MR. W. J. LINTON'S NEW ANTHOLOGY.*

Jr this delightful little volume had its deserts, it would not be- reviewed by any critic until it had been carried in his pocket for half a year or more ; taken out and opened in every interval of real leisure ; read, marked, learned, inwardly digested, and made a part not merely of the reader's imaginative possessions, but of himself. "It can't be tasted in a sip," said Mr. Richard Swiveller, in his eulogy of the once popular beverage, "early purl ;" and of Mr. Linton's anthology we have to take many sips—many full draughts, indeed—in order to appreciate the full charm of its delicate flavour. Unfortunately, readers will not wait to have their tasting done for them in this deliberate fashion ; and they can hardly complain, therefore, if the estimates provided for them lack the subtlety of appreciation which comes only of long and intimate acquaintanceship.

The first impression left by even the most cursory survey of these "rare poems" is one of surprise that they should be rare. Of late years, the field of sixteenth and seventeenth-century verse has been so well reaped, that only a very sanguine gleaner could have hoped to pick up a few neglected ears ; and yet here is

• Rare Poems of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries. A Supplement to the Anthologier. Collected and edited, with Nam, by W. J. Linton. London : Kegan Paul, Trench, and Co. a goodly sheaf, of which any toiler with the sickle might well be proud. Mr. Linton's volume is not a selection from the anthologies with new matter added ; it is, as he describes it, a "supplement," consisting almost entirely of poems which have been either ignored by previous anthologists, or given by them in incomplete and otherwise faulty versions. That at this time of the day, the production of such a volume should be possible is surprising enough ; but the surprise of most readers will be heightened when they discover that Mr. Linton's treasure-trove has been largely gathered, not from the works of obscure or unknown authors, but from volumes written by men whose work is known to every one who has any right to call himself a student of English literature. To mention several examples out of many, Sir Philip Sidney provides thirteen poems ; Drayton, four; Beaumont and Fletcher, six ; Ben Jonson, ten ; Shirley, seven; and even in the garden of Robert Herrick, so much frequented. by the anthologists, Mr. Linton finds no fewer than eight un- gathered flowers of verse. The selection from poets more or less known fills more than half the volume, the remainder being occupied by gleanings from " Tottel's Miscellany," " Dowland's Song Books," and the various collections of madrigals, ballets, and the like, which were so abundant during the two centuries to which Mr. Linton devotes himself.

A peculiar quaintness, attractive or repellent according to the taste of the reader, is generally spoken of as the main charac- teristic of the poetry of this period ; and to deny the presence of this quality would, indeed, be to indulge in a critical paradox. At no time, save one in which oddity and far-fetchedness were considered literary virtues, could an amorous poet have compared the " white skin " of his mistress to "curds well premed," or said of her flesh that it was "as hard as brawn,"—two curious figures of speech which are to be found in a charming little poem by Sir Philip Sidney. Nor would it be easy to find, either in the verse of an earlier or a later age, anything to match the extraordinary composition by John Davies, of Hereford, entitled, "Ax HELLESPONT OF CREAN. If there were, 0! an Hellespont of cream. Between us, milk-white Mistress, I would swim To you, to show to both my love's extreme, Leander-like,—yes, dive from brim to brim. But met I with a butteed pippin-pie Floating upon't, that would I make my boat., To waft me to you without jeopardy : Though sea-sick I might be while it did float. Yet if a storm should rise, by night or day, Of sugar snows or bail of care-aways, Then if I found a pancake in my way, It like a plank should bear me to your quays, Which having found, if they tobacco kept., The smoke should dry me well before I slept."

But though quaintness, often, as in these lines, carried to an altogether ridiculous pitch, was abundant enough in the poetry of these two centuries, the critics have perhaps made rather too much of it. It is not the quaintness of these poets which gives their work its peculiar attractiveness, but the presence of other literary qualities of which quaintness is necessarily the occa- sional outcome,—their wealth of pure fancy (using the word in

Wordsworth's sense), the dainty lightness of their handling, the pleasant symmetry of their construction and style, the ingenuity of expression which gives novelty and interest to the simplest and most hackneyed motives. This last characteristic— the combination of great simplicity and even triteness of theme with a loving elaboration of treatment which hides the triteness and keeps the charm of simplicity, while adding to it the alien charm of finely wrought complexity—is, we are inclined to think, the true " note " of the poetry of this age. What could be more frankly simple in conception or more artfully artless in execution than the stanzas addressed by Andrew Marvell to a "Fair Singer" who had enslaved him, which we quote not as the best, but as nearly the briefest example of the quality to which we have referred P-

" To make a final conquest of all me,

Love did compose so sweet an enemy, In whom both beauties to my death agree, Joining themselves in fatal harmony : That while she with her eyes my heart doth bind, She with her voice doth captivate my mind.

I could have fled from One but singly fair,—

My disentangled soul itself might save, Breaking the curled trammels of her hair ; But how should I avoid to be her slave, Whose subtle art invisibly can wreathe My fetters of the very air I breathe ?

It had been easy fighting in some plain Where victory might hang in equal choice, But all resistance against her is vain Who has the advantage both of eyes and voice : And all my forces needs must be undone, She having gained both the wind and sun.

This same quality of elaborated simplicity is to be found in such poems as Beaumont and Fletcher 's "May I find a woman fair !" Herrick's dainty stanzas, "To Daisies ;" the lines entitled, "Her Real Worth," by a little-known poet, Thomas Nabbes ; and a score or two of others which we cannot even mention. Among those where a similar simplicity of motive is more or less hidden by obtrusive and yet attractive ingenuity of treat- ment are Sidney's sonnet, "My true love hath my heart ;" Shirley's "Looking - glass ;" Waller's felicitously - phrased apology "for having loved before ;" and, most of all, in the curiously clever poem by an unknown author, the quality of which can be seen in the first stanza :—

"The longer life the more offence ;

The more offence, the greater pain ; The greater pain, the less defence; The less defence, the lesser gain ; The loss of gain long ill doth try; Wherefore, come death, and let me die."

The simple beauty which we care to enjoy rather than to analyse is abundantly scattered over Mr. Linton's pages. Shirley's fine lines, "To one saying she was old," have never been surpassed in graceful tenderness ; all lovers of poetry will be glad to have in its entirety Crashaw's exquisite address to,—

" That not impossible she

That shall command my heart and me

from Lovelace is taken a poem addressed "to Mr. Charles Cotton," which contains one stanza as noble as any in the per- fect lyric by which the poet is best known ; and among the anonymous pieces are two, "Love and Sorrow" and "Weep you no more, sad fountains," muoical with a most captivating melody. Here is the latter :—

"Weep you no more, sad fountains ! What need you flow so fast ? Look how the snowy mountains

Heaven's sun doth gently waste !

But my sun's heavenly eyes View not your weeping, That now lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies, Sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling.,

A rest that peace begets ; Doth not the sun rise smiling, When fair at even he sets ? Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes!

Melt not in weeping ! While she lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies, Sleeping."

Of Mr. Linton's sensible and careful notes—neither too scanty, nor too profuse—we have not left ourselves much space in which to speak, and they do not call for lengthened comment. Mr. Linton modestly disclaims scholarship, but he has the in- dustry and accuracy which are the scholar's best equipments. Here and there he is certainly at fault. He evidently leans to what Alexander Smith called "the pestilent heresy" of those who hold that any poem of fourteen lines may be called a sonnet, and (p. 247, lines 1 and 2) betrays a curious ignorance of a word familiar to all readers of Shakespeare and other writers of a freer-speaking age than ours. Many of Mr. Linton's proposed emendations seem to us shrewd and reasonable ; for some we cannot see any possible justification, but we must not stay to argue out points of detail which are, at the most, of little consequence. We may note just one matter which Mr. Linton has missed. The phrase "a bully boy," which is com- monly supposed to be a recently-manufactured American vulgarism, is to be found in the song "Three Poor Mariners," taken from the collection entitled Deuterontelia, which was published in 1609, and is therefore to be counted among the many similar phrases which are so old that they have got the reputation of being new.