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Letters to Dead Authors-Part7_ANDREW LANG(1844-1912)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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furnace like fine gold. For if we find not Faith at all times easy,

because of the oppositions of Science, and the searching curiosity



of men's minds, neither was Faith a matter of course in thy day.

For the learned and pious were greatly tossed about, like worthy Mr.



Chillingworth, by doubts wavering between the Church of Rome and the

Reformed Church of England. The humbler folk, also, were invited,



now here, now there, by the clamours of fanatical Nonconformists,

who gave themselves out to be somebody, while Atheism itself was not



without many to witness to it. Therefore, such a religion as thine

was not, so to say, a mere innocence of evil in the things of our



Belief, but a reasonable and grounded faith, strong in despite of

oppositions. Happy was the man in whom temper, and religion, and



the love of the sweet country and an angler's pastime so

conveniently combined; happy the long life which held in its hand



that threefold clue through the labyrinth of human fortunes! Around

thee Church and State might fall in ruins, and might be rebuilded,



and thy tears would not be bitter, nor thy triumph cruel.

Thus, by God's blessing, it befell thee



Nec turpem senectam

Degere, nec cithara carentem.



I would, Father, that I could get at the verity about thy poems.

Those recommendatory verses with which thou didst grace the Lives of



Dr. Donne and others of thy friends, redound more to the praise of

thy kind heart than thy fancy. But what or whose was the pastoral



poem of "Thealma and Clearchus," which thou didst set about printing

in 1678, and gavest to the world in 1683? Thou gavest John



Chalkhill for the author's name, and a John Chalkhill of thy kindred

died at Winchester, being eighty years of his age, in 1679. Now



thou speakest of John Chalkhill as "a friend of Edmund Spenser's,"

and how could this be?



Are they right who hold that John Chalkhill was but a name of a

friend, borrowed by thee out of modesty, and used as a cloak to



cover poetry of thine own inditing? When Mr. Flatman writes of

Chalkhill, 'tis in words well fitted to thine own merit:



Happy old man, whose worth all mankind knows

Except himself, who charitably shows



The ready road to virtue and to praise,

The road to many long and happy days.



However it be, in that road, by quiet streams and through green

pastures, thou didst walk all thine almost century of years, and we,



who stray into thy path out of the highway of life, we seem to hold

thy hand, and listen to thy cheerful voice. If our sport be worse,



may our content be equal, and our praise, therefore, none the less.

Father, if Master Stoddard, the great fisher of Tweedside, be with



thee, greet him for me, and thank him for those songs of his, and

perchance he will troll thee a catch of our dear River.



Tweed! winding and wild! where the heart is unbound,

They know not, they dream not, who linger around,



How the saddened will smile, and the wasted rewin

From thee--the bliss withered within.



Or perhaps thou wilt better love,

The lanesome Tala and the Lyne,



And Manor wi' its mountain rills,

An' Etterick, whose waters twine



Wi' Yarrow frae the forest hills;

An' Gala, too, and Teviot bright,



An' mony a stream o' playfu' speed,

Their kindred valleys a' unite



Amang the braes o' bonnie Tweed!

So, Master, may you sing against each other, you two good old



anglers, like Peter and Corydon, that sang in your golden age.

LETTER--To M. Chapelain



Monsieur,--You were a popular poet, and an honourable, over-

educated, upright gentleman. Of the latter character you can never



be deprived, and I doubt not it stands you in better stead where you

are, than the laurels which flourished so gaily, and faded so soon.



Laurel is green for a season, and Love is fair for a day,

But Love grows bitter with treason, and laurel outlives not May.



I know not if Mr. Swinburne is correct in his botany, but YOUR

laurel certainly outlived not May, nor can we hope that you dwell






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