Atlantic Monthly, Volume 2, Issue 10, August, 1858 - Various
"Thus, without much delight or grief,
I fool away an idle life,
Till Shadwell from the town retires,
Choked up with fame and sea-coal fires,
To bless the wood with peaceful lyric:
Then hey for praise and panegyric;
Justice restored, and nations freed,
And wreaths round William's glorious head."
And Parnell:--
"But hold! before I close the scene,
The sacred altar should be clean.
Oh, had I Shadwell's second bays,
Or, Tate! thy pert and humble lays,--
Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow
I never missed your works till now,--
I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine,
That only way you please the Nine;
But since I chance to want these two,
I'll make the songs of Durfey do."
And in a far more venomous and violent style, the noteless mob of
contemporary writers.
Shadwell, after all, was very far from being the blockhead these
references imply. His "Third Nights" were probably far more
profitable than Dryden's.[23] By his friends he was classed with the
liveliest wits of a brilliant court. Rochester so classed him:--
"I loathe the rabble: 'tis enough for me,
If Sedley, Shadwell, Shephard, Wycherley,
Godolphin, Butler, Buckhurst, Buckingham,
And some few more, whom I omit to name,
Approve my sense: I count their censure fame."[24]
And compares him elsewhere with Wycherley:--
"Of all our modern wits, none seem to me
Once to have touched upon true comedy,
But hasty Shadwell and slow Wycherley.
Shadwell's unfinished works do yet impart
Great proofs of force of nature, none of art;
With just, bold strokes, he dashes here and there,
Showing great mastery with little care,
Scorning to varnish his good touches o'er
To make the fools and women praise them more.
But Wycherley earns hard whate'er he gains;
He wants no judgment, and he spares no pains," etc.
And, not disrespectfully, Pope:--
"In all debates where critics bear a part,
Not one but nods, and talks of Jonson's art,
Of Shakspeare's nature, and of Cowley's wit;
How Beaumont's judgment checked what Fletcher writ;
How Shadwell hasty, Wycherley was slow;
But for the passions, Southerne, sure, and Rowe!
These, only these, support the crowded stage,
From eldest Heywood down to Cibber's age."[25]
Sedley joined him in the composition of more than one comedy.
Macaulay, in seeking illustrations of the times and occurrences of
which he writes, cites Shadwell five times, where he mentions
Etherege, Wycherley, and Congreve once.[26] From his last play, "The
Stockjobbers," performed in November, 1692, while its author was on
his death-bed, the historian introduces an entire scene into his
text.[27] Any one, indeed, who can clear his mind from the unjust
prejudice produced by Dryden's satire, and read the comedies of
Shadwell with due consideration for the extemporaneous haste of their
composition, as satires upon passing facts and follies, will find,
that, so far from never deviating into sense, sound common-sense and
fluent wit were the Laureate's staple qualities. If his comedies have
not, like those of his contemporaries just named, enjoyed the
good-fortune to be collected and preserved among the dramatic
classics, the fact is primarily owing to the ephemeral interest of the
hits and allusions, and secondarily to "MacFlecknoe."
[To be continued.]
Footnote 1: SPENSER: _Faery Queen_. See also the _Two Cantos
of Mutability,_ Cant. VII.:--
"That old Dan Geffrey, in whose gentle spright
The pure well-head of poesie did dwell."
Footnote 2: MILTON: _Il Penseroso._
Footnote 3: WORDSWORTH: _Poems of Later Years_.
Footnote 4: CHAUCER: _Clerke's Tale_, Prologue.
Footnote 5: WARTON: _Ode on his Majesty's Birthday, 1787_.
Footnote 6: Tyrwhitt's Chaucer: _Historical Notes on his Life._
Footnote 7: _Masque of the Fortunate Islands_.
Footnote 8: _History of English Poetry_, Vol. II. pp. 335-336,
ed. 1840.
Footnote 9: WARTON: _Birthday Ode_, 1787.
Footnote 10: See his _British Poets, from Chaucer to Jonson_,
Art. _Daniel_. Southey contemplated a continuation of Warton's
_History_, and, in preparing for that labor, learned many things
he had never known of the earlier writers.
Footnote 11: Jonson's classification. See his _Poetaster_.
Footnote 12: _Lamb's Works, and Life_, by Talfourd, Vol. IV. p. 89.
Footnote 13: Hesperides, _Encomiastic Verses_.
Footnote 14: Herrick, _ubi supra._--To the haunts here named
must be added the celebrated _Mermaid_, of which Shakspeare was
the _Magnus Apollo_, and _The Devil_, where Pope imagines
Ben to have gathered peculiar inspiration:--
"And each true Briton is to Ben so civil,
He swears the Muses met him at _The Devil_."
_Imitation of Horace_, Bk. ii. Epist. i.
Footnote 15: _Election of a Poet-Laureate_, 1719, Works, Vol. II.
Footnote 16: _Feast of the Poets_, 1814.
Footnote 17: _Fable for Critics_, 1850.
Footnote 18: This story rests on the authority of Thomas Betterton,
the actor, who received it from Davenant.
Footnote 19: Dedication of the _Pastorals_ of Virgil, to Hugh,
Lord Clifford, the son of Sir Thomas.
Footnote 20: There were some indications that portions of the farce
had been written while Davenant was living and had been intended for
him. _Mr. Bayes_ appears in one place with a plaster on his nose,
an evident allusion to Davenant's loss of that feature. In a lively
satire of the time, by Richard Duke, it is asserted that Villiers was
occupied with the composition of _The Rehearsal_ from the
Restoration down to the day of its production on the stage:--
"But with playhouses, wars, immortal wars,
He waged, and ten years' rage produced a farce.
As many rolling years he did employ,
And hands almost as many, to destroy
Heroic rhyme, as Greece to ruin Troy.
Once more, says Fame, for battle he prepares,
And threatens rhymers with a second farce:
But, if as long for this as that we stay,
He'll finish Clevedon sooner than his play."
_The Review_
Footnote 21: It is little to the credit of Dryden, that, having saved
up his wrath against Flecknoe so long, he had not reserved it
altogether. Flecknoe had been dead at least four years when the
satire appeared.
Footnote 22: Macaulay quotes Blackmore's _Prince Arthur_, to
illustrate Dryden's dependence upon Dorset:--
"The poets' nation did obsequious wait
For the kind dole divided at his gate.
Laurus among the meagre crowd appeared,
An old, revolted, unbelieving bard,
Who thronged, and shoved, and pressed, and would be heard.
"Sakil's high roof, the Muse's palace, rung
With endless cries, and endless songs he sung.
To bless good Sakil Laurus would be first;
But Sakil's prince and Sakil's God he curst.
Sakil without distinction threw his bread,
Despised the flatterer, but the poet fed."
_Laurus_, of course, stands for Dryden, and _Sakil_ for
Dorset.
Footnote 23: _The Squire of Alsatia_ is said to have realized him
L130.
Footnote 24: _An Allusion to the Tenth Satire of the First Book of
Horace_.--The word "censure" will, of course, be understood to mean
_judgment_, not _condemnation_.
Footnote 25: _Imitation of Horace_, Bk. ii. Epist. i.
Footnote 26: See the _History of England_, Vol. IV., Chapter 17,
for reference to Shadwell's _Volunteers_.
Footnote 27: _History of England_, Chapter 19.
THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE.
"Halt!" cried my travelling companion. "Property overboard!"
The driver pulled up his horses; and, before I could prevent him,
Westwood leaped down from the vehicle, and ran back for the article
that had been dropped.
It was a glove,--my glove, which I had inadvertently thrown out, in
taking my handkerchief from my pocket.
"Go on, driver!" and he tossed it into my hand as he resumed his seat
in the open stage.
"Take your reward," I said, offering him a cigar; "but beware of
rendering me another such service!"
"If it had been your hat or your handkerchief, be sure I should have
let it lie where it fell. But a glove,--that is different. I once
found a romance in a glove. Since then, gloves are sacred." And
Westwood gravely bit off the end of his cigar.
"A romance? Tell me about that. I am tired of this endless stretch of
sea-like country, these regular ground-swells; and it's a good
two-hours' ride yet to yonder headland, which juts out into the
prairie, between us and the setting sun. Meanwhile, your romance."
"Did I say romance? I fear you would hardly think it worthy of the
name," said my companion. "Every life has its romantic episodes, or,
at least, incidents which appear such to him who experiences them. But
these tender little histories are usually insipid enough when told. I
have a maiden aunt, who once came so near having an offer from a pale
stripling, with dark hair, seven years her junior, that to this day
she often alludes to the circumstance, with the remark, that she
wishes she knew some competent novel-writer in whom she could confide,
feeling sure that the story of that period of her life would make the
groundwork of a magnificent work of fiction. Possibly I inherit my
aunt's tendency to magnify into extraordinary proportions trifles
which I look at through the double convex lens of a personal
interest. So don't expect too much of my romance, and you shall hear
it.
"I said I found it in a glove. It was by no means a remarkable
glove,--middle-sized, straw-colored, and a neat fit for this hand, in
which I now hold your very excellent cigar. Of course, there was a
young lady in the case;--let me see,--I don't believe I can tell you
the story," said Westwood, "after all!"
I gently urged him to proceed.
"Pshaw!" said he, after kindling his cigar with a few vigorous whiffs,
"what's the use of being foolish? My aunt was never diffident about
telling her story, and why should I hesitate to tell mine? The young
lady's name,--we'll call her simply Margaret. She was a blonde, with
hazel eyes and dark hair. Perhaps you never heard of a blonde with
hazel eyes and dark hair? She was the only one I ever saw; and there
was the finest contrast imaginable between her fair, fresh complexion,
and her superb tresses and delicately-traced eyebrows. She was
certainly lovely, if not handsome; and--such eyes! It was an event in
one's life, Sir, just to look through those luminous windows into her
soul. That could not happen every day, be sure! Sometimes for weeks
she kept them turned from me, the ivory shutters half-closed, or the
mystic curtains of reserve drawn within; then, again, when I was
tortured with unsatisfied yearnings, and almost ready to despair, she
would suddenly turn them upon me, the shutters thrown wide, the
curtains away, and a flood of radiance streaming forth, that filled me
so full of light and gladness, that I had no shadowy nook left in me
for a doubt to hide in. She must have been conscious of this power of
expression. She used it so sparingly, and, it seemed to me, artfully!
But I always forgave her when she did use it, and cherished resentment
only when she did not.
"Margaret was shy and proud; I could never completely win her
confidence; but I knew, I knew well at last, that her heart was
mine. And a deep, tender, woman's heart it was, too, despite her
reserve. Without many words, we understood each other, and
so----Pshaw!" said Westwood, "my cigar is out!"
"On with the story!"
"Well, we had our lovers' quarrels, of course. Singular, what foolish
children love makes of us!--rendering us sensitive, jealous, exacting,
in the superlative degree. I am sure, we were both amiable and
forbearing towards all the world besides; but, for the powerful reason
that we loved, we were bound to misinterpret words, looks, and
actions, and wound each other on every convenient occasion. I was
pained by her attentions to others, or perhaps by an apparent
preference of a book or a bouquet to me. Retaliation on my part and
quiet persistence on hers continued to estrange us, until I generally
ended by conceding everything, and pleading for one word of kindness,
to end my misery.
"I was wrong,--too quick to resent, too ready to concede. No doubt, it
was to her a secret gratification to exercise her power over me; and
at last I was convinced that she wounded me purposely, in order to
provoke a temporary estrangement, and enjoy a repetition of her
triumph.
"It was at a party; the thing she did was to waltz with a man whom she
knew I detested, whom _I_ knew _she_ could not respect, and
whose half-embrace, as he whirled her in the dance, almost put murder
into my thoughts.
"'Margaret,' I said, 'one last word! If you care for me, beware!'
"That was a foolish speech, perhaps. It was certainly
ineffectual. She persisted, looking so calm and composed, that a great
weight fell upon my heart. I walked away; I wandered about the
saloons; I tried to gossip and be gay; but the wound was too deep.
"I accompanied her home, late in the evening. We scarcely spoke by the
way. At the door, she looked me sadly in the face,--she gave me her
hand; I thought it trembled.
"'Good-night!' she said, in a low voice.
"'Good-bye!' I answered, coldly, and hurried from the house.
"It was some consolation to hear her close the door after I had
reached the corner of the street, and to know that she had been
listening to my footsteps. But I was very angry. I made stern
resolutions; I vowed to myself, that I would wring her heart, and
never swerve from my purpose until I had wrung out of it abundant
drops of sorrow and contrition. How I succeeded you shall hear.
"I had previously engaged her to attend a series of concerts with me;
an arrangement which I did not now regret, and for good reasons. Once
a week, with famous punctuality, I called for her, escorted her to the
concert-room, and carefully reconducted her home,--letting no
opportunity pass to show her a true gentleman's deference and
respect,--conversing with her freely about music, books, anything, in
short, except what we both knew to be deepest in each other's
thoughts. Upon other occasions, I avoided her, and even refrained from
going to places where she was expected,--especially where she knew
that I knew she was expected.
"Well," continued Westwood, "my designs upon her heart, which I was
going to wring so unmercifully, did not meet with very brilliant
success. To confess the humiliating truth, I soon found that I was
torturing myself a good deal more than I was torturing her. As a last
and desperate resort, what do you think I did?"
"You probably asked her to ask your forgiveness."
"Not I! I have a will of adamant, as people find, who tear away the
amiable flowers and light soil that cover it; and she had reached the
impenetrable, firm rock. I neither made any advances towards a
reconciliation nor invited any. But I'll tell you what I did do, as a
final trial of her heart. I had, for some time, been meditating a
European tour, and my interest in her had alone kept me at home. Some
friends of mine were to sail early in the spring, and I now resolved
to accompany them. I don't know how much pride and spite there was in
the resolution,--probably a good deal. I confess I wished to make her
suffer,--to show her that she had calculated too much upon my
weakness,--that I could be strong and happy without her. Yet, with all
this bitter and vindictive feeling, I listened to a very sweet and
tender whisper in my heart, which said, 'Now, if her love speaks
out,--now, if she says to me one true, kind, womanly word,--she shall
go with me, and nothing shall ever take her from me again!' The
thought of what _might_ be, if she would but say that word, and
of what _must_ be, irrevocably, if her pride held out, shook me
mightily. But my resolution was taken: I would trust the rest to fate.
"On the day of the last concert, I imparted the secret of my intended
journey to a person who, I felt tolerably sure, would rush at once to
Margaret with the news. Then, in the evening, I went for her; I was
conscious that my manner towards her was a little more tender, or
rather, a little less coldly courteous, that night, than it had
usually been of late; for my feelings were softened, and I had never
seen her so lovely. I had never before known what a treasure I was
about to lose. The subject of my voyage was not mentioned, and if she
had heard of it, she accepted the fact without the least
visible concern. Her quietness under the circumstances chilled
me,--disheartened me quite. I am not one of those who can give much
superfluous love, or cling with unreasonable, blind passion to an
object that yields no affection in return. A quick and effectual
method of curing a fancy in persons of my temperament is to teach them
that it is not reciprocated. Then it expires like a flame cut off from
the air, or a plant removed from the soil. The death-struggle, the
uprooting, is the painful thing; but when the heart is thoroughly
convinced that its love is misplaced, it gives up, with one last sigh
as big as fate, sheds a few tears, says a prayer or two, thanks God
for the experience, and becomes a wiser, calmer,--yes, and a happier
heart than before."
"True," I said; "but our hearts are not thus easily convinced."
"Ay, there's the rub. It is for want of a true perception. There
cannot be a true love without a true perception. Love is for the soul
to know, from its own intuition,--not for the understanding to
believe, from the testimony of those very unreliable witnesses, called
eyes and ears. This seems to have been my case,--my soul was aware of
_her_ love, and all the evidence of my external senses could not
altogether destroy that interior faith. But that evening I said,--'I
believe you now, my senses! I doubt you now, my soul!--she never loved
me!' So I was really very cold towards her--for about twenty minutes.
"I walked home with her;--we were both silent; but at the door she
asked me to go in. Here my calmness deserted me, and I could hardly
hold my heart, while I replied,--
"'If you particularly wish it.'
"'If I did not, I should not ask you,' she said; and I went in.
"I was ashamed and vexed at myself for trembling so,--for I was in a
tremor from head to foot. There was company in the parlors,--some of
Margaret's friends. I took my seat upon a sofa, and soon she came and
sat by my side.
"'I suppose,' said one, 'Mr. Westwood has been telling Margaret all
about it.'
"'About what?' Margaret inquired,--and here the truth flashed upon
me,--the news of my proposed voyage had not yet reached her! She
looked at me with a troubled, questioning expression, and said,--
"'I felt that something was going to happen. Tell me what it is.'
"I answered,--'Your friend can best explain what she means.'
"Then out came the secret. A shock of surprise sent the color from
Margaret's face; and raising her eyes, she asked, quite calmly, but in
a low and unnatural tone,--
"'Is this so?'
"I said, 'I suppose I cannot deny it.'
"'You are really going?'
"'I am really going.'
"She could not hide her agitation. Her white face betrayed her. Then
I was glad, wickedly glad, in my heart,--and vain enough to be
gratified that others should behold and know I held a power over
her. Well,--but I suffered for that folly.
"'I feel hurt,' she said, after a little while, 'because you have not
told me this. You have no sister,' (this was spoken very quietly,)
'and it would have been a privilege for me to take a sister's place,
and do for you those little things which sisters do for brothers who
are going on long journeys.'
"I was choked;--it was a minute before I could speak. Then I said that
I saw no reason why she should tax her time or thoughts to do anything
for me.
"'Oh, you know,' she said, 'you have been kind to me,--so much kinder
than I have deserved!'
"It was unendurable,--the pathos of the words! I was blinded,
stifled,--I almost groaned aloud. If we had been alone, there our
trial would have ended. I should have snatched her to my soul. But
the eyes of others were upon us, and I steeled myself.
"'Besides,' I said, 'I know of nothing that you can do for me.'
"'There must be many little things;--to begin with, there is your
glove, which you are tearing to pieces.'
"True, I was tearing my glove,--she was calm enough to observe it!
That made me angry.
"'Give it to me; I will mend it for you. Haven't you other gloves that
need mending?'
"I, who had triumphed, was humbled.
"My heart was breaking,--and she talked of mending gloves! I did not
omit to thank her. I coldly arose to go.
"Well, I felt now that it was all over. The next day I secured my
passage in the steamer in which my friends were to sail. I took pains
that Margaret should hear of that, too. Then came the preparations for
travel,--arranging affairs, writing letters, providing myself with a
compact and comfortable outfit. Europe was in prospect,--Paris,
Switzerland, Italy, lands to which my dreams had long since gone
before me, and to which I now turned my eyes with reawakening
aspirations. A new glory arose upon my life, in the light of which
Margaret became a fading star. It was so much easier than I had
thought, to give her up, to part from her! I found that I could forget
her, in the excitement of a fresh and novel experience; while
she--could she forget me? When lovers part, happy is he who goes! alas
for the one that is left behind!
"One day, when I was busy with the books which I was to take with me,
a small package was handed in. I need not tell you that I experienced
a thrill, when I saw Margaret's handwriting upon the wrapper. I tore
it open,--and what think you I found? My glove! Nothing else. I
smiled bitterly, to see how neatly she had mended it; then I sighed;
then I said, 'It is finished!' and tossed the glove disdainfully into
my trunk.
"On the day before that fixed for the sailing of the steamer, I made
farewell calls upon many of my friends,--among others, upon
Margaret. But, through the perversity of pride and will, I did not go
alone,--I took with me Joseph, a mutual acquaintance, who was to be my
_compagnon de voyage_. I felt some misgivings, to see how
Margaret had changed; she was so softened, and so pale!
"The interview was a painful one, and I cut it short. As we were going
out, she gently detained me, and said,--
"'Did you receive--your glove?'
"'Oh, yes,' I said, and thanked her for mending it.
"'And is this all--all you have to say?' she asked.
"'I have nothing more to say--except good-bye.'
"She held my hand. 'Nothing else?'
"'No,--it is useless to talk of the past, Margaret; and the
future--may you be happy!--Good-bye!'
"I thought she would speak; I could not believe she would let me go;
but she did! I bore up well, until night. Then came a revulsion. I
walked three times past the house, wofully tempted, my love and my
will at cruel warfare; but I did not go in. At midnight I saw the
light in her room extinguished; I knew she had retired, but whether to
sleep, or weep, or pray--how could I tell? I went home. I did not
close my eyes that night. I was glad to see the morning come, after
_such_ a night!
"The steamer was to sail at ten. The bustle of embarkation; strange
scenes and strange faces; parting from friends; the ringing of the
bell; last adieus,--some, who were to go with us, hurrying aboard,
others, who were to stay behind, as hastily going ashore; the
withdrawal of the plank,--sad sight to many eyes! casting off the
lines, the steamer swinging heavily around, the rushing, irregular
motion of the great, slow paddles; the waving of handkerchiefs from
the decks, and the responsive signals from the crowd lining the wharf;
off at last,--the faces of friends, the crowd, the piers, and, lastly,
the city itself, fading from sight; the dash of spray, the freshening
breeze, the novel sight of our little world detaching itself and
floating away; the feeling that America was past, and Europe was
next;--all this filled my mind with animation and excitement, which
shut out thoughts of Margaret. Could I have looked with clairvoyant
vision, and beheld her then, locked in her chamber, should I have been
so happy? Oh, what fools vanity and pride make of us! Even then, with
my heart high-strung with hope and courage, had I known the truth, I
should have abandoned my friends, the voyage, and Europe, and returned
in the pilot's boat, to find something more precious than all the
continents and countries of the globe, in the love of that heart which
I was carelessly flinging away."
Here Westwood took breath. The sun was now almost set. The prairie was
still and cool; the heavy dews were beginning to fall; the shadows of
the green and flowered undulations filled the hollows, like a rising
tide; the headland, seen at first so far and small, was growing
gradually large and near; and the horses moved at a quicker
pace. Westwood lighted his cigar, drew a few whiffs, and proceeded.
"We had a voyage of eleven days. But to me an immense amount of
experience was crowded into that brief period. The fine exhilaration
of the start,--the breeze gradually increasing to a gale; then
horrible sea-sickness, home-sickness, love-sickness; after which, the
weather which sailors love, games, gayety, and flirtation. There is no
such social freedom to be enjoyed anywhere as on board an ocean
steamer. The breaking-up of old associations, the opening of a fresh
existence, the necessity of new relationships,--this fuses the crust
of conventionality, quickens the springs of life, and renders
character sympathetic and fluent. The past is easily put away; we
become plastic to new influences; we are delighted at the discovery of
unexpected affinities, and astonished to find in ourselves so much
wit, eloquence, and fine susceptibility, which we did not before dream
we possessed.