
For, in my mynde, of al mankynde I love but you alone. 


A baron's childe to be b^;yl6d, it were a curssed dede; 
To be fdow with an outlawe, Almyghty God forbede : 
Yet bettyr were the power squyer alone to forest yede, 135 
Than ye shal saye another day that, be wyked dede. 
Ye were betrayed; wherfore, good maide, the best fed ye 

I can. 
Is that I too the greene wode gQo alone a banysshed man. 

Whatsoever befalle, I never shal of this thing you upbraid ; 
But yf ye goo, and leve me soo, than have ye me betraied. 140 
Remembre ypu wele, how that ye dele, for yf ye, asyesayde. 
Be so unkynde^to leve behynde your love, the notbrowne 

Trust me truly, that I dey, sone after ye be gone; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you almie. 

Ver. 127. it is no nede. 

Ver. 136. sholde say. 

Ver. 136. by my cursed dcde. 

Ver. 137. the best rede that I can. 

Va\ U3. I shall dy. 



Yef that ye went, ye shulde repent, for in the forest now 145 
I have purveid me of a niaide, whom I love more than you. 
Another fayrer than ever ye were ; I dare it wel avowe ; 
And of you bothe eche shulde be wrothe with other as I 

It were myn ease to lyve in pease ; so wyl I yf I can ; 
Wherfore I to the wode wyl goo alone a banysshid man. 150 


Though in the wood I understode ye had a paramour. 

All this may nought remeve my thought; bat that I wil be 

And she shal fynde me softe and kynde, and curteis every 

Glad to folfylle all that she wylle commaunde me to iny 

For had ye, loo, and hundred moo, yet wolde I be that 

one ; 155 

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. 


Myn owne dere love, 1 see the prove, that ye be kynde and 

Of mayde and wyf, in all my lyf, the best that ever I knewe. 
Be mery and glad ; be no more siad ; the case is chaunged 

For it were ruthe that for your trouth you shuld have cause 

to rew. 160 

Ver, 155. Of them I woldc bt; one. 
Vet, 160. Ye sholde. 


Be not dismayed ; whatsoever I sayd to you whan I began^ 
I wyl not too the grene wod goo ; I am no noo banysshyd 


Theis tidingis be more glad to me than to be made a quene, 
Yf I were sure they shuld endure; but it is often seen^ 
When men wyl breke promyse^ they speke the wordis on the 
splene. 165 

Ye shape some wyle me to b^yle, and stele fro me 1 wene ; 
Then were the case wurs than it was^ and I more woo 

For, in my mynde^ of all mankynde 1 loye but you alone. 


Ye shal not nede further to drede : I wyl not dispage ; 
You God defende, sith you descende of so grete a lynage ; 1 70 
Now understonde^ to Westmerlande^ whiche is my herytage^ 
1 wyl you bringe, and wy th a rynge, be wey of maryage, 
1 wyl you take, and lady make, as shortly as I can ; 
Thus have ye wone an erles son, and not a banysshyd man. 

Here may ye see, that wymen be in love, meke, kinde, and 
stable: 175 

Late never man repreve them than, or calle them variable ; 

But rather prey God that we may to them be comfort- 

Whiche sorotyme provyth suche as loveth, yf they be cha« 

Ver. 169. Dysparagc. 
Ver, 178. As he lovcth. 


For nth men wolde that wymen sholde be meke to them 

Moche more ought they to God obey, and serve but hym 

alone *. 

It is highly probable that this fine old poem was 
written very shortly after the scene which it com- 
memorates took place, and whilst its singularly in- 
teresting result was yet rife amongst the inhabitants 
of the adjacent district. It may, therefore, without 
deviating perhaps much from the mark, be attri- 
buted to the year 1 485, when Henry of Lancaster 
mounted the throne of these kingdoms. But who 
the minstrel was, who has thus, in strains of exqui- 
site feeling, so sweetly sung of female truth and 
constancy, has hitherto escaped all research. As 
he was certainly a stranger to Arnold in 150S, we 
may conclude him to have been some obscure and 
nameless bard of the north of England — some 
"youth to fortune and to fame unknown;'' but 

* It will be immediately perceived, that not only occasfon- 
ally in its readings, but throughout in its spelling, this first 
edition of the Nut-brown Maid differs from the copy which 
Dr. Percy followed in his Reliques. With the exception of 
marking the speakers at the head of each stanza, and now 
and then interposing a comma, I have faithfully adhered to 
the original. 


who evidently possessed not only great knowledge 
of the human heart, but skill to picture what he 

There is, indeed, so much fidelity to nature in 
this ballad, in accordance with the situation of the 
parties, such as the hypothesis I have adopted re- 
presents them to be, as to afford strong internal evi- 
dence of its direct relation to the peculiar circum- 
stances and character of the Henry lord Clifibrd 
who is the subject of the present paper. 

We must recollect that this heir of the CliiK>rds, 
though from necessity deprived of the education 
due to his rank, was yet no stranger to the nobility 
of his birth, a consciousness which would, almost 
inevitably, give to his bearing and carriage a cer- 
tain degree of self-confidence and elevation. We 
also know that he frequently, though secretly, en- 
joyed the society of his mother, lady Margaret, and 
of his father-in-law, sir Lancelot ; an intercourse 
which^ to those who had the opportunity of fami- 
liarly observing him, would insensibly give a polish 
to his manners that could not fail to be favourably 
contrasted with the rudeness and rusticity of those 
who were his daily companions or attendants. If 
to these features we add, what danger and the ne» 


oessity of varied disguise and frequait change of 
place would certainly bring on, a habit of adven- 
ture and romantic expedient, and mingle them with 
what, we know him to have possessed, an amiable 
dii^NMition and a tender heart, we shall have before 
us a character of no common interest, and in a high 
degree calculated to make an indelible impresaicm 
on a bosom so susceptible, faithful, and affectionate, 
as that of the Nut-brown Maid. 

It has been affirmed by a writer in the Censura 
Literaria, whom I have quoted in a former part of 
this paper, that to modernize the Nut-brown Maid 
appeared to him a desideratum; and he tells sir 
Egerton Brydges, to whom he addresses his re- 
marks, that he should like to see it done by his 
pen *. I am persuaded, however, that the attempt, 
whoever might venture upon the task, would not 
succeed ; for who could improve, for instance, such 
a stanza as is the twentieth of this poem ? and there 
are several others in the same predicament. Prior, 
we all know, notwithstanding the harmony of his 
couplets, and the elegancy of his diction, has 
preserved in his " Henry and Emma,'*'' avowedly 

• Censura Literaria^ vol. vii. p. 99. 


founded on this ballad, little or nothing of that ex- 
quisite naivet6, and of those touching strokes of 
nature, which have rendered his original so truly 
valuable to every lover of simplicity ; and such, I 
have no doubt, will be the result of any future 
effort to polish and refine what must necessarily, 
under such a process, fade away, like the fresh dew 
of morning on the flower when smitten by a scorch- 
ing sun. 

[To be continued.] 

No. V. 

The miracle of oxa age^ 
Sir Philip Sidney. 

The subject of all verse, 
Sidney's sister. 

Ben Jonson. 

Thebe is not upon record, perhaps, a more 
illustrious and interesting instance of the mutual 
affection of brother and sister than that i^hich 
subsisted between the celebrated sir Philip Sidney, 
and Mary, countess of Pembroke ; an affection not 
merely founded on the bonds of relationship, but 
cemented into the firmest friendship by a perfect 
congeniality in manners, tastes, and dispositions. 

It is ever a useful and delightful occupation to 
bring forward characters such as these, however 
much they may have been previously noticed and 
admired ; and more peculiarly appropriate is it at 
the present time, when a truly valuable work, which 

* Remaines concerning Britaine. Edit. 1614. p. i^. 
VOL. I. T 


had hitherto lain concealed in manuscript, the joint 
production of sir Philip and his sister, and one of 
the strongest proofs of their piety and reciprocal 
attachment, has within these three years beeirgiven 
to the public. To notice, indeed, this monument 
of family genius and devotional taste^ without in 
some degree dwelling on the beauty of the charac- 
ters to whom we owe it, would be, in fact, to strip 
the critique of no inconsiderable portion of its 

No children could be more fortunate than were 
Philip Sidney and his sister, in the fosaemaa t^ 
parents whose lives were a model for all that is great 
and good. Their father, sir Henry Sidney, the be- 
loved and confidential friend of Edward the Sixth, 
was not more eminent for his talents in public than 
for his virtues in private Ufe, whilst at the s<mr 
time he stood confessedly inferior to none in the 
learning and accomplishments of his age. Nor 
was their mother, lady Mary, the eldest daughtier 
of John Dudley, duke of Northumberland, who 
perished on the scafibld for his attachm^^ to the 
exemplary but ill-starred lady Jane Grey^ in any 
degree less distinguished in her sphere ; one, indeed, 
if not of equal splendour and publicity with that 


in wliich her husbmd mov^, yet to her obUdren, 
and, through then* exiunple, to tlie world «t large, 
not less useful snd honourable ; for, with abilities 
every way adequate to the task of instruction, and 
with a devotedness and sense of duty whieh ren- 
dered her exet^onsa never-failing source df gmti- 
fioatfon and disli^t, tlie gavife up her time al«i6st 
endtiflivdy to the nearly education of her oflkj^ng, 
superintending not only their initialion int^ the 
principles of religion and virtue, but directing their 
studies, and xiegulating, and even partaking in thdir 
spcxfts aad islaxations. 

in 'Siis pka^g, aad, iti every pdnt of view, 
highly important occupation, lady Sidney was 
jxmiBtfiMf snpfioited and assisted by her husband, 
whenever ihe nutiieroUs duties which awaited him 
in public life would allow of his reposing in the 
bosom 0f Ms family. Nor was the reward wliich 
ScAbwi^ tliis assiduity beneatik their fondest hop^ 
aM%iEu!«ieilt aspirations ; ^ it may be truly said, 
#M; fikigUsh hist6t«f^6an scarcely shbw two charao- 
ten^tmiSt^ thbroughly good ancL amiiable thim weJhe 
A Fili% Sidney -ftdd hid belov^ dster. 

At a very early period, indeed, and when but a 
mere boy m ^ag^ vrt atts tcdd by 6ne who knew Mm 



well, that young Sidney never appeared to him other 
than a man in mind and carriage ; that though grave 
beyond his years, so lovely and unaffected was the 
seriousness of his disposition, as to give him grace 
and reverence in every eye ; and that such was his 
industry and thirst of knowledge when placed at 
school^ that his father then termed him, with pro- 
phetic intuition, Lumen JhmilicB suas^ the bright 
ornament of his family*. 

We are fortunately in possession of documents, 
which not only confirm this assertion as to the pre- 
cocity of the son, but place the parental affection 
of sir Henry and lady .Sidney in a singularly pro- 
minent and interesting light. They consist of a 
letter by the former and a postcript by the latter, 
addressed to their little Philip, then at school at 
Shrewsbury, and when not more than twelve years 
of age. He had, it seems, written two. letters to 
his father, one in Latin and the other in French ; 
and the reply of sir Henry to these striking proofs 
of his son'^s successful application to his studies 
may be justly considered as one of the most pre- 
cious manuals of instruction which was ever drawn 

^ Sir Fulke Greville's Life of Sir Philip Sidney, p. 6. 


up by a parent for the use of his child ; nor is it 
possible t6 avoid paying a tribute of admiration 
and esteem to the pure maternal tenderness which 
breathes through every line of lady Mary's con- 
cluding appeal. I deem it, indeed, a peculiar hap- 
piness belonging to the subject which I have chosen, 
that I have it in my power to transfer these iiiva- 
luable reliques to my pages, allowing myself no 
other liberty whilst copying them, than that of ac- 
commodating their orthography to the usage of the 
present times. 

Sir Henry Sidney to his son Philip Sidney^ at 
school at Shrewsbury^ in 1566, then being of the 
age of twelve years, 

*^ I HAVE received two letters from you, one 
written in Latin, the other in French ; which I take 
in good part, and will you to exercise that practice 
of learning often ; for that will stand you in most 
stead, in that profession of life that you are born to 
live in. And, since this is my first letter that ever 
I did write to you, I will not that it be all empty 
of some advices, which my natural care of you pro- 
voketh me to wish you to follow, as documents to 
you in this your tender age. Let your first action 


be the lifting up of your mind to Alnof^tj God bjr 
hearty prayer ; and fedingly digest the Vords you 
8|)eak in prayer, with eontinual meditatioii and 
thinking of him to whom you pray, and of the 
mattar for which you pray. And use this at an 
ordinary hour. Whereby the time itself will put 
you in rememl»rance to do that which you are ac- 
customed to do in that time. Apply your study 
to such hours as your discreet master doth assign 
you, earnestly ; and the time, I know, he will so 
limit as shall be both sufficient for your learning 
and safe for your health. And mark the sense and 
the matter of that you read as well as the words : 
so shall you both enrich your tongue with words 
and your wit with matter ; and judgment will grow 
as years groweth in you. Be humble and obedient 
to your master ; for unless you frame youraetf to 
obey others, yea, and feel in yourself what obe- 
dience is, you shall nerer be able to teadi others 
how to obey you. Be courteous of gesture, and 
affable to all men, with diversity of reverence, re- 
cording to the dignity of the person. There is n(>- 
thing that winneth so much with so little cost* Use 
moderate diet, so as, after your meat, you may find 
your wit fresher and not duller, and yoiir body more 


Hvely^ and not more heavy. Seldom drink wine, 
and jet sometimes do, least being enforced to drink 
upon the sudden you should find yourself inflamed. 
Use exercise of body, but such as is without peril 
of your jcnnts or bones; it will increase. your fierce 
and enlarge your breath. Delight to be cleanly, 
as well in all parts of your body as in your gar- 
ments; it shall make you grateful in each company, 
and, otherwise, loathsome. Give yourself to be 
merry ; for you degenerate from your father, if you 
find not yourself most able in wit and body to 
dp any thing wh«i you be most merry. But let 
your mirth be ever void of all scurrility and biting 
words to any man ; for a wound given by a word 
is oftentimes harder to be cured than that which is 
given with the sword. Be you rather a hearer and 
bearer away of other mcn'^s talk, than a beginner or 
IHTocurer of speech, otherwise you shall be counted 
to delight to hear yourself speak. If you hear a 
wise sentence, or an apt phrase, commit it to your 
memcMry, with respect to the circumstance, when 
you shall speak it Let never oath be heard to 
come out of your mouth, nor word of ribaldry ; 
detest it in others, so shall custom make to yourself 
a law against it in yourself. Be modest in each 


assembly ; and rather be rebuked of light fellows 
for maiden-like shamefacedness, than of your sad 
friends for pert boldness. Think upon every word 
that you will speak before you utter it, and re- 
member how nature hath rampered up, as it were, 
the tongue with teeth, lips, yea, and hair without 
the lips, and all betokening reins or bridles for the 
loose use of that member. Above all things, tell 
no untruth, no not in trifles. The custom of it is 
naught ; and let it not satisfy you, that, for a time, 
the hearers take it for a truth, for after it will be 
known as it is, to your shame ; for there cannot be 
a greater reproach to a gentleman than to be ac- 
counted a liar. Study and endeavour yourself to 
be virtuously occupied : so shall you make such 
an habit of well doing in you, that you shall not 
know how to do evil though you would. Remem- 
ber, my son, the noble blood you are descended of 
by your mother'^s side, and think that only, by vir- 
tuous life and good action, you may be an ornament 
to that illustrious family ; and otherwise, through 
vice and sloth, you shall be counted lobes generis^ 
one of the greatest curses that can happen to man. 
Well, my little Philip^ this is enough for me, and 
too much I fear for you. But if I shall find that 


this light meal of digestion nourish any thing the 
weak stomach of your young capacity, I will, as I 
find the same grow stronger, feed, it with tougher 

" Your loving father, so long as you live in the 
fear of God, 

" H. Sydney*;' 

* The original of this letter was found among the manu- 
scripts deposited in the library at Penshurst. 

" Of Penshurst," remarks sir Egerton Brydges, ** where 
Sidney was born, there is a cunous engraving by Vertue in- 
serted in the first volume of Hasted's history of the county. 
Its rude grandeur, its immense hall, its castellated form, 
its numerous apartments, well accord with the images of 
chivalry which the memory of Sidney inspires." 

The following sonnet, from the pen of the learned baronet, 
still further depicts, in colours worthy of the subject, the 
desolated state of this venerable mansion : 



Behold thy triumphs, Time ! what silence reigns 

Along these lofty and majestic walls ! 

Ah ! where are regal Sidney's* pompous trains ? 

Where Philip's tuneful lyre t, whose dying falls 
Could melt the yielding nymphs and love-sick swains ? 

♦ Sir Henry Sidney, Lord President of the marches, wlio kept his court 
at Ludlow castle. 

t Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia. 


A poHscript by my lady iSydney, in He skirts of 
my hrd presidents leUer k> her said son Philip. 

^* Your noble and careful father hath taken 
pains (with his own hand) to give you in this his 
letter, so wise, so learned, and most requisite pre- 
cepts, for you to follow with a diligent and humble 
thankful mind, as I will not withdraw your • eyes 
from beholding and reverent honouring the same ; 
no, not so long time as to read any letter from me : 
and, therefore, at this time 1 will write unto you 
no other letter than this ; whereby I first bless you, 
with my desire to God to plant in you his grace; 
and, secondarily, warn you to have always bef(»re 
the eyes of your mind these excellent counsds of 
my lord, your dear father, and that you fail not 

Ah ! where the undaunted figure that appah 
E'en heroes ? where the lute^ that on the plains 
The hending trees * round Sacharissa calls ? 

And are they fled ? their day 's for ever past ! 
Heroes and poets moulder in the earth ! 
No sound is heard hut of the wailing hlast^ 

Through the lone rooms^ where echoed crowded mirth ! 
Yet on their semblance Melancholy pores^ 
And all the faded splendour soon restores ! 

British Bibliographer^ vol. i. pp. S93 — 29^, 

• Alluding to Waller's lines written at Penshurst. 


contiBuallj once in four or five days to read tbem 

** And for a final leave-taking for tbis time, see 
that you show yoursdf as a loving, obedietit scholar 
to your good master, to govern you yet many years ; 
and that my lord and [ may bear that you profit so 
in your learning, as thereby you may increase our 
lofing cue of you, and deserve at bis hands the 
contiBuanoe of his great joy, to have him often wit- 
ness with his own hand the hope he hath in your 
well doing. 

^* Farewell, my little Philip, and once again the 
Ixffd bless you ! * Your loving mother, 

" Mary Sidney *.■*' 

It may readily be conceived that under the eye 
of parents such as these (for at this time sir Henry 
Sidney was residing at Ludlow Castle, not far from 
Shrewsbury, as lord president of the marches of 
Wales), their little Philip would, from what has 

* This postscript is taken from an unique copy of sir 
-Henry's letter^ in the hands of Thomas Park> esq.^ and 
whidi was printed at London by T. Dawson^ 1691, with an 
epitaph on sir Henry Sidney, signed Win. Griffith. — Vide 
Lord Orfoird's Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors, by 
Pirfc, vot. ii. p. 199. 


been said of the promise of his earliest years, in 
every respect fulfil their expectations. He was, id 
short, a most ardent and indefatigable student ; and 
when, shortly afterwards, he went to Oxford, then 
under the chancellorship of his uncle, Robert Dud- 
ley, earl of Leicester, such was the reputation which 
he sustained in that university, as a scholar of first- 
rate attainments, that it was thought worthy of re- 
cord on the tomb of his tutor. Dr.. Thomas Thorn- 
ton, one of the most learned men of his a^, that 
he had been " the tutor of sir Philip Sidney, when 
of Christ-church.'' Nor was he less distinguished 
at Cambridge, where he resided for a short time 
after leaving Oxford ; a change of situation which 
afforded him an opportunity of acquiring the esteem 
and admiration of many of its most celebrated mem- 
bers, and among the rest, of his relation and sub- 
sequent biographer, Mr. Fulke Greville. 

Having laid a solid foundation on the basis of 
classical learning, it was thought necessary, in order 
to complete the superstructure, that he should visit 
foreign countries ; and, accordingly, at the age of 
eighteen, Mr. Sidney obtained permission from 
queen Elizabeth to travel for two years on the 
continent. He passed through France, Germany, 


Hungary, Italy, and Belgium, not with the ra- 
pidity and idle cuiiosity of a common-place tourist, 
but with a mind prepared to comprehend and di- 
gest whatever of value might be presented to it in 
manners, customs, literature, and legislation. He 
became, in fact, during this short sojourn abroad, 
from the brilliancy of his talents and the amiability 
of his disposition, the friend and favourite of some 
of the first literary characters of which continental 
Europe could then boast : of Hubert Languet, of 
Torquato Tasso, of Zacharias Ursinus, of Johannes 
Serranus, of Mornay Du Plessis, of Scipio Gen- 
tilis, of Henry Stephens, of Theophilus Banosius, 
and of Peter Ramus ; men not less remarkable for 
their virtues than for their mental energies and 
profound learning. 

Nor were the accomplishments demanded for the 
formation of the noble and chivalric cavalier in any 
d^ree forgotten ; for no one, perhaps, ever availed 
himself with more complete success of the many 
opportunities which Vienna and other large capitals 
on the continent afforded for acquiring perfection 
in all the various arts, martial or ortiamental, which 
war or peace might call for, than young Sidney. 
In short, whether in the tournament or the lady'^s 


bower, in the field of divendon or in the culture of 
the fine arts, his skill, his courtesy, and his taste, 
drew alike from valour, beauty, and from genius, a 
sincere and ample eulogy. 

Thus furnished, both by art and nature, he re- 
turned to England in May 1575, to become «a 
object of almost unprecedented love and admiradioM 
to his native country ; lor, as Fidler has tersely 
observed, *^ his homebred abilities travdl had per* 
fected, and a sweet nature set a gloss upon both :^ 
iHid he adds, that *^ he was so essential to ^le £n- 
glish court, that it seemed maimed without kis 
company, being a complete masta: of matter and 

It was not long before Elizabeth, who po^sesded 
in a pre-eminent degree the happy talent of dis- 
covering and appreciating merit, and who had ho- 
noured young Sidney by many marks of peculiar 
favour and distinction, determined on calling his 
powers into exertion for the benefit of his country, 
by appointing him to an important embassy to the 
court of Vienna, with the ostensible purpose, in- 
deed, of condoling with the emperor BodoljA, but 
with the further and more important view of unit^ 
ing the protestant states in a defensive league 


against the ecclesiastical t}rranny of the papal see, 
and the bigotry 'of Spain. In this he completely 
succeeded, evincing, at the early age of twenty-two, 
a sagacity, penetration, and knowledge of mankind, 
which would have done honour to the most mature 
years. It was on his return home from this em- 
bassy that, being directed to visit the court cf John 
Caaimir, Count Palatine of the Rhine, he became in- 
tiiBiately acquainted with William prince of Orange, 
the most dismta^ested patriot, and altogether one 
of the best and greatest characters to which modem 
histoy has borne record. It speaks volumes, in- 
deed, in support ot the sterling worth and intcd- 
lectual superiority of Sidney, that this firm friend 
of public virtue and rational liberty placed a high 
▼alue cm both the heart and head of our young 
diplomatist, and maintained with him a constant 
eonrespondence on the most important political 
transactions which were then agitating Europe. 

When Mr. Sidney reached England in 1577, 
after this embassy to the imperial Rodolph, there 
was Qot, perhaps, in the court of Elizabeth an in- 
dividual who could, in all. the various qualities ne- 
cessary to constitute the perfect cavalier, in any de- 
gree compete with him. From this period, indeed, 


to that in which he embarked on his unfortunate 
expedition to the Netherlands, an interval of about 
eight years, he might be considered as the model 
to which ail the aspiring youth of England en* 
deavoured to conform themselves; not merely as 
an exemplar of chivalric excellence, but as one also 
exhibiting, in the most enlarged and liberal import 
of the terms, the finished gentleman and scholu*. 
He was, in truth, the munificent and unrivaUed 
patron of whatever contributed to extend the bounds 
of learning, art, or science. How he fostered and 
supported the rising talents of a Raleigh and a 
Spenser, is well known to fame ; but it should also 
be remembered, that he who knew him best has 
declared, that " there was not a cunning painter, a 
skilful engineer, an excellent musician, or any other 
artificer of extraordinary fame, that did not make 
himself known to this famous spirit, and found him 
his true friend without hire *.*" 

Nor was he less a friend to his country in a po- 
litical point of view ; for when the queen, in 1579, 
showed a strong inclination to form a matrimonial 
union with Henry duke of Anjou, a connexion 

• Sir Fulke Greville's Life of Sir Philip Sidney, p. 39.. 


which would in all probability have struck at the 
Terjr foundations of our religion and Uberty, Mr. 
Sidney had the address, by a letter couched in the 
most elegant style of the age, yet written, at the 
same time, with great strength of argument and 
openness of opinion, to awaken her apprehensions 
for the result, and finally to induce her to break 
c^ all negotiations on the subject; and this, too, 
notwithstanding the extreme delicacy and hazard 
of such a discussion, without giving her the smallest 

When Elizabeth, one of the most sagacious mon- 
arcbs that ever filled the throne of England, thus 
deferred to the judgment of Philip Sidney, let us 
recollect that her youthful counsellor had but just 
completed his twenty-fifth year ; and yet, although 
learned and accomplished for his age almost beyond 
all precedent, acquisitions which must necessarily 
have absorbed a vast portion of his time, he had 
nevertheless obtained such a knowledge of men, 
manners, and legislation, as would have done ho- 
nour to the oldest head. Nor, what is praise sur- 
pasdng every other, were the qualities of his heart 
less estimable than those of his intellect ; a com- 
bination which rendered him, even amongst his owq 

VOL. I. K 


fiamiliar frietids and relations^ an object q{ as mudi 
deference and admiration as with the public, who 
▼iewed him, comparatively, at a distance* No 
stronger proof of this can be given than that his 
fiither, a man himself, as we have seen, of high en- 
dowments both in a mental and a moral light, and 
intrusted with important duties, looked up to him 
at this very period, and not in vain, for counsel^ 
consolation, and protection ; and when writing 
shortly afterwards to his second son, Robert Sid« 
ney, thus pours forth his heart in the following 
affecting eulogy on the virtues of his ddest bom. 
^^ FoUow,^^ he says, ^^ the advice of your moat 
loving brother, who in loving you is comparable 
with me, or exceedeth me. Imitate his virtues^ 
exercises, studies, and actions : he is a rare onuu- 
ment of his age, the very formular that all well«f 
disposed young gentiemen of our court do form 
also their manners and life by. In truth, I speak 
it without flattery of him or myself, he hath the 
most virtues that ever I found in any man. I saw 
Inm not these Ax months, Uttle to my comfort. 
You may hear from him with more ease than frmn 
me. In your travels these documents I will give 
you, not as mine, . but his practices. Seek the 


knowledge of the estate of every prince, court, and 
city, that you pass through. Address yourself to 
the company, to learn this of the elder sort, and 
yet n^lect not the younger. By the one you shaU 
gather learning, wisdom, and knowledge : by the 
other acquaintance, languages, and exercise. Once 
again I say, imitate him.^ And in a subsequent 
letter to the same son, after repeating similar advice^ 
he cfmcludes in a strain than which nothing can be 
more truly affectionate and impressive. ^^ God bless 
you, my sweet child, in this world and for ever, as 
I in this world find myself happy in my children f ^ 
a sentence which at once assures us that in the family 
of sir Henry Sidney there dwelt peace, and piety, 
and home-felt happiness, with as little alloy as the 
tenure of humanity will admit. 

It is impossible, indeed, to view without astonish- 
ment the varied and opposed qualities and accom- 
plishments which at this period, namely, that of 
1580, centred in the person of Philip Sidney ; for 
with a mind stored with the richest products of 
ancient and modem literature, with a disposition 
naturally grave, and even pensive, and with a heart 
sighing for leisure and retirement, he was yet, 

K 2 


though avowedly disgusted with the life of a cour- 
tier *, the very life and animating spirit of the gor- 
geous court of Elizabeth, the first and leading star 
in the joust, the triumph, and the tournament ! 

Yet thus acting a part which, though at first 
highly flattering to his chivalric enthusiasm, every 
day became less congenial with his more serious 
thoughts and studies, little was wanting to accele- 
rate what may be, perhaps, justly termed his ro- 
mantic scheme of retirement; and this occurred in 
the person of Edward Vere, earl of Oxford, who 
having personally insulted Mr. Sidney whilst play- 
ing at tennis, the latter, deprived by the interposi- 
tion of the queen of the satisfaction of calling his 
adversary to arms, and impatient, of the smallest 
intrenchment on his honour, retired to Wilton, the 
seat of his brother-in-law, the earl of Pembroke, to 
recover, in the society of his beloved sister, and in 

• See his letters about this period^ written to his great and 
learned friend Hubert Languet^ in which he expresses so 
decided an aversion to a court life^ and so much love for pri- 
vacy and the society of a few select friends^ as to draw from 
his sage Mentor a remonstrance against the indulgence of 
feelings incompatible with the duties which he owed to him» 
self; his family> and his country. 

MORNINGS IN lfel>KIN6. 133 

the composition of his Arcadia^ that peace of mind 
which had been broken in upon by the insolence of 
folly and caprice/ 

Of this beautiful romance^ once the favourite of 
Shakspeare and of Milton, and which, as being 
chiefly written for the gratification and amusement 
of his sister, and subsequently revised and corrected 
by her pen, has been, not unaptly, termed tfie coun- 
tess of Pembroke's Arcadia, I shall with pleasure 
speak again, when noticing the character of this 
accomplished lady ; and in the meanwhile, proceed- 
ing with the sketch of her noble-minded brother, 
we find him, in the year following this unhappy 
dispute with lord Oxford, taking an active part in 
the house of commons, as one of the knights in 
parliament for the county of Kent, and at the same 
time employing his leisure in composing his ad- 
mirable " Defence of Poesy," not only one of the 
first, but also one of the best pieces of criticism in 
our language. 

Notwithstanding the extraordinary talents, and 
not unimportant services of Mr. Sidney, he re- 
mained for some years, with the sole exception of 
being appointed cup-bearer to the queen, unre- 
warded by her majesty ; but in the month of 


January, 158B, being nominated by John Casimir, * 
prince palatine of the Rhine, his proxy at an ap- 
proaching installation of the knights of the gar- 
ter, Elizabeth was pleased to confer upon him, at 
Windsor Castle, the hcxiour of knighthood ; and 
to this accession c^ dignity she, about the same 
time, added the emoluments arising from a sinecure 
in Wales. 

A few months after these events sir Philip con* 
ducted to the altar the only surviving daughter of 
that great and patriotic statesman, sir Francis Wal« 
singham ; a young lady, who had won his affections 
not so much by her personal attractions, though 
great, as by the virtues of her heart and the amia- 
bility of her disposition. 

The domestic happiness of sir Philip Sidney, 
however, was in some measure alloyed by the per- 
turbed state of the kingdom ; for, in 1584, so many 
conspiracies were formed against the person of the 
queen, that she became greatly and justly alarmed ; 
and, in order to dissipate her apprehensi<His, her 
nobility and gentry entered into an association, with 
the earl of Leicester at their head, to prosecute to 
the death all who should be found plotting against 
the welfare of their sovereign ; and amongst the 


most zealous of these assodatcu's was enrolled, as 
might have been expected, sir Philip Sidney. The 
character of Leicester, however, was not such as 
could stand uninjured against the assaults of his 
demies, and his present situation laid him open to 
so many serious exposures, that, in an unfortunate 
hour, his nephew was induced, by his zeal for the 
family reputation, to become the vindicator of his 
fame. He replied, therefore, to the noted work of 
Parsons the Jesuit, entitled ^^ Leicester's Common- 
wealth*;'' but, whilst he exhibited much talent 

♦ It is in this book that Leicester is charged with the 
murder of his first wife^ who^ Parsons relates^ was thrown 
down stairs by his orders at Cumner Hal)^ near Abington in 
Berkshire^ so that her neck was broken. Various attempts 
were made^ from high authority^ to disprove this report^ but 
in vain^ for it still remains on the page of history as a cre- 
dited statement^ and is thus recorded by the last top<^apher 
of Berkshire. 

*' Cumner House^ in Berkshire^ was the seat of Anthony 
Foster^ esq., who lies buried in Cumner church. His epi- 
taph represents him as a very amiable man, very learned, 
a great musician, builder, and planter; but his character 
stands by no means clear of the imputation of having been 
accessary to the murder <^ the countess of Leicester, at his 
own house at Cumner, whither she was sent for that purpose 
by her husband. Sir Richard Verney, one of the earl's re- 


and ingenuity, left, as might have been anticipated, 
the most heinous charges unrefuted*. That sir 

tainers^ was the chief agent in this horrid huriness *• A 
chamher is shown in the ruined mansion^ which adjoins i|ie 
churchyard at Cumner^ called the Dudley chamher^ where 
the countess is said to have heen murdered^ and afterwards 
thrown down stairs^ to make it appear that her death was 
accidental. She was buried at Cumner, but her body was 
afterwards removed to St. Mary's church in Oxford/' — 
Lysoms's Magna Britannia, vol. i. p. 270. 

To this tragical event we are indebted for a very interest- 
ing ballad^ and a still more interesting romance. Thf bal- 
lad is the production of Mickle, the celebrated transistor of 
the Lusiad of Camoens^ and opens in the following pic- 
turesque manner : 

The dews of summer nighte did falle^ 
The moone (sweete regente of the skye) 

Silver'd the walles of Cumner-Halle^ 
And manye an oake that grewe therebye. 

The countess is then heard lamenting, at considerable 
lengthy and in a manner truly pathetic^ her forlorn and 
destitute state^ expressing^ as she closes the enumeration of 
her sorrows^ her apprehensions of a violent and near-ap- 
proaching deaths a catastrophe with whose relation the poem 
most impressively terminates : 

Thus sore and sad that ladie griev'd^ 
In Cumner-Halle so lone and dreare ; 

And many a heartfelte sigh shee heav'd^ 
And let falle manye a bitter teare. 

* Sec Ashmolc's Berkshire. 


Philip really believed his uncle much less criminal 
than he was represented to be, there can be little 

And ere the dawne of daye appear'd^ 
In (Jumner-Halle so lone and dreare^ 

Full manye a piercing screame was hearde^ 
And many a crye of mortal feare. 

The death-belle thrice was hearde to mag, 

An aerial voyce was hearde to calle^ 
And thrice the raven flapp'd its wyng 

Arounde the towers of Cumner-Halle. 

The mastiffe howl'd at village doore. 
The oaks were shattered on the greene ; 

Woe was the houre — ^for never more 
That haplesse countesse e'er was scene. 

And in that manor now no more 

Is chearful feaste and sprightly balle ; 

For ever since that dreary houre 
Have spirits haunted Cumner-Halle. 

The village maides^ with fearful glance^ 
Avoid the antient moss-growne walle ; 

Nor ever leade the merrye dance 
Among the gi'oves of Cumner-Halle. 

Full manye a traveller oft hath sigh'd 
And pensive wepte the countesse' falle^ 

As wand'ring onwards they *ve espied 
The haunted towVs of Cumner-Halle. 

It need scarcely be addcd^ that the romance to which I 


doubt ; but he ought not to have undertaken the 
task of exculpation without sufScient data adequate 
to ensure his triumph. So little satisfactory, in- 
deed, was his answer deemed, that its circulation 
was limited to its manuscript state, and it was not 
committed to the press until it appeared among the 
Sidney papers published towards the middle of the 
last century. 

It was during this year, or at the comttience- 
ment of the next, that sir Philip and his friend, sir 
Fulke Greville, from their intimacy with sir Francis 
Drake, had imbibed an enthusiastic desire to accom- 
pany that celebrated circumnavigator in his next 
voyage to America. Drake was now in the zenith 
of his reputation, having spread the fame and glory 
of his country to the most distant quarters of the 
globe; through seas where sail had never before 
been unfurled, and through nations whose existence 
had not even been conjectured ; and such was the 
spirit of enterprise and adventure to which his suc- 

have alluded is the well-known '* Kenilworth" of sir Walter 
Scott^ one of the most beautiful products of his fertile and 
imaginative pen; and in which he has wrought up this 
melancholy story with all that effective circumstantiality 
and historical verisimilitude for which he is so justly ad- 


cess had given birth, that volunteers started from 
every rank and class of society ; nor was sir Philip 
Sidney, with all his love of literary leisure, and 
though surrounded by every domestic attraction, 
proof against the contagion. He was, it appears, 
to have had the chief direction of the expedition, 
and had promised to supply, at his own expense, 
not only a naval but a land armament. With what- 
ever secrecy, however, the design was carried on, 
and it had been the aim of sir Philip to conceal it 
entirely from the queen, the affair soon transpired, 
and her majesty immediately interfered to arrest 
his purpose, issuing peremptory orders against his 
joining the fleet ; an injunction which, as the voy- 
age ultimately proved disastrous, saved him from 
mortification, if not disgrace. 

A still more tempting lure for his ambition oc- 
curred very shortly after this compulsory relinquish- 
ment of the American expedition ; for, in 1585, the 
elective throne of Poland being vacated by the death 
of Stephen Bathori, prince of Transylvania, sir 
Philip Sidney, such was the estimation in which 
his character was held throughout Europe, was en- 
rolled among the competitors for the crown. Eli- 
zabeth, however, who, as Osborne observes, could 



not endure to see her subjects wear the titles of a 
foreign prince^, refused her assent, alleging as her 
reason that she could not b^ar to lose the jewel of 
her times. Sir Philip prudently acquiesced in the 
decision, declaring, in language which could not 
fail to please the ear of his sovereign, that he pre- 
ferred rather to be ^^ a subject to queen Elizabeth 
than a sovereign beyond the seas.'' 

To compensate, in some degree, the disappoint- 
ment arising from these repeated refusals, the queen, 
who really loved and admired the character of sir 
Philip, and had already made him a privy coun- 
cillor, seized the first opportunity of promoting him 
to a situation in which he might have a field for 
displaying the heroism of his nature. The protest- 
ants of the Netherlands, oppressed by the bigotry 
and tyranny of the duke of Alva, had applied to 
her, during the summer of 1585, for assistance; 
and having promised them military aid, she, on the 
7th of November of the same year, appointed sir 
Philip Sidney lord governor of Flushing, and, sub- 
sequently, general of the horse, under his uncle, the 
earl of Leicester. 

* Miscellaneous works^ vol. i. p. 44. 


Sir Philip, who not unjustly considered himself, 
on this occanon, as the champion of rational liberty 
and pure religion, entered into the cause with the 
utmost cheerfulness and enthusiasm, prepared, if 
necessary, to sacrifice both his property and his life 
in its behalf. He reached Flushing on the 18th of 
November, was received with every demonstration 
of joy and gratitude, and immediately appointed 
colonel of the Dutch forces ; and had he remained 
sole in command, had the earl of Leicester never 
been sent as general-in-chief of the English auxi- 
liaries, the dissensions which shortly afterwards 
broke out among the principal officers, and in fact 
frustrated the objects of the expedition, had not in 
all probability occurred. Sir Philip strained every 
nerve, though with little success, to compose and 
reconcile their differences ; and all that his personal 
efforts and limited command could effect in a mili- 
tary capacity was exerted to the utmost. In July 
1586, he exhibited very remarkable skill and ad- 
dress in the surprise and capture of Axell, a town 
in Flanders, which he effected without the loss 
of a single soldier, an advantage, however, which 
weighed but as a grain in the balance, when put 
in competition with the irreparable loss which 


speedily foUowed ; for, on the S2d day of the en- 
siung September, in endeavouring to stop a convoy 
of the enemy on its road to Zutphen, sir Philip, 
after every effi)rt of the most heroic valour, after 
having rescued lord Willoughby, surrounded by 
his foes, from instant danger of* death, and after 
having Uirice charged the enemy in one skirmish, 
feU, in the moment of decisive victory over a very 
superior force, by a bullet received in his left thigh, 
and which, after much suffering from excruciating 
pain, but borne with unparalleled fortitude, proved 
fatal on the 17th of the following October. 

There is not, perhaps, an incident upon record 
attended with circumstances more thoroughly de- 
claratory of a great and noble mind, or more strik- 
ingly illustrative of exemplary fortitude, resigna- 
tion, and self-denial, than what occurred almost 
immediately after Sidney had received his death^s 
wound. It is an anecdote which, however well 
known, cannot, from the genuine goodness of heart 
which it evinces, be too often repeated. A^ sir 
Philip was returning fr(ym the field of battle, pale^ 
languid, and thirsty, with excess of bleeding, he 
asked for water to quench his thirst. The water 
was brought, and had no sooner approached his lips, 


ihan he instcmUy resigned it to a Afing seller, 
whose gkcbstbf countencmce attracted his notice, uU 
tering these ever-memorable words — " Thy neces- 

* It is somewhat remarkable that this memorable instance 
of self-denying heroism, so well calculated in all its circum- 
stances for striking efifect, should not ha^e attracted the no- 
tice of our artists before Hayley recommended it to the 
pencil of Romney in the following beautiful lines: 

Shall Bayard, glorious in his dying hour. 
Of Gallic chivalry the fairest flower, 
l^udl his pure blood in British colours flow, 
And B&iTAiN on her canvas fail to show 
Her wounded Sidney, Bayard's perfect peer, 
Sidney, her knight, without reproach or fear, 
0*er whose pale corse heroic worth should bend. 
And mild humanity embalm her friend ! 
Oh ! Romney, in his hour of death we find 
A sulyect worthy of thy feeling mind. 
Methinks I see thy rapid hand display 
The field of Zutfhen, on that fatal day. 
When arm'd for freedom, 'gainst the guilt of Spain, 
The hero bled upon the Belgic plain. 
In that great moment thou hast caught the chief. 
When pitying friends supply the wish'd relief. 
While sickness, pain, and thirst, his power subdue, 
I see the draught he pants for in his view : 
Near him the soldier that expiring lies 
This precious water views with ghastly eyes — 
With eyes that from their sockets seem to burst. 
With eager, frantic, agonising thirst : 


It can scarcely be necessary to say, after record- 
ing this almost unrivalled instance of 8elf-den3ring 

I see the hero give^ oh generous care ! 
The cup untasted to this silent prayer; 
I hear him say^ with tenderness divine, 
" Thy strong necessity surpasses mine." 

Epistle to an eminent fainter. Part ii. 1. 431. 

Wliether the suggestion was ever carried into execution 
hy Romney, I know not ; hut, however this may have heen, 
it did not fail to produce its full effect in another quarter ; 
for, not long afterwards, Mr. West presented his country 
with a nohle picture on the suhject, of which the following 
description has heen given by Mr. Valentine Green : 

" The centre of the composition is occupied by the wounded 
hero, sir Philip Sidney, seated on a litter, who, whilst his 
wound is dressing by the attending surgeons, is ordering the 
water (which is pouring out for him, to allay the extreme 
thirst he suffered from the loss of blood), to be given to a 
wounded soldier, to whom he points in the second group to 
his right, who had cast a longing look towards it. Behind, 
and to the left of Sidney, his uncle, the earl of Leicester, in 
dark armour, is discovered as commander-in-chief issuing his 
orders to the surrounding cavalry, as engaged in the con- 
fusion of the contending armies. Among the several spirited 
war-horses that are introduced, that of Sidney, a white horse, 
is seen under the management of his servant, but still restive 
and ungovernable. The portrait of the artist is found to the 
right of the picture, the figure leaning on a horse in the fore- 
ground, and contemplating the interesting scene befcnre him. 
The back-ground, and to the extreme distance of the hori- 
zon, the movements of the armies and the rage of battle are 


virtue, that the period which elapsed between his 
wound and his departure was passed by sir Phihp 
in preparing for eternity, with the faith and devo- 
tional fervor of a Christian. As an example which 
might greatly benefit others, he made a public con- 
fession of his faith to the ministers who encircled 
bis bed ; a confession which is said ^^ to have been 
such as no book but the heart CQuld truly and feel- 
ingly deliver.^ Nothing indeed could transcend 
the piety and tranquillity with which this great and 
amiable man awaited the approach of death. He 
had delighted, notwithstanding his pain and lan- 
guor, to discourse with his friends on the sublimest 
truths of religion, on the immortality of the soul, 
and the state of the blessed hereafter ; and such, on 
the day of his decease, was the perfect serenity of 
his mind, that, after dictating a codicil to his will, 
he expressed a wish for music, and particularly for 
the performance of a solemn ode, which he had 
composed on the probable issue of the accident 

every where visible^ enveloped in an atmosphere that has fixed 
upon it the true aspect of danger and dismay^ as legibly as 
the plastic art can possibly depict their terrors to the feeling 
mind.**— Vide Zouch's Memoirs of the Life of Sidney, 4t» 
p. 385. 

VOL. I. I' 


which had befallen him. And thus, with every 
faculty soothed to peace and harmony, he turned 
his dying eyes upon his brother, and bade him fare- 
well, in language worthy of being held in everlasting 
remembrance : " Love my memory," he exclaimed ; 
'' cherish my friends : their faith to me may assure 
you that they are honest. But, above all, govern 
your will and affection by the will and word of 
your Creator, in me beholding the end of this world, 
with all her vanities ;^ and having said this, he ex- 
pired in the arms of his secretary and beloved friend, 
Mr. William Temple. 

Thus perished, in his thirty-second year, one of 
the best and most accomplished characters of the 
sixteenth century ; one who, notwithstanding the 
early period at which he was cut off, had acquired 
throughout Europe a greater degree of celebrity 
than any individual perhaps of his age. So deeply 
was his loss felt in England, that a general mourning, 
the first instance of the kind remembered for a pri-> 
vate person, was observed for him throughout the 
upper ranks of society, ** no gentleman for many 
months appearing in a gay or gaudy dress either 
in the city or the court.'*' 

Every honour, indeed, which could emanate 


either from public or private affection^ was paid 
to his remains. They were deposited, even with 
splendid testimonies of national regard, in the ca- 
thedral of St. Paulas ^ ; and the two universities vied 
mth each other in lamenting his loss, publishing 
not less than three volumes of verses in Hebrew, 
Greek, Latin, and Italian, as tributes to his memory 
and his virtues. 

Yet, of all the euiogia whidi have been passed 
on the character of sir Philip Sidney, not one, 
either of old or modem date, has equalled that 
which flowed from the pen of Camden ; a testimony 
the more valuable as it was written by one not 
prone to enthusiastic admiration, but who, whilst 
he enjoyed the great advantage of knowing the in- 
dividual tvhom he described, intimately and well, 
was, at the same time, both as an antiquary and 
historian, in the habit of expressing himself with 
soberness and truths 

<^ Philip Sidney, not to be omitted here without 
an unpardonable crime, the great glory of his fa- 

* ** The foneial procesdoU/' says Berkenhout^ after Gran- 
ger^ " was so uncommonly magnificent as to be deemed a 
8it1]ject worthy of the pencil of Lant, an eminent dangner^ 
It was afterwards engraved on thirty-lbur plata by Theodore 
de brie, a native of Liege." l^ograpbia Literaria, p. 384. 



mily, the great hopes of mankind, the most lively 
pattern of virtue, and the darling of the world, 
noUy engaging the «[iamy at Zutphen in Guelder- 
land, lost his life bravely and valiantly. This is 
that Sidney, whom as Providence seems to have 
sent into the world to give the present age a speci- 
men of the ancients, so did it on a sudden recall 
him, and snatch him from us, as more worthy of 
heaven than of earth: Thus when virtue has come 
to perfection it presently leaves us, and the best 
things are seldom lasting. Rest, then, in peace, O 
Sidney ! if I may be allowed this address. We 
will not celebrate thy memory with tears, but with 
admiration. * Whatever we loved in thee' (as the 
best author speaks of the best governor of Britain), 
^ whatever we admired in thee continues, and will 
continue in the memories of men, the revolutions 
of ages, and the annals of time *• Many, as b^ng 
inglorious and ignoble, are buried in oblivion, but 
Sidney shall live to all posterity.' For, as the 

* " Quidquid ex Agricol4 amayimoB, quidquid mirati 
sumu9, manet, mansurumque est in animis hominum^ in 
Ktermtate temporum^ fain& rerum. Nam multos yetenim^ 
vehit inglorioB et ignobiles^ oblivio obruet ; Agricola poste* 

it# siqpentes erit." C. Cornel. Tadti Agricola Vita, 46. 

MOKN1N6S IN SPHlNti. 149 

Greek poet has it, * Virtue is beyond the reach of 

After such an eulogy, and from such a quarter, 
I know. not that any thing material can be added, 
except what shall result from a more extended con^ 
sideration of that beautiful feature in the character 
of sir Philip Sidney with which this essay opened, 
his strong affection for, and admiration of, his sister ; 
an attachment which, as exclusively founded on the 
singular piety, virtue, and talents of that celebrated 
lady, tends not only to throw a lustre of the most 
endearing and fascinating kind over the literary 
and chivalric laurels which so conspicuously bind 
the brow of Sidney, but to develope with peculiar 
strength and clearness his social, moral, and devo- 
tional feelings. 

It is evident, however, that, for this purpose, it 
will be necessary to give some account of the cha- 
racter, disposition, and pursuits of the countess of 
Pembroke ; and the following paper will therefore 
open with a slight sketch of her life, which may be 
considered under a secondary point of view, as pre- 
paratory to a few critical remarks on her writings 


ftTOii xpuffffoyt; titri fJLOfu* 


and those of her brother. For as the literary labours 
of sir Philip were not published until after his death, 
and as these, when they did see the light, were re- 
vised, corrected, and improved, sometimes by the 
pen, and sometimes by the counsel, of lady Pem- 
broke ; and as one of them, on which it is my pur- 
pose to dwell more at length, was written in con- 
junction with him, and has only very lately issued 
from its manuscript state, the propriety of post- 
poning a farther notice of works thus situated, until 
both parties have been brought before us, will be 
obvious, more especially when it shall be found 
that between sir Philip and his sister there existed 
an affinity, truly remarkable, in genius, taste, and 

No. vr. 

Urania^ sister UDto Astrophel^ 

In whose brave mynd^ as in a golden cofer, 

All heavenly gifts and riches locked are ; 

More rich than pearies of Ynde> or gold of Opher^ 

And in her sex more wonderfull and rare. 


Mary Sidney, afterwards countess of Pembroke, 
the amiable and accomplished, and only surviving 
sister of sir Philip Sidney, was born about the 
middle of the sixteenth century. The utmost at- 
tention was paid to her education ; and being gifted 
by nature with quick and lively parts, she made a 
rapid process in all the literature of her age. It 
speaks highly, indeed, in favour of her genius and 
talents, that, at a time when the example of the 
queen had rendered learning a fashionable acquire- 
ment among the ladies of her court, she became the 
brightest star in the galaxy which surrounded her 

The foundation for this superiority was, no doubt, 
laid in the love and emulation which, at a very 


early age, existed between her and her brother. 
Until the latter went to Shrewsbury, they appear 
to have been educated together ; and we know that 
when he entered the busy world, his reputation, 
welfare, and example, were ever dearest to her 
heart. They were, in fact, both in person and 
mind, the counterparts of each other ; so that when 
Spenser in his pastoral elegy, intitled ^' Astrophel,^ 
is about to introduce a dirge written by the countess 
herself on the death of sir Philip, he designates 
her as 

The gentlest shepherdess that lives this day^ 
And most resembling, both in shape and spright. 
Her brother deare *. 

Another advantage of a similar kind which the 
fair subject of our narrative enjoyed may be attri- 
buted to her union with Henry Herbert, earl of 
Pembroke. To this nobleman, who is represented as 
a great friend and patron of religion and learning f, 
she was married during the early part of the y^ar 
1576, a connexion which appears to have been ar- 
dently desired by her father, sir Henry Sidney.' 

* Vide Todd's Spenser, vol. viii. p. 61. 
t Vide Granger's Biographical History of England^ vol. i. 
p. 200. 


I kiiow not, in truth, a more decisive proof of 
the estimable character of the earl, than what this 
anxiety on the part of so great and good a man as 
sir Henry to obtidn his alliance offers to our view. 
Yet the letter in which this anxiety is expressed 
cannot but afford pain to the reader, when he finds 
in it a confession of the utter inability of the parent 
to give an adequate portion to his daughter. It is 
addressed to the earl of Leicester, and, when the 
abilities and integrity of the writer are duly weighed, 
must be considered as reflecting no little discredit 
on the government which could leave such a servant 
to endure the stings of poverty and neglect. After 
expatiating on the honour which the projected al- 
liance would confer on his house, sir Henry thus 
proceeds : ** I have," he says, " so joyfully at heart 
this happy advancement of my child, that I would 
lie a year in close prison rather than it should break. 
But, alas ! my dearest lord, mine ability answereth 
not my hearty desire. I am poor ; mine estate, as 
well in livelod and moveable, is not unknown to 
your lordship, which wanteth much to make me 
able to equal that which I know my lord of Pem- 
broke may have. Two thousand pounds, I confess, 
I have bequeathed her, which your lordship knowcth 


I might better spare her when I were dead than one 
thousand living ; and, in troth, my lord, I have it 
not ; but borrow it I must, and so I will : and if 
your lordship will get me leave, that I may feed my 
eyes with that joyful sight of their coupling,' I will 
give her a cup worth five hundreth pounds. Grood, 
my lord, bear with my poverty ; for, if I had it, 
little would I regard any sum of money, but will- 
ingly would give it, protesting before the Almighty 
God, that if he and all the powers on earth would 
give me my choice for a husband for her, I would 
choose the earl of Pembroke */' 

It throws a powerfully alleviating light over the 
dark picture of Leicester's life, that he nobly and 
munificently came forward on this occasion, and a 
sufficient dower was no longer wanting to complete 
the gratification of sir Henry, and the happiness of 
his highly-deserving daughter. 

It was about four years subsequent to this event 
that the countess of Pembroke, as I have mentioned 
in the preceding paper, had the pleasure of her 
brother's company during the summer months at 
Wilton, the beautiful seat of her lord ; and here it 

* Zouch's Memoirs of the Life of Sidney, p. 105. 


was that, with the view of dissipating his chagrin, 
she engaged him in the composition of the Arcadia. 
The tradition of the place records, that the greater 
part of this romance was written in the adjacent 
woods ; and if so, the countess must, from the tenor 
of her brother^s dedication to her, have been the 
constant companion of his walks. If any thing, ia-* 
deed, were required to prove the love and reverence 
which this noble youth cherished for his sister, thi& 
Epistle Dedicatory, prefixed to the work in its 
manuscript state, and which I shall now copy for 
the satisfaction of my readers, would amply do it. 
It bears a striking testimony also to the modest 
estimation in which he held his own talents, not 
unfirequently one of the surest indications of true 

** To my dear Lady and Sister^ the Cmmtess of 

" Here now have you (most dear, and most 
worthy to be most dear lady) this idle work of 
mine, which, I fear, like the spider's web, will be 
thought fitter to be swept away than worn to any 
other purpose. For my part, in very truth, (as the 
cruel fathers among the Greeks were wont to do to 


the babes they would not foster) I could well find 
in my heart to cast out in some desert of forgetful- 
ness this child which I am loth to father. But you 
desired me to do ity and your desire to my heart is 
an absolute commandment. Now, it is done only 
for you, only to you : if you keep it to yourself, or 
to such friends who will weigh errors in the balance 
of good will, I hope, for the father's sake, it will be 
pardoned, perchance made much of, though in itself 
it have deformities. For, indeed, for severer eyes 
it is not, being but a trifle, and that triflingly 
handled. YoUr dear self can best witness the man* 
ner, being done in loose sheets qf^per, most of it 
in your presence, the rest, by sheets, sent unto you 
as fast as they were done. In summe, a young head, 
not so well stayed as I would it were (and shall be, 
when God will), having many, many fancies b^ot- 
ten in it, if it had not been in some way delivered,' 
would have grown a monster, and more sorry might 
I be that they came in than that they got out. But 
his chief safety shall be the not walking abroad, 
and his chief protection the bearing the livery of 
your name, which, if much good-will do not deceive 
me, is worthy to be a sanctuary for a greater of- 
fender.. This say I, because I know the virtue so; 


and this say I, because it may be ever so, or, to say 
better, because it will be ever so. Read it then at 
your idle times, and the follies your good judgment 
will find in it blame not, but laugh at. And so, 
looking for no better stuff than, as in a haberdasher^s 
shop, glasses or feathers, you will continue to love 
the writer, who doth exceedingly love you, and 
most heartily prays you may long live to be a prin- 
cipal ornament to the family of the Sidneis. 

" Your loving brother, 

" Philip Sidney *.'' 

The premature and sudden death of sir Philip 
prevented not only the completion of the Arcadia, 
but his giving that revision, polish, and arrange* 
ment to the parts of it already written, which he 
had fully intended.' So sensible was he, indeed^ of 
its defects, that he is said on his death-bed to have 
requested, after the example of Virgil with regard 

* From *' The Countesse of Pembroke's Arcadia. Written 
by Sir Philip Sidney, Knight. Now the seventh time pub- 
liflbed^ with some new Additions. With the supplement of 
a Defect in the third part of this. History^ by Sir W. A. 
Knight. Whereimto is now added a sixth Booke^ by R. B. 
of Linpolne's Inne^ Esq. London : Printed by H. and R. Y. 
and are sold by R. Moore^ in S.Dunstan's Church-yard, 1629." 


to the iEneid, that it might be committed to the 

It had, however, as we have just seen, been placed, 

whilst m manuscript, under the protection of his 

beloved sister ; and so greatly was it endeared to 

her heart by every past and present association, 

that as soon as the first agonies of her grief for his 

loss had subsided, she sate down with a mdl^ncholy 

pleasure to the task of correcting and improving it. 

It would appear, in fact, from an address to the 

reader, prefixed to several of the folio editions of 

the Arcadia, and signed with the initials H. S., that 

the labours of the countess of Pembroke in these 

departments w^e carried to such an extent as might 

warrant us in considering this romance as being 

truly, and beyond what is usually supposed, die 

joint production of the brother and sister. ** It 

moved that noble lady,^ remarks the addresser^ 

<^ to whose honour consecrated, to whose protection 

it was committed, to take in hand the wiping away 

those spots wherewith the beauties thereof w«*e un-* 

worthily blemished. But as often repairing a ruinous 

house, the mending of some old part occasioneth 

the making of some new : so here her honourable 

labour begun in correcting the faults, ended in 


sujqdying the defects ; by the view of what was ill 
done, guided to the consideration of what was not 
done. Which part with what advice entered into, 
with what access it had been passed through, most 
BY HER DOING, oU btf her directing, if they may be^ 
entreated not to define, which are unfurnished of 
means to discern, the rest, it is hoped, will favour- 
ably censure.'^ And he concludes with a passage 
whidi, whilst it repeats his former assertion, ad- 
verts in a striking manner to the more than ordinary 
aflPection and esteem with which, it was well known, 
the countess of Pembroke had always repaid the 
confidence and admiration of her highly-gifted re- 
lative. " It is now,'* says he, " by more than one 
interest, the countess of Pembroke's Arcadia : 
done as ii w(is, Jbr her ; as it is, by her. Neither 
shall these pains be the last (if no unexpected acci- 
dent cut ofi^her determination) which the everlasting 
love of her excellent brother will make her conse* 
crate to his memory.'^' 

This work, therefore, may be justly considered 
as one of those memorials of that blended genius 
mid afiection which has carried down Sidney and 
his nster to posterity with unfading celebrity and 


esteem. It was first printed in 1590, in quarto, 
and underwent six editions previous to the death of 
the countess. The seventh, which now lies before 
me, is a folio of 624 pages, printed in 16^, and 
contains, besides the Arcadia, firstly. Certain Son- 
nets ; secondly, The Defence of Poesy ; thirdly, 
Astrophel and Stella ; and fourthly, The Lady of 
May, a Masque. Since this edition, seven others 
have appeared, making in all fourteen impressions, 
though of these not one, I believe, has appeared 
posterior to 1725. 

However neglected in the present day, the Ar» 
cadia of sir Philip Sidney and his sister is, beyond 
all doiibt, a production of very superior talent. It 
is, in truth, to the prodigious change of manners, 
and of modes of thinking, which has occurred in 
the lapse of more than two centuries, rather than to 
any radical defect in the work itself, that we are 
chiefly to attribute its loss of popularity; for, if 
we examine either the construction or execution of 
the narrative, we shall find much both to admire 
and to treasure up. The fable is not only skilfully 
contrived, but the interest increases with its progress, 
and is maintained to the last. . The incidents are 


Striking and diversified, and, what is still more in- 
dicative of genius, the characters are strongly drawn, 
and admirably discriminated. 

To these claims to reconsideration may be added 
what is of yet higher import, that in no work of 
fiction, either of its own, or any subsequent age, is 
there to be found a loftier and more thoroughly- 
sustained tone of practical morality ; nor, extraor- 
dinary as it may appear for the period in which it 
was written, sentiments more chastely delicate and 

Another and very prominent excellence of the 
Arcadia, and in which it has been scarcely sur- 
passed by any effort of ancient or modern times> is 
the singular beauty and fidelity of its descriptions. 
Almost every page, in short, exhibits proof of the 
painter's pencil, and the poet's imagination ; and, 
as numerous instances of superior merit in these 
provinces will admit of insulation without injury, I 
*cannot resist the temptation of placing one or two 
of them before my readers, as specimens of what 
they may expect from turning over the leaves of 
this neglected folio. Can there, for example, be 
found a more exquisite delineation of female beauty 
of feature, than what the following passage affords 

VOL. I. M 


US ? The Sidneys are describing the gorgeous 
celebration of the marriage between Argalus and 

'" But all the cost bestowed,^ he remarks, ^* did 
not so much enrich, nor all the fine decking so 
much beautify, nor all the dainty devices so much 
delight, as the fairness of Parthenia^ the pearl of 
all the maids of Mantinoea: who as she went to 
the temple to be married, her eyes themselves 
seemed a temple, wherein love and beauty were 
married; her lips, though they were kept close 
with modest silence, yet with a pretty kind of na- 
tural swelling, they seemed to invite the guests 
that looked on them; her cheeks blushing, and 
withal, when she was spoken unto, a little smiling, 
were like roses when their leaves are with a little 
breath stirred*."" 

Nor could the pencil of Poussin or Claude have 
embodied upon their canvas a move delightful pic- 
ture of rural loveliness and sohtude, than that 
which has been drawn for us by the sweet fancy of 
Sidney and his sister. 

'^ Lord, dear cousin,"^ said he, " doth not the 

* Edition of 1629, p. 30. 


pleasantness of this place carry in itself sufficient 
reward for any time lost in it ? Do you not see 
how all things conspire together to make this coun- 
try a heavenly dwelling ? Do you not see the 
grass, how in colour they excel the emerald, every 
one striving to pass his fellow, and yet they are all 
kept of an equal height ? And see you not the rest 
of these beautiful flowers, each of which would re- 
quire a man's wit to know, and his life to express ? 
Do not these stately trees seem to maintain their 
flourishing old age with the only happiness of their 
seat, being clothed with a continual spring, because 
no beauty here should ever fade ? Doth not the 
air breathe health, which the birds, delightful both 
to ear and eye, do daily solemnize with the sweet 
consent of their voices ? Is not every echo thereof 
a perfect music? And these fresh and delightful 
brooks, how slowly they slide away, as loth to leave 
the company of so many things united in perfec- 
tion ! and with how sweet a murmur they lament 
their forced departure* !'' 

The style of these extracts, which cannot be 
altered for the better, will probably surprise the 

* Edition of 1629, p. 32. 

M 2 


reader; and, indeed, that of the entire Arcadia, 
though it be not in every part equal to the above- 
quoted specimens in purity and simplicity, yet dis- 
plays, considering the era at which it was written, 
a very masterly piece of composition. For this 
merit I am persuaded we are, in a great measure, 
indebted to the countess of Pembroke^ who not 
only assiduously corrected every page of her bro- 
therms Arcadia, but has herself proved to the world, 
in a work translated from the French, and under- 
taken after sir Philip's death, how admirably she 
was qualified for the task. 

Such, in fact, was the congeniality which ex- 
isted between sir Philip and his sister in their Hte- 
rary tastes and pursuits, that they appear ahnost 
uniformly to have trodden the same paths, and to 
have studied the same writers. One of the best 
and dearest friends which Sidney acquired on the 
continent was Philip de Mornay, lord of Plessis 
Marly ; and at the period when he received his 
death-wound at Zutphen, he had nearly completed 
a translation of that nobleman's excellent Treatise 
on the True Use of the Christian Religion, an 
employment strongly indicative of that interest in 
the cause of piety which had eter formed a distin- 


guished feature in his character. This version, 
perfected by Arthur Golding, was published in 
1587, about seven months after sir Philip's de- 
cease; and in May 1590, the countess of Pem- 
broke, with whom the works of Du Plessis had 
been as great favourites as with her brother, finished 
at Wilton a translation from a part of them, en- 
titled ** A Discourse of Life and Death ;^ and to 
this little volume, which was not published, how- 
ever> until 1600 *, I may safely appeal for a spe- 
cimen which shall satisfactorily prove the great 
elegance and perspicuity of her prose style, and, of 
course, of her abilities as an adequate corrector 
and improver of the Arcadia. The passage, in- 
deed, which I am about to give has been already 
selected by Mr. Park f for a purpose similar to my 
own ; but the value of the illustration which it con- 
veys, together with the scarce and voluminous cha- 
racter of the work in which he has placed it, will 
•«uffidently warrant its transference to these pages. 

• A Discourse of Life and Death. Written in French by 
Phil. Mornay. Done into English by the Countess of Pem- 
broke. London : Printed for W. Ponsonby. 1600. 12rao. 

t Vide Censura Literaria^ vol. v. p. 45. 



It is thus that her ladyship speaks in the exordium 
to this translation. 

^^ It seems to me strange, and a thing much to 
be marvelled, that the labourer to repose himself 
hasteneth as it were the course of the sun; that 
the mariner rows with all his force to attain the 
port, and with a joyful cry salutes the descried 
land ; that the traveller is never quiet nor content 
till he be at the end of his voyage ; and that we, 
in the meanwhile tied in this world to a perpetual 
task, tossed with continual tempest, tired with a 
rough and cumbersome way, cannot yet see the 
end of our labour but with grief, nor behold our 
port but with tears, nor approach our home and 
quiet abode but with horror and trembling. This 
life is but a Penelope's web, wherein we are always 
doing and undoing ; a sea open to all winds, which, 
sometime within, sometime without, never cease to 
torment us; a weary journey through extreme 
heats and colds, over high mountains, steep rocks, 
and thievish deserts. And so we term it, in weav- 
ing this web, in rowing at this oar, in passing this 
miserable way. Yet lo, when Death comes to end 
our work ; when she stretcheth out her arms to 


piill US into the port : when, after so many dan- 
gerous passages and loathsome lodgings, she would 
conduct us to our true home and resting-place : in^ 
stead of rejoicing at the end of our labour, of taking 
comfort at the sight of our land, of singing at the 
approach of our happy mansion, we would fain 
(who would believe it ?) retake our work in hand, 
we would again hoist sail to the wind, and willingly 
undertake our journey anew. No more then re- 
member we our pains; our shipwrecks and dan- 
gers are forgotten: we fear no more the travails 
and the thieves. Contrawise, we apprehend death 
as an extreme pain, we doubt it as a rock, we fly it 
as a thief. We do as little children, who all the 
day complain, and when the medicine is brought 
them, are no longer sick ; as they who all the week 
long run up and down the streets with pain of the 
teeth, and seeing the barber coming to pull them 
out, feel no more pain. We fear more the cure 
than the disease, the surgeon than the pain. We 
have more sense of the medicine^s bitterness, soon 
gone, than of a bitter languishing, long continued ; 
more feeling of death, the end of our miseries, than 
the endless misery of our life. We fear that we 
ought to honpc for, and wish for that we ought to 


Nor were the taste and critical talents of the 
Countess of Pembroke confined to prose composi- 
tion ; she was, as well as her brother, a favoured 
disciple of the Muses; and being not only well 
acquainted with the classical languages, but with 
the Hebrew tongue, she was consequently in pos- 
session of all the models necessary to a perfect know- 
ledge of the art of poetry, sacred and profane. 
Whether she contributed to the numerous metrical 
effusions with which the Arcadia abounds is not 
known ; but there can be no doubt that these, as 
well as the narrative part of that romance, under- 
went the revision of her pen ; nor is it improbable 
that the " Astrophel and Stella" of sir Philip, con- 
sisting of not less than one hundred and eigt^t son- 
nets *, independent of intervening songs, which was 

* From these sonnets^ many of which are exquisitely 

beautiful^ I cannot resist the pleasure of transcribing two, as 

beings in my opinion^ models of grace and sweetness. 


With how sad steps^ O Moone^ thou climb 'st the skies^ 

How silently^ and with how wan a face ! 

What, may it be that even in heav'nly place 

That busie archer his sharp arfowes tries ? 
Sure if that^ long with Love acquainted^ eyes 

Can judge of Love, thou feel'st a Lover's case; 

I reade it in thy lookes ; thy languisht grace. 
To mc that feclc the like, thy state descries. 


first published in 1591) as well as a minor collec- 
tion of " Sonnets" from the same source, printed 
in 1594, had, either in their separate state or when 
subsequently added to the Arcadia, the advantage 
of her judgment and skill. 

Of the poetry which flowed from her ladyship's 

Then^ ev'n of fellowship^ O Moone, tell me 

Is constant Love deem'd there but want of wit ? 

Are Beauties there as proud as here they be ? 
Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet 

Those Lovers scorne whom that Love doth possesse ? 

Do they call Vertue there ungratefulnesse ? 


Come^ Sleepe^ O Sleepe, the certaine knot of peace^ 
The bayting place of wit, the balme of woe^ 
The poore man's wealthy the prisoner's release^ 
Th' Indifibretft Judge betweene the high and low ! 
X TVidi shield of proofe shield me from out the prease 
Of these fierce darts^ despaire at me doth throw : 

make in me these civill warres to cease ; 

1 will good tribute pay if thou do so. 

Take thou of me smooth pillowes^ sweetest bed^ 
A chamber deafe to noise^ and blinde to light : 
A rosie garland^ and a wearie head : 

And if these things^ as being thine by right. 
Move not thy heavie grace, thou shalt in me 
Livelier than else-where Stellas image see. 


own inspiration we had, until the publication of 
her Psalms, but few instances. Of these the prin- 
cipal was, " The Tragedie of Antonie : done into 
English by the countess of Pembroke," Lond. 1595, 
iSmo. ; to which may be added " An Elegy on 
sir Philip Sidney," printed in Spenser^s " Astro- 
phel,^' 1595, and " A Pastoral Dialogue in praise 
of Astrea,'' that is, queen Elizabeth, published in 
Davison's " Poetical Rapsody,'' 160S, where it is 
recorded as having been *' made by the excellent 
lady, the lady Mary countesse of Pembrook, at 

the queenes majesties being at her house at , 

15 — .'' It should not be forgotten also, that a poem 
of considerable length in six-line stanzas, entitled 
" The countesse of Pembrook's Passion,'' is pre- 
served among the Sloanian Manuscripts, No. 1303. 

It is, however, on her version of the Psalms, 
written in conjunction with her brother, that her 
poetical fame must be built ; and I shall, therefore, 
after closing this slight sketch of her character, de- 
vote the ensuing paper to a consideration of some 
of the more prominent beauties of this joint labour 
of love and piety. 

In the meantime it is highly gratifying to record, 


that the countess was^ like her brother, the uniform 
and munificent friend of learning and of genius ; 
and that to her patronage and liberality, to her 
taste and talents, Spenser^ and Darnel^ and Church^ 
yardy and Fraunce^ and Fttzgeffrey^ and several 
other poets of her day, have borne the most sincere 
and grateful testimony. 

Spenser in particular, the first, and, by many de- 
grees, the greatest of this tuneful train, has seized 
every opportunity of expressing his high sense of 
the rare virtues and acquirements of lady Pembroke; 
and when celebrating the most accomplished females 
of the court of Elizabeth, he Jias not hesitated to 
give to the sister of Sidney the foremost rank and 
highest place*. 

I shall quote one tribute from this divine bard, 
as placing Sidney and his sister in that light of 
blended love and talent in which they ever wished 
to appear, and as delivering his own opinion of their 
poetical powers. He is apostrophising the shade 

of sir Philip : 

O noble spirit! — 
The world's late wonder, and the heaven's new joy ; 

* Colin Clout's Come Home Again. Vide Todd's Spenser, 
vol. viii. pp. 27, 28. 


Live ever there, and leave me here distressed 
With morta} cares and cumbrous world*s annoy ! 
But^ ivhere thou dost that happiness enjoy. 
Bid me^ O bid me quickly come to thee^ 
Tbat^ happy there^ I may thee always see ! 

Yet^ whilst the Fates afford me vital breathy 
1 will it spend in speaking of thy praise^ 
And sing to thee^ until that timely death 
By heaven's doom do end my earthly days : 
Thea-eto do thou my humble spirit raise. 
And into me that sacred br^th inspire^ 
Which thou there breathest perfect and entire. 



Then will I sing ; but who can better sing 
Than thine own sister^ peerless lady bright ! 
Which to thee sings with deep heart's sorrowing- 
Sorrowing tempered with dear delight 
That her to hear I feel my feeble spright 
Robbed of sense, and ravished with joy. — 

Yet will I sing; but who can better silig 
Than thou thyself, thine own self's valiance ; 
That, whilst thou livedst, madest the forests ring. 
And fields resound, and flocks to leap and dance. 
And shepherds leave their lambs unto mischance. 
To run thy shrill Arcadian pipe to hear *. 

The countess of Pembroke has been uniformly 

♦ The Ruins of Time. Todd's Spenser, vol. vii. pp. 298, 
299, 300. 


represented by. her encomiasts as possessing great 
personal charms ; a representation which, though not 
altogether borne out by the print which we possess 
of her by Simon Pass, is yet probably correct ; for 
we shall presently find Ben Jonson, who was no 
flatterer, joining in the same description. This 
print, which gives a pleasing delineation of the cos- 
tume of dress in the reign of Elizabeth, exhibits 
also a proof of what was considered even then, 
though confined to manuscript circulation, as the 
cpus nmffnum of the countess, who is drawn with a 
book in her hand, on the leaves of which is legible 
the title of « David's Psalms." 

After a life protracted to an advanced age, this 
learned and estimable lady died at her house in 
Aldersgate street, London, on the 25th of Septem- 
ber, 16S1, having survived her lord not less than 
twenty years. She was buried in the vault of the 
Fembrokes, in the cathedral church of Salisbury ; 
and though no monument to her memory has ever 
been erected on the spot, she has been honoured 
with an epitaph perhaps better known than any 
other which has graced the annals of the dead, and 
which cannot fail to perpetuate, in colours durable 


as the language in which it is written, her beauty, 
virtue, and mental endowments : 

Underneath this sable hearse 
Lies the subject of all verse, 
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother. 
Deaths ere thou hast kill'd another^ 
Fair, and leam'd, and good as sbe^ 
Time shall throw a dart at thee. 

No. VII. 

They had been taught religion — Thence 
Their gentler spirits suck'd sweet innocence : 

£ach mom and even they were taught to pray 
With the whole household ; and could every day 

Read in their virtuous parent's noble parts^ 
The mysteries of manners, morals^ arts. 

Ben Jonson on the Sidnies *. 

Feom the brief account which has been given of 
sir Philip Sidney and his sister, in the two pre- 
ceding papers, it is scarcely too much to infer, that, 
considering their education under the eye of parents, 
whose example in a moral aod religious point of 
view was truly excellent ; considering their own 
similar talents, tastes, and studies, their learning, 
habitual piety, and devotional ardour, no two per- 
sons perhaps could be better qualified for the task 
they undertook, as metrical translators of the in- 
spired Psalmist, than were these ever-memorable 

Of sir Philip's opinion of what should be one of 

* Slightly altered. 


the chief objects of lyric poetry, and of the high 
estimation in which he held the Book of Psalms, 
both in a poetical apd religiqus light, we have ample 
testimony in his treatise, entitled ** The Defence of 
Poesy.*" In this admirable little work, speaking 
of the lyric poet, he describes him as one, who, if he 
has a just sense of the sublime duties he is called 
to fulfil, ^' with his tuned lyre, and well accorded 
voice, giveth praise, the reward of virtue, to vir- 
tuous acts ; who giveth moral precepts and natural 
problems; who sometimes raiseth up his voice to 
the height of the heavens, in singing the lauds of 
the immortal Gx)d* ^ And again, when noticing 
the prevalency and abuse, in his time, of lyrical 
poetry, he observes, " if the Lord gave us so good 
minds, how well it might be employed, and with 
how heavenly fruits, both private and publick, in 
^nging the praises of the immortal beauty, the im- 
mortal goodness of that God, who giveth us hands 
to write, and wits to conceive ; of which we might 
well want words, but never matter ; of Vhich we 
could turn our eyes to nothing, but we should ever 
have new budding occasions f .'^ 

* Folio edition, 1629, p. 553. 
t Folio edit. p. 564. 


With these exalted and correct ideas of the noble 
purposes which this province of the art is calculated 
to subserve, we might consistently expect him to be 
earnestly anxious to appeal to the practice and in- 
spiration of the sacred writers ;. and, accordingly, 
as one of the most efficient foundations of his 
" Defence,*^' he has tJiken the earliest, opportunity 
of bringing forward the example of the divine lyrist 
of the Hebrews. *' May not I presume to say,"*^ 
he observes, " that the holy DaviiTs Psalms are a 
divine- poem ? If I do, I shall not do it without 
the testimony of great learned men, both ancient 
and modem. But even the name of Psalms will 
speak for me, which, being interpreted, is nothing 
but songs : then, that it is fully written in metre, 
as all learned Hebricians agree, although the rules 
be not yet fully found. Lastly, and principally, 

his handling his prophecy, which is merely poetical. 


For what else is the awaking his musical instru- 
ments ; the often and free changing of persons ; his 
notable prosopopceias, when he maketh you, as it 
were, see God coming in his majesty ; his telling 
of the beasts* joyfulness and hills leaping ; but a 
heavenly poesy, wherein almost he showeth himself 
a passionate lover of that unspeakable and everlast- 

VOL. I. N 


ing beauty to be seen by the eyes of the mind^only 
cleared by faith *?'^ 

That his sister had embraced the same Qpinions, 
and felt the same love of sacred poesy, is sufficiently 
evident from the part which she took in the com- 
pletion of what her brother had so well commenced. 
There is much reason, indeed, to conclude, from 
the title prefixed to some of the existing manuscripts, 
and from other evidence, that by much the greater 
part of this joint version came froia the pen of the 
countess of Pembroke. Thus, in the manuscript 
used for the copy printed at the Chiswick press, 
by C. Whittingham, for Robert Triphook, 1828, 
the title runs thus : " The Psalmes of David,, trans- 
lated into divers and sundry Kindes of Vjerse, more 
rare and excellent for the Method and Varietie than 
ever yet hath been done in English. Begun by the 
noble and learned Gent. Sir PhiUp Sidney, Knt., 
and finished by the Right Honourable the Coun^ 
tess of Pembroke, his Sister ."** 

It is said, beneath, in Triphook's impression, to 
be " Now first printed from a Copy of the Oriffinal 
Manuscript, transcribed by John Davies of Here* 

* ■ 

• Folio Edit. p. 542. 


ford, in the reign of James the First.'' This ori- 
ginal manuscript is reported to be still existmgin 
the library at Wilton, curiously bound in crimsoi^' 
velvet*, and in the handwriting of sir Philip and^ 
his sister. The MS. by John Davies, who was- 
writing-mastier to prince Henry, is in folio. ^^ It^ 
exhibits/' says the advertisement prefixed to Trip-- 
hook's impression, ^^ a beautiful specimen of the^ 
calligraphy of the time. The first letters of every 
line are in gold ihky and it comprises specimens of 
all the hands in use, more particularly the Italian,: 
then* much in fashion at court. From the pains 
bestowed, it is by no means improbable that it was: 
written for the prince." 

We learn from the same advertisement, and on* 
the authority of the Rev. B. Bandinel, that of two 
cojnes of these psalms in the Bodleian library, one 
has precisely the same title with the nlanuscript of 
John Davies, and the other is a trani^cript by Dr. 
Smntiel Woodford. ^* Oh the first leaf," rdates' 
Mr. Bandinel, "Dr. W. has written, * The ori- 
ginal copy is by mee, given^ me by my brother, 
Mr. John Woodford, who bought it among other 

• ... 

• iSoueh's Sidney, p. 364. 

N 2 


broken books to putt up cofiee pouder, as I remem- 
ber.' '' Mr. B. adds, " At the end of psalm xliii. is 
written by Dr. W. * In the margin, (that is, of the 
oriffifmU MS.) hitherto sir Ph. Sidney*;'^ a tes-. 
timony which, as Dr. Woodford wrote this, by his 
own account, in 1695, would seem to set the ques- 
tion, as to the respective shares of the brother and 
sister in this version, at rest. 

Beside these copies in the Bodleian, and that by 
John Davies, others are known to exist, both in 
public and private libraries. In the library, for 
instance, of Trinity College, Cambridge, is pre- 
served a beautiful manuscript of this version. An- 
other is in the possession of the Rev. Dr. Cotton, 
of Christ Church, Oxford; and a third is to be 
found in the valuable collection of Richard Heber, 
esq. Nor, though unsubmitted to the press until 
within these three years, has this translation escaped 
occasional notice from subsequent critics and poets* 
Of the former, Harrington^ in his Nugae Antiquae ; 
Steele^ in the Guardian, No. 18 ; BoHard, in his 
Memoirs of Learned Ladies ; Granger^ in his Bio- 
graphical History of England ; Parh, in his edi- 

* Advertisement to Triphook's edition^ p. \iii. 


tion of lord Orford's Royal and Noble Authors ; 
Zouch^ in his Memoirs of the Life and Writings of 
Sir Philip Sidney; and lastly, Dr. Cotton, in the 
Christian Remembrancer for June, 1821, may be 
enumerated. The observations, indeed, which fell 
from the last of these critics, may, in all probability, 
have suggested the edition of 1823 ; for, when no- 
ticing this translation in the work just mentioned, 
he remarks : ^^ By what strange means it has hap- 
pened that this version has slept in unmerited ob- 
scurity for nearly two centuries and a half, I am 
utterly at a loss to divine. I see in many of them 
passages of considerable beauty ; and notwithstand- 
.ing the stiffness characteristic of the poetry of the 
day, there is often peculiar happiness of expression, 
a nerve and. energy, a poetic spirit that might 
have disarmed, even if it could not extort praise 
from the fastidious Warton himself *.^^ 

Of the poets, two of no mean fame, Daniel and 
Donne, have particularly noticed the Sidney Psalms. 
JDaniel, who may be peculiarly termed the countess 
of Pembroke's own poet, appears to consider them 

* Christian Remembrancer^ June 1821, p. 327; 328. 


as exclusively the production oi this lady; for, 
when qpeaking of the version, he says — 

By this^ great lady, thou must thep be known. 
When Wilton lies low levelled in the ground; 
And this is that which thou may'st call thine own. 
Which sacrilegious time cannot confound ; 
Here thou surviv'st thyself; here thou art found 
Of late succeeding ages, fireth in fame. 
Where in eternal brass remains thy name *. 

Whilst Donne, perhaps more correctly, views them 
JAs a joint production, designating the translation, 
which he has eulogised in a long copy of verses, as 
^* by sir Philip Sidney and the countesse of Pem- 
broke, his sister ■f'.'** 

Only two metrical versions of the entire Psalms 
had preceded this attempt by sir Philip and his 
sister; the well known, and once highly popular 
translation by Stemhold, Hopkins, and others ; and 
one by the pious and learned archbishop Parker ; 
the former commencing with thirty-seven psalms in 
15499 and, after various intervening editions and 
augmentations, completed in 1562 ; and the latter 

* Daniel's Poetical Works, vol. i. p. 256. 
t Donne's Poems, 1635, p. 366. 


printed, though but very partially circulated, in 

There are, undoubtedly, several passc^es erf 
great beauty and sublimity in these previous trans- 
lations, but, as a whole, they must be ranked, in 
vigour, dignity, and poetic spirit, as gready inferior 
to the version of the Sidneys. 1 know not, indeed, 
that any subsequent entire metrical translation of 
the Psalms, from that of the royal James, in 1631, 
to the labours of bishop Mant, in 1884— not even 
that of Merrick--K»n be put in competition with 
the version of which I am about to offer a few spe- 

In making these extracts, however, I shall con- 
fine myself to that portion of the volume which has 
been attributed to the countess of Pembroke, as I 
cannot but think that she has, on this occasion, 
struck the lyre with a fuller and deeper inspiration 
than her brother. 

From the fotty-fourth psalm, the first she at- 
tempted in continuation of sir Philip^s labours, a 
few stanzas will immediately place before us the 
extraordinary facility, harmony, and beauty of her 
versification ; whilst a reference to the Bible trans- 
lation, in general a faithful copy of the Hebrew 


text, will suffideutly show, to readers of every de- 
scriptioD, how strictly she has adhered to the literal 
sense of the original. 

Lorde^ our fathers' true relation^ 

Often made^ hath made us knowe 
How thy power^ on each occasion^ 

Thou of old for them did showe. 

How thy hand the pagan foe 
Rooting hence^ thy folke impUnting> 

Leavelesse made that braunch to growe^ 
This to springy noe verdure wanting. 

Never could their sword procure them 

Conquest of the promis'd land : 
Never could their force assure them 

When they did in danger stand. 

Noe^ it was thy arme^ thy hand ; 
Noe^ it was thy favour's treasure 

Spent upon thy loved band : 
Loved^ why ? for thy wise pleasure. — 

Right as sheepe to be devowred^ 

Helplesse heere we lie alone : 
Scattringlie by thee outpowred^ 

Slaves to dwell with lords unknown. — 

By them all that dwell about us 

Tost we flie as balls of scome^ 
All our neighbours laugh and flcut us^ 

Men by tbee in shame forlorne. 

Proverb-like our name is worn. 


Oh^ how fast in foraine places ! 

What head-shakings are forhorne ! 
Wordlesse taunts and dumhe disgraces. 

Soe rehuke hefore me goeth^ 

As my self doe daily goe : 
Soe confusion on me groweth^ 

That my face I hlush to show. 

By reviling slaundring foe 
Inly wounded thus I languish : 

Wrathful spight with out ward blow 
Anguish adds to inward anguish. 

Allj this all on us hath lighted^ 

Yet to thee our love doth last : 
As we were, we are delighted 

Still to hold thy covenant fast. 

Unto none our hartes have past; 
Unto none our feet have slidden. 

Though us downe to dragons cast 
Thou in deadly shade hast hidden *. 

Were it not that the ancient mode of orthography 
had been adhered to, the above stanzas might, as to 
their metrical formation, be taken for modern pro- 
ductions, so correct and flowing is their structure, 
and so musical their cadence. There may be found, 
indeed, in this version almost every species of metre 
of which the language is susceptible ; and as a 

* Sidney Psahns, pp. 77, 78, 79. 


Striking contrast to the rapid movement of the pass- 
ages just given, I shall quote the opening of the 
immediately succeeding psalm^ the forty-fifth, which 
is rendered into lines of ten syllables in alternate 

My harte endites an argument of wrartb. 

The praise of him that doth th^ scepter swaye : 
My tODgue the pen to pajmt his praises forth^ 

Shall write as swift, as swiftest writer may. 

Then to the king these are the wordes I say : 
Fairer art thou than sonnes of mortall race. 

Because high God hath blessed thee for ay, 
Thie lips, as springs, doe flowe with speaking grace. 

Thie honor's sword gird to thy m^htie side, 

O thou that dost all things in might excell ! 
With glory prosper, on with triumph ride. 

Since justice, truth, and meekness with thee dwell. 

Soe that right hande of thine shall teaching tell 
Such things to thee, as well may terror bring. 

And terror, such as never erst befell 
To mortall mindes at sight of mortall king*. 

Of this translation, the second stanza cannot fail 
to be admired, as well for the force, and weight, 
and dignity of its language, as for the vigour of its 
versification. They are such, indeed, as may be 

* Sidney Psalms, p. 80. 


said to have done justice to tlie splendid and power- 
ful imagery of the original. 

In the 3ame, or a somewhat similarly constituted 
stanza of eight lines, has the countess clothed se- 
vere;! of her psalms ; and not unfrequently has she 
exhibited in these pentameters some of the very ca- 
dences and constructions which we so much admire 
in the lines of Dryden and of Pope. As instances 
of this anj;icipation, I shall bring forward two pass- 
ages from the opening of the seventy-eighth psalm^ 
where the inspired bard commences an historical 
retrospect of the Almighty^s dealings with his people 
in the land of Egypt, distinguishing the lines on 
which I would fix attention by Italics. 

A grave discourse to utter I entend ; 

The age of tyme I purpose to renew. 
You^ O my charge, to what I teach attend ; 

Heare what I speake, and what you heare ensue. 
The thinges our fathers did Xo us^commend. 

The same are they I recommend to you : 

That while the yong shall over-live the old. 
And of their brood some yet shall be unborn ; 

These memories, in memory enrold. 
By fretting time may never thence be worn. 


That still on God their andunr hope may hold ; 

From him hy no dispairefbll tempest tofm ; 
That with wise hartes and willing mindes they may 
Think what he did, and what he bidds obey *. 

* Sidney Psalms^ pp. 143, 144. I have lately met with a 
description of the last and most dreadful of the plagues of 
Egypt so subb'mely alluded to in this psalm, namely^ the 
destruction of the first-bom, which, as possessing very sin- 
gular merit, and being at the same time little known, I am 
desirous of bringing forward in -this place. It is contained 
in a little volume entitled ^' Rural Pictures and Miscellaneous 
Pieces," printed in 1825, and written by a young man of the 
name of Slatter, resident at Oxford, and who, it is some- 
what remarkable, pursues the same humble occupation by 
which Bloomfield supported himself whilst composing his 
Farmer s Boy, I am induced to hope, indeed, that the 
spirit of poetry which this specimen will be found to ex- 
hibit cannot but incline my readers to refer to the pages 
whence it is taken, and where I can promise them they Will 
meet with many things claiming in a like d^ree their notice 
and approbation. 


Where anci^pt Nile majestic rolls 

His undulating wave. 
By many a pyramid that holds 

The ashes of the brave ; 

Once in the flight and transient prime 

Of days Jong passed away ; 
When youth adorned the brow of time. 

Unconscious of decay ; 


Not only, in short, in these, but in a multitude 
of other passages, may we discover similar antici- 
pations of what are deemed the beauties or novelties 

\Fhen midnight stealing o'er the ground, 

Midst shadows rising dim^ 
Had hushed^ in envy of the sounds 

The wild bird's evening hymn ; 

Led on by deaths with aU his train. 

Yet silent as the blast 
That sweeps o'er Afric's sultry plain^ 

Th' avenging Angel passed. 

On heaven's destructive mission bent. 

Which Egypt had defied ; 
His breath invaded every tent, 

And withered Egypt's pride. 

In rosy sleep, by all its charms 

Distinguished as he lay. 
The babe that in its mother's arms 

Dream'd of returning day, 

Before the Hghtning of his eye 

A hapless victim fell. 
Nor stayed to breathe a parting sigh. 

Nor lisp a last farewell. 

Full many a hoary-headed man 

Leaned on his staff to weep. 
Each tear expressive, as it ran. 

Of sorrow wild and deep. 


of modern versificatioiL With what exquisite skiU, 
for instance, with what a felicitous structure of 

His white hairs wtving to the wind. 

All withered and forlorn. 
With weary eye, and burdened mind. 

To wail his eldest bom. 

But where the captive tribes reposed. 

Or watched in silent prayer. 
No dreaded power its form disclosed. 

Or breathed contagion there. 

The sign the minister of death 

Observed with piercing eye; 
Suspended there his blighting breath. 

And passed in mercy by.' 

So where the sons of God abide, 
Though darkness reigns around ; 

With them the joys of heaven reside. 
And light is ever found. 

With the exception of a slight inaccuracy as to rhyme, 
occurring in the first stanza, this poem must be pronounced, 
I think, not only polished and correct, but throughout beau- 
tiful and highly impressive. A similar character will apply 
to the greater part of Mr. Slatter's poetry ; and, as the spe- 
cimen I have just now given is taken from the miscellaneous 
department of his volume, I will, with the view of doing 
further justice to his talents, select another from one of his 
" Rural Pictures," a series which forms the greater portion 
of the work. 


rythm, and with what an admirable turn upon the 
words, do the following verses from the sixty-second 




Beneath the mouldering roof^ at early spring. 

The wandering swallow rests her weary wing. 

Chirps undisturbed, herself an hallowed guest. 

And near the altar builds her little nest * : 

But, lo ! with tuneful bosom, glowing red. 

The old roof arching darkly o'er his head, 

A favourite minstrel, though a stranger here. 

Where holy men with holy views appear. 

Perched on the beam, above the choral throng. 

Trills sweeter strains and pours a grateful song. 

Thy wild and lonely warblings, gentle bird. 

In other scenes my listening ear has heard ; 

From childhood, up to this important hour, 

I can remember, when the wintry shower 

Drove thee from naked woods to that retreat. 

Which storms .and tempests render doubly sweet ! 

Thy annual visits to the darkened room 

For scattered crums, like sunbeams through the gloom. 

Betokening peace, diffused such pleasures there 

As grandeur's crowded halls but seldom share. 

I 've heard thee piping at the shut of eve, 

When twilight woods the weary labourers leave, 

• Psalm Ixxxiv. 3. , 


and the hundred and nineteenth psalms, con^e be« 
fore us, though modubted so far back as in the 
days of Elizabeth ! 

From the old ruin's mutilated wall^ 

A simple strain that held my heart in thrall. 

But these delights seem bom to be forgot^ 

On meeting with thee in this hallowed spot. 

Though least expected^ not less welcome here 

Thy slender form^ and strains that please the ear. 

But let me ask thee^ is there no design 

In nature^ or in Providence divine. 

To be in this unusual visit traced. 

Clear as the morning beam, and not misplaced ? 

Say, art thou not commissioned to reprove. 

In these wild lays, some hearer's languid love 

To him who promises the weary rest, 

And wings the storm that spares thy lowly nest ? 

that in wisdom, through these fleeting hours. 
To his bold schemes and philosophic powers. 
While mercy^s constant beams around him shine, 
Man would but add a gratitude like thine. 

And learn, amidst the pomp of human praise. 
How far a feathered minstrel's joyful lays 
Transcend the song, by taste itself refined. 
Which swells to heaven, but leaves the heart behind ! 

1 surely shall not be considered as too sanguine, if I ex- 
press a confident trust, that poetry like this, and from such 
a source, will not be suffered to experience the chilling dis- 
appointment of neglect. 


Their love is only love of lies ; 

Their wordes and deedep, dissenting soe. 
When from their lippes most blessing flyes^ 

Then deepest curse in hart doth grow. 

Yet shall my soule in silence still 

On God my hope attentive stay : 
Yet hee ray fort, my health, ray hill. 

Remove I may not, move I may. 
My God doth me with glory fill. 

Not only shield me safe from harme ; 
To shun distresse, to conquer ill. 

To him I clime, in him I arme. 

O then, on God, our certaine stay. 

All people in all times rely : 
Your hartes before him naked lay. 

To Adam's sonnes 'tis vain to fly, 
Soe vain, soe false, soe fraile are they, 

Ev'n he that seemeth most of might. 
With lightnesse self if him you weigh, 

Than lightnesse self will weigh more light. 

In fraud and force noe trust repose ; 

Such idle hopes from thought expell. 
And take good heed, when riches growes, 

Let not your hart on riches dwell. 
All powre is Gods, his own word showes. 

Once said by him, twice heard by me : 
Yet from thee. Lord, all mercy flowes. 

And each man's work is paid by thee. 

VOL. I. 


Most plainly^ Loid^ the frame of «ky 

Doth show thy word deoayeth never ; 
And constant stay of earth descry 

Thy word^ that staid it^ staieth ever. 
For hy thy kwes they hold their standings. 

Tea all things do thy service try ; 
But that I joy'd in thy commandings, 

I had myself been sure to dye. 

Thy word that hath revived me 

I wiU retaine, forgetting never. 
I/et me^ thine owne, be sav'd by thee. 

Whose statutes are my studies ever. 
I mark thy will the while their standings 

The wicked take, my bane to be ; 
For I no close of thy commandings. 

Of best things else an end I see •. 

In those numerous instances where the Hebrew 
bard bursts forth into strains of joy and gladness, 
and where the imagery requires from the metrical 
translator a rapid and exhilarating movement, lady 
Pembroke has often been singularly successful in 
supporting the spirit of her original. Thus, in the 
opening of the eighty-first psalm, where the son of 
Jesse is calling upon the Israelites to celebrate 
their feast-days with a mirthful heart, with the 

• Sidney Psalms^ pp. 108, 109, and 235. 


united concord of their sweetest instruments and 
voices, I know not any lyrical measure which could 
have been better chosen for the expression of that 
grateful hilarity which the poet is inculcating, than 
what the last four lines of the following stanza ex- 
hibit : 

AU gladnes^ gladdest hartes can hold. 

In meriest notes that mirth can yield ; 
Lett joyfull songes to God unfold. 
To Jacobs God, our sword and shield. 
Muster hither musick's joyes, . 
Lute, and lyre, and tabrett's noise : 
Lett noe instrument be wanting ; 
Chasing grief, and pleasure planting *. 

Turning from this strain of joyful thanksgiving, 
so happily expressed both as to language and mea- 
sure, let us examine what justice has been done by 
our translator to a theme of an opposite nature, to 
that very impressive part of the funeral service 
which is contained in the first portion of the nine- 
tieth psalm, and where we find a picture of the 
transitory state of our pilgrimage here, which is at 
once the most affecting and the most awfully sub- 
lime that can be contemplated by the mind of man. 
I give the version of the first four stanzas, 

* Sidney Psalms, p. 153. 



Thoa our refuge^ thoa our dweUing^ 

O Lord, hast byn fTom time to time ; 
hong ere mountaiiies proudly swelling 

Abore the lowly dales did dime ; 
hong ere the etrth^ embowl'd by thee. 

Bare the forme it now doth beare ; 
Tea, thoa art God for ever, free 

From all touch of age and yeare. 

O but man by thee created. 

As he at first of earth arose. 
When thy word his end hath dated. 

In equall state to earth he goes. 
Thou saist, and saying, makst it soe : 

Be noe more, O Adams heyre ; 
From whence ye came, dispatch to goe. 

Dust againe, as dust ye were. 

Graunt a thousand yeares be qiared 

To mortall men of life and light ; 
What is that to thee compared ? 

One day, one quarter of a night. 
When death upon them stonn'iikejalis, 

Like unto a dreame they grow : 
Which goes and comes as fancy calls. 

Nought in substance, all in show. 

As the hearbe that early groweth. 
Which leaved greene, and flowered faire, 

Ev'ning change with mine moweth, 
And laies to rost in withering aire : 


Soe in thy wrath we fade away^ 

With thy fury overthrowne ; 
When thou in sight our faultes dost lay^ 

Looking on our synns unknown*. 

Of these stanzas, the first and third are full of 
beauty ; and I would particularly refer to the line 
distinguished by italics, as one of peculiarly vi- 
gorous and highly poetical expression. 

Were I called upon, however, to point out in 
this book of the inspired lyrist one passage more 
truly pathetic, or more intrinsically beautiful than 
another, I should, without hesitation, fix upon that 
which is formed by the prior part of the hundred 
and thirty-seventh psalm, as furnishing a picture 
most perfect in its kind, whether we consider the 
force of the appeal which it makes to the heart, or 
the strength with which it addresses the imagination. 
To do justice to such an original cannot but be es- 
teemed a work of great difficulty, and, consequently, 
we shall not be surprised to find that many have 
failed in making the attempt. In the old version, 
this psalm was intrusted to William Whyttingham, 
unfortunately one of the least poetical of the group 

♦ Sidney Psalms, p. 171, 179. 


engaged in that undertaking, and he basaooofdinglj 
prcxluced a miserable abortion. Ample ^impiMlg, 
however, were soon afterwards made by the genius 
of Mary Sidney, which has seldom been more suc- 
cessfully employed than in translating this affecting 
composition,— an effort that will bear, and which I 
shall put to the test of, comparison with the hap- 
piest of subsequent attempts. 

Nigh seated where the river flowes 
ThiEt watreth Babells thanckfull plaine^ 

Which then our tearcs in pearled rowes 
Did help to water with their rajne : 

The thought of Sion bred such woes^ 
That tliough our herpes we did retaine. 

Yet uselesse, and untouched there^ 

On willowcs only hanged they were. 

Now wliile our harpes were hanged soe^ 
The nieOj whose captives then we lay. 

Did on our griefs insulting goe^ 
And more to grieve us thus did say : 

You that of rausique make such show 
Come sing us now a Sion lay. 

O no> we havQ nor voice nor hand 

For such a song^ in such a land. 

Though furre I lye, sweete l^on hill. 

In forrainc soile exiFd from thee. 
Yet let my hand forgett his skill. 

If over thou forgotten be : 



Yea, lett my tongue fast glued still 

Unto my roofe lye mut6 in me. 
If thy neglect within me spring. 
Or ought I do hut Salem sing •. 

Passing by, in pursuit of the comparison I have 
mentioned above, the PscJmu of King David, trans- 
lated by King James, Oi^ord, 1681, and which, 
though exact as to the sense of the original, have 
little poetry to boast of, we are immediately attracted 
by the name of George Wither, whose " Psalmes 
of David, translated in lyric verse f ,'' appeared in 
1632. This is a version which may, in many re- 
spects, vie with that of the Sidneys, — an opinion 
which will not readily be disputed, perhaps, after 
reading the following lines': 

As nigh Bahel's streams we sate, 

Full of griefs and unhefriendcd, 
Minding Sion's poor estate. 

From our eyes the tears descended ; 
And our harps we hanged high 
On the willows growing nigh. 

* Sidney Psalms^ pp. 263, 264. 

t '' The Psahnes of David translated into lyrick verse, Ac- 
cording to the scope of the original. And illustrated with a 
short argument^ and a hrief prayer or meditation, before and 
after every psalme, by Geo. Wither." 1632, 12mo. 

200 MOBX13Ci;> IX SPBIXG. 

For (insnhiog €b oar woe) 

Thej that had » hoe esdinlled, 
Tliar iuipaiuus power to Aaw, 

For a »Dg of Sob oiled: 
Come, je cipdvesy eome, sud tfaej. 
Sing OS now an Hebrew lay. 

But, oh Lord, what heart had we. 

In a ftrogn habitation. 
To repeat our aongs of Thee, 

For our spoiler's recreation? 
Ah, alas ! we cannot yet 
Thee, JemsaloD, forget. 

Oh, Jerusalem ; if I 

Do not moom, all pleasure shonning, 
\Vhilst thy walls defined lie. 

Let my right hand lose his cunning ; 
And for ever let my tongne 
To my palate fast be clung. 

Nearly a century and a half elapsed after the 
translation of Greorge Wither, before any metrical 
version worthy of being put in competition either 
with his or that of the Sidneys made its appearance. 
Not that labourers were wanting in the mine, for, 
during this period, several entire translations of the 
holy psalmist had been published ; amongst which 
may be mentioned those of William Barton, M. A., 
Miles Smyth, and the generally received version of 


Nicholas Brady and Nahum Tate. But these are 
often grossly deficient in poetical spirit, and it was 
not until the year 1765 that a translation, of a cha- 
racter decidedly superior, was completed by James 
Merrick, M. A. Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford. 
From this version, which, though occasionally too 
paraphrastic, is yet faithful to the Hebrew text, 
and throughout animated in its style, and polished 
in its versification, I shall now select my next speci- 
men of comparative translation. 

Where Babylon's proud water flows 
We sat and wept^ while in us rose 
The dear remembrance of thy name^ 
O fair^ O lost Jerusalem ! 
• Our silent harps the willows bore^ 
Whose boughs along tb' extended shore 
Their shades outspread — while thus tbe foe 
Insulting aggravates our woe : 
Ccme, tune to mirth your sullen tongue ; 
Rise^ Hebrew slaves^ and give the song ; 
Such strains as wont your fane tolSU 
On captive Zion's boasted hill. 
How shall we yield to the demand ? 
How^ exiles in a foreign land^ 
Presiune the heavex>-taught song to raise^ 
And desecrate the hallowed lays ? 
If Sion from my breast depart^ 
Forget my hand its tuneful art; 


Fast to my palate cleave my tongue^ 
If when I fonn ray sprightliest song. 
Aught to my mirth supply a theme^ 
But thon^ O loved Jerusalem ! 

During the very year in which this veraon by 
Merrick was printed, there came forth another from 
a member of the sister university, who apparently, 
from the vigour of his poetical powers, seemed fully 
adequate to the task, the well known Christopher 
Smart of Pembroke Hall. But, whether owing to 
a want of taste, or to that unhappy hallucination of 
mind to which he was occasicmally subject, the at- 
tempt, which was rather indeed a paraphrase than 
a translation, disappointed the public ; and though 
he was shortly afterwards succeeded by a few who 
endeavoured to supply a more popular representa- 
tion of the Hebrew bard, it is only from what has 
been undertaken within these few years that I can 
hope to bring forward what may successfully be 
put into competition with the versions which T have 
already produced from the hundred and thirty- 
seventh psalm. 

One of the happiest of these is from a little vo- 
lume entitled " Specimens of a New Translation of 
the Psalms,'' by Thomas Dale, B. A. of Corpus 


Christi College, Cambridge ; a version of which it 
may justly be said, that it combines, with a literal 
adherence to the original, much harmony of metre, 
and much clearness and sweetness of expression. 

By Babylon's proud stream we sate. 
And tears gushed quick from every eye. 

When our own Zion's fallen state 
Came rushing on our memory ; 

And there^ the willow groves among, 

Sorrowing our silent harps we hung. 

For there our tyrants in their pride 
Bade Judah raise th' exulting strain^ 

And our remorseless spoilers cried, 

" Come^ breathe your native hymns again." 

Oh how, in stranger climes, can we 

Pour forth Jehovah*s melody ? 

When thou, loved Zion, art forgot. 

Let this unworthy hand decay ; 
When Salem is remembered not. 

Mute be these guilty lips for aye ! 
Yea, if in transport's liveliest thrill. 
Thou, Zion, art not dearer still ! 

Of a psalm thus powerfully appealing to the 
tenderest emotions of the heart, and at the same 
time presenting so vivid a picture to the eye, it 
might naturally be /expected, that not only trans- 


lations would abound, but that, under the less 
shackled form of imitation, genius would endea- 
vour to transmit a gem of kindred exceUence. The 
attempt, certainly one of no little difficulty, has 
been lately made by two poets who stand high in 
the public favour, though of widely diflPerent taste 
and talents. As that which most strictly pursues 
the outline and arrangement of the original, I shall 
first exhibit the design of Mr. Montgomery, taken 
from his " Songs of Zion, being Imitations of the 
Psalms,'' a work which appeared very shortly after 
Mr. Dale's Specimens. 

Where Babylon's broad rivers roll 

In exile we sat down to weep; 
For thoughts of Zion o'er our soul 

Came^ like departed joys in sleep ! 
Whose forms to sad remembrance rise^ 
Though fled for ever from our eyes. 

Our harps upon the willows hung 
Where, worn with toil, our limbs reclined ; 

The chords, untuned and trembling, flung 
Their mournful music on the wind ; 

While foes, exulting o'er our wrongs. 

Cried, sing us one of Zion's songs. 

How can we sing the songs we love. 
Far from our own delightful land ? 


If I prefer thee not above 

My chiefest joy^ may this right hand, 
Jerusalem! forget its skilly 
My tongue be damb> my pulse be still ! 

In this beautiful little poem the latitude is taken 
with so sparing a hand, and the sUght additional 
imagery so perfectly amalgamates with that of the 
original, that it may almost be considered in the 
light of a literal version. 

A deviation of a much wider kind has been as- 
sumed by lord Byron, who, in his " Hebrew Me- 
lodies," whilst he has preserved the general tone 
and spirit of this exquisite passage, has not only 
added to, but inverted the series of its imagery. 
It is, however, notwithstanding this licence, worthy 
of the Hebrew lyrist, and of his lordship's talents ; 
and the opening lines of the second stanza, espe- 
cially, present us with an image as striking and 
accordant with the subject, as it is new and pleasing : 

We sate down and wept by the waters 

Of Babel, and thought of the day 
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 

Made Salem's high places his prey ; 
And ye oh, her desolate daughters ! 

Were scattered all weeping away. 


While sadly we gazed on the river 

Which roird on in freedom below. 
They demanded the song ; but^ oh nera 

That trimnph the stranger shall know ! 
May this right hand be withered for ever, 

£re it string our high harp for the foe ! 

On the willow that harp is suspended ; 

Oh, Salem ! its sound should be free ; 
And the hour when thy glories were ended 

But left me that token of thee ; 
And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 

With the voice of the spoiler by me ! 

Having indulged myself, and, I trust, my readers, 
in bringing forward this series of parallel versions, 
to which the intrinsic beauties of the passage, and 
the singular success of many of its translators have 
induced me, I shall now revert to the Psalms of 
lady Pembroke for one more specimen of excel- 
lence in her version, which has as yet not only not 
been surpassed, but I may venture to say never 
equalled. It is from the opening of that truly mag- 
nificent psalm, the one hundred and thirty-ninth. 

O Lord ! in me there lieth nought. 
But to thy search revealed ifes'J 
For when I sitt 
Thou markest it. 


No less thou notest when I rise ; 
Yea closest closett of my thought 
Hath open windowes to thine eyes. 

Thou walkest with me when I walk^ 
When to my hed for rest I go^ 
I find thee there, 
And every where ; 
Not yongest thought in me doth grow^ 
No not one word I cast to talk^ 
But yet unutt'red ^ou dost know. — 

To shun thy notice^ leave thine eye, 
O whither might I take my way ? 
To starry spheare ? 
Thy throne is there. 
To dead mens undelightsome stay ? 
There is thy walk, and there to lye 
Unknown, in vain I should assay. 

O sun ! whome light nor flight can match. 
Suppose thy lightful, flightfUl wings 
Thou lend to me. 
And I could flee 
As far as thee the ev'ning brings ; 
Ev'n led to West he would me catch. 
Nor should I lurk with western things. 

Doe thou thy best, O secret night. 
In sable vaile to cover me ; 
Thy sable vaile 
Shall vainly faile : 


With day unmasked mj n^t slall be ; 
For n^t is day, and darknes li^i, 
O Father of all li^ts^ to thee*. 

To enter into any comment on the beauty and 
sublimity of this translation, and more particularly 
of the closing stanza, would be utterly superfluous, 
for they cannot but be deeply felt and admired by 
all who read it 

Multiplied instances, indeed, of the great merits 
of this version of the Sidneys might readily be fur- 
nished, were such required ; but what has already 
been ^ven will be fully adequate to prove with 
what a fervid feeling of devotion, with what a spirit 
of genuine poetry, it was prosecuted and completed. 

There is, in truth, something inexpressibly pleas- 
ing and interesting in picturing to ourselves this 
accomplished brother and sister, the beautiful, the 
brave, thus conjointly employed in the service of 
their God, thus emulously endeavouring to do jus- 
tice to the imperishable strains of divine inspiration. 
We see them, as they proceed, kindling into warmer 
piety, and glowing with more exalted enthusiasm ; 
for, as one of the best of men and of Christians 

* Sidney Psalms^ pp. 266^ 267, 


has remarked in reference to the Psalms, whilst 
** the fairest productions of human wit, after a few 
perusals, like gathered flowers, wither in our hands, 
and lose their fragrancy, these unfading plants of 
paradise become, as we are accustomed to them, 
still more and more beautiful ; their bloom appears 
to be daily heightened ; fresh odours are emitted, 
and new sweets are extracted from them. He who 
hath once tasted their excellencies will desire to 
taste them yet again; and he who tastes them 
oftenest will relish them best ^.'^ 

Nor can we avoid thinking that the words which 
the great and good bishop has spoken of himself on 
concluding his admirable Commentary, may, with 
only a slight alteration, be applied to these affec- 
tionate relatives whilst engaged on their Version : 

** The employment detached them from the bustle 
and hurry of life, the din of politics, and the noise 
of folly; vanity and vexation flew away for a sea- 
son, care and disquietude came not near their dwell- 
ing. They arose, fresh as the morning, to their 
task ; the silence of the night invited them to pur- 
sue it ; and they could truly say, that food and 

* Home's Commentary on the Psalms, vol. i. Preface, 
p. bdv. 

VOL. I. ^ 


rest were not preferred before it. Every psalm 
improved infinitely upon their acquaintance with it, 
and no one jgave them uneasiness but the last; for 
then they grieved that their work was done. Hap- 
pier hours than those which they spent in these 
translations of the Songs of Sion, they never ex- 
pected to see in this world. Very pleasantly did 
they pass, and moved smoothly and swiftly along ; 
for when thus engaged, they counted no time. 
They are gone, but their products have left a 
relish and a fragrance upon the mind, and the 
remembrance of them is sweet *.^ 

* Home's Commentary on the Psalms^ vol. i. F^ace, 

p. IXY. 

No. VIII. 

Not in wars did he delight, 

This Clifford wished for worthier might ; 
Nor in broad pomp, or courtly state ; 
Him his own thoughts did elevate^ — 
Most happy in the shy recess 
Of Barden's humble quietness. 


It was almost immediately on the re-ascendancy 
of the house of Lancaster that the following pe- 
tition for the restitution of the Clifford estates in 
the counties of Westmoreland and York, together 
with their rank and honours, was presented and 
granted in the first year of Henry the Seventh. 

" In most humble and lowly wise beseecheth 
yoV highness yo'r true subject and faithfull lieg- 
man Henry Clifford, eldest sonne to John late lord 
Clifford, that when the same John, amongst other 
persons, for the true service and faithful legiance 
w'ch he did and owed to king Henry the Sixt, yo'r 
uncle, in the parliament at Westmynster, the fourth 
day of November, in the first year o^ king Edward 



the Fourth, was attainted and convicted of high 
treason ; and by the same act y* was ordained, that 
the said John, late lord, and his heires, from thence- 
forth should be disabled to have, hould, inherite, or 
enjoy, any name of dignity, estate, or preheminence, 
within the realmes of England, Ireland, Wales, 
Calice, or the Marches thereof, and should forfaite 
all his castles, manors, landes, &c., he desireth to 
be restored. To the w'ch petition the king, in the 
same parliament, subscribeth, 

^ Soit faite come est desier.* " 
Thus, in the thirty-second year of his age, after 
having led for twenty-five years the life of a shep- 
herd and an outlaw, and latterly either in Cumber- 
land or on the borders of Scotland, was Henry lord 
Clifford restored to the wealth and dignities of his 
forefathers. There is reason to conclude that it 
was in Westmoreland, from the vicinity of that 
county to the district in which he had usually wan- 
dered as a banished man, that he first assumed 
the honours of his family. The Cliffords, indeed, 
possessed not less than four castles in Westmore- 
land, namely, Pendragon, Brough, Appleby, and 
Brougham ; and the last, being towards the northern 
boundary of the county, must have been the first 


noble mansion on his patrimony which lord Clifford 
would reach on his return from exile. It was, in 
fact, the most magnificent of the four structures, as 
its remains yet testify ; and in the great hall, which 
occupied one of the stories of the massive Norman 
tower, did the friends and retainers of lord Clifford 
assemble to celebrate his restoration. Here also, 
there can be little doubt, as she survived the happy 
event six years*, came his mother, lady Clifford, 
and with her, in all probability, the venerable part- 
ner of her .days, sir Lancelot Threlkeld, The 
scene of festivity which we may suppose to have 
taken place on this occasion has furnished to one 
of the most original poets of the present day a 
pleasing opportunity for the exercise of his talents ; 
and as the song of exultation which, for this pur- 
pose, he has put into the mouth of the family min- 
strel, is beautifully illustrative of the character and 

* She died at Londsborough^ where^ on a plain brass 
near the altar of the churchy may be read the following in- 
scription in black letter^ the oldest memorial of the family^ 
says Whitaker^ now remaining : 

** Orate proanima Margarete D'ne Clyfford,et Vescy, olim 
sponse nobilissimi viri Job's D'ni Clifford et Westmorland^ 
filie et heredis Henrici Bromflet quondam D'ni Vescy^ ac 
• • • • • matris Henrici Domini Clyfford, Westmorland, et 
Vescy, quse obiit xv die mens' Aprilis, Anno Domini 
Nccccici. ci^us corpus sub hoc marmore est humatum." 


disposition of lord Clifford, and of some of the in- 
cidents which befel him during his sojourn in the 
wilds of Cumberland, I shall not, I am convinced, 
be accused of irrelevancy in transferring it hither. 



High in the breathless hall the minstrel sate. 
And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song. — 
The words of ancient time I thus translate, 
A festal strain that hath been silent long. 

" From Town to Town, from Tower to Tower, 
The Red Rose is a gladsome Flower. 
Her thirty years of Winter past. 
The Red Rose is revived at last ; 
She lifts her head for endless spring. 
For everlasting blossoming : 
Both Roses flourish. Red and White, 
In love and sisterly delight ; 
The two that were at strife are blended. 
And all old troubles now are ended. — 
Joy ! joy to both I but most to her 
Who is the Flower of Lancaster ! 
Behold her how she smiles to-day 
On this great throng, this bright array ! 
Fair greeting doth she send to all 
From every corner of the Hall ; 
But, chiefly, from above the Board 
Where sits in state our rightful Lord, 
A Clifford to his own restored ! 


They came with hanner^ spear^ and shield ; 
And it was proved in Bosw(»:th-field. 
Not long the Avenger was withstood — 
Earth helped him with the cry of hlood : 
St George was for us^ and the might 
Of hlessed Angels crown'd the right. 
Loud voice the Land hath uttered forth, 
We loudest in the faithful North : 
Our Fields rgoice> our Mountains ring, 
Our Streams proclaim a welcoming ; 
Our Strong-ahodes and Castles see 
The glory of their loyalty. 
How glad is Skiptou at this hour — 
Though she is hut a lonely Tower ! 
To vacancy and silence left ; 
Of all her guardian sons bereft — 
Knight^ Squire^ or Yeoman^ Page or Groom ; 
We have them at the Feast of Brough'm. 
How glad Pendragon — though the sleep 
Of years be on her ! — She shall reap 
A taste of this great pleasure^ viewing 
As in a dream her own renewing. 
Rejoiced is Brought right glad I deem 
Beside her little humble Stream ; 
And she that keepeth watch and ward 
Her statelier £den*s course to guard ; ' 
They both are happy at this hour, 
Though each is but a lonely Tower : — 
But here is perfect joy and pride 
For one fair House by Emont's side. 
This day distinguished without peer 
To see her Master and to cheer ; 
Him, and his Lady Mother dear ! 


Oh ! it was a time forlorn 
When the Fatherless was horn — 
Give her wings that she may fly. 
Or she sees her Infant die ! 
Swords that are with slaughter wild 
Hunt the Mother and the Child. 
Who will take them from the light? 
— ^Yonder is a Man in sight — 
Yonder is a House — ^but where ? 
No^ they must not enter there. 
To the Caves^ and to the Brooks^ 
To the Clouds of Heaven she looks ; 
She is speechless^ but her eyes 
Pray in ghostly agonies : 
' Blissful Mary^ Mother mild. 
Maid and Mother undefiled. 
Save a Mother and her child !' 

Now who is he. that bounds with joy 

On Carrock's side^ a shepherd boy ? 

No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass 

Light as the wind along the grass. 

Can this be he who hither came 

In secret^ like a smother'd flame ? 

O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 

For shelter^ and a poor roan's bread ! 

God loves the child ; and God hath willed 

That those dear words should be fulfllled — 

The lady's words, when forced away. 

The last she to her babe did say : 

' My own, ray own ! thy fellow-guest 

I may not be; but rest thee, rest; 

For lowly shepherd's life is best !* 


Alas I when evil men are strong, 

No life is good, no pleasure long. 

The boy must part from Mosedale's groves. 

And leave Blencathara's rugged coves. 

And quit the flowers that summer brings 

To Glenderamakin's lofty springs ; 

Must vanish, and his careless cheer 

Be tnrn'd to heaviness and fear. 

— Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise ! 

Hear it, good man, old in days I 

Thou tree of covert and of rest 

For this young bird that is distrest : 

Among thy branches safe he lay. 

And he was free to sport and play. 

When falcons were abroad for prey. 

A recreant harp that sings of fear 
And heaviness in Clifibrd*s ear ! 
I said, when evil men are strong, 
No life is good, no pleasure long, 
A weak and cowardly untruth ! 
Our Clifford was a happy youth. 
And thankful through a weary time. 
That brought him up to manhood's prime. 
— ^Again he wanders forth at will. 
And tends a flock from hill to hill : 
His garb is humble ; ne'er was seen 
Such garb with such a noble mien ; 
Among the shepherd-grooms no mate 
Hath he, a child of strength and state ! 
Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee. 
And a cheerful company. 


That learned of him suhmissive ways^ 

And comforted his private days. 

To his side the fallow-^eer 

Came^ and rested without fear ; 

The eagle, lord of land and sea. 

Stooped down to pay him fealty ; 

And hoth the undying fish that swim 

Through Bowscale-Tarn did Vait on him*. 

The pair were servants of his eye 

In their immortality ; 

They moved ahout in open sight. 

To and fro, for his delight. 

He knew the rocks which angels haunt 

On the mountain's visitant ; 

He liath kenned them taking wing : 

And the caves where fairies sing 

He hath entered ; and heen told 

By voices, how men lived of old. 

Among the heavens his eye can sec 

Face of thing that is to he ; 

And, if men report him right. 

He can whisper words of might. 

— Now another day is come. 

Fitter hope, and nobler doom : 

He hath thrown aside his crook. 

And hath buried deep his book : 

* " It is imagined by the people of the country that there 
are two immortal fish, inhabitants of this tarn, which lies in 
the mountains not far from Threlkeld. Blencathara, men- 
tioned before, is the old and proper name of the mountain, 
vulgarly called Saddle-back.'' 


Armour rusting in his halls 

On the hlood of Clifford calls :— 

* Quell the Scot !' exclaims the lance^ 

' Bear me to the heart of France^' 

Is the longing of the shield ; — 

Tell thy name, thou tremhling field ; 

Field of death, where'er thou he, 

Groan thou with our victory ! 

Happy day, and mighty hour. 

When our shepherd, in his power. 

Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, 

To his ancestors restored. 

Like a re-appearing star, 

Like a glory from afar. 

First shall head the flock of war !■' 

Alas ! the fervent harper did not know 
That for a tranquil soul the lay was framed. 
Who, long compelled in humhle walks to go. 
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed. 

Love had he found in huts where poor men lie ; 
His daily teachers had been woods and rills. 
The silence that is in the starry sky. 
The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 

In him the savage virtue of the race. 
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead .- 
Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place 
The wisdom which adversity had bred. 

Glad were the vales, and every cottage hearth ; 
The shepherd lord was honoured more and more ; 
And, ages after he was laid in earth, 
" The good lord Clifford" was the name he bore *. 

* Wordsworth's Miscellaneous Poems, vol. ii. p. 272. et seq. 


It will hereafter be found, however, that this 
shepherd-lord, though happily void of the unprin- 
cipled ambition and savage ferocity of some of his 
ancestors, had not degenerated from the martial 
spirit of his race, and that, when a proper occasion 
called for its exertion, he was amongst the foremost 
to rally round the standard of his king and country. 
In the mean time he was what the preceding lines, 
in conformity with history and tradition, have re- 
presented him, humble, courteous, and kind, fond 
of retirement, and addicted to contemplative pur- 

Having visited therefore his Westmoreland estates, 
he passed into Yorkshire, and, on reaching Skipton 
in Craven, he fixed upon the neighbouring forest 
of Barden as the place of his retreat. In this ro- 
mantic tract, which^ had from the time of the Ro- 
millies formed part of the honour and fee of Skipton, 
there were six lodges for the accommodation of the 
keepers, and the protection of the deer ; and in one 
of these, called Barden Tower, which he greatly 
improved and enlarged, adding to its other conve- 
niences that of a chapel, did lord Clifford take up 
his residence, preferring it to the splendour and 
parade which almost necessarily awaited him in his 
larger houses. 


Here, with the object of his early choice, the 
beautiful and affectionate daughter of sir John St. 
John, the heroine of the ballad of the Nut-brown 
Maid, lord Clifford found the happiness he was in 
search of. Though uneducated, and aware of his 
deficiencies, a consciousness which, at the period of 
his elevation, had for a time depressed his spirits, 
he possessed a vigour of mind and rectitude of prin- 
ciple which prevented him from becoming a prey 
to vicious or luxurious habits. If, in his shepherd 
state, no portion of scholastic learning had fallen to 
his share, he had imbibed, what may assuredly be 
considered as some of Heaven^s choicest gifts, an en- 
thusiastic love of nature, a taste for natural history 
and philosophy, and, above all, a spirit of sincere 
devotion. With acquisitions such as these, we can 
no longer be surprised that, despising the vanities 
of wealth and rank, he preferred the beautiful se- 
clusicHi of Barden to the pomp and splendour of 
Skipton or of Brougham Castle ; especially when 
we learn that this retreat was in the immediate vi- 
cinity of Bolton Abbey, from an intercourse with 
the canons of which he hoped more effectually 
to prosecute both his religious and philosophical 


He had early in life, and whilst yet a shepherd^s 
boy, owing to the total want of instruments for 
measuring the lapse of time, become a diligent ob- 
server of the heavenly bodies, a practice which had 
excited in him an ardent thirst for astronomical 
knowledge. As soon, therefore, as the means were 
in his power, he purchased the best app^Lratus which 
the science of the day could supply ; and, converting 
the Tower of Barden into an observatory, he there, 
in company with some of the canons of Bolton, who 
are said to have beea well acquainted with the 
astronomy of their age, spent no inconsiderable 
portion of his time. 

This was not, however, the only resource to 
which in the field of science he could apply ; for 
from evidence collected by the historian of Craven*, 
through the medium of the Clifford manuscripts, 
and from similar documents, which had once been 
the property of the inmates of Bolton Abbey, it 
would appear that, together with his friends the 
canons, he had prosecuted the study of chemistry, 
and had even entered upon the mysterious and 
visionary pursuit of the philosopher's stone. An- 

• History of Craven, p. 252. 



Other proof of the intercourse which subsisted be- 
tween Henry lord Clifford and the canons of Bolton 
has been given by Dr. Whitaker from the MS. of 
Thoresby, the antiquary, namely, A Treatise of 
Naiwral Philosophy^ which had been presented by 
his lordship to the Priory of Bolton, and which, 
after the dissolution of that house, had reverted to 
the family of the donor *. 

These propensities and pursuits on the part 
of lord Henry almost necessarily threw about his 
person, in the minds of the inhabitants of Craven, 
a high degree of mystery and awe ; and though he 
was too much beloved by his neighbours — too pious, 
charitable and kind, to induce them to infer that 
he had any connexion with unhallowed powers ; yet 
it was whispered round the cottage, and even by 
the omvent fire, and firmly believed amongst them, 
that, during his long concealment under the garb 
of a shepherd, he had been the especial favourite 
of a fairy, who had watched over his safety, and 

Who loved the shepherd lord to meet 
In his wanderings solitary ; 
Wild notes she in his hearing sang^ 
A song of nature's hidden powers ; 

*, History of Craven, p. 252. 


That whistled like the wind, and rang 

Among the rocks and holly bowers. 

'Twas said that she all shapes could wear ; 

And oftentimes before him stood. 

Amid the trees of some thick wood. 

In semblance of a lady fair. 

And taught him signs, and showed him sights. 

In Craven's dens, on Cumbria's heights ; 

When under cloud of fear he lay, 

A shepherd clad in homely grey ; 

Nor left him at his later day. — 

And choice of studious friends had he 
Of Bolton's dear fraternity ; 
Who, standing on the old church tower. 
In many a calm propitious hour. 
Perused, with him, the starry sky ; 
Or in their cells with him did pry 
For other lore; through strong desire 
Searching the earth with chemic fire *. 

Yet we are not to conceive from this attachment 
to, and cultivation of, the sciences of astronomy and 
chemistry, that lord Clifford led the life of a her- 
mit. He was, in fact, not only charitable but hos- 
pitable ; and though whilst at Barden, which was 
the chief place of his residence when in Yorkshire, 
he kept not such a household as would have been 

* Wordsworth's Works, vol. iii. p. 21 . 


necessary a{ Skipton or Brougham, we know, from 
family papers found at Londsborough, that^ in the 
year 1517, wages were paid to nearly sixty servants 
at Barden, though this was reckoned, at that time, 
but a slender retinue for a baron. From the same 
authority we find, that in 1521, two tuns of wine 
were forwarded from Newcastle to this retreat, and 
that the names of nearly three hundred tenants and 
dependants were admitted on my lord^s ^^ Beyd 
Rolls'* for that year*. 

Nor did he neglect occasionally^ to visit his va- 
rious castles, keeping his Christmas sometimes in 
one and sometimes in another; a custom which, 
probably owing to the carelessness of servants, 
brought on the destruction of his castle of Brough ; 
for it was burnt, relates Whitaker, " that is, the 
roof and floors were consumed, after a noble Christ- 
mas kept there by Henry lord Clifford, the shep- 
herd, in his later daysf.*" 

Hospitality was indeed the characteristic and the 
virtue of the times, and alike conspicuous in the 

• Whitaker, pp. 253—413. 
t Ibid. p. 351. 

VOL. I. a 


hall of the castle and the convent. There were 
few monastic establishments more splendid and 
hospitable than that with which lord Henry himself 
was almost daily conversant, the canmis r^ular of 
Bolton Abbey ; and as there is every reason to sup- 
pose that his lordship^s own household at Baiden 
fared not worse than that of the prior of BdtoD, 
a statement of the mode of living of the latter; 
which has fortunately been preserved, will neces- 
sarily throw much light upon that of the former. 

It is true that the summary which, for this pur- 
pose, I am about to transcribe from Dr. Whitaker 
is founded on annual household accounts at Bolton, 
which, occupying a space of eighty years, terminate 
nearly a century before lord Clifford's restoration ; 
but as the establishment continued, on an average 
as to number, nearly the same ; and the routine of 
domestic econotny had, during that period, suffered 
little or no change, we may consider the habits and 
expenses of the priory as being, during the whole 
of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, very closely 
assimilated, and forming, in fact, that era in which 
He luxury, rivalling that of kings and nobles, 
wid to have attained its highest pitch, 
r establishment,^ says Dr. Whitaker, who 


telb i<9 that every particular in his summary is 
verified by a distinct article in the Compottis of 
Bolton, ^^ consisted, first, of the prior, who had 
lodgings, with a hall and chapel, stables, &e. di- 
stinct from tho£(^ of the house. There were, on an 
aterage, fifteen canons and two conversi* ; bendes 
whom weire the armigeri, gentlemen dependent on 
the house, who had clothing, board, and lodging ; 
the liberi servientes within and without ; and, lastly, 
the garciones, who were villeins in gro^, or mere 
domestic slaves^ Of the free servants, intra curiam, 
there were about thirty ; among whom may be di- 
fltiikguished, the master-carpenter, the master and 
ioferior cook, brewer and baker, the master-smith, 
the hbkarius, the fagotarius, and the ductor sacca- 
rum. These received wages from ten shillings to 
three shillings each, per annum. The servatitis 

* " The lay-brethren were such as either from bodily 
d^ormity or mental dulness were incapable of holy orders. 
Many of the former were^ no doubt^ by the compensating 
boonty of Proyidence^ blessed with fine understandings^ and 
would be emplojied in delicate and ingenious works. One 
of these earned upwards of 71., equal nearly to 100/. at pre- 
sent, in one year ; is not said by what means. * The latter 
often became excellent masons, carpenters, wheelwrights, 
fire,"— Whitaker. . 



extra cmianif or those employed in husbandrj 
upon the farms and granges, were from seventy to 
a hundred and eight. 

^^ If any antiquary should think fit to write a 
dissertation on the antiquity of nicknames in Eng- 
land, he may meet with ample materials in the 
€ompotus of Bolton; for iii this catalogue are 
found, Adam Blunder, Simon Paunche, Richard 
Drunken, Tom Noght (or good-for-nothing). 
Botch CoUock *, the cooper, and Whirle, the car- 
ter ; the last I suppose, by an antiphrasis, from the 
slowness of his rotatory motion. 

" The precise number of the garciones-f-, as they 
received no wages, it is impossible to discover; but 
it may be guessed at, from the expense of their 
clothing and the general consumption of provisions 
in the house. They wore the coarsest cloth ; but 
the quantity purchased on their account was gene- 
rally more than for the free servants. The prior 
alone must have had more than twenty, as their 
cdlciatura amounted to more than twenty shillings 
per annum. The cellarer had another dass, em- 

*BauSl wooden vessel to draw water ; a word still used 

>-* — 

die French gar^on. 


fioyed probably about the kitchen and hall ; and 
even the conversi and armigeri had each a garcio 
to themselves. 

^^ Among those of the prior are enumerated the 
huntsman and page of the stable. But the gar- 
dones in general were furnished with bows and 
arrows, undoubtedly for the use of the chase; and 
certainly assisted in netting for game and fish^ the 
implements of which amusements are distinctly men- 
tioned. In other respects, undoubtedly, they per- 
Jbrmed the lowest offices of drudgery about the 

*< On the whole, I cannot but persuade myself 
that the whole establishment at Bolton consisted of 
more than two hundred persons ; an opinion which, 
with, every reasonable allowance for hospitality to 
strangers, will be fortified by the following accurate 
tstatement of one year's provisions : — Wheat flour, 
used in conventual or gruel (coarse) bread, S19 
quarters ; barleymeal for the same, 112 quarters ; 
oatmeal for pottage, 80 quarters ; ditto for dogs, 
89 quarters; provender for the horses, 411 quar- 
ters; oats malted for ale, 636 quarters; barley, 
or mixtilio (to be explained hereafter), 80 quar- 
ters. They generally brewed 12 quarters at each 


Pandoxation, an it was termed, and that once every 
week, and sometiines oftener. 

*^ Thus much for their bread, beer, and pottage. 
With respect to animal food, bendes venison, fidb, 
poultry, &c., they dauglitered in one .year, M oxen, 
85 cows, one steer, 140 sheep*, and 69 pigs. To 
lulmcate this immense quantity of diambles-meat, 
and lor every other domestic purpose, tbqr ooo- 
sumed, in the year, only 113 stones of butter ; and 
yet four quarters of fine Jour were used in pies and 

*^ Their spiceries, though expensive, were used 
with no qiaring hand : ew gr. in one year, almonds, 
90(Hb., 88ir/; lice, 7^b.,.9tf.; pepp^, 19ib., 9ls. 7dL; 
saffiron, 4clb., 23s.; cummin, S51b., Sf. 8d*; one 
quartern of maoes; one race of figs and nuans, 
&c. &c. 

^ Most of these were bought for the great festival 
of the Assumption, which was celebrated as the 
foundation-day of the priory; and, lor the same 
occasion, the canons purchased three salmons, 24 

* '* Mutton in tbe Compottii if always called csro matt- 
lina. Mutilo, of which the derivation and reason are ob- 
vious, was a wether. The word was afterwards carmpied 
into muUo, and hence the Englkih mutton/* 


kmjpreys de Naunt*, an ^sturgeon, SOO and a quar- 
ter of lamprons, and 300 eels. 

^* The reader has now pretty nearly the bill of 
£are for a festival-dinner at Bolton, almost five cen- 
turies ago. 

*^ But the canons held that a good dinner re- 
quired a certain proportion of wine; and accord- 
ingly I find, that in one year they paid for one 
ddium of wine at Hull, 50^.; {or two dolia, 62.; 
tor three dplia, 7/. 10^. ; for one dolium, B6s. Sd. 
The dolium was a tun of 252 gallons, and the 
average price about Sd, a gallon ; so that the con- 
sumption of one year (at least the stock laid in) 
was nearly 1800 gallons, or at least 8000 bottles, 
at about the fortieth part of the pres^it value. 

^ In these oitertainments the ear was gratified 
aa veil as the palate ; for I find, at every festival, 
the minstrels very liberally rewarded. 

^ The clothing or habits of the canons were fine 

'^ These^ I thinks were the Petromyzon Marinus^ as the 
hmpron, still called hy that name in Cumherland^ was the 
Feir. Fluyiatilis. The fonner were hought cum funatione, 
ready dressed and highly seasoned. In this state they were 
probably sent from Nantz. Epicurism is not peculiar to 
modem times. We learn from Dugdale> that the Neviles 
sent fish ready cooked from Warwick to Middleham.'* 


cloth o(Ss. a yard (much dearer than the finest broad 
cloth at present) ; the novices wore ' frizons C the 
iseryants and garciones were clothed in a manufac- 
ture of their own refuse wool ; their doublets, trow- 
sers, stockings, and even hoods, being of the same 

^^ One practice of the canons was good-natured 
and accommodating : resorting annually to St. Bo- 
tolph^s fair (the great fair of Boston), they pur- 
chased articles of dress of a superior quality, such 
as cQuld not be had at home, for the gentlemen, 
and even the ladies of Craven, which prove how ex- 
pensively they were clothed. Half a piece of cloth, 
with fur, for the lady of Stiveton, 71s. 4id. ; one 
robe for Ralph de Otterbum, 19^. 4td, ; furs bought 
for sir Adam de Midelton, for two years wear, \9s. 
" Multiply 19^. 4d. by 15, and ' it will leave 
14Z. 10^. as the price of a single suit for a country 

*^ It may also be observed, that ladies, at least of 
ordinary rank, wore woollen cloth, faced with fur, 
like the gowns of gentlemen, and probably not 
greatly differing from them in shape. In this they 
cm \ comfort and the nature of the 


^* The physician's fee for visiting a canon, I sup- 
pose from York, was 6s. Id. ; a Ric. Apotecarius 
made up the medicines; but his practice in the 
house must have been a bad one, for'all the pre- 
parations that I meet with are, * Lectuar. ad opus 
fr. W. Donjrngton, et ilb. of Lenitif. Laxatif.^ 

■** The bounty of the canons was divided into 
three classes : Exennia, or presents to great men ; 
Curialitates, or acts of courtesy to persons of in- 
ferior rank ; and thirdly, the Distributio Pauperum ; 
which last, except the sacred oblations, consisted 
principally in grain. Under the second head was 
one curious article : they presented their ' hay- 
makers, tithe-gatherers, herdsmen^ with a pair of 
gloves each ; on others they bestowed silk purses. 

** They consumed vast quantities of oatmeal pot- 
tage, but made no oat bread, excepting for horses ; 
a practice continued in Craven three centuries after. 
But, in lieu of oat bread, they had an odd com- 
position, which they called mixtilioy consisting of 
the following proportions, viz. 49 bushels of wheat 
flour, 16 of rye, 70 of barley, 73 of oats, and some- 
times a small proportion of bean meal. This was 
subdivided into two kinds: the finer, called con- 


vent bread ; the ooarsar, Piuais gruellus. They evai 
malted and brewed this mixture. 

*^ Their wool, though occasionally mudi dearer, 
sold, on an average, at ^. 6d, a stone : the produce 
of 2000 sheep came to about 702. A sheep sold for 
a shilling, so that the wool was worth two-thirds of 
the animal. 

*^ Their best cloth was purchased at St. Botolphls 
fair. Sometimes the doth thus purchased was shorn 
the first time, and sometimes a seoood time at home. 

<^ The average wages of a man-servant, with meat 
and clothing, were from three to five shillings only 
per annum ; yet they paid their reapers 9d. a day. 
Two hundred and axty stones and an half of lead 
cost 4A. 9^. 5J., or nearly 22. 5s. a ton ; thirty quar- 
ters of fosffll-coal were bought fcnr 17^. fid. 

^^ In order to reduce these sums to the present 
standard, we must first multiply by three, as the 
weight of every penny in stiver was thrice as much 
as at present ; we may then multiply once more by 
five, or thereabouts. By this rule the receipts and 
expenditure of the canons of Bolton would amount 
to about 10,000/. per annum of our money. 

'' Prior de Land was an active man, and lived in 


an evesotfvl period. He built the prior^s lodgings 
and diapel; attended at Skipton or Bolton two 
covereignB, Edward the First and Second ; saw the 
extincticm of the Albeinarles ; the escheat of Skip- 
ton Castle to the crown ; the rise and ruin of Peirs 
Gkurestone in Crav^i, with the introduction of the 
CliflSsrds into his place ; entertiuned two metropo- 
litans, Ghreenfield and Melton ; took two journeys 
to JEUxne; attended many convocations, most of 
the general chiqpterB of bis order^ and three par- 
liamentis. His old age was clouded with misfor- 
tune; he was driven from his house, and saw the 
disperaon of his convent by the ravages of the Scots ; 
but he survived the last of these calamities several 
yean^and though he had resigned his dignity, died, 
as he deserved, in honour^ !^^ 

The last three priors of Bolton Abbey, Christo- 
]^i(qr Wood, Thomas Ottelay, and Richard Moone, 
weveooBtemporaries with lord Henry the shepherd : 
the first entered on his ofSce in July 1483; the 
second in October 1495; and the third in April 

At what time lord Henry lost his first wife, by 

♦ History of Craven, pp. 401, 2, 3, 4, and 5. 


whom he left one son^ is not known; but ten or 
eleven years previous to his decease^ he married a 
second lady^ Florence, daughter of Henry Pudsay, 
«$q. of Bolton, and widow of sir Thomas Talbot of 

Thus, in the bosom of domestic intercourse and 
studious retirement, never travelling out of Eng- 
land, and seldom visiting its court or capital, but 
when called to parliament, in which he is said to 
have exhibited the integrity and good sense of a 
plain but truly patriotic nobleman, passed in tran- 
quillity nearly thirty years of the life of lord Clif- 
ford. In the year 1513, however, and when on the 
verge of sixty, he was roused from the peaceful teiKMr 
pf his days by the sudden call of war, being ho- 
noured by his sovereign with a chief command in 

* This lady, on the decease of her second husband^ was 
married to Richard^ third son of Thomas^ marquis Dorset, 
son of Elizabeth Widvile. " The gradual advancement of 
this lady/' observes Whitaker, *' is remarkable : her father 
was an esquire ; her first husband a knight ; her second a 
baron ; her last the grandson of a queen. She survived her 
father-in-law^ who was slain at Towton, ninety-seven years ; 
and having conversed with many of the principals in the war 
between the houses^ must^ in the middle of the next oen- 
tury^ if her memory remained, have been a living chronicle, 
fraught with information and entertainment/' P. 254. 


the army destined to act against Scotland, and 
which terminated its successful career by the de- 
cisiTe victory at Flodden Field. It was then seen 
that neither the advance of years, nor the quietude 
of more than common seclusion, had quenched 
within him that martial spirit which had distin- 
guished so many of his ancestors; for, with a 
{MTomptitude and zeal which could not but astonish 
those who had known the habits of his early life, 
he collected together his friends and retainers, in* 
spiring them with the ardour which he himself felt, 
and conducting them, firm and faithful to his stand- 
ard, to the field of glory. 

Nor was the patriotism of the shepherd lord 
forgotten in the records of his day ; for he and his 
followers are thus honourably mentioned in the old 
pc^ular poem entitled Flodden Field : 

From Penigent to Pendle Hill^ 
From Linton to Long Addingham^ 
And all that Craven coasts did till^ 
They with the lusty Clififbrd came ; 
All StaincUfib hundred went with him. 
With striplings strong from Wharledale, 
And aU that Hauton hills did climh. 
With Longstroth eke and Litton Dale, 


Whose milk-fed fellows, fleshy hred. 
Well brown'd with sounding bows upbend ; 
All such as Horton Fells had fed 
On Cliffbrd's banner did attend. 

More fortunate than his brave ancestor, Robert 
de Clifford, first lord of Skipton, who perished, as 
we have seen, at the fatal struggle at Baimockbum, 
lord Henry long survived to tell of the laurels which 
he had won on the field of Flodden. 

Of the precise manner in which he distinguished 
himself in this celebrated action we have no certain 
knowledge ; but as, like the battle of Bannockbum, 
that of Flodden is, in no slight degree, blended 
with the history and character of one of the Clifford 
family, and has been in the same manner misrepre- 
sented by every historian save one, I shall not he- 
sitate to give as a counterpart to the former battle- 
piece, the picture of Flodden which sir Walter 
Scott has founded on the detail of Pinkerton ♦, the 
only account, he says, which is not full of blunder 
and inconsistency ; and in doing this, I have, with 
the view of heightening the effect, mingled a few 


* History, book xi. 


oi his metrical but equally graphical touches with 
the sketch which he has drawn in prose. 

** On the evening,'' he relates, " previous to the 
memorable battle of Flodden, Surrey's head-quar- 
ters were at Barmoor-wood, and king James held 
atf inaccessible position on the ridge of Flodden- 
hills, one of the last and lowest eminences detached 
from the ridge of Cheviot. The Till, a deep and 
slow river, winded between the armies. On the 
morning of the 9th September^ 1513, Surrey 
marched in a north-westerly direction, and crossed 
the Till, with his van and artillery at Twisel-bridge, 
nigh where that river joins the Tweed, his rear- 
guard column passing about a mile higher by a 
ford. This movement had the double e£Pect of 
placing his army between king James and his sup- 
plies from Scotland, and of striking the Scottish 
monarch with surprise, as he seems to have relied 
on the depth of the river in his front. But as the 
passage, both over the bridge and through the ford, 
was difficult and slow, it seems possible that the 
English might have been attacked to great advan- 
tage while struggling with natural obstacles. I 
know not if we are to impute James's forbearance 
to want of military skill, or to the romantic de- 


claration which Pitscottie puts in his mouth, ^ that 
he was determined to have his enemies before him 
on a plain field/ and therefore would suffer no in- 
terruption to be given, even by artillery, to their 
passing the river. 

" When the English army by their skilful 
counter-march were fairly placed between king 
James and his own country, the Scottish monarch 
resolved to fight ; and, setting fire to his tents, de- 
scended from the ridge of Flodden to secure the 
neighbouring eminence of Brankstone, on which 
that village is built — moving down the hill in deep 
silence : — 

" — See ! look up — on Flodden bent. 
The Scottish foe has fireil his tent/*-— 

And sudden^ as he spoke. 
From the sharp ridges of the hill. 
All downward to the banks of Till, 

Was wreathed in sable smoke ; 
Volumed and vast, and rolling far. 
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war. 

As down the hill they broke ; 
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, 
Announced their march, their tread alone : 
At times one warning trumpet blown. 

At times a stifled hum. 
Told England, from his mountain-throne. 

King James did rushing come. — 


Scarce could they hear^ or see their focs^ 
Until at weapon-point they close. — 
They dose^ in clouds of smoke and dust^ 
With BWord«sway^ and with lance's thrust ; 

And such a yell was there^ 
Of sudden and portentous birth^ 
As if men fought upon the earthy 

And fiends in upper air ; 
O life and death were in the shout, 
Recoil and rally, charge and rout. 

And triumph and despair. 

*^ The earls of Huntley and of Home commanded 
the left wing of the Scotch, and charged sir Ed- 
mund Howard with such success, as entirely to 
defeat his part of the English right wing. Sir 
Eklmund Howard's banner was beaten down, and 
he himself escaped with difficulty to his brother's 
division. The admiral^ however, stood firm ; and 
Dacre advancing to his support with the reserve of 
cavalry, appears to have kept the victors in effectual 
check. Homers men, chiefly Borderers, began to 
{»llage the baggage of both armies; and their 
leader is branded, by the Scottish historians, with 
negligence or treachery. On the other hand, Hunt- 
ley, on whom they bestow many encomiums, is said 
by the English historians to have left the field after 
the first charge. Meanwhile the admiral, whose flank 

VOL. I. E 


these chiefs ought to have attacked, availed him- 
self ci their inactivitv, and pushed forward against 
another large diviaoo ci the Scottish army in his 
front, headed by the earls of Crawffird and Mont- 
rose, both of whom were slain and their f<Nt;es 
routed* On the left the success of the English 
was yet mcH^ decisive ; for the Scottish right wing, 
consisting of undiadfdined Highlanders^ anaunanded 
by Lennox and Argyle, was unable to sustain the 
charge of sir Edward Stanley, and especially the 
severe execution of the Lancashire archers. The 
king and Surrey, who commanded the respective 
centres of their armies, were meanwhile engaged in 
close and dubious conflict. James, surrounded by 
the flower of his kingdom, and impatient at the 
galling discharge cS arrows, supported also by his 
reserve under Bothwell, charged with such fury, 
that the standard of Surrey was in danger. At 
that critical moment Stanley, who had routed the 
left wing of the Scottish, pursued his career of vic- 
tory, and arrived on the right flank, and in the rear 
of Jameses division, which, throwing itself into a 
circle, disputed the battle till night came (Hi. Sur* 
rey then drew back his forces; for the Scottish 
centre not having been broken, and their left wing 


being victorious^ he yet doubted the event of the 
field. The Scottish army, however, felt their loss, 
and abandoned the field of battle in disorder before 
dawn. They lost, perhaps, from eight to ten thou- 
sand men, but that included the very prime of their 
nobility, gentry, and even clergy. Scarce a family 
of eminence but has an ancestor killed at Flodden ; 
aiKl there is no province in Scotland, even at this 
day, where the battle is mentioned without a sen- 
satioii of terror and sorrow : 

Thdr king^ their lords^ their mightiest^ low^ 

They melted from the field as snow. 

When streams are swollen and south winds blow. 

Dissolves in silent dew. 
Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash. 

While many a broken band. 
Disordered, through her currents dash. 

To gain the Scottish land ; 
To town and tower, to down and dale. 
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale. 
And raise the universal waQ. 
Tradition^ legend, tune, and song. 

Shall many an age that wail prolong : 
Still irom the nre the son shall hear 
Of the stern strife, and carnage drear. 

Of Flodden's' fatal field. 
Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear. 

And broken was her shield * !" 

• Marmion, pp. cxx., cxxi., 354— cxxii., cxxiii., 369. 



Lord Henry Clifford returned from the Field of 
Flodden hoping to enjoy with, if possible, still en- 
creased zest, the quiet retreat and romantic soli- 
tudes of Harden Forest and Bolton Abbey. But, 
as is often the case with wealth and rank, bis sta- 
tion and connexions too often forced him into scenes 
which were foreign to his heart; and, what was in- 
finitely more distressing, his peace of mind was for 
some years broken in upon by the wild and ex- 
travagant conduct of the son whom he had by his 
first lady. It was not, therefore, without regret, 
without many a sigh, resulting from the contrast, 
that he looked back upon those years once, perhaps, 
thought tedious and humiliating, as now the hap- 
piest of his life, when in the lowly but peaceful 
seclusion of the shepherd's cot, he was a stranger 
alike to grief, ingratitude, or care. 

Assuredly, therefor^, we shall not err, if, with 
an elegant poet of the present day *, and a de- 
scendant also of the house of Clifford, we estimate 
the experience of lord Henry to have been, in his 
old age^ what the following beautiful sonnets very 
shrewdly surmise. 

» Sir Samuel £gerton Brydges. 



I wish I could have heard thy long-tried lore. 
Thou virtuous Lord of Skipton ! Thcu couldst well 
From sage Experience, that hest teacher, tell. 
How far within the Shepherd's humhle door 

Lives the sure happiness, that on the floor 
Of gay Baronial Halls disdains to dwell, 
Tho' deck'd with many a feast, and many a spell 
Of gorgeous rhyme, and echoing with the roar 

Of Pleasure clamorous round the fuU-crown'd bowl ! 
Thou hadst (and who had doubted thee?) exprest. 
What empty baubles are the erniin'd stole. 

Proud coronet, rich walls with tapestry drest, 
And music lulling the sick frame to rest ! 
Bliss only haunts the pure contented soul ! 


Month after month, and year succeeding year, 
When still the budding Spring, and yet again 
The eddying leaf upon the dingy plain 
Saw thee still happy in thy humble sphere. 

But still as each return of foliage sere. 

And still as on the warm banks of the lane, 
Shelter'd with covering wood, the primrose train 
Began to ope their yellow buds, a tear 

Would start unbidden from thy placid cheek. 
And a deep pang would swell thy honest heart. 
At hopes so long deferr'd : — yet couldst thou speak, 

Wouldst thou not thus the precious truth Impart ? 
'' Dearer those scenes, tho' mixed with many a sigh. 
Than all the joys that Grandeur can supply ♦ !" 

» Vide Censura Literaria, vol. vi. pp. i02, 403. 


On April the £3d, 15^, this amiable and vir- 
tuous nobleman paid the debt of nature, having 
survived the battle of Flodden nearly ten years, 
and attained his seventieth year. He had given di- 
rections in his will to be interred at Shap, in West* 
moreland, if he died in that county, or at Bolton, 
if he died in Yorkshire ; and there is every reason 
to suppose that, in a vault now almost choked with 
rubbish, on the south side of the choir of Bolton 
Abbey, and which Dr. Whitaker conjectures to 
have been the resting-place of the lords of Skipton 
and patrons of Bolton, the remains of lord Henry 
the shepherd were deposited. 

[To he continued,'] 

No. IX. 

See from our native Britain's fair Domains, 
With friendly emulation^ Bards appear ! 
See them the Tuscan Muses Banner rear. 
And waft Valchiusa to our sterner plains : 
Hear gentle Spenser^ gallant Sidney's strains ; 
And DauMMOND^ to the Woodland Sisters dear. 

Capel Lofft. 

Th£R£ are few recollections more delightful 
than those which are called up by a retrospect of 
the beautiful and romantic scenery which has been 
visited in early life. Impressions are then made 
which, as long as the faculties remain entire, no 
aftertime has power to efface, so blended are they, 
so indissoli^bly associated with all that, during this 
spring-tide of our existence, is wont to spread around 
our path a fairy charm. 

It was under the influence of this hope-inspiring 
season of life, 

When the heart promis'd what the fancy drew, 

that I enjoyed the opportunity of visiting many of 
the most striking and picturesque combinations of 


scenery in the vicinity of Edinburgh, and in the 
western Highlands of Scotland. 

Amongst those in the n^ghbourhood of the ca- 
pital, none engaged more of my attention, or have 
been, from various causes, remembered with more 
pleasure, than the lovely Banks of the Esk, pre- 
senting, as they do, so many spots rendered in no 
ordinary degree interesting by traditionary lore 
and literary reminiscences. 

The sweetly plaintive air entitled Roslin Castk 
has given a kind of general celebrity to one of the 
most favoured of these scenes, favoured, indeed, not 
more by the hand of nature than by the presence of 
those vestiges of hoar antiquity which almost in- 
voluntarily excite in the mind a countless host of 

Beside these attractions for the antiquary and 
the lover of landscape, the village of Roslin, si- 
tuated not more than eight miles from Edinburgh, 
offers a most delicious retreat in the summer for 
parties of all ranks and tastes, who, tempted by the 
profusion of fine strawberries which are cultivated 
in its gardens for the public palate, are often seen 
here during the season in immense numbers. It is 
not, however, on an occasion like this that Roslin 


should be visited for the purpose of entering into 
the character of its scenery, as it in no degree ac- 
cords with a display which however cheerful and 
amusing for a short time, altogether breaks in upon 
that romantic seclusion, that wild yet solemn gran- 
deur, which every man of feeling would, m such a 
place, endeavour to preserve inviolate. 

It was not indeed until the claims of friendship 
induced me to revisit Roslin, for the purpose of 
cc»isoIing the languid hours of an invalid com- 
panion, who had chosen its woods and rocks for the 
advantages of retirement and country air, that I 
possessed an opportunity fully adequate to the due 
enjoyment of the peculiar beauties which so remark- 
ably distinguish this place and the adjacent banks 
of the Esk. 

Roslin, which lies as it were midway on the Esk, 
between domains rendered dear to memory, as we 
we shall find, by literary associations, is one of those 
few favoured spots that can boast of exhibiting at 
one view, in its far-famed castle and chapel, the 
remains of feudal and monastic grandeur. They 
were both built, the latter in 1446, by William St. 
Clair, prince of Orkney, a descendant of the Nor- 
Qian chief, William de Sancto Clere, to whom the 



barony of Roslin had been granted by Malcolm 
Canmore, king of Scotland, in the twelfth century. 

The castle, whose ruins, though now not of con- 
siderable extent, are yet striking in their effect, rises 
immediately from a bold rock overhanging a beauti- 
ful bend of the river. It appears to have been for- 
merly a fortress of much importance and strength; 
and having, with the exception of the round tower, 
the only relique of the first structure, been burnt 
by the army of Henry the Eighth, in 1554, was 
shortly afterwards rebuilt, again to moulder into 
ruin« It shows to great advantage as a picturesque 
object from various parts of the river and its banks ; 
and I particularly remember being struck with its 
appearance, on crossing a wooden bridge situated a 
short distance up the stream, where its time-worn 
turrets, the chapel, and the sweep of the £sk, with 
its craggy sides, richly clothed with wood, rush 
upon the eye with the most imposing result. 

Happily dissimilar in its fate to the castle, the 
chapel remains in the finest preservation, and ex- 
hibits an admirable specimen of the flcnndgothic in 
its richest and most elaborated style, every part bus- 
ceptible of minute decoration being profusely oma- 
mrated with the most deUcate and highly-finished 


carved work. Thus, on the exterior, the buttresses 
are beautifully and doubly pinnacled with niches 
and canopies for statues, whilst within, the pillars 
are surmounted by exquisitely wrought capitals, no 
two being alike. The interior, indeed, simply con* 
nsts of a nave and two side aisles, the latter being 
separated from the former by two series of pillars, 
five in each series, whilst the roof, semicircular in 
its form, and constructed of stone, appears worked 
into square compartments with roses, a fiower which 
is seen also on the pillars and buttresses, and intro- 
duced, we were told, in allusion to the name of the. 
place, a play of fancy, however, not warranted by 
correct etymology, which deduces the word Ross- 
linne, from ro8S, GaeUc for a promontory, and linnhe, 
a pool or fall of water. 

In a vault 1)eneath the floor of the chapel lie 
buried, it is said, nearly twenty of the barons of 
Roslin; but the only monuments which time has 
spar^ are those of ah earl of Caithness and of a 
sir William St. Clair, a contemporary of king Ro- 
bert Bruce, and concerning whose prowess in a 
hunting excursion with that monarch we had to 
listen to a long story from the lips of our somewhat 
garrulous conductor. We were informed also, that 


when any of the descendants of the house of St. 
Clair were about to die, the chapel of Roslin would 
seem to be on fire ; a superstition of which sir 
Walter Scott has since beautifully availed himself, 
in his Lay of the Last Minstrel, where, relating the 
melancholy fate of Rosabelle St. Clair, he tells us. 

O'er Roslin all that dreary night 
A wonderous blaze was seen to gleam ; 

'Twas broader than the watch-fire lights 
And redder, than the bright moon-beam. 

It glared on Roslin's castled rock. 
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen ; 

'Twas seen from Dryden*s groves of oak^ 
And seen from cayem'd Hawthomden. 

Seemed all on fire that chapel proud, 
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie* ; 

Each baron^ for a sable shroud^ 
Sheathed in his iron panoply. 

* ** The manner of their interment,'* says sir Walter Scott, 
" is thus described in a MS. History of the Family of St. 
Clair, by Richard Augustin Hay, canon of St. Genevieve : 

'' Sir William St. Clair, the father, went to Ireland, his 
retreat being occasioned by the Presbyterians, who vexed 
him sadly, because of his religion being Roman Catholic. 
His son, sir William, died during the troubles, and was in- 
terred in the chapel of Roslin, the very same day that the 
battle of Ihinbar was fought. When my good father was 


Seemed all oh tire within^ around. 

Deep sacristy and altar's pale ; 
Shone every pillar foliage-bound. 

And glimmered all the dead men's mail. 

Blazed battlement and pinnet high. 
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — 

So still they blaze when fate is nigh 
The lordly line of high St. Qair. 

From Roslin to Hawthornden, a spot dear to the 
lovers of poetry as the birth-place and residence 
of William Drumfnond^ the Petrarch of Scotland, 
there is a moderate and delightful walk through 
woods and fields. Nothing can be more romantic 
than the site of the poet'*s house, which is placed, 
like an eagle'*s nest, on the verge of a precipitous 

buried, his (i. e. sir William's) corpse seemed to be entire at 
the opening of the cave, but when they came to touch his 
body it fell into dust. He was lying in his armour, with a 
red velvet cap on his head, on a flat stone. Nothing was 
spoiled, except a piece of the white furring that went round 
the cap, and answered to the hinder part of the head. All 
his predecessors were buried after the same manner in their 
armour : late Rosline, my good father, was the first that was 
buried in a coffin, against the sentiments of king James the 
Seventh, who was then in Scotland, and several other persons 
well versed in antiquity, to whom my mother would not 
hearken, thinking it beggarly to be buried after that manner.*' 
— Lay of the Last Minstrel, Notes, p. 330, 8vo edition. 


rock, in whose sides have been cut by human art, 
in an age of remote antiquity, caves of vast extent, 
whilst, at its foot, rolls the beautiful stream of the 
Esk through a deep glen or valley, richly skirted 
with wood. 

It was with feelings of no ordinary gratification, 
that, with the poet's sonnets in my hand, I first 
traced this lovely and sequestered scene ; and it is 
scarcely with less pleasure that even now, at the 
distance of nearly forty years, I once more revert, 
though but in memory^s tablet, to its classic shades, 
endeavouring at the same time to collect, Mith that 
partiality for retrospection which advancing age so 
fondly cherishes, some circumstances of the life and 
literary leisure of one who has thrown around the 
woods and the caves of Hawthomden the associa- 
tions and celebrity of a second Vaucluse. 

William Dbummond, son of sir Robert Drum- 
mond, and allied to the royal family of Scotland by 
the marriage of the sister of his ancestor, William 
Drummond of Carnock, to Robert the Third, was 
bom at Hawthornden, the seat of his father, on the 
13th of December, 1585. Having received an ex- 
cellent education at Edinburgh, at first in the High 
SchocJ, And subsequently in the university of the 


same place, where, in the year 1606, he took his 
degree of Master of Arts, he was, at the age of 
twenty-one, sent by his father, who had destined 
him for the legal profession, to attend lectures on 
the civil law at Bourges in France. 

After a residence of four years on the continent, 
during which he had diligently and successfully 
pursued his studies, he returned to Scotland in 
1610, and with the intention of practising the law ; 
but the death of his father, which occurred a few 
months after he had reached home, and his own 
preponderating attachment to the belles lettres^ to- 
gether with very limited desires as to the possession 
of wealth, induced him, at the age of twenty-five, 
to retire to his paternal estate, where, uninterrupted 
by the turmoil of the world, he might devote him- 
self to his beloved books, and the nurture of his 
poetical talents. 

^ To a mind thus early disposed and prepared to 
enjoy and to improve the advantages of solitude, 
no situation could be better adapted than the ro- 
mantic seclusion of Hawthomden, a spot which, 
from the beauty and sublimity of its scenery, would 
seem purposely suited to foster and expand the 
powers of imagination ; and here, indeed, it was 


that the best and earliest of his poems were com- 

How deeply he was imbued with those sentiments 
and feelings which, even in the spring-time of life, 
lead their charmed votary from the busy haunts of 
man, will be evident from the two following sonnets, 
written during this period of his residence at Haw- 
thomden, and taken, indeed, from poems, a part of 
which was printed as soon as 1616, if not before, 
and the rest in 162S. In the first, which appeared 
in the earliest of these publications, he seems to 
apprehend some approaching necessity which may 
compel him to quit his favourite retreat. 

Dear wood ! and you^ sweet solitary place^ 
Where I^ estranged from the vulgar^ live^ 
Contented more with what your shades me give. 
Than if I had what Thetis doth embrace : 
What snaky eye^ grown jealous of my pace. 
Now from your silent horrors would me drive. 
When sun advancing in his glorious race 
Beyond the Twins, doth near our pole arrive ? 
With sweet delight a quiet life aflfbrds. 
And what it is to be from bondage free. 
Far from the madding worldlings* hoarse discords. 
Sweet flow'ry place, I first did learn of thee. 
Ah ! if I were my own, your dear resorts 
I would not change with princes' stateliest courts. 


Beautiful as is the expression as well as the sen- 
timent of this sonnet, it is surpassed in both by its 
companion, which, whilst it breathes a calm and 
philosophic dignity, is remarkable, at the same time, 
for the sweetness and harmony of its versification. 

Thrice happy he who by some shady grove. 

Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own. 

Though solitary, who is not alone. 

But doth converse with that eternal love : 

O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan. 

Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove. 

Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne. 

Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve ! 

O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath. 

And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold. 

Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath ! 

How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold ! 

The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights ; 

Woods, harmless shades, have only true delights *. 

Were it possible to have increased such a de- 
cided partiality for solitude as these sonnets evince, 
it would have been effected by two events which 
occurred to their author during this period. To 

» In copying these, and the following sonnets, I have 
availed myself of the various readings to be found in the 
editions of 1623, 1656, 171 1, and 1791, adopting those which 
appeared to me the most poetical. 

VOL. I^ S 


one of these^ indeed, it might naturally be supposed 
that his temperament, in a high degree sensitive and 
susceptible, would peculiarly incline him ; and it 
was not, therefore, long before his seclusion became 
doubly interesting to him thtough the i];ifluence of 
the tenderest of the affections, an influence, indeed, 
to which, with the young and imaginative, solitude 
has been found very generally to lead. 

The object of his attachment was a descendant 
of an ancient and honourable house, a daughter of 
Cunningham of Barnes, a lady young, and beauti- 
ful, and accomplished, and possessing, like himself, 
an enthusiastic love for retirement. Yet it would 
appear from the tenor of his poems, that, notwith- 
standing this congeniality of taste, it was long be- 
fore he had made any deep impression on the heart 
of his mistress^ and that he had had some reason to 
complain of her coldness and reserve. At length, 
however, he was made happy by a return of affection, 
and the day was even fixed for the celebration of 
their nuptials, when, by one of those inscrutable 
decrees of Providence to which, in this world of 
trial and probation, we are called upon to submit, 
she was suddenly snatched from him by the hand 


of death, a violent fever temiinating her life, and, 
with her, all his fondest dreams of happiness on 

To a heart of such keen sensibility as was our 
poet^ alive to all the finer feelings of humanity, 
yet taught by habit and secession from genera] so- 
dety to centre all its hopes and wishes on one be- 
loved object, the shock must have been for a time 
almost overwhelming. If we may judge, indeed, 
fix)m his poetical effusions, it was never entirely 
surmounted, but has thrown over the greater portion 
of them that interesting air of melancholy which so 
much attaches us to the writings of Petrarch. In 
fact, the most striking affinity may be found be- 
tween the passion and the poetry of the two bards ; 
they had each alike to lament the reserve and the 
loss of the objects of their first affection ; and their 
sonnets may with equal propriety be divided into 
those which were written previous to, and after 
their respective deaths. 

It shall now be my pleasing task to select from 
these two classes of our author's sonnets a few in- 
stances, which will assuredly prove with what ex- 
qilinte taste and feeling, with what delicacy of 



thought and felicity of expression, this neglected 
poet of the ^ early part of the seventeenth century 
could utter the sorrows of his heart. 

From the first and second specimens, culled from 
those sonnets which were written during the progress 
c^ his. amour, we may form some idea not only of 
the person of his mistress, but of the character of 
her mind, which appears to have been both amiable 
^tid of a 3uperior cast. 

O sacred blush empurpling cheeks^ pure skies 
With crimson wings^ which spread thee like the mom ; 
O bashful look, sent from those shining eyed. 
Which though slid down on earth doth heaven adorn : 
O tongue, in which most luscious nectar lies. 
That can at once both bless and make forlorn ; 
. Dear coral lip, which beauty beautifies. 
That trembling stood before her words were born ; 
And you, her words ; — words ? — no, but golden chains. 
Which did enslave mine ears, ensnare my soul ; 
Wise image of her mind— mind that contains 
A power all power of senses to control : 
So sweetly you from love's '' dear hope warn" me. 
That I love more, if more my love can be. 

The frail and transitory existence of youth and 
female charms was never more impressively whis- 
pered in the ear of unrelenting beauty than through 
the medium of the following sonnet : 


Trust not^ sweet sool^ those curled waves of gold^ 
With gentle tides that on your temples flow ; 
Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow ; 
Nor snow of cheeks, with Tynan grain enroll'd : 
Trust not those shining lights which wrought my woe. 
When first I did their azure rays hehold ; 
Nor voice, whose sounds more strange efiects do show 
Than of the Thracian harper have heen told. 
Look to this dying lily, fading rose^ 
Dark hyacinth^ of late whose hlushing heams 
Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice. 
And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes. 
The cruel tyrant that'did kill those flowers 
Shall once^ all me ! not spare that spring of yours. 

Of the various pieces which, in this section of his 
sonnets, the poet has composed to lament the in- 
sensibility of his mistress, or to soothe his own sor- 
rows, I shall select one which will immediately re- 
mind the reader of a passage on the same subject 
in Shakspeare^s Henry the Fourth. To say that 
this little poem has any pretensions to rival the 
celebrated invocation of our great dramatist, which 
I consider, indeed, as incomparable, would be ab- 
surd ; but it may be averred, that for the brief and 
restricted nature of the sonnet, it has merit of no 
common kind. 



Sleep, Silence' child ! sweet £itber of soft rest ! 
Prince^ whose approach peace to all mortals brings^ 
Indifferent host to shepherds and to Idngs^ 
Sole comforter of minds with grief oppress'd : 
Lo ! by thy charming rod, all breathing things 
lie slomb'ring, with forgetfulness possess'd ; 
And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings 
Thou spar'st, alas ! who cannot be thy guest. 
Since I am thine, O come ! but with that face 
To inward light, which thou art wont to show. 
With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe ; 
Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace. 

Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath, 

I long to kiss the image of my death. 

Much, however, as from this portion ot his works 
our bard might be supposed fettered and absorbed 
by the cruel uncertainties of love, there is every 
reason to conclude from the sonnet I am about to 
quote, and which forms a part of these early pro- 
ductions, that he suffered not his mind to be 
enervated and broken down by a state of suspense ; 
but that, as his lines nobly express it, an honest 
ambition, and the desire of living well, if not long, 
bore him up against all the suggestions of indolence 
or despair. 


Ah I barning thoughts, now let me take some rest^ 
And your tumultuous broils a while appease : 
. Is H not enough, stars^ fortune^ love molest 
Me all at once, but ye must too displease ? 
Let hope, though false, yet lodge within my breast ; 
My high attempt, though dangerous, yet praise : 
What though I trace not right heaven's steepy ways^ 
It doth suffice my fall shall make me blest 
I do not dote on days, I fear not death, 
So that my life be good, I wish 't not long ; 
Let me renown'd live from the worldly throng. 
And when Heaven Usts, recall this borrowed breath. 
Men but like visions are, time all doth claim. 
He lives who dies to win a lasting name. 

The sonnets which I have now quoted, pleasing 
as they are both in thought and diction, are yet, as 
might be readily conceived, inferior as well in in- 
terest as in pathos to those which were written 
after the death of Miss Cunningham. The sor- 
rows of love, which, yshilst their object is innocent 
and in health, may be viewed with a smile, are tri- 
fles light as air when compared with that deep an- 
guish which must agitate the breast of him who 
follows to the tomb her who has been torn from 
bis arms at the very moment when happiness, such 
as this world seldom offers, seemed placed within 
his reach. If, ever under any infliction excessive 


grief could be deemed allowable, a jMivatioa like 
this might plead for its admission ; and if ever, 
after the first burst of agony were over^ widowed 
afiection poured forth the unaffected language of 
the heart, it will be found in many of the pieces 
which constitute this deparbnent of the poet^s wcM'ks. 
Than the sonnets, indeed, which I have now to 
bring forward as proofs of this assertion, I know 
none in any language which, Cm* pathos of senti- 
ment and delicacy, of expression, can be justly 
thought superior. 

Sweet Spriug^ thou turn'st * with all thy goodly tnun^ 

Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow're. 

The Zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain. 

The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show re. 

Thou tum'st, sweet Spring;— but ah, n^ pleasant hours 

And happy days with thee come not again ; 

The sad memorials only of my pain 

Po with thee come, which turn my sweets 'to sours. 

Thou art the same which still thou wert before, 

Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair ; 

But she, whose breath embalm 'd thy wholesome air. 

Is gone; nor gold nor gems can her restore. 

Neglected virtue, seasons go and come. 

Whilst thine forgot lie closed in a tomb. 

It is recorded in the life of Drummond prefixed 

* Evidently used for return st. 


to the fddo edition of his works, that he was pas- 
sionately fond of music, and that when his spirits 
were exhausted by too severe study, he solaced 
himself by playing on the lute, an instrument which 
he touched with uncommon skill and effect *. That 
it had often brought delight to the ear of his buried 

* Of the fascination of nmsic> and of its influence over the 
feelings and passions of the human breast^ I know not that 
we have had of late days a more interesting picture than 
what the following stanzas will afibrd. They are taken 
from a poem published three or four years ago by the Rev. 
William Branwhite Clarke^ B. A. of Jesus Collie, Cam- 
bridge^ and entitled '' The River Derwent, Part the First;" 
and I must be permitted to remark^ that the author has, 
throughout the whole of this little brochure^ not only shown 
great skill in the construction of the Spenserian stanza^ but 
no small share of the fervor and inspiration of the poet. 
There are many passages beside the one which I am about 
to bring forward written with uncommon energy and enthu« 
siasm, and I would wish more especially to particularize 
among these, as of singular beauty, the description of the 
influence of mountain scenery over the mind— it is worthy 
of any age or any poet — ^But, reverting to the subject which 
suggested this note, I proceed to my promised quotation. 

Sweet charmer of the cottage and the throne — 
The desert and the crowded city's throngs — 
Oh ! let me hear thee, whilst I stand alone 
Among the green hflls, captive to thy songs ! — 
Or when amid the world's unfeeling wrongs 


We we learn fironi the following lines, whidi breathe 
indeed the very soul of tenderness itself. 

I dwell a priaoner — or when o'er me roll 
The mists of fancy ; yet to thee hekN^ 
To chain to imaged scenes my gladdened sonl^ 
And to nnhosom thoughts beyond the world's control ! 

For thou, oh Music ! canst assoage the pain^ 
And heal the woond^ whidi hath defied the skill 
Of sager comforters : — thou dost restrain 
Each wild emotion at thy wondrooa will; 
Thou dost the rage of fiercest passions chill. 
Or lightest up the flames of soft desire. 
As through the mind thy plaints harmonious thrill. 
And thus a magic doth surround the lyre, 
A power divine doth dwell amid the sacred quire ! 

Thou call'st the soldier to the field of fame, 
Wlien drum and trumpet peal the cry of war ; 
Thou bid'st him glory's meed ambitious daim, 
And spreadest his unsullied fame afar; 
And when, beneath the evening's placid star. 
The lover clasps the form of her he loves. 
Thou dost descend on night's aerial car 
And hov'rest o'er them in the vocal groves, 
And hear'st each whisper'd vow Aflfection's ear approves ! 

Unto devotion thou dost furnish wings. 
Making it soar above the things of earth ; 
With thee, the soul unto the fountain springs. 
Which shall renew it with a second birth : 
CwO{\j and his power, and his unbounded worth 


My lute^ be as thou wert^ when thou didst grow 
With thy green mother in some shady grove. 

Thou hallowedst, when light firom chaos sprang. 
And heaven's high host were jubilant in mirth. 
And the wide firmament with harping rang. 
And listening, star to star, in their staid courses, sang ! 

Nature is- full of thee : — the summer bower 
Respondeth to the songster's morning lay ; 
The bee his concert keeps from flower to flower. 
As forth he sallies on his honied way ; 
Brook calls to brook as down the hills they stray ; 
The isles resound with song, from shore to shore ; 
Whilst ' viewless minstrels' on the wings that play 
Consorted strains, in liquid measures, pour 
To thunder's deep-ton'd voice, or ocean's sullen roar. 

But music never is so chastely sweet 
As at the hour when heaven and earth do sleep ; 
When gentle tones in soft gradation meet. 
And Echo sits upon some moonlit steep ; 
When song is whisper'd o'er the waveless deep. 
And, from some ladie bower, the harp doth thrill, — 
Or bugle-call, from castle's guarded keep, — 
, Or strains, as sweet as these whose murmurings fill 
The listening ear of night, whilst all around is still. 

Fancy leaps up, and, frantic at the sound, 
Becals the hours of goodness, when, of yore. 
The holy tenant of this rich domain * 
Was wont to mingle with the torrent's roar 
The solemn numbers of the hymn which bore 

* St. Herbert, who inhabited the island which now bears his name. 


When immelodious winds but made thee move. 

And birds on thee their ramage did bestow. 

Sith that dear voice which did thy sounds approve, 

Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow. 

Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above, 

What art thou but a harbinger of woe ? 

Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more. 

But orphan wailings to the fainting ear; 

Each stop a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear. 

Be, therefore, silent as in woods before : 
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign. 
Like widowed turtle still her loss complain. 

We cannot be surprised if a loss so unexpected 
and severe should for a time, notwithstanding a 
deep sense of religious resignation, occasion some 

His heart to heaven ; when his unsolaced cell 
But hearken 'd his devotion, and the shore 
Which now is trembling with the rustic swell. 
Heard the deep-mutter'd toll of his lone vesper-bell. 

Rock answers rock, and through the woody dell 
Flies the rich confluence : bending from her throne. 
As if some witchcraft with entrancing spell 
Bound her to earth, the light-ensphered moon. 
With soften'd splendour, tenderly looks down ; 
The stars which round her glistening orb are set 
The soft dominion of the numbers own. 
And every gem in night's bright coronet 
Gleams with a purer ray, where'er those tones have met. 


very gloomy feelings of despondency; nor that 
amongst the various delineations of his sufTerings, 
he should have given language to these feelings in 
a sonnet of angular energy and beauty. 

O it is not to me^ bright lamp of day^ 
That in the east thou show'st thy golden face ; 
O it is not to me thou leav'st that sea. 
And in those azure lists beginn'st thy race. 
Thou shin'st not to the dead in any place ; 
And I dead from this world am past away. 
Or if I seem, a shadow, yet to stay. 
It is a while but to bewail my case : 
My mirth is lost, my comforts are dismayM, 
And unto sad mishaps their place do yield ; 
My knowledge represents a bloody field, 
Where I my hopes and helps see prostrate laid. 
*So plain tful is life's course which I have run, 
That I do wish it never had begun. 

The other event to which I alluded, as giving 
additional strength to our bard^s predilection for 
retirement during this period of his life, originated 
from the delicate state of his health. He had not 
been long, there is reason to suppose, at Hawthorn- 
den, after his first return from the continent in 
1610, before he was seized with a dangerous ill- 
ness, on recovering from which he is said to have 
written his prose tract entitled *' The Cypress 


Grove,^ in which, in a strain of great piety and 
sublimity, he paints the vanity and instability of 
all human affairs, and endeavours by the most con- 
solatory views of religion to strip death of its ter- 
rors. It was to be expected also that on such a 
subject he should wish to call the powers of poetry 
to his aid ; and accordingly his earliest biographer 
informs us, that about the same time he composed 
his " Flowers of Sion : or Spiritual Poems,^ though 
they were not printed at Edinburgh until 162S. 
They consist of pieces in various metrical forms, 
and contain a few of his very best sonnets. The 
following I conceive to have been written when he 
was about thirty years of age. 

Look how the flower which ling*ringly doth fade^ 
The morning's darling late^ the summer's queen^ 
Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green^ 
As high as it did raise^ bows low the bead ; 
Right so my life^ contentments being dead^ 
Or in their contraries but only seen^ 
With swifter speed declines than erst it spread^ 
And^ blasted^ scarce now shows what it hath been. 
As doth the pilgrim therefore whom the night 
Hastes darkly to imprison on his way^ 
Think on thy home^ my soul^ and think aright. 
Of what yet rests tliee of life's wasting day : 
Thy sun posts westward^ passed is thy mom. 
And twice it is not given thee to be bom. 


That the sonnet^ notwithstanding the brevity and 
somewhat complex nature of its construction, is 
susceptible, in no small degree, of sublimity of 
thought and corresponding dignity of expression, 
has been amply proved in our language by several 
of the well-known sonnets of Milton ; nor will the 
one which I am going to instance from the " Spi- 
ritual Poems^^ of Drummond, and which must have 
been read by the author of Paradise Lost, with 
whom the Scottish bard was a great favourite, with 
singular delight, be considered as scarcely less de- 
cisive evidence in support of the same opinion. 

Beneath a sable veil^ and shadows deep, 
Of inaccessible and dimming lights 
In silence^ ebon clouds more black than night. 
The world's great Mind his secrets hid doth keep : 
Through those thick mists when any mortal wight 
Aspites, with halting pace, and eyes that weep 
To pry^ and in his mysteries to creep. 
With thunders he and lightnings blasts their sight. 
O Sun invisible^ that dost abide 
Within thy bright abysmes^ most fair, most dark, 
Where with thy proper rays thou dost thee hide, 
O ever-shining, never full-seen mark. 
To guide me in life's night, thy light me show : 
The more I search of thee the less I know. 

There is not, perhaps, to be found any where a 


sonnet of greater sweetness, as to verification, or 
greater beauty, as to sentiment, than the one which, 
in this division of his volume, is addressed to the 
nightingale. It is a strain of hallowed gratitude 
which seems worthy of ascending to the throne of 
heaven : 

Sweet bird^ that sing'st away the early bonrs 
Of winters past> or coming, void of care. 
Well pleased with delights which present are. 
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flow*ni : 
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers. 
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare. 
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, 
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs, 
Attir'd in sweetness, sweetly is not driven 
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs. 
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven ? 
Sweet, artless songster, thou my mind dost raise 
To airs of spheres, yea, and to angel's lays. 

There are, in various parts of our author''s poems, 
allusions not only to the indisposition which appears 
to have affected him shortly after his first settling 
at Hawthomden, but to a second attack, which I 
should conjecture to have occurred immediately 
after the death of Miss Cunningham. As the son- 
nets which include these allusions rank amongst the 


best of the bard'^s productions, and throw some light 
upon the early history of his life, I shall transcribe 
them in this place. The first is taken from the 
pieces entitled " Divine Poems." 

More (fi than once Death whisper 'd in mine ear, 
Orave what thou hear'st in diamond and in gold ; 
I am that monarch whom all monarchs fear^ 
Who have in dust their far-stretch 'd pride uproU'd. 
All, all is mine beneath moon's silver sphere ; 
And nought, save Virtue, can my power withhold : 
This, not believed, experience true thee told. 
By danger late when I to thee came near. 
As bugbear then my visage I did show. 
That of my horrors thou right use might*st make, ^ 
And a more sacred path of living take : 
Now still walk armed for my ruthless blow; 

Trust flattering life no more, redeem time past, 

And live each day as if it were thy last. 

The second, termed the Author's Epitaph^ is 
addressed to sir William Alexander, afterwards, in 
the year 1630, created earl of Stirling, a poet of no 
inconsiderable merit, and one of the most intimate 
friends of Drummond. It may be necessary to 
state, that in compliance with a fashion then com- 
mon amongst the scholars of the age, they were 
in the habit of designating each other by classical 

VOL. I. T 


Though I have twice been at the doors of death. 
And twice found shut those gates which ever mourn. 
This but a lightening is, truce ta'en to breathe. 
For late-bom sorrows ai^ur fleet return. 
Amid thy sacred cares and courtly toils, 
Alexis, when thou shalt hear wand'ring fame 
TeU Death hath triumphed o'er my mortal spoils. 
And that on earth I am but a sad name ; 
If thou e'er held me dear, by all our love. 
By all that bliss, these joys, heaven bore us gave, 
I conjure thee, and by the maids of Jove, 
To grave this short remembrance on my grave : 
^^ Here Damon lies, whose songs did sometime graee 
The murmuring £sk :-*may roses shade the place." 

As I shall not, in all probability, have occasion 
to quote more than one or two additional sonnets 
from our author, and those vjrhich have already been 
given are in sufficient number to aiford a fair op- 
portunity forjudging of his merits in this depart- 
ment, it may not here, perhaps, be impertinent to 
inquire, placing these and other of his sonnets of 
approaching excellence before us, if any species of 
composition could be better suited to express that 
tender, yet dignified and philosophic melancholy, 
which threw such an interest over the days of the 
bard of Hawthornden, than the sonnet ? 

I would wish to reply in the language of one. 


who, id the eighteenth number of that valuable and 
well-conducted publication, the Retrospective Re^ 
view, has thus most beautifully and satisfactorily 
answered the query. 

«* Drummond," he remarks, " loved the country 
with that deep and placid love which a calm and 
contemplative poet alone feels. He had suffered 
de^ly, — ^he possessed a rich store of learning, — 
he had a wise and thoughtful turn of mind, — and, 
feeling a Hvely relish for all the charms of nature, 
he indulged his genius in poetioo-philosophical re- 
flections upon life, its vicissitudes, hopes, sorrows, 
and vanities. To one of this mood, no form of 
poetry is so admirably adapted as the sonnet ; the 
entire, the unique, the harmonious, the dignified 
sonnet ! that little poem, big with one fine senti- 
ment, richly adorned and delicately wrought ! never 
tiring, never flagging ! which bursts forth with an 
organ-like peal, and proceeds in a sustained and 
majestic march, until the soft and melodious close 
sweetly and gently winds up the whole. When a 
silver voice takes its course through a fine sonnet, 
like many of those of our author, we listen to it as 
to an oracle ; when the sound ceases, we feel as if 
a revelation had been made, and the very silence 

T 2 


becomes musical. No poem leaves the mind in a 
finer mood than the grand and solemn sonnet *." 

After giving this brief sketch of the youthful 
days of Drummond, of his first attachment, and of 
part of his earliest poetry, I regret to state, with 
regard to the period which follows, occupying* not 
less than sixteen or eighteen years, until his mar- 
riage in 1630, that the accounts which have been 
transmitted to us are highly confused and contra- 
dictory. It is recorded in the first life, and all sub- 
sequent biographies of our poet, that, in order to 
dissipate his grief for the loss of Miss Cunningham, 
he passed over to the continent, where he resided 

eight years, and that, on returning to Scotland^ 
finding the nation in a state of religious and poli- 
tical anarchy, instead of retiring to Hawthomden, 


he took up his abode with his brother-in-law, sir 
John Scot of Scotstarvet, residing with this gentle- 
man a sufficient length of time to enable him to 
begin and complete his " History of the Five 
Jameses, Kings of Scotland," after which he re- 
turned to his paternal seat, in order to prepare for 
his intended marriage in 1630. 

• No. 18, p. 359. 


Now, from a consideration and combination of 
various intervening circumstances, which I shall 
immediately enumerate, it would appear that this 
account cannot possibly be correct. We find our 
author, for instance, at Hawthornden in 161^, la- 
men ting the premature decease of Henry prince of 
Wales, in an elegy, entitled " Tears on the Death 
of Moeliades.*" In 1617, he was one of many, who, 
at Edinburgh, addressed king James in a pane- 
gyrical poem, called " The Wandering Muses, or 
The River of Forth Feasting," congratulating him 
on his first return to Scptland after liis accession to 
the English throne. In 1618, there is a letter ex- 
tant in his collected works *, written to his friend, 
the celebrated Michael Drayton, from his northern 
seat. We are told also, that Ben Jonson, when at 
the age ot forty -five ^ walked to Hawthornden to 
visit him ; and as we know the dramatic poet to 
have been born in 1574, this visit must, of course, 
have taken place in 1619. In 1623, we have a 
letter in the folio edition addressed to his highly- 
valued correspondent, sir William Alexander, in 
which he deplores the mortality of that year in 

* Folio edition, p. «34. 


Scotland, and the numerous friends which he had 
lost ; and in 16^4, at the close of the same edition, 
there is an admirable epistle and sonnet from 
Robert Kerr, earl of Ancram, dated Cambridge, 
December the 16th, and directed to Mr. WiUiam 
Drummond, at Hawthomden. It is stated^ more- 
over, in the life prefixed to the folio of 1711, that, 
as part of the fruits of his tour in France, Italy, 
and Grermany, he enriched the library of his Alma 
Mater with a choice collection of books and manu- 
scripts, of which he printed a catalogue at Edin- 
burgh in 16S6, preceded by an el^ant Latin pre- 
face, the product of his own pen» 

How the incidents and employments which I 
have thus brought together, as occurring between 
the years 1612 and 1630, can be deemed compatible 
with an uninterrupted residence of eight years upon 
the continent during the same period, it would be 
difficult to decide. The more probable suppositicm 
is, that our author comm^iced his travels antericN' 
to 1617, and from the motives which have been 
assigned; and that, returning to Scotland in the 
course of that year, he occasionally revisited France 
and Italy, during those subsequent years in which 
we have found him unemployed at home. 


Let us now, however, retracing the meagre out- 
line which has been given of this important portion 
of his life, endeavour to fill up some part of the 
space which it includes, by critical comment or tra- 
ditionary detail. Of the " Moeliades," published in 
1612, and the " Forth Feasting,'' in 1617, and, 
consequently, both written some years anterior to 
the earliest productions of Waller, and the Cooper's 
Hill of Denham, it has been justly observed by 
Mr. Le Neve, that their harmony of numbers, " at 
a time when those, who are usually called the first 
introducers of a smooth and polished versification, 
had not yet begun to write, is an honour to him 
that should never be forgotten*.*" 

In the latter of these poems the construction of 
the couplet is, indeed, in many instances singularly 
polished and melodious ; to such a degree, in fact, 
as need not fear a comparison with any subsequent 
effort in the same metre, either of the last or present 

• " A short Account of the Life and Writings of Drum- 
mond^" first privately printed in a work entitled '* Cursory 
Remarks on some of the Ancient £nglish Poets^ particularly 
Milton/' and subsequently prefixed to the edition of Drum- 
mond^ published at London in 1791. 



880 MOAXiXGft IX srmiXG. 

age* )Ir. Le Neve has sdected four lines from this 
production which have been manifestly and closely 
copied by Pope ; and to these, which I shall re- 
quote, I must beg leave to add two more instances 
from the same piece, which will equally remind 
the reader of the favourite cadences oi the bard of 
Twickenham, and prove, at the same time, with 
what industry, taste, and discrimination, he had 
studied the pages of the Scottish poet. 

To virgins^ flowers ; to san-bamt earthy the rain ; 
To mariners^ fair winds amidst the main ; 
Cool shades to pilgrims^ which hot glances bum^ 
Are not so pleasing as thy blest return. 

As looks a garden of its beauty spoil'd ; 
As woods in winter by rough Boreas foil'd ; 
As portraits raz'd of colours us'd to be ; 
So looked these abject bounds deprived of thee. 

O virtue's pattern, glory of our times \ 
Sent of past days to expiate the crimes ; 
Great king ! but better far than thou art greats 
Whom state not honours^ but who honours state. 

Numerous, indeed, are the passages that might 
be extracted from the poetry of Drummond, on 
which, independent of the few that have been no- 



ticed by myself or others *, Pope appears to have 
exerted his powers of imitation. But, dropping 
any further instances of this kind, I wish to give 
my readers a more extended specimen of the ad- 
mirable versification with which Drummond has 
often clothed his thoughts in this happy panegyric 
on king James, which, be it remembered, was written 
in the year 1617 ! 

Let mother Earth now deck'd with flowers be seen^ 
* And sweet-breath'd Zephyrs curl the meadows green ; 
Let heaven weep rubies in a crimson shower^ 
Such as on India's shores they use to pour ; 
Or with that golden storm the fields adom^ 
Which Jove rain'd when his blue-eyed maid was born. 
May never Hours the web of day out-weave ; 
May never Night rise from her sable cave ; 
Swell proud^ my billows^ faint not to declare 
Your joys as ample as their causes are : — 
Now where the wounded knight his life did bleed^ 
The wanton swain sits piping on a reed ; 
And where the cannon did Jove's thunder scorn^ 
The gaudy huntsman winds his shrill-ton'd horn. 

Well might this poem attract, as we are told on 
good authority it did, not only the envy, but the 

• A few have been noticed by Mr. Park, vide Biographia 
Britannica, vol. 5, p. 372. Kippis's edition. 


praise of Ben Jonson, whose favourite metre was 
the English couplet, and who hesitated not to de- 
clare that he should have been proud to have been 
the auth<M- cX Forth Feasting. 

[To be continued.'] 

No. X. 

Once more the faded bower^ 
Where Jonson sat in Drummond's classic shade. 


Among the intimate friends and correspondents 
of Drummond, Michael Drayton appears, and very 
deservedly, both from his virtues and his talents, 
to have held a high place. It would seem, indeed, 
that the year 1618, to which I have alluded, was 
the period in which their friendship commenced ; 
for in the letter to which this date is annexed in 
the folio edition, the poet of Hawthornden thus ad- 
dresses his brother bard. " If my letters were so 
welcome to you, what may you think yours were 
to me, which must be so much more welcome, in 
that the conquest I make is more than that of 
yours. They who by some strange means have 
had conference with some of the old heroes can 
only judge that delight I had in reading them ; for 
they were to me as if they had come from Virgil, 
Ovid, or the father of our sonnets, Petrarch. / 
must Uyve this year of niy life more dearly than any 
that forexoent it^ because in it I teas so happy to he 


acquainted Tvith such worth. How would I be 
overjoyed to see our North once honoured with 
your works as before it was with Sidney's ; • though 
it be barren of excellency in itself, it can both love 
and admire the excellency of others ♦.'' 

From this period, though it is not known that 
they ever personally met, an affectionate regard 
was maintained between these two amiable men by 
frequent letters, and by their great and mutual 
attachment to their common friend Alexander of 
Menstrie, earl of Stirling, author of " Recreations 
with the Muses."" Drayton has tenderly comitae- 
morated his love and admiration of these his poetical 
contemporaries in the following pleasing lines : 

Scotland sent ns hither^ for our own. 

That man, whose name I ever would have known 

To stand by mine, that most ingenious knight. 

My Alexander, to whom in his right 

I want extremely ; yet in speaking thus, 

I do but show the love that was 'twixt us, 

And not his numbers, which were brave, and high ; 

So like his mind was his clear poesy. 

And my dear Drummond, to whom much I owe 

For his much love, and proud was I to know 

His poesy ; for which two worthy men, 

I JMenstrie still shall love, and Hawthornden t. 

• Works, folio edition, Edinburgh, 1711, p. 834. 
t Elegy to H. Reynolds, esq. 


Nor was DnimmoDd, in return, backward in ac- 
knowledging his high estimation of the poetical 
merits of his friend ; for, independent of the pass- 
age which I have just given from one of his epistles, 
he tells him in another letter, '' Your truly heroical 
epistles did ravish me, and lately your most happy 
Albion put mc into a new trance ; works, most ex- 
cellent portraits of a rarely indued mind, which, if 
one may conjecture of what is to come, shall be 
read, in spite of envy, so long as men shall read 
books * ;^ and in a manuscript which, with several 
others, was given by Mr. Abemethy Drummond, 
the poet^s heir, to lord Buchan, were found, in a 
bundle of Dray ton''s letters to Drummond, the an* 
nexed verses in the handwriting of the latter, and 
(Supposed to have been addressed by Drummond to 
the English bard on receiving from him a copy of 
his poems. 

Dura tua melliflui specto pigmenta libelli 

Pendet ab eloquio mens mei rapta tuo^ 

At sensum expendens tumque alts pondera mentis^ 

Sensos ab eximio me rapit eloquio : 

Sed mage dedaleo miror te pectore qui sic 

Cogis ad Italicos Anglica verba modos. 

Eloquium, sensus, mentis vis dsdala longe 

Tollit bumo ad superos te super astra Deos. 

* Works, folio edition, p. 233. 



It has been asserted that Ben Jonson travelled 
into Scotland solely with the view of visiting Drum- 
mond; but this is a mistake, for Jonson, whose 
grandfather was a native of Annandale in Scot- 
land, had many friends in that country; and of 
the period which he passed there, only a small por- 
tion was devoted to the bard of Hawthomden. That 
he was received by Drummond with hospitality and 
kindness, and that Jonson ever £poke of his excur- 
sion into the land of his forefathers with delight, 
there is every reason, from combining what testi- 
mony remains, to conclude. No two men, how- 
ever, could be more opposed, both in their disposi- 
tions and literary tastes, than were Drummond and 
Ben Jonson ; for, whilst the latter, rough and dic- 
tatorial in his manners, a lover of conviviality and 
the busy hum of men, and a master of wit and sar- 
casm, bluntly and pointedly enforced his opinions, 
the former, gentle, pensive, and retired, a votary 
of solitude and contemplation, shrank trembling 
and disgusted from the contest. Yet, notwith- 
standing this disparity of habits and inclinations, 
Drummond has given us unequivocal proof, by 
noting down the heads of the conversation which 
passed between him and his friend during this visit *, 

• First published in the folio edition of 1711, pp. 9^^^^. 


that he attached much importance to his character 
and sentiments. The picture is, it is true, with 
regard to the personal failings of Jonson, what 
might be apprehended from their contrariety of 
tempers and tastes, somewhat dark and exaggerated ; 
but it should be recollected, in opposition to those 
who charge the Scottish poet with deliberate per- 
fidy and malevolence, that it was evidently intended 
merely for private use, that in all probability it 
escaped the fire solely from its author^s forgetful- 
ness, and that it did not appear before the public 
until more than half a century after his death. I 
heartily wish, however, it had never seen the light ; 
for though I firmly believe that Drummond was 
well aware of the strength and originality of Jon-^ 
son'^s powers, and had an affection, if not for the 
failings, yet for the better parts of his friend^s cha- 
racter, still must it be pronounced, after every alle- 
viating consideratipn, a representation in no .slight 
degree fastidious and splenetic. 

There is^ however, much reason to suppose that 
Drummond cherished the remembrance of this visit 
from the English poet with no little pride and plea- 
sure ; for he had taken care that a seat which Jon- 
son had selected as his favourite spot in the se- 


questered wood of Hawthomden should be known 
to posterity as such, and it is yet pointed out to 
the tourist. The meeting, indeed, is one which, 
from the celebrity of the two characters, cannot 
fail to be recollected with more than common in- 
terest by every lover of poetry and literary history. 
It was so recollected, after the lapse of a century 
and a half, by two travellers of no ordinary fame. 
" I would by no means,^ says Boswell, whilst ac- 
companying the great object of his admiration 
through Scotland in 1773, " lose the pleasure of 
seeing my friend at Hawthornden, — of seeing Sam 
Johnson at the very spot where Ben Jonson visited 
the learned and poetical Drummond.— We surveyed 
Roslin Castle, the romantic scene around it, and 
the beautiful gothic chapel, and dined and drank 
tea at the inn ; after which we proceeded to Haw- 
thomden and viewed the caves, and I all the while 
had Rare Ben in my mind, and was pleased to 
think that this place was now visited by another 
Celebrated wit of England ♦.**' 

A friendship more congenial, perhaps, had beed 
for some time established between our author and 
his Alexis, Alexander, afterwards earl of Stirling ; 

• Tour to the Hebrides, p. 419, edition of 1786. 


cemented, indeed, not only by a striking similarity 
in their literary tastes and general modes of thinking, 
but by a similitude of suffering in their earliest at- 
tachments to the fair sex, Alexander, like his friend, 
having been disappointed in obtaining the object of 
his first affections. I have already given one sonnet 
by Drummond, strongly indicative of the mutual 
regard of these young men, and that which 1 am 
about to quote affords us a pleasing proof that 
Miss Cunningham was wont to interest her admirer 
by singing or repeating to him the verses of his be- 
loved bard : 

Alexis^ here she stay'd ; among these pines. 
Sweet faennitress, she did alone repair ; 
Here did she spread the treasure of her hair. 
More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines : 
She set her by these musket eglantines. 
The happy place the print seems yet to bear ; 
Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar d lines. 
To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear : 
Me here she first perceiv'd, and here a morn 
Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face ; 
Here did she sigh ; here first my hopes were bom, 
And I first got a pledge of promised grace. 
But, ah ! what serv'd it to be happy so ? 

Sith passed pleasures double but new woe. 


Another friend, highly valued by Drummond, 
VOL. I. u 


and whose love of the country* and of retirement 
rivalled his own, was sir Robert Kerr, subsequently 
earl of Ancram. Than the letter and sonnet from 
his pen addressed to our poet, and to which I have 
alluded in a former page, I know few things more 
worthy of repeated transcription; more especially 
when we find it recorded^ that his life was a practical 
comment on his professions, and that for piety and 
probity, as well as for taste and accomplishments, 
he had scarcely a superior. 

" To my worthy JHend^ Mr. William Drummond, 

of Hawthomden. 

" Sir, 

" Every wretched creature knows the way 

to that place where it is most made of, and so do 

my verses to you, that was so kind to the last, that 

every thought I think that way hastes to be at you. 

It is true, I get leisure to think few, not that they 

are cara because rara^ but, indeed, to declare that 

my employment and ingine ♦ concurr to make them 

like Jacobus days, few and evil. Withal, I can 

think of no subject which doth not so resolve in a 

* Ingenuity, capacity. 


vein 80 opposite to this world's taste, that my verses 
are twice lost; to be known, like Indians among 
Spaniards, for their cross disposition ; and as coming 
frame me, that can make none without an hammer 
and the fire, so as justly they cannot be auribus 
hufus scBculi accommodaia. The best is, I care as 
little for them as th^ fame ; yet, if you do not 
dislike them, it is warrant enough for me to let 
them live till they get your doom. 

<^ In this sonnet I have sent you an approbation 
of your own life, whose character howsoever I have 
mist, I have let you see how I love it, and would 
fain praise it; and, indeed, would fainer practise it. 
It may be, the all-wise God keeps us from that 
kind of life we would chuse in this world, lest we 
should be the unwillinger to part with it when He 
calls us from it. I thank God that hath given me 
a great good-will to be gone whensoever he calleth ; 
only I pray) with Ezekias ♦, that he will give me 
leave to set my poor house in such a moderate order, 
that the wicked world have not occasion altogether 
to say of me, ' There was a foolish courtier, that was 
in a fair way to make a great fortune, but that he 
would seek it, forsooth, by the desolate steps of ver- 

• Hezekiah. 

u 2 


tue and fair dealing, and loving only such feckless * 
company C as, God knoweth, I can neither love nor 
sooth any other, be they never so powerful ; at 
least, their good must exceed their ill, or they must 
appear so to me. Yet do not think that I will re- 
pine if I get no part of this desire ; but my utmost 
thought, when I have done all I should, is ewerjiat 
voluntas Domini ! And thus I commend my son- 
net to you, and myself as 

** Your constantly loving friend to command, 

*^ Ro. Kerb. 

'^ Cambridge^ where the court was the week past, 
about the making of the French match, 16 De- 
cember, 1624. 


*' Sweet solitary life ! lovely dumb joy, 
That need'st no warnings how to grow more wise 

By other men's mishaps, nor thee annoy, 
Wliich from sore wrongs done to one's self doth rise. 

The morning's second f mansion. Truth's first friend. 
Never acquainted with the world's vain broils, 

• Weak, powerless, profitless. 

f '' Because the next way the morning (Aurora) goeth 

from the lap of Thetis, is to those that dwell in the country ; 

for, at court, and the great palaces of the world, they lye 

a-bed and miss it ; and Truth getteth first welcome among 

t that be at leisure to consider of her excellency." 


Where the whole day to our own use we spends 
And our dear time no fierce ambition spoils. 

Most happy state ! that never takes revenge 
For injuries received^ nor dost fear 

The court's great earthquake^ the griev'd truth of change ; 
Nor none of falsehood's savoury lyes dost hear ; 

Nor know'st Hope's sweet disease^ that charms our sense^ 

Nor- its sad cure— dear-bought Experience • !** 

I shall DOW recal my readers^ attrition to the 
preface of our author prefixed to his Catalogue 
of Books, printed in 1626, for the purpose of in- 
troducing some further notice of his prose composi- 
tions, of which the character has been variously 
and somewhat discordantly estimated. As a speci- 
men of Latinity, this preface is not inelegantly 
written, and the subject, that of the utility of col- 
lecting books for public use, was such a favourite 
with him that he has again discussed it in English, 
recording, with high praise, and in an easy, pure, 
and impressive style, those who have contributed 
to the origin and growth of libraries. It has been 
** said of good princes,'' he eloquently remarks, 
^^ that all their names might be drawn within the 
g^ of one ring ; but, we hope, by time, a volume 

* Walpole^s Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors^ apud 
Park, vol* v. p. 98. 


may be composed of the names of such who, con- 
spiring against barbarity and the roughness of the 
former age, have thought it no dishonour to make 
the muses beholden to their liberality, which, that 
others, who will follow their example, may know 
they have not offered to oblivion and ingratitude, 
we have been daring to register in the temple of 
memory ; which can be no disadvantage to the 
living, and may serve to the dead for an unpolished 
epitaph, by which they shall not all die.'' 

It is much to be regretted that he did not write 
his ** History of the Five James's, Kings of Scot- 
land'' in a style of equal simplicity and purity; 
but seized with an ardent desire of rivalling the 
manner of Livy and Tacitus, he has deviated so 
much from the idiom and customary construction 
of the English language, as to have given to his 
pages an air of great stifihess and affectation. In 
his ^^ Irene," however, or a " Remonstrance for 
Concord, Amity, and Love, among his Majesty's 
Subjects," and which was composed about eight 
years afterwards, he has again fortunately trusted 
to his own unshackled powers of expression, and 
has shown himself a truly eloquent and persuasive 
advocate for peace and civil union. 


At a period when, unhappily, moderation in po- 
litics was a thing unknown, Drummond embraced 
with enthusiastic zeal, and from motives as well of 
private moral obligation as of public duty, the 
cause of the unfortunate Charles ; and though, as 
might be expected, from the crisis in which the 
kingdom was involved, and the side which he 
espoused, he has carried, in his History and in 
Irene, the doctrines of non-resistance and passive 
obedience greatly beyond constitutional limits, yet 
has he exhibited throughout both the most indu- 
bitable proofs of integrity, and not unfrequently of 
great political sagacity. It would appear, indeed» 
from the communication of a writer who has had 
access to his unpublished manuscripts, that he had 
been much trusted and employed by Charles in his 
uttermost distress ; for he tells us, that among his 
papers he found " a prima cur a of king Charles 
the First's last appeal to the people of England, 
with corrections and marginal notes, in the king's 
own hand-writing ;'' and adds in a note, that " this 
affecting paper was deposited in the liln*ary of the 
Society of Antiquaries at Edinbur^ *.'' 

* The Bee, vol. ix. p. 46. 


Turning, however, from any more minute con- 
sideration of our author^s prose works, on which his 
permanent fame cannot be founded, I have now to 
resume his personal history, and to state, that shortly 
after the completion of his work on the Jameses, 
and in the year 1630, he married Elizabeth Logan, 
grand-daughter of sir Robert Logan of Restalrig, 
a lady into whose company he had fallen by acci- 
dent, and who almost immediately interested his 
heart by the very strong resemblance which she 
bore to the long lamented object of his first affec- 
tions. With this lady he immediately retired to 
his patrimonial mansion, over the entrance to which 
he placed, a few years afterwards, on having greatly 
improved its appearance, the following inscription : 

Divino munere Gulielmus 
Drummondus Johannls 
£quitis aurati filius 
ut honesto otio'qui- 
esceret sibi et succes- 
soribuB instauravit. 

Anno 1638. 

And here, in the bosom of his family, in the cul- 
tivation of his poetical talents, and in the improve- 
ment of his grounds, he found the chief, and, in- 
deed, the sole sources of his happiness ; for it was 


not many years after his return to Hawthomden, 
before the flames of faction and rebellion burst forth, 
when bitter experience brought home to the bosom 
of every individual the melancholy conviction, that 
absolute retirement from the storm was the only 
ark of safety. The patriotism of Drummond, how- 
ever, surmounted all selfish considerations, and he 
hesitated not to employ his pen frequently and 
zealously in behalf of the regal and ecclesiastical 
establishment of his country ; a line of conduct 
which, subjecting him to the calumnious appellation 
of a malignant, he was not only greatly harassed by 
the revolutionary insurgents, and often summoned 
before their tribunals, but compelled to furnish his 
proportion of men and arms for the support of the 
very cause which he deprecated and abhorred *. 

♦ *' His estate/' says the author of his Life in the folio 
edition^ '' lying in three different shires^ he had not occasion 
to send one entire man^ but halfs and quarters^ and such like 
fractions; upon which he wrote extempore the following 
verses to his majesty : 

Of all these forces raised against the king, 

'Tis my strange hap not one whole man to bring 

From divers parishes, yet divers men. 

But all in halfs and quarters ; great king, then. 

In halfs and quarters if they come 'gainst thee. 

In halfs and quarters send them back to me." 


So Strong, in fact, was his attachment to his royal 
master, that when the report of his execution on 
the scaffold reached him, he is said to have been so 
borne down with affliction that he lifted his head no 
more. He expired on the 4th of December, 1649, 
in the sixty-fourth year of his age, and was buried 
in his own aisle in the church of Laswade, in the 
immediate vicinity of Hawthomden. Of seva:*! 
children which he had by his marriage, two sons 
and a daughter survived him, and of these William, 
the eldest, was knighted by Charles the Second, 
and Elizabeth became the wife of a physician of the 
name of Henderson. It is here also worthy of re- 
cord, that Dr. Abemethy Drummond, of the ancient 
family of Abemethy of Saltoun, who married the 
heiress-general of Hawthomden, and resided there 
for many years, had the good taste and feeling to in- 
scribe some lines over Ben Jonson^s seat in honour 
of the poet, and which conclude with an eulogy on 
solitude that may be said to speak the very soul 
and sentiment of the bard to whose memory they 
are dedicated. 

sacred solitude ! divine retreat ! 
Choice of the prudent, envy of the great ; 

By these pure streams^ or in thy waving shade^ 

1 court fair Wisdom, that celestial maid ; 


Tbcre, firom the wmyi ofmen kid safe adioie, 
I smile to hetr the distant tensest tosk ; 
There^ Uest with healthy with busiiiess unperplez'd. 
This life I rdish, and secure the next *. 

There are few persons who in moral worth and 
amiability of disposition haye surpassed the poet of 
Ebwthomden ; nor, as a gentleman and a scholar, 
was he less distinguished for urbanity of manners 
and depth of erudition. He was skilled in the ac- 
complishments of his age, a master of the Italian, 
French, and Spanish languages, and a lover and 
patron of the fine arts. 

Of his poetical talents, the specimens which I 
have already quoted, and the strictures which have 
accompanied them, will enable the reader to form a 
highly favourable, and, in general, a pretty accu- 
rate judgment. Not that all his pieces, which are 
very numerous, exhibit an equal d^ree of simpli- 
city, pathos, and purity of expression; for there 
are many, and especially amongst his madrigals, 
epigrams, and miscellanies, which are not only in 
themselves of a trifling nature, but discover an un- 
fortunate partiality for the prettinesses and concetti 
of the Italian school ; yet enough has been given to 

♦ The Bee, vol. ix. p. 30. 


show, that when the feelings of the poet were in- 
terested, he could pour forth the dictates of his heart 
in language true to nature^ and adequate to the ut- 
terance of any subject, however weighty and ex- 
alted. Indeed, in that portion of his volume which 
is classed under the title of ** Divine Poems,'' there 
may be found occasional passages which, for lofti- 
ness of thought and splendor of diction, would not 
be deemed unworthy of the mighty poet of Paradise 
Lost. Thus, for instance, in the fragment named 
** The Shadow of the Judgment,'' where the spirits 
of the just are represented as praying for the final 
advent of the Saviour, who but must admire the 
following lines, of which those in italics need no 
eulogium either from my pen or any other ? 

O come^ still hoped for, come long wish'd for Lord ! — 
While thus they pray^ the heavens in flames appear^ 
As if they show fire's elemental sphere ; 
The earth seems in the sun^ the welkin gone ; 
Wonder all hushes ; straight the air doth groan 
With trumpets^ which thrice louder sounds do yield 
Than deaf'ning thunders in the airy field. 
Created nature at the clarigor quakes ; 
Immured with Jiames, earth in a paJsy shakes, 
And from her womb the dust in several heaps 
Takes life, and musfreth into human shapes : 
Hell hursts ! and the foul prisoners there bound 
Come howling to the day, with serpents crown *d. 


Millions of angels in the lofty height^ 
Clad in pure gold^ and with electre bright. 
Ushering the way still where the judge should move. 
In radiant rainbows vault the skies above ; 
Which quickly open, like a curtain driven. 
And beaming glory shows the King of Heaven. 

It was scarcely to be expected, that amongst 
poems in general of so serious and plaintive a cast 
as are those of Drummond, there should be found 
one whose characteristic is . that of the coarsest 
and often the most indelicate humour. Yet the 
" Polemo-Middinia/* or the Dunghill Fight, a 
Macaronic poem, in which the Virgilian hexameter 
is mingled with broad Scotch, has been ascribed to 
our author by Bishop Gibson, who, when a young 
man, published this piece, together with ^* Christ** s 
'Kirk on the Green,'' at Oxford, in 1691, with some 
curious and valuable notes*. This ascription se- 
cured for it a place in the collection of the poet's 
works printed in 1711, but, there is some reason to 
conclude, without sufficient authority ; for although 

• Polemo-Middinia, Carmen Macronicum. Autore Guli- 
elmo Drummondo^ Scoto-Britanno. Accedit Jacobi^ id no- 
minis Quinti, Regis Scotorum, Cantilena' Rustica^ vulgo in- 
scripta " Christ's Kirk on the Green." Recensuit, notisque 
illustravit E. G. Oxonii e Theatro Sheldoniano. An. Dom 
1691, 4to. 


Mr. Gilchrist, in a very interesting paper on the 
bishop^s edition, has conjectured that this ludicrous 
trifle was written when Drummond was on a visit 
to his brother-in-law at Scotstarvet * ; yet it has 
been acutely observed by Mr. Irving, after remark- 
ing on Gibson'^s failure in specifying his authority, 
and on the improbability of a production so indeli- 
cate proceeding from our poet's p«i, that '^ the fol- 
lowing verse seems to exhibit historical evidence of 
its being composed at a period subsequent to his 
death : 

Barytonam emisit veluti Monsmegga cracasset. 

Drummond,'' he observes, " died in the year 164f9, 
but the huge mortar known by the name of Mons 
Meg had not then been brought into Scotland.*" 
He adds, " I remember to have heard the Polemo- 
Middinia adjudged in a decisive tone to Walter 
Dennistone. It ought, however, to have been re- 
collected that this name is merely fictitious, and 
that the writer who assumed it *was the celebrated 
Dr. Pitcaime. — That Dr. Pitcaime was the author 
of the Pclemo Middinia^ he continues, " I will 

* Censura Literaria^ vol. ili. p. 364. 


not venture to assert ; but the supposition, perhaps, 
is not totally devoid of probability. The initials of 
the names, William Drummond and Walter Den- 
nistone, are the same in Latin as well as in English, 
and this circumstance, however trivial it may ap- 
pear, might perhaps introduce the confusion which 
has ensued*.*** 

The fate which has attended the poetry of Drum* 
mond, great as is its beauty, has not been such as 
to place him on the list of popular bards. In fact, 
only four editions of his poems have been printed 
during the lapse of two hundred and ten years, and 
one of these was accompanied by his collected prose 
works. It would appear, indeed, that this neglect 
was foreseen by the poet, for he tells us in one of 
his early sonnets — 

I know that all the Muse's heavenly lays, 
With toil of sprite, which are so dearly bought. 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought. 

Yet have there been some, though few, who, in 
the course of this long period, have seen and done 
justice to his merits. Forty years after the im- 
pression of 1616, the earliest which is known, 

• Lives of the Scottish Poets, vol. i. p. 407, 408. 


Edward Philips, the nephew of Milton, printed a 
second edition with the following title : — ** Poems 
by that most famous wit, William Drummond of 
Hawthomden."" Lond. 1656, 8vo. To this edition 
he has given a preface, which, as he usually wrote 
under Milton^s immediate observance, may be con- 
sidered perhaps as expressing the opinions of that 
great poet ; a supposition which cannot fail to render 
an extract from its pages of high value. 

" To say that these poems,'' he remarks, ** are 
the effects of a genius, the most polite and verdant 
that ever the Scottish nation produced, although it 
be a commendation not to be rejected (for it is well 
known that that country hath afforded many rare 
and admirable wits), yet it is not the highest that 
may be given him ; for should I afHrme that nei- 
ther Tasso nor Guarini, nor any of the most neat 
and refined spirits of Italy, nor even the choicest 
of our English poets, can challenge to themselves 
any advantages above him, it could not be judged 
any attribute superiour to what he deserves ; nor 
shall I thinke it any arrogance to maintain, that 
among all the several fancies that in thes6 times 
have exercised the most nice and curious judgments, 
there hath not come forth any thing that deserves 


to 1)6 welcomed into the world with greater estima- 
tion and applause : And though he hath not had 
the fcHTtime to be so generally famed abroad as 
many others perhaps of lesse esteeme, yet this is a 
consideration that cannot at all diminish, but rather 
advance his credit; for by breaking forth of ob- 
scurity he will attract the higher admiration, and, 
like the sun emerging from a cloud, appeare at 
length with so much the more forcible rayes. Had 
there been nothing extant of him but his History of 
Scotland, consider but the language, how florid and 
ornate it is; consider the order and the prudent 
conduct of his story, and you will ranke him in the 
number of the best writers, and compare him even 
with Thuanus himselfe. Neither is he lesse happy 
in his verse than prose ; for here are all those graces 
met together that conduce any thing toward the 
making up of a compleat and perfect poet : a de- 
cent and becoming majesty ; a brave and admirable 
height; and a wit so flowing, that Jove him- 
$elfe never dranke nectar that sparkled with more 
qprightly lustre." 

. Milton, there is reason to believe, had studied 
Drummond with deep attention. That he would 
applaud the structure and collocation of a great por^ 

VOL. I. % 


tion of the language of his History of the Jameses^ 
we may readily conclude from the texture of his 
own prose ; and that he had a high relish for the 
many curious felicities of diction and metre with 
which the better part of his poetry abounds, there 
can be as little doubt. ^^ If any poems,^^ says a late 
learned critic, ^' possess a very high degree of that 
exquisite Doric delicacy which we so much admire 
in Comus, &c. those of Drummond do. MiltcHi 
may often be traced in him ; and he had certainly 
read and admired him. Drummoqd was the first 
who introduced into English that fine Italian vein; 
^ and if we had had no Drummond, perhaps we should 
never have seen the delicacies of Cbipus, Lycidas, 
II Penseroso, KAllegro. Milton has happened to 
have justice done htm by posterity ; Drummond, 
alas ! has not been so fortunate *.'" 

Not indeed until very lately, and since this 
paragraph was written, have the poetical claims ot 
Drummond attracted any general notice. In the 
seventeenth century, the admirati(»i of Milton and 
the published encomia of his nephew were alike 
Inefficacious; and so sldw, it spears, was the sale 

* • Pinkerton's Ancient Scottish Po^ms, vol. i. p. cxxiii. 


of the edition of 1656^ that a new title, couched in 
the following eulogistic terms, was found necessary, 
in 16599 to accelerate its dispersion. " The most 
elegant and elaborate Poems of that great court- 
wit, Mr. William Drummond ; whose labours, both 
in verse and prose, being heretofore so precious to 
prince Henry and to king Charles, shal live and 
flourish in all ages, whiles there are men to read 
them, or art and judgment to approve them.^^ 

The readers of Drummond, however, could not 
be nunierous; for more than half a century was 
suffered to elapse after Phillips' edition, before the 
public demand warranted another impression. At 
length, in 1711, were published at Edinbur^, in 
folio, " The Works of William Drummond of 
Hawthomden ; consisting of those which were for. 
merly printed and those which were designed for 
the Press, Now published from the AuthcMr's ori- 
ginal Copies.'" To this edition, which is supposed 
to have been benefited by the assistance of the 
learned Ruddiman ^, aiid which contains the entire 
works of Drummond, in prose as well as verse, is 

* Vide Chalmers' Life of Ruddiman, p. 53. 



prefixed the life of the author to which I havcf al- 
ready referred; scanty it is true, and somewhat 
inconsistent in its details, but the sole source on 
which we can now depend^ for information. 

With this folio impression, although it had lat- 
terly become scarce, the reading world was content 
for a period of eighty years ; when, in 1791 9 the 
poetical portion of our author's works was re^m- 
mitted to the press at London, and appeared in a 
duodecimo form. Little, however, can be said Tor 
the accuracy of this edition, which , deviates fre- 
quently from what may be esteemed the most au- 
thentic copy of the poems, that of 1656, and in. 
almost every instance for the worse. 

It is somewhat extraordinary, indeed, that^ set- 
ting aside the commendatory versies by Johnston *, 
Spotswood\y Alexander l. Lander, PhiUips §, Mack-* 
enzkf and Crawford, prefixed to the folio, the cor- 
rect and tasteful eulogies of such recent writers as 

* Dr. Arthur Johnston^ physician to the king, and author 
of an exquisite piece of humour under the title oiParerga^ 
t Archbishop of St. Andrews. 
X Earl'of Sterling. 
§ The nephew of Milton. 


WarloUy Pinkerton, HeadUy *, Park^ and Neve f , 
should not in modern times have induced a better 
edition of our poet than the one just censured ; 
especially when we recollect that the accomplished 
critic who closes this list has opened his Short Ac^ 
count of the Life and Writvngs ofDrummond by 
remarking, that ^^ among aU the writers at the be* 
ginning of the last century (1600) who flourished 
after the death of Shakspeare, there is not one 
whom a general reader of the English poetry (rf 
that age will regard with so much and so deserved 
attention as William IDrummond.'' 

It remains only to express a hope that the many 
beautiful specimens which I have now given of the 
exquisite genius of this too much neglected bard 
may stimulate some person of competent talents to 
come forward with the view of doing justice to his 
merits by a correct and well-selected edition of his 

* " It is in vain^" says this amiable critic^ " we lament the 
fate of many of our poets who have undeservedly fallen vic- 
tims to a premature oblivion^ when the finished productions 
of this man are little known^ and still less read." — ^Edition 
by Kett, vol. i. p. xli» 

t We may add to this list the name of lord Woodhouselee, 
who in his Life of Karnes has given us some very judicious 
remarks on the genius and writings of our poet. 



poems; in executing which there will be found 
abundant room for the display of taste, and judg- 
ment, and critical acumen. 

I shall now, reverting to the scenery in the vi- 
cinity of Roslin, with which this essay opened, 
hasten to niention, though but in a cursory man- 
ner, another poet who in the order of time has con- 
ferred celebrity on the stream of the Northern Esk 
—I mean Allan Ramsay, who, for many years 
during the latter part of his life, spent a great part 
of every summer at the seat of his friend, sir John 
Clerk, of Fennycuick, a mansion situated about five 
miles above Roslin, on the banks of the Esk ; and 
from the romantic neighbourhood of this place^ and 
especially from the grounds near Woodhouselee, 
embosomed as it were in an opening of the Pent- 
land hills, he appears to have drawn much of the 
scenery of his beautiful pastoral, The Gentle Shep* 
herd. It would seem also that he had imbibed no 
little'veneration for the poetic genii who had hal- 
lowed the groves of Hawthornden ; for whilst he , 
carried on the business of a bibliopolist at Edin- 
burgh, at least in the latter part of his career, the 
heads of Drummond and Ben Jonson were seen 
exhibited on the front of his house, alike emblematic 


of the literary accommodation within, and of the 
taste and talents of its provider. Nor have the 
banks of the Esk forgotten to repeat his name after 
those of the celebrated bards whom I have just 
mentioned. At Pennycuick, sir James Clerk, the 
son and successor of sir John, erected, almost im- 
mediately after Ramsay^s death, a handsome obelisk 
of hewn stone to his memory, and placed on it the 
following inscription : 

Alano Ramsay Poetae ^egio, 

Qui fatis concessit vii. Jan. m.dcclviii. 

Amico patemo et suo^ 

Monumentum inscribi jussit 

D. Jacobus Clerk^ 

Anno M.DccLix. 

Whilst at Woodhouselee, on a spot which com- 
mands an extensive view of the vale of the North 
Esk, a scene traversed and commemorated by the 
author of the Gentle Shepherd, Mr. Eraser Tytler 
has built a rustic seat with a marble tablet, thus 
consecrated to the fame of the poet. 

Allano Bamsay, 


Genio Loci, 


Here— midst those scenes that taught thy Doric muse 
Her sweetest song, the hilis, the woods, the streams. 


Where beauteous Peggy stray'd, list'ning the while 
Her Gentle ShephercT^, tender tale of love — 
Scenes which thy pencil^ true to nature^ gave 
To live for ever — sacred be this shrine^ 
And unprofaned by ruder hands the stone. 
That owes its honours to thy deathless name. 

Yet however delightful may be the literary as- 
sociations of which the stream of the Fisk has to 
boasty as dependent on the genius of former times, 
stili greater fame, I may venture to afSrm, will in 
future be connected with its course, when it shall 
be recollected that at Atichendinny and Lctszvade, 
villages on its banks, have resided two of the most 
celebrated men for taste and talent of which Scot- 
land has reason to be proud. At the former of 
these places, which is situated about three miles 
above Roslin, resides, or did reside, Henky Mack- 
enzie, esq., the Addison of his country, the wiell- 
known author of the Man of Feelings of a great 
portion of the Mirror and^ the Lounger, and of 
various other productions, which for pathos and 
moral beauty, for chasteness of humour, purity 
of style, and delicacy of taste and thought, have 
seldom been exceeded. 

Laswade has still higher pretensions; for this 
village, two miles below Hawthornden^ could, five- 


and-twenty years ago, reckon amongst its inhabit- 
ants Mr. now sir Walter Scott, a writer who, 
beyond all others of the present age, has excited 
by his numerous compositions the deepest interest . 
and the most varied delight. 

It was about a year or two preceding thia period, 
I think in 1799, that he was visited at Las wade by 
his friend Dr. Stoddart. He had then just made 
his first appearance in the literary world by a trans- 
lation of Goethe's Goetz of Berlichingen, and was 
preparing for the press his Minstrelsy of the Scot- 
fish Border ; and the doctor, after noticing with 
due praise his poetical talents, adds, with a warmth 
of feeling which does honour to his heart, ** I can-* 
not believe but that a reader of taste would be de- 
lighted even with a flight copy of that domestic 
picture which I contemplated with so much plea- 
sure during my short visit to my friend-^a man of 
native kindness and cultivated talent, passing the 
intervals of a learned profession amidst scenes highly 
favourable to his poetic inspiration ; . not in a churl- 
ish and rustic solitude, but in the daily exercise of 
the most precious sympathies, as a husband, a fa- 
ther, and a friend. To such an inhabitant, the 
, simple, unostentatious elegance of the cottage at 


Laswade is well suited ; and its image will never 
recur to my memory without a throng of those 
pleasing associations whose outline I have faintly 
sketched *.'' 

Since this interesting delineation was given to 
the world in 1801, how splendid and how varied 
has been the literary career of the accomplished 
person whose modest virtues it pourtrays! As 
evidence which will fully substantiate the remark, 
let us for a moment consider, setting aside the nu- 
merous works which sir Walter has published during 
this period as an antiquary^ a critic^ an editor^ and 
a miscellaneous writer , what has been the nature 
and extent of bis productions in the department 
alone of imagination. 

Having by his Border Minstrelsy, published in 
1802, and by his notes to, and continuation of, Sir 
Tristrenhy a metrical romance of the thirteenth cen- 
tury, which appeared in 1804, sufficiently proved 
how profoundly he was acquainted with, and how 
well he could imitate and rival, the ancient legend- 
ary and ballad strains of the Scottish Muse, he 

* Remarks on Local Scenery and Manners in Scotland^ 
during the Years 1799 and 1800^ by John Stoddart^ LL.B. 
Vol. i. p. 1«7. 


presented to the public in 1805 his Lay of the Last 
Minstrel^ a species of epic. romance, whose origina- 
lity of construction and felicity of execution were 
such as immediately to render it one of the most 
popular poems ever published. Thus encouraged, 
he produced in rapid succession, beside many minor 
poems which I need not here enumerate, his Mar^ 
mion. Lady of the Ldke^ Rokeby^ and Lord of the 
Isles, metrical romances, each embracing six cantos, 
arid the last appearing in 1814. 

It may justly be said that these pieces, com- 
bining, as they do, the interest of the novel with 
the charm of a very varied rythmical harmony, are 
entitled to establish, both as to matter and form, 
an era in British poetry. With the exception of 
Rokeby, whose scene is on English ground, they 
paint the manners and costume of Scotland and her 
isles, at a period most favourable to poetic colour- 
ing, with singular truth arid vigour. Th^e is, in- 
deed, a boldness, a strengths and freedom in their 
style peculiarly accordant with the wild and chi- 
valric tone of the characters and incidents which 
they describe. Occasionally, as might be expected 
from the names, habits, and manners of the per- 
sonages who are necessarily introduced, there is a 


coarseness, roughness, and apparent slovenliness in 
the diction and versification ; but in general, with 
a spirit which is ever effervescent, and never tires, 
there runs throughout the structure of each poem 
a very predominating share of beauty and melody. 
Almost every form of lyric metre is exemplified in 
the composition of the stanzas, and never did verse 
exhibit, in a more perfect degree, its power of 
bringing material objects before the mind's eye ; in 
fact, every picture lives and glows before you ! If I 
were called upon, however, to give a preference 
among these productions, it should be, from the 
loftier cast of its imagery, and the thrilling awful- 
ness of many of its conceptions, in favour of Mar* 
mum; and let me add, that in point of moral pathos, 
and scenery worthy of a Claude or Poussin, I know 
few if any poems superior to its epistolary intro- 

Brilliant, however, as was the reputation ac- 
quired by these metrical tales, it has since been 
surpassed by the unprecedented fame which has 
followed the publication oi\k\Q prose romances of 
probably the same author. It was in the year 1814, 
the very year which witnessed the last of the poetical 
series of fictions by the Border Minstrel, that Wa- 


verley made its appearance. This was immediately, 
and throughout nearly all the journals of the em- 
pire, ascribed to the pen of the Scottish bard ; and 
as, during the unparalleled quick succession of 
pieces of a similar kind, and avowedly by the au- 
thor of Waverley, which has followed even to the 
present day, no contradiction has been seriously or 
authoritatively given to an ascription now almost 
universal, we are fully warranted, I think, in con- 
sidering them as the productions of sir Walter 

The very nature, indeed, and construction of 
these celebrated works almost irresistibly led to this 
conclusion; for the same masterly powers of de- 
scriptive painting, the same cast and tone of cha- 
racter, the same minute attention to manners, cus- 
toms, history, and tradition, the same love of the 
wild, the chivalric, and the awful, which so remark-^ 
ably distinguished the poetical romances, are in an 
equal if not superior degree to be found in the Wa^ 
verley novels. There is, in fact, a richness, depth, 
and truth in many of the very numerous characters 
with which these prose fictions abound, and espe- 
cially in the historical ones, which need not fear 
competition from any writer, save the bari of Avon.. 


There is also discoverable in these compositions a 
profound intimacy with the workings of intense and 
agonizing feeling, instances of which, in relation to 
the passions of pity and terror, I could particularize 
as given with the most powerful effect, and more 
especially in Waverley^ the Antiquary^ Old Mor^ 
talityy the Heart of Mid Lothian^ and KenihoortK 

An objection, it is true, has been raised to the 
ascription of these interesting tales either \o sir 
Walter Scott, or any other individual writer, from 
the apparent improbability that sfich a rapid suc- 
cession of works of fancy could have issued from 
one and the same pen. And, indeed, when we re< 
collect that, during the short space of twelve years 
whii^h has elapsed between the first and last d 
these productions, we are called upon to believe 
that not less than twenty -two novels, occupying 
sixty-two volumes, have been the product of a 
single mind, it must be confessed that a fertility so 
extraordinary is sufficient to stagger our credulity. 

Yet, at the same time, when we compare these 
romances with each other, it is impossible not to 
percdve throughout the entire series such a simi^ 
larity in style and manner, as well in conception 
as in execution, as compels us to acknowledge, 


that if sir Walter has been assisted by his family 
or friends, it has only been in such a subordinate 
degree as has enabled him to finish every picture 
with so much of peculiarity of tone and colpuring, 
with so much of correspondency and integrity of 
composition, as to impress upon each work, and 
upon the whole, the stamp of individuaUty. 

It should not be forgotten, perhaps, as an auxi- 
liary argument in supjport of the attribution of 
these works to sir Walter Scott, that with the ex- 
ception of two small poems, Waterloo, and Ha- 
Kdon Hill, and PauPs Letters to his Kinsfolk, 
no original work has issued from his pen since the 
appearance of Waverley; and it will readily be 
granted, that if the similar productions which fol- 
lowed this romance be correctly assigned to him as 
their author, this apparent sterility^ so unexpected 
from the rapidity with which he fonnerly brought 
forth his poetical fictions, will be easily accounted 
for ; as assuredly during this period no man can 
have had more literary occupation than the ano- 
nymous fabricator of the Scottish novels ♦. 


* To these pages^ which were written nearly a twelvemonth 
ago^ I now stop the press (March 5th, 1837) to add whi^t 
hat appeared in the puhlic papers within these few days^ and 


which sets this long-agitated question as to the authorship 
of the Waverley Novels completely at rest. I quote from 
the St. James's Chronicle of Feb. 27th, 1827. 

'' At the first annual dinner of the Edinburgh Theatrical 
Fund^ held Saturday^ the 24th of Feb. 1827, in the Assembly 
Rooms^ sir Walter Scott in the chair^ 

" Lord Meadowbank begged to propose a health which he 
was sure^ in an assembly of Scotsmen^ would be received not 
with an ordinary feeling of delight^ but with rapture and 
enthusiasm. He knew that it would be painful to his feel-^ 
ings if he were to speak of him in the terms which his heart 
prompted^ and that he had sheltered himself under his na- 
tive modesty from the applause which he deserved. But it 
was gratifying at last to know that these clouds were now 
dispelled^ and that the Great Unknown— the mighty ma- 
gician — {here the room literally rang with applauses^ which 
were continued for some minutesy—the minstrel of our 
country, who had conjured up^ not the phantoms of de- 
parted ages, but realities^ now stood revealed before the eyes 
and afiTections of his country. In his presence it would ill 
become him^ as it would be displeasing to that distinguished 
person^ to say, if he were able, what every man must feel 
who recollected the enjoyment he had had from the great 
efforts of his mind and genius. It has been left for him by 
his writings to give his country- an imperishable name. He 
had done more for this country by illuminating its annals, 
by illustrating the deeds of its warriors and statesmen, than 
any man that ever existed, or was produced within its ter- 
ritory. He had opened up the peculiar beauties of ^his 
country to the eyes of foreigners. He had exhibited the 
deeds of those patriots and statesmen to whom we owed the 
freedom we now enjoyed. He would give the health of sir 


Walter Scott/* (^Which was drunk with the most enthusiastic 

'' Sir Walter Scott certainly did not thinks that^ in coining 
there that day, he should have the task of acknowledging, 
before three hundred gentlemen, a secret, which, considering 
that it was communicated to more than twenty people, was 
remarkably well kept. He was now before the bar of his 
country, tind might be understood'to be on trial before lord 
Meadowbank as an offender; yet he was sure that every 
imparljal jury would bring in a verdict of ^ not proven.' 
He did not now think it necessary to enter into the reasons 
of his long silence. Perhaps he might have acted from 
caprice. He had now to say, however, that the merits of 
these works, if they had any, and their faults, were entirely 
imputable to himself. {Long and loud cheering). He was 
afraid to think on what he had done. ' Look on't again I 
dare not.' He had thus far unbosomed himself, and he 
knew that it would be reported to the public. He meant, 
When he said that he was the author, that he was the total 
and undivide<l author. With the exception of quotations, 
there was not a single word that was not derived from him- 
self, or suggested in the course of his reading. The wand 
was now broken, and the rod buried. They would allow 
him further to say, with Prosper©, ' Your breath it is that 
has filled my sails. 

» »» 

VOL. I. 

No. XII. 

Tfaihias s\yj\aKM$. 

A physician (^ great skill ;— a man of probity, piety, and 
profound erudition. 

In retracing the events of the morning of our 
days, how truly grateful are those retrospections, 
though mingled, it may be, with some shades of 
tender regret, which are associated with the fate 
of our once youthful companions, of those who 
started with us, side by side, in the race of busy 
existence, and have either left this sublunary scene, 
or are descending with us into the vale of years ! 

More especially is such a retrospection delight- 
ful when connected, as in the subject of my present 
paper, with the fortunes of one who had not cmly 
in early life been dear to us from similarity of taste 
and scientific pursuits, but who, both in a profes- 
sional and literary point of view, is still prosecuting 
a career of no common utility and splendour. 

The education of medical men, indeed, when con- 
ducted, as should ever be the case, upon a broad 


and liberal basis, not only leads to a vast range of 
collateral science, but is necessarily founded on an 
intimacy with the language and the literature of 
Greece and Rome. Hence many of the first phy- 
sicians in all ages have been distinguished, as well 
for their love and pursuit of elegant studies, as of 
those more immediately connected with the practice 
of the healing art. On the continent, amid a hos^ 
to which we might point with pride and pleasure, 
it will suffice to mention the venerated, I might say, 
indeed, the beloved names of FracastoriuSj Holler^ 
and Zimmernum^ men alike dear to the student of 
nature and the disciple of the muses. Nor do we 
want in our own island many, both in the past and 
present times, who have traced, with equal energy 
and success, this twofold path to fame. But a few 
years have gone by since we lost, and in the vigour 
of his days, our lamented Leyden, a physician di- 
stinguished among his contemporaries not more for 
his enthusiastic love of science than for the beauty 
of his poetry, and the almost unrivalled extent of 
his philological attainments. 

Like Leyden, the friend to whom these few pages 
are devoted, early acquired a justly earned charac- 
ter for deep and multifarious erudition ; but, more 



fortunate than Leyden in length of days, he has 
now added to these acqukitions a great, and I may 
venture to say, a permanent reputation as a nodical 
writer and philosopher. 

♦John Mason Good, M.D.,F.R.S., F.R.S.L.^ 
&c. &c., was bom at Epping in Essex, on the 25th 
of May, 1764. He is descended from a family of 
great respectability and antiquity at Romsey near 
Southampton, whither his father, a dissenting mi- 
nister of exemplary character and considerable lite-^ 
rary attainments, immediately removed on the death 
of his elder brother, and whilst the subject of my 
brief memoir was yet an infant. Here, under the 
most able parental tuition, his father having mar- 
ried Miss Peyto, the favourite niece of that excel- 
lent man, John Mason, A. M., the author of the 
well known treatise on " Self-Knowledge," he en- 
joyed a very liberal and comprehensive initiation 
into the walks of literature and science. 

Dr. Good commenced the exercise of his profes- 
sion, I believe, as a general practitioner, at Sudbury 
in Suffolk, where he married his present lady, one 

* It may be necessary to state that a portion of this paper 
was communicated anonymously by me to Time's Telescope 
for 1825. 


of the daughters of the late Thomas Fenn, esq., 
a banker of that place, and a gentleman highly 
esteemed for his charity, urbanity, and uniform be- 
nevolence of heart. It was here that, in the year 
1791, I first became acquainted with him; and 
there were few days during ^he subsequent twelve 
months that we did not meet. Sudbury, however, 
was a field too confined to afford sufficient scope 
for his talents, and happily he was induced, in the 
spring of the year 1793, to exchange it for the 
^metropolis, where he has gradually risen into that 
celebrity, both as a scholar of uncommon powers 
and as a medical writer of the first class, to which I 
have just alluded. 

It will be a pleasing occupation to myself, and 
one perhaps^ not unproductive of interest and in- 
formation to many, should I attempt in this place to 
give, in as condensed a form as may be compatible 
with the wish of awakening curiosity on the subject, 
a rapid sketch of the principal works which my 
learned friend has hitherto produced ; dwelling in 
some degree, though necessarily in a brief maitner, 
on those, as best suited to a woHc like the present^ 
which are more immediately addressed to the busi- 
ness and the boso!?is of the general reader. 


With a critical knowledge of classical literature, 
Dr. Good had early in life combined the study of 
the oriental languages ; and, in 1803, he published 
the first fruits of his philolo^cal acquisitions und^ 
the title of ^^ Sono of Songs, or Sacred Idyls; 
translated from the ori^nal Hebrew, with Notes 
critical and explanjatory,*" 8va. This version, which 
offers a new arrangement, being broken into short 
pastorals, each pastoral finishing where the subject 
seems naturally to close, is beautifully executed 
under the double form of prose and poetry. ** Thus 
divided,^** observes the translator, ^^ into a multitude 
of little detached poems, I trust that many of the 
obscurities which have hitherto overshadowed this 
unrivalled relique of the eastern pastoral have va- 
nished completely, and that the ancient Hebrews 
will be found to possess a poet who, independently 
of the sublimity of any concealed and allegorical 
meaning, may rival the best productions of Theo- 
critus, Bion, or Virgil, as to the literal beauties with 
which every verse overflows*." 

Copious notes, exhibiting a large share of taste 
and erudition, are appended to the text ; and of the 

* Prelact', pp. 5, 6. 


metrical version, which is in a high d^ree spirited 
and el^anty I feel much pleasure in selecting a 
specimen from the description of Spring, which 
forms the subject of the third idyl, than which a 
more lovely picture of the lovdiest of all seasons 
was never presented to our admiration. The royal 
bride is represented as speaking: 

'Twas ray beloved's voice. — With rapture new, 
Light as a hart, o'er heights and hills he flew. 
Lo ! nigh ray window, nigh its trellis'd frame, 
Close to my door, at day's first dawn he came. 
^^ Arise, my love!" 'twas thus I heard him say, 
*' Arise, ray love ! ray fair one, come away ! 
Gone is the winter, and the rains are o'er. 
And the fresh fields their yearly blossoms pour : 
The birds their songs resume ; through every grove 
The glossy turtle wakes his voice of love ; 
Her figs the fig-tree sweetens, o'er the vine. 
Fragrant and fresh, the lucid clusters shine, — 
Woods, hills, and valleys, all their charms display : 
Arise, my love ! my fair one, come away !" — 

I am ray love's, and ray beloved mine : 
The sweets of lilies on his lips combine ; 
Till breathe the morning, and the shadows fly. 
Blest in my beating bosom shall he lie. 
Return, return ! let eve thy love bestow I 
Haste as, o'er Bether's hill, the bounding roe ! 


The same year which had witnessed this version 


♦ ■ 

from the Hebrew, produced our author's ** Memoirs 
qf the Life cmd Writings of ilie Bev. Alexander 
GeddeSf L.L,D.'^ 8vo ; a work which, while it in- 
terests as a highly pleasing and impartially written 
account of a very profound theologian, and truly 
original, though somewhat eccentric character, im- 
presses us, at the same time, with a full conviction 
of the writer's sufficiency for the task which he had 
undertaken as a biblical critic and scholar. 

Two years after the publication of these memoirs. 
Dr. Good sent to the press his very valuable trans- 
lation of Lucretius, the most elaborate of all his 
works in the provinces of philology , poetry, and cri- 
ticism. It is entitled " The Nature op Things, 
a Didactic Poem^ translated from the Latin of Titus 
Lucretius Carus^ accompanied with the original 
Text and illustrated with various Prolegomena, and 
a large body of Notes, Philological and Physiolo- 
gical," two volumes 4to. This translation is in 
blank verse, and in numerous instances, where the 
original rises into fervour and inspiration, does great 
credit to Dr. Good's powers of poetical expression. 
But it is scarcely possible to convey to the reader, 
without liis actual inspection, an adequate idea of 
the vast body of illustration, ciitical and philoso- 


phical, which is included^ in the notes. Almost 
every polished language, Asiatic as well as Euro- 
pean, is laid under contribution ; and the versions 
which uniformly accompany the numerous paral- 
leUsms and quotations are, for the most part, exe- 
cuted in a masterly style. 

For a copious critique on this elaborate transla- 
tion of Lucretius, and for numerous specimens of 
its execution, I must beg leave to refer to the first 
and second numbers of my " Literary Hours.'' 
There is one passage, however, and one of surpass- 
ing beauty too, not quoted in that critique, and 
which, as descriptive of the seasons, and especially 
of the season of Springs I cannot avoid the tempta- 
tion of inserting in a work professing to be written 
during the influence of the vernal breezes, 

cum tempestas arridet, et anni 

Tempora conspergunt viridantes floribus herbas ; 

it is a picture, likewise, to which justice has been 
done in transferring it to our language : 

It Ver, et Venus; et Veris prsenuncius, ante 
Pennatus graditur Zephyrus^ vestigia propter 
Flora qui bus mater prsespargens ante viai 
Cuncta coloribus egregiis, et odoribus, obplct : 
Inde loci sequitur Calor aridus, et comes una 
Polverulenta Ceres, et Etesia flabra Aquilonum. 


Inde Auctumnus adit^ graditur simul Euius Euan : 
Inde alls Tempestates^ Venteique^ sequuntur : 
Altitonans Voltumus^ et Auster fulmine pollens. 
Tandem Bruma niveis adfert^ pigrumque rigorem 
Reddit ; Hyems sequitur^ crepitans ac dentibus Algu. 

Lib. 5. 754. 

Spring comes^ and Venus ; and^ with foot advanced^ 
The light-wing'd Zephyr, harbinger beloved. 
Maternal Flora strewing, ere she treads^ 
O'er every footstep blooms of choicest hue. 
And the glad Ether loading with perfumes. 
Then Heat succeeds, the parch'd Etesian breeze. 
And dust-discolour 'd Ceres; Autumn then 
Follows, and tipsy Bacchus, arm in arm. 
And Storms and Tempests; Eurus roars amain. 
And the red South brews thunders; till, at length. 
Cold shuts the scene, and Winter's train prevails. 
Snows, hoary Sleet, and Frost with chattering teeth. 

" The whole of this exquisite delineation of the 
progress of the seasons is," remarks the translator, 
*' inimitable. Almost every idea is personified, and 
every syllable alive ; the order is most exact, and the 
characters true to themselves. There arc few de-* 
scriptions either in ancient or modem poetry that 
■can dare a comparison with it *.^' 

It must be allowed, however, that the opening 
group in this animated picture, so delightfully im- 

* Lucretius, vol. ii. p. 326, 


personating Spring and her attendants, is, in fulness 
and richness of colouring, superior to those which 
follow ; and it has accordingly excited amongst the 
noblest of the minstrel tribe a spirit of rivalry and 
competition. Dr. Good, however, having contented 
himself, in this instance, with a parallel passage 
from an eastern poet, I shall venture to subjoin two 
or three corresponding sketches, which, though in- 
debted to Lucretius, may yet be considered as 
amongst the most exquisite fruits of genius. Ho- 
race, describing the approach of Spring, and recom- 
mending the enjoyment of its pleasures, forgets not 
to inform us that at this season 

Cytherea choras ducit Venus, 

Junctoque Nymphis Gratis decentes 
Altemo terrain quatiunt pede. — Lib. i. Od. 4. 

Blithe Venus leads her sportive choir ; 
Her Graces and gay Nymphs unite, 
Weave the light dance, or wake the lyre.' 


And Milton, with the recollection of both poets fresh 

on his memory, has given us a delineation of the 
same period of the year, finished in a style of con- 
summate beauty : 

The birds their quire apply : airs^ vernal airs. 
Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune 


The trembling leaves ; while universal Pan^ 

Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance. 

Led on th' eternal Spring. — Paradise Lost, iv. 264. 

Nor has Gray, in the opening of his delicious ode 
on Spring, neglected to approach the same bright 
fountains of inspiration ; nor has he failed, like his 
great predecessors, to give to his design those mas- 
terly touches which individualize and appropriate 
the whole : 

Lo ! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, 
Fair f^enits' train, appear^ 
Disclose the long-expecting flowers. 
And wake the purple year; 
The Attic warbler pours her throat. 
Responsive to the cuckoo*s note. 

The untaught harmony of Spring : 
While, whisp'ring pleasure as they fly. 
Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky 

Their gathered fragrance fling. 

Very shortly after the publication of his Lucretius, 
Dr. Good again turned his attention to Biblical 
literature; and, in the year 1812, the public was 
gratified by his version of " The Book of Job, 
literally translated from the original Hebrew, and 
restored to its natural arrangement : with Notes cri- 
ticiil and illustrative, and an Introductory Disserta- 


tion on its scene, scope, language, author, and era,'^ 
8vo ; a production which materially augmented its 
author''s fame as a student of oriental literature. 
The dissertation includes much that is calculated 
to excite the deepest and most earnest attention; 
and of the translation, which is in numerous parts 
decidedly an improvement on the common version, 
I shall enable my readers to judge, by selecting 
nearly the whole of the thirty-seventh chapter, in 
which the Deity is represented as creating, uphold- 
ing, and regulating the seasons. 

Hear ! X) hear ye the clangour of his voice. 
And the peal that issueth from his mouth ! 
Under the whole heavens is his flash ; 
And his lightning unto the ends of the earth. 
After it pealeth the voice ; 
He thundereth witli the voice of his majesty \ 

Great things doeth he, surpassing knowledge : 
Behold ! he saith to the snow — be ! 
On earth then falleth it : 
To the rain^ and it falleth— 
The rains of his might. 

Upon the labour of every main he putteth a seal : 
Even the brute kind go into covert. 
And abide in their dwellings. 

From the utmost zone issueth the whirlwind : 
And from- the arctic chambers^ cold. , 



By the blast of God the frost congesdetli. 
And the expanse of the waters, into a mirror. 

He also loadeih the cloudy woof with redundance ; 
His effulgence disperseth the gloom. 
Thus revolveth he the Seasons in his wisdom. 
That they may accomplish whatsoever he commandeth thero. 
Over the face of the world of earth. 
Constantly in succession, whether for judgment 
Or for mercy, he causeth it to take place. 

Hearken to this, O Job ! be stiU, 
And contemplate the wondrous works of God. 
Dost thou know how God ordereth these things ? 
How the light giveth refulgence to his vapour ? 
Dost thou know of the balancings of the clouds ? 
Wonders — ^perfections of wisdom ! 

Teadh us how we may address him. 
When arrayed in robes of darkness ; 
Or, if brightness be about him, how I may commune ; 
For, should a man then speak, he would be consumed ! 
Even now we cannot look at the light 
When it is resplendent in the heavens. 
And a wind from the north hath passed along and cleared 

Splendour itself is with God ! 
Insufferable majesty .' 

Almighty ! — we cannot comprehend him !— 
Surpassing in power and in judgment ! 

The notes, which are upon a very extensive scale 
throughout the whole of the work, are on this chap- 


ter, as indeed^ on every other, full of interest. One 
in particular, as including an admirable translation 
by the doctor from the noblest ode which Klopstock 
ever wrote, his Die Frvklingsfeyer^ or The Vernal 
Ecstiisy, I must be allowed in part to quote. The 
poet is describing the progress of a thunder-storm 
in Spring : 

Seht ihr den zeugen des Naben den ziickenden strahl ? &c. &c. 

See ye the signals of his march ?— the flash 
Wide-streaming round ? The thunder of his voice 
Hear ye ? — Jehovah's thunder ? — the dread peal 
Hear ye, that rends the concave ?, 
Lord! God supreme! 
(Jompassionate and kind ! 

Prais'd be thy glorious name ! 
Prais'd and ador'd ! 

How sweeps the whirlwind ! — ^leader of the storm ! 
How screams discordant ! and with headlong waves 
Lashes the forest !— All is now repose. 
Slow sail the dark douds-Hslow. 

Again new signals press :-^nkindled^ broad^ 
See ye the lightnings ?— hear ye^ from the clouds. 
The thunders of the Lord ?— Jehovah calls ; 
Jehovah !— and the smitten forest smokes. 
But not our cot.— « 
Our heavenly Father bade 
Th' o'erwhelming power 
Pass o'er our cot> and spare it. 


" The solemn and fearful beauties of this pass- 
age,^ observes the doctor, ^^ are too numerous to be . 
pointed out ; they run, however, through the whole 
poem : but the simplicity, sublimity, nice feeling, 
and abrupt turn of the last stanza, beggar all de- 
scription *." 

If we now turn from the fields of literature to 
those of science, we shall find Dr. Good a no less 
ardent and successful cultivator. He had at no 
time suffered his attachment to philological pursuits 
to interfere . with his professional zeal and duties ; 
and as a proof of this, it may be mentioned, that 
between the years 1795 and 1812, he had produced, 
independently of a voluminous compilation on ge- 
neral science "(•, not less than seven distinct works in 

* Pages 426 and 427. * 

t Pantalogia, or Universal Dictionary of Arts, Sciences, 
and Words, in conjunction with Dr. Olinthus Gregory and 
Mr. Newton Bosworth, 12 vols, royal 8vo. 

Dr. GU>od published also a '^ Sketch of the Revolution 
in 1668, with Observations on the Events that occurred," of 
which a second edition, enlarged and illustrated, appeared in 
1792. He brought forward likewise, in 1812, a new edition 
of ** Mason's Treatise on Self-Knowledge : Revised and 
corrected from the earlier and more perfect editions, with a 
prefixed Life of the Author, and a Translation of such Pass- 
ages in the Notes as have hitherto been only given in their 
original tongues," 12mo. 


relation to the histoi^, theory, and practice of me- 
didne.' It is, however, to the year 1817 that I 
would point as the era which placed Dr. Grood 
amongst the ranks of those who will reach a distant 
posterity as guides and instructors in the healing 
art. In this year appeared his ** Physiological 
Stst£m of Nosology, with a corrected and sim- 
plifiol Nomenclature ;*" and dedicated, by permis- 
sion, to the President and Fellows of the Royal 
College of Physicians in London. Of this under- 
taking, in which the diseases of the animal functions 
are arranged in classes derived from a physiological 
view of these functions, it may justly be said, that 
more full and comprehensive in its plan than any 
previous system of nosology, more intelligible in 
its classification, and more classical and correct in 
its language, it bids fair to supersede every attempt 
which has hitherto been made in the difficult pro- 
vinces of medical technology and systematic arrange- 

Elaborate, however,, and arduous as' this attempt 
might be deemed, it was but the precursor of one 
still more important and- extensive ; for, in the year 
1822, Dr. Good presented us with " The Study 
OF Medicine,"" in four large volumes octavo; a 

VOL. I. z 


work of which the chief object has been to unite 
under one general system, and in conformity to the 
arrangement he had ahready given in his Nosology, 
the various branches of medical science, so that, 
being contemplated and studied under one point 
of view, they might throw on each other a mutual 
and steady light. Physiology, therefore, pathology, 
nosology, and therapeutics, which, when considered 
in detail, have almost invariably been treated apart, 
are here blended into one harmonious whole, and 
their junction has, in this instance, formed, beyond 
all comparison, the most complete and luminous 
outline of the science of medicine which has yet 
been published. It is a work, in fact, which, from 
the elegance of its composition, the wide range and 
intellectual cast of its illustrations, and the vast fund 
of its practical information, will be alike valued by 
the man of letters, the philosopher, and the medical 

That its success with the public has been com- 
mensurate to the labour, skill, and erudition be- 
stowed upon its construction, may be presumed from 
the circumstance, that within three years, notwith- 
standing the size and consequent expense of the 
volumes, a second edition has been called for ; a de- 


mand which has enabled the author to introduce, 
with his usual industry and research, many valuable 
additions, and every thing, indeed, which in that 
short period the cultivators of the science had con- 
tributed to its extension and improvement. 

The last, and in the universality of the interest 
which it awakens, the most fascinating work which 
Dr. Grood has produced in the walks of science, 
made its appearance as recently as the spring of the 
present year (1826), and under the title of " The 
Book of Nature." The design, which embraces 
the entire scope of natural and moral philosophy, 
includes within its pale, and in three series or 
volumes, the NeUure of the Material World, the 
Nature of the Animate World, and the Nature of 
the Mind^ 

I know no production of the kind better cal- 
culated than this, from. thel)eauty of its style, from 
the extent and correctness of its information, and 
from the piety and devotional fervor which breathe 
throughout its pages, to be placed as a manual 
in the possession of every ingenuous youth ; it 
may, in fact, be considered, in all its bearings and 
tendencies, as a noble hymn to the Supreme Being. 
Nor, though professedly popular in its construction, 


being originally drawn up for, and delivered as 
lectures to, the members of the late Sunffey Institu- 
tion, is it wanting in new, and, in several instances, 
very ingenious, and even profound views and hy- 
potheses ; and I wish especially to particularize as 
such the lectures on the Principle of Life cmd Irri- 
iabiUfyj on Instinct^ Sensation^ and hiteUigence^ 
on Sleep^ Dreaming^ and Reverie^ and on the 
Origin^ ConneaAon^ and Character of the Passions. 

January 5th, 1827. — It is now my painful task 
to record, that ere the preceding sketch of the life 
and writings of Dr. Good could be subjected to the 
press, this amiable and accomplished scholar and 
physician was, to the inexpressible grief of his fa- 
mily and friends, suddenly summoned from this 
mortal scene. He was taken ill in his carriage 
when on his road to spend the season of Christmas 
at his daughter's house at Shepperton in Middlesex^ 
and, after a severe struggle of nine days, which was 
borne with the utmost fortitude and resignation, 
he expired on the first day of the present year. 

No man was, I firmly believe, from the uniform 
piety and devotional habits of his life, better pre- 
pared for the change which has taken place than 
Dr. Good; and it is a high additional source of 


consolation to his friends to reflect, that few in their 
writings have left behind them what is more directly 
calculated to serve the best interests of mankind, 
both here and hereafter; a result which will as- 
suredly meet its full reward in those mansions of 
the ' blessed, whither the immortal part of our be- 
loved friend has winged its way. 

May I be allowed, before I close this paper, to 
express my further sense of that remarkable union 
of learning, philosophy, and religion, which formed 
so prominent a feature in thecharacter of Dr. Good, 
by endeavouring to enforce it, as a model for imi- 
tation to others, in the follpwing little poem, which, 
were it worthy of the virtues it attempts to record, 
would be indeed a gem of incalculable value. 



Ah, friend belov'd ! o'er whom^ in life's young day. 
Each classic muse her choicest influence shed. 
Opening the path where lynx-ey'd Science spread 
Her healing stores, and pour'd her living ray. 
Whilst meek Religion, bright'ning all thy way. 
So blended with thine art, that from the bed 
Thy tendance cheer 'd. Faith smiling rais'd her head ! 
Applause frpm me thou need'st not — I but pray. 


That those who knew thee hest may yet sustain 
And follow thy example^ prompt to reach 
Aid not alone from human effort given^ 
But^ pointing to that hetter world where pain 
And sorrow cease^ may ope^ like thee^ to each^ 
The Book of Nature and the Will of Heaven ! 





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