Character of, and Extracts, from Habingdon's
CASTARA.
As it has been insinuated, I think a little hardly, that my essays, having little relation to ancient literature, are not sufficiently connected with the primary object of the Censura, I shall fill the present paper with extracts from an old poet, whose compositions appear to me to have been most unjustly neglected.
William Habingdon, a Worcestershire gentleman, of noble alliances, flourished in the reign of Charles I. He was born at Hendlip, Nov. 4, 1605. His mother was Mary sister to William Parker, Lord Morley and Monteagle; and is supposed to be the person who wrote the warning letter to her brother, which led to the discovery of the Gun-powder Plot. Her husband, and son, were bigoted Catholics. William married Lucy daughter of William Herbert, Lord Powis, whose mother was a Percy; and this Lady, under the character of CASTARA, formed the principal subject of his poems, which were first published in 1635, 8vo.
In which these Essays first appeared.
and again under the title of Castara; and had a third edition under the last title, 1640, 12mo.
They possess much elegance, much poetical fancy, and are almost every where tinged with a deep moral cast, which ought to have made their fame permanent. Indeed I cannot easily account for the neglect of them. I do not mean that they are not very commonly known among collectors; but the public is little acquainted with them.
The following extracts have not hitherto, I believe, been offered to the notice of modern readers. They are replete with those ethical charms which make them not ill-placed in a Ruminator.
"To my worthy Cousin Mr. E. C. In praise of the City Life in the long Vacation.
"I like the plush which
green
I praise your pregnant fields, which duly bear
Their wealthy burden to th' industrious boor;
Nor do I disallow that who are poor
In mind and fortune, thither should retire;
But hate that he, who's warm with holy fire
Of any knowledge, and 'mong us may feast
On nectar'd wit, should turn himself to a beast,
And graze i' th' country. Why did Nature wrong
So much her pains, as to give you a tongue
And fluent language; if converse you hold
With oxen in the stall, and sheep i' 'th' fold?
But now it's long vacation, you will say;
The town is empty; and whoever may
To th' pleasure of his country home repair,
Flies from th' infection of our London air.
In this
your error. Now's the time alone
To live here, when the City Dame is gone
T her house at Brentford; for beyond that, she
Imagines, there's no land but Barbary,
Where lies her husband's factor. When from hence
Rid' is the Country Justice, whose non-sense
Corrupted had the language of the inn,
Where he and his horse litter'd; we begin
To live in silence, when the noise of th' Bench
Not deafens Westminster, nor corrupt French
Walks Fleetstreet in her gown. Ruffs of the Bar,
By the Vacation's power, translated are
To cut-work bands. And who were busy here,
Are gone to sow sedition in the Shire.
The air by this is purg'd, and the Term's strife
Thus fled the city, we the civil life
Lead happily. When in the gentle way
Of noble mirth I have the live-long day
Contracted to a moment, I retire
To my Castara; and meet such a fire
Of mutual love; that if the city were
Infected, that would purify the air."
"To my noblest Friend I. C. Esq.
"I hate the country's dirt and manners, yet
I love the silence; I embrace the wit
And courtship, flowing here in a full tide,
But loath the expense, the vanity, and pride.
No place each way is happy. Here I hold
Commerce with some, who to my ear unfold,
(After a due oath minister'd) the height
And greatness of each star shines in the state;
The brightness, the eclipse, the influence.
With others I commune, who tell me whence
The torrent doth of foreign discord flow;
Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,
Soon as they happen; and by rote can tell
Those German towns, e'en puzzle me to spell.
The cross or prosperous fate of Princes they
Ascribe to rashness, cunning, or delay;
And on each action comment with more skill,
Than upon Livy did old Machiavil.
O busy folly! Why do I my brain
Perplex with the dull policies of Spain,
Or quick designs of France? Why not repair
To the pure innocence o' th' country air;
And neighbour thee, dear friend; who so dost give
Thy thoughts to worth and virtue, that to live
Blest is to trace thy ways? There might not we
Arm against passion with philosophy;
And by the aid of leisure so controul
Whate'er is earth in us, to grow all soul?
Knowledge doth ignorance engender, when
We study mysteries of other
And foreign plots. Do but in thy own shade,
(Thy head upon some flowery pillow laid
Kind Nature's housewifery) contemplate all
His stratagems, who labours to enthrall
The world to his great master; and you'll find
Ambition mocks itself and grasps the wind.
Not conquest makes us great. Blood is too dear
A price for glory: Honour doth appear
To statesmen like a vision in the night;
And juggler-like works o' th' deluded sight:
The unbusied only wise; for no respect
Endangers them to error; they affect
Truth in her naked beauty, and behold
Man with an equal eye; not fraught in gold
Or tall in title: so much him they weigh,
As virtue raiseth him above his clay.
Thus let us value things; and since we find
Time bends us towards death, let's in our mind
Create new youth, and arm against the rude
Assaults of age; that no dull solitude
Of th' country dead our thoughts; nor busy care
O' th' town make us not think, where now we are,
And whither we are bound. Time ne'er forgot
His journey, though his steps we number'd not,”
|