Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 64, No.394, August, 1848

"Soon to that mass of nonsense to return,Where things destroyed are swept to things unborn."

In "The Royal Shepherdess," however, a play in blank verse, altered by Shadwell from Fountain of Devonshire, there are some fine lines, so far above any thing known to be Shadwell's that we readily take him at his word in his preface, where, modest for once, he invites the reader, if he finds any thing good in the play, to set it down to Mr Fountain. The following lines are a favourable specimen, notwithstanding the breeding barrenness: —

"No more, no more must we scorn cottages;Those are the rocks from whence our jewels come.Gold breeds in barren hills; the brightest starsShine o'er the poorer regions of the north."

Still better, where a king, in a vicious attempt upon an innocent girl, has compelled her consent to a meeting at night. The queen, apprised of the design, personates the intended victim, and appeals to his conscience with an effect that he thus describes: —

"She only whisper'd to me, as she promised,Yet never heard I any voice so loud:And though the words were gentler far than thoseThat holy priests do speak to dying saints,Yet never thunder signified so much."

The songs in this piece are all by Shadwell, except, as he declares, the last but one, which is Fountain's, and the only one not below mediocrity. Shadwell had also the impudence to alter and corrupt "Timon of Athens," and to produce the farrago on the stage as an improvement on the original. In the dedication he says, "It has the inimitable hand of Shakspeare in it; yet I can truly say, I have made it into a play." This "tun of man and kilderkin of wit" was admitted to a tomb in Westminster Abbey, an honour (?) said to have been denied to the remains of a noble poet, the author of "Don Juan." Yet Shadwell had also produced a "Don Juan." His tragedy of "The Libertine," the same hero, is ten times more indecent than the most objectionable parts of Byron's poem. But it is, indeed, also less noxious, for it has not a single attractive grace of fancy or feeling. A print of Shadwell, prefixed to Tonson's edition of his works, ludicrously bears out Dryden's description of the outer man. He looks like an alehouse Bacchus, or rather like one of those carnal cherubs whom the French call anges bouffis– his cheeks bulging out as if they were stuffed with apples from the forbidden tree. He died in December 1692, and was succeeded by

Nahum Tate, the psalmodist. Every one knows what sort of poet he was, and how the harp of Israel is but a Jew's harp in the hands of Tate and Brady. Yet some passages in his second part of "Absolom and Achitophel" are not such feeble mimicries of the tone of his friend, Dryden, as might have been expected from so poor a performer. The praise of Asaph, glorious John himself, is pleasing. It concludes with these lines: —

"While bees in flowers rejoice, and flowers in dew,While stars and fountains to their course are true,While Judah's throne and Sion's rock stand fast,The song of Asaph, and the fame, shall last."

At his death in 1715, a year after the accession of George the First, the withering laurel recovered a little lustre on the brow of Nicholas Rowe, the translator of Lucan, and the pathetic dramatist of "The Fair Penitent," and "Jane Shore." His occasional verses were, of course, very respectable; and his only signal failure was when he attempted comedy. After the banter he incurred for his play of "The Biter," he was so sensible that he was the biter bit, that he excluded it from his works, and made no second venture of the kind. Yet the man who could move an audience to tears, and who had so little command of their sympathies when he tried his powers of wit on them, was any thing but a lachrymist by temperament. When Spence observed that he should have thought "the tragic Rowe too grave to write such things." Pope answered, "He! why, he would laugh all the day long! He would do nothing but laugh!" He survived the acquisition of the laurel only three years, dying at the age of forty-five.

Laurence Eusden, "a parson much bemused in beer," stumbled into his place, just in time to elaborate, singultu laborare, the Coronation Ode for George the Second. A specimen or two of his loyal suspirations may be as welcome as a hundred.

"Hail, mighty Monarch! whose desert aloneWould, without birthright, raise thee to a throne!Thy virtues shine peculiarly nice.Ungloom'd with a confinity to vice."

Lord Hervey's "Memoirs of the Court of George the Second," recently made public, are an edifying exposition of the "peculiarly nice" virtues here extolled.

"What strains shall equal to thy glories rise,First to the world, and borderer on the skies?"

The conjuror who can make out the meaning of the last line may be able to answer the question. In his joy for a George the Second, the inspired bard dries up his tears for George the First: —

"How exquisitely great! who canst inspireSuch joy that Albion mourns no more thy sire!A dull, fat, thoughtless heir unheeded springsFrom a long slothful line of restive kings:But when a stem, with fruitful branches crown'd,Has flourish'd, in each various branch renown'd,His great forerunners when the last outshone,Who could a brighter hope, or even as bright a son?"

He ends with a kick at the Stuarts:

"Avaunt, degenerate grafts, or spurious breed!'Tis a George only can a George succeed."

If Charles Edward had known that, he might have saved himself a good deal of trouble.

Eusden died at his rectory in Lincolnshire in 1730. Colley Cibber wore the laurel with unblushing front for twenty-seven years from that date. His annual birth-day and new-year odes for all that time are treasured in the Gentleman's Magazine. They are all so bad, that his friends pretended that he made them so on purpose. Dr Johnson, however, often asserted, from his personal knowledge of the man, that he took great pains with his lyrics, and thought them far superior to Pindar's. The Doctor was especially merry with one ultra-Pindaric flight which occurs in the Cibberian "Ode for the New-Year 1750."

"Through ages past the muse preferr'dHer high-sung hero to the skies;Yet now reversed the rapture flies,And Caesar's fame sublimes the bard.So on the towering eagle's wingThe lowly linnet soars to sing.Had her Pindar of oldKnown her Cæsar to sing,More rapid his raptures had roll'd;But never had Greece such a king!"

So proud was Cibber of that marvellous image of the linnet and eagle, that he repeated it in the "Natal Ode for 1753." In his last "New-year Ode," too, 1757, he again scolds Pindar for his sluggishness —

"Had the lyrist of oldHad our Cæsar to sing,More rapid his numbers had roll'd;But never had Greece such a king,No, never had Greece such a king!"

Those effusions are truly incomparable. Not only are they all bad, but not one of them in twenty-seven years contains a good line. Yet he was, happily for himself, more impenetrable to the gibes of the wits than a buffalo to the stings of mosquitoes. Of the numerous epigrams twanged at him, here is one from the London Magazine for 1737.

"ON SEEING TOBACCO-PIPES LIT WITH ONE OF THE LAUREATE'S ODES"While the soft song that warbles George's praiseFrom pipe to pipe the living flame conveys,Critics who long have scorn'd must now admire,For who can say his ode now wants its fire?"

Dr Johnson honoured him with another, equally complimentary to Cibber and his Cæsar.

"Augustus still survives in Maro's strain,And Spenser's verse prolongs Eliza's reign;Great George's acts let tuneful Colley sing,For nature form'd the poet for the king."

Yet Cibber, the hero of the Dunciad, was not a dunce, except in his attempts at verse; even Pope, who calls him "a pert and lively dunce," epithets rather incongruous, admits the merit of his "Careless Husband." His Apology for his own Life, too, is no mean performance; some passages in it are both judicious and eloquent, particularly his criticisms on Nokes and Betterton, and on acting in general. Though the most wretched of poetasters, he was an abler prose writer than half of his critics.

At his death, the laureateship was offered to Gray, with an exemption from the duty of furnishing annual odes, but he refused the office, as having been degraded by Cibber. It was then given, on the usual terms, to William Whitehead, who won even the approbation of Gray for the felicity with which he occasionally performed his task. What now appears most noticeable in Whitehead's odes is his prolonged and ludicrous perplexity about the American war. At the first outbreak he is the indignant and scornful patriot, confident in the power of the mother country, and threatening the rebels with condign punishment. As they grow more and more obstinate, he becomes the pathetic remonstrant with those unnatural children, and coaxes them to be good boys. When any news of success to the British arms has arrived, he mounts the high horse again, and gives the Yankees hard words, but not without magnanimous hints that the gates of mercy are not quite closed to repentance. Reverses come, and he consoles the king. Matters grow worse, and he is at his wit's-end. At last the struggle is over; he accommodates himself to the unpleasant necessity of the case, and sings the blessings of peace and concord.

Laureate odes, good or bad, are always fair game for squibs. Whitehead had his share of ridicule, but he had more courage than Gray, who was so painfully afflicted by the parodies of Lloyd and Coleman, that he almost resolved to forswear poetry. Whitehead retorted on his assailants with easy good-humour, in "An Apology for all Laureates, past, present, and to come," beginning,

"Ye silly dogs, whose half-year laysAttend, like satellites, on Bays,And still with added lumber loadEach birth-day and each new-year ode,Why will ye strive to be severe?In pity to yourselves forbear;Nor let the sneering public seeWhat numbers write far worse than he."

and ending,

"To Laureates is no pity due,Encumber'd with a thousand clogs?I'm very sure they pity you,Ye silliest of silly dogs."

The next laureate, Thomas Warton, the historian of English poetry, is too well known and appreciated to require any lengthened notice here. In 1747 and 1748 he held the appointment of laureated poet, to which he was inaugurated, according to the ancient custom, in the common-room of Trinity College, Oxford. His duty was to celebrate a lady chosen as lady patroness, and Warton performed his task crowned with a wreath of laurel. In 1757, he was elected professor of poetry, as his father had formerly been in the same university. On the demise of Whitehead in 1785, the laureateship was conferred on him by command of George the Third. He was quizzed as his predecessor had been, and, like him, laughed at the jesters; and he gradually turned their scoffs to approbation by his equanimity and the merit of his performances. Warton had not only the wit to be diverted by probationary odes in mockery of his own, which he valued at less than they were worth, but he had temper to endure the malignant scurrility of Ritson, in reference to more important labours, with no severer remark than that he was a black-lettered dog. A portion of his later days was devoted to a labour of love – an edition of the juvenile poems of Milton, with copious notes. Though of sedentary college habits, and a free liver, he enjoyed vigorous health to the age of 62: he then broke down. He went to Bath with the gout, and returned, as he thought, in an improved condition. The evening of May 20, 1790, he passed cheerfully in the common-room, but, before midnight, he was stricken with paralysis, and the next day he was a corpse.

Henry James Pye, who was of a family of which the founder is stated to have come to England with the Conqueror, was likewise representative, by the female line, of the patriot Hampden. In 1784, he was returned to parliament as member for Berkshire. But the expense of the contest ruined him, and he was obliged to sell his estate; and even the slender salary of a laureate was not unacceptable when it fell in his way. Besides his official odes, he produced numerous works, epic, dramatic, and lyric, and also published several translations, and a corrected edition of Francis's Horace. The reader will be content if we pass all these with the remark that he was a respectable writer, a good London police-magistrate, and an honourable gentleman in a less equivocal sense than the parliamentary style. As factor of annual odes for the court, he was, of course, scurvily used by the wags. The joke on "Pindar, Pye, et parvus Pybus," was once in every body's mouth. He died in 1813, and was succeeded by

Robert Southey, who held the office for thirty years; and this prolonged tenure of it, still longer than Cibber's, by a man of unimpeachable worth and distinguished genius, is a happy set-off against the disgrace which frightened Gray, and made him refuse it. The concession proposed to Gray, that he should write only when and what he chose, was also virtually, though not formally, yielded to Southey. "The performance of the annual odes," he says, "had been suspended from the time of George the Third's illness in 1810, and fell completely into disuse. Thus terminated a custom more honoured in the breach than the observance." How is it that we have yet no biography of Southey? It is rumoured that his only surviving son, the Reverend Cuthbert Southey, has one in preparation. We hope that the report is true, and that it will contain abundance of his father's delightful letters, and be published soon. Bis dat qui cito dat, – that is, not that a book should be got up in a hurry, but that, after a delay of five years, the reasonable expectation of Robert Southey's admirers and regretters should be now promptly gratified.

We began with the earliest of laureates and the latest, – Apollo and the venerable Wordsworth, – and with them we will conclude. In a snug nook, sheltered from the north and east winds by Helvellyn, and Fairfield, Wordsworth has for many years cultivated his own laurels with success, till he is absolutely imbowered in them. The original slip, from which all this throng of greenery has sprung, is said to have been a cutting from a scion of the bay-tree planted by Petrarch at the tomb of Virgil, which tree was unquestionably derived from the undying root of that which supplied leaves for the garland of Apollo, and assuaged the divinity of his brow, when, as we reminded the reader at our outset on this ramble, he hired himself as poet-laureate to King Admetus, on a daily stipend of a hornful of milk.

THE HORSE-DEALER – A TALE OF DENMARK

BY CHRISTIAN WINTHER

The King of Sweden, Charles X., lay with his army before Copenhagen. His generals, the young Prince of Sulzbach and Count Steenbock, besieged the city, and his troops showed themselves worthy sons of the famous Thirty Years' War. The system of cruelty and extortion that had characterised their Polish and German campaigns was renewed in Denmark, and with the greater fierceness that national antipathy served at once as pretext and stimulus to the soldier's lust of blood and plunder. And thus was it that upon the island of Funen scenes were enacted, whose frightful record, handed down by history, now appears scarcely credible. Men and women, priests and laymen, old and young, the humble and the illustrious, were subjected to the grossest ill-treatment, either to extort money, or as punishment for not possessing it. Amongst the Danes themselves mutual fear and mistrust existed; for individuals were not wanting who, through fear, or in hope of profit, played openly or secretly into the hands of the enemy. And, to add to the desolation the Swedes brought with them, the inhabitants had scarcely yet recovered the ravages of a pestilence, which had disappeared from their shores but a few years previously. Whether it was the king's absence from the island, or a notion in the Swedes' mind that they would soon have to leave the country, which rendered the soldiery so unbridled in their excesses, certain it is, that the scourge of war made itself more severely felt than ever towards the end of the year 1659. The doubtful sort of succour afforded by the Dutch fleet was chiefly confined to Zealand, and it was small consolation to the people of Funen to see the proud ships of the rich republic cruising in the Belt and Cattegat. The scanty intelligence from the capital, which in summer some bold boatman occasionally brought over, was not always to be relied upon, seldom or never satisfactory, and ceased altogether when winter came, and dark and stormy nights rendered the navigation between the islands impracticable for small craft.

At a moderate distance from the town of Nyeborg, on the east coast of Funen, stands the village of Vinding, one of whose richest inhabitants, at the time of the Swedish occupation, was a certain Thor Hansen. He had a son, called, of course, Hans Thorsen – for in that country the names of the peasants are like a pair of gloves, which, when turned inside out, change their places, so that the right becomes the left and the left the right; and with this transposition names are handed down from generation to generation, never becoming out of fashion. In Thor Hansen's house dwelt a young girl, a distant relative of his own; and although Christina's sole dowry was her pretty cherry-cheeked countenance, and her comely healthy person, he had preferred her to all others for his daughter-in-law. Many might marvel at such a choice, especially those who know that the Danish peasant is at least as proud of his hide of land and nook of garden as the noble of his wide estates, or the wealthy merchant of his well-stored warehouses, and that marriages, unsuitable in a pecuniary point of view, are as rare in that country as in any other in the world. But on this head Thor Hansen thought differently from his fellows. He saw that Christina was a smart active girl, who, young though she was, had kept his house after his wife's death with all care and industry, had milked his cows, cooked his oatmeal, and spun his flax. As to the son Hans, of nothing in the world was he more desirous than to get Christina for his wife; and Christina, when father and son opened their minds to her, could scarcely answer for joy. Thus all were agreed, and the old man already thought of making over his land to his son, and of settling down to pass the rest of his days in peace and the chimney corner. The wedding-day was fixed, the fish and saffron for the soup were purchased, when suddenly the Swede arrived. This unexpected and unwelcome intrusion disturbed the plans of many. With lamentation throughout the land, few thought of joy and merry-making; and a wedding, essentially the most joyous of festivals, would have been out of keeping with the universal misery. Partly influenced by a feeling of this kind, and partly by other circumstances, old Thor Hansen resolved to postpone the projected marriage, and the young people silently acquiesced.

Amidst the general misery and suffering, Thor Hansen might be considered highly favoured, as compared with many others. For sergeant Jon Svartberg, of the first regiment of Finland horse, who had quartered himself upon the best house in the village, namely, upon that of Hansen, was milder-mannered and of gentler heart than the majority of his brethren in arms. Not but that he did honour to his military schooling in Germany and Poland, and resembled a bear far oftener than a lamb: he required much, and exacted it rigorously; but still there was a limit to his demands, and when these were complied with, the persons he was quartered upon had not to fear the wanton torments and ill treatment which drive the oppressed to despair. The smart young sergeant certainly deemed himself the first person in the house, and expected to be treated as such; but, that conceded, he asked no more. He stood up for what he considered his rights, and no one must infringe upon them. One quality he had, which perhaps contributed to soften and humanise his nature – he was a devoted admirer of the gentler sex. Nor was he deficient in the qualities that frequently find favour with women. A handsome well-grown fellow with golden hair, and a fresh complexion, somewhat weathered by campaigns; his lofty leathern helmet, his blue facings and broad yellow bandelier, with brightly burnished buckles, his tall boots and jingling spurs, became him well; in manner he was frank and joyous, and when he laughed, which was often and loud, a row of ivory teeth showed themselves beneath his light brown beard, and his blue eyes had a bold and amorous sparkle. Confident in these various recommendations, which had perhaps already, in other countries, procured him the favour of the fair, Svartberg cherished the notion of his invincibility, and flattered himself he had but to appear to overcome all rivals and conquer all hearts. That he had completely gained that of Christina, and that it was ready at any moment to beat the chamade and surrender at discretion, he did not for an instant doubt. To say nothing of his personal recommendations, he had never, during the whole time he had been master in Thor Hansen's house, seen the least sign of a rival. This arose from the circumstance that Hans and Christina had kept their engagement a secret from the soldier, as if some instinct or internal voice had told them that his acquaintance with it might prove for them the source of great vexation and suffering. To maintain the disguise, however, was no easy or pleasant task. Many consider it a very hard case when two lovers are prevented seeing each other as often as they wish but how much more painful must it be to have to feign coldness in presence of a third person, and on his account? The young people felt that the innocent familiarities of betrothed lovers would have been highly displeasing to the enamoured Swede, – and deeply enamoured he was, as none, having eyes, could fail to see. So Hans and Christina were fain to be on their guard, except at such hours as the sergeant was on duty, or when they worked together in farm or garden. When Svartberg was at home, he was continually after Christina – paying her compliments, cutting jokes, taking her by the chin, catching her round the waist and making her waltz round the room, stealing her slippers as she sat spinning, and playing other witty pranks of a similar kind.

It was a November evening, and for those acquainted with that season in the island of Funen, it is unnecessary to say that the night was a rough one. The gale drove black masses of clouds across the sky, and roared and whistled through the small thicket, composed of a score of venerable oak trees mingled with hazel bushes, that grew at a short distance from Thor Hansen's little garden. At that time there was still a great deal of oak and beach timber in the neighbourhood of Nyeborg, of which now scarce a vestige remains; and this small group of trees, bounded on the north by a rivulet, lay within the limits of the old man's farm. Although the night was dreary and cheerless out of doors, it was warm and snug in Thor Hansen's cottage. Thor himself sat on one side the huge fireplace, comfortably sunk in an old cushioned chair; opposite to him Christina had taken her station, and was busy with her distaff. Between them hung a large four-cornered iron lantern; and upon the end of a bench Hans had seated himself, in such a position that he could conveniently throw his arm round the young girl's waist. Moreover, his cheek rested upon her shoulder, and in this agreeable attitude he kept up an incessant whispering, only interrupting the stream of his volubility to snatch an occasional kiss from her ruddy cheek.

"But how know you all that, Hans?" said the maiden, who for some time had listened with deep attention to her lover's words. "Who told you?"

"Not so loud, darling!" replied Hans; "I do not want the old man to hear it yet: the thing is uncertain, and the result still more so. My father becomes each day more anxious, so that I am almost uneasy lest in his terror he should himself throw you into the arms of the accursed Swede, if things looked dangerous."

"The accursed Swede?" repeated Christina; "he deserves not the word at your hands. He has done us much service, and no harm. When I think of my uncle's two poor girls, and of the many others who have shared their lot, I deem myself most lucky, and so should you, that our roof covers so gentle a foe."

"Certainly," replied Hans. "God knows, I do think myself lucky, and wish Svartberg no manner of harm in the main, but, on the contrary, every thing that is good, save and except yourself. But listen further. I fell in this afternoon with a couple of peasants from the plain; they had stopped at the public-house to bait, and had been doing work for Count Steenbock. Whilst the dragoons, whom they accompanied with their carts, sat and drank in the tavern, I got into discourse with these two men. I had noticed them whispering together, and looking carefully about them, and felt sure there was something up, – something they knew of, and which the Swede did not. I questioned the oldest of them, and at last he told me that the rumour of powerful and speedy succour was abroad in the country: he had his information more particularly from Martin Thy; he had seen him not far from the Odensee, standing at a forge, and bargaining with Swedish officers about a horse."