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some of the jewels good men left there for your benefit two or three hundred years ago. To pursue the metaphor, you may, if you please, place the jewels in your own setting, sell them as your own at modern value, and very few (with the exception of such ancient jewellers as myself) will be able to detect you in the theft.

You must not confound Donne and his imitators with that other metaphysical school of which Sir John Davies was the author. Davies was an eminent lawyer in the time of King James, who admired him much; besides being successively solicitor and attorney-general, he sat for some years in the House of Commons as the representative of Corse Castle, in Dorsetshire. He not only wrote twenty-six acrostics on the name of Elizabeth, which were published under the title of Hymns to Astrea, and which, according to Ellis, "are probably the best acrostics ever written," but he was also the author of Orchestra, a poem on dancing. His great work, however, was the Nosce Teipsum, a philosophical poem in ten-syllable verses, disposed in quatrains, similar in form to Sir Thomas Overbury's Wife and Will Davenant's Gondifert. Nosce Teipsum is the earliest poem of the kind in the language. It treats of human knowledge, of the soul of man, and the immortality thereof. The quatrains resemble the Maxims of Rochefoucault. Davies expressed nice simple philosophy in melodious and elegant language. He is never deep, but he is always readable, and his style is wonderfully well sustained. His great poem is rather superior to that portion of the Mirror for Magistrates which the vigorous pen of Thomas Sackville did not endeavour to immortalise.

Dryden, who went deep into the Elizabethan gold- mines, styles Donne "the greatest wit, but not the greatest poet, in our language," -praise which would hold truer in Dryden's time than it possibly can in the present day. At all events, Donne is the first of his class in point of merit, as well as in point of time. He is deeper, profounder, and more original than any of his imitators. He is never shallow, as Cowley often is; and he has more common sense than Cowley. Besides his poems, he wrote the Pseudo Martyr, to which I have already alluded, a folio volume of sermons, and a quaint performance entitled Biathanatos, which is a refutation of the common notion that suicide is necessarily sinful.

Donne's prose is fully as involved and metaphysical as his poetry. There is some powerful argumentative writing in his book against Popery; and in his sermons, amid much that is finical and pedantic, we come upon ideas and expressions which have the brilliance of the genuine gold. We have it on excellent authority, that Donne was a successful preacher; but such a preacher would be unintelligible nowadays. In those times, the best intellects not only flocked into the Church, but they almost invariably did so; and such a galaxy of gifted divines as ornamented the reigns of Elizabeth and James, has not been seen since Laud promulgated his great system of Thorough. To the bosom

VOL. III.

G

of the orthodox English Church, clung clusters of gifted poets and philosophers. So the Church prospered, and the gifted gentleman got fat capons, in the shape of livings, spiced with tasty little benefices.

Donne was the second man to write English satire proper. Bishop Hall made the first attempt in his Virgilemiarum, or bundle of rods, which was published in 1597:

"I first adventure, follow me who list,

And be the second English satirist."

The French had already given birth to Regnier, the Italians to Ariosto; but Hall's chief models were the Roman satirists, Juvenal and Persius in particular. Donne followed with verses less musical, but far more vigorous and fuller of good character-painting. He lashed the vices of society and the Court, and literary charlatans. It is difficult to select from the satires passages which are both good and unobjectionable; for Donne fell into the common vice of his time, and sometimes wrote indecently. Here is part of the summing-up of the third satire, in which he has satirised the Roman Catholic, the Genevese, the non-believer, and even the English churchman, in their search for true religion; and it will presently be seen what meaning he had in so doing.

"Though Truth and Falsehood be

Near twins, yet Truth a little older is:
Be busie to seeke her; believe me this,

He's not of none, nor worst, that seeks the best.
T'adore or scorn an image, or protest,

May all be bad. Doubt wisely. In strange way

To stand enquiring right is not to stray;

To sleep or run wrong is. On a huge hill,
Cragged and steep, Truth stands."

I am very glad indeed that Donne wrote satires, and am sorry that he did not abstain from writing epigrams. The epigram should have the flash of the sunstroke, and strike its subject down at a blow. His mind had not sufficient velocity for this species of composition. But his best things are his shorter poems. In them, I find genuine poetry, real inspiration. The following conceit is better (to my thinking) than all the epigrams that were ever penned, save those of Theocritus, which I like because, instead of being adders with stings, they are cabinets of pastoral

sweets:

"CANONIZATION.

For God's sake hold your tongue and let me love,

Or chide my palsy or my gout,

My five gray hairs or ruined fortunes flout;

With wealth your state, your minds with art improve.

Take you a course, get you a place,

Observe his Honour or his Grace,

Or the King's real or his stamped face
Contemplate. What you will, approve,
So you will let me love.

We can die by it, if not live by Love.
And if unfit for tomb or hearse

Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,

We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms.
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes as half-acre tombs;
And by those hymns all shall approve

Us canonized for love."

As for the epigrams, they are as bad as one might have expected them to be. Here is one of the best of them, "On a Lame Beggar:"

"I am unable,' yonder beggar cries,

To stand or move;' if he says true, he lies."

And now, Minerva, my critic, I must wish you good-by; and when you next write to me, I know you will be in a better temper. I forgot to notice your sly hint that the ends of poetry were frivolous. Ah, you will grow wiser! Does not the example of these good men, of whom I love to discourse to you, prove that poesy is a holy of holies in which sage men may delight, and that it may make sages and heroes of us? As for you, hero-worshiping and appreciative reader, you must excuse me if I myself come often before my literary curtain. Well, I am the Prologue, the Epilogue, and the Choragus of Choragi. I do not talk to you in propriâ persone without an object. Lecteur, je suis moy mesme la matière de mon livre. That is to say, I am part of it; and I hope, by the introduction of my poor modern personality, to make you understand my lay figures better. I think the present Paper ought to send you to the works of Dr. Donne. You will find them much better than any extracts I have given; for the whole mental habits of the poet must be mastered before the beauty of the poems can be perceived or comprehended.

R. W. B.

For Better, for Worse.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

As Philip had predicted, the crush in leaving the Opera was tremendous. Ethelind looked round to see that they were all together. Lady Gwynne's carriage was called, and Mr. Chudleigh left Ethelind and Margaret while he placed them in it.

"If I could but see some one I know!" Ethelind said, a little nervously, as she stood looking about among the crowd. "Philip said we should have a crush, but I did not expect such a one as this." "You are not afraid, Ethie, are you?"

"Not if we can keep together; but if we get pushed far away from this spot, Mr. Chudleigh will miss us."

Presently he came up breathless, and elbowing his way till he reached them. "They are off at last; but there is some squabbling among the coachmen, and I thought I should never get them up to the carriage. Yours, Lady Redenham comes next; you have no time to lose." He gave his arm to each; but Margaret was soon dragged away, and for a moment she feared she should be borne off her feet. Suddenly a figure, wrapped in a military cloak, with his cap drawn down over his brows, came to her, and seizing her hand, drew it unceremoniously through his arm, and, before she could recover her surprise, had not only cleared a way for her, but had kept back the crowd from pressing upon her until he had placed her in safety in Lady Redenham's carriage. "Thank goodness we are safe!" Ethel exclaimed, as Margaret sprang in. "I was terrified to death when I saw you carried away, I begged Chudleigh to go to you and leave me, but he would not." "How should I ever have faced Redenham, if I had done so?" he replied; "but, upon my word, I was in a fright. If I had seen Vyvian at first, it would have been all right; but I never caught sight of him until I looked back, and saw him so gallantly rescuing Miss Atherton. What a fellow he is, with his head and shoulders above every body else, and his strong iron will,' as I always call his resolute temper!"

and

"And gone before one could thank him," Ethelind exclaimed, as she wrapped her shawl round her.

Margaret started. Could it indeed be Captain Vyvian who had almost lifted her into the carriage? And yet had never spoken a syllable, given no sign of recognition! What he would have done for any woman in distress, he had done for her; for he must have seen her and recognised her, standing, as she had done, so long by her sister's side: but if any lingering doubt remained that they were for ever strangers, this would effectually dispel it; they must meet now as if they had never met before. It had not crossed Margaret's mind, the chance of her

encountering Guy Vyvian during her visit to her sister; now it all came suddenly before her, and, for a moment, she felt as if she must wish. Ethel good-by, and return to her quiet home at Wylminstre. But as she recovered herself this weakness subsided. Why should she do so? What were they now to each other? Was not the world wide enough for two people who only looked back on their past love as a dream? And since it was so evident he had no intention of breaking through the rule she had herself insisted on, why should she be disquieted?

room.

After wishing the others good-night, Ethel drew Margaret into her "It has only just flashed across me," she said, "that you and Guy Vyvian were once friends. It was so long ago, and I was such a child, I had forgotten all about it. I hope it did not annoy you, dear, meeting him so suddenly to-night?"

"It startled me for a moment, because I was not expecting him; but I am rather glad than not to have done so, because if it happens again I shall be prepared for it."

"But it shall not, unless you wish it. He and Philip are great friends of late. He is often here; but I will tell Philip not to bring him while you are with us."

"I should very much prefer your saying nothing to Philip about it. If he comes, let him. I by no means object to meet him. Only remember, we are strangers, and it is our mutual wish to remain so."

Ethelind kissed her sister. "You shall do any thing you will, Maggie, you are sure to choose wisely and well; only do not look so pale tomorrow, or I shall be miserable. Come here," she said, drawing her sister to the side of the bed, and pulling back the curtains. Nestling down among the pillows, his soft brown curls falling away from his broad open forehead, and his long eyelashes throwing a shadow on his round rosy cheeks, slept the little heir to Redenham, his dimpled arm across the coverlet, exposing his bare broad chest and fair neck to the loving gaze of his mother and aunt.

"Leigh and here, Ethie?"

The colour had flown up almost into Ethel's brow. "He fretted one night; awoke in a dream, I believe, and I heard him and brought him here, and now he does not care to go away," she said apologetically.

"In a little bed of his own,-a crib,-it might lie; but surely not here-not with you?"

"It has been so for a long time now;" and her colour came and went nervously, and her lip trembled. "Our hours do not agree. It began as an exception, it has ended in becoming the rule. Can you wonder my boy is such a treasure to me?" She threw herself down on the sleeping child, and covered him with passionate tears and kisses.

Margaret was greatly distressed. "Ethie, darling," she said, "I feared something was not right, but I never thought it had come to this."

For a few minutes Ethelind wept bitterly; then she suddenly wiped her tears away: her courage had returned, now she had given Margaret

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