No More Learning

There
was a little printed calendar of a long year ago pasted on the
side of the chimney. There was a clock (not worth your pur-
chasing, my friend) standing high up on a wooden shelf. There
was a dresser whereon the family crockery was piled for sale.
Having in mind friends who want old crockery, I looked over
the pieces, one by one; but found nothing worth a stranger's
purchasing, except perhaps one English plate, with a blue print,
—the rich dark blue wherein the cheap Staffordshire wares sur-
passed all other, Oriental and Occidental, potteries or porcelains.
But the table was there,- a very old square table, made of
black ash, with four solid legs. It had no claim to notice for


## p. 11832 (#462) ##########################################

11832
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
any beauty about it. But around it the family had been gath-
ered, morning, noon, and evening. First the young man and
his wife had sat there alone, happy, hopeful. Years had fulfilled
all they had hoped for, had brought little heads to the sides of
the table, and years had changed them into older and perhaps
wiser heads. All the troubles and all the happiness of every
one of them had been brought to the assemblies at that kitchen
table. Christmases, Thanksgiving days, wedding days of daugh-
ters, days when the minister was to make his annual visit,- all
the gala days of life had loaded the table with unusual feasts.
And always, with unfailing humility and gratitude, the voice of
the father had been heard at the head of the board, thanking
God as sincerely as if the farm had been a gold mine instead of
slow-yielding soil.
I was in the house but a few minutes. As I drove rapidly
down the road, I overtook a man going home from the sale. I
am not fond of "buying bargains" in such cases. If there had
been anything to tempt me, I could not comfortably own a pur-
chase out of that household at the poor prices things were bring-
ing. But this man was carrying home something. As I turned
out and drove by him he held it up for me to see. We went
along side by side.
"What have you got there? "
"I don't know. I think it's an old pitcher they used in a
church. "
"What did you buy it for? "
"I don't know. I s'pose I can sell it to some one. "
"How much do you want for it? "
"I don't know what it's worth. "
"Well, speak quick, if you want to sell," and my horses were
pulling ahead hard.
"I don't know as I care to sell it. "
"All right," and I went ahead rapidly.
"Will you give two dollars? " came in a shout after me.
"Will you take it? "
"Yes. "
It
He came up alongside of me, and I took my purchase.
was never church property; quite otherwise. It was a fine, tall
old two-quart pewter mug with cover. It had done duty in times
when men sat together while the pewter, filled with foaming
beer, went around from hand to hand and lip to lip. It was in


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WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
11833
perfect order, but there was nothing about it which seemed in
keeping with the old farm-house. When, four miles on, I stopped
to feed my horses, the landlord, looking in my carriage, ex-
claimed, "Hello, did you buy Jake's pewter pitcher? " and then
said Jake had bought it at another sale years ago, on specula-
tion, and had carried it afterwards to every "vandue," trying to
find a purchaser.
In the autumn of that year I drove again through the same
country, sometimes on the same, mostly on other roads. The
aspect of the hills and valleys was now very different. October
is a golden month for carriage travel; on some accounts more
pleasant than any other month in the year, both for horses and
travelers.
The road passed through a forest, unbroken for half a mile.
On the right a stream wandered over rocks, and under little
bluffs of moss, bright green miniature copies of mountain bluffs
along the courses of mighty rivers. Now and then, where the
stream fell into a pool, th lower end of the pool was dammed
with autumn leaves, yellow and red and brown, and in the whirl
of the pool you could see the same colored leaves going around
and around, and the water looked as if it were clearer and
colder for their presence. The road was covered over with
leaves, a yellow carpet, and every few minutes the light
breeze would freshen up a little and shake the higher branches
of the trees, and send down a shower of leaves, which flitted
and darted to and fro, flashing in the sunshine, and falling on
our laps and all around us.
-
At length the road, which going up a gentle ascent left the
brook away in the woods, emerged into open country, and we
found ourselves on the top of a hill. Before us spread one of
those beautiful landscapes in which New England is richer than
any other part of the world that I know of. The road descended
into an oval basin, some three miles long and a mile broad, the
bottom and sides of which were, or had been, cultivated farm
lands, except where a small lake slept motionless. It was sur-
rounded by low hills, up the sides of which the fields extended,
here and there one of them glowing with the buff and gold of
corn stubble and scattered pumpkins. Along the ridges, where
the fields did not go over them, were groves of maple and
birch whose autumn colors were intensely bright, while down
the slopes lay many abandoned fields gone to brush,-mauve,


## p. 11834 (#464) ##########################################

11834
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
maroon, crimson, and purple-colored with their dense growth of
bushes, scarlet-lined along the fences by rows of sumac.
If you can show me anywhere in the world landscapes which
are as rich and varied in color as our northern landscapes in
America, or which are more beautiful in the form and contrast
of valley and hill, I will go far with you to see them. Autumnal
foliage with many is thought to be the changed color of the
forest leaves, and few have observed the wonderful painting of
landscapes in the autumnal colors of the low bushes. Many of
our New England rivers, in October, flow between banks and
around low gravel islands which are unbroken masses of crimson,
from a plant not a foot high, covering every inch for acres.
And the shades are even more beautiful than the intense colors,
-soft, rich, and delicate as old embroideries.
There was no village in the valley. As I drove along the
road which led nearly through the middle of it, I came, at a
cross-road, to a grave-yard of an old church. That it was once a
church, the remains of a tower or spire indicated, and its loca-
tion,— a hundred feet from both roads, in the grave-yard,— dem-
onstrated. There had never been any fence around the lot
except the rough-laid loose stone wall which serves for fence in
all parts of our country where stone is plenty. And no better
or more picturesque fencing can be, especially if people will
plant along such walls any of the many beautiful vines which
abound everywhere, and thrive luxuriantly in just such places.
But no vines had ever been planted here. Not a solitary bush
or tree grew in the grave-yard. Even grass seemed to have run
out from lonesomeness and neglect, so that the ground looked
like an old worn-out pasture lot; the only break in the desolate
aspect being a stunted sprig of golden-rod which gleamed in
front of the church door.
I passed it, careful not to tread on it, and tried the door,
found it open, and went in. The interior was a sad ruin,
through which the breeze was free to blow; for there was no
glass in any window, nor indeed now any need of glass, since
it was plain enough that there had not been for long time any
assembling of people here to worship. The pulpit, nearly
round and high up, backed by a large window, had once been
reached by a winding stairway, now broken down. The pews,
which were built of pine without paint, were in fair preservation.
The plaster on the walls and flat ceiling had mostly fallen off,


## p. 11835 (#465) ##########################################

WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
11835
I could see
and lay in the pews and on the floor of the aisles.
the blue sky through one great rift overhead, where the roof
timber had fallen in and crushed down the ceiling.
No places are filled with such profound interest to thoughtful
men as those spots in which their fellow-men of former gener-
ations were accustomed to assemble for the worship of God.
And places of Christian worship are more deeply interesting,
because of the characteristics of that worship which distinguish
it from all others. In no other have men approached Deity with
the sense of personal unworthiness which only their God can
remove, and with faith in his fatherhood and brotherhood, his
personal presence among them, and his love for them. From
the early ages of the Christian Church this immediate and close
relationship between God and man has been a distinguishing
characteristic of old Christian art; whose earliest representations
of his personality are as the Good Shepherd, carrying home a
lost and found lamb of his flock. If that faith which directs
their prayers be indeed the substance of the things hoped for,
then the place where men meet their God is so truly the house
of God that one is at a loss to understand those who deny any
special sanctity in it. But however irreverent be their regard for
the church which they themselves frequent, I think there are very
few who can without some serious emotion enter an old church,
in which generations of men and women and children have wor-
shiped, who are now lying in silent graves around it.
I don't think you, my friend, whatever your creed or your
sympathies, could have sat with me in one of those plain pine
pews, seeing the sunshine of that autumn falling through the
shattered building on the ruined interior, and have failed to ap-
preciate something of the sanctity of the old place of prayer.
It was early noon. Through the broken roof one broad stream
of golden light fell on the open place between the front pew
and the pulpit. There the table used to stand which they called
their Lord's Table, and from which they received, as their cate-
chism expressed it, "by faith, "—that is, by the highest assurance
men can have,-unhesitating belief, the body and blood of Him
they worshiped. There one by one, when the work and worry,
the sorrow and sin, of this life were ended, they were laid with
closed eyes and calm faces, and thence carried out to the
gathering-place of the dead. Where are they now, strong men
and matrons, young men and maidens, little children and patri-
archs? As I asked myself the question, I walked across the floor


## p. 11836 (#466) ##########################################

11836
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
to a window and looked out. Yes, they were all lying there, as
so many millions of the Christian dead all over the world lie, in
circles that sweep over the surface of the globe, ever-widening
circles as their faith has extended among men, all with their
faces heavenward and their feet towards Jerusalem.
We spent more than a half-hour in the old church. I climbed
by the wrecked stairway into the pulpit. Its interior casing
was falling to pieces, and in a recess within were some scraps
of paper, which had slipped between the boards from the shelf
under the desk. On one was a memorandum of the minister for
notices to be given of the weekly prayer-meeting at Mr. 's
house, and a Thursday night lecture at the school-house on the
mountain. On another was a funeral notice. There was noth-
ing else legible, except a torn scrap, the lower part of a leaf of
a hymn-book, and on this was a stanza not unfitting the asso-
ciations of the place. So, for the moment, I assumed the posi-
tion of the erstwhile minister, and said from the pulpit, "Let us
sing: -
«Oh, what amazing joys they feel,
While to their golden harps they sing,
And sit on every heavenly hill
And spread the triumphs of their King! >»
There were only three of us, but one was leader of a choir
in an up-country church; and we sang a good old tune, which
perhaps they who were now silent around the church used to sing
to the same words—and perhaps will some day sing again.
And while we were singing I saw a vision; not supernatural,
but as lovely for the moment as any imagination.
In the open
doorway, at the other end of the church, was standing a little
child, a girl of five years old, dressed in white, with masses of
red-gold hair, which the wind, coming in from behind her, was
waving and shaking. Her great blue eyes were looking with
wonderment while she listened. As the sound ceased she van-
ished. We might have thought it an apparition, but that, going
to the door, we saw her running down the road as fast as her
little feet would carry her, towards a large farm-house nearly
a half-mile off. Her story told at the house might have been
the foundation of a midday ghost story for the neighborhood,-
the coming back of old-time people to sing an old hymn in the
ruined church. But they could hardly suppose that ghosts would
come in a traveling carriage drawn by a very solid pair of gray
horses.


## p. 11837 (#467) ##########################################

11837
MATTHEW PRIOR
(1664-1721)
ONE is better qualified to speak of Matthew Prior than the
accomplished writer of vers de société (and work of a higher
order), Austin Dobson, who brought out in 1889 an edition
of 'Prior's Selected Poems,' with an introduction containing several
corrections of generally accepted data. He concludes his introduc-
tory essay with the words: "Prior has left behind him not a few
pieces which have never yet been equaled for grace, ease, good-
humor, and spontaneity; and which are certain of immortality so long
as there is any saving virtue in 'fame's
great antiseptic-Style. ""
There is doubt regarding the place of
Prior's birth, on July 21st, 1664; but the evi-
dence points to Wimborne Minster in East
Dorset, England. His father is thought to
have been a joiner, who removed to Lon-
don, and sent his son to Westminster. After
his parents' early death, young Matt was
adopted by his uncle, a vintner, who lived
in Channel (now Cannon) Row; and it was
here behind the bar that he attracted the
attention of the Earl of Dorset, who found
him reading Horace and Ovid. Aided by
this rich patron, he returned to Westminster
school, forming a friendship with Charles and James Montagu (the
former afterwards founder of the Bank of England, and Earl of Hali-
fax,- dubitably Pope's "Bufo" in the Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot'),
and going with them to Cambridge, where he took his bachelor's
degree in 1686. His first piece of clever writing, a parody of Dryden's
poem The Hind and the Panther,' was executed at this period in
collaboration with Charles Montagu, who, like Prior, was freshly wear-
ing his college honors. The greater part was Prior's, and the jeu
d'esprit was published as 'The Hind and the Panther Transvers'd to
the Story of the Country Mouse and the City Mouse' (London, 1687),
and bore such mottoes as "Much Malice mingled with a little Wit. "
It has no great merit aside from boyish animal spirits, but may be
accepted as a prophecy of better work now that we know the better

MATTHEW PRIOR


## p. 11838 (#468) ##########################################

11838
MATTHEW PRIOR
work to have been accomplished. Some idea of the style of its
humor-exceedingly like that of the stock newspaper humorist in
the American press of to-day-may be appreciated by comparing
Dryden's lines,-
"A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged,
Fed on the lawns, and o'er the forest ranged;
Without unspotted, innocent within,
She feared no danger, for she knew no sin,"
-
with Prior's corresponding ones, ridiculing the idea of a quadruped
guiltless of sin:-
"A milk-white mouse, immortal and unchanged,
Fed on soft cheese, and o'er the dairy ranged;
Without unspotted, innocent within,
She feared no danger, for she knew no gin. »
In 1688 Prior obtained a fellowship, and was also made tutor to
Lord Exeter's sons; and having won distinguished patronage, was
appointed secretary to the ambassador to Holland. After spending
three years at The Hague, he was sent to France in the same ca-
pacity. Returning to England in 1701, he entered Parliament, became
a Tory, and in 1711 was sent on a secret mission to Paris, where he
attracted the favor of Louis XIV. A letter from le Grand Monarque
to Queen Anne said at its close: "I expect with impatience the
return of Mr. Prior, whose conduct is very agreeable to me;" and
the English Queen replied: "I send back Mr. Prior to Versailles,
who, in continuing to conduct himself in the manner that shall be
entirely agreeable to you, does no more than execute, to a tittle, the
orders which I have given him. " Bolingbroke and Swift greatly ad-
mired his diplomatic qualities (although Pope sneered at them), and
archives exist in Paris that attest his faithful service. One of Prior's
favorite sayings was, "I had rather be thought a good Englishman
than be the best poet or greatest scholar that ever wrote. » When
the Whigs came into power, Prior returned to England in 1715 to
suffer imprisonment; and when discharged he settled at Down-Hall,
Essex, on an estate that he had purchased. He died at Lord Har-
ley's country-seat of Wimpole, Cambridge, September 18th, 1721, and
was buried in Westminster Abbey.
Prior considered a long poem, Solomon, or the Vanity of the
World,' his most important work. It was greatly admired by Cow-
per, but is seldom read to-day. 'Alma, or the Progress of the Mind,' is
also long, but contains many witty Hudibrastic passages. The 'Tales'
are rather coarse for modern taste, and Prior's fame rests upon his


## p. 11839 (#469) ##########################################

MATTHEW PRIOR
11839
lyrics, epigrams, and playful poems. In 'An English Padlock' occur
the often quoted lines as advice to a husband:-
"Be to her virtues very kind;
Be to her faults a little blind;
Let all her ways be unconfined,
And clap your Padlock-on her mind. "
Prior has always been a favorite with men of letters.
Gay said
that he was beloved by every Muse"; Allan Ramsay wrote a pastoral
on his death, beginning "Dear, sweet-tongued Matt! thousands shall
greet for thee;" Swift was extremely fond of him, and took great
trouble to find subscribers for his poems; and Thackeray in his 'Eng-
lish Humorists' calls him "a world-philosopher of no small genius,
good-nature, and acumen," and considers his "among the easiest, the
richest, the most charmingly humorous of English lyrical poems.
Horace is always in his mind," he continues; "and his song, and his
philosophy, his good sense, his happy, easy turns and melody, his
loves, and his epicureanism bear a great resemblance to that most
delightful and accomplished master. " His poem 'To a Child of Qual-
ity Swinburne calls "the most adorable of nursery idyls that ever
was or will be in our language. " His own estimation of himself may
be learned by the following verses from his poem entitled 'For my
Own Monument':-
"Yet counting as far as to fifty his years,
His virtue and vice were as other men's are;
High hopes he conceived, and he smothered great fears,
In a life particolored, half pleasure, half care.
"Not to business a drudge, not to faction a slave,
He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree;
In public employments industrious and grave,
And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he!
"Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,
Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust;
And whirled in the round, as the wheel turned about,
He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust. "
TO A CHILD OF QUALITY
ORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band
L That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned by her high command
To show their passions by their letters.


## p. 11840 (#470) ##########################################

11840
MATTHEW PRIOR
My pen amo
mong the rest I took,
Lest those bright eyes that cannot read
Should dart their kindling fires, and look
The power they have to be obeyed.
Nor quality nor reputation
Forbid me yet my flame to tell;
Dear five-year-old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.
For while she makes her silkworms beds
With all the tender things I swear,
Whilst all the house my passion reads
In papers round her baby's hair,
She may receive and own my flame;
For though the strictest prudes should know it,
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.
Then, too, alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger rival sends,
She'll give me leave to write, I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.
For as our different ages move,
'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it! )
That I shall be past making love
When she begins to comprehend it.
SONG
N VAIN you tell your parting lover,
You wish fair winds may waft him over; —
Alas! what winds can happy prove,
That bear me far from what I love?
Alas! what dangers on the main
Can equal those that I sustain
From slighted vows and cold disdain?
Be gentle, and in pity choose
To wish the wildest tempests loose;
That thrown again upon the coast,
Where first my shipwrecked heart was lost,
I may once more repeat my pain;
Once more in dying notes complain
Of slighted vows and cold disdain.


## p. 11841 (#471) ##########################################

MATTHEW PRIOR
11841
XX-741
TO A LADY
SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME, AND LEAVING ME IN
THE ARGUMENT
SPAR
PARE, generous Victor, spare the slave,
Who did unequal war pursue;
That more than triumph he might have,
In being overcome by you.
In the dispute whate'er I said,
My heart was by my tongue belied;
And in my looks you might have read
How much I argued on your side.
You, far from danger as from fear,
Might have sustained an open fight:
For seldom your opinions err;
Your eyes are always in the right.
Why, fair one, would you not rely
On Reason's force with Beauty's joined?
Could I their prevalence deny,
I must at once be deaf and blind.
Alas! not hoping to subdue,
I only to the fight aspired;
To keep the beauteous foe in view
Was all the glory I desired.
But she, howe'er of victory sure,
Contemns the wreath too long delayed;
And armed with more immediate power,
Calls cruel silence to her aid.
Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight;
She drops her arms, to gain the field;
Secures her conquest by her flight,
And triumphs when she seems to yield.
So when the Parthian turned his steed,
And from the hostile camp withdrew,
With cruel skill the backward reed
He sent; and as he fled he slew.


## p. 11842 (#472) ##########################################

11842
MATTHEW PRIOR
AN ODE
THE
HE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowed name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
But Chloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay:
When Chloe noted her desire
That I should sing, that I should play,
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
But with my numbers mix my sighs:
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.
Fair Chloe blushed; Euphelia frowned;
I sung and gazed; I played and trembled:
And Venus to the Loves around
Remarked, how ill we all dissembled.
CUPID MISTAKEN
S AFTER noon, one summer's day,
A Venus stood bathing in a river,
Cupid a-shooting went that way,
New strung his bow, new filled his quiver.
With skill he chose his sharpest dart,
With all his might his bow he drew;
Swift to his beauteous parent's heart
The too well guided arrow flew.
I faint! I die! the goddess cried;
O cruel, couldst thou find none other
To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide!
Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.
Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak:
Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye;
Alas! how easy my mistake,—
I took you for your likeness Chloe.


## p. 11843 (#473) ##########################################

MATTHEW PRIOR
11843
A BETTER ANSWER
D
EAR Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face;
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled:
Pr'ythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says)
Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.
How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping?
Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy:
More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping.
To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ:
Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong;
You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit:
'Ods life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows
The difference there is betwixt nature and art:
I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose;
And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.
The god of us verse-men,- you know, child, the sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest;
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run,
At night he declines on his Thetis's breast.
So when I am wearied with wandering all day,
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come;
No matter what beauties I saw in my way,
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war;
And let us, like Horace and Lydia, agree:
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,
As he was a poet sublimer than me.
D
A SIMILE
EAR Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tinman's shop?
There, Thomas, didst thou never see-
'Tis but by way of simile—
A squirrel spend his little rage
In jumping round a rolling cage?


## p. 11844 (#474) ##########################################

11844
MATTHEW PRIOR
The cage, as either side turned up,
Striking a ring of bells a-top? -
Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs;
But here or there, turn wood or wire,
He never gets two inches higher.
So fares it with those merry blades
That frisk it under Pindus's shades:
In noble songs and lofty odes,
They tread on stars and talk with gods;
Still dancing in an airy round,
Still pleased with their own verses' sound:
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go,
Always aspiring, always low.
THE SECRETARY
WRITTEN AT THE HAGUE, MDCXCVI.
WH
HILE with labor assiduous due pleasure I mix,
And in one day atone for the business of six,
In a little Dutch chaise on a Saturday night,
On my left hand my Horace, a nymph on my right;
No memoirs to compose, and no postboy to move,
That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love;
For her, neither visits, nor parties at tea,
Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee.
This night and the next shall be hers and be mine,
To good or ill fortune the third we resign:
Thus scorning the world, and superior to fate,
I drive on my car in processional state.
So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode;
Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god.
But why should I stories of Athens rehearse,
Where people knew love, and were partial to verse;
Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose,
In Holland half drowned in interest and prose?
By Greece and past ages what need I be tried,
When The Hague and the present are both on my side?
And is it enough for the joys of the day,
To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say?
When good Vandergoes and his provident Vrow,
As they gaze on my triumph, do freely allow,
That search all the province, you'll find no man dar is
So blest as the Englishen Heer Secretar' is.


## p. 11845 (#475) ##########################################

MATTHEW PRIOR
11845
A TEST OF LOVE
From Henry and Emma'
HENRY
AINLY thou tell'st me what the woman's care
VA Shall in the wildness of the wood prepare:
Thou, ere thou goest, unhappiest of thy kind,
Must leave the habit and the sex behind.
No longer shall thy comely tresses break
In flowing ringlets on thy snowy neck,
Or sit behind thy head, an ample round,
In graceful braids with various ribbon bound;
No longer shall the bodice, aptly laced,
From thy full bosom to thy slender waist,
That air and harmony of shape express,
Fine by degrees and beautifully less;
Nor shall thy lower garment's artful plait,
From thy fair side dependent to thy feet,
Arm their chaste beauties with a modest pride,
And double every charm they seek to hide.
Th' ambrosial plenty of thy shining hair,
Cropt off and lost, scarce lower than thy ear
Shall stand uncouth; a horseman's coat shall hide
Thy taper shape and comeliness of side;
The short trunk-hose shall show thy foot and knee,
Licentious and to common eyesight free:
And, with a bolder stride and looser air,
Mingled with men, a man thou must appear.
Vagrants and outlaws shall offend thy view;
For such must be my friends, a hideous crew:
By adverse fortune mixed in social ill,
Trained to assault, and disciplined to kill;
Their common loves a lewd abandoned pack,
The beadle's lash still flagrant on their back,—
By sloth corrupted, by disorder fed,
Made bold by want and prostitute for bread:
With such must Emma hunt the tedious day,
Assist their violence and divide their prey;
With such she must return at setting light,—
Though not partaker, witness of their night.
Thy ear, inured to charitable sounds
And pitying love, must feel the hateful wounds
Of jest obscene and vulgar ribaldry,
The ill-bred question and the lewd reply;


## p. 11846 (#476) ##########################################

11846
MATTHEW PRIOR
Brought by long habitude from bad to worse,
Must hear the frequent oath, the direful curse,-
That latest weapon of the wretches' war,—
And blasphemy, sad comrade of despair.
Now, Emma, now the last reflection make,
What thou wouldst follow, what thou must forsake:
By our ill-omened stars and adverse Heaven,
No middle object to thy choice is given.
Or yield thy virtue to attain thy love,
Or leave a banished man, condemned in woods to rove.
EMMA
-
O grief of heart! that our unhappy fates
Force thee to suffer what thy honor hates:
Mix thee amongst the bad, or make thee run
Too near the paths which virtue bids thee shun.
Yet with her Henry still let Emma go;
With him abhor the vice, but share the woe:
And sure my little heart can never err
Amidst the worst, if Henry still be there. .
For thee alone these little charms I drest;
Condemned them or absolved them by thy test.
In comely figure ranged my jewels shone,
Or negligently placed, for thee alone;
For thee again they shall be laid aside:
The woman, Henry, shall put off her pride
For thee; my clothes, my sex, exchanged for thee,
I'll mingle with the people's wretched lee,—
Oh, line extreme of human infamy!
Wanting the scissors, with these hands I'll tear
(If that obstructs my flight) this load of hair.
Black soot, or yellow walnut, shall disgrace
This little red and white of Emma's face.
These nails with scratches shall deform my breast,
Lest by my look or color be expressed
The mark of aught high-born, or ever better dressed.
Yet in this commerce, under this disguise,
Let me be grateful still to Henry's eyes;
Lost to the world, let me to him be known:
My fate I can absolve, if he shall own
That, leaving all mankind, I love but him alone.


## p. 11847 (#477) ##########################################

MATTHEW PRIOR
11847
THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS
IN IMITATION OF A GREEK IDYLLIUM
ELIA and I the other day
Walked o'er the sand-hills to the sea:
The setting sun adorned the coast,
His beams entire, his fierceness lost;
And on the surface of the deep,
The winds lay only not asleep:
The nymph did like the scene appear,
Serenely pleasant, calmly fair;
Soft fell her words, as flew the air.
C
With secret joy I heard her say
That she would never miss one day
A walk so fine, a sight so gay.
But, oh the change! The winds grow high;
Impending tempests charge the sky;
The lightning flies; the thunder roars;
And big waves lash the frightened shores.
Struck with the horror of the sight,
She turns her head and wings her flight;
And trembling vows she'll ne'er again
Approach the shore or view the main.
"Once more at least look back," said I;
"Thyself in that large glass descry:
When thou art in good-humor drest,
When gentle reason rules thy breast,
The sun upon the calmest sea
Appears not half so bright as thee:
'Tis then that with delight I rove
Upon the boundless depth of love;
I bless my chain, I hand my oar,
Nor think on all I left on shore.
"But when vain doubt and groundless fear
Do that dear foolish bosom tear;
When the big lip and wat❜ry eye
Tell me the rising storm is nigh,-
'Tis then thou art yon angry main,
Deformed by winds and dashed by rain;
And the poor sailor, that must try
Its fury, labors less than I.
"Shipwrecked, in vain to land I make,
While Love and Fate still drive me back;


## p. 11848 (#478) ##########################################

1 1848
MATTHEW PRIOR
Forced to dote on thee thy own way,
I chide thee first, and then obey.
Wretched when from thee, vexed when nigh,
I with thee or without thee die. "
THE FEMALE PHAETON
HUS Kitty, beautiful and young,
And wild as a colt untamed,
THU
Bespoke the fair from whence she sprung,
With little rage inflamed:
Inflamed with rage at sad restraint,
Which wise mamma ordained;
And sorely vext to play the saint,
Whilst wit and beauty reigned:-
"Shall I thumb holy books, confined
With Abigails forsaken?
Kitty's for other things designed,
Or I am much mistaken.
"Must Lady Jenny frisk about,
And visit with her cousins?
At balls must she make all the rout,
And bring home hearts by dozens?
"What has she better, pray, than I,
What hidden charms to boast,
That all mankind for her should die,
Whilst I am scarce a toast?
"Dearest mamma! for once let me
Unchained my fortune try:
I'll have my earl as well as she,
Or know the reason why.
"I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score,
Make all her lovers fall:
They'll grieve I was not loosed before;
She, I was loosed at all. "
Fondness prevailed; mamma gave way:
Kitty, at heart's desire,
Obtained the chariot for a day,
And set the world on fire.
1


## p. 11849 (#479) ##########################################

11849
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER
(1787-1874)
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER
(1825-1864)
B
RYAN WALLER PROCTER was born in London, England, No-
vember 21st, 1787, according to his biographers, though he
himself put the date two years later. He came of good
farmer stock in Yorkshire; and, his father having accumulated con-
siderable fortune, he was sent to Harrow, where he was the contem-
porary of Byron and Peel. At twenty he
was bound to a solicitor at Calne, came up
to London in 1807 to live, and for the next
eight years was sufficiently occupied in do-
ing it. It was not until he was twenty-eight
that he began to write, "attracted," as he
says of himself, "to literature as a refined
amusement. "

Meanwhile he had formed the friend-
ships which were to influence his life; his
own personality and his excellent judgment
having their effect on his associates. Haz-
litt, who put himself out for few people,
thought so highly of his talents that he
always talked his best when Procter was
present. Talfourd says, "Charles Lamb regarded Procter as the spirit
most congenial with his own in its most serious moods;" and in his
celebrated letter to Southey in the London Magazine for October, 1823,
Lamb speaks of him as "Procter, candid and affectionate as his own
poetry. " Rogers introduced him to Moore as "well worth cultivat-
ing"; and his friendship with Leigh Hunt was maintained unclouded
throughout Hunt's long life. His father having bequeathed him a
comfortable property, Procter's first poems were written during years
of freedom and enjoyment. From 1819 to 1823 he wrote the 'Dra-
matic Scenes and Other Poems,' 'Marcia Colonna,' The Sicilian
Story,' metrical tales from Boccaccio's themes, Mirandola' (which
Macready produced at Covent Garden with great success), and The
Flood of Thessaly. ' Then too he laid the foundation of the lyrical
BRYAN W. PROCTER


## p. 11850 (#480) ##########################################

11850
BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
collection which, published in 1832, continued to receive additions for
many years.
Meantime he had become engaged to Miss Skepper, the daughter
of Mrs. Basil Montagu. But his health had failed; the lady was an
invalid also; and somebody described the lovers as supping together
at nine o'clock on water gruel. In 1825 Lamb wrote to Leigh Hunt,
"Barry Cornwall has at last carried off the pretty A. S. They are
just in the treacle moon. Hope it won't clog his wings, 'gaum,' as
we used to say at school. "
Mrs. Procter was beloved and admired by all who knew her; her
house was the most popular rendezvous for literary men in London.
She had a sort of divination as to genius, recognizing it however
disguised. Monckton Milnes dedicated his life of Keats to her as
"A poet's wife, a poet's mother, and herself of many poets the fre-
quent theme and valued friend. " The admirable pen-and-ink sketch
of Keats in Milnes's 'Life' is by Mrs. Procter, who had as acute a
perception of likeness as she had of character.
Literature had been the pastime of Procter's leisure. He had pub-
lished all his poems under the pen-name of "Barry Cornwall"; not,
as Moore somewhat maliciously quotes, "because he was a gentleman
of fortune, and did not like to have his name free in the reviews,"
but because of that intellectual reserve and sensitiveness that influ-
enced his whole life, and of a curious underestimate of his talent.
After his marriage, when his partial loss of fortune made it neces-
sary to add to his income, he had neither strength nor ambition
to pursue literature in the intervals of business, but returned with
energy to his conveyancing. His idealism in verse contrasts strangely
with the cautious prudence of his external life. He sat up two nights
in the week to do his professional work; he took pupils, among whom
were Eliot Warburton and Kinglake; and he was a commissioner of
lunacy for many years.
His life was full of happiness and success; and during his age the
devotion of John Kenyon, of Dickens, of Thackeray (who dedicated
'Vanity Fair' to him), and after their deaths, the friendship of
Tennyson, Browning, Carlyle, Lord Houghton, and a host of others,
made an Indian summer around the old man's hearth. In person he
greatly resembled Walter Scott; and he was not unlike Scott in
his genius, with its union of romance and practicality. "Everybody
loves him," wrote Crabb Robinson. "The beloved and honored Barry
Cornwall, whose minstrel name I venture to speak," says Hawthorne.
He died in London, October 4th, 1874.
Procter's early verse was greatly influenced by his contemporaries.
Lamb was his guide in the fields of Elizabethan drama, Leigh Hunt
taught him poetic methods (as he in turn afterwards taught Poe),


## p. 11851 (#481) ##########################################

BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
11851
and Keats appealed to his æsthetic side. But Keats, infinitely richer
and more fertile, wrote of what he imagined; Procter of what he had
seen and read, not of what he had felt or experienced. On the other
hand, he was already a finished workman when at twenty-eight he
began to write, with a nature sensuous indeed but sane.
Among the 'Dramatic Sketches,' the 'Return of Mark Antony,'
'Julian the Apostate,' and 'The Way to Conquer,' are simple and
passionate; and the poem 'The Flower,' from the last named, has
the flavor and the picturesque detail of Shakespeare. Charles Lamb
said that there was not one of the 'Dramatic Sketches' which he
would not have placed in his collection if he had found it in the
Garrick plays at the British Museum. Even Carlyle pressed Procter
to continue his dramatic writings, as the best expression of his gift.
But while the modern reader has an acute pleasure in recognizing
how perfectly he has caught the spirit of the Elizabethan, or rather
the Jacobean drama, the quality of that pleasure soon reveals the
quality of Procter's talent. The interest in the 'Dramatic Scenes' is
purely literary; and 'Mirandola,' which was acted for sixteen nights,
and for which the author got six hundred and thirty pounds, owes its
popularity to the judgment of his literary contemporaries, who with
it have passed away.
Throughout his tragedies were scattered little lyric songs, in which
we see the groundwork of his later eminence; for he was to find his
place as a lyric poet. The dramatic quality, which in his 'Sketches'
excites a mere literary interest, perfectly expressed itself in musical
outbursts of thought, sorrow, and delight. They include all poetic
feelings "from sweetest melancholy to glad animal joy. " Not Pros-
pero's tricksy spirit has more glorious liberty than "The Stormy
Petrel'; the virile barytone quality, as Mr. Stedman describes it, of
"The Hunting Song,' wakes the lusty morn; 'Drink and Fill the
Night with Mirth' has the lightness of Anacreon; 'King Death' is
as fantastic as one of Doré's paintings; and perhaps the most perfect
lyric ever addressed by a poet to his wife is the little song set to
Neukomm's music:-
"How many summers, Love,
Have I been thine ? »
The delicate perfume of a flower is in the melody,
"Sit down, sad soul,
The moment's flying;"
and such songs as Touch us gently, Time,' 'The Sea, the Sea, the
Open Sea, and the dirge, 'Peace, what can tears avail? ' have touched
three generations of readers, some of whom, like Miss Martineau,–


## p. 11852 (#482) ##########################################

11852
BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
whose brilliant sketch of Procter has best preserved his personality,
are not easily moved.
-
Early in his career he wrote much prose for the Literary Gazette,
showing great satirical power, a faculty he rarely exercised. It was
this characteristic, perhaps, that induced Jeffrey to try to secure him
for the Edinburgh; and perhaps the consciousness that he possessed
it decided him to decline. His Life of Lamb' was written after he
was seventy-seven years old; but although it is the most entertaining
of books, it fails to leave on the reader the impression of a character.
Lamb's personality had a piquancy which must be suggested, - not
explained, as is Procter's straightforward way.
What he failed to do for Lamb, Coventry Patmore did for him, in
his admirable Life of Bryan Waller Procter' (1877); a portrait con-
ceived as a whole, and suffused with its hero's indefinite charm.
-
ADELAIDE PROCTER, the daughter of Bryan Waller Procter, was
born in London in 1825. A shy and gentle girl, "my golden-tressèd
Adelaide," as he called her, she was her father's intimate companion
almost from her birth, when he addressed to her the lovely lines be-
ginning "Child of my heart. " She wrote her first poems for Dickens's
Household Words; but, afraid that the editor might accept them on
account of his friendship for the family, sent them under the pen-
name of Mary Berwick. Mr. James T. Fields, in his 'Barry Cornwall
and his Friends,' gives a charming description of Dickens's dining
with the Procters, and launching into enthusiastic praise of "Mary
Berwick" in Mrs. Procter's presence, who, in the secret, revealed with
tears the real name of the author.
The 'Lyrics' were collected and published in 1853; and in seven
years had reached their ninth edition,- Tennyson's poems not exceed-
ing them in popularity. They take single emotional themes, usually
permeated by a gentle piety. "It is like telling one's beads," says
Mr. Stedman, "or reading a prayer-book, to turn over her pure pages. "
Miss Procter became a Catholic in her later life, and was devoted to
works of charity and philanthropy. She died in London, February 3d,
1864.


## p. 11853 (#483) ##########################################

BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
11853
THE SEA
HE Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions round;
It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.
THE
I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!
I am where I would ever be;
With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go;
If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.
I love (oh! how I love) to ride
On the fierce foaming bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the southwest blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull tame shore
But I loved the great Sea more and more;
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest:
And a mother she was and is to me
For I was born on the open Sea!
The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the Ocean-child!
I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a sailor's life,
With wealth to spend and a power to range,-
But never have sought, nor sighed for change;
And death, whenever he come to me,
Shall come on the wide unbounded Sea!


## p. 11854 (#484) ##########################################

11854
BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
A PETITION TO TIME
OUCH us gently, Time!
Let us glide adown thy stream
Gently, as we sometimes glide
Through a quiet dream!
Του
Humble voyagers are we,
Husband, wife, and children three.
(One is lost, an angel, fled
To the azure overhead! )
Touch us gently, Time!
We've not proud nor soaring wings:
Our ambition, our content,
Lies in single things.
Humble voyagers are we,
O'er Life's dim unsounded sea,
Seeking only some calm clime:
Touch us gently, gentle Time!
――――――
WⓇ
E ARE born; we laugh; we weep;
We love; we droop; we die!
Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep?
Why do we live or die?
LIFE
Who knows that secret deep?
Alas, not I!
We toil
Why doth the violet spring
Unseen by human eye?
Why do the radiant seasons bring
Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?
Why do our fond hearts cling
To things that die?
through pain and wrong;
We fight and fly;
We love; we lose; and then, ere long,
Stone-dead we lie.
O life! is all thy song
"Endure and - die "?


## p. 11855 (#485) ##########################################

BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
11855
INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN
EST! This little Fountain runs
RES Thus for aye: it never stays
For the look of summer suns,
Nor the cold of winter days.
Whosoe'er shall wander near,
When the Syrian heat is worst,
Let him hither come, nor fear
Lest he may not slake his thirst:
He will find this little river
Running still, as bright as ever.
Let him drink and onward hie,
Bearing but in thought that I,
EROTAS, bade the Naiad fall,
And thank the great god Pan for all!
"SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL»
IT down, sad soul, and count
The moments flying:
Come- tell the sweet amount
That's lost by sighing!
How many smiles? - a score?
Then laugh, and count no more;
For day is dying.
S¹T
Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
And no more measure
The flight of Time, nor weep
The loss of leisure;
But here, by this lone stream,
Lie down with us, and dream
Of starry treasure.
We dream-do thou the same;
We love forever;
-
We laugh, yet few we shame,—
The gentle, never.
Stay, then, till Sorrow dies;
Then hope and happy skies
Are thine forever!


## p. 11856 (#486) ##########################################

11856
BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE
ow many summers, Love,
Have I been thine?
HOW
How many days, thou dove,
Hast thou been mine?
Time, like the winged wind
When 't bends the flowers,
Hath left no mark behind,
To count the hours.
Some weight of thought, though loth,
On thee he leaves;
Some lines of care round both
Perhaps he weaves;
Some fears a soft regret
For joys scarce known;
Sweet looks we half forget;
All else is flown.
-
Ah! with what thankless heart
I mourn and sing!
Look where our children start,
Like sudden Spring!
With tongues all sweet and low,
Like a pleasant rhyme,
They tell how much I owe
To thee and Time!
"PEACE! WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL? »
EACE! what do tears avail?
She lies all dumb and pale;
And from her eye
The spirit of lovely life is fading,
And she must die!
Why looks the lover wroth? the friend upbraiding?
Reply, reply!
PEA
Hath she not dwelt too long
'Midst pain and grief and wrong?
Then why not die?


## p. 11857 (#487) ##########################################

BRYAN W. AND ADELAIDE PROCTER
11857
Why suffer again her doom of sorrow,
And hopeless lie?
Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow?
Reply, reply!
Death! Take her to thine arms,
In all her stainless charms,
And with her fly
To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness,
The Angels lie.
Wilt bear her there, O Death, in all her whiteness?
Reply, reply!
THE STORMY PETREL
THOUSAND miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the roaring sea;
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast.