they are read and not seen. One of the most delightful is the Hymn to Diana: Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair Earth, let not thy envious shade Lay thy bow of pearl apart And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever; Another is the song from "Underwoods" Oh, do not wanton with those eyes, Nor cast them down, but let them rise, Oh, be not angry with those fires, Nor look too kind on my desires, Oh, do not steep them in thy tears, For so will sorrow slay me; Nor spread them as distraught with fears; Mine own enough betray me. The "Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke" was long attri buted to Jonson, and it may be quoted here as quite in his man ner, though it was written by William Browne (1591-1643), the author of Britannia's Pastorals: Underneath this sable hearse Time shall throw a dart at thee. And Jonson lives for us all with the immortal song "To Celia”: Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I sent thee late a rosy wreath, But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee. Jonson's friendly relations with Shakespeare have been alluded to. In January, 1619, he visited William Drummond, the Scottish poet, in his home at Hawthornden, and in his conversations, which his host fortunately recorded, he remarked that "Shakespeare wanted Art," and that "Shakespeare, in a play, brought in a number of men saying they had suffered shipwreck in Bohemia, where there is no sea near by some hundred miles." These casual remarks have been perhaps too often quoted; standing alone they would not represent Jonson's attitude toward the dramatist of whom in his own time he was the greatest rival. In his Discoveries (first published in 1641) occurs his far more adequate portrait of his friend: I remember the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never blotted out a line. My answer hath been, "Would he had blotted a thousand," which they thought a malevolent speech. I had not told posterity this but for their ignorance who chose that circumstance to commend their friend by wherein he most faulted; and to justify mine own candour, for I loved the man, and do honour his memory on this side idolatry as much as any. He was indeed honest and of an open and free nature; had an excellent phantasy, brave notions, and gentle expressions, wherein he flowed with that facility that sometimes it was necessary he should be stopped. Jonson's most famous praise of Shakespeare, however, is the A little further, to make thee a room; And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, For names; but call forth thundering Eschylus, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, To life again, to hear thy buskin tread, And shake a stage, or when thy socks were on Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome VOL. II-5 Of the other Elizabethan dramatists we can do no more than mention the names of Beaumont and Fletcher, authors of The Knight of the Burning Pestle and many beautiful lyrics; John Webster, the author of the blood-curdling Duchess of Malfi; Heywood, whom Lamb called the prose Shakespeare; Massinger, the author of A New Way to Pay Old Debts; Chapman, the first English translator of Homer; and Dekker, whom we remember for the beautiful lines: the best of men That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer, § 3 FRANCIS BACON The Great Scholar Francis Bacon was statesman, lawyer, wit, philosopher, and man of letters; and in each of these several capacities he won a pre-eminent place. Bacon was the last scholar who could say in his own chosen words, and with but slight exaggeration, that he had taken all knowledge for his province. He lived in the early dawn of the age of specialisation while it was still just possible for an able and industrious man to make himself master of the whole body of knowledge in existence. Many others had rivalled him in the mere acquisition of learning; but none since Aristotle had so succeeded in impressing the whole with his own mental stamp, and in inspiring a new campaign against ignorance and disorder. Bacon had the good fortune to live in one of the great ages in the world's history, in the "spacious days" of Queen Elizabeth. He was born in 1560, two years after the accession of that great sovereign; and he died in 1626. As a boy he entered into the rich and glorious intellectual heritage of the Renais sance. In middle life he would see the publication of the masterpieces of Spenser, Montaigne, Cervantes, and Shakespeare. Before he died the supreme age of French literature was dawning. There was a new stir in the scientific world, the mediæval belief in mystery and magic was giving place to experienced and rational induction. Copernicus had died in 1543; but his work was being carried on by Kepler and Galileo. Not since the days of Socrates had men been so keenly interested in the things of the mind; and this interest Bacon shared to the full. His own career displays all the grave defects as well as the excellencies of the sixteenth century. In the pursuit of knowledge he was indefatigable; but he was equally indefatigable in the pursuit of ambition. He cheerfully laid down his life in the interest of science; but he had been just as willing to sacrifice the life of his friend and benefactor when it stood in the way of his own worldly achievement. Indeed, Bacon is a curious and most unpleasing mixture of greatness and littleness, of magnanimity and baseness. His published writings were those of a sage; his private letters are only too frequently those of a mean time-server. The Blot on Bacon's Name Pope's well-known line, "The greatest, wisest, meanest of mankind," is only a poet's licence, but it is based upon undoubted facts. At the same time, the graver charge of corruption has been overstated. That Bacon had accepted gifts from suitors, a common practice at that time, for which he stood his trial, he did not deny; but in his appeal to the King and to his peers he did, most proudly and emphatically, deny all guilt, and spurned the notion that the fountain of pure justice had been defiled by any act of his. The case of Essex demands a few words of consideration. The headstrong folly of Essex had brought him within the limits of the law of treason, and his numerous enemies determined to |