It is, therefore, not surprising that in the midst of this stir and action we find a similar energy developed in the literature of the day. England was being crushed by the iron mace of war, and yet she was still "a nest of singing-birds.' There is no better mirror of the age to be found than in the writings of the poets, the children of the age; and it is easy to see how in such a tempest of angry strife those who stayed to think seriously were filled with a strong and awful yearning for the peace of the children of God. There was many and many a lovely note, For many books I care not, and my store with his great master, was Henry Vaughan, the Silurist. Henry Vaughan was called the Silurist because he was born among the Silures, or people of South Wales, at Newton-byUsk. The residence of the family, which was ancient enough to number the Welsh kings in its pedigree, had been at the castle of Tretower, where Shakespeare is said to have been a visitor, but the grandfather of the poet had moved to Newton. The year 1621 is usually assigned as the year of the birth of Henry and of his twin brother Thomas. The childhood of the poet was the fatherhood of the man. luxuriant scenery surrounding the haunts of his youth was to him The It appears that their twelfth year saw the brothers in the tutorial charge of the Rev. Matthew Herbert, rector of Llangattock. In 1638 they both entered at Jesus College, Oxford, but their advancement in quiet literary pursuits was rudely broken into by the cannon of the Parliamentary generals. The king and his court came to Oxford, and the university became the centre of fashionable literature and art as well as of devotion to the sovereign. The twin brothers were both zealous Royalists. Thomas is known to have fought on the king's side, but whether Henry bore arms is an open question. From certain lines in his poems it might be concluded that he had engaged in the field with his God's two Testaments were the chief countrymen. It would appear that he was source of inspiration and devotion which "torn from the side" of a dear young gave birth to the characteristic abundance friend in the battle of Rowton Heath; but of sacred poetry in the seventeenth cen- a line in a Latin poem, written in 1647, tury. The Bible was a comparatively suggests that he had taken no part in new book. The opening of its once open warfare. But though he may have Rome-locked leaves had had an immeas- shrunk from shedding blood, he did not urable influence on the English nation. fear openly to avow his attachment to his It soon became the book of the people, royal master, and in consequence he sufand influenced their character by guiding fered obloquy and imprisonment under the the currents of their thought. The lan- Parliamentary rule. In the mean time his guage of this one book, which in many brother Thomas, who had taken holy cases was the only literature accessible orders, had been deprived of his living by to the commonalty, became the language the Puritan Ecclesiastical commissioners, of common conversation. It was natural and had turned to the study of medicine, that it should be woven into the rhythm which he practised in London till after and verse of the poets whom it inspired. the Restoration. On the plague breaking Of these the most popular of his own out, Thomas left for Oxford with the time and the best known to posterity, was court of Charles the Second, but shortly the poet-priest, George Herbert; the least after was taken ill and died, February know now, as then, though well associated | 27th, 1665. His death was a terrible blow to Henry, who had by that time settled down and married in his native home. The poet, after his escape from Puritan clutches, had also studied for the degree of doctor of medicine. His wish for some settled employment, and his love of the metaphysical, carried his mind to the pursuit of alchemy. His profession and his literary studies served to keep him in the even tenor of his way in quiet retirement when he returned to Newton. Here he passed peacefully away on April 23rd, 1695, in his seventy-third year. While thus briefly sketching his life we must not forget to mention that after his release from prison he went to London for a holiday, because in discussing his work it is necessary to see how he gave it to the world and what were the chief circumstances that influenced him at the most critical time of his life. In 1646 he published some secular verses, chiefly amatory, of which in his riper years he appears to have been ashamed. In 1651 his brother, against his own wishes, brought out another little volume of his verse under the title of "Olor Iscanus." But while these stray pieces, which he had wished to be destroyed, were being published, he was himself preparing for the press a collection of poems expressing his maturer ideas of life. These came out in two volumes under the curious title, "Silex Scintillans." The difference between the cavalier jollity of the earlier productions and the deep seriousness of the latter, published almost simultaneously, show the transformation through which his mind had been passing. Maddened and blinded by the darkness of the days of his persecution, on gaining his freedom he seems to have led the wild life of despair and Kissed the painted bloom off Pleasure's lips And found them pale as Pain's. The result was a severe and lingering illness, during which, to heal the solitude and suffering, he read considerably. Among the books of the day brought to his bedside was "The Temple " of George Herbert. In this he found his guide. It is impossible to accept the theory that Vaughan was altogether independent of Herbert. The facts of his life, and the circumstantial evidence of his poems, belie such a supposition. In truth, from henceforth Herbert became his model both in the conduct of his life as well as in his attempts in verse. It increases our interest if we also remember these verses were indeed "sparks from the flint-stone; they were composed during the short intervals of ease and quiet between the weary attacks of agonizing pain. The value of his poetical work may best be estimated by comparing it with that of his contemporaries. The seventeenth century had brought to the front a race of poets, whose one aim was to be concetti. They were disciples of the metaphysical school; they only wrote to try to say something new; they imitated neither the forms of nature nor of art, and nothing else but the tricks and subtleties of one another. Taken in a mass, their writings were the paragon of analysis but the caricature of sense. The tawdry flimsiness of their conceits, and the far-fetched subtlety of their labored allusions, give an air of unreality to their sublimest conceptions. One admires without understanding, for they seem to making witty remarks on the chances of this mortal life without the slightest emotion or feeling. Yet for all this they were mostly men of learning and good thinkers; some may say that it requires an intellectual chemist to recover the golden metal of their thought, for their chief emulation was to conceal the precious ore under a volubility of recollection and inquiry. As it was then their fashion to disregard both sublimity and pathos, so it became their manner to affect a singular defection of rhythm and a somewhat blunt sharpness in the expression of their periods. The power of presenting a picture to the mind by a well-balanced description seemed to have been lost. Levity of thought naturally produced levity in the use of lanScriptural subjects and allusions were guage, and the free license with which made to adorn the most trifling absurdi. ties must have seemed indelicate even to the irreligious. It is hard to decide whether this school lays claim to recogni. tion for the extravagance of its, heterogeneity or for the ingenuity of its wit. Though Henry Vaughan has much of the same extravagance which deforms the poetry of his contemporaries, he has also a far larger measure of grace, smoothness of transition, self-repression and continuity of thought. He shows signs of a natural vigor and freshness which are strange to the artificiality of his age. He is pedantic and wanting often in symmetry, but, like Christopher Smart in a later age, for short moments he reaches heights where his custom-bound contemporaries never trod. The "Song to David" of Smart stands alone in the eighteenth century. There is nothing like Vaughan's "Beyond the Veil" in the seventeenth century. It has the breath of sincerity upon it; it has the simplicity and quiet which returned again to the English poets when Wordsworth gave voice to fashion along the pathway of analysis, but he only used this, as true poets should, as leading to the broad highway of subjective transformation. The materials obtained by the analysis of experience were resolved into the beauty and brilliance of another world of which the imagination alone was cognizant. In addition to this artistic quality, the truth and reality of his impressions are accentuated by the The silence that is in the starry sky, intensity of his personal feelings. If he The sleep that is among the lonely hills. were anything but a lyrical genius we should say that he only rhymes when his In fact, Vaughan may be said to have mind is in a particular mood; but as he been the predecessor of Wordsworth, the is a lyrical singer and nothing else, the great high-priest of nature, in more ways selection of his material is limited to the than one. Vaughan was the child of na-fluctuations of his own desires and his own ture. It was in the fresh morning walks over the Welsh hills that he found the Creator of the world speaking to him. That the soul within us, Our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting was a truth which he proclaimed nearly written. He seems to have studied alchemy not so much for its professional use as to gratify a desire to see into the hidden things of nature, to find a key to unlock the intentions of the first cause at the back of all things. Something of the greater poet's mind was also in him when he took up his pen to write of the priesthood of children, the reverence, the sanctity, the far-sighted simplicity of the age of childhood. No poet's child had ever sweeter garland than this on its early grave. Blest Infant-Bud whose blossom-life Sweetly didst thou expire: thy soul Softly rest all thy virgin-crums! aspirations. And so the value of his personality, his subjective way of looking at the tendencies of things will depend upon his mental insight and his method of combining the picturesque and the imaginative. We have learnt in our time that there must be a natural connection between the power of rhythmical expression and the completeness of insight into the things of life. The more distinct the transformation of experience the more distinct should be the value of the poetical qualities. characteristics with the rest of the poetTherefore, though Vaughan had the same izers of his particular time, he was able to produce effects which his contempoto deal with subjects of his own order and raries could not. We are not surprised to find that he shows a knowledge of the delicate subtlety of a musical rhythm to quote his own words: The academical reputation of the cour tier Herbert, and his biography in the leaves of the immortal Walton, have kept him a large niche in the temple of fame. Perhaps also Crashaw, whose verse flows with an evenness unknown at that time, and Sandys, who struck out an independent line of his own, may go down to posterity with larger wreaths around their brows than ever Vaughan will wear. But neither Herbert nor Crashaw nor Sandys ever deserted the sterility of their wonted themes; their thoughts never became transcendental; they knew not what it was to "peep into glory." For indeed, not in all the volumes of their quips and cranks will be found such a poetical com Only a little fountain lent Some use for ears, And on the dumb shades language spent There is more than a touch of broader thought and modern modes of speculation in the mysticism that comes to the surface again and again in the "Silex Scintillans." This resolves itself from a condition of mind almost relative to the half-doubting scepticism of so much of our modern philosophy; the great contrast of course being the fact that Vaughan was no doubter, but so intense a believer in the things eternal that the things temporal were actually spectra, things real to him, though supernatural-the very things which appear unreal to the microscope of modern scrutiny. What we have as psychology was hardly heard of then. It never invaded the realm of poetry except in the half-shadows of some mediæval legend, or in fuller light in the later developments of German romance. We dare hardly call Vaughan "a subtle-souled psychologist," but we dare say that he was one of our first psychical poets. He gives us the life of the soul in a world of dreams, dreams of beauty, dreams of purity, dreams of holiness. 239 mode of interpretation, their isolation from conventionality, their control of style, their imaginative vividness, their intense conception of the mystery of life. This is strange perhaps in an interval of two centuries, but a careful reading of Vaughan's poem entitled "The World" will show us something in the way of poetic material, something of self-reflection and esoteric contemplation, which were a new phenomena in a day when the flowers of exoteric culture were the only blooms thought worth a show. Herbert's criticism of the world is the criticism of personal application and knowledge, and his advice and counsel is for those who have to tread the beaten tracks of Vanity Fair. A few lines from Vaughan's view of life here and hereafter will serve to show that he trod on higher paths. I saw Eternity the other night, Like a vast shadow mov'd. The guiding spirit of Herbert is manifest in the "Silex Scintillans," especially in the first part. And yet there are many differences between the work of the master and that of the disciple, differences which practically set the disciple above the master. Herbert had been a man of His sympathy with the feelings of later the world, and the world, offering many times, the childlike beauty of his inspira- bright baubles to him with one hand, had tions and the intensity of his impassioned snatched them away ruthlessly with the imagination take us to the songs of Blake other. He was not by this made a cynic, to find their parallel. Between the sun- though he learnt the hard lesson that the set of Blake and the sunrise of Rossetti things of the world pass away. He rethere is another interval, ere "the ways tired into the sanctity of a country parof sleep and dreams" again have poetic sonage and lived the life of an ascetic. interpretation. In style, in form, in wealth | Vaughan, on the other hand, had not had of language he is inferior to the author the terrible bitterness of seeing the golden of "The Blessed Damozel," but it is cu-day-dreams of his manhood fade away rious to compare the way in which the shadowy world has been realized and peopled by both, so similarly, yet from such different points of view. The Silurist in the silence of the Welsh hills looks through all the outward appearance to the hidden glory of one who made the earth and sky; this is the mysticism of faith. Rossetti is not troubled with morality. The Christ and the Mary give pretty legends, archaic forms whereof to treat amid the city's smoke and din; all the world is a dreamland with little tangible reality at the back of it. The one is spiritual, the other is material and sensuous. And yet they are alike in their mystic into the rough substance of stern reality. From his youth he seems to have known what to expect in a world of curious fate. He paid indeed heavily for the licentious folly of his youth, and we gather that he had to battle till the day of his death with the temptation of the flesh which had wrecked his constitution so early in life. Then, further, Herbert was professionally religious; Vaughan was not. This is a fact that sufficiently accounts for the songs of the latter flowing at times with so much more ease. It is in this natural piety where we find Vaughan at his best; and at his best he has an intensity, a clearness and truth which far excel the stilted sentiments of his master. Herbert | Here they will find thoughts that have is at times weak and halting. Like Icarus baffled true expression, put into tender, he tries to fly too high, and his strained speaking words. The sorrow of man is attempt at some fine conceit lands him in the keynote of the harmony; not the mere the waters of failure. His finest thoughts monotonous wail of Werterism, but the are often dull and crabbed by their very healthy, hopeful, strengthening appeal for ingenuity. The peculiar ingredient of patience and endurance which brings the spicy wit, without which no rhymster truest comfort, "making the whole most could serve up a dish dainty enough for musical." The very curiousness with the popular appetite, was his great tour which he envelops the healing lessons of de force. He very soon secured a large his didactic poetry is sufficient charm to audience by the brilliant cleverness with attract attention. which he grasped and made his own the popular versification of his time. He speaks, moreover, when a poet shouldwhen the torrents and thunders of the valley have been left behind, when the heart and the reins have been tried, when the idle ore has been battered into shape and use; and alone in his perfect selfconsciousness, with his soul as peaceful as the abysmal depth of the sea, he stands the image and mouthpiece of his God on the summit of the mount. The work of Herbert is the work of a few years, the flowers that blossomed in the prime of life. Vaughan's writings are few and far between; they are the record of his doubts, his sorrows and struggles from his youth upwards, - Singing prayer and prayer to the highest heavens. He never strove to gain the ear of popularity; nor indeed was his poetry ever likely to be popular in any sense of the word. If the struggles of a poet's heart are stinging with sentiment and gaudy with the tinsels of sensation, the world will delight to turn its ear to listen. The agonies of a weak soul knocking at the door of some higher hope is too simple a theme in its very depth for the over-fed wisdom of the wise to listen to. It is a bird, they will say, that is ever singing on one note, and wearisome to hear. Mr. Matthew Arnold has told us that in reading poetry we are apt to give way to the frequent temptation "to adopt the historic estimate, or the personal estimate, and to forget the real estimate; which latter, nevertheless, we must employ if we are to make poetry yield us its full benefit." It may be natural for most of us to forget the real estimate; we prefer the personal one, and indeed that seems the one likely to attract those who take up the "Silex Scintillans" and endeavor to discover the value of Henry Vaughan's criticism of life. He will strike the silent chords in the depths of the heart, and arrest the inquiry and humble attention of any who have had anything of a similar experience. So quaintly fashioned as to add a grace For very rust shows fair. From The Nineteenth Century. GIVE BACK THE ELGIN MARBLES. IT is surely high time for us to think how and when the Elgin marbles are to be restored to the Acropolis. There they will have ultimately to rest; and the sooner, and the more gracefully it is done, the better. The ninety years which have passed since they left Athens have entirely changed the conditions and the facts. The reasons which were held to justify Lord Elgin in removing them, and the British government in receiving them, have one and all vanished. All those reasons now tell in favor of their being restored to their national and natural home. The protection of these unique monuments, the interests of students of art, pride in a national possession, and the vis inertia of leaving things alone all call aloud to us to replace on that immortal steep the sacred fragments where Pericles and Pheidias placed them more than two thousand years ago. It is usual to say, that in the British Museum these priceless works are safe, whilst they would be exposed to danger in Athens; that in London the art stu dents of the world can study them, whilst at Athens they would be buried out of sight; that the Elgin marbles are now become a "British interest as completely as Domesday Book; that as they have belonged to the nation for seventy-four years, it is too late to talk about disturbing them now. Every one of these assertions is a sophism, and the precise contrary is in every case true. They would be much more safe from the hand of man on the Acropolis than they possibly could be in London; |