No More Learning

Those who have studied the life and writings of Petrarch with attention,
will perhaps be inclined to make some deductions from this panegyric.
It cannot be denied that his merits were disfigured by a most unpleasant
affectation. His zeal for literature communicated a tinge of pedantry
to all his feelings and opinions. His love was the love of a
sonnetteer:--his patriotism was the patriotism of an antiquarian. The
interest with which we contemplate the works, and study the history, of
those who, in former ages, have occupied our country, arises from
the associations which connect them with the community in which are
comprised all the objects of our affection and our hope. In the mind
of Petrarch these feelings were reversed. He loved Italy, because it
abounded with the monuments of the ancient masters of the world. His
native city--the fair and glorious Florence--the modern Athens, then in
all the bloom and strength of its youth, could not obtain, from the most
distinguished of its citizens, any portion of that passionate homage
which he paid to the decrepitude of Rome. These and many other
blemishes, though they must in candour be acknowledged, can but in a
very slight degree diminish the glory of his career. For my own part, I
look upon it with so much fondness and pleasure that I feel reluctant
to turn from it to the consideration of his works, which I by no means
contemplate with equal admiration.

Nevertheless, I think highly of the poetical powers of Petrarch. He did
not possess, indeed, the art of strongly presenting sensible objects to
the imagination;--and this is the more remarkable, because the talent of
which I speak is that which peculiarly distinguishes the Italian poets.
In the Divine Comedy it is displayed in its highest perfection. It
characterises almost every celebrated poem in the language. Perhaps this
is to be attributed to the circumstance, that painting and sculpture
had attained a high degree of excellence in Italy before poetry had been
extensively cultivated. Men were debarred from books, but accustomed
from childhood to contemplate the admirable works of art, which, even in
the thirteenth century, Italy began to produce. Hence their imaginations
received so strong a bias that, even in their writings, a taste for
graphic delineation is discernible. The progress of things in England
has been in all respects different. The consequence is, that English
historical pictures are poems on canvas; while Italian poems are
pictures painted to the mind by means of words. Of this national
characteristic the writings of Petrarch are almost totally destitute.
His sonnets indeed, from their subject and nature, and his Latin Poems,
from the restraints which always shackle one who writes in a dead
language, cannot fairly be received in evidence. But his Triumphs
absolutely required the exercise of this talent, and exhibit no
indications of it.

Genius, however, he certainly possessed, and genius of a high order. His
ardent, tender, and magnificent turn of thought, his brilliant fancy,
his command of expression, at once forcible and elegant, must be
acknowledged. Nature meant him for the prince of lyric writers. But by
one fatal present she deprived her other gifts of half their value. He
would have been a much greater poet had he been a less clever man. His
ingenuity was the bane of his mind. He abandoned the noble and natural
style, in which he might have excelled, for the conceits which he
produced with a facility at once admirable and disgusting. His muse,
like the Roman lady in Livy, was tempted by gaudy ornaments to betray
the fastnesses of her strength, and, like her, was crushed beneath the
glittering bribes which had seduced her.

The paucity of his thoughts is very remarkable. It is impossible to look
without amazement on a mind so fertile in combinations, yet so barren
of images. His amatory poetry is wholly made up of a very few topics,
disposed in so many orders, and exhibited in so many lights, that it
reminds us of those arithmetical problems about permutations, which so
much astonish the unlearned. The French cook, who boasted that he could
make fifteen different dishes out of a nettle-top, was not a greater
master of his art. The mind of Petrarch was a kaleidoscope. At every
turn it presents us with new forms, always fantastic, occasionally
beautiful; and we can scarcely believe that all these varieties have
been produced by the same worthless fragments of glass. The sameness of
his images is, indeed, in some degree, to be attributed to the sameness
of his subject. It would be unreasonable to expect perpetual variety
from so many hundred compositions, all of the same length, all in
the same measure, and all addressed to the same insipid and heartless
coquette. I cannot but suspect also that the perverted taste, which is
the blemish of his amatory verses, was to be attributed to the influence
of Laura, who, probably, like most critics of her sex, preferred a gaudy
to a majestic style. Be this as it may, he no sooner changes his subject
than he changes his manner. When he speaks of the wrongs and degradation
of Italy, devastated by foreign invaders, and but feebly defended by
her pusillanimous children, the effeminate lisp of the sonnetteer
is exchanged for a cry, wild, and solemn, and piercing as that which
proclaimed "Sleep no more" to the bloody house of Cawdor. "Italy seems
not to feel her sufferings," exclaims her impassioned poet; "decrepit,
sluggish, and languid, will she sleep forever? Will there be none to
awake her? Oh that I had my hands twisted in her hair! "

("Che suoi guai non par che senta;
Vecchia, oziosa, e lenta.
Dormira sempre, e non fia chi la svegli?
Le man l' avess' io avvolte entro e capegli. "
Canzone xi. )

Nor is it with less energy that he denounces against the Mahometan
Babylon the vengeance of Europe and of Christ. His magnificent
enumeration of the ancient exploits of the Greeks must always excite
admiration, and cannot be perused without the deepest interest, at a
time when the wise and good, bitterly disappointed in so many other
countries, are looking with breathless anxiety towards the natal land of
liberty,--the field of Marathon,--and the deadly pass where the Lion of
Lacedaemon turned to bay.

("Maratona, e le mortali strette
Che difese il LEON con poca gente. "
Canzone v. )

His poems on religious subjects also deserve the highest commendation.
At the head of these must be placed the Ode to the Virgin. It is,
perhaps, the finest hymn in the world. His devout veneration receives an
exquisitely poetical character from the delicate perception of the sex
and the loveliness of his idol, which we may easily trace throughout the
whole composition.

I could dwell with pleasure on these and similar parts of the writings
of Petrarch; but I must return to his amatory poetry: to that he
entrusted his fame; and to that he has principally owed it.

The prevailing defect of his best compositions on this subject is
the universal brilliancy with which they are lighted up. The natural
language of the passions is, indeed, often figurative and fantastic; and
with none is this more the case than with that of love. Still there is
a limit. The feelings should, indeed, have their ornamental garb; but,
like an elegant woman, they should be neither muffled nor exposed. The
drapery should be so arranged, as at once to answer the purposes
of modest concealment and judicious display. The decorations should
sometimes be employed to hide a defect, and sometimes to heighten a
beauty; but never to conceal, much less to distort, the charms to which
they are subsidiary. The love of Petrarch, on the contrary, arrays
itself like a foppish savage, whose nose is bored with a golden ring,
whose skin is painted with grotesque forms and dazzling colours, and
whose ears are drawn down his shoulders by the weight of jewels. It is
a rule, without any exception, in all kinds of composition, that the
principal idea, the predominant feeling, should never be confounded with
the accompanying decorations. It should generally be distinguished from
them by greater simplicity of expression; as we recognise Napoleon in
the pictures of his battles, amidst a crowd of embroidered coats and
plumes, by his grey cloak and his hat without a feather. In the verses
of Petrarch it is generally impossible to say what thought is meant
to be prominent. All is equally elaborate. The chief wears the same
gorgeous and degrading livery with his retinue, and obtains only his
share of the indifferent stare which we bestow upon them in common.
The poems have no strong lights and shades, no background, no
foreground;--they are like the illuminated figures in an oriental
manuscript,--plenty of rich tints and no perspective. Such are the
faults of the most celebrated of these compositions. Of those which are
universally acknowledged to be bad it is scarcely possible to speak with
patience. Yet they have much in common with their splendid companions.
They differ from them, as a Mayday procession of chimneysweepers differs
from the Field of Cloth of Gold. They have the gaudiness but not the
wealth. His muse belongs to that numerous class of females who have
no objection to be dirty, while they can be tawdry. When his brilliant
conceits are exhausted, he supplies their place with metaphysical
quibbles, forced antitheses, bad puns, and execrable charades. In his
fifth sonnet he may, I think, be said to have sounded the lowest chasm
of the Bathos. Upon the whole, that piece may be safely pronounced to be
the worst attempt at poetry, and the worst attempt at wit, in the world.

A strong proof of the truth of these criticisms is, that almost all the
sonnets produce exactly the same effect on the mind of the reader. They
relate to all the various moods of a lover, from joy to despair:--yet
they are perused, as far as my experience and observation have gone,
with exactly the same feeling. The fact is, that in none of them are the
passion and the ingenuity mixed in just proportions. There is not enough
sentiment to dilute the condiments which are employed to season it. The
repast which he sets before us resembles the Spanish entertainment in
Dryden's "Mock Astrologer", at which the relish of all the dishes
and sauces was overpowered by the common flavour of spice.
Fish,--flesh,--fowl,--everything at table tasted of nothing but red
pepper.

The writings of Petrarch may indeed suffer undeservedly from one cause
to which I must allude. His imitators have so much familiarised the ear
of Italy and of Europe to the favourite topics of amorous flattery and
lamentation, that we can scarcely think them original when we find them
in the first author; and, even when our understandings have convinced us
that they were new to him, they are still old to us. This has been the
fate of many of the finest passages of the most eminent writers. It
is melancholy to trace a noble thought from stage to stage of its
profanation; to see it transferred from the first illustrious wearer to
his lacqueys, turned, and turned again, and at last hung on a scarecrow.
Petrarch has really suffered much from this cause. Yet that he should
have so suffered is a sufficient proof that his excellences were not of
the highest order. A line may be stolen; but the pervading spirit of a
great poet is not to be surreptitiously obtained by a plagiarist. The
continued imitation of twenty-five centuries has left Homer as it
found him. If every simile and every turn of Dante had been copied ten
thousand times, the Divine Comedy would have retained all its freshness.
It was easy for the porter in Farquhar to pass for Beau Clincher, by
borrowing his lace and his pulvilio. It would have been more difficult
to enact Sir Harry Wildair.

Before I quit this subject I must defend Petrarch from one accusation
which is in the present day frequently brought against him. His sonnets
are pronounced by a large sect of critics not to possess certain
qualities which they maintain to be indispensable to sonnets, with as
much confidence, and as much reason, as their prototypes of old insisted
on the unities of the drama. I am an exoteric--utterly unable to explain
the mysteries of this new poetical faith. I only know that it is a
faith, which except a man do keep pure and undefiled, without doubt he
shall be called a blockhead. I cannot, however, refrain from asking what
is the particular virtue which belongs to fourteen as distinguished from
all other numbers. Does it arise from its being a multiple of seven? Has
this principle any reference to the sabbatical ordinance? Or is it
to the order of rhymes that these singular properties are attached?
Unhappily the sonnets of Shakspeare differ as much in this respect from
those of Petrarch, as from a Spenserian or an octave stanza. Away with
this unmeaning jargon! We have pulled down the old regime of criticism.
I trust that we shall never tolerate the equally pedantic and irrational
despotism, which some of the revolutionary leaders would erect upon its
ruins. We have not dethroned Aristotle and Bossu for this.

These sonnet-fanciers would do well to reflect that, though the style of
Petrarch may not suit the standard of perfection which they have chosen,
they lie under great obligations to these very poems,--that, but for
Petrarch the measure, concerning which they legislate so judiciously,
would probably never have attracted notice; and that to him they owe the
pleasure of admiring, and the glory of composing, pieces, which seem
to have been produced by Master Slender, with the assistance of his man
Simple.

I cannot conclude these remarks without making a few observations on the
Latin writings of Petrarch. It appears that, both by himself and by his
contemporaries, these were far more highly valued than his compositions
in the vernacular language. Posterity, the supreme court of literary
appeal, has not only reversed the judgment, but, according to its
general practice, reversed it with costs, and condemned the unfortunate
works to pay, not only for their own inferiority, but also for the
injustice of those who had given them an unmerited preference. And
it must be owned that, without making large allowances for the
circumstances under which they were produced, we cannot pronounce a very
favourable judgment. They must be considered as exotics, transplanted to
a foreign climate, and reared in an unfavourable situation; and it would
be unreasonable to expect from them the health and the vigour which
we find in the indigenous plants around them, or which they might
themselves have possessed in their native soil. He has but very
imperfectly imitated the style of the Latin authors, and has not
compensated for the deficiency by enriching the ancient language with
the graces of modern poetry. The splendour and ingenuity, which we
admire, even when we condemn it, in his Italian works, is almost totally
wanting, and only illuminates with rare and occasional glimpses the
dreary obscurity of the African. The eclogues have more animation; but
they can only be called poems by courtesy. They have nothing in common
with his writings in his native language, except the eternal pun about
Laura and Daphne. None of these works would have placed him on a level
with Vida or Buchanan. Yet, when we compare him with those who preceded
him, when we consider that he went on the forlorn hope of literature,
that he was the first who perceived, and the first who attempted to
revive, the finer elegancies of the ancient language of the world, we
shall perhaps think more highly of him than of those who could never
have surpassed his beauties if they had not inherited them.

He has aspired to emulate the philosophical eloquence of Cicero, as well
as the poetical majesty of Virgil. His essay on the Remedies of Good
and Evil Fortune is a singular work in a colloquial form, and a most
scholastic style. It seems to be framed upon the model of the Tusculan
Questions,--with what success those who have read it may easily
determine. It consists of a series of dialogues: in each of these a
person is introduced who has experienced some happy or some adverse
event: he gravely states his case; and a reasoner, or rather Reason
personified, confutes him; a task not very difficult, since the disciple
defends his position only by pertinaciously repeating it, in almost
the same words at the end of every argument of his antagonist. In this
manner Petrarch solves an immense variety of cases. Indeed, I doubt
whether it would be possible to name any pleasure or any calamity which
does not find a place in this dissertation. He gives excellent advice to
a man who is in expectation of discovering the philosopher's stone;--to
another, who has formed a fine aviary;--to a third, who is delighted
with the tricks of a favourite monkey. His lectures to the unfortunate
are equally singular. He seems to imagine that a precedent in point is a
sufficient consolation for every form of suffering. "Our town is taken,"
says one complainant; "So was Troy," replies his comforter. "My wife has
eloped," says another; "If it has happened to you once, it happened
to Menelaus twice. " One poor fellow is in great distress at having
discovered that his wife's son is none of his. "It is hard," says
he, "that I should have had the expense of bringing up one who is
indifferent to me. " "You are a man," returns his monitor, quoting the
famous line of Terence; "and nothing that belongs to any other man
ought to be indifferent to you. " The physical calamities of life are not
omitted; and there is in particular a disquisition on the advantages of
having the itch, which, if not convincing, is certainly very amusing.

The invectives on an unfortunate physician, or rather upon the medical
science, have more spirit. Petrarch was thoroughly in earnest on this
subject. And the bitterness of his feelings occasionally produces, in
the midst of his classical and scholastic pedantry, a sentence worthy of
the second Philippic. Swift himself might have envied the chapter on the
causes of the paleness of physicians.

Of his Latin works the Epistles are the most generally known and
admired. As compositions they are certainly superior to his essays.
But their excellence is only comparative. From so large a collection of
letters, written by so eminent a man, during so varied and eventful
a life, we should have expected a complete and spirited view of the
literature, the manners, and the politics of the age. A traveller--a
poet--a scholar--a lover--a courtier--a recluse--he might have
perpetuated, in an imperishable record, the form and pressure of the age
and body of the time. Those who read his correspondence, in the hope
of finding such information as this, will be utterly disappointed. It
contains nothing characteristic of the period or of the individual. It
is a series, not of letters, but of themes; and, as it is not generally
known, might be very safely employed at public schools as a magazine of
commonplaces. Whether he write on politics to the Emperor and the
Doge, or send advice and consolation to a private friend, every line is
crowded with examples and quotations, and sounds big with Anaxagoras and
Scipio. Such was the interest excited by the character of Petrarch, and
such the admiration which was felt for his epistolary style, that it was
with difficulty that his letters reached the place of their destination.
The poet describes, with pretended regret and real complacency, the
importunity of the curious, who often opened, and sometimes stole,
these favourite compositions. It is a remarkable fact that, of all his
epistles, the least affected are those which are addressed to the dead
and the unborn. Nothing can be more absurd than his whim of composing
grave letters of expostulation and commendation to Cicero and Seneca;
yet these strange performances are written in a far more natural manner
than his communications to his living correspondents. But of all his
Latin works the preference must be given to the Epistle to Posterity;
a simple, noble, and pathetic composition, most honourable both to his
taste and his heart. If we can make allowance for some of the affected
humility of an author, we shall perhaps think that no literary man has
left a more pleasing memorial of himself.

In conclusion, we may pronounce that the works of Petrarch were below
both his genius and his celebrity; and that the circumstances under
which he wrote were as adverse to the development of his powers as they
were favourable to the extension of his fame.

*****




SOME ACCOUNT OF THE GREAT LAWSUIT BETWEEN THE PARISHES OF ST DENNIS AND
ST GEORGE IN THE WATER. (April 1824. )


PART I.

The parish of St Dennis is one of the most pleasant parts of the county
in which it is situated. It is fertile, well wooded, well watered, and
of an excellent air. For many generations the manor had been holden in
tail-male by a worshipful family, who have always taken precedence of
their neighbours at the races and the sessions.

In ancient times the affairs of this parish were administered by a
Court-Baron, in which the freeholders were judges; and the rates were
levied by select vestries of the inhabitant householders. But at length
these good customs fell into disuse. The Lords of the Manor, indeed,
still held courts for form's sake; but they or their stewards had the
whole management of affairs. They demanded services, duties, and customs
to which they had no just title. Nay, they would often bring actions
against their neighbours for their own private advantage, and then send
in the bill to the parish. No objection was made, during many years, to
these proceedings, so that the rates became heavier and heavier: nor
was any person exempted from these demands, except the footmen and
gamekeepers of the squire and the rector of the parish. They indeed were
never checked in any excess. They would come to an honest labourer's
cottage, eat his pancakes, tuck his fowls into their pockets, and cane
the poor man himself. If he went up to the great house to complain, it
was hard to get the speech of Sir Lewis; and, indeed, his only chance of
being righted was to coax the squire's pretty housekeeper, who could
do what she pleased with her master. If he ventured to intrude upon
the Lord of the Manor without this precaution, he gained nothing by his
pains. Sir Lewis, indeed, would at first receive him with a civil face;
for, to give him his due, he could be a fine gentleman when he pleased.
"Good day, my friend," he would say, "what situation have you in my
family? " "Bless your honour! " says the poor fellow, "I am not one of
your honour's servants; I rent a small piece of ground, your honour. "
"Then, you dog," quoth the squire, "what do you mean by coming here? Has
a gentleman nothing to do but to hear the complaints of clowns? Here!
Philip, James, Dick, toss this fellow in a blanket; or duck him, and set
him in the stocks to dry. "

One of these precious Lords of the Manor enclosed a deer-park; and, in
order to stock it, he seized all the pretty pet fawns that his tenants
had brought up, without paying them a farthing, or asking their leave.
It was a sad day for the parish of St Dennis. Indeed, I do not believe
that all his oppressive exactions and long bills enraged the poor
tenants so much as this cruel measure.

Yet for a long time, in spite of all these inconveniences, St Dennis's
was a very pleasant place. The people could not refrain from capering
if they heard the sound of a fiddle. And, if they were inclined to be
riotous, Sir Lewis had only to send for Punch, or the dancing dogs,
and all was quiet again. But this could not last forever; they began
to think more and more of their condition; and, at last, a club of
foul-mouthed, good-for-nothing rascals was held at the sign of the
Devil, for the purpose of abusing the squire and the parson. The doctor,
to own the truth, was old and indolent, extremely fat and greedy. He had
not preached a tolerable sermon for a long time. The squire was still
worse; so that, partly by truth and partly by falsehood, the club set
the whole parish against their superiors. The boys scrawled caricatures
of the clergyman upon the church-door, and shot at the landlord with
pop-guns as he rode a-hunting. It was even whispered about that the Lord
of the Manor had no right to his estate, and that, if he were compelled
to produce the original title-deeds, it would be found that he only held
the estate in trust for the inhabitants of the parish.

In the meantime the squire was pressed more and more for money. The
parish could pay no more. The rector refused to lend a farthing. The
Jews were clamorous for their money; and the landlord had no other
resource than to call together the inhabitants of the parish, and to
request their assistance. They now attacked him furiously about their
grievances, and insisted that he should relinquish his oppressive
powers. They insisted that his footmen should be kept in order, that
the parson should pay his share of the rates, that the children of the
parish should be allowed to fish in the trout-stream, and to gather
blackberries in the hedges. They at last went so far as to demand that
he should acknowledge that he held his estate only in trust for them.
His distress compelled him to submit.
They, in return, agreed to set him
free from his pecuniary difficulties, and to suffer him to inhabit the
manor-house; and only annoyed him from time to time by singing impudent
ballads under his window.

The neighbouring gentlefolks did not look on these proceedings with much
complacency. It is true that Sir Lewis and his ancestors had plagued
them with law-suits, and affronted them at county meetings. Still they
preferred the insolence of a gentleman to that of the rabble, and felt
some uneasiness lest the example should infect their own tenants.

A large party of them met at the house of Lord Caesar Germain. Lord
Caesar was the proudest man in the county. His family was very ancient
and illustrious, though not particularly opulent. He had invited most
of his wealthy neighbours. There was Mrs Kitty North, the relict of poor
Squire Peter, respecting whom the coroner's jury had found a verdict
of accidental death, but whose fate had nevertheless excited strange
whispers in the neighbourhood. There was Squire Don, the owner of the
great West Indian property, who was not so rich as he had formerly been,
but still retained his pride, and kept up his customary pomp; so that he
had plenty of plate but no breeches. There was Squire Von Blunderbussen,
who had succeeded to the estates of his uncle, old Colonel Frederic
Von Blunderbussen, of the hussars. The colonel was a very singular old
fellow; he used to learn a page of Chambaud's grammar, and to translate
Telemaque, every morning, and he kept six French masters to teach him
to parleyvoo. Nevertheless he was a shrewd clever man, and improved his
estate with so much care, sometimes by honest and sometimes by dishonest
means, that he left a very pretty property to his nephew.

Lord Caesar poured out a glass of Tokay for Mrs Kitty. "Your health, my
dear madam, I never saw you look more charming. Pray, what think you of
these doings at St Dennis's? "

"Fine doings, indeed! " interrupted Von Blunderbussen; "I wish that
we had my old uncle alive, he would have had some of them up to the
halberts. He knew how to usa cat-o'-nine-tails. If things go on in this
way, a gentleman will not be able to horsewhip an impudent farmer, or to
say a civil word to a milk-maid. "

"Indeed, it's very true, Sir," said Mrs Kitty; "their insolence is
intolerable. Look at me, for instance:--a poor lone woman! --My dear
Peter dead! I loved him:--so I did; and, when he died, I was so
hysterical you cannot think. And now I cannot lean on the arm of a
decent footman, or take a walk with a tall grenadier behind me, just to
protect me from audacious vagabonds, but they must have their nauseous
suspicions;--odious creatures! "

"This must be stopped," replied Lord Caesar. "We ought to contribute to
support my poor brother-in-law against these rascals. I will write to
Squire Guelf on this subject by this night's post. His name is always at
the head of our county subscriptions. "

If the people of St Dennis's had been angry before, they were well-nigh
mad when they heard of this conversation. The whole parish ran to the
manor-house. Sir Lewis's Swiss porter shut the door against them; but
they broke in and knocked him on the head for his impudence. They then
seized the Squire, hooted at him, pelted him, ducked him, and carried
him to the watch-house. They turned the rector into the street, burnt
his wig and band, and sold the church-plate by auction. They put up a
painted Jezebel in the pulpit to preach. They scratched out the texts
which were written round the church, and scribbled profane scraps of
songs and plays in their place. They set the organ playing to pot-house
tunes. Instead of being decently asked in church, they were married
over a broomstick. But, of all their whims, the use of the new patent
steel-traps was the most remarkable.

This trap was constructed on a completely new principle. It consisted
of a cleaver hung in a frame like a window; when any poor wretch got
in, down it came with a tremendous din, and took off his head in a
twinkling. They got the squire into one of these machines. In order to
prevent any of his partisans from getting footing in the parish, they
placed traps at every corner. It was impossible to walk through the
highway at broad noon without tumbling into one or other of them. No
man could go about his business in security. Yet so great was the hatred
which the inhabitants entertained for the old family, that a few decent,
honest people, who begged them to take down the steel-traps, and to put
up humane man-traps in their room, were very roughly handled for their
good nature.

In the meantime the neighbouring gentry undertook a suit against the
parish on the behalf of Sir Lewis's heir, and applied to Squire Guelf
for his assistance.

Everybody knows that Squire Guelf is more closely tied up than any
gentleman in the shire. He could, therefore, lend them no help; but he
referred them to the Vestry of the Parish of St George in the Water.
These good people had long borne a grudge against their neighbours on
the other side of the stream; and some mutual trespasses had lately
occurred which increased their hostility.

There was an honest Irishman, a great favourite among them, who used to
entertain them with raree-shows, and to exhibit a magic lantern to the
children on winter evenings. He had gone quite mad upon this subject.
Sometimes he would call out in the middle of the street--"Take care
of that corner, neighbours; for the love of Heaven, keep clear of that
post, there is a patent steel-trap concealed thereabouts. " Sometimes he
would be disturbed by frightful dreams; then he would get up at dead of
night, open his window and cry "fire," till the parish was roused,
and the engines sent for. The pulpit of the Parish of St George seemed
likely to fall; I believe that the only reason was that the parson had
grown too fat and heavy; but nothing would persuade this honest man but
that it was a scheme of the people at St Dennis's, and that they had
sawed through the pillars in order to break the rector's neck. Once he
went about with a knife in his pocket, and told all the persons whom he
met that it had been sharpened by the knife-grinder of the next parish
to cut their throats. These extravagancies had a great effect on the
people; and the more so because they were espoused by Squire Guelf's
steward, who was the most influential person in the parish. He was a
very fair-spoken man, very attentive to the main chance, and the idol
of the old women, because he never played at skittles or danced with the
girls; and, indeed, never took any recreation but that of drinking on
Saturday nights with his friend Harry, the Scotch pedlar. His supporters
called him Sweet William; his enemies the Bottomless Pit.

The people of St Dennis's, however, had their advocates. There was
Frank, the richest farmer in the parish, whose great grandfather had
been knocked on the head many years before, in a squabble between the
parish and a former landlord. There was Dick, the merry-andrew, rather
light-fingered and riotous, but a clever droll fellow. Above all, there
was Charley, the publican, a jolly, fat, honest lad, a great favourite
with the women, who, if he had not been rather too fond of ale and
chuck-farthing, would have been the best fellow in the neighbourhood.

"My boys," said Charley, "this is exceedingly well for Madam North;--not
that I would speak uncivilly of her; she put up my picture in her best
room, bless her for it! But, I say, this is very well for her, and for
Lord Caesar, and Squire Don, and Colonel Von;--but what affair is it of
yours or mine? It is not to be wondered at, that gentlemen should wish
to keep poor people out of their own. But it is strange indeed that
they should expect the poor themselves to combine against their own
interests. If the folks at St Dennis's should attack us we have the law
and our cudgels to protect us. But why, in the name of wonder, are we to
attack them? When old Sir Charles, who was Lord of the Manor formerly,
and the parson, who was presented by him to the living, tried to bully
the vestry, did not we knock their heads together, and go to meeting to
hear Jeremiah Ringletub preach? And did the Squire Don, or the great Sir
Lewis, that lived at that time, or the Germains, say a word against
us for it? Mind your own business, my lads: law is not to be had for
nothing; and we, you may be sure, shall have to pay the whole bill. "

Nevertheless the people of St George's were resolved on law. They cried
out most lustily, "Squire Guelf for ever! Sweet William for ever! No
steel traps! " Squire Guelf took all the rascally footmen who had worn
old Sir Lewis's livery into his service. They were fed in the kitchen on
the very best of everything, though they had no settlement. Many people,
and the paupers in particular, grumbled at these proceedings. The
steward, however, devised a way to keep them quiet.

There had lived in this parish for many years an old gentleman, named
Sir Habeas Corpus. He was said by some to be of Saxon, by some of
Norman, extraction. Some maintain that he was not born till after the
time of Sir Charles, to whom we have before alluded. Others are of
opinion that he was a legitimate son of old Lady Magna Charta, although
he was long concealed and kept out of his birthright. Certain it is that
he was a very benevolent person. Whenever any poor fellow was taken
up on grounds which he thought insufficient, he used to attend on his
behalf and bail him; and thus he had become so popular, that to take
direct measures against him was out of the question.

The steward, accordingly, brought a dozen physicians to examine Sir
Habeas. After consultation, they reported that he was in a very bad way,
and ought not, on any account, to be allowed to stir out for several
months. Fortified with this authority, the parish officers put him
to bed, closed his windows, and barred his doors. They paid him every
attention, and from time to time issued bulletins of his health. The
steward never spoke of him without declaring that he was the best
gentleman in the world; but excellent care was taken that he should
never stir out of doors.

When this obstacle was removed, the Squire and the steward kept the
parish in excellent order; flogged this man, sent that man to the
stocks, and pushed forward the law-suit with a noble disregard of
expense. They were, however, wanting either in skill or in fortune. And
everything went against them after their antagonists had begun to employ
Solicitor Nap.

Who does not know the name of Solicitor Nap? At what alehouse is not his
behaviour discussed? In what print-shop is not his picture seen? Yet how
little truth has been said about him! Some people hold that he used
to give laudanum by pints to his six clerks for his amusement. Others,
whose number has very much increased since he was killed by the
gaol distemper, conceive that he was the very model of honour and
good-nature. I shall try to tell the truth about him.

He was assuredly an excellent solicitor. In his way he never was
surpassed. As soon as the parish began to employ him, their cause took
a turn. In a very little time they were successful; and Nap became rich.
He now set up for a gentleman; took possession of the old manor-house;
got into the commission of the peace, and affected to be on a par with
the best of the county. He governed the vestries as absolutely as the
old family had done. Yet, to give him his due, he managed things with
far more discretion than either Sir Lewis or the rioters who had pulled
the Lords of the Manor down. He kept his servants in tolerable order.
He removed the steel traps from the highways and the corners of the
streets. He still left a few indeed in the more exposed parts of his
premises; and set up a board announcing that traps and spring guns were
set in his grounds. He brought the poor parson back to the parish;
and, though he did not enable him to keep a fine house and a coach as
formerly, he settled him in a snug little cottage, and allowed him a
pleasant pad-nag. He whitewashed the church again; and put the stocks,
which had been much wanted of late, into good repair.

With the neighbouring gentry, however, he was no favourite. He was
crafty and litigious. He cared nothing for right, if he could raise a
point of law against them. He pounded their cattle, broke their hedges,
and seduced their tenants from them. He almost ruined Lord Caesar with
actions, in every one of which he was successful. Von Blunderbussen went
to law with him for an alleged trespass, but was cast, and almost ruined
by the costs of suit. He next took a fancy to the seat of Squire Don,
who was, to say the truth, little better than an idiot. He asked the
poor dupe to dinner, and then threatened to have him tossed in a blanket
unless he would make over his estates to him. The poor Squire signed and
sealed a deed by which the property was assigned to Joe, a brother of
Nap's, in trust for and to the use of Nap himself. The tenants, however,
stood out. They maintained that the estate was entailed, and refused
to pay rents to the new landlord; and in this refusal they were stoutly
supported by the people in St George's.

About the same time Nap took it into his head to match with quality, and
nothing would serve him but one of the Miss Germains. Lord Caesar
swore like a trooper; but there was no help for it. Nap had twice put
executions in his principal residence, and had refused to discharge the
latter of the two till he had extorted a bond from his Lordship which
compelled him to comply.

THE END OF THE FIRST PART.

*****




A CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR ABRAHAM COWLEY AND MR JOHN MILTON, TOUCHING
THE GREAT CIVIL WAR. SET DOWN BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE.
(August 1824. )

"Referre sermones Deorum et
Magna modis tenuare parvis. "--Horace.

I have thought it good to set down in writing a memorable debate,
wherein I was a listener, and two men of pregnant parts and great
reputation discoursers; hoping that my friends will not be displeased to
have a record both of the strange times through which I have lived, and
of the famous men with whom I have conversed. It chanced in the warm and
beautiful spring of the year 1665, a little before the saddest summer
that ever London saw, that I went to the Bowling Green at Piccadilly,
whither, at that time, the best gentry made continual resorts. There
I met Mr Cowley, who had lately left Barnelms. There was then a house
preparing for him at Chertsey; and till it should be finished, he had
come up for a short time to London, that he might urge a suit to his
Grace of Buckingham touching certain lands of her Majesty's, whereof
he requested a lease. I had the honour to be familiarly acquainted with
that worthy gentleman and most excellent poet, whose death hath been
deplored with as general a consent of all Powers that delight in the
woods, or in verse, or in love, as was of old that of Daphnis or of
Callus.

After some talk, which it is not material to set down at large,
concerning his suit and his vexations at the court, where indeed his
honesty did him more harm than his parts could do him good, I entreated
him to dine with me at my lodging in the Temple, which he most
courteously promised. And, that so eminent a guest might not lack a
better entertainment than cooks or vintners can provide, I sent to the
house of Mr John Milton, in the Artillery Walk, to beg that he would
also be my guest. For, though he had been secretary, first to the
Council of State, and, after that, to the Protector, and Mr Cowley had
held the same post under the Lord St Albans in his banishment, I hoped,
notwithstanding that they would think themselves rather united by their
common art than divided by their different factions. And so indeed it
proved. For, while we sat at table, they talked freely of many men and
things, as well ancient as modern, with much civility. Nay, Mr Milton,
who seldom tasted wine, both because of his singular temperance and
because of his gout, did more than once pledge Mr Cowley, who was indeed
no hermit in diet. At last, being heated, Mr Milton begged that I would
open the windows. "Nay," said I, "if you desire fresh air and coolness,
what should hinder us, as the evening is fair, from sailing for an hour
on the river? " To this they both cheerfully consented; and forth we
walked, Mr Cowley and I leading Mr Milton between us, to the Temple
Stairs. There we took a boat; and thence we were rowed up the river.

The wind was pleasant; the evening fine; the sky, the earth, and the
water beautiful to look upon. But Mr Cowley and I held our peace, and
said nothing of the gay sights around us, lest we should too feelingly
remind Mr Milton of his calamity; whereof, however, he needed no
monitor: for soon he said, sadly, "Ah, Mr Cowley, you are a happy man.
What would I now give but for one more look at the sun, and the waters,
and the gardens of this fair city! "

"I know not," said Mr Cowley, "whether we ought not rather to envy you
for that which makes you to envy others: and that specially in this
place, where all eyes which are not closed in blindness ought to become
fountains of tears. What can we look upon which is not a memorial of
change and sorrow, of fair things vanished, and evil things done? When
I see the gate of Whitehall, and the stately pillars of the Banqueting
House, I cannot choose but think of what I have there seen in former
days, masques, and pageants, and dances, and smiles, and the waving of
graceful heads, and the bounding of delicate feet. And then I turn to
thoughts of other things, which even to remember makes me to blush and
weep;--of the great black scaffold, and the axe and block, which were
placed before those very windows; and the voice seems to sound in mine
ears, the lawless and terrible voice, which cried out that the head of a
king was the head of a traitor. There stands Westminster Hall, which who
can look upon, and not tremble to think how time, and change, and death
confound the councils of the wise, and beat down the weapons of
the mighty? How have I seen it surrounded with tens of thousands of
petitioners crying for justice and privilege! How have I heard it shake
with fierce and proud words, which made the hearts of the people burn
within them! Then it is blockaded by dragoons, and cleared by pikemen.
And they who have conquered their master go forth trembling at the word
of their servant. And yet a little while, and the usurper comes forth
from it, in his robe of ermine, with the golden staff in one hand and
the Bible in the other, amidst the roaring of the guns and the shouting
of the people. And yet again a little while, and the doors are thronged
with multitudes in black, and the hearse and the plumes come forth; and
the tyrant is borne, in more than royal pomp, to a royal sepulchre. A
few days more, and his head is fixed to rot on the pinnacles of that
very hall where he sat on a throne in his life, and lay in state after
his death. When I think on all these things, to look round me makes me
sad at heart. True it is that God hath restored to us our old laws, and
the rightful line of our kings. Yet, how I know not, but it seems to me
that something is wanting--that our court hath not the old gravity, nor
our people the old loyalty. These evil times, like the great deluge,
have overwhelmed and confused all earthly things. And, even as those
waters, though at last they abated, yet, as the learned write, destroyed
all trace of the garden of Eden, so that its place hath never since been
found, so hath this opening of all the flood-gates of political evil
effaced all marks of the ancient political paradise. "

"Sir, by your favour," said Mr Milton, "though, from many circumstances
both of body and of fortune, I might plead fairer excuses for
despondency than yourself, I yet look not so sadly either on the past
or on the future. That a deluge hath passed over this our nation, I deny
not. But I hold it not to be such a deluge as that of which you speak;
but rather a blessed flood, like those of the Nile, which in its
overflow doth indeed wash away ancient landmarks, and confound
boundaries, and sweep away dwellings, yea, doth give birth to many foul
and dangerous reptiles. Yet hence is the fulness of the granary, the
beauty of the garden, the nurture of all living things.

"I remember well, Mr Cowley, what you have said concerning these things
in your Discourse of the Government of Oliver Cromwell, which my friend
Elwood read to me last year. Truly, for elegance and rhetoric, that
essay is to be compared with the finest tractates of Isocrates and
Cicero. But neither that nor any other book, nor any events, which with
most men have, more than any book, weight and authority, have altered my
opinion, that, of all assemblies that ever were in this world, the best
and the most useful was our Long Parliament. I speak not this as wishing
to provoke debate; which neither yet do I decline. "

Mr Cowley was, as I could see, a little nettled. Yet, as he was a man
of a kind disposition and a most refined courtesy, he put a force upon
himself, and answered with more vehemence and quickness indeed than was
his wont, yet not uncivilly. "Surely, Mr Milton, you speak not as you
think. I am indeed one of those who believe that God hath reserved to
himself the censure of kings, and that their crimes and oppressions are
not to be resisted by the hands of their subjects. Yet can I easily
find excuse for the violence of such as are stung to madness by grievous
tyranny. But what shall we say for these men? Which of their just
demands was not granted? Which even of their cruel and unreasonable
requisitions, so as it were not inconsistent with all law and order, was
refused? Had they not sent Strafford to the block and Laud to the Tower?
Had they not destroyed the Courts of the High Commission and the Star
Chamber? Had they not reversed the proceedings confirmed by the voices
of the judges of England, in the matter of ship-money? Had they not
taken from the king his ancient and most lawful power touching the order
of knighthood? Had they not provided that, after their dissolution,
triennial parliaments should be holden, and that their own power should
continue till of their great condescension they should be pleased to
resign it themselves? What more could they ask? Was it not enough that
they had taken from their king all his oppressive powers, and many
that were most salutary? Was it not enough that they had filled his
council-board with his enemies, and his prisons with his adherents? Was
it not enough that they had raised a furious multitude, to shout and
swagger daily under the very windows of his royal palace? Was it not
enough that they had taken from him the most blessed prerogative of
princely mercy; that, complaining of intolerance themselves, they had
denied all toleration to others; that they had urged, against forms,
scruples childish as those of any formalist; that they had persecuted
the least remnant of the popish rites with the fiercest bitterness of
the popish spirit? Must they besides all this have full power to command
his armies, and to massacre his friends?

"For military command, it was never known in any monarchy, nay, in any
well ordered republic, that it was committed to the debates of a large
and unsettled assembly. For their other requisition, that he should give
up to their vengeance all who had defended the rights of his crown, his
honour must have been ruined if he had complied. Is it not therefore
plain that they desired these things only in order that, by refusing,
his Majesty might give them a pretence for war?

"Men have often risen up against fraud, against cruelty, against
rapine. But when before was it known that concessions were met with
importunities, graciousness with insults, the open palm of bounty with
the clenched fist of malice? Was it like trusty delegates of the Commons
of England, and faithful stewards of their liberty and their wealth, to
engage them for such causes in civil war, which both to liberty and
to wealth is of all things the most hostile.