By lightning, earthquake, fire and war, And him whose snakes and hounds they are, From whose judgment seat I come, My soul is drowned beneath a flood Doomed and tortured I am sent To confess the deed and fly; Wail not for me-yourselves repent; Eternity is punishment; Listen, crouch, and die." With that word his body fell, As dust upon the storm, Flashlike darkened was his form; While through their souls in horror rang, The dragon shout, the thunderous clang Of the closing gates of hell. The following narrative is given by Meric Casaubon, as an extract from the diary of a friend, (perhaps his father, for his expression is, my F.) who seems to have heard it related by Bishop Andrewes― Kalend. August. Narrabat hodiè mihi rem miram, Reverendiss. Præsul, Dom. Episcop. Eliensis: quam ille, acceptam auribus suis a teste oculato et auctore, credebat esse verissimam. Est vicus in urbe Londino, qui dicitur, Vicus Longobardorum. In eo vico parœcia est, et ædes parœcialis, in qua fuit Presbyter, homo summæ fidei et nota pietatis, .... An. 1563, quo anno si unquam aliàs, pestis grassata est per hanc urbem Londinum. Narravit igitur hic parrochus et passim 66 aliis, et ipsi quoque Dom. Episcopo sibi hoc accidisse. Erat illi amicus in suà parœciâ insignis, vir, ut omnes existimabant, probus et pius. Hic, peste correptus, advocavit presbyterum illum amicum suum ; qui et ægrotanti affuit, et vidit morientem, nec deseruit nisi mortuum ; ita demum repetiit domum suam. Post horas satis multas a morte hujus, cum ipse pro mortuo esset relictus in cubiculo; uxor illius idem cubiculum est ingressa, ut ex arcâ promeret lodicem, ut est moris. Ingressa, audit hanc vocem, operi intenta; "Quis hic est ?" Terreri illa, et velle egredi, sed auditur iterum vox illa; "Quis hic est ?" Ac tandem comperto esse mariti vocem, accedit ad illum ;-" quid," ait, "Marite; tu igitur mortuus non es? Et nos te pro mortuo compositum deserueramus." Ego vero," respondit ille, " verè mortuus fui: sed ita Deo visum ut anima mea rediret ad corpus. Sed tu uxor," ait, ❝ si quid habes cibi parati, da mihi; esurio enim." Dixit illa vervecinam habere se, pullum gallinaceum, et nescio quid aliud: sed omnia incocta, quæ brevi esset paratura." "Ego," ait ille, "moram non fero; panem habes," ait, "et caseum?" Quum annuisset, atque petiisset afferri, comedit, spectante uxore: deinde advocato Presbytero, et jussis exire e cubiculo omnibus qui aderant: narrat illi hoc." Ego," ait, “vere mortuus fui; sed jussa est anima redire ad suum corpus, ut scelus apperiram ore meo, manibus meis admissum, de quo unquam cuiquam nota est suspicio. Priorem namque uxorem meam ipse occidi manibus meis, tanta vafritie, ut omnes res lateret." Deinde modum perpetrati celeris exposuit; nec ita multo post expiravit, et vere tum mortuus est. The naïveté of this narration is well followed up by Meric's assuring the reader that there is an absolute necessity for making it "an article of his faith: yet," says he, "I thought them very probable, because believed by such a man." For this singular instance of believing by proxy, see Casaubon's preface to "A true and faithful relation of what passed for many years between Dr. John Dee and some spirits." Folio, 1659. た 264 ON THE ENCOURAGEMENT OF THE ARTS. THE Roman Emperor, who offered a reward to whoever should invent a new pleasure, was not deserving of the reproaches which have been heaped on his memory. Confined within innocent limits, the inventor of a new pleasure would be really a benefactor to the human race. Man was not made to be always toiling and turmoiling; his mind is framed for higher things than the mere consideration of how he is to gain a subsistence: his thoughts cannot always dwell on one object. Variety of occupation is as necessary to our mental as to our physical faculties; the mind is, not less than the body, broken down by the constant recurrence of the same employment. He who would keep alive the better qualities of his nature, he who does not wish to see perish his fancy, his imagination, nay, even his kind feelings for his fellow-creatures, must occasionally turn away from the straight-forward path of life, to gather the flowers that grow by his road-side; he must sometimes stop to admire the distant prospect opening to his view, the retiring glade that excites but to mock his curiosity, though conscious that the majestic oak, which spreads its branches over the plain, will never give shelter to his cattle; that the wandering stream, whose sparkling waters light up the whole landscape, will never turn his mill, nor give fertility to his fields. Usefulness is not the only measure of worth. The objects that surround us have a value independent of their utility. As men cannot be always employed in the duties of life, and as the restlessness of our nature forbids positive idleness, where innocent pleasures are not to be had, more guilty pastimes will surely usurp their place. It is in a barbarous state of society that drunkenness, incontinence, ferocity of temper, and all the evils arising from their indulgence, most prevail. The arts tend to soften our disposition, to improve our character, to purify our lives, by procuring an innocent amusement for our leisure. This is, in most cases, their highest merit, and it is no slight one; it is one they share in common with literature. Few men are wiser or better for the books they have read: an ounce of experience, it has been truly said, is worth a pound of learning. Slight, indeed, is the claim that literature can set up to the improvement of the human race; and that which can be advanced by the fine arts is still smaller. They are not our tutors, our advisers, they are only the companions of our idle hours. They, in reality, only keep us from grosser pleasures, by procuring a more refined species of sensual enjoyment. The man who has stood for hours before a picture of Raffaelle or Correggio, if he have taste to relish their beauties, will have enjoyed a high gratification, but the powers of his mind will not have been enlarged, nor will his virtue have been strengthened. His time, however, has been innocently employed; his mind, whilst thus occupied, has given no harbour to bad thoughts. have To this absence of all positive utility, may indeed be ascribed the attachment which all bear to the fine arts. They never engage our attention but when our mind is at ease; they are our listless moments which we devote to their admiration; we give ourselves up more readily to their fascination, because they can make no direct claim on us. They are the companions of our leisure hours, who are always more dear to us than those of our toils. They may more of our respect and gratitude, who have promoted our success in life, but our kindliest feelings are always for those who have shared our amusements. What the artist thus loses in dignity, he will gain in profit. dily for what is of least real utility. left entirely free, the priest, on whose exertions we are taught tó believe depends our eternal happiness, is always the worst We pay most reaWhere professions are paid man in the community; we are somewhat more liberal to the physician, to whom we intrust our bodily welfare; the lawyer, who is only occupied with our property, is still more generously rewarded: but it is only to artists, and actors, and singers, that we give our money freely, and with no feeling of regret. It is entirely our own act: we do it under no impression of restraint. It is not an obligation we are discharging. The gentleman who, without remorse, leaves unpaid his butcher, his baker, or his greengrocer, all those who have legal claims on him, is rendered miserable if he cannot immediately discharge his losses at play. What he grudges to his necessities, he lavishes on his pleasures. At no time, and in no country, did this feeling ever so strongly prevail as at present in England. Our rich men are so numerous, that to amuse themselves, or to contribute to the amusement of others, has become the employment of the largest part of our population. Nothing has been neglected that can relieve the weariness of life. The most bountiful protection has been bestowed on all the arts of luxury and elegance. Honours and rewards have been lavishly showered on painters and sculptors. Academies have been provided for their instruction, and fame and wealth have gone before, and almost wooed the slightest indications of genius. Yet, whilst the mechanical arts, without protection, have made the most rapid strides, whilst even those which cannot be practised without injury to the health, have attained a degree of perfection that, a few years since, would have been thought impossible; the fine arts, which require no sacrifice of inclination or comfort, whose study is a pleasure, and whose practice is an amusement, have stood entirely still. The utmost that all our host of painters have done for their country, is to encourage the manufacture of In the many years that have elapsed since the canvass. |