A century of English essays
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Title: A century of English essays
An anthology ranging from Caxton to R. L. Stevenson & the writers of our own time
Compiler: Ernest Rhys
Lloyd Vaughan
Release date: May 5, 2010 [eBook #32267]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32267
Credits: E-text prepared by David Clarke, Chandra Friend, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CENTURY OF ENGLISH ESSAYS ***
E-text prepared by David Clarke, Chandra Friend, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Transcriber's note:
A very small number of printer's errors have been corrected
by reference to other editions.
Footnotes have been moved from the bottom of the original
page to just below the referring paragraph, or in a few cases,
to just after the referring sentence.
Author attribution lines have been regularized so that all
appear one line below the essay to which they apply.
See also the detailed transcriber's note at the end of the work.
Everyman's Library
Edited by Ernest Rhys
ESSAYS
A Century of English Essays Chosen by Ernest Rhys and Lloyd Vaughan
* * * * *
This is No. 653 of _Everyman's Library_. The publishers will be
pleased to send freely to all applicants a list of the published and
projected volumes arranged under the following sections:
TRAVEL * SCIENCE * FICTION
THEOLOGY & PHILOSOPHY
HISTORY * CLASSICAL
FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
ESSAYS * ORATORY
POETRY & DRAMA
BIOGRAPHY
REFERENCE
ROMANCE
In four styles of binding: cloth, flat back, coloured top; leather,
round corners, gilt top; library binding in cloth, & quarter pigskin.
LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS, Ltd.
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Most current ... For that they come home to men's
business & bosoms.--Lord Bacon]
[Illustration: A CENTURY of ENGLISH ESSAYS: an ANTHOLOGY RANGING FROM
CAXTON TO R. L. STEVENSON & THE WRITERS OF OUR OWN TIME.
LONDON TORONTO & PARIS: J.M. DENT & SONS LTD. NEW YORK E.P. DUTTON AND
CO.]
First Issue of this Edition 1913
Reprinted 1915, 1916
INTRODUCTION
This is a book of short essays which have been chosen with the full
liberty the form allows, but with the special idea of illustrating
life, manners and customs, and at intervals filling in the English
country background. The longer essays, especially those devoted to
criticism and to literature, are put aside for another volume, as
their different mode seems to require. But the development of the art
in all its congenial variety has been kept in mind from the beginning;
and any page in which the egoist has revealed a mood, or the gossip
struck on a vein of real experience, or the wise vagabond sketched a
bit of road or countryside, has been thought good enough, so long as
it helped to complete the round. And any writer has been admitted who
could add some more vivid touch or idiom to that personal half
meditative, half colloquial style which gives this kind of writing its
charm.
We have generally been content to date the beginning of the Essay in
English from Florio's translation of Montaigne. That work appeared
towards the end of Queen Elizabeth's time, in 1603, and no doubt it
had the effect of setting up the form as a recognized _genre_ in
prose. But as we go back behind Florio and Montaigne, and behind
Francis Bacon who has been called our "first essayist," we come upon
various experiments as we might call them--essays towards the essay,
attempts to work that vein, discursively pertinent and richly
reminiscent, out of which the essay was developed. Accordingly for a
beginning the line has been carried back to the earliest point where
any English prose occurs that is marked with the gossip's seal. A leaf
or two of Chaucer's prose, a garrulous piece of the craftsman's
delight in his work from Caxton, and one or two other detachable
fragments of the same kind, may help us to realize that there was a
predisposition to the essay, long before there was any conscious and
repeated use of the form itself. By continuing the record in this way
we have the advantage of being able to watch its relation to the whole
growth in the freer art of English prose. That is a connection indeed
in which all of us are interested, because however little we write,
whether for our friends only, or for the newspapers, we have to
attempt sooner or later something which is virtually an essay in
everyday English. There is no form of writing in which the fluid idiom
of the language can be seen to better effect in its changes and in its
movement. There is none in which the play of individuality, and the
personal way of looking at things, and the grace and whimsicality of
man or woman, can be so well fitted with an agreeable and responsive
instrument. When Sir Thomas Elyot in his "Castle of Health" deprecates
"cruel and yrous[1] schoolmasters by whom the wits of children be
dulled," and when Caxton tells us "that age creepeth on me daily and
feebleth all the body," and that is why he has hastened to ordain in
print the Recule of the Historeys of Troyes, and when Roger Ascham
describes the blowing of the wind and how it took the loose snow with
it and made it so slide upon the hard and crusted snow in the field
that he could see the whole nature of the wind in that act, we are
gradually made aware of a particular fashion, a talking mode (shall we
say?) of writing, as natural, almost as easy as speech itself; one
that was bound to settle itself at length, and take on a propitious
fashion of its own.
[Footnote 1: Irascible.]
But when we try to decide where it is exactly that the bounds of the
essay are to be drawn, we have to admit that so long as it obeys the
law of being explicit, casually illuminative of its theme, and germane
to the intellectual mood of its writer, then it may follow pretty much
its own devices. It may be brief as Lord Verulam sometimes made it, a
mere page or two; it may be long as Carlyle's stupendous essay on the
Niebelungenlied, which is almost a book in itself. It may be grave and
urbane in Sir William Temple's courtly style; it may be Elian as Elia,
or ripe and suave like the "Spectator" and the "Tatler." The one
clause that it cannot afford to neglect is that it be entertaining,
easy to read, pleasant to remember. It may preach, but it must never
be a sermon; it may moralize, but it must never be too forbidding; it
may be witty, high-spirited, effervescent as you like, but it must
never be flippant or betray a mean spirit or a too conscious clever
pen.
Montaigne, speaking through the mouth of Florio, touched upon a nice
point in the economy of the essay when he said that "what a man
directly knoweth, that will he dispose of without turning still to his
book or looking to his pattern. A mere bookish sufficiency is
unpleasant." The essayist, in fact, must not be over literary, and
yet, if he have the habit, like Montaigne or Charles Lamb, of
delighting in old authors and in their favourite expressions and great
phrases, so that that habit has become part of his life, then his
essays will gain in richness by an inspired pedantry. Indeed the essay
as it has gone on has not lost by being a little self-conscious of its
function and its right to insist on a fine prose usage and a choice
economy of word and phrase.
The most perfect balance of the art on its familiar side as here
represented, and after my Lord Verulam, is to be found, I suppose, in
the creation of "Sir Roger de Coverley." Goldsmith's "Man in Black"
runs him very close in that saunterer's gallery, and Elia's people are
more real to us than our own acquaintances in flesh and blood. It is
worth note, perhaps, how often the essayists had either been among
poets like Hazlitt, or written poetry like Goldsmith, or had the
advantage of both recognizing the faculty in others and using it
themselves, like Charles Lamb; and if we were to take the lyrical
temperament, as Ferdinand Brunetiere did in accounting for certain
French writers, and relate it to some personal asseveration of the
emotion of life, we might end by claiming the essayists as dilute
lyrists, engaged in pursuing a rhythm too subtle for verse and
lifelike as common-room gossip.
And just as we may say there is a lyric tongue, which the true poets
of that kind have contributed to form, so there is an essayist's style
or way with words--something between talking and writing. You realize
it when you hear Dame Prudence, who is the Mother of the English
essay, discourse on Riches; Hamlet, a born essayist, speak on acting;
T.T., a forgotten essayist of 1614, with an equal turn for homily,
write on "Painting the Face"; or the "Tatler" make good English out of
the first thing that comes to hand. It is partly a question of art,
partly of temperament; and indeed paraphrasing Steele we may say that
the success of an essay depends upon the make of the body and the
formation of the mind, of him who writes it. It needs a certain way of
turning the pen, and a certain intellectual gesture, which cannot be
acquired, and cannot really be imitated.
It remains to acknowledge the friendly aid of those living essayists
who are still maintaining the standards and have contributed to the
book. This contemporary roll includes the Right Hon. Augustine
Birrell, Mr. Hilaire Belloc, Mr. G.K. Chesterton, Mr. Austin Dobson,
Mr. Edmund Gosse, Mr. E.V. Lucas, Mrs. Meynell, Mr. Edward Thomas and
Mr. W.B. Yeats. In addition a formal acknowledgment is due to Messrs.
Chatto and Windus for leave to include an essay by Robert Louis
Stevenson; to Messrs. Longmans and Co. for an essay of Richard
Jefferies; and Messrs. Methuen and Co. for two by Mr. Lucas, and one
by Mr. Belloc. Mr. A.H. Bullen has very kindly given his free consent
in the case of "The Last of the Gleemen,"--a boon to be grateful for.
Without these later pages, the book would be like the hat of Tom
Lizard's ceremonious old gentleman, whose story, he said, would not
have been worth a farthing if the brim had been any narrower. As to
the actual omissions, they are due either to the limits of the volume,
or to the need of keeping the compass in regard to both the subjects
and the writers chosen. American essayists are left for another day;
as are those English writers, like Sir William Temple and Bolingbroke,
Macaulay and Matthew Arnold, who have given us the essay in literary
full dress.
E.R.
* * * * *
The following is a bibliography in brief of the chief works drawn upon
for the selection:
Caxton, Morte D'Arthur, 1485; Chaucer, Canterbury Tales, 1532; Bacon,
Essays, 1740; Thos. Dekker, Gull's Horn Book, 1608; Jeremy Taylor,
Holy Dying, 1651; Thos. Fuller, Holy and Profane States, 1642; Cowley,
Prose Works, Several Discourses, 1668; The Guardian, 1729; The
Examiner, 1710; The Tatler, 1709; Wm. Cobbett, Rural Rides, 1830;
Goldsmith, The Citizen of the World, 1762; Addison and Steele, The
Spectator, 1711; The Rambler, 1750-52; The Adventurer, 1753; Lamb,
Essays of Elia, 1823, 1833; Hazlitt, Comic Writers, 1819; Table Talk,
1821-22; The New Monthly Magazine, 1826-27; Coleridge, Literaria
Biographia, 1817; Wordsworth, Prose Works, 1876; John Brown, Rab and
his Friends, 1858; Thackeray, Roundabout Papers, 1863; Carlyle,
Edinburgh Review, 1831; Dickens, The Uncommercial Traveller, 1857;
Shelley, Essays, 1840; Leigh Hunt, The Indicator, 1820; Mary Russell
Mitford, Our Village, 1827-32; De Quincey, Collected Works, 1853-60;
R.L. Stevenson, Memories and Portraits, 1887; Edmund Gosse (The
Realm), 1895; Austin Dobson, Eighteenth Century Vignettes, 1892; Alice
Meynell, Colour of Life, 1896; G.K. Chesterton, The Defendant, 1901;
E.V. Lucas, Fireside and Sunshine, 1906, Character and Comedy, 1907;
Augustine Birrell, Obiter Dicta (second series), 1887; W.B. Yeats,
Celtic Twilight, 1893; Edward Thomas, The South Country, 1909; Hilaire
Belloc, First and Last, 1911.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Introduction vii
1. A Printer's Prologue
Wm. Caxton, _Morte D'Arthur_ 1
2. Dame Prudence on Riches
Geoffrey Chaucer, _Tale of Melibeus_ 4
3. Of Painting the Face
T.T., _New Essays_, 1614 8
4. Hamlet's Advice to the Players
Shakespeare, _Hamlet_ 10
5. Of Adversity
Francis Bacon, _Essays_ 11
6. Of Travel
" " " 12
7. Of Wisdom for a Man's Self
" " " 14
8. Of Ambition
" " " 15
9. Of Gardens
" " " 17
10. Of Studies
" " " 22
11. The Good Schoolmaster
Thomas Fuller, _Holy and Profane States_ 24
12. On Death
Jeremy Taylor, _Holy Living and Holy Dying_ 27
13. Of Winter
Thomas Dekker 30
14. How a Gallant should behave himself in a Play-house
Thomas Dekker, _Gull's Horn Book_ 31
15. Of Myself
Abraham Cowley, _Discourses_ 35
16. The Grand Elixir
Pope, _The Guardian_, No. 11 39
17. Jack Lizard
Steele, _The Guardian_, No. 24 43
18. A Meditation upon a Broomstick, According to the Style and
Manner of the Hon. Robert Boyle's Meditations
Swift, _Prose Writings_ 47
19. Pulpit Eloquence
Swift, _The Tatler_, No. 66 48
20. The Art of Political Lying
Swift, _The Examiner_, No. 15 51
21. A Rural Ride
Wm. Cobbett, _Rural Rides_ 56
22. The Man in Black (1)
Goldsmith, _Citizen of the World_, No. 25 58
23. " " " (2)
" " " " No. 26 61
24. Old Maids and Bachelors
" " " " No. 27 66
25. The Important Trifler
" " " " No. 53 69
26. The Trifler's Household
" " " " No. 54 72
27. Westminster Hall
" " " " No. 97 75
28. The Little Beau
" " " " No. 98 78
29. The Club
Steele, _The Spectator_ 80
30. The Meeting of the Club
Addison " " 85
31. Sir Roger de Coverley at Home (1)
" " " 88
32. " " " " (2)
" " " 91
33. " " " " (3)
Steele " " 94
34. " " " " (4)
Addison " " 97
35. Sir Roger at Church
" " " 100
36. Sir Roger on the Widow
Steele " " 103
37. Sir Roger in the Hunting Field
Addison " " 107
38. Sir Roger at the Assizes
" " " 110
39. Gipsies
" " " 114
40. Witches
" " " 117
41. Sir Roger at Westminster Abbey
" " " 120
42. Sir Roger at the Play
" " " 123
43. Sir Roger at Spring-Garden
" " " 126
44. Death of Sir Roger
" " " 129
45. A Stage Coach Journey
Steele " " 131
46. A Journey from Richmond
" " " 135
47. A Prize Fight
" " " 139
48. Good Temper
" " " 144
49. The Employments of a Housewife in the Country
Samuel Johnson, _The Rambler_, No. 51 147
50. The Stage Coach
" " _The Adventurer_, No. 84 152
51. The Scholar's Complaint of His Own Bashfulness
Johnson, _The Rambler_, No. 157 156
52. The Misery of a Modish Lady in Solitude
Johnson, _The Rambler_, No. 42 160
53. The History of an Adventurer in Lotteries
Johnson, _The Rambler_, No. 181 164
54. Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago
Lamb, _Essays of Elia_ 168
55. All Fools' Day
" " 180
56. Witches, and Other Night-Fears
" " 184
57. My First Play
" " 190
58. Dream-Children; a Reverie
" " 194
59. The Praise of Chimney-Sweepers
" " 198
60. A Dissertation upon Roast Pig
" " 205
61. Poor Relations
" " 211
62. The Child Angel
" " 218
63. Old China
" " 220
64. Popular Fallacies (I)
" " 226
65. " " (II)
" " 227
66. " " (III)
" " 228
67. Whitsun-Eve
Mary Russell Mitford, _Our Village_ 230
68. On Going a Journey
Hazlitt, _Essays_ 234
69. On Living to One's-Self
" " 244
70. Of Persons One would wish to have seen
" " 257
71. On a Sun-Dial
" " 271
72. Of the Feeling of Immortality in Youth
Hazlitt, _The New Monthly Magazine_ 280
73. A Vision
Coleridge, _A Lay Sermon_, 1817 292
74. Upon Epitaphs
Wordsworth 297
75. Jeems the Doorkeeper
John Brown, _Rab and His Friends_ 311
76. On Life
Shelley, _Essays_ 323
77. Walking Stewart
De Quincey, _Notes of an Opium Eater_ 327
78. On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth
De Quincey, _Collected Essays_ 340
79. The Daughter of Lebanon
" " " 345
80. Getting up on Cold Mornings
Leigh Hunt, _Essays_, _Indicator_, 1820 351
81. The Old Gentleman
" " " " 355
82. The Old Lady
" " " " 359
83. The Maid-Servant
" " " " 363
84. Characteristics
Carlyle, _Miscellanies_ 366
85. Tunbridge Toys
Thackeray, _Roundabout Papers_ 404
86. Night Walks
Dickens, _The Uncommercial Traveller_ 410
87. "A Penny Plain and Twopence Coloured"
R. L. Stevenson, _Memories and Portraits_ 419
88. July Grass
Richard Jefferies, _Field and Hedgerow_ 425
89. Worn-out Types
Augustine Birrell, _Obiter Dicta_ 428
90. Book-buying
" " " " 433
91. The Whole Duty of Woman
Edmund Gosse, _The Realm_, 1895 436
92. Steele's Letters
Austin Dobson, _Eighteenth Century Vignettes_ 441
93. A Defence of Nonsense
G. K. Chesterton, _The Defendant_ 446
94. The Colour of Life
Alice Meynell, _The Colour of Life_ 450
95. A Funeral
E. V. Lucas, _Character and Comedy_ 453
96. Fires
" " _Fireside and Sunshine_ 456
97. The Last Gleeman
W. B. Yeats, _The Celtic Twilight_ 462
98. A Brother of St. Francis
Grace Rhys, _The Vineyard_ 467
99. The Pilgrim's Way
Edward Thomas, _The South Country_ 469
100. On a Great Wind
H. Belloc, _First and Last_ 471
A CENTURY OF ESSAYS
A PRINTER'S PROLOGUE
After that I had accomplished and finished divers histories, as well
of contemplation as of other historical and worldly acts of great
conquerors and princes, and also of certain books of ensamples and
doctrine, many noble and divers gentlemen of this realm of England,
came and demanded me, many and ofttimes, why that I did not cause to
be imprinted the noble history of the Sancgreal, and of the most
renowned Christian king, first and chief of the three best Christian
and worthy, King Arthur, which ought most to be remembered among us
Englishmen, before all other Christian kings; for it is notoriously
known, through the universal world, that there be nine worthy and the
best that ever were, that is, to wit, three Paynims, three Jews, and
three Christian men. As for the Paynims, they were before the
Incarnation of Christ, which were named, the first, Hector of Troy, of
whom the history is common, both in ballad and in prose; the second,
Alexander the Great; and the third, Julius Caesar, Emperor of Rome, of
which the histories be well known and had. And as for the three Jews,
which also were before the Incarnation of our Lord, of whom the first
was Duke Joshua, which brought the children of Israel into the land of
behest; the second was David, King of Jerusalem; and the third Judas
Maccabeus. Of these three, the Bible rehearseth all their noble
histories and acts. And, since the said Incarnation, have been three
noble Christian men, stalled and admitted through the universal world,
into the number of the nine best and worthy: of whom was first, the
noble Arthur, whose noble acts I purpose to write in this present book
here following; the second was Charlemagne, or Charles the Great, of
whom the history is had in many places, both in French and in English;
and the third, and last, was Godfrey of Boulogne, of whose acts and
life I made a book unto the excellent prince and king, of noble
memory, King Edward the Fourth.
The said noble gentlemen instantly required me for to imprint the
history of the said noble king and conqueror, King Arthur, and of his
knights, with the history of the Sancgreal, and of the death and
ending of the said Arthur, affirming that I ought rather to imprint
his acts and noble feats, than of Godfrey of Boulogne, or any of the
other eight, considering that he was a man born within this realm, and
king and emperor of the same; and that there be in French divers and
many noble volumes of his acts, and also of his knights. To whom I
have answered, that divers men hold opinion that there was no such
Arthur, and that all such books as be made of him be but feigned and
fables, because that some chronicles make of him no mention, nor
remember him nothing, nor of his knights. Whereto they answered, and
one in especial said, that in him that should say or think that there
was never such a king called Arthur, might well be aretted great folly
and blindness; for he said there were many evidences to the contrary.
First ye may see his sepulchre in the monastery of Glastonbury. And
also in Policronicon, in the fifth book, the sixth chapter, and in the
seventh book, the twenty-third chapter, where his body was buried, and
after found, and translated into the said monastery. Ye shall see also
in the History of Bochas, in his book _De Casu Principum_, part of his
noble acts, and also of his fall. Also Galfridus, in his British book,
recounteth his life. And in divers places of England, many
remembrances be yet of him, and shall remain perpetually of him, and
also of his knights. First, in the Abbey of Westminster, at St.
Edward's shrine, remaineth the print of his seal in red wax closed in
beryl, in which is written--"Patricius Arthurus Britanniae, Galliae,
Germaniae, Daciae Imperator." Item in the castle of Dover ye may see Sir
Gawaine's skull, and Cradok's mantle: at Winchester, the Round Table:
in other places Sir Launcelot's sword, and many other things. Then all
these things considered, there can no man reasonably gainsay but that
there was a king of this land named Arthur: for in all the places,
Christian and heathen, he is reputed and taken for one of the nine
worthies, and the first of the three Christian men. And also he is
more spoken beyond the sea, and more books made of his noble acts,
than there be in England, as well in Dutch, Italian, Spanish, and
Greek, as in French. And yet of record, remaineth in witness of him in
Wales, in the town of Camelot, the great stones, and the marvellous
works of iron lying under the ground, and royal vaults, which divers
now living have seen. Wherefore it is a great marvel why that he is no
more renowned in his own country, save only it accordeth to the word
of God, which saith, that no man is accepted for a prophet in his own
country. Then all things aforesaid alleged, I could not well deny but
that there was such a noble king named Arthur, and reputed for one of
the nine worthies, and first and chief of the Christian men. And many
noble volumes be made of him and of his noble knights in French, which
I have seen and read beyond the sea, which be not had in our maternal
tongue. But in Welsh be many, and also in French, and some in English,
but nowhere nigh all. Wherefore, such as have late been drawn out
briefly into English, I have, after the simple cunning that God hath
sent me, under the favour and correction of all noble lords and
gentlemen enprised to imprint a book of the noble histories of the
said King Arthur, and of certain of his knights after a copy unto me
delivered; which copy Sir Thomas Malory did take out of certain books
of French, and reduced it into English. And I, according to my copy,
have down set it in print, to the intent that noble men may see and
learn the noble acts of chivalry, the gentle and virtuous deeds that
some knights used in those days, by which they came to honour, and how
they that were vicious were punished, and oft put to shame and rebuke;
humbly beseeching all noble lords and ladies, with all other estates
of what state or degree they be of, that shall see and read in this
present book and work, that they take the good and honest acts in
their remembrance, and follow the same. Wherein they shall find many
joyous and pleasant histories, and the noble and renowned acts of
humanity, gentleness, and chivalry. For, herein may be seen noble
chivalry, courtesy, humanity, friendliness, hardiness, love,
friendship, cowardice, murder, hate, virtue, and sin. Do after the
good, and leave the evil, and it shall bring you unto good fame and
renown. And, for to pass the time, this book shall be pleasant to read
in, but for to give faith and belief that all is true that is
contained herein, ye be at your own liberty. But all is written for
our doctrine, and for to beware that we fall not to vice nor sin, but
to exercise and follow virtue, by the which we may come and attain to
good fame and renown in this life, and after this short and transitory
life to come unto everlasting bliss in heaven; the which He grant us
that reigneth in heaven, the blessed Trinity. Amen.
_William Caxton._
DAME PRUDENCE ON RICHES
When Prudence had heard her husband avaunt himself of his riches and
of his money, dispreising the power of his adversaries, she spake and
said in this wise: Certes, dear sir, I grant you that ye ben rich and
mighty, and that riches ben good to 'em that han well ygetten 'em, and
that well can usen 'em; for, right as the body of a man may not liven
withouten soul, no more may it liven withouten temporal goods, and by
riches may a man get him great friends; and therefore saith Pamphilus:
If a neatherd's daughter be rich, she may chese of a thousand men
which she wol take to her husband; for of a thousand men one wol not
forsaken her ne refusen her. And this Pamphilus saith also: If thou be
right happy, that is to sayn, if thou be right rich, thou shalt find a
great number of fellows and friends; and if thy fortune change, that
thou wax poor, farewell friendship and fellowship, for thou shalt be
all alone withouten any company, but if[2] it be the company of poor
folk. And yet saith this Pamphilus, moreover, that they that ben bond
and thrall of linage shuln be made worthy and noble by riches. And
right so as by riches there comen many goods, right so by poverty come
there many harms and evils; and therefore clepeth Cassiodore, poverty
the mother of ruin, that is to sayn, the mother of overthrowing or
falling down; and therefore saith Piers Alphonse: One of the greatest
adversities of the world is when a free man by kind, or of birth, is
constrained by poverty to eaten the alms of his enemy. And the same
saith Innocent in one of his books; he saith that sorrowful and
mishappy is the condition of a poor beggar, for if he ax not his meat
he dieth of hunger, and if he ax he dieth for shame; and algates
necessity constraineth him to ax; and therefore saith Solomon: That
better it is to die than for to have such poverty; and, as the same
Solomon saith: Better it is to die of bitter death, than for to liven
in such wise. By these reasons that I have said unto you, and by many
other reasons that I could say, I grant you that riches ben good to
'em that well geten 'em and to him that well usen tho' riches; and
therefore wol I shew you how ye shulen behave you in gathering of your
riches, and in what manner ye shulen usen 'em.
[Footnote 2: Except.]
First, ye shuln geten 'em withouten great desire, by good leisure,
sokingly, and not over hastily, for a man that is too desiring to get
riches abandoneth him first to theft and to all other evils; and
therefore saith Solomon: He that hasteth him too busily to wax rich,
he shall be non innocent: he saith also, that the riches that hastily
cometh to a man, soon and lightly goeth and passeth from a man, but
that riches that cometh little and little, waxeth alway and
multiplieth. And, sir, ye shuln get riches by your wit and by your
travail, unto your profit, and that withouten wrong or harm doing to
any other person; for the law saith: There maketh no man himself rich,
if he do harm to another wight; that is to say, that Nature defendeth
and forbiddeth by right, that no man make himself rich unto the harm
of another person. And Tullius saith: That no sorrow, ne no dread of
death, ne nothing that may fall unto a man, is so muckle agains nature
as a man to increase his own profit to harm of another man. And though
the great men and the mighty men geten riches more lightly than thou,
yet shalt thou not ben idle ne slow to do thy profit, for thou shalt
in all wise flee idleness; for Solomon saith: That idleness teacheth a
man to do many evils; and the same Solomon saith: That he that
travaileth and busieth himself to tillen his lond, shall eat bread,
but he that is idle, and casteth him to no business ne occupation,
shall fall into poverty, and die for hunger. And he that is idle and
slow can never find convenable time for to do his profit; for there is
a versifier saith, that the idle man excuseth him in winter because of
the great cold, and in summer then by encheson of the heat. For these
causes, saith Caton, waketh and inclineth you not over muckle to
sleep, for over muckle rest nourisheth and causeth many vices; and
therefore saith St. Jerome: Doeth some good deeds, that the devil,
which is our enemy, ne find you not unoccupied, for the devil he
taketh not lightly unto his werking such as he findeth occupied in
good werks.
Then thus in getting riches ye musten flee idleness; and afterward ye
shuln usen the riches which ye ban geten by your wit and by your
travail, in such manner, than men hold you not too scarce, ne too
sparing, ne fool-large, that is to say, over large a spender; for
right as men blamen an avaricious man because of his scarcity and
chinchery, in the same wise he is to blame that spendeth over largely;
and therefore saith Caton: Use (saith he) the riches that thou hast
ygeten in such manner, that men have no matter ne cause to call thee
nother wretch ne chinch, for it is a great shame to a man to have a
poor heart and a rich purse; he saith also: The goods that thou hast
ygeten, use 'em by measure, that is to sayn, spend measureably, for
they that folily wasten and despenden the goods that they han, when
they han no more proper of 'eir own, that they shapen 'em to take the
goods of another man. I say, then, that ye shuln flee avarice, using
your riches in such manner, that men sayen not that your riches ben
yburied, but that ye have 'em in your might and in your wielding; for
a wise man reproveth the avaricious man, and saith thus in two verse:
Whereto and why burieth a man his goods by his great avarice, and
knoweth well that needs must he die, for death is the end of every man
as in this present life? And for what cause or encheson joineth he
him, or knitteth he him so fast unto his goods, that all his wits
mowen not disseveren him or departen him fro his goods, and knoweth
well, or ought to know, that when he is dead he shall nothing bear
with him out of this world? and therefore saith St. Augustine, that
the avaricious man is likened unto hell, that the more it swalloweth
the more desire it hath to swallow and devour. And as well as ye wold
eschew to be called an avaricious man or an chinch, as well should ye
keep you and govern you in such wise, that men call you not
fool-large; therefore, saith Tullius: The goods of thine house ne
should not ben hid ne kept so close, but that they might ben opened by
pity and debonnairety, that is to sayen, to give 'em part that han
great need; ne they goods shoulden not ben so open to be every man's
goods.
Afterward, in getting of your riches, and in using of 'em, ye shuln
alway have three things in your heart, that is to say, our Lord God,
conscience, and good name. First ye shuln have God in your heart, and
for no riches ye shuln do nothing which may in any manner displease
God that is your creator and maker; for, after the word of Solomon, it
is better to have a little good, with love of God, than to have muckle
good and lese the love of his Lord God; and the prophet saith, that
better it is to ben a good man and have little good and treasure, than
to be holden a shrew and have great riches. And yet I say furthermore,
that ye shulden always do your business to get your riches, so that ye
get 'em with a good conscience. And the apostle saith, that there nis
thing in this world, of which we shulden have so great joy, as when
our conscience beareth us good witness; and the wise man saith: The
substance of a man is full good when sin is not in a man's conscience.
Afterward, in getting of your riches and in using of 'em, ye must have
great business and great diligence that your good name be alway kept
and conserved; for Solomon saith, that better it is and more it
availeth a man to have a good name than for to have great riches; and
therefore he saith in another place: Do great diligence (saith he) in
keeping of thy friends and of thy good name, for it shall longer abide
with thee than any treasure, be it never so precious; and certainly he
should not be called a gentleman that, after God and good conscience
all things left, ne doth his diligence and business to keepen his good
name; and Cassiodore saith, that it is a sign of a gentle heart, when
a man loveth and desireth to have a good name. And therfore saith
Seint Augustyn, that ther ben two thinges that ben necessarie and
needful; and that is good conscience and good loos; that is to sayn,
good conscience in thin oughne persone in-ward, and good loos of thin
neghebor out-ward. And he that trusteth him so muckle in his good
conscience, that he despiseth or setteth at nought his good name or
los, and recketh not though he kept not his good name, n'is but a
cruel churl.
_Chaucer._
OF PAINTING THE FACE
If that which is most ancient be best, then the face that one is borne
with, is better than it that is borrowed: Nature is more ancient than
Art, and Art is allowed to help Nature, but not to hurt it; to mend
it, but not to mar it; for perfection, but not for perdition: but this
artificiall facing doth corrupt the naturall colour of it. Indeed God
hath given a man oil for his countenance, as He hath done wine for his
heart, to refresh and cheere it; but this is by reflection and not by
plaister-worke; by comforting, and not by dawbing and covering; by
mending and helping the naturall colour, and not by marring or hiding
it with an artificiall lit. What a miserable vanity is it a man or
woman beholding in a glasse their borrowed face, their bought
complexion, to please themselves with a face that is not their owne?
And what is the cause they paint? Without doubt nothing but pride of
heart, disdaining to bee behind their neighbour, discontentment with
the worke of God, and vaine glory, or a foolish affectation of the
praise of men. This kind of people are very hypocrites, seeming one
thing and being another, desiring to bee that in show which they
cannot be in substance, and coveting to be judged that, they are not:
They are very grosse Deceivers; for they study to delude men with
shewes, seeking hereby to bee counted more lovely creatures than they
are, affecting that men should account that naturall, which is but
artificiall. I may truly say they are deceivers of themselves; for if
they thinke they doe well to paint, they are deceived; if they think
it honest and just to beguile men, and to make them account them more
delicate and amiable, then they are in truth, they are deceived; if
they thinke it meete that that should bee counted God's worke, which
is their owne, they are deceived: If they thinke that shall not one
day give account unto Christ of idle deeds, such as this, as well as
of idle words, they are deceived; if they thinke that God regards not
such trifles, but leaves them to their free election herein; they are
deceived. Now they that deceive themselves, who shall they be trusted
with? A man, that is taken of himselfe, is in a worse taking than he
that is caught of another. This self-deceiver, is a double sinner: he
sinnes in that he is deceived, hee sinnes again in that he doth
deceive himself. To bee murdered of another is not a sin in him that
is murdered; but for a man to be deceived in what he is forbidden, is
a sinne; it were better to bee murdered, than so to be deceived: For
there the body is but killed, but here the soule herself is
endangered. Now, how unhappy is the danger, how grievous is the sin,
when a man is merely of himself indangered? It is a misery of miseries
for a man to bee slaine with his owne sword, with his owne hand, and
long of his owne will: Besides, this painting is very scandalous, and
of ill report; for any man therefore to use it, is to thwart the
precept of the Holy Ghost in Saint Paul, who saith unto the
Phillippians in this wise, Whatsoever things are true (but a painted
face is a false face) whatsoever things are venerable (but who esteems
a painted face venerable?) whatsoever things are just (but will any
man of judgement say, that to paint the face is a point of justice?
Who dare say it is according to the will of God which is the rule of
justice?
Doth the law of God command it? Doth true reason teach it? Doth lawes
of men enjoyne it?) whatsoever things are (chaste and) pure: (but is
painting of the face a point of chastity? Is that pure that proceeds
out of the impurity of the soule, and which is of deceipt, and tends
unto deceipt? Is that chaste, which is used to wooe mens eyes unto
it?) _whatsoever things are lovely_ (but will any man out of a well
informed judgement say, that this kinde of painting is worthy love, or
that a painted face is worthy to be fancied?) _whatsoever things are
of good report: If there bee any vertue, if there bee any praise,
think on these things_. But I hope to paint the face, to weare an
artificiall colour, or complexion, is no vertue; neither is it of good
report amongst the vertuous. I read that Iezabel did practise it, but
I find not that any holy Matrone or religious Virgine ever used it:
And it may perhaps of some be praised, but doubtlesse not of such as
are judicious, but of them rather hated and discommended. A painted
face is the devils _Looking-glasse_: there hee stands peering and
toying (as an Ape in a looking-glasse) joying to behold himselfe
therein; for in it he may reade pride, vanity, and vaine-glory.
Painting is an enemy to blushing, which is vertues colour. And indeed
how unworthy are they to bee credited in things of moment, that are so
false in their haire, or colour, over which age, and sicknesse, and
many accidents doe tyrannize; yea and where their deceipt is easily
discerned? And whereas the passions and conditions of a man, and his
age, is something discovered by the face, this painting hindereth a
mans judgement herein, so that if they were as well able to colour the
eyes, as they are their haire and faces, a man could discerne little
or nothing in such kind of people. In briefe, these painters are
sometimes injurious to those, that are naturally faire and lovely, and
no painters; partly, in that these are thought sometimes to bee
painted, because of the common use of painting; and partly, in that
these artificial creatures steal away the praise from the naturall
beauty by reason of their Art, when it is not espyed, whereas were it
not for their cunning, they would not bee deemed equall to the other.
It is great pitty that this outlandish vanity is in so much request
and practise with us, as it is.
_T. T._
HAMLET'S ADVICE TO THE PLAYERS
Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on
the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as
lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much
with your hand, thus; but use all gently, for in the very torrent,
tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion, you must
acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it
offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear
a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the
groundlings, who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but
inexplicable dumb-shows and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped
for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it. Be
not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit
the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special
observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature: for anything
so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the
first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to
nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the
very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone
or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make
the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must in your
allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players
that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not
to speak it profanely, that neither having the accent of Christians
nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and
bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made
men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. O,
reform it altogether. And let those that play your clowns speak no
more than is set down for them: for there be of them that will
themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to
laugh too, though in the mean time some necessary question of the play
be then to be considered: that's villainous, and shows a most pitiful
ambition in the fool that uses it.
_Shakespeare._
OF ADVERSITY
It was an high speech of Seneca (after the manner of the Stoics):
_That the good things which belong to prosperity are to be wished; but
the good things that belong to adversity are to be admired. Bona rerum
secundarum optabilia, adversarum mirabilia._ Certainly, if miracles be
the command over nature, they appear most in adversity. It is yet a
higher speech of his than the other (much too high for a heathen): _It
is true greatness to have in one the frailty of a man, and the
security of a god. Vere magnum, habere fragilitatem hominis,
securitatem dei._ This would have done better in poesy, where
transcendences are more allowed. And the poets indeed have been busy
with it; for it is in effect the thing which is figured in that
strange fiction of the ancient poets, which seemeth not to be without
mystery; nay, and to have some approach to the state of a Christian:
that _Hercules, when he went to unbind Prometheus_ (by whom human
nature is represented), _sailed the length of the great ocean in an
earthen pot or pitcher_: lively describing Christian resolution, that
saileth in the frail bark of the flesh through the waves of the world.
But to speak in a mean. The virtue of prosperity is temperance; the
virtue of adversity is fortitude; which in morals is the more heroical
virtue. Prosperity is the blessing of the Old Testament; adversity is
the blessing of the New; which carrieth the greater benediction, and
the clearer revelation of God's favour. Yet even in the Old Testament,
if you listen to David's harp, you shall hear as many hearse-like airs
as carols; and the pencil of the Holy Ghost hath laboured more in
describing the afflictions of Job than the felicities of Salomon.
Prosperity is not without many fears and distastes; and adversity is
not without comforts and hopes. We see in needleworks and
embroideries, it is more pleasing to have a lively work upon a sad and
solemn ground, than to have a dark and melancholy work upon a
lightsome ground: judge therefore of the pleasure of the heart by the
pleasure of the eye. Certainly virtue is like precious odours, most
fragrant when they are incensed or crushed: for prosperity doth best
discover vice; but adversity doth best discover virtue.
_Francis Bacon._
OF TRAVEL
Travel, in the younger sort, is a part of education; in the elder, a
part of experience. He that travelleth into a country before he hath
some entrance into the language, goeth to school, and not to travel.
That young men travel under some tutor, or grave servant, I allow
well; so that he be such a one that hath the language and hath been in
the country before; whereby he may be able to tell them what things
are worthy to be seen in the country where they go; what acquaintances
they are to seek; what exercises or discipline the place yieldeth. For
else young men shall go hooded, and look abroad little. It is a
strange thing that in sea-voyages, where there is nothing to be seen
but sky and sea, men should make diaries, but in land-travel, wherein
so much is to be observed, for the most part they omit it; as if
chance were fitter to be registered than observation. Let diaries,
therefore, be brought in use. The things to be seen and observed are:
the courts of princes, specially when they give audience to
ambassadors; the courts of justice, while they sit and hear causes,
and so of consistories ecclesiastic; the churches and monasteries,
with the monuments which are therein extant; the walls and
fortifications of cities and towns, and so the havens and harbours;
antiquities and ruins; libraries; colleges, disputations, and
lectures, where any are; shipping and navies; houses and gardens of
state and pleasure, near great cities; armories; arsenals; magazines;
exchanges; burses; warehouses; exercises of horsemanship, fencing,
training of soldiers, and the like; comedies, such whereunto the
better sort of persons do resort; treasuries of jewels and robes;
cabinets and rarities; and, to conclude, whatsoever is memorable in
the places where they go. After all which the tutors or servants ought
to make diligent enquiry. As for triumphs, masques, feasts, weddings,
funerals, capital executions, and such shews, men need not to be put
in mind of them; yet are they not to be neglected. If you will have a
young man to put his travel into a little room, and in short time to
gather much, this you must do. First, as was said, he must have some
entrance into the language, before he goeth. Then he must have such a
servant, or tutor, as knoweth the country, as was likewise said. Let
him carry with him also some card or book describing the country where
he travelleth; which will be a good key to his enquiry. Let him keep
also a diary. Let him not stay long in one city or town; more or less
as the place deserveth, but not long: nay, when he stayeth in one city
or town, let him change his lodging from one end and part of the town
to another; which is a great adamant of acquaintance. Let him
sequester himself from the company of his countrymen, and diet in such
places where there is good company of the nation where he travelleth.
Let him, upon his removes from one place to another, procure
recommendation to some person of quality residing in the place whither
he removeth; that he may use his favour in those things he desireth to
see or know. Thus he may abridge his travel with much profit. As for
the acquaintance which is to be sought in travel; that which is most
of all profitable is acquaintance with the secretaries and employed
men of ambassadors; for so in travelling in one country he shall suck
the experience of many. Let him also see and visit eminent persons in
all kinds, which are of great name abroad; that he may be able to tell
how the life agreeth with the fame. For quarrels, they are with care
and discretion to be avoided: they are commonly for mistresses,
healths, place, and words. And let a man beware how he keepeth company
with choleric and quarrelsome persons; for they will engage him into
their own quarrels. When a traveller returneth home, let him not leave
the countries where he hath travelled altogether behind him, but
maintain a correspondence by letters with those of his acquaintance
which are of most worth. And let his travel appear rather in his
discourse than in his apparel or gesture; and in his discourse, let
him be rather advised in his answers than forwards to tell stories;
and let it appear that he doth not change his country manners for
those of foreign parts, but only prick in some flowers of that he hath
learned abroad into the customs of his own country.
_Francis Bacon._
OF WISDOM FOR A MAN'S SELF
An ant is a wise creature for itself, but it is a shrewd thing in an
orchard or garden. And certainly men that are great lovers of
themselves waste the public. Divide with reason between self-love and
society; and be so true to thyself, as thou be not false to others,
specially to thy king and country. It is a poor centre of a man's
actions, himself. It is right earth. For that only stands fast upon
his own centre; whereas all things that have affinity with the heavens
move upon the centre of another, which they benefit. The referring of
all to a man's self is more tolerable in a sovereign prince; because
themselves are not only themselves, but their good and evil is at the
peril of the public fortune. But it is a desperate evil in a servant
to a prince, or a citizen in a republic. For whatsoever affairs pass
such a man's hands, he crooketh them to his own ends; which must needs
be often eccentric to the ends of his master or state. Therefore let
princes, or states, choose such servants as have not this mark; except
they mean their service should be made but the accessory. That which
maketh the effect more pernicious is that all proportion is lost. It
were disproportion enough for the servant's good to be preferred
before the master's; but yet it is a greater extreme, when a little
good of the servant shall carry things against a great good of the
master's. And yet that is the case of bad officers, treasurers,
ambassadors, generals, and other false and corrupt servants; which set
a bias upon their bowl, of their own petty ends and envies, to the
overthrow of their master's great and important affairs. And for the
most part, the good such servants receive is after the model of their
own fortune; but the hurt they sell for that good is after the model
of their master's fortune. And certainly it is the nature of extreme
self-lovers, as they will set an house on fire, and it were but to
roast their eggs; and yet these men many times hold credit with their
masters, because their study is but to please them and profit
themselves; and for either respect they will abandon the good of their
affairs.
Wisdom for a man's self is, in many branches thereof, a depraved
thing. It is the wisdom of rats, that will be sure to leave a house
somewhat before it fall. It is the wisdom of the fox, that thrusts out
the badger, who digged and made room for him. It is the wisdom of
crocodiles, that shed tears when they would devour. But that which is
specially to be noted is, that those which (as Cicero says of Pompey)
are _sui amantes sine rivali_, are many times unfortunate. And whereas
they have all their time sacrificed to themselves, they become in the
end themselves sacrifices to the inconstancy of fortune, whose wings
they thought by their self-wisdom to have pinioned.
_Francis Bacon._
OF AMBITION
Ambition is like choler; which is an humour that maketh men active,
earnest, full of alacrity, and stirring, if it be not stopped. But if
it be stopped, and cannot have his way, it becometh adust, and thereby
malign and venomous. So ambitious men, if they find the way open for
their rising, and still get forward, they are rather busy than
dangerous; but if they be checked in their desires, they become
secretly discontent, and look upon men and matters with an evil eye,
and are best pleased when things go backward; which is the worst
property in a servant of a prince or state. Therefore it is good for
princes, if they use ambitious men, to handle it so as they be still
progressive and not retrograde: which because it cannot be without
inconvenience, it is good not to use such natures at all. For if they
rise not with their service, they will take order to make their
service fall with them. But since we have said it were good not to use
men of ambitious natures, except it be upon necessity, it is fit we
speak in what cases they are of necessity. Good commanders in the wars
must be taken, be they never so ambitious: for the use of their
service dispenseth with the rest; and to take a soldier without
ambition is to pull off his spurs. There is also great use of
ambitious men in being screens to princes in matters of danger and
envy: for no man will take that part, except he be like a seeled dove,
that mounts and mounts because he cannot see about him. There is use
also of ambitious men in pulling down the greatness of any subject
that overtops: as Tiberius used Macro in the pulling down of Sejanus.
Since therefore they must be used in such cases, there resteth to
speak how they must be bridled, that they may be less dangerous. There
is less danger of them if they be of mean birth, than if they be
noble; and if they be rather harsh of nature, than gracious and
popular; and if they be rather new raised, than grown cunning and
fortified in their greatness. It is counted by some a weakness in
princes to have favourites; but it is of all others the best remedy
against ambitious great-ones. For when the way of pleasuring and
displeasuring lieth by the favourite, it is impossible any other
should be over-great. Another means to curb them, is to balance them
by others as proud as they. But then there must be some middle
counsellors, to keep things steady; for without that ballast the ship
will roll too much. At the least, a prince may animate and inure some
meaner persons to be, as it were, scourges to ambitious men. As for
the having of them obnoxious to ruin, if they be of fearful natures,
it may do well; but if they be stout and daring, it may precipitate
their designs, and prove dangerous. As for the pulling of them down,
if the affairs require it, and that it may be done with safety
suddenly, the only way is the interchange continually of favours and
disgraces; whereby they may not know what to expect, and be, as it
were, in a wood. Of ambitions, it is less harmful, the ambition to
prevail in great things, than that other, to appear in every thing;
for that breeds confusion, and mars business. But yet it is less
danger to have an ambitious man stirring in business, than great in
dependences. He that seeketh to be eminent amongst able men hath a
great task; but that is ever good for the public. But he that plots to
be the only figure amongst cyphers is the decay of an whole age.
Honour hath three things in it: the vantage ground to do good; the
approach to kings and principal persons; and the raising of a man's
own fortunes. He that hath the best of these intentions, when he
aspireth, is an honest man; and that prince that can discern of these
intentions in another that aspireth, is a wise prince. Generally, let
princes and states choose such ministers as are more sensible of duty
than of rising; and such as love business rather upon conscience than
upon bravery: and let them discern a busy nature from a willing mind.
_Francis Bacon._
OF GARDENS
God Almighty first planted a garden. And indeed it is the purest of
human pleasures. It is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man;
without which, buildings and palaces are but gross handyworks: and a
man shall ever see that when ages grow to civility and elegancy, men
come to build stately sooner than to garden finely; as if gardening
were the greater perfection. I do hold it, in the royal ordering of
gardens, there ought to be gardens for all the months in the year; in
which, severally, things of beauty may then be in season. For December
and January and the latter part of November, you must take such things
as are green all winter: holly; ivy; bays; juniper; cypress-trees;
yew; pine-apple-trees; fir-trees; rosemary; lavender; periwinkle, the
white, the purple, and the blue; germander; flags; orange-trees,
lemon-trees, and myrtles, if they be stoved; and sweet marjoram, warm
set. There followeth, for the latter part of January and February, the
mezereon-tree, which then blossoms; crocus vernus, both the yellow and
the gray; primroses; anemones; the early tulippa; hyacinthus
orientalis; chamairis; fritillaria. For March, there come violets,
specially the single blue, which are the earliest; the yellow
daffodil; the daisy; the almond-tree in blossom; the peach-tree in
blossom; the cornelian-tree in blossom; sweet briar. In April follow,
the double white violet; the wall-flower; the stock-gillyflower; the
cowslip; flower-delices, and lilies of all natures; rosemary flowers;
the tulippa; the double piony; the pale daffadil; the French
honeysuckle; the cherry-tree in blossom; the dammasin and plum-trees
in blossom; the white-thorn in leaf; the lilac-tree. In May and June
come pinks of all sorts, specially the blush pink; roses of all kinds,
except the musk, which comes later; honeysuckles; strawberries;
bugloss; columbine; the French marygold; flos Africanus; cherry-tree
in fruit; ribes; figs in fruit; rasps; vine flowers; lavender in
flower; the sweet satyrian, with the white flower; herba muscaria;
lilium convallium; the apple-tree in blossom. In July come
gillyflowers of all varieties; musk-roses; the lime-tree in blossom;
early pears and plums in fruit; ginitings; quadlins. In August come
plums of all sorts in fruit; pears; apricocks; berberries; filberds;
musk-melons; monkshoods, of all colours. In September come grapes;
apples; poppies of all colours; peaches; melocotones; nectarines;
cornelians; wardens; quinces. In October and the beginning of November
come services; medlars, bullises; roses cut or removed to come late;
hollyokes; and such like. These particulars are for the climate of
London; but my meaning is perceived, that you may have _ver
perpetuum_, as the place affords.
And because the breath of flowers is far sweeter in the air (where it
comes and goes, like the warbling of music) than in the hand,
therefore nothing is more fit for that delight, than to know what be
the flowers and plants that do best perfume the air. Roses, damask and
red, are fast flowers of their smells; so that you may walk by a whole
row of them, and find nothing of their sweetness; yea, though it be in
a morning's dew. Bays likewise yield no smell as they grow. Rosemary
little; nor sweet marjoram. That which above all others yields the
sweetest smell in the air, is the violet; specially the white double
violet, which comes twice a year; about the middle of April, and about
Bartholomewtide. Next to that is the musk-rose. Then the
strawberry-leaves dying, which [yield] a most excellent cordial smell.
Then the flower of the vines; it is a little dust, like the dust of a
bent, which grows upon the cluster in the first coming forth. Then
sweet-briar. Then wall-flowers, which are very delightful to be set
under a parlour or lower chamber window. Then pinks and gillyflowers,
specially the matted pink and clove gillyflower. Then the flowers of
the lime-tree. Then the honeysuckles, so they be somewhat afar off. Of
bean flowers I speak not, because they are field flowers. But those
which perfume the air most delightfully, not passed by as the rest,
but being trodden upon and crushed, are three: that is, burnet, wild
thyme, and water-mints. Therefore you are to set whole alleys of them,
to have the pleasure when you walk or tread.
For gardens (speaking of those which are indeed prince-like, as we
have done of buildings), the contents ought not to be well under
thirty acres of ground, and to be divided into three parts: a green in
the entrance; a heath or desert in the going forth; and the main
garden in the midst; besides alleys on both sides. And I like well
that four acres of ground be assigned to the green; six to the heath;
four and four to either side; and twelve to the main garden. The green
hath two pleasures: the one, because nothing is more pleasant to the
eye than green grass kept finely shorn; the other, because it will
give you a fair alley in the midst, by which you may go in front upon
a stately hedge, which is to enclose the garden. But because the alley
will be long, and, in great heat of the year or day, you ought not to
buy the shade in the garden by going in the sun thorough the green,
therefore you are, of either side the green, to plant a covert alley,
upon carpenter's work, about twelve foot in height, by which you may
go in shade into the garden. As for the making of knots or figures
with divers-coloured earths, that they may lie under the windows of
the house on that side which the garden stands, they be but toys: you
may see as good sights many times in tarts. The garden is best to be
square; encompassed, on all the four sides, with a stately arched
hedge. The arches to be upon pillars of carpenter's work, of some ten
foot high and six foot broad; and the spaces between of the same
dimension with the breadth of the arch. Over the arches let there be
an entire hedge, of some four foot high, framed also upon carpenter's
work; and upon the upper hedge, over every arch, a little turret, with
a belly, enough to receive a cage of birds; and over every space
between the arches some other little figure, with broad plates of
round coloured glass, gilt, for the sun to play upon. But this hedge I
intend to be raised upon a bank, not steep, but gently slope, of some
six foot, set all with flowers. Also I understand that this square of
the garden should not be the whole breadth of the ground, but to
leave, on either side, ground enough for diversity of side alleys;
unto which the two covert alleys of the green may deliver you. But
there must be no alleys with hedges at either end of this great
enclosure: not at the hither end, for letting your prospect upon this
fair hedge from the green; nor at the further end, for letting your
prospect from the hedge, through the arches, upon the heath.
For the ordering of the ground within the great hedge, I leave it to
variety of device; advising; nevertheless, that whatsoever form you
cast it into, first, it be not too busy or full of work. Wherein I,
for my part, do not like images cut out in juniper or other garden
stuff: they be for children. Little low hedges, round, like welts,
with some pretty pyramides, I like well; and in some places, fair
columns upon frames of carpenter's work. I would also have the alleys
spacious and fair. You may have closer alleys upon the side grounds,
but none in the main garden. I wish also, in the very middle, a fair
mount, with three ascents, and alleys, enough for four to walk
abreast; which I would have to be perfect circles, without any
bulwarks or embossments; and the whole mount to be thirty foot high;
and some fine banqueting-house, with some chimneys neatly cast, and
without too much glass.
For fountains, they are a great beauty and refreshment; but pools mar
all, and make the garden unwholesome and full of flies and frogs.
Fountains I intend to be of two natures: the one, that sprinkleth or
spouteth water; the other, a fair receipt of water, of some thirty or
forty foot square, but without fish, or slime, or mud. For the first,
the ornaments of images gilt, or of marble, which are in use, do well:
but the main matter is, so to convey the water, as it never stay,
either in the bowls or in the cistern; that the water be never by rest
discoloured, green or red or the like, or gather any mossiness or
putrefaction. Besides that, it is to be cleansed every day by the
hand. Also some steps up to it, and some fine pavement about it, doth
well. As for the other kind of fountain, which we may call a bathing
pool, it may admit much curiosity and beauty, wherewith we will not
trouble ourselves: as, that the bottom be finely paved, and with
images; the sides likewise; and withal embellished with coloured
glass, and such things of lustre; encompassed also with fine rails of
low statuas. But the main point is the same which we mentioned in the
former kind of fountain; which is, that the water be in perpetual
motion, fed by a water higher than the pool, and delivered into it by
fair spouts, and then discharged away under ground, by some equality
of bores, that it stay little. And for fine devices, of arching water
without spilling, and making it rise in several forms (of feathers,
drinking glasses, canopies, and the like), they be pretty things to
look on, but nothing to health and sweetness.
For the heath, which was the third part of our plot, I wish it to be
framed, as much as may be, to a natural wildness. Trees I would have
none in it; but some thickets, made only of sweet-briar and
honeysuckle, and some wild vine amongst; and the ground set with
violets, strawberries, and primroses. For these are sweet, and prosper
in the shade. And these to be in the heath, here and there, not in any
order. I like also little heaps, in the nature of mole-hills (such as
are in wild heaths), to be set, some with wild thyme; some with pinks;
some with germander, that gives a good flower to the eye; some with
periwinkle; some with violets; some with strawberries; some with
cowslips; some with daisies; some with red roses; some with lilium
convallium; some with sweet-williams red; some with bear's-foot; and
the like low flowers, being withal sweet and sightly. Part of which
heaps to be with standards of little bushes pricked upon their top,
and part without. The standards to be roses; juniper; holly;
berberries (but here and there, because of the smell of their
blossom); red currants; gooseberries; rosemary; sweet-briar; and such
like. But these standards to be kept with cutting, that they grow not
out of course.
For the side grounds, you are to fill them with variety of alleys,
private, to give a full shade, some of them, wheresoever the sun be.
You are to frame some of them likewise for shelter, that when the wind
blows sharp, you may walk as in a gallery. And those alleys must be
likewise hedged at both ends, to keep out the wind; and these closer
alleys must be ever finely gravelled, and no grass, because of going
wet. In many of these alleys likewise, you are to set fruit-trees of
all sorts; as well upon the walls as in ranges. And this would be
generally observed, that the borders, wherein you plant your
fruit-trees, be fair and large, and low, and not steep; and set with
fine flowers, but thin and sparingly, lest they deceive the trees. At
the end of both the side grounds, I would have a mount of some pretty
height, leaving the wall of the enclosure breast high, to look abroad
into the fields.
For the main garden, I do not deny but there should be some fair
alleys, ranged on both sides with fruit-trees; and some pretty tufts
of fruit-trees, and arbours with seats, set in some decent order; but
these to be by no means set too thick; but to leave the main garden so
as it be not close, but the air open and free. For as for shade, I
would have you rest upon the alleys of the side grounds, there to
walk, if you be disposed, in the heat of the year or day; but to make
account that the main garden is for the more temperate parts of the
year; and in the heat of summer, for the morning and the evening, or
over-cast days.
For aviaries, I like them not, except they be of that largeness as
they may be turfed, and have living plants and bushes set in them;
that the birds may have more scope and natural nestling, and that no
foulness appear in the floor of the aviary. So I have made a platform
of a princely garden, partly by precept, partly by drawing, not a
model, but some general lines of it; and in this I have spared no
cost. But it is nothing for great princes, that, for the most part,
taking advice with workmen, with no less cost set their things
together; and sometimes add statuas, and such things, for state and
magnificence, but nothing to the true pleasure of a garden.
_Francis Bacon._
OF STUDIES
Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief
use for delight is in privateness and retiring; for ornament, is in
discourse; and for ability, is in the judgement and disposition of
business. For expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of
particulars, one by one; but the general counsels, and the plots and
marshalling of affairs, come best from those that are learned. To
spend too much time in studies is sloth; to use them too much for
ornament is affectation; to make judgement wholly by their rules is
the humour of the scholar. They perfect nature, and are perfected by
experience; for natural abilities are like natural plants, that need
proyning by study; and studies themselves do give forth directions too
much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men
contemn studies; simple men admire them; and wise men use them: for
they teach not their own use; but that is a wisdom without them and
above them, won by observation. Read not to contradict and confute;
nor to believe and take for granted; nor to find talk and discourse;
but to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be
swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested: that is, some books
are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not curiously;
and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some
books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others;
but that would be only in the less important arguments, and the meaner
sort of books; else distilled books are like common distilled waters,
flashy things. Reading maketh a full man; conference a ready man; and
writing an exact man. And therefore, if a man write little, he had
need have a great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a
present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much cunning, to
seem to know that he doth not. Histories make men wise; poets witty;
the mathematics subtile; natural philosophy deep; moral grave; logic
and rhetoric able to contend. _Abeunt studia in mores._ Nay, there is
no stond or impediment in the wit, but may be wrought out by fit
studies: like as diseases of the body may have appropriate exercises.
Bowling is good for the stone and reins; shooting for the lungs and
breast; gentle walking for the stomach; riding for the head; and the
like. So if a man's wit be wandering, let him study the mathematics;
for in demonstrations, if his wit be called away never so little, he
must begin again: if his wit be not apt to distinguish or find
differences, let him study the schoolmen; for they are _cymini
sectores_: if he be not apt to beat over matters, and to call one
thing to prove and illustrate another, let him study the lawyers'
cases: so every defect of the mind may have a special receipt.
_Francis Bacon._
THE GOOD SCHOOLMASTER
There is scarce any profession in the commonwealth more necessary,
which is so slightly performed. The reasons whereof I conceive to be
these: First, young scholars make this calling their refuge; yea,
perchance, before they have taken any degree in the university,
commence schoolmasters in the country, as if nothing else were
required to set up this profession but only a rod and a ferula.
Secondly, others who are able, use it only as a passage to better
preferment, to patch the rents in their present fortune, till they can
provide a new one, and betake themselves to some more gainful calling.
Thirdly, they are disheartened from doing their best with the
miserable reward which in some places they receive, being masters to
their children and slaves to their parents. Fourthly, being grown
rich, they grow negligent, and scorn to touch the school but by the
proxy of the usher. But see how well our schoolmaster behaves himself.
His genius inclines him with delight to his profession. Some men had
as well be schoolboys as schoolmasters, to be tied to the school, as
Cooper's Dictionary and Scapula's Lexicon are chained to the desk
therein; and though great scholars, and skilful in other arts, are
bunglers in this. But God, of His goodness, hath fitted several men
for several callings, that the necessity of Church and State, in all
conditions, may be provided for. So that he who beholds the fabric
thereof, may say, God hewed out the stone, and appointed it to lie in
this very place, for it would fit none other so well, and here it doth
most excellent. And thus God mouldeth some for a schoolmaster's life,
undertaking it with desire and delight, and discharging it with
dexterity and happy success.
He studieth his scholars' natures as carefully as they their books;
and ranks their dispositions into several forms. And though it may
seem difficult for him in a great school to descend to all
particulars, yet experienced schoolmasters may quickly make a grammar
of boys' natures, and reduce them all--saving some few exceptions--to
these general rules:
1. Those that are ingenious and industrious. The conjunction of two
such planets in a youth presage much good unto him. To such a lad a
frown may be a whipping, and a whipping a death; yea, where their
master whips them once, shame whips them all the week after. Such
natures he useth with all gentleness.
2. Those that are ingenious and idle. These think with the hare in the
fable, that running with snails--so they count the rest of their
schoolfellows--they shall come soon enough to the post, though
sleeping a good while before their starting. Oh, a good rod would
finely take them napping.
3. Those that are dull and diligent. Wines, the stronger they be, the
more lees they have when they are new. Many boys are muddy-headed till
they be clarified with age, and such afterwards prove the best.
Bristol diamonds are both bright, and squared, and pointed by nature,
and yet are soft and worthless; whereas orient ones in India are rough
and rugged naturally. Hard, rugged, and dull natures of youth, acquit
themselves afterwards the jewels of the country, and therefore their
dulness at first is to be borne with, if they be diligent. That
schoolmaster deserves to be beaten himself who beats nature in a boy
for a fault. And I question whether all the whipping in the world can
make their parts which are naturally sluggish rise one minute before
the hour nature hath appointed.
4. Those that are invincibly dull, and negligent also. Correction may
reform the latter, not amend the former. All the whetting in the world
can never set a razor's edge on that which hath no steel in it. Such
boys he consigneth over to other professions. Shipwrights and
boat-makers will choose those crooked pieces of timber which other
carpenters refuse. Those may make excellent merchants and mechanics
which will not serve for scholars.
He is able, diligent, and methodical in his teaching; not leading them
rather in a circle than forwards. He minces his precepts for children
to swallow, hanging clogs on the nimbleness of his own soul, that his
scholars may go along with him.
He is and will be known to be an absolute monarch in his school. If
cockering mothers proffer him money to purchase their sons' exemption
from his rod--to live, as it were, in a peculiar, out of their
master's jurisdiction--with disdain he refuseth it, and scorns the
late custom in some places of commuting whipping into money, and
ransoming boys from the rod at a set price. If he hath a stubborn
youth, correction-proof, he debaseth not his authority by contesting
with him, but fairly, if he can, puts him away before his obstinacy
hath infected others.
He is moderate in inflicting deserved correction. Many a schoolmaster
better answereth the name _paidotribes_ than _paidagogos_, rather
tearing his scholars' flesh with whipping than giving them good
education. No wonder if his scholars hate the muses, being presented
unto them in the shape of fiends and furies.
Such an Orbilius mars more scholars than he makes. Their tyranny hath
caused many tongues to stammer which spake plain by nature, and whose
stuttering at first was nothing else but fears quavering on their
speech at their master's presence; and whose mauling them about their
heads hath dulled those who in quickness exceeded their master.
He makes his school free to him who sues to him _in forma pauperis_.
And surely learning is the greatest alms that can be given. But he is
a beast who, because the poor scholar cannot pay him his wages, pays
the scholar in his whipping; rather are diligent lads to be encouraged
with all excitements to learning. This minds me of what I have heard
concerning Mr. Bust, that worthy late schoolmaster of Eton, who would
never suffer any wandering begging scholar--such as justly the statute
hath ranked in the fore-front of rogues--to come into his school, but
would thrust him out with earnestness--however privately charitable
unto him--lest his schoolboys should be disheartened from their books,
by seeing some scholars after their studying in the university
preferred to beggary.
He spoils not a good school to make thereof a bad college, therein to
teach his scholars logic. For, besides that logic may have an action
of trespass against grammar for encroaching on her liberties,
syllogisms are solecisms taught in the school, and oftentimes they are
forced afterwards in the university to unlearn the fumbling skill they
had before.
Out of his school he is no way pedantical in carriage or discourse;
contenting himself to be rich in Latin, though he doth not gingle with
it in every company wherein he comes.
To conclude, let this, amongst other motives, make schoolmasters
careful in their place--that the eminences of their scholars have
commended the memories of their schoolmasters to posterity, who,
otherwise in obscurity, had altogether been forgotten. Who had ever
heard of R. Bond, in Lancashire, but for the breeding of learned
Ascham, his scholar? or of Hartgrave, in Brundly School, in the same
county, but because he was the first did teach worthy Dr. Whitaker?
Nor do I honour the memory of Mulcaster for anything so much as his
scholar, that gulf of learning, Bishop Andrews. This made the
Athenians, the day before the great feast of Theseus, their founder,
to sacrifice a ram to the memory of Conidas, his schoolmaster, that
first instructed him.
_Thomas Fuller._
ON DEATH
Nature calls us to meditate of death by those things which are the
instruments of acting it; and God by all the variety of His
providence, makes us see death everywhere, in all variety of
circumstances, and dressed up for all the fancies, and the expectation
of every single person. Nature hath given us one harvest every year,
but death hath two; and the spring and the autumn send throngs of men
and women to charnel-houses; and all the summer long, men are
recovering from their evils of the spring, till the dog-days come, and
then the Sirian star makes the summer deadly; and the fruits of autumn
are laid up for all the year's provision, and the man that gathers
them eats and surfeits, and dies and needs them not, and himself is
laid up for eternity; and he that escapes till winter, only stays for
another opportunity, which the distempers of that quarter minister to
him with great variety. Thus death reigns in all the portions of our
time. The autumn with its fruits provides disorders for us, and the
winter's cold turns them into sharp diseases, and the spring brings
flowers to strew our hearse, and the summer gives green turf and
brambles to bind upon our graves. Calentures and surfeit, cold and
agues, are the four quarters of the year; and you can go no whither,
but you tread upon a dead man's bones.
The wild fellow in Petronius, that escaped upon a broken table from
the furies of a shipwreck, as he was sunning himself upon the rocky
shore, espied a man rolled upon his floating bed of waves, ballasted
with sand in the folds of his garment, and carried by his civil enemy,
the sea, towards the shore to find a grave. And it cast him into some
sad thoughts, that peradventure this man's wife, in some part of the
continent, safe and warm, looks next month for the good man's return;
or, it may be, his son knows nothing of the tempest; or his father
thinks of that affectionate kiss which still is warm upon the good old
man's cheek, ever since he took a kind farewell, and he weeps with joy
to think how blessed he shall be when his beloved boy returns into the
circle of his father's arms. These are the thoughts of mortals; this
is the end and sum of all their designs. A dark night and an ill
guide, a boisterous sea and a broken cable, a hard rock and a rough
wind, dashed in pieces the fortune of a whole family; and they that
shall weep loudest for the accident are not yet entered into the
storm, and yet have suffered shipwreck. Then, looking upon the
carcass, he knew it, and found it to be the master of the ship, who,
the day before, cast up the accounts of his patrimony and his trade,
and named the day when he thought to be at home. See how the man
swims, who was so angry two days since! His passions are becalmed with
the storm, his accounts cast up, his cares at an end, his voyage done,
and his gains are the strange events of death, which, whether they be
good or evil, the men that are alive seldom trouble themselves
concerning the interest of the dead.
It is a mighty change that is made by the death of every person, and
it is visible to us who are alive. Reckon but from the sprightfulness
of youth, and the fair cheeks and full eyes of childhood; from the
vigorousness and strong flexure of the joints of five-and-twenty, to
the hollowness and deadly paleness, to the loathsomeness and horror of
a three days' burial, and we shall perceive the distance to be very
great and very strange. But so have I seen a rose newly springing from
the clefts of its hood, and, at first, it was fair as the morning, and
full with the dew of heaven, as a lamb's fleece; but when a ruder
breath hath forced open its virgin modesty, and dismantled its too
youthful and unripe retirements, it began to put on darkness, and to
decline to softness and the symptoms of a sickly age; it bowed the
head, and broke its stalk; and at night, having lost some of its
leaves, and all its beauty, it fell into the portion of weeds and
out-worn faces. The same is the portion of every man and every woman;
the heritage of worms and serpents, rottenness and cold dishonour, and
our beauty so changed, that our acquaintance quickly knew us not; and
that change mingled with so much horror, or else meets so with our
fears and weak discoursings, that they who, six hours ago, tended upon
us either with charitable or ambitious services, cannot, without some
regret, stay in the room alone, where the body lies stripped of its
life and honour. I have read of a fair young German gentleman, who,
living, often refused to be pictured, but put off the importunity of
his friends' desire by giving way, that after a few days' burial, they
might send a painter to his vault, and, if they saw cause for it, draw
the image of his death unto the life. They did so, and found his face
half eaten, and his midriff and backbone full of serpents; and so he
stands pictured among his armed ancestors. So does the fairest beauty
change; and it will be as bad with you and me; and then what servants
shall we have to wait upon us in the grave? what friends to visit us?
what officious people to cleanse away the moist and unwholesome cloud
reflected upon our faces from the sides of the weeping vaults, which
are the longest weepers for our funeral?
A man may read a sermon, the best and most passionate that ever man
preached, if he shall but enter into the sepulchres of kings. In the
same Escurial where the Spanish princes live in greatness and power,
and decree war or peace, they have wisely placed a cemetery, where
their ashes and their glory shall sleep till time shall be no more;
and where our kings have been crowned, their ancestors lie interred,
and they must walk over their grandsire's head to take his crown.
There is an acre sown with royal seed, the copy of the greatest
change, from rich to naked, from ceiled roofs to arched coffins, from
living like gods to die like men. There is enough to cool the flames
of lust, to abate the heights of pride, to appease the itch of
covetous desires, to sully and dash out the dissembling colours of a
lustful, artificial, and imaginary beauty. There the warlike and the
peaceful, the fortunate and the miserable, the beloved and the
despised princes mingle their dust, and pay down their symbol of
mortality, and tell all the world that, when we die, our ashes shall
be equal to kings', and our accounts easier, and our pains for our
crowns shall be less.
_Jeremy Taylor._
OF WINTER
Winter, the sworne enemie to summer, the friend to none but colliers
and woodmongers: the frostbitten churl that hangs his nose still over
the fire: the dog that bites fruits, and the devil that cuts down
trees, the unconscionable binder up of vintners' faggots, and the only
consumer of burnt sack and sugar: This cousin to Death, father to
sickness, and brother to old age, shall not show his hoary bald-pate
in this climate of ours (according to our usual computation) upon the
twelfth day of December, at the first entering of the sun into the
first minute of the sign Capricorn, when the said Sun shall be at his
greatest south declination from the equinoctial line, and so forth,
with much more such stuff than any mere Englishman can understand--no,
my countrymen, never beat the bush so long to find out Winter, where
he lies, like a beggar shivering with cold, but take these from me as
certain and most infallible rules, know when Winter plums are ripe and
ready to be gathered.
When Charity blows her nails and is ready to starve, yet not so much
as a watchman will lend her a flap of his frieze gown to keep her
warm: when tradesmen shut up shops, by reason their frozen-hearted
creditors go about to nip them with beggary: when the price of
sea-coal riseth, and the price of men's labour falleth: when every
chimney casts out smoke, but scarce any door opens to cast so much as
a maribone to a dog to gnaw; when beasts die for want of fodder in the
field, and men are ready to famish for want of food in the city; when
the first word that a wench speaks at your coming into the room in a
morning is, "Prithee send for some faggots," and the best comfort a
sawyer beats you withal is to say, "What will you give me?"; when
gluttons blow their pottage to cool them; and Prentices blow their
nails to heat them; and lastly when the Thames is covered over with
ice and men's hearts caked over and crusted with cruelty: Then mayest
thou or any man be bold to swear it is winter.
_Thomas Dekker._
HOW A GALLANT SHOULD BEHAVE HIMSELF IN A PLAY-HOUSE
The theater is your Poets Royal Exchange, upon which their Muses, (yt
are now turnd to Merchants,) meeting, barter away that light commodity
of words for a lighter ware then words, _Plaudites_, and the _breath_
of the great _Beast_; which (like the threatnings of two Cowards)
vanish all into air. _Plaiers_ and their _Factors_, who put away the
stuffe, and make the best of it they possibly can (as indeed tis their
parts so to doe) your Gallant, your Courtier, and your Capten had wont
to be the soundest paymaisters; and I thinke are still the surest
chapmen: and these, by meanes that their heades are well stockt, deale
upon this comical freight by the grosse: when your _Groundling_, and
_gallery-Commoner_ buyes his sport by the penny, and, like a _Hagler_,
is glad to utter it againe by retailing.
Sithence then the place is so free in entertainment, allowing a stoole
as well to the Farmers sonne as to your Templer: that your Stinkard
has the selfe-same libertie to be there in his Tobacco-Fumes, which
your sweet Courtier hath: and that your Car-man and Tinker claime as
strong a voice in their suffrage, and sit to give judgment on the
plaies life and death, as well as the prowdest _Momus_ among the
tribe[s] of _Critick_: It is fit that hee, whom the most tailors bils
do make roome for, when he comes, should not be basely (like a vyoll)
casd up in a corner.
Whether therefore the gatherers of the publique or private Play-house
stand to receive the afternoones rent, let our Gallant (having paid
it) presently advance himselfe up to the Throne of the Stage. I meane
not into the Lords roome (which is now but the Stages Suburbs): No,
those boxes, by the iniquity of custome, conspiracy of waiting-women
and Gentlemen-Ushers, that there sweat together, and the covetousnes
of Sharers, are contemptibly thrust into the reare, and much new
Satten is there dambd, by being smothred to death in darknesse. But on
the very Rushes where the Comedy is to daunce, yea, and under the
state of _Cambises_ himselfe must our fethered _Estridge_, like a
piece of Ordnance, be planted valiantly (because impudently) beating
downe the mewes and hisses of the opposed rascality.
For do but cast up a reckoning, what large cummings-in are pursd up by
sitting on the Stage. First a conspicuous _Eminence_ is gotten; by
which meanes, the best and most essenciall parts of a Gallant (good
cloathes, a proportionable legge, white hand, the Persian lock, and a
tollerable beard) are perfectly revealed.
By sitting on the stage, you have a signd patent to engrosse the whole
commodity of Censure; may lawfully presume to be a Girder; and stand
at the helme to steere the passage of _scaenes_; yet / no man shall
once offer to hinder you from obtaining the title of an insolent,
overweening Coxcombe.
By sitting on the stage, you may (without travelling for it) at the
very next doore aske whose play it is: and, by that _Quest_ of
_Inquiry_, the law warrants you to avoid much mistaking: if you know
not ye author, you may raile against him: and peradventure so behave
your selfe, that you may enforce the Author to know you.
By sitting on the stage, if you be a Knight, you may happily get you a
Mistress: if a mere _Fleet-street_ Gentleman, a wife: but assure
yourselfe, by continuall residence, you are the first and principall
man in election to begin the number of _We three_.
By spreading your body on the stage, and by being a Justice in
examining of plaies, you shall put your selfe into such true
_scaenical_ authority, that some Poet shall not dare to present his
Muse rudely upon your eyes, without having first unmaskt her at a
taverne, when you most knightly shal, for his paines, pay for both
their suppers.
By sitting on the stage, you may (with small cost) purchase the deere
acquaintance of the boys: have a good stoole for sixpence: at any time
know what particular part any of the infants present: get your match
lighted, examine the play-suits lace, and perhaps win wagers upon
laying 'tis copper, &c. And to conclude, whether you be a foole or a
Justice of peace, or a Capten, a Lord-Mayors sonne, or a dawcocke, a
knave, or an under-Sherife; of what stamp soever you be, currant, or
counterfet, the Stage, like time, will bring you to most perfect light
and lay you open: neither are you to be hunted from thence, though the
Scarecrows in the yard hoot at you, hisse at you, spit at you, yea,
throw durt even in your teeth: 'tis most Gentlemanlike patience to
endure all this, and to laugh at the silly Animals: but if the
_Rabble_, with a full throat, crie, away with the foole, you were
worse then a madman to tarry by it: for the Gentleman, and the foole
should never sit on the Stage together.
Mary, let this observation go hand in hand with the rest: or rather,
like a country-serving-man, some five yards before them. Present / not
your selfe on the Stage (especially at a new play) untill the quaking
prologue hath (by rubbing) got culor into his cheekes, and is ready to
give the trumpets their Cue, that hees upon point to enter: for then
it is time, as though you were one of the _properties_, or that you
dropt out of ye _Hangings_, to creepe from behind the Arras, with your
_Tripos_ or three-footed stoole in one hand, and a teston mounted
betweene a forefinger and a thumbe in the other: for if you should
bestow your person upon the vulgar, when the belly of the house is but
halfe full, your apparell is quite eaten up, the fashion lost, and the
proportion of your body in more danger to be devoured then if it were
served up in the Counter amongst the Powltry: avoid that as you would
the Bastome. It shall crowne you with rich commendation, to laugh
alowd in the middest of the most serious and saddest scene of the
terriblest Tragedy: and to let that clapper (your tongue) be tost so
high, that all the house may ring of it: your Lords use it; your
Knights are Apes to the Lords, and do so too: your Inne-a-court-man is
Zany to the Knights, and (mary very scurvily) comes likewise limping
after it: bee thou a beagle to them all, and never lin snuffing, till
you have scented them: for by talking and laughing (like a Plough-man
in a Morris) you heap _Pelion_ upon _Ossa_, glory upon glory: As
first, all the eyes in the galleries will leave walking after the
Players, and onely follow you: the simplest dolt in the house snatches
up your name, and when he meetes you in the streetes, or that you fall
into his hands in the middle of a Watch, his word shall be taken for
you: heele cry _Hees such a gallant_, and you passe. Secondly, you
publish your temperance to the world, in that you seeme not to resort
thither to taste vaine pleasures with a hungrie appetite: but onely as
a Gentleman to spend a foolish houre or two, because you can doe
nothing else: Thirdly, you mightily disrelish the Audience, and
disgrace the Author: marry, you take up (though it be at the worst
hand) a strong opinion of your owne judgement, and inforce the Poet to
take pity of your weakenesse, and, by some dedicated sonnet, to bring
you into a better paradice, onely to stop your mouth.
If you can (either for love or money) provide your selfe a lodging by
the water-side: for, above the convenience it brings to / shun
Shoulder-clapping, and to ship away your Cockatrice betimes in the
morning, it addes a kind of-state unto you, to be carried from thence
to the staires of your Play-house: hate a Sculler (remember that)
worse then to be acquainted with one o' th' Scullery. No, your Oares
are your onely Sea-crabs, boord them, and take heed you never go twice
together with one paire: often shifting is a great credit to
Gentlemen; and that dividing of your fare wil make the poore
watersnaks be ready to pul you in peeces to enjoy your custome: No
matter whether upon landing, you have money or no: you may swim in
twentie of their boates over the river upon _Ticket_: marry, when
silver comes in, remember to pay treble their fare, and it will make
your Flounder-catchers to send more thankes after you, when you doe
not draw, then when you doe; for they know, It will be their owne
another daie.
Before the Play begins, fall to cardes: you may win or loose (as
_Fencers_ doe in a prize) and beate one another by confederacie, yet
share the money when you meete at supper: notwithstanding, to gul the
_Raggamuffins_ that stand aloofe gaping at you, throw the cards
(having first torne foure or five of them) round about the Stage, just
upon the third sound, as though you had lost: it skils not if the
foure knaves ly on their backs, and outface the Audience; theres none
such fooles as dare take exceptions at them, because, ere the play go
off, better knaves than they will fall into the company.
Now sir, if the writer be a fellow that hath either epigrammed you, or
hath had a flirt at your mistris, or hath brought either your feather,
or your red beard, or your little legs &c. on the stage, you shall
disgrace him worse then by tossing him in a blancket, or giving him
the bastinado in a Taverne, if, in the middle of his play, (bee it
Pastoral or Comedy, Morall or Tragedic) you rise with a screwd and
discontented face from your stoole to be gone: no matter whether the
Scenes be good or no; the better they are the worse do you distast
them: and, beeing on your feet, sneake not away like a coward, but
salute all your gentle acquaintance, that are spred either on the
rushes, or on stooles about you, and draw what troope you can from the
stage after you: the _Mimicks_ are beholden to you, for allowing them
elbow roome: their Poet cries, perhaps, a pox go with you, but care
not for that, theres no musick without frets.
Mary, if either the company, or indisposition of the weather binde you
to sit it out, my counsell is then that you turne plain Ape, take up a
rush, and tickle the earnest eares of your fellow gallants, to make
other fooles fall a laughing: mewe at passionate speeches, blare at
merrie, finde fault with the musicke, whew at the childrens Action,
whistle at the songs: and above all, curse the sharers, that whereas
the same day you had bestowed forty shillings on an embrodered Felt
and Feather, (Scotch-fashion) for your mistres in the Court, within
two houres after, you encounter with the very same block on the stage,
when the haberdasher swore to you the impression was extant but that
morning.
To conclude, hoard up the finest play-scraps you can get, upon which
your leane wit may most favourly feede, for want of other stuffe, when
the _Arcadian_ and _Euphuized_ gentlewomen have their tongues
sharpened to set upon you: that qualitie (next to your shuttlecocke)
is the onely furniture to a Courtier thats but a new beginner, and is
but in his A B C of complement. The next places that are filled, after
the Play-houses bee emptied, are (or ought to be) Tavernes: into a
Taverne then let us next march, where the braines of one Hogshead must
be beaten out to make up another.
_Thomas Dekker._
OF MYSELF
It is a hard and nice subject for a man to write of himself; it grates
his own heart to say anything of disparagement, and the reader's ears
to hear anything of praise from him. There is no danger from me of
offending him in this kind; neither my mind, nor my body, nor my
fortune, allow me any materials for that vanity. It is sufficient, for
my own contentment, that they have preserved me from being scandalous,
or remarkable on the defective side. But besides that, I shall here
speak of myself only in relation to the subject of these precedent
discourses, and shall be likelier thereby to fall into the contempt,
than rise up to the estimation of most people. As far as my memory can
return back into my past life, before I knew or was capable of
guessing what the world, or glories, or business of it were, the
natural affections of my soul gave a secret bent of aversion from
them, as some plants are said to turn away from others, by an
antipathy imperceptible to themselves, and inscrutable to man's
understanding. Even when I was a very young boy at school, instead of
running about on holidays, and playing with my fellows, I was wont to
steal from them, and walk into the fields, either alone with a book,
or with some one companion, if I could find any of the same temper. I
was then, too, so much an enemy to constraint, that my masters could
never prevail on me, by any persuasions or encouragements, to learn,
without book, the common rules of grammar, in which they dispensed
with me alone, because they found I made a shift to do the usual
exercise out of my own reading and observation. That I was then of the
same mind as I am now--which, I confess, I wonder at myself--may
appear at the latter end of an ode which I made when I was but
thirteen years old, and which was then printed, with many other
verses. The beginning of it is boyish; but of this part which I here
set down, if a very little were corrected, I should hardly now be much
ashamed.
This only grant me, that my means may lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.
Some honour I would have,
Not from great deeds, but good alone;
Th' unknown are better than ill-known.
Rumour can ope the grave;
Acquaintance I would have; but when 't depends
Not on the number, but the choice of friends.
Books should, not business, entertain the light,
And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night.
My house a cottage, more
Than palace, and should fitting be
For all my use, no luxury.
My garden painted o'er
With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures yield,
Horace might envy in his Sabine field.
Thus would I double my life's fading space,
For he that runs it well, twice runs his race.
And in this true delight,
These unbought sports, that happy state,
I would not fear nor wish my fate,
But boldly say each night,
To-morrow let my sun his beams display,
Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to-day.
You may see by it I was even then acquainted with the poets, for the
conclusion is taken out of Horace; and perhaps it was the immature and
immoderate love of them which stamped first, or rather engraved, the
characters in me. They were like letters cut in the bark of a young
tree, which, with the tree, still grow proportionably. But how this
love came to be produced in me so early, is a hard question: I believe
I can tell the particular little chance that filled my head first with
such chimes of verse, as have never since left ringing there: for I
remember when I began to read, and take some pleasure in it, there was
wont to lie in my mother's parlour--I know not by what accident, for
she herself never in her life read any book but of devotion--but there
was wont to lie Spenser's works; this I happened to fall upon, and was
infinitely delighted with the stories of the knights, and giants, and
monsters, and brave houses, which I found everywhere there--though my
understanding had little to do with all this--and by degrees, with the
tinkling of the rhyme, and dance of the numbers; so that I think I had
read him all over before I was twelve years old. With these affections
of mind, and my heart wholly set upon letters, I went to the
university; but was soon torn from thence by that public violent
storm, which would suffer nothing to stand where it did, but rooted up
every plant, even from the princely cedars, to me, the hyssop. Yet I
had as good fortune as could have befallen me in such a tempest; for I
was cast by it into the family of one of the best persons, and into
the court of one of the best princesses in the world. Now, though I
was here engaged in ways most contrary to the original design of my
life; that is, into much company, and no small business, and into a
daily sight of greatness, both militant and triumphant--for that was
the state then of the English and the French courts--yet all this was
so far from altering my opinion, that it only added the confirmation
of reason to that which was before but natural inclination. I saw
plainly all the paint of that kind of life, the nearer I came to it;
and that beauty which I did not fall in love with, when, for aught I
knew, it was real, was not like to bewitch or entice me when I saw it
was adulterate. I met with several great persons, whom I liked very
well, but could not perceive that any part of their greatness was to
be liked or desired, no more than I would be glad or content to be in
a storm, though I saw many ships which rid safely and bravely in it. A
storm would not agree with my stomach, if it did with my courage;
though I was in a crowd of as good company as could be found anywhere,
though I was in business of great and honourable trust, though I eat
at the best table, and enjoyed the best conveniences for present
subsistence that ought to be desired by a man of my condition, in
banishment and public distresses; yet I could not abstain from
renewing my old school-boy's wish, in a copy of verses to the same
effect:
Well, then, I now do plainly see
This busy world and I shall ne'er agree, &c.
And I never then proposed to myself any other advantage from his
majesty's happy restoration, but the getting into some moderately
convenient retreat in the country, which I thought in that case I
might easily have compassed, as well as some others, who, with no
greater probabilities or pretences, have arrived to extraordinary
fortunes. But I had before written a shrewd prophecy against myself,
and I think Apollo inspired me in the truth, though not in the
elegance of it--
Thou neither great at court, nor in the war,
Nor at the Exchange shalt be, nor at the wrangling bar;
Content thyself with the small barren praise
Which thy neglected verse does raise, &c.
However, by the failing of the forces which I had expected, I did not
quit the design which I had resolved on; I cast myself into it a
_corpus perditum_, without making capitulations, or taking counsel of
fortune. But God laughs at man, who says to his soul, Take thy ease: I
met presently not only with many little incumbrances and impediments,
but with so much sickness--a new misfortune to me--as would have
spoiled the happiness of an emperor as well as mine. Yet I do neither
repent nor alter my course; _Non ego perfidum dixi sacramentum_.[3]
Nothing shall separate me from a mistress which I have loved so long,
and have now at last married; though she neither has brought me a rich
portion, nor lived yet so quietly with me as I hoped from her.
[Footnote 3: I have not falsely sworn.]
_Nec vos dulcissima mundi
Nomina, vos musae, libertas, otia, libri,
Hortique, sylvaeque, anima remanente relinquam_.
Nor by me e'er shall you,
You of all names the sweetest and the best,
You muses, books, and liberty, and rest;
You gardens, fields, and woods forsaken be,
As long as life itself forsakes not me.
_Cowley._
THE GRAND ELIXIR
There is an oblique way of Reproof, which takes off from the Sharpness
of it; and an Address in Flattery, which makes it agreeable though
never so gross: But of all Flatterers, the most skilful is he who can
do what you like, without saying any thing which argues you do it for
his Sake; the most winning Circumstance in the World being the
Conformity of Manners. I speak of this as a Practice necessary in
gaining People of Sense, who are not yet given up to Self-Conceit;
those who are far gone in admiration of themselves need not be treated
with so much Delicacy. The following Letter puts this Matter in a
pleasant and uncommon Light: The Author of it attacks this Vice with
an Air of Compliance, and alarms us against it by exhorting us to it.
_To the GUARDIAN._
"Sir,
"As you profess to encourage all those who any way contribute to the
Publick Good, I flatter my self I may claim your Countenance and
Protection. I am by profession a Mad Doctor, but of a peculiar Kind,
not of those whose Aim it is to remove Phrenzies, but one who makes it
my Business to confer an agreeable Madness on my Fellow-Creatures, for
their mutual Delight and Benefit. Since it is agreed by the
Philosophers, that Happiness and Misery consist chiefly in the
Imagination, nothing is more necessary to Mankind in general than this
pleasing Delirium, which renders every one satisfied with himself, and
persuades him that all others are equally so.
"I have for several Years, both at home and abroad, made this Science
my particular Study, which I may venture to say I have improved in
almost all the Courts of _Europe_; and have reduced it into so safe
and easie a Method, as to practise it on both Sexes, of what
Disposition, Age or Quality soever, with Success. What enables me to
perform this great Work, is the Use of my _Obsequium Catholicon_, or
the _Grand Elixir_, to support the Spirits of human Nature. This
Remedy is of the most grateful Flavour in the World, and agrees with
all Tastes whatever. 'Tis delicate to the Senses, delightful in the
Operation, may be taken at all Hours without Confinement, and is as
properly given at a Ball or Play-house as in a private Chamber. It
restores and vivifies the most dejected Minds, corrects and extracts
all that is painful in the Knowledge of a Man's self. One Dose of it
will instantly disperse itself through the whole Animal System,
dissipate the first Motions of Distrust so as never to return, and so
exhilerate the Brain and rarifie the Gloom of Reflection, as to give
the Patients a new flow of Spirits, a Vivacity of Behaviour, and a
pleasing Dependence upon their own Capacities.
"Let a Person be never so far gone, I advise him not to despair; even
though he has been troubled many Years with restless Reflections,
which by long Neglect have hardened into settled Consideration. Those
that have been stung with Satyr may here find a certain Antidote,
which infallibly disperses all the Remains of Poison that has been
left in the Understanding by bad Cures. It fortifies the Heart against
the Rancour of Pamphlets, the Inveteracy of Epigrams, and the
Mortification of Lampoons; as has been often experienced by several
Persons of both Sexes, during the Seasons of _Tunbridge_ and the
_Bath_.
"I could, as farther Instances of my Success, produce Certificates and
Testimonials from the Favourites and Ghostly Fathers of the most
eminent Princes of _Europe_; but shall content myself with the Mention
of a few Cures, which I have performed by this my _Grand Universal
Restorative_, during the Practice of one Month only since I came to
this City."
_Cures in the Month of February_, 1713.
"_GEORGE SPONDEE_, Esq; Poet, and Inmate of the Parish of St. _Paul's
Covent-Garden_, fell into violent Fits of the Spleen upon a thin Third
Night. He had been frighted into a Vertigo by the Sound of Cat-calls
on the First Day; and the frequent Hissings on the Second made him
unable to endure the bare Pronunciation of the Letter S. I searched
into the Causes of his Distemper; and by the Prescription of a Dose of
my _Obsequium_, prepared _Secundum Artem_, recovered him to his
Natural State of Madness. I cast in at proper Intervals the Words,
_Ill Taste of the Town_, _Envy of Criticks_, _bad Performance of the
Actors_, and the like. He is so perfectly cured that he has promised
to bring another Play upon the Stage next Winter.
"A Lady of professed Virtue, of the Parish of St. _James's
Westminster_, who hath desired her Name may be concealed, having taken
Offence at a Phrase of double Meaning in Conversation, undiscovered by
any other in the Company, suddenly fell into a cold Fit of Modesty.
Upon a right Application of Praise of her Virtue, I threw the Lady
into an agreeable waking Dream, settled the Fermentation of her Blood
into a warm Charity, so as to make her look with Patience on the very
Gentleman that offended.
"_HILARIA_, of the Parish of St. _Giles's in the Fields_, a Coquet of
long Practice, was by the Reprimand of an old Maiden reduced to look
grave in Company, and deny her self the Play of the Fan. In short, she
was brought to such Melancholy Circumstances, that she would sometimes
unawares fall into Devotion at Church. I advis'd her to take a few
_innocent Freedoms with occasional Kisses_, prescribed her the
_Exercise of the Eyes_, and immediately raised her to her former State
of Life. She on a sudden recovered her Dimples, furled her Fan, threw
round her Glances, and for these two _Sundays_ last past has not once
been seen in an attentive Posture. This the Church-Wardens are ready
to attest upon Oath.
"_ANDREW TERROR_, of the _Middle-Temple, Mohock_, was almost induced
by an aged Bencher of the same House to leave off bright Conversation,
and pore over _Cook upon Littleton_. He was so ill that his Hat began
to flap, and he was seen one Day in the last Term at _Westminster-Hall_.
This Patient had quite lost his Spirit of Contradiction; I, by the
Distillation of a few of my vivifying Drops in his Ear, drew him from
his Lethargy, and restored him to his usual vivacious Misunderstanding.
He is at present very easie in his Condition.
"I will not dwell upon the Recital of the innumerable Cures I have
performed within Twenty Days last past; but rather proceed to exhort
all Persons, of whatever Age, Complexion or Quality, to take as soon
as possible of this my intellectual Oyl; which applied at the Ear
seizes all the Senses with a most agreeable Transport, and discovers
its Effects, not only to the Satisfaction of the Patient, but all who
converse with, attend upon, or any way relate to him or her that
receives the kindly Infection. It is often administered by
Chamber-Maids, Valets, or any the most ignorant Domestick; it being
one peculiar Excellence of this my Oyl, that 'tis most prevalent, the
more unskilful the Person is or appears who applies it. It is
absolutely necessary for Ladies to take a Dose of it just before they
take Coach to go a visiting.
"But I offend the Publick, as _Horace_ said, when I trespass on any of
your Time. Give me leave then, Mr. _Ironside_, to make you a Present
of a Drachm or two of my Oyl; though I have Cause to fear my
Prescriptions will not have the Effect upon you I could wish:
Therefore I do not endeavour to bribe you in my Favour by the Present
of my Oyl, but wholly depend upon your Publick Spirit and Generosity;
which, I hope, will recommend to the World the useful Endeavours of,
"_Sir,_
"_Your most Obedient, most Faithful, most Devoted,
most Humble Servant and Admirer_,
"GNATHO.
"***Beware of Counterfeits, for such are abroad.
"_N.B._ I teach the _Arcana_ of my Art at reasonable Rates to
Gentlemen of the Universities, who desire to be qualified for writing
Dedications; and to young Lovers and Fortune-hunters, to be paid at
the Day of Marriage. I instruct Persons of bright Capacities to
flatter others, and those of the meanest to flatter themselves.
"I was the first Inventor of Pocket Looking-Glasses."
_Pope._
JACK LIZARD
_Jack Lizard_ was about Fifteen when he was first entered in the
University, and being a Youth of a great deal of Fire, and a more than
ordinary Application to his Studies, it gave his Conversation a very
particular Turn. He had too much Spirit to hold his Tongue in Company;
but at the same time so little Acquaintance with the World, that he
did not know how to talk like other People.
After a Year and half's stay at the University, he came down among us
to pass away a Month or two in the Country. The first Night after his
Arrival, as we were at Supper, we were all of us very much improved by
_Jack's_ Table-Talk. He told us, upon the Appearance of a Dish of
Wild-Fowl, that according to the Opinion of some natural Philosophers
they might be lately come from the Moon. Upon which the _Sparkler_
bursting out into a Laugh, he insulted her with several Questions
relating to the Bigness and Distance of the Moon and Stars; and after
every Interrogatory would be winking upon me, and smiling at his
Sister's Ignorance. _Jack_ gained his Point; for the Mother was
pleased, and all the Servants stared at the Learning of their young
Master. _Jack_ was so encouraged at this Success, that for the first
Week he dealt wholly in Paradoxes. It was a common Jest with him to
pinch one of his Sister's Lap-Dogs, and afterwards prove he could not
feel it. When the Girls were sorting a Set of Knots, he would
demonstrate to them that all the Ribbands were of the same Colour; or
rather, says _Jack_, of no Colour at all. My Lady _Lizard_ her self,
though she was not a little pleas'd with her Son's Improvements, was
one Day almost angry with him; for having accidentally burnt her
Fingers as she was lighting the Lamp for her Tea-pot; in the midst of
her Anguish, _Jack_ laid hold of the Opportunity to instruct her that
there was no such thing as Heat in Fire. In short, no Day pass'd over
our Heads, in which _Jack_ did not imagine he made the whole Family
wiser than they were before.
That part of his Conversation which gave me the most Pain, was what
pass'd among those Country Gentlemen that came to visit us. On such
Occasions _Jack_ usually took upon him to be the Mouth of the Company;
and thinking himself obliged to be very merry, would entertain us with
a great many odd Sayings and Absurdities of their College-Cook. I
found this Fellow had made a very strong Impression upon _Jack's_
Imagination; which he never considered was not the Case of the rest of
the Company, 'till after many repeated Tryals he found that his
Stories seldom made any Body laugh but himself.
I all this while looked upon _Jack_ as a young Tree shooting out into
Blossoms before its Time; the Redundancy of which, though it was a
little unseasonable, seemed to foretel an uncommon Fruitfulness.
In order to wear out the vein of Pedantry which ran through his
Conversation, I took him out with me one Evening, and first of all
insinuated to him this Rule, which I had my self learned from a very
great Author, _To think with the Wise, but talk with the Vulgar_.
_Jack's_ good Sense soon made him reflect that he had often exposed
himself to the Laughter of the Ignorant by a contrary Behaviour; upon
which he told me, that he would take Care for the future to keep his
Notions to himself, and converse in the common received Sentiments of
Mankind. He at the same time desired me to give him any other Rules of
Conversation which I thought might be for his Improvement. I told him
I would think of it; and accordingly, as I have a particular Affection
for the young Man, I gave him next Morning the following Rules in
Writing, which may perhaps have contributed to make him the agreeable
Man he now is.
The Faculty of interchanging our Thoughts with one another, or what we
express by the Word _Conversation_, has always been represented by
Moral Writers as one of the noblest Privileges of Reason, and which
more particularly sets Mankind above the Brute Part of the Creation.
Though nothing so much gains upon the Affections as this _Extempore
Eloquence_, which we have constantly Occasion for, and are obliged to
practice every Day, we very rarely meet with any who excel in it.
The Conversation of most Men is disagreeable, not so much for Want of
Wit and Learning, as of Good-Breeding and Discretion.
If you resolve to please, never speak to gratifie any particular
Vanity or Passion of your own, but always with a Design either to
divert or inform the Company. A Man who only aims at one of these, is
always easie in his Discourse. He is never out of Humour at being
interrupted, because he considers that those who hear him are the best
Judges whether what he was saying could either divert or inform them.
A modest Person seldom fails to gain the Good-Will of those he
converses with, because no body envies a Man, who does not appear to
be pleased with himself.
We should talk extreamly little of our selves. Indeed what can we say?
It would be as imprudent to discover our Faults, as ridiculous to
count over our fancied Virtues. Our private and domestick Affairs are
no less improper to be introduced in Conversation. What does it
concern the Company how many Horses you keep in your Stables? Or
whether your Servant is most Knave, or Fool?
A man may equally affront the Company he is in, by engrossing all the
Talk, or observing a contemptuous Silence.
Before you tell a Story it may be generally not amiss to draw a short
Character, and give the Company a true Idea of the principal Persons
concerned in it. The Beauty of most things consisting not so much in
their being said or done, as in their being said or done by such a
particular Person, or on such a particular Occasion.
Notwithstanding all the Advantages of Youth, few young People please
in Conversation; the Reason is, that want of Experience makes them
positive, and what they say is rather with a Design to please
themselves than any one else.
It is certain that Age it self shall make many things pass well
enough, which would have been laughed at in the Mouth of one much
younger.
Nothing, however, is more insupportable to Men of Sense, than an empty
formal Man who speaks in Proverbs, and decides all Controversies with
a short Sentence. This piece of Stupidity is the more insufferable, as
it puts on the Air of Wisdom.
A prudent Man will avoid talking much of any particular Science, for
which he is remarkably famous. There is not methinks an handsomer
thing said of Mr. _Cowley_ in his whole Life, than that none but his
intimate Friends ever discovered he was a great Poet by his Discourse:
Besides the Decency of this Rule, it is certainly founded in good
Policy. A Man who talks of any thing he is already famous for, has
little to get, but a great deal to lose. I might add, that he who is
sometimes silent on a Subject where every one is satisfied he could
speak well, will often be thought no less knowing in other Matters,
where perhaps he is wholly ignorant.
Women are frightened at the Name of Argument, and are sooner convinced
by an happy Turn, or Witty Expression, than by Demonstration.
Whenever you commend, add your Reasons for doing so; it is this which
distinguishes the Approbation of a Man of Sense from the Flattery of
Sycophants, and Admiration of Fools.
Raillery is no longer agreeable than while the whole Company is
pleased with it. I would least of all be understood to except the
Person rallied.
Though Good-humour, Sense and Discretion can seldom fail to make a Man
agreeable, it may be no ill Policy sometimes to prepare your self in a
particular manner for Conversation, by looking a little farther than
your Neighbours into whatever is become a reigning Subject. If our
Armies are besieging a Place of Importance abroad, or our House of
Commons debating a Bill of Consequence at home, you can hardly fail of
being heard with Pleasure, if you have nicely informed your self of
the Strength, Situation, and History of the first, or of the Reasons
for and against the latter. It will have the same Effect if when any
single Person begins to make a Noise in the World, you can learn some
of the smallest Accidents in his Life or Conversation, which though
they are too fine for the Observation of the Vulgar, give more
Satisfaction to Men of Sense, (as they are the best Openings to a real
Character) than the Recital of his most glaring Actions. I know but
one ill Consequence to be feared from this Method, namely, that coming
full charged into Company, you should resolve to unload whether an
handsome Opportunity offers it self or no.
Though the asking of Questions may plead for it self the specious
Names of Modesty, and a Desire of Information, it affords little
Pleasure to the rest of the Company who are not troubled with the same
Doubts; besides which, he who asks a Question would do well to
consider that he lies wholly at the Mercy of another before he
receives an Answer.
Nothing is more silly than the Pleasure some People take in what they
call _speaking their Minds_. A Man of this Make will say a rude thing
for the meer Pleasure of saying it, when an opposite Behaviour, full
as Innocent, might have preserved his Friend, or made his Fortune.
It is not impossible for a Man to form to himself as exquisite a
Pleasure in complying with the Humour and Sentiments of others, as of
bringing others over to his own; since 'tis the certain Sign of a
Superior Genius, that can take and become whatever Dress it pleases.
I shall only add, that besides what I have here said, there is
something which can never be learnt but in the Company of the Polite.
The Virtues of Men are catching as well as their Vices, and your own
Observations added to these, will soon discover what it is that
commands Attention in one Man and makes you tired and displeased with
the Discourse of another.
_Steele._
A MEDITATION UPON A BROOMSTICK, ACCORDING TO THE STYLE AND MANNER OF
THE HON. ROBERT BOYLE'S MEDITATIONS
This single stick, which you now behold ingloriously lying in that
neglected corner, I once knew in a flourishing state in a forest; it
was full of sap, full of leaves, and full of boughs; but now in vain
does the busy art of man pretend to vie with nature, by tying that
withered bundle of twigs to its sapless trunk; it is now at best but
the reverse of what it was, a tree turned upside down, the branches on
the earth, and the root in the air; it is now handled by every dirty
wench, condemned to do her drudgery, and, by a capricious kind of
fate, destined to make her things clean, and be nasty itself; at
length, worn out to the stumps in the service of the maids, it is
either thrown out of doors, or condemned to the last use of kindling a
fire. When I beheld this, I sighed, and said within myself: Surely
mortal man is a broomstick! nature sent him into the world strong and
lusty, in a thriving condition, wearing his own hair on his head, the
proper branches of this reasoning vegetable, until the axe of
intemperance has lopped off his green boughs, and left him a withered
trunk; he then flies to art, and puts on a periwig, valuing himself
upon an unnatural bundle of hairs, all covered with powder, that never
grew on his head; but now should this our broomstick pretend to enter
the scene, proud of those birchen spoils it never bore, and all
covered with dust, though the sweepings of the finest lady's chamber,
we should be apt to ridicule and despise its vanity. Partial judges
that we are of our own excellences, and other men's defaults!
But a broomstick, perhaps you will say, is an emblem of a tree
standing on its head: and pray, what is man but a topsy-turvy
creature, his animal faculties perpetually mounted on his rational,
his head where his heels should be--grovelling on the earth! and yet,
with all his faults, he sets up to be a universal reformer and
corrector of abuses, a remover of grievances; rakes into every slut's
corner of nature, bringing hidden corruptions to the light, and raises
a mighty dust where there was none before, sharing deeply all the
while in the very same pollutions he pretends to sweep away. His last
days are spent in slavery to women, and generally the least deserving;
till, worn to the stumps, like his brother-besom, he is either kicked
out of doors, or made use of to kindle flames for others to warm
themselves by.
_Swift._
PULPIT ELOQUENCE
The subject of the discourse this evening was eloquence and graceful
action. Lysander, who is something particular in his way of thinking
and speaking, told us, "a man could not be eloquent without action;
for the deportment of the body, the turn of the eye, and an apt sound
to every word that is uttered, must all conspire to make an
accomplished speaker. Action in one that speaks in public is the same
thing as a good mien in ordinary life. Thus, as a certain
insensibility in the countenance recommends a sentence of humour and
jest, so it must be a very lively consciousness that gives grace to
great sentiments. The jest is to be a thing unexpected; therefore your
undesigning manner is a beauty in expressions of mirth; but when you
are to talk on a set subject, the more you are moved yourself, the
more you will move others.
"There is," said he, "a remarkable example of that kind. Aeschines, a
famous orator of antiquity, had pleaded at Athens in a great cause
against Demosthenes; but having lost it, retired to Rhodes. Eloquence
was then the quality most admired among men, and the magistrates of
that place, having heard he had a copy of the speech of Demosthenes,
desired him to repeat both their pleadings. After his own he recited
also the oration of his antagonist. The people expressed their
admiration of both, but more of that of Demosthenes. 'If you are,'
said he, 'thus touched with hearing only what that great orator said,
how much would you have been affected had you seen him speak? for he
who hears Demosthenes only, loses much the better part of the
oration.' Certain it is that they who speak gracefully are very lamely
represented in having their speeches read or repeated by unskilful
people; for there is something native to each man, so inherent to his
thoughts and sentiments, which it is hardly possible for another to
give a true idea of. You may observe in common talk, when a sentence
of any man's is repeated, an acquaintance of his shall immediately
observe, 'That is so like him, methinks I see how he looked when he
said it.'
"But of all the people on the earth, there are none who puzzle me so
much as the clergy of Great Britain, who are, I believe, the most
learned body of men now in the world: and yet this art of speaking,
with the proper ornaments of voice and gesture, is wholly neglected
among them; and I will engage, were a deaf man to behold the greater
part of them preach, he would rather think they were reading the
contents only of some discourse they intended to make, than actually
in the body of an oration, even when they were upon matters of such a
nature as one would believe it were impossible to think of without
emotion.
"I own there are exceptions to this general observation, and that the
dean we heard the other day together is an orator[4]. He has so much
regard to his congregation, that he commits to his memory what he is
to say to them; and has so soft and graceful a behaviour, that it must
attract your attention. His person, it is to be confessed, is no small
recommendation; but he is to be highly commended for not losing that
advantage; and adding to the propriety of speech, which might pass the
criticism of Longinus, an action which would have been approved by
Demosthenes. He has a peculiar force in his way, and has charmed many
of his audience, who could not be intelligent hearers of his discourse
were there not explanation as well as grace in his action. This art of
his is useful with the most exact and honest skill: he never attempts
your passions until he has convinced your reason. All the objections
which he can form are laid open and dispersed before he uses the least
vehemence in his sermon; but when he thinks he has your head, he very
soon wins your heart; and never pretends to show the beauty of
holiness until he has convinced you of the truth of it.
[Footnote 4: Steele says that this amiable character of the dean was
drawn for Dr. Atterbury, and mentions it as an argument of his
impartiality in his Preface to the "Tatler," vol. iv.]
"Would every one of our clergymen be thus careful to recommend truth
and virtue in their proper figures, and show so much concern for them
as to give them all the additional force they were able, it is not
possible that nonsense should have so many hearers as you find it has
in dissenting congregations, for no reason in the world but because it
is spoken extempore; for ordinary minds are wholly governed by their
eyes and ears; and there is no way to come at their hearts but by
power over their imaginations.
"There is my friend and merry companion Daniel;[5] he knows a great
deal better than he speaks, and can form a proper discourse as well as
any orthodox neighbour. But he knows very well that to bawl out, 'My
beloved!' and the words 'grace! regeneration! sanctification! a new
light! the day! the day! ay, my beloved, the day! or rather the night!
the night is coming!' and 'judgment will come when we least think of
it!' and so forth. He knows, to be vehement is the only way to come at
his audience. Daniel, when he sees my friend Greenhat come in, can
give a good hint, and cry out, 'This is only for the saints! the
regenerated!' By this force of action, though mixed with all the
incoherence and ribaldry imaginable, Daniel can laugh at his diocesan,
and grow fat by voluntary subscription, while the parson of the parish
goes to law for half his dues. Daniel will tell you, it is not the
shepherd, but the sheep with the bell, which the flock follows.
[Footnote 5: The celebrated Daniel Burgess, whose meeting-house near
Lincoln's Inn was destroyed by the high-church mob upon occasion of
Sacheverell's trial.]
"Another thing, very wonderful this learned body should omit, is
learning to read; which is a most necessary part of eloquence in one
who is to serve at the altar; for there is no man but must be sensible
that the lazy tone and inarticulate sound of our common readers
depreciates the most proper form of words that were ever extant in any
nation or language, to speak their own wants, or his power from whom
we ask relief.
"There cannot be a greater instance of the power of action than in
little parson Dapper, who is the common relief to all the lazy pulpits
in town. This smart youth has a very good memory, a quick eye, and a
clean handkerchief. Thus equipped, he opens his text, shuts his book
fairly, shows he has no notes in his Bible, opens both palms, and
shows all is fair there too. Thus, with a decisive air, my young man
goes on without hesitation; and though from the beginning to the end
of his pretty discourse, he has not used one proper gesture, yet, at
the conclusion, the churchwarden pulls his gloves from off his hands;
'Pray, who is this extraordinary young man?' Thus the force of action
is such, that it is more prevalent, even when improper, than all the
reason and argument in the world without it." This gentleman concluded
his discourse by saying, "I do not doubt but if our preachers would
learn to speak, and our readers to read, within six months' time we
should not have a dissenter within a mile of a church in Great
Britain."
"The Tatler," No. 66.
THE ART OF POLITICAL LYING
We are told the devil is the father of lies, and was a liar from the
beginning; so that, beyond contradiction, the invention is old: and,
which is more, his first Essay of it was purely political, employed in
undermining the authority of his prince, and seducing a third part of
the subjects from their obedience: for which he was driven down from
heaven, where (as Milton expresses it) he had been viceroy of a great
western province; and forced to exercise his talent in inferior
regions among other fallen spirits, poor or deluded men, whom he still
daily tempts to his own sin, and will ever do so, till he be chained
in the bottomless pit.
But although the devil be the father of lies, he seems, like other
great inventors, to have lost much of his reputation by the continual
improvements that have been made upon him.
Who first reduced lying into an art, and adapted it to politics, is
not so clear from history, although I have made some diligent
inquiries. I shall therefore consider it only according to the modern
system, as it has been cultivated these twenty years past in the
southern part of our own island.
The poets tell us that, after the giants were overthrown by the gods,
the earth in revenge produced her last offspring, which was Fame. And
the fable is thus interpreted: that when tumults and seditions are
quieted, rumours and false reports are plentifully spread through a
nation. So that, by this account, lying is the last relief of a
routed, earth-born, rebellious party in a state. But here the moderns
have made great additions, applying this art to the gaining of power
and preserving it, as well as revenging themselves after they have
lost it; as the same instruments are made use of by animals to feed
themselves when they are hungry, and to bite those that tread upon
them.
But the same genealogy cannot always be admitted for political lying;
I shall therefore desire to refine upon it, by adding some
circumstances of its birth and parents. A political lie is sometimes
born out of a discarded statesman's head, and thence delivered to be
nursed and dandled by the rabble. Sometimes it is produced a monster,
and licked into shape: at other times it comes into the world
completely formed, and is spoiled in the licking. It is often born an
infant in the regular way, and requires time to mature it; and often
it sees the light in its full growth, but dwindles away by degrees.
Sometimes it is of noble birth, and sometimes the spawn of a
stock-jobber. Here it screams aloud at the opening of the womb, and
there it is delivered with a whisper. I know a lie that now disturbs
half the kingdom with its noise, [of] which, although too proud and
great at present to own its parents, I can remember its whisperhood.
To conclude the nativity of this monster; when it comes into the world
without a sting it is still-born; and whenever it loses its sting it
dies.
No wonder if an infant so miraculous in its birth should be destined
for great adventures; and accordingly we see it has been the guardian
spirit of a prevailing party for almost twenty years. It can conquer
kingdoms without fighting, and sometimes with the loss of a battle. It
gives and resumes employments; can sink a mountain to a mole-hill, and
raise a mole-hill to a mountain; has presided for many years at
committees of elections; can wash a blackmoor white; make a saint of
an atheist, and a patriot of a profligate; can furnish foreign
ministers with intelligence, and raise or let fall the credit of the
nation. This goddess flies with a huge looking-glass in her hands, to
dazzle the crowd, and make them see, according as she turns it, their
ruin in their interest, and their interest in their ruin. In this
glass you will behold your best friends, clad in coats powdered with
_fleurs de lis_ and triple crowns; their girdles hung round with
chains, and beads, and wooden shoes; and your worst enemies adorned
with the ensigns of liberty, property, indulgence, moderation, and a
cornucopia in their hands. Her large wings, like those of a
flying-fish, are of no use but while they are moist; she therefore
dips them in mud, and, soaring aloft, scatters it in the eyes of the
multitude, flying with great swiftness; but at every turn is forced to
stoop in dirty ways for new supplies.
I have been sometimes thinking, if a man had the art of the second
sight for seeing lies, as they have in Scotland for seeing spirits,
how admirably he might entertain himself in this town, by observing
the different shapes, sizes, and colours of those swarms of lies which
buzz about the heads of some people, like flies about a horse's ears
in summer; or those legions hovering every afternoon in
Exchange-alley, enough to darken the air; or over a club of
discontented grandees, and thence sent down in cargoes to be scattered
at elections.
There is one essential point wherein a political liar differs from
others of the faculty, that he ought to have but a short memory, which
is necessary according to the various occasions he meets with every
hour of differing from himself and swearing to both sides of a
contradiction, as he finds the persons disposed with whom he has to
deal. In describing the virtues and vices of mankind, it is
convenient, upon every article, to have some eminent person in our
eye, from whom we copy our description. I have strictly observed this
rule, and my imagination this minute represents before me a certain
great man famous for this talent, to the constant practice of which he
owes his twenty years' reputation of the most skilful head in England
for the management of nice affairs. The superiority of his genius
consists in nothing else but an inexhaustible fund of political lies,
which he plentifully distributes every minute he speaks, and by an
unparalleled generosity forgets, and consequently contradicts, the
next half-hour. He never yet considered whether any proposition were
true or false, but whether it were convenient for the present minute
or company to affirm or deny it; so that, if you think fit to refine
upon him by interpreting everything he says, as we do dreams, by the
contrary, you are still to seek, and will find yourself equally
deceived whether you believe or not: the only remedy is to suppose
that you have heard some inarticulate sounds, without any meaning at
all; and besides, that will take off the horror you might be apt to
conceive at the oaths wherewith he perpetually tags both ends of every
proposition; although, at the same time, I think he cannot with any
justice be taxed with perjury when he invokes God and Christ, because
he has often fairly given public notice to the world that he believes
in neither.
Some people may think that such an accomplishment as this can be of no
great use to the owner, or his party, after it has been often
practised and is become notorious; but they are widely mistaken. Few
lies carry the inventor's mark, and the most prostitute enemy to truth
may spread a thousand without being known for the author: besides, as
the vilest writer has his readers, so the greatest liar has his
believers; and it often happens that, if a lie be believed only for an
hour, it has done its work, and there is no farther occasion for it.
Falsehood flies, and truth comes limping after it, so that when men
come to be undeceived it is too late; the jest is over, and the tale
has had its effect: like a man who has thought of a good repartee when
the discourse is changed or the company parted; or like a physician
who has found out an infallible medicine after the patient is dead.
Considering that natural disposition in many men to lie, and in
multitudes to believe, I have been perplexed what to do with that
maxim so frequent in everybody's mouth, that truth will at last
prevail. Here has this island of ours, for the greatest part of twenty
years, lain under the influence of such counsels and persons, whose
principle and interest it was to corrupt our manners, blind our
understanding, drain our wealth, and in time destroy our constitution
both in church and state, and we at last were brought to the very
brink of ruin; yet, by the means of perpetual misrepresentations, have
never been able to distinguish between our enemies and friends. We
have seen a great part of the nation's money got into the hands of
those who, by their birth, education, and merit, could pretend no
higher than to wear our liveries; while others, who, by their credit,
quality, and fortune, were only able to give reputation and success to
the Revolution, were not only laid aside as dangerous and useless, but
loaded with the scandal of Jacobites, men of arbitrary principles, and
pensioners to France; while truth, who is said to lie in a well,
seemed now to be buried there under a heap of stones. But I remember
it was a usual complaint among the Whigs, that the bulk of the landed
men was not in their interests, which some of the wisest looked on as
an ill omen; and we saw it was with the utmost difficulty that they
could preserve a majority, while the court and ministry were on their
side, till they had learned those admirable expedients for deciding
elections and influencing distant boroughs by powerful motives from
the city. But all this was mere force and constraint, however upheld
by most dexterous artifice and management, until the people began to
apprehend their properties, their religion, and the monarchy itself in
danger; when we saw them greedily laying hold on the first occasion to
interpose. But of this mighty change in the dispositions of the people
I shall discourse more at large in some following paper: wherein I
shall endeavour to undeceive or discover those deluded or deluding
persons who hope or pretend it is only a short madness in the vulgar,
from which they may soon recover; whereas, I believe it will appear to
be very different in its causes, its symptoms, and its consequences;
and prove a great example to illustrate the maxim I lately mentioned,
that truth (however sometimes late) will at last prevail.
_Swift._
A RURAL RIDE
Brighton,
_Thursday, 10 Jan. 1822._
Lewes is in a valley of the _South Downs_, this town is at eight miles
distance, to the south-south-west or thereabouts. There is a great
extent of rich meadows above and below Lewes. The town itself is a
model of solidity and neatness. The buildings all substantial to the
very outskirts; the pavements good and complete; the shops nice and
clean; the people well-dressed; and, though last not least, the girls
remarkably pretty, as, indeed, they are in most parts of Sussex; round
faces, features small, little hands and wrists, plump arms, and bright
eyes. The Sussex men, too, are remarkable for their good looks. A Mr.
Baxter, a stationer at Lewes, showed me a _farmer's account book_,
which is a very complete thing of the kind. The inns are good at
Lewes, the people civil and not servile, and the charges really
(considering the taxes) far below what one could reasonably
expect.--From Lewes to Brighton the road winds along between the hills
of the South Downs, which, in this mild weather, are mostly
beautifully green even at this season, with flocks of sheep feeding on
them.--Brighton itself lies in a valley cut across at one end by the
sea, and its extension, or _Wen_, has swelled up the sides of the
hills and has run some distance up the valley.--The first thing you
see in approaching Brighton from Lewes, is a splendid _horse-barrack_
on one side of the road, and a heap of low, shabby, nasty houses,
irregularly built, on the other side. This is always the case where
there is a barrack. How soon a reformed parliament would make both
disappear! Brighton is a very pleasant place. For a _wen_ remarkably
so. The _Kremlin_, the very name of which has so long been a subject
of laughter all over the country, lies in the gorge of the valley, and
amongst the old houses of the town. The grounds, which cannot, I
think, exceed a couple or three acres, are surrounded by a wall
neither lofty nor good-looking. Above this rise some trees, bad in
sorts, stunted in growth, and dirty with smoke. As to the "palace" as
the Brighton newspapers call it, the apartments appear to be all upon
the ground floor; and, when you see the thing from a distance, you
think you see a parcel of _cradle-spits_, of various dimensions,
sticking up out of the mouths of so many enormous squat decanters.
Take a square box, the sides of which are three feet and a half, and
the height a foot and a half. Take a large Norfolk-turnip, cut off the
green of the leaves, leave the stalks 9 inches long, tie these round
with a string three inches from the top, and put the turnip on the
middle of the top of the box. Then take four turnips of half the size,
treat them in the same way, and put them on the corners of the box.
Then take a considerable number of bulbs of the crown-imperial, the
narcissus, the hyacinth, the tulip, the crocus, and others; let the
leaves of each have sprouted to about an inch, more or less according
to the size of the bulb; put all these, pretty promiscuously, but
pretty thickly, on the top of the box. Then stand off and look at your
architecture. There! That's "_a Kremlin_!" Only you must cut some
church-looking windows in the sides of the box. As to what you ought
to put _into_ the box, that is a subject far above my cut.--Brighton
is naturally a place of resort for _expectants_, and a shifty,
ugly-looking swarm is, of course, assembled here. Some of the fellows,
who had endeavoured to disturb our harmony at the dinner at Lewes,
were parading, amongst this swarm, on the cliff. You may always know
them by their lank jaws, the stiffeners round their necks, their
hidden or _no_ shirts, their stays, their false shoulders, hips and
haunches, their half-whiskers, and by their skins, colour of veal
kidney-suet, warmed a little, and then powdered with dirty
dust.--These vermin excepted, the people at Brighton make a very fine
figure. The trades-people are very nice in all their concerns. The
houses are excellent, built chiefly with a blue or purple brick; and
bow-windows appear to be the general taste. I can easily believe this
to be a very healthy place: the open downs on the one side and the
open sea on the other. No inlet, cove, or river; and, of course, no
swamps.--I have spent this evening very pleasantly in a company of
reformers, who, though plain tradesmen and mechanics, know I am quite
satisfied more about the questions that agitate the country than any
equal number of lords.
_William Cobbett._
THE MAN IN BLACK
_1._
Though fond of many acquaintances, I desire an intimacy only with a
few. The man in black whom I have often mentioned is one whose
friendship I could wish to acquire, because he possesses my esteem.
His manners, it is true, are tinctured with some strange
inconsistencies; and he may be justly termed an humourist in a nation
of humourists. Though he is generous even to profusion, he affects to
be thought a prodigy of parsimony and prudence; though his
conversation be replete with the most sordid and selfish maxims, his
heart is dilated with the most unbounded love. I have known him
profess himself a man-hater, while his cheek was glowing with
compassion; and while his looks were softened into pity, I have heard
him use the language of the most unbounded ill-nature. Some affect
humanity and tenderness, others boast of having such dispositions from
nature; but he is the only man I ever knew who seemed ashamed of his
natural benevolence. He takes as much pains to hide his feelings, as
any hypocrite would to conceal his indifference; but on every
unguarded moment the mask drops off, and reveals him to the most
superficial observer.
In one of our late excursions into the country, happening to discourse
upon the provision that was made for the poor in England, he seemed
amazed how any of his countrymen could be so foolishly weak as to
relieve occasional objects of charity, when the laws had made such
ample provision for their support. "In every parish house," says he,
"the poor are supplied with food, clothes, fire, and a bed to lie on;
they want no more, I desire no more myself; yet still they seem
discontented. I am surprised at the inactivity of our magistrates, in
not taking up such vagrants, who are only a weight upon the
industrious; I am surprised that the people are found to relieve them,
when they must be at the same time sensible that it, in some measure,
encourages idleness, extravagance, and imposture. Were I to advise any
man for whom I had the least regard, I would caution him by all means
not to be imposed upon by their false pretences: let me assure you,
sir, they are impostors, every one of them, and rather merit a prison
than relief."
He was proceeding in this strain earnestly, to dissuade me from an
imprudence of which I am seldom guilty, when an old man, who still had
about him the remnants of tattered finery, implored our compassion. He
assured us, that he was no common beggar, but forced into the shameful
profession, to support a dying wife and five hungry children. Being
prepossessed against such falsehoods, his story had not the least
influence upon me; but it was quite otherwise with the man in black; I
could see it visibly operate upon his countenance, and effectually
interrupt his harangue. I could easily perceive, that his heart burned
to relieve the five starving children, but he seemed ashamed to
discover his weakness to me. While he thus hesitated between
compassion and pride, I pretended to look another way, and he seized
this opportunity of giving the poor petitioner a piece of silver,
bidding him at the same time, in order that I should not hear, go work
for his bread, and not tease passengers with such impertinent
falsehoods for the future.
As he had fancied himself quite unperceived, he continued, as we
proceeded, to rail against beggars with as much animosity as before;
he threw in some episodes on his own amazing prudence and economy,
with his profound skill in discovering impostors; he explained the
manner in which he would deal with beggars were he a magistrate,
hinted at enlarging some of the prisons for their reception, and told
two stories of ladies that were robbed by beggarmen. He was beginning
a third to the same purpose, when a sailor with a wooden leg once more
crossed our walks, desiring our pity, and blessing our limbs. I was
for going on without taking any notice, but my friend looking
wistfully upon the poor petitioner, bid me stop, and he would show me
with how much ease he could at any time detect an impostor.
He now, therefore, assumed a look of importance, and in an angry tone
began to examine the sailor, demanding in what engagement he was thus
disabled and rendered unfit for service. The sailor replied, in a tone
as angrily as he, that he had been an officer on board a private ship
of war, and that he had lost his leg abroad in defence of those who
did nothing at home. At this reply, all my friend's importance
vanished in a moment; he had not a single question more to ask; he now
only studied what method he should take to relieve him unobserved. He
had, however, no easy part to act, as he was obliged to preserve the
appearance of ill-nature before me, and yet relieve himself by
relieving the sailor. Casting, therefore, a furious look upon some
bundles of chips which the fellow carried in a string at his back, my
friend demanded how he sold his matches; but not waiting for a reply,
desired, in a surly tone, to have a shilling's worth. The sailor
seemed at first surprised at his demand, but soon recollected himself,
and presenting his whole bundle, "Here, master," says he, "take all my
cargo, and a blessing into the bargain."
It is impossible to describe, with what an air of triumph my friend
marched off with his new purchase; he assured me, that he was firmly
of opinion that those fellows must have stolen their goods, who could
thus afford to sell them for half value. He informed me of several
different uses to which those chips might be applied; he expatiated
largely upon the savings that would result from lighting candles with
a match instead of thrusting them into the fire. He averred, that he
would as soon have parted with a tooth as his money to those
vagabonds, unless for some valuable consideration. I cannot tell how
long this panegyric upon frugality and matches might have continued,
had not his attention been called off by another object more
distressful than either of the former. A woman in rags, with one child
in her arms and another on her back, was attempting to sing ballads,
but with such a mournful voice, that it was difficult to determine
whether she was singing or crying. A wretch who, in the deepest
distress, still aimed at good humour, was an object my friend was by
no means capable of withstanding; his vivacity and his discourse were
instantly interrupted; upon this occasion his very dissimulation had
forsaken him. Even in my presence he immediately applied his hands to
his pockets, in order to relieve her; but guess his confusion when he
found he had already given away all the money he carried about him to
former objects. The misery painted in the woman's visage was not half
so strongly expressed as the agony in his. He continued to search for
some time, but to no purpose, till, at length recollecting himself,
with a face of ineffable good-nature, as he had no money, he put into
her hands his shilling's worth of matches.
_2._
As there appeared something reluctantly good in the character of my
companion, I must own it surprised me what could be his motives for
thus concealing virtues which others take such pains to display. I was
unable to repress my desire of knowing the history of a man who thus
seemed to act under continual restraint, and whose benevolence was
rather the effect of appetite than reason.
It was not, however, till after repeated solicitations he thought
proper to gratify my curiosity. "If you are fond," says he, "of
hearing _hair-breadth escapes_, my history must certainly please; for
I have been for twenty years upon the very verge of starving, without
ever being starved.
"My father, the younger son of a good family, was possessed of a small
living in the church. His education was above his fortune, and his
generosity greater than his education. Poor as he was, he had his
flatterers still poorer than himself; for every dinner he gave them,
they returned an equivalent in praise; and this was all he wanted. The
same ambition that actuates a monarch at the head of an army,
influenced my father at the head of his table; he told the story of
the ivy-tree, and that was laughed at; he repeated the jest of the two
scholars and one pair of breeches, and the company laughed at that;
but the story of Taffy in the sedan chair was sure to set the table in
a roar. Thus his pleasure increased in proportion to the pleasure he
gave; he loved all the world, and he fancied all the world loved him.
"As his fortune was but small, he lived up to the very extent of it;
he had no intentions of leaving his children money, for that was
dross; he was resolved they should have learning; for learning, he
used to observe, was better than silver or gold. For this purpose he
undertook to instruct us himself; and took as much pains to form our
morals, as to improve our understanding. We were told that universal
benevolence was what first cemented society; we were taught to
consider all the wants of mankind as our own; to regard the _human
face divine_ with affection and esteem; he wound us up to be mere
machines of pity, and rendered us incapable of withstanding the
slightest impulse made either by real or fictitious distress: in a
word, we were perfectly instructed in the art of giving away thousands
before we were taught the more necessary qualifications of getting a
farthing.
"I cannot avoid imagining, that thus refined by his lessons out of all
my suspicion, and divested of even all the little cunning which nature
had given me, I resembled, upon my first entrance into the busy and
insidious world, one of those gladiators who were exposed with armour
in the amphitheatre at Rome. My father, however, who had only seen the
world on one side, seemed to triumph in my superior discernment;
though my whole stock of wisdom consisted in being able to talk like
himself upon subjects that once were useful, because they were then
topics of the busy world; but that now were utterly useless, because
connected with the busy world no longer.
"The first opportunity he had of finding his expectations
disappointed, was at the very middling figure I made in the
university: he had flattered himself that he should soon see me rising
into the foremost rank in literary reputation, but was mortified to
find me utterly unnoticed and unknown. His disappointment might have
been partly ascribed to his having over-rated my talents, and partly
to my dislike of mathematical reasonings, at a time when my
imagination and memory, yet unsatisfied, were more eager after new
objects, than desirous of reasoning upon those I knew. This did not,
however, please my tutors, who observed, indeed, that I was a little
dull, but at the same time allowed, that I seemed to be very
good-natured, and had no harm in me.
"After I had resided at college seven years, my father died, and left
me--his blessing. Thus shoved from shore without ill-nature to
protect, or cunning to guide, or proper stores to subsist me in so
dangerous a voyage, I was obliged to embark in the wide world at
twenty-two. But, in order to settle in life, my friends, advised (for
they always advise when they begin to despise us) they advised me, I
say, to go into orders.
"To be obliged to wear a long wig, when I liked a short one, or a
black coat, when I generally dressed in brown, I thought was such a
restraint upon my liberty, that I absolutely rejected the proposal. A
priest in England is not the same mortified creature with a bonze in
China; with us, not he that fasts best, but eats best, is reckoned the
best liver; yet I rejected a life of luxury, indolence, and ease, from
no other consideration but that boyish one of dress. So that my
friends were now perfectly satisfied I was undone; and yet they
thought it a pity for one who had not the least harm in him, and was
so very good-natured.
"Poverty naturally begets dependance, and I was admitted as flatterer
to a great man. At first I was surprised, that the situation of a
flatterer at a great man's table could be thought disagreeable; there
was no great trouble in listening attentively when his lordship spoke,
and laughing when he looked round for applause. This even good manners
might have obliged me to perform. I found, however, too soon, that his
lordship was a greater dunce than myself; and from that very moment
flattery was at an end. I now rather aimed at setting him right, than
at receiving his absurdities with submission: to flatter those we do
not know is an easy task; but to flatter our intimate acquaintances,
all whose foibles are strongly in our eye, is drudgery insupportable.
Every time I now opened my lips in praise, my falsehood went to my
conscience; his lordship soon perceived me to be very unfit for
service: I was, therefore, discharged: my patron at the same time
being graciously pleased to observe, that he believed I was tolerably
good-natured, and had not the least harm in me.
"Disappointed in ambition, I had recourse to love. A young lady, who
lived with her aunt, and was possessed of a pretty fortune in her own
disposal, had given me, as I fancied, some reason to expect success.
The symptoms by which I was guided were striking. She had always
laughed with me at her awkward acquaintance, and at her aunt among the
number; she always observed, that a man of sense would make a better
husband than a fool; and I as constantly applied the observation in my
own favour, she continually talked, in my company, of friendship and
the beauties of the mind, and spoke of Mr. Shrimp, my rival's
high-heeled shoes, with detestation. These were circumstances which I
thought strongly in my favour; so, after resolving and re-resolving, I
had courage enough to tell her my mind. Miss heard my proposal with
serenity, seeming at the same time to study the figures of her fan.
Out at last it came. There was but one small objection to complete our
happiness: which was no more, than----that she was married three
months before to Mr. Shrimp, with high-heeled shoes! By way of
consolation, however, she observed, that, though I was disappointed in
her, my addresses to her aunt would probably kindle her into
sensibility; as the old lady always allowed me to be very
good-natured, and not to have the least share of harm in me.
"Yet still I had friends, numerous friends, and to them I was resolved
to apply. O friendship! thou fond soother of the human breast, to thee
we fly in every calamity; to thee the wretched seek for succour; on
thee the care-tired son of misery fondly relies; from thy kind
assistance the unfortunate always hopes relief, and may be ever sure
of--disappointment! My first application was to a city-scrivener, who
had frequently offered to lend me money when he knew I did not want
it. I informed him, that now was the time to put his friendship to the
test; that I wanted to borrow a couple of hundreds for a certain
occasion, and was resolved to take it up from him. 'And pray, sir,'
cried my friend, 'do you want all this money?'--'Indeed, I never
wanted it more,' returned I. 'I am sorry for that,' cries the
scrivener, 'with all my heart; for they who want money, when they come
to borrow, will always want money when they should come to pay.'
"From him I flew with indignation to one of the best friends I had in
the world, and made the same request. 'Indeed, Mr. Dry-bone,' cries my
friend, 'I always thought it would come to this. You know, sir, I
would not advise you but for your own good; but your conduct has
hitherto been ridiculous in the highest degree, and some of your
acquaintance always thought you a very silly fellow. Let me see, you
want two hundred pounds. Do you only want two hundred, sir, exactly?'
'To confess a truth,' returned I, 'I shall want three hundred; but
then I have another friend, from whom I can borrow the rest.'--'Why
then,' replied my friend, 'if you would take my advice, (and you know
I should not presume to advise you but for your own good) I would
recommend it to you to borrow the whole sum from that other friend,
and then one note will serve for all, you know.'
"Poverty now began to come fast upon me; yet instead of growing more
provident or cautious as I grew poor, I became every day more indolent
and simple. A friend was arrested for fifty pounds; I was unable to
extricate him except by becoming his bail. When at liberty he fled
from his creditors, and left me to take his place: in prison I
expected greater satisfactions than I had enjoyed at large. I hoped to
converse with men in this new world simple and believing like myself;
but I found them as cunning and as cautious as those in the world I
had left behind. They spunged up my money while it lasted, borrowed my
coals and never paid for them, and cheated me when I played at
cribbage. All this was done because they believed me to be very
good-natured, and knew that I had no harm in me.
"Upon my first entrance into this mansion, which is to some the abode
of despair, I felt no sensations different from those I experienced
abroad. I was now on one side of the door, and those who were
unconfined were on the other; this was all the difference between us.
At first, indeed, I felt some uneasiness, in considering how I should
be able to provide this week for the wants of the week ensuing; but
after some time, if I found myself sure of eating one day, I never
troubled my head how I was to be supplied another. I seized every
precarious meal with the utmost good-humour; indulged no rants of
spleen at my situation; never called down Heaven and all the stars to
behold my dining upon an halfpenny-worth of radishes; my very
companions were taught to believe that I liked salad better than
mutton. I contented myself with thinking, that all my life I should
either eat white bread or brown; considered that all that happened was
best; laughed when I was not in pain, took the world as it went, and
read Tacitus often, for want of more books and company.
"How long I might have continued in this torpid state of simplicity I
cannot tell, had I not been roused by seeing an old acquaintance, whom
I knew to be a prudent blockhead, preferred to a place in the
government. I now found that I had pursued a wrong track, and that the
true way of being able to relieve others, was first to aim at
independence myself; my immediate care, therefore, was to leave my
present habitation, and make an entire reformation in my conduct and
behaviour. For a free, open, undesigning deportment, I put on that of
closeness, prudence, and economy. One of the most heroic actions I
ever performed, and for which I shall praise myself as long as I live,
was the refusing half a crown to an old acquaintance, at the time when
he wanted it, and I had it to spare; for this alone I deserve to be
decreed an ovation.
"I now, therefore, pursued a course of uninterrupted frugality, seldom
wanted a dinner, and was, consequently, invited to twenty. I soon
began to get the character of a saving hunks that had money, and
insensibly grew into esteem. Neighbours have asked my advice in the
disposal of their daughters; and I have always taken care not to give
any. I have contracted a friendship with an alderman, only by
observing, that if we take a farthing from a thousand pounds, it will
be a thousand pounds no longer. I have been invited to a pawnbroker's
table, by pretending to hate gravy; and am now actually upon treaty of
marriage with a rich widow, for only having observed that the bread
was rising. If ever I am asked a question, whether I know it or not,
instead of answering, I only smile and look wise. If a charity is
proposed, I go about with the hat, but put nothing in myself. If a
wretch solicits my pity, I observe that the world is filled with
impostors, and take a certain method of not being deceived, by never
relieving. In short, I now find the truest way of finding esteem even
from the indigent, is _to give away nothing, and thus have much in our
power to give_."
_Goldsmith._
OLD MAIDS AND BACHELORS
Lately in company with my friend in black, whose conversation is now
both my amusement and instruction, I could not avoid observing the
great numbers of old bachelors and maiden ladies with which this city
seems to be over-run. "Sure marriage," said I, "is not sufficiently
encouraged, or we should never behold such crowds of battered beaux
and decayed coquettes still attempting to drive a trade they have been
so long unfit for, and swarming upon the gaiety of the age. I behold
an old bachelor in the most contemptible light, as an animal that
lives upon the common stock, without contributing his share: he is a
beast of prey, and the laws should make use of as many stratagems, and
as much force to drive the reluctant savage into the toils, as the
Indians when they hunt the rhinoceros. The mob should be permitted to
halloo after him, boys might play tricks on him with impunity, every
well-bred company should laugh at him, and if, when turned of sixty,
he offered to make love, his mistress might spit in his face, or, what
would be perhaps a greater punishment, should fairly grant the favour.
"As for old maids," continued I, "they should not be treated with so
much severity, because I suppose none would be so if they could. No
lady in her senses would choose to make a subordinate figure at
christenings and lyings-in, when she might be the principal herself;
nor curry favour with a sister-in-law, when she might command an
husband; nor toil in preparing custards, when she might lie a-bed and
give directions how they ought to be made; nor stifle all her
sensations in demure formality, when she might with matrimonial
freedom shake her acquaintance by the hand, and wink at a double
entendre. No lady could be so very silly as to live single, if she
could help it. I consider an unmarried lady declining into the vale of
years, as one of those charming countries bordering on China that lies
waste for want of proper inhabitants. We are not to accuse the
country, but the ignorance of its neighbours, who are insensible of
its beauties, though at liberty to enter and cultivate the soil."
"Indeed, sir," replied my companion, "you are very little acquainted
with the English ladies, to think they are old maids against their
will. I dare venture to affirm, that you can hardly select one of them
all but has had frequent offers of marriage, which either pride or
avarice has not made her reject. Instead of thinking it a disgrace,
they take every occasion to boast of their former cruelty; a soldier
does not exult more when he counts over the wounds he has received,
than a female veteran when she relates the wounds she has formerly
given: exhaustless when she begins a narrative of the former
death-dealing power of her eyes. She tells of the knight in gold lace,
who died with a single frown, and never rose again till--he was
married to his maid; of the squire, who being cruelly denied, in a
rage flew to the window, and lifting up the sash, threw himself in an
agony--into his arm chair; of the parson who, crossed in love,
resolutely swallowed opium, which banished the stings of despised love
by--making him sleep. In short, she talks over her former losses with
pleasure, and, like some tradesmen, finds some consolation in the many
bankruptcies she has suffered.
"For this reason, whenever I see a superannuated beauty still
unmarried, I tacitly accuse her either of pride, avarice, coquetry, or
affectation. There's Miss Jenny Tinderbox, I once remember her to have
had some beauty, and a moderate fortune. Her elder sister happened to
marry a man of quality, and this seemed as a statute of virginity
against poor Jane. Because there was one lucky hit in the family, she
was resolved not to disgrace it by introducing a tradesman. By thus
rejecting her equals, and neglected or despised by her superiors, she
now acts in the capacity of tutoress to her sister's children, and
undergoes the drudgery of three servants, without receiving the wages
of one.
"Miss Squeeze was a pawnbroker's daughter; her father had early taught
her that money was a very good thing, and left her a moderate fortune
at his death. She was so perfectly sensible of the value of what she
had got, that she was resolved never to part with a farthing without
an equality on the part of her suitor: she thus refused several offers
made her by people who wanted to better themselves, as the saying is;
and grew old and ill-natured, without ever considering that she should
have made an abatement in her pretensions, from her face being pale,
and marked with the small-pox.
"Lady Betty Tempest, on the contrary, had beauty, with fortune and
family. But fond of conquest, she passed from triumph to triumph; she
had read plays and romances, and there had learned that a plain man of
common sense was no better than a fool: such she refused, and sighed
only for the gay, giddy, inconstant, and thoughtless; after she had
thus rejected hundreds who liked her, and sighed for hundreds who
despised her, she found herself insensibly deserted: at present she is
company only for her aunts and cousins, and sometimes makes one in a
country-dance, with only one of the chairs for a partner, casts off
round a joint-stool, and sets to a corner-cupboard. In a word, she is
treated with civil contempt from every quarter, and placed, like a
piece of old-fashioned lumber, merely to fill up a corner.
"But Sophronia, the sagacious Sophronia, how shall I mention her? She
was taught to love Greek, and hate the men from her very infancy: she
has rejected fine gentlemen because they were not pedants, and pedants
because they were not fine gentlemen; her exquisite sensibility has
taught her to discover every fault in every lover, and her inflexible
justice has prevented her pardoning them: thus she rejected several
offers, till the wrinkles of age had overtaken her; and now, without
one good feature in her face, she talks incessantly of the beauties of
the mind."
_Goldsmith._
THE IMPORTANT TRIFLER
Though naturally pensive, yet I am fond of gay company, and take every
opportunity of thus dismissing the mind from duty. From this motive I
am often found in the centre of a crowd; and wherever pleasure is to
be sold, am always a purchaser. In those places, without being
remarked by any, I join in whatever goes forward, work my passions
into a similitude of frivolous earnestness, shout as they shout, and
condemn as they happen to disapprove. A mind thus sunk for a while
below its natural standard, is qualified for stronger flights, as
those first retire who would spring forward with greater vigour.
Attracted by the serenity of the evening, my friend and I lately went
to gaze upon the company in one of the public walks near the city.
Here we sauntered together for some time, either praising the beauty
of such as were handsome, or the dresses of such as had nothing else
to recommend them. We had gone thus deliberately forward for some
time, when stopping on a sudden, my friend caught me by the elbow, and
led me out of the public walk; I could perceive by the quickness of
his pace, and by his frequently looking behind, that he was attempting
to avoid somebody who followed; we now turned to the right, then to
the left; as we went forward he still went faster, but in vain; the
person whom he attempted to escape, hunted us through every doubling,
and gained upon us each moment; so that at last we fairly stood still,
resolving to face what we could not avoid.
Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with all the familiarity of an
old acquaintance. "My dear Drybone," cries he, shaking my friend's
hand, "where have you been hiding this half a century? Positively I
had fancied you were gone down to cultivate matrimony and your estate
in the country." During the reply, I had an opportunity of surveying
the appearance of our new companion; his hat was pinched up with
peculiar smartness; his looks were pale, thin, and sharp; round his
neck he wore a broad black ribbon, and in his bosom a buckle studded
with glass; his coat was trimmed with tarnished twist; he wore by his
side a sword with a black hilt, and his stockings of silk, though
newly washed, were grown yellow by long service. I was so much engaged
with the peculiarity of his dress, that I attended only to the latter
part of my friend's reply, in which he complimented Mr. Tibbs on the
taste of his clothes, and the bloom in his countenance: "Psha, psha,
Will," cried the figure, "no more of that if you love me, you know I
hate flattery, on my soul I do; and yet to be sure an intimacy with
the great will improve one's appearance, and a course of venison will
fatten; and yet faith I despise the great as much as you do; but there
are a great many damn'd honest fellows among them; and we must not
quarrel with one half, because the other wants weeding. If they were
all such as my Lord Muddler, one of the most good-natured creatures
that ever squeezed a lemon, I should myself be among the number of
their admirers. I was yesterday to dine at the Duchess of
Piccadilly's, my lord was there. Ned, says he to me, Ned, says he,
I'll hold gold to silver I can tell where you were poaching last
night. Poaching, my lord, says I; faith you have missed already; for I
staid at home, and let the girls poach for me. That's my way; I take a
fine woman as some animals do their prey; stand still, and swoop, they
fall into my mouth."
"Ah, Tibbs, thou art an happy fellow," cried my companion, with looks
of infinite pity, "I hope your fortune is as much improved as your
understanding in such company?"--"Improved," replied the other; "You
shall know,--but let it go no further,--a great secret--five hundred a
year to begin with.--My lord's word of honour for it--his lordship
took me down in his own chariot yesterday, and we had a tete-a-tete
dinner in the country; where we talked of nothing else."--"I fancy you
forget, sir," cried I, "you told us but this moment of your dining
yesterday in town!"--"Did I say so," replied he coolly, "to be sure if
I said so it was so--dined in town; egad now I do remember, I did dine
in town; but I dined in the country too; for you must know, my boys, I
eat two dinners. By the by, I am grown as nice as the devil in my
eating. I'll tell you a pleasant affair about that: We were a select
party of us to dine at Lady Grogram's, an affected piece, but let it
go no further; a secret: well, there happened to be no assafoetida in
the sauce to a turkey, upon which, says I, I'll hold a thousand
guineas, and say done first, that--but, dear Drybone, you are an
honest creature, lend me half-a-crown for a minute or two, or so, just
till--but hearkee, ask me for it the next time we meet, or it may be
twenty to one but I forget to pay you."
When he left us, our conversation naturally turned upon so
extraordinary a character. His very dress, cries my friend, is not
less extraordinary than his conduct. If you meet him this day you find
him in rags, if the next in embroidery. With those persons of
distinction, of whom he talks so familiarly, he has scarcely a
coffee-house acquaintance. However, both for the interests of society,
and perhaps for his own, heaven has made him poor, and while all the
world perceive his wants, he fancies them concealed from every eye. An
agreeable companion because he understands flattery, and all must be
pleased with the first part of his conversation, though all are sure
of its ending with a demand on their purse. While his youth
countenances the levity of his conduct, he may thus earn a precarious
subsistence, but when age comes on, the gravity of which is
incompatible with buffoonery, then will he find himself forsaken by
all. Condemned in the decline of life to hang upon some rich family
whom he once despised, there to undergo all the ingenuity of studied
contempt, to be employed only as a spy upon the servants, or a
bug-bear to frighten the children into obedience.
_Goldsmith._
THE TRIFLER'S HOUSEHOLD
I am apt to fancy I have contracted a new acquaintance whom it will be
no easy matter to shake off. My little beau yesterday overtook me
again in one of the public walks, and slapping me on the shoulder,
saluted me with an air of the most perfect familiarity. His dress was
the same as usual, except that he had more powder in his hair, wore a
dirtier shirt, a pair of temple spectacles, and his hat under his arm.
As I knew him to be an harmless amusing little thing, I could not
return his smiles with any degree of severity; so we walked forward on
terms of the utmost intimacy, and in a few minutes discussed all the
usual topics preliminary to particular conversation.
The oddities that marked his character, however, soon began to appear;
he bowed to several well-dressed persons, who, by their manner of
returning the compliment, appeared perfect strangers. At intervals he
drew out a pocket-book, seeming to take memorandums before all the
company, with much importance and assiduity. In this manner he led me
through the length of the whole walk, fretting at his absurdities, and
fancying myself laughed at not less than him by every spectator.
When we were got to the end of our procession, "Blast me," cries he,
with an air of vivacity, "I never saw the park so thin in my life
before; there's no company at all to-day. Not a single face to be
seen."--"No company," interrupted I peevishly; "no company where there
is such a crowd; why man, there's too much. What are the thousands
that have been laughing at us but company!"--"Lard my dear," returned
he, with the utmost good-humour, "you seem immensely chagrined; but
blast me, when the world laughs at me, I laugh at all the world, and
so we are even. My Lord Trip, Bill Squash, the Creolian, and I,
sometimes make a party at being ridiculous; and so we say and do a
thousand things for the joke. But I see you are grave, and if you are
for a fine grave sentimental companion, you shall dine with me and my
wife to-day, I must insist on't; I'll introduce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a
lady of as elegant qualifications as any in nature; she was bred, but
that's between ourselves, under the inspection of the Countess of
All-night. A charming body of voice, but no more of that, she will
give us a song. You shall see my little girl too, Carolina Wilhelma
Amelia Tibbs, a sweet pretty creature: I design her for my Lord
Drumstick's eldest son, but that's in friendship, let it go no
further; she's but six years old, and yet she walks a minuet, and
plays on the guitar immensely already. I intend she shall be as
perfect as possible in every accomplishment. In the first place I'll
make her a scholar; I'll teach her Greek myself, and learn that
language purposely to instruct her; but let that be a secret."
Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he took me by the arm, and
hauled me along. We passed through many dark alleys and winding ways;
for, from some motives to me unknown, he seemed to have a particular
aversion to every frequented street; at last, however, we got to the
door of a dismal looking house in the outlets of the town, where he
informed me he chose to reside for the benefit of the air.
We entered the lower door, which ever seemed to lie most hospitably
open; and I began to ascend an old and creaking stair-case, when, as
he mounted to show me the way, he demanded, whether I delighted in
prospects, to which answering in the affirmative, "Then," says he, "I
shall show you one of the most charming in the world out of my
windows; we shall see the ships sailing, and the whole country for
twenty miles round, tip top, quite high. My Lord Swamp would give ten
thousand guineas for such a one; but as I sometimes pleasantly tell
him, I always love to keep my prospects at home, that my friends may
see me the oftener."
By this time we were arrived as high as the stairs would permit us to
ascend, till we came to what he was facetiously pleased to call the
first floor down the chimney; and knocking at the door, a voice from
within demanded, who's there? My conductor answered, that it was him.
But this not satisfying the querist, the voice again repeated the
demand: to which he answered louder than before; and now the door was
opened by an old woman with cautious reluctance.
When we were got in, he welcomed me to his house with great ceremony,
and turning to the old woman, asked where was her lady? "Good troth,"
replied she, in a peculiar dialect, "she's washing your two shirts at
the next door, because they have taken an oath against lending out the
tub any longer."--"My two shirts," cries he in a tone that faultered
with confusion, "what does the idiot mean!"--"I ken what I mean well
enough," replied the other, "she's washing your two shirts at the next
door, because----"--"Fire and fury, no more of thy stupid
explanations," cried he,--"Go and inform her we have got company. Were
that Scotch hag to be for ever in the family, she would never learn
politeness, nor forget that absurd poisonous accent of hers, or
testify the smallest specimen of breeding or high life; and yet it is
very surprising too, as I had her from a parliament-man, a friend of
mine, from the highlands, one of the politest men in the world; but
that's a secret."
We waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs's arrival, during which interval I
had a full opportunity of surveying the chamber and all its furniture;
which consisted of four chairs with old wrought bottoms, that he
assured me were his wife's embroidery; a square table that had been
once japanned, a cradle in one corner, a lumbering cabinet in the
other; a broken shepherdess, and a mandarine without a head were stuck
over the chimney; and round the walls several paltry, unframed
pictures, which he observed, were all his own drawing: "What do you
think, sir, of that head in a corner, done in the manner of Grisoni?
there's the true keeping in it; it's my own face, and though there
happens to be no likeness, a countess offered me an hundred for its
fellow; I refused her, for, hang it, that would be mechanical, you
know."
The wife at last made her appearance, at once a slattern and a coquet;
much emaciated, but still carrying the remains of beauty. She made
twenty apologies for being seen in such odious dishabille, but hoped
to be excused, as she had staid out all night at the gardens with the
countess, who was excessively fond of the horns. "And, indeed, my
dear," added she, turning to her husband, "his lordship drank your
health in a bumper."--"Poor Jack," cries he, "a dear good-natured
creature, I know he loves me; but I hope, my dear, you have given
orders for dinner; you need make no great preparations neither, there
are but three of us, something elegant, and little will do; a turbot,
an ortolan, or a----" "Or what do you think, my dear," interrupts the
wife, "of a nice pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with
a little of my own sauce."--"The very thing," replies he, "it will eat
best with some smart bottled beer; but be sure to let's have the sauce
his grace was so fond of. I hate your immense loads of meat, that is
country all over; extreme disgusting to those who are in the least
acquainted with high life."
By this time my curiosity began to abate, and my appetite to increase;
the company of fools may at first make us smile, but at last never
fails of rendering us melancholy; I therefore pretended to recollect a
prior engagement, and after having shown my respect to the house,
according to the fashion of the English, by giving the old servant a
piece of money at the door, I took my leave; Mr. Tibbs assuring me
that dinner, if I staid, would be ready at least in less than two
hours.
_Goldsmith._
WESTMINSTER HALL
I had some intentions lately of going to visit Bedlam, the place where
those who go mad are confined. I went to wait upon the man in black to
be my conductor; but I found him preparing to go to Westminster Hall,
where the English hold their courts of justice. It gave me some
surprise to find my friend engaged in a law-suit, but more so, when he
informed me that it had been depending for several years. "How is it
possible," cried I, "for a man who knows the world to go to law? I am
well acquainted with the courts of justice in China; they resemble
rat-traps every one of them; nothing more easy than to get in, but to
get out again is attended with some difficulty, and more cunning than
rats are generally found to possess!"
"Faith," replied my friend, "I should not have gone to law, but that I
was assured of success before I began; things were presented to me in
so alluring a light, that I thought by barely declaring myself a
candidate for the prize, I had nothing more to do than to enjoy the
fruits of the victory. Thus have I been upon the eve of an imaginary
triumph every term these ten years; have travelled forward with
victory ever in my view, but ever out of reach; however, at present I
fancy we have hampered our antagonist in such a manner, that without
some unforeseen demur, we shall this day lay him fairly on his back."
"If things be so situated," said I, "I do not care if I attend you to
the courts, and partake in the pleasure of your success. But prithee,"
continued I, as we set forward, "what reasons have you to think an
affair at last concluded, which has given so many former
disappointments?"--"My lawyer tells me," returned he, "that I have
Salkeld and Ventris strong in my favour, and that there are no less
than fifteen cases in point."--"I understand," said I, "those are two
of your judges who have already declared their opinions."--"Pardon
me," replied my friend, "Salkeld and Ventris are lawyers who some
hundred years ago gave their opinions on cases similar to mine; these
opinions which make for me my lawyer is to cite, and those opinions
which look another way are cited by the lawyer employed by my
antagonist; as I observed, I have Salkeld and Ventris for me, he has
Coke and Hale for him, and he that has most opinions is most likely to
carry his cause."--"But where is the necessity," cried I, "of
prolonging a suit by citing the opinions and reports of others, since
the same good sense which determined lawyers in former ages may serve
to guide your judges at this day? They at that time gave their
opinions only from the light of reason; your judges have the same
light at present to direct them, let me even add a greater, as in
former ages there were many prejudices from which the present is
happily free. If arguing from authorities be exploded from every other
branch of learning, why should it be particularly adhered to in this?
I plainly foresee how such a method of investigation must embarrass
every suit, and even perplex the student; ceremonies will be
multiplied, formalities must increase, and more time will thus be
spent in learning the arts of litigation than in the discovery of
right."
"I see," cries my friend, "that you are for a speedy administration of
justice; but all the world will grant that the more time that is taken
up in considering any subject the better it will be understood.
Besides, it is the boast of an Englishman, that his property is
secure, and all the world will grant that a deliberate administration
of justice is the best way to _secure his property_. Why have we so
many lawyers, but _to secure our property_? why so many formalities,
but _to secure our property_? Not less than one hundred thousand
families live in opulence, elegance, and ease, merely by _securing our
property_."
"To embarrass justice," returned I, "by a multiplicity of laws, or to
hazard it by a confidence in our judges, are, I grant, the opposite
rocks on which legislative wisdom has ever split; in one case the
client resembles that emperor, who is said to have been suffocated by
the bed-clothes, which were only designed to keep him warm: in the
other, to that town which let the enemy take possession of its walls,
in order to show the world how little they depended upon aught but
courage for safety:----But, bless me, what numbers do I see here--all
in black--how is it possible that half this multitude find
employment?"--"Nothing so easily conceived," returned my companion,
"they live by watching each other. For instance, the catchpole watches
the man in debt; the attorney watches the catchpole; the counsellor
watches the attorney; the solicitor the counsellor; and all find
sufficient employment." "I conceive you," interrupted I, "they watch
each other; but it is the client that pays them all for watching: it
puts me in mind of a Chinese fable, which is intituled, 'Five animals
at a meal.'
"A grasshopper, filled with dew, was merrily singing under a shade; a
whangam, that eats grasshoppers, had marked it for its prey, and was
just stretching forth to devour it; a serpent, that had for a long
time fed only on whangams, was coiled up to fasten on the whangam; a
yellow bird was just upon the wing to dart upon the serpent; a hawk
had just stooped from above to seize the yellow bird; all were intent
on their prey, and unmindful of their danger: so the whangam eat the
grasshopper, the serpent eat the whangam, the yellow bird the serpent,
and the hawk the yellow bird; when sousing from on high, a vulture
gobbled up the hawk, grasshopper, whangam, and all in a moment."
I had scarcely finished my fable, when the lawyer came to inform my
friend that his cause was put off till another term, that money was
wanted to retain, and that all the world was of opinion that the very
next hearing would bring him off victorious. "If so, then," cries my
friend, "I believe it will be my wisest way to continue the cause for
another term, and, in the mean time, my friend here and I will go and
see Bedlam."
_Goldsmith._
THE LITTLE BEAU
I lately received a visit from the little beau, who I found had
assumed a new flow of spirits with a new suit of clothes. Our
discourse happened to turn upon the different treatment of the fair
sex here and in Asia, with the influence of beauty in refining our
manners and improving our conversation.
I soon perceived he was strongly prejudiced in favour of the Asiatic
method of treating the sex, and that it was impossible to persuade
him, but that a man was happier who had four wives at his command,
than he who had only one. "It is true," cries he, "your men of fashion
in the East are slaves, and under some terrors of having their throats
squeezed by a bow-string; but what then? they can find ample
consolation in a seraglio; they make indeed an indifferent figure in
conversation abroad, but t
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