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I may shake titles and dignities by the dozen from my breakfastboard; but I may not save those upon whose heads I shake them from rottenness and oblivion. This year they and their sovran dwell together, next year they and their beagle. Both have names, but names perishable. The keeper of my privy-seal is an earl: what then! the keeper of my poultry-yard is a Cæsar. In honest truth, a name given to a man is no better than a skin given to him: what is not natively his own falls off and comes to nothing.

I desire in future to hear no contempt of penmen, unless a depraved use of the pen shall have so cramped them as to incapacitate them for the sword and for the council-chamber. If Alexander was the great, what was Aristoteles, who made him so, and taught him every art and science he knew except three-those of drinking, of blaspheming, and of murdering his bosom friends? Come along: I will bring thee back again nearer home. Thou mightest toss and tumble in thy bed many nights, and never eke out the substance of a stanza: but Edmund, if perchance I should call upon him for his counsel, would give me as wholesome and prudent as any of you. We should indemnify such men for the injustice we do unto them in not calling them about us, and for the mortification they must suffer at seeing their inferiors set before them. Edmund is grave and gentle; he complains of Fortune, not of Elizabeth-of courts, not of Cecil. I am resolved, so help me God, he shall have no further cause for his repining. Go, convey unto him those twelve silver spoons, with the apostles on them, gloriously gilded; and deliver into his hand these twelve large golden pieces, sufficing for the yearly maintenance of another horse and groom. Beside which, set open before him with due reverence this Bible, wherein he may read the mercies of God toward those who waited in patience for his blessing; and this pair of crimson silk hose, which thou knowest I have worne only thirteen months, taking heed that the heelpiece be put into good and sufficient restoration, at my sole charges, by the Italian woman nigh the pollard elm at Charing-cross.


Shame upon historians and schoolmasters for exciting the worst passions of youth by the display of false glories! If your religion hath any truth or influence, her professors will extinguish the promontory lights, which only allure to breakers. They will be assiduous in teaching the young and ardent that great abilities do not constitute great men, without the right and unremitting application of them; and that, in the sight of Humanity and Wisdom, it is better to erect one cottage than to demolish a hundred cities. Down to the present day we have been taught little else than falsehood. We have been told to do this thing and that; we have been told we

shall be punished unless we do; but at the same time we are shown by the finger that prosperity and glory, and the esteem of all about us, rest upon other and very different foundations. Now, do the ears or the eyes seduce the most easily, and lead the most directly to the heart? But both ears and eyes are won over, and alike are persuaded to corrupt us.


An honest man may fairly scoff at all philosophies and religions which are proud, ambitious, intemperate, and contradictory. It is the business of the philosophical to seek truth: it is the office of the religious to worship her. The falsehood that the tongue commits is slight in comparison with what is conceived by the heart, and executed by the whole man, throughout life. If, professing love and charity to the human race at large, I quarrel day after day with my next neighbor; if, professing that the rich can never see God, I spend in the luxuries of my household a talent monthly; if, professing to place so much confidence in his word, that, in regard to worldly weal, I need take no care for to-morrow, I accumulate stores even beyond what would be necessary, though I quite distrusted both his providence and his veracity; if, professing that "he who giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord," I question the Lord's security, and haggle with him about the amount of the loan; if, professing that I am their steward, I keep ninety-nine parts in the hundred as the emolument of my stewardship;-how, when God hates liars and punishes defrauders, shall I, and other such thieves and hypocrites, fare hereafter?


Never did our England, since she first emerged from the ocean, rise so high above surrounding nations. The rivalry of Holland, the pride of Spain, the insolence of France, were thrust back by one finger each; yet those countries were then more powerful than they had ever been. The sword of Cromwell was preceded by the mace of Milton-by that mace which, when Oliver had rendered his account, opened to our contemplation the garden-gate of Paradise. And there were some around not unworthy to enter with him. In the compass of sixteen centuries, you will not number on the whole earth so many wise and admirable men as you could have found united in that single day, when England showed her true magnitude, and solved the question, Which is most, one or a million? There were giants in those days; but giants who feared God, and not who fought against him.

Marvel, describing the Days of the English Commonwealth.


On words, on quibbles, if you please to call distinctions so, rest the axis of the intellectual world. A winged word hath stuck ineradicably in a million hearts, and envenomed every hour throughout their hard pulsation. On a winged word hath hung the destiny of nations. On a winged word hath human wisdom been willing to cast the immortal soul, and to leave it dependent for all its future happiness. It is because a word is unsusceptible of explanation, or because they who employed it were impatient of any, that enormous evils have prevailed, not only against our common sense, but against our common humanity.



Parker. Both Mr. Shakspeare and Mr. Milton have considerable merit in their respective ways; but both, surely, are unequal. it not so, Mr. Marvel?

Marvel. Under the highest of their immeasurable Alps, all is not valley and verdure: in some places there are frothy cataracts, there are the fruitless beds of noisy torrents, and there are dull and hollow glaciers. He must be a bad writer, or, however, a very indifferent one, in whom there are no inequalities. The plants of such table-land are diminutive, and never worth gathering. What would you think of a man's eyes to which all things appear of the same magnitude and of the same elevation? You must think nearly so

of a writer who makes as much of small things as of great. The vigorous mind has mountains to climb and valleys to repose in. Is there any sea without its shoals? On that which the poet navigates, he rises intrepidly as the waves rise round him, and sits composedly as they subside.




Parker. Mr. Milton would have benefited the world much more by coming into its little humors, and by complying with it cheerfully. Marvel. As the needle turns away from the rising sun, from the meridian, from the occidental, from regions of fragrancy and gold, and gems, and moves with unerring impulse to the frosts and deserts of the north, so Milton and some few others, in politics, philosophy, and religion, walk through the busy multitude, waive aside the importunate trader, and, after a momentary oscillation from external agency, are found, in the twilight and in the storm, pointing with certain index to the pole-star of immutable truth.

Parker. We are all of us dust and ashes.

* *

Marvel. True, my lord! but in some we recognise the dust of gold and the ashes of the phoenix; in others the dust of the gateway and the ashes of turf and stubble. With the greatest rulers

upon earth, head and crown drop together, and are overlooked. It is true we read of them in history, but we also read in history of crocodiles and hyænas. With great writers, whether in poetry or prose, what falls away is scarcely more or other than a vesture. The features of the man are imprinted on his works; and more lamps burn over them, and more religiously, than are lighted in temples or churches. Milton, and men like him, bring their own incense, kindle it with their own fire, and leave it unconsumed and unconsumable; and their music, by day and by night, swells along a vault commensurate with the vault of heaven.1


HENRY HART MILMAN is the son of an eminent physician, Sir Francis Milman, and was born in the year 1791. He passed through his university education at Brazen-nose College, Oxford, with distinguished honors, and first appeared as an author in 1816, when his tragedy of "Fazio" was published. This was followed, in 1818, by "Samor, Lord of the Bright City, an Heroic Poem." To this succeeded four dramatic poems-"The Fall of Jerusalem," "The Martyr of Antioch," "Belshazzar," and "Anne Boleyn." To our prose literature he has contributed a well-written "History of the Jews," in three volumes, an edition of "Gibbon's Rome," in twelve volumes, with notes and corrections, and a "History of Christianity," in three volumes, a work of great excellence and erudition. He has also been a liberal contributor to the Quarterly Review.

Mr. Milman is distinguished as an elegant classical scholar. His fine taste, chaste imagination, and varied attainments are seen in all his dramatic works, the best of which are "The Fall of Jerusalem" and the "Martyr of Antioch;" while some of his lyrical pieces are remarkable for beauty, tenderness, and sublimity.

He early held the
After that, he was

Mr. Milman's life has been a quiet and uneventful one. office of Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford. for some time rector of St. Margaret's, Westminster; and in November, 1849, he was presented to the deanery of St. Paul's, London.

"The abundance of aphorisms, maxims, laconic sentences, apophthegms, and epigrammatic oracular dicta to be found in his works, is almost without parallel in our literature. Comprehensive and symmetrical as his genius certainly is. no author will better bear dissection, fragmentary quotation, and piecemeal extraction. The mirror in its unity, and the mirror broken to pieces-in both cases, we see the strong lines and noticeable' features of Walter Savage Landor."

The following are the works of Landor:-"Imaginary Conversations," parts i. and ii.; "Gebir, Count Julian, and other Poems:" "The Examination of William Shakspeare," before Sir Thomas Lacy, on the charge of Deer-stealing; (this, by some, is accounted his masterpiece;) "Pentameron," consisting of discourses on Dante, and other subjects; "Petrarch and Boccacio;" "Pericles and Aspasia," consisting of correspondence between those famed personages, and which breathes the spirit of Attica in all her glory.




-It must be

It confounds

And yet it moves me, Romans!

The counsel of my firm philosophy,

That Ruin's merciless ploughshare must pass o'er,
And barren salt be sown on yon proud city.

As on our olive-crowned hill we stand,
Where Kedron at our feet its scanty waters
Distils from stone to stone with gentle motion,
As through a valley sacred to sweet peace,
How boldly doth it front us! how majestically!
Like a luxurious vineyard, the hillside

Is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line,
Terrace o'er terrace, nearer still, and nearer
To the blue heavens.

There bright and sumptuous palaces,

With cool and verdant gardens interspersed;

There towers of war, that frown in massy strength;
While over all hangs the rich purple eve,

As conscious of its being her last farewell

Of light and glory to that fated city.

And, as our clouds of battle, dust, and smoke
Are melted into air, behold the temple

In undisturb'd and lone serenity,

Finding itself a solemn sanctuary

In the profound of heaven! It stands before us
A mount of snow, fretted with golden pinnacles!
The very sun, as though he worshipp'd there,
Lingers upon the gilded cedar roofs,

And down the long and branching porticos,
On every flowery-sculptured capital,
Glitters the homage of his parting beams.
By Hercules! the sight might almost win
The offended majesty of Rome to mercy.





How? What! mine ears

Ring with a wild confusion of strange sounds

That have no meaning. Thou'rt not wont to mock

Thine aged father, but I think that now

Thou dost, my child.


In whom my soul hath hope of immortality,

Father! I mock not.


By Jesus Christ-by Him

Lightnings blast-not thee,

Look there!

But those that, by their subtle incantations,

Have wrought upon thy innocent soul.

Marg. Father, I'll follow thee where'er thou wilt:
Thou dost not mean this cruel violence

With which thou dragg'st me on.

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