Anne Bradstreet and Her Time Part 17

Mr. John Harvard Ellis has taken pains to compare various pa.s.sages in her "Four Monarchies" with the sources from which her information was derived, showing a similarity as close as the difference between prose and verse would admit. One ill.u.s.tration of this will be sufficient. In the description of the murder of the philosopher Callisthenes by Alexander the Great, which occurs in her account of the Grecian Monarchy, she writes:

The next of worth that suffered after these, Was learned, virtuous, wise Calisthenes, Who loved his Master more than did the rest, As did appear, in flattering him the least; In his esteem a G.o.d he could not be, Nor would adore him for a Deity.

For this alone and for no other cause, Against his Sovereign, or against his Laws, He on the Rack his Limbs in pieces rent, Thus was he tortur'd till his life was spent Of this unkingly act doth Seneca This censure pa.s.s, and not unwisely say, Of Alexander this the eternal crime, Which shall not be obliterate by time.

Which virtue's fame can ne're redeem by far, Nor all felicity of his in war.

When e're 'tis said he thousand thousands slew, Yea, and Calisthenes to death he drew.

The mighty Persian King he over came, Yea, and he killed Calisthenes of fame.

All countreyes, Kingdomes, Provinces he won, From h.e.l.lespont, to the farthest Ocean.

All this he did, who knows not to be true?

But yet withal, Calisthenes he slew.

From Nacedon, his English did extend, Unto the utmost bounds o' th' Orient, All this he did, yea, and much more 'tis true, But yet withal, Calisthenes he slew.

The quotation from Raleigh's "History of the World," which follows, will be seen to hold in many lines the identical words.

"Alexander stood behind a part.i.tion, and heard all that was spoken, waiting but an opportunity to be revenged on Callisthenes, who being a man of free speech, honest, learned, and a lover of the king's honour, was yet soon after tormented to death, not for that he had betrayed the king to others, but because he never would condescend to betray the king to himself, as all his detestable flatterers did. For in a conspiracy against the king, made by one Hermolaus and others, (which they confessed,) he caused Callisthenes, without confession, accusation or trial, to be torn a.s.sunder upon the rack. This deed, unworthy of a king, Seneca thus censureth. [He gives the Latin, and thus translates it.] 'This is the eternal crime of Alexander, which no virtue nor felicity of his in war shall ever be able to redeem. For as often as any man shall say, He slew many thousand Persians, it shall be replied, He did so, and he slew Callisthenes; when it shall be said, He slew Darius, it shall be replied, And Callisthenes; when it shall be said, He won all as far as to the very ocean, thereon also he adventured with unusual navies, and extended his empire from a corner of Thrace, to the utmost bounds of the orient; it shall be said withal, But he killed Callisthenes. Let him have outgone all the ancient examples of captains and kings, none of all his acts makes so much to his glory, as Callisthenes to his reproach'."

The school girl of the present day could furnish such arrangements of her historical knowledge with almost as fluent a pen as that of Mistress Bradstreet, who is, however, altogether innocent of any intention to deceive any of her readers. The unlearned praised her depth of learning, but she knew well that every student into whose hands the book might fall, would recognize the source from which she had drawn, and approve the method of its use. Evidently there was nothing very vital to her in these records of dynasties and wars, for not a line indicates any thrill of feeling at the tales she chronicles. Yet the feeling was there, though reserved for a later day. It is with her own time, or with the "glorious reign of good Queen Bess," that she forgets to be didactic and allows herself here and there, a natural and vigorous expression of thought or feeling. There was capacity for hero-wors.h.i.+p, in this woman, who repressed as far as she had power, the feeling and pa.s.sion that sometimes had their way, though immediately subdued and chastened, and sent back to the durance in which all feeling was held. But her poem on Queen Elizabeth has here and there a quiet sarcasm, and at one point at least rises into a fine scorn of the normal att.i.tude toward women:

She hath wip'd off the aspersion of her s.e.x, That women wisdome lack to play the Rex.

Through the whole poem runs an evident, almost joyous delight in what a woman has achieved, and as she pa.s.ses from point to point, gathering force with every period, she turns suddenly upon all detractors with these ringing lines:

Now say, have women worth or have they none?

Or had they some, but with our Queen is't gone?

Nay, masculines, you have thus taxed us long; But she, though dead, will vindicate our wrong.

Let such as say our s.e.x is void of reason, Know 'tis a slander now, but once was treason.

Sir Philip Sidney fills her with mixed feeling, her sense that his "Arcadia" was of far too fleshly and soul-beguiling an order of literature, battling with her admiration for his character as a man, and making a diverting conflict between reason and inclination. As with Queen Elizabeth, she compromised by merely hinting her opinion of certain irregularities, and hastened to cover any damaging admission with a mantle of high and even enthusiastic eulogy.

AN ELEGIE

upon that Honourable and renowned Knight _Sir Philip Sidney,_ who was untimely slain at the Siege of Zutphen, _Anno, 1586._

When England did enjoy her Halsion dayes, Her n.o.ble Sidney wore the Crown of Bayes; As well an honour to our British Land, As she that swayed the Scepter with her hand; Mars and Minerva did in one agree, Of Arms and Arts he should a pattern be, Calliope with Terpsich.o.r.e did sing, Of poesie, and of musick, he was King; His Rhetorick struck Polimina dead, His Eloquence made Mercury wax red; His Logick from Euterpe won the Crown, More worth was his then Clio could set down.

Thalia and Melpomene say truth, Witness Arcadia penned in his youth, Are not his tragick Comedies so acted, As if your ninefold wit had been compacted.

To shew the world, they never saw before, That this one Volume should exhaust your store; His wiser dayes condemned his witty works, Who knows the spels that in his Rhetorick lurks, But some infatuate fools soon caught therein, Fond Cupids Dame had never such a gin, Which makes severer eyes but slight that story, And men of morose minds envy his glory: But he's a Beetle-head that can't descry A world of wealth within that rubbish lye, And doth his name, his work, his honour wrong, The brave refiner of our British tongue, That sees not learning, valour and morality, Justice, friends.h.i.+p, and kind hospitality, Yea and Divinity within his book, Such were prejudicate, and did not look.

In all Records his name I ever see Put with an Epithite of dignity, Which shows his worth was great, his honour such, The love his Country ought him, was as much.

Then let none disallow of these my straines Whilst English blood yet runs within my veins, O brave Achilles, I wish some Homer would Engrave in Marble, with Characters of gold The valiant feats thou didst on Flanders coast, Which at this day fair Belgia may boast.

The more I say, the more thy worth I stain, Thy fame and praise is far beyond my strain, O Zutphen, Zutphen that most fatal City Made famous by thy death, much more the pity: Ah! in his blooming prime death pluckt this rose E're he was ripe, his thread cut Atropos.

Thus man is born to dye, and dead is he, Brave Hector, by the walls of Troy we see.

O who was near thee but did sore repine He rescued not with life that life of thine; But yet impartial Fates this boon did give, Though Sidney di'd his valiant name should live: And live it doth in spight of death through fame, Thus being overcome, he overcame.

Where is that envious tongue, but can afford Of this our n.o.ble Scipio some good word.

Great Bartas this unto thy praise adds more, In sad sweet verse, thou didst his death deplore.

And Phoenix Spencer doth unto his life, His death present in sable to his wife.

Stella the fair, whose streams from Conduits fell For the sad loss of her Astrophel.

Fain would I show how he fame's paths did tread, But now into such Lab'rinths I am lead, With endless turnes, the way I find not out, How to persist my Muse is more in doubt; Wich makes me now with Silvester confess, But Sidney's Muse can sing his worthiness.

The Muses aid I craved, they had no will To give to their Detractor any quill, With high disdain, they said they gave no more, Since Sidney had exhausted all their store.

They took from me the Scribling pen I had, I to be eas'd of such a task was glad Then to reveng this wrong, themselves engage, And drove me from Parna.s.sus in a rage.

Then wonder not if I no better sped, Since I the Muses thus have injured.

I pensive for my fault, sate down, and then Errata through their leave, threw me my pen, My Poem to conclude, two lines they deign Which writ, she bad return't to them again; So Sidneys fame I leave to Englands Rolls, His bones do lie interr'd in stately Pauls.

_HIS EPITAPH._

Here lies in fame under this stone, Philip and Alexander both in one; Heir to the Muses, the Son of Mars in Truth, Learning, Valour, Wisdome, all in virtuous youth, His praise is much, this shall suffice my pen, That Sidney dy'd 'mong most renown'd of men.

With Du Bartas, there is no hesitation or qualification. Steeped in the spirit of his verse, she was unconscious how far he had moulded both thought and expression, yet sufficiently aware of his influence to feel it necessary to a.s.sert at many points her freedom from it. But, as we have already seen, he was the Puritan poet, and affected every rhymester of the time, to a degree which it required generations to shake off. In New England, however, even he, in time came to rank as light-minded, and the last shadow of poetry fled before the metrical horrors of the Bay Psalm Book, which must have lent a terror to rhyme, that one could wish might be transferred to the present day. The elegy on Du Bartas is all the proof needed to establish Anne Bradstreet as one of his most loyal followers, and in spite of all protest to the contrary such she was and will remain.

IN HONOUR OF DU BARTAS.

Among the happy wits this age hath shown Great, dear, sweet Bartas thou art matchless known; My ravished eyes and heart with faltering tongue, In humble wise have vowed their service long But knowing th' task so great & strength but small, Gave o're the work before begun withal, My dazled sight of late reviewed thy lines, Where Art, and more than Art in nature s.h.i.+nes, Reflection from their beaming alt.i.tude Did thaw my frozen hearts ingrat.i.tude Which rayes darting upon some richer ground Had caused flours and fruits soon to abound, But barren I, my Dasey here do bring, A homely flower in this my latter Spring, If Summer, or my Autumm age do yield Flours, fruits, in Garden Orchard, or in Field, Volleyes of praises could I eccho then, Had I an Angels voice, or Bartas pen; But wishes can't accomplish my desire, Pardon if I adore, when I admire.

O France thou did'st in him more glory gain Then in St. Lewes, or thy last Henry Great, Who tam'd his foes in warrs, in bloud and sweat, Thy fame is spread as far, I dare be bold, In all the Zones, the temp'rate, hot and cold, Their Trophies were but heaps of wounded slain, s.h.i.+ne the quintessence of an heroick brain.

The oaken Garland ought to deck their brows, Immortal Bayes to thee all men allows, Who in thy tryumphs never won by wrongs, Lead'st millions chained by eyes, by ears, by tongues, Oft have I wondred at the hand of heaven, In giving one what would have served seven, If e're this golden gift was show'd on any, They shall be consecrated in my Verse, And prostrate offered at great Bartas Herse; My muse unto a child I may compare Who sees the riches of some famous Fair, He feeds his Eyes, but understanding lacks To comprehend the worth of all those knacks The glittering plate and Jewels he admires, The Hats and Fans, the Plumes and Ladies tires, And thousand times his mazed mind doth wish, Some part (at least) of that great wealth was his, But feeling empty wishes nought obtain, At night turnes to his mothers cot again, And tells her tales, (his full heart over glad) Of all the glorious sights his Eyes have had; But finds too soon his want of Eloquence, The silly prattler speaks no word of sense; But feeling utterance fail his great desires Sits down in silence, deeply he admires, Thus weak brained I, reading thy lofty stile, Thy profound learning, viewing other while; Thy Art in natural Philosophy, Thy Saint like mind in grave Divinity; Thy piercing skill in high Astronomy, And curious insight in anatomy; Thy Physick, musick and state policy, Valour in warr, in peace good husbandry, Sure lib'ral Nature did with Art not small, In all the arts make thee most liberal, A thousand thousand times my senseless sences Moveless stand charmed by thy sweet influences; More senseless then the stones to Amphious Luto, Mine eyes are sightless, and my tongue is mute, My full astonish'd heart doth pant to break, Through grief it wants a faculty to speak; Thy double portion would have served many, Unto each man his riches is a.s.sign'd Of name, of State, of Body and of mind:

Thou had'st thy part of all, but of the last, O pregnant brain, O comprehension vast; Thy haughty Stile and rapted wit sublime All ages wondring at, shall never climb, Thy sacred works are not for imitation, But monuments to future admiration, Thus Bartas fame shall last while starrs do satnd, And whilst there's Air or Fire, or Sea or Land.

But least my ignorance shall do thee wrong, To celebrate thy merits in my Song.

He leave thy praise to those shall do thee right, Good will, not skill, did cause me bring my mite.

HIS EPITAPH.

Here lyes the Pearle of France, Parna.s.sus glory; The World rejoyc'd at's birth, at's death, was sorry, Art and Nature joyn'd, by heavens high decree Naw shew'd what once they ought, Humanity!

And Natures Law, had it been revocable To rescue him from death, Art had been able, But Nature vanquish'd Art, so Bartas dy'd; But Fame out-living both, he is reviv'd.

Bare truth as every line surely appeared to the woman who wrote, let us give thanks devoutly that the modern mind holds no capacity for the reproduction of that

"Haughty Stile and rapted wit sublime All ages wond'ring at shall never climb,"

and that more truly than she knew, his

"Sacred works are not for imitation But Monuments to future Admiration."

Not the "future Admiration" she believed his portion, but to the dead reputation which, fortunately for us, can have no resurrection.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHANCES AND CHANGES.

With the appearance of the little volume and the pa.s.sing of the flutter of interest and excitement it had aroused, the Andover life subsided into the channel through which, save for one or two breaks, it was destined to run for many years. Until 1653, nothing of note had taken place, but this year brought two events, one full of the proud but quiet satisfaction the Puritan mother felt in a son who had ended his college course with distinction, and come home to renew the a.s.sociations somewhat broken in his four years absence; the other, a sorrow though hardly an unexpected one. Samuel Bradstreet, who became a physician, living for many years in Boston, which he finally left for the West Indies, was about twenty at the time of his graduation from Harvard, the success of which was very near Anne Bradstreet's heart and the pride of his grandfather, Governor Dudley, who barely lived to see the fruition of his wishes for this first child of his favorite daughter. His death in July, 1653, softened the feeling that seems slowly to have arisen against him in the minds of many who had been his friends, not without reason, though many of them had showed quite as thorough intolerance as he. With increasing years, Dudley's spirit had hardened and embittered against all who ventured to differ from the cast-iron theology his soul loved.

Bradstreet and Winthrop had both been a cross to him with the toleration which seemed to him the child of Satan himself. His intense will had often drawn concessions from Winthrop at which his feelings revolted and he pursued every sort of sectary with a zeal that never flagged. Hutchinson wrote: "He was zealous beyond measure against all sorts of heretics," and Roger Williams said bitterly: "It is known who hindered but never promoted the liberty of other men's consciences."

Between the "vagaries of many sectaries," the persistent and irrepressible outbreaks from Roger Williams, the bewildering and confounding presumption of Anne Hutchinson, who seems to have been the forerunner of other Boston agitations of like nature, Governor Dudley's last days were full of astonishments, not the least being the steady though mild opposition of his son-in-law Bradstreet to all harsh measures. Toleration came to seem to him at last the crowning sin of all the ages, and his last recorded written words are a valiant testimony against it. There was a curious tendency to rhyme in the gravest of these decorous Fathers; a tendency carefully concealed by some, as in John Winthrop's case, who confined his "dropping into poetry" to the margins of his almanacs. Others were less distrustful, and printed their "painful verses" on broad sheets, for general circulation and oppression.

Governor Dudley rhymed but once, but in the bald and unequal lines, found in his pocket after death, condensed his views of all who had disagreed from him, as well as the honest, st.u.r.dy conviction in which he lived and died. They were written evidently but a short time before his death, and are in the beginning much after the order of his daughter's first poem.

Dim Eyes, deaf Ears, cold Stomach, shew My dissolution is in view, Eleven times seven near liv'd have I.