Part 1

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THIRTY LETTERS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS. IN TWO VOLUMES. =VOL.= II.

LONDON: Printed for T. CADELL, and T. EVANS, in the Strand; and B. THORN and SON, in EXETER. MDCCLXXXIII.

CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

LETTER PAGE

XIX. _Criticism on Quarles_ 5

XX. _On Warm Colouring_ 27

XXI. _A false Principle in Painting exposed_ 32

XXII. _Passages in Shakspeare explained_ 41

XXIII. _Petition of_ TO _and_ THE 49

XXIV. _On Self-Production_ 56

XXV. _Some Phrases explained_ 71

XXVI. _Obstructions in the Way of Fame_ 77

XXVII. _On Alliteration and Literation_ 82

XXVIII. _On common Superstitions_ 88

XXIX. _Wrong Representations of the Solar System_ 92

XXX. _Criticism on Quarles concluded_ 103

LETTERS.

=LETTER= XIX.

There was never a poet more admired in his life or more despised after his death than Quarles. He was patronized by the best of his age while living, and when dead was first criticised, then contemned, and last of all totally forgotten, unless when some bard wanted a name of one syllable to fill up a list of miserable rhymers. Pope was the last who made this use of him, and at the same time, in a note, abused Benlowes for being his patron. I think it is Sir Philip Sidney who says that no piece was ever a favourite of the common people without merit. Now, though every thing I had heard of Quarles was much in his disfavour, I could not help thinking but that he had something good in him, from my never seeing one of his books of emblems that was not worn to rags; a sign of its being read a good deal, unless it may be imagined that it was so used by children in turning over the prints. Be that as it may, I have perused as much of him as a very dirty tattered book would give me leave, and will risque the declaring, that where he is good, I know but few poets better. He has a great deal of genuine fire, is frequently happy in similies, admirable in epithets and compound words, very smooth in his versification, so different from the poets of his own age; and possessed that great qualification of keeping you in perpetual alarm, so very different from the elegant writers of the present times.

I have run through his book of emblems to select some passages for your observation—they are buried, it must be confessed, in a heap of rubbish, but are of too much value not to be worth some pains in recovering.—Where Quarles is bad, “he sounds the very base-string of humility”—but this may be said of Shakspeare and Milton as well.—I mean not to put him in the same rank with these two poets; he has a much greater proportion of bad to good than is to be found in them, so much indeed as almost to prevent his good from appearing at all. My intention is to clear some of his shining passages of their incumbrances; which may occasion their being noticed, and preserved from oblivion.

What think you of the following similies?

Look how the stricken hart that wounded flies Oe’r hills and dales, and seeks the lower grounds For running streams, the whilst his weeping eyes Beg silent mercy from the following hounds; At length, embost, he droops, drops down, and lies Beneath the burthen of his bleeding wounds: Ev’n so my gasping soul, dissolv’d in tears, &c.

EMB. 11. BOOK IV.

Mark how the widow’d turtle, having lost The faithful partner of her loyal heart, Stretches her feeble wings from coast to coast, Hunts ev’ry path; thinks ev’ry shade doth part Her absent love and her; at length, unsped, She re-betakes her to her lonely bed, And there bewails her everlasting widow-head.

EMB. 12. BOOK IV.

Look how the sheep, whose rambling steps do stray From the safe blessing of her shepherd’s eyes, Eft-soon becomes the unprotected prey To the wing’d squadron of beleag’ring flies; Where swelt’red with the scorching beams of day She frisks from bush to brake, and wildly flies away From her own self, ev’n of herself afraid; She shrouds her troubled brows in ev’ry glade And craves the mercy of the soft removing shade.

EMB. 14. BOOK IV.

The first, will probably remind you of Shakspeare’s description of the wounded stag in _As you like it_; which it may do, and not suffer by the comparison. The second, is very original in the expression—the circumstance of

——thinks _every shade_ doth part Her absent love and her——

is I believe new, and exquisitely tender. There are others not much inferior to these.

The following verses allude to the print prefixed, where a bubble is represented as heavier than the globe. It is necessary to observe, that the prints were designed first, and the poems are in a great measure explanatory of them.

Lord! what a world is this, which day and night Men seek with so much toil, with so much trouble, Which weigh’d in equal scales is found so light, So poorly overbalanc’d with a bubble? Good God! that frantic mortals should destroy Their higher hopes, and place their idle joy Upon such airy trash, upon so light a toy! * * * * *

Thrice happy he, whose nobler, thoughts despise To make an object of so easy gains; Thrice happy he, who scorns so poor a prize Should be the crown of his heroic pains: Thrice happy he, that ne’er was born to try Her frowns or smiles: or being born, did lie In his sad nurse’s arms an hour or two, and die.

EMB. 4. BOOK I.

Tho’ the considering mortality on the gloomy side, is not productive of much happiness, yet there are certain dispositions which feel some gratification in it—Quarles was one of these. He seizes all opportunities of abusing the world; and it must be confessed he has here done it in “choice and elegant terms.”

Sometimes he is more outrageous in his abuse.

Let wit, and all her studied plots effect The best they can; Let smiling fortune prosper and perfect What wit began; Let earth advise with both, and so project A happy man; Let wit or fawning fortune vie their best; He may be blest With all that earth can give; but earth Can give no rest.

EMB. 6. BOOK I.

Again—

False world, thou ly’st: thou canst not lend The least delight: Thy favours cannot gain a friend, They are so slight: Thy morning-pleasures make an end To please at night: Poor are the wants that thou supply’st: And yet thou vaunt’st, and yet thou vy’st With heav’n; fond earth, thou boast’st, False world, thou ly’st.

EMB. 5. BOOK II.

The next quotation is an allusion to the print, where the world is made a mirror.

Believe her not, her glass diffuses False portraitures—— Were thy dimensions but a stride, Nay, wert thou statur’d but a span, Such as the long-bill’d troops defy’d, A very fragment of a man!

Had surfeits, or th’ ungracious star Conspir’d to make one common place Of all deformities that are Within the volume of thy face, She’d lend the favour shou’d out-move The Troy-bane Helen, or the Queen of Love.

EMB. 6. BOOK II.

This is finely wrought up—Quarles perfectly comprehended the effect of the musical _crescendo_, which is instanced particularly in the last passage.

There is something very dreadful in the 4th line of this stanza.

See how the latter trumpet’s dreadful blast Affrights stout Mars his trembling son! See how he startles! how he stands aghast, And scrambles from his melting throne! Hark! how the direful hand of vengeance tears The swelt’ring clouds, whilst Heav’n appears A circle fill’d with flame, and center’d with his fears.

EMB. 9. BOOK II.

Dr. Young has some lines on this subject which are by some much admired.—But tho’ the subject be the same, it is differently circumstanced.—Young’s is a general description of the last judgment, Quarles describes its effect on a single being who is supposed to have lived fearless of such an event.

————At the destin’d hour, By the loud trumpet summon’d to the charge, See all the formidable sons of fire, Eruptions, earthquakes, comets, lightnings, play Their various engines; all at once disgorge Their blazing magazines; and take by storm This poor terrestrial citadel of man. Amazing period! when each mountain height Out-burns Vesuvius! rocks eternal pour Their melted mass, as rivers once they pour’d; Stars rush, and final _Ruin_ fiercely drives Her plough-share o’er creation.——

Now to me, all this is a “pestilent congregation of vapour.”——The formidable sons of fire spewing out blazing magazines—and _Ruin_ like a plough-man (or rather plough-woman) driving _her_ plough-share—are mean, incoherent images. How much more sublimely Quarles expresses the same, and indeed some additional ones, in the last three lines?

In the print belonging to the emblem from which the following is taken, is a figure striking a globe with his knuckles.—The motto, _Tinnit, inane est_.

She’s empty—hark! she sounds—there’s nothing there But noise to fill thy ear; Thy vain enquiry can at length but find A blast of murm’ring wind: It is a cask, that seems, as full as fair, But merely tunn’d with air; Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds: The soul that vainly sounds Her joys upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds!

EMB. 10. BOOK II.

But that you may not think the good passages of this poet are only scattered unequally through his poems; take some entire ones—or nearly so.

What sullen star rul’d my untimely birth, That would not lend my days one hour of mirth? How oft’ have these bare knees been bent to gain The slender alms of one poor smile in vain? How often, tir’d with the fastidious light, Have my faint lips implor’d the shades of night? How often have my nightly torments pray’d For ling’ring twilight, glutted with the shade? Day worse than night, night worse than day appears, In sighs I spend my nights, my days in tears: I moan unpity’d, groan without relief, There is no end nor measure of my grief. The smiling flow’r salutes the day; it grows Untouch’d with care; it neither spins nor sows: O that my tedious life were like this flow’r, Or freed from grief, or finish’d with an hour: Why was I born? why was I born a man? And why proportion’d by so large a span? Or why suspended by the common lot, And being born to die, why die I not? Ah me! why is my sorrow-wasted breath Deny’d the easy privilege of death? The branded slave, that tugs the weary oar, Obtains the sabbath of a welcome shore. His ransom’d stripes are heal’d; his native soil Sweetens the mem’ry of his foreign toil: But ah! my sorrows are not half so blest; My labour finds no point, my pains no rest.

* * * * *

Thou just observer of our flying hours, That with thy adamantine fangs, devours The brazen mon’ments of renowned kings, Doth thy glass stand? or be thy moulting wings Unapt to flie? if not, why dost thou spare A willing breast; a breast that stands so fair? A dying breast, that hath but only breath To beg the wound, and strength to crave a death? O that the pleased heav’ns would once dissolve These fleshly fetters, that so fast involve My hamper’d soul; then would my soul be blest From all those ills, and wrap her thoughts in rest!

* * * * *

EMB. 15. BOOK III.

At other times he complains of the shortness of life, and in strains equally pathetic.

My glass is half unspent; forbear t’arrest My thriftless day too soon: my poor request Is that my glass may run but out the rest.

My time-devoured minutes will be done Without thy help; see—see how swift they run: Cut not my thread before my thread be spun.

The gain’s not great I purchase by this stay; What loss sustain’st thou by so small delay, To whom ten thousand years are but a day?

My following eye can hardly make a shift To count my winged hours; they fly so swift, They scarce deserve the bounteous name of gift.

The secret wheels of hurrying time do give So short a warning, and so fast they drive, That I am dead before I seem to live.

And what’s a life? a weary pilgrimage, Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age.

And what’s a life? the flourishing array Of the proud summer-meadow, which to-day Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.

Read on this dial, how the shades devour My short-liv’d winter’s day; hour eats up hour; Alas! the total’s but from eight to four.

Behold these lilies, which thy hands have made Fair copies of my life, and open laid To view, how soon they droop, how soon they fade!

Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon; My non-aged day already points to noon; How simple is my suit! how small my boon!

Nor do I beg this slender inch, to while The time away, or falsely to beguile My thoughts with joy; here’s nothing worth a smile.

No, no, ’tis not to please my wanton ears With frantic mirth; I beg but hours, not years: And what thou giv’st me, I will give to tears!

* * * * *

EMB. 13. BOOK III.

“Read on _this_ dial”—“Behold _these_ lilies”—does not this put you in mind of the same form of expression in Ossian? “His spear was like _that_ blasted fir.”

Quarles was commenting on his print in which the dial and lilies were represented; Ossian saw his images “in his mind’s eye”——but both the poets considered them as really existing—at least, they make them exist to their readers.

“How the shades devour,” &c. Shakspeare has the same figure

——————the tide _Eats_ not the flats with more impetuous haste

it is wonderfully expressive!

In what he calls his hieroglyphics, Quarles compares man to a taper, which furnishes him with a number of very striking allusions. It is at first unlighted, then a hand from heaven touches it with fire—the motto, _Nescius unde_.

This flame-expecting taper hath at length Received fire, and now begins to burn: It hath no vigour yet, it hath no strength; Apt to be puft and quencht at every turn: It was a gracious hand that thus endow’d This snuff with flame: but mark, this hand doth shroud Itself from mortal eyes, and folds it in a cloud.

Thus man begins to live. An unknown flame Quickens his finished organs, now possest With motion; and which motion doth proclaim An active soul, though in a feeble breast: But how, and when infus’d, ask not my pen; Here flies a cloud before the eyes of men, I cannot tell thee how, nor canst thou tell me when.

Was it a parcel of celestial fire, Infus’d by heav’n into this fleshly mould? Or was it, think you, made a soul entire? Then, was it new created, or of old? Or is’t a propagated spark, rak’d out From nature’s embers? while we go about By reason to resolve, the more we raise a doubt.

If it be part of that celestial flame, It must be ev’n as pure, as free from spot, As that eternal fountain whence it came; If pure and spotless, then whence came the blot? Itself being pure, could not itself defile; Nor hath unactive matter pow’r to soil Her pure and active form, as jars corrupt their oil.

Or if it were created, tell me when? If in the first six days, where kept ’till now? Or if thy soul were new-created, then Heav’n did not all at first, he had to do: Six days expired, all creation ceast; All kinds, ev’n from the greatest to the least, Were finish’d and compleat before the day of rest.

But why should man, the Lord of creatures, want That privilege which plants and beasts obtain? Beasts bring forth beasts, and plant a perfect plant; And ev’ry like brings forth her like again; Shall fowls and fishes, beasts and plants convey Life to their issue, and man less than they? Shall these get living souls, and man dead lumps of clay?

Must human souls be generated then?—— My water ebbs; behold a rock is nigh: If nature’s work produce the souls of men, Man’s soul is mortal—all that’s born must die. What shall we then conclude! what sunshine will Disperse this gloomy cloud? till then, be still My vainly striving thoughts; lie down my puzzled quill.

HIEROGLYPH. 2.

The closeness of the reasoning, and the freedom of the verses cannot be enough admired. I believe it would be difficult if not impossible to reason so shortly and yet so clearly in prose. Pope says the thoughts in his Essay on Man are in less compass for their being in verse. The poetical language admits of elisions and other varieties we cannot have in prose. This poem is followed by another, before which is a design of the winds blowing the flame of the taper, with this motto, “_The wind passeth over it, and it is gone!_”

No sooner is this lighted Taper set Upon the transitory stage Of eye-bedark’ning night, But it is straight subjected to the threat Of envious winds, whose wasteful rage Disturbs her peaceful light, And makes her substance waste, and makes her flame less bright.

No sooner are we born, no sooner come To take possession of this vast, This soul-afflicting earth, But danger meets us at the very womb; And sorrow with her full-mouth’d blast Salutes our painful birth To put out all our joys, and puff out all our mirth.

Nor infant innocence, nor childish tears, Nor youthful wit, nor manly pow’r, Nor politic old age, Nor virgins pleading, nor the widows pray’rs, Nor lowly cell, nor lofty tow’r, Nor prince, nor peer, nor page, Can ’scape this common blast, nor curb her stormy rage.

* * * * *

Tost to and fro, our frighted thoughts are driv’n With ev’ry puff, with ev’ry tide Of life-consuming care; Our peaceful flame, that would point up to heav’n Is still disturb’d and turn’d aside; And ev’ry blast of air Commits such waste in man, as man cannot repair.

* * * * *

What may this sorrow-shaken life present To the false relish of our taste That’s worth the name of sweet? Her minute’s pleasure’s choak’d with discontent, Her glory soil’d with ev’ry blast— How many dangers meet Poor man betwixt the biggin and the winding sheet!

HIEROGLYPH. 3.

Tho’ I have purposely omitted pointing out many of the particular beauties of these poems, I would wish you to observe, in this last, the fine effect of compound words in which this author is so happy: also the noble swell in the third stanza—the application of his allegory to its meaning, in the fourth, where the expression so admirably suits with both “our peaceful flame, &c.”——if these are not genuine strokes of genius, I must, as a great critic says on a like occasion, acknowledge my ignorance of such subjects. I wish we had some word in our language to express the same idea in poetry as _crescendo_ does in music; swell is applied to so many other purposes, that it has not the effect of an appropriated term.

But for the present I must quit the subject—in a little time expect the remainder of my observations on this poet.

=LETTER= XX.

Every one seems to be satisfied that warm colouring is essential to a good picture: but what _is_ warm colouring is not determined. Some have joined the idea of warmth to yellow, others to red, others to the compound of both, the orange—they also differ in the degrees of each. A warm picture to some, is cold to others; and vice versa. Lambert’s idea of warmth, was to make his pictures appear as if they were behind a yellow glass. Vanbloom’s have a red glass before them. Both’s an orange colour. Each has its admirers, who condemn the rest.

Who shall decide when Doctors disagree?

Nature. All these hues are right as _particulars_, but wrong as _universals_.

Let us examine the different appearances of light from the dawn to noon. The first break of day is a cold light in the East—this, by degrees, is tinged with purple, which grows redder and redder until the purple is lost in orange—the orange in yellow, and before the sun is two degrees high, the yellow is changed to white. Invert the order of these, and it is the coming on of the evening. All these hues then exist in nature, and one is just as right as the other.

It is necessary to distinguish between the painter’s _warmth_, and the sensation. A picture, that has most warmth of colouring, represents that time of the day when we feel least. A true representation of noon must have no tinge of yellow or red in the sky; and yet from its being noon, one might be led to imagine it must be _warm_. It is the critic, and not the artist, which confounds the meaning of these terms. In like manner, summer and winter, in respect to light, are just the same: the sun rises and sets as gorgeously in December, if the weather be clear, as in June. I remember seeing two pictures of Cuyp, companions—one, a cattle piece in summer; the other, winter with figures skaiting. The sky in both was equally _warm_, for which the painter was much censured by an auction-connoisseur, who declared that it was impossible the sky could be _warm_ in winter.

I believe it is a common mistake to apply the red and purple tints to the morning, and the orange and yellow to the evening. We hear pictures of Claude called mornings and evenings, which may be either. It is really odd enough, that there should not be a single circumstance to distinguish the morning from the evening, unless it be in a view of a particular place—in this case, the reversing of the light shews the difference. In a picture, there is no distinction between going to work, or milking, or returning from it—men ride, drive cattle, are fishing, &c. as well early as late.

These considerations should soften the peremptory style of some judges, and extend their taste, which at present seems much confined. We have seen that there are more natural hues than one or two. I will allow them to say, that a picture is too warm, too cold, too red, too yellow to please them, but let them not deny that these hues are all in nature, and that well-managed they are all pictoresque.

=LETTER= XXI.