_There is a well, a willow-shaded spot. Cool in the noon-tide gleam, With rushes nodding in the little stream, And blue forget-me-not.
Set in thick tufts along the bushy marge With big bright eyes of gold; And glorious water-plants, like fans, unfold Their blossoms strange and large.
That wandering boy, young Hylas, did not find Beauties so rich and rare, Where swallow-wort and pale-bright maiden's hair And dog-grass richly twined.
A sloping bank ran round it like a crown, Whereon a purple cloud Of dark wild hyacinths, a fairy crowd, Had settled softly down.
And dreamy sounds of never-ending bells From Oxford's holy towers Came down the stream, and went among the flowers, And died in little swells_.
These two extracts give a fair notion of the Tractarian poetry, with its purity, its idealism, its love of Nature and its unreal conception of life, Faber also wrote an England's Trust, before Lord John Manners published his; and in this he rejoices in the passing away of all the old sensual confidence, and in the coming of a new age of humility and spirituality. Alas! it never came! There was a roll in the wave of thought, a few beautiful shells were thrown up on the shore of literature, and then the little eddy of Tractarianism was broken and spent, and lost in the general progress of mankind. We touch with reverend pity the volumes without which we should scarcely know that Young England had ever existed, and we refuse to believe that all the enthusiasm and piety and courage of which they are the mere ashes have wholly passed away. They have become spread over a wide expanse of effort, and no one knows who has been graciously affected by them. Who shall say that some distant echo of the Cherwell harp was not sounding in the heart of Gordon when he went to his African martyrdom? It is her adventurers, whether of the pen or of the sword, that have made England what she is. But if every adventurer succeeded, where would the adventure be?
The Duke of Rutland soon repeated his first little heroic expedition into the land of verses. He published a volume of English Ballads; but this has not the historical interest which makes England's Trust a curiosity. He has written about Church Rates, and the Colonies, and the Importance of Literature to Men of Business, but never again of his reveries in Neville's Court nor of his determination to emulate the virtues of King Charles the Martyr. No matter! If all our hereditary legislators were as high-minded and single-hearted as the new Duke of Rutland, the reform of the House of Lords would scarcely be a burning question.
IONICA. Smith Elder & Co., 65, Cornhill. 1858.
Good poetry seems to be almost as indestructible as diamonds. You throw it out of the window into the roar of London, it disappears in a deep brown slush, the omnibus and the growler pass over it, and by and by it turns up again somewhere uninjured, with all the pure fire lambent in its facets. No doubt thoroughly good specimens of prose do get lost, dragged down the vortex of a change of fashion, and never thrown back again to light. But the quantity of excellent verse produced in any generation is not merely limited, but keeps very fairly within the same proportions. The verse-market is never really glutted, and while popular masses of what Robert Browning calls "deciduous trash" survive their own generation, only to be carted away, the little excellent, unnoticed book gradually pushes its path up silently into fame.
These reflections are not inappropriate in dealing with the small volume of 116 pages called Ionica, long ago ushered into the world so silently that its publication did not cause a single ripple on the sea of literature. Gradually this book has become first a rarity and then a famous possession, so that at the present moment there is perhaps no volume of recent English verse so diminutive which commands so high a price among collectors. When the library of Mr. Henry Bradshaw was dispersed in November 1886, book-buyers thought that they had a chance of securing this treasure at a reasonable price, for it was known that the late Librarian of Cambridge University, an old friend of the author, had no fewer than three copies. But at the sale two of these copies went for three pounds fifteen and three pounds ten, respectively, and the third was knocked down for a guinea, because it was discovered to lack the title-page and the index. (I do not myself think it right to encourage the sale of imperfect books, and would not have spent half a crown on the rarest of volumes if I could not have the title-page. But this is only an aside, and does not interfere with the value of Ionica.)
The little book has no name on the title-page, but it is known that the author was Mr. William Johnson, formerly a master at Eton and a fellow of King's College, Cambridge. It is understood that this gentleman was born about 1823, and died in 1892. On coming into property, as I have heard, in the west of England, he took the name of Cory, So that he is doubly concealed as a poet, the anonymous-pseudonymous. As Mr. William Cory he wrote history, but there is but slight trace there of the author of Ionica. In face of the extreme rarity of his early book, friends urged upon Mr. Cory its republication, and he consented. Probably he would have done well to refuse, for the book is rather delicate and exquisite than forcible, and to reprint it was to draw public attention to its inequality. Perhaps I speak with the narrow-mindedness of the collector who possesses a treasure; but I think the appreciators of Ionica will always be few in number, and it seems good for those few to have some difficulties thrown in the way of their delights.
Shortly after Ionica appeared great developments took place in English verse. In 1858 there was no Rossetti, no Swinburne; we may say that, as far as the general public was concerned, there was no Matthew Arnold and no William Morris. This fact has to be taken into consideration in dealing with the tender humanism of Mr. Johnson's verses. They are less coruscating and flamboyant than what we became accustomed to later on. The tone is extremely pensive, sensitive, and melancholy. But where the author is at his best, he is not only, as it seems to me, very original, but singularly perfect, with the perfection of a Greek carver of gems. The book is addressed to and intended for scholars, and the following piece, although really a translation, has no statement to that effect. Before I quote it, perhaps I may remind the ladies that the original is an epigram in the Greek Anthology, and that it was written by the great Alexandrian poet Callimachus on hearing the news that his dear friend, the poet Heraclitus—not to be confounded with the philosopher—was dead.
_They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead; They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed I wept, as I remembered, how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.
And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of grey ashes, long long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake; For Death, he taketh all away, but these he cannot take_.
No translation ever smelt less of the lamp, and more of the violet than this. It is an exquisite addition to a branch of English literature, which is already very rich, the poetry of elegiacal regret. I do not know where there is to be found a sweeter or tenderer expression of a poet's grief at the death of a poet-friend, grief mitigated only by the knowledge that the dead man's songs, his "nightingales," are outliving him. It is the requiem of friendship, the reward of one who, in Keats's wonderful phrase, has left "great verse unto a little clan," the last service for the dead to whom it was enough to be "unheard, save of the quiet primrose, and the span of heaven, and few ears." To modern vulgarity, whose ideal of Parnassus is a tap-room of howling politicians, there is nothing so offensive, as there is nothing so incredible, as the notion that a poet may hold his own comrade something dearer than the public. The author of Ionica would deserve well of his country if he had done no more than draw this piece of aromatic calamus-root from the Greek waters.
Among the lyrics which are entirely original, there are several not less exquisite than this memory of Callimachus. But the author is not very safe on modern ground. I confess that I shudder when I read:
"Oh, look at his jacket, I know him afar; How nice," cry the ladies, "looks yonder Hussar!"
It needs a peculiar lightness of hand to give grace to these colloquial numbers, and the author of Ionica is more at home in the dryad-haunted forest with Comatas. In combining classic sentiment with purely English landscape he is wonderfully happy.
There is not a jarring image or discordant syllable to break the glassy surface of this plaintive Dirge:
_Naiad, hid beneath the bank By the willowy river-side, Where Narcissus gently sank, Where unmarried Echo died, Unto thy serene repose Waft the stricken Anteros.
Where the tranquil swan is borne, Imaged in a watery glass, Where the sprays of fresh pink thorn Stoop to catch the boats that pass, Where the earliest orchis grows, Bury thou fair Anteros.
On a flickering wave we gaze, Not upon his answering eyes: Flower and bird we scarce can praise, Having lost his sweet replies: Cold and mute the river flows With our tears for Anteros_.
We know well where this place of burial is to be. Not in some glade of Attica or by Sicilian streams, but where a homelier river gushes through the swollen lock at Bray, or shaves the smooth pastoral meadows at Boveney, where Thames begins to draw a longer breath for his passage between Eton and Windsor.
The prevailing sentiment of these poems is a wistful clinging to this present life, a Pagan optimism which finds no fault with human existence save that it is so brief. It gains various expression in words that seem hot on a young man's lips, and warm on the same lips even when no longer young:
I'll borrow life, and not grow old; And nightingales and trees Shall keep me, though the veins be cold, As young as Sophocles.
And again, in poignant notes:
You promise heavens free from strife, Pure truth, and perfect change of will; But sweet, sweet is this human life, So sweet, I fain would breathe it still; Your chilly stars I can forego, This warm, kind world is all I know.
This last quotation is from the poem called Mimnermus in Church. In this odd title he seems to refer to elegies of the Colophonian poet, who was famous in antiquity for the plaintive stress which he laid on the necessity of extracting from life all it had to offer, since there was nothing beyond mortal love, which was the life of life. The author of Ionica seems to bring the old Greek fatalist to modern England, and to conduct him to church upon a Sunday morning. But Mimnermus is impenitent. He confesses that the preacher is right when he says that all earthly pleasures are fugitive. He has always confessed as much at home under the olive tree; it was because they were fugitive that he clung to them:
All beauteous things for which we live By laws of time and space decay. But oh! the very reason why I clasp them, is because they die.
There is perhaps no modern book of verse in which a certain melancholy phase of ancient thought is better reproduced than in Ionica, and this gives its slight verses their lasting charm. We have had numerous resuscitations of ancient manners and landscape in modern poetry since the days of Keats and Andre Chenier. Many of these have been so brilliantly successful that only pedantry would deny their value. But in Ionica something is given which the others have not known how to give, the murmur of antiquity, the sigh in the grass of meadows dedicated to Persephone. It seems to help us to comprehend the little rites and playful superstitions of the Greeks; to see why Myro built a tomb for the grasshopper she loved and lost; why the shining hair of Lysidice, when she was drowned, should be hung up with songs of pity and reproach in the dreadful vestibule of Aphrodite. The noisy blasphemers of the newest Paris strike the reader as Christian fanatics turned inside out; for all their vehemence they can never lose the experience of their religious birth. The same thing is true of the would-be Pagans of a milder sensuous type. The Cross prevailed at their nativity, and has thrown its shadow over their conscience. But in the midst of the throng there walks this plaintive poet of the Ionica, the one genuine Pagan, absolutely untouched by the traditions of the Christian past. I do not commend the fact; I merely note it as giving a strange interest to these forlorn and unpopular poems.
Twenty years after the publication of Ionica, and when that little book had become famous among the elect, the author printed at Cambridge a second part, without a title-page, and without punctuation, one of the most eccentric looking pamphlets I ever saw. The enthusiastic amateur will probably regard his collection incomplete without Ionica II., but he must be prepared for a disappointment. There is a touch of the old skill here and there, as in such stanzas as this:
With half a moon, and clouds rose-pink, And water-lilies just in bud, With iris on the river-brink, And white weed-garlands on the mud, And roses thin and pale as dreams, And happy cygnets born in May, No wonder if our country seems Drest out for Freedom's natal day.
_Peace lit upon a fluttering vein, And self-forgetting on the brain; On rifts by passion wrought again Splashed from the sky of childhood rain, And rid of afterthought were we And from foreboding sweetly free.
Now falls the apple, bleeds the vine, And, moved by some autumnal sign, I who in spring was glad repine And ache without my anodyne; Oh! things that were! Oh! things that are! Oh! setting of my double star!_
But these are rare, and the old unique Ionica of thirty years earlier is not repeated.
THE SHAVING OF SHAGPAT
THE SHAVING OF SHAGPAT. An Arabian Entertainment. By George Meredith. Chapman and Hall. 1856.
It is nearly forty years since I first heard of The Shaving of Shagpat. I was newly come, in all my callow ardour, into the covenant of Art and Letters, and I was moving about, still bewildered, in a new world. In this new world, one afternoon, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, standing in front of his easel, remarked to all present whom it should concern, that The Shaving of Shagpat was a book which Shakespeare might have been glad to write. I now understand that in the warm Rossetti-language this did not mean that there was anything specially reminiscent of the Bard of Avon in this book, but simply that it was a monstrous fine production, and worthy of all attention. But at the time I expected, from such a title, something in the way of a belated Midsummer Night's Dream or Love's Labour's Lost. I was fully persuaded that it must be a comedy, and as the book even then was rare, and as I was long pursuing the loan of it, I got this dramatic notion upon my mind, and to this day do still clumsily connect it with the idea of Shakespeare. But in truth The Shaving of Shagpat has no other analogy with those plays, which Bacon would have written if he had been so plaguily occupied, than that it is excellent in quality and of the finest literary flavour.
The ordinary small collection of rarities has no room for three-volume novels, those signs-manual of our British dulness and crafty disdain for literature. One or two of these simulacra, these sham-semblances of books, I possess, because honoured friends have given them to me; even so, I would value the gift more in the decency of a single volume. The dear little duodecimos of the last century, of course, are welcome in a library. That was a happy day, when by the discovery of a Ferdinand Count Fathom, I completed my set of Smollett in the original fifteen volumes. But after the first generation of novelists, the sham system began to creep in. With Fanny Burney, novels grow too bulky, and it is a question whether even Scott or Jane Austen should be possessed in the original form. Of the moderns, only Thackeray is bibliographically desirable. Hence even of Mr. George Meredith's fiction I make no effort to possess first editions; yet The Shaving of Shagpat is an exception. I toiled long to secure it, and, now that I hold it, may its modest vermilion cover shine always like a lamp upon my shelves! It is not fiction to a bibliophile; it is worthy of all the honour done to verse.
Within the last ten years of his life we had the great pleasure of seeing tardy justice done at length to the genius of Mr. George Meredith. I like to think that, after a long and noble struggle against the inattention of the public, after the pouring of high music for two generations into ears whose owners seemed to have wilfully sealed them with wax, so that only the most staccato and least happy notes ever reached their dulness, George Meredith did, before the age of seventy, reap a little of his reward. I am told that the movement in favour of him began in America; if so, more praise to American readers, who had to teach us to appreciate De Quincey and Praed before we knew the value of those men. Yet is there much to do. Had George Meredith been a Frenchman, what monographs had ere this been called forth by his work; in Germany, or Italy, or Denmark even, such gifts as his would long ago have found their classic place above further discussion. But England is a Gallio, and in defiance of Mr. Le Gallienne, cares little for the things of literature.
If a final criticism of George Meredith existed, where in it would The Shaving of Shagpat find its place? There is fear that in competition with the series of analytical studies of modern life that stretches from The Ordeal of Richard Feverel to One of our Conquerors, it might chance to be pushed away with a few lines of praise. Now, I would not seem so paradoxical as to say that when an extravaganza is held up to me in one hand, and a masterpiece of morality like The Egoist in the other, I can doubt which is the greater book; but there are moods in which I am jealous of the novels, and wish to be left alone with my Arabian Entertainment. Delicious in this harsh world of reality to fold a mist around us, and out of it to evolve the yellow domes and black cypresses, the silver fountains and marble pillars, of the fabulous city of Shagpat. I do not know any later book than The Shaving in which an Englishman has allowed his fancy, untrammelled by any sort of moral or intellectual subterfuge, to go a-roaming by the light of the moon. We do this sort of thing no longer. We are wholly given up to realism, we are harshly pressed upon on all sides by the importunities of excess of knowledge. If we talk of gryphons, the zoologists are upon us; of Oolb or Aklis, the geographers flourish their maps at us in defiance. But the author of The Shaving of Shagpat, in the bloom of his happy youthful genius, defied all this pedantry. In a little address which has been suppressed in later editions he said (December 8, 1855)
"It has seemed to me that the only way to tell an Arabian Story was by imitating the style and manner of the Oriental Story-tellers. But such an attempt, whether successful or not, may read like a translation. I therefore think it better to prelude this Entertainment by an avowal that it springs from no Eastern source, and is in every respect an original Work."
If one reader of The Shaving of Shagpat were to confess the truth he would say that to him at least the other, the genuine Oriental tales, appear the imitation, and not a very good imitation. The true genius of the East breathes in Meredith's pages, and the Arabian Nights, at all events in the crude literality of Sir Richard Burton, pale before them like a mirage. The variety of scenes and images, the untiring evolution of plot, the kaleidoscopic shifting of harmonious colours, all these seem of the very essence of Arabia, and to coil directly from some bottle of a genie. Ah! what a bottle! As we whirl along in the vast and glowing bacchanal, we cry, like Sganarelle:
Qu'ils sont doux— Bouteille jolie— Qu'ils sont doux Vos petits glou-glous; Ah! Bouteille, ma mie; Pourquoi vous videz-vous?
Ah! why indeed? For The Shaving of Shagpat is one of those very rare modern books of which it is certain that they are too short, and even our excitement at the Mastery of the Event is tamed by a sense that the show is closing, and that Shibli Bagarag has been too promptly successful in smiting through the Identical. But perhaps of all gifts there is none more rare than this of clearing the board and leaving the reader still hungry.
Who shall say, in dealing with such a book, what passage in it is best or worst? Either the fancy, carried away utterly captive, follows the poet whither he will, or the whole conception is a failure. Perhaps, after the elemental splendour and storm of the final scene, what clings most to the memory is how Shibli Bagarag, hard beset in the Cave of Chrysolites, touched the great lion with the broken sapphire hair of Garraveen; or again, how on the black coast of the enchanted sea, wandering by moonlight, he found the sacred Lily, and tore it up, and lo! its bulb was a palpitating heart of human flesh; or how Bhanavar called the unwilling serpents too often, and failed to win her beauty back, till, at an awful price she once more, and for the last time, contrived to call her body-guard of snakes hissing and screaming around her.
There is surely no modern book so unsullied as this is by the modern spirit, none in which the desire to teach a lesson, to refer knowingly to topics of the day, or worst of all, to be incontinently funny, interferes less with the tender magic of Oriental fancy, or with the childlike, earnest faith in what is utterly outside the limits of experience. It belongs to that infancy of the world, when the happy guileless human being still holds that somewhere there is a flower to be plucked, a lamp to be rubbed, or a form of words to be spoken which will reverse the humdrum laws of Nature, call up unwilling spirits bound to incredible services, and change all this brown life of ours to scarlet and azure and mother-of-pearl. Little by little, even our children are losing this happy gift of believing the incredible, and that class of writing which seems to require less effort than any other, and to be a mere spinning of gold thread out of the poet's inner consciousness, is less and less at command, and when executed gives less and less satisfaction. The gnomes of Pope, the fays and "trilbys" of Nodier, even the fairy-world of Doyle, are breathed upon by a race that has grown up habituated to science. But even for such a race it must be long before the sumptuous glow and rich triumphant humour of The Shaving of Shagpat have lost all their attraction.
ABBEY, Edwin A. Abuses stript and whipt Akenside, Mark d'Alembert Alfoxden, Wordsworth at All for Love, Dryden's Almahide, Mlle. de Scudery's Amasia, John Hopkins' Amazon Queen, Weston's Amboyna, Dryden's Amory's Life of John Buncle, Thomas Anthony, Earl of Orrery's Mr. Arcadia, Sidney's Ardelia (Lady Winchilsea)'s Poems Arnauld, Antoine Arnold, Matthew Artamenes, La Calprenede's Astree, D'Urfe's d'Aurevilly, Barbey Austen, Jane Autobiography of Leigh Hunt Avison, Charles
BACON, Lord Baldwin, William Ballad of the Book Hunter, Lang's Balzac, Honore de Bancroft's Sertorius Banks, Sir Joseph Barnacle Goose Tree, The Barrington, Hon. Daines Bayle Beaumont, Peter Bell and Sir George Behn, Mrs. Aphra Bell, Professor Thomas, Benjamin the Waggoner Blener Hasset, Thomas Boccaccio Boethius Boileau, Nicolas, Boisrobert, Francois Boitard, Louis Bossuet, Jacques Boswell, James Bouilhet, Louis Boxiana, Egan's Boyle's Parthenissa Bradshaw, Library of Henry Britannia, Brooke's Discovery of Errors in, Britannia, Camden's British Princes, Howard's Brooke, Christopher Brooke, Ralph Browne, Sir Thomas Browne, William Browning, Robert Brummell, Beau Brunfelcius, Otto Buncle, Amory's Life of John Burger's Lenore Burke, Edmund Barney, Dr. Burney, Fanny Burton, Sir Richard Byron
CALLIMACHUS Calprenede, La Cambridge described by Camden Camden's Britannia Campbell, J. Dykes Campion, Thomas Carew, Thomas Carlisle's Fortune Hunters Carnival, Porter's Cassandra, La Calprenede's Cats Caylus, Count Chandler, Dr. Chapelain Charles I. Cherwell Water-Lily, Faber's The Church, Dean Cibber, Theophilus Citizen of the World, Goldsmith's Clelie, La Calprenede's Cleomina, Eliza Haywood's Secret History of Cleopatra, La Calprenede's Cleveland, Duchess of Coleridge, S.T. Collins, William Congreve, William Constant Couple, Farquhar's Corcoran, Peter, i.e. J. H. Reynolds Corneille, Pierre Corneille, Thomas Cornwall, Barry Cory, William, see Johnson, William Couches de L'Academie, Furetiere's Coventry, Rev. Francis Coventry, Henry Coypel, Drawings by Croker, J.W. Cromwell, Oliver Crowne, John "Crusions" Cyrus, Le Grand
DARLINGTON, Earl of David, Smart's Song to Davies of Hereford, John Death's Duel De Boissat Defoe, Daniel Dennis, John De Quincey, Thomas Deshoulieres, Mme. Desmarais, Regnier De Tabley, Lord Dialogues, La Mothe le Vayer Diary of a Lover of Literature, Green's Dictionary, The Romance of a Dioscorides of Anazarba, D'Israeli, Isaac D'Israeli's Coningsby Dobson, Mr. Austin Dodonaeus, Rembertus Donne, Dr. John Dryden, John Dryden, Funeral of Dunciad, Pope's Dupuy, Mlle. D'Urfe's Astree "Dwale" (nightshade)
EGANS'S Boxiana, Pierce Egoist, Meredith's The Elegy in Country Churchyard, Gray's England's Trust, F.W. Faber's England's Trust, Lord John Manners' England's Worthies, Winstanley's English Ballads, Lord John Manners' English Poets, Winstanley's Lives of Enquiry Concerning Virtue, Shaftesbury's Epistolary Poems of Charles Hopkins Epsom Wells, Shadwell's Excursion, Wordsworth's
FABER, Frederick William Fall of Princes, Lydgate's Fancy, The, J.H. Reynolds' Farmer, Dr. Farquhar, George Fatal Friendship, Trotter's Feast of the Poets, The Ferdinand Count Fathom, Smollett's Ferrers, George Field, Barron Fielding, Henry Finch, Heneage (Earl of Winchilsea) Finch, Poems of Anne (Lady Winchilsea) FitzGerald, Edward Fortune Hunters, Carlisle's The Francaise, Histoire de l'Academie Francion, Sorel's Fuchsius, Leonard Furetiere, Antoine
GARDEN of Florence, Reynolds' Gardiner, Lord Chancellor Stephen Garrick, David Garth, Dr. Gentleman's Magazine, The Gerard, John Gibbon, Edward Gibbons, Dr. (Physician) Gifford, William Gladstone, W.E. Goldsmith, Oliver Gombreville Goose Tree, The Grafton, Isabella, Duchess of Gray, Thomas Green, Thomas Green's Diary of a Lover of Literature Grierson, Professor Grundtvig, Bishop Gulliver's Travels, Swift
HANMER, Sir Thomas Harrington's Oceana Harvey, Rev. R. Haslewood Hawkesworth, John Haywood, Eliza Hazlitt, William Heliodorus Heraclitus Herbal, Gerard's ——, Henry Lyte's translation of Dodonaeus' ——, Dr. Priest's translation of Dodonaeus' Herrick, Robert Hesketh (Yorkshire botanist) Hesperides, Herrick's Hill, Aaron Hill, Dr. John Hilliad, Smart's The Histoire de l'Academie Francaise (The Hague Edn.) Historic Fancies, Lord Strangford's Hoare, William Holland, Philemon Hop Garden, Smart's The Hopkins, Charles Hopkins, Ezekiel, Bishop of Derry Hopkins, John Hove, F.H. Van (Engraver) Howard, Hon. Edward Humorous Lovers, Duke of Newcastle's Hunt, Leigh Hurd, Dr., Bishop of Worcester Hyde, Edward, Earl of Clarendon
IBRAHIM, Mlle. de Scudery's Idalia, Eliza Haywood's Ionica, William Johnson's
JAMES I Jeffrey, Francis Jenyns, Soame Johnson, Dr. Samuel Johnson, Thomas (Botanist) Johnson, William Jonson, Ben Joyner, William Jusserand, J.J., English Novel in the Time of Shakespeare
KEATS, John King, Dr. Henry Kip, William
LAMB, Charles Lang, Andrew La Rochefoucauld Lee, Nathaniel Le Gallienne, Mr. Le Grand Cyrus Lenore, Burger's Lerpiniere, Daniel Les Chats, Moncrif's Lesdiguieres, Duchess of Letters of Lord Chesterfield Liberal, The Locker-Lampson, Frederick Lombard (Antiquary) Longueville, Mme. de Louis XIV Love and a Bottle, Farquhar's Love and Business, Farquhar's Love in Excess, Eliza Haywood Loveday, Robert Lydgate's Fall of Princes
MAINE, Duchess of Manners, Lord John (see Rutland, Duke of) Manship, Samuel Marot, Clement Marshalsea Prison Marvell, Andrew Mason, William Mazell, Peter (Engraver) Memoirs of a Lady of Quality Memoirs of Several Ladies of Great Britain, Amory's Mentzelius, Christian Meredith's, The Shaving of Shagpat Mezeray, Francois Milton, John Mimnermus in Church, Johnson's Mirror for Magistrates, A Mitlord, John Mithridates, Lee's Moll Flanders, Defoe Moncrif, Augustin Paradis de Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley Moore's Tom Crib, Thomas Murray, John
NASH, Beau Newbery, Francis Newbery, John (Publisher) Newcastle's Humorous Lovers, Duke of Niccols, Richard Nichols, John Bowyer Nodier Norden, John Nottingham, Sonnet to the Earl of
OCEANA, Harrington's Orford, Countess of (Pompey the Little) Orrery, Earl of Ortelius, Abraham Osborne, Dorothy Otten (Engraver) Otway, Thomas
PAMELA, Richardson's Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained, Milton's Parleying, Brownings Parr, Dr. Parthenissa, Boyle's Payne, John, (line-engraver) Pellisson-Fontanier, Paul Pennant, Thomas Percy, Bishop of Dromore, Dr. Thomas Peter Bell: A Tale in Verse, Wordsworth's Peter Bell; A Lyrical Ballad, Hamilton's Peter Bell the Third, Shelley's Peter Corcoran Pharamond, La Calprenede's Philemon to Hydaspes, Coventry's Phillips, John Pindar, Peter Plays, A Volume of Old Poems of Anne Finch (Lady Winchilsea) Poems of Christopher Smart Poet in Prison, A (The Shepheards Hunting) Poets, A Censor of Poets, Winstanley's Lives of English Polexandre, Gomberville's Pompey the Little, F. Coventry's Pope, Alexander Porter, Major Thomas Praed, W. Mackworth Prelude, Wordsworth's, The Priest, Dr. Pseudodoxia Epidemica, Browne's
QUARTERLY Review, The Queensberry, Duchess of
RABELAIS Racine, Jean Radcliffe, Dr. John Raleigh, Sir Walter Randall, John Ravenscroft, Edward Reynolds' Peter Bell, John Hamilton —— The Fancy Richardson, Samuel Richelieu, Cardinal Rimini, Leigh Hunt's Robinson, Henry Crabb Robinson, Perdita Rochefoucauld, La Roman Bourgeois, Le, Furetiere's Roman Empress, Joyner's Ronsard Roscommon, Earl of Rossetti, Dante Gabriel Roubillac Rowe, Nicholas Roxana, Defoe Roy (Poet) Rutland, Poems of Duke of
SACKVILLE, Lord Buckhurst, Thomas Sadler, Thomas Sainte-Beuve Saint-Simon Sampson Agonista, Milton's Sandford, Mrs. Savage, Richard Scarron Scott, Sir Walter Scudery, Mlle. de Sedley, Sir Charles Selborne, White's The Natural History of Sertorius, Bancroft's Settle, Elkanah Sevigne, Mme. de Shadwell, Thomas Shaftesbury's Enquiry Concerning Virtue Shaving of Shagpat, George Meredith's The Shelley Shepheards Hunting, Wither's The Shipwreck, Falconer's The Shirley, James Sidney's Arcadia Sir Harry Wildair, Farquhar's Skelton's Contribution to Mirror for Magistrates Smart, Christopher Smollett, Tobias Smythe (see Lord Strangford), George Percy Sydney Solly, Edward Song to David, Smart's Sorel, Charles Southerne, Thomas Southey, Robert Spleen, Ode on the Stecchetti, Lorenzo Stone, Nicholas Strangford, Lord Suckling, Sir John Sugar Cane, Grainger's The Swift, Dean
TEMPLE, Sir William Thackeray, W.M. Tom Crib, Moore's Tom Jones, Fielding Tooke, Horne Tradescant, John Traveller, Goldsmith's The Trotter's Fatal Friendship, Catherine Turner, J.M.W. Tyers, Thomas
Ultra-crepidarius, Leigh Hunt's Usurper, Howard's
VANBRUGH, Sir John Vanbrugh's Aesop Vaugelas Vaughan, Henry Vayer, La Mothe le Verlaine, Paul Verrall, Dr. A.W. View of Christianity, Soame Jenyns' Voltaire
WAGGONER, Wordsworth's The Waggoner, Benjamin the Walker, Anthony (Engraver) Walpole, Horace Walton, Izaak Warburton, Bishop Weston's Amazon Queen What Ann Lang Read White, Rev. Gilbert Wife to be Lett, Eliza Haywood's A Winchilsea, Anne, Countess of Winstanley, William, Wither, George Wordsworth, William Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads Wright, Mr. W. Aldis Wycherley, William