As at the approach of winter, all With great men, and hard times come on, In Rome no temple was so low All smatterers are more brisk and pert [To his Mistress.] Do not unjustly blame My guiltless breast, For venturing to disclose a flame It had so long supprest. In its own ashes it design'd For ever to have lain; But that my sighs, like blasts of wind, CHARLES COTTON. Thus do we rise ill sights to see, To the exact discoverer. Yet more and more he smiles upon Why should we then suspect or fear So smiles upon us the first morn, Than the best fortunes that do fall; 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 troutfishing. 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 Countess Dowager of Ardglass, [In his eighty-third year, Walton professed a resolution to who possessed a jointure of £1500 a-year. It does begin a pilgrimage of more than a hundred miles into a country not appear, however, that Cotton ever got out of then the most difficult and hazardous that can be conceived for his difficulties. The lady's fortune was secured an aged man to travel in, to visit his friend Cotton, and, doubtfrom his mismanagement, and the poet died insol-less, to enjoy his favourite diversion of angling in the delightful vent. His happy, careless disposition, seems to have streams of the Dove. To this journey he seems to have been enabled him to study, angle, and delight his friends, with other of his poems in 1689, and addressed to his dear and invited by Mr Cotton in the following beautiful stanzas, printed 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 Mr Campbell remarks, the manner of Anstey in the 'New Bath Guide.' As a poet, Cotton may be ranked with Andrew Marvell. [The New Year.] Hark, the cock crows, and yon bright star [Invitation to Izaak Walton.] most worthy friend, Mr Izaak Walton.] Whilst in this cold and blustering clime, Where bleak winds howl, and tempests roar, Of this dead quarter of the year, In this estate, I say, it is Some comfort to us to suppose, That in a better clime than this, You, our dear friend, have more repose; 353 23 And some delight to me the while, Though nature now does weep in rain, To think that I have seen her smile, And haply may I do again. If the all-ruling Power please We live to see another May, We'll recompense an age of these Foul days in one fine fishing day. We then shall have a day or two, Perhaps a week, wherein to try What the best master's hand can do With the most deadly killing fly. A day with not too bright a beam; A warm, but not a scorching sun; A southern gale to curl the stream; And, master, half our work is done. Then, whilst behind some bush we wait The scaly people to betray, We'll prove it just, with treacherous bait, To make the preying trout our prey; And think ourselves, in such an hour, Happier than those, though not so high, Who, like leviathans, devour Of meaner men the smaller fry. This, my best friend, at my poor home, Shall be our pastime and our theme; But then-should you not deign to come, You make all this a flattering dream. [A Welsh Guide.] [From A Voyage to Ireland.'] The sun in the morning disclosed his light, Now, such as the beast was, even such was the rider, A voice like a cricket, a look like a rat, The brains of a goose, and the heart of a cat; Good God! how sweet are all things here! How cleanly do we feed and lie! What peace, what unanimity! Oh, how happy here's our leisure ! By turns to come and visit ye! Dear Solitude, the soul's best friend, That man acquainted with himself dost make, And all his Maker's wonders to intend, With thee I here converse at will, And would be glad to do so still, For it is thou alone that keep'st the soul awake. How calm and quiet a delight Is it, alone, To read, and meditate, and write, By none offended, and offending none ! To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease, And, pleasing a man's self, none other to displease. O my beloved nymph, fair Dove, Upon thy flowery banks to lie, And with my angle, upon them I ever learn'd, industriously to try! Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show; To vie priority; Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoin'd, submit, O my beloved rocks, that rise Giddy with pleasure, to look down; What safety, privacy, what true delight, Your gloomy entrails make, Ev'n such was my guide and his beast; let them pass, How oft, when grief has made me fly, The one for a horse, and the other an ass. The Retirement. Stanzas Irreguliers, to Mr Izaak Walton. Farewell, thou busy world, and may We never meet again; Here I can eat, and sleep, and pray, And do more good in one short day Than he who his whole age out-wears Upon the most conspicuous theatres, Where nought but vanity and vice appears. To hide me from society, E'en of my dearest friends, have I, In your recesses' friendly shade, And my most secret woes intrusted to your privacy! Should I think myself to be; Might I in this desert place 354 The EARL OF ROSCOMMON (1633-1684) was the nephew and godson of the celebrated Earl of Strafford. He travelled abroad during the civil war, and returned at the time of the Restoration, when he was made captain of the band of pensioners, and subsequently master of the horse to the Duchess of York. Roscommon, like Denham, was addicted to gambling; but he cultivated his taste for literature, and produced a poetical Essay on Translated Verse, a translation of Horace's Art of Poetry,' and some other minor pieces. He planned, in conjunction with Dryden, a scheme for refining our language and fixing its standard; but, while meditating on this and similar topics connected with literature, the arbitrary measures of James II. caused public alarm and commotion. Roscommon, dreading the result, prepared to retire to Rome, saying 'It was best to sit near the chimney when the chamber smoked.' An attack of gout prevented the poet's departure, and he died in 1684. At the moment in which he expired,' says Johnson, he uttered, with an energy of voice that expressed the most fervent devotion, two lines of his own version of "Dies Iræ”— My God, my Father, and my Friend, The only work of Roscommon's which may be said [The Modest Muse.] With how much ease is a young maid betray'd- Immodest words admit of no defence, What moderate fop would rake the park or stews, Yet 'tis not all to have a subject good; [Caution against False Pride.] On sure foundations let your fabric rise, [An Author must Feel what he Writes.] I pity, from my soul, unhappy men, Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce, But what they feel transport them when they write. But though we must obey when heaven commands, While he with eager force urg'd his impetuous way! On the Day of Judgment. [Version of the Dies Iræ."] That day of wrath, that dreadful day, What horror will invade the mind, The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound, And view the Judge with conscious eyes. Then shall, with universal dread, The Judge ascends his awful throne ; Thou mighty formidable King, Forget not what my ransom cost, Nor let my dear-bought soul be lost * Prostrate my contrite heart I rend, My God, my Father, and my Friend, Do not forsake me in my end! Well may they curse their second breath, EARL OF ROCHESTER. JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER (1647-1680), is known principally from his having (to use the figurative language of Johnson) blazed out his youth and his health in lavish voluptuousness,' and died from physical exhaustion and decay at the age of thirty-three. Like most of the courtiers of the day, Rochester travelled in France and Italy. He was at sea with the Earl of Sandwich and Sir Edward Spragge, and distinguished himself for bravery. In the heat of an engagement, he went to carry a message in an open boat amidst a storm of shot. This manliness of character forsook Rochester in England, for he was accused of betraying cowardice in street quarrels, and he refused to fight with the Duke of Buckingham. In the profligate court of Charles, Rochester was the most profligate; his intrigues, his low amours and disguises, his erecting a stage and playing the mountebank on Tower-hill, and his having been five years in a state of inebriety, are circumstances well-known and partly admitted by himself. It is remarkable, however, that his domestic letters, which were published a few years ago, show him in a totally different light-tender, playful, and alive to all the affections of a husband, a father, and a son.' His repentance itself says something for the natural character of the unfortunate profligate. To judge from the memoir left by Dr Burnet, who was his lordship's spiritual guide on his deathbed, it was sincere and unreserved. We may, therefore, with some confidence, set down Rochester as one of those whose vices are less the effect of an inborn tendency, than of external corrupting circumstances. It may fairly be said of him, Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.' His poems consist of slight effusions, thrown off without labour. Many of them are so very licentious as to be unfit for publication; but in one of these, he has given in one line a happy character of Charles II. A merry monarch, scandalous, and poor. His songs are sweet and musical. Rochester wrote a poem Upon Nothing, which is merely a string of puns and conceits. It opens, however, with a fine image Nothing! thou elder brother ev'n to shade, Song. While on those lovely looks I gaze, To see a wretch pursuing, Your slave from death removing, [Constancy-a Song.] I cannot change as others do, Though you unjustly scorn; Since that poor swain that sighs for you, No, Phillis, no; your heart to move And, to revenge my slighted love, Will still love on, will still love on, and die. When kill'd with grief Amyntas lies, The sighs that now unpitied rise, The tears that vainly fall; That welcome hour that ends this smart For such a faithful tender heart Can never break, can never break in vain. Song. Too late, alas! I must confess, You need not arts to move me; Such charins by nature you possess, "Twere madness not to love you. Then spare a heart you may surprise, And give my tongue the glory To boast, though my unfaithful eyes Betray a tender story. Song. My dear mistress has a heart Soft as those kind looks she gave me, And her eyes, she did enslave me. She's so wild and apt to wander, Killing pleasures, wounding blisses; And her lips can warm with kisses. She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; Should we live one day asunder. A few specimens of Rochester's letters to his wife and son are subjoined :— I am very glad to hear news from you, and I think it very good when I hear you are well; pray be pleased to send me word what you are apt to be pleased with, that I may show you how good a husband I can be; I would not have you so formal as to judge of the kindness of a letter by the length of it, but believe of everything that it is as you would have it. Tis not an easy thing to be entirely happy; but to be kind is very easy, and that is the greatest measure of happiness. I say not this to put you in mind of being kind to me; you have practised that so long, that I have a joyful confidence you will never forget it; but to show that I myself have a sense of what the methods of my life seemed so utterly to contradict, I must not be too wise about my own follies, or else this letter had been a book dedicated to you, and published to the world. It will be more pertinent to tell you, that very shortly the king goes to Newmarket, and then I shall wait on you at Adderbury; in the mean time, think of anything you would have me do, and I shall thank you for the occasion of pleasing you. Mr Morgan I have sent in this errand, because he plays the rogue here in town so extremely, that he is not to be endured; pray, if he behaves himself so at Adderbury, send me word, and let him stay till I send for him. Pray, let Ned come up to town; I have a little business with him, and he shall be back in a week. Wonder not that I have not written to you all this while, for it was hard for me to know what to write upon several accounts; but in this I will only desire you not to be too much amazed at the thoughts my mother has of you, since, being mere imaginations, they will as easily vanish, as they were groundlessly erected; for my own part, I will make it my endeavour they may. What you desired of me in your other letter, shall punctually have performed. You must, I think, obey my mother in her commands to wait on her at Aylesbury, as I told you in my last letter. I am very dull at this time, and therefore think it pity in this humour to testify myself to you any farther; only, dear wife, I am your humble servant-ROCHESTER. Run away like a rascal, without taking leave, dear wife; it is an unpolite way of proceeding, which a modest man ought to be ashamed of. I have left you a prey to your own imaginations, amongst my relations -the worst of damnations; but there will come an hour of deliverance, till when, may my mother be merciful to you; so I commit you to what shall ensue, woman to woman, wife to mother, in hopes of a future appearance in glory. The small share I could spare you out of my pocket, I have sent as a debt to Mrs Rowse. Within a week or ten days I will return you more pray write as often as you have leisure to your ROCHESTER. Remember me to Nan and my Lord Wilmot. You must present my service to my cousins. I intend to be at the wedding of my niece Ellen, if I hear of it. Excuse my ill paper, and very ill manners to my mother; they are both the best the place and age could afford. MY WIFE-The difficulties of pleasing your ladyship do increase so fast upon me, and are grown so numerous, that, to a man less resolved than myself never to give it over, it would appear a madness ever to attempt it more; but through your frailties mine ought not to multiply; you may, therefore, secure yourself that it will not be easy for you to put me out of my constant resolutions to satisfy you in all I can. I confess there is nothing will so much contribute to my assistance in this as your dealing freely with me; for since you have thought it a wise thing to trust me less and have reserves, it has been out of my power I intended them. At a distance, I am likeliest to learn to make the best of my proceedings effectual to what your mind, for you have not a very obliging way of delivering it by word of mouth; if, therefore, you will let me know the particulars in which I may be useful to you, I will show my readiness as to my own part; and if I fail of the success I wish, it shall not be the fault of-Your humble servant, ROCHESTER. I intend to be at Adderbury sometime next week. I hope, Charles, when you receive this, and know that I have sent this gentleman to be your tutor, you will be very glad to see I take such care of you, and be very grateful, which is best shown in being obedient and diligent. You are now grown big enough to be a man, and you can be wise enough; for the way to be truly wise is to serve God, learn your book, and observe the instructions of your parents first, and next your tutor, to whom I have entirely resigned you for this seven years, and according as you employ that time, you are to be happy or unhappy for ever; but I have so good an opinion of you, that I am glad to think you will never deceive me; dear child, learn your book and be obedient, and you shall see what a father I will be to you. You shall want no pleasure while you are good, and that you may be so are my constant prayers. ROCHESTER. |