critical point, and luxuriating in endless ramifications.  Beauty, eluding unwelcome embraces, is never too hotly pressed to dally with an engaging simile or choose the most agreeable words for depicting her tribulation.  Why indeed should she hurry?  It is all a polite and pleasant make-believe; and when Marina and Doridon are tired, they stand aside and watch the side couples, Fida and Remond, and get their breath again for the next figure.  As for the finish of the tale, there is no finish.  The narrator will stop when he is tired; just then and no sooner.  What became of Marina after Triton rolled away the stone and released her from the Cave of Famine?  I am sure I don’t know.  I have followed her adventures up to that point (though I should be very sorry to attempt a precis of them without the book) through some 370 pages of verse.  Does this mean that I am greatly interested in her?  Not in the least.  I am quite content to hear no more about her.  Let us have the lamentations of Celadyne for a change—­though “for a change” is much too strong an expression.  The author is quite able to invent more adventures for Marina, if he chooses to, by the hour together.  If he does not choose to, well and good.

Was the composition of Britannia’s Pastorals then, a useless or inconsiderable feat?  Not at all:  since to read them is to taste a mild but continuous pleasure.  In the first place, it is always pleasant to see a good man thoroughly enjoying himself:  and that Browne thoroughly “relisht versing”—­to use George Herbert’s pretty phrase—­would be patent enough, even had he not left us an express assurance:—­

    “What now I sing is but to pass away
     A tedious hour, as some musicians play;
     Or make another my own griefs bemoan—­”

—­rather affected, that, one suspects: 

    “Or to be least alone when most alone,
     In this can I, as oft as I will choose,
     Hug sweet content by my retired Muse,
     And in a study find as much to please
     As others in the greatest palaces. 
     Each man that lives, according to his power,
     On what he loves bestows an idle hour. 
     Instead of hounds that make the wooded hills
     Talk in a hundred voices to the rills,
     I like the pleasing cadence of a line
     Struck by the consort of the sacred Nine. 
     In lieu of hawks ...”

—­and so on.  Indeed, unless it be Wither, there is no poet of the time who practised his art with such entire cheerfulness:  though Wither’s satisfaction had a deeper note, as when he says of his Muse—­

    “Her true beauty leaves behind
     Apprehensions in the mind,
     Of more sweetness than all art
     Or inventions can impart;
     Thoughts too deep to be express’d,
     And too strong to be suppressed.”

Yet Charles Lamb’s nice observation—­