The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  I love collections of the letters of eminent characters. The light which they throw on their thoughts, manners and habits, is delightful; pencilling out, as it were, those minute, and more delicate marks which are overlooked in the sketches of history, and seldom, if ever, accurately pourtrayed by biographers, even when individuals have themselves been their own recorders. Then there is the intimacy you seem to have with a man whose letters are open to you; his peculiar modes of expression, and his light discursive wit, unchecked by fears of criticism, give a sort of actual presence to the writer. I wish I could have seen the letters of my most favourite epistolary writers in their own hand-writing. Whatever is the work of a great man, receives a magnitude proportioned to his fame, or our own fondness for him. This latter motive, the delight which we have taken in any particular writer, would weigh most strongly with me in wishing to peruse the manuscript of his letters. I should not care very much to see the hand-writing of Copernicus, or Marlborough, or of Charles V. of Spain, or XII. of Sweden, or Peter the Great Barbarian, or any other of those people who have made wonderful discoveries, or achieved great exploits; but for whom I care not, that is, I have no personal interest in them. I may appreciate and admire the greatness of their talents, and value their works or actions; but I care little about their private characters or pursuits, further than is explanatory of their operations. But I would give any thing to see a letter, a friendly familiar letter, of Sir Thomas Browne, or old Izaak Walton. The writing of the first might be a neat close reflective hand, something like Lamb’s, with the m’s and n’s close atop, with an occasional sharp-turned y tail, or a strange preternatural cross of a t, and his i’s, not to be distinguished from his e’s; but I am writing an essay on hand-writings, when I should be talking of other things.

  Had Erasmus possessed no wit, no liveliness, his letters would be interesting to us, from the notices they contain of the occupations and customs of our forefathers. But he is one of the most entertaining correspondents you can imagine. His fund of amusement is inexhaustible. If he describes a curious foreign usage, you see it performed before you; you are acquainted with it in a moment; you perceive that you have been in the habit of seeing it since you was born. Does he give you a character? The person described is your intimate acquaintance; the likeness is palpable; you can shake hands with him. Such are the epistles of Erasmus. They are in folio: such of my readers, as a folio does not fright, will find pleasure in perusing them.

  I have got a large collection of “Epistolce” here; but let us pass by them. Here are a multitude of fictions, some of the productions of the Eastern Romance. I must stop a little with these, my Mahommedan friends.

  The first work which I remember reading was Robinson Crusoe. What a vast number of editions; what a circulation has this most entertaining work had! What is the fame of Byron, or Scott, or Rogers, or Lamb, compared to Daniel Defoe’s! Great as the multitude of their readers have been, how far do they fall short of the countless perusers of the shipwrecked mariner of York! Lives there a boy of twelve, a milliner’s or mantua maker’s apprentice, old or young, gentle or simple, who has not sympathized in his distresses, assisted him in his architecture, and with him prowled forth clad in skins, conquered savages, and built boats? The reading of Robinson is one of those events which forms an era in a man’s literary life. He dates from it, as the Romans did, “ab urbe condita.” It is the time when he acquired a mass of new ideas, a second life. Another era is reading the treasures of Asiatic fiction. Here they are, Persian, Turkish, Chinese; and here is the one generally first and oftenest read, the Arabian Nights, which is in style and manner purely Persian, and probably originally the work of a Persian. Be they what or whence they may, how vast has been the diffusion of these legends of genii, and spells, and caliphs, and camel-drivers! The power they have acquired over the mind of readers is obvious, not merely from the multiplication of copies, but from the imitations which have from time to time been sent forth. An unread work is never imitated. Why are not the treasures of Asiatic literature more frequently translated, and more of their beauties widely disseminated? or why are some of those which have been so brought forth, so little known? Does one person out of a thousand know that there is a dramatic work., beautiful for its simplicity and elegance, Sacontala, which has been translated from the language of one of the most ancient nations, by Sir William Jones, whose name, as a gentleman, a scholar, and a lawyer, is, or ought to be, equally a passport to whatever he considered worthy of notice? It is to be hoped that this literature, neglected as it is, except by those who are in its very birth-place, will become more general, and an object of greater research; and the names of Ferdusi, Hafiz, and Sadi, be spoken of as authors, whose merits are known and acknowledged.

  I know not how I have been led into this digression; my purpose here is with those eastern relics, which are estimated. I read the Arabian Nights in my twelfth year. What a world was opened to me! the bright and fairy land of enchantment, of splendour, of romance, lay before me! with what zeal did I devour the narrations themselves, possessing the magic power of which they speak, which tell of the astonishment of the boy Aladdin, at first witnessing the power of his wonderful lamp; of the miserable fisherman, who had inadvertently placed himself in the power of a mighty and malignant being, and the ingenious trick by which he delivered himself, and turned the tables upon the humbled genius! Long, very long, the tale of the Thousand and One Nights haunted my imagination, and started up in my dreams; and now when the light hues of youth and wonderment have faded away, and age has shewn the emptiness and vanity of much that caught my early eye, I recur to these volumes, as a traveller who, after many wanderings, seeks his native home, and recognises in every tree, and rivulet, and mossy stone, the friends and contemporaries of his infancy.

  Here are more romances; but they are the romances of our own, or neighbouring countries. Here is that treasure of chivalry, that memorial of knights of great worship, of fair ladies, of furious joustings, of smitings on the brain-pan, and throwings over horses’ cruppers, which has so long preserved its existence and popularity — Le Morte d’Arthur. But there are others which, though they find a place on my shelves, I have never been able, nor indeed inclined, to wade through: Pharamond, or the famous History of France; Clelia; the famous History of Parismes and Parismendus; the Arigales and Parthenia of Quarles; Purchas’s Pilgrimage; the Hermetic Wedding, and many more, whose names are probably unknown to my readers. I marvel if the ladies of the olden time were as great devourers of the romances of chivalry, as the modern are of the novels and the romances of horrors. Compare a damsel of Queen Elizabeth’s times, clad in all the outrageous stiffness of the day, sitting on a chair of a hundred weight, as firm and immoveable as it, save when she gracefully cooled herself with her fan of ostrich feathers, reading Sir Philip Sidney’s Arcadia; with a fine lady of George the Fourth’s day, languishing and miserablising, (to take the privilege of coining a word,) over some tender tale of sympathy or sentiment, (which is the correct phrase?) the production, perhaps, of a milliner’s apprentice, or, at most, a gentleman in private lodgings, i e. the top garret.

  From romances in prose, to romances in verse, is an easy transition. But stay, here is one more proser whom I would mention. The Voyage of the Wandering Knight, is a most entertaining work, written in the style of continued allegory, in which so many of the old writers indulged, and admirably sustained throughout. It is dedicated to Drake. And now for our versemen: —

  Of these, the most beautiful is the Pharronida of Chamberlayne, the wild wandering story of which, abounding, as all of that time do, in strange adventures, mistakes and double entendres, battles, sieges, and what not, is clothed in stately but sweet and beautiful verse; it abounds with admirable passages, and possesses more unity of design than most of the similar poems of the time. But the greater number of these works, including some of the best, are to be found among the productions of the continental writers. We, in this country, have never had the fortune
to be attacked by Moors or Saracens, and there fore have wanted the opportunities of recording achievements of our warriors, in delivering the land from sable invaders; in which deficiency, we are inferior to the poetasters of Spain and Italy. Ariosto, Boiardo, Pulci, Zinabi, had opportunities of this kind, which we want. We have one name, however, which may be set against all these — a name which it is now the fashion to speak of and to praise, without knowing much of the works of its possessor — SPENSER.

  I have been writing here an hour or two, meditating on the productions of men; may I turn from them, to indulge for a few moments in other thoughts? Around me are the works of mortals like myself, greater probably in station than I am — far superior in talents, power, and fame. Yet, what has their repute done for them, more than my obscurity for me? They have faded, as I shall fade; their memory is slowly perishing, as mine also shall more quickly perish. A few worm-eaten leaves are perhaps all that remain to tell of the former lustre of a forgotten name. So is it with all things. I look from this window; it is a little gothic-shaped aperture, with panes an inch square: I look around, every thing seems fresh and blooming; yet, examine them closer; there are fruits falling, some leaves are withered, some are fallen, and blowing about at the impulse of every breeze. The evening too is coming on, and the gloom is sinking; there is a spirit of melancholy, of peace, of holiness, around, which hallows every scene, and gives enchantment to every spot: the wild associations of youth, or the graver recollections of manhood, spring up in every place. See that little arbour, with the tender jasmines twining round it, and a small stream running bubbling by it, glittering in its purity. Thirty years since, I planted the trees which form it; and there, in my later days, I love to sit and read my favourite authors.

  It grows darker — I can see no longer in the venerable gloom which encompasses me here I will go and sit in the little arbour, and read old Izaak. Farewell.

  IV.

  The sacred taper’s light is gone,

  Qrey moss has clad the altar stone,

  The holy image is o’erthrown,

  The bell has ceased to toll.

  The long-ribbed aisles are burst and shrunk;

  The holy shrine to ruin sunk,

  Departed is the pious monk,

  God’s blessing on his soul!

  I AM sometimes almost inclined to regret the dissolution of the monasteries. This is, however, but the mere outstraying of imagination, which judgment admits not the thought of. The re-establishment of papacy, the return of superstition, and of the long exploded infallibility and supreme power of the Vatican, is what no one could with patience contemplate.

  Yet there are moments when sterner reason is subjugated to wild fancy, when the paths of probability are deserted, to ramble on and often to overstep the verge of possibility; when we seek no foundation for our speculations but our own chance ideas, and on so slight a bottom fear not to raise our vast and airy edifices. So it is with me. I am an inveterate castle builder; and splendid and beautiful, in my own estimation, at least, are the faery scenes which rise to my imagination.

  Of these one of my most favourite is the mingled picture of beauty, and holiness, and grandeur, the adoration of a body of creatures, shut from the world, uncontaminated with the evil of sensual and earthly thoughts, in a state of happy peace, neither injuring nor injured;

  No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound them;

  All earth forgot, and all heaven around them!

  their views concentrated on one object, towards which, their meditations, their feelings, and their passions, were directed. The present entered not into their calculations; it was to another state, a state of enjoyment, which was to compensate for their mortifications, to which they looked forward.

  Such is the most favourable light in which to regard the subject; but, unfortunately, it is not borne out, or rather it is contradicted, by history. We find that rancorous and malignant passions existed within the embrowned walls of the monastery, as in the precincts of courts, and the luxury of cities. Luxury indeed, if credit is to be given to the accounts of their contemporaries, was not interdicted to the inhabitants of the cloister. Probably, however, about the same degree of credit is to be given to the virulent abuse, as to the unqualified praise of this or any other class of individuals. It is not, however, my intention to enter into any disquisition on this point. I was led to it, by accidentally taking up two entertaining works, directed to the abuse of the monastic profession, the Epistolae Obscurorum Virorum, which I have before mentioned, and a small volume, Joannis Physiophyli Specimen Monachologise, in which the facete author professes to class the several species of genus ‘Monachus,’ or Monk, according to the Linnæan arrangement. Both of these works are in the Latin tongue, and in both the principal merit consists in the closeness of the parody; in the first, of the barbarous Latinity of the men whom it was intended to ridicule; and, in the second, of the scientific phraseology made use of by the classifiers of natural history. The ‘Epistolae’ of Hutten, is one of the most pleasing and entertaining burlesques I know — the ‘Specimen Monachologiae,’ though inferior to the first, contains a fund of amusement, not altogether unmixed with information. Both of them concur in vilifying the manners, knowledge, acquirements, and characters of the monks, in a degree surely unwarranted by fact. But the scandal is delivered so pleasantly, that we overlook the ill-nature in the delight we experience in the wit and adroitness of the writers.

  But whatsoever may have been the general character of the monastic class, it is not to be denied that many individuals among them have been exemplary in their conduct and doctrines. This was naturally to be expected. From so large a body, it would have been strange if none had possessed minds and principles above the rest, approximating in some degree to my idealrepresentation of the character. The examples were probably but few, yet they might be more numerous than we are aware of. They would seek a more retired situation and deeper solitude, for the indulgence of their contemplations, where they might be separated equally from the open vices of the world, and the concealed, and therefore more odious ones of the monks. This seclusion from the affairs and communion of the world might have produced a splenetic misanthropy, an affected hatred and contempt of those, from whose pleasures, employments, and society they had separated themselves, had their motives been less pure, or their determination more wavering. Still a seclusion so entire, demanded something to preserve it from disgust and insipidity. Those whom no extraordinary piety influenced, would seek for some other employments to beguile away the time. This would be the more remarkable in men of strong and active minds, whose thoughts would not be sufficiently occupied by the monotonous services of their profession. They would turn to other pursuits. If these were laudable, it was well for themselves and mankind; and if not, hypocrisy must be resorted to, to cover what they durst not openly avow. The latter would perhaps be the most numerous. But enough of them; it is unpleasant to dwell upon instances of human frailty and dissimulation.

  Of the works of those whom better motives influenced, it is perhaps hazardous to speak. Much difference of opinion has subsisted, regarding the service which this class has done to the cause of letters; some denying them any merit, and others ascribing to them the revival, or at least the preparation for the revival of science and learning. As usual, the middle way seems best; if they preserved some manuscripts, the monuments of ancient wit and philosophy, we know that the study of the classics was prohibited in religious houses; we know also that Boccaccio wept to find the library of a monastery transferred to a barn, where the books were perishing with damp, while those that escaped, were seized on and erased by the rapacious owners, that the materials might serve to write psalters and legends on. Let us leave this vexata questio.

  I have before hinted at the contemplative spirit, which in some minds was likely to be en gendered by monastic discipline, where the tone of natural feeling was such as easily to receive impressions of an abstracted nature. The fruit of this was — mysticism
— a state of mind which was aspired after by some in the remote ages. The eclectic sect of Platonists sought after a deification of the human mind, and probably continued in some degree till the second century, when Ammonius Sacca adopted its doctrines, and was succeeded by the Christian mystics, St. Clement of Alexandria and Dionysius the Areopagite. In the middle ages mysticism flourished among the theological schoolmen, and in modern times, several of the Saints of the Roman Calendar have written on the subject. This state, which is described by the initiated as conferring unimaginable pleasure, consisted of several stages, during which the soul progresses to an absolute and perfect abstraction from worldly thoughts, and seeks after, and at length attains, an immediate communion with the Deity. However fanciful these opinions may appear to us, it is by no means improbable that the continued abstinence and excitement of feeling in which the devotees lived, might produce effects, which to them might seem that intimate connexion with Supreme Power, that exaltation above the world, which they so eagerly sought after.

  It may be thought that a life of undying monotony, of everlasting sameness, would be insufferable. But use reconciles to every thing, and to me, who think with the feelings of age, the still, uninterrupted ease and pious serenity of the cloister, seem like the lovely gloom and deepening shade of evening, which, though it wants the brightness, is free from the fervent and scorching heats of noon. To those, too, to whom the denial and seclusion of monastic life were not a cloak of hypocrisy, whose choice had not been made merely from a disgust to a world, which their vices and passions had rendered hateful to them, to those whom true piety, and the influence of holy musings, had led to a deliberate and steady adoption of such a life, the monotonous existence which is complained of, would not be without its charms. The moments which were unoccupied by religious services, could be dedicated to intellectual improvement, to useful and strengthening meditation.