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dividing the jugular vein; and, in stigmatizing him, took care to make a much more than a nominal cautery. The spirits of the martyr, however, were not subdued. On the contrary, his genius was excited; and, on his way back to the Tower, where he had been confined before his trial, he recorded his triumph in the following punning distich :—

"S. L. Stigmata Laudis

"Stigmata maxillis referens insignia Laudis
"Exultans remeo, victima grata Deo."

On the 26th day of July, Dr. Bastwick, before his wounds were perfectly cured, was removed from the Gate-house, and compelled to set out on his journey to Lancaster castle. His faithful wife followed him, but, for some days, was not permitted to speak to him. On the 1st of August he arrived at the place where it was intended that he should end his days, and was quartered in a part of the building, which was so ruinous, that it was constantly in danger of being blown down. This being represented to Judge Finch, his Lordship mercifully replied, that "the Doctor, by his faith and prayers, would hold it up from falling." In aggravation of his sufferings, Laud procured a warrant, prohibiting all access to him on the part of his friends, and debarring him the use of pen, ink, and paper, and of all books, save the Bible and Common Prayer book, and such devotional works as were consonant to the faith of the Church of England.

But the vengeance of the archbishop was not yet satiated. A few weeks after the settlement of the prisoners in their respective places of confinement, finding that their residence in England made them objects of public attention, and that the wives of Burton and Bastwick had made attempts to procure access, and to send letters to them, he determined to remove them from the reach of sympathy or comfort, and procured an illegal order for their banishment from the island. Prynne was accordingly conveyed to Jersey Castle; Burton, to Guernsey; and Bastwick was ordered to be sent to the Fort of Scilly. He was accordingly conveyed, on the 10th day of October, 1637, from Lancaster to Plymouth, where he was embarked on board a vessel, into which his wife was not permitted to enter to take leave of him. On the 16th, he arrived at the islands of Scilly," where," says Prynne,* " many thousands of robin red-breasts (none of which birds were ever seen in those islands before nor since) newly arrived at the castle there the

In his "New Discovery of the Prelate's Tyranny."

evening before, welcomed him with their melody; and, within one day or two after, took their flight from thence, no man knows whither."

In all probability, Bastwick regarded the appearance of these birds as comfortably ominous of his future deliverance from the hands of his enemies. If so, he was not mistaken, though the accomplishment of his favourable prognostic was somewhat tardy. The assembling of the Long Parliament, as it is well known, discomfited all the tyrannic plans of the court. The relatives and friends of the captives petitioned the House of Commons for their release. Their petitions were readily granted; and the requisite orders, backed by the Speaker's warrant, were issued on the 7th day of November, 1640. On the 28th of November, Burton and Prynne made their triumphant entry into London, attended by such multitudes of people, that they found it difficult to make their way into the city. Dr. Bastwick, in consequence of the distance of the place of his confinement, did not land at Dover till the 7th of December: the 8th, being Sunday, he spent at Gravesend in company with his wife and children, and many of his friends; and, on the ensuing day, he also entered the metropolis amidst the acclamations of the populace.

The three martyrs in the cause of puritanism, after their restoration to liberty, lost no time in presenting petitions to the House of Commons, requesting an examination of their respective cases, and a redress of their grievances. These petitions were favourably received. On the 25th of February, the House resolved, "that the proceedings against Dr. Bastwick in the Star Chamber, and the sentence of that Court against him, and the execution of that sentence, were against the law, and liberty of the subject; and that the sentence ought to be reversed, and Dr. Bastwick discharged of the fine of £5000, and of his imprisonment, and to have reparation for the damages sustained by the foresaid proceedings, sentence, and execution." The like condemnation was passed on his illegal removal to the fort of Scilly; and, on the 1st of March, it was ordered," that the Archbishop of Canterbury, and all those who voted against Dr. Bastwick in the Star Chamber, should make satisfaction to him for his damages sustained by that sentence." Similar resolutions were soon afterwards passed in favour of his fellow sufferers. The wheel of fortune made a complete revolution. Many of the persecutors of this hotbrained, but firm-hearted triumvirate were driven into exile; and Prynne had the gratification of assisting in, and of recording that trial, which, in its issue, consigned his arch enemy to the scaffold.

We have not room to enlarge on the reflections which

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VOL. X. PART II.

P

gest themselves to the mind, on the conduct and catastrophe of this drama-but these will naturally spring from the feelings of the reader. We shall, therefore, conclude this article, by expressing our hope that it may contribute, by its details, to throw some additional light on the dispositions of the public in the reign of Charles I., and to elucidate an important incident in the history of our country.

Poésies de Dorat. 4 vols. 18mo. à Geneve. 1777.

It has often occurred to us, that a very simple theory will explain the prevalent distaste for French poetry amongst those of our countrymen who are disciples of the Shaksperian school, and to the numerous scions and offsets which that school has sent forth in so many various directions. We shall strip it as much as possible of its metaphysical dress, since nothing is held less appropriate by the purely literary class, than the use of scientific forms in critical discussion.

It seems, therefore, unnecessary to define, with metaphysical exactness, the meaning of the term emotion. What state of the mind is indicated by that term, the reader may be supposed to understand with at least tolerable accuracy. What is meant by the term idea, is also sufficiently precise. Now it seems to us, that the difference between that class of English poets we have alluded to, and the whole, or nearly the whole, body of the classical poets of France, consists in this;—that the effect of English poetry is produced by the emotions, that of the French by the ideas, they are respectively calculated to excite.

It is well known, that by the utterance of a single phrase, or even a single word, to which, through the intervention of but one, or at least a very limited series of ideas, a certain kind of emotion has once been affixed, that same emotion may be subsequently recalled without the intervention of the idea, or, what is the same thing, without its sensible intervention. This gradually becomes a habit of the mind. Thus the single word assassination,-although, in the first instance, it undoubtedly required a process of thought, in which all the evils of that act were set in array before the judgment, before it could affect the imagination with the full emotion of horror, at last becomes so habitually connected with that emotion, as to excite it ever afterwards on the bare enunciation of the word. So, of other

terms of the same class, as love, beauty, and the like; and so, also, of others of a different order, in which, from the greater number of ideas originally intervening between the term and the emotion, the connection between the two, though felt to exist in equal force, is less easily traced. Thus, verdure, zephyr, and other words of similar import, inspire the mind with emotions of easy tranquillity, which may be hunted through distant associations of the warm air, and the sunshine, and the innocent pleasures which follow in the train of Spring,-but which attach themselves immediately to the term, and spare the poet the labour of metaphysical investigation. These terms may, of course, be so handled as to produce an infinite variety of agreeable emotions in a mind which gives freely into the illusion; and which, without busying itself with the severe exactness of the expression, is content to catch those emotions from the respective terms, as they glide through the passive intellect. We hold that they have so been handled by the order of English poets we describe; and every page of their works will illustrate the truth of our position. As no species of poetical composition can give so much pleasure, with so little trouble; and as no other can, by any possibility, produce such a constancy, and thereby intensity of excitement; so none seems so well calculated to captivate that state of the mind, in which poets, and their readers are habitually known to indulge.

The poetry of ideas, which is ascribed by this theory to the French school, supposes a pleasure resulting from a different state, and a different exertion of the intellect. It is, in fact, by supplying that chain of ideas between the abstract term and the emotion, by working out the problem-by entering into a detailed analysis, that this species of writing produces its effects on the reader. How the intensity of the emotion must be frittered away by this process, is sufficiently obvious. It does not permit us to shudder at the sound of murder;-we must first recollect the pangs inflicted on the victim-if necessary, the anatomical cause of his death,-the perforation of the lung, the opening of the artery, the wound of the brain, and the thousand minute circumstances which precede the phenomena of dissolution; we must pass in review the father's grief, the mother's agony, the wife's despair, the children's destitution ;we must advert to the horror of the neighbours, and the universal indignation of society;-we must look to the fate of the assassin, the prison, the court of justice, the rack, the wheel, and the gibbet, and transfer the list of sufferings from the family of the buried victim to that of the dying felon ;-and after this ratiocinative detail, we are left to what share of emotion the catalogue of ideas may have left us. From this, however, it

must not be inferred, that no pleasure arises from the kind of writing we describe. On the contrary, it gives rise to one of a considerable magnitude-the pleasure of pursuing something like a chain of reasoning-a deduction of successive consequences from successive premises-a gratification in its nature metaphysical. It is true that this species of poetry requires, proportionally, more energy and attention; and, therefore, on the whole, is probably less amusing than the other. We need not say Boileau or Racine; let the reader try a page of Pope, and a scene of Shakspeare, and he will feel the difference between the poetry of idea and that of emotion.

From this, therefore, it seems to follow,-we say seems, for we cannot swear on any critical theory-that the English poetry of emotion is productive of more amusement than the English or French poetry of idea. It also follows, that in as far as instruction can be predicated of any poetry whatever, the poetry of idea is more instructive than that of emotion.

Hence it is, that Shakspeare has been justly, though somewhat too vaguely, styled the poet of the heart; Voltaire, the poet of the head; Shakspeare, of the passions; Voltaire, of the moral feelings.

This also explains the reason why the disciples of Coleridge and Wordsworth, and the whole of the ultra-Shaksperians, have altogether denied the title of poet to Pope, and his French prototypes. They do not understand each other. For a man who looks for ideas, the terms of art of the school of emotion are without meaning; for the man of passion, so are the theorems of Boileau. To the Englishman, Boileau is somewhat worse than a bad philosopher; to the Frenchman, Shakspeare is little better than a madman.

Shall we give an example of what we mean? We will open the works of Voltaire, and the first we hit upon is his translation of the celebrated soliloquy,

"To be, or not to be-that is the question!"

This is by no means one of Shakspeare's flights; by no means a good specimen of the poetry of emotion; but even in translating this, the French writer has not ventured to do more than paraphrase the English. The reader will observe with what care he has rejected the exclamatory style of the original, and attempted to reduce it to the almost syllogistic regularity of the French theatre.

"Demeure; il faut choisir, et passer à l'instant

De la vie à la mort, et de l'être au néant.
Dieux justes, s'il en est, éclairez mon courage.
Faut-il vieillir courbé sous la main qui m'outrage?

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