Upon her fell all naked bare displayd."* The beams played upon her body, and fructified" her. The months rolled on. Troubled and ashamed she went nto the "wildernesse," and sat down, 'every sence with sorrow sore opprest." Meanwhile Venus, searching for her boy Cupid, who had mutinied and fled from her, "wandered in the world." She had sought him in courts, cities, cottages, promising "kisses sweet, and sweeter things, unto the man that of him tydings to her brings." 'Shortly unto the wastefull woods she came, Whereas she found the goddesse (Diana) with her crew. She, having hong upon a bough on high After her heat the breathing cold to taste; Diana, surprised thus, repulses Venus, and gan to smile, in scorne of her vaine playnt," swearing that if she should catch Cupid, she would clip his wanton wings. Then she took pity on the afflicted goddess, and set herself with her to look for the fugitive. They came to the "shady covert" where Chrysogone, in her sleep, had given birth "unawares," to two lovely girls, as faire as springing day." Diana took one, and made her the purest of all virgins. Venus carried off the other to the Garden of Adonis, "the first seminary of all things, that are borne to live and dye;" where Psyche, the bride of Love, disports herself; where Pleasure, their daughter, wantons with The Faerie Queene, iii c. 6, st. 6 and 7. the Graces; where Adonis, "lapped in flowres and pretious spycery," "liveth in eternal bliss," ani came back to life through the breath of immortal Love. She brought her up as her daughter selected her to be the most faithful of loves, and after long trials, gave her hand to the good knight Sir Scuda more. That is the kind of thing we meet with in the wondrous forest. Are you ill at ease there, and do you wish to leave it because it is wondrous? At every bend in the alley, at every change of the light, a stanza, a word, reveals a landscape or an apparition. It is morning, the white dawn gleams faintly through the trees; bluish vapors veil | the horizon, and vanish in the smiling air; the springs tremble and murmur faintly amongst the mosses, and on high the poplar leaves begin to stir and flutter like the wings of butterflies. A knight alights from his horse, a valiant knight, who has unhorsed many a Saracen, and experienced many an adven ture. He unlaces his helmet, and on a sudden you perceive the cheeks of a young girl; "Which doft, her golden lockes, that were upbound Still in a knot, unto her heeles downe traced, Is creasted all with lines of firie light, It is Britomart, a virgin and a heroine. like Clorinda or Marfisa,† but how much more ideal! The deep sentiment of nature, the sincerity of reverie, the ever-flowing fertility of inspiration, the German seriousness, reanimate it this poem classical or chivalrous con ceptions, even when they are the oldest or the most trite. The train of splen dors and of scenery never ends. Desolate promontories, cleft with gaping chasms; thunder-stricken and black ened masses of rocks, against which the hoarse breakers dash; palaces sparkling with gold, wherein ladies, beauteous as angels, reclining carelessly on purple cushions, listen with sweet smiles to the harmony of music played by unseen hands; lofty silent walks, where avenues of oaks spread their motionless shadows over clusters of virgin violets, and turf which never mortal foot has trod;-to all these beauties of art and nature he adds the marvels of mythology, and describes them with as much of love and sincerity as a painter of the Renaissance or an ancient poet Here approach on chariots of shell Cymoënt and her nymphs: "A teme of dolphins raunged in aray Drew the smooth charett of sad Cymoënt; went, That their brode flaggy finnes no fome did reare, Ne bubling rowndell they behinde them sent; The rest, of other fishes drawen weare; Which with their finny oars the swelling sea did sheare." * Nothing, again, can be sweeter or calmer than the description of the palace of Morpheus: "He, making speedy way through spersed ayre, And through the world of waters wide and deepe, To Morpheus house doth hastily repaire. Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe, And low, where dawning day doth never peepe His dwelling is; there Tethys his wet bed Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steepe In silver deaw his ever-drouping hed, And, more to lulle him in his slumber soft, downe And ever-drizzling raine upon the loft, sowne Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne. No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes, As still are wont t' annoy the walled towne, Might there be heard: but careless Quiet lyes, Wrapt í eternall silence farre from enimyes."t Observe also in a corner of this forest, a band of satyrs dancing under the green leaves. They come leaping like wanton kids, as gay as birds of joyous spring. The fair Hellenore, whom * The Faerie Queene, iii. c. 4, st. 33. " they have chosen for "May-lady," "daunst lively also, laughing, and "with girlonds all bespredd.' The wood re-echoes the sound of their 'merry pypes." "Their horned feet the greene gras wore." "All day they daunced with great lustyhedd," with sudden motions and alluring looks, while about them their flock feed on "the brouzes," at their pleasure.* In every book we see strange processions pass by, allegorical and picturesque shows, like those which were then dis played at the courts of princes; now a masquerade of Cupid, now of the Rivers, now of the Months, now of the Vices. Imagination was never more prodigal or inventive. Proud Lucifera advances in a chariot "adorned all with gold and girlonds gay," beaming like the dawn, surrounded by a crowd of courtiers whom she dazzles with her glory and splendor: "six unequall beasts" draw her along, and each of these is ridden by a Vice. Idleness "upon a slouthfull asse . . . in habit blacke. monck," sick for very laziness, lets his like to an holy heavy head droop, and holds in his hand a breviary which he does not read; gluttony, on "a filthie swyne," crawls by in his deformity, "his belly upblowne with luxury, and eke with fatnesse swollen were his eyne, and like a crane his necke was long and fyne," drest in vine-leaves, through which one can see his body eaten by ulcers, and vomiting along the road the wine and flesh with which he is glutted Avarice seated between "two iron cof fers," " upon a camell loaden all with gold," is handling a heap of coin, with threadbare coat, hollow cheeks, and feet stiff with gout. Envy "upon a ravenous wolfe still did chaw between his cankred teeth a venemous tode, that all the poison ran about his chaw,' full of eies," conceals a snake wound and his discolored garment "ypainted about his body. Wrath, covered with a torn and bloody robe, comes riding on a lion, brandishing about his head a burning brond," his eyes sparkling, his face pale as ashes, grasping in his feverish hand the haft of his dagger and terrible procession The strange passes on, led by the solemn harinony * Ibid. iii. c. 10, st. 43-45. of the stanzas; and the grand music of oft-repeated rhymes sustains the imagination in this fantastic world, which, with its mingled horrors and splendors, has just been opened to its flight. Yet all this is little. However much. mythology and chivalry can supply, they do not suffice for the needs of this poetical fancy. Spenser's characteristic is the vastness and overflow of his picturesque invention. Like Rubens, whatever he creates is beyond the region of all traditions, but complete in all parts, and expresses distinct ideas. As with Rubens, his allegory swells its proportions beyond all rule, and withdraws fancy from all law, except in so far as it is necessary to harmonize forms and colors. For, if ordinary minds receive from allegory a certain weight which oppresses them, lofty imaginations receive from it wings which carry them aloft. Freed by it from the common conditions of life, they can dare all things, beyond imitation, apart from probability, with no other guides but their inborn energy and their shadowy instincts. For three days Sir Guyon is led by the cursed spirit, the tempter Mammon, in the subterranean realm, across wonderful gardens, trees laden with golden fruits, glittering palaces, and a confusion of all worldly treasures. They have descended into the bowels of the earth, and pass through caverns, unknown abysses, silent depths. "An ugly Feend with monstrous stalke behind him stept," without Guyons' knowledge, ready to devour him on the least show of covetousness. The brilancy of the gold lights up hideous figures, and the beaming metal shines with a beauty more seductive in the gloom of the infernal prison. "That Houses forme within was rude and strong, Lyke an huge cave hewne out of rocky clifte, From whose rough vaut the ragged breaches hong Embost with massy gold of glorious guifte, Both roote, and floore, and walls, were all of gold, But overgrowne with dus .nd old decay, In all that rowme was nothing to be seene weene Them to enforce by violence or wrong; On every side they placed were along. But all the grownd with sculs was scattered And dead mens bones, which round about were flong; Whose lives, it seemed, whilome there were shed And their vile carcases now left unburied... Thence forward he him ledd and shortly brought Unto another rowme, shose ore forthright To th' upp part, where was advaunced hye There, as in glistring glory she did sitt, Ne artist's dream matches these visons: the glow of the furnaces beneath the vaults of the cavern, the lights flickering over the crowded figures, the throne, and the strange glitter of the gold shining in every direction through the darkness. The allegory assumes gigantic proportions. When the object is to show temperance struggling with temptations, Spenser deems it necessary to mass all the temptations together. He is treating of a general virtue; and as such a virtue is capable of every sort of resistance, he requires from it every sort of resistance alike ;-after the test of gold, that of pleasure. Thus the grandest and the most exquisite spectacles follow and are contrasted with each other, and all are supernatural; the graceful and the terrible are side by side,-the happy gardens close by with the cursed subter ranean cavern. "No gate, but like one, being goodly dight With bowes and braunches, which did broad dilate Their clasping armes in wanton wreathings intricate: So fashioned a porch with rare device, All passers-by to taste their lushious wine, And in the midst of all a fountaine stood, And over all of purest geld was spred to weep. Infinit streames continually did well tom see, All pav'd beneath with jaspar shining bright That seemd the fountaine in that sea did sayle upright... The ioyous birdes, shrouded in chearefull shade, Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet; Upon a bed of roses she was layd, As faint through heat, or dight to pleasant sin; And was arayd, or rather disarayd, More subtile web Arachne cannot spin; Her snowy brest was bare to ready spoyle And yet, through languour of her late sweet toyle, Few drops, more cleare then nectar, forth distild, That like pure orient perles adowne it trild; And her faire eyes, sweet smyling in delight Moystened their fierie beames, with which she thrild Fraile harts, yet quenched not, like stary lights Which sparckling on the silent waves doe seeme more bright." * Do we find here nothing but fairy land? Yes; here are finished pictures true and complete, composed with a painter's feeling, with choice of thats and outlines; our eyes are delighted by them. This reclining Acrasia has the pose of a goddess, or of one of * Ibid. 12, st. 53-78. subject, modern in its perfection, repre senting a unique and wonderful epoch, the appearance of paganism in a Christian race, and the worship of form by an imagination of the North. § 3. PROSE The Titian's courtesans An Italian artist |tain effect which is be 1g worked out might copy these gardens, these flowing| Thus a beauty issues from this harmo waters, these sculptured loves, those ny,-the beauty in the poet's heart,wreaths of creeping ivy thick with which his whole work strives to ex glossy leaves and fleecy flowers. Just press; a noble and yet a cheerful beau before, in the infernal depths, the ty, made up of moral elevation and lights, with their long streaming rays, sensuous seductions, English in sentiwere fine, half-smothered by the dark-ment, Italian in externals, chivalric in ness; the lofty throne in the vast hall, between the pillars, in the midst of a warming multitude, connected all the forins around it by drawing all looks towards one centre. The poet, here and throughout, is a colorist and an architect. However fantastic his world may be, it is not factitious; if it does not exist, it might have been; indeed, it should have been; it is the fault of circumstances if they do not so group themselves as to bring it to pass; taken by itself, it possesses that internal harmony by which a real thing, even a still higher harmony, exists, inasmuch as, without any regard to real things, it is altogether, and in its least detail, constructed with a view to beauty. Art has made its appearance: this is the great characteristic of the age, which distinguishes the Faerie Queene trom all similar tales heaped up by the middle age. Incoherent, mutilated, they lie like rubbish, or roughhewn stones, which the weak hands of the trouvères could not build into a monument. At last the poets and artists appear, and with them the conception of beauty, to wit, the idea of general effect. They understand proportions, relations, contrasts; they compose. In their hands the blurred vague sketch becomes defined, complete, separate; it assumes color-is made a picture. Every object thus conceived and imaged acquires a definite existence as soon as it assumes true form; centuries after, it will be acknowledged and admired, and men will be touched by it; and more, they will be touched by its author; for, beskdes the object which he paints, the poet paints himself. His ruling idea is stamped upon the work which it produces and controls. Spenser is superior to his subject, comprehends it fully, frames it with a view to its end, in order to impress upon it the proper mark of his soul and his genius. Each story is modulated with respect to another, and a" with respect to a cer Such an epoch can scarcely last, and the poetic vitality wears itself out by its very efflorescence, so that its expansion leads to its decline. From the beginning of the seventeenth century, the subsidence of manners and genius grows apparent. Enthusiasm and respect decline. The minions and courtfops intrigue and pilfer, amid pedantry, puerility, and show. The court plunders, and the nation murmurs. Commons begin to show a stern front, and the king, scolding them like a schoolmaster, gives way before them like a little boy. This sorry monarch (James I.) suffers himself to be bullied by his favorites, writes to them like a gossip, calls himself a Solomon, airs his literary vanity, and in granting an audience to a courtier, recommends him to become a scholar, and expects to be complimented on his own scholarly attainments. The dignity of the government is weakened, and the people's loyalty is cooled. Royalty de clines, and revolution is fostered. At the same time, the noble chivalric paganism degenerates into a base and coarse sensuality. The king, we are told, on one occasion, had got so drunk with his royal brother Christian of Denmark, that they both had to be carried to bed. Sir John Harrington says: The seen to roll about in intoxication. |