e into one, and others into more, according to
the Greek, French, Spanish, and Italian."[271]

Nash had a particular literary hatred for mere empty bombast. His love
for high-sounding words with a meaning was not greater than his aversion
for big sounds without one. Even his friend Marlowe does not escape his
censure for having trespassed in this particular beyond the limits of
good taste. Nash wonders "how eloquent our gowned age is growen of
late," and he has nothing but contempt for those "vainglorious
tragoedians who contend not so seriously to excel in action, as to
embowell the clowdes in a speach of comparison; thinking themselves more
than initiated in poets immortalitie, if they but once get Boreas by the
beard and the heavenlie bull by the deaw-lap."[272]

His ideas regarding the art of novel writing are very liberal, and he
accepts as belonging to literature many specimens we should sternly
reject. The one point to remember, however, is that he does not accept
them all; he draws the line somewhere, and in that age when the novel
was in its infancy, there was merit in doing even no more than this. He
is very hard upon the old mediaeval romances, which it is true he seems
to have known only through the abridged and degenerate texts circulated
in his time, for the amusement of idle readers. He readily endorses the
moral views of Ascham about them, adding however, what is more
interesting for us, some literary criticism: "What els I pray you, doe
these bable booke-mungers endevor but to repaire the ruinous wals of
Venus court, to restore to the worlde that forgotten legendary licence
of lying, to imitate a fresh the fantasticall dreames of those exiled
Abbie-lubbers [_i.e._, the monks] from whose idle pens proceeded those
worne out impressions of the feigned no where acts of Arthur of the
rounde table, Arthur of litle Brittaine, Sir Tristram, Hewon of
Burdeaux, the Squire of low degree, the four sons of Amon, with
infinite others.... Who is it that reding Bevis of Hampton, can forbeare
laughing, if he marke what scambling shyft he makes to end his verses a
like? I will propound three or foure payre by the way for the readers
recreation:

The porter said: By my snout,
It was Sir Bevis that I let out."[273]

Every reader will agree with Nash, I suppose, in condemning this as
balderdash.

Endowed thus with artistic theories of his own, with an intense love of
literature, with an inborn gaiety and facul