1842.] 66 Proofs of his Superstition. 291 Aug. 21. Sunday. That night in my sleep, it seemed to me that the Duke of Buckingham came into bed to me, where he behaved himself with great kindness towards me.” "-P. 43. "Not long before, I dreamed that I saw the Duchess of Buckingham, that excellent lady, at first very much perplexed about her husband, but afterwards cheerful and rejoicing, that she was freed from the fear of abortion, so that in due time she might be again a mother."- p. 43. "Sept. 26. Sunday. This night I dreamed of the marriage of I know not whom, at Oxford. All that were present were clothed with flourishing green garments. I knew none of them but Thomas Flaxmyne. Immediately after, I thought I saw the Bishop of Worcester, his head and shoulders covered with linen." P. 46. Jan. 16, he dreamed, "that he carried the king drink in a silver cup, but it pleased him not. Thereupon his majesty said, 'You know that I always drink out of glass.' I go away again and awoke." p. 87. Jan. 5. Among other wonderful things, he says that in his dream he saw 66 a certain old man. He seemed to lie upon the ground; merry enough, but with a wrinkled countenance. His name was Grove. While I prepared to salute him, I awoke."— p. 86. In March, he says, "The night following, I dreamed I was recon ciled to the Church of Rome. This troubled me much; and I wondered exceedingly how it should happen."- p. 88. 66 'July 7. Saturday night. I dreamed that I had lost two teeth." - p. 95. Jan. 31. I dreamed that I put off my rochet, all except one sleeve; and when I would have put it on again, I could not find it." -p. 111. The most extraordinary vision, however, was that with which he was blessed on the night of "Friday, Feb. 9. The following night I dreamed, that I was troubled with the scurvy; and that on the sudden all my teeth became loose, and that one of them, especially, in the lower jaw, I could scarcely hold in with my finger, till I called out for help.” — p. 87. -- Now, here are extracts taken almost at random, yet what a view do they present of Laud's intellect! How childish and puerile in one of his station! What a record to be made by a man who set out as a reformer, and intended to regulate the worship and remodel the faith of three kingdoms! The Puritans, indeed, had their superstitions, but they were widely different from this. There was something grand and solemn in their delusions, when they believed themselves at all times in direct contact with spiritual beings. If they prayed in intense agony, as if wrestling with fiends, it is a subject too terrible for ridicule. If they announced that they were contending ever with the powers of darkness, who can assert that they were not, or declare that thus far and no farther has the Evil One influence over the children of this lower world? We feel that all this is based upon that instinctive longing for the infinite which exists in every heartthat intense desire to connect ourselves with the solemn realities of eternity- and our scoffing is rebuked. But far different are our emotions towards the archbishop. We read the fancies of his distempered imagination, and insensibly we glide into a feeling of contempt. The grand quality, then, of Laud—that best calculated to win our respect-is the firmness with which he persevered in the path he believed to be right, unbroken in spirit, undaunted in courage, even amidst his mortal sufferings. It is a characteristic which must elicit our sympathy wherever seen. It is this which imparts its charm to the Prometheus of Eschylus, that great moral poem, we hesitate not to say, the most intellectual, the loftiest in tone, of the ancient Athenian drama. The stern spirit of Prometheus, as, chained to the rock, he haughtily defies the threats of his conqueror, and prophecies amidst his own torments, that his enemy shall be one day "hurled from his realm a forgotten king," surely approaches to the highest degree of the moral sublime. It is this which even invests with interest Milton's Satan. We behold him "conquered, yet not subdued,” and in our admiration of that courage which can exist, even linked to despair, we forget the righteousness of the doom by which he was smitten. In this delineation, therefore, if in any, the great bard has failed. He suffers even the fiend at times to enlist our pity. We look upon him not as the great author of all evil, but only "as an archangel ruined," still retaining much of "his original brightness." It was reserved for Goethe, in his Faust, to produce, by the creation of Mephistophiles, the true personification of the enemy of our race the incarnation of all that is low, intriguing, sensual, and devilish. It is to this unchanging firmness, therefore, that we look, when we would behold the character of Laud in its most favorable light. We doubt not his honesty of intention, and trust that now, as Bishop White once heard Whitfield say, "Charles I., Oliver Cromwell, and Archbishop Laud are 1842.] In what Spirit he must be judged. 293 singing hallelujahs together." In that land where all enmities are forgotten, it is a part of the blessedness of the children of immortality, that they reverence goodness wherever seen, and in whatever form. So, therefore, would we strive to do now, in this evil world, gathering from each the qualities which ennoble or the virtues which charm, and fixing our gaze on them alone. In this spirit we can enjoy the lofty rhymes of the Puritan Milton, when, singing of man's redemption, he presents "the height of that great argument," and strives to "indicate the ways of God to man," until, uplifted by his mighty subject, he rises, to use his own magnificent language, "to a sevenfold chorus of hallelujahs and harping symphonies." We can follow with delight the inspired tinker of Elstow, as he traces the PROGRESS of the PILGRIM on his straight, yet dangerous way. We accompany him through all the darkness and warfare of his path, and our hearts warm as he crosses unhurt the enchanted ground, and sees the land of Beulah with all the glorious promises which it holds out. And when at last the dark, cold river is passed, and he stands upon the golden pavements and the streets of pearl which adorn the celestial city, we feel as if a familiar friend had gone, leaving us to tarry amid the gloom of this lower earth. Our hearts can respond with joy to the triumphs of the cross, won by the Moravians among the snows of Greenland-by Heber and Martyn of our own beloved Church, as they fainted under the heat of India - or even by the jesuits, Cavallero and Anchieta, when they taught their creed amidst the mighty forests of our own southern continent, and, for the first time, the wild tribes of Brazil bowed to the emblem of our common faith. In this spirit, then, would we endeavor to judge of Laud, believing that though he erred in judgment, yet his heart was right. We fear, however, that his name will never cease to be a mere party one. "Truth is the daughter of Time," yet we often, age after age, watch in vain for her appearing. And thus, we suppose, will he continue to go down, through coming days, branded on the one side as a bigot, and lauded on the other as a saint, like Voltaire's description of Mahomet—" Imposteur à la Mecque et prophète à Medine." * Dr. Wilson's Life of Bishop White, p. 25. As manufactures, by the division of labor, grow more perfect, and luxury and competition continually urge invention to novelty, the first struggle is to produce something good as well as new, and at a price proportioned to its excellence. The next effort is to furnish an inferior article, resembling the first but cheaper; and the last to make an imitation, very cheap and good for nothing. Something similar takes place when literature becomes a trade, and books are written for booksellers by contract and to order. Authors begin by laboring for reputation, and that once gained, strive to make the most of it while it lasts. As if they regarded public caprice and not merit as the source of popularity, they hasten to get rid of their wares before the fashion changes, and in fabricating them commit all the faults of haste and negligence. Even Byron did not escape this error. Undoubtedly those who gain an honorable subsistence by letters have the same right as others to dispose of their commodities to the best advantage, and of course to turn over their capital as rapidly as possible, consistently with the good faith which they owe to their customers. The public is now the great encourager of literature, and God forbid we should desire the restoration of those "good old days" when poets depended upon patrons. Nevertheless, years will always be required to produce whatever is destined to endure for ages, and though we cannot blame, we may be permitted to lament, the necessity that hurries men of genius through volume after volume, working by the job under the temptation of their publisher, and in utter defiance of Minerva and the Muses. It is especially painful to see our old favorite Campbell employed in such drudgery. We love to think of him as reviver of poetry in our day- the poetic idol of our boyhood. His name recalls the happy hours when we lingered, full of enthusiasm and tenderness, over the "Pleasures of Hope" and "Gertrude of Wyoming," "The Evening Star" and "Hohenlinden" and "O'Connor's Child," or kindled into admiration at the spirit-stirring "Mariners of England" 1842.] His Birth and Parentage. 295 and "Battle of the Baltic," little mindful of the arrogance that has too often marked Britain's naval supremacy, or the doubtful cause of quarrel in which she triumphed. We have heard, indeed, that he has written other things not so worthy of his pen. We have been told, he has spoken of us Americans less kindly than he ought, considering how much we loved his poetry, and how intimately his own fame has become associated with our scenery and history. The first cannot bias our judgment, since we have never read the productions in question, and the last, if allowed to exert any influence whatever, would only induce us, from self-respect, to treat him with greater courtesy and deference. Still, justice must be done, and on all alike; and, in the inquiry whether Mr. Campbell, as the biographer of Petrarch, has performed his task in a manner worthy of his subject and himself, no reverence for his name, no gratitude for the pleasure his poems have afforded us, no false delicacy or fear of incurring the imputation of unworthy motives will be allowed to disturb our impartiality. Neither a critic nor a magistrate can be too severe or too lenient without blame, for the public, in the end, are sure to judge the judge and review the reviewer.* A brief sketch of the life and character of Petrarch, will enable our readers to understand and appreciate more fully the justice or injustice of our remarks on his biographer. Francesco Petrarca, whose name has been irrevocably Anglicised into Petrarch, was born on the twentieth of July, 1304. His father, Petraccolo, the son of Ser Parenza, of Ancisa, was a Florentine citizen, and filled at least one embassy, but, during the feuds of the Bianchi and Neri, the same revolutionary tribunal that banished Dante condemned Petraccolo, on a false accusation of forgery, to lose his hand. He escaped the execution of this sentenee, for the proceedings took place in his absence, and were in the nature of an attainder par contumace. Dino Compagni, the historian, testifies to their iniquity, and the republic, in a calmer moment, offered to pardon the accused, but on terms to which he scorned to submit. He retired with his wife, Eletta Canigiani, to Arezzo, and there, in an humble dwelling still pre "Ce n'est jamais impunement qu' un magistrat s' ecarte de son devoir; il s'élève un cri public; et s'il est un moment ou les juges prononcent sur chaque citoyen, dans tous les temps la masse des citoyens prononce sur chaque juge.”. Beaumarchais. |