XV.-SPENSER'S FAERIE QUEENE. "The Faerie Queene. By [From the Critical Review, 1759. 'Tis the remark of Boccalini, that a writer whose works have passed through a number of editions after his decease, would hardly know his own performances again if he were to rise from the dead. Critics mistake his meaning, or are desirous of giving a new one of their own. Dunces interpolate the text, and printers, too, add their faults to swell the account: so that the poet at last, like a river which receives a new tincture from every soil through which it flows, makes a very different appearance from that with which he set out. Perhaps no writer confirms the truth of this remark more than Spenser; for, in proportion as the number of editions of the Faerie Queene have increased, the text has become more precarious; so that it was absolutely necessary to compare subsequent ones with that published by himself, and thus restore his meaning, where it had deviated from ancient correctness and simplicity. Mr. Church, in the edition in view, has completed this undertaking, and merits all the praise due to an exact and cautious editor. Here we see our old favorite rising once more from his faults, and borrowing all the helps of exact punctuation. We can now tread the regions of fancy without interruption, and expatiate on fairy wilds, such as our great magician has been pleased to represent them. There is a pleasing tranquillity of mind which ever attends the reading of this ancient poet. We leave the ways of the present world, and all the ages of primeval innocence and happiness rise to our view.* Virgil, and even Homer, seem to be modern, upon the comparison. The imagination of his reader leaves reason behind, pursues the tale, without considering the allegory, and upon the whole, is charmed without instruction. It is, it must be owned, somewhat surprising, that Spenser, who was so well acquainted with Virgil, should not have adopted the Eneid of the Roman poet, rather than the Romans of the Wises and Jongleurs, his more immediate predecessors. It is true he has endeavored to soften this defect, by forming his work into an allegory; however, the pleasure we receive from this species of composition, though never so finely balanced between truth and fiction, is but of a subordinate nature, as we have always two passions opposing each other; a love of reality, which represses the flights of fancy, and a passion for the marvellous, which would leave reflection behind. However, with all his faults, no poet enlarges the imagination more than Spenser. Cowley was formed into poetry by reading him; and many of our modern writers, such as Gray, Akenside, and others, seem to have studied his manner with the utmost attention from him their compounded epithets, and solemn flow of numbers, seem evidently borrowed; and the verses of Spenser may, perhaps, one day be considered the standard of English poetry. It were happy indeed, if his beauties were the only *["After reading a canto of Spenser, two or three days ago, to an old lady between seventy and eighty years of age, she said that I had been showing her a gallery of pictures. I don't know how it is, but she said very right; there is something in Spenser that pleases one as strongly in one's old age as it did in one's youth. I read the Faerie Queene when I was about twelve, with infinite delight; and I think it gave me as much when I read it over about a year ago."-POPE, 1743-44. Spence, p. 297.] +["When I began Childe Harold, I had never tried Spenser's measure; objects of modern imitation; but many of his words, justly fallen into disuse among his successors, have been of late revived, and a language, already too copious, has been augmented by an unnecessary reinforcement. Learning and language are ever fluctuating, either rising to perfection or retiring into primeval barbarity perhaps the point of English perfection is already passed, and every intended improvement may be now only deviation. This at least is certain, that posterity will perceive a strong similitude between the poets of the sixteenth, and those of the latter end of the eighteenth century. To this edition of Spenser's works, the editor has prefixed some account of his life, gleaned from his own and cotemporary writings. There is a strong similitude between the lives of almost all our English poets. The ordinary of Newgate, we are told, has but one story, which serves for the life of every hero that happens to come within the circle of his pastoral care; however unworthy the resemblance appears, it may be asserted, that the history of one poet might serve with as little variation for that of any other. Born of creditable parents, who gave him a pious education; however, in spite of all their endeavors, in spite of all the exhortations of the minister of the parish on Sundays, he turned his mind from following good things, and fell to writing verses! Spenser, in short, lived poor, was reviled by the and now I cannot scribble in any other."-Lord Byron to Lord Holland, Sept. 26, 1812. "The stanza of the Faerie Queene is framed with such consummate skill, that all its parts are indivisibly interlaced, and the rhythm proceeds with increasing strength and fulness through the whole, till it is wound up in a harmonious, rich, and perfect close. There is no form of verse in our language in which so many successful poems have been written as in this, notwithstanding its apparent difficulty. The poet who would learn the mysteries of his art, should take Spenser for his master, and drink of his poetry as from a well, -not indeed of English undefiled, but of perpetual harmony, pure thoughts, delightful imagery, and tender feeling.”—Quart. Rev., 1814, vol. xii., p. 72.] critics of his time, and died at last in the utmost distress.* There are some quotations brought in proof of this, from a poem called the Purple Island, which, as the reader may have never seen, we shall beg leave to transcribe. "The poet had been speaking of the discouragements attending learning and the muses: STANZA 17. "But wretched we to whome these iron daies 19. "Witnesse our Colin; whom though all the Graces And all the learn'd, and all the shepherds throng; Poorly (poore man) he liv'd; poorly (poore man) he di’d. 20. "And had not that great Hart (whose honor'd head Ah! lies full low), piti'd thy wofull plight; There hadst thou lien unwept, unburied, Unblest, nor grac'd with any common rite: Yet shalt thou live, when thy great foe shall sink 21. "O! let th' Iambick muse revenge that wrong, Which cannot slumber in thy sheets of lead: * ["Spenser died broken-hearted at London, in January 1599. He was buried, according to his desire, near the tomb of Chaucer, and the most celebrated poets of the time (Shakspeare was probably of the number), followed his hearse, and threw tributary verses into his grave.-CAMPBELL, Brit. Poets, vol. ii. p. 176.] Let thy abused honor crie as long As there be quills to write, or eyes to reade: "The reader will excuse our tempting his curiosity by adding, that the author of these agreeable lines is Phineas Fletcher, nephew to Richard Fletcher, bishop of London. As we have taken the liberty to introduce on this occasion this poet so little known, we cannot but add, that he seems to be of Spenser's own turn of mind. At Hilgayt 'tis most likely this ingenious and good man passed his days, privately and humbly, and with all the modest sentiments with which he every where abounds. We cannot but think of him and love him, when he mentions the blushing strawberries, Which lurk close shrouded from high-looking eyes, * ["Under the auspices of the Earl of Essex, Spenser received from Queen Elizabeth a pension of £50 yearly. It is supposed that some passages in his poems drew down upon his head the wrath of the great Burleigh; the effects of which continued to attend him through life. The striking lines, describing the miseries of a suitor for court favor, have been always understood to refer to his own disappointment: Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried, To lose good days, that might be better spent ; To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow; To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run; SIR WALTER SCOTT, Prose Works, vol. xvii. p. 91.] + [Phineas Fletcher held the living of Hilgay, in Norfolk, for twenty nine years. He died about the year 1650.] |