examined in the fuller Life, along with his Prose Works in the Fuller
Worthies' Library, as before.]
It is different with Sir John Davies. His "Orchestra" and "Hymnes to
Astræa" and Minor Poems, preceded considerably his "Nosce Teipsum," but
it was his "Nosce Teipsum" that made King James I. prick up his ears on
hearing his name, and it is "Nosce Teipsum" that is the poem that will
secure immortality to Sir John Davies. His other poetry has special
remarkablenesses--as will appear--but in "Nosce Teipsum" alone have
we the inspiration and spontaneity, the insight and speculation, the
subtlety and yet definiteness, the "burden" (in the prophetic sense)
and the melody of the Poet as distinguished from the versifier or
verse-Rhetorician.
I value "Nosce Teipsum" as a first thing for its _deep and original
thinking_, i.e. for its _intellectual strength_--all the more
remarkable that as the former part of the Memorial-Introduction
shows, he was only in his 28th-29th year when he composed it. Of
its art I shall have somewhat to say anon: but regarding it as a
"_philosophical_ poem" and as a contribution to metaphysic, I place
foremost the THOUGHT in it, as at once a characteristic and a
merit (if merit be not too poor a word). DAVIES (along with
FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE and DONNE)
simply as Thinker on the profoundest problems of nature and human
nature, seems to me to stand out pre-eminently, and in saying this, I
regard it as sheer nonsense to exalt the workmanship at the expense
of the material--to ask me to recognize in a bit of tin ingeniously
and painstakingly etched into a kind of miracle of execution something
co-equal with a solid bar of gold as it gleams i' the face of the sun
in its purged and massive simpleness; or to put it unmetaphorically,
I must pronounce judgment on the rank of a Poet _qua_ a Poet
fundamentally on the kind and quality of the thought on higher and
deeper things that he puts into his verse and that he strikes out in
others. Your mere artist-Poet is surely third-rate and must even go
beneath the music-composer of to-day.
"Nosce Teipsum" as it was practically the earliest so it remains the
most remarkable example of deep reflective-meditative thinking in verse
in our language or in any language. The student of this great poem will
very soon discover that within sometimes homeliest metaphors there is
folded a long process of uncommon thought on the every-day facts of our
mysterious existence. I call the thinking deep, because "Nosce Teipsum"
reveals more than eyes that looked on the surface--reveals penetrative
and bold descent to the roots of our being and reachings upward to the
Highest. Your mere realistic word-painter of what he sees, is shallow
beside a Poet who passes beneath the surface and circumstance and
fetches up from sunless depths or down from radiant altitudes fact and
facts--each contributory to that ultimate philosophy which while it
shall accept every proved fact, will not rush off hysterically shouting
"eureka," with ribald accusations of all that generations have held to
be venerable and sustaining. I call the thinking original, for there
is evidence everywhere in "Nosce Teipsum" that the penitent recluse of
Oxford made his own self his study--as really if not as avowedly as
Wordsworth.
I am aware in claiming originality for Davies that in that huge
waste-basket of our Literature--Nichols' Literary Illustrations
(Vol. IV. pp. 549-50) there is a letter from an Alexander Dalrymple,
Esq., who is designated "the great hydrographer" to "Mr. Herbert"
(the Bibliographer I opine) wherein he takes different ground. We
must traverse his charge. He thus writes:--"Dear Sir, I have lately
purchased the following old books" (he enumerates several).... "I have
also got 'Wither's translation of Nemesius de Naturâ hominis' by which
I find Sir John Davies's poem on the Immortality of the Soul is chiefly
taken from Nemesius" ... "I have picked up a tract in 4to. by Thomas
Jenner, with some very good plates, the marginal notes of which seem
to be what the heads of Tate's edition of Sir John Davies's are taken
from."
Were this true it would utterly take from "Nosce Teipsum" the first
characteristic and merit I claim for it--deep and original thought. But
it is absolutely untrue, an utter delusion, as any one will find who
takes the pains that I have done to read, either the original Nemesius,
or what this sapient book-buyer mentions, Wither's translation. With my
mind and memory full of "Nosce Teipsum" and the poem itself beside me,
I have read and re-read every page, sentence and word of Nemesius and
Wither (and there is a good deal of Wither in his translation: 1636)
and I have not come upon a single metaphor or (as the old margin-notes
called them) "similies," or even observation in "Nosce Teipsum" drawn
from Nemesius or Wither. The only element in common is that necessarily
Nemesius adduces and discusses the opinions of the Heathen Philosophers
on the many matters handled by him, and Sir John Davies does the same
with equal inevitableness. But to base a charge of plagiarism against
"Nosce Teipsum" on this, is to reason on the connection between
Tenterden Steeple and Goodwin Sands (if the well-worn folly be a
permissible reference). The following is the title-page of the quaint
old tome and as it is by no means scarce, any reader can cross-question
our witness: "The Nature of Man. A learned and useful Tract written
in Greek by Nemesius, surnamed the Philosopher; sometime Bishop of a
City in Ph[oe]necia, and one of the most ancient Fathers of the Church.
Englyshed, and divided into Sections, with briefs of their principle
contents by Geo. Wither. London: Printed by M. F. for Henry Taunton in
St. Duncan's Churchyard in Fleetstreet. 1636." (12^{o} 21 leaves and
pp. 661.) Chronologically--Wither's translation was not published until
1636, while "Nosce Teipsum" was published in 1599; but Nemesius' own
book no more than Wither's warrants any such preposterous statements as
this Alexander Dalrymple makes. Even in the treatment of the "opinions"
of the Heathen Philosophers which come up in Nemesius, and in "Nosce
Teipsum," the latter while 'intermedling' with the same returns wholly
distinct answers in refutation. The "opinions" themselves as being
derived of necessity from the same sources are identical; but neither
their statement nor refutation. Nemesius is ingenious and well-learned,
but heavy and prosaic. Sir John Davies is light of touch and a light
of poetic glory lies on the lamest "opinion." The "Father of the
Church" goes forth to war with encumbering armour: the Poet naked
and unarmed beyond the spear wherewith he 'pierces' everything, viz.
human consciousness. Jenner's forgotten book had perhaps been read by
Tate, but that concerns Tate not Sir John Davies. I pronounce it a
hallucination to write "Sir John Davies' poem on the immortality of
the Soul is chiefly taken from Nemesius." Not one line was taken from
Nemesius.
Before passing on it may be well to illustrate here from the "contents"
of two chapters (representative of the whole) in Wither's Nemesius,
the merely superficial agreement between them and "Nosce Teipsum." In
the Poem under "The Soule of Man and the Immortalitie thereof" various
opinions of its 'nature' are thus summarized:
"One thinks the _Soule_ is _aire_; another _fire_;
Another _blood_, diffus'd about the heart;
Another saith, the _elements_ conspire,
And to her _essence_ each doth giue a part.
_Musicians_ thinke our _Soules_ are _harmonies_,
_Phisicians_ hold that they _complexions_ bee;
_Epicures_ make them swarmes of _atomies_,
Which doe by chance into our bodies flee." (p. 26.)
In Nemesius, c. 2. § I, the 'headings' are: "I. The severall and
different Opinions of the Ancients concerning the Sovl, as whether it
be a Substance; whether corporeall, or incoporeall, whether mortal
or immortal P. II. The confutation of those who affirme in general
that the Sovl is a corporeall-substance. III. Confutations of their
particular Arguments, who affirme that the Sovl is Blood, Water, or
Aire." These are all common-places of ancient 'opinion' and of the
subject; and anything less poetical than Nemesius' treatment of them is
scarcely imaginable. Here if anywhere Davies' indebtedness must have
been revealed; but not one scintilla of obligation suggests itself to
the Reader. Again in the Poem, after a subtle and very remarkable
'confutation' of the notion that the Soul is a thing of 'Sense' only,
there comes proof "That the Soule is more than the Temperature of the
humours of the Body;" and nowhere does Davies show a more cunning
hand than in his statement of the 'false opinion.' Turning once more
to Nemesius c. II. § 3, these are its 'headings:'--"I. It is here
declared, that the Soul is not (as Galen implicitly affirmeth) a
Temperature in general. II. It is here proved also, that the Soul is no
particular temperature or quality. III. And it is likewise demonstrated
that the Soul is rather governesse of the temperatures of the Body,
both ordering them, and subduing the vices which arise from the bodily
tempers." Here again we would have expected some resemblances or
suggestions; but again there is not a jot or tittle of either. Thus
is it throughout. One might as well turn up the words used in "Nosce
Teipsum" in a quotation-illustrated Dictionary of the English Language
(such as Richardson's) and argue 'plagiarism' because of necessarily
agreeing definitions, as from a few scattered places in "Nosce Teipsum"
discussing the same topics, allege appropriation of Nemesius. Your mere
readers of title-pages and contents, or glancers over indices are
constantly blundering after this fashion. Dalrymple was one of these.
The headings of the successive sections--removed in our text from
the margins to their several places--suffice to inform us of the
original lines of thought and research and illustration pursued in
"Nosce Teipsum" and thither I refer the Reader. The merest glance
will show that in "Nosce Teipsum" you have the whole breadth of the
field traversed--and that for the first time in Verse. I can only very
imperfectly illustrate either the depth or the originality of the poem.
Almost as at the opening of the book, take these uniting both:--
"And yet alas, when all our lamps are burnd,
Our bodyes wasted, and our spirits spent;
When we haue all the learnèd _Volumes_ turn'd,
Which yeeld mens wits both help and ornament:
What can we know? or what can we discerne?
When _Error_ chokes the windowes of the minde,
The diuers formes of things, how can we learne,
That haue been euer from our birth-day blind?
When _Reasone's_ lampe, which (like the _sunne_ in skie)
Throughout _Man's_ little world her beames did spread;
Is now become a sparkle, which doth lie
Vnder the ashes, halfe extinct, and dead:
How can we hope, that through the eye and eare,
This dying sparkle, in this cloudy place,
Can recollect these beames of knowledge cleere,
Which were infus'd in the first minds by grace?
So might the heire whose father hath in play
Wasted a thousand pound of ancient rent;
By painefull earning of a groate a day,
Hope to restore the patrimony spent.
The wits that diu'd most deepe and soar'd most hie
Seeking Man's pow'rs, haue found his weaknesse such:
"Skill comes so slow, and life so fast doth flie,
"We learne so little and forget so much.
For this the wisest of all morall men
Said, '_He knew nought, but that he nought did know_';
And the great mocking-Master mockt not then,
When he said, '_Truth was buried deepe below_.'
For how may we to others' things attaine,
When none of vs his owne soule vnderstands?
For which the Diuell mockes our curious braine,
When, '_Know thy selfe_' his oracle commands.
For why should wee the busie Soule beleeue,
When boldly she concludes of that and this;
When of her selfe she can no iudgement giue,
Nor how, nor whence, nor where, nor what she is?
All things without, which round about we see,
We seeke to knowe, and how therewith to doe;
But that whereby we _reason, liue and be_,
Within our selues, we strangers are thereto.
We seeke to know the mouing of each spheare,
And the strange cause of th' ebs and flouds of _Nile_;
But of that clock, within our breasts we beare,
The subtill motions we forget the while.
We that acquaint our selues with euery _Zoane_
And passe both _Tropikes_ and behold the _Poles_,
When we come home, are to our selues vnknown,
And vnacquainted still with our owne _Soules_.
We study _Speech_ but others we perswade;
We _leech-craft_ learne, but others cure with it;
We interpret _lawes_, which other men haue made,
But reade not those which in our hearts are writ."
(pp. 18-20.)
Again:--
IN WHAT MANNER THE SOULE IS UNITED TO THE BODY.
But how shall we this _union_ well expresse?
Nought ties the _soule_; her subtiltie is such
She moues the bodie, which she doth possesse,
Yet no part toucheth, but by _Vertue's_ touch.
Then dwels shee not therein as in a tent,
Nor as a pilot in his ship doth sit;
Nor as the spider in his web is pent;
Nor as the waxe retaines the print in it;
Nor as a vessell water doth containe;
Nor as one liquor in another shed;
Nor as the heat doth in the fire remaine;
Nor as a voice throughout the ayre is spread:
But as the faire and cheerfull _Morning light_,
Doth here and there her siluer beames impart,
And in an instant doth herselfe vnite
To the transparent ayre, in all, and part:
Still resting whole, when blowes th' ayre diuide:
Abiding pure, when th' ayre is most corrupted;
Throughout the ayre, her beams dispersing wide,
And when the ayre is tost, not interrupted:
So doth the piercing _Soule_ the body fill,
Being all in all, and all in part diffus'd;
Indiuisible, incorruptible still,
Not forc't, encountred, troubled or confus'd.
And as the _sunne_ aboue, the light doth bring,
Though we behold it in the ayre below;
So from th' Eternall Light the _Soule_ doth spring,
Though in the body she her powers doe show.
(pp. 61-2.)
Further, "An Acclamation":--
AN ACCLAMATION.
O! what is Man (great Maker of mankind!)
That Thou to him so great respect dost beare!
That Thou adornst him with so bright a mind,
Mak'st him a king, and euen an angel's peere!
O! what a liuely life, what heauenly power,
What spreading vertue, what a sparkling fire!
How great, how plentifull, how rich a dower
Dost Thou within this dying flesh inspire!
Thou leau'st Thy print in other works of Thine,
But Thy whole image Thou in Man hast writ;
There cannot be a creature more diuine,
Except (like Thee) it should be infinit.
But it exceeds man's thought, to thinke how hie
_God_ hath raisd _Man_, since _God a man_ became;
The angels doe admire this _Misterie_,
And are astonisht when they view the same.
(pp. 81-2.)
Again:--
THAT THE SOULE IS IMMORTAL, AND CANNOT DIE.
Nor hath he giuen these blessings for a day,
Nor made them on the bodie's life depend;
The _Soule_ though made in time, _suruives for aye_,
And though it hath beginning, sees no end.
Her onely _end_, is _neuer-ending_ blisse;
Which is, _th' eternall face of God to see_;
Who _Last of Ends_, and _First of Causes_, is:
And to doe this, she must _eternall_ bee.
How senselesse then, and dead a soule hath hee,
Which _thinks_ his _soule_ doth with his body die!
Or _thinkes_ not so, but so would haue it bee,
That he might sinne with more securitie.
For though these light and vicious persons say,
Our _Soule_ is but a smoake, or ayrie blast;
Which, during life, doth in our nostrils play,
And when we die, doth turne to wind at last:
Although they say, '_Come let us eat and drinke_';
Our life is but a sparke, which quickly dies;
Though thus they _say_, they know not what to think,
But in their minds ten thousand doubts arise.
Therefore no heretikes desire to spread
Their light opinions, like these _Epicures_:
For so the staggering thoughts are comfortèd,
And other men's assent their doubt assures.
Yet though these men against their conscience striue,
There are some sparkles in their flintie breasts
Which cannot be extinct, but still reuiue;
That though they would, they cannot quite bee _beasts_;
But who so makes a mirror of his mind,
And doth with patience view himselfe therein,
His _Soule's_ eternitie shall clearely find,
Though th' other beauties be defac't with sin.
(pp. 82-3.)
Further, "An Acclamation":--
AN ACCLAMATION.
O ignorant poor man! what dost thou beare
Lockt vp within the casket of thy brest?
What iewels, and what riches hast thou there!
What heauenly treasure in so weak a chest!
Looke in thy _soule_, and thou shalt _beauties_ find,
Like those which drownd _Narcissus_ in the flood:
_Honour_ and _Pleasure_ both are in thy mind,
And all that in the world is counted _Good_.
Thinke of her worth, and thinke that God did meane.
This worthy mind should worthy things imbrace;
Blot not her beauties with thy thoughts vnclean,
Nor her dishonour with thy passions base;
Kill not her _quickning power_ with surfettings,
Mar not her _Sense_ with sensualitie;
Cast not her serious wit on idle things:
Make not her free-_will_, slaue to vanitie.
And when thou think'st of her _eternitie_,
Thinke not that _Death_ against her nature is;
Thinke it a _birth_; and when thou goest to die,
Sing like a swan, as if thou went'st to blisse.
And if thou, like a child, didst feare before,
Being in the darke, where thou didst nothing see:
Now I haue broght thee _torch-light_, feare no more;
Now when thou diest, thou canst not hud-winkt be.
And thou, my _Soule_, which turn'st thy curious eye,
To view the beames of thine owne forme diuine;
Know, that thou canst know nothing perfectly,
While thou art clouded with this flesh of mine.
Take heed of _ouer-weening_, and compare
Thy peacock's feet with thy gay peacock's traine;
Study the best, and highest things, that are,
But of thy selfe, an humble thought retaine.
Cast down thy selfe, and onely striue to raise
The glory of thy Maker's sacred Name;
Vse all thy powers, that Blessed Power to praise,
Which giues the power to _bee_, and _use the same_.
(pp. 114-16.)
Finally, here is a simile well-wrought in itself and accidentally to be
for ever associated with a celebrated criticism:--
THE MOTION OF THE SOULE.
.... how can shee but immortall bee?
When with the motions of both _Will_ and _Wit_,
She still aspireth to eternitie,
And neuer rests, till she attaine to it?
Water in conduit pipes, can rise no higher
Then the wel-head, from whence it first doth spring:
Then sith to eternall GOD shee doth aspire,
Shee cannot be but an eternall thing.
(p. 85.)
The second stanza contains a metaphor that was stolen and murdered as
well, by Robert Montgomery. Concerning _his_ use of it Macaulay thus
wrote in his merciless review:--"We would not be understood, however,
to say that Mr. Robert Montgomery cannot make similitudes for himself.
A very few lines further on we find one which has every mark of
originality and on which we will be bound, none of the poets whom he
has plundered will ever think of making reprisal:--
'The soul aspiring, pants its source to mount,
As streams meander level with their fount.'
"We take this to be on the whole the worst similitude in the world.
In the first place, no stream meanders, or can possibly meander level
with its fount. In the next place, if streams did meander level with
their fount, no two motions can be less like each other than that of
meandering level and that of mounting upwards." True; but none the less
is the original 'spoiled' and despoiled metaphor, accurate and vivid.
If the Reader will surrender himself to the task, he will be rewarded
for studying and re-studying the entire poem of "Nosce Teipsum;" and,
unless I very much mistake, will then regard Hallam's judgment on it
as inadequate rather than exaggerate, as (with intercalated remarks),
thus: "A more remarkable poem [than Drayton's and Daniel's] is that
of Sir John Davies, afterwards Chief Justice of Ireland [a mistake],
entitled, 'Nosce Teipsum,' published in 1599, usually, though rather
inaccurately, called 'On the Immortality of the Soul.' Perhaps no
language can produce a poem, extending to so great a length, of
more condensation of thought, or in which fewer languid verses will
be found. Yet, according to some definitions [of poetry] the 'Nosce
Teipsum' is wholly unpoetical, inasmuch as it shows no passion [a
greater blunder still] and little fancy [a third mistake]. If it
reaches the heart at all, it is through the reason. But since strong
argument in terse and correct style fails not to give us pleasure in
prose, it seems strange that it should lose its effect when it gains
the aid of regular metre to gratify the ear and assist the memory.
Lines there are in Davies which far out-weigh much of the descriptive
and imaginative poetry of the last two centuries, whether we estimate
them by the pleasure they impart to us, or by the intellectual vigour
they display. Experience has shown that the faculties familiarly
deemed poetical are frequently exhibited in a considerable degree,
but very few have been able to preserve a perspicuous beauty without
stiffness or pedantry (allowance made for the subject and the times),
in metaphysical reasoning, so successfully as Sir John Davies."[48]
The alleged "no passion" is contradicted by the various pathetic
autobiographic introspections and confessions brought out in this
Memorial-Introduction, and not less so by the outbursts of adoration
and praise that thunder up like the hosannahs before the great White
Throne. The similarly alleged "little fancy" is one of manifold proofs
that the critic was the most superficial of all imaginable readers with
so much pretention. "Nosce Teipsum" is radiant as the dew-bedabbled
grass with delicacies of fancy, not a few of the "fancies" being as
exquisitely touched as divine work.
[Footnote 48: Introduction to the Literature of Europe in the 15th,
16th, and 17th Centuries: Vol. II., p. 227, edn. 1860.]
Campbell in his "Essay on English Poetry" (prefixed to his
"Specimens") may be read with interest after Hallam. Accepting from
Johnson as Johnson from Dryden the name of "metaphysical poets," he
observes:--"The term of metaphysical poetry would apply with much more
justice to the quatrains of Sir John Davies and those of Sir Fulke
Greville, writers who, at a later period, found imitators in Sir Thomas
Overbury and Sir William Davenant. Davies's poem on the Immortality
of the Soul, entitled "_Nosce teipsum_," will convey a much more
favourable idea of metaphysical poetry than the wittiest effusions of
Donne and his followers. Davies carried abstract reasoning into verse
with an acuteness and felicity which have seldom been equalled. He
reasons undoubtedly with too much labour, formality, and subtlety,
to afford uniform poetical pleasure. The generality of his stanzas
exhibit hard arguments interwoven with the pliant materials of fancy so
closely, that we may compare them to a texture of cloth and metallic
threads, which is cold and stiff, while it is splendidly curious. There
is this difference, however, between Davies and the commonly-styled
metaphysical poets, that _he_ argues like a hard thinker, and _they_,
for the most part, like madmen. If we conquer the drier parts of
Davies' poem, and bestow a little attention on thoughts which were
meant, not to gratify the indolence, but to challenge the activity of
the mind, we shall find in the entire essay fresh beauties at every
perusal: for in the happier parts we come to logical truths so well
illustrated by ingenious similes, that we know not whether to call the
thoughts more poetically or philosophically just. The judgment and
fancy are reconciled, and the imagery of the poems seems to start more
vividly from the surrounding shades of abstraction."