And therefore men have power to choose,
But they no charter to refuse.
Hence 'tis apparent that, what course
Soe'er we take to your amours,
Though by the indirectest way,
"Tis no injustice nor foul play;
And that you ought to take that course
As we take you, for better or worse,
And gratefully submit to those
Who you, before another, chose.
The poem was left unfinished, but more of it would hardly have been read even in the days of Charles. There is, in fact, a plethora of wit in 'Hudibras,' and a condensation of thought and style which becomes oppressive and tiresome. The faculties of the reader cannot be kept in a state of constant tension; and after perusing some thirty or forty pages, he is fain to relinquish the task, and seek out for the simplicity of nature. Some of the short burlesque descriptions are inimitable. For example, of Morning:
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.com.ua/books/content?id=qGoWAAAAYAAJ&hl=uk&output=html_text&pg=RA1-PA187&img=1&zoom=3&q=%22with+a+Survey+of+the+Power+and+Jurisdiction+of+the+Pope+in+the+Dominions+of%22&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U3xj45Z9zG2emXog5teFtvRmvjONw&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=92,533,588,110)
The sun grew low and left the skies,
Put down, some write, by ladies' eyes;
The moon pulled of her veil of light,
That hides her face by day from sight-
Mysterious veil, of brightness made,
That's both her lustre and her shade-
And in the lantern of the night,
With shining horns hung out her light;
For darkness is the proper sphere,
Where all false glories use t' appear.
The twinkling stars began to muster,
And glitter with their borrowed lustre;
While sleep the wearied world relieved,
By counterfeiting death revived.
Many of the lines and similes in Hudibras' are completely identified with the language, and can never be separated from it. Such are the opening lines of Part II. canto iii.:
Doubtless the pleasure is as great
Of being cheated as to cheat;
As lookers-on feel most delight
That least perceive a juggler's sleight;
And still the less they understand,
The more they admire his sleight-of-hand.
Or where the knight remarks, respecting the importance of money:
For what in worth is anything,
But so much money as 'twill bring.
Butler says of his brother-poets:
Those that write in rhyme, still make
The one verse for the other's sake;
For one for sense, and one for rhyme,
I think 's sufficient at one time.
There are a few such compelled rhymes in Hudibras,' but the number is astonishingly small.
Accomplishments of Hudibras.
When civil dudgeon first grew high,
And men fell out, they knew not why:
When hard words, jealousies, and fears,
Set folks together by the cars,
And made them fight, like mad or drunk,
For Dame Religion as for punk;
Whose honesty they all durst swear for,
Though not a inan of them knew where-
fore:
When gospel-trumpeter, surrounded
With long-eared rout, to battle sounded,
And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic,
Was beat with fist, instead of a stick:
Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling,
And out he rode a-colonelling.
A wight he was, whose very sight would
Entitle him, mirror of knighthood;
That never bowed his stubborn knee
To anything but chivalry;
Nor put up blow, but that which laid
Right-worshipful on shoulder-blade:
Chief of domestic knights and errant,
Either for cartel or for warrant:
Great on the bench, great in the saddle,
That could as well bind o'er, as swaddle:
Mighty he was at both of these,
And styled of war as well as peace.
(So some rats, of amphibious nature,
Are either for the land or water.)
But here our authors make a doubt,
Whether he were more wise or stout;
Some hold the one, and some the other:
But howso'er they make a pother,
The diff'rence was so small, his brain
Outweighed his rage but half a grain;
Which made some take him for a tool
That knaves do work with, called a fool.
For't has been held by many, that
As Montaigne, playing with his cat,
Complains she thought him but an ass,
Much more she would Sir Hudibras.
(For that's the name our valiant knight
To all his challenges did write.)
But they're mistaken very much;
'Tis plain enough he was no such :
We grant, although he had much wit,
He was very shy of using it;
As being loath to wear it out,
And therefore bore it not about,
Unless on holidays, or so,
As men, their best apparel do;
To many, that had not one word..
He was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skilled in analytic;
He could distinguish, and divide
A hair 'twixt south and south-west side;
On either which he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute;
He'd undertake to prove by force
Of argument a man 's no horse;
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl-
A calf, an alderman-a goose, a justice-
And rooks, committee-men and trustees.
He'd run in debt by disputation,
And pay with ratiocination:
All this by syllogism, true
In mood and figure, he would do.
For rhetoric, he could not ope His mouth but out there flew a trope; And when he happened to break off I' th' middle of his speech, or cough, H' had hard words, ready to shew why, And tell what rules he did it by: Else, when with greatest art he spoke, You'd think he talked like other folk; For all a rhetorician's rules
Teach nothing but to name his tools.
But, when he pleased to shew 't, his
speech
In loftiness of sound was rich;
A Babylonish dialect,
Which learned pedants much affect:
It was a party-coloured dress
Of patched and piebald languages;
'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin,
Like fustian heretofore on satin.
It had an odd promiscuous tone,
As if he had talked three parts in one,
Which made some think, when he did
gabble,
Th' had heard three labourers of Babel;
Or Cerberus himself pronounce
A leash of languages at once.
This he as volubly would vent
As if his stock would ne'er be spent;
And truly, to support that charge,
He had supplies as vast and large:
For he could coin or counterfeit
New words, with little or no wit;
Words so debased and hard, no stone
Was hard enough to touch them on:
Beside, 'tis known he could speak Greek And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em,
As naturally as pigs squeak;
That Latin was no more difficile,
Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle
Being rich in both, he never scanted
His bounty unto such as wanted;
But much of either would afford
For his religion, it was fit-
To match his learning and his wit,
'T was Presbyterian true-blue;
For he was of that stubborn crew
Of errant saints, whom all men grant
To be the true church inilitant;
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun;
Decide all controversy by
Infallible artillery;
And prove their doctrine orthodox
By apostolic blows and knocks;
Call fire, and sword, and desolation,
A godly thorough reformation,
Which always must be carried on,
And still be doing, never done;
As if religion were intended
For nothing else but to be mended;
A sect whose chief devotion lies
In odd perverse antipathies;
In falling out with that or this,
And finding somewhat still amiss;
More peevish, cross, and splenetic,
Than dog distraught or monkey sick;
That with more care keep holiday
The wrong, than others the right way;
Compound for sins they are inclined to,
By damning those they have no mind to.
Still so perverse and opposite,
As if they worshipped God for spite;
The self-same thing they will abhor
One way, and long another for;
Free-will they one way disavow,
Another, nothing else allow;
All piety consists therein
In them, in other men all sin;
Rather than fail, they will defy
That which they love most tenderly:
Quarrel with mince pies, and disparage
Their best and dearest friend, plum-por-
ridge;
Fat pig and goose itself oppose,
And blaspheme custard through the nose.
Th' apostles of this fierce religion,
Like Mahomet's, were ass and widgeon,
To whom our knight, by fast instinct
Of wit and temper was so linked,
As if hypocrisy and nonsense
Had got th' advowson of his conscience,
Personal Appearance of Hudibras.
His tawny beard was th' equal grace
Both of his wisdom and his face;
In cut and dye so like a tile,
A sudden view it would beguile;
The upper part thereof was whey,
The nether, orange, mixed with gray.
This hairy meteor did denounce
The fall of sceptres and of crowns;
With grisly type did represent
Declining age of government;
And tell, with hieroglyphic spade,
Its own grave and the state's were made.
Like Samson's heart-breakers, it
In time to make a nation rue;
Though it contributed its own fall,
To wait upon the public downfall;
It was monastic, and did grow
In holy orders by strict vow;
Of rule as sullen and severe,
As that of rigid Cordelier;
"Twas bound to suffer persecution,
And martyrdom with resolution;
To oppose itself against the hate
And vengeance of th' incensed state
In whose defiance it was worn,
Still ready to be pulled and torn;
With red-hot irons to be tortured,
Revild, and spit upon, and martyred;
Mangre all which 'twas to stand fast
As long as monarchy should last:
But when the state should hap to reel,
"Twas to submit to fatal steel,
And fall, as it was consecrate,
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.com.ua/books/content?id=qGoWAAAAYAAJ&hl=uk&output=html_text&pg=RA1-PA189&img=1&zoom=3&q=%22with+a+Survey+of+the+Power+and+Jurisdiction+of+the+Pope+in+the+Dominions+of%22&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U01k46527KxcwR_mMJIDlyVeHyeQg&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=487,689,412,350)
Of ammunition, bread and cheese,
And fat black-puddings, proper food
For warriors that delight in blood;
For, as we said, he always chose
To carry victual in his hose,
That often tempted rats and mice
The ammunition to surprise;
And when he put a hand but in
The one or t' other magazine,
They stoutly on defence on 't stood,
And from the wounded foe drew blood;
And till th' were stormed and beaten out,
Ne'er left the fortified redoubt;
And though knights-errant, as some think,
Of old, did neither eat nor drink,
Because when thorough deserts vast,
And regions desolate they passed,
Where belly-timber above ground,
Or under, was not to be found,
Unless they grazed, there 's not one word
of their provision on record;
Which made some confidently write
They had no stomachs but to fight.
"Tis false; for Arthur wore in hall
Round table like a farthingal ;
On which, with shirt pulled out behind,
And eke before, his good knights dined;
Though 'twas no table some suppose,
But a huge pair of round trunk-hose,
In which he carried as much meat
As he and all the knights could eat;
When laying by their swords and trun-
cheons,
They took their breakfasts or their nun-
cheons.
But let that pass at present, lest
We should forget where we digressed,
As learned authors use, to whom
We leave it, and to th' purpose come.
His puissant sword unto his side,
Near his undaunted heart, was tied,
With basket-hilt that would hold broth,
And serve for fight and dinner both;
In it he melted lead for bullets
To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets,
To whom he bore so fell a grutch,
He ne'er gave quarter t' any such.
The tranchant blade, Toledo trusty,
For want of fighting, was grown rusty,
And ate into itself, for lack
Of somebody to how and hack:
The peaceful scabbard where it dwelt,
The rancour of its edge had felt;
For of the lower end two handful
It had devoured, 'twas so manful,
And so much scorned to lurk in case,
As if it durst not shew its face.
In many desperate attempts
Of warrants, exigents, contempts,
It had appeared with courage bolder
Than Sergeant Bum invading shoulder:
Oft had it ta'en possession,
And prisoners too, or made them run.
This sword a dagger had, his page,
That was but little for his age;
And therefore waited on him so
As dwarfs upon knights-errant do:
It was a serviceable dudgeon,
Either for fighting, or for drudging:
When it had stabbed or broke a head,
It would scrape trenchers, or chip bread;
Toast cheese or bacon, though it were
To bait a mouse-trap, would not care:
"Twould make clean shoes, and in the
earth
Set leeks and onions, and so forth:
It had been 'prentice to a brewer,
Where this and more it did endure,
But left the trade, as many more
Have lately done on the same score.*
Miscellaneous Thoughts.—From Butler's Remains.
The truest characters of ignorance
Are vanity, and pride, and arrogance;
As blind men use to bear their noses
higher
Than those that have their eyes and sight
entire.
All wit and fancy, like a diamond,
The more exact and curious 'tis ground,
Is forced for every carat to abate
As much in value as it wants in weight.
Love is too great a happiness
For wretched mortals to possess;
For could it hold inviolate
Against those cruelties of fate
Which all felicities below
By rigid laws are subject to,
It would become a bliss too high
For perishing mortality;
Translate to earth the joys above;
For nothing goes to heaven but love.
All love at first, like generous wine,
Ferments and frets until 'tis fine;
For when 'tis settled on the lee,
And from the impurer matter free,
Becomes the richer still the older,
And proves the pleasanter the colder.
As at the approach of winter, all
The leaves of great trees use to fall,
And leave them naked, to engage
With storms and tempests when they
While humbler plants are found to wear
Their fresh green liveries all the year;
So when their glorious season 's gone
With great men, and hard times come on,
The greatest calamities oppress
The greatest still, and spare the less.
* An allusion to Cromwell. There was a tradition that the Protector's father had a brewery in Huntingdon. which was carried on successfully after his death by his widow It is certain that the premises occupied by the family had previously been employed as a brewery. The father, Robert Cromwell, was a country gentleman of good estate, younger son of a knight.
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.com.ua/books/content?id=qGoWAAAAYAAJ&hl=uk&output=html_text&pg=RA1-PA191&img=1&zoom=3&q=%22with+a+Survey+of+the+Power+and+Jurisdiction+of+the+Pope+in+the+Dominions+of%22&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U28fIlJdh9mtXSR0l4kDHpHOZ2rJg&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=36,135,942,284)
The name of CHARLES COTTON (1630-1687) calls up a number of agreeable associations. It is best known from its piscatory and affectionate union with that of good old Izaak Walton; but Cotton was a cheerful, witty, accomplished man, and only wanted wealth and prudence to have made him one of the leading characters of his day. His father, Sir George Cotton, died in 1658, leaving the poet an estate at Ashbourne, in Derbyshire, near the river Dove, so celebrated in the annals of trout-fishing. The property was much encumbered, and the poet soon added to its burdens. As a means of pecuniary relief, as well as recreation, Cotton translated several works from the French and Italian, including Montaigne's Essays. In his fortieth year, he obtained a captain's commission in the army; and afterwards made a fortunate second marriage with the Countessdowager of Ardglass, who possessed a jointure of £1500 a year. It does not appear, however, that Cotton ever got out of his difficulties. The lady's fortune was secured from his mismanagement, and the poet died insolvent. His happy, careless disposition seems to have enabled him to study, angle and delight his friends, amidst all his embarrassments. He published several burlesques and travesties, some of them grossly indelicate; but he wrote also some copies of verses full of genuine poetry. One of his humorous pieces, 'A Journey to Ireland,' seems to have anticipated, as Campbell remarks, the manner of Anstey in the 'New Bath Guide.' As a poet, Cotton may be ranked with Andrew Marvell.
Hark! the cock crows, and yon bright
Tells us the day himself 's not far;
And see! where, breaking from the night,
He gilds the western hills with light.
With him old Janus doth appear,
Peeping into the future year,
With such a look, as seems to say
The prospect is not good that way.
Thus do we rise ill sights to see,
And 'gainst ourselves to prophesy :
When the prophetic fear of things
A more tormenting mischief brings,
More full of soul-tormenting gall
. Than direst mischiefs can befall.
But stay! but stay! methinks my sight,
Better informed by clearer light,
Discerns sereneness in that brow,
That all contracted seemed but now.
His reversed face may shew distaste,
And frown upon the ills are past;
But that which this way looks is clear,
And smiles upon the new-born year.
He looks, too, from a place so high,
The year lies open to his eye;
And all the moments open are
To the exact discoverer.
Yet more and more he smiles upon
The happy revolution.
Why should we then suspect or fear
|