"To such a place our camp remove
As will not siege abide;

I hate a fool that starves her love
Only to feed her pride."

This poem, and "Proffer'd Love Rejected," may be read in contrast. From both can be drawn an improving moral. "Lutea Allanson" may be commended to such as maintain the philosophy of "si sola est, nulla est." The song, "Hast thou seen the down in the air," is good, but greatly inferior to that exquisite love hymn of Ben Jonson's beginning:

"Do but look on her eyes, they do light

All that love's world compriseth,"

of which it seems to be an imperfect sort of parody.

Epigram was in great cultivation among the wits under both the Charles-`

es.

Of Suckling's facility, in this respect, the following is a specimen :

"The little boy, to show his strength and power,

Turn'd Io to a cow, Narcissus to a flower;
Transform'd Apollo to a homely swain,
And Jove himself into a golden rain.
These shapes were tolerable, but by the
mass!

He's metamorphos'd me into an ass."

The "Ballad on a Wedding" is the happiest piece of exquisite trifling to be found in the language. The descriptions are full of freshness, fun, and mischievous roguery. Roguery such as children are accused of, when, without trespassing on propriety, they playfully threaten to do so. Öne countryman is supposed to be speaking to another.

"I tell thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest sights have seen:

Oh! things beyond compare!
Such sights again may not be found
At any place on English ground,
Be it at wake, or fair.

"At Charing Cross, hard by the way, Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs;

And there did I see coming down Such folks as are not in our town, Forty, at least, in pairs."

We leave out the description of the groom; but, independent of the charming manner in which it is done, we are too gallant not to give that of the bride.

"But wot you what? the youth was going To make an end of all his wooing;

The Parson for him stay'd: Yet by his leave, for all his haste, He did not so much wish all past, Perchance, as did the maid.

"The maid-and thereby hangs a tale-
For such a maid, no Whitsun-ale*
Could ever yet produce:

No grape, that's kindly ripe, could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.

'Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring,
It was too wide a peck:
And to say truth (for out it must),
It look'd like the great collar (just)
About our young colt's neck.
"Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,

As if they fear'd the light;
But, oh, she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter day,
Is half so fine a sight.

"Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison,

(Who sees them is undone,) For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Katherine pear,

The side that's next the sun.

"Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compar'd to that was next her chin,
Some bee had stung it newly.
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,
Than on the sun in July.

"Her mouth so small when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break,

That they might passage get;
But she so handled still the matter,
They came as good as ours, or better,
And are not spent a whit.

The parentheses and comparisons scattered about the whole piece, in connection with the supposed speaker, are admirable. The feet beneath her petticoat, like little mice stealing in and out," is perfect. The sun upon an Easter day," is in allusion to a beautiful old superstition of the English peasantry, that the sun dances upon that morning.

66

The description contained in this stanza has been stolen by Herrick, who, endeavoring to make it his own, has spoiled it.

"Her pretty feet, like snails, did creep
A little out, and then,
As if they played at bo-peep,

Did soon creep in again."

From the beginning to the end, the "Ballad on a Wedding" is so perfectly natural, that, in reading it, we almost imagine we overhear the rustic telling his story.

In the "Lines to my Rival," the self-deceptive coquetry of their mistress is delightfully pictured.

"The favors she shall cast on us

66

Shall not with too much love be shown,
Nor yet the common way still done;
But every smile and every glance
Shall look half lent, and half by chance.
The ribbon, fan, or muff, that she
Wou'd should be kept by thee, or me,
Should not be given before too many,
But neither thrown to's, when there's any,
So that herself should doubtful be,
Whether 'twere fortune flung't, or she.
She shall not like the thing we do,
Sometimes; and yet shall like it, too.

Sir John was a true butterfly. The wings of the peacock," and those of Love, were alike fair and alike changeable with him; taking their hues from the sunbeam, and never shaded but to grow bright again.

"Out upon it, I have lov'd
Three whole days together;
And am like to love thee more,
If it prove fair weather.

"Time shall mould away his wings

Ere he shall discover, In this wide world again,

Such a constant lover.

"But the spite on't is, no praise
Is due at all to me;

Love with me had made no staies,
Had it any been but she.

"Had it any been but she,
And that very face,
There had been at least, ere this,
A dozen dozen in her place."

And "The Careless Lover:"
"Never believe me if I love,
Or know what 'tis, or mean to prove;
And yet, in faith I lie-I do;
And she's extremely handsome, too.
She's fair, she's wondrous fair;
But I care not who doth know it,
Ere I'll die for love, I fairly will forego it
"This heat of hope, or cold of fear,
My foolish heart could never bear;
One sigh imprison'd ruins more
Than earthquakes have done heretofore.
She's fair, &c.

"A gentle round fill'd to the brink,
To this and t'other friend I drink;
And if 'tis named another's health,
I never make it hers by stealth.
She's fair, &c.

"I visit, talk, do business, play,
And for a need laugh out a day:
Who does not this in Cupid's school,
He makes not love, but plays the fool.
She's fair, she's wondrous fair;

But I care not who doth know it,

Ere I'll die for love, I fairly will forego it.'

He came with no "woeful ballads made to his mistress' eye-brow," but met her upon equal terms:

"I prithee send me back my heart,
Since cannot have thine:
For if from yours you will not part,
Why then should'st thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie,

To find it were in vain,
For thou'st a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.

"Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?
Oh! love, where is thy sympathy,
If thus our breasts thou sever?

"But love is such a mystery I cannot find it out:

For when I think I'm best resolv'd, I then am in most doubt.

"Then farewell care, and farewell woe,
I will no longer pine:
For I'll believe I have her heart,

As much as she has mine."

With him, love and debt were alike troublesome, with, perhaps, a slight difference in favor of the latter.

"This one request 1 make to him

Who sits the clouds above,

That I were freely out of debt,

As I am out of love:

Then for to laugh, to dance, to sing, I should be very willing,

I would not owe one lass a kiss,

Nor ne'er a knave a shilling."

There is nothing of the trouveur or troubadour in Suckling; he is anti-romantic in everything. Nor did he cultivate that dreamy and imaginative indolence, which forms so prominent a trait in the poet of the feelings. Yet, with all his boasted levity and indifference, he could be both serious and earnest; and we here and there meet with a purer and truer appreciation of the passion of love than was at all usual with his cotemporaries. "Detraction execrated," is full of lofty sentiment and indignant earnestness.

"Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds, Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate,

Canker of conversation! could'st thou find Nought but our love, whereon to show thy hate?

Thou never wert, when we two were alone; What canst thou witness then? thy base dull aid

Was useless in our conversation,

Where each meant more than could by both be said.

Whence hadst thou thy intelligence-from earth?

That part of us ne'er knew that we did love: Or from the air? Our gentle sighs had birth From such sweet raptures as to joy did

move:

Our thoughts, pure as the chaste morning's breath,

When from the night's cold arms it creeps

away,

Were cloth'd in words, and maiden's blush, that hath

More purity, more innocence than they.

Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale

No briny tear has furrow'd her smooth cheek;

And I was pleas'd. I pray, what should him ail

That had her love, for what else could he seek?

We shorten'd days to moments by love's art,
Whilst our two souls in amorous ecstacy
Perceived no passing time, as if a part
Our love had been of still eternity-
Much less could'st have it from the purer
fire,

Our heat exhales no vapor from coarse

Curst be th' officious tongue that did address
Thee to her ears, to ruin my content:
May it one minute taste such happiness,
Deserving, lose, unpitied, it lament!
I must forbear her sight, and so repay,
In grief, those hours joy shorten'd to a dram;
One minute I will lengthen to a day,
And in one year outlive Methusalem."

For tenderness, and correct sentiment, as also for fine imagery, we rarely, in lyrical composition, meet with anything superior to the song

"When, dearest, I but think of thee,
Methinks all things that lovely be

Are present, and my soul delighted:
For beauties that from worth arise,
Are like the grace of Deities,

Still present with us, though unsighted.

"The waving sea can, with each flood,
Bathe some high promont, that hath stood
Far from the main up in the river:
Oh! think not thou, but Love can do
As much; for Love's an ocean too,

That flows not every day, but, ever."

The address to Lady Carlisle, on her leaving England, is free from the common-place cant of poetic adulation, and contains some good lines.

"Loud expressions many times do come From lightest hearts, great griefs are always dumb."

"The shallow rivers roar, the deep are still.'

A modern poet would hesitate in introducing so homely a figure as

"The blazing wood may to the eye seem great;

But 'tis the fire rak'd up that has the heat And keeps it long."

Yet it is pleasing, from its very homeli

"So all his lovely looks, his pleasing fires, All his sweet motions, all his taking smiles;

All that awakes, all that inflames desires, All that sweetly commands, all that beguiles,

He does into one pair of eyes convey, And there begs leave that he himself may stay.

"And there he brings me, where his ambush

lay

Secure, and careless to a stranger land;

And never warning me, which was foul play,

Does make me close by all this beauty stand,

Where first struck dead, I did at last

recover,

To know that I might only live to love her

"So I'll be sworn I do; and do confess

The blind lad's power while he inhabits there;

But I'll be even with him, ne'er-the-less,

If e'er I chance to meet with him clse-
where.

If other eyes invite the boy to tarry,
I'll fly to hers, as to a sanctuary."

For our last selection, we have re served a passage from the song, beginning,

"If you refuse me once,
And think again
I will complain,
You are deceived;"

which has always pleased us exceedingly. After the first three stanzas, which breathe the very soul of manliness, he bursts into the following passionate language, than which, nothing in Shelley is more ideally beautiful.

"Oh! that I were all soul!

That I might prove For you as fit a love, As you are for an angel! For I know None but pure spirits are fit loves for you. You are all ethereal, there's in you no dross, Nor any thing that's gross: Your coarsest part is like a curious lawn, O'er vestal relics for a covering drawn." When we consider the dissolute character of the age in which Suckling lived, the low estimate placed upon female honor and innocence by the sensual profligacy of the wits and courtiers with whom he associated, we are almost surprised at the pure and exalted sentiment which glows through and refines this stanza. It has not the vivacity, and, perhaps, has less of the airy grace that generally characterizes his writings; but it shows a more correct appreciation of that divinity which

woman.

doth surround and make holy the pure It has more of respect and dutiful tenderness about it. It approaches nearer to the adoring love of Randolph

"I touch her as my beads, with devout care, And go unto my courtship as my prayer;" -that feeling which the true lady must ever inspire in the bosom of the true knight.

The works of this accomplished gentleman, both prose and verse, are. contained in one moderate octavo volume, published originally in 1648, and we can hardly better take leave of the poet and introduce him to our readers than in the words of the quaint preface to his poems, written, probably, by Ormond :

"To the Reader. While Sucklin's name is in the forehead of this Book, these Poems can want no preparation: It had been a prejudice to Posterity they should have slept longer, and an injury to his own ashes. They that convers'd with him alive and truly, (under which notion I comprehend onely knowing Gentlemen, his soule being transcendent and incommunicable to others but by reflection,) will honor these posthume Ideas of their friend: And if any have lived in so much darkness, as not to have knowne so great an Ornament of our age, by looking upon these Remaines with Civility and Vnderstanding, they may timely yet repent and be forgiven.

"In this age of Paper prostitutions, a man may buy the reputation of some Authors into the price of their Volume; but know, the Name that leadeth into this Elysium is sacred to Art and Honor, and no man that is not excellent in both is qualified a Competent Judge: For when Knowledge is allowed, yet Education in the Censure of a Gentleman, requires as many descents, as goes to make one: and he that is bold upon his unequal Stock, to traduce this Name, or Learning, will deserve to be condemned againe into Ignorance his Original sinne, and dye in it.

"But I keep back the Ingenuous Reader, by my unworthy Preface: The gate is open, and thy soule invited to a Garden of ravishing variety. Admire his wit, that created these for thy delight, while I withdraw into a Shade, and contemplate who must follow"

IF

CHAPTER VII.

I were to attempt a relation of all that happened between this memorable Sunday night and the next Thanksgiving-day, my story, which is, I fear, already too long, would be extended, by the recital, far beyond all reasonable limits. Albeit I cherish a modest hope that, if I were to describe some of the events which took place in this interval, a few, at least, of my fair readers would be thereby greatly entertained. For instance, there is the journey to Hartford, which was performed in the covered spring-wagon by Lucy and her mother, John Dashleigh himself driving the span of five-year-old black colts; the main purpose of which was the buying of Lucy's wedding dress and other kindred matters. In the space of three days, the ladies expended the sum of two hundred dollars, which had been given to Lucy by her fond father, in the form of a roll of crisp, rustling, old Hartford bank-bills; besides a smaller sum that Mrs. Manners had on hand in her own private purse. John Dashleigh, also, ordered a handsome suit of clothes, which the tailor promised should be finished, and sent out in a parcel to Walbury, by the post-rider, in time for the wedding; stipulating, furthermore, that every garment should fit like a glove. He also went to a goldsmith's and bought a plain gold ring; which, as it was of a very small size, could not have been for his own hand, and, therefore, might have been intended as a present for little Ellen. I might relate how John, each afternoon during the sojourn in Hartford, used to frequent a certain street-corner, and walk back and forth, behaving so strangely, that the people living in the houses near by at last fell into various mistakes with respect to his character, motives and intentions; some suspecting him of lunacy, while the majority inclined to the belief that he was a burglar, reconnoitering for a professional midnight enterprise. I could tell how Lucy visited her former schoolmates at the Misses Primber's seminary; how, in a short time, they all knew that she was to be

I

married on Thanksgiving night; and how, in consequence, she was stared at by some of the younger girls, who strove to realize, as they gazed, that the person before them was so very soon to become a bride, and to fancy how they themselves would feel when placed in similar interesting circumstances. might also relate, (for authors know everything,) the very private and confidential conversation that Lucy held with the young lady, of whom honorable mention has heretofore been made, to wit, her quondam bedfellow; but as the young lady herself, with a degree of discretion and reticence which was, under the circumstances, most truly marvelous, did not betray the secrets at that interview confided to her keeping, though sorely tempted so to do, I should be ashamed not to imitate so worthy an example. Besides, I have another reason for being close-mouthed, which the reader may presently discover for himself.

Equally pleasant, I trust, would it be to hear of the other preparations for the wedding that were constantly going on at Walbury, until the house seemed turned topsy turvy, and there was not a room, from cellar to garret, in which there was not something to put one in mind of the approaching event. In one chamber you would find a quiltingframe, nearly filling the space, surrounded by a hollow square of women and girls, each busily plying needle and scissors. In another a group of seamstresses were perpetually employed in the manufacture of sheets, table-cloths, pillow-cases, and all sorts of household linen. The Colonel found himself an intruder even in his own bedroom, where his wife and daughter had fallen into the habit of holding frequent consultations with a fashionably-attired mantuamaker-whom they had fetched home with them on the back seat of the spring wagon, all the way from Hartford-over the silks, laces, gauzes and ribbons, with which the bed and sofa were constantly bestrewn. He could scarcely ever open the door of this apartment without hearing a little scream from Lucy, who would be discovered standing