custome.

till out of a too pliable disposition they enter the lists of Good-fellowship (as they commonly terme it) and so become estranged from their owne nature, to partake with Zanies in their distempered humour. So as in time by consorting with evill men they become exposed to all immoderate affections; such is the strength of Whence it is that Saint Basil saith, Passions rise up in a drunken man (note the violence of this distemper) like a swarme of Bees buzzing on every side. Now you shall see him compassionately passionate, resolving his humour into teares; anon like a phrenticke man, exercising himselfe in blowes; presently, as if a calmer or more peaceable humour had seized on him, he expresseth his loving nature in congies and kisses. So different are the affections which this valiant Maultworme is subject to; yet howsoever out of a desperate Bravado he binde it with oathes that he will stand to his tackling, he is scarce to be credited, for he can stand on no ground.

William Browne (1591-c. 1643) was a pastoral and descriptive poet, who, like Phineas and Giles Fletcher, adopted Spenser for his model, but less exclusively for he loved Chaucer and Hoccleve, and was influenced by several of his own contemporaries. He was a native of Tavistock, and the beautiful scenery of Devonshire inspired his early strains. From Exeter College, Oxford, Browne passed to the Inner Temple, and then was tutor to Robert Dormer, the future Earl of Carnarvon. According to Anthony Wood, he was taken into the household of the Herberts at Wilton, and there got wealth and purchased an estate.' He was living at Dorking towards the close of 1643, and later than this we hear nothing of him. A William Browne died at Tavistock in 1643, and another in 1645, but it is not known for certain that either of them was the poet. Browne's works comprise Britannia's Pastorals (two books, 1613-16; third book in MS., first printed 1852) and a pastoral poem of inferior merit, The Shepheards Pipe (1614). In 1620 a masque by him was produced at court, called The Inner Temple Masque; but it was not printed till 1772, from a manuscript in Emmanuel College, Cambridge. As all Browne's poems were produced before he was thirty years of age, and the best when he was little more than twenty, we need not be surprised at their showing marks of juvenility and frequent echoes of previous poets, especially of Spenser. His pasterals obtained the approbation of Selden, Drayton, Wither, and Ben Jonson. Britannia's Pastorals are written in flowing heroic couplets, and contain much fine descriptive poetry. Browne had great facility of expression, studied nature closely, and knew by heart all the features of the Devon landscape. That he has failed in maintaining his ground must be attributed to his too great expansiveness, the desultory plan of his longer poems, and the lack of human interest. His shepherds and shepherdesses have nearly as little character as the 'silly sheep' they tend; the allegory is tedious; whilst pure description, that 'takes the place of sense,' even when inspired by a real love of nature,

seldom permanently interests the larger number of readers. So completely had some of the poems of Browne vanished from memory that, but for a single copy of them possessed by Thomas Warton, and lent by him to be transcribed, little would have remained of those works which their author fondly hoped would

Keep his name enroll'd past his that shines In gilded marble, or in brazen leaves. Warton cites the following lines of Browne as containing a group of the same images as the morning picture in L'Allegro of Milton:

By this had chanticleer, the village clock,
Bidden the goodwife for her maids to knock ;
And the swart ploughman for his breakfast stay'd,
That he might till those lands were fallow laid :
The hills and valleys here and there resound
With the re-echoes of the deep-mouth'd hound.
Each shepherd's daughter, with her cleanly peal,
Was come afield to milk the morning's meal,
And ere the sun had climb'd the eastern hills,
To gild the mutt'ring bourns and pretty rills,
Before the lab'ring bee had left the hive,
And nimble fishes which in rivers dive
Began to leap, and catch the drowned fly,
I rose from rest, not in felicity.

Browne celebrated the death of a friend under the name of Philarete in a pastoral poem. Milton took thence suggestions for Lycidas; there is an obvious-perhaps inevitable-similarity in some of the thoughts and images. On the other hand, Browne has been compared with Keats amongst the moderns; and Keats is known to have admired his Elizabethan prototype.

A Descriptive Sketch.

O what a rapture have I gotten now!
That age of gold, this of the lovely brow

Have drawn me from my song! I onward run
Clean from the end to which I first begun.
But ye, the heavenly creatures of the West,
In whom the virtues and the graces rest,
Pardon that I have run astray so long,
And grow so tedious in so rude a song,
If you yourselves should come to add one grace
Unto a pleasant grove or such like place,
Where here the curious cutting of a hedge:
There, by a pond, the trimming of the sedge:
Here the fine setting of well-shading trees :
The walks there mounting up by small degrees,
The gravel and the green so equal lie,
It, with the rest, draws on your ling'ring eye:
Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air,
Arising from the infinite repair
Of odoriferous buds and herbs of price,
(As if it were another l'aradise)

So please the smelling sense, that you are fain
Where last you walk'd to turn and walk again.
There the small birds with their harmonious notes
Sing to a spring that smileth as she floats:
For in her face a many dimples show,
And often skips as it did dancing go:
Here further down an over-arched alley,
That from a hill goes winding in a valley,

You spy at end thereof a standing lake,
Where some ingenious artist strives to make
The water (brought in turning pipes of lead
Through birds of earth most lively fashioned)
To counterfeit and mock the sylvans all,
In singing well their own set madrigal.
This with no small delight retains your ear,

And makes you think none blest but who live there.

Then in another place the fruits that be
In gallant clusters decking each good tree,
Invite your hand to crop some from the stem,
And liking one, taste every sort of them :
Then to the arbours walk, then to the bowers,
Thence to the walks again, thence to the flowers,
Then to the birds, and to the clear spring thence,

Now pleasing one, and then another sense.
Here one walks oft, and yet anew begin'th,
As if it were some hidden labyrinth.

Evening.

As in an evening when the gentle air
Breathes to the sullen night a soft repair,

I oft have sat on Thames' sweet bank to hear
My friend with his sweet touch to charm mine ear,
When he hath play'd, as well he can, some strain
That likes me, straight I ask the same again;
And he as gladly granting, strikes it o'er
With some sweet relish was forgot before,
I would have been content if he would play
In that one strain to pass the night away;
But fearing much to do his patience wrong,
Unwillingly have ask'd some other song :
So in this diff'ring key, though I could well
A many hours but as few minutes tell,
Yet lest mine own delight might injure you,
Though loath so soon, I take my song anew.
Night.

The sable mantle of the silent night
Shut from the world the ever-joysome light;
Care fled away, and softest slumbers please
To leave the court for lowly cottages;
Wild beasts forsook their dens on woody hills,
And steightful otters left the purling rills;
Rooks to their nests in high woods now were flung,
And with their spread wings shield their naked young;
When thieves from thickets to the cross-ways stir,
And terror frights the lonely passenger;
When nought was heard but now and then the howl
Of some vild cur, or whooping of the owl.

The Sirens' Song.

(From The Inner Temple Masque.)

Steer hither, steer, your winged pines,

All beaten mariners,

Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,
A prey to passengers;

Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest.

Fear not your ships,

Nor any to oppose you save our lips,

But come on shore,

Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.
For swelling waves our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,
Exchange; and be awhile our guests:
For stars gaze on our eyes.

vile

The compass love shall hourly sing,

And as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss

To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. Browne thus ingeniously draws illustrations from

a rose:

Look as a sweet rose fairly budding forth Bewrays her beauties to th' enamour'd morn, Until some keen blast from the envious North Kills the sweet bud that was but newly born; Or else her rarest smells delighting

Make her herself betray,

Some white and curious hand inviting

To pluck her thence away.

So recently as 1852 a third part of Britannia's Pastorals was first printed, from the original manuscript in the library of Salisbury Cathedral. Though imperfect, this continuation is in some passages fully equal to the earlier portions. The following is part of a description of Psyche :

Her cheekes the wonder of what eye beheld
Begott betwixt a lilly and a rose,

In gentle rising plaines devinely swelled,
Where all the graces and the loves repose.
Nature in this peece all her workes excelled,

Yet shewd her selfe imperfect in the close,
For she forgott (when she soe faire did rayse her)
To give the world a witt might duely prayse her.
When that she spoake, as at a voice from heaven

On her sweet words all eares and hearts attended; When that she sung, they thought the planetts seaven By her sweet voice might well their tunes have

mended;

When she did sighe, all were of joye bereaven;

And when she smyld, heaven had them all befriended.
If that her voice, sighes, smiles, soe many thrilled,
O had she kissed, how many had she killed!

Her slender fingers (neate and worthy made
To be the servants to soe much perfection)
Joyned to a palme whose touch woulde streight invade
And bring a sturdy heart to lowe subjection.
Her slender wrists two diamond braceletts lade,
Made richer by soe sweet a soules election.

O happy braceletts! but more happy he

To whom those armes shall as a bracelett be! Aubrey said Browne was the author of the famous epitaph, 'Underneath this sable herse,' usually attributed to Ben Jonson (see above at page 411); and Mr Bullen and other critics think it is really Browne's.

Browne's works were edited in 1772 (3 vols. 12mo) by Thomas Davies; a complete edition, with a memoir, was published by W. C Hazlitt (2 vols. Roxburghe Club, 1868).

Lady Elizabeth Carey, or CAREW, the daughter of a patroness of Spenser, Nash, and other poets, is believed to be the author of a longwinded poem, The Tragedie of Marian the fairi Queene of Jewry (1613). She married Sir Thomas Berkeley, and died in 1635. But the poem is sometimes attributed to her mother, known by the same names, a daughter of Sir John Spencer

of Althorpe, and wife of the heir of the first Lord Hunsdon. The following chorus on revenge, from Act IV., is not without a certain noble dignity:

The fairest action of our human life

Is scorning to revenge an injury;
For who forgives without a further strife,
His adversary's heart to him doth tie.
And 'tis a firmer conquest truly said,
To win the heart than overthrow the head.

If we a worthy enemy do find,

To yield to worth it must be nobly done;
But if of baser metal be his mind,

In base revenge there is no honour won.
Who would a worthy courage overthrow,
And who would wrestle with a worthless foe?

We say our hearts are great, and cannot yield ;
Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor :
Great hearts are tasked beyond their power, but seld
The weakest lion will the loudest roar.
Truth's school for certain doth this same allow,
High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow.

A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn.
To scorn to owe a duty over-long ;

To scorn to be for benefits forborne ;

To scorn to lie; to scorn to do a wrong; To scorn to bear an injury in mind ;

To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind.

But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have,
Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind;
Do we his body from our fury save,

And let our hate prevail against our mind?
What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance be,
Than make his foe more worthy far than he?
Had Marian scorned to leave a due unpaid,

She would to Herod then have paid her love,
And not have been by sullen passion swayed.
To fix her thoughts all injury above

Is virtuous pride. Had Marian thus been proud,
Long famous life to her had been allowed.

Lord Herbert of Cherbury combined in a curious way the fame of soldier, statesman, poet, and philosopher; and though the brother of the saintly George Herbert, became notorious (after his death) as the father of deism. Edward was born 3rd March 1583 at Eyton, in Shropshire. In 1599, before he had finally quitted his studies at University College, Oxford, he married an heiress four years older than himself. At James I.'s coronation he was made a Knight of the Bath; in 1608 he visited France, and in 1610 was at the recapture of Jülich. In 1614 he was with Maurice of Orange, travelled through Germany and Italy, and got into trouble attempting to recruit Protestant soldiers in Languedoc for the Duke of Savoy. Made a member of the Privy Council, he was sent to France as ambassador (1619), and tried negotiation between Louis XIII. and his Protestant subjects in vain, was dismissed, and was sore embarrassed by debts and law-suits. He was in 1624 made a peer of Ireland, and in 1629 of England with the title of Baron Herbert of Cherbury. When the civil war

broke out he at first sided very half-heartedly with the royalists, but in 1644 surrendered to the parliamentarians. He died in London, 20th August 1648. His De Veritate (1624) is an antiempirical theory of knowledge of four principal faculties or groups of faculties. One is the internal sense or conscience; another the external sense or perception; the third, reason; and the fourth, natural instinct, the source of divinely implanted primary truths, much resembles the common-sense of the Scottish philosophy. Truth is distinguished from revelation, from the probable, from the possible, and from the false. His De Religione Gentilium (not published till 1663), destined to be regarded as the 'charter of the deists,' and copied by Blount and others, proves that all religions recognise five main articles-that there is a supreme God, that He ought to be worshipped, that virtue and purity are the main part of that worship, that sins should be repented of, and that there are rewards and punishments in a future state. The Expeditio Buckinghami Ducis (1656) is a vindication of the ill-fated Rochelle expedition. The ill-proportioned Life and Raigne of King Henry VIII. (1649), digested into annals, glorifies Henry absurdly, and is on the whole prolix, though tales of sieges and ceremonials, such as the author's soul delighted in, are rendered with much graphic detail. In giving verbatim reports of speeches whose tenor he could only guess, Herbert allowed himself an ultraThucydidean freedom. How little modern historical canons appealed to this sincere and honest man is evident from the fact that he puts into the mouth of one of Henry's bishops, at a council held half a century ere he himself was born, a succinct and orderly statement and defence of those identical 'five articles' which it was Herbert's own especial glory to have formulated! His Autobiography, a brilliant picture of the man and of contemporary manners, is a masterpiece in its kind, but is disfigured by overweening self-glory. Oddly enough, it is on his exceptionally handsome person, his Quixotic exploits of bravery in the field, his valiant duels, and the admiration accordingly bestowed on him by fair ladies that he chiefly prides himself; there is little in the record about his philosophy or his theological views, though he really attached great importance to them. He was the friend of Donne, Selden, Ben Jonson, Grotius, and Gassendi. The Poems, Latin and English, reveal a representative of the 'metaphysical' school. Donne was his master, and the disciple is the more rugged and obscure. But some of the lyrics suggest Herrick; and resemblances to Browning and Tennyson have been pointed out. He has, according to Mr Churton Collins, the credit of having been the first to recognise (though he did not invent the measure ; see page 308) the possibilities of the stanza of In Memoriam; he brought out its harmony and 'passed it almost perfect into Tennyson's hands.' The enthusiasm as well as sincerity of his nature is exemplified in the following reference to his

philosophy in the Autobiography, and suggests rather one who believes overmuch than the unbeliever-an inconsistency often pointed out by those who assailed his deism as an inadequate system of belief. Herbert's devout deism was of course very different from the profane and spiteful deism of Blount, who put much that was in Herbert to a use he never dreamt of:

Being thus doubtful in my chamber one fine day in the summer, my casement being open towards the south, the sun shining clear, and no wind stirring, I took my book De Veritate in my hands, and kneeling on my knees, devoutly said these words: 'O thou eternal God, author of this light which now shines upon me, and giver of all inward illuminations, I do beseech thee of thy infinite goodness to pardon a greater request than a sinner ought to make. I am not satisfied enough whether I shall publish this book De Veritate; if it be for thy glory, I beseech thee give me some sign from heaven; if not, I shall suppress it!' I had no sooner spoke these words, but a loud, though yet gentle noise came forth from the heavens (for it was like nothing on earth), which did so cheer and comfort me, that I took my petition as granted, and that I had the sign I demanded; whereupon also I resolved to print my book. This, how strange soever it may seem, I protest before the Eternal God is true; neither am I any way superstitiously deceived herein, since I did not only clearly hear the noise, but in the serenest sky I ever saw, being without all cloud, did, to my thinking, see the place from whence it came.

In his Autobiography he tells of the close relations established between himself and the Constable of France, the Duke de Montmorency, and of his hunting in the ducal forests:

That brave constable in France testifying now more than formerly his regard of me, at his departure from Merlou to his fair house at Chantilly, five or six miles distant, said, he left that castle to be commanded by me, as also his forests and chases, which were well stored with wild boar and stag, and that I might hunt them when I pleased. He told me also, that if I would learn to ride the great horse, he had a stable there of some fifty, the best and choicest as was thought in France; and that his escuyer, called Monsieur de Disancour, nor inferior to Pluvenel or Labrove, should teach me. I did with great thankfulness accept his offer, as being very much addicted to the exercise of riding great horses; and as for hunting in his forests, I told him I should use it sparingly, as being desirous to preserve his game. He commanded also his escuyer to keep a table for me, and his pages to attend me, the chief of whom was Monsieur de Mennon, who, proving to be one of the best horsemen in France, keeps now an academy in Paris; and here I shall recount a little passage betwixt him and his master, that the inclination of the French at that time may appear; there being scarce any man thought worth the looking on, that had not killed some other in duel.

Mennon desiring to marry a niece of Monsieur Disancour, who it was thought should be his heir, was thus answered by him: Friend, it is not time yet to marry; I will tell you what you must do if you will be a brave man, you must first kill in single combat two or three men, then afterwards marry and engender two or three children, or the world will neither have got nor lost by you;' of which strange counsel, Disancour was no other

wise the author than as he had been an example, at least of the former part; it being his fortune to have fought three or four brave duels in his time.

And now, as every morning I mounted the great horse, so in the afternoons I many times went a hunting, the manner of which was this: The Duke of Montmorency having given orders to the tenants of the town of Merlou, and some villages adjoining, to attend me when I went a hunting, they, upon my summons, usually repaired to those woods where I intended to find my game, with drums and muskets, to the number of sixty or eighty, and sometimes one hundred or more persons; they entering the wood on that side with that noise, discharging their pieces and beating their said drums, we on the other side of the said wood having placed mastiffs and greyhounds, to the number of twenty or thirty, which Monsieur de Montmorency kept near his castle, expected those beasts they should force out of the wood: if stags or wild boars came forth, we commonly spared them, pursuing only the wolves, which were there in great number, of which are found two sorts; the mastiff wolf, thick and short, though he could not indeed run fast, yet would fight with our dogs; the greyhound wolf, long and swift, who many times escaped our best dogs, though when he were overtaken, easily killed by us, without making much resistance. Of both these sorts I killed divers with my sword while I stayed there.

One time also it was my fortune to kill a wild boar in this manner: the boar being roused from his den, fled before our dogs for a good space; but finding them press him hard, turned his head against our dogs, and hurt three or four of them very dangerously: I came on horseback up to him, and with my sword thrust him twice or thrice without entering his skin, the blade being not so stiff as it should be: the boar hereupon turned upon me, and much endangered my horse, which I perceiving, rid a little out of the way, and leaving my horse with my lackey, returned with my sword against the boar, who by this time had hurt more dogs; and here happened a pretty kind of fight, for when I thrust at the boar sometimes with my sword, which in some places I made enter, the boar would run at me, whose tusks yet by stepping a little out of the way I avoided, but he then turning upon me, the dogs came in, and drew him off, so that he fell upon them, which I perceiving, ran at the boar with my sword again, which made him turn upon me, but then the dogs pulled him from me again, while so relieving one another by turns, we killed the boar. At this chase Monsieur Disancour and Mennon were present, as also Mr Townsend, yet so as they did endeavour rather to withdraw me from, than assist me in the danger. Of which boar, some part being well seasoned and larded, I presented to my uncle Sir Francis Newport, in Shropshire, and found most excellent meat.

Herbert was a great stickler on the point of honour:

There happened during this siege [of Juliers by the allies against the Emperor in 1610] a particular quarrel betwixt me and the Lord of Walden, eldest son to the Earl of Suffolk, lord treasurer of England at that time, which I do but unwillingly relate, in regard of the great esteem I have of that noble family; howbeit, to avoid misreports, I have thought fit to set it down truly that lord having been invited to a feast in Sir Horace Vere's quarters, where (after the Low Country manner) there was liberal drinking, returned not long after to Sir

Edward Cecil's quarters, at which time, I speaking merrily to him, upon some slight occasion, he took that offence at me, which he would not have done at another time, insomuch that he came towards me in a violent manner, which I perceiving, did more than half way meet him; but the company were so vigilant upon us that before any blow past we were separated; how beit, because he made towards me, I thought fit the next day to send him a challenge, telling him, that if he had any thing to say to me, I would meet him in such a place as no man should in

demanded for Sir James, but the soldier answering he was not within the quarter, I demanded then for his lieutenant, whereupon the soldier courteously desired him to come to me; this lieutenant was called Montgomery, and had the reputation of a gallant man; I told him that I would very fain buy a horse, and if it were possible, the horse I saw but a little before; but he telling me none was to be sold there, I offered to leave in his hands one hundred pieces, if he would lend me a good horse for a day or two, he to restore me the

nag I rid on; and as for a second, I shall trust to your nobleness, who, I know, will see fair play betwixt us, though you come on his side: but he urging me again to provide a second, I told him I could promise for none but myself, and that if I spoke to any of my friends in the army to this purpose, I doubted least the business might be discovered and prevented.

He was no sooner gone from me, but night drew on, myself resolving in the mean time to rest under a fair oak all night; after this, tying my horse by the bridle unto another tree, I had not now rested two hours, when I found some fires nearer to me than I thought was possible in so solitary a place, whereupon also having the curiosity to see the reason hereof, I got on horseback again, and had not rode very far, when by the talk of the soldiers there, I found I was in the Scotch quarter, where finding in a stable a very fair horse of service, I desired to know whether he might be bought for any reasonable sum of money, but a soldier replying it was their captain's, Sir James Areskin's chief horse, I

money again when I delivered him the horse in good plight, and did besides bring him some present as a gratuity.

The lieutenant, though he did not know me, suspected I had some private quarrel, and that I desired this horse to fight on, and thereupon told me, Sir, whosoever you are, you seem to be a person of worth, and you shall have the best horse in the stable; and if you have a quarrel and want a second, I offer myself to serve you upon another horse, and if you will let me go along with you upon these terms, I will ask no pawn of you for the horse. I told him I would use no second, and I desired him to accept one hundred pieces, which I had there about me, in pawn for the horse,

and he should hear from me shortly again; and that though I did not take his noble offer of coming along with me, I should evermore rest much obliged to him. ; whereupon giving him my purse with the money in it, I got upon his horse, and left my nag besides with him.

Riding thus away about twelve o'clock at night to the wood from whence I came, I alighted from my horse and rested there till morning; the day now breaking I got on horseback, and attended the Lord of Walden with his second. The first person that appeared was a footman, who I heard afterwards was sent by the Lady of Walden, who as soon as he saw me, ran back again with all speed; I meant once to pursue him, but that I thought it better at last to keep my place. About two hours after Sir William St Leiger, now lord president of Munster, came to me, and told me he knew the cause of my being there, and that the business was discovered by the Lord Walden's rising so early that morning, and the suspicion that he meant to fight with me, and had Sir Thomas Payton with him, and that he would ride