The politic Florentine, Nicholas Machiavel, goeth still further, and affirmeth that a man needeth but to believe himself a hero to be one of the worthiest. "Let him," saith he, "but fancy himself capable of the highest things, and he will of course be able to achieve them." From this principle it follows, that nothing can exceed our hero's prowess, as nothing ever equalled the greatness of his conceptions. Hear how he constantly paragons himself: at one time to Alexander the Great and Charles XII. of Sweden, for the excess and delicacy of his ambition;1 to Henry IV. of France, for honest policy; to the first Brutus, for love of liberty; 3 and to Sir Robert Walpole, for good government while in power; at another time, to the godlike Socrates, for his diversions and amusements; to Horace, Montaigne, and Sir William Temple, for an elegant vanity that maketh them for ever read and admired: to two lord chancellors, for law, from whom, when confederate against him, at the bar, he carried away the prize of eloquence; and to say all in a word, to the right reverend the Lord Bishop of London himself, in the art of writing pastoral letters. 8 2 7 Nor did his actions fall short of the sublimity of his conceit. In his early youth he met the Revolution9 face to face in Nottingham; at a time when his betters contented themselves with following her. It was here he got acquainted with Old Battle-array, of whom he hath made so honourable mention in one of his immortal odes. But he shone in courts as well as in camps; he was called up when the nation fell in labour of this Revolution: 10 and was a gossip at her christening, with the bishop and the ladies.11 As to his birth, it is true he pretendeth no relation either to heathen god or goddess; but, what is as good, he was descended from a maker of both. 12 And that he did not pass himself on the world for a hero, as well by birth as ed ucation, was his own fault: for his lineage he bringeth into his life as an anecdote, and is sensible he had it in his power to be thought nobody's son at all: 13 and what is that but coming into the world a hero? But be it (the punctilious laws of epic poesy so requiring) that a hero of more than mortal birth must needs be had; even for this we have a remedy. We can easily derive our hero's pedigree from a goddess of no small power and authority amongst men; and legitimate and instal him after the right classical and authentic fashion: for, like as the ancient sages found a son of Mars in a might warrior; a son of Neptune in a skilful seaman; a son of Phoebus in a harmonious poet; so have we here, if need be, a son of Fortune in an artful gamester. And who fitter than the offspring of Chance, to assist in restoring the empire of Night and Chaos ? There is, in truth, another objection of greater weight, namely, "That this hero still existeth, and hath not yet fin. ished his earthly course. For if Solon said well, 'ultima semper Expectanda dies homini: dicique beatus Ante obitum nemo supremaque funera debet!" if no man be called happy till his death, surely much less can any one, till then, be pronounced a hero: this species of men being far more subject than others to the caprices of fortune and humour." But to this also we have an answer, that will (we hope) be deemed decisive. It cometh from himself; who, to cut this matter short, hath solemnly protested he will never change or amend. With regard to his vanity, he declareth that nothing shall ever part them. "Nature," said he, hath amply supplied me in vanity; a pleasure which neither the pertness of wit nor the gravity of wisdom, will ever persuade me to part with." I Our poet had charitably endeavoured to administer a cure to it: but he telleth us plainly, "My superiors perhaps may be mended by him; but for my part I own myself incorrigible. I look upon my follies as the best part of my fortune. And with good reason; we see to what they have brought him! 2 Secondly; as to buffoonery. Is it," saith he "a time of day for me to leave off these fooleries, and set up a new character? I can no more put off my follies than my skin; I have often tried, but they stick too close to me: nor am I sure my friends are displeased with them, for in this light I afford them frequent matter of mirth, &c., &c."3 Having then so publicly declared himself incorrigible, he is become dead in law (I mean the law popoeian) and devolveth upon the poet as his property; who may take him, and deal with him as if he had been dead as long as an old Egyptian hero; that is to say, embowel and embalm him for posterity. Nothing, therefore (we conceive) remaineth to hinder his own prophecy of himself from taking immediate effect. A rare felicity! and what few prophets have had the satisfaction to see, alive! Nor can we conclude better than with that extraordinary one of his, which is conceived in these oraculous words, my dulness will find somebody to do it right."4 66 "Tandem Phoebus adest, morsusque inferre parantem 1 See "Life," p. 424. 2 P. 19. P. 17. 4 See "Life," p. 243, 8vo edit. • Ovid, of the serpent biting at Orpheus's head. THE END.. H |