In a Study of the Life and Poetry of our present Worthy, which will be found in our Volume II.—thus postponed in order that the completed Works may be before the student-reader along with it—I venture to hope new light will be shed on both, and his character as a Man and Poet—one of the richest of the minor Poets of England—vindicated and interpreted as never hitherto they have been. Some memories cannot bear the 'cruel light' of close scrutiny, some poetries when tested prove falsetto-noted. Richard Crashaw grows on us the more insight we gain. If he were as well known as George Herbert, he would be equally cherished, while his Poetry would be recognised as perfumed with all his devoutness and of a diviner 'stuff' and woven in a grander loom; in sooth, infinitely deeper and finer in almost every element of true singing as differenced from pious and gracious versifying. In this hurrying-scurrying age, only twos-and-threes take time to hold communion with these ancient Worthies; and hence my Essay, as with the Fletchers and Lord Brooke and Henry Vaughan, may win-back that recognition and love due to Crashaw. Then, in a much fuller and more adequate Memoir than hitherto furnished of William Crashaw, B.D., Willmott in his 'Lives of the English Sacred Poets' (vol. first, 1834, vol. second, 1839), begins his fine-toned little Notice thus: 'After an anxious search in all the accessible sources of information, I am able to tell little of one of whom every lover of poetry must desire to know much. The time of his birth and of his decease is involved in equal mystery.' Our after-Memoir of the elder Crashaw shows that he was a man of no ordinary force of character and influence. The Epistles-dedicatory to his numerous polemical books are addressed with evident familiarity to the foremost in Church and State: and it is in agreement with this to learn (as we do) that Master Richard gained admission to the great 'Charterhouse' School through Sir Henry Yelverton and Sir Randolph Crew—the former the patron-friend of the saintly Dr. Sibbes, the latter of Herrick, and both of mark. The Register of Charterhouse as now extant begins in 1680. So that we know not the date of young Crashaw's entry on the 'foundation' provided so munificently by Sutton. How long the Charterhouse was attended is unknown; but renewed researches at Cambridge add to as well as correct the usual dates of his attendance there. Willmott states that 'he was elected a scholar of Pembroke Hall, March 26, 1632,' and remarks, 'and yet we find him lamenting the premature death of his friend, William Herrys, a fellow of the same College, which happened in the October of 1631.'
He was 'matriculated pensioner of Pembroke, March 26,
He was made Fellow in 1637, and M.A. in 1638; looking forward to becoming a 'Minister' of the Gospel. His Latin Poems in honour of, and in pathetic appeal regarding Peterhouse, are of the rarest interest, and suggest much elucidatory of his great 'change' in religious matters; a change that must have been a sad shock to his ultra-Protestant father, but in which, beyond all gainsaying, conscience ruled, if the heart quivered. While at the University he was called on to contribute to the various 'Collections' issued from 1631 onward; and it certainly is once more noticeable that such a mere youth should have been thus recognised. His Verses—Latin and English—appeared thus with those of Henry More, Joseph Beaumont, Edward King ('Lycidas'), Cowley, and others; and more than hold their own. In 1635 Shelford, 'priest' of Ringsfield, obtained a laudatory poem from him for his 'Five Pious and Learned Discourses.' According to Anthony a-Wood, on the authority of one who knew (not from the Registers), he took a degree in 1641 at Oxford. Of his inner Life and experiences during these years (twelve at least), and the influences that went to shape his decision and after-course, and his relation to the Countess of Denbigh, I shall speak fully and I trust helpfully in our Essay. We need to get at the Facts and Circumstances to pronounce a righteous verdict.
'Manchester. 'To the Master, President, and Fellowes of Peterhouse, in Cambridge.' (p. 518.) 'The ejection' of 1644, like that larger one of 1662, brought much sorrow and trial to a number of good and true souls. To one so gentle, shy, self-introspective as Crashaw, it must have been as the tearing down of a nest to a poor bird. His fellow-sufferers went hither and thither. Our first glimpse of our Worthy after his 'ejection' is in 1646, when the 'Steps to the Temple' and 'Delights of the Muses' appeared, with its Editor's touching saying at the close of his Preface 'now dead to us.' A second edition, with considerable additions, was published in 1648. Previous to 1646 he had 'gone over' to Catholicism; for in the 'Steps' of that year is 'An Apologie' for his 'Hymn'—'In Memory of the Vertuous and Learned Lady Madre de Teresa, that sought an early Martyrdome.' In 1646 it is headed simply 'An Apologie for the precedent Hymne:' in the 'Carmen Deo Nostro' of 1652 it is more fully inscribed 'An Apologie for the foregoing Hymn, as hauing been writt when the author was yet among the Protestantes.' His two Latin poems, 'Fides quÆ sola justificat non est sine spe et dilectione' and 'Baptismus non tollit futura peccata,' were first published in 1648. Turnbull was either ignorant of their existence or intentionally suppressed them. Our Worthy did not long remain in England. He retired to France; and his little genial poem on sending 'two green apricocks' to Cowley sheds a gleam of light On the Death of Mr. Crashaw.Poet and Saint! to thee alone are giv'n The two most sacred names of Earth and Heav'n, The hardest, rarest union which can be Next that of godhead with humanity. Long did the Muses banish'd slaves abide, And built vain pyramids to mortal pride; Like Moses thou (tho' spells and charms withstand) Hast brought them nobly home, back to their Holy Land. Ah, wretched we, Poets of Earth! but thou Wert living, the same Poet which thou'rt now; Whilst angels sing to thee their ayres divine, And joy in an applause so great as thine. Equal society with them to hold, Thou need'st not make new songs, but say the old; And they (kind spirits!) shall all rejoice to see, How little less than they, exalted man may be. Still the old heathen gods in numbers dwell, The heav'nliest thing on Earth still keeps up Hell: Nor have we yet quite purg'd the Christian land; Still idols here, like calves at Bethel stand. And tho' Pan's death long since all or'cles broke, Yet still in rhyme the fiend Apollo spoke; Nay, with the worst of heathen dotage, we (Vain men!) the monster woman deifie; Find stars, and tie our fates there in a face, And Paradise in them, by whom we lost it, place. What diff'rent faults corrupt our Muses thus? Wanton as girls, as old wives, fabulous. Thy spotless Muse, like Mary, did contain The boundless Godhead; she did well disdain On a less subject than eternity; And for a sacred mistress scorn'd to take But her whom God Himself scorn'd not His spouse to make: It (in a kind) her miracle did do, A fruitful mother was, and virgin too. How well (blest Swan) did Fate contrive thy death, And made thee render up thy tuneful breath In thy great mistress's arms! Thou most divine, And richest off'ring of Loretto's shrine! Where, like some holy sacrifice t' expire, A fever burns thee, and Love lights the fire. Angels (they say) brought the fam'd chappel there, And bore the sacred load in triumph thro' the air: 'Tis surer much they brought thee there; and they, And thou, their charge, went singing all the way. Pardon, my Mother-Church, if I consent That angels led him, when from thee he went; For ev'n in error, sure no danger is, When join'd with so much piety as his. Ah! mighty God, with shame I speak't, and grief; Ah! that our greatest faults were in belief! And our weak reason were ev'n weaker yet, Rather than thus, our wills too strong for it. His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right: And I, myself, a Catholick will be; So far at least, great Saint! to pray to thee. Hail, Bard triumphant! and some care bestow On us, the Poets militant below: Oppos'd by our old enemy, adverse Chance, Attack'd by Envy and by Ignorance; Enchain'd by Beauty, tortur'd by desires, Expos'd by tyrant-love, to savage beasts and fires. Thou from low Earth in nobler flames didst rise, And like Elijah, mount alive the skies. Elisha-like (but with a wish much less, More fit thy greatness and my littleness;) Lo here I beg (I whom thou once didst prove So humble to esteem, so good to love) I ask but half thy mighty sp'rit for me: And when my Muse soars with so strong a wing, 'Twill learn of things divine, and first of thee to sing. Alexander B. Grosart. Decoration E THE |