The value of this tiny quarto with the enormous title depends entirely2, so far as the collector is concerned, on whether or no it possesses the frontispiece. So many people, not having the fear of books before their eyes, have divorced the latter from the former, that a perfect copy of Death's Duel3 is quite a capture over which the young bibliophile4 may venture to glory; but let him not fancy that he has a prize if his copy does not possess the portrait-plate. One has but to glance for a moment at this frontispiece to see that there is here something very much out of the common. It is engraved5 in the best seventeenth-century style, and represents, apparently6, the head and bust7 of a dead man wrapped in a winding-sheet. The eyes are shut, the mouth is drawn8, and nothing was ever seen more ghastly.
Yet it is not really the picture of a dead man: it represents the result of one of the grimmest freaks that ever entered into a pious9 mind. In the early part of March 1630 (1631), the great Dr. Donne, Dean of St. Paul's, being desperately10 ill, and not likely to recover, called a wood-carver in to the Deanery, and ordered a small urn11, just large enough to hold his feet, and a board as long as his body, to be produced. When these articles were ready, they were brought into his study, which was first warmed, and then the old man stripped off his clothes, wrapped himself in a winding-sheet which was open only so far as to reveal the face and beard, and then stood upright in the little wooden urn, supported by leaning against the board. His limbs were arranged like those of dead persons, and when his eyes had been closed, a painter was introduced into the room and desired to make a full-length and full-size picture of this terrific object, this solemn theatrical12 presentment of life in death. The frontispiece of Death's Duel gives a reproduction of the upper part of this picture. It was said to be a remarkably13 truthful14 portrait of the great poet and divine, and it certainly agrees in all its proportions with the accredited15 portrait of Donne as a young man.
It appears (for Walton's account is not precise) that it was after standing16 for this grim picture, but before its being finished, that the Dean preached his last sermon, that which is here printed. He had come up from Essex in great physical weakness in order not to miss his appointment to preach in his cathedral before the King on the first Friday in Lent. He entered the pulpit with so emaciated17 a frame and a face so pale and haggard, and spoke18 with a voice so faint and hollow, that at the end the King himself turned to one of his suite19, and whispered, "The Dean has preached his own funeral sermon!" So, indeed, it proved to be; for he presently withdrew to his bed, and summoned his friends around to take a solemn farewell. He died very gradually after about a fortnight, his last words being, not in distress20 or anguish21, but as it would seem in visionary rapture22: "I were miserable23 if I might not die." All this fortnight and to the moment of his death, the terrible life-sized portrait of himself in his winding-sheet stood near his bedside, where it could be the "hourly object" of his attention. So one of the greatest Churchmen of the seventeenth century, and one of the greatest, if the most eccentric, of its lyrical poets passed away in the very pomp of death, on the 31st of March, 1631.
There was something eminently24 calculated to arrest and move the imagination in such an end as this, and people were eager to read the discourse26 which the "sacred authority" of his Majesty27 himself had styled the Dean's funeral sermon. It was therefore printed in 1632. As sermons of the period go it is not long, yet it takes a full hour to read it slowly aloud, and we may thus estimate the strain which it must have given to the worn-out voice and body of the Dean to deliver it. The present writer once heard a very eminent25 Churchman, who was also a great poet, preach his last sermon, at the age of ninety. This was the Danish bishop28 Grundtvig. In that case the effort of speaking, the extraction, as it seemed, of the sepulchral29 voice from the shrunken and ashen30 face, did not last more than ten minutes. But the English divines of the Jacobean age, like their Scottish brethren of to-day, were accustomed to stupendous efforts of endurance from their very diaconate.
The sermon is one of the most "creepy" fragments of theological literature it would be easy to find. It takes as its text the words from the sixty-eighth Psalm31: "And unto God the Lord belong the issues of death." In long, stern sentences of sonorous32 magnificence, adorned33 with fine similes34 and gorgeous words, as the funeral trappings of a king might be with gold lace, the dying poet shrinks from no physical horror and no ghostly terror of the great crisis which he was himself to be the first to pass through. "That which we call life," he says, and our blood seems to turn chilly35 in our veins36 as we listen, "is but Hebdomada mortium, a week of death, seven days, seven periods of our life spent in dying, a dying seven times over, and there is an end. Our birth dies in infancy37, and our infancy dies in youth, and youth and rest die in age, and age also dies and determines all. Nor do all these, youth out of infancy, or age out of youth, arise so as a Phoenix38 out of the ashes of another Phoenix formerly39 dead, but as a wasp40 or a serpent out of a carrion41 or as a snake out of dung." We can comprehend how an audience composed of men and women whose ne'er-do-weel relatives went to the theatre to be stirred by such tragedies as those of Marston and Cyril Tourneur would themselves snatch a sacred pleasure from awful language of this kind in the pulpit. There is not much that we should call doctrine42, no pensive43 or consolatory44 teaching, no appeal to souls in the modern sense. The effect aimed at is that of horror, of solemn preparation for the advent45 of death, as by one who fears, in the flutter of mortality, to lose some peculiarity46 of the skeleton, some jag of the vast crooked47 scythe48 of the spectre. The most ingenious of poets, the most subtle of divines, whose life had been spent in examining Man in the crucible49 of his own alchemist fancy, seems anxious to preserve to the very last his powers of unflinching spiritual observation. The Dean of St. Paul's, whose reputation for learned sanctity had scarcely sufficed to shelter him from scandal on the ground of his fantastic defence of suicide, was familiar with the idea of Death, and greeted him as a welcome old friend whose face he was glad to look on long and closely.
The leaves at the end of this little book are filled up with two copies of funeral verses on Dean Donne. These are unsigned, but we know from other sources to whom to attribute them. Each is by an eminent man. The first was written by Dr. Henry King, then the royal chaplain, and afterward50 Bishop of Chichester, to whom the Dean had left, besides a model in gold of the Synod of Dort, that painting of himself in the winding-sheet of which we have already spoken. This portrait Dr. King put into the hands of Nicholas Stone, the sculptor51, who made a reproduction of it in white marble, with the little urn concealing52 the feet. This was placed in St. Paul's Cathedral, of which King was chief residentiary, and may still be seen in the present Cathedral King's elegy53 is very prosy in starting, but improves as it goes along, and is most ingenious throughout. These are the words in which he refers to the appearance of the dying preacher in the pulpit:
Thou (like the dying Swan) didst lately sing
Thy mournful dirge54 in audience of the King;
When pale looks, and weak accents of thy breath
Presented so to life that piece of death,
That it was feared and prophesied55 by all
Thou thither56 cam'st to preach thy funeral.
The other elegy is believed to have been written by a young man of twenty-one, who was modestly and enthusiastically seeking the company of the most famous London wits. This was Edward Hyde, thirty years later to become Earl of Clarendon, and finally to leave behind him manuscripts which should prove him the first great English historian. His verses here bespeak57 his good intention, but no facility in rhyming.
It was left for the riper disciples58 of the great divine to sing his funerals in more effective numbers. Of the crowd of poets who attended him with music to the grave, none expressed his merits in such excellent verses or with so much critical judgment59 as Thomas Carew, the king's sewer60 in ordinary. It is not so well known but that we quote some lines from it:
The fire
That fills with spirit and heat the Delphic choir61,
Which, kindled62 first by thy Promethean breath,
Glow'd here awhile, lies quench'd now in thy death.
The Muses63' garden, with pedantic64 weeds
O'erspread, was purg'd by thee, the lazy seeds
Of servile imitation thrown away,
And fresh invention planted; thou disdt pay
The debts of our penurious65 bankrupt age.
* * * * *
Whatsoever66 wrong
By ours was done the Greek or Latin tongue,
Thou hast redeem'd, and opened us a mine
Of rich and pregnant fancy, drawn a line
Of masculine expression, which, had good
Old Orpheus seen, or all the ancient brood
Our superstitious67 fools admire, and hold
Their lead more precious than thy burnish'd gold,
Thou hadst been their exchequer….
Let others carve the rest; it will suffice
I on thy grave this epitaph incise:—
Here lies a King, that ruled as he thought fit
The universal monarchy68 of wit;
Here lies two Flamens, and both these the best,—
Apollo's first, at last the True God's priest.
There was no full memoir69 of Dr. Donne until it was the privilege of the present writer, in 1900, to publish his Life and Letters in two substantial volumes. Since then, in 1912, his Poetical70 Works have been edited and sifted71, with remarkable72 delicacy73 and judgment, by Professor Grierson. It is now, therefore, as easy as it can be expected ever to be to follow the career of this extraordinary man, with all its cold and hot fits, its rage of lyrical amativeness, its Roman passion, and the high and clouded austerity of its final Anglicanism. Donne is one of the most fascinating, in some ways one of the most inscrutable, figures in our literature, and we may contemplate74 him with instruction from his first wild escapade into the Azores down to his voluntary penitence75 in the pulpit and the winding-sheet.
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1
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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bibliophile
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| n.爱书者；藏书家 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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8
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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9
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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12
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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13
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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accredited
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| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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27
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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29
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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30
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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31
psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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32
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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33
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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34
similes
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| （使用like或as等词语的）明喻( simile的名词复数 ) | |
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35
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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37
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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38
phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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39
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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40
wasp
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| n.黄蜂，蚂蜂 | |
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41
carrion
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| n.腐肉 | |
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42
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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43
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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44
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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45
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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46
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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47
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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48
scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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49
crucible
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| n.坩锅，严酷的考验 | |
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50
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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51
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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52
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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53
elegy
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| n.哀歌，挽歌 | |
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54
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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55
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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57
bespeak
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| v.预定；预先请求 | |
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58
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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59
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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60
sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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61
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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62
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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63
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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64
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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65
penurious
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| adj.贫困的 | |
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66
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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67
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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68
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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69
memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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70
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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71
sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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72
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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73
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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74
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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75
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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