the meanest form of Satan's favorite sin, and which he must heartily despise. He who devotes a life to letters cannot expect wealth competency is the most he can look for, a thorough education, in it widest sense, for his children, and a comfortable, though confined maintenance for those dearest to him and least fitted to struggle with misfortune. A fair example and an honorable fame is a richer legacy than a large fortune without either. Most fortunate he who can unite all. But the spirit of study is adverse to the spirit of accumulation. A man with one idea, and that of moneymaking, can hardly fail, from one dollar, of realizing a million. But a man of many ideas, of a comprehensive spirit, and of aspiring views, can never contract his manly mind to the circumference of a store or factory. In his fixed and awful gaze at the wonders of creation, or in his rapt ecstasy at the celestial harmony of poesy, opportunities of profit will slip by, the golden moments of barter escape. His purse is lighter, it must be confessed; but he has gained a richer accession of fancies and feelings than the world can give or take away.

VIII.

CHAPTER ON SOME OLD AND LATER ENGLISH SONNETS.

THE sonnet is of Italian origin, and was imported into England from that country by the Earl of Surrey,

that renowned lord,

Th' old English glory bravely that restor'd,
That prince and poet (a name more divine),”

style of his master for a He was "the bright par

as Drayton enthusiastically writes. Originally a pupil of Petrarch, he left the metaphysical more gallant and courtly manner. ticular star" of the court of Henry VIII., as Sidney was of that of Elizabeth, and resembled his famous successor in that dangerous post of favorite in more than one trait of his character. Like him, he was an accomplished gentleman, a graceful poet, an elegant scholar, and a gallant knight. Like him, he chanted soft, amorous lays to his chosen fair, and has immortalized the source of his inspiration in strains of melting beauty. Surrey is the first classic English poet (we place Chaucer at the head of the romantic school, before the era of Spenser and Shakspeare); and he was the first writer of English sonnets. He is said to have been the introducer of blank verse into our poetry. For these two gifts to our literature, if for none others, we should hold his reputation in honorable remembrance. We recollect no one sonnet of surpassing beauty (Mrs. Jameson, in her Loves of the Poets, has culled the finest lines): they will bear no comparison. with succeeding pieces in the same department. And as we wish to secure space for certain fine specimens of Sidney, Shakspeare, Drummond, and Milton, we must not encumber our page with any but the choicest productions of the Muse.

We pass, then, to the all-accomplished Sidney. His sonnets are chiefly "vain and amatorious," yet full of "wit and worth." We agree heartily in Lamb's admiration for them, as well as for their admirable author, deprecating entirely the carping and illiberal spirit in which Hazlitt criticised them. The acutest and most eloquent English critic of this century was sometimes prejudiced and occasionally partial. We find him so here. For delicacy, fancy, and purity of feeling, Sidney is the finest of English writers of the sonnet. He is

certainly less weighty and grand than Milton, less pathetic than Drummond, far less copious and rich than Wordsworth, yet in the graceful union of the Poet and Lover surpassing all. He is here, as in his life and actions, the Knight "sans peur et sans reproche." Stella, the goddess of his idolatry, was at once his mistress and his muse; anciently, a very frequent combination of characters. We know not, but believe the sonnets of Sidney are little known. This, and the intrinsic beauty of the poem, must serve to excuse us for the following extract :

Because I oft in dark abstracted guise
Seem most alone in greatest company,
With dearth of words, or answer quite awry
To them that would make speech of speech arise,
They deem, and of their doom the rumor flies,
That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie
So in my swelling breast, that only I
Fawn on myself, and others do despise.
For Pride I think doth not my soul possess,
Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass;
But one worse fault, Ambition, I confess,
That makes me oft my best friends overpass,
Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place,
Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace.

In a further beautiful sonnet occurs this fanciful apostrophe to Sleep:

Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
The indifferent judge between the high and low.

This reminds us strongly of Shakspeare's famous exclamation of Macbeth, bent on his murderous errand :

the innocent sleep;

Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course,
Chief Nourisher in life's feast.

The sonnets of Sidney are highly characteristic. They combine contemplation and knightly grace. They were written in the heyday of his blood (he died at the age of thirty-four) and cannot be fairly compared with the later productions of a greater and more mature genius. Sidney, it must not be forgotten, was a courtier and chivalrous soldier, no less than the admired poet of his time, and we should allow accordingly in our estimate of his poetry. He filled a brief career with monuments of literary glory and military honor: he endeared himself to a nation by his graces and worth, and drew friends and followers to his heart, by its sincerity and virtues. He died "with his martial cloak about him," and full of fame. It was reckoned an honor to have been his friend. History records not his enemy.

The little we know of Shakspeare is to be learnt from a perusal of his sonnets, which afford a glimpse of poetical autobiography. The main particulars are his devoted gratitude to his noble patron, the generous Earl of Southampton, and his romantic attachment to a "fair personne," who is supposed to have been a beautiful specimen of an unfortunate class of females. Our "myriad-minded" bard, far above the general order of humanity, as he was, from his vast intellectual superiority, was yet a very man (and for that we love him all the better) in his affections and passions, like to one of us.

The most profound of philosophers, the noblest of humorists, the grandest painter of the passions, was a lover and gallant gentleman. Perhaps his constancy was unable to stand the test of temptation upon all occasions (but that we may allow to a roving and excited youth): though after middle life we hear of his quiet life as a landholder and paterfamilias. Doubtless "the reaming swaats that drank divinely" at the Mermaid, and his lively associates at the Globe Theatre, were sometimes too much for any prudential plan of life. But in those scenes the great teacher learnt many an instructive lesson, which he has taught us; nor shall we dare to arraign the venial follies of the selectest spirit of our race. We find numerous single lines and couplets in some of these sonnets that develope the character of their author more fully than any labored biographical or critical commentary. He gives us pictures of his own feelings, his desiring "this man's art and that man's scope:" he apologizes for his profession as an actor, insinuating that it degrades him not (as it never should degrade any, but as it too often tends to degradation). He fairly speaks out a lofty self-estimate, none the less true for its candour:

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments

Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unwept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,

And broils root out the work of masonry,

Nor Mars's sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.

The vulgar error of Shakspeare's reserve must have arisen with those who never saw his miscellaneous poems. It is