No More Learning

Yet, for all
their study, they were, for the most part, amateurs. “Wit is a good
diversion but base trade,' said Sedley, and, with the exception of
Rochester, a born man of letters, not one of them had the power
of castigating his verses into perfection. It was not for these
happy triflers to con their manuscripts by day and night, to guard
them for ten years from the eager eye of the public. They threw
them off in their hours of ease, and did not make them proof
against the attack of time. They were precisians without being
precise. They followed those whom they considered the best
models. The Stagyrite is ever on their tongues, and if they could
they would have obeyed his laws. Their highest ambition was
to equal Horace. But they could not be at the pains to use his
file. It is the true mark of the amateur to begin a work as a
poet and to end it as a versifier. They had happy thoughts these
court poets; they hit upon ingenious images; an elegance of
phrase was not beyond their reach. What they found almost
impossible was to sustain the level of their inspiration. When
Sedley begins a song with the lines,
Love still has something of the sea,
From whence his mother rose,
you are reminded of the Greek anthology, and think you are in the
presence of a little masterpiece. But the poet soon loses interest
in his work, and relies upon the common words and familiar
metaphors of his day. Even at the third line, ‘No time his slaves
from doubt can free,' the illusion is dispelled. And it is this care-
lessness. characteristic of them all, which makes it difficult to
distinguish the works of one from another, and explains the many
false inscriptions, which perplex the reader. 'Lord Dorset and
Lord Rochester,' says Pope, 'should be considered as holiday-
writers, as gentlemen that diverted themselves now and then with
poetry, rather than as poets. ' From this condemnation, Rochester
must be excluded. His energy and concentration entitled him to
be judged by the highest standard. The others cannot resent a
wise and just sentence.
This union of poetry with the court had one evil result. It
involved literature in an atmosphere of coxcombry. Social


## p. 204 (#226) ############################################

204
The Court Poets
eminence appeared the very inspiration of Apollo. To deserve
the bays nothing was necessary save to be a person of honour.
All the resources of eloquent flattery were exhausted in the praise
of noblemen who condescended to poetry. Criticism was thus
poisoned at its source. A poet should be judged by his poetry
and by nothing else. The accidents of his life should not be
permitted to cloud our judgment. To find a peculiar virtue in a
courtier's verses is no better and no worse than to hail a farmer's
boy as a man of genius merely because he follows the plough.
And it is difficult to read the contemporary eulogies of Buckhurst,
Mulgrave and the rest with patience. Of course, the utmost
latitude may be granted to dedications. No writer is upon oath
when he addresses a dedicatory epistle to friend or patron, and if
only he content himself with making a panegyric of his patron's
character or person no harm is done, while a pleasant tradition is
observed. When, for instance, Sir Francis Fane assures Rochester
that, after his charming and most instructive conversation, he
' finds himself, not only a better poet, a better philosopher, but,
much more than these, a better Christian,' you smile, as, no doubt,
Rochester smiled at Sir Francis Fane's temerity and lack of
humour. You cannot smile when Dryden, who should have been
a king among them all, stoops to the very servitude of praise,
acclaiming in the language of extravagance not their graces, not
their gallantry, not their wit flung lightly across the table, but
their poetry. In thus honouring Buckhurst and Mulgrave, he dis-
honours the craft of which he was a faithful follower, and his
offence is less against humour than against truth. To confess at
the outset, as Dryden confesses, that the Court is the best and
surest judge of writing,' is a mere hyperbole, which may be
excused. His praise of Rochester, vague though it be, displays
all the vice of a false judgment.
Wit,' he writes, seems to have lodged itself more nobly in this age, than
in any of the former, and the people of my mean condition are only writers
because some of the nobility, and your Lordship in the first place, are above
the narrow praises which poesy could give you. '
The statement is abject in humility, yet still without pretence to
criticism. He goes furthest astray when he speaks of Buckhurst.
It is Buckhurst the poet, not Buckhurst the courtier, that he extols,
and thus, upon every line that he devotes to his friend, he lays
the foundation of error. He congratulates himself that he was
inspired to foretell Buckhurst to mankind, 'as the restorer of
poetry, the greatest genius, the truest judge, and the best patron. '
6
6


## p. 205 (#227) ############################################

Dryden's Flattery
205
6
Never for a moment does he hesitate to compare him with the
greatest He declares that Buckhurst forgives
the many failings of those, who, in their wretched art, cannot arrive to those
heights, that he possesses from a happy, abundant, and native genius: which
are as inborn to him, as they were to Shakespeare, or for aught I know, to
Homer.
So he sets him high above all living poets. “Your Lordship,' says
he, 'excels all others in all the several parts of poetry, which you
have undertaken to adorn. And, again: 'the most vain, and the
most ambitious of our age have. . . yielded the first place without
dispute. ' As his lyric poems are the delight and wonder of this
age,' so they will prove the envy of the next. ' And it is of satire
that he is the most perfect model. ' 'If I have not written better,
confesses Dryden, “it is because you have not written more. '
Finally, in a comparison of ancient and modern, he divides the
wreath of glory between Shakespeare and Buckhurst. “This age
and the last,' he declares, 'especially in England, have excelled the
ancients in both these kinds, and I would instance in Shakespeare
of the former, in your Lordship of the latter sort. ' What boots it,
after this eulogy, to call Buckhurst the king of poets? It would
have been legs mischievous to call him the king of men.
With the same recklessness of adulation, Dryden praises
Mulgrave's Essay of Poetry. He read it, he says, with much
delight, as much instruction and not without some envy. He
assures his patron that the anonymity of the work was 'not
altogether so fair, give me leave to say, as it was politic. ' The
motive was clear enough.
By concealing your quality,' writes Dryden, 'you might clearly understand
how your work succeeded, and that the general approbation was given to your
merit, not your title. Thus, like A pelles, you stood unseen behind your
own Venus, and received the praises of the passing multitude; the work was
commended, not the author; and I doubt not, this was one of the most
pleasing adventures of your life. '
It was not like Mulgrave to remain long in the dark, and the
adventure, if pleasing, was soon over. As for Dryden, he could
sink lower (or rise higher) even than this in the scale of adulation.
A couplet upon Mulgrave remains, his masterpiece of bathos:
How will sweet Ovid's ghost be pleased to hear
His fame augmented by an English peer!
The poets themselves, being men of the world, knew what value
to put upon Dryden's panegyrics. The best of them, Rochester
and Buckhurst, treated their own poems with a lighthearted disdain.


## p. 206 (#228) ############################################

206
The Court Poets
They left others to gather up the flowers which they scattered with
a prodigal hand. If they are to be accounted artists, let it be
in life not in verse. Poetry was but an episode in their multi-
coloured careers; and, though we may wisely neglect the lives of
greater poets, with them, criticism inevitably becomes biography.
John Wilmot, earl of Rochester, the one man of undisputed genius
among them, will ever be memorable for the waywardness and
complexity of his character, for the vigour and energy of his verse.
Few poets have suffered more acutely than he from the flattery of
friends or the disdain of enemies. The lofty adulation offered at
his youthful shrine was soon turned to a violent malignity, and, in
the clash of opinions it is not easy to disengage the truth. He was
born in 1648 at Ditchley near Woodstock, the son of the pleasure-
loving, wary, ambitious Henry Wilmot who fought for his king,
and who, after Worcester, shared the wanderings and hardships
of Charles II. Educated 'in grammar learning' at Burford, in
Oxfordshire, he entered Wadham college in 1659, was created a
master of arts in 1661, at which time he, and none else, was ad-
mitted very affectionately into the fraternity, by a kiss on the left
cheek from the Chancellor of the University (Clarendon), who then
sate in the supreme chair to honour that Assembly. ' A veritable
child of the muses ‘he lisped in numbers. ' At the age of twelve, he
addressed a respectable copy of verses 'to his Sacred Majesty on
his Restoration, and mourned in English and Latin the death of
Mary, princess of Orange. Having taken his degree, he travelled
in France and Italy, and, at eighteen, returned to England and
the court, a finished scholar and an accomplished gentleman.
None of the courtiers who thronged Whitehall made so brilliant
an appearance as Rochester. All the gifts of nature were his.
'He was a graceful, well-shaped person,' says Burnet,'tall and well made.
He was exactly well-bred, and what by a modest behaviour natural to him,
what by a civility become almost as natural, his conversation was easy and
obliging:
a
He had a talent of intimacy and persuasiveness, which none could
resist. Even when his words lacked sincerity, they won the hearts
of his hearers.
Il entre dans vos goûts, said a woman, who was not in love with him, dans
tous vos sentiments ; et tandis qu'il ne dit pas un seul mot de ce qu'il pense,
il vous fait croire tout ce qu'il dit.
He gained an easy ascendancy over the court and assumed all the
freedoms of a chartered libertine. Once upon a time, as Pepys


## p. 207 (#229) ############################################

Rochester
207
<
1
tells us, he had a difference with Tom Killigrew, whose ear he
boxed in the presence of the king. This barbarous conduct, says
the diary,
do give such offence to the people here at court, to see how cheap the king
makes himself, and the more, for that the king hath not only passed by the
thing, and pardoned it to Rochester already, but this very morning the king
did publicly walk up and down, and Rochester I saw with him as free as erer
to the king's everlasting shame, to have so idle a rogue his companion.
Not even the people at court could for long harbour a feeling
of resentment against the insolence of Rochester. Charles himself
was ever ready with a pardon. Though he banished Rochester
many times from his presence, he as often recalled him. The truth
is that, in Burnet's words, the King loved his company for the
diversion it afforded him. ' Little as Charles appreciated the bitter
satires upon 'Old Rowley,' he could not but forgive the satirist.
Though Rochester professed a hatred of the court, it was the only
place in which his talents found a proper freedom, and he always
returned thither, so long as his health lasted. Nor was it only
the licence of his speech that involved him in disgrace. At nine-
teen, to repair the sole deficiency of his lot, he had seized upon
Mrs Mallett, a great beauty and a great fortune, 'by horse and
foot men,' put her 'into a coach with six horses, and two women
provided to receive her,' and carried her away. The king, who had
tried in vain to advance the match, was 'mighty angry,' and sent
Rochester to the Tower. But the triste héritière, as Gramont
calls her, did not long withstand the fierce suit of her lover, and
Rochester, as his letters show, made a reasonably fond husband.
Indeed, though after the adventure what most strongly attracted
him was the lady's fortune, he honourably repented of his greed,
and presently tells her that her money 'shall always be employed
for the use of herself and those dependent on her. . . so long as he
can get bread without it. '
Adventure, in truth, was the passion of his life. When he
could not seek it in the field of battle, he must find it perforce
in the tamer atmosphere of the court. He had a perfect genius
for disguise, and delighted to assume the likeness now of a porter
now of a beggar. Like the true histrion that he was, he neglected
no part of his craft, and entered into the very skin of the character
he chose to impersonate.
"Sometimes to follow some mean amou
ours,' says Burnet, which for the
vanity of them he affected, at other times merely for diversion, he would go
about in odd shapes, in which he acted his part so naturally, that even those


## p. 208 (#230) ############################################

208
The Court Poets
who were in the secret and saw him in these shapes could perceive nothing
by which he might be discovered! '
In one of his banishments, he and the duke of Buckingham, also in
disgrace, found an inn to let on the Newmarket road. Entering
into the joyous spirit of masquerade, they took the inn, and each
in turn played the part of landlord. Less with the purpose of
selling their ale than to get what sport they might out of the
ramble, they invited the whole countryside to frequent feasts, and
with the help of their neighbours, enacted a veritable comedy. At
last Rochester became enamoured of a wood-nymph, compared with
whom ‘Salmacis was not more charming,' and whom he visited in
the garb of an old gentlewoman, thus giving the court the matter
of not a little gossip, before the king, passing by that road to New-
market, took him into favour again. But his greatest exploit in
this kind was to set himself up in Tower street for a German (or
Italian) astrologer, who declared that he had discovered the pro-
foundest secrets of nature and promised infallible remedies for
every disease. His success in the city was immediate, and his fame
so quickly spread to the other end of the town that the courtiers
flocked to hear his eloquence and to profit by his wisdom. So well
contrived was his disguise, that his nearest friends did not know
him; and, as Hamilton tells us, but for an accident he would have
numbered Miss Jennings and Miss Price among his patients. None
knew better than he how to beat the drum and to urge the passers-
by into his booth. As Alexander Bendo, he put himself high above
'the bastard-race of quacks and cheats. He was ready to cure the
spleen and all the other ills of mankind. Above all, he declared
that he had learned in a long sojourn abroad how art assists
nature in the preservation of Beauty. Under his treatment women
of forty should bear the same countenance as girls of fifteen.
There was no miracle of embellishment that he would not under-
take. 'I will also preserve and cleanse your teeth,' he boasted,
white and round as pearls, fastening them that are loose. And
he did not underrate the benefits which he was ready to confer.
"Now should Galen himself look out of his grave,' said he, 'and tell me
these are baubles below the profession of a physician, I would boldly answer
him, that I take more glory in preserving God's image in its unblemished
beauty upon one good face, than I should do in patching up all the decay'd
carcases in the world. '
That is in the proper key of extravagance, and it is not wonderful
that courtiers and citizens alike sought out Alexander Bendo at
his lodgings in Tower street, next door to the sign of the Black
Swan.


## p. 209 (#231) ############################################

Rochester's Character
209
Thus it was that he spent the interludes of enforced exclusion
from court. Nothing could tame the ardent gaiety of his spirits,
or check his boisterous love of life and pleasure. His tireless wit
came to the aid of his inclination, and his deep knowledge of
literature made him welcome even among the serious. Like
Gramont, he sought joy everywhere, and carried it with him into
every company. His unwearied curiosity sustained him in the
most hazardous adventures and taught him how to make light of
the worst misfortunes. Burnet declares that he had conquered his
love of drink while upon his travels, and that, falling once more
into a society that practised every sort of excess, he was brought
back to it again. It is probable that no vast persuasion was
necessary. His constant disposition was toward gaiety and
mirth, and
'the natural bent of his fancy,' to quote Burnet's words, 'made him so ex-
travagantly pleasant, that many to be more diverted by that humor, studied to
engage him deeper and deeper in intemperance, which at length did so
entirely subdue him, that, as he told me, for five years together he was
continually drunk
When Burnet wrote these words, he desired, no doubt, to make the
worst of Rochester. The greater the sin was, the greater the con-
version. And thus it was that Rochester's vices became legendary,
that Rochester himself was chosen as an awful example of de-
moniacal passion, a kind of bogey to frighten children withal.
Yet far worse than his manifold intemperance, in the eyes of
his contemporaries, were his principles of morality and religion.
Evelyn found him a very profane wit,' and, doubtless, he took a
peculiar pleasure in shocking that amiable philosopher. Worse
than all, he was 'a perfect Hobbist,' and, upon his Hobbism, bis
glaring vices seemed but evanescent spots. He freely owned to
Burnet, with a smile, let us hope, that
though he talked of morality as a fine thing, yet this was only because he
thought it a decent way of speaking, and that as they went always in clothes
though in their frolics
they would have chosen sometimes to have gone naked,
if they had not feared the people, so though some of them found it necessary
for human life to talk of morality, yet he confessed they cared not for it.
As in prose, so in verse, Rochester delighted to outrage his critics.
Dryden charged him with self-sufficiency, and out of his mouth he
might have convicted him. Thus writes Rochester in An Epistolary
Essay:
Born to myself, I like myself alone;
And must conclude my Judgment good, or none :
For cou'd my Sense be nought, how shou'd I know
Whether another Man's were good or no.
14
E. L. VIII.
CH. VIII.


## p. 210 (#232) ############################################

210
The Court Poets
If then I'm happy, what does it advance
Whether to Merit due, or Arrogance ?
Oh, but the World will take Offence thereby!
Why then the World shall suffer for't, not I.
But it was not the world which suffered. It was Rochester. Like
all men who set out to astonish the citizen, to put the worst
possible construction upon his own words and acts, he saw his
self-denunciation accepted for simple truth. Even Dr Johnson
did not rise superior to the prejudice of Rochester's own con-
temporaries. He, too, thought that Rochester's intervals of study
were 'yet more criminal' than his course of drunken gaiety
and gross sensuality,' and thus proved how long endures the effect
of mystification
As has been said, it is difficult in the clash of opinions to
disengage the character of Rochester. Fort impie, fort ordurier
dans ses propos et ses écritssuch is Hamilton's judgment.
6
There has not livd in many Ages (if ever) so extraordinary, and I think I
may add so useful a Person, as most Englishmen know my Lord to have
been, whether we consider the constant good Sense, and the agreeable
Mirth of his ordinary Conversation, or the vast Reach and Compass of his
Invention
-80 says Wolseley, his loyal panegyrist. Somewhere between
these two extremes the truth will be found. Rochester was as
little 'useful' as he was fort impie, fort ordurier. He was a man,
not a monster, a man of genius, moreover, and, in his hours, a man
of rare simplicity and candour. A good friend, a kind, if fickle,
lover, he has left behind in his letters a better proof of his
character than either obloquy or eulogy affords. His correspond-
ence with Henry Savile does equal credit to them both. Rochester's
letters are touched with the sadness which underlay his mirth, yet,
what spirit is in them, what courage, even when he confesses him-
self almost blind, utterly lame, and scarce within the reasonable
Hope of ever seeing London again'l As sickness overtakes him,
he leans the more heavily on Savile's friendship.
‘Harry,' he writes, ''tis not the least of my Happiness, that I think you
love me; but the first of my pretensions is to make it appear, that I faith-
fully endeavour to deserve it. If there be a real good upon earth, 'tis
in the name of Friend, without which all others are fantastical. How few
of us are fit stuff to make that thing, we have daily the melancholy ex.
perience. '
His letters to his wife, moreover, exhibit us a Rochester that has
hitherto been obscured from view. Whimsical, humorous, ironic, he
9


## p. 211 (#233) ############################################

A Quarrel with Mulgrave 2II
appears in them also, but something else than the cynical hunter
after pleasure. He shows himself curious concerning the details
of household management. He discusses oats and coal, deplores
the want of ready cash, which is hard to come by, and hopes his
wife excuses him sending no money, 'for till I am well enough,' thus
he writes, 'to fetch it myself, they will not give me a farthing, and
if I had not pawn'd my plate I believe I must have starv'd in my
sickness. ' Here, indeed, is an unfamiliar Rochester, in dire straits
of poverty, pawning his plate to keep his restless soul within its
case, and nearer to the truth, perhaps, than the monster painted
in their blackest colours by anxious divines.
Two episodes in Rochester's career have involved him in
charges of dishonour, from one of which he cannot emerge with
credit. In both, Mulgrave was engaged, and it is easy to believe
that the antipathy which separated the two men was innate and
profound. When neither of them was of age, Mulgrave, being
informed that Rochester had said something malicious of him,
sent colonel Aston to call him to account. Rochester proved,
even to Mulgrave's satisfaction, that he had not used the words,
but Mulgrave thought himself compelled by the mere rumour to
prosecute the quarrel. He owned his persistence foolish, and
Rochester, as it was his part to choose, elected to fight on horse-
back. They met at Knightsbridge, and Rochester brought with
him not his expected second, but ‘an errant life-guards-man, whom
nobody knew. Aston objected to the second as an unsuitable
adversary, especially considering how well he was mounted. ' And,
in the end, they agreed to fight on foot. Whereon, Rochester
declared that ‘he had at first chosen to fight on horseback, because
he was so weak with a certain distemper, that he found himself
unfit to fight at all any way, much less on foot. Accordingly, no
fight took place, and Mulgrave's second lost no time in spreading
a report injurious to Rochester, upon whom henceforth was fostered
a reputation for cowardice. The charge is not fully sustained.
Rochester, it seems, was too weak to fight a-foot, Mulgrave objected
to fight on horseback, being worse mounted. A little ingenuity
might have turned the blame on either side, and Mulgrave, by
his own confession, was persisting in a quarrel which had no
justification. But Rochester, with his customary cynicism, shrugged
his shoulders, and replied to the charge of cowardice with a famous
couplet:
Merely for safety, after Fame they thirst,
For all men would be Cowards if they durst.
14_2


## p. 212 (#234) ############################################

2 1 2
The Court Poets
The origin of his quarrel with Dryden is by no means creditable
to his honour or his generosity.
'He had a particular pique to him, says Saint-Évremond, after his mighty
success in the Town, either because he was sensible, that he deserved not that
applause for his Tragedies, which the mad, unthinking audience gave him,. . .
or out of indignation of having any rival in reputation. '
Whatever might be the cause of Rochester's malice, its effect was to
set up Crowne in opposition to Dryden, a piece of impudence which
nothing but Rochester's influence at court could have carried off.
And no sooner had Crowne enjoyed his unwarranted success than
Rochester withdrew his favour, 'as if he would still be in contra-
diction with the Town, and in that,' says Saint-Évremond with un-
contested truth, 'he was generally in the right, for of all Audiences
in polite Nations, perhaps there is not one which judges so very
falsely of the drama. With this piece of injustice Rochester was
not content. If he had been, An Essay on Satire soon gave him,
as he thought, another ground of anger. That he should have
attributed this piece of weak and violent spite to Dryden speaks
ill of his criticism. He might have discerned the hand of Mulgrave
in every line. Perhaps he believed them accomplices. At any rate,
as Dryden was going home one night from Will's to his lodging,
he was waylaid by a pack of ruffians and soundly beaten. There
is no doubt that Rochester was guilty of the outrage. His guilt
stands confessed in a letter to Savile. "You write me word,' says
he, 'that I am out of favour with a certain poet. . . . If he fall on
me at the Blunt, which is his very good Weapon in Wit, I will
forgive if you please, and leave the Repartee to Black Will, with a
Cudgel. ' The punishment he meted out to Mulgrave was better
deserved, and delivered in verse. As for Dryden, whose genius, as
whose age, should have protected him, he passed by Rochester
with a single reference. ‘An author of your own quality, whose
ashes I will not disturb,' he wrote to Buckhurst, with a magnanimity
which, even at this distance of time, it is hard to condone.
At the age of thirty-one, Rochester died, his wild oats sown,
and his mind turned to ampler purposes. Though his cynical
temper was still unconquered, his wit began 'to frame and fashion
itself to public business. As one of his friends tells us, he was
‘informing himself of the Wisdom of our Laws and the excellent
Constitution of the English Government, and spoke in the House
of Peers with general Approbation. ' That he would ever have
grown into a statesman is unlikely. The scandal of his life had
destroyed his authority. Besides, he was a poet, to whom politics


## p. 213 (#235) ############################################

Rochester's Writings
213
would ever have seemed a base trade. What he did for the solace of
his reputation was to make an edifying end, and to prove a chance
of exhortation to two divines. That these worthy men made him
out rather worse than he was is probable. Burnet, at any rate,
told us something of him by the way and set forth his views with
impartiality. So much may not be said of the Rev. Robert
Parsons, who merely handed him over, as an inverted hero, to the
authors of the chapbooks.
Such was the life and death of one who set forth his character
in his writings with the utmost candour. Though he was never
at the pains to gather together his flying sheets, though he is said
on his deathbed, one hopes falsely, to have desired the destruction
of his poems, it is his poems which still give us the true measure
of his genius. Yet, even here, misunderstanding has pursued him.
The worst that he wrote has been acclaimed to be the best.
Johnson declares that the strongest effort of his muse is his poem
entitled Nothing', a piece of ingenuity, unworthy his talent Still
more foolish has been the common assumption that Rochester's
poems are unfit to be read. In some few, he reached a height of
outspoken cynicism rarely scaled by an English poet. But the
most of his works may be studied without fear, and judged upon
their very high merits. Tonson's collection contains more than 200
pages, and amply justifies the claim, made for it by Rymer, that it
consists of such pieces only as may be received in a virtuous court,
and not unbecome the Cabinet of the severest Matron. '
It was in satire above all that Rochester excelled. For this
kind, he was richly endowed by nature and art. He had studied
the ancient models with constancy and understanding. The
quenchless vigour of his mind found its best expression in cas-
tigating the vices and foibles of humankind, which he knew so
well. His daring and malice equalled his vigour, and he attacked
Charles II, the Royal Angler, or Nelly, the reigning favourite, with as
light a heart as he brought to the demolition of Sir Car Scroop, the
purblind knight. He wrote the heroic couplet with a life and
freedom that few have excelled, and the most that can be said in his
dispraise is that, like the rest of the courtiers, he knew not the use
of the file. 'Rochester,' said Andrew Marvell, with the voice not
of flattery but of criticism, 'is the only man in England who has
1 Nothing as a theme was long a commonplace. Johnson compares with Rochester's
verses Passerat’s Latin poem Nihil (1567). Two years before Passerat, Sir Edward
Dyer had written a tract in prose, The Prayer of Nothing, which had suggested a popular
broadside, with the same title, printed in J. P. Collier's Book of Roxburghe Ballads (1847).


## p. 214 (#236) ############################################

214
The Court Poets
8
the true vein of Satire,' and Marvell, in speaking of satire, spoke
of an art which he himself had practised with success. And that
Rochester looked upon satire as an art is evident from the answer,
which he gave to Burnet, who objected that revenge and false-
hood were its blemishes.
'A man,' said he could not write with life, unless he were heated with
Revenge, for to make a Satire without Resentments, upon the cold Notions of
Philosophy, was as if a man would in cold blood cut men's throats, who had
never offended him. And he said, the lyes in these Libels came often in as
ornaments that could not be spared without spoiling the beauty of the Poem. '
| His masterpiece, without doubt, is A Satire against Mankind.
Imitated from Boileau, it bears in every line the impress of
Rochester's mind. The energy of its thought and style separates
it sharply from its original, and, if you compare the two works, you
may find a clue to the difference between French and English.
The one is marked by order, moderation, and good sense. The
other moves impetuous like a torrent, and sweeps out of its way
the prejudices of all time. In cynical, closely argued contempt
of man this satire is unmatched; in expression, it surpasses the
most vivid of Rochester's works. The denunciation of reason,
an ignis fatuus of the mind,
Which leaves the light of Nature, Sense, behind,
is a purple passage of English poetry, in which the optimist can
take no delight. Its conclusion is the very quintessence of hope-
lessness.
The misguided follower climbs with pain
Mountains of Whimsies heaped in his own brain;
1
Then old Age, and Experience, hand in hand,
Lead him to Death, and make him understand,
After a Search so painful, and so long,
That all his life he has been in the wrong.
Like many of his contemporaries, Rochester followed Horace
in making verse a vehicle of criticism. His 'Allusion to the Tenth
Satire of the First Book' may be said to contain his literary
preferences. With candour and sound judgment, he characterises
the most eminent of his contemporaries. He declines to be
'blindly partial' to Dryden, defends Jonson and Shakespeare
against detraction, ridicules the 'tedious scenes' of Crowne,
whom he had used as the instrument of his jealousy, and detects
a sheer original in Etherege, who returned the compliment by
painting him as Dorimant. He finds the right epithets for ‘hasty
Shadwell' and 'slow Wycherley,' chooses Buckhurst for pointed


## p. 215 (#237) ############################################

Sir Charles Sedley
215
(
6
satire, and extols the 'gentle prevailing art' of Sir Charles Sedley.
For the uncritical populace, he expresses his frank contempt.
'I loathe the rabble,' says he, 'tis enough for me'
If Sedley, Shadwell, Sheppard, Wycherley,
Godolphin, Butler, Buckhurst, Buckingham
Approve my Sense, I count their Censure Fame.
It is Rochester's added distinction that, almost alone in his
age, he wrote lyrics touched with feeling, even with passion.
Though, at times, he makes sport of his own inconstancy, though,
like the rest, be rimes ‘kisses' with 'blisses' and 'heart' with
smart,' he could yet write
An Age in her Embraces past,
Would seem a Winter's Day;
or, still better, those lines to his mistress, which begin, 'Why dost
thou shade thy lovely face,' and which none of his fellows approached.
Here, the metre is as far beyond their reach as the emotion:
Thou art my Way: I wander if thou fly.
Thou art my Light: if hid, how blind am I.
Thou art my Life: if thou withdraw'st, I diel.
Nor should ever be forgotten that masterpiece of heroic irony
The Maim'd Debauchee, who, like a brave admiral, crawling to
the top of an adjacent hill, beholds the battle maintained, when
fleets of glasses sail around the board. ' You can but say of it, as
of much else, that it bears the stamp of Rochester's vigour and
sincerity in every line, and that he alone could have written it
Sir Charles Sedley, if he lacked Rochester's genius, was more
prosperously endowed. He was rich as well as accomplished, and
outlived his outrageous youth, to become the friend and champion
of William III. Born in 1639, he preceded Rochester at Wadham
college, and came upon the town as poet and profligate at the
restoration. Concerning his wit, there is no doubt. Pepys pays
it a compliment, which cannot be gainsaid. He went to the
theatre to hear The Maides Tragedy, and lost it all, listening to
Sedley's discourse with a masked lady "and a more pleasant
rencontre I never heard,' and his exceptions 'against both words
and pronouncing very pretty! Dryden describes Sedley as 'a more
elegant Tibullus,' whose eulogy by Horace he applies to him:
Non tu corpus eras sine pectore: Dii tibi formam,
Dii tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi.
He applauds above all the candour of his opinions, his dislike
of censoriousness, his good sense and good nature, and proclaims
the accusations brought against him as 'a fine which fortune
1 See appendix to second impression.


## p. 216 (#238) ############################################

216
The Court Poets
sets upon all extraordinary persons. It is certain that, with
'
the years, his gravity increased, and the quip which he made
to explain his hostility to James II, who had taken his daughter
for his mistress, and made her countess of Dorchester, was but an
echo of his lost youth. 'I hate ingratitude,' said he, 'the King
has made my daughter a countess; I can do no less than try to
make his daughter a Queen. '
As a poet, he followed obediently the fashion of the time.
He wrote The Mulberry Garden, which failed to please Pepys
or to provoke a smile from the king, and The Tyrant King of
Crete. He perverted Antony and Cleopatra into rime, and permits
the Egyptian queen to speak these last words:
Good asp bite deep and deadly in my breast,
And give me sudden and eternal rest. [She dies.
He translated Vergil's Fourth Georgic as well as the Eclogues,
and composed a poem on matrimony called The Happy Pair,
which was long ago forgotten. Such reputation as he has guarded
depends wholly upon his songs. What Burnet said of him might
be applied to them with equal truth: ‘he had a sudden and
copious wit, but it was not so correct as lord Dorset's, nor 80
sparkling as lord Rochester's. ' He had far less faculty than
either Rochester or Dorset of castigating his idly written lines.
He was content with the common images of his day, with the
fancy of Gradus ad Parnassum. The maids and shepherds of
his songs like their 'balmy ease' on 'flowery carpets' under the
e
sun's genial ray. Their only weapons are 'darts and flames. '
In the combination of these jejune words there can be no feeling
and no surprise. But Sedley had his happy moments, in which
he discarded the poor artifices of his muse, and wrote like a free
and untrammelled poet. Phyllis is my only Joy, apart from its
metrical ingenuity, has a lyrical sincerity which has kept it fresh
unto this day. Written to be sung, it is the work not of a fop
but of a poet. A near rival is ‘Not Celia that I juster am,'
memorable for its epigrammatic conclusion,
When Change itself can give no more,
'Tis easy to be true.
When he condescends to lyrical patriotism, Sedley is seen at his
worst. Not even his hatred of James II can palliate such doggerel as
Behold the happy day again,
Distinguish'd by the joy in every face;
This day great William's life began
Boul of our war and guardian of our peace.


## p. 217 (#239) ############################################

Buckhurst
217
6
For the rest, Rochester's criticism of Sedley is not without truth.
He praised the gentle Art,
That can with a resistless Power impart
The loosest wishes to the chastest Heart.
Sedley's early ambition could not be more justly or delicately
expressed
The reputation of Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst and then
earl of Dorset, is a puzzle of literary history. An age lavish of
panegyric exhausted in his praise all its powers of flattery. In
no other poet will you find so vast a disproportion between his
works and the eulogies they evoked. Some specimens of Dryden's
adulation have already been quoted. And Dryden did not stand
alone. Prior was his friendly rival in exaggeration.
The manner in which he wrote,' said he of Buckhurst, will hardly ever
be equalled. . . . Every one of his pieces is an ingot of gold, intrinsically and
solidly valuable; such as wrought or beaten thinner, would shine thro' a
whole book of any author. '
For every virtue of his friend's writings Prior found a happy
image. There is a lustre in his verses,' he wrote, 'like that of
the sun in Claude Lorraine's landskips; it looks natural, and is
inimitable. ' And when we turn from the encomiasts to the poet's
own works, we find them to be no more than what Johnson called
them, the effusions of a man of wit, gay, vigorous, and airy. '
Buckhurst was, above all, a satirist. He had the mordant
humour, the keen eye, the perfect concision of phrase, essential to
one who lashes the follies of his age. He knew not how to spare
the objects of his contempt. He left upon his enemies not the
flicker of irony, but the indelible mark of his scorn. Rochester,
in a line of praise, not of ill-nature, as Dryden took it, called him
a
'the best good man with the worst natur'd Muse,' a line which
Buckhurst's addresses To Mr Edward Howard seem to justify.
Of their skill and energy, there can be no doubt. Their victim,
assuredly, found them deficient in good taste. "The gentleman,'
says Prior, ‘had always so much the better of the satirist, that the
persons touched did not know where to fix their resentments,
and were forced to appear rather ashamed than angry. ' It was
more anger than shame, I imagine, that attacked Edward Howard,
when he read Buckhurst's ferocious lines upon his plays.
The best known of all his works is the celebrated song, To all
you Ladies now at Land, a true ballad in form and rhythm,
touched in every line with the inborn wit and sentiment of its
author, who sees the sea with the eye of a landsman and courtier,
6
a


## p. 218 (#240) ############################################

218
The Court Poets
8
and who sends his tears a speedier way than the post: 'The tide
shall bring them twice a day. Tradition has persuaded the world
'
to believe that they were written at sea, in the first Dutch war,
1665, the night before an engagement' As Johnson says, 'seldom
any splendid story is wholly true,' and this splendid story must be
abandoned. The hereditary intelligence of the earl of Orrery
made Johnson suspicious, and today we have surer intelligence
even than lord Orrery.
‘By coach to my Lord Brunker's,' wrote Pepys on 2 January 1665, 'by
appointment, in the Piazza in Covent-Guarding; where I occasioned much
mirth with a ballet I brought with me, made from the seamen at sea to their
ladies in town. '
Though Pepys says that Sir W. Pen, Sir G. Ascue and Sir J. Lawson
'made them,' it is evident that it is Buckhurst's 'ballet' that is in
his mind, and as Pepys knew it six months before the battle, clearly
Buckhurst did not write it at sea, with the expectation of an
engagement upon him. The time and place of its writing, how-
ever, do not lessen the admirable quality of the ballad, which keeps
its place in our anthologies by its own shining merits.
Nevertheless, not his ballad, not his satires, not his songs,
quick as they are with epigram and wit, justify the praises which
have been generously bestowed upon their author. It may be
that we have but a fragment of his work; that, as Prior suggests,
he cared not what became of his verses when the writing of them
had amused his leisure. Many of his happiest efforts may have
been preserved only by memory, like the sayings of the ancient
Druids. If that be so, they have perished as utterly as the Druids
and their wisdom. The mere rumour of them cannot affect our
judgment, and we are driven to conclude that it was Buckhurst
the man, not Buckhurst the poet, who won the universal esteem.
The follies of his youth were easily forgiven, or, rather, the excel-
lences of his maturer years showed the brighter with his follies for
a background. His character was as amiable as his pen was acrid.
Rochester, never lavish of compliments, paid him the highest that
ingenuity could devise. 'He did not know how it was,' said he,
'but my Lord Dorset might do anything, yet was never to blame. '
His skill in diplomacy, his tact in affairs, are acknowledged by all,
and he was evidently one of those who, without effort, claim and
keep the respect and affection of their fellows. Prior's eulogy of
his virtues is as sincere as it is eloquent, and if we estimate his
poetry more modestly than his contemporaries, we may still echo
their praises of his character and person.
>


## p. 219 (#241) ############################################

Mulgrave's Essay upon Poetry 219
8
It would be difficult to find a greater contrast to Buckhurst than
John Sheffield, earl of Mulgrave, and duke of Buckinghamshire,
who was as little able to hold the sympathy of his age as to preserve
the reputation of poet which once was his. Not even the tongues of
flatterers can defend him successfully against the assault of truth.
'He is a nobleman of learning,' wrote Macky, 'and good natural parts, but
of no principles. Violent for the High Church, yet seldom goes to it. Very
proud, insolent, and covetous, and takes all advantages. In paying his debts
unwilling; and is neither esteemed, nor beloved: for notwithstanding his
great interest at court, it is certain he has none in either House of Parliament,
or in the country'
The conduct of his quarrel with Rochester, and whatever else is
known of him, justify this harsh opinion. As a writer of verses,
he is fluent and undistinguished. His Temple of Death has no
better claim to be remembered than his Ode on Love. In The
Vision, which was written during a voyage to Tangier, we come
with surprise upon a line, 'odd antic shapes of wild unheard of
things,' which is not made up of current phrases, and echoes the
true sentiment of romance. His Essay on Satire, which cost
Dryden an encounter with Black Will, belies the principles
which he himself has set forth: the accent of the scold is heard
in every line. The work by which he is best known is An Essay
upon Poetry, a piece of rimed criticism, then fashionable. It is
neither profound nor original. Even as a chapter in the history
of criticism it is not valuable, because whatever of wisdom it
contains is borrowed from Boileau. It is full of commonplaces,
his own and others. 'Nature's chief masterpiece,' says he, 'is
writing well. Number and rime he finds 'but vulgar arts,' and
employed in vain without genius, 'for that's the soul. ' He dis-
courses, without illumination, of satires, songs, odes and epics.
As for dialogue, he finds that 'Shakespeare and Fletcher are the
wonders now, pays a lofty tribute to Homer-Read Homer once,
and you can read no more,' and in the second edition, published
nine years after the first, in 1691, puts Milton on the topmost
pinnacle of fame, above even Tasso and Spenser. This is the
highest feat of his intelligence, and he would have deserved still
greater credit for it, had not Roscommon anticipated him. In
general, he leans to the school of 'good sense'; he accepts Dryden's
definition of wit,'exact propriety of word and thought,' and would
judge poetry by a rigid standard of life. In condemning ‘such
nauseous songs as the late Convert made,' he voided his spleen
against his old enemy, Rochester, and suggested his dislike of the
sheer wit of restoration comedy. His condemnation inspired
0


## p. 220 (#242) ############################################

220
The Court Poets
name,
Robert Wolseley, in his preface to Valentinian (1685), valiantly to
defend the memory of his friend Rochester, and to strike a blow
for the freedom of poetry.
'It never yet came into any man's Head, who pretended to be a Critick,'
says Wolseley, "except this Essayer's that the Wit of a Poet was to be
measured by the worth of his Subject, and that when this was bad, that must
be so too; the manner of treating the subject has hitherto been thought the
true test, for as an ill Poet will depresse and disgrace the highest, so a good
one will raise and dignifie the lowest. '
Poetry, it may be assumed, was but an interlude in the life
of Mulgrave. Politics were always his chief employment, from
which he retired only while William III was on the throne. The
favourite of queen Anne, he held high office during her reign,
opposed the duke of Marlborough, ill requited the queen’s amia-
bility by inviting the princess Sophia to England, and built the
palace in the park, which, more than his works, keeps green his
Wentworth Dillon, earl of Roscommon, on the other
hand, meddled in the affairs of the court as little as he
practised its vices. Born in Ireland during the reign of
Strafford, his kinsman, he was given the name of that states-
man, who presently sent him to his own estate in Yorkshire to
be educated. He showed an aptitude for learning, and, as his
biographer says, 'attain'd to write in Latin with classical elegance
and propriety. When the blow fell upon Strafford, Roscommon
was sent to Caen to complete his education, and spent the
years of civil war in learning the life and language of foreign
countries, 'applying himself particularly to the knowledge of
medals, which he gained in perfection. ' He returned to England
at the restoration, a scholar, an honest man, and something of a
prig. He had but one vice, the unamiable vice of gambling, with
which he diminished his resources, and which once, in Dublin,
went near to cause his death. A friend of Dryden, he engaged
that great man's sympathy for his favourite project, the founding
of a British Academy which should 'refine and fix the standard
of our language. ' And the academic bent of his mind is seen in
his verses. His Essay on Translated Verse might well have been
an exercise presented to an academy of letters. It is tame, frigid
and uninspired. Johnson says he is the only correct writer of
verse before Addison,' a judgment which sets a strange meaning
upon correctness. The poets to whom Roscommon owes the
greatest debt are Horace, whom he says he has served more
than twenty years, and Boileau, whose apologue of the quack he
introduces into his poem without pertinence. The style of the


## p. 221 (#243) ############################################

Roscommon
22I
Essay never rises above a prosaic commonplace. It is only by
courtesy that we call such couplets as these poetry:
Provok'd too far, we resolutely must
To the few virtues that we have be just,
or
From hence our gen'rous Emulation came,
We undertook, and we perform'd the same.
The few precepts which he gives us would not prove of the
smallest use to the translator. They are little else than the plati-
tudes generally beloved by moral guides. Polonius himself might
have composed this specimen:
The first great work (a Task perform’d by few)
Is that yourself should to yourself be true.
He was as resolute a champion of 'good sense' as Rymer
himself, and he treats Homer with the same scant courtesy which
the author of A Short View meted out to Shakespeare:
For who, without a qualm, hath ever lookt
On holy garbage, tho' by Homer Cookt,
Whose rayling hero's, and whose wounded gods
Make some suspect, He snores as well as nods.
In the controversy between morality and art, he is strongly
ranged on the side of morality. “Want of decency is want of
sense,' says he in a line that Mulgrave pilfered.