The _Spirit_ of the author
descended upon him; and he felt it! With Burton and Fuller, Jeremy Taylor
and Sir Thomas Browne, he was an intimate. The ancient poets--chiefly the
dramatic poets--were his especial friends. He knew every point and turn of
their wit, all the beauty of their characters; loving each for some one
distinguishing particular, and despising none. For absolute contempt is a
quality of youth and ignorance--a foppery which a wise man rejects, and
_he_ rejected it accordingly. If he contemned anything, it was contempt
itself. He saw that every one bore some sign or mark (God's gift) for
which he ought to be valued by his fellows, and esteemed a man. He could
pick out a merit from each author in his turn. He liked Heywood for his
simplicity and pathos; Webster for his deep insight into the heart; Ben
Jonson for his humor; Marlow for his "mighty line;" Fletcher for his wit
and flowing sweetness; and Shakespeare for his combination of wonders. He
loved Donne too, and Quarles, and Marvell, and Sir Philip Sidney, and a
long list besides.
No one will love the old English writers again as _he_ did. Others may
have a leaning towards them--a respect--an admiration--a sort of _young_
man's love: but the true relishing is over; the close familiar friendship
is dissolved.
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