HENRY VAUGHAN.* THE production of fac similes of first editions

is one of the fashions of the day, and being a fashion, proves, we suppose, a profitable speculation. The fac-simile craze, like the pursuit of the bibliomaniae in search of " tall " or of uncut copies, is, moreover, a very harmless one, and, regarded from the literary standing-point, has the advantage of recalling attention to old and half-forgotten authors.

Henry Vaughan, like George Herbert, whom be loved to call his master, and to whom he was distantly related, scarcely needs a revival of this kind. Forgotten to all appearance in the eighteenth century, for his name does not appear in the collec- tions of Bell, Anderson, and Chalmers, he has taken his rightful place in ours as a sacred poet of much originality and beauty. If Herbert is in more repute, this cannot be due to his superior worth as a poet, for Vaughan has written poems of greatly higher mark than any which Herbert left behind him. He was born near Brecon in 1621, and was a contemporary of Crashaw, whom he resembles in unexpected turns of thought, and in quaint sweetness of rhythm. Henry Vaughan, with his twin brother Thomas, was for six years educated by the Rev. Matthew Herbert, Rector of Llangattock, whose pupils have both praised him in Latin verse. In 1638 they entered Jesus College, Oxford, and were before long involved in the troubles of the times. The brothers were ardent loyalists ; and while Thomas bore arms for the King, Henry appears to have suffered imprisonment for his loyalty. His career as a verse- man began early, but he did not neglect more practical pursuits, and in due time took his M.D. degree, and began to practise medicine at Brecon, one of the prettiest towns in South Wales, whence he removed to Newton, his native residence, which is about five miles distant from the county town. Here, then, on the banks of the Usk, a stream intimately associated with his verse, Vaughan lived the life of a country doctor, married twice, had six children, and died at a good old age in the house where he was born.

A poet lives two lives. He has his daily vocation, endures his daily trials, and pays his taxes, like other men ; but, unlike them, he has a personal estate of which the tax-collector knows nothing. On that Arcadian land he can breathe

• Baez Seinfillans: Sacred Poem. and Private Rjaculations. By Henry Vaughan (Si:orbit). Being a Fac-simile of the First Edition, published in 1650, with an In- troduction by the Rev. William Clare, B.A. (Melanie). London : Elliot Stook.

a freer atmosphere, there he sows his choicest thoughts, and there he reaps a golden harvest. In the so-called "secular poems" that the poet regretted. he had written, there is nothing of which in his best moments he need have been ashamed. Like Ben Jonson, he addresses or writes of his contemporaries in an easy style of verse, not unpleasant to read, and in descriptive passages illustrative of the age, " Rare Ben" receives his praises ; so does Fletcher ; so does Davenant, the "prince of poets ;" and "the ever-memorable Mr. William Cartwright," whose "matchless genius" is celebrated in no measured language; while, strange to say, Shakespeare is not mentioned. Vaughan's fame does not rest upon these poems, or on the translations and love-lyrics which he wrote in his youthful days. A severe and long illness proved the turning. point in his spiritual career ; and to that illness and to the death of dear friends, we probably owe all of lasting value which the poet has left us. From this time the whole stream of his verse flowed in a devotional channel.

Van gban, who lived in the sunshine of Cowley's fame, was not likely to be free from the conceits of that masterful poet ; but he took the poetical disease of the age in a mild form, and the best of his poems are generally free from the quiddities in which George Herbert delighted. His volume, if read consecutively, would probably irritate a modern reader ; but his faults, like those of Cowley, are due rather to wealth perversely used than to barrenness of poetic thought. Death, and the world beyond it, are subjects on which Vaughan often writes finely. His exquisite stanzas commencing,—

" They are all gone into the world of light," are familiar to all readers. Less known and quainter are the lines on "Death," of which a few may be quoted :— " We talk and name thee with much ease

As a tried thing, And every one can slight hislease, As if it ended in a Spring Which shades and bowers doth rent-free bring.

To thy dark land these heedless go, But there was One

Who searched it quite through to and fro, And then, returning like the sun, Discovered all that there is done.

And few things in the sacred verse of the seventeenth century are finer than Vaughan's noble poem on "Night," which ends with the following stanza :—

"There is a God—some say—

A deep, but dazzling darkness; as men here Say it is late and dusky, because they See not all clear.

0 for that Night ! where I in Him Might live invisible and dim !"

Readers of this delightful poet will be struck by his love of Nature, by the singular precision of his epithets, and by the freedom from conventional diction. If ever poetry springs from the depths of a man's nature, it does so in the case of Vaughan, and where there is obscurity in his verse, it generally arises from the thought being, as it were, too closely packed. How dearly and smoothly his lines sometimes glide along may be seen in his poem of "The Bee," too long, unfortunately, to be quoted ; but some of the concluding lines shall be given :—

"0 lead me where I may be free

In truth and spirit to serve Thee !

Where undisturbed I may converse With Thy great Self; and there rehearse Thy gifts with thanks ; and from thy store, Who art all blessings, beg much more.

Go with me to the shade and cell Where Thy best servants once did dwell ; There let me know Thy will, and see Exiled Religion owned by Thee. For Thou canst turn dark grote to halls, And make hills blossom like the vales ; Decking their nntilled heads with flowers, And ftesh delights for all sad hours; Till from them like a laden Bee I may fly home, and fly with Thee."

The term exiled Religion" refers, of course, to the rule of the

Puritans, which, as Vaughan says, did not allow the birthday of the Saviour to be "numbered in the year." Mr. Grosart, in

his elaborate and exhaustive edition of the poet's works, laments what he regards as his intolerant spirit with regard to the Puritans. But it may be observed in hi; excuse that it was not the opinions merely of Cromwelrs followers to which he objected, but their practice. Because they did not observe Christmas D.iy themselves, they woald not suffer Churchmen to observe it ; because they did not like the Book of Common Prayer, they forbade the use of it not only in public, but in private families. Everything that was venerable in the eyes of Churchmen was openly defaced, while clergymen who would not subscribe the Covenant and denounce Episcopacy—Jeremy Taylor was one of them—were turned out of their livings. We admit freely that there is much to be said on the other aide; but all we are now anxious to affirm in opposition to Mr. Grosart is that Vaughan, seeing what he saw and feeling what he felt, would have displayed a tolerance more than human had he not sometimes expressed himself strongly, and even bitterly. For the age was not one of gentle deeds or of soft words, and one has only to read the coarse invective and almost brutal intolerance of Milton, then on the winning side, to pardon the comparatively gentle expressions of Vaughan, who, as we have said, had been imprisoned for the cause he loved. However, it is as a poet, and not as a controversialist, that we have to do with the author of Silex Scintillans ; and if any of our readers have not read, or have forgotten, his beautiful poem, "The Retreat," they will thank us for transcribing the lovely lines, remarkable not only for their intrinsic value, but because they contain the germ of Wordsworth's great " Ode on the Intimations of Immortality :"—

" THE RETREAT.

Happy those early days when I Shined in my angel infancy !

Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy aught But a white celestial thought ; When yet I had not walked above A mile or two from my first Love, And looking back at that short space, Could see a glimpse of his bright face; When on some gilded cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity; Before I taught my tongue to wound My conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to every sense, But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness.

0 how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track !

That I might once more reach that plain Where first I left my glorious train ; From whence the enlightened spirit sees That shady City of palm-trees.

But ah! my eonl with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way !

Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move ; And when this dust falls to the urn In that state I came return."

Archbishop Trench, when pointing the coincidences between this poem and the "Ode," observes that it is difficult to regard them as accidental, and he adds :—" Wordsworth was so little a reader of anything out of the way, and at the time when his "Ode" was composed, the Silex Scintillans was altogether out of the way, a book of such excessive rarity, that an explanation of the points of contact between the poems must be sought for elsewhere." Since this was written, however, it has been ascer- tained that Wordsworth had a copy of Sileo Scintillans in his library, with notes in his own handwriting. The first hint of his magnificent " Ode " was therefore, in all likelihood, due to Vaughan; but it is needless to say that this does not detract from its originality. Every poet is indebted to his predecessors for impulse and suggestion. For the thought, Wordsworth may have to thank Vaughan, but the treatment is his own, and all the wealth of imagination is hie.

The neglect with which Vaughan has been treated is sur- prising. He was not popular in his own century, he was utterly neglected in the next, and in the early years of ours, Campbell, after palpably borrowing from his poem," The Rainbow," speaks of him slightingly ; while Hallam does not deem him worthy of mention. A well-known man of letters, in conversation with the writer of this• paper, expressed his opinion that no genuine poetry could pass utterly into thlivion. Vaughan, who, in Archbishop Trench's judgment, is "certainly superior to Herbert," seemed to be threatened with this fate. Silex Scintillans in its complete form was published in 1655, and appears to have been unknown beyond the circle of the author's friends; and it was not until 1847 that the Rev. H. F. Lyte, himself a sacred poet of no small repute, republished the little volume, and wrote a memoir of the poet. Since that time, it has been more than once reprinted, and the reader who wishes to possess in a complete form a volume rich in poetic beauty, and full of what divines call "unction," may be recommended to purchase the edition published by Messrs. Bell and Sons. Mr. Clare's little book ought also to reward both editor and publisher. Its antique look will attract many readers, and the introduction shows the judicious care with which the writer has studied his subject. It will be understood that the fac-simile of the first edition scarcely con- tains more than half of the entire work, Vaughan having added a second part to the volume four years after its publica- tion. According to a custom not unknown in our day, this was called a second edition ; but as Mr. Lyte and Mr. Clare point out, it consists in reality of the unsold copies of the first edition, with a second part added.