And all to leave what with his toil he won,
To that unfeathered two-legged thing, a son;
Got while his soul did huddled notions try,
And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy.
To that unfeathered two-legged thing, a son;
Got while his soul did huddled notions try,
And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v09 - Dra to Eme
A revised edition of it has been recently published un-
der the editorship of George Saintsbury. But easily accessible is
a single-volume edition of the poems alone, edited by W. D. Chris-
tie, which furnishes a superior text, and is amply supplied with all
necessary annotations.
Thomas R Leunsbury.
FROM "THE HIND AND THE PANTHER)
A
MILK-WHITE Hind, immortal and unchanged,
Fed on the lawns and in the forest ranged;
Without unspotted, innocent within,
She feared no danger, for she knew no sin.
Yet had she oft been chased with horns and hounds,
And Scythian shafts, and many winged wounds
Aimed at her heart; was often forced to fly,
And doomed to death, though fated not to die.
Not so her young; for their unequal line
Was hero's make, half human, half divine.
Their earthly mold obnoxious was to fate,
The immortal part assumed immortal state.
Of these a slaughtered army lay in blood,
Extended o'er the Caledonian wood,
Their native walk; whose vocal blood arose
And cried for pardon on their perjured foes.
Their fate was fruitful, and the sanguine seed,
Endued with souls, increased the sacred breed.
So captive Israel multiplied in chains,
A numerous exile, and enjoyed her pains.
With grief and gladness mixed, their mother viewed
Her martyred offspring and their race renewed;
Their corps to perish, but their kind to last,
So much the deathless plant the dying fruit surpassed.
Panting and pensive now she ranged alone,
And wandered in the kingdoms once her own.
The common hunt, though from their rage restrained
By sovereign power, her company disdained,
Grinned as they passed, and with a glaring eye
Gave gloomy signs of secret enmity.
'Tis true she bounded by and tripped so light,
They had not time to take a steady sight;
## p. 4934 (#96) ############################################
4934
JOHN DRYDEN
For truth has such a face and such a mien
As to be loved needs only to be seen.
The bloody Bear, an independent beast,
Unlicked to form, in groans her hate expressed.
Among the timorous kind the quaking Hare
Professed neutrality, but would not swear.
Next her the buffoon Ape, as atheists use,
Mimicked all sects and had his own to chuse;
Still when the Lion looked, his knees he bent,
And paid at church a courtier's compliment.
The bristled ba ist Boar, impure as he,
But whitened with the foam of sanctity,
With fat pollutions filled the sacred place,
And mountains leveled in his furious race;
So first rebellion founded was in grace.
But since the mighty ravage which he made
In German forests had his guilt betrayed,
With broken tusks and with a borrowed name,
He shunned the vengeance and concealed the shame,
So lurked in sects unseen. With greater guile
False Reynard fed on consecrated spoil;
The graceless beast by Athanasius first
Was chased from Nice, then by Socinus nursed,
His impious race their blasphemy renewed,
And Nature's King through Nature's optics viewed;
Reversed they viewed him lessened to their eye,
Nor in an infant could a God descry.
New swarming sects to this obliquely tend,
Hence they began, and here they all will end.
What weight of ancient witness can prevail,
If private reason hold the public scale ?
But gracious God, how well dost thou provide
For erring judgments an unerring guide!
Thy throne is darkness in the abyss of light,
A blaze of glory that forbids the sight.
O teach me to believe thee thus concealed,
And search no farther than thy self revealed;
But her alone for my director take,
Whom thou hast promised never to forsake!
My thoughtless youth was winged with vain desires;
My manhood, long misled by wandering fires,
Followed false lights; and when their glimpse was gone,
My pride struck out new sparkles of her own.
Such was I, such by nature still I am;
Be thine the glory and be mine the shame!
## p. 4935 (#97) ############################################
JOHN DRYDEN
4935
Good life be now my task; my doubts are done;
What more could fright my faith than Three in One ?
Can I believe eternal God could lie
Disguised in mortal mold and infancy,
That the great Maker of the world could die ?
And after that, trust my imperfect sense
Which calls in question his omnipotence ?
Can I my reason to my faith compel,
And shall my sight and touch and taste rebel?
Superior faculties are set aside;
Shall their subservient organs be my guide ?
Then let the moon usurp the rule of day,
And winking tapers show the sun his way;
For what my senses can themselves perceive
I need no revelation to believe.
Can they, who say the Host should be descried
By sense, define a body glorified,
Impassible, and penetrating parts ?
Let them declare by what mysterious arts
He shot that body through the opposing might
Of bolts and bars impervious to the light,
And stood before his train confessed in open sight.
For since thus wondrously he passed, 'tis plain
One single place two bodies did contain;
And sure the same omnipotence as well
Can make one body in more places dwell.
Let Reason then at her own quarry fly;
But how can finite grasp infinity ?
'Tis urged again, that faith did first commence
By miracles, which are appeals to sense,
And thence concluded, that our sense must be
The motive still of credibility.
For latter ages must on former wait,
And what began belief must propagate.
But winnow well this thought, and you shall find
'Tis light as chaff that flies before the wind.
Were all those wonders wrought by power Divine
As means or ends of some more deep design?
Most sure as means, whose end was this alone,
To prove the Godhead of the Eternal Son.
God thus asserted: Man is to believe
Beyond what Sense and Reason can conceive,
And for mysterious things of faith rely
On the proponent Heaven's authority.
## p. 4936 (#98) ############################################
4936
JOHN DRYDEN
If then our faith we for our guide admit,
Vain is the farther search of human wit;
As when the building gains a surer stay,
We take the unuseful scaffolding away.
Reason by sense no more can understand;
The game is played into another hand.
Why choose we then like bilanders to creep
Along the coast, and land in view to keep,
When safely we may launch into the deep?
In the same vessel which our Savior bore,
Himself the pilot, let us leave the shore,
And with a better guide a better world explore.
Could he his Godhead veil with fresh and blood
And not veil these again to be our food ?
His grace in both is equal in extent;
The first affords us life, the second nourishment.
And if he can, why all this frantic pain
To construe what his clearest words contain,
And make a riddle what he made so plain?
To take up half on trust and half to try,
Name it not faith, but bungling bigotry.
Both knave and fool the merchant we may call,
To pay great sums and to compound the small,
For who would break with Heaven, and would not break for all ?
Rest then, my soul, from endless anguish freed:
Nor sciences thy guide, nor sense thy creed.
Faith is the best insurer of thy bliss;
The bank above must fail before the venture miss.
TO MY DEAR FRIEND MR. CONGREVE
ON His COMEDY CALLED "THE DOUBLE DEALER)
W
ELL then, the promised hour is come at last;
The present age of wit obscures the past :
Strong were our sires, and as they fought they writ:
Conquering with force of arms and dint of wit:
Theirs was the giant race before the flood;
And thus, when Charles returned, our empire stood.
Like Janus, he the stubborn soil manured,
With rules of husbandry the rankness cured;
Tamed us to manners, when the stage was rude,
And boisterous English wit with art endued.
## p. 4937 (#99) ############################################
JOHN DRYDEN
4937
Our age was cultivated thus at length,
But what we gained in skill we lost in strength.
Our builders were with want of genius curst;
The second temple was not like the first;
Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length,
Our beauties equal, but excel our strength.
Firm Doric pillars found your solid base,
The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space;
Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise;
He moved the mind, but had not power to raise.
Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please,
Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease.
In differing talents both adorned their age,
One for the study, t'other for the stage.
But both to Congreve justly shall submit,
One matched in judgment, both o'ermatched in wit.
In him all beauties of this age we see:
Etherege his courtship, Southern's purity,
The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherley.
All this in blooming youth you have achieved;
Nor are your foiled contemporaries grieved.
So much the sweetness of your manners move,
We cannot envy you, because we love.
Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw
A beardless Consul made against the law,
And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome,
Though he with Hannibal was overcome.
Thus old Romano bowed to Raphael's fame,
And scholar to the youth he taught became.
O that your brows my laurel had sustained !
Well had I been deposed, if you had reigned:
The father had descended for the son,
For only you are lineal to the throne.
Thus, when the State one Edward did depose,
A greater Edward in his room arose:
But now, not I, but poetry, is curst;
For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first.
But let them not mistake my patron's part,
Nor call his charity their own desert.
Yet this I prophesy: Thou shalt be seen,
Though with some short parenthesis between,
High on the throne of wit, and seated there,
Not mine — that's little — but thy laurel wear.
## p. 4938 (#100) ###########################################
4938
JOHN DRYDEN
Thy first attempt an early promise made;
That early promise this has more than paid.
So bold, yet so judiciously you dare,
That your least praise is to be regular.
Time, place, and action may with pains be wrought,
But genius must be born, and never can be taught.
This is your portion, this your native store:
Heaven, that but once was prodigal before,
To Shakespeare gave as much; she could not give him more.
Maintain your post: that's all the fame you need;
For 'tis impossible you should proceed.
Already I am worn with cares and age,
And just abandoning the ungrateful stage:
Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense,
I live a rent-charge on His providence:
But you, whom every Muse and grace adorn,
Whom I foresee to better fortune born,
Be kind to my remains; and oh, defend,
Against your judgment, your departed friend!
Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue,
But shade those laurels which descend to you:
And take for tribute what these lines express;
You merit more, nor could my love do less.
ODE
TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY
MRS. ANNE KILLIGREW,
EXCELLENT IN THE TWO SISTER ARTS OF POESY AND PAINTING.
THU
HOU youngest virgin daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the blest;
Whose palms, new-plucked from Paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,
Rich with immortal green above the rest :
Whether, adopted to some neighboring star,
Thou roll'st above us in thy wandering race,
Or in procession fixed and regular
Moved with the heaven's majestic pace,
Or called to more superior bliss,
Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss :
Whatever happy region be thy place,
Cease thy celestial song a little space;
## p. 4939 (#101) ###########################################
JOHN DRYDEN
4939
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since Heaven's eternal year is thine.
Hear then a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse
In no ignoble verse,
But such as thy own voice did practice here,
When thy first fruits of poesy were given,
To make thyself a welcome inmate there;
While yet a young probationer,
And candidate of Heaven.
If by traduction came thy mind,
Our wonder is the less to find
A soul so charming from a stock so good;
Thy father was transfused into thy blood:
So wert thou born into the tuneful strain
(An early, rich, and inexhausted vein).
But if thy pre-existing soul
Was formed at first with myriads more,
It did through all the mighty poets roll
Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,
And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.
If so, then cease thy flight, О heaven-born mind!
Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore:
Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find
Than was the beauteous frame she left behind:
Return, to fill or mend the quire of thy celestial kind.
May we presume to say that at thy birth
New joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here on earth ?
For sure the milder planets did combine
On thy auspicious horoscope to shine,
And even the most malicious were in trine.
Thy brother angels at thy birth
Strung each his lyre, and tuned it high,
That all the people of the sky
Might know a poetess was born on earth;
And then, if ever, mortal ears
Had heard the music of the spheres.
And if no clustering swarm of bees
On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew,
'Twas that such vulgar miracles
Heaven had not leisure to renew :
For all the blest fraternity of love
Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.
## p. 4940 (#102) ###########################################
4940
JOHN DRYDEN
O gracious God! how far have we
Profaned thy heavenly gift of Poesy!
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debased to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordained above,
For tongues of angels and for hymns of love!
Oh wretched we! why were we hurried down
This lubric and adulterate age,
(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own,)
To increase the steaming ordures of the stage ?
What can we say to excuse our second fall ?
Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all:
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled,
Unmixed with foreign filth and undefiled;
Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.
Art she had none, yet wanted none,
For Nature did that want supply:
So rich in treasures of her own,
She might our boasted stores defy:
Such noble vigor did her verse adorn
That it seemed borrowed, where 'twas only born.
Her morals too were in her bosom bred,
By great examples daily fed,
What in the best of books, her father's life, she read.
And to be read herself she need not fear;
Each test and every light her Muse will bear,
Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.
Even love (for love sometimes her Muse exprest)
Was but a lambent flame which played about her breast;
Light as the vapors of a morning dream,
So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest,
'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.
Born to the spacious empire of the Nine,
One would have thought she should have been content
To manage well that mighty government;
But what can young ambitious souls confine ?
To the next realm she stretched her sway,
For Painture near adjoining lay,
A plenteous province and alluring prey.
A Chamber of Dependences was framed,
As conquerors will never want pretense,
(When armed to justify the offense,)
And the whole fief in right of Poetry she claimed.
## p. 4941 (#103) ###########################################
JOHN DRYDEN
4941
The country open lay without defense;
For poets frequent inroads there had made,
And perfectly could represent
The shape, the face, with every lineament,
And all the large demains which the dumb Sister swayed;
All bowed beneath her government,
Received in triumph wheresoe'er she went.
Her pencil drew whate'er her soul designed,
And oft the happy draught surpassed the image in her mind;
The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks
And fruitful plains and barren rocks;
Of shallow brooks that flowed so clear,
The bottom did the top appear;
Of deeper too and ampler floods
Which, as in mirrors, showed the woods;
Of lofty trees, with sacred shades
And perspectives of pleasant glades,
Where nymphs of brightest form appear,
And shaggy satyrs standing near,
Which them at once admire and fear.
The ruins too of some majestic piece,
Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece,
Whose statues, friezes, columns, broken lie,
And, though defaced, the wonder of the eye;
What nature, art, bold fiction, e'er durst frame,
Her forming hand gave feature to the name.
So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before,
But when the peopled Ark the whole creation bore.
The scene then changed; with bold erected look
Our martial King the sight with reverence strook:
For, not content to express his outward part,
Her hand called out the image of his heart:
His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear,
His high-designing thoughts were figured there,
As when by magic ghosts are made appear.
Our phonix Queen was portrayed too so bright
Beauty alone could beauty take so right:
Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace,
Were all observed, as well as heavenly face.
With such a peerless majesty she stands,
As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands;
Before a train of heroines was seen,
In beauty foremost, as in rank the Queen.
## p. 4942 (#104) ###########################################
4942
JOHN DRYDEN
Thus nothing to her genius was denied,
But like a ball of fire, the farther thrown,
Still with a greater blaze she shone,
And her bright soul broke out on every side.
What next she had designed, Heaven only knows:
To such immoderate growth her conquest rose
That Fate alone its progress could oppose.
Now all those charms, that blooming grace,
The well-proportioned shape and beauteous face,
Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes;
In earth the much-lamented virgin lies.
Not wit nor piety could Fate prevent;
Nor was the cruel Destiny content
To finish all the murder at a blow,
To sweep at once her life and beauty too;
But, like a hardened felon, took a pride
To work more mischievously slow,
And plundered first, and then destroyed.
O double sacrilege on things divine,
To rob the relic, and deface the shrine!
But thus Orinda died:
Heaven by the same disease did both translate;
As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.
Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas
His waving streamers to the winds displays,
And vows for his return with vain devotion pays.
Ah, generous youth! that wish forbear,
The winds too soon will waft thee here!
Slack all thy sails, and fear to come;
Alas! thou knowest not, thou art wrecked at home.
No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face;
Thou hast already had her last embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou ken’st from far,
Among the Pleiads, a new-kindled star,
If any sparkles than the rest more bright,
'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.
When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,
To raise the nations under ground;
When in the Valley of Jehoshaphat
The judging God shall close the book of Fate,
And there the last assizes keep
For those who wake and those who sleep;
## p. 4943 (#105) ###########################################
JOHN DRYDEN
4943
When rattling bones together fly
From the four corners of the sky;
When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,
Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead;
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,
And foremost from the tomb shall bound,
For they are covered with the lightest ground;
And straight, with inborn vigor, on the wing,
Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.
There thou, sweet saint, before the quire shalt go,
As harbinger of Heaven, the way to show,
The way which thou so well hast learned below.
A SONG
F"
AIR, sweet, and young, receive a prize
Reserved for your victorious eyes:
From crowds whom at your feet you see,
Oh pity and distinguish me!
As I from thousand beauties more
Distinguish you, and only you adore.
Your face for conquest was designed,
Your every motion charms my mind;
Angels, when you your silence break,
Forget their hymns to hear you speak;
But when at once they hear and view,
Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you.
No graces can your form improve,
But all are lost, unless you love;
While that sweet passion you disdain,
Your veil and beauty are in vain:
In pity then prevent my fate,
For after dying all reprieve's too late.
LINES PRINTED UNDER MILTON'S PORTRAIT
IN Tonson's Folio EDITION OF THE PARADISE LOST,' 1688
TRE
THREE poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first in loftiness of thought surpassed,
The next in majesty, in both the last:
The force of Nature could no farther go;
To make a third she joined the former two.
## p. 4944 (#106) ###########################################
4944
JOHN DRYDEN
ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC
A SONG IN HONOR OF St. Cecilia's DAY: 1697
I
'T™AS
WAS at the royal feast for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft in awful state
The godlike hero sate
On his imperial throne;
His valiant peers were placed around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound:
(So should desert in arms be crowned. )
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.
CHORUS
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.
II
Timotheus, placed on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touched the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the power of mighty love. )
A dragon's fiery form belied the god:
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,
When he to fair Olympia pressed:
And while he sought her snowy breast,
Then round her slender waist he curled,
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.
## p. 4945 (#107) ###########################################
JOHN DRYDEN
4945
The listening crowd adınire the lofty sound
A present deity, they shout around;
A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravished ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.
CHORUS
With ravished ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.
III
The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young.
The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;
Flushed with a purple grace
He shows his honest face:
Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes.
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain;
Bacchus's blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
CHORUS
Bacchus's blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
IV
Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;
Fought all his battles o'er again;
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain
IX-310
## p. 4946 (#108) ###########################################
4946
JOHN DRYDEN
The master saw the madness rise,
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heaven and earth defied,
Changed his hand, and checked his pride.
He chose a mournful Muse,
Soft pity to infuse;
He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,
And weltering in his blood;
Deserted at his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed;
On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his altered soul
The various turn of chance below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.
CHORUS
Revolving in his altered soul
The various turns of chance below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smiled to see
That love was in the next degree;
'Twas but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honor but an empty bubble,
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying:
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, oh think it worth enjoying:
Lovely Thais sits beside thee;
Take the good the gods provide thee;
The many rend the skies with loud applause;
So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause.
## p. 4947 (#109) ###########################################
JOHN DRYDEN
4947
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair
Who caused his care,
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,
Sighed and looked, and sighed again;
At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.
CHORUS
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair
Who caused his care,
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked
Sighed and looked, and sighed again;
At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.
VI
Now strike the golden lyre again;
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark, the horrid sound
Has raised up his head;
As awaked from the dead,
And amazed, he stares around.
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
See the Furies arise;
See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair,
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand!
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,
And unburied remain
Inglorious on the plain :
Give the vengeance due
To the valiant crew.
Behold how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the Persian abodes,
And glittering temples of their hostile gods!
The princes applaud with a furious joy;
## p. 4948 (#110) ###########################################
4948
JOHN DRYDEN
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey,
And like another Helen, fired another Troy.
CHORUS
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy:
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey,
And like another Helen, fired another Troy.
VII
Thus long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow,
While organs yet were mute,
Timotheus, to his breathing Aute
And sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With Nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown:
He raised a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.
GRAND CHORUS
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With Nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown:
He raised a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.
## p. 4949 (#111) ###########################################
JOHN DRYDEN
4949
ACHITOPHEL *
From (Absalom and Achitophel)
T'
His plot, which failed for want of common-sense,
Had yet a deep and dangerous consequence:
For as when raging fevers boil the blood,
The standing lake soon floats into a flood,
And every hostile humor, which before
Slept quiet in its channels, bubbles o'er;
So several factions from this first ferment
Work up to foam, and threat the government.
Some by their friends, inore by themselves thought wise,
Opposed the power to which they could not rise.
Some had in courts been great, and thrown from thence,
Like fiends were hardened in impenitence.
Some, by their monarch's fatal mercy, grown
From pardoned rebels kinsmen to the throne,
Were raised in power and public office high;
Strong bands, if bands ungrateful men could tie.
Of these the false Achitophel was first;
A name to all succeeding ages curst:
For close designs and crooked councils fit;
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit;
Restless, unfixed in principles and place;
In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace:
A fiery soul, which, working out its way,
Fretted the pigmy body to decay,
And o'er-informed the tenement of clay.
A daring pilot in extremity:
Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high
He sought the storms; but for a calm unfit,
Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit.
Great wits are sure to madness near allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide;
Else why should he, with wealth and honor blest,
Refuse his age the needful hours of rest?
Punish a body which he could not please;
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease ?
And all to leave what with his toil he won,
To that unfeathered two-legged thing, a son;
Got while his soul did huddled notions try,
And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy.
*Lord Shaftesbury.
## p. 4950 (#112) ###########################################
4950
JOHN DRYDEN
In friendship false, implacable in hate;
Resolved to ruin or to rule the State.
To compass this the triple bond he broke,
The pillars of the public safety shook,
And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke:
Then, seized with fear yet still affecting fame,
Usurped a patriot's all-atoning name.
So easy still it proves in factious times,
With public zeal to cancel private crimes.
How safe is treason, and how sacred ill,
Where none can sin against the people's will!
Where crowds can wink, and no offense be known,
Since in another's guilt they find their own!
Yet fame deserved no enemy can grudge;
The statesman we abhor, but praise the judge.
In Israel's courts ne'er sat an Abethdin
With more discerning eyes, or hands more clean,
Unbribed, unsought, the wretched to redress;
Swift of dispatch, and easy of access.
Oh! had he been content to serve the Crown,
With virtues only proper to the gown;
Or had the rankness of the soil been freed
From cockle that oppressed the noble seed;
David for him his tuneful harp had strung,
And heaven had wanted one immortal song.
But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand,
And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land.
Achitophel, grown weary to possess
A lawful fame, and lazy happiness,
Disdained the golden fruit to gather free,
And lent the crowd his arm to shake the tree.
Now, manifest of crimes contrived long since,
He stood at bold defiance with his prince;
Held up the buckler of the people's cause
Against the Crown, and skulked behind the laws.
The wished occasion of the plot he takes;
Some circumstances finds, but more he makes.
By buzzing emissaries fills the ears
Of listening crowds with jealousies and fears
Of arbitrary counsels brought to light,
And proves the king himself a Jebusite.
## p. 4951 (#113) ###########################################
4951
MAXIME DU CAMP
(1822-1894)
Shy have I always felt happy, filled with the spirit of content
and of infinite independence, whenever I have slept in the
tent or in the ruins of foreign lands? ). The love of ange
and adventure has been the spring of Du Camp's life, a life whose
events are blended so intimately with his literary achievement, that
to know the one is to know the other. This practical man of the
world has an imaginative, beauty-loving side to his nature, which
craves stimulus from tropical unfamiliar nature and exotic ways.
So, after the usual training of French
boys in lycée and college, _“in those hid-
eous houses where they wearied our child-
hood, as he says,--the just-emancipated
youth of twenty-two left his home in Paris
for an eighteen-months' trip in the far East.
The color and variety of the experience
whetted his love of travel, and very soon
after his return he began a serious study of
photography in view of future plans.
Then came the revolution of 1848, the
overthrow of Louis Philippe; and Du Camp
had an opportunity to prove
his
courage
and patriotism in the ranks of the National MAXIME DU CAMP
Guard. In his Souvenirs de l'Année 1848,
he tells the story with color and interest, and with the forceful logic
of an eye-witness.
His bravery and a serious wound won him the red ribbon of the
Legion of Honor, bestowed by General Cavaignac. This drew atten-
tion to him, and led the minister of public instruction to intrust him
a few months later with a mission of exploration to Egypt, Nubia,
Palestine, and Asia Minor; a result of which trip was his first literary
success. Utilizing his photographic knowledge, he collected a great
many negatives for future development. Upon his return he pub-
lished a volume of descriptive sketches, Le Nil, Egypte, et Nubie,'
generously illustrated with printed reproductions of these pictures.
This first combination of photography and typography was popular,
and was speedily imitated, initiative of many illustrated books.
)
## p. 4952 (#114) ###########################################
4952
MAXIME DU CAMP
Later, Du Camp's warlike and exploring instincts led him at his
own expense into Sicily with Garibaldi, where he collected matter
and photographs for (Les Deux Siciles,' another successful volume.
In 1851 he associated with others to found the Revue de Paris, for
which he wrote regularly until its suspension in 1858. He has also
written a great deal for the Revue des Deux Mondes, in which for
several years he continued a series of historical studies upon the gov-
ernment of Paris. The six volumes upon (Paris: its Organs, its
Functions, its Life, during the Second Half of the Nineteenth Cen-
tury,' form one of his chief achievements. His personal knowledge
on the subject, and his access to valuable unpublished documents,
give it authoritative value.
In 'Les Ancêtres de la Commune,' and 'Les Convulsions de Paris,'
he has accomplished much more in the same line. The latter, a brill-
iant circumstantial exposition of the Commune, a logical condemna-
tion of its folly and ignorance, brought him gratitude from the French
Academy, and aided his election to that body in 1880. For this exten-
sive work on contemporary politics, for his illustrated travels, and his
artistic and literary criticism, he is better known than for his two or
three novels and volumes of poetry.
Du Camp's may be characterized as a soldierly style, strong, direct,
and personal. He loves to retrace old scenes with the later visible
sequence of cause and effect. Always straightforward, sometimes
bluntly self-assertive, he is sometimes eloquent. Perhaps his great
charm is spontaneity.
A STREET SCENE DURING THE COMMUNE
From (The Convulsions of Paris)
T"
HERE were strange episodes during this terrible evening. At
half-past eight, M. Rouville, a Protestant minister, was at
home in a house he owns on the Rue de Lille. He heard
an alarm, the cry, “Everything is burning! Escape! ” Then he
went down, saw the street in flames, and the poor people weep-
ing as they escaped. Just as he was returning to rescue a few
valuables, some federates rushed into the court, crying, “Hurry!
They are setting the place on fire! » He took some money and
the manuscript of the sermons he had preached. Mechanically
he seized his hat and cane. Then, throwing a last look around
the apartment where he had long lived, invoking the memory
of the great Biblical destructions familiar to him in Holy Writ,
## p. 4953 (#115) ###########################################
MAXIME DU CAMP
4953
weak and trembling with emotion, he descended the staircase
from his home.
There was indescribable tumult in the street, dominated by
the cry of women; a shrill wordless involuntary cry of terror,
vibrating above the uproar like a desperate appeal to which no
supernatural power replied. Pastor Rouville stopped. The house
next his own was in fames. They were setting fire to the one
opposite. The houses between the Rue de Beaune and the Rue
du Bac, red from cellar to garret, were vomiting flame from all
the broken windows.
The pastor's family were not at Paris. He was alone with a
faithful maid, who did not leave him for a moment. This doubt.
less determined his resolution, and gave him courage to brave all
to save his house. If he had felt his wife and daughter near, he
would have thought only of their safety, and would have hastened
to get them away from the place, where, he said, “One could
die of horror. ”
Pastor Rouville is a small man, whose great activity keeps
him young and remarkably energetic. He belongs to the strong
race of Southern Protestants, which has resisted everything to
guard its faith. I should not be surprised if he has had some
nimble Cévennole, companion of Jean Cavalier, among his an-
cestors. Chaplain in the prisons of the Seine, accustomed to
sound doubtful spirits, to seek in vicious hearts some intact
fibres which could re-attach them to virtue; fervent in faith, elo-
quent, with a high voice which could rise above the tumult,
knowing by experience that there is no obscurity so profound
that light cannot be made to penetrate it,- he had remained on
duty at his post during the Commune; for the prisoners had
more need of spiritual aid, now that the regular administration no
longer watched over them. He had been indignant at the incar-
ceration of Catholic priests, and had signed the fine protest
demanding the liberty of the archbishop, which the ininisters
had carried to the Hôtel de Ville.
Alone in the presence of the great disaster which threatened
him, he commended his spirit to God, remembering that the
little stone of David had killed the giant Philistine, and he de-
cided to fight for his home. He encamped energetically before
the door, to forbid access; and using the weapons bestowed upon
him by Providence and study, he spoke. The federates stopped
before this man, whose simplicity rendered him heroic. One may
guess what he said to them:
## p. 4954 (#116) ###########################################
4954
MAXIME DU CAMP
(
Why strike the innocent and tender, as if they were execra-
ble? Why be enraged with a Protestant, a minister, whose
religion, founded on the dogma of free examination, is naturally
allied to republican ideas? The faith he teaches is that promul-
gated by Christ: Christ said to Peter, (Sheathe thy sword;'
he said to men, Love one another! ' No, the people of Paris,
this people whose sufferings have been shared, whose unfortunates
have been succored during the siege; this people, so good when
not led astray by the wicked; this people will not burn the
house of a poor minister, whose whole life has been passed in
the exercise of charity. ”
The pastor must have been eloquent and have spoken with
profound conviction, for the federates who were listening to him
began to weep, then seized and embraced him. Meantime the
tenants of the shops in his house had lowered the iron curtains,
which at least was an obstacle against the first throwing of pe-
troleum. This lasted an hour. The federates, evidently softened
and touched by the pastor's despair, remained near him and had
pity upon him. An old sergeant of the National Guard stayed
beside him, as if to bring him help in case of need, and to main-
tain a little order among his subordinates. Some hope revived
in M. Rouville's heart, and he was saying to himself that per-
haps his house would be spared, when some young men, wearing
the braided caps of officers, arrived as if to inspect the fires.
Seeing one house intact, emerging like a little island from an
ocean of flames, they exclaimed. The pastor sprang forward and
wanted to argue with them. It was trouble wasted. One of these
young scamps said to him, “You are an old reactionist: you bore
us with your talking. If you don't like it, we will pin you to
the wall. " Then, turning toward the federates and pointing
to the houses on the Rue de Lille, he cried, "All that belongs
to the people. The people have the right to burn everything. ”
This had perhaps decided the fate of the pastor's house, when
the sergeant of federates interfered, and addressing the officer
said to him, "I have received orders to stop the fire just here. ”
“Show me your order," answered the officer. The sergeant re-
plied, "It is a verbal order. ” Then there was a lively quarrel
between the two men. The sergeant was firm. The officer in-
sisted, and according to the custom of the moment, threatened to
have the rebel shot.
The situation was becoming grave, when an incident resolved
it. A mounted officer galloped up and ordered all the federates
## p. 4955 (#117) ###########################################
MAXIME DU CAMP
4955
to retreat, because they were about to be surrounded by the
troops from Versailles.
Nearly all the National Guards hurried away. The sergeant
who had remained near the pastor said, "Get away, scurry,
father! You will get yourself killed, and that will not save your
camp. "
The other officers passed, commanded everything to be
burned, and when the sergeant resisted, compelled him to leave.
For half an hour the unhappy pastor remained alone, holding
back the incendiaries, passing from supplications to threats, and
gaining time by every possible artifice, The sergeant returned
with tearful eyes, and showed the dismayed pastor a written
order to burn the house, sent by his chiefs. Not yet discouraged,
the pastor roused the compassion of the old sergeant, and so
moved him that the rebel cried, “Ah, well! so much the worse!
I'll disobey. No, I won't let your house be burned. They'll
shoot me.
It's all the same. I deserve to be. ” Then raising
his hand toward the sky, where the stars shone like sparks
through the veil of wind-driven smoke, he cried “O my father, I
believe in God! Fear nothing; I will stay here. They shan't
touch your house. I shall know how to keep off plunderers! ”
O strange deceiving people; ready for all crimes, ready for all
good actions, according to the voice which speaks to thee and
the emotion which carries thee away! This sergeant was indeed
thy likeness, and one need not despair of thee, although thou
dishearten those who love thee best!
The brandy at the wine merchants’; the ether at the drug-
gists'; the powder and shot forgotten in stations, or secreted in
cellars, burst with terrible explosions and scattered flaming coals.
The pastor looked at his house, still miraculously intact. He
gave it a last look, and departed sobbing. It was eleven o'clock.
For three hours in the midst of this furnace he had resisted the
incendiaries. His strength was exhausted. The faithful servant,
who went back again and again to rescue one thing more from
the burning, dragged him away. In the Rue des Saints-Pères
they plunged into darkness, all the deeper for the brazier of
sparkling lights behind them. They groped their way over the
barricades through a shower of bullets. More than once they
fell down. Finally, safe and sound despite the dangers braved,
they reached the Rue de Seine, near the Rue de Bucy, where
they found refuge in a lodging-house.
## p. 4956 (#118) ###########################################
4956
MAXIME DU CAMP
Next day Pastor Rouville ran towards the Rue de Lille. His
house was standing intact. The old sergeant had kept his word.
What became of this brave man, who at the risk of his life
saved the property of a man whose speech had touched him ?
Perhaps he perished. Perhaps he received his due reward. Per-
haps he drags out a wretched life in some workshop of a peni-
tentiary. I know not his fate, nor even his name.
## p. 4956 (#119) ###########################################
## p. 4956 (#120) ###########################################
ALEXANDRE DUMAS
## p. 4956 (#121) ###########################################
4957
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, SENIOR
(1803? -1870)
BY ANDREW LANG
AUTHOR is less capable of being illustrated by extracts than
Alexandre Dumas. Writers like Prosper Mérimée or Mr.
Robert Louis Stevenson can be not inadequately represented
by a short story or a brief scene. Even from Scott's work we can
detach (Wandering Willie's Tale,' or 'The Tapestried Chamber,' or
the study of Effie Deans in prison, or of Jeanie Deans before the
Queen. But Dumas is invariably diffuse; though, unlike other dif-
fuse talkers and writers, he is seldom tedious. He is long without
longueurs. A single example will explain this better than a page of
disquisition. The present selector had meant to extract Dumas's first
meeting with Charles Nodier at the theatre. In memory, that amus-
ing scene appeared to occupy some six pages. In fact, it covers
nearly a hundred and thirty pages of the Brussels edition of the
Memoirs) of Dumas. One reads it with such pleasure that looked
back
upon,
it seems short, while it is infinitely too long to be
extracted. In dialogue Dumas is both excellent and copious, so that
he cannot well be abbreviated. He is the Porthos of novelists, gigan-
tic, yet (at his best) muscular and not overgrown. For these reasons,
extracts out of his romances do no justice to Dumas. To read one of
his novels, say "The Three Musketeers,' even in a slovenly transla-
tion, is to know more of him than a world of critics and essayists
can teach. It is also to forget the world, and to dwell in a careless
Paradise. Our object therefore is not to give an essence of Dumas,»
but to make readers peruse him in his own books, and to save them
trouble by indicating, among these books, the best.
It is notorious that Dumas was at the head of a Company
that which Scott laughingly proposed to form “for writing and pub-
lishing the class of books called Waverley Novels. ” In legal phrase,
Dumas (deviled” his work; he had assistants, researchers, collabo-
rators. He would briefly sketch a plot, indicate the authorities to
be consulted, hand his notes to Maquet or Fiorentino, receive their
draught, and expand that into a romance. Work thus executed cannot
be equal to itself. Many books signed by Dumas may be neglected
without loss. Even to his best works, one or other of his assistants
was apt to assert a claim. The answer is convincing. Not one of
(C
((
» like
## p. 4956 (#122) ###########################################
ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
## p. 4956 (#123) ###########################################
1
1
+
1
1
1
## p. 4956 (#124) ###########################################
1
1
1
1
## p. 4957 (#125) ###########################################
4957
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, SENIOR
(1803? -1870)
BY ANDREW LANG
O AUTHOR is less capable of being illustrated by extracts than
Alexandre Dumas. Writers like Prosper Mérimée or Mr.
Robert Louis Stevenson can be not inadequately represented
by a short story or a brief scene. Even from Scott's work we can
detach "Wandering Willie's Tale,' or 'The Tapestried Chamber,' or
the study of Effie Deans in prison, or of Jeanie Deans before the
Queen. But Dumas is invariably diffuse; though, unlike other dif-
fuse talkers and writers, he is seldom tedious. He is long without
longueurs. A single example will explain this better than a page of
disquisition. The present selector had meant to extract Dumas's first
meeting with Charles Nodier at the theatre. In memory, that amus-
ing scene appeared to occupy some six pages. In fact, it covers
nearly a hundred and thirty pages of the Brussels edition of the
(Memoirs) of Dumas. One reads it with such pleasure that looked
back upon, it seems short, while it is infinitely too long to be
extracted. In dialogue Dumas is both excellent and copious, so that
he cannot well be abbreviated. He is the Porthos of novelists, gigan-
tic, yet (at his best) muscular and not overgrown. For these reasons,
extracts out of his romances do no justice to Dumas. To read one of
his novels, say The Three Musketeers,' even in a slovenly transla-
tion, is to know more of him than a world of critics and essayists
can teach. It is also to forget the world, and to dwell in a careless
Paradise. Our object therefore is not to give an essence of Dumas,»
but to make readers peruse him in his own books, and to save them
trouble by indicating, among these books, the best.
It is notorious that Dumas was at the head of a «Company” like
that which Scott laughingly proposed to form for writing and pub-
lishing the class of books called Waverley Novels. ” In legal phrase,
Dumas (deviled his work; he had assistants, researchers, collabo-
rators. He would briefly sketch a plot, indicate the authorities to
be consulted, hand his notes to Maquet or Fiorentino, receive their
draught, and expand that into a romance. Work thus executed cannot
be equal to itself. Many books signed by Dumas may be neglected
without loss. Even to his best works, one or other of his assistants
was apt to assert a claim. The answer is convincing. Not one of
## p. 4958 (#126) ###########################################
4958
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, SENIOR
these ingenious men ever produced, by himself, anything that could
be mistaken for the work of the master. All his good things have
the same stamp and the same spirit, which we find nowhere else.
der the editorship of George Saintsbury. But easily accessible is
a single-volume edition of the poems alone, edited by W. D. Chris-
tie, which furnishes a superior text, and is amply supplied with all
necessary annotations.
Thomas R Leunsbury.
FROM "THE HIND AND THE PANTHER)
A
MILK-WHITE Hind, immortal and unchanged,
Fed on the lawns and in the forest ranged;
Without unspotted, innocent within,
She feared no danger, for she knew no sin.
Yet had she oft been chased with horns and hounds,
And Scythian shafts, and many winged wounds
Aimed at her heart; was often forced to fly,
And doomed to death, though fated not to die.
Not so her young; for their unequal line
Was hero's make, half human, half divine.
Their earthly mold obnoxious was to fate,
The immortal part assumed immortal state.
Of these a slaughtered army lay in blood,
Extended o'er the Caledonian wood,
Their native walk; whose vocal blood arose
And cried for pardon on their perjured foes.
Their fate was fruitful, and the sanguine seed,
Endued with souls, increased the sacred breed.
So captive Israel multiplied in chains,
A numerous exile, and enjoyed her pains.
With grief and gladness mixed, their mother viewed
Her martyred offspring and their race renewed;
Their corps to perish, but their kind to last,
So much the deathless plant the dying fruit surpassed.
Panting and pensive now she ranged alone,
And wandered in the kingdoms once her own.
The common hunt, though from their rage restrained
By sovereign power, her company disdained,
Grinned as they passed, and with a glaring eye
Gave gloomy signs of secret enmity.
'Tis true she bounded by and tripped so light,
They had not time to take a steady sight;
## p. 4934 (#96) ############################################
4934
JOHN DRYDEN
For truth has such a face and such a mien
As to be loved needs only to be seen.
The bloody Bear, an independent beast,
Unlicked to form, in groans her hate expressed.
Among the timorous kind the quaking Hare
Professed neutrality, but would not swear.
Next her the buffoon Ape, as atheists use,
Mimicked all sects and had his own to chuse;
Still when the Lion looked, his knees he bent,
And paid at church a courtier's compliment.
The bristled ba ist Boar, impure as he,
But whitened with the foam of sanctity,
With fat pollutions filled the sacred place,
And mountains leveled in his furious race;
So first rebellion founded was in grace.
But since the mighty ravage which he made
In German forests had his guilt betrayed,
With broken tusks and with a borrowed name,
He shunned the vengeance and concealed the shame,
So lurked in sects unseen. With greater guile
False Reynard fed on consecrated spoil;
The graceless beast by Athanasius first
Was chased from Nice, then by Socinus nursed,
His impious race their blasphemy renewed,
And Nature's King through Nature's optics viewed;
Reversed they viewed him lessened to their eye,
Nor in an infant could a God descry.
New swarming sects to this obliquely tend,
Hence they began, and here they all will end.
What weight of ancient witness can prevail,
If private reason hold the public scale ?
But gracious God, how well dost thou provide
For erring judgments an unerring guide!
Thy throne is darkness in the abyss of light,
A blaze of glory that forbids the sight.
O teach me to believe thee thus concealed,
And search no farther than thy self revealed;
But her alone for my director take,
Whom thou hast promised never to forsake!
My thoughtless youth was winged with vain desires;
My manhood, long misled by wandering fires,
Followed false lights; and when their glimpse was gone,
My pride struck out new sparkles of her own.
Such was I, such by nature still I am;
Be thine the glory and be mine the shame!
## p. 4935 (#97) ############################################
JOHN DRYDEN
4935
Good life be now my task; my doubts are done;
What more could fright my faith than Three in One ?
Can I believe eternal God could lie
Disguised in mortal mold and infancy,
That the great Maker of the world could die ?
And after that, trust my imperfect sense
Which calls in question his omnipotence ?
Can I my reason to my faith compel,
And shall my sight and touch and taste rebel?
Superior faculties are set aside;
Shall their subservient organs be my guide ?
Then let the moon usurp the rule of day,
And winking tapers show the sun his way;
For what my senses can themselves perceive
I need no revelation to believe.
Can they, who say the Host should be descried
By sense, define a body glorified,
Impassible, and penetrating parts ?
Let them declare by what mysterious arts
He shot that body through the opposing might
Of bolts and bars impervious to the light,
And stood before his train confessed in open sight.
For since thus wondrously he passed, 'tis plain
One single place two bodies did contain;
And sure the same omnipotence as well
Can make one body in more places dwell.
Let Reason then at her own quarry fly;
But how can finite grasp infinity ?
'Tis urged again, that faith did first commence
By miracles, which are appeals to sense,
And thence concluded, that our sense must be
The motive still of credibility.
For latter ages must on former wait,
And what began belief must propagate.
But winnow well this thought, and you shall find
'Tis light as chaff that flies before the wind.
Were all those wonders wrought by power Divine
As means or ends of some more deep design?
Most sure as means, whose end was this alone,
To prove the Godhead of the Eternal Son.
God thus asserted: Man is to believe
Beyond what Sense and Reason can conceive,
And for mysterious things of faith rely
On the proponent Heaven's authority.
## p. 4936 (#98) ############################################
4936
JOHN DRYDEN
If then our faith we for our guide admit,
Vain is the farther search of human wit;
As when the building gains a surer stay,
We take the unuseful scaffolding away.
Reason by sense no more can understand;
The game is played into another hand.
Why choose we then like bilanders to creep
Along the coast, and land in view to keep,
When safely we may launch into the deep?
In the same vessel which our Savior bore,
Himself the pilot, let us leave the shore,
And with a better guide a better world explore.
Could he his Godhead veil with fresh and blood
And not veil these again to be our food ?
His grace in both is equal in extent;
The first affords us life, the second nourishment.
And if he can, why all this frantic pain
To construe what his clearest words contain,
And make a riddle what he made so plain?
To take up half on trust and half to try,
Name it not faith, but bungling bigotry.
Both knave and fool the merchant we may call,
To pay great sums and to compound the small,
For who would break with Heaven, and would not break for all ?
Rest then, my soul, from endless anguish freed:
Nor sciences thy guide, nor sense thy creed.
Faith is the best insurer of thy bliss;
The bank above must fail before the venture miss.
TO MY DEAR FRIEND MR. CONGREVE
ON His COMEDY CALLED "THE DOUBLE DEALER)
W
ELL then, the promised hour is come at last;
The present age of wit obscures the past :
Strong were our sires, and as they fought they writ:
Conquering with force of arms and dint of wit:
Theirs was the giant race before the flood;
And thus, when Charles returned, our empire stood.
Like Janus, he the stubborn soil manured,
With rules of husbandry the rankness cured;
Tamed us to manners, when the stage was rude,
And boisterous English wit with art endued.
## p. 4937 (#99) ############################################
JOHN DRYDEN
4937
Our age was cultivated thus at length,
But what we gained in skill we lost in strength.
Our builders were with want of genius curst;
The second temple was not like the first;
Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length,
Our beauties equal, but excel our strength.
Firm Doric pillars found your solid base,
The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space;
Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise;
He moved the mind, but had not power to raise.
Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please,
Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease.
In differing talents both adorned their age,
One for the study, t'other for the stage.
But both to Congreve justly shall submit,
One matched in judgment, both o'ermatched in wit.
In him all beauties of this age we see:
Etherege his courtship, Southern's purity,
The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherley.
All this in blooming youth you have achieved;
Nor are your foiled contemporaries grieved.
So much the sweetness of your manners move,
We cannot envy you, because we love.
Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw
A beardless Consul made against the law,
And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome,
Though he with Hannibal was overcome.
Thus old Romano bowed to Raphael's fame,
And scholar to the youth he taught became.
O that your brows my laurel had sustained !
Well had I been deposed, if you had reigned:
The father had descended for the son,
For only you are lineal to the throne.
Thus, when the State one Edward did depose,
A greater Edward in his room arose:
But now, not I, but poetry, is curst;
For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first.
But let them not mistake my patron's part,
Nor call his charity their own desert.
Yet this I prophesy: Thou shalt be seen,
Though with some short parenthesis between,
High on the throne of wit, and seated there,
Not mine — that's little — but thy laurel wear.
## p. 4938 (#100) ###########################################
4938
JOHN DRYDEN
Thy first attempt an early promise made;
That early promise this has more than paid.
So bold, yet so judiciously you dare,
That your least praise is to be regular.
Time, place, and action may with pains be wrought,
But genius must be born, and never can be taught.
This is your portion, this your native store:
Heaven, that but once was prodigal before,
To Shakespeare gave as much; she could not give him more.
Maintain your post: that's all the fame you need;
For 'tis impossible you should proceed.
Already I am worn with cares and age,
And just abandoning the ungrateful stage:
Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense,
I live a rent-charge on His providence:
But you, whom every Muse and grace adorn,
Whom I foresee to better fortune born,
Be kind to my remains; and oh, defend,
Against your judgment, your departed friend!
Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue,
But shade those laurels which descend to you:
And take for tribute what these lines express;
You merit more, nor could my love do less.
ODE
TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY
MRS. ANNE KILLIGREW,
EXCELLENT IN THE TWO SISTER ARTS OF POESY AND PAINTING.
THU
HOU youngest virgin daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the blest;
Whose palms, new-plucked from Paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,
Rich with immortal green above the rest :
Whether, adopted to some neighboring star,
Thou roll'st above us in thy wandering race,
Or in procession fixed and regular
Moved with the heaven's majestic pace,
Or called to more superior bliss,
Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss :
Whatever happy region be thy place,
Cease thy celestial song a little space;
## p. 4939 (#101) ###########################################
JOHN DRYDEN
4939
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since Heaven's eternal year is thine.
Hear then a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse
In no ignoble verse,
But such as thy own voice did practice here,
When thy first fruits of poesy were given,
To make thyself a welcome inmate there;
While yet a young probationer,
And candidate of Heaven.
If by traduction came thy mind,
Our wonder is the less to find
A soul so charming from a stock so good;
Thy father was transfused into thy blood:
So wert thou born into the tuneful strain
(An early, rich, and inexhausted vein).
But if thy pre-existing soul
Was formed at first with myriads more,
It did through all the mighty poets roll
Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,
And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.
If so, then cease thy flight, О heaven-born mind!
Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore:
Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find
Than was the beauteous frame she left behind:
Return, to fill or mend the quire of thy celestial kind.
May we presume to say that at thy birth
New joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here on earth ?
For sure the milder planets did combine
On thy auspicious horoscope to shine,
And even the most malicious were in trine.
Thy brother angels at thy birth
Strung each his lyre, and tuned it high,
That all the people of the sky
Might know a poetess was born on earth;
And then, if ever, mortal ears
Had heard the music of the spheres.
And if no clustering swarm of bees
On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew,
'Twas that such vulgar miracles
Heaven had not leisure to renew :
For all the blest fraternity of love
Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.
## p. 4940 (#102) ###########################################
4940
JOHN DRYDEN
O gracious God! how far have we
Profaned thy heavenly gift of Poesy!
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debased to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordained above,
For tongues of angels and for hymns of love!
Oh wretched we! why were we hurried down
This lubric and adulterate age,
(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own,)
To increase the steaming ordures of the stage ?
What can we say to excuse our second fall ?
Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all:
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled,
Unmixed with foreign filth and undefiled;
Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.
Art she had none, yet wanted none,
For Nature did that want supply:
So rich in treasures of her own,
She might our boasted stores defy:
Such noble vigor did her verse adorn
That it seemed borrowed, where 'twas only born.
Her morals too were in her bosom bred,
By great examples daily fed,
What in the best of books, her father's life, she read.
And to be read herself she need not fear;
Each test and every light her Muse will bear,
Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.
Even love (for love sometimes her Muse exprest)
Was but a lambent flame which played about her breast;
Light as the vapors of a morning dream,
So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest,
'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.
Born to the spacious empire of the Nine,
One would have thought she should have been content
To manage well that mighty government;
But what can young ambitious souls confine ?
To the next realm she stretched her sway,
For Painture near adjoining lay,
A plenteous province and alluring prey.
A Chamber of Dependences was framed,
As conquerors will never want pretense,
(When armed to justify the offense,)
And the whole fief in right of Poetry she claimed.
## p. 4941 (#103) ###########################################
JOHN DRYDEN
4941
The country open lay without defense;
For poets frequent inroads there had made,
And perfectly could represent
The shape, the face, with every lineament,
And all the large demains which the dumb Sister swayed;
All bowed beneath her government,
Received in triumph wheresoe'er she went.
Her pencil drew whate'er her soul designed,
And oft the happy draught surpassed the image in her mind;
The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks
And fruitful plains and barren rocks;
Of shallow brooks that flowed so clear,
The bottom did the top appear;
Of deeper too and ampler floods
Which, as in mirrors, showed the woods;
Of lofty trees, with sacred shades
And perspectives of pleasant glades,
Where nymphs of brightest form appear,
And shaggy satyrs standing near,
Which them at once admire and fear.
The ruins too of some majestic piece,
Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece,
Whose statues, friezes, columns, broken lie,
And, though defaced, the wonder of the eye;
What nature, art, bold fiction, e'er durst frame,
Her forming hand gave feature to the name.
So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before,
But when the peopled Ark the whole creation bore.
The scene then changed; with bold erected look
Our martial King the sight with reverence strook:
For, not content to express his outward part,
Her hand called out the image of his heart:
His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear,
His high-designing thoughts were figured there,
As when by magic ghosts are made appear.
Our phonix Queen was portrayed too so bright
Beauty alone could beauty take so right:
Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace,
Were all observed, as well as heavenly face.
With such a peerless majesty she stands,
As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands;
Before a train of heroines was seen,
In beauty foremost, as in rank the Queen.
## p. 4942 (#104) ###########################################
4942
JOHN DRYDEN
Thus nothing to her genius was denied,
But like a ball of fire, the farther thrown,
Still with a greater blaze she shone,
And her bright soul broke out on every side.
What next she had designed, Heaven only knows:
To such immoderate growth her conquest rose
That Fate alone its progress could oppose.
Now all those charms, that blooming grace,
The well-proportioned shape and beauteous face,
Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes;
In earth the much-lamented virgin lies.
Not wit nor piety could Fate prevent;
Nor was the cruel Destiny content
To finish all the murder at a blow,
To sweep at once her life and beauty too;
But, like a hardened felon, took a pride
To work more mischievously slow,
And plundered first, and then destroyed.
O double sacrilege on things divine,
To rob the relic, and deface the shrine!
But thus Orinda died:
Heaven by the same disease did both translate;
As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.
Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas
His waving streamers to the winds displays,
And vows for his return with vain devotion pays.
Ah, generous youth! that wish forbear,
The winds too soon will waft thee here!
Slack all thy sails, and fear to come;
Alas! thou knowest not, thou art wrecked at home.
No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face;
Thou hast already had her last embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou ken’st from far,
Among the Pleiads, a new-kindled star,
If any sparkles than the rest more bright,
'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.
When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,
To raise the nations under ground;
When in the Valley of Jehoshaphat
The judging God shall close the book of Fate,
And there the last assizes keep
For those who wake and those who sleep;
## p. 4943 (#105) ###########################################
JOHN DRYDEN
4943
When rattling bones together fly
From the four corners of the sky;
When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,
Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead;
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,
And foremost from the tomb shall bound,
For they are covered with the lightest ground;
And straight, with inborn vigor, on the wing,
Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.
There thou, sweet saint, before the quire shalt go,
As harbinger of Heaven, the way to show,
The way which thou so well hast learned below.
A SONG
F"
AIR, sweet, and young, receive a prize
Reserved for your victorious eyes:
From crowds whom at your feet you see,
Oh pity and distinguish me!
As I from thousand beauties more
Distinguish you, and only you adore.
Your face for conquest was designed,
Your every motion charms my mind;
Angels, when you your silence break,
Forget their hymns to hear you speak;
But when at once they hear and view,
Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you.
No graces can your form improve,
But all are lost, unless you love;
While that sweet passion you disdain,
Your veil and beauty are in vain:
In pity then prevent my fate,
For after dying all reprieve's too late.
LINES PRINTED UNDER MILTON'S PORTRAIT
IN Tonson's Folio EDITION OF THE PARADISE LOST,' 1688
TRE
THREE poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first in loftiness of thought surpassed,
The next in majesty, in both the last:
The force of Nature could no farther go;
To make a third she joined the former two.
## p. 4944 (#106) ###########################################
4944
JOHN DRYDEN
ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC
A SONG IN HONOR OF St. Cecilia's DAY: 1697
I
'T™AS
WAS at the royal feast for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft in awful state
The godlike hero sate
On his imperial throne;
His valiant peers were placed around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound:
(So should desert in arms be crowned. )
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.
CHORUS
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.
II
Timotheus, placed on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touched the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the power of mighty love. )
A dragon's fiery form belied the god:
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,
When he to fair Olympia pressed:
And while he sought her snowy breast,
Then round her slender waist he curled,
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.
## p. 4945 (#107) ###########################################
JOHN DRYDEN
4945
The listening crowd adınire the lofty sound
A present deity, they shout around;
A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravished ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.
CHORUS
With ravished ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.
III
The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young.
The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;
Flushed with a purple grace
He shows his honest face:
Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes.
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain;
Bacchus's blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
CHORUS
Bacchus's blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
IV
Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;
Fought all his battles o'er again;
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain
IX-310
## p. 4946 (#108) ###########################################
4946
JOHN DRYDEN
The master saw the madness rise,
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heaven and earth defied,
Changed his hand, and checked his pride.
He chose a mournful Muse,
Soft pity to infuse;
He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,
And weltering in his blood;
Deserted at his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed;
On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his altered soul
The various turn of chance below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.
CHORUS
Revolving in his altered soul
The various turns of chance below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smiled to see
That love was in the next degree;
'Twas but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honor but an empty bubble,
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying:
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, oh think it worth enjoying:
Lovely Thais sits beside thee;
Take the good the gods provide thee;
The many rend the skies with loud applause;
So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause.
## p. 4947 (#109) ###########################################
JOHN DRYDEN
4947
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair
Who caused his care,
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,
Sighed and looked, and sighed again;
At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.
CHORUS
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair
Who caused his care,
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked
Sighed and looked, and sighed again;
At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.
VI
Now strike the golden lyre again;
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark, the horrid sound
Has raised up his head;
As awaked from the dead,
And amazed, he stares around.
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
See the Furies arise;
See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair,
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand!
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,
And unburied remain
Inglorious on the plain :
Give the vengeance due
To the valiant crew.
Behold how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the Persian abodes,
And glittering temples of their hostile gods!
The princes applaud with a furious joy;
## p. 4948 (#110) ###########################################
4948
JOHN DRYDEN
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey,
And like another Helen, fired another Troy.
CHORUS
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy:
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey,
And like another Helen, fired another Troy.
VII
Thus long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow,
While organs yet were mute,
Timotheus, to his breathing Aute
And sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With Nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown:
He raised a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.
GRAND CHORUS
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With Nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown:
He raised a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.
## p. 4949 (#111) ###########################################
JOHN DRYDEN
4949
ACHITOPHEL *
From (Absalom and Achitophel)
T'
His plot, which failed for want of common-sense,
Had yet a deep and dangerous consequence:
For as when raging fevers boil the blood,
The standing lake soon floats into a flood,
And every hostile humor, which before
Slept quiet in its channels, bubbles o'er;
So several factions from this first ferment
Work up to foam, and threat the government.
Some by their friends, inore by themselves thought wise,
Opposed the power to which they could not rise.
Some had in courts been great, and thrown from thence,
Like fiends were hardened in impenitence.
Some, by their monarch's fatal mercy, grown
From pardoned rebels kinsmen to the throne,
Were raised in power and public office high;
Strong bands, if bands ungrateful men could tie.
Of these the false Achitophel was first;
A name to all succeeding ages curst:
For close designs and crooked councils fit;
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit;
Restless, unfixed in principles and place;
In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace:
A fiery soul, which, working out its way,
Fretted the pigmy body to decay,
And o'er-informed the tenement of clay.
A daring pilot in extremity:
Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high
He sought the storms; but for a calm unfit,
Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit.
Great wits are sure to madness near allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide;
Else why should he, with wealth and honor blest,
Refuse his age the needful hours of rest?
Punish a body which he could not please;
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease ?
And all to leave what with his toil he won,
To that unfeathered two-legged thing, a son;
Got while his soul did huddled notions try,
And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy.
*Lord Shaftesbury.
## p. 4950 (#112) ###########################################
4950
JOHN DRYDEN
In friendship false, implacable in hate;
Resolved to ruin or to rule the State.
To compass this the triple bond he broke,
The pillars of the public safety shook,
And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke:
Then, seized with fear yet still affecting fame,
Usurped a patriot's all-atoning name.
So easy still it proves in factious times,
With public zeal to cancel private crimes.
How safe is treason, and how sacred ill,
Where none can sin against the people's will!
Where crowds can wink, and no offense be known,
Since in another's guilt they find their own!
Yet fame deserved no enemy can grudge;
The statesman we abhor, but praise the judge.
In Israel's courts ne'er sat an Abethdin
With more discerning eyes, or hands more clean,
Unbribed, unsought, the wretched to redress;
Swift of dispatch, and easy of access.
Oh! had he been content to serve the Crown,
With virtues only proper to the gown;
Or had the rankness of the soil been freed
From cockle that oppressed the noble seed;
David for him his tuneful harp had strung,
And heaven had wanted one immortal song.
But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand,
And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land.
Achitophel, grown weary to possess
A lawful fame, and lazy happiness,
Disdained the golden fruit to gather free,
And lent the crowd his arm to shake the tree.
Now, manifest of crimes contrived long since,
He stood at bold defiance with his prince;
Held up the buckler of the people's cause
Against the Crown, and skulked behind the laws.
The wished occasion of the plot he takes;
Some circumstances finds, but more he makes.
By buzzing emissaries fills the ears
Of listening crowds with jealousies and fears
Of arbitrary counsels brought to light,
And proves the king himself a Jebusite.
## p. 4951 (#113) ###########################################
4951
MAXIME DU CAMP
(1822-1894)
Shy have I always felt happy, filled with the spirit of content
and of infinite independence, whenever I have slept in the
tent or in the ruins of foreign lands? ). The love of ange
and adventure has been the spring of Du Camp's life, a life whose
events are blended so intimately with his literary achievement, that
to know the one is to know the other. This practical man of the
world has an imaginative, beauty-loving side to his nature, which
craves stimulus from tropical unfamiliar nature and exotic ways.
So, after the usual training of French
boys in lycée and college, _“in those hid-
eous houses where they wearied our child-
hood, as he says,--the just-emancipated
youth of twenty-two left his home in Paris
for an eighteen-months' trip in the far East.
The color and variety of the experience
whetted his love of travel, and very soon
after his return he began a serious study of
photography in view of future plans.
Then came the revolution of 1848, the
overthrow of Louis Philippe; and Du Camp
had an opportunity to prove
his
courage
and patriotism in the ranks of the National MAXIME DU CAMP
Guard. In his Souvenirs de l'Année 1848,
he tells the story with color and interest, and with the forceful logic
of an eye-witness.
His bravery and a serious wound won him the red ribbon of the
Legion of Honor, bestowed by General Cavaignac. This drew atten-
tion to him, and led the minister of public instruction to intrust him
a few months later with a mission of exploration to Egypt, Nubia,
Palestine, and Asia Minor; a result of which trip was his first literary
success. Utilizing his photographic knowledge, he collected a great
many negatives for future development. Upon his return he pub-
lished a volume of descriptive sketches, Le Nil, Egypte, et Nubie,'
generously illustrated with printed reproductions of these pictures.
This first combination of photography and typography was popular,
and was speedily imitated, initiative of many illustrated books.
)
## p. 4952 (#114) ###########################################
4952
MAXIME DU CAMP
Later, Du Camp's warlike and exploring instincts led him at his
own expense into Sicily with Garibaldi, where he collected matter
and photographs for (Les Deux Siciles,' another successful volume.
In 1851 he associated with others to found the Revue de Paris, for
which he wrote regularly until its suspension in 1858. He has also
written a great deal for the Revue des Deux Mondes, in which for
several years he continued a series of historical studies upon the gov-
ernment of Paris. The six volumes upon (Paris: its Organs, its
Functions, its Life, during the Second Half of the Nineteenth Cen-
tury,' form one of his chief achievements. His personal knowledge
on the subject, and his access to valuable unpublished documents,
give it authoritative value.
In 'Les Ancêtres de la Commune,' and 'Les Convulsions de Paris,'
he has accomplished much more in the same line. The latter, a brill-
iant circumstantial exposition of the Commune, a logical condemna-
tion of its folly and ignorance, brought him gratitude from the French
Academy, and aided his election to that body in 1880. For this exten-
sive work on contemporary politics, for his illustrated travels, and his
artistic and literary criticism, he is better known than for his two or
three novels and volumes of poetry.
Du Camp's may be characterized as a soldierly style, strong, direct,
and personal. He loves to retrace old scenes with the later visible
sequence of cause and effect. Always straightforward, sometimes
bluntly self-assertive, he is sometimes eloquent. Perhaps his great
charm is spontaneity.
A STREET SCENE DURING THE COMMUNE
From (The Convulsions of Paris)
T"
HERE were strange episodes during this terrible evening. At
half-past eight, M. Rouville, a Protestant minister, was at
home in a house he owns on the Rue de Lille. He heard
an alarm, the cry, “Everything is burning! Escape! ” Then he
went down, saw the street in flames, and the poor people weep-
ing as they escaped. Just as he was returning to rescue a few
valuables, some federates rushed into the court, crying, “Hurry!
They are setting the place on fire! » He took some money and
the manuscript of the sermons he had preached. Mechanically
he seized his hat and cane. Then, throwing a last look around
the apartment where he had long lived, invoking the memory
of the great Biblical destructions familiar to him in Holy Writ,
## p. 4953 (#115) ###########################################
MAXIME DU CAMP
4953
weak and trembling with emotion, he descended the staircase
from his home.
There was indescribable tumult in the street, dominated by
the cry of women; a shrill wordless involuntary cry of terror,
vibrating above the uproar like a desperate appeal to which no
supernatural power replied. Pastor Rouville stopped. The house
next his own was in fames. They were setting fire to the one
opposite. The houses between the Rue de Beaune and the Rue
du Bac, red from cellar to garret, were vomiting flame from all
the broken windows.
The pastor's family were not at Paris. He was alone with a
faithful maid, who did not leave him for a moment. This doubt.
less determined his resolution, and gave him courage to brave all
to save his house. If he had felt his wife and daughter near, he
would have thought only of their safety, and would have hastened
to get them away from the place, where, he said, “One could
die of horror. ”
Pastor Rouville is a small man, whose great activity keeps
him young and remarkably energetic. He belongs to the strong
race of Southern Protestants, which has resisted everything to
guard its faith. I should not be surprised if he has had some
nimble Cévennole, companion of Jean Cavalier, among his an-
cestors. Chaplain in the prisons of the Seine, accustomed to
sound doubtful spirits, to seek in vicious hearts some intact
fibres which could re-attach them to virtue; fervent in faith, elo-
quent, with a high voice which could rise above the tumult,
knowing by experience that there is no obscurity so profound
that light cannot be made to penetrate it,- he had remained on
duty at his post during the Commune; for the prisoners had
more need of spiritual aid, now that the regular administration no
longer watched over them. He had been indignant at the incar-
ceration of Catholic priests, and had signed the fine protest
demanding the liberty of the archbishop, which the ininisters
had carried to the Hôtel de Ville.
Alone in the presence of the great disaster which threatened
him, he commended his spirit to God, remembering that the
little stone of David had killed the giant Philistine, and he de-
cided to fight for his home. He encamped energetically before
the door, to forbid access; and using the weapons bestowed upon
him by Providence and study, he spoke. The federates stopped
before this man, whose simplicity rendered him heroic. One may
guess what he said to them:
## p. 4954 (#116) ###########################################
4954
MAXIME DU CAMP
(
Why strike the innocent and tender, as if they were execra-
ble? Why be enraged with a Protestant, a minister, whose
religion, founded on the dogma of free examination, is naturally
allied to republican ideas? The faith he teaches is that promul-
gated by Christ: Christ said to Peter, (Sheathe thy sword;'
he said to men, Love one another! ' No, the people of Paris,
this people whose sufferings have been shared, whose unfortunates
have been succored during the siege; this people, so good when
not led astray by the wicked; this people will not burn the
house of a poor minister, whose whole life has been passed in
the exercise of charity. ”
The pastor must have been eloquent and have spoken with
profound conviction, for the federates who were listening to him
began to weep, then seized and embraced him. Meantime the
tenants of the shops in his house had lowered the iron curtains,
which at least was an obstacle against the first throwing of pe-
troleum. This lasted an hour. The federates, evidently softened
and touched by the pastor's despair, remained near him and had
pity upon him. An old sergeant of the National Guard stayed
beside him, as if to bring him help in case of need, and to main-
tain a little order among his subordinates. Some hope revived
in M. Rouville's heart, and he was saying to himself that per-
haps his house would be spared, when some young men, wearing
the braided caps of officers, arrived as if to inspect the fires.
Seeing one house intact, emerging like a little island from an
ocean of flames, they exclaimed. The pastor sprang forward and
wanted to argue with them. It was trouble wasted. One of these
young scamps said to him, “You are an old reactionist: you bore
us with your talking. If you don't like it, we will pin you to
the wall. " Then, turning toward the federates and pointing
to the houses on the Rue de Lille, he cried, "All that belongs
to the people. The people have the right to burn everything. ”
This had perhaps decided the fate of the pastor's house, when
the sergeant of federates interfered, and addressing the officer
said to him, "I have received orders to stop the fire just here. ”
“Show me your order," answered the officer. The sergeant re-
plied, "It is a verbal order. ” Then there was a lively quarrel
between the two men. The sergeant was firm. The officer in-
sisted, and according to the custom of the moment, threatened to
have the rebel shot.
The situation was becoming grave, when an incident resolved
it. A mounted officer galloped up and ordered all the federates
## p. 4955 (#117) ###########################################
MAXIME DU CAMP
4955
to retreat, because they were about to be surrounded by the
troops from Versailles.
Nearly all the National Guards hurried away. The sergeant
who had remained near the pastor said, "Get away, scurry,
father! You will get yourself killed, and that will not save your
camp. "
The other officers passed, commanded everything to be
burned, and when the sergeant resisted, compelled him to leave.
For half an hour the unhappy pastor remained alone, holding
back the incendiaries, passing from supplications to threats, and
gaining time by every possible artifice, The sergeant returned
with tearful eyes, and showed the dismayed pastor a written
order to burn the house, sent by his chiefs. Not yet discouraged,
the pastor roused the compassion of the old sergeant, and so
moved him that the rebel cried, “Ah, well! so much the worse!
I'll disobey. No, I won't let your house be burned. They'll
shoot me.
It's all the same. I deserve to be. ” Then raising
his hand toward the sky, where the stars shone like sparks
through the veil of wind-driven smoke, he cried “O my father, I
believe in God! Fear nothing; I will stay here. They shan't
touch your house. I shall know how to keep off plunderers! ”
O strange deceiving people; ready for all crimes, ready for all
good actions, according to the voice which speaks to thee and
the emotion which carries thee away! This sergeant was indeed
thy likeness, and one need not despair of thee, although thou
dishearten those who love thee best!
The brandy at the wine merchants’; the ether at the drug-
gists'; the powder and shot forgotten in stations, or secreted in
cellars, burst with terrible explosions and scattered flaming coals.
The pastor looked at his house, still miraculously intact. He
gave it a last look, and departed sobbing. It was eleven o'clock.
For three hours in the midst of this furnace he had resisted the
incendiaries. His strength was exhausted. The faithful servant,
who went back again and again to rescue one thing more from
the burning, dragged him away. In the Rue des Saints-Pères
they plunged into darkness, all the deeper for the brazier of
sparkling lights behind them. They groped their way over the
barricades through a shower of bullets. More than once they
fell down. Finally, safe and sound despite the dangers braved,
they reached the Rue de Seine, near the Rue de Bucy, where
they found refuge in a lodging-house.
## p. 4956 (#118) ###########################################
4956
MAXIME DU CAMP
Next day Pastor Rouville ran towards the Rue de Lille. His
house was standing intact. The old sergeant had kept his word.
What became of this brave man, who at the risk of his life
saved the property of a man whose speech had touched him ?
Perhaps he perished. Perhaps he received his due reward. Per-
haps he drags out a wretched life in some workshop of a peni-
tentiary. I know not his fate, nor even his name.
## p. 4956 (#119) ###########################################
## p. 4956 (#120) ###########################################
ALEXANDRE DUMAS
## p. 4956 (#121) ###########################################
4957
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, SENIOR
(1803? -1870)
BY ANDREW LANG
AUTHOR is less capable of being illustrated by extracts than
Alexandre Dumas. Writers like Prosper Mérimée or Mr.
Robert Louis Stevenson can be not inadequately represented
by a short story or a brief scene. Even from Scott's work we can
detach (Wandering Willie's Tale,' or 'The Tapestried Chamber,' or
the study of Effie Deans in prison, or of Jeanie Deans before the
Queen. But Dumas is invariably diffuse; though, unlike other dif-
fuse talkers and writers, he is seldom tedious. He is long without
longueurs. A single example will explain this better than a page of
disquisition. The present selector had meant to extract Dumas's first
meeting with Charles Nodier at the theatre. In memory, that amus-
ing scene appeared to occupy some six pages. In fact, it covers
nearly a hundred and thirty pages of the Brussels edition of the
Memoirs) of Dumas. One reads it with such pleasure that looked
back
upon,
it seems short, while it is infinitely too long to be
extracted. In dialogue Dumas is both excellent and copious, so that
he cannot well be abbreviated. He is the Porthos of novelists, gigan-
tic, yet (at his best) muscular and not overgrown. For these reasons,
extracts out of his romances do no justice to Dumas. To read one of
his novels, say "The Three Musketeers,' even in a slovenly transla-
tion, is to know more of him than a world of critics and essayists
can teach. It is also to forget the world, and to dwell in a careless
Paradise. Our object therefore is not to give an essence of Dumas,»
but to make readers peruse him in his own books, and to save them
trouble by indicating, among these books, the best.
It is notorious that Dumas was at the head of a Company
that which Scott laughingly proposed to form “for writing and pub-
lishing the class of books called Waverley Novels. ” In legal phrase,
Dumas (deviled” his work; he had assistants, researchers, collabo-
rators. He would briefly sketch a plot, indicate the authorities to
be consulted, hand his notes to Maquet or Fiorentino, receive their
draught, and expand that into a romance. Work thus executed cannot
be equal to itself. Many books signed by Dumas may be neglected
without loss. Even to his best works, one or other of his assistants
was apt to assert a claim. The answer is convincing. Not one of
(C
((
» like
## p. 4956 (#122) ###########################################
ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
## p. 4956 (#123) ###########################################
1
1
+
1
1
1
## p. 4956 (#124) ###########################################
1
1
1
1
## p. 4957 (#125) ###########################################
4957
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, SENIOR
(1803? -1870)
BY ANDREW LANG
O AUTHOR is less capable of being illustrated by extracts than
Alexandre Dumas. Writers like Prosper Mérimée or Mr.
Robert Louis Stevenson can be not inadequately represented
by a short story or a brief scene. Even from Scott's work we can
detach "Wandering Willie's Tale,' or 'The Tapestried Chamber,' or
the study of Effie Deans in prison, or of Jeanie Deans before the
Queen. But Dumas is invariably diffuse; though, unlike other dif-
fuse talkers and writers, he is seldom tedious. He is long without
longueurs. A single example will explain this better than a page of
disquisition. The present selector had meant to extract Dumas's first
meeting with Charles Nodier at the theatre. In memory, that amus-
ing scene appeared to occupy some six pages. In fact, it covers
nearly a hundred and thirty pages of the Brussels edition of the
(Memoirs) of Dumas. One reads it with such pleasure that looked
back upon, it seems short, while it is infinitely too long to be
extracted. In dialogue Dumas is both excellent and copious, so that
he cannot well be abbreviated. He is the Porthos of novelists, gigan-
tic, yet (at his best) muscular and not overgrown. For these reasons,
extracts out of his romances do no justice to Dumas. To read one of
his novels, say The Three Musketeers,' even in a slovenly transla-
tion, is to know more of him than a world of critics and essayists
can teach. It is also to forget the world, and to dwell in a careless
Paradise. Our object therefore is not to give an essence of Dumas,»
but to make readers peruse him in his own books, and to save them
trouble by indicating, among these books, the best.
It is notorious that Dumas was at the head of a «Company” like
that which Scott laughingly proposed to form for writing and pub-
lishing the class of books called Waverley Novels. ” In legal phrase,
Dumas (deviled his work; he had assistants, researchers, collabo-
rators. He would briefly sketch a plot, indicate the authorities to
be consulted, hand his notes to Maquet or Fiorentino, receive their
draught, and expand that into a romance. Work thus executed cannot
be equal to itself. Many books signed by Dumas may be neglected
without loss. Even to his best works, one or other of his assistants
was apt to assert a claim. The answer is convincing. Not one of
## p. 4958 (#126) ###########################################
4958
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, SENIOR
these ingenious men ever produced, by himself, anything that could
be mistaken for the work of the master. All his good things have
the same stamp and the same spirit, which we find nowhere else.
