Transcript

Recollections · December Tales

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Section ten of December Tales by William h Ainsworth. This LibriVox recording is in
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the public domain. Read by Ben Tucker. Bards of passion and of mirth.
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Ye have left your souls on earth, Have ye souls in heaven to
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double lived in regions new? Thus ye live on high, and then on
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the earth ye live again. And the souls you left behind you teach us
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here the way to find you. Keats recollections one the impartialist satyr that ever
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was seen, that speaks truth without fear or flattery or spleen. Read as
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you list, commend it or come mend it. The man that penned it
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did with venice, end it tailor. Perhaps some of the most agreeable moments
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in the mind of a scholar are those spent in the retrospection of early studies,
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in recalling the hours which for first opened upon him the treasures of learning,
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in tracing back his acquaintance with a book to its first commencement in his
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youth, and in seeking in associations of thought for the causes of that endeared
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and superadded value with which a volume is frequently enhanced from the soft and infused
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light of other days. For myself. I can only say that, when
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seated at home, in my library and in a contemplative humor, it is
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in such speculations that I most delight. It is then a thousand pleasures do
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me bless and crown my soul with happiness. As I fly back to that
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period, when uncramped by the restraint of any particular study, and unrestrained by
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the fetters of academical regimen, the mind was left to traverse the wide domain
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of literature and seek amusement in perpetual variety, dipping into the driest and welcoming
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the most unpromising topics. With what renewed gusto did I range over the contents
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of a well fed library, from Rabelais to the Fathers, and from Coryate's
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crudities to the sums of Aquinus and the theological works of Bothius. With what
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keenness of antiquarianism did I turn over the dusty volumes of Hollandshed and Stow,
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or linger over the uncouth cuts and thrilling details of Foxes and Clark's martyrology.
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How I delighted to immerse myself in all such reading as was never read,
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and neglect the more common and customary paths of every day study, for the
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huge folios and quartos which the sons of this degenerate age can hardly lift.
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For the miracles of industry which our forefathers have achieved. How happy was I
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when only a boy of fifteen, if I could get into a corner with
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Hooker's ecclesiastical polity or Sir Walter Raleigh's history, and pounce upon the contents as
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a kite pounces upon a sparrow. The writers of the Augustine Age I left
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to the perusal of others, for they were read by everybody, solacing myself
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instead with the poetry of Claudian, Ausonius, Sidonius, Apollinaris and Prudentius,
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and the prose of Ollus Jellius, Macrobius and Amianus Marcellinus. To me,
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the productions of declining Rome were more valuable than the glories of her Zenith.
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How refreshing to my view were those bulky and endless homes of commentaries which the
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era of the scologers and Casaubons poured forth. The text of a writer without
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its due modicum of annotation, was to me as arid and ungrateful, as
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a plain without a tree. The fathers were my boon companions. Through them
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I ranged from Hermes to saxon Bede, passing ever and Anon, from the
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pure latinity of sopitious Severus to the sharp and caustic epistles of Saint Isidore,
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and the hard and embrowned quaintness of Tertullian. How light of heart was I
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at some of those dinners which my father used to give to the reverend sons
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of the church. I could amaze them by edging in some quotation from the
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Cassandra of Lacophron or the Dionysiaca of Nonnus, and procure the appellation of the
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learned boy. What delightful visions of young hope then presented themselves, never alas
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to be realized. Caspremi atradis efunir mercy Arcibo. One subject which at one
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time formed the principal part of my study, and for which I still feel
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a partiality which only grows stronger by lapse of time, was the old English
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drama. At that time, the productions of our early dramatists did not excite
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as much attention as they do at present, and mister Lamb's specimens had not
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been the means of introducing them to public notice. I therefore feel some degree
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of pride in having, as I may truly say, been one of the
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first to discover the inexhaustible mine of literary riches which was concealed in their truly
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exquisite compositions. The first circumstance which drew my attention to this class of writers
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I well remember, and if my readers will excuse the egotism which occurs in
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such forquent reference to myself, I will simply state it. Passing one vacation
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in the country with an old maiden lady, a distant relation, when I
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was yet very young, among the treasures which are library, none of the
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most capacious by the bye afforded, I by the chance, met with an
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old copy of Marlowe's Doctor Faustus, a personage whose name had no small attraction
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to me, from the eager interest with which in my younger days I devoured
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the adventures of his most extraordinary life and exit. I immediately took possession of
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it and carried it with me from my own private reading into a small room
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which was a kind of sanctum sanctorum, and from which I excluded without mercy
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the profane inmates of the house. This little room, which I remember with
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feelings of fondness and affection, is still present to my mind's eye. Well
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do I recollect its antique casements and the view it presented into the thick set
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shrubbery or labyrinth in which I used to construct my fortifications and retreats. When
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I assumed the part, and no mean part that I think it then,
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of the Captain of Banditi, the soft green hue of the trees forming a
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pleasing contrast to the neat and unsullied whiteness of the wayne scotting, And the
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kind of fairy prospect which was visible through the boughs of a large oak which
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overshadowed this part of the building. I never can forget alas now that that
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room and mansion are the property of another, I can almost say to it,
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Oh, domis antiqua guam de spari dominaries domina. But pardon me for
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this digression. Young as I was, I was able to perceive that the
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faustus of Marlowe was a little different from the accounts of his exploits which had
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formerly attracted my attention. There was a something of undefined and breathless interest attached
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to it, which seized a firm hold on my mind, and communicated to
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it a kind of excitement which did not cease with the bare perusal of the
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work that caused it, the continual appearance of the good and bad angels to
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exercise their powers of persuasion on the unhappy Faustus his internal and heartrending struggles,
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or as they may be termed, his agony and bloody sweat, the exaltation
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which he feels at the consciousness of his own superhuman power, and which but
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lifts him on high for a while, like the waves of a troubled sea,
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to sink him to the lowest abyss of misery. And the last scene
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of agonized and maddened humanity had so deep an impression upon my feelings that I
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have not at this time forgotten their intensity. I have since read the Faust
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of Gotta, But whether it be from the influence of temporary associations or from
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the real inequality of the work, I must say that it did not operate
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upon me in anything like the same powerful degree. And I cannot but think
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the love adventure which is there introduced has the effect of dissipating the peculiar,
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strange and extraordinary interest which the fate of Faustest excites. It throws more the
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appearance of earthliness upon the doomed and devoted subject of the Prince of Hell.
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And marlow the mind is kept more closely to the hero of the drama.
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There is a kind of environing circle around him which seems to cut off all
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hope of assistance or escape. The very farcical means themselves have the effect of
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deepening the horror of the story. The burlesque is like the laugh of a
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maniac resounding in the Golgatha or place of skulls. His dreadful supremacy is only
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misery carried to an unnatural pitch, and appears like Luke's iron crown, made
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to burn the temples on which it reposes. Marlowe has been called no poet.
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But if there be poetry more surpassingly beautiful than the address of Faustus to
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Helena and the noble concluding chorus, which almost puts one in mind of the
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best of Grecian dramatic writers, I have never had the luck to meet with
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it. Footnote I thoroughly agree with you as to the German Faustus, as
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far as I can do justice to it. From an English translation, it
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is a disagreeable, canting tale of seduction, which has nothing to do with
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the spirit of Faustus's curiosity. Was the dark secret to be explored, to
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end in the seducing of a weak girl, which might have been accomplished by
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earthly agency. When Marlowe gives his Faustus a mistress, he flies him at
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helen Flower of Greece, to be sure, and not at Miss Betsy or
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Miss Sally. Thoughtless. Cut is the branch that bore the goodly fruit,
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and withered is Apollo's laurel tree. Faustus is dead. What a noble,
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natural transition from metaphor to plain, speaking, as if the figurative had flagged
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in description of such a loss and was reduced to tell the facts simply annotated
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VC in footnote. From the delight which I received from this old drama,
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I was naturally led to seek for others of the same kind. I got
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possession of Dodsley's collection of plays, and went through them with the most laudable
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diligence, the most tedious and tiresome of them all did not serve to dispirit
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my resolution, and at the age that I then was, I cannot help
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giving myself some credit for such an exertion. After all this, it is
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perhaps needless to say that what formed the amusement of my boyhood has continued till
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the present hour a source of unintermitted pleasure. My readers will perhaps excuse these
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egotistical details and impute them to the chartered garrulity of old age. To be
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able to forget the present in the past is a principle which nothing earthly can
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outweigh. And those strains of feeling which call forth delight in one may strike
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a sympathetic chord in the heart of another, and recall distant prospects which look
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from afar like the sun gilt pinnacles and steeples of some magnificent city. Happy
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shall I be if anything which I have here written may serve to lead to
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retrospects, which will always certainly be productive of pleasure, and as such cannot
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but be conductive to good Two for him was lever Han at his bed's head,
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twenty books clothed in blake or red of Aristotle and his philosophy, then
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Robes Rich or Fidel or so Tree. Chaucer. I certainly so far resemble
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Chaucer's lean clerk that a well filled library is one of my highest treats.
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I seem to increase in my own estimation at being admitted to the company of
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the wise, the learned, and the witty of all times and of all
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countries, to listen, though but mentally, to their instructions, to be
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the confidante of their thoughts, the associate of their inquiries. And when thoughts
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like these press upon me, I am lifted up into another and superior sphere.
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Under the influence of this pleasing utopian dream, I gaze on the venerable
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works of antiquity around me with a pleasing awe, while fancy would almost persuade
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me that from their embrowned covering, I see looking out upon the intruder who
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disturbs their sacred rest, the countenances of the sages, whose wisdom lies snugly
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between two sheepskin covered pasteboards, a prey to moths and obscured by cobwebs.
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Save when some literary wanderer like myself draws a volume from the shelf where it
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might otherwise of slumbered forever. I am sometimes inclined to regret the times when
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customs and principles, now old and unfashionable, were the current coin of the
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day, When the gallant knights and lovely ladies of Romance were substantial parsonages,
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who might be seen without its being considered that a wonder was abroad, or
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that the marble sepulcher had yielded up its dead. Those times when, if
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people had not perhaps all the wisdom, or, to speak more properly,
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the knowledge of the present erudite generation, the deficiency was counterbalanced by more substantial
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and comfortable havings. Then the populace were a merry, unlearned, shrewd body,
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who attended to their business on common days, and rejoiced and played at
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their accustomed sports on Sundays and holidays. Then each class knew its own station
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and hastened not to tread on the heels of the next in rank. Then
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a yeoman was a yeoman, a gentleman was a gentleman, and a nobleman
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a nobleman. Instead of the universal intermingling of ranks, the hotchpot of precedency
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which prevails in these enlightened days. After all, I should not a whit
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wonder if our ancestors have been much more favorably portrayed than is their due.
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Notwithstanding my reverence for antiquity, I can imagine a mob of Elizabeth's times rioting
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the streets of London after dark, knocking out the windows of the houses,
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as the lights of their heads became darkened with liquor, when some event had
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taken place which did not suit their humors. And I can fancy, with
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tolerable spirit, the appearance of the thieves, bullies, pickpockets, and rascals
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of all kinds and sorts, which were wont to parade up and down Paul's
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walk, or toss the dice or handle the dagger, as occasion offered in
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white friars. Alas for the glorious days of good Queen Bess, there are
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three things in this world which, like a certain king, I do more
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particularly relish old books to read, old wine to drink, and old friends
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to converse with. Indeed, the first and the last are in one view
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the same, For I attach an individual interest to each volume from which I
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have collected information or amusement. But I would here speak of them separately.
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I have, then, in the whitewashed recess, with the black oak groins
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supporting its roof, sat with friends whom I loved, some of whom I
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lived to mourn for. Yet it is still the same. There are the
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stained pains meant to represent saints and martyrs. There still the old chestnut waves,
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its branches and their solitary rustlings bring back, with more vivid intenseness,
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those happy days and happy hours, the memory of which, when the realities
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are things but of memory, comes back upon our hearts with softened, reflected
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luster. The old black tables and shining chairs are the furniture of two centuries,
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since the inanimate materials are the same. But the soul of friendship and
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mirth, which gave light to the moments and wings to the hours, is
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fled. And I look upon the place and feel I am alone. Yet
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there is pleasure in these retrospections. Though mournful, there is joy in tears.
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And here it is that I resort when the cares of the world press
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heavy upon me, and feel myself lightened of half the load by the sympathy.
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The association of the spot where peaceful memory loves to dwell with her sister's
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solitude. What have we here, ah, my old companion and once daily
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intimate and adviser, Sir Thomas Brown, Shame on me that I have suffered
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thee to lie here untouched and unopened. Let me see seven eight tis nine
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months. This most excellent volume has lain here ever since the day I read
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it with L. What a crowd of recollections rush upon me. It was
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the latter end of August when L visited me. He had been on his
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annual journey to see his sister, and he had passed a week in her
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cottage. For he was one of the kindest and most affectionate sons or brothers,
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And when he had paid the tribute of affection to his kindred, his
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friends were next in his thoughts. Toward evening we rambled into the library,
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and, taking up our old friends, Sir Tom, we sat down in
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the recess. The sun was setting, and as rich mellow beams fell upon
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the floor and table tinged with the hues of the painted window, and dancing
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about, as the branches of the old chestnut tree waved to and fro,
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intercepting part of the light and throwing about grotesque shadows. We had a bottle
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of ancient port before us. It was something more than quadrumum merum. We
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had sat thus twenty times before, and the remembrance of those pastimes gilded the
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present with a lovelier tinge of sociality. Then was the dignified, beautiful,
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and heart touching sentiments and language of the most philanthropic of physicians, whose works
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lay before us. If any of my readers have not read them, they
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have a feast in's door. If beauty of style and goodness of feeling are
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interesting to them, they will be delighted with the works, strange and paradoxical,
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as some of the positions contained in them may appear, of this practical
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lover of toleration, who sympathized with men of all countries and all sects.
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Neither believing this because Luther has affirmed it, nor denying that because Calvin hath
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disavouched it. To whom, with more propriety than any writer I can name,
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applies these so often quoted nil humumum ahmi alienum puto. Not that he
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blazes out his love of mankind at every page, not that he makes a
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boast and a by word of his humanity. Nowhere are we told in express
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words that the authors better or wiser than the rest of his species. But
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we are told by the spirit of humanity which breathes through his pages, by
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the lovely and beautiful touches of natural feeling which burst from him, by the
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whole strain and tenor of his writings, that he was one who looked upon
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himself as a citizen of the world, and upon mankind. Is his brethren,
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who sympathized deeply in the joys and distresses of his fellows, whose religion,
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though often mixed with singularity, was pure and humble, and whose views
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towards his fellow creatures were found upon that great rule of more conduct. Do
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unto another, as thou wouldst he should do unto thee. But it is
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time to bid farewell to the author of the Religio medici, and pass on
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to other subjects. Suppose we take a stroll through the library. See here
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this is the theological division which any good ancestors thought proper to heap up,
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not for the benefit of me, for the volumes are never opened by their
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unworthy descendant. I care, indeed, very little about the discordant opinions of
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Theologians, Nor do I ever take from the shelf the tele Ignia Sathani or
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Montague's Treatise on the Invocation of Saints. We shall therefore direct our attention to
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something more interesting. Do you see that little black cupboard with a crown on
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the top, that is filled with the works of royal origin? Those are
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the writings of James the First of Scotland, the poet and lover who spent
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the long days and the knights eke in writing verses to celebrate his lady love.
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And of James the First of England, the persecutor of papistry and tobacco,
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the monarch who was a pedant when he should have been a king,
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and a squabbling polemic when he should have been a warrior, and his statesman.
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These two are the writings of his less fortunate but superior son, Charles.
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They breathe a spirit of loftiness which becomes the subject and the author.
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I shall not now detain my readers with any remarks on the volume bearing Charles's
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name, whether it belonged to him or Gordon. It is not at present
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to our purpose. Here are my friends, the old dramatists. Here are
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the works of those who formerly gave delight to the crowded audiences of a tavern
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room or temporary shed. There's rare James Shirley nat Lee, the awful and
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solemn Webster, the witty, comical, facetiously quick and unparalleled, John Lilly,
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the spirited but irregular Chapman, the satirical, Marston Decker, Green Middleton,
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Bishop Bale with his seven and one mysteries and sporting kyde and tournure,
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of whom, by the way nobody seems to know anything but stay. I
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shall say nothing of them, and had therefore better hold my peace. There
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are plenty of modern Erodite who talk of Johnson's art, of Shakespeare's nature,
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and of Cowley's wit, how Beaumont's judgment checked what Fletcher writ the poets have
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ever found a welcome place among my volumes. Not that I choose to encumber
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myself with the dull, cold verses of Garth, Broom, Blackmoor and the
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o Nokour, who compose the poetical list from the Restoration to the close of
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the last century. I dive into those old and neglected fields from which sweets
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may be gathered. Far different from the languid insipidity of such writers. As
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I have mentioned of Chaucer, it is not necessary to speak, but there
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are many, almost unknown, in whom the richness of poesy appears. The
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beautiful and touching simplicity of the elder Wyat, the majestic pinion of Chamberlain's muse,
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the far fetched but glowing and animated conceits, mingled with innumerable beauties of
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a higher order of his contemporary Creshaw, and the graceful fluency of Herrick have
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charms of no small power for the lovers of heaven born poesy. But the
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number of poets who may be called excellent are of course few, and many
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are around me which do not merit the appellation. Sir Thomas Davies, though
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elegant and frequently highly poetical, does not belong to the first class du Bartasse.
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Divine works, as somebody calls them, are pompous and heavy and wearisome.
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Indeed, is the lengthy doggerel of Warner's Albions England. I had much
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to say on many other poets and some of our earlier prose writers, But
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as evening is lending a deeper gloom to the heavy dark way in Scotingham the
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library. I must leave this collection of books of all sorts, folios quartos,
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large and small sorts, till a future period, and yonder is sea
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coming to partake of my frugal meal, and to ramble in imagination with me
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over the scenes of our youth. It is a treat I would not miss
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for the world. Dulce a de spir in loco three. He loves books.
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Not that he has a scruple more of learning than will suffice him to
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say grace. But like some piteous cowards who are oft thought valiant for keeping
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store of weapons in their chambers, he loves to be esteemed a doctor by
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his volumes. Wit in a constable. I've just closed and placed upon the
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shelf of book, the perusal of which has been a considerable fund of entertainment
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to me. The epistole obscurorum virorum, the production of Hutton, either solely
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or with the assistance of Rubianus and others, is a poignant satire, the
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lash of which was directed against the ignorance and folly of the Monkish theologians.
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Had it succeeded in exposing those against whom it was leveled, Leo X issued
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a bull for its condemnation. This work was published at the time when,
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owing to various causes, that suspicion of the proceedings of the Holy See and
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of its members were spreading abroad, which was immediately followed by the Reformation,
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monasteries in their seclaes uted inhabitants were no longer sacred from ridicule, contempt or
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hatred. The Triple crown shook, and infallibility became a jest. It is
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not to be wondered at that the publication of a work like the present should
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raise a considerable ferment and excite against the author all that malignity which attends those
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who pull down the screens and expose the secrets of imposture and falsehood. Here
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are more epistles. A Pistoles Jolone, another interesting and entertaining work. Howell
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was the ornament of James's time, and his letters abound in that familiar chit
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chat which is the soul of a pistolary correspondence. A great traveler, he
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imports the news of foreign climes and hashes up his account of strange countries and
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manners with lively anecdotes and apt and entertaining remarks in a way that engages our
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attentions without fatigue or the least shadow of weariness. I love collections of the
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letters of imminent characters. The light which they throw on their thoughts, manners,
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and habits is delightful, penciling out, as it were, those minute
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and more delicate marks which are overlooked in the sketches of history, and seldom,
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if ever, accurately portrayed by biographers, even when individuals have themselves been
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their own recorders. Then there is the intimacy you seem to have with a
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man whose letters are open to you. His peculiar modes of expression and his
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light discursive wit, unchecked by fears of criticism, give a sort of actual
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presence to the writer. I wish I could have seen the letters of my
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most favorite postolary writers in their own handwriting. Whatever is the work of a
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great man receives a magnitude proportion to his fame or our own fondness for him.
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This latter motive, the delight which we have taken in any particular writer,
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would weigh most strongly with me in wishing to peruse the manuscript of his
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letters. I should not care very much to see the handwriting of Copernicus or
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Marlborough, or of Charles fifth of Spain or twelfth of Sweden, or Peter
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the Great Barbarian, or an any other of those people who have made wonderful
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discoveries or achieved great exploits. But for whom I care not, That is,
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I have no personal interest in them. I may appreciate, admire the
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greatness of their talents, and value their works or actions, but I care
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little about their private characters or pursuits further than is explanatory of their operations.
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But I would give anything to see a letter, a friendly, familiar letter
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of Sir Thomas Brown or Old Isaac Walton. The writing of the first might
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be a neat, close, reflective hand, something like lambs, with the
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m's and m's close the top, with an occasional sharp turned wide tale,
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or a strange preter natural cross of a T, and his eyes not to
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be distinguished from his ease. But I am writing an essay on handwritings when
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I should be talking of other things. Had Erasmus possessed no wit, no
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liveliness, his letters would be interesting to us. But the notices they contain
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of the occupations and customs of our forefathers. But he is one of the
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most entertaining courses respondence. You can imagine his fund of amusement is inexhaustible.
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If he describes a curious foreign usage, you see it performed before you.
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You are acquainted with it. In a moment you perceive that you have been
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in the habit of seeing it since you were born. Does he give you
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a character the person described as your intimate acquaintance. The likeness is palpable.
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You can shake hands with him. Such are the epistles of Erasmus. They
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are in folio. Such of my readers, as a folio does not fright,
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will find pleasure in perusing them. I have got a large collection of
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epistol lay here, but let us pass by them. Here are a multitude
26:37
of fictions, some of the productions of the Eastern romance. I must stop
26:41
a little with these, my Mohammedan friends. The first work which I remember
26:47
reading was Robinson Crusoe. What a vast number of additions, What a circulation
26:52
has this most entertaining work had. What is the fame of Byron or Scott,
26:56
or Rogers or Lamb compared to annual defoes great as the multitude of their
27:02
readers have been, how far do they fall short of the countless perusers of
27:06
the shipped wrecked Mariner of York lives there a boy of twelve, a milliner's
27:11
or mantua makers, a prentice, old or young, gentle or simple who
27:15
has not sympathized in his distresses, assisted him in his architecture, and with
27:21
him proud forth clad and skins, conquered savages and built boats. The reading
27:26
of Robinson is one of those events which forms an era in a man's literary
27:30
life. He dates from it, as the Romans did ab herb Condita.
27:36
It is the time when he acquired a mass of new ideas a second life.
27:40
Another era is reading the treasures of Asiatic fiction. Here they are Persian,
27:45
Turkish, Chinese. And here is the one generally first and oftenest read,
27:48
the Arabian Nights, which is in the style and manner purely Persian,
27:52
and probably originally the work of a Persian. Be they what or whence they
27:57
may, how vast has been diffusion of these legends of Genians, spells and
28:03
caliphs and camel drivers. The power they have acquired over the mind of readers
28:08
is obvious, not merely from the multiplication of copies, but from the imitations
28:14
which have, from time to time been sent forth. An unread work is
28:18
never imitated. Why are not the treasures of Asiatic literature more frequently translated,
28:23
and more of their beauties widely disseminated? Or why are some of those which
28:27
have been brought so forth so little known? Does one person out of a
28:33
thousand know that there is a dramatic work beautiful for its simplicity and elegance,
28:37
Sacumtala, which has been translated from the language of one of the most ancient
28:41
nations by Sir William Jones, whose name, as a gentleman, a scholar,
28:45
and a lawyer, is or ought to be equally a passport to whatever
28:48
he considered worthy of notice. It is to be hoped that this literature,
28:52
neglected as it is except by those who are in its very birthplace, will
28:56
become more general and an object of great her research, and the names Ferdusi,
29:02
Hafiz and Sadi be spoken of as authors whose merits are known and acknowledged.
29:07
I know not how I have been led into this digression. My purpose
29:11
here is with those Eastern relics which are estimated. I read the Arabian Nights
29:15
in my twelfth year. What a world that was opened to me, The
29:19
bright and fairy land of enchantment, of splendor, of romance lay before me.
29:26
With what zeal did I devour the narrations themselves, possessing the magic power
29:30
of which they speak, which tell of the astonishment of the boy Aladdin,
29:34
at first witnessing the power of his wonderful lamp, of the miserable fisherman,
29:38
who had inadvertently placed himself in the power of a mighty and malignant being,
29:44
and the ingenious trick by which he delivered himself and turned the tables upon the
29:48
humble genius. Long, very long, the tale of the thousand and one
29:52
Nights haunted my imagination and started up in my dreams. And now in the
29:57
light hues of youth and one have faded away, and age has shown the
30:02
emptiness and vanity of much that caught my early eye. I recur to these
30:07
volumes as a traveler who, after many wanderings, seeks his native home and
30:11
recognizes in every tree and rivulet and mossy stone, the friends and contemporaries of
30:18
his infancy. Here are more romances but they are the romances of our own
30:22
or neighboring countries. Here is the treasure of chivalry, that memorial of knights,
30:27
of great worship, of fairy ladies, of furious joustings, of smitings
30:33
on the brain pan and throwings over horses cruppers, which has so long preserved
30:37
its existence and popularity La morte doroth. But there are others, which,
30:41
though they find a place on my shelves, I have never been able,
30:45
nor indeed inclined to wade through Feromond, or the famous history of France Clelia,
30:51
the famous history of Parismus and Peresmundus, the Aregales and Parthenia, of
30:56
Quarrels, Perchase's Pilgrimage, the Hermetic wedding, and many more whose names are
31:02
probably unknown to my readers. I marvel if the ladies of the olden time
31:06
were as great devours of the romances of chivalry as the modern are of the
31:10
novels and the romances of horrors. Compare a damsel of Queen Elizabeth's times,
31:15
clad in all the outrageous stiffness of the day, sitting on a chair of
31:18
a hundred weight, as firm and immovable as it save when she gracefully cooled
31:22
herself with her fan of ostrich feathers, reading Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia with the
31:27
fine lady of George the Fourth's day, languishing and Miserableasing to take the privilege
31:33
of coining word over some tender tale of sympathy or sentiment, which is the
31:37
correct phrase, the production perhaps of a milliner's apprentice, or at most a
31:41
gentleman in private lodgings i e. The top garret. From romances in prose
31:47
to romances in verse is an easy transition. But stay here is one more
31:52
proser whom I would mention. The Voyage of the Wandering Night is a most
31:56
entertaining work, written in the style of continued allegory, in which so many
32:00
of the old writers indulged and admirably sustained throughout. It is dedicated to Drake,
32:06
and now for our versemen. Of these, the most beautiful is the
32:10
Feronida of Chamberlain, the wild wandering story of which, abounding as all that
32:15
time due in strange adventures, mistakes and double entendres, battles, sieges,
32:21
and what not, is clothed in stately but sweet and beautiful verse. It
32:25
abounds with admirable passages, and possesses more unity of design than most of the
32:30
similar poems of the time. But the greater number of these works, including
32:34
some of the best, are to be found among the productions of the continental
32:37
writers. We in this country have never had the fortune to be attacked by
32:42
moors, are Saracens, and therefore have wanted the opportunities of recording achievements of
32:46
our warriors in delivering the land from sable invaders, in which deficiency we are
32:52
inferior to the poet tasters of Spain and Italy. Ariosto Boiardo Poulci Zinopi had
33:00
opportunities of this kind which we want. We have one name, however,
33:04
which may be set against all these, a name which it is now the
33:07
fashion to speak of and to praise, without knowing much of the works of
33:10
its possessor. Spencer. I have been writing here an hour or two,
33:15
meditating on the productions of men. May I turn from them to indulge for
33:20
a few moments and other thoughts Around me are the works of mortals like myself,
33:24
greater probably in station than I am, far superior in talents, power
33:29
and fame. Yet what has their repute done for them more than my obscurity
33:34
for me. They have faded, as I shall fade. Their memory is
33:37
slowly perishing, as mine also shall more quickly perish. A few worm eaten
33:42
leaves are perhaps all that remain to tell of the former luster of a forgotten
33:45
name. So is it with all things. I look from this window.
33:51
It is a little gothic shaped aperture, with pains and inch square. I
33:55
look around, and everything seems fresh and blooming. Yet as emmin them closer,
34:00
there are fruits falling. Some leaves are withered, some are fallen and
34:04
blown about at the impulse of every breeze. The evening, too is coming
34:07
on, and the gloom is sinking. There is a spirit of melancholy,
34:12
of peace, of holiness around which hallows every scene and gives enchantment to every
34:16
spot. The wild associations of youth, or the graver recollections of manhood spring
34:22
up in every place. See that little arbor with the tender jasmines twining round
34:28
it, and a small stream running bubbling by it, glittering in its purity.
34:32
Thirty years since I planted the trees which form it, And there in
34:37
my latter days I love to sit and read my favorite authors. It grows
34:40
darker. I can see no longer in the venerable gloom which encompasses me.
34:45
Here I will go and sit in the little arbor and read Old Isaac Farewell
34:52
four. The sacred Taper's light is gone. Gray moss has clad the altar
34:57
stone. The holy image is o'arth. The bell has ceased to toll,
35:02
The long ribbed ales are burst and shrunk. The holy shrine to ruin,
35:07
sunk. Departed is the pious monk, God's blessing on his soul. I
35:13
am sometimes almost inclined to regret the dissolution of the monasteries. This is,
35:19
however, but the mere outstaying of imagination, which judgment admits not. The
35:22
thought of the re establishment of papacy, the return of superstition, and of
35:29
the long exploded infallibility and supreme power of the Vatican is what no one could,
35:35
with patience contemplate. Yet there are moments when sterner reason is subjugated to
35:39
wild fancy, when the paths of probability are deserted, to ramble on and
35:45
often to overstep the verge of possibility, When we seek no foundation for our
35:50
speculations, but our own chance ideas, and on so slight a bottom fear
35:54
not to raise our vast and airy edifices. So it is with me,
35:59
I am an inveterate castle builder, and splendid and beautiful in my own estimation.
36:05
At least are the fairy scenes which rise to my imagination. Of these,
36:09
one of my most favorite is the mingled picture of beauty and holiness and
36:14
grandeur, the adoration of a body of creatures shut from the world, uncontaminated
36:19
with the evil of sensual and earthly thoughts, in a state of happy peace,
36:22
neither injuring nor injured, no eye to watch, and no tongue to
36:28
wound them. All earth forgot, and all heaven around them. Their views
36:32
concentrated on one object towards which their meditations, their feelings, and their passions
36:37
were directed. The present entered not into their calculations. It was to another
36:44
state, a state of enjoyment, which was to compensate for their mortifications to
36:49
which they looked forward. Such is the most favorable light in which to regard
36:52
the subject. But unfortunately it is not borne out, or rather it is
36:59
contradicted. History. We find that rancorous and malignant passions existed within the embrowned
37:05
walls of the monastery, as in the precincts of the courts, and the
37:08
luxury of cities. Luxury, indeed, if credit is to be given to
37:13
the accounts of their contemporaries, was not interdicted to the inhabitants of the cloister.
37:19
Probably, however, about the same degree of credit is to be given
37:22
to the virulent abuse as to the unqualified praise of this or any other class
37:28
of individuals. It is not, however, my intention to enter into any
37:31
disquisition on this point. I was led to it by accidentally taking up two
37:37
entertaining works directed to the abuse of the monastic profession, the Epistolae Obscurorum Virorum,
37:44
which I have before mentioned, and a small volume Joanna's Physiophily Specimen Monacologia,
37:51
in which the fact author professes to class the several species of genus Monocus
37:57
or monk according to the Linnaean arrangement. Both of these works are in the
38:02
Latin tongue, and in both the principal merit consists in the closeness of the
38:06
parity. In the first of the barbarous latinity of the men whom it was
38:10
intended to ridicule, and in the second of the scientific phraseology made use of
38:15
by the classifiers of natural history, the epistolee of Hutton is one of the
38:21
most pleasing and entertaining burlesques I know. The specimen Monocologie, though inferior to
38:28
the first, contains a fund of amusement, not altogether unmixed with information.
38:32
Both of them confer in vilifying the manner's knowledge, acquirements, and characters of
38:37
the monks in a degree surely unwarranted by fact. But the scandal is delivered
38:43
so pleasantly that we overlook the ill nature and the delight we experience in the
38:46
wit and adroitness of the writers. But whatsoever may have been the general character
38:52
of the monastic class, it is not to be denied that many individuals among
38:55
them have been exemplary in their conduct and doctrines. This was not truly to
39:00
be expected from so large a body. It would have been strange if none
39:04
had possessed minds and principles above the rest, approximating in some degree to my
39:07
ideal representation of the character. The examples were probably but few, Yet they
39:14
might be more numerous than we are aware of, they would seek a more
39:16
retired situation and deeper solitude for the indulgence of their contemplations, where they might
39:22
be separated equally from the open vices of the world and the concealed and therefore
39:28
more odious ones of the monks. This seclusion from the affairs and communion of
39:32
the world might have produced a splenatic misanthropy, an affected hatred and contempt of
39:37
those from whose pleasures employments in society they had separated themselves. Had their motives
39:44
been less pure or their determination more wavering, still, a seclusion so entire
39:51
demanded something to preserve it from disgust and insipidity. Those whom no extraordinary piety
39:57
influenced would seek for some other employment to beguile away the time. This would
40:01
be the more remarkable in men of strong and active minds, whose thoughts would
40:06
not be sufficiently occupied by the monotonous services of their profession. They would turn
40:12
to other pursuits. If these were laudable, it was well for themselves and
40:15
mankind, and if not, hypocrisy must be resorted to to cover what they
40:21
durst not openly avow. The latter would perhaps be the most numerous, but
40:25
enough of them. It is unpleasant to dwell upon instances of human frailty and
40:30
dissimulation of the works of those whom better motives influenced. It is perhaps hazardous
40:36
to speak. Much difference of opinion has subsisted regarding the service which this class
40:40
has done to the cause of letters, some denying them any merit, and
40:45
others ascribing to them the revival or at least the preparation for the revival of
40:50
science and learning as usual. The middle way seems best if they preserved some
40:54
manuscripts, the monuments of ancient wit and philosophy. We know that the study
41:00
of the Classics was prohibited in religious houses. We know also that Boccaccio wept
41:06
to find the library of a monastery transferred to a barn, where the books
41:09
were perishing with damp, while those that escaped were seized on and erased by
41:14
the rapacious owners, that the materials might serve to write psalters and legends.
41:19
On. Let us leave this vexata questio. I have before hinted at the
41:24
contemplative spirit, which, in some minds was likely to be engendered by monastic
41:29
discipline, where the tone of natural feelings such as easily to receive impressions of
41:34
an abstracted nature. The fruit of this was mysticism, a state of mind
41:38
which was aspired after by some In the Remote Ages. The eclectic sect of
41:44
Platonists sought after a deification of the human mind, and probably continued in some
41:49
degree till the second century, when Ammonious Sacca adopted its doctrines, and was
41:53
succeeded by the Christian mystics Saint Clement of Alexandria and Dionysus the Ariopagite. In
42:01
the Middle Ages, mysticism flourished among the theological schoolmen, and in modern times
42:07
several of the saints of the Roman Calendar have written on the subject. This
42:10
state, which is described by the initiated as conferring unimaginable pleasure, consisted of
42:16
several stages, during which the soul progresses to an absolute and perfect abstraction from
42:22
worldly thoughts and seeks after and at length attains an immediate communion with the deity.
42:29
However fanci of all these opinions may appear to us, it is by
42:32
no means improbable that the continued abstinence an excitement of feeling, in which the
42:37
devotes lived might produce effects which to them might seem that intimate connection with supreme
42:44
power, that exaltation above the world, which they so eagerly sought after.
42:50
It may be thought that a life of undying monotony, of everlasting sameness would
42:54
be insufferable, but use reconciles to everything, and to me think with the
43:00
feelings of age, the still uninterrupted ease and pious serenity of the cloister seemed
43:06
like the lovely gloom and deepening shade of evening, which, though it wants
43:09
the brightness, is free from the fervent and scorching heats of noon. To
43:15
those two to whom the denial and seclusion of monastic life were not a cloak
43:19
of hypocrisy, whose choice had not been made merely from a disgust to a
43:23
world which their vices and passions had rendered hateful to them. To those whom
43:29
true piety, in the influence of holy musings had led to a deliberate and
43:32
steady adoption of such a life, the monotonous existence which is complained of would
43:37
not be without its charms. The moments which were unoccupied by religious services could
43:43
be dedicated to intellectual improvement to useful and strengthening meditation. Secluded from the pleasures
43:51
of the world, they were without many of its calamities. When once separated
43:54
from society, once cut off from the bulk of mankind, when the pain
43:59
of that one parting was over, they had nothing more to dread. They
44:02
had taken up their abode for life. Whatever storms might agitate, the wayward
44:07
passions or feelings of others, they had no connection with them. They were
44:10
secure in their loneliness. True. They saw the companions of their solitude fall
44:15
around them one by one. They followed them to their common bed, and
44:20
strewed upon them the lifeless clay, the fresh plucked flowers, the emblems of
44:24
mortality. But this was all. They had no other partings. To me,
44:30
this would have been the greatest, the most valuable of their immunities.
44:34
I have a vivid sensitiveness to the associations of time and place. I do
44:37
not care to have any of these ties, feeble and gossamer like as they
44:42
may seem, rudely snapped asunder. I cannot leave a place where I have
44:46
passed even a few days without regret, sometimes not without sorrow. To those
44:52
spots where I have made a longer residence, I am more strongly bound,
44:55
And yet I have frequently parted from scenes endeared by a thousand sweet and soothing
45:00
remembrances. I have passed my childhood, boyhood, manhood, and old age
45:06
amid different scenes and in widely varied situations. Yet I cannot revisit any of
45:12
them without finding something which has a hold upon my bent affections, something which
45:15
awakens a flood of grief whose luxury joy could never equal. But this is
45:22
the softened down feeling, the reflected emotion, robbed of its poignancy, the
45:27
grateful shadow of what I felt at the time of separation, the moment parting,
45:31
that moment when every dear and cherished feeling connected with the scenes we leave,
45:37
rises up more vividly to our hearts, when even if we part with
45:42
no friends nor kindred, none whom sociable and constant interchange of good wishes and
45:45
friendly services have made, as it were, part of our very being necessary
45:51
to our existence. Yet the very inanimate objects to which we have been accustomed
45:54
a book, a drawing, and instrument, seem to claim the rights of
45:58
old acquaintances, to expostulate with us, to upbraid us for our departure.
46:04
It is then, that, in all the fullness and bitterness of feeling,
46:07
we know the pain of parting, the rending of the heart, which accompanies
46:10
a separation from the things which have grown round us and twined round our very
46:15
souls. Much of our happiness here depends upon possibilities. Such is the pleasure
46:21
which we derive from friends, kindred, and relationship. How great is the
46:24
possibility that we may part from them, that we may be left solitary and
46:30
lonely, sojourners desolate in the midst of crowds, wretched, while joy is
46:35
everywhere sparkling round us. There is one possibility upon which I rest with pleasant
46:39
and grateful expectation. It is that when the writer of these trifles shall have
46:45
withered away and become as a thing that was, some one who may casually
46:50
peruse them may be led by the brief mention he may find of those whose
46:53
talent and writings have adorned his country, to look farther into them, to
46:58
explore their beauties and venerate their genius, and that something may be found amid
47:02
these hasty thoughts and ramblings of imagination, to touch the feeling and awaken,
47:07
not ungrateful associations in the hearts of his reader. If so, his wish
47:13
will have been fulfilled and his aim accomplished. End of section ten Recollections