experience were back of it; and it stands, as Carlyle has remarked, the shadow of what, to its author, was an awful fact. Its descriptions are remarkably vivid; its characters are sharply defined; and what gives it perennial interest is its fidelity to life: Every earnest nature, no matter what may be the creed, there finds, more or less fully, its own experience. Who has not crossed the Slough of Despond? Who has not felt the burden of unworthiness, climbed the hill of Difficulty, and been shut up in Doubting Castle? Who has not also rested in the Delectable Mountains, or reached for moments, all too brief, the Land of Beulah?

142. Isaac Walton.- One of the most pleasing literary figures of this period is Izaak Walton. After accumulating a small fortune as a linen-draper, he retired from business in 1543, and became, as has been said, pontifex piscatorum. For forty years he swayed his fishing-rod as a sceptre over a circle of congenial and admiring friends. His "Complete Angler, or the Contemplative Man's Recreation," published in 1653, is a delightful book, which has passed through many editions both in England and this country.

143. Fantastic Poets. With the exception of Milton, this period produced no great poet. The large, creative spirit of the preceding era, which reflected the grandeur and power of the English people, was succeeded by a narrow, artificial spirit, which devoted its energies to the turning of small compliments. and the tracing of remote resemblances. Since the time of Dr. Johnson, it has been customary to designate these writers. among whom we may mention Waller, Cowley, Quarles, Herrick, Suckling, and Carew, as metaphysical poets.

The term artificial or fantastic would perhaps be more accurately descriptive of their character. They were men of learning, but took too much pains to show it. They wrote not from the emotions of the heart, but from the deliberate choice of the will; and hence they succeeded not in giving voice to nature, but only in pleasing a false and artificial taste. They abound in far-fetched and violent figures; and though we may be surprised at their ingenuity in discovering remote resemblances, we smile at the incongruous result. Thus Carew sings:

144. Happy Trifles. Yet a happy trifle was now and then hit upon. At rare intervals nature seems to have broken through the casing of artificiality. Francis Quarles gives forcible poetic expansion to Job's prayer, "Oh that thou wouldest hide me in the grave, that thou wouldest keep me secret, until thy wrath be past:

"Ah, whither shall I fly? What path untrod
Shall I seek out to escape the flaming rod
Of my offended, of my angry God?"

There is a light, careless spontaneity about the little song of Herrick's beginning:

"Gather the rose-buds while ye may,

Old Time is still a flying;

And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying."

Waller and Cowley.- The two leading representatives of the metaphysical or artificial school were Edmund Waller and Abraham Cowley. The former was an orator as well as poet, and served many times in Parliament. He delighted the House with his unfailing wit; but if Bishop Burnet is right, "He was only concerned to say that which should

make him applauded; he never laid the business of the House to heart, being a vain and empty, though a witty, man."

Though he wrote serious poems, especially in his old age, he was happiest in the lighter vein. He did not think deeply on great subjects, but expended his efforts in maintaining a superficial elegance. Among his songs there is one sweeter than all the rest, beginning:

Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be."

Contemporary criticism is not always just. During the lifetime of the two poets the fame of Cowley entirely eclipsed that of Milton. Posterity has reversed this estimate; and we may now ask with Pope:

"Who now reads Cowley? If he pleases yet,

His moral pleases, not his pointed wit;

Forgot his epic, nay, Pindaric art."

But the neglect into which he has fallen seems not wholly deserved. He was the most popular poet of his day; and this popularity may be taken as indicative of at least some degree of merit. While speaking of the general neglect of Cowley's works, Pope adds:

"But still I love the language of his heart."