In nine years more, at the death of James I. in 1625, what we permitted ourselves to suspect has become matter of patent observation. Everywhere the symptoms of decay and decline are obvious. Bacon is degraded, and dying; and no one takes his place. Ben Jonson is paralysed, and 'sick and sad,' and his 'sons in Apollo' have not a tithe of his genius. Fletcher is dead, and his work descends to Massinger. Of the glorious romantic poets which had made London the capital of Parnassus, the weary Heywood is still hanging about the stage, Middleton is closing appropriately in Anything for a Quiet Life, and with Ford and Shirley in a little momentary revival, a martin's summer, is preparing England for a long period of darkness. In all this we trace nothing more nor less than the collapse of energy which answers in the history of the imagination of a people to nervous exhaustion in an individual. England was tired of her rapture, her transcendent effort, and she was ready to sink into the repose of a convention.

We may, perhaps, discover a further reason for the malady which begins to afflict her from the reign of James I. onwards to the end of the Commonwealth. One palpable cause of the neglect of letters has been always pointed out in the confusion of political issues, and the concentration of popular attention on vast constitutional problems. But this easy solution of the difficulty is not to be accepted without a protest. In the first place, the decline of literature was proceeding at full speed while the political world was still quiet, and when none but the most far-sighted patriots anticipated a grand upheaval. On the other hand, it is by no means certain that an eager interest in high matters of State is necessarily unfavourable to the production of literature. The ecclesiastical storms which led to the appointment of Elizabeth's High Commission swept through every household in England, but their violence and bluster did not brush a grain of jewel-dust off the wings of The Faerie Queen, or delay by an hour the evolution of the genius of Shakespeare. Nor is it at all certain that the disturbed condition of English politics half a century later had any ill effect on the imagination of Milton. We have to beware of attributing to politics too direct an influence on the waxing and waning of poetical literature.

When we close the brilliant and unparalleled

about to commence, what we do find is that England did not escape that curious blight or malady of the mind which fell on every other part of Europe, and marked, in so doing, the close of the Renaissance. This was the preoccupation with a forced ingenuity of fancy which is known by so many names, and which affected so many literatures in different but contemporary ways, as in Donne with us, Marino with the Italians, Gongora with the Spaniards. In this a morbid horror of the obvious leads the writer into forms of thought and speech which are inelegant and non-natural, and in which the proportion between what is essential and what is trifling is lost. It is not quite exact to say that this change consisted in a decay of taste, because ugly and monstrous things had been written, with an almost innocent nonchalance, by the poets of the great period, while those of the decline were often prettier and more graceful in trifles than their masters had been. But there was a decay of the sense of relative values, and this we see exemplified in the works of a man of such amazing genius and force as Donne, who says the most penetrating and the most silly thing at the same moment, not (as it would appear) distinguishing what is silly from what is penetrating, and having no criterion by which to judge his creations.

So that, without paradox, we may say that what this period of our literary history did, in its excessive and volcanic strain of production, was to wear out and paralyse those faculties by which it held its own acts in the balance. It lost the sense of proportion, the power of parallel measurement, so that it stumbled and fell, as those do who by some affection of the nerves have lost the power of regulating their actions. What was left for further generations, then, to do was to recover the measuring and weighing power by means of a strict and tonic mental discipline. And it is thus, and thus alone, that we can comprehend the readiness with which those whose childhood had been spent in the light of Spenser and Shakespeare were willing to subject themselves to the Aristotelian rules and the versification of Waller and Denham. It was that the blaze and blare of Elizabethan genius had worn out their capacities of enjoyment, and they had to subject themselves to a system of intellectual discipline to recover their mental tone.

EDMUND GOSSE.

Thomas Sackville.-In the reign of Elizabeth the first great name in poetry is that of Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst (1536-1608), from 1604 Earl of Dorset, and from 1599 Lord High-Treasurer of England; he has already come before us in the character of a dramatic writer (page 157). Probably towards the end of the reign of Queen Mary, and before he actively engaged in public life, Sackville planned the design of the Myrroure for Magistrates, somewhat on the lines of Lydgate's Falls of Princes (itself based on Boccaccio: see above at page 79). The poet was to descend into the underworld, as in the plan of Virgil and Dante, and converse with the most famous persons in English history who had suffered sad reverses of fortune; these were each to tell his own story as a mirror and warning to statesmen and rulers. Sackville wrote the noble Induction or Prologue describing the descent, and powerfully sketching the allegorical personages about the porch of hell; and told the tale of Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, first of the shades to come up to the visitors-the Buckingham who first supported Richard III. and then suffered for intriguing against him. More than this Sackville did not contribute to the scheme; but what he wrote has alone real poetic value. The plan was continued by George Baldwin and George Ferrers, and the whole published in 1559 and 1563. Sackville's part, though obviously meant as introduction to the whole, did not appear till 1563, and then near the end of the book. The Induction is a truly remarkable poem, a startling apparition when contrasted with the work of such predecessors as Hawes. Hallam said it 'unites the school of Chaucer and Lydgate to the Faery Queen,' its pictures of gloom and sorrow, its allegorical personifications, rival Spenser's own work. The subject was not new; the stanza was that which Chaucer had made familiar; but the melody of the verse, the power and truth of the drawing, the dignity of the presentation, and the poetic charm were new and rare. Tottel's 'Miscellany' (1557) is the only other work of this time that contains anything comparable to Sackville in poetic value; and in rhythm and melody and metric perfection Sackville far surpasses Wyatt and Surrey. Spenser recognised his own debt to his predecessor, and was unquestionably influenced by him.

From the Induction to the Myrroure for
Magistrates.'

A deadly gulfe where nought but rubbish grows,
With fowle blacke swelth in thickned lumps that lies,
Which up in th' ayre such stinking vapors throws
That over there may flie no fowle but dyes,
Choaked with the pestilent savors that arise,

Crookebackt he was, tooth-shaken, and blere-eyed;
Went on three feete, and sometyme crept on foure ;
With olde lame bones, that rattled by his syde;
His scalp all pilled, and hee with eld forlore,
His withred fist still knocking at Deaths dore;
Fumbling and driveling as hee drawes his breath;
For briefe, the shape and messenger of Death.

And fast by him pale Malady was placed;
Sore sicke in bed, her colour all foregone;
Bereft of stomacke, savour, and of taste,

Ne could shee brooke no meate but broths alone;
Her breath corrupt; her kepers every one
Abhorring her; her sickness past recure,
Detesting phisicke and all phisickes cure.

But, oh, the dolefull sight that then wee see!
Wee turned our looke, and on the other side

A griesly shape of Famine mought wee see:

With greedy lookes, and gaping mouth, that cryed
And roared for meate, as shee should there have dyed;
Her body thin and bare as any bone,

Whereto was left nought but the case alone.

And that, alas! was gnawne on every where,
All full of holes; that I ne mought refrayne
From tears, to see how shee her arms could teare
And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vayne,
When, all for nought, shee fayne would so sustayne
Her starven corps, that rather seemed a shade
Than any substaunce of a creature made:

Great was her force, whome stone-wall could not stay:
Her tearing nayles snatching at all shee sawe;
With gaping jawes, that by no meanes ymay
Be satisfied from hunger of her mawe,

But eates herselfe as shee that hath no lawe;
Gnawing, alas, her carkas all in vayne,

Where you may count each sinew, bone, and vayne.

On her while we thus firmly fixt our eyes;
That bled for ruth of such a drery sight,
Lo, suddenly she shriekt in so huge wise
As made Hell gates to shiver with the might;
Wherewith a dart we sawe how it did light
Right on her brest, and therewithall pale Death
Enthrilling it, to reve her of her breath :

And by and by a dumb dead corps we sawe,
Heavy and colde the shape of Death aright,
That daunts all earthly creatures to his lawe,
Against whose force in vaine it is to fight;
Ne peeres, ne princes, nor no mortall wyght,
No Townes, ne Realmes, Cityes, ne strongest Tower,
But all perforce must yield unto his power:

His dart anon out of the corps hee tooke,
And in his hand (a dreadfull sight to see)
With great tryumph eftsoones the same hee shooke,
That most of all my feares affrayed mee;
His body dight with nought but bones, pardė ;
The naked shape of man there saw I plaine,
All save the flesh, the sinew, and the veine.

Lastly, stood Warre, in glittering armes yclad,
With visage grym, stern lookes, and blackly hewed:
In his right hand a naked sworde he had,
That to the hilts was all with bloud embrued;
And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rewed)

rued

Famine and fyer he held, and therewithall,

He razed townes, and threw downe towres and all.

Cities he sackt, and realmes (that whilome flowerd
In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest)
He overwhelmde, and all theire fame devoured,
Consumed, destroyed, wasted, and never ceast,
Till he their wealth, their name, and all oppresst:
His face forehewed with wounds; and by his side
There hung his targe, with gashes deepe and wide.

Then first came Henry Duke of Buckingham,
His cloak of black all pilled, and quite forworne,
Wringing his hands, and Fortune oft doth blame,
Which of a duke had made him now her skorne;
With gastly looks, as one in maner lorne,

Oft spred his armes, stretcht hands he joynes as fast,
With ruful cheer, and vapored eyes upcast.

His cloake he rent, his manly brest hee beat;
His hayre all torne about the place it lay:
My heart so molt to see his griefe so great,
As felingly methought it dropt away;
His eyes they whirld about withouten stay:
With stormy sighes the place did so complayne,
As if his heart at ech had burst in twayne.

Thrise he began to tell his dolefull tale,

And thrise the sighes did swallow up his voyce?
At ech of which he shrieked so withall,
As though the heavens rived with the noyse;
Till at the last recovering his voyce,
Supping the teares that all his breast beraynde,
On cruel Fortune weeping thus he playnde.

The Induction runs to eighty stanzas, the Complaint to over a hundred. Our text is substantially that of the edition of 1587. The first of the seventy-four characters in the completed work is King Albanact of Scotland in 1085 B.C.; the last is Wolsey. King Locrinus of Britain, son of Brutus, tells his story, King Bladud and Queen Cordila also; and Julius Cæsar and half-a-dozen Roman emperors figure in the company of British notables. Sackville West edited the collected works in 1859.

George Gascoigne (1525-77), son of Sir John Gascoigne of Cardington in Bedfordshire, and descendant of the famous Chief-Justice under Henry IV., was an early dramatist (see above at page 238), one of our first satirists, an indefatigable translator, and a pioneer in many departments of literature. He studied at Cambridge, entered Gray's Inn, wrote poems, and sat in Parliament for Bedford (1557-59), but was disinherited by his father for his prodigality. He married a widow (to improve his finances), was still persecuted by creditors, set out for Holland, and served gallantly under the Prince of Orange (1572-75). Surprised by a Spanish force and taken prisoner, he was detained four months; and, on his return to England, settled at Walthamstow, where he collected and published his poems. He was praised by his own and the succeeding generation of writers, and experienced a share of royal favour;

for he accompanied the queen to Kenilworth, and supplied part of the poetical and scenic entertainments at Leicester's magnificent seat and also at Woodstock. He translated in prose and verse, from Greek, Latin, and Italian. The Complaynt of Phylomene, his first poem, was begun in 1563 and published in 1575. The Supposes, translated from I Suppositi of Ariosto, is the first prose comedy in English; Jocasta, based on the Phanissa of Euripides, is the second tragedy in English blank verse; The Glasse of Government is an original comedy; The Steele Glas is the earliest blankverse satire; and in the Notes of Instruction on Making of Verse we have the first considerable English essay on the subject. It is pathetic that already Gascoigne thought some of the standard poetic epithets were worn out: If I should undertake to wryte in prayse of a gentlewoman,' he says, 'I would neither praise hir christal eye nor hir cherrie lippe, etc. For these things are trita et obvia. How often have they done duty since! To such a zealous experimenter English literature obviously owes a deep debt, though much of his work is hopelessly tedious. It may be said for him that he sometimes attains freedom both in rhyme and in blank verse, and that his lyrics show even a certain grace and lightness of touch. In the Steele Glas, Gascoigne explains that he finds an oldfashioned mirror of steel greatly more truthful than those of glass (first made at Venice in 1300, but not in England until 1673). Common glass, beryl glass, and crystal he believes to be false:

That age is dead, and vanisht long ago,
Which thought that steele both trusty was and true,
And needed not a foyle of contraries,

But shewde al things even as they were indeede.
In steade whereof, our curious yeares can finde
The christal glass, which glimseth brave and bright,
And shewes the thing much better than it is,
Beguiled with foyles of sundry subtil sights,
So that they seeme and covet not to be.

All the more reason that, having had such a trusty steel mirror bequeathed to him, the satirist should put it to some use! Thus he can show his contemporaries their faults, as in the two following extracts (the second from the Epilogus)-drunken soldiers, false judges, usurious merchants being also not forgotten :

On the Country Gentleman.
The Gentleman which might in countrie keepe
A plenteous boorde and feed the fatherlesse
With pig and goose, with mutton, beefe, and veale
(Yea, now and then a capon and a chicke),
Will breake up house and dwel in market-townes
A loitring life, and like an Epicure.

But who meanwhile defends the common welth?
Who rules the flocke when sheperds so are fled?
Who stayes the staff which shuld uphold the state?
Forsoth, good Sir, the Lawyer leapeth in-
Nay, rather leapes both over hedge and ditch,
And rules the rost: but few men rule by right.

O Knights, O Squires, O Gentle blouds yborne, You were not borne onely for your selves : Your countrie claymes some part of al your paines; There should you live, and therein should you toyle, To hold up right and banish cruel wrong, To help the pore, to bridle backe the riche, To punish vice and vertue to advaunce, To see God servde, and Belzebub supprest. You should not trust lieftenaunts in your rome, And let them sway the scepter of your charge, Whiles you meanwhile know scarcely what is don, Nor yet can yeld accompt if you were callde.

On the Court Ladies.

Beholde, my lorde, what monsters muster here,
With Angels face and harmfule helish harts,
With smyling lookes, and deep deceitful thoughts,
With tender skinnes and stony cruel mindes,
With stealing steppes, yet forward feete to fraude.
Behold, behold, they never stande content,
With God, with kinde, with any helpe of arte,
But curle their locks with bodkins and with braids,
But dye their heare with sundry subtill sleights,
But paint and slicke till fayrest face be foule,
But bumbast, bolster, frisle, and perfume:

They marre with muske the balme which nature made,
And dig for death in dellicatest dishes.

The yonger sorte come pyping on apace,
In whistles made of fine enticing wood,

Till they have caught the birds for whom they birded.
The elder sorte go stately stalking on,
And on their backs they beare both land and fee,
Castles and towres, revenewes and receits,
Lordships and manours, fines, yea, fermes and al.
What should these be? Speak you, my lovely lord.
They be not men, for why, they have no beards;
They be no boyes which weare such side long gowns;
They be no Gods, for al their gallant glosse;
They be no divels, I trow, that seme so saintish.
What be they? Women masking in men's weedes-
With dutchkin dublets, and with jerkins jaggde,
With Spanish spangs and ruffes fet out of France,
With high copt hats and feathers flaunt-a-flaunt—
They, to be sure, seem even wo to men, indeed!

The Arraignment of a Lover.

At Beautyes barre as I dyd stande,
When False Suspect accused mee,
'George,' quod the judge, 'holde up thy hande,
Thou art arraigned of flatterye ;

Tell, therefore, howe wylt thou bee tryed,
Whose judgment here wylt thou abyde?'

'My Lord,' quod I, this lady here, Whom I esteeme above the rest, Doth knowe my guilte, if any were;

Wherefore hir doome shall please me best. verdict Let hir bee judge and jurour bothe, To trye mee guiltlesse by myne oathe.'

Quoth Beautie: 'No, it fitteth not

A prince hirselfe to judge the cause;
Wyll is our justice, well you wot,
Appointed to discusse our Lawes ;
If you will guiltlesse seeme to goe,
God and your countrey quitte you so.'

Thomas Tusser (1524-80) was, in Fuller's words, successively a musician, schoolmaster, serving-man, husbandman, grazier, poet, more skilful in all than thriving in any vocation.' Sprung of a good stock near Witham, in Essex, he was trained especially in singing and music, became a chorister at St Paul's and elsewhere, studied at Eton and Cambridge, and lived at court for ten years as retainer and musician to Lord Paget. He then tried farming both in Suffolk and in Norfolk, but without success; about 1559 was a singer in Norwich Cathedral; farmed taxes in Essex; became a servant at Trinity Hall, Cambridge; but died in London, a prisoner for debt, in 1580. His highly didactic poem, a Hundreth Good Pointes of Husbandrie, first published in 1557, is a series of practical directions for farming, expressed in always rude but not always dull and sometimes quite pointed dactylic verse, and many proverbs are traced back to him. There was also a Hundreth Poyntes of Good Husserie;