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THE     l'[(()SK 

ri,'(jsic  wjjiTi:  us  or  i.i.ii  \  in 

i|Xi(ri;i;lI:    Al>s\l    AV|>   rHAIiU'S 

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BY   ROB  EAT-  D-MAUS,    M.A, 





J/^.     C  ,  /^. 


The  unexampled  fertility  of  the  press  in  our  day 
naturally  tends  to  throw  into  obscurity  the  literary 
productions  of  former  generations.  The  few  and  brief 
intervals  of  leisure  which  can  be  rescued  from  the 
busy  avocations  of  JifeH-f^r^the  study  of  literature, 
scarcely  suffice  for't^Q:acqtij^^;^n  of  such  an  acquaint- 
ance with  the  woa:kft.i^f  c6h1^%i^  authors  as  every 
intelligent  man  iSJ'expected  tp  ^possess.  The  scholar 
and  the  professed  »an  of  lettjEirs  must  indeed  aspire 
to  something  more  J '  {xdwi  them  we  demand  that 
knowledge  of  the  whole  field  of  English  literature, 
without  which  it  is  impossible  to  form  any  well- 
grounded  estimate  of  the  literary  progress  of  our 
country,  or  of  the  value  of  the  contributions  which 
the  present  era  has  made  to  the  literary  wealth  of 
the  nation.  But  to  the  great  majority  of  the  reading 
public,  the  study  of  our  older  literature  has  now  be- 
come an  almost  impracticable  pursuit.  Not  that 
there  is  any  want  of  appreciation  of  those  literary 
masterpieces  which  so  many  ages  have  agreed  to 
admire.  Never  were  the  merits  of  the  great  writers 
of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  more 


freely  admitted  than  they  are  by  all  the  critical  au- 
thorities of  the  present  day ;  but  when  the  time 
available  for  reading  is  so  inadequate  to  meet  all  the 
demandsi  upon  it,  it  is  only  a  natural  result  that  our 
attention  should  be  wholly  engrossed  with  the  litera- 
ture of  our  own  day,  and  that  works  of  an  older 
date,  however  worthy  of  perusal,  should  in  general 
remain  unread. 

Such  a  work  as  the  piresent  seems  to  offer  the  best 
means  of  extricating  ourselves  from  the  embarrass- 
ment in  which  the  very  superabundance  of  our  literary 
treasures  has  involved  us.  A  series  of  well-selected  ex- 
tracts, from  the  writings  of  the  most  important  authors 
in  every  form  of  prose  composition — from  the  earliest 
period  when  the  language  is  intelligible  to  an  ordinary 
reader,  down  to  the  present  time — seems,  beyond  any 
doubt,  the  best  substitute  for  that  actual  perusal  of 
the  great  body  of  our  literature,  from  which,  in  our 
present  circumstances,  the  majority  of  readers  are 
precluded.  To  furnish  such  a  series  of  extracts  has 
been  the  Editor's  aim  in  his  present  work.  Where 
the  field  is  so  extensive,  the  labour  of  selection  is  in 
a  corresponding  degree  difficult;  the  extracts,  how- 
ever, have  been  selected  with  the  greatest  care  ;  and 
while  it  would  be  presumption  to  assert  that  no 
better  could  be  procured,  it  is  hoped  they  will  be 
found  sufficient  to  give  the  reader  a  just  and  compre- 
hensive idea  of  the  characteristic  peculiarities  of  our 
prose  literature  at  every  period  of  our  history.  To 
disinter  the  works  of  forgotten  authors,  little  esteemed 
by  their  contemporaries,  and  long  consigned  to 
oblivion,  was  no  part  of  the  Editor's  intention.     His 


design  has  been  to  present  within  a  brief  compass 
specimens  of  the  prose  literature  in  general  circula- 
tion am,ong  us  during  the  last  three  centuries.  To 
accomplish  this  design  it  was  manifestly  necessary 
that  the  illustrative  extracts  should  be  selected  from 
a  wide  circle  of  authors,  and  accordingly  writers 
of  every  class  have  been  laid  under  contribution  : 
divines,  historians,  critics,  moralists,  travellers,  novel- 
ists, politicians,  and  philosophers,  writers  who  pre- 
pared carefully  for  the  press,  and  writers  whose  manu- 
scripts  were  not  intended  for  the  public  eye.  Strictly 
scientific  subjects  have  of  course  been  excluded,  and 
nothing  indelicate  has  been  inserted.  But  with  these 
exceptions,  every  department  of  prose  composition 
will,  it  is  believed,  be  found  represented  in  the 
foUowiug  pages.  No  political  or  religious  prejudices 
have  been  allowed  to  interfere  with  the  selection  of 
the  authors.  Churchmen  high  and  low,  Dissenters 
of  various  denominations,  and  politicians  of  all  parties, 
have  been  inserted,  and  are  permitted  to  give  ex- 
pression in  their  own  words  to  their  peculiar  opinions. 
A  glance  at  the  table  of  contents  will  show  that 
extracts  have  been  made  from  the  works  of  nearly  a 
hundred  of  our  chief  prose  writers,  embracing  many 
of  the  most  famous  passages  in  our  language. 

That  nothing  may  be  wanting  to  render  the  pre- 
sent work  a  complete  introduction  to  English  prose 
literature,  a  historical  sketch  has  been  prefixed  to 
each  of  the  four  periods  under  which  the  extracts 
have  been  ranged,  giving  a  plain  and  concise  view 
of  the  progress  of  our  literature  from  the  earliest 


times  to  the  present  day.  The  Editor  has  also  sup- 
plied biographical  notices  of  the  authors  from  whose 
works  selections  have  been  made  ;  and  as  these  have 
been  compiled  from  the  best  authorities,  and  are 
accompanied  with  a  brief  critical  estimate  of  the 
merits  of  the  writers'  works,  it  is  expected  that  they 
will  prove  highly  serviceable  to  the  reader.  Passages 
which,  from  their  obscurity  or  any  other  cause,  might 
be  uninteresting  or  repulsive,  have  been  avoided  ;  but 
where  any  difficulty  occurs  in  the  extracts  that  have 
been  inserted,  it  has  been  explained  in  a  note.  Most 
readers  look  upon  numerous  and  learned  notes  as  a 
mere  incumbrance,  and  the  Editor  has  accordiugly 
made  his  notes  as  few  and  brief  as  would  consist 
with  the  accomplishment  of  the  object  he  had  in 
view.  With  the  same  design  of  removing  every 
obstacle  that  might  impede  the  reader's  progress,  the 
uncouth  and  irregular  orthography  of  our  older 
authors,  so  precious  in  the  eyes  of  the  literary  anti- 
quarian, has  been  reduced  to  a  modem  standard. 
Obsolete  words,  however,  and  peculiar  inflections, 
which  mark  the  epochs  in  the  history  of  the  gradual 
refinement  of  our  language,  have  been  carefully  re- 
tained, the  reader  being  referred  for  an  explanation 
of  them  to  the  illustrative  notes  which  accompany 
the  passage  where  they  occur. 

The  advantages  which  may  be  derived  from  the 
perusal  of  a  series  of  literary  extracts,  chronologi- 
cally arranged,  are  tpo  obvious  to  need  to  be  enforced 
at  length.  Thus  only  can  we  trace  with  accuracy  the 
gradual  progress  of  opinion,  and  the  rise,  development, 
and  fluctuations  of  great  principles  among  us.     It  is 


interesting  and  highly  instructive,  for  example,  to 
mark  the  contrast  between  the  crude,  social  views 
of  Sir  Thomas  More,  as  stated  in  the  extracts  given 
from  his  "  Utopia,"  and  the  philosophical  teachings  of 
modem  political  science,  as  expounded  in  the  selec- 
tions from  Gibbon,  Adam  Smith,  and  Whately.  The 
period  when  the  sermons  of  Latimer  were  those  best 
suited  to  the  exigencies  of  the  age,  und  the  period 
when  Chalmers  was  the  great  pulpit-orator  of  the  day, 
are  separated  by  other  intervals  besides  that  of  time ; 
and  how  varied  and  significant  are  the  lessons  which 
the  comj)arison  unavoidably  suggests.  If  it  were 
necessary  to  adduce  any  proof  of  the  advantages  which 
the  general  diflFusion  of  education  and  the  universal 
circulation  of  literature  have  conferred  upon  the  pre- 
sent generation,  nothing  could  more  conspicuously 
display  our  superiority  than  a  comparison  between  the 
idle,  ignorant  gossip  of  our  earliest  traveller,  Mande- 
ville,  and  the  careful  research  and  universal  accom- 
plishments of  Layard.  Of  all  prose  writings,  the 
works  of  travellers  aim  most  at  immediate  popularity, 
and  are  the  surest  index  of  the  mental  cultivation  of 
the  era  which  produces  them;  and  without  unduly 
exaggerating  the  progress  which  the  general  mind  of 
the  country  has  made,  it  will  at  all  events  be  admitted, 
that  the  time  has  long  gone  by  when  any  traveller 
could  so  far  presume  upon  the  unlimited  credulity  of 
his  readers  as  to  assure  them  (as  Mandeville  has 
done),  that  "  if  a  man  cast  iron  into  the  Dead  Sea  it 
will  float  on  the  surface ;  but  if  men  cast  a  feather 
therein  it  will  sink  to  the  bottom/' 

It  would  indeed  argue  unpardonable  ignorance  to 


maintain,  in  a  volume  which  contains  extracts  from 
the  writings  of  Bacon,  and  Taylor,  and  Hall,  that  the 
progress  of  knowledge  has  enlarged  the  capacity  of 
the  human  mind.  Q-enius  is  the  same  in  all  ages ;  and 
writers  in  the  rudest  times,  as  well  as  those  of  a  more 
polished  and  enlightened  era,  have  reached  those  limits 
beyond  which  the  faculties  of  the  human  soul  seem 
unable  to  penetrate.  It  is,  however,  equally  undeniable, 
that  in  such  .a  work  as  the  present  we  may  trace  the 
gradual  elevation  of  the  general  mind  of  the  com- 
munity as  knowledge  is  more  generally  diffused ;  a 
result  which,  while  it  enables  us  to  look  back  on  the 
past  with  pleasure  and  gratitude,  warrants  us  to  look 
forward  to  the  future  with  hope. 

One  source  of  regret  has  occasionally  mingled  with 
the  compilation  of  the  present  work.  The  limits 
within  which,  for  obvious  reasons,  it  has  been  con- 
fined, rendered  it  necessary  not  only  to  omit  many 
authors  worthy  to  find  a  place  in  any  extensive  collec- 
tion of  English  literature,  but,  even  in  the  works  from 
which  selections  have  been  made,  to  pass  over  many 
passages  of  the  highest  merit.  Such  as  it  is,  however, 
the  Editor  hopes  it  will  be  found  an  acceptable  boon 
to  the  generality  of  readers ;  and  he  confidently  be- 
lieves that  those  who  are  best  acquainted  with  our 
literature  will  be  the  most  willing  to  receive  with  in- 
dulgence any  attempt  to  diffuse  more  generally  a 
relish  for  a  pursuit  which  has  been  to  them  an  unfail- 
ing source  of  pleasure  and  instruction. 


Intboductobt  Noticb 


Pebiod  I. — ^This  period  extends  from  the  time  of  Chancer  to  that 
of  Shakspere,  or  from  the  reign  of  Bichard  II.  to  near  the  close  of 
that  of  Elizabeth.  It  is  characterised  by  a  genera]  rudeness  and 
want  of  polish,  both  in  the  language  and  the  thought ;  redeemed, 
boweyer,  by  many  good  features,  which  gave  promise  of  the  future 
excellence  of  our  literature. 


Geoffrey  Ghanoer, 

born  1328,  died  1400 
On  the  Choice  of  Friends 



Sir  John  MaundeTllle, 

TK>m  1833,  died  1883  ?  .  16 

The  Dead  Sea  ...  16 
Of  the  Country  where  Pepper  Growi^ 

and  the  WeU  of  Toiith  .  17 

Of  the  Great  Chan  of  Cathay       .  18 

Sir  Thomas  More, 

bom  1480,  beheaded  U86      .  80 

Description  of  Utopia        .          .  31 

Occupations  of  the  Utopians  .  38 
General  View  of  the  Happiness  of  the 

Utopians          .           .           .  3ff 

Wynkyn  de  Worde. 

Anthor  unknown:  the  printer 
Wynkyn  de  Worde  flourished 
in  the  beginning  of  the  six- 
teenth century         .  .       27 
The  Profits  of  Tribulation             .       27 

Bishop  latimer, 

bom  probably  1490,  martyred  1665  28 
Against  Bribery  and  Corruption  in 

Judges  .  .  .29 

Against  Covetousness        .  .       80 

The  Deril  a  Diligent  Preacher  81 



Soger  Ascham, 

bom  1616,  died  1668  .  .  83 

Occupations  should  be  suited  to  Men's 

Faculties  .  .  88 

Anecdote  of  Lady  Jane  Grey  84 

John  Knox, 

bom  1606,  died  1673  .  .       86 

The  Downcasting  of  the  Friars  in 

Perth    .  .  .  .86 

Dispute  between  Knox  and  Lethlng- 

ton        .  .  .  .88 

John  Fox, 

bora  1617,  died  1687  .  .       41 

LUb  and  Story  of  Bishop  Ridley  .       41 
Martyrdom  of  Bishop  Ridley        .       48 

Bishop  Jewel, 

bom  1633,  died  1671   .  .       46 

Claim  to  Antiquity  made  by  the  Ro- 
man Catholics  .  .       47 

Baphael  Holinshed  and  William 

HoUnshed  died  1683    .  .  48 

Of  the  Apparel  and  Attire  of  the 

English  ...  49 

Of  the  General  Constitution  of  the 

Bodies  of  the  Britons  .  .  61 

Story  of  Canute  and  his  Courtiers  63 



Hobort  0r60]i6« 

bora  1560,  died  U92 
Fortltode  in  Adversity 



Robert  Soutliwell, 

bom  1560,  execated  1595 
Sabmlssion  to  Death 


Period  II. — This  period  extends  from  the  time  of  Shakspere  to 
that  of  Pope,  or  from  the  end  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  to  the  acces- 
sion of  Anne.  The  literature  of  this  period  is  distinguished  by  its 
earnestness,  grandeur  of  thought,  and  dignity  of  language ;  it  em- 
braces most  of  the  greatest  names  in  our  literary  annals. 

Historical  Sketch  ; 

Blohard  Hooker, 

bom  probably  in  1558,  died  leOO  68 
An  Exhortation  to  Candoor  and  Mo- 
deration          •          .          .68 
Introduction  to  Ecdeaiaetiod  Polity; 

KatareofLaw.                     .  70 

Saperstltion  and  its  Two  Canaea  .  73 
Defence  of  the  English  Service  a^^ainat 

the  Paritans     .           .           .  74 

The  Psalnu  and  Chorch  Mosic     .  75 

Lord  Bacon, 

bom  1561,  died  1626  .  .       76 

Of  Boldness  ...       77 

OfDelajrs     .  .  .  .78 

Of  Studies    ....        79 

Interpretation  of  the  Fable  of  Pan       80 

From  the  Advancement  of  Learning — 

Of  Unprofitable  Subtlety  .       83 

Deference  to  Great  Names        .       84 

Antiquity  .  .  .       84 

Mistalies  as  to  the  True  End  of 

Learning         .  .  .       84 

Dignity  of  Learning      .  .       85 

Sir  Walter  Saleigh, 

bom  1552,  beheaded  1618  .  85 
That  Man  is  a  Little  World  .       86 

Of  the  PJeasantest  Habitations  under 

the  Equinoctial  .  .       88 

Of  the  Indian  Fig-tree       .  .       89 

The  Transitory  Nature  of  Human 

Happiness        .  .  .90 

William  Chillingworth, 

bom  1602,  died  1644   .  .  91 

That  it  is  Easier  to  Understand  Scrip- 
ture than  the  Councils  of  the 

Church  ...  91 

Against  Intolerance  .  .  94 

The  Religion  of  Protestants  .  94 

Sir  William  Dmmmond, 

bom  1585,  died  1649   .  95 

Death  ....       96 

Bishop  Hall, 

bom  1574,  died  1656  .  .       98 

The  Male-Content  ...       99 
The  Slothful  .  .  .100 

How  to  Spend  our  Days    .  .     102 

Occasional  Meditations      .  . 

Shimei*s  Cursing    .  .  . 

John  Hilton, 

bom  1608,  died  1674  . 
From  the  Areopagitlca— 
Value  of  a  Book  . 
Difficulty  of  Enforcing  a  licensing 

Evil  Effects  of  Licensing  in  Sup- 
pressing Inquiry 
Opinion  of  Milton  in  his  Later  Years 

Milton's  Personal  Appearance 

Thomas  Hbbhes, 

bom  1588,  died  1679  . 

Necessity  of  Precision  in  Ushig  Lan- 
guage  .... 

Natural  State  of  Man  one  of  War 

Natural  Laws— Nature  of  a  Common- 
wealth .... 

Comparison  of  the  Papacy  with  the 
Elingdom  of  Fairies     . 












Jeremy  Taylor, 

bom  1618,  died  1667  . 
Considerations  of  the  Vanity  and 

Shortness  of  Man's  Lifb 
Of  Gontentedness  in  Poverty        . 
Prayer  hindered  by  Anger  • 

Prayer  never  out  of  Seaison 
Marriage     .... 
Folly  of  Sin 
A  Good  Man  the  only  Trae  Friend 

Thomas  Fuller, 

bora  1608,  died  1661    . 
The  Gtood  Yeoman 
The  Faitlifnl  Minister 
OfBooks      .... 
Life  of  Gustavus  Adolphus 
Martyrdom  of  Ridley 

Abraham  Ck»wley, 

bom  1618,  died  1667  . 
Cromwell's  Government  . 
Essay  on  Solitude  . 

Sir  Thomas  Browne, 

bom  1605,  died  1683   . 








From  the  Belifrlo  Medici    . 

Wooden  of  Nature 


Man's  BodT 

Of  the  End  of  the  World 
From  the  Hydrlotaphia     . 

Lord  Clarendon, 

born  1608,  died  1674    . 
Character  of  Hampden 
Battle  of  Dunbar 
Adventures  of  Charles  XL  after  the 


Battle  of  Worcester     . 

Jolm  Bimyan, 

born  1628,  died  1688  . 
Christian  at  the  Cross 
Christian  climbs  the  hiU  Difficulty 

Owen  Fellfham, 

date  of  birth  and  death  unlcnown 
Of  Truth  and  Bitterness  in  Jest    . 
Of  Reconciling  Enemies    . 
OfLaw        .... 

■re  Hntohinaon, 

bom  1620 

Character  of  Charles  L 

Origin  of  the  name  Roundhead    . 

Hutchinson's  Intenrlevwith  Crom- 
well      .... 

Character  of  Cromwell's  OoTern- 
ment     .... 

Inak  Walton, 

bom  1598,  died  1683   . 
On  Thankfiilness     . 
Praise  of  Song  Birds, 

leaae  Barrow, 

bom  1680.  died  1677    . 
Benefits  of  Wisdom 
Government  of  the  Tongue 

Samnel  Pepye, 

bom  1682,  died  1708    . 
Description  of  the  Fire  in  London 












The  Appearance  of  the  Dutch  Fleet 

In  the  Thames            .  182 

Biohard  Baxter, 

bom  1616,  died  1691    .           .  188 
Vanity  of  Ki^owledge         .           .184 

Baxter's  Opitiion  of  the  Covenant  186 

The  Joy  of  the  Saints'  Rest          .  188 

ArchbiBhop  Tilloteon, 

bom  1630,  died  1694    .           .  189 

Imprudence  of  Atheism     .           .  190 

On  being  Diligent  in  our  Calling  191 

On  Troth  and  Integrity     .           .  193 

John  Looke, 

bom  1632,  died  1704    .           .  194 

Of  the  Origin  of  our  Ideas            .  196 

Toleration  ....  196 
Duty  of  the  Magistrate  In  reference 

to  Toleration    .  .  .198 

John  Evelyn, 

bora  1620,  died  1706    .  199 

Character  of  Charles  II.     .  200 

Trial  of  Lord  Stafford         .          .  201 

Sir  William  Temple, 

bom  1628,  died  1699    .           .  208 

Character  of  the  English   .  204 

Praises  of  Poetry  and  Music  206 
Comparison  of  Ancient  and  Modem 

Learning          .          .  206 

Biahop  Bnmet, 

bom  1643,  died  1716    . 
The  Massacro  of  Glencoe    . 
On  the  proper  Conduct  of  Princes 
Character  of  William  of  Orange    . 

John  Bryden, 

bom  1681,  died  1700  . 
Comparison  of  Virgil  and  Homer 
Chaucer       .  .  .  . 

Shakspero  and  Ben  Jonson 

Bobert  South, 

Dom  1038,  died  1714  . 
Power  of  y^mes 
Man  beforo  £he  Fall 






Period  III. — Tliis  period  extends  from  the  time  of  Pope  to  that 
of  Cowper,  or  from  the  accession  of  Anne  to  the  breaking  out  of  the 
French  Revolution.  The  writers  of  this  period,  while  inferior  in  dig- 
nity and  earnestness  to  their  predecessors,  were  more  attentive  to 
regularity  in  composition,  correctness  in  language,  and  vivacity  in 
style.    To  this  period  belong  our  greatest  historians. 

HiSTOBiCAL  Sketch 


Joseph  Addiion, 

born  1672,  died  1719    .  .      240 

Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  at  the  Assizes  240 
The  Works  of  Creation      .  .      243 

The  Mountain  of  Miseries  .  .      244 

The  Political  Upholsterer  .  .     246 

Sir  Siohard  Steele, 

bom  1675,  died  1729    .  .  249 

On  Tedions  Story-tellers    .  .  249 

The  Story  of  Inkle  and  Yarioo  .  251 

Flattering  Companions      .  .  253 

Lord  Shaftesbury, 

bom  1671,  died  1718    .  .      254 

The  Deity  unfolded  in  His  Works       255 

Jonathan  Swift, 

bom  1667,  died  1745    .  .  258 

Diversions  at  the  Court  of  LUIiput  259 

The  Academy  of  Sciences  at  Lagado  260 

The  Spider  and  the  Bee     .  .  263 

Daniel  Defoe, 

bom  1663,  died  1731    .  266 

Incident  during  the  Plague  in  Lon- 
don      ....      267 
Robhisoa  Crasoe^s  Difficulties  with 
his  Harvest      .  .  .269 

Alexander  Pope, 

bom  1688,  died  1744   .  .      271 

Education  of  Martlnus  Scriblerus        272 
On  Cracdty  to  Animals       .  .      274 

Description  of  an  Old  Country-house  276 

Lord  Bolinghroke, 

bom  1678,  died  1751    .  .  279 

The  Study  of  Natural  Philosophy  .  279 

Disregard  ofTmth  in  Controversy  280 

The  Patriot  King    .  .  281 

Bishop  Berkeley, 

bom  1684,  died  1758   .  .      288 

Superior  Morality  of  Christian  Coun- 
tries     ....      284 
Reflections  on  the  General  Corrup- 
tion of  Morals  in  Britain        .     286 

Bishop  Butler, 

bora  1692,  died  1752   .  .      286 

Of  the  Govemment  of  God  by  Re- 
wards and  Punishments  287 
Of  Bridling  the  Tongue                .      290 


Henry  Fielding, 

bom  1707,  died  1754    .  .      292 

The  Disasters  which  befell  Jones  on 

his  Departure  for  Coventry    .      298 
Adventure  of  Jones  with  a  High- 
wayman .  .  .295 

Laurence  Sterne, 

bom  1718,  died  1768    .  .      297 

Uncle  Toby  and  his  Miniature  Sieges  297 
The  Dead  Ass         .  .  .299 

The  Supper  at  the  French  Cottage  801 
The  Monk    .  .  .  .802 

Tobias  Smollett, 

bom  1721,  died  17n    .  .      804 

Roderick    Random's    Progress    at 

School  .  .  .  .805 

Roderick's  Adventure  with  a  Sharper 

in  London        .  .  .     306 

Oliver  Goldsmith, 

bom  1728,  died  1774  .  .  308 
Vanity  of  Popular  Fame  .  .  309 
On  tiie  Increased  Love  of  Life  with 

Age  .  .  .311 

Moses  at  the  Fair  .  .  .313 

David  Hume, 

bom  1711,  died  1776    .  815 

Execution  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  316 
Manners  during  the  Reign^  of  James 

I.  .  .  •  •      818 

Character  of  Queen  Elizabeth       .      820 
Refinement   Favourable  to  Happi- 
ness and  Virtue  .  .      322 

Dr  Johnson, 

bom  1709,  died  1784   .  .  824 

General  Prevalence  of  Discontent  825 

A  Disquisition  upon  Greatness     .  327 

Religious  Use  of  Retirement  .  828 
Tlie   Reverence   paid    to  Ancient 

Writers 330 

Comparison  of  Dryden  and  Pope  .  o32 

The  Inequality  of  Mankind  .  334 

Dr  Bohertson, 

bom  1721,  died  1793    . 
Voyage  of  Columbus  to  America 
Character  of  Regent  Moray 

Edward  Gibbon, 

bom  1737,  died  1794  . 





Death  of  Mahomet  .  .  .848 

TheCnuaden  .  .846 

DiscoYery  of  the  Holy  Lance  at  Aiw 

tioch     ....      846 
General  Condition  of  the  Boman 
Empire  in  the  Age  of  the  An- 
tonines ....     348 

Horace  Walpole, 

born  1718,  died  1797    .  .      852 

Execution  of  Loids  Bahnerino  and 

Kihnamock      .  .  .863 

The  Earthquake  In  London  in  1760    864 

bom  1780,  died  1797   .  .      366 

English  Reverence  for  Antiquity  .  866 
Character  of  RouBBeau  .      868 

Impeachment  of  Warren  HastingB  869 
On  Condliation  with  the  American 

CoUmiea  .  .860 

Adun  Bmithf 

horn  1728,  died  1790   .  .      862 

Extent  of  Sympathy  862 

That  we  have  a  Stronger  Propensity 
to  Sympathise  with  Joy  than 
Sorrow  ....      864 

Inequalities  in  Wages  .     866 

Adrantages  of  the  DItIsIok.  of  Labour  867 

Hugh  Blair, 

bom  1718,  died  1800  .  .      869 

Rise  and  Progress  of  Language    .     869 
Gentleness  .  .  .  .872 

Dr  Adam  Fergnson, 

bom  1724,  died  1816  .  874 

Of  the  Influences  of  Climate  and 

Situation  on  Society    .  .      374 

Comparison  of  the  Greeks  and  Bo- 
mans  with  Modern  nations  877 

Hanrv  Xadkfiniio. 

bom  1746,  died  1881 
The  Story  of  La  Roche 


Dr  George  Campbell, 

bom  1719,  died  1796   .  .      886 

Necessity  of  Appealing  to  thePaaslons 

in  order  to  effect  Persuasion  886 
Affected  Methods  of  Spelling  888 

Jamei  Beattie, 

bom  1736,  died  1799 
The  Love  of  Nature 


Pesiod  IV. — This  period  extends  from  the  time  of  Cowper  or  the 
French  Revolution  to  the  present  day.  The  beginning  of  it  was 
characterized  by  intense  mental  activity,  and  by  the  abundance  and 
excellence  of  its  poetical  literature. 


.    893 

Archdeaoon  Paley, 

bom  1748,  died  1806  .  .      412 

ETidence  in  Favour  of  Christianity 

from  the  Uanner  of  our  Saviour's 

Teaching         .  .  .412 

Adaptation  of  the  Covering  of  Birds 

to  their  Condition       .  .      416 

Charles  James  Fox, 

bom  1748,  died  1806  418 

Battle  of  Sedgemoor  and  Capture  of 
Monmouth       .  .  .      418 

Dngald  Stuart, 

bom  1768,  died  1828   .  .      421 

State  ofthe  Mind  during  Sleep  .  421 
The  Varietiesof  Memory  in  Different 

Individuals      .  .  .424 

William  HasUtt, 

bom  1778,  died  1830 
The  Past  and  the  Future 
Indian  Jugglers 
Character  of  Falstaff 


Bobert  Hall, 

bora  1764,  died  1881  .      431 

On  Infidelity           .          .  .482 

The  War  with  Napoleon    .  483 

Meeting  of  the  Pious  in  Heaven  436 

Sir  Walter  Boott, 

bom  1771,  died  1832  .  436 

Sherwood  Forest  in  the  Time  of 

Richard  L        .  .437 

The  Flsherroan's  Funeral  .  .      439 

Raleigh's  First  Interview  with  Queen 

Elizabeth         .  .  .441 

Sir  Jamea  Kaokintosh, 

bora  1766,  died  1832  .  444 

Right  of  Resistance  to  Qovernment     446 

Samuel  Taylor  Ck>leridge, 

bora  1772,  died  1884  .  447 

Influence  of  Patriotism  on  National 

Progress  .      448 

The  Lord  hdpeth  Man  and  Beast  460 
Advantage  of  Method        .  461 



Charles  Lamb, 

bom  1776,  died  1886 
The  Poor  Relation  . 
Thoughts  on  Books 



John  Poster, 

bom  1770,  died  1843   .  .      467 

The  Cause  of  Religion  Xi^Jured  by  the 
Oeneral  Inferiority  of  Evangeli- 
cal Writers      .  .  .458 
Comparison  of  Countries  In  Ancient 
and  Modem  Times      .  .     4|S 

Bohert  Sonthey, 

bom  1774,  died  184S   .  462 

Final  Departure  of  Nelson  firom  Eng- 
land: his  Death  .  .     462 

Dr  Chalmers, 

bom  1780,  died  1847   .  .      466 

The  Transitory  Nature  of  Visible 

Things  .           .           .  .467 

On  Spiritual  Blindness      .  .      469 

Oraelty  to  Animals            .  .     471 

Lord  JefE^, 

bom  1778,  died  1850   .  .      473 

Mortality  of  the  Immortals  .      478 

Rise  and  Decline  of  the  Style  of  Queen 

Aune*s  Reign  .  .  .     475 

Sydney  Smith, 

bora  1768,  died  1846  .  .     477 

Advantages  of  Studying  Utla  aul 

Greek    ....     478 
Recommendation  of  Brevity  to  Au- 
thors    ....      479 
Extracts  flrom  the  Letters  of  Peter 
Plymley  .  .  .480 

Professor  Wilson, 

bom  1785,  died  1854  .      482 

A  Scottish  Cottage .  .  .482 

The  Snow-storm     .  .  .     484 

Critical     Extracts  —  Wordsworth ; 

Homer  ....      486 

Hngh  Killer, 

bom  1805,  died  1857  .  .      488 

Improbability  of  any  great  Advance 

in  the  Present  State  of  Things  488 
Traces  of  the  Ocean  .  .      490 

Henxy  Hallam, 

bom  1778,  died  1859   .  .      491 

General  View  of  the  Advantages  and 

Evils  ofthe  Feudal  System  .  492 
Houses  and  Furniture  of  the  Nobles 

In  the  Middle  Ages     .  .     493 

Invention  of  Paper  .  .     495 

Parallel  between  Cromwell  and  Na- 
poleon .  .  .  .496 

Thomas  Carlyle, 

bom  1796 
Visit  to  a  Model  Prison 
Richard  Arkwrigbt 


Sir  Edward  Bnlwer  lytton, 

bom  1806         .  .  .503 

Uncle  Jack  ....  504 
Vance  and  Lionel  at  the  Country 

Fair      .  .  .  .605 

Hampton  Court  Palace      .  .      607 

Lord  Maeaolay, 

bom  1800         .  .  .608 

Bath  and  London  in  1686  .  .      509 

Character    of   William    Piince    of 

Orange.  .  .  .511 

The  Committal  of  the  Seven  Bishops 

to  the  Tower    .  .  .518 

DistrciM  and  Relief  of  Londonderry  616 
Dr  Johnson .  .  .  .518 

Archbishop  Whately, 

bom  1787 
On  Wages    . 
On  Good  Reading  . 

.  622 
.  522 
.      625 

Charles  Dickens, 

bom  1812 
Burialofa  Tanper 
Death  of  Paul  Dombey 
Character  and  Appearance  of 

Mrs  Gamp's  Apartment     . 

.  627 
.  628 
.  629 

.  632 
.      534 

James  A.  Pronde 

.      535 

Character  of  Henry  VIII. 
Character  of  Anne  Boleyn 
Execution  of  Sir  Thomas  More 

.  536 
.  688 
.      640 

Dr  Onthrie, 

bom  1800         .  .  .542 

Gradual  Degradation  of  Towns     .     642 
Juvenile  Ignorance  and  Misery    .      644 

Austin  Layard, 

bom  1817         .  .  .645 

Discovery  of  the  Great  Lions  at  Nlm- 

roud  ....  645 
Lowering  and  Removing  of  the  Great 

BnU       ....      648 

John  Bnskin 

The  Clouds  . 




The  literature  of  our  countiy  may  be  conyenientlj  considered 
as  divided  into  four  periods :  the  first  extending  from  Chaucer  to 
Shakspere ;  the  second  from  Shakspere  to  Pope ;  the  ihird  from 
Pope  to  Cowper ;  and  the  fourth  from  Cowper  to  the  present  day. 
These  periods  do  not  exactly  coincide  with  any  remarkable  chrono- 
logical eras ;  nor  does  the  division  proceed  upon  any  peculiarities  in 
the  structure  and  composition  of  the  language  employed  by  the 
writers  comprehended  in  the  yarious  classes.  The  classification 
here  adopted  is  founded  on  certain  weU-defined  differences  in  cast 
of  thought  and  mode  of  expression,  so  prominently  marked  that 
one  who  is  but  slightly  acquainted  with  our  national  literature  can 
readily  discern  them.  Speaking  generally,  it  may  be  said  that  the 
first  period  commences  with  the  reign  of  Richard  II.,  and  comes 
down  to  near  the  close  of  Elizabeth's  reign ;  the  second  extends 
thence  to  the  accession  of  Anne  ;  the  third  embraces  the  time  be- 
tween Anne's  accession  and  the  French  Revolution  ;  and  ihe  fourth 
extends  from  that  event  to  the  present  time.  The  first  period  may 
be  briefly  characterized  as  one  of  rudeness,  both  in  thought  and  ex- 
pression, though  by  no  means  destitute  of  redeeming  qualities ;  the 
second  as  one  distinguished  by  grandeur  of  thought,  not  always,  how- 
ever, equally  sustained,  and  dignity  of  expression,  not,  however, 
exempt  from  occasional  rudeness ;  the  third  by  grace  and  vivacity 
of  thought  without  much  depth,  neatness  and  simplicity  of  ex- 


piesision  without  much  dignity ;  and  the  fourth  by  a  combination, 
.  vdth  many  peculiarities  of  its  own,  of  the  excellences  of  the  two 
preceding  periods.  In  the  first  age  we  see  the  early  untutored 
efforts  of  the  national  mind  beginning  to  rouse  itself  from  the  torpor 
of  ages ;  in  the  secorid,  the  influence  of  the  revival  of  learning,  and 
of  the  study  of  the  great  classical  remains  of  antiquity,  may  be 
clearly  traced;  in  the  Mrd,  the  polish  dmA.  grace,  neatness  and 
liveliness  of  the  Fr^ich  writers,  were  regarded  as  the  models  of 
imitation ;  while  the  fourihy  influenced  partly  by  a  love  for  the 
speculations  of  Germany,  but  still  more  by  a  re-awakened  enthusiasm 
for  our  own  older  authors,  exhibits  the  deep-searching  and  dignified 
thought  of  an  early  period,  arrayed  in  the  chaste  and  graceful  ease 
of  a  modem  style.  While  these  leading  features  wiQ  be  found  in 
general  characteristic  of  the  authors  in  each  period,  it  is  not  of  course 
meant  to  be  asserted  that  they  are  equally  conspicuous  in  aU.  In- 
dividual writers  wiQ  be  found  in  every  period  adopting  a  style  at 
variance  with  that  prevalent  at  the  time ;  but  this  only  corroborates 
the  truth  of  the  general  remark,  as  their  peculiarity  serves  to  make 
more  palpable  the  general  similarity  of  the  style  from  which  they 
choose  to  depart 




1.  To  the  ordinary  reader  English  literature  begins  with  Chaucer. 
Even  if  we  admit  that  the  writings  of  those  who  preceded  him  are 
entitled  to  the  honourable  appellation  of  literaheref  yet  without  some 
knowledge  of  Anglo-Saxon  they  are  almost  totally  unintelligible.  A 
word  here  and  there  may  indeed  be  recognised,  but  the  general  scope 
and  purpose  of  the  author  remain  unknown.  Without,  therefore,  en- 
tirely omitting  all  notice  of  the  predecessors  of  Chaucer,  a  rery  brief 
reference  to  them  will  suffice. 

During  the  existence  of  the  Saxon  rule,  four  langnages  were  in 
common  use  in  the  island :  the  Saxon,  which  was  spoken  in  England 
and  the  Lowlands  of  Scotland ;  the  Gaelic,  in  the  Highlands  of  Scot- 
land ;  the  Welsh,  a  kindred  dialect,  in  Wales ;  and  tiie  Latin,  which 
was  everywhere  the  vehicle  of  communication  among  the  clergy.  As 
the  clergy  in  those^  days  had  a  monopoly  of  learning,  they  were 
naturally  oifi:  oldest  authors,  and  our  earliest  literature  is  thus  written 
in  the  Latin  language.  Of  our  old  ecclesiastical  authors  the  most' 
famous  is  the  venerable  Bede,  a  monk  of  Jarrow,  on  the  Tyne  (bom 
67a,  died  786),  whose  "  Ecclesiastical  History  of  England"  is  of  con- 
siderable historical  value.  During  the  terrors  occasioned  by  the 
Danish  invasions,  learning  almost  entirely  disappeared,  so  that 
Alfred  is  said  to  have  been  unable  to  find  a  clergyman  in  Eng- 
land able  to  gite  him  instruction  in  Latin.  Under  that  illustri- 
ous and  patriotic  prince,  learning  was  encouraged  and  liberally  re- 
warded. With  a  zeal  for  the  spread  of  education  far  in  advance  of 
his  own  age,  he  has  recorded  his  anxious  desire,  ''that  all  the  free- 
bom  youth  of  his  people  might  persevere  in  learning  till  they  oould 
perfectly  read  the  English  Scriptures."  That  good  example  might 
not  be  wanting,  he  himself  translated  into  Saxon,  for  the  Idification  of 
his  subjects,  VMi<)us  works,  the  chief  being  "  Bede's  History  "  and  the 
"History  of  Orosius,"  along  with  some  religious  treatises  bj^  St 
Augustine  and  Pope  Gregory  the  Great.  By  the  Bishops  whom  he 
em'ployed  and  rewarded  for  their  learning,  several  parts  of  Scripture 
were  translated  into  Anglo-Saxon,  and  the  people  were  encouraged  to 
study  them.  The  only  other  prose  writings  in  Anglo-Saxon  were  the 
monkish  chronicles.  These  were  brief  registers  of  current  events  com- 
posed  usually  in  some  monastery ;  and  are  interesting  to  the  antiquary, 


08  well  as  valuable  to  the  historian.  In  poetir  the  most  remarkable 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon  writings  is  the  "  Vision  of  Cssdmon"  (about  680), 
who  belonged  to  the  Monastery  of  Whitby,  and  who,  in  a  poem  of  about 
six  thousand  lines,  gives  a  poetical  summary  of  Scripture  history  from 
the  fall  of  the  rebel  angels  to  the  day  of  judgment.  His  poem  is  said 
to  possess  a  sort  of  distant  resemblance  to  "  Paradise  Lost." 

2.  As  compared  with  modem  English,  Anglo-Saxon  differs  chiefly 
in  being  an  inflected  language,  that  is,  in  being  able,  by  some  change 
in  the  termination,  to  express  a  modification  in  the  meaning,  which 
in  English  would  require  the  use  of  prepositions  or  other  auxiliary 
words.  The  nouns  in  Anglo-Saxon  had  many  more  eaaea  than  in  Eng- 
lish ;  some  of  the  pronouns  had  even  more  numbers ;  the  adjectives 
were  fully  declined,  as  in  Latin  or  German ;  and  the  verb,  besides  hav- 
ing a  much  greater  variety  of  terminations,  could  express  the  peculiar 
force  of  the  potential  mood  without  any  assistance  from  auxiliaries. 
Thus  it  happens  that  though  most  of  the  words  used  in  Anglo-Saxon 
exist  in  some  shape  in  modem  English,  yet  an  extract  from  an  Anglo- 
Saxon  writer  is,  to  a  mere  English  scholar,  not  much  more  intelligible 
than  would  be  one  from  a  German  author.  This  will  be  seen  by  the 
following  passage  from  Alfred's  translation  of  "  Orosius,"  every  word 
of  which  is  still  in  use,  and  which  is  perhaps  the  very  simplest  that 
could  be  found  in  Anglo-Saxon : — 

"  The  hwffilbith  micle  IsBssa  thonne  othre  hwalas,  ne  bith  helengra 
thonne  sivan  elna  lang,  ac  on  his  agnum  lande  is  se  betsta  hwasl  hun- 
tath :  tha  booth  eahta  and  feowertiges  elna  lange,  and  tha  mssstan 
fiftiges  elna  lange,  thara  he  ssede  th»t  he  sixa  sum  ofsloge  sixtig  on 
twam  dagum." 

"  This  whale  is  much  less  than  other  whales,  it  is  not  (literally,  not 
is  he)  longer  than  seven  ells  long,  but  in  his  (the  narrator's)  own 
land  is  the  best  whale-hunting ;  there  are  they  eight  and  forty  ells 
long,  and  the  most  fifty  ells  long,  of  these  he  said,  that  he  with  five 
others  (literally,  of  six  one)  slew  sixty  in  two  days." 

8.  At  the  Conquest  a  new  language,  the  Norman-French,  was  intro- 
duced. Its  use  was,  however,  confined  to  the  higher  classes,  the 
others  continuing  to  employ  the  Saxon.  Efforts  were  made  by  the 
early  Norman  Kings  to  abolish  the  Saxon  language,  but  these  were 
unsuccessfol,  and  the  two  languages  existed  together  for  some  time. 
By  degrees,  however,  they  began  to  combine,  each  borrowing  from  the 
other,  and  both  losing  many  of  their  peculiarities.  The  language 
formed  by  this  combination  is  called  Old  English,  and  is  the  basis  of 
the  langusige  at  present  in  use.  The  transition  fifom  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  to  a  language  recognisable  as  English  by  ordinary  readers 
was  slow  and  gradual,  and  has  been  by  some  critics  divided  into  two 
periods.  {\.)  The  first  of  these  extends  from  the  Conquest  to  a.d. 
1280,  and  is  called  Semi-Saxon.  This  period  is  distinguished  partly 
by  the  use  of  Norman  words,  usually  of  Latin  origin,  but  chiefly  by 
the  tendency  to  employ  less  frequently  the  inflections  which  formed 
so  marked  a  feature  in  the  Saxon  tongue.  During  this  period  many 
works  were  produced,  the  most  noted  being  the  "  Saxon  Chronicle," 
written  probably  in  the  reign  of  Henry  I. ;  and  a  poem  called  the 
"  Brut,"  by  Layamon,  a  monk,  which  derives  its  name  from  its  record- 
'»<r  the  history  of  England  from  the  time  of  Brotus,  an  imaginary 


Trojan  hero,  to  whom  the  foundation  of  the  British  monarchy  is 
ascribed,  down  to  the  end  of  the  seventh  centnry.  (2.)  The  swond 
period,  or  Old  English^  prevailed  from  a.d.  1230  to  the  beginning  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  and  has  been  subdivided  into  early  and  middle 
English,  the  year  a.d.  1330  being  chosen  as  the  separating  point 
between  the  two.  In  the  ejurly  English  we  can  trace  the  continued 
approximation  to  our  modern  speech ;  most  of  the  old  terminations 
are  dropped,  and  among  other  features,  not  the  least  noteworthy,  is 
the  use  of  the  modern  termination  of  the  plural  in  "  s."  The 
language  at  this  date  begins  to  be  intelligible  to  the  ordinary  reader, 
and  the  old  plays  known  as  the  Chester,  Towneley,  and  Coventry 
mysteries,  which  belong  to  this  period,  are  well  worthy  of  a  perusal. 

4.  Middle  English  is  the  name  given  to  that  form  of  the  language 
used  by  Chaucer  and  his  contemporaries. 

Geoffrey  Chaucer  is  supposed  to  have  been  born  about  the  year  1328 ; 
he  is  believed  to  have  been  a  native  of  London,  and  having  found  a 
patron  in  John  of  Gaunt,  obtained  some  lucrative  and  honourable 
employment  in  the  public  service.  He  served  in  the  French  wars, 
and  in  his  official  capacity  travelled  in  France  and  Italy.  He  thus 
enjoyed  the  opportunity  of  personally  observing  nature  and  man  in 
various  climes  and  circumstances,  on  a  more  extensive  scale  than 
usually  falls  to  the  lot  of  poets ;  and  as  his  powers  of  observation  were 
fortunately  equal  to  his  advantages,  his  works  are  distinguished  by 
accuracy  in  the  delineation  of  manners,  and  truth  in  the  description 
of  nature.  His  chief  work,  the  "  Canterbury  Tales,"  consists  of  a  series 
of  stories  supposed  to  be  told  by  a  company  of  pilgrims,  to  relieve  the 
tedium  of  their  journey  to  the  shrine  of  St  Thomas  at  Canterbury. 
"With  two  exceptions,  the  tales  are  in  verse,  and  though  only  one-half 
of  the  work  was  finished,  what  we  have  is  usually  found  quite  suf- 
ficient for  the  reader's  patience.  Notwithstanding  their  prolixity, 
"  The  Canterbury  Tales  "  are  justly  reckoned  one  of  the  greatest  pro- 
ductions in  our  literature.  Of  Chaucer's  minor  works,  his  "  House  of 
Fame  "  is  the  best  known,  chiefly  through  Pope's  version  of  it — "  The 
Temple  of  Fame."  Chaucer  died  a,d.  1400.  In  or  near  a.d.  1362 
was  written  a  singular  poem  called  the  "  Vision  of  Piers  PlowmanJ' 
It  was  the  production  of  a  monk,  Bobert  Langland,  and  is  an  alle- 
gorical work,  describing  and  satirizing  the  vices  of  the  time ;  in  its 
general  character  it  resembles  the  moral  plays  or  moralities  which 
were  so  popular  about  this  period.  Another  contemporary  of  Chaucer 
was  John  Gower  (died  1404),  author  of  the  "  Confessio  Amantis,"  or 
"  Lover's  Confession."  This  work  is  written  in  octosyllabic  verse,  and 
consists  of  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  stories,  with  which  a  priest 
seeks  to  comfort  a  penitent  lover.  It  displays  much  ability  in  de- 
scription, burdened,  however,  with  considerable  weakness  of  style  and 
endless  prolixity  of  narrative.  During  the  same  period  flourished 
John  Wickliffe  (1324-1386),  so  well  known  as  "  The  Morning  Star 
of  the  Reformation."  His  translation  of  the  Bible,  executed  about 
A.D.  1380,  possesses  high  value,  both  from  the  important  consequences 
of  which  it  was  remotely  the  cause,  and  from  its  being  the  earliest 
work  of  any  size  in  English  prpse.  Sir  John  Mandeville,  too,  the 
flrst  of  our  travellers,  has  left  us  an  exceedingly  amusing  account  of 
his  various  journeys  during  upwards  of.  thirty  years  previous  to  1366. 


6.  In  Scotland,  literature  was  of  later  growth  than  in  England. 
The  torbnlence  of  the  country,  the  poyerty  of  the  people,  and  the 
sterility  of  the  soil,  were  nnfavonrable  to  the  encouragement  of  learn- 
ing ;  and  though  Scotland  produced  many  famous  men,  they  received 
their  education  and  spent  their  lives  on  the  Continent,  where  their 
talents  found  a  wider  and  more  congenial  sphere  for  exercise.  In 
Scotland,  as  in  England,  the  earliest  works  were  in  Latin,  the  most 
famous  being  the  "  Scoto-chronicon"  of  John  of  Fordoun,whodied  a.d. 
1387,  and  the  "  History  of  the  Exploits  of  Wallace,"  by  John  Blair,  who 
had  been  that  hero's  chaplain.  Of  the  earliest  use  of  the  vernacular 
in  Scotland  no  certain  account  can  be  given ;  some  of  the  old  ballads 
are  assigned  to  a  very  early  period,  but  without  good  authority,  and 
the  prophecies  traditionally  ascribed  to  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  who 
flourished  in  the  reign  of  Alexander  III.,  are  generally  admitted  to 
be  spurious.  The  earliest  undoubted  work  in  English  is  the  "  Acts 
and  Life  of  the  most  victorious  conqueror,  Robert  Bruce,"  compiled 
in  1875  by  John  Barbour,  Archdeacon  of  Aberdeen.  It  is  in  eight- 
syllabled  verso,  extends  to  a  great  length,  and  is  divided  into  a 
hundred  and  one  books.  Its  spirit  and  energy  place  it  without  dispute 
at  the  head  of  all  chronicles,  and  some  of  its  passages,  such  as  his 
apostrophe  to  freedom,  are  to  be  found  in  every  collection  of  the 
beauties  of  British  verse.  At  a  later  period  (1420^  Andrew  Wyntoun, 
Prior  of  Loch  Leven,  wrote  his  "  Chronicle  Original,"  or  General 
History,  a  work  every  way  inferior  to  that  of  Barbour.  The  next 
name  of  importance  in  Scottish  literature  is  that  of  James  I.,  who,  in 
his  *^  King's  Quair"  (that  is.  King's  Book)  celebrates  the  beauty  of 
Lady  Joanna  Beaufoy,  to  whom  he  was  afterwards  married.  His 
poem  is  allowed  by  all  critics  to  possess  great  merits,  and  to  bear  a 
strong  resemblance  in  thought  aAd  style  to  Chaucer  and  Gower, 
whom,  indeed,  he  professedly  recognises  as  his  masters  and  models. 
Some  doubt  exists  as  to  the  precise  period  at  which  Henry  the 
Hinstrel,  better  known  as  Blind  Harry,  flourished ;  there  can  be  no 
doubt,  however,  as  to  the  great  popularity  enjoyed  by  his  "  Life  of 
Wallace."  This  work,  a  poem  in  twelve  books,  was  long  the  favourite 
of  the  Scotch  nation,  and  in  a  modernized  form  is  still  extensively 

6.  For  some  time  after  the  death  of  Chaucer  literature  in  England 
exhibits  a  melancholy  blank.  Little  progress,  indeed,  could  be  ex- 
pected to  be  made  during  the  fifteenth  century,  when  the  foolish  wars 
with  France,  and  the  bloody  quarrels  of  the  Roses,  occupied  the 
minds  and  thoughts  of  the  nation.  The  only  writer  of  eminence  in 
the  period  was  John  Lydgate,  who  flourished  during  the  first  half  of 
the  century  in  the  Monastery  of  Bury  St  Edmund's.  If  merit  were 
to  be  judged  by  the  quantity  of  matter  produced,  Lydgate  would  be 
the  first  of  our  English  poets,  for  he  wrote  an  immense  number  of 
works  on  a  great  variety  of  subjects.  His  merits,  however,  bear  a 
very  slight  proportion  to  the  extent  of  his  works,  of  which  the  best 
known  are  the  "  Story  of  Thebes,'*  the  "  Siege  of  Troy,"  and  the 
"  Fall  of  Princes."  In  prose,  during  this  period,  we  have  nothing 
better  than  a  law  treatise  by  Sir  John  Fortescue,  Chief-Justice  under 
Henry  YI.  In  the  midst  of  this  dearth  of  learning,  an  event  hap- 
pened which  was  destined  in  a  few  years  to  change  the  whole  face  of 


the  literary  world,  and  to  introduoe  into  society  a  principle  of  progreai 
which  no  future  war  could  eradicate.  The  art  oi  printing ^  discovered  on 
the  Continent  in  ▲.n.  1440,  was  brought  into  England  towards  the  end 
of  the  reign  of  Henry  YI.  The  use  of  this  art  in  this  country  is  indis- 
solnbly  associated  with  the  name  of  William  Caxton ;  and,  though  it 
was  undoubtedly  practised  hero  before  his  return  from  the  Continent, 
yet  his  industry,  ability,  and  success  well  entitle  him  to  the  honour 
which  all  succeeding  generations  of  his  countrymen  have  agreed  to 
pay  to  his  memory.  Caxton  printed  sixty-four  books,  nearly  all  of 
them  in  English ;  few  of  them,  however,  were  composed  originally  in 
that  language,  the  most  of  them  being  translations  from  the  French. 
The  first  book  printed  in  English  was  the  "  History  of  Troye,"  issued 
at  Ghent  in  A.n.  1471 ;  and  the  first  actually  printed  by  Caxton  in 
England  was  the  "  Game  of  Chess,"  in  a.d.  1474.  Most  of  his  publica- 
tions were  of  a  similar  character,  and  this  may  be  regarded  as  strong 
evidence  of  the  very  limited  di^usion  of  sound  knowledge  and  good 
taste  at  the  period. 

7.  After  the  accession  of  the  Tudors  literature  began  to  revive,  and 
the  reigns  of  Henry  VIII.  and  his  successors  produced  several  writers 
of  eminence  both  in  prose  and  verse.  Of  the  prose  writers  one  of  the 
earliest  was  Siv  Thomas  More,  conspicuous  alike  for  his  abilities, 
learning,  integrity,  and  melancholy  fato.  His  chief  work  is  his 
"  Utopia,"  containing  his  opinions  on  government  under  the  form  of 
a  history  of  an  imaginary  republic  in  the  imaginary  island  of  Utopia. 
More  was  a  great  friend  of  Erasmus  the  illustrious  scholar,  and  con- 
tributed much  to  revive  in  England  the  long-extinct  zeal  for  the 
study  of  classical  literature.  In  this  enterprise  he  was  aided  by 
Lilly,  the  author  of  a  famous  Latin  Grammar ;  Sir  Thomas  Smith ; 
Sir  John  Cheke ;  Dean  Oolet,  founder  of  St  Paul's  School,  London ; 
and  Boger  Ascham,  tutor  to  Queen  Elizabeth.  Leland,  the  antiqua- 
rian, and  Thomas  Wilson,  a  writer  on  logic  and  rhetoric,  also  deserve 
mention  among  the  prose  authors  of  this  period.  Of  the  poets,  the 
earliest  was  John  Skelton,  a  vigorous  but  somewhat  rude  satirist. 
Next  came  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  who,  like  More,  fell  a  victim  to  the 
jealousy  of  the  tyrannical  Henry,  and  is  the  first  of  our  English  poets 
whose  works  exhibit  the  influence  of  the  revival  of  learning.  He 
adopted  as  his  models  the  Italian  poets,  especially  Petrarch:  from 
them  he  introduced  the  sonnet  into  our  language,  along  with  a  refine- 
ment of  style,  delicacy  of  sentiment,  and  harmony  of  versification 
before  unknown.  Besides  sonnets,  chiefly  amatory,  Surrey  wrote  a 
translation  of  two  books  of  the  "  iEneid  "  into  blank  verse,  being  the 
earliest  instance  of  the  use  of  blank  verse  in  England.  Sir  Thomaa 
Wyatt,  a  contemporary  of  Surrey,  imitated  the  style  which  that 
nobleman  had  introduced,  and  wrote  satires  of  a  much  more  polished 
vein  than  those  of  Skelton. 

8.  The  important  religious  changes  begun  in  the  reign  of  Henry 
VIII.  naturally  led  to  much  discussion,  and  produced  a  voluminous 
oontroversial  literature.  Many  of  the  works  then  written  had  only  a 
temporary  interest,  and  soon  sunk  into  oblivion  ;  but  this  was  not  the 
case  with  the  translations  of  Scripture  which  were  issued.  Of  these 
the  earliest  was  that  executed  by  William  Tyndale,  an  Oxford  scholar 
of  sopie  note.    As  it  was  made  before  Henry  had  given  permission  to 


publish  tlie  Soriptures  in  English,  it  was  printed  in  Antwerp  in  1626, 
and  smuggled  over  into  England.  This  edition  contained  only  the 
New  Testament,  but  a  subsequent  one  embraced  also  the  Pentateuch, 
Jonah,  and  some  of  the  historical  books  of  the  Old  Testament.  The 
first  complete  translation  of  the  whole  Bible  was  that  made  by  Miles 
Coverdale,  and  published  by  Henry's  sanction  in  a.d.  1685.  Various 
other  versions  followed,  of  which  Matthew's  Bible,  Cranmer's,  or  the 
Great  Bible,  and  the  Geneva  Bible,  are  the  most  noteworthy  among 
the  early  translations,  and  the  Bishop's  Bible  among  the  later.  These 
versions,  apart  altogether  from  their  religious  importance,  possess 
much  merit  as  literary  works:  they  show  the. high  degree  of  excel- 
lence which  the  language  had  already  reached,  and  enable  us  to  de- 
termine the  character  and  extent  of  the  changes  which,  since  that 
period,  now  upwards  of  three  centuries  ago,  the  English  tongue  has 
undergone.  Surrey  and  Wyatt  were  perhaps  the  first  who  undertook 
to  translate  the  Psalms  into  English  verse,  a  work  in  which  they  had 
many  followers.  Of  these  the  best  known  are  Sternhold  and  Hopkins, 
whose  version,  long  used  for  public  worship  both  in  England  and 
Scotland,  is  in  some  respects  superior  to  the  works  of  Tate  and  Brady, 
and  Francis  Hous,  which  have  superseded  it. 

9.  At  the  head  of  the  theological  writers  of  this  period,  it  is  per- 
haps a  matter  of  courtesy-to  place  Henry  YIII.,  though  his  treatise 
in  "  Defence  of  the  Seven  Sacraments,"  written,  as  is  believed,  chiefly 
by  Sir  Thomas  More,  has  probably  not  found  twenty  readers  in  the 
last  two  centuries.  Tyndale,  already  mentioned  as  the  translator  of 
the  New  Testament,  wrote  some  brief  but  able  controversial  pamphlets. 
The  sermons  of  Bishop  Latimer  contributed  powerfully  to  promote 
the  cause  of  the  Reformers ;  plain  and  practical,  they  were  always 
level  to  the  comprehension  of  his  audience,  and  their  genuine  good 
sense,  earnest  piety,  and  impressive  quaintness,  could  not  but  exert  a 
deep  influence  on  the  thousands  who  crowded  round  him  at  Paul's 
Gross.  The  most  learned  book  of  the  time  was  Bishop  Jewel's 
"Defence  of  the  Church  of  England,"  one  of  the  ablest  works  in 
defence  of  Protestantism  which  our  country  has  produced.  The 
writings  of  Bidley,  Cranmer,  and  others  of  the  Reformers,  were  im- 
portant in  their  own  day,  and  manifest  considerable  learning  and 
acuteness ;  but  they  are  now  almost  forgotten.  Foxe's  "  Book  of 
Martyrs  "  is  still  read ;  but,  though  interesting  from  the  subject,  and 
valuable  from  its  historical  information,  it  cannot  be  ranked  high  as 
a  literary  production.  Of  the  theological  writers  of  this  period,  it 
may  be  said  in  general,  that  they  are  distinguished  by  earnestness 
rather  than  learning ;  and  the  diffuseness  and  total  want  of  method  and 
condensation  in  their  writings  soon  exhaust  the  patience  of  a  modem 
reader.  They  have  consequently  been  lost  sight  of  amid  the  splendour 
of  the  great  luminaries  of  the  Church  who  flourished  in  the  succeed- 
ing era.  Of  the  confiibutions  to  general  literature,  Ascham's  edu- 
cational works,  Holinshed's  "  Chronicles,"  and  the  "  Voyages  "  of 
Hakluyt  and  others,  are  the  most  noticeable;  and  the  character 
which  has  been  given  of  the  theological  literature  of  the  period 
applies  with  some  slight  modification  to  them  also. 

10.  In  Scotland,  the  reigns  of  James  IV.  and  his  successor  pro- 
duced many  author|i  of  importance.    -Henryson^  a  schoolmaster  in 


Dunfermline,  wrote  the  "  Testament  of  Cressida,"  and  some  fables 
and  miscellaneous  poems  with  much  taste  and  considerable  poetical 
merit.  Dunbar,  a  clergyman  who  flourished  at  the  Court  of  James 
IV.,  was  a  poet  of  a  still  higher  order ;  and  his  works,  which  embrace 
allegorical,  moral,  and  humorous  pieces,  display  poetical  merit  which 
may  be  compared  with  that  of  Chaucer.  Of  his  writings,  the  chief 
are  the  "Thistle  and  Rose",  and  the  "Dance ;"  the  former  composed  in 
honour  of  James  the  Fourth's  marriage  with  Margaret  of  England,  the 
latter  an  allegorical  and  highly-imaginative  description  of  the  vices. 
Douglas,  Bishop  of  Dunkeld,  wrote  the  "  Palace  of  Honour"  and 
"  King  Hart,"  both  allegorical,  and  the  former  bearing  some  resem- 
blance to  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress."  He  also  translated  the  ^neid  into 
verse,  the  earliest  metrical  version  of  any  classical  author  in  this  country. 
His  translation  possesses  considerable  merit,  and  the  original  poems, 
which  he  has  prefixed  by  way  of  introduction  to  each  book,  have  always 
been  much  admired.  In  the  reign  of  James  Y.  flourished  Sir  David 
Lindsay,  a  great  favourite  with  the  king,  who,  as  a  poet  himself,  could 
more  readily  appreciate  poetical  merit  in  others.  Lindsay  espoused  ike 
Heformed  cause,  which  he  materially  aided  by  his  vigorous  satire  of 
the  ecclesiastics.  His  chief  works  are  "  The  Three  Estates,"  "  The 
Complaint,"  "  The  Dream,"  and  "  Squire  Meldrum,"  all  of  them 
largely  tinctured  with  grossness  and  indecency.  To  the  same  period 
may  be  referred  many  of  the  best  Scotch  ballads,  so  touching  in  their 
simple,  artless  pathos.  The  authors  of  most  of  them  are  unknown, 
but  uniform  tradition  has  assigned  with  much  probability  some  of  the 
most  meritorious  to  King  James  V.  The  Reformation  in  Scotland 
did  not  produce  any  literature  of  much  value  to  the  student.  The  old 
religion  was  attacked  not  with  the  press,  but  with  popular  violence ; 
and  the  controversies  of  the  rival  theologians  were  oftener  settled  by 
an  appeal  to  arms  than  by  a  trial  of  argumentative  skill.  The  early 
Scotch  Reformers  were  in  general  men  of  impeifect  education  and 
little  learning,  and  from  various  circumstances,  to  which  it  is  unneces- 
sary to  refer,  learning  and  literary  ability  received  but  slight  encou- 
ragement under  the  Reformed  Church.  Knox  wrote  a  number  of 
small  treatises,  none  of  which,  however,  possess  any  claims  on  the  at- 
tention of  the  literary  student.  His  chief  work,  "  The  History  of  the 
Reformation  in  Scotland,"  is  written  with  much  vigour,  in  a  style 
almost  dramatically  lively,  and  is,  of  course,  a  valuable  record  of  the 
proceedings  of  the  Reformers ;  but  it  is  disfigured  by  extreme  violence, 
great  credulity,  and  frequent  inaccuracy  in  details.  In  justice,  how- 
ever, to  Knox  it  should  be  stated,  that  a  considerable  part  of  the  work 
is  certainly  not  his  composition,  and  that  the  rest  has  been  so  inter- 
polated that  it  is  difficult  to  say  how  far  he  is  responsible  for  any  mis- 
statements which  it  may  contain.  George  Buchanan,  the  preceptor 
of  James  VI.,  was  considered  the  most  learned  man  in  Scotland.  His 
chief  works  are  a  version  of  the  Psalms,  and  a  History  of  Scotland, 
both  in  Latin.  The  merits  of  his  version  of  the  Psalms,  though  it  is 
excessively  diffuse,  have  been  generally  acknowledged ;  his  history  is 
now  deservedly  considered  of  little  value,  as  it  has  too  evidently  been 
written  to  serve  the  interests  of  a  party,  and  with  a  systematic  disre- 
gard of  truth.  Among  men  of  inferior  note,  Major,  a  professor  of  St 
Andrews ;  Hector  Boece,  principal  of  King's  College,  Aberdeen ;  Bel- 


lenden,  arohdeaoon  of  Moray  ;  and  Bishop  Leslie,  the  able  defender 
of  Queen  Mary,  are  the  most  memorable.  Andrew  Melville,  whose 
lestless  desire  to  alter  the  form  of  chnroh  government  established  by 
Knox  so  long  embroiled  the  Church  and  country,  seems  to  have  poe-  * 
sessed  a  much  larger  amount  of  boldness  and  self-confidenoe  than  of 

11.  Before  passing  on  to  the  Second  Period  of  our  literature,  it  is 
necessary  to  i^ace  briefly  the  rise  and  progress  of  the  drama.  From 
the  Norman  Conquest  downwards,  dramatic  representations  were  cus- 
tomarily exhibited  in  the  churches  at  the  periods  of  the  great  Chris- 
tian festivals.  The  perfoiimers  were  churchmen,  and  the  subjects  were 
taken  either  from  the  Scripture  narratives,  or  the  legendary  histories 
of  the  saints ;  the  play  being  called,  in  the  first  case,  a  Mystery,  in  the 
second,  a  Miracle,  though  these  terms  are  often  applied  promiscuously. 
Of  these  plays  three  complete  series  are  still  in  existence,  known  as 
the  Chester,  Coventry,  and  Towneley  Mysteries ;  and  they  exhibit 
considerable  humour,  some  perception  of  character,  and  no  contemp- 
tible power  of  versification.  They  are  chiefiy  valuable,  however,  from 
their  accurately  recording  the  habits  and  manners,  opinions  and  be- 
liefs, language  and  civilisation,  of  the  periods  at  which  they  were  pro- 
duced. A  step  in  advance  was  taken  when,  for  the  well-known  person- 
ages of  Scripture,  there  were  substituted  allegorical  characters,  such 
as  Vice,  Virtue,  Ignorance,  Faith,  &o. ;  for  this  rendered  it  necessary 
to  invent  some  plot,  and  to  develop  it  by  the  action  of  the  characters 
introduced.  Plays  of  this  sort,  known  as  MaraU  or  Moralities,  formed 
one  of  the  most  powerful  instruments  by  which  the  progress  of  the 
Beformation  was  facilitated ;  both  in  England  and  Scotland  they  were 
the  chief  vehicle  for  attacking  the  vices  of  the  Boman  Catholic  clergy, 
and  undermining  their  power  by  the  never-failing  weapon  of  public 
ridicule.  A  still  further  advance  was  made  when  the  allegoricid  per- 
sonages were  dropped,  and  real  ones  introduced,  as  was  done  in  what 
are  called  the  Interludes,  of  which  Thomas  Heywood  was  the  most 
voluminous  and  popular  composer,  his  best  work  being  perhaps  his 
"  Four  P's,"  or  a  "  Merry  Interlude  between  a  Palmer,  a  Pardoner,  a 
Pothicary,  and  a  Pedlar."  These  interludes,  in  fact,  differ  from  the 
regular  drama  only  in  being  much  shorter,  in  the  greater  simplicity 
of  the  plot,  in  the  smaller  number  of  characters,  and  in  the  slight  ex- 
tent to  which  the  poet  avails  himself  of  action  and  incident.  The 
earliest  regular  play  in  the  language  is  entitled  *<Balph  Boyster 
Doyster,"  and  was  written  not  later  than  1660  by  Nicholas  Udall, 
hesid-master  of  Eton  School,  but  was  long  lost,  and  was  only  recovered 
by  accident  in  1818.  It  is  a  play  of  great  merit,  full  of  humour  and 
incident ;  the  characters  are  drawn  firmly  and  with  great  skill ;  the 
plot  is  happily  contrived  and  ably  developed ;  and  it  is  totally  free 
from  that  grossness  and  indelicacy  which  occasionally  disfigure  the 
old  drama.  It  is  in  every  way  superior  to  "  Ghimmer  Gurton's  Needle," 
which  long  enjoyed  the  honour  of  being  our  earliest  play,  though  it, 
too,  is  by  no  means  destitute  of  merit.  The  earliest  tragedy  is  *'  Gor- 
boduc,"  or  *'  Ferrex  and  Porrex,"  exhibited  before  Queen  Elizabeth  at 
Whitehall  in  1662  by  the  students  of  the  Inner  Temple.  It  was  the 
joint  production  of  Thomas  Norton,  and  Saokville,  Lord  Buckhurst, 
and  is  in  blank  verse,  being  the  earliest  use  of  that  kind  of  vezse  in 


the  drama.  It  contains  many  fine  passages,  bnt  is  rather  declamatory 
and  stiff,  and  the  action  is  very  heayy.  It  is  unnecessary  to  charac- 
terize particularly  the  various  dramatic  authors  who  flourished  before 
the  period  of  Shakspere ;  suffice  it  to  state  that  the  structure  and  lan- 
guage of  the  drama  were  gradually  refined  and  improved  by  many 
-writers,  of  whom  Heywood,  Greene,  Lylly,  Peele,  and  Nash  are  the. 
best  known  and  most  meritorious.  The  immediate  predecessor  of 
Shakspere  was  Christopher  Marlowe,  the  son  of  a  shoemaker  in  Can- 
terbury, who  exhibited,  probably  in  1686,  the  first  part  of  "  Tambnr- 
lane  the  Great,"  which  was  received  with  general  approbation,  and 
was  followed  by  the  **  Second  Part"  of  the  tfune  play,  "  Dr  Faustus," 
the  "  Jew  of  Malta,"  "  Edward  II.,"  and  the  "  Massacre  of  Paris." 
Marlowe  was  a  reckless  profiigate,  and  unhappily,  when  only  thirty 
years  of  age,  fell  in  a  drunken  scuffle  in  the  streets  of  Deptford. 
During  his  brief  career,  however,  he  earned  for  himself  an  imperish- 
able name  in  our  literature :  to  him  belongs  the  merit  of  introducing 
blank  verse,  with  all  its  grace  and  freedom,  into  plays  intended  for  an 
ordinary  audience;  and  Ihough  his  language  is  sometimes  extravagant, 
and  his  plots  and  incidents  often  ill  constiucted  and  incredible,  he  is 
a  powerful  delineator  of  character,  and  in  command  over  the  passions, 
especially  the  more  terrible  ones,  he  is  certainly  not  inferior  even  to 
Shakspere. . 



Geoffbet  Chaitceb  was  bom  probably  in  London,  a.d.  1828.  He  is 
said  to  have  received  a  university  education,  bnt  whether  at  Oxford 
or  Cambridge  has  been  mnch  disputed.  He  served  under  Edward  III. 
in  the  French  wars,  and  having  secured  the  patronage  of  John  of 
Gaunt,  he  was  rewarded  with  a  pension.  The  poet  afterwards  became 
connected  with  his  patron,  by  marrying  the  sister  of  Lady  Swinford, 
the  wife  of  John  of  Gaunt.  Chaucer,  through  his  patron's  influence 
probably,  was  employed  on  honourable  diplomatic  missions,  in  one  of 
which  to  Italy,  he  is  said  to  have  had  an  interview  with  the  poet  Pe- 
trarch, which  exerted  considerable  influence  on  his  future  style.  He 
was  also  appointed  controller  of  the  customs  levied  on  wine  and  wool 
in  London ;  and  his  salary,  in  addition  to  sundry  other  emoluments, 
enabled  him  to  lead  a  comfortable  life.  On  the  accession  of  Richard 
II.  he  was  involved  in  the  disgrace  which  overtook  the  Duke  of  Lan- 
caster and  his  adherents,  and  was  deprived  of  his  pensions.  He  was, 
however,  restored  to  royal  favour,  and  lived  just  long  enough  to  re- 
ceive the  first  fruits  of  the  bounty  of  Henry  IV.,  the  son  of  his  former 
patron.  He  died  October  26,  ad.  1400,  and  was  buried  in  West- 
minster Abbey. 

His  chief  work,  the  **  Canterbury  Tales,"  is  written  in  imitation  of  the 
"  Decameron"  of  Boccaccio.  Twenty-nine  persons,  of  various  ranks  and 
both  sexes,  accidentally  meet  at  the  Tabard  Inn,  Southwark,  all  bent 
on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  St  Thomas  at  Canterbury ;  and  at  the 
proposal  of  the  jovial  host,  who  accompanies  them,  they  agree  to  beguile 
the  way  by  telling  each  two  tales,  one  on  their  journey  to  Canterbury, 
the  other  on  their  return.  This  plan,  however,  has  been  only  partially 
finished :  seven  of  the  company  relate  no  tales ;  we  have  no  account  of 
the  proceedings  of  the  pilgrims  when  they  reached  the  shrine,  nor  of 
the  tales  told  on  their  way  home,  nor  of  a  subject  which  would  have 
afforded  Chaucer's  humour  full  scope — ^the  supper  at  the  Tabard,  with 
which  the  ability  of  the  best  story-teller  was  to  be  rewarded  on  their 
return  to  Southwark.  Of  the  Tales,  two  are  in  prose ;  and  from  the 
first  of  them,  the  tale  of  "  Meliboeus,"  the  following  extract  is  selected. 
In  printing  it,  the  plan  adopted  by  Mr  Cowden  Clarke  in  his  '*  Riches 
of  Chaucer  "  has  been  followed.  The  old  spelling,  which  is  very  ar- 
bitrary and  fluctuating,  has  been  modernized,  without,  however,  either 
substituting  new  terms  for  old.  or  omitting  or  altering  any  of  the  old 


terminationa  which  were  characteristic  of  the  language  of  Chaacor's 
era.  Of  these  peculiarities  the  chief  are :  the  use  of  the  infinitive  ter- 
mination in  en,  as  been  for  be  ;  the  imperative  ending  in  etk,  as  trust- 
elk  for  trust ;  the  employment  of  plural  person  endings,  as  ye  heen  for 
ye  he,  ye  Juin  (t.«.,  haven)  for  ye  have ;  and  the  frequent  occurrence  of 
douhle  negatives. 

The  following  extract  contains  the  advice  of  Sapience  to  her  hus- 
band MelibcBus : — 



Now,  sir,  quod  dame  Prudence,  and  since  ye  Youchen  safe  to  be 
governed  by  my  counselling,  I  will  inform  you  how  ye  shall  govern 
yourself  in  choosing  of  your  counsel  Ye  shall  first  in  all  your  works 
meekly  beseech  to  the  high  God,  that  he  will  be  your  counsellor  ; 
and  shape  you  to  that  intent  that  he  give  you  counsel  and  comfort, 
as  taught  Toby  his  son  :^  "  At  all  times  thou  shalt  bless  God,  and 
pray  liim  to  dress  thy  ways  ;  and  look  that  all  thy  counsels  be  in 
nim  for  evermora"  Saint  James'  eke  saith :  "  If  any  of  you  have 
need  of  sapience,  ask  it  of  God."  And  afterward,  then  shall  ye  take 
counsel  in  yourself,  and  examine  well  your  thoughts  of  such  things 
as  you  thinkith^  that  is  best  for  your  profit.  And  then  shall  ye 
drive  from  your  heart  three  things  that  been^  contrary  to  good  coun- 
sel :  that  is  to  say — ^ire,  covetise,*  and  hastiness. 

First,  he  that  asketh  counsel  of  himself,  certes,'  he  must  be  with- 
out ire,  for  many  cause.  The  first  is  this  :  he  that  hath  great  ire 
and  wrath  in  himself,  he  weeneth^  alway  he  may  do  thing  that  he 
may  not  do.  And  secondly,  he  that  is  irons  and  wroth,  he  may 
not  well  deem;*  and  he  that  may  not  well  deem,  may  not  well 
counsel.  The  third  is  this:  that  he  that  is  irons  and  wroth,  as 
saith  Seneca,  may  not  speak  but  blameful  things,  and  with  his 
vicious  words  he  stirreth  other  folk  to  anger  and  to  ire.  And  eke, 
sir,  ye  must  drive  covetise  out  of  your  heart.  For  the  apostle*® 
saith  that  covetise  is  root  of  all  harms.  And  trusteth**  weU,  that  a 
covetous  man  ne  ^*  can  not  deem  ne  think,  but  only  to  fulfil  the  end 
of  his  covetise  ;  and  certes  that  may  never  been**  accomplished ;  for 
ever  the  more  abundance  that  he  hath  of  riches,  the  more  he  d&- 

1  The  reader  may  compare  the  first  three  sentences  vith  the  ori^al  spelling  as  here 
ffiven :  "  Now,  sire,  quod  dame  Pmdens,  and  syn  ye  vonchen  saafe  to  be  governed,  by 
my  counseilying,  I  wil  enforme  you  how  ye  schol  goveme  youre  self,  in  chesyng  of 
yoare  connseil.  Ye  schnl  lirst  In  alle  youre  werlces  mekely  blseche  to  the  hihe  God, 
that  he  wol  be  your  counseilour ;  and  schape  yon  to  that  extent  that  he  give  yon  conn- 
seil and  comfort,  as  tanghte  Toby  his  sone.  *  At  alie  tymes  thou  schalt  blesse  God, 
and  pray  bim  to  dresse  thy  wayes ;  and  loke  that  alle  thi  counseiles  be  in  him  for  ever- 


<  See  Toblt  It.  20.  *  James  i.  5.  *  Tou  thintith,  it  seems  to 

yon  thinketh ;  being  nsed  impersonally,  as  in  bur  meOUnis.  *  Been^  i.  e.,  be. 

*  t.&,  covetousness.  '  t.«.,  assuredly.  '  ie.,  thinketh. 

»  te.,  Judge.  "  1  Tim.  vi  10.  "  Imperative,  trust  ye. 

"  A  double  negative,  ne  and  wA.  ^  Been,  the  infiiutive  mood  for  be. 


siretL  And,  sir,  je  rnnst  also  drive  out  of  your  heart  hastiness ; 
for  certes  ye  may  not  deem  for  the  best  a  sudden  thought  that 
falleth  in  your  heflrt,  but  ye  must  avise  you  on  it  full  oft  For,  as 
ye  heard  here  before,  the  common  proverb  is  this :  that  he  that  soon, 
deemeth  soon  repentetL  Sir,  ye  been^  not  always  in  like  disposi- 
tion, for  oertes  something  that  sometime  seemeth  to  you  that  it  is 
good  for  you  to  do,  another  time  it  seemeth  to  you  the  contrary. 
When  ye  han'  taken  counsel  in  your  self  en,'  and  han  deemed  by 
good  deliberation  such  thing  as  you  seemeth*  best,  then  rede^  I 
you  that  ye  keep  it  secre.^  Bewray'  not  your  counsel  to  no  per- 
son, but^  it  so  be  tiiat  ye  ween  sickerly,*  that  through  your 
bewraying,  your  condition  snail  be  to  you  the  more  profitable.  For 
Jesus  Sirac*°  saith,  "  Neither  to  thy  foe  ne  to  thy  friend  discover 
not  thy  secre  ne  thy  folly;  for  they  will  give  you  audience,  and 
looking,  and  supportation  in  thy  presence,  and  scorn  in  thine 
absence.'*  Another  derk^^  saith,  that  scarcely  shall  thou  find  any 
person  that  may  keep  counsel  secreely.  The  book  saith :"  "  While 
thou  keepest  thy  counsel  in  thine  heart,  thou  keepest  it  in  thy  pri- 
son ;  and  when  thou  bewrayest  thy  counsel  to  any  wight,  he  holdeth 
thee  in  his  snare."  And  therefore  you  is  better  hide  your  coimsel 
in  your  heart,  than  prayen*'  him  to  whom  ye  have  bewrayed  your 
counsel  that  he  wiU  Keep  it  dose  and  stilL  For  Seneca  saith :  "  If 
so  be  that  thou  ne  mayest  not  thine  own  counsel  hide,  how  darest 
thou  prayen  any  other  wight  thy  counsel  secreely  to  keep  ?"  But, 
nathdess,**  if  mou  ween  sickerly  that  thy  bewraying  of  tny  counsel 
to  a  person  will  make  thy  condition  stand  in  the  better  plight,  then 
shalt  thou  tell  him  thy  counsel  in  this  wise. 

First,  thou  shalt  make  no  semblant^'  whether  thee  were  liefer^* 
war  or  peace,  or  this  or  that ;  ne  show  him  not  thy  wiU  and  thine 
intent ;  for  trust  well  that  commonly  these  coimsellors  been  flatterers, 
namely  the  counsellors  of  the  great  lords,  for  they  enforcen  them*' 
alway  rather  to  speak  pleasant  words  inclining  to  the  lord's  lust,^^ 
than  words  that  been  true  and  profitable.  And  therefore  men  say, 
that  the  rich  man  hath  seldom  good  counsel  but  *'  if  he  have  it  of  him- 
sel£  And  after  that  thou  shalt  consider  thy  friends  and  thy 
enemies.  And  as  touching  thy  Mends,  thou  shalt  consider  which 
of  them  beeth'^  most  fEdtmPiil  and  most  wise,  and  eldest  and  most 
approved  in  counselling ;  and  of  them  shalt  thou  ask  thy  counsel, 
as  the  case  requireth. 

^  Been,  second  person  plural,  present  indicative,  tor  be.  *  Have. 

'  Se^ait  self;  tiie  termination  being  dropped  in  modem  Engllsb. 

*  Tou  tumeiK,  seems  to  yon ;  aeemeth  being  used  impersonally.  *  JZede,  advise. 

*  jSeere,  secret;  an  Anglo-Norman  word  probably  introduced  by  Chaucer  into  Engllsli. 
^  BewTflV,  diaclose.  "  But^  except,  unless.  *  Bkkariih  assuredly. 
1^  Jeam  Sirae^  that  is,  Jesus  the  son  of  Sirac;  see  Ecdea.  xix.  8. 

"  Clerk,  clergyman  or  scholar.  is  See  Ecdes.  viiL  22.  >>  iVoym,  pray. 

^*  I^atMeUt  nevertheless;  this  word  may  also  be  found  in  Milton,  "Paradise  Lost,'* 
Book  I.  1*  Sembkmi,  appearance  or  manifestation. 

1'  Li^,  rather;  still  used  in  Scotch;  thee  were  U^^  it  pleased  thee  better. 
1'  Enforcen  them^  force  themselves  >"  Ltut,  will  or  pleasure^ 

»  Butt  imlesfc  ^  Bedh^  ia. 


I  say,  that  first  ye  shall  depe^  to  yotir  counsel  your  Mends  that 
been  true.  For  Solomon'  saith,  that  right*  as  the  heart  of  a  man 
delighteth  in  sayour  that  is  sweet,  ri^t  so  the  counsel  of  true 
Mends  giveth  sweetness  to  the  souL  He  saith  also,  there  may  no  thing 
be  likened  to  the  true  Mend  */  for  certes  gold  ne  silver  beeth  not  so 
much  worth  as  the  good  will  of  a  true  mend.  And  eke  he  said, 
that  a  true  Mend  is  a  strong  defence  f  who  that'  it  findeth,  certes 
he  flndeth  a  great  treasure.  Then  shall  ye  eke  consider  if  that  your 
true  Mends  been  discreet  and  wise ;  for  the  book  saith,  Ask'  thy 
counsel  alway  of  them  that  been  wise.  And  by  this  same  reason 
shall  ye  depe  to  your  counsel  of  your  Mends  that  been  of  age,  such 
as  have  y-see'  sights  and  been  expert'  in  many  things,  and  been 
approved  in  counsellings.  For  the  book^'  saith,  tiiat  in  old  men  is 
the  sapience,  and  in  long  time  the  prudence.  And  Tullius*^  saith, 
that  great  things  been  not  aye  accomplished  by  strength,  ne  by  de- 
livemess"  of  body,  but  by  good  counsel,  by  authority  of  persons, 
and  by  science ;  the  which  l£ree  tilings  ne  be  not  feeble  by  age,  but 
certes  they  enf orcen  and  increasen  day  by  day.  And  then  shall  ye 
keep  this  for  a  general  rule :  first  shaU  ye  depe  to  your  counsel  a  few 
of  your  Mends  that  been  especiaL  For  Solomon^*  saith,  Many 
Mends  have  thou,  but  among  a  thousand  choose  thou  one  to  be  thy 
counsellor.  For  albeit  so  that  thou  first  ne  tell  thy  counsd  but  to  a 
few,  thou  mayest  afterward  tell  it  mo  ^*  folk,  if  it  be  need.  But  look 
alway  that  thy  counsellors  have  thilke^'  three  conditions  that  I  have 
said  before :  that  is  to  say,  that  they  been  true,  and  old,  and  of  wise 
experience.  And  work  not  alway  in  eveiy  need  by  one  counsellor 
alone ;  for  some  time  behoveth  it  be  counselled  by  many.  For 
Solomon  saith^^'  Salvation  of  things  is  whereas^'  there  beeth  many 


Of  Maundeville,  the  earliest  of  our  popular  travellers,  little  more 
is  known  with  certainty  than  what  he  has  himself  stated  in  the  intro- 
duction to  his  work.  "  I  was  born/'  says  he,  "  in  £ngland,  in  the 
town  of  Saint  Alban's,  passed  the  sea  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  1322,  on  the  day  of  St  Michael  (29th  September^,  and  hitherto 
have  been  a  long  time  over  the  sea,  and  have  seen  ana  gone  through 
many  divers  landsj  and  many  provinces,  and  kingdoms,  and  isles." 

1  Ckptt  ttXL  s  See  Pror.  xxyU.  9. 

>  BigM  as,  just  a&  *  See  Pror.  xviiL  24  'See  Ecdes.  tL  14. 

*  W%o  that^  in  modern  English,  whosoever.  '  See  Proy.  xxiL  17. 

"  T-ut^  seen,  past  participle  of  to  see,  formed  as  in  Gterman  hy  prefixing  ge,  after- 
wards softened  into  y,  *  Expert^  experienced.  "*  See  Job  xii.  13. 
"  TuUiuSj  that  is,  Marcos  Tnllius  Cicero.           "  JkHverrustf  nimbleness  or  agility. 
*'  See  Ecdes.  vL  6.                          ^*  Mo^  for  more. 
^  TkOkt,  the  same;  the  word  is  stiU  used  In  Scotch. 
M  Pror.  zL  li.                              ^f  Whtrem^  when. 


He  travelled  especially  in  Palestine,  but  visited  also  Egypt,  and  most 
of  the  countries  of  Asia.  He  is  exceedingly  credulous,  and  his  nar- 
rative deserves  little  confideijce.  He  seems  in  his  travels  to  have 
served  as  a  military  adventurer,  and  must  have  spent  the  greater  part 
of  his  life  abroad,  for  he  did  not  return  home  till  1 866.  On  his  return 
he  compiled  a  narrative  of  his  travels,  chiefly  as  a  guide-book  for 
pilgrims  to  the  Holy  Land ;  and  as  he  wrote  entirely  from  memory, 
this  may  go  far  to  explain  both  the  confusion  that  prevails  in  his 
work,  and  his  frequent  borrowing  from  the  history  of  Pliny,  and  the 
travels  of  Marco  Polo  and  others.  His  work  was,  as  he  says,  originally 
written  in  Latin,  then  "  put  out  of  Latin  into  French,  and  translated 
again  into  English,  that  every  man  of  my  nation  may  understand  it." 
It  enjoyed  for  a  long  time  a  high  amount  of  popularity.  Maundeville 
is  said  to  have  died  at  Liege  in  1382.  The  extracts  are  given  from 
the  edition  of  Mr  Wright. 


From  Jericho  it  is  three  miles  to  the  Dead  Sea.  About  that  sea 
groweth  much  alum  and  alkatran.^  The  Dead  Sea  divides  the  lands 
of  India  and  Arabia,  and  the  sea  reaches  from  Soara  to  Arabia.  The 
water  of  that  sea  is  very  bitber  and  salt,  and  if  the  earth  were 
moistened  with  that  water,  it  would  never  bear  firuit  And  the 
earth  and  land  changeth  often  its  colour.  The  water  casteth  out  a 
thing  that  is  called  asphalt,  in  pieces  as  large  as  a  horse  every  day, 
and  on  aU  sides.  From  Jerusalem  to  that  sea  is  200  furlongs.  That 
sea  is  in  length  680  furlongs,  and  in  breadth  150  furlongs,  and  is 
called  the  Dead  Sea,  because  it  does  not  run,  but  is  ever  motionless. 
Neither  man,  beast,  nor  anything  that  hath  life  may  die  in  that 
sea  ;  and  that  hath  been  proved  many  times  by  men  that  have  been 
condemned  to  death  who  have  been  cast  therein,  and  left  therein 
three  or  four  days,  and  they  might  never  die  therein,  for  it  receiveth 
nothing  within  him*  that  breatheth  life.  And  no  man  may  drink 
of  the  water  on  account  of  its  bitterness.  And  if  a  man  cast  iron 
therein  it  will  float  on  the  surface ;  but  if  men  cast  a  feather  therein 
it  will  sink  to  the  bottom ;  and  these  are  things  contrary  to  nature, 
And  there  beside  grow  trees  that  bear  apples  very  fiiir  of  colour  to 
behold,  but  when  we  break  or  cut  them  in  two  we  find  within  ashes 
and  cinders,  which  is  a  token  that,  by  the  wrath  of  God,  the  cities 
and  the  land  were  burned  and  sunk  into  hell.  &ome  call  that  sea 
the  Lake  Dasfetidee  ;^  some  the  Kiver  of  Devils ;  and  some  the 
River  that  is  ever  stinking.  Into  that  sea,  by  the  wrath  of  God,  sunk 
the  five  cities,  Sodom,  Gomorrah,  Aldama,  Seboym,  and  Segor,*  for 
the  abominable  sin  that  reigned  in  them.  At  the  right  side  of  the 
Dead  Sea  the  wife  of  Lot  still  stands  in  likeness  of  a  salt  stone, 
because  she  looked  behind  her  when  the  cities  sunk  into  helL 

1  This  probably  means  bltnmen.       >  Old  English  for  it        8  £«.^  d'Assa  fGetida. 
*  t.«.,  Zoar;  from  Segor,  MamideTille  ingeniously  deriyes  Seir. 


And  yon  shall  imderstand  that  the  River  Jordan  runs  into  the 
Dead  Sea  and  there  it  dies,  for  it  runs  no  further,  and  its  entrance 
is  a  mile  firom  the  Church  of  St  John  the  Baptist,  toward  the  west, 
a  little  beneath  the  place  where  Christians  bathe  commonly.  A 
mile*  from  the  River  Jordan  is  the  River  of  Jabbok,  which  Jacob 
passed  over  when  he  came  from  Mesopotamia.  This  River  Jordan 
is  no  great  river,  but  it  has  plenty  of  good  fish,  and  it  cometh  out 
of  the  hill  of  Libanns  by  two  wells,  tluit  are  called  Jor  and  Dan  ; 
and  of  those  two  wells  it  hath  its  name.  It  passes  by  a  lake  called 
Maron  f  and  after  it  passes  through  the  sea  of  Tiberias  and  under 
the  hills  of  Gilboa,  and  there  is  a  veiy  fair  valley  on  both  sides  of 
the  river.  The  hills  of  Libanus  separate  the  kingdom  of  Syria  and 
the  country  of  Phoenicia.  Upon  these  hills  grow  cedar  trees  that 
are  very  high,  and  bear  long  apples  as  great  as  a  man's  head. 


TOUTH. — (chapter  XV.) 

Men  go  by  sea  to  the  land  of  Lomb,'  in  which  grows  the  pepper, 
in  the  forest  called  Combar,'  and  it  grows  nowhero  else  in  aU  the 
worid ;  that  forest  extends  fuU  eighteen  days  in  length.  And  you 
duJl  understond  that  the  pepper  grows  like  a  wild  vine,  which  is 
planted  close  by  the  trees  of  that  wood  to  sustain  it ;  the  fruit 
nangs  like  brandies  of  grapes,  with  which  the  tree  is  so  laden  that 
it  seems  that  it  would  break,  and  when  it  is  ripe  it  is  all  greeii  like« 
ivy  berries  ;  and  then  men  cut  them  as  they  do  the  vines,  and  put 
them  upon  an  oven  where  they  become  black  and  crisp.  Thero  aro. 
three  kinds  of  pepper  all  on  one  tree,  long  pepper,  black  pepper, 
and  white  jiepper.  The  long  pepper  comes  nrst  when  the  leaf 
begins  to  appear,  and  is  like  the  catkins  of  hazel  that  come  before 
the  leaf,  and  it  hangs  low.  Next  comes  the  black,  with  the  leaf  like 
clusters  of  grapes,  aU  green,  and,  when  gathered,  it  becomes  the 
white,  which  is  somewhat  less  than  the  black,  and  of  that  but  little 
is  brought  to  this  country,  for  they  keep  it  for  themselves,  because 
it  is  better  and  milder  than  the  black.  In  that  country  aro  many 
kinds  of  serpents  and  other  vermin,  in  consequence  of  the  great 
heat  of  the  country  and  of  the  pepper.  And  some  men  say  that, 
when  they  will  gather  the  pepper,  tney  make  fires  and  bum  there- 
abouts to  make  the  serpents  and  cockodrills^  fly,  but  this  is  not  true. 
But  thus  they  do :  they  anoint  their  hands  and  feet  with  a  juice 
made  of  snails  and  other  things,  of  which  the  serpents  and  venomous 

1  This  Is  probably  a  mistake  for  a  cfajr,  that  is  day*B  Journey,  which  is  more  nearly 
the  distance  of  the  Jabbolc  firom  the  Dead  Sea.  '  i  e.,  waters  of  Merom. 

*  Perhaps  Colombo  and  Kandy  in  Ceylon. 

*  Maundeiille  elsewhere  describes  the  cockodrills  thus : — "  These  cockodrills  are 
serpents,  yellow  and  rayed  above,  having  four  feet,  and  short  thighs,  and  great  nails 
like  claws ;  and  some  are  five  fiithoms  in  length,  and  some  of  six,  eight,  or  even  ten, 
and  -when  they  go  by  places  that  are  gravelly,  it  appears  as  if  men  had  drawn  a  great 
tree  through  the  gravelly  place."--Cap.  xviii. 


beasts  hate  the  sayour,  and  that  makes  them  fly  before  them  because 
of  the  smell,  and  then  they  gather  in  the  pepper  in  safety. 

Toward  the  head  of  that  forest  is  the  city  of  Polombe,  above 
which  is  a  great  mountain,  also  called  Polombe,  &om  which  the  city 
hath  its  name.  And  at  the  foot  of  that  mountain  is  a  fair  and  great 
well,  which  has  the  odour  and  savour  of  all  spices ;  and  at  every 
hour  of  the  day  it  changes  it-s  odour  and  savour  diversely  ;  and  who- 
soever drinks  three  times  fasting  of  that  well  is  whole  of  all  kind  of 
sickness  that  he  has ;  and  they  that  dwell  there,  and  drink  often  of 
that  well,  never  have  sickness,  but  appear  always  young.  I  have 
drunk  thereof  three  or  four  times,  and  methinks  I  stiU  £  the 
better.  Some  men  call  it  the  Well  of  Youth  ;  for  they  that  often 
drink  thereof  appear  always  young,  and  live  without  sickness.  And 
men  say  that  that  well  comes  out  of  Paradise,  and  therefore  it  is  so 
virtuous.  All  that  country  grows  good  ginger ;  and  therefore  mer- 
chants go  thither  for  spicery.  In  uiat  land  men  worship  the  ox,  for 
his  simpleness  and  for  his  meekness,  and  for  the  profit  that  comes 
of  him.  They  say  that  he  is  the  holiest  beast  on  earth ;  for  they 
consider  that  whosoever  is  meek  and  patient,  he  ia  holy  and  profit- 
able, for  then,  they  say,  he  hath  all  virtues  in  hint 


Cathay^  is  a  great  country,  fair,  noble,  rich,  and  fuU  of  merchants. 
Thither  merchants  go  to  seek  spices  and  all  manner  of  merchandises, 
more  commonly  than  in  any  other  part.  And  you  shall  understand 
that  merchants  who  come  from  Genoa,  or  from  Venice,  or  from 
Romania,  or  other  parts  of  Lombardy,  go  by  sea  and  by  land  eleven 
or  twelve  months,  or  more  sometimes,  before  they  reach  the  isle  of 
Cathay,  which  is  the  princix)al  region  of  all  parts  beyond ;  and  it 
belongs  to  the  Great  Ghan.  From  Cathay  men  go  towards  the  east, 
by  many  days'  journey,  to  a  good  city,  one  of  the  best  stored  with 
silk  and  other  merchandises  in  the  world.  Then  men  come  to  another 
old  city,  toward  the  east,  in  the  province  of  Cathay,  near  which  the 
men  of  Tartary  have  made  another  city,  called  Caydon,  which  has 
twelve  gates.  And  between  the  two  gates  there  is  always  a  great 
mile ;  so  that  the  two  cities,  that  is  to  say,  the  old  and  the  new, 
have  in  circuit  more  than  twenty  miles.  In  this  city  is  the  seat  of 
the  Great  Chan,  in  a  veiy  great  palace,  the  fairest  in  the  world,  the 
vails  of  which  are  in  cii'cuit  more  than  two  miles  ;  and  within  the 
v/alls  it  is  all  full  of  other  palaces.  And  in  the  garden  of  the  great 
palace  there  is  a  great  hill,  upon  which  there  is  another  palace,  the 
fairest  and  richest  that  any  man  may  devise.  And  all  about  the 
palace  and  the  hiU  are  many  trees,  bearing  divers  fruits.  And  all 
about  that  hill  are  great  and  deep  ditches ;  and  beside  them  are 

^  Cathay  corresponds  with  Independent  and  Chinese  Tartary.  Its  limits  rariod 


great  fishrponds,  on  both  sides ;  and  there  is  a  very  fasi  bridge  to 
pass  over  the  ditches.  And  in  iJiese  fish-ponds  are  an  extiaordmaiy 
number  of  wild  geese,  and  ganders,  and  wild-ducks,  and  swans,  and 
herons.  And  all  about  those  ditches  and  fish-ponds  is  the  great 
garden,  full  of  wild  beasts,  so  that  when  tlie  Great  Chan  will  nave 
any  sport,  to  take  any  of  the  wild  beasts,  or  of  the  fowls,  he  will 
cause  them  to  be  driven,  and  take  them  at  the  windows,  without 
going  out  of  his  chamber.  Within  the  palace,  in  the  hall,  there  are 
twenty-four  pillars  of  fine  gold ;  and  all  the  walls  are  covered  within 
with  red  skins  of  animals  <^ed  panthers,  £Eiir  beasts  and  well  smell- 
ing ;  so  that,  for  the  sweet  odour  of  the  skins,  no  evil  air  may  enter 
into  the  palace.  The  skins  are  as  red  as  blood,  and  shine  so  bright 
against  the  sun  that  a  man  may  scarcely  look  at  them.  And  in  the 
middle  of  this  palace  is  the  mountour^  of  the  Great  Chan,  all  wrought 
of  gold,  and  of  precious  stones,  and  great  pearls ;  and  at  the  four 
comers  are  four  serpents  of  gold ;  and  all  about  there  are  made  large 
nets  of  silk  and  gold,  and  great  pearls  hanging  all  about  it 

The  hall  of  the  palace  is  full  nobly  arrayed,  and  fall  marvellously 
attired  on  all  parts,  in  aU  things  tnat  men  apparel  any  hall  with. 
And  first,  at  the  head  of  the  haU,  is  the  emperor^s  throne,  very  high, 
where  he  sits  at  meat.  It  is  of  fine  precious  stones,  bordered  all 
about  with  purified  gold,  and  precious  stones,  and  great  pearls. 
And  the  steps  up  to  the  table  are  of  precious  stones,  mixed  with 
gold.  And  at  the  left  side  of  the  emperor^s  seat  is  the  seat  of  his 
first  wife,  one  step  lower  than  the  emperor ;  and  it  is  of  jasper,  bor- 
dered with  gold.  And  the  seat  of  his  second  wife  is  lower  than  his 
first  wife,  and  is  also  of  jasper,  bordered  with  gold,  aa  that  other  is. 
And  the  seat  of  the  third  wife  is  still  lower  by  a  step  than  the  second 
^e,  for  he  luu>  always  three  wiyes  with  hJ  whei^ver  he  is.  And 
after  his  wives,  on  the  same  side,  sit  the  ladies  of  his  lineage,  still 
lower,  according  to  their  ranks.  And  all  those  that  are  married 
have  a  counterifeit,'  made  like  a  man's  foot,  upon  their  heads,  a 
cubit  long,  all  wrought  with  great,  fine,  and  orient  pearls,  and  above 
made  wiui  peacocks'  feathers,  and  of  other  shining  feathers ;  and 
that  stands  upon  their  heads  like  a  crest,  in  token  that  they  are 
under  man's  foot,  and  under  subjection  of  man.  The  emperor  has 
his  table  alone  by  himself,  which  is  of  gold  and  precious  stones  ;  or 
of  crystal  bordered  with  gold,  and  fuU  of  precious  stones ;  or  of 
amethysts ;  or  of  lignum  aloes,  that  comes  out  of  Paradise ;  or  of 
ivory,  bound  or  bordered  with  gold.  And  under  the  emperor's  table 
sit  four  clerks,  who  write  all  that  the  emperor  says,  be  it  good  or 
evil ;  for  all  that  he  says  must  be  held  good,  for  he  may  not  change 
his  word  nor  revoke  it 

At  great  feasts,  men  bring  before  the  emperor's  table  great  tables 
of  gold,  and  thereon  are  peacocks  of  gold,  and  many  other  kinds  of 
difierent  fowls,  all  of  gold,  and  richly  wrought  and  enamelled ;  and 
they  make  them  dance  and  sing,  clapping  their  wings  together,  and 

1  A  rising  ground,  or  elevated  part  of  the  interior  of  the  palace. 
*  t.«.,  a  flg^xre,  or  Unitatlon. 


making  great  noise ;  and  whether  it  be  by  craft  or  hj  necromancy  I 
know  not,  but  it  is  a  goodly  sight  to  behold.  But  I  have  the  less 
marvel,  because  they  are  the  most  skilful  men  in  the  world  in  all 
sciences  and  in  all  crafts  ;  for  in  subtlety,  malice,  and  forethought, 
they  surpass  all  men  under  heaven ;  and  therefore  they  say  them- 
selves that  they  see  with  two  eyes,  and  the  Christians  see  but  with 
one,  because  they  are  more  subtle  than  they.  I  busied  myself 
much  to  learn  the  craft,  but  the  master  told  me  that  he  had  made  a 
vow  to  his  god  to  teach  it  no  creature,  but  only  to  his  eldest  son. 
Also  above  the  emperor^s  table,  and  the  other  tables,  and  above  a 
great  part  of  the  haU,  is  a  vine  made  of  fine  gold,  which  spreads  all 
about  the  hall ;  and  it  has  many  clusters  of  grapes,  some  whit€,  some 
green,  some  yellow,  some  red,  and  some  black,  all  of  precious  stones. 
And  they  are  all  so  properly  made,  that  it  appears  a  real  vine  bear- 
ing natm^  grapes.  Aiid  before  the  emperor's  table  stand  great 
lords,  and  rich  barons,  and  others,  that  serve  the  emperor  at  meat ; 
and  no  man  is  so  bold  as  to  speak  a  word  unless  the  emperor  speak 
to  him,  except  minstrels,  that  sing  songs,  and  tell  jests  or  other  dis- 
ports, to  solace  the  emperor.  And  aU  the  vessels  that  men  are 
served  with,  in  the  hall  or  in  chambers,  are  of  precious  stones,  and, 
-especially  at  great  tables,  either  of  jasper,  or  of  crystal,  or  of  ame- 
thyst, or  of  fine  gold.  And  the  cups  are  of  emeralds,  and  sapphires, 
or  topazes,  of  perydoz,*  and  of  many  other  precious  stones.  Vessel 
of  silver  is  there  none,  for  they  set  no  value  on  it  to  make  vessels 
of,  but  they  make  therewith  steps,  and  pillars,  and  pavements  to 
haJls  and  chambers.  And  before  the  haU-door  stand  many  barons 
and  knights  full  armed,  to  hinder  any  one  from  entering,  unless  by 
the  will  or  command  of  the  emperor,  except  they  be  servants  or 
minstrels  of  the  household. 


Sib  Thomas  Moee  was  the  only  son  of  Sir  John  More,  judge  of  the 
King's  Bench  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII,  He  was  born  in  1480  in 
London,  where  he  also  received  his  early  education.  His  precocious 
talents  and  ready  wit  secured  for  him  the  favour  and  patronage  of 
Cardinal  Morton,  then  Primate  of  England,  who  sent  More  to  complete 
his  studies  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford.  From  Oxford  he  returned  to 
Lincoln's  Inn,  in  London,  and  devoted  himself  to  the  study  of  the  law 
as  his  profession.  In  this  his  ability  would  probably  soon  have  raised 
him  to  eminence,  had  he  not  defeated  all  his  prospects  by  opposing 
in  Parliament  a  measure  for  levying  a  large  sum  of  money  on  the 
country,  as  a  portion  to  the  eldest  daughter  of  Henry  VII.,  who  was 
about  to  be  married  to  James  IV.  of  Scotland.  His  patriotism  ruined 
his  own  prospects,  and  drew  down  upon  his  father  the  indignation  of 
the  avaricious  tyrant.    On  the  death  of  Henry  VII.,  More's  talents 

1  An  unknown  precioos  stone. 


recommended  him  to  the  notice  of  the  powerful  "Wolsey,  and  in  a  very 
brief  space  he  was  made  a  member  of  the  Privy  Council,  received  dia- 
tinguished  legal  preferment,  and  was  at  last  advanced  to  the  dignity  of 
Lord  Chancellor,  being  the  first  layman  on  whom  that  important 
office  waa  conferred.  But  his  conscientious  adherence  to  the  old 
faith,  and  his  honest  opposition  to  Henry's  proposed  marriage,  lost  him 
the  royal  favour,  and  the  ferocious  monarch,  who  never  forgave  any 
who  dared  to  oppose  his  will,  brought  More  to  the  block,  July  6, 
1586.  He  was  one  of  the  most  eminent  characters  of  the  reign  of 
Henry  VIII.,  alike  for  virtue,  talents,  and  learning ;  and  his  amiable 
disposition  and  unhappy  fate  have  secured  for  him  the  esteem  of  all 
succeeding  ages.  His  works  were  principally  controversial ;  but  he 
also  wrote  a  History  of  England  during  the  reigns  of  Edward  V.  and 
Richard  III.,  and  his  •*  History  of  Utopia,"  a  political  work,  intended 
to  suggest  improvements  on  the  government  of  England  by  a  narra- 
tive of  the  laws  and  customs  of  an  imaginary  country,  so  governed  as 
to  secure  universal  happiness.  It  was  written  in  .Latin,  but  has  been 
often  translated.  The  following  extracts  are  from  a  revised  edition  of 
Bishop  Burnet's  translation : — 


The  island  of  Utopia  is  in  the  middle  two  hundred  miles  broad, 
and  holds  almost  the  same  breadth  over  a  great  part  of  it ;  but  it 
grows  narrower  towards  both  ends.  Its  figure  is  not  unlike  a 
crescent  between  its  horns,  the  sea  comes  in  eleven  miles  broad, 
and  spreads  itself  into  a  great  bay,  which  is  environed  with  land  to  the 
compass  of  about  five  hundred  miles,  and  is  well  secured  from  winds. 
In  this  bay  there  is  no  great  current ;  the  whole  coast  is,  as  it  were, 
one  continued  harbour,  which  gives  all  that  live  in  the  island  great 
convenience  for  mutual  commerce  ;  but  the  entrance  into  the  bay, 
occasioned  by  rocks  on  the  one  hand,  and  shallows  on  the  other,  is 
very  dangerous.  In  the  middle  of  it  thers  is  one  single  rock,  which 
appears  aboye  water,  and  may  therefore  easily  be  avoided,  and  on 
the  top  of  it  there  is  a  tower  in  which  a  garrison  is  kept ;  the  other 
rocks  lie  imder  water,  and  are  very  dangerous.  The  channel  is 
known  only  to  the  natives,  so  that  if  any  stranger  should  enter  into 
the  bay  without  one  of  their  pilots,  he  would  run  great  danger  of 
shipwreck.  For  even  they  themselves  could  not  pass  it  safe,  if 
some  marks  that  are  on  the  coast  did  not  direct  their  way  ;  and  if 
these  should  but  be  a  little  shifted,  any  fleet  that  might  come  against 
them,  how  great  soever  it  were,  would  be  certainly  lost.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  island,  there  are  likewise  many  harbours  ;  and  the 
coast  is  so  fortified,  both  by  nature  and  art,  that  a  small  number  of 
men  can  hinder  the  descent  of  a  great  army.  But  they  report  (and 
there  remain  good  marks  of  it  to  make  it  credible)  that  this  was  no 
island  at  first,  but  a  part  of  the  continent.  TJUypus,  that  conquered 
it  (whose  name  it  still  carries,  for  Abraxa  was  its  first  name),  brought 
the  rude  and  uncivilized  inhabitants  into  such  a  good  government, 
and  to  that  measure  of  politeness,  that  they  now  far  excell  all  the 

2&  flIR  THOMAS  MORE. 

rest  of  mankind ;  having  soon  subdued  them,  he  designed  to  sepa- 
rate them  from  the  continent,  and  to  bring  the  sea  quite  round  them. 
To  accomplish  this,  he  ordered  a  deep  channel  to  be  dug  fifteen 
miles  long ;  and  that  the  natives  mi^ht  not  think  he  treated  them 
like  slaves,  he  not  only  forced  the  mhabitants,  but  also  his  own 
soldiers,  to  labour  in  carrying  it  on.  As  he  set  a  vast  number  of 
men  to  work,  beyond  all  men's  expectations  he  brought  it  to  a 
speedy  conclusion  ;  and  his  neighbours,  who  at  first  laughed  at  the 
folly  of  the  undertaking,  no  sooner  saw  it  brought  to  perfection, 
than  they  were  struck  with  admiration  and  terror. 

There  are  fifty-four  cities  in  the  island,  all  large  and  well-built, 
the  manners,  customs,  and  laws  of  which  are  the  same  ;  and  they 
are  aU  contrived  as  near  in  the  same  manner  as  the  ground  on  which 
they  stand  will  allow.  The  nearest  lie  at  least  twenty-four  miles 
distance  from  one  another,  and  the  more  remote  are  not  so  far  dis- 
tant but  that  a  man  can  go  on  foot  in  one  day  from  it  to  that  which 
lies  next  it.  Every  city  sends  three  of  their  wisest  senators  once 
a-year  to  Amaurot,  to  consult  about  the  common  eohcems ;  for  that 
is  the  chief  town  of  the  island,  and  being  situated  near  the  centre 
of  it,  it  is  the  most  convenient  place  for  their  assemblies.  The 
jurisdiction  of  every  city  extends  at  least  twenty  miles  ;  and  where 
the  towns  lie  wider  they  have  much  more  ground.  No  town  de- 
sires to  enlarge  its  bounds ;  for  the  people  consider  themselves 
rather  as  tenants  than  landlords  They  have  built  over  all  the 
country  farmhouses  for  husbandmen,  which  are  well  contrived,  and 
are  funushed  with  all  things  necessary  for  country  labour.  Inhahi* 
tants  are  sent  by  turns  from  the  cities  to  dwell  in  them ;  no  country 
family  has  fewer  than  forty  men  and  women  in  it,  besides  two 
slaves.  There  is  a  master  and  a  mistress  set  over  every  family ;  and 
over  thirty  funilies  there  is  a  magistrate.  Eveiy  year  twenty  of 
this  &mily  come  back  to  the  town, after  they  have  stayed  two  years  in 
the  coimtry ;  and  in  their  room  there  are  other  twenty  sent  from 
the  town,  that  they  may  learn  countiy  work  from  those  that  have 
been  already  one  year  in  the  country,  as  they  must  teach  those  that 
come  to  them  next  from  the  town.  By  this  means  such  as  dwell  in 
those  country  farms  are  never  ignorant  of  agriculture,  and  so  com- 
mit no  errors,  which  might  otherwise  be  &tal,  and  bring  them  under 
a  scarcity  of  com.  But  though  there  is  eveiy  year  such  a  shifting 
of  the  husbandmen,  to  prevent  any  man  being  forced  against  his 
will  to  follow  that  hard  course  of  life  too  long,  yet  many  among 
them  take  such  pleasure  in  it  that  they  desire  leave  to  continue  in 
it  many  years.  These  husbandmen  tiQ  the  ground,  breed  cattle,  hew 
wood,  and  convey  it  to  the  towns,  either  by  land  or  water,  as  is 
most  convenient.  They  breed  an  infinite  multitude  of  chickens  in 
a  very  curious  manner  ;  for  the  hens  do  not  sit  and  hatch  them,  but 
vast  numbers  of  eggs  are  laid  in  a  gentle  and  equal  heat,  in  order  to 
be  hatched  ;  and  they  are  no  sooner  out  of  the  shell,  and  able  to  stir 
about,  but  they  seem  to  consider  those  that  feed  them  as  their 
mothers,  and  follow  them  as  other  chickens  do  the  hen  that  hatched 


them.  They  breed  vety  few  horses,  but  those  they  have  are  fiill  of 
mettle,  and  are  kept  only  for  exercising  their  youth  in  the  art  of 
sitting  and  riding  them ;  for  they  do  not  put  them  to  any  work^ 
either  of  plowing  or  carriage,  in  which  they  employ  o  An :  because, 
though  their  horses  are  stronger,  yet  they  find  oxen  can  hold  out 
longer  ;  and  as  they  are  not  subject  to  so  many  diseases,  so  they 
are  Kept  upon  a  less  charge,  and  with  less  trouble  ;  and  eyen  when 
they  are  so  worn  out  that  they  are  no  more  fit  for  labour,  they  are 
good  meat  at  last.  They  sow  no  com,  but  that  which  is  to  be  their 
Bread  ;  for  they  drink  either  wine,  cyder,  or  peny,  and  often  water, 
now  and  then  boiled  with  honey  or  liquorice,  with  which  they 
abound ;  and  though  they  know  exactly  how  much  com  willserye  eyery 
town,  and  all  that  tract  of  countiy  which  belongs  to  it,  yet  they  sow 
much  more,  and  breed  more  cattle  than  are  necessary  for  their  con- 
sumption ;  giying  that  oyeiplus,  of  which  they  make  no  use,  to  their 
neighbours.  When  they  want  anything  in  the  country  which  it 
does  not  produce,  they  fetch  that  from  the  town,  without  carrying 
anything  in  exchange  for  it ;  and  the  magistrates  of  the  town  take 
care  to  see  it  giyen  them  ;  for  they  meet  generally  in  the  town  once 
a-month,  upon  a  festiyal  day.  When  the  time  of  haryest  comes,  the 
magistrates  in  the  countiy  send  to  those  in  the  towns,  letting  them 
know  how  many  hands  they  shall  need  for  reaping  the  haryest ;  and 
the  number  they  call  for  being  sent  to  them,  they  commonly  despatch 
it  all  in  one  day. 


The  chief,  and  almost  the  only,  business  of  the  Syphogrants^  is  to 
take  care  that  no  man  may  liye  idle,  but  that  eyery  one  may  follow 
his  trade  diligently  ;  yet  they  do  not  wear  themselyes  out  with  per- 
petual toil  from  mominff  to  night,  as  if  they  were  beasts  of  buraen, 
which,  as  it  is  indeed  a  heayy  slayeiy,  so  it  is  eyeiywhere  the  com- 
mon course  of  life  amongst  all  mechanics  exoept  the  Utopians ; 
but  they,  diyiding  the  day  and  night  into  twenty-four  hours,  appoint 
six  of  these  for  work,  three  of  which  are  before  dinner  and  three 
after ;  they  then  sup,  and  at  eidbt  o'clock,  counting  from  noon,  go 
to  bed  and  sleep  eight  hours.  The  rest  of  their  time,  besides  tlmt 
taken  up  in  work,  eating,  and  sleeping,  is  left  to  eyeiy  man's  dis- 
cretion ;  yet  they  are  not  to  abuse  that  interval  to  luxury  and  idle- 
ness, but  must  employ  it  in  some  proper  exercise  according  to  their 
various  inclinations,  which  is  for  the  most  part  reading.  It  is  ordi- 
nary to  haye  public  lectures  eveiy  mommg  before  day-break,  at 
which  none  are  obliged  to  appear,  but  those  who  are  marked  out 
for  literature  ;  yet  a  sreat  many,  both  men  and  women  of  all  ranks, 
go  to  hear  lectures  of  one  sort  or  other,  according  to  their  inclina- 
tions. But  if  others,  that  are  not  made  for  contemplation,  choose 
rather  to  employ  themselyes  at  that  time  in  their  trades,  as  many 

1  The  name  of  a  magistrate  in  Utopia ;  there  were  two  hundred  Syphogrants  In  each 
town,  presiding  each  over  thirty  finoilies. 


of  them  do,  they  are  not  hindered,  but  are  rather  commended  as  meu 
that  take  care  to  serve  their  country.  After  supper  they  spend  an 
hour  in  some  diversion,  in  summer  in  their  gardens,  and  in  winter  in 
the  halls  whore  they  eat,  when  they  entertain  each  other  either  with 
musick  or  discourse.  They  do  not  so  much  as  know  dice,  or  any  such 
foolish  and  mischievous  games.  They  have,  however,  two  sorts  of 
games  not  unlike  our  chess  ;  the  one  is  between  several  numbers, 
in  which  one  number,  as  it  were,  consumes  another  ;  the  other  re- 
sembles a  battle  between  the  virtues  and  the  vices,  in  which  the 
enmity  in  the  vices  among  themselves,  and  their  agreement  agaiast 
virtue,  is  not  unpleasantly  represented ;  together  with  the  special 
oppositions  between  the  particular  virtues  and  vices ;  as  also  the 
methods  by  which  vice  either  openly  assaults  or  secretly  undermines 
virtue,  and  virtue  on  the  other  hand  resists  it.  But  the  time  ap- 
pointed for  labour  is  to  be  narrowly  examined,  otherwise  you  may 
unagine,  that  since  there  are  only  six  hours  appointed  for  work, 
they  may  fall  under  a  scarcity  of  necessary  provisions.  But  it  is  so 
far  from  being  true  that  this  time  is  not  sufficient  for  supplyiQg 
them  with  plenty  of  all  things,  either  necessary  or  convenient,  that 
it  is  rather  too  much  ;  and  this  you  will  easily  apprehend  if  you  con- 
sider how  great  a  pait  of  all  other  nations  is  quite  idle.  First, 
women  generally  do  little,  who  are  the  half  of  mankind,  and  if  some 
few  women  are  diligent,  their  husbands  are  idle  ;  then  consider  the 
great  company  of  idle  priests,  and  of  those  that  are  called  religious 
men  ;  add  to  these  all  rich  men,  chiefly  those  that  have  estates  in 
land,  who  are  called  noblemen  and  gentlemen,  together  with  their 
families,  made  up  of  idle  persons  that  are  kept  more  for  show  than 
use  ;  add,  further,  all  those  strong  and  lusty  beggars  that  go  about 
pretending  some  disease  in  excuse  for  their  begging  ;  and  upon  the 
whole  account  you  will  find  that  the  number  of  those  by  whose  labours 
nmDldnd  is  supplied  is  much  less  than  you  perhaps  imagine ;  then 
consider  how  few  of  those  that  work  are  employed  in  labours  that 
are  of  real  service,  for  we,  who  measure  all  things  by  money,  give 
rise  to  many  trades  that  are  both  vain  and  superfluous,  and  serve 
only  to  support  riot  and  luxury. 

Thus  from  the  great  numbers  among  the  Utopians  that  are  neither 
Bufiered  to  be  idle  nor  to  be  employed  in  any  fruitless  labour,  you 
may  easily  make  the  estimate  how  much  may  be  done  in  those  few 
hours  in  which  they  are  obliged  to  labour.  But  besides  all  that  has 
been  already  said,  it  is  to  be  considered  that  the  needful  arts  among 
them  are  managed  with  less  labour  than  anywhere  else.  The  build- 
ing or  the  repairing  of  houses  among  us  employ  many  hands,  bo- 
cause  often  a  thnftless  heir  sufTers  a  house  that  his  fia.ther  built  to 
fall  into  decay,  so  that  his  successor  must,  at  a  great  cost,  repair 
that  which  he  might  have  kept  up  with  a  small  charge.  It  fre-> 
quently  happens,  too,  that  the  same  house  which  one  person  built  at 
a  vast  expense  is  neglected  by  another,  who  thinks  he  has  a  more 
delicate  sense  of  the  oeauties  of  architecture,  and,  sufTering  it  to  fall 
to  ruin,  he  builds  another  at  no  less  charge.    But  among  the  Utor 


pian^  all  things  are  so  regulated  tbat  men  reiy  seldom  bufld  upon 
a  new  piece  of  ground  ;  and  are  not  only  veiy  quick  in  repairing 
their  houses,  but  show  thefc*  foresight  in  preventing  their  decay,  so 
that  their  buildings  are  preserved  very  long  with  but  Mttle  labour ; 
and  thus  the  builders,  to  whom  that  care  bdoiigs,  are  often  without 
employment,  except  the  hewing  of  timber  and  the  squaring  of  stones, 
that  the  materials  may  be  in  readiness  for  raising  a  bunding  very 
Suddenly,  when  there  is  any  occasion  for  it.  As  to  their  clothes, 
observe  how  little  work  is  spent  in  them.  While  they  are  at  labour 
they  afe  clothed  with  leather  and  skins,  cast  carelessly  about  them, 
which  will  last  seven  years  ;  and  when  they  appear  in  public  they 
put  on  an  upper  garment  which  hides  the  other  ;  and  these  are  all 
of  one  colour,  which  is  the  natural  colour  of  the  wool.  As  they  need 
less  woollen  cloth  than  is  used  anywhere  else,  so  that  which  they  make 
use  of  is  much  less  costly.  They  use  linen  cloth  more,  but  that  is 
prepared  with  less  labour,  and  they  value  cloth  only  by  the  white- 
ness of  the  linen,  or  the  cleanness  of  the  wool,  without  much  re- 
gard to  the  fineness  of  the  thread.  While  in  other  places,  four  or 
five  upper  garments  of  woollen  cloth  of  different  colours,  and  as 
many  vests  of  silk,  will  scarce  serve  one  man,  and  while  those  that 
are  nicer  think  ten  too  few,  every  man  there  is  content  with  one, 
which  very  often  serves  him  two  years.  Nor  is  there  anything  that 
can  tempt  a  man  to  desire  more,  for  if  he  had  them  he  would  neither 
be  the  warmer,  nor  would  he  make  one  jot  the  better  appearance 
for  it.  Thus,  since  they  are  all  employed  in  some  useful  labour,  and 
since  they  content  themselves  with  fewer  things,  it  falls  out  that 
there  is  a  great  abundance  of  all  things  among  them  ;  so  that  it  fre- 
quently happens,  that  for  want  of  other  work,  vast  numbers  are  sent 
out  to  mend  the  highways.  But  when  no  public  undertaking  is  to 
be  performed,  the  hours  of  working  are  lessened.  The  magistrates 
never  engage  the  people  in  unnecessaiy  labour ;  since  the  chief  end 
of  the  constitution  is  to  regulate  labour  by  the  necessities  of  the 
public^  and  to  allow  all  the  people  as  much  time  as  is  necessary  for 
the  improvement  of  their  minds^  in  which  they  think  the  happiness 
of  life  consists. 


("  UTOPIA,"  BOOK  II.) 

Thus  have  I  described  to  you,  as  particularly  as  I  could,  the  con- 
stitution of  that  commonwetdth,  which  I  do  not  only  think  the  best 
in  the  world,  but  indeed  the  only  commonwealth  that  truly  deserves 
that  name.  In  all  other  places  it  is  visible,  that  while  people  talk 
of  a  commonwealth,  eveiy  man  only  seeks  his  own  wealth ;  but 
there,  where  no  man  has  any  property,  all  men  zealously  pursue  the 
good  of  the  puUic.  And,  indeed,  it  is  no  wonder  to  see  men  act  so 
differently ;  for  in  other  commonwealths  every  man  knows,  that  un- 
less he  provides  for  himself,  how  flourishing  soever  the  commonwealth 
may  be,  he  must  die  of  hunger ;  so  that  he  sees  the  necessity  of 


preferring  his  own  concerns  to  tihe  public.  Bnt  in  Utopia,  where 
ereiy  man  has  a  right  to  eyerything,  they  all  know,  that  if  care  is 
taken  to  keep  the  public  stores  full,  no  private  man  can  want  any- 
thing ;  for  among  them  there  is  no  unequal  distribution — so  that  no 
man  is  poor,  none  in  necessity — and  though  no  man  has  anything, 
yet  they  are  all  rich ;  for  what  can  make  a  man  so  rich  as 
to  lead  a  serene  and  cheerful  life  free  from  anxieties,  neither  ap- 
prehending want  himself,  nor  yexed  with  the  endless  complaints  of 
nis  wife  ?  He  is  not  afraid  of  the  misery  of  his  children,  nor  is  he 
contriving  to  raise  a  portion  for  his  daughters,  but  is  secure  tn  this, 
that  both  he  and  his  wife,  his  children  and  grandchildren,  to  as 
many  generations  as  he  can  fiemcy,  will  all  live  both  plentifully  and 
happily,  since  among  them  there  is  no  less  care  taken  of  those  who 
were  once  engaged  in  labour,  but  grow  afterwards  unable  to  foUow 
it,  than  there  is  elsewhere  of  those  that  continue  still  employed.  I 
would  gladly  hear  any  man  compare  the  justice  that  is  among  them 
with  that  of  all  other  nations,  among  whom,  may  I  perish  if  I  see 
anything  that  looks  like  justice  or  equity.  For  what  justice  is 
there  in  this,  that  a  nobleman,  a  goldsmith,  a  banker,  or  any  other 
man  that  either  does  nothing  at  fOl,  or  at  best  that  is  employed  in 
things  that  are  of  no  use  to  the  public,  should  live  in  great  luxury 
and  splendour  on  what  is  so  iU  acquired ;  and  a  mean  man,  a  carter, 
a  smith,  or  a  ploughman,  that  works  harder  even  than  the  beasts 
themselves,  and  is  employed  in  labours  so  necessary  that  no  com- 
monwealth could  hold  out  a  year  without  them,  can  oidy  earn  so  poor 
a  livelihood,  and  must  lead  so  miserable  a  life,  that  the  condition  of 
the  beasts  is  much  better  than  theirs  ?  For  as  the  beasts  do  not 
work  so  constantly,  so  they  feed  almost  as  well,  and  with  more 
pleasure,  and  have  no  anxiety  about  what  is  to  come,  whilst  these 
men  are  depressed  by  a  barren  and  fruitless  employment,  and  tor- 
mented with  the  apprehension  of  want  in  their  old  age ;  since  that 
which  they  get  by  their  daily  labour  does  but  maintain  them  at 
present,  and  is  consumed  as  fast  as  it  comes  in,  there  is  no  overplus 
left  to  lay  up  for  old  age. 

Is  not  that  government  both  unjust  and  ungrateful  that  is  so 
prodigal  in  its  &vours  to  those  that  are  called  gentlemen,  or  gold- 
smiths, or  such  others  who  are  idle,  or  live  either  by  flattery,  or  by 
contrivins  the  arts  of  vain  pleasure,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  takes  no 
care  of  those  of  a  meaner  sort,  such  as  ploughmen,  colliers,  and 
smiths,  without  whom  it  could  not  subsist  ?  But  after  the  public 
has  reaped  all  the  advantage  of  their  service,  and  they  come  to  be 
oppressed  with  age,  sickness,  and  want,  all  their  labours  and  the 
good  they  have  done  is  forgotten,  and  all  the  recompense  given  them 
is,  that  they  are  left  to  die  in  great  misery. 

Therefore  I  must  say,  that,  as  I  hope  for  mercy,  I  can  have  no 
other  notion  of  all  the  other  governments  that  I  see  or  know,  than 
that  they  are  a  conspiracy  of  the  rich,  who,  on  pretence  of  managing 
the  pubUc,  only  pursue  their  private  ends,  and  devise  aU  the  ways 
and  arts  they  can  find  out,  first,  that  they  may,  without  danger. 


preserve  all  that  they  hare  so  ill  acquired,  and  then  that  they  may 
engage  llie  poor  to  toU  and  labour  for  them  at  as  low  rates  as  possible, 
and  oppress  them  as  much  as  they  please ;  yet  these  wicked  men, 
after  they  have,  by  a  most  insatiable  oovetousness,  diyided  l^t 
among  themselyes,  with  which  all  the  rest  might  have  been  well 
supplied,  are  far  from  that  happiness  that  is  enjoyed  among  the 


Next  to  Caxton,  Wynkyn  de  Worde  is  the  best  known  and  most 
highly  prized  of  our  old  printers.  The  following  extract  is  taken 
from  a  book  published  by  him  in  the  year  1680.  It  is  impossible  to 
conjecture  who  was  the  author,  but  it  affords  a  fair  specimen  of  the 
style  of  the  early  productions  of  the  English  press, 


Here  beginneth  a  little  short  treatise,  that  telleth  how  there  were 
six  masters  assembled  together ;  eyeiy  one  asked  other  what  thing 
they  might  best  speak  of  that  might  please  God  and  were'  most 
profitable  to  the  people.  And  all  they  were  accorded*  to  speak  of 

The  first  master  said,  that  if  anything  had  been  better  to  man 
living  in  this  world  than  tribulation,  God  would  haye  giye*  it  to 
His  Son ;  but  for  He  saw  well  there  was  nothing*  better  than  it, 
therefore  He  gaye  to  Him  and  made  Him  to  suffer  most  tribulation  in 
this  wretched  world  more  than  did  eyer  any  man  or  eyer  shall  The 
second  master  said,  that  if  there  were  any  man  in  this  world  that 
might  be  without  spot  of  sin,  as  onr  Lord  ym,  and  might  Ure  thirty 
years  (an^  it  were  possible)  without  meet  or  drink,  and  also  were  so 
deyottt  in  prayers  that  he  might  speak  with  angels  in  the  air,  as  did 
Mary  Magdalene,*  yet  might  he  not  deserye  m  that  life  so  great 
meed^  as  a  man  deseryeui  in  suffering  a  little  tribulation.  The 
third  master  said,  that  if  it  so  were  that  the  mother  of  God  and  all 
the  saints  of  heayen  prayed  all  for  one  man,  yet  should  they  not 
get  him  so  much  meed  as  he  should  get  himself  by  meekness  in 
Buffering  a  little  tribulation.  The  fouith  master  said,  we  worship 
the  cross,  for  our  Lord  hung  thereon  bodily,  but  I  say  we  should 
rather,  and  by  more  right  aad  reason,  have  in  mind  the  tribulation 
that  He  suffered  there  upon  the  cross  for  our  guilts  and  our  trespasses. 
The  fifth  master  said,  I  had  leyer"  be  of  ri^t,  and  of  strengtn,  and 
of  power  to  suffer  the  least  pain  of  tribulation  that  our  Lord  suffered 

I  The  following  is  the  original  spelling : — ^Here  begyneth  alytell  short  treatise  that 
telleth  hovr  there  were  Yj  maysters  assembled  toglder,  euerychone  asked  other  what 
thjnage  they  myght  best  speke  of  that  myght  please  God,  and  were  most  prufytable  to 
ye  people.  '  ie.,  would  be.         '  «'.«.,  agreed.         *  for  given.         '  i,e.,  it 

*  A  reference  to  her  yision  of  angels  at  Christ's  tomb,  or  to  some  traditloxk 

'  i&,  reward.  *  t.«.,  rather. 


here  on  eartih  with  meekness  in  heart,  than  the  meed  or  the  reward 
of  all  wordly  goods  ;  for,  as  Saint  Peter  saith,  that  none  is  worthy 
to  have  tribulation  but  he  that  deserveth  it  with  a  clean  heart,  and 
it  leameth*  a  man  to  know  the  privities*  of  God,  and  tribulation 
maketh  a  man  to  know  himself,  and  multiplieth  virtues  in  a  man, 
and  pui^th  and  deanseth  him  right  as  fire  doth  gold.  And  who- 
soever meekly  in  heart  sufiereth  tribulation,  God  is  with  him,  and 
beareth  that  heavy  charge  with  him  of  tribulation,  and  tribulation 
buyeth  again  time  that  was  lost,  and  holdeth  a  man  in  the  way  of 
righteousness  ;  and  of  all  gifts  that  God  giveth  to  man,  tribulation 
is  the  most  worthiest  gift.  Also  it  is  treasure,  to  the  which  no  man 
may  make  comparison,  and  tribulation  joineth  man's  soul  unto 
God.  Now,  asketh  the  sixth  master,  why  we  suffer  tribulation 
with  BO  evil  a  will  ?  and  it  is  answered  and  said,  for  three  things. 
The  first  is,  for  we  have  little  love  to  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  The 
second  is,  for  we  think  little  of  the  great  meed  that  cometh  thereof* 
The  third  is,  that  we  think  full  littie  or  nought  of  the  bitter  pains 
and  the  great  passion  that  our  Lord  sufiered  for  us  in  redemption 
of  our  sins,  and  to  bring  us  to  the  bliss  that  never  shall  have  end 


Hugh  Latimeb  was  bom  at  Thurcaston  in  Leicestershire,  probably 
in  A.D.  1490,  or  the  succeeding  year.  He  studied  at  Cambridge, 
where  he  was  remarkable  for  the  purity  of  his  life,  and  his  zealous 
attachment  to  the  doctrines  of  the  church,  which  the  Reformers  were 
then  beginning  to  impugn.  Intercourse  with  Bilney,  however, 
altered  his  opinions,  and  he  thenceforward  "  forsook  the  school-doctors, 
and  became  an  earnest  student  of  true  divinity."  His  preaching  ex- 
posed him  to  the  resentment  of  the  college  authorities,  and  he  was 
summoned  to  London  to  give  an  account  of  himself  to  Wolsey,  but 
his  manly  bearing  won  the  favour  of  the  munificent  cardinal,  and  he 
was  dismissed  with  a  gentle  reprimand.  He  had  equal  success  with 
Henry  himself;  he  acquired  the  respect  and  esteem  of  the  bluff 
monarch,  became  one  of  the  royal  chaplains,  and  was  in  the  habit  of 
preaching  in  London  to  large  and  distinguished  audiences.  At  the 
instauce  of  Cranmer,  who  was  anxious  to  secure  the  aid  of  so  able  a 
coadjutor,  Latimer  was  in  1636  advanced  to  the  See  of  Worcester,  and 
the  influence  which  this  position  gave  him  was  employed  for  the 
furtherance  of  the  Reformation.  He  opposed  the  famous  Six  Articles, 
and  thus  forfeited  the  favour  of  Henry,  who  deprived  him  of  his 
bishopric,  and  kept  him  in  confinement  for  the  rest  of  his  reign  in  the 
house  of  the  Bishop  of  Chichester.  Edward  VI.  offered  to  restore  him 
to  his  see,  but  he  declined,  and  chose  rather  to  spend  his  time  in 

1  i.  e.,  teacheth ;  the  Trord  learn,  in  old  English,  is  used  to  denote  either  the  work  of 
the  scholar  (learning)^  or  that  of  the  teacher  {teaching).  It  was  not  till  the  middle  of 
the  seventeenth  century  that  it  acquired  it«  present  restricted  signification. 

'  i  e.,  in  the  language  of  the  authorized  trandation  of  the  Bible,  "  the  deep  things 


preaching.  On  the  accession  of  Mary  he  was  committed  to  the 
Tower,  and  with  Cranmer  and  Ridley  was  burned  at  Oxford,  16th 
October  1555.  His  works  consist  almost  exclusively  of  sermons,  which, 
during  his  own  life  and  the  early  period  of  the  English  Church,  en< 
joyed  a  very  high  degree  of  popularity,  which  they  well  deserved. 
They  are  exceedingly  quaint,  both  in  the  matter  and  the  style,  and 
are  by  no  means  characterized  either  by  deep  learning  or  profound 
thought ;  but  their  earnestness,  their  familiarity,  their  terseness, 
their  bold  and  uncompromising  condemnation  of  wrong  in  all  ranks, 
axe  worthy  of  one  of  the  greatest  of  our  Reformers,  and  fully  explain 
the  wonderful  effect  which  the  preaching  of  Latimer  is  said  to  have 
had  in  promoting  the  Reformation. 


Isaiah  calleth  the  princes  of  the  Jews,  thieves.  What !  princes 
thieves  ?  What  a  seditious  fellow  was  this  I  Was  he  worthy  to 
live  in  a  commonwealth  that  would  call  princes  in  this  wise,  fellows 
of  thieves  ?  Had  they  a  standing  at  Stiooter^s-hill  or  Standgate- 
hole,*  to  take  a  purse  ?  Why !  did  they  stand  by  the  highway-side  ? 
Did  they  rob,  or  break  open  any  man's  house  or  door  ?  No,  no ; 
this  is  a  gross  kind  of  thieving.  They  were  princes  :  they  had  a 
prince-like  kind  of  thieving  "  liiey  all  love  bribes."  Bribery  is  a 
princely  kind  of  thieving.  They  will  be  waged*  by  the  rich,  either 
to  give  sentence  against  the  poor,  or  to  put  off  the  poor  man's 
causes.  This  is  the  noble  theft  of  princes  and  of  magistrates.  They 
are  bribe-takers.  Now-a-days  they  call  them  gentle  rewards :  let  them 
leave  their  colouring,  and  call  them  by  their  Christian  name,  bribes : 
"  all  the  princes,  afl  the  judges,  all  the  priests,  aU  the  rulers,  are 
bribers."  What !  were  all  the  magistrates  in  Jerusalem  all  bribe- 
takers? None  good?  No  doubt  there  were  some  good.  This 
word  aM  signifieth  the  most  part ;  and  so  there  be  some  good,  I 
doubt  not  of  it,  in  England.  But  yet  we  be  &r  worse  than  those 
stiff-necked  Jews.  For  we  read  of  none  of  them  that  winced  nor 
kicked  against  Esay's  preaching,  or  said  that  he  was  a  seditious 
fellow.*  Wo  worth  these  gifts  !  they  subvert  justice  everywhere : 
"They  follow  bribes."  Somewhat  was  given  to  them  before,  and  they 
must  needs  give  somewhat  again  ;  for  Gitfe-gaffe  was  a  good  fellow ; 
this  Giffe-gaffe  led  them  clean  from  justice.     "  They  foUow  gifts.'* 

A  good  fellow  on  a  time  bade  another  of  his  friends  to  a  break- 
feist,  and  said,  "  if  you  will  come,  you  shall  be  welcome ;  but  I  tell 
you  aforehand,  you  shall  have  slender  fare :  one  dish,  and  that  is 
all."  "  What  is  that  ?"  said  he.  "  A  pudding,  and  nothing  else." 
"  Marry,"  said  he, "  you  cannot  please  me  better ;  of  all  meats,  that 

I  Localities  in  the  neighbonrhood  of  the  metropolis,  which  were  formerly  infamous 
as  the  scenes  of  robbery. 

*  ie.,  must  receive  wagaa. 

'  An  accusation  wliich  was  often  brought  against  Latimer  at  the  time,  hence  his 
aUasion  to  it. 


is  for  mine  own  tooth ;  you  may  draw  me  roimd  about  the  town 
with  a  pudding."  These  bribing  magistrates  and  judges  follow 
gifts  £a.8ter  than  the  fellow  would  follow  the  pudding. 

Now-ardays  the  judges  be  afraid  to  hear  a  poor  man  against  the 
rich,  insomuch  they  wul  either  pronounce  against  him,  or  so  drive 
off  the  poor  man's  suit,  that  he  shall  not  be  able  to  go  through  with  it. 
The  greatest  man  in  the  realm  cannot  so  hurt  a  judge  as  a  poor 
widow;  such  a  shrewd  turn  she  can  do  hiuL  And  with  what 
armour,  I  pray  you  ?  She  can  bring  the  judge's  skin  over  his  ears, 
and  neyer  lay  hands  upon  him.  .Ajid  how  is  that  ?  ^  The  tears  of 
the  poor  fall  down  upon  their  cheeks,  and  go  up  to  heaven,"  and 
cry  for  vengeance  before  God,  the  judge  of  widows,  the  fisither  of 
widows  and  orphans.  Poor  people  be  oppressed  even  by  laws.  Wo 
worth  to  them  that  make  evil  laws  against  the  poor !  What  shall 
be  to  them  that  hinder  and  mar  good  laws  ?  "  What  will  ye  do  in 
the  day  of  great  vengeance,  when  God  shall  visit  you  ?"  He  saith. 
He  will  hear  the  tears  of  poor  women  when  He  goeth  on  visitation. 
For  their  sake  He  will  hurt  the  judge,  be  he  never  so  high.  He  will 
for  widows'  sakes  change  realms,  bring  them  into  temptation,  pluck 
the  judges'  skins  over  their  heads. 

Cambyses  was  a  great  emperor,  such  another  as  our  master  is : 
he  had  many  lords-deputies,  lords-presidents,  and  lieutenants  under 
him.  It  is  a  great  while  ago  since  I  read  the  history.  It  chanced 
he  had  under  him  in  one  of  his  dominions  a  briber,  a  gift-taker,  a 
gratifier  of  rich  men ;  he  followed  gifts  as  fast  as  he  that  followed 
the  pudding ;  a  hand-maker  in  his  office,  to  make  his  son  a  great 
man ;  as  the  old  saying  is,  "  Happy  is  the  child  whose  fEither  goeth 
to  the  devil"  The  cry  of  the  poor  widow  came  to  the  emperor's 
ear,  and  caused  him  to  flay  the  judge  quick,  and  laid  his  skin  in  his 
chair  of  judgment,  that  all  judges  that  should  give  judgment  after- 
ward should  sit  in  the  same  skin.  Surely  it  was  a  goodly  sign,  a 
goodly  monument,  the  sign  of  the  judge's  skin.  I  pray  God  we 
may  once  see  the  sign  of  the  skin  in  England. 


God  will  not  allow  a  king  too  much,  will  He  then  allow  a  subject 
too  much  ?  No  ;  that  He  will  not  Have  any  men  here  in  Eng- 
land too  much  ?  I  doubt  most  rich  men  have  too  much ;  for  with- 
out too  much  we  can  get  nothing.  As,  for  example,  the  physician : 
if  the  poor  man  be  diseased,  he  can  have  no  help  without  too  much. 
And  of  the  lawyer,  the  poor  man  can  get  no  counsel,  expedition, 
nor  help  in  his  matter,  except  he  give  him  too  much.  At  merchants' 
hands,  no  kind  of  ware  can  be  had,  except  we  give  for  it  too  much. 
You  landlords,  you  rent-raisers,  I  may  say,  you  step-lords,  you 
unnatural  lords,  you  have  for  your  possessions  yearly  too  much.* 
I'or  that  here  before  went  for  twenty  or  forty  pound  by  year  (which 

1  Of  the  ftreat  rise  of  rents  at  this  time,  and  the  compliints  whieh  it  occasioned 
every  historian  of  England  treata 


is  an  hcmest  portion  to  be  had  ffiatis  in  one  lordship  of  another 
man*s  sweat  and  labour),  now  is  let  for  fifty  or  an  hundred  pound 
by  year.  Of  this  "  too  much"  cometh  this  monstrous  and  portentous 
dearth  made  by  man,  notwithstanding  God  doth  send  us  plentifully 
the  fruits  of  the  earth,  mercifully,  contrary  unto  our  deserts :  not- 
withstanding "  too  much,"  whioh  these  rich  men  have,  causeth  such 
dearth  that  poor  men,  which  live  of  their  labour,  cannot  with  the 
sweat  of  their  face  have  a  living,  all  kinds  of  victuaLs  is  so  dear ; 
pigs,  geese,  capons,  chickens,  eggs,  &c.,  these  things  with  other 
are  so  unreasonably  enhanced ;  and  I  think  verily  Uiat  if  it  thus 
continue,  we  shall  at  length  be  constrained  to  pay  for  a  pig  a 

My  father  was  a  yeoman,  and  had  no  lands  of  his  own,  only  he 
had  a  £urm  oi  three  or  four  poimd  by  the  year  at  the  uttermost,  and 
hereupon  he  tilled  so  much  as  kept  haif-«-dozen  men.  He  had 
walk  for  a  hundred  sheep ;  and  my  mother  milked  thirty  kine.  He 
was  able,  and  did  find  the  king  a  harness,  with  himself  and  his 
horse,  while  he  came  to  the  place  that  he  should  receive  the  king's 
wages.  I  can  remember  that  I  buckled  his  harness  when  he  went 
to  Blackheath  field*  He  kept  me  to  school,  or  else  I  had  not  been 
able  to  have  preached  before  the  king's  majesty  now.  He  married 
my  sisters  with  five  pound,  or  twenty  nobles,  apiece ;  so  that  he 
brought  them  up  in  godliness  and  fear  of  God.  He  kept  hospitality 
for  his  poor  neighbours,  and  some  alms  he  gave  to  the  poor.  And 
all  this  he  did  of  the  said  feam,  where  he  Siat  now  hath  it  payeth 
sixteen  pound  by  year,  or  more,  and  is  not  able  to  do  anything  for 
his  prince,  for  himself,  nor  for  his  children,  or  give  a  cup  of  drink 
to  the  poor. 

DON, JANUARY  18,  1648.) 

I  would  ask  a  stranpe  question :  Who  is  the  most  diligentest 
bishop  and  prelate  in  aa  England,  that  passetii  all  the  rest  in  doing 
his  office  ?  I  can  tell,  for  I  know  him,  who  it  is ;  I  know  him  welL 
But  now  I  think  I  see  you  listening  and  hearkening  that  I  should 
name  him.  There  is  one  that  passeth  all  the  other,  and  is  the  most 
diligent  prelate  and  preacher  m  all  England.  And  will  you  know 
who  it  is  7  I  will  tell  you ;  it  is  the  deviL  He  is  the  most  diligent 
preacher  of  all  other ;  he  is  never  out  of  his  diocess ;  he  is  never 
nrom  his  cure ;  ye  shall  never  find  him  unoccupied ;  he  is  ever  in 
his  parish ;  he  keepeth  residence  at  all  times ;  ye  shall  never  find 
him  out  of  the  way ;  call  for  him  when  you  wiU.  he  is  ever  at 
home ;  the  diligentest  preacher  in  all  the  realm ;  he  is  ever  at  his 

I  Where  the  Cornish  rebels  were  defeated  In  1497. 

*  The  sermons  usnaHy  preached  at  St  Panl*s  Cross  irere,  In  bnd  weather,  preached 
h<  A  place  called  tb^  SJ^rouds^  which  waa,  according  to  Stow,  **  at  the  side  of  the  cathe> 
di-ai  chnrch,  where  was  covering  and  dielter.** 

32  ROGER  AaCBXil. 

plough ;  no  loiding*  or  loitering  can  hinder  him  ;  he  is  ever  apply- 
ing' his  business ;  ye  shall  never  find  him  idle,  I  warrant  you.  And 
his  office  is  to  hinder  religion,  to  maintain  superstition,  to  set  up 
idolatry,  to  teadi  all  kind  of  popeiy.  He  is  ready  as  ne  can  be 
wished  for  to  set  forth  his  plough ;  to  devise  as  many  ways  as  can 
be  to  deface  and  obscure  God's  gloiy.  Where  the  devil  is  resident, 
and  hath  his  plough  going,  there  away  with  books,  and  up  with 
candles ;  away  with  bibles,  and  up  with  beads  ;  away  with  the  light 
of  the  gospel,  and  up  with  the  bffht  of  candles,  yea,  at  noon-^lays. 
Where  the  devil  is  resident,  that  he  may  prevail,  up  with  all  super- 
stition and  idolatry;  censing,  painting  of  iniages,  candles,  palins, 
ashes,  holy  water,  and  new  service  of  men's  inventing ;  as  tnough 
man  could  invent  a  better  way  to  honour  Ood  with  tmm  God  him- 
self hath  appointed.  Down  with  Christ's  cross,  up  with  puigatory 
pick-purse,  up  with  him,  the  popish  purgatory,  I  mean.  Away 
with  dothmg  the  naked,  the  poor,  and  impotent ;  up  with  decking 
of  images,  and  gay  gamishings  of  stocks  and  stones :  up  with  man's 
traditions  and  his  laws,  down  with  God's  traditions  and  His  most 
Holy  Word,  Down  with  the  old  honour  due  to  God,  and  up  with 
the  new  god's  honour.  Let  aU  things  be  done  in  Latin :  there  must 
be  nothing  but  Latin,  not  so  much  as  "  Remember,  man,  that  thou 
art  ashes,  and  into  ashes  thou  shalt  return :"  which  be  the  words 
that  the  minister  speaketh  unto  the  ignorant  people,  when  he  giveth 
them  ashes  upon  Ash- Wednesday ;  but  it  must  be  spoken  in  Latin : 
God's  Word  may  in  no  wise  be  translated  into  English. 

Oh  that  our  prelates  would  be  as  diligent  to  sow  the  com  of  good 
doctrine,  as  Satan  is  to  sow  cockle  and  darnel !  But  here  some 
man  will  say  to  me.  What,  sir,  are  ye  so  privy  of  the  devil's  counsel 
that  ye  know  all  this  to  be  true  ?  Truly  I  know  him  too  well,  and 
have  obeyed  him  a  little  too  much  in  condescending  to  some  follies ; 
and  I  know  him  as  other  men  do,  yea,  that  he  is  ever  occupied,  and 
ever  busy  in  following  his  plough.  I  know  by  St  Peter,  which  saith 
of  him,  **  He  goeth  about  like  a  roaring  lion,  seeking  whom  he  may 
devour."  There  never  was  such  a  preacher  in  England  as  he  is. 
Who  is  able  to' tell  his  diligent  preaching,  which  every  day  and 
every  hour  laboureth  to  sow  cockle  and  darnel  ? 


Among  the  most  strenuous  promoters  of  the  revival  of  classical 
learning  in  England  was  Roger  Ascham.  His  high  reputation  as  a 
scholar  recommended  him  to  the  attention  of  Henry  VIIL,  who  signi- 
fied his  approbation  of  Ascham  by  appointing  him  preceptor  of  his^ 
daughter  Elizabeth ;  and  we  perhaps  owe  in  some  measure  to  the  wise 
instructions  of  her  able  tutor  the  singularly  firm  and  manly  character 

1  t.  e.,  acting  as  a  lord,  in  an  indolent,  dignified  way; 
'  In  the  sense  of  plying  or  accomplishing. 


of  that  accomplished  princess.  His  works  are  distinguished  by  an 
almost  total  absence  of  pedantry,  and  by  the  good  sense  of  hia  educa- 
tional views,  which  are,  indeed,  so  remarkable,  that  Dr  Johnson  com- 
mended them  as  containing  the  best  advice  that  could  be  given  on 
the  subject.  Still  more  recently,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  classi- 
cal scholars  of  our  day  in  England  has  reprinted  great  part  of  one  of 
Ascham's  educational  tracts  on  the  best  method  of  learning  Latin,  and 
advocates  a  return  to  his  system  as  better  than  any  now  practised. 
Ascham  died  in  1568,  much  reg^'etted  by  his  royal  pupil.  His  educar 
tional  views  are  contained  in  his  "  Schoolmaster."  His  "Tozophilus" 
is  a  dialogue  in  commendation  of  archery,  and  he  has  also  written  an 
account  of  ajQfairs  in  Germany,  a  country  whii^h  he  visited  as  amba^r 
sador  during  the  reign  of  Edward  VI. 

(from  THE  "  TOXOPHILUS.") 


If  men  would  go  about  matters  which  they  should  do  and  be  fit 
for,  and  not  such  things  which  wilfally  they  desire,  and  yet  be  unfit 
for,  verily  greater  matters  in  the  commonwealth  than  shooting 
should  be  in  better  case  than  they  be.  This  ignorance  in  men, 
which  know  not  for  what  time  and  to  what  thing  they  be  fit,  causeth 
some  wish  to  be  rich,  for  whom  it  were  better  a  great  deal  to  be 
poor ;  other  to  be  meddling  in  every  man's  matter,  for  whom  it  were 
more  honesty  to  be  quiet  and  still ;  some  to  desire  to  be  in  the 
Court,  which  be  bom  and  be  fitter  rather  for  the  cart  ;^  some  to  bo 
masters  and  rule  other,  which  never  yet  began  to  rule  themselves ; 
some  always  to  jangle  and  talk,  which  rather  should  hear  and  keep 
silence ;  some  to  teach,  which  rather  should  learn ;  some  to  be 
priests,  which  were  fitter  to  be  clerks.  And  this  perverse  judgment 
of  the  world,  when  men  measure  themselves  amiss,  bringeth  much 
disorder  and  great  unseemliness  to  the  whole  body  of  the  pommonr 
wealth,  as  if  a  man  should  wear  his  hose  on  his  head,  or  a  woma^ 
go  with  a  sword  and  a  buckler,  every  man  would  take  it  ^  »  great 
uncomeliness,  although  it  be  but  a  tnfle  in  respect  of  the  other. 

This  perverse  judgment  of  men  hindereth  nothing  so  nmch  as 
learning,  because  commonly  those  that  be  unfitted  for  learning  be 
chiefly  set  to  learning.  As  if  a  man  now-a-days  have  two  sons,  the 
one  impotent,  weak,  sickly,  lisping,  stuttering,  and  stammering,  or 
having  any  mis-shape  in  his  body,  what  doth  the  father  of  such  one 
commonly  say  ?  This  boy  is  fit  for  nothing  else  but  to  set  to  learn- 
ing and  make  a  priest  of,  as  who  would  say,  the  outcasts  of  the 
world,  having  neither  countenance,  tongue,  nor  wit  (for  of  a  perverse 
body  cometh  commonly  a  perverse  mind),  be  good  enough  to  make 
those  men  of  which  shall  be  appointed  to  preach  Grod's  Holy  Word, 
and  minister  His  blessed  sacraments,  besides  other  most  weighty 
matters  in  the  commonwealth,  put  oft  times  and  worthily  to  learned 

1  That  is,  to  be  treated  as  criminals,  who  in  capital  cases  were  taken  to  the  place  of 
execution  in  a  cart,  and  Ibr  minor  offences  were  whipped  through -the  town  at  the 
cart's  tail. 




men's  discretion  and  charge ;  when  rather  such  an  office  so  high  in 
dignity,  so  goodly  in  administration,  should  be  committed  to  no 
man  which  should  not  have  a  countenance  fall  of  comeliness  to 
aUure  good  men,  a  body  fall  of  manly  authority  to  fear^  ill  men,  a 
wit^  apt  for  all  learning,  with  tongue  and  voice  able  to  persuade  all 
men.  And  although  few  such  men  as  these  can  be  found  in  a  com- 
monwealth,  yet  surely  a  goodly-disposed  man  will  both  in  his  mind 
think  fit,  and  with  aU  his  study  labour  to  get  such  men  as  I  speak 
of,  or  rather  bettor,  if  better  can  be  gotten,  for  such  an  high  ad- 
ministration, which  is  most  properly  appointed  to  God's  own  matters 
and  business.  This  perverse  judgment  of  fathers,  as  concerning  the 
fitness  and  unfitness  of  their  chudren,  causeth  the  commonwealth 
have  many  unfit  ministers ;  and  seeing  that  ministers  be,  as  a  man 
would  say,  instruments  wherewith  the  commonwealth  doth  work  all 
her  matters  withal,  I  marvel  how  it  chanceth  that  a  poor  shoemaker 
hath  so  much  wit,  that  he  wiU  prepare  no  instrument  for  his  science, 
neither  knife  nor  awl,  nor  nothing  else,  which  is  not  very  fit  for 
him.  The  commonwealth  can  be  content  to  take  at  a  fond  fitther^s 
hand  the  riflf-raff  of  the  world,  to  make  those  instruments  of  where- 
withal she  would  work  the  highest  matters  imder  heaven.  And 
surely  an  awl  of  lead  is  not  so  tmprofitable  in  a  shoemaker's  shop, 
as  an  unfit  minister  made  of  gross  metal  is  unseemly  in  the  com- 
monwealth. Fathers  in  old  time,  among  the  noble  Persians,  might 
not  do  with  their  children  as  they  thought  good,  but  as  the  judg- 
ment of  the  commonwealth  thought  best.  This  fault  of  fathers 
bringeth  many  a  blot  with  it,  to  the  great  deformity  of  the  common- 
wealth. And  here  surely  I  can  praise  gentlewomen,  which  have 
always  at  hand  their  glasses,  to  see  if  anythiag  be  amiss,  and  so  will 
amend  it ;  yet  the  commonwealth,  having  the  glass  of  knowledge  in 
every  man's  hand,  doth  see  such  imcomefiness  in  it,  and  yet  winketh 
at  it.  This  &ult,  and  many  such  like,  might  be  soon  wiped  away, 
if  fathers  would  bestow  their  children  always  on  that  thmg  where- 
unto  nature  hath  ordained  them  most  apt  and  fit.  For  if  youth  be 
grafted  strai^t  and  not  awry,  the  whole  commonwealth  will  flourish 
thereafter.  When  this  is  done,  then  must  every  man  begin  to  be 
more  ready  to  amend  himself  than  to  check  another,  measuring 
their  matters  wjth  that  wise  proverb  of  Apollo,  Know  thysdf :  thai 
is  to  say,  learn  to  know  what  thou  aai  able,  fit,  and  apt  unto,  and 
follow  that. 


One  example,  whether  love  or  fear  doth  work  more  in  a  child  for 
virtue  and  learning,  I  will  gladly  report,  which  may  be  heard  with 
some  pleasure,  and  followed  witii  more  profit.  Before  I  went  into 
Germany,  I  came  to  Broadgate,  in  Leicestershire,  to  take  my  leave 
of  that  noble  lady  Jane  Grey,  to  whom  I  was  exceeding  much  be- 

*  ie.,  to  .frighten.  '  ic,  natural  capacity. 

JOHN  KNOX.  35 

holden.  Her  parents,  the  Duke  and  the  Duchess,^  with  all  the 
household,  gentlemen  and  gentlewomen,  were  hontine  in  the  park 
I  found  her  in  her  chamber  reading  Plato's  ^'Ph^edo"  m  Greeli^  and 
that  with  as  much  delight  as  some  gentlemen  would  read  a  merry 
tale  in  Bocace.'  After  salutation  and  duty  done,  with  some  other 
talk,  I  asked  her  why  she  would  lose  such  pastime  in  the  park. 
Smiling,  she  answered  me,  "  I  wiss,  all  their  sport  in  the  park  is 
but  a  shadow  to  that  pleasure  that  I  find  in  Plato.  Alas  1  good 
folk,  they  never  felt  what  true  pleasure  meant."  ''  And  how  came 
you,  madam,''  quoth  I,  ^'  to  this  deep  knowledge  of  pleasure  7  And 
what  did  chiefly  allure  you  unto  it,  seeing  not  many  women,  but 
very  few  men,  have  obtained  thereunto  T  "  I  will  tell  you,"  quoth 
she,  "  and  tell  you  a  truth  which,  perchance,  you  will  marvel  at 
One  of  the  greatest  benefits  that  ever  (jod  gave  me  is,  that  he  sent  me 
so  sharo  and  severe  parents  and  so  gentle  a  schoolmaster.  For 
when  I  am  in  presence  either  of  &Uier  or  mother,  whether  I 
speak,  keep  silence,  sit,  stand,  or  go,  eat,  drink,  be  merry,  or  sad,  be 
sewing,  plaving,  da^oitig,  or  doinff  anything  else,  I  must  do  it,  as  it 
were  in  such  weight,  measure,  and  number,  even  so  perfectly  as  God 
made  the  world  ;  or  else  I  am  so  sharply  taunted,  so  crueUy  threat- 
ened, yea,  sometimes  with  pinches,  nips,  and  bobs,  and  other  ways, 
which  I  will  not  name  for  the  honour  I  bear  them,  so  without 
measure  misordered,  that  I  think  myself  in  hell,  till  time  come  that 
I  must  ^o  to  Mr  Elmer,  who  teacheth  me  so  gently,  so  pleasantly, 
with  such  fair  allurements  to  learning,  that  I  thinkaU  the  time  nothing 
whiles  I  am  with  him.  And  when  I  am  called  from  him,  I  fall  on 
weeping,  because  whatever  I  do  else  but  learning  is  fall  of  grief, 
trouble,  fear,  and  whole  misliking  unto  me.  And  thus  my  book 
hath  been  so  much  my  pleasure,  and  bringeth  daily  to  me  more 
pleasure  and  more,  that  in  respect  of  it,  all  other  pleasures  in  very 
deed  be  but  trifles  and  troubles  unto  me." 


John  Knox,  the  Scottish  Reformer,  was  bom  in  1606,  in  the  vil- 
lage of  Gifford  in  East  Lothian,  or,  according  to  other  authorities,  in  a 
suburb  of  the  town  of  Haddington  called  Gifford-gate.  His  parents 
were  respectable  peasant-fanners,  able  to  give  their  son  a  regular 
scholastic  education,  first  at  the  Grammar  School  of  Haddington,  and 
afterwards  at  the  University  of  Glasgow,  which  he  entered  in  1621. 
At  the  close  of  his  university  education  he  turned  his  thoughts  to  the 
church,  and  was  regularly  admitted  into  priestly  orders.  Of  his 
career  as  a  Boman  Catholic  priest  little  is  known ;  but  as  the  doctrines 
of  the  Beformers  were  gradually  disseminated  more  and  more  widely 
over  Scotland,  his  religious  opinions  changed,  and  in  1642  he  pro- 
fessed himself  a  Protestant,  and  became  the  disciple  and  companion  of 

*  Viz.,  of  Suffolk.  «  iA,  Boccaocia 

36  JOHK  ENOX. 

the  famous  Wisliart.  On  the  martyrdom  of  his  master  at  St  Andrews/ 
Knox  deemed  it  prudent  to  withdraw  for  some  time  from  public  notice, 
and  became  tutor  in  the  family  of  the  Laird  of  Langniddrie,  one  of  the 
English  agents  in  Scotland,  where  probably  he  met  with  many  of 
those  with  whom  he  afterwards  so  yigorously  co-operated,  and  whose 
political  opinions  exercised  so  powerful  an  influence  on  his  own.  On 
the  assassination  of  Beaton,  Knox  came  to  St  Andrews,  and  became 
the  pastor  of  the  Protestant  congregation  there ;  and  on  the  capture 
of  the  castle  he  was  taken  prisoner  along  with  the  conspirators,  and 
was  sent  to  France,  where  he  remained  in  confinement  till  1549.  When 
released  he  passed  oyer  into  England,  where  Cranmer  availed  himself 
of  his  services,  and  but  for  some  objections  which  Knox  entertained  to 
the  English  ritual,  would  have  advanced  him  to  ecclesiastical  dignity. 
"When  Mary  succeeded,  Knox  fled  to  the  Continent,  and  after  various 
wanderings,  he,  in  1559,  finally  returned  to  Scotland,  where  his  preach- 
ing and  energetic  character  were  of  essential  service  in  promoting  the 
cause  of  the  Reformation.  He  died  at  Edinburgh  in  1572.  His  writ- 
ings are  numerous,  but  as  they  were  almost  all  written  in  haste,  to 
meet  some  pressing  emergency,  they  possess  little  permanent  value. 
The  chief  are  his  "  Blast  against  the  Monstrous  Regimen  of  Women," 
"  Exposition  upon  the  Sixth  Psalm,"  "  Exposition  upon  the  Tempta- 
tions of  our  Lord,"  and  "  History  of  the  Reformation."  This  last 
work  is  written  in  a  lively  and  vigorous  style,  and  gives  proof  of  no 
small  power  of  graphic  description.  It  displays  throughout  excessive 
violence  and  considerable  credulity ;  it  is  due,  however,  to  Knox  to 
state,  that  the  work  was  not  published  till  after  his  death ;  that  part 
of  it  is  confessedly  not  his ;  that  there  are  strong  suspicions  that  the 
whole  has  been  largely  interpolated ;  and  that  the  genuineness  of  the 
MSS.  is  open  to  much  doubt.  The  whole  matter,  in  fact,  calls  for  a 
more  careful  examination  than  it  has  yet  received. 


(KNOX's  "  HISTORY,"  BOOK  JI.) 

'  The  preachers  before  had  declared  how  odious  was  idolatry  in  God's 
presence,  what  commandment  He  had  given  for  the  destruction  of 
the  monuments  thereof ;  what  idolatry  and  what  abomination  was 
in  the  mass.  It  chanced  that  the  next  day,  which  was  the  llth 
of  May,  after  that  the  preachers  were  exiled,  that  after  the  sermon, 
which  was  vehement  against  idolatry,  that  a  priest  in  contempt 
would  go  to  the  mass,  and  to  declare  his  malapert'*  presumption,  he 
would  open  up  a  glorious  tabernacle"  which  stood  upon  the  high 
altar.  There  stood  beside  certain  godly  men,  and  amongst  others  a 
young  boy  who  cried  with  a  loud  voice,  "  This  is  intolerable,  that 
when  God  by  His  Word  hath  plainly  damned  idolatry,  we  shall  stand 

1  The  reader  may  compare  with  this  the  original  spelling,  "  The  preacheonris  be- 
foir  had  declaired,  how  odionse  was  idolatrie  in  God's  presence ;  what  commandiment 
He  had  gevin  for  the  destractionn  of  the  monnmentis  thairof :  what  idolatrie  and  what 
abhominatioun  was  in  the  mease.  It  chancid,  that  the  nixt  day,  which  was  th« 
ellevlnt  of  MaiJ,  after  that  the  preachearis  wer  exyled,"  Ac 

^  i.e^  presumptnons  or  arrogant 

'  A  little  slirine  in  which  images  are  kept 


and  see  it  used  in  despite."  The  priest,  hereat  offended,  gave  the 
child  a  great  blow ;  who  in  anger  took  up  a  stone,  and  casting  at 
the  priest  did  hit  the  tabernacle  and  bre£U£  down  an  image  ;  and 
immediately  the  whole  multitude  that  were  about  cast  stones,  and 
put  hands  to  the  said  tabernacle,  and  to  all  other  monuments  of 
idolatry ;  which  they  dispatched,  before  the  tent^  man  in  the  town 
were  advertised  (for  the  most  part  were  gone  to  dinner),  which 
noised  abroad,  the  whole  multitude  convened,  not  of  the  gentlemen, 
neither  of  them  that  were  earnest  professors,  but  of  the  rascal  mul- 
titude, who  finding  nothing  to  do  in  that  church,  did  run  without 
deliberation  to  the  Grey  and  Black  Friars ;  and  notwithstanding  that 
they  had  within  them  very  strong  guards  kept  for  their  defence, 
yet  were  their  gates  incontinent*  burst  up.  The  first  invasion  was 
upon  the  idolatry;'  and  thereafter  the  common  people  began  to 
seek  some  spoil ;  and  in  very  deed  the  Greyfriars^  was  a  place  so 
well  provided,  that  unless  honest  men  had  seen  the  same,  we  would 
have  feared  to  have  reported  what  provision  they  had.  Their  sheets, 
blankets,  beds,  and  covertors'  were  such  as  no  earl  in  Scotland 
hath  the  better :  their  napery  was  fine.  They  were  but  eight  per- 
sons in  convent,  and  yet  had  eiffht  puncheons  of  salt  beef  (consider 
the  time  of  the  year,  the  eleventh  day  of  May*),  wine,  beer,  and  ale, 
besides  store  of  victuals  effeiring'  thereto.  The  like  abundance  was 
not  in  the  Blackfriars  ;'  and  yet  there  was  more  than  became  men 
professing  poverty.  The  spon  was  permitted  to  the  poor ;  for  so 
had  the  preachers  before  threatened  all  men,  that  for  covetousness' 
sake  none  should  put  their  hand  to  such  a  reformation,  that  no  hon- 
est man  was  enriched  thereby  the  value  of  a  groat.  Their  oonscienoe 
so  moved  them  that  they  suffered  those  hypocrites'  take  away  what 
they  could  of  that  which  was  in  their  places.  The  prior^'  of  Char- 
ter-house was  permitted  to  take  away  with  him  even  so  much  goM 
and  silver  as  he  was  weU  able  to  cany.  So  was  men's  consciences  be- 
fore beaten  with  the  Word,  that  they  had  no  respect  to  their  own  par- 
ticular profit,  but  only  to  abolish  idolatry,  the  places  and  monu- 
ments mereof ;  in  which  they  were  so  busy  and  so  laborious,  that 
within  two  days,  these  three  great  places,  monuments  of  idolatry, 
to  wit  the  Grey  and  Black  Thieves  and  Charter-house  monks  (a 
building  of  a  wondrous  cost  and  greatness"),  was  so  destroyed,  that 
the  w&Sa  only  did  remain  of  all  these  great  edifications.    Which 

1  This  probably  means  the  calling  oat  of  every  tenth  man  to  assist  in  puting  down 
'  t.e.,  immediately.  *  ie.,  the  images. 

*  This  monastery  lay  on  the  south  of  Perth,  just  outside  the  vails.      ^i.€.^  coverleta. 

*  It  was  customary  in  those  days  to  kill,  at  the  end  of  autumn,  most  of  the  cattle, 
and  salt  them  for  winter  provisions;  in  the  month  of  Slay,  however,  there  was 
abundance  of  grass,  and  fresh  provisions  might  soon  be  expected ;  hence  the  surprise 
expressed  at  the  quantity  still  in  the  monastery.  '  •.«.,  belonging. 

"  This  monastery  lay  on  the  north  of  Perth.  In  it,  as  will  be  remember^,  James  L 
was  murdered.  '  Viz.,  the  friars. 

^*  Adam  Forman  was  then  prior,  and  on  the  destruction  of  his  monastery  retired  to 

"  This  abbey  was  erected  by  James  I.  in  1429 ;  it  belonged  to  the  White  Frian,  and 
was  said  to  betiie  fkirest  and  best-built  abbey  of  any  in  Scotland. 

38  JOHN  KNOX. 

reported  to  the  queen,^  she  was  so  enraged  that  she  did  avow* 
"  utterly  to  destroy  Saint  Johnston,'  man,  woman,  and  child,  and  to 
consume  the  same  by  fire,  and  thereafter  to  salt^  it,  in  sign  of  a  per- 
petual desolation.''  We,  suspecting  nothing  such  cruelty,  but  thmk- 
ing  that  such  words  might  escape  her  in  choler,  without  purpose  de- 
terminate, because  she  was  a  woman  set  afire  by  the  complaints  of 
those  hypocrites  who  flocked  unto  her,  as  ravens  to  a  carrion :  We 
(we  say)  suspecting  nothing  such  beastly  cruelty,  returned  to  our  own 
houses ;  leaving^  m  Saint  Johnston  John  Knox  to  instruct,  be- 
cause they  were  young  and  rude  in  Christ.  But  she,  set  afire,  partly 
by  her  own  malice,  partly  by  commandment  of  her  friends  in  France, 
and  not  a  little  by  bribes,  which  she  and  Monsieur  I^Oysel*  re- 
ceived from  the  bishops  and  priests  here  at  home,  did  continue  in 
her  rage.  And  first  sne  sent  for  all  the  nobility,  to  whom  she  com- 
plained that  we  meaned  nothiog  but  a  rebellion.  She  did  grievously 
a^reage^  the  destruction  of  the  Charter-house,  because  it  was  a 
i^ig's  foundation  ;*  and  there  was  the  tomb  of  King  James  the 
First :  and  by  such  other  persuasions  she  made  the  most  part  of 
them  grant  to  pursue  us. 


"Will  ye,**  said  Lethington,  ''make  subjects  to  control  their 
princes  and  rulers  1** 

"And  what  harm,**  said  Knox,  "should  the  commonwealth  re- 
ceive, gif  •  that  the  corrupt  affections  of  ignorant  rulers  were  moder- 
ated, and  so  bridled  by  the  wisdom  and  (uscretion  of  godly  subjects, 
that  they  should  do  wrong  nor  violence  to  no  man  ?** 

"  All  this  reasoning,**  said  Lethin^on,  "  is  not  of  the  purpose  ;  for 
we  reason  as  gif  the  Queen"  should  become  such  an  enemy  to  our 
religion,  that  she  shoidd  persecute  it,  and  put  innocent  men  to  death, 
which  I  am  assured  she  never  thought,  nor  never  will  do.  For  gif 
I  should  see  her  begin  at  that  end,  yea,  gif  I  should  suspect  any 
such  thing  in  her,  I  should  be  also  far"  forward  in  that  argument 
as  ye  or  any  other  within  this  realm.  But  there  is  not  such  a  thing. 
Ova  question  is.  Whether  that  we  may  and  ought  to  suppress  the 
Queen's  mass?"  or  whether  her  idolatry  shall  be  laid  to  our  chaige  ?" 

"  What  ye  may,"  said  the  other,  "  by  force,  I  dispute  not ;  but 
what  ye  may  and  ought  to  do  by  Grod's  express  commandment,  that 
I  can  telL  Idolatry  ought  not  only  to  be  suppressed,  but  (he  idolar- 
ter  ought  to  die  the  death,  unless  that  we  will  accuse  God.** 

1  ie.,  Mary  of  Guise,  Qaeen  Regent;  the  event  happened  a.i>.  1559. 

*  i  «.,  vow.  •  So  Perth  was  then  called.  *  t. «.,  to  sow  it  with  salt 

*  This  passage  (and  many  more  occur  in  the  history)  is  either  an  interpolation,  or 
a  proof  that  Knox  was  not  the  author  of  the  "  History  of  the  Reformation.*' 

*  The  French  ambassador.  '  ie.,  aggravate,  exaggerate. 
"  See  previous  note  on  the  Charter-house.  *  for  (^. 

10  Queen  Mary  is  of  course  meant  here.  '^  i.e.,  as  ftir. 

*'  t'.e.,  the  private  mass  which  the  Queen  attended  in  the  chapel  royal ;  this  was 
.exceedingly  offensive  to  the  more  violent  Reformers,  who  repeatedly  tried  to  put  it 
down  by  force,  and  declared  in  general  terms,  as  Knox  does  in  the  next  sentence,  that 
fur  so  doing  Mary  should  be  put  to  death. 


"  I  know,"  said  Lethington,  ''  the  idolater  is  commanded  to  die 
the  death,  but  by  whom  ? 

'^  By  the  people  of  God,"  said  the  other ;  "  for  the  commandment 
was  given  to  Israel,  as  ye  may  read — ^  Hear,  Israel,'  says  the  Lord, 
*  the  statutes  and  the  ordinances  of  the  Lord  thy  God,'  &&  Yea,  a 
commandment  was  given,  that  if  it  be  heard  tiiat  idolatiy  is  com- 
mitted in  any  one  city,  inquisition  shaU  be  taken ;  and  if  it  be 
found  true,  that  then  the  whole  body  of  the  people  shall  arise  and 
destroy  that  city,  sparing  in  it  neither  man,  woman,  nor  child." 

*^  But  there  ia  no  commandment  given  to  the  people,"  said  the 
secretary,  "  to  punish  their  king  gif  lye  be  an  idolater. 

"  I  find  no  more  privilege  granted  unto  kings ,"  said  the  other, 
''  by  God,  more  than  unto  the  people,  to  o£fend  God's  majesty." 

'^  I  grant,"  said  Lethington,  ^  but  yet  the  people  may  not  be 
judges  unto  their  Isms  to  punish  him,  albeit  he  be  an  idolater." 

**  God,"  said  the  other,  "  is  the  Universal  Judge,  as  well  unto  the 
king  as  to  the  people ;  so  that  what  His  Worn  commands  to  be 
punished  in  the  one,  is  not  to  be  absolved  in  the  other." 

'*  We  agree  in  that,"  said  Lethington,  ''  bi^t  the  people  may  not 
execute  Ck>d's  judgment,  but  must  leave  it  unto  Himself,  who  will 
either  punish  it  by  death,  by  war,  by  imprisonment,  or  by  some 
other  plagues." 

"  I  know  the  last  part  of  your  reason,"  said  John  Knox,  ''  to  be 
true ;  but  for  the  first,  to  wit,  that  the  people,  yea,  or  a  part  of  the 
people,  may  not  execute  God^s  judgments  against  their  kmg,  being 
an  offender,  I  am  assured  you  have  no  other  warrant  except  your 
own  imagination,  and  the  opinion  of  such  as  more  fear  to  offend 
princes  man  God" 

"Why  say  ye  so?"  said  Lethington  ;  "  I  have  the  judgments  of 
the  most  &mous  men  within  Europe,  and  of  such  as  ye  yourself  will 
confess  both  godly  and  learned." 

And  with  that  he  called  for  his  papers,  which,  produced  by  Mr 
Sobert  Maitland,  he  began  to  read  with  great  gravity  the  judgments 
of  Luther,  Melancthon,  the  minds  of  Bucer,'  Musculus,  and  Calvin, 
how  Christians  should  behave  themselves  in  time  of  persecution. 

"  As  for  my  argument,"  said  the  other, "  ye  have  infirmed^  it 
nothing ;  for  your  first  two  witnesses  speak  against  the  Anabaptists,' 
who  deny  that  Christians  should  be  subject  to  magistrates,  or  yet 
that  is  lawful  for  a  Christian  to  be  a  magistrate ;  which  opinion  I 
do  no  less  abhor  than  ye  do,  or  any  other  that  lives  do.  The  others 
speakk,  of  Christian  subjects  unto  tyrants  and  infidels,  so  dispersed 
that  they  have  no  other  force  but  only  to  sob  to  God  for  deliverance. 
That  such  indeed  should  hazard  any  farther  than  these  godly  men 
wills  them,  I  can  not  hastily  be  of  counsel    But  my  argument  has 

I  Buur  was  an  eminent  Reformer ;  he  was  Invited  by  Cranmerto  visit  England,  and 
was  made  professor  of  theology  in  Cambridge:  Mtueuhu  was  professor  of  divinity  at 
Berne,  and  wrote  valnable  commentaries  on  Scripture ;  Uie  others  mentioned  are  too 
well  known  to  need  descriptidn. 

'  i  &,  weakened. 

'  A  turbulent  religUms  sect  at  the  time  of  the  Reformation. 

40  JOHN  KNOX. 

another  grotuid :  for  I  speak  of  the  people  assembled  together  in 
one  body  of  a  commonwealth,  nnto  -wborn  God  has  given  sufficient 
force,  not  only  to  resist,  but  also  to  suppress  all  kind  of  open 
idolatry :  and  such  a  people,  yet  again  I  affirm,  are  bound  to  keep 
their  land  clean  and  unpolluted  When  our  poor  brethren  before 
us  gaye  their  bodies  to  the  flames  of  fire,  for  the  testimony  of  the 
truui,  and  when  scarcely  could  ten  be  found  into  a  country  that 
rightly  knew  €k>d,  it  had  been  foolishness  to  have  craved  eitner  of 
the  nobility,  or  of  the  mean  subjects,  the  suppressing  of  idolatry ; 
for  that  had  been  nothing  but  to  have  exponed^  the  simple  sheep  in 
a  prey  to  the  wolves.  But  since  that  God  has  multiplied  know- 
ledge, yea,  and  has  given  the  victory  to  His  truth,  even  in  the  hands 
of  His  servants,  gif  ye  suffer  the  land  ^in  to  be  defiled,  ye  and  your 
princes  shall  boui  drink  the  cup  of  God's  indignation,  she  for  her 
obstinate  abiding  in  manifest  idolatry,  in  this  great  light  of  the 
Evangill '  of  Jesus  Christy  and  ye  for  your  permission  and  maintain- 
ing her  in  the  same ! " 

Lethington  said,  "  In  that  point  we  wiU  never  agree :  and  where 
find  ye,  I  pray  you,  that  ever  any  of  the  prophets  or  of  the  apostles 
taught  such  a  doctrine,  that  the  people  should  be  plagued  for  the 
idoEttry  of  the  prince ;  or  yet,  that  the  subjects  might  suppress  the 
idolatiy  of  their  rulers,  or  punish  them  for  the  same  V* 

''  "Wliat  was  the  commission  given  to  the  apostles,"  said  he ; ''  my 
lord,  we  know :  it  was  to  preach  and  plant  the  evangill  of  Jesus 
Christ,  where  darkness  afore  had  dominion ;  and  therefore  it  be- 
hoved them  first  to  let  them  see  the  light  before  that  they  should 
will  them  to  put  to'  their  hands  to  suppress  idolatiy.  What  pre- 
cepts the  apostles  gave  unto  the  £a.ithnil  in  particular,  other  than 
that  they  commanded  all  to  flee  from  idolatry,  I  will  not  affirm: 
but  I  find  two  things  which  the  fEiithfiil  did ;  the  one  was,  they 
assisted  their  preachers,  even  against  the  rulers  and  magistrates  ;* 
the  other  was,  they  suppressed  idolatry  wheresoever  Grod  gave  unto 
them  force,  asking  no  leave  at  the  emperor,'  nor  at  his  deputies. 
And  as  to  the  doctrine  of  the  prophets,  we  know  they  were  inter- 
preters of  the  law  of  God ;  and  we  know  they  spake  as  well  to  the 
kings  as  to  the  people.  I  read  that  neither  of  both  would  hear 
them ;  and  therefore  came  the  plasue  of  Grod  upon  both.  God's 
laws  pronounces  death,  as  before  I  have  said,  to  idolaters,  without 
exception  of  any  person.  Now,  how  the  prophets  could  reprove  the 
vices,  and  not  diow  the  people  their  duty,  I  understand  not.  For 
the  probation,  I  am  ready  to  produce  the  fact  of  one  prophet :  for 
ye  mow,  my  lord,"  said  he,  "  that  Miseus  sent  one  of  the  children 
of  the  prophets  to  anoint  Jehu,  who  gave  him  in  commandment  to 

*  ie.,  exposed. 

*  ie.,  gospel;  evangiU  is  the  Greek  form  of  the  word,  finom  which  eoangOiti,  Ac., 
are  formed. 

'  i. «.,  to  apply ;  the  phrase  is  still  cnrrent  in  Scotland. 

*  Knox  must  be  understood  here  to  refer  to  events  not  recorded  in  Scripture,  which 
expressly  forbids  any  such  action. 

«  i&,  the  Boman  emperor. 

JOHN  FOX.  41 

destroy  the  house  of  his  master  Ahab  for  the  idolatiy  committed 
by  him  ;  which  he  obeyed,  and  put  in  full  execution." 

"  There  is  enough,"  said  Letnington,  "  to  be  answered  thereto : 
for  Jehu  was  a  king  before  he  put  anything  in  execution ;  and  be- 
sides this^  the  fetct  is  extraordinary,  and  ought  not  to  be  imitated." 


John  Fox,  the  martyrologist,  was  bom  at  Boston  in  Lincolnshire, 
in  1617.  He  received  his  education  at  the  University  of  Oxford, 
where  he  was  distinguished  for  his  industrious  prosecution  of  his 
studies,  but  having  become  a  Protestant  he  was  expelled  from  his 
college  as  a  heretic.  For  some  time  he  suffered  much  hardship, 
and  was  even  in  danger  of  starvation ;  but  at  last  he  obtained  employ- 
ment as  tutor  in  the  family  of  the  Duchess  of  Richmond.  The  perse- 
cution in  the  reign  of  Mary  compelled  him  to  take  refuge  on  the  Con- 
tinent, where  he  supported  himself  by  correcting  for  the  press  at 
Basle.  On  the  accession  of  Elizabeth  he  returned  to  his  native  coun- 
try, and  was  appointed  to  a  prebendal  stall  in  the  cathedral  of  Salis- 
bury, the  peculiar  views  which  he  had  adopted  on  the  Continent 
preventing  his  receiving  any  higher  ecclesiastical  promotion.  He 
died  in  1687.  Fox  wrote  many  works,  but  he  is  best  known  by  his 
"  Acts  and  Monuments,"  or  an  account  of  "  The  Great  Persecutions 
and  Horrible  Troubles  that  have  been  wrought  and  practised  by  the 
Bomish  Prelates,  especially  in  this  Realm  of  England  and  Scotland, 
from  the  Tear  of  our  Lord  a  Thousand,  unto  the  Time  now  present." 
In  compiling  this  work  he  occupied  eleven  years,  and  he  availed  him- 
self of  all  the  means  in  his  power  to  acquire  accurate  information. 
His  statements  have  been  sometimes  called  in  question,^  and  some  few 
of  them  may  be  erroneous,  but  his  work  as  a  whole  is  characterized  by 
extreme  fidelity  and  truth.  He  frequently  indulges  in  coarse  lan- 
guage, but  allowance  must  be  made  for  the  excitement  of  the  times, 
and  the  personal  feelings  of  one  who  had  himself  been  a  sufferer.  His 
narrative,  from  the  copiousness  of  detail  in  which  he  indulges,  and  its 
unaffected  simplicity,  has  a  depth  of  pathos  which  has  seldom  been 


Among  many  other  worthy  and  sundry  histories  and  notable  acts 
of  such  as  of  late  days  have  been  turmoiled,  murdered,  and  martyred 
for  the  gospel  of  Christ  in  Queen  Mary's  reign,  the  tragical  story 
and  life  of  Dr  Ridley  I  thought  good  to  commend  to  chronicle,  and 
leave  to  perpetual  memory ;  beseeching  thee,  gentle  reader,  with 
care  and  study  well  to  peruse,  diligently  to  consider,  and  deeply  to 
print  the  same  in  thy  breast,  seeing  him  to  be  a  man  beautified 
with  such  excellent  qimlities,  so  ghostly*  inspired  and  godly  learned, 

1  One  Roman  Catholic  styled  it  a  "  Danghlll  of  Stinking  Martyra*' 
s  i.e.,  spiritually. 

42  JOHN  FOX. 

and  now  written  doubtless  in  the  book  of  life  with  the  blessed  saints 
of  the  Almighty,  crowned  and  throned  amongst  the  glorious  oom- 
pany  of  martyrs. 

He  was  passingly  well  learned,  his  memory  was  great,  and  he  of 
such  reading  withal,  that  of  right  he  deserved  to  be  comparable  to 
the  best  of  this  our  age,  as  can  testify  as  well  divers  his  notable 
works,  pithy  sermons,  and  sundry  his  disputations  in  both  the 
universities,  as  also  his  very  adversaries,  all  which  will  say  no  less 
themselves.  Besides  all  this,  wise  he  was'  of  counsel,  deep  of  wit, 
and  very  polite  in  all  his  doings.  How  merciful  and  careful  he  was 
to  reduce  the  obstinate  Papists  from  their  erroneous  opinions,  and 
by  gentleness  to  win  them  to  the  truth,  his  gentle  ordering  and 
courteous  handling  of  Doctor  Heath,  late  Archbishop  of  York,l)eing 
prisoner  with  him  in  King  Edward's  time  in  his  nouse  one  year, 
sufficiently  declareth.  In  fine,  he  was  such  a  prelate,  and  in  all 
points  so  good,  godly,  and  ghostly  a  man,  that  England  may  justly 
rae  the  loss  of  so  worthy  a  treasure. 

He  was  a  man  right  comely  and  well-proportioned  in  all  points, 
both  in  complexion  and  lineaments  of  the  body.  He  took  all  things 
in  good  part,  bearing  no  malice  nor  rancour  from  his  heart,  but 
straightways  forgetting  aU  injuiies  and  offences  done  against  him. 
He  was  very  kind  and  natural  to  his  kinsfolk,  and  yet  not  bearing 
with  them  anything  otherwise  than  right  would  require,  giving 
them  always  for  a  general  rule,  yea  even  to  his  own  brother  and 
sister,  that  they  domg  evil  should  seek  or  look  for  nothing  at  his 
hand,  but  should  be  as  strangers  and  aliens  unto  him,  and  they  to 
be  hiB  brother  or  sister  whidi  used  honesty  and  a  godly  trade  of 

He,  using  aU  kinds  of  ways  to  moriiify  himself,  waa  given  to  much 
prayer  and  contemplation ;  for  duly  every  morning,  as  soon  as  his 
apparel  was  done*  upon  him,  he  went  forthwith  to  his  bed-chamber, 
and  there  upon  his  knees  prayed  the  space  of  half  an  hour,  which 
being  done,  immediately  he  went  to  his  study  (if  there  came  no  other 
business  to  interrupt  him),  where  he  continued  till  ten  of  the  clock, 
and  then  came  to  common  prayer  daily  used  in  his  house.  The 
prayers  being  done  he  went  to  dinner,  where  he  used  little  talk, 
except  otherwise  occasion  by  some  had  been  ministered,  and  then 
was  it  sober,  discreet,  and  wise,  and  sometimes  merry,  as  cause 

The  dinner  done,  which  was  not  very  long,  he  used  to  sit  an 
hour  or  thereabouts  playing  at  the  chess  ;  that  done,  he  returned  to 
his  study,  and  there  woi2d  continue,  except  suitors  or  business 
abroad  were  occasion  of  the  contrary,  until  five  of  the  clock  at 
night,  and  then  would  come  to  common  prayer,  as  in  the  forenoon, 
which  being  finished  he  went  to  supper,  behaving  himself  there  as 
at  his  dinner  before ;  after  supper,  recreating  himself  in  playing  at 
chess  the  space  of  an  hour,  he  would  then  return  again  to  his  study, 

lie.,  put ;  the  yerb  do  on  contracted  don. 


continuing  there  till  eleven  of  the  clock  at  night,  which  was  his 
common  hour  to  go  to  bed,  then  saying  his  prayers  upon  his  knees, 
as  iutthe  morning  when  he  rose.  Beinff  at  his  manor  of  Fulham,^ 
as  divers  times  he  used  to  be,  he  read  daily  a  lecture  to  his  &mily 
at  the  common  prayer,  beginning  at  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles,  and 
so  going  throughout  all  the  Epistles  of  St  Paul,  giving  to  eveiy  man 
that  could  read  a  New  Testament,  hiring  them  besides  with  money 
to  learn  by  heart  certain  principal  chapters,  but  especially  the 
thirteenth  chapter  of  the  Acts ;  reading  also  unto  his  household 
oftentimes  the  one  hundred  and  first  Pssum,  being  marvellous  car^ 
fill  over  his  family,  that  they  might  be  a  spectacle  of  all  virtue  and 
honesty  to  other.  To  be  short,  as  he  was  godly  and  virtuous  him- 
self, so  nothing  but  virtue  and  godliness  reigned  in  his  house,  feed- 
ing them  with  the  food  of  our  &viour  Jesus  Christ. 


The  wicked  sermon  (by  Dr  Smith)  being  ended,  Dr  Ridley  and 
Master  Latimer  kneeled  down  upon  their  knees  towards  my  Lord 
Williams  of  Thame,  the  vice-chancellor  of  Oxford,  and  divers  other 
commissioners  appointed  for  that  purpose,  who  sat  upon  a  form 
thereby ;  unto  whom  Master  Kidley  said,  "  I  beseech  you,  my  lord, 
even  for  Christ's  sake,  that  I  may  speak  but  two  or  three  words." 
And  whilst  my  lord  bent  his  head  to  the  mayor  and  vice-chancellor, 
to  know  (as  it  appeared)  whether  he  might  give  him  leave  to  speak, 
the  bailifis  and  Vt  Marshall,  vice-chancellor,  ran  hastily  unto  him, 
and  with  their  hands  stopped  his  mouth,  and  said,  ''Master 
Bidley,  if  you  will  revoke  your  erroneous  opinions,  and  recant  the 
same,  yon  shall  not  only  have  liberty  so  to  do,  but  also  the  benefit 
of  a  subject ;  that  is,  have  vour  Ufe."  ''  Not  otherwise  T  said 
Master  Kidley.  "  No,"  quoth  Dr  MarshalL  "  Therefore  if  you 
will  not  so  do,  then  there  is  no  remedy  but  you  must  sufier  for 
your  deserts."  "Well,"  quoth  Master  Ridley,  "so  long  as  the 
breath  is  in  my  body,  I  will  never  deny  my  Lord  Christ  and  His 
known  truth :  God's  will  be  done  in  me !"  And  with  that  he  rose 
up,  and  said  with  a  loud  voice,  "  Well,  then,  I  commit  our  cause  to 
iUinighty  Grod,  which  shall  indifierently  judge  alL"  To  whose  say- 
ing Master  Latimer  added  his  old  posy,*  "Well !  there  is  nothing 
hid  but  it  shall  be  opened."  And  ne  said  he  could  answer  Smith 
well  enough,  if  he  might  be  suffered 

Incontinently'  they  were  commanded  to  make  them  ready,  which 
they  with  all  meekness  obeyed.  Master  Ridley  took  his  gown  and 
his  tippet,  and  gave  it  to  his  brother-in-law  Master  Shipside,  who 
aU  his  time  of  imprisonment,  although  he  might  not  be  suffered  to 
come  to  him,  lay  tnere  at  his  own  charges  to  provide  him  necessaries, 
which,  from  time  to  time,  he  sent  hun  by  the  sergeant  that  kept 

1  The  episcopal  residence  of  the  Bisbop  of  London,  on  the  Thames. 
«  ifc,  motto,  or  maxim.  ■  4e.,  forthwith,  immediately. 

44  JOHN  FOX. 

him.     Some  other  of  hlB  apparel  that  was  little  worth  he  gaye 
away,  other  the  bailifib  took. 

He  gave  away,  besides,  divers  other  small  things  to  gentlemen 
standing  by,  and  divers  of  them  pitifully  weeping ;  as  to  Sir  Henry 
Lea  he  gave  a  new  groat,  and  to  divers  of  my  Lord  Williams*  gen- 
tlemen  fLe  napki^me  nutmegs,  and  las^,'  of  ginger ;  his  Ll, 
and  such  other  things  as  he  had  about  him,  to  eveiy  one  that  stood 
next  him.  Some  plucked  the  points  off  his  hose.  Happy  was  he 
that  might  get  any  rag  of  him. 

Master  Latimer  gave  nothing,  but  very  quietly  suffered  his  keeper 
to  pull  off  his  hose  and  his  other  array,  which  to  look  unto  was  veiy 
simple ;  and  being  stripped  unto  his  shroud,  he  seemed  as  comely  a 
person  to  them  that  were  there  present  as  one  should  lightly^  see  ; 
and  whereas  in  his  clothes  he  appeared  a  withered  and  crooked  silly 
old  man,  he  now  stood  bolt  upright,  as  comely  a  fSeither  as  one  might 
lightly  behold. 

Then  Master  Ridley,  standing  as  yet  in  his  truss,  said  to  his 
brother,  "  It  were  best  for  me  to  go  in  my  truss  stilL"  "  No," 
quoth  his  brother,  "  it  will  put  you  to  more  pain ;  and  the  truss 
wiU  do  a  poor  man  good."  Whereunto  Master  Ridley  said,  "  Be 
it,  in  the  name  of  God ;"  and  so  unlaced  himself  Then,  being  in 
his  shirt,  he  stood  upon  the  foresaid  stone  and  held  up  his  hand, 
and  said,  ^'0  heavenly  Father,  I  give  unto  Thee  most  hearty  thanks, 
for  that  Thou  hast  called  me  to  be  a  professor  of  Thee,  even  unto 
deatL  I  beseech  Thee,  Lord  God,  take  mercy  u]pon  this  realm  of 
Ex^land,  and  deliver  the  same  from  all  her  enenues." 

Then  the  smith  took  a  chain  of  iron,  and  brought  the  same  about 
both  Dr  Ridley's  and  Master  Latimei's  middle;  and  as  he  was 
knocking  in  a  staple,  Dr  Ridley  took  the  chain  in  his  hand  and 
shaked  me  same,  for  it  did  gird  in  his  belly,  and  looking  aside  to 
the  smith,  said,  "  Good  fellow,  knock  it  in  hard,  for  the  flesh  will 
have  his  course."  Then  his  brother  did  bring  him  gunpowder  in  a 
bag,  and  would  have  tied  the  same  about  his  neck.  Master  Ridlev 
asked  what  it  was.  His  brother  said,  "Gunpowder."  "Then, 
said  he,  "  I  will  take  it  to  be  sent  of  God ;  therefore  I  wiU  receive 
it  as  sent  of  Him.  And  have  you  any,"  said  he, "  for  my  brother  1 " 
meaning  Master  Latimer.  "Yea,  sir,  that  I  have,"  quoth  his 
brother.  "  Then  give  it  unto  him,"  said  he,  "  betime,  lest  ye  come 
too  late."  So  his  brother  went,  and  carried  of  the  same  gunpowder 
unto  Master  Latimer.  In  the  meantime  Dr  Ridley  spake  unto  my 
Lord  Williams,  and  said,  "  My  lord,  I  must  be  a  suitor  unto  your 
lordship  in  the  behalf  of  divers  poor  men,  and  specially  in  the  cause 
of  my  poor  sister.  I  have  made  a  supphcation  to  the  Queen's 
majesty  in  their  behalfs.  I  beseech  your  lordship,  for  Christ's  sake, 
to  be  a  mean  to  her  grace  for  them.  My  brother  here  hath  the 
supplication,  and  will  resort  to  your  lordship  to  certify  you  hereof 
There  is  nothing  in  all  the  world  that  troubleth  my  conscience,  I 

^  i.e^  roots  or  piecesL  *  &  «.,  easily. 


praise  Ood,  this  only  excepted.  Whilst  I  was  in  the  see  of  London 
divers  poor  men  took  leases  of  me^  and  agreed  with  me  for  the  same. 
Now,  I  hear  say,  the  bishop'  that  now  oocupieth  the  same  room  will 
not  allow  my  grants  nnto  them  made,  bat,  contraiy  mito  all  law 
and  conscience,  hath  taken  from  them  their  livings,  and  will  not 
suffer  them  to  enjoy  the  same.  I  beseech  yon,  my  lord,  be  a  mean 
for  them :  you  shall  do  a  good  deed,  and  Crod  will  reward  yon." 

Then  they  brought  a  &ggot,  kindled  with  fire,  and  laid  the  same 
down  at  Dr  Ridley  s  feet  To  whom  Master  Latimer  spake  in  this 
manner :  *'  Be  of  good  comfort,  Master  Ridley,  and  play  the  man. 
We  shall  this  day  light  such  a  candle,  by  God*s  grace,  in  England, 
as  I  trust  shall  never  be  put  out." 

And  so  the  fire  being  given  unto  them,  when  Dr  Ridley  saw  the 
fire  flaming  up  towards  him,  he  cried  with  a  wonderful  loud  voice, 
^  0  Lord,  mto  thy  hands  I  commend  my  spirit :  Lord  receive  my 
spiiit."  And  after  repeated  this  latter  part  often, ''  Lord,  Lord,  re- 
ceive my  spirit."  Master  Latimer  dying  as  vehemently  on  the 
other  siae, "  0  Father  of  heaven,  receive  my  soul,"  who  received  the 
flame  as  it  were  embracing  of  it  After  that  he  had  stroked  his 
face  with  his  hands,  and,  as  it  were,  bathed  them  a  little  la  the  fire, 
he  soon  died  (as  it  appeared)  with  very  little  pain  or  non&  And 
thus  much  concerning  the  end  of  this  old  and  blessed  servant  of 
God,  Master  Latimer,  for  whose  laborious  travails,  fruitful  life,  and 
constant  death,  the  whole  realm  hath  cause  to  give  great  thanks  to 
Almighty  God. 

But  Master  Ridley,  by  reason  of  the  evil  making  of  the  fire  unto 
him,  because  the  wooden  faggots  were  laid  about  the  gorse,'  and 
over-high  built,  the  fire  burned  first  beneath,  being  k^t  down  by 
the  wood ;  which,  when  he  felt,  he  desired  them  for  Chnsfs  sake  to 
let  the  fire  come  unto  him.  Which  when  his  brother-in-law  heard, 
but  not  well  understood,  intending  to  rid  him  out  of  his  pain  (for 
the  which  cause  he  gave  attendance),  as  one  in  such  sorrow  not  well 
advised  what  he  did,  heaped  £iggots  upon  him,  so  that  he  clean 
covered  him,  which  made  the  fire  more  vehement  beneath,  that  it 
burned  clean  all  his  nether  parts  before  it  once  touched  the  upper ; 
and  that  made  him  leap  up  and  down  under  the  fagots,  and  often 
desire  them  to  let  the  fire  come  unto  him,  saying,  'ML  cannot  bum." 
Which  indeed  appeared  well ;  fur  after  his  legs  were  consumed  by 
reason  of  his  struggling  through  the  pain  (whereof  he  had  no  release, 
but  only  lus  contentation  in  Grod),  ne  showed  that  side  toward  us 
dean,  shirt  and  all  untouched  with  flame.  Yet  in  all  this  torment 
he  forgot  not  to  call  upon  Crod  stni,  having  in  his  mouth,  **  Lord, 
have  mercy  upon  me,"  intermingling  his  cry, ''  Let  the  fire  come 
unto  me,  I  cannot  bum."  In  which  pangs  he  laboured  till  one  of 
the  standers-by  with  his  bill  pulled  off  the  fciggots  above,  and  where 
he  saw  the  fire  flame  up  he  wrested  himself  unto  that  side.  And 
when  the  flame  touched  the  gunpowder  he  was  seen  to  stir  no  more, 

>  Thifl  was  Boner,  one  of  the  chief  agenti  in  the  persecution  of  the  ProtestantaL 
*  Ic,  whin  o>r  ftirze  bnahea 


but  burned  on  the  other  side,  fEkUing  down  at  Master  Latimer's 
feet ;  which,  some  said,  happened  by  reason  that  the  chain  loosed  ; 
others  said,  that  he  fell  over  the  chain  by  reason  of  the  poise  of  his 
body,  and  the  weakness  of  his  nether  limbs. 

Some  said,  that  before  he  was  like  to  fiEill  from  the  stake,  he  de- 
sired them  to  hold  him  to  it  with  their  bills.  However  it  was, 
surely  it  moved  hundreds  to  tears  in  beholding  the  horrible  sight ; 
for  I  think  there  was  none,  that  had  not  clean  exiled'  all  humanity 
and  mercy,  which  would  not  have  lamented  to  behold  the  fury  of 
the  fire  so  to  rage  upon  their  bodies.  Signs  there  were  of  sorrow 
on  every  side.  Some  took  it  grievously  to  see  their  deaths,  whoso 
lives  they  held  full  dear ;  some  pitied  their  persons,  that  thought 
their  soids  had  no  need  thereof  His  brother  moved  many  men, 
seeing  his  miserable  case,  seeing  (I  say)  him  compelled  to  such  in- 
felici^,  that  he  thought  then  to  do  him  best  service  when  he 
hastened  his  end.  Some  cried  out  of  the  fortune,  to  see  his  en- 
deavour (who  most  dearly  loved  Him,  and  sou^t  his  release)  turn  to 
his  greater  vexation  and  increase  of  pain.  But  whoso  considered 
their  preferments  in  time  past,  the  places  of  honour  that  they  some- 
time occupied  in  this  commonwealth,  the  £9bvour  they  were  in  with 
their  princes,  and  the  opinion  of  learning  they  had  in  the  university 
where  they  studied,  could  not  choose  but  sorrow  with  tears,  to  see 
so  great  dignity,  honour,  and  estimation,  so  necessary  members 
sometime  accounted,  so  many  godly  virtues,  the  study  of  so  many 
years,  such  excellent  learning,  to  be  put  into  the  fire,  and  consumed 
in  one  moment.  Well,  dead  they  are,  and  the  reward  of  this  world 
they  have  already.  What  reward  remaineth  for  them  in  heaven, 
the  day  of  the  Lord's  glory,  when  He  cometh  with  His  saints,  shall 
shortly,  I  trust,  declare. 


John  Jewel  was  bom  near  Ilfracombe,  in  Devonshire,  in  1522.  He 
studied  at  the  University  of  Oxford,  and  early  became  a  convert  to 
those  Protestant  doctrines  which  his  learning  was  destined  so  signally 
to  promote.  He  was  afterwards  appointed  vicar  of  a  country  parish 
in  Berks,  where  he  discharged  his  clerical  duties  with  zeal  and  success ; 
and  on  the  accession  of  Mary,  like  so  many  others  of  the  Protestants, 
he  was  obliged  to  leave  his  native  land.  His  eminent  learning  secured 
him  a  ready  reception  abroad,  and  at  Strasbourg  he  became  vice- 
principal  of  the  college.  On  the  death  of  Mary,  and  the  re-establish- 
ment of  Protestantism  under  Elizabeth,  he  was  invited  home,  and  was 
shortly  after  his  return  appointed  Bishop  of  Salisbury.  He  died  in 
1671.  He  wrote  various  polemical  works,  but  his  chief  work  is  his 
"  Apology  for  the  Church  of  England."  This  was  written  in  Latin, 
and  was  speedily  translated  not  only  into  English,  but  into  every  oon- 

l  1 «.,  banished. 

CLAIM  TO  Aurnqum  mads  bt  the  bokan  gatholiob.       47 

.tinental  language,  and  is  eaid,  with  good  reason,  to  have  contributed 
more  than  any  other  work  to  the  promotion  of  the  cause  of  the  Re- 
formation. It  is  distinguished  by  extreme  gracefulness  of  Latinity, 
moderation  of  tone,  acuteness  of  reasoning,  and  extent  of  learning. 
Though  styled  an  "  Apology  for  the  Church  of  England,"  it  is  in 
reality  a  defence  of  Protestantism  against  the  Roman  Catholics,  and 
has  no  reference  to  the  peculiar  opinions  of  any  particulfu:  section  of 
Protestants.  It  is  in  many  respects  superior  to  the  famous  work  of 
Chillingworth  on  the  same  subject ;  and  is  perhaps  the  best  and  most 
learned  of  all  the  treatises  in  defence  of  Protestantism.  The  following 
is  from  a  translation  by  Lady  Bacon,  .mother  of  the  famous  Bacon : — 


What  great  pomp  and  prack*  is  this  they  (the  Roman  Catholics) 
make  of  antiquity?  Why  biag  they  so  of  the  ancient  fathers, 
and  of  the  new  and  old  councils  ?  Why  will  they  seem  to  trust  to 
their  authority,  whom  when  they  list  they  despise  at  their  own 

But  I  have  a  special  fSuicy  to  common'  a  word  or  two  rather  with 
the  pope's  good  holiness,  and  to  say  these  things  to  his  own  face. 
Tell  us,  I  pray  you,  good  holy  father,  seeing  ye  do  crack  so  much  of 
all  antiquity,  and  boast  vourself  that  all  men  are  joined  to  you 
alone,  which  of  all  the  &thers  have  at  any  time  called  you  by  the 
name  of  the  highest  prelate,*  the  universal  bishop,  or  the  head  of  the 
church  ?  Which  of  the  ancient  fathers  or  doctors  ever  said  that 
both  the  swords  were  committed  to  you?  Which  of  them  ever 
said  that  you  have  authoritv  and  a  right  to  call  councils  ?  Which 
of  them  ever  said  that  the  whole  world  is  but  your  diocese  ?  Which 
of  them,  that  all  bishops  have  received  of  your  fulness  ?  Which  of 
them,  that  all  power  is  ^ven  to  you  as  well  in  heaven  as  in  earth  ? 
Whidi  of  them,  that  neither  kin^gs,  nor  the  whole  clen;^,  not  yet  all 
people  together,  are  able  to  be  judges  over  you  ?  Which  of  th^m, 
that  kings  and  emperors  by  Clirist's  commandment  and  will  do 
receive  authority  at  your  hajid  ?  Which  of  them,  with  so  precise 
and  mathematical  limitation,  hath  surveyed  and  determined  you  to 
be  seventy  and  seven  times  greater  than  the  mightiest  kings? 
Which  of  them,  that  more  ample  authority  is  given  to  you  than  to 
the  residue  of  the  patriarchs  ?*  Whidi  of  them,  that  you  are  the 
Lord  God,  or  that  you  are  not  a  mere  natural  man,  but  a  certain 
substance  made  and  grown  together  of  Qod  and  man  ?  Which  of 
them,  that  you  are  the  only  head-spring  of  all  law  ?  Which  of 
them,  that  you  have  power  over  purcatories  ?  Which  of  them,  that 
vou  are  able  to  command  the  angebi  of  Qod  as  you  list  yourself  7 
Which  of  them  that  ever  said  that  you  are  the  Lord  of  lords,  and 
the  King  of  kings  ? 

'  *. «.,  talk  or  boast  •  i  a,  commune,  exchange. 

*  All  the  assertions  which  follow  had  been  made  by  modem  Roman  Catholic  aatborSb 

*  i.  e.,  the  Archbishops  of  Constantinople,  Antioch,  and  Alexandria. 


We  can  also  go  farther  with  you  m  like  sort.  What  one  amongst 
the  whole  nmn&r  of  the  old  bishops  and  fathers  ever  taught  you, 
either  to  say  priyate  mass  whiles  the  people  stared  on,  or  to  lift  up 
the  sacraments  over  your  head  (in  which  point  consisteth  now  aU 
your  relimon) ;  or  else  to  mangle  Christ's  sacraments,  and  to  bereave 
the  people  of  the  one  part,  contnuy  to  Christ's  institution  and  plain 
expressed  words  ?  But,  that  we  may  once  come  to  an  end,  what 
one  is  there  of  all  the  &thers  which  hath  taught  you  to  distribute 
Chnst's  blood  and  the  holy  martyrs'  merits,  and  to  sell  openly  as 
merchandizes  your  pardons  and  all  the  rooms  and  lodgings  of  pur- 
gatory? These  men  are  wont  to  speak  much  of  a  certain  secret 
doctrine  of  theirs,  and  manifold  and  sundiy  readings.  Then  let 
them  bring  forth  somewhat  now,  if  they  can,  that  it  may  appear 
they  have  at  least  read,  or  do  know  somewhat.  They  have  often 
stoutly  noised  in  all  comers  where  they  went,  how  all  the  parts  of 
their  religion  be  very  old,  and  have  been  approved  not  only  by  the 
multitude,  but  also  hj  the  consent  and  continual  observation  of  aU 
nations  and  times.  Let  them,  therefore,  once  in  their  life  show  this 
their  antiquity;  let  them  make  appear  at  eye,  that  the  things 
whereof  they  make  such  ado  have  taken  so  long  and  large  increase : 
let  them  declare  that  all  Christian  nations  have  agreed  by  consent 
to  this  their  religion. 


Of  these,  the  most  important  of  our  old  chroniclers,  scarce  anything 
is  known.  Holinshed  is  said  to  have  been  of  a  respectable  family  in 
Cheshire ;  to  have  been  employed  as  steward  by  a  gentleman  in  War- 
wickshire ;  and  to  have  died  in  1682.  His  "  Chronicles "  were  first 
published  in  1677,  and  consist  of  a  very  voluminous  history  of  Eng- 
land, Scotland,  and  Ireland,  from  the  earliest  periods  to  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth.  To  this  is  prefixed  a  description  of  the  physical  features 
of  Great  Britain,  with  an  account  of  the  productions,  animal,  vegetable, 
and  mineral,  of  the  country;  and  of  the  appearance,  manners,  dress,  and 
food  of  the  inhabitants.  This  part  was  written  by  Harrison,  and  is 
so  extremely  minute,  and  in  general  so  accurate,  that  its  value  as  a 
historical  document  cannot  be  overrated.  The  historical  part  of  the 
"  Chronicles  "  was  compiled  by  Holinshed,  with  the  assistance  of  John 
Hooker  (said  to  be  uncle  to  the  famous  Richard  Hooker,  author  of  the 
"Ecclesiastical  Polity"),  John  Stow,  Richard  Stainhurst,  and  others. 
Much  of  it  is  fabulous,  and  has  been  superseded  by  modem  discoveries ; 
yet  it  has  been  drawn  with  great  care  from  the  heterogeneous  com- 
positions of  nearly  two  hundred  preceding  writers,  and  has  furnished 
the  chief  part  of  the  materials  of  all  succeeding  historians.  To  the 
student  of  literature,  it  is  further  interesting  as  having  supplied  many 
of  our  old  poets  and  dramatists  with  the  outlines  of  their  plots,  and 
the  ground-work  of  their  poems.  In  fact,  without  the  information 
which  Holinshed  affords,  much  of  our  older  history  and  literature 


would,  be  to  the  modem  student  almost  nnintelligible.  A  Tevised 
edition  dt  the  "  Chronicles  "  appeared  in  1587,  enlarged  and  improved 
by  Abraham  Fleming,  one  of  the  minor  poets  of  the  period,  and  an 
admirable  reprint  was  issued  at  London  in  1807.  Its  size  may  be 
estimated  by  the  fact  that  this  edition  extends  to  six  bulky  quarto 
volumes,  each  containing  nearly  eight  hundred  pages  of  close  type. 
The  style  of  the  "  Chronicle  "  is  in  general  dry  and  lumbering ;  it  is 
not,  however,  without  occaBional  vigour,  as  the  following  extracts 
will  show. 


An  Englishman,  endeavouiing  sometime  to  write  of  our  attire, 
made  sundiy  platforms  for  his  purpose,  supposing  by  some  of  them 
to  find  out  one  steadfast  ground  whereon  to  bmld  the  sum  of  his 
discourse.  But  in  the  end,  when  he  saw  what  a  difficult  piece  of 
work  he  had  taken  in  hand^  he  gave  over  his  travel,  and  only  drew 
the  picture  of  a  naked  man,  unto  whom  he  gave  a  pair  of  shears  in 
the  one  hand,  and  a  piece  of  cloth  in  the  other,  to  the  end  he  should 
shape  his  apparel  after  such  fashion  as  himself  liked,  sith^  he  could 
find  no  kind  of  garment  that  could  please  him  anywhile  together, 
and  this  he  called  an  Englishman.  Certes  this  writer'  (otherwise 
a  lewd  popish  hypocrite  and  ungracious  priest)  showed  himself 
herein  not  to  be  altogether  void  of  judgment,  sith  the  phantastical 
folly  of  our  nation,  even  from  the  courtier  to  the  carter,  is  such, 
that  no  form  of  apparel  liketh  us  longer  than  the  first  earment  is  in 
the  wearing,  if  it  continue  so  long  and  be  not  laid  aside,  to  receive 
some  other  trinket  newly  devised  by  the  fickle-headed  tailors,  who 
covet  to  have  several  tricks  in  cutting,  thereby  to  draw  fond 
customers  to  more  expense  of  money. 

For  my  part  I  can  tell  better  how  to  inveigh  against  this 
enormity  thui  describe  any  certainty  of  our  attire ;  sithence  such  is 
our  mutability,  that  to  day  there  is  none'  to  the  Spanish  guise,  to- 
morrow the  French  toys  are  most  fine  and  delectable,  ere  long  no 
such  apparel  as  that  which  is  after  the  high  Alman*  fashion,  by-&nd- 
by  the  Turkish  manner  is  generally  best  liked  of,  otherwise  the 
Morisco'  gowns,  the  Barbarian'  sleeves,  and  the  short  French 
breeches  make  such  a  comely  vesture,  that  except  it  were  a  dog  in 
a  doublet,  you  shall  not  see  any  so  disguised  as  are  m^  countrymen 
of  England.  And  as  these  fashions  are  diverse,  so  likewise  it  is  a 
world  to  see  the  costliness  and  the  curiosity ;  the  excess  and  the 
Yanily ;  the  pomp  and  the  bravery ;  the  change  and  the  variety ; 

lie-,  iince;  the  fonn  iUhenee  is  also  lued  for  since;  the  old  spelliiig  has  been  in 
general  retained  in  tiieae  extracts. 

'  Harrison  refers  to  one  Andrew  Boord,  and  being  somevhat  of  a  Pnrttan,  he  in- 
dulges in  a  little  yindictive  spleen  at  the  writer's  religion. 

*  £  «.,  there  is  no  dress  thought  comparable  to  the  SiMuiiah  gnise. 

<  i  «,  Gennao.  *  Moorish.  *  ic,  in  the  iashion  of  Barbary. 



and  finally,  the  fickleness  and  folly  that  is  in  all  degrees,  insomuch 
that  noth^  is  80  constant  in  England  as  inconstant  of  attiie. 

Oh  how  much  cost  is  bestowed  now-a-days  upon  our  bodies,  and 
how  little  upon  our  souls !  How  many  suits  of  apparel  hath  the  one, 
and  how  little  fomiture  hath  the  other !  How  long  time  is  asked  in 
decking  up  of  the  first,  and  how  little  space  left  wherein  to  feed  the 
latter!  How  curious,  how  nice  also,  are  a  number  of  men  and 
women,  and  how  hardly  can  the  tailor  please  them  in  making  it  fit 
for  their  bodies !  How  many  times  must  it  be  sent  back  again  to 
him  that  made  it !  What  chafing !  What  fretting !  What  reproach- 
ful language  doth  the  poor  workman  bear  away !  And  many  times 
when  he  doeth  nothing  to  it  at  all,  yet  when  it  is  brought  home  again, 
it  is  veiy  fit  and  han&ome :  then  must  we  put  it  on,  then  must  the 
long  seams  of  our  hose  be  set  by  a  plumb-line,  then  we  pufi^  then 
we  blow,  and  finally  sweat  till  we  drop,  that  our  clothes  may  stand 
well  upon  us.  I  will  say  nothing  of  our  heads,  which  sometimes 
are  polled,  sometimes  curled,  or  suffered  to  grow  at  length  hke 
woman's  locks,  many  times  cut  above  or  under  the  ears  round  as  by 
a  wooden  dish.*  Neither  will  I  meddle  with  our  variety  of  beards, 
of  which  some  are  shaven  from  the  chin  like  those  of  Turks,  not  a 
few  cut  short  like  to  the  beard  of  Marquess  Otto,  some  made  round 
like  a  rubbing-brush,  others  with  a  pique  de  vent  (0  fine  fashion !)  or 
now  and  then  suffered  to  grow  long,  the  barbers  being  grown  to  be  so 
cunning  in  this  behalf  as  the  tailors.  And  therefore  if  a  man  have 
a  lean  and  straight  face,  a  Marquess  Otto's  cut  will  make  it  broad 
and  large  ;  if  it  be  platter-like,  a  long  slender  beard  will  make  it 
seem  the  narrower ;  if  he  be  weasel-beaked,  then  much  hair  left  on 
the  cheeks  will  make  the  owner  look  big  like  a  bowdled'  hen,  and  so 
grim  as  a  goose  ;  many  old  men  do  wear  no  beards  at  alL  Some 
msty  courtiers  also  and  gentlemen  of  courage  do  wear  either  rings 
of  gold,  stones,  or  pearl  in  their  ears,  whereby  they  imagine  the 
workmanship  of  God  to  be  not  a  little  amended.  But  herein  they 
rather  disgrace  than  adorn  their  persons,  as  by  their "niceness  in  ap- 
parel, for  which  I  say  most  nations  do  not  unjustly  deride  us,  as 
also  for  that  we  do  seem  to  imitate  all  nations  round  about  us, 
wherein  we  be  like  to  the  chameleon.  In  women  also  it  is  most  to 
be  lamented,  that  they  do  now  far  exceed  the  lightness  of  our  men 
(who  nevertheless  are  transformed  from  the  cap  even  to  the  very 
shoe),  and  such  staring  attire,  as  in  time  past  was  supposed  meet  for 
none  but  light  housewives  only,  is  now  become  a  habit  for  chaste 
and  sober  matrons.  What  should  I  say  of  their  doublets,  with  pen- 
dant pieces  on  the  breast  full  of  jags  and  cuts,  and  sleeves  of 
sundry  colours  ?  their  gaUigascons"  to  make  their  attire  sit  plum 
round  (as  they  term  it)  about  them?  their  fardingals,*  and  diversely- 
coloured  nether  stocks  of  silk,  jersey,  and  such  like,  whereby  their 

1  Alluding  to  a  primitive  method  of  haircatting,  not  jet  obsolete  in  mral  districts, 
by  placing  a  wooden  or  earthenware  bowl  on  the  head,  and  then  cropping  the  hair 
dose  round  by  the  edge.  ^  i.  e.,  swollen,  puffed  out,  ruffled  with  rage. 

*  i  e.,  large  hose.  ^  t.  e.,  hoops. 


bodies  are  rather  deformed  than  oommended  ?  I  baye  met  with 
some  of  them  in  London  so  disguised,  that  it  hath  past  my  skill  to 
discern  whether  they  were  men  or  women.  Certes^  the  common- 
wealth cannot  be  said  to  flourish  where  these  abuses  reign,  but  is 
rather  oppressed  by  unreasonable  exactions  made  upon  rich  fiarmers, 
and  of  poor  tenants,  wherewith  to  maintain  the  same.  Neither 
was  it  ever  merrier  with  England  than  when  an  Englishman  was 
known  abroad  by  his  own  clow,  and  contented  himself  at  home  with 
his  fine  kersey  hosen'  and  a  mean  slop  ;'  his  coat,  gown,  and  cloak, 
of  brown,  blue,  or  puce,  with  some  pretty  furniture  of  yelvet  or  fur, 
and  a  doublet  of  sad,^  tawny,'  or  black  yelret,  or  other  comely  silk, 
without  such  cuts  and  garish  colours  as  are  worn  in  these  days, 
and  never  brought  in  but  by  the  consent  of  the  French,  who  thmk 
themselTes  the  gayest  men  when  they  hare  most  diyersities  of  jags 
and  change  of  colours  about  them. 

("description  of  BRITAIN,"  BOOK  L,  CAP.  XX.) 

Such  as  are  bred  in  this  island  are  men  for  the  most  part  of  a 
good  complexion,  tall  of  stature,  strong  in  body,  white  of  colour,  and 
thereto  of  great  boldness  and  courage  in  the  wars.  As  for  their 
general  comeliness  of  person,  the  testimony  of  Gregory  the  Great, 
at  such  time  as  he  saw  English  captives  sold  at  Rome,*  shall  easily 
confirm  what  it  is,  which  yet  doth  difier  in  sundry  shires  and  soils. 
As  concerning  the  stomachs^  also  of  our  nation  in  the  field,  they 
have  always  been  in  sovereign  admiration  among  foreign  princes  ; 
for  such  hath  been  the  estimation  of  our  soldiers  from  time  to  time, 
since  our  ile'  hath  been  known  to  the  Homans,  that  wheresoever  they 
have  served  in  foreign  countries,  the  chief  brunts  of  service  have 
been  reserved  unto  them.  Of  their  conquest  and  bloody  battles 
won  in  France,  Grermany,  and  Scotland,  our  histories  are  full ;  and 
where  they  have  been  overcome,  the  victors  themselves  confessed 
their  victories  to  have  been  so  dearly  bought,  that  they  would  not 
gladly  covet  to  overcome  offcen,  after  such  difficult  manner.  In 
martial  prowess,  there  is  little  or  no  difference  between  English- 
men and  Soots  ;  for  albeit  that  the  Scots  have  been  often  and  very 
grievously  overcome  by  the  force  of  our  nation,  it  hath  not  been  for 
want  of  manhood  on  their  parts,  but  through  the  mercy  of  God 
showed  on  us,  and  His  justice  upon  them,  sith  they  always  have  be- 

1    i  e.j  certainly.  '  The  old  form  of  the  plural  for  hose ;  similar  instances  occur 

in  oxen,  Ac  '  i  e.,  trousers.  ^  i.  e.,  dark-coloured.  '  Brown,  the  colour  of 
tanned  leather,  hence  the  name. 

'  According  to  a  well-known  story,  Pope  Gregory,  struck  with  admiration  of  the 
beauty  of  some  captives  set  up  for  stde  in  the  slave-market  at  Rome,  asked  them  who 
they  were ;  they  replied  that  they  were  AngK  (English) ;  "  you  are  well  named  AnffeH 
(angels),",  said  the  Pope,  "  for  your  beauty  is  more  than  mortal" 

^  i  «.,  courage. 

*  Itle  is  always  in  Holinshed  spelled  He ;  as  the  spelling  prevailed  generally  at  the 
time,  it  will  explain  our  omission  in  pronunciation  of  the  <,  which  for  etymological 
reaaons  we  retain  in  the  spelling. 


gon  the  qiiarrels,  and  offered  us  mere  injuiy  with  great  despite  and 

With  us  (although  our  good  men  care  not  to  live  long,  but  to  live 
well))  some  do  live  an  hundred  years,  veiy  many  imto  fourscore  ;  as 
for  threescore,  it  is  taken  but  for  our  entrance  into  age,  so  that  in 
Britain  no  man  is  said  to  wax  old  till  he  draw  unto  threescore,  at 
which  time  Ood  speed  you  well  cometh  in  place ;  as  Epaminondas  some- 
time said  in  mirth,  affirming  that  imtil  thirty  years  of  age,  you 
wre  wdcome  is  the  best  salutation,  and  from  thence  to  threescore, 
CM  keep  you ;  but  after  threescore,  it  is  best  to  say,  God  speed  you 
wdl :  for  at  that  time  we  begin  to  grow  toward  our  journey's  end, 
whereon  many  a  one  have  veiy  good  leave  to  go.  These  two  are 
also  noted  in  us  (as  things  appertaining  to  the  firm  constitutions  of 
our  bodies),  that  there  hath  not  been  seen  in  any  region  so  many 
carcasses  of  the  dead  to  remain  from  time  to  time  without  corruption 
as  in  Britain  ;  and  that  after  death,  by  slaughter  or  otherwise,  such 
as  remain  unburied,  by  four  or  five  days  together,  are  easy  to  be 
known  and  discerned  by  their  friends  and  kindred.  In  like  sort 
the  comeliness  of  our  living  bodies  do  continue  from  middle  age,  for 
the  most,  even  to  the  last  gasp,  specially  in  mankind.  And  albeit 
that  our  women  do  after  forty  begin  to  wrinkle  apace,  yet  are  they 
not  commonly  so  wretched  and  hard-favoured  to  look  upon  in  their 
age  as  the  French  women,  who  thereto*  be  so  often  wayward  and 
peevish,  that  nothing  in  manner  may  content  them. 

I  might  here  add  somewhat  also  of  the  mean*  stature  generally  of 
our  women,  whose  beauty  commonbr  exceedeth  the  fairest  of  those 
of  the  main.*  This,  nevertheless,  I  utterly  mislike  in  the  poorer 
sort  of  them  (for  the  wealthier  do  seldom  offend  herein),  that  being 
of  themselves  without  government,  they  are  so  careless  in  the  educa- 
tion of  their  children  (wherein  their  husbands  also  are  to  be  blamed), 
bv  means  whereof,  oftentimes,  very  many  of  them,  neither  fearing 
Giod,  neither  regarding  either  manners  or  obedience,  do  oftentimes 
come  to  confusion,  which,  if  any  correction  or  discipline  had  been 
used  toward  them  in  youth,  might  have  proved  good  members  of 
their  commonwealth  and  country,  by  their  good  service  and  indus- 
try.   Thus  much,  therefore,  of  the  constitutions  of  our  bodies. 


This  Cnute*  was  the  mightiest  prince  that  ever  reigned  over  the 
English  people,  for  he  had  the  sovereign  rule  over  all  Denmark,  Eng- 
land, Norway,  Scotland,  and  part  of  Sweden.  While  he  was  at  Bomc 
he  received  many  great  gifts  of  the  emperor,*  and  was  highly  hon- 
oured of  him,  and  likewise  of  the  Pope,  and  of  all  other  the  Ligh 

*  t.e.,  beside&  <  <.«..  moderate,  neither  too  tall  nor  too  little. 

^  ue.,  tUe  Continent         *  So  the  Danes  spell  the  name  which  we  usually  spnll 
Canute,  *  Conrad,  Emperor  of  Germany,  is  meant 


piinoes  at  that  time  present  at  Rome,  so  that  when  he  came  home 
(as  some  write)  he  did  grow  greatly  into  pride,  insomach  that  being 
near  to  the  Thames,  or  rather  (as  others  write)  upon  the  sea-stran^ 
near  to  Southampton,  and  peroeiying  the  water  to  rise  by  reason  of 
the  tide,  he  cast  off  his  gown,  and  wrapping  it  round  together, 
threw  it  on  the  sands  very  near  the  increasing  water,  and  sat  him 
down  upon  it,  speaking  these  or  the  like  words  to  the  sea, — "  Thou 
art,"  saith  he,  <'  within  the  compass  of  my  dominion,  and  the  ground 
whereon  I  sit  is  mine,  and  thou  knowest  that  no  wight^  dare  dis- 
obey my  commandments  ;  I  therefore  do  now  command  thee  not  to 
rise  upon  my  ground,  nor  to  presume  to  wet  any  part  of  thy  sove- 
reign lord  and  governor."  But  the  sea,  keeping  her  course,  rose  still 
hi^er  and  higher,  and  overflowed  not  only  the  king^s  feet,  but  also 
flashed  up  into  his  legs  and  knees.  Wherewith  the  king  started 
suddenly  up  and  withcuew  from  it,  saying  withal  to  his  nobles  that 
were  about  him, — '^  Behold  you  noblemen,  you  call  me  king,  which 
cannot  so  much  as  stay  by  my  commandment  this  small  portion  of 
water.  But  know  ye  for  certain,  that  there  is  no  king  but  the 
Father  only  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  with  whom  He  reigneth,  and 
at  whose  beck  all  things  are  governed.  Let  us  therefore  honour  Him, 
let  us  confess  and  profess  Him  to  be  the  Ruler  of  heaven,  earth,  and 
sea,  and  besides  Him  none  other." 

From  thence  he  went  to  Winchester,  and  there  with  his  own 
hands  set  the  crown  upon  the  head  of  the  image  of  the  crucifix, 
which  stood  there  in  the  church  of  the  apostles  Peter  and  Paul ;  and 
from  thenceforth  he  would  never  wear  that  crown  nor  any  other. 
Some  write  that  he  spake  not  the  former  words  to  the  sea  upon  any 
presumptuousness  of  mind,  but  only  upon  occasion  of  the  vain  title, 
which  in  his  commendation  one  of  his  gentlemen  gave  him  by  way 
of  flattery  (as  he  rightly  took  it),  for  he  (Slled  him  the  most  mightiest 
king  of  £J1  kings,  which  ruled  most  at  large  both  men,  sea,  and  land. 
Therefore  to  reprove  the  fond'  flattery  of  such  vain  persons,  he  de- 
vised and  practised  the  deed  before  mentioned,  thereby  botli  to  re- 
prove such  flatterers,  and  also  that  men  might  be  admonished  to 
consider  the  omnipotence  of  Almighty  God. 


Robert  Gbeekb  was  bom  in  1560,  and  educated  at  Cambridge.  He 
became  a  writer  for  the  stage,  and  is  supposed  to  have  written  some  of 
those  plays  which  were  afterwards  remodelled  by  Shakspere.  After 
a  very  immoral  life,  he  died  of  a  surfeit  in  1692.  His  wor^  do  not 
possess  much  literary  merit,  but  from  their  casual  allusions  to  the 
early  career  of  Shakspere,  they  are  much  valued  by  antiquarians. 

^  i  e.,  person.  '  Fond  in  onr  old  wiiten  means  always  fodlith. 



S(^hesUcb,  thou  seest  no  physic  preyaiLs  agamst  the  gaze  of  the 
basilisli^  no  chann  against  the  sting  of  the  tarantula,  no  prevention 
to  divert  the  decree  of  the  fates,  nor  no  means  to  recall  back  the 
baleful  hurt  of  fortune.  Incurable  sores  are  without  Avicen's^  apho- 
risms, and  therefore  no  salve  for  them  but  patience.  Then,  my  Se- 
phestia,  sith  thy  fall  is  high  and  fortune  low,  thy  sorrows  great  and 
thy  hope  little,  seeing  me  partaker  of  thy  miseries,  set  all  upon  this, 
"  it  is  a  consolation  to  the  wretched  to  have  companions  in  their  sor- 
row.'*' Chance  is  like  Janus,  double-faced,  as  well  full  of  smiles  to 
comfort  as  of  frowns  to  dismay ;  the  ocean  at  the  deadest  ebb  re- 
turns to  a  full  tide  ;  when  the  eagle  means  to  soar  highest,  he  rais- 
eth  his  flight  in  the  lowest  dales  ;  so  fureth  it  with  fortune,  who  in 
her  highest  extremes  is  most  inconstant ;  when  the  tempest  of  her 
wrath  is  most  fearful,  then  look  for  a  calm  ;  when  she  beats  thee 
with  nettles,  then  think  she  will  strew  thee  with  roses ;  when  she  is 
most  familiar  with  furies,  her  intent  is  to  be  most  prodigal,  Sephes- 
tia.  Thus  are  the  arrows  of  fortune  feathered  with  the  plumes  of  the 
bird  halcyon,  that  changeth  colour  with  the  moon,  which,  however 
she  shoots  them,  pierce  not  so  deep  but  they  may  be  cured.  But, 
Sephestia,  thou  are  daughter  to  a  king,  exiled  by  him  from  the  hope 
of  a  crown  ;  banished  from  the  pleasures  of  the  court  to  the  painful 
fortunes  of  the  country  ;  parted  for  love  from  him  thou  canst  not 
but  love  ;  from  Maximus,*  Sephestia,  who  for  thee  hath  suffered 
BO  many  disfavours  as  either  discontent  or  death  can  afford.  What 
of  all  this  ?  is  not  Hope  the  daughter  of  Time  ?  Have  not  stars 
their  favourable  aspects  as  they  have  froward  opposition  ?  Is  there 
not  a  Jupiter  as  there  is  a  Saturn  ?  Cannot  the  influence  of  smil- 
inff  Venus  stretoh  as  feir  as  the  frowning  constitution  of  Mars  1  1 
teS  thee,  Sephestia,  Juno  foldeth  in  her  brows  the  volumes  of  the 
destinies ;  whom  melancholy  Saturn  deposeth  from  a  crown,  she 
mildly  advanceth  to  a  diadem ;  then  fear  not,  for  if  the  mother  live 
in  misery,  yet  hath  she  a  sceptre  for  the  son  ;  let  the  unkindness  of 
thy  father  be  buried  in  the  cinders  of  obedience,  and  the  want  of 
Maximus  be  supplied  with  the  presence  of  his  pretty  babe,  who, 
being  too  young  for  fortune,  lies  smiling  on  thy  knee,  and  laughs  at 
fortune.  Learn  by  him,  Sephestia,  to  use  patience,  which  is  like 
the  balm  in  the  Yale  of  Jehosaphat,  that  flndeth  no  wound  so  deep 
but  it  cureth  ;  thou  seest  already  fortune  begins  to  change  her  view, 
for  after  the  great  storm  that  pent  our  ship,  we  foimd  a  calm  that 
brought  us  seUe  to  shore  ;  the  mercy  of  Neptune  was  more  than  the 
envy  of  iEolus,  and  the  discourtesy  of  thy  father  is  proportioned 
with  the  favour  of  the  gods.  Thus,  Sephestia,  being  copuiner  of 
thy  misery,  yet  do  I  seek  to  allay  thy  martgrrdom ;  being  sick  to 

^  i,e^  Avicenna,  the  fiunouB  Arabian  pbysIdaiL 

'  Greene  here  quotes  the  well-known  Latin  llne»  **  Solamen  miaerla  aodos  haholsae 
dolorifl.**  *  The  buabaiMl  of  Sephestia. 


myself,  jet  do  I  play  the  physician  to  thee,  wishing  thon  maycst 
hem  thy  sorrows  with  as  much  content  as  I  brook  my  misfortunes 
with  patience. 


Robert  Southwell  was  bom  in  1560,  and  educated  at  Douay. 
He  entered  the  order  of  Jesuits,  and  in  England,  where  the  order  was 
viewed  with  much  suspicion,  he  was  frequently  imprisoned  on  the 
charge  of  being  concerned  in  plots  against  the  Queen,  and  was  at  last 
executed  at  Tyburn  1695.  He  wrote  "  St  Peter's  Complaint,"  and 
other  poems,  and  the  **  Triumphs  over  Death,"  to  console  the  Hon.  R. 
Sackville  for  the  death  of  his  lady.  This  last  work  is  highly  elo- 


Nature's  debt  is  sooner  exacted  of  some  than  of  other,  yet  is 
tiiere  no  fault  in  the  creditor  that  exacteth  but  his  own,  but  in  the 
greediness  of  our  eager  hopes,  either  repining  that  their  wishes  fail, 
or  willingly  foigetting  their  mortality,  whom  they  are  unwilling  by 
experience  to  see  mortal ;  yet  the  general  tide  washeth  all  passengers 
to  the  same  shore,  some  sooner,  some  later,  but  all  at  the  last ;  and 
we  must  settle  our  minds  to  take  our  course  as  it  cometh,  never 
fearing  a  thing  so  necessary,  yet  ever  expecting  a  thing  so  uncertain. 
It  seemeth  that  God  purposely  concealed  the  time  of  our  death, 
leaving  us  resolved  between  fear  and  hope  of  longer  continuance : 
cut  off  unripe  cares,  lest  with  the  notice  and  pensiveness  of  our 
divorce  firom  the  world,  we  should  lose  the  comfort  of  needful  con- 
tentment, and  before  our  dying  day  languish  away  with  expectation 
of  death.  Some  are  taken  in  their  first  step  into  this  life,  receiving 
in  one  their  welcome  and  farewell,  as  though  they  had  been  bom 
only  to  be  buried,  and  to  take  their  passport  in  this  hourly  middle 
of  their  course ;  the  good,  to  prevent  change  ;  the  bad,  to  shorten 
their  impiety.  Some  live  till  they  be  weary  of  life,  to  give  proof  of 
their  good  hap  that  had  a  kindlier  passage ;  yet  though  the  date  be 
divers,  the  debt  is  all  one,  equally  to  be  answered  of  all  as  their 
time  expireth ;  for  who  is  the  man  "  shall  live  and  not  see  death  ?" 
sith  we  all  die,  *'  and  like  water  slide  upon  the  eartL"' 

Seeing,  therefore,  that  death  spareth  none,  let  us  spare  our  tears 
for  better  uses,  being  but  an  idle  sacrifice  to  this  deaf  and  implac- 
able executioner.  And  for  this,  not  long  to  be  continued,  where 
they  can  never  profit.  Nature  did  promise  us  a  weeping  life,  exact- 
ing tears  for  custom  as  our  first  entrance,  and  for  suiting  our  whole 

1  This  and  the  previoiia  extract  are  taken  from  reprints  of  scarce  works  in  Sir  E. 
Btjdgea^B.Afxhaiea;  the  meaning  of  some  expressions  is  rather 'obscure,  and  some 
typographical  mistakes  may  be  suspected,  either  in  the  original  copies  or  in  Sir 
Egerton*!  re-iasnei  '  See  2  Samnd  xir.  14. 


course  in  this  dolefol  begiimiiig ;  therefore  they  must  be  used  with 
measure  that  must  be  used  so  often,  and  so  many  causes  of  weeping 
lying  yet  in  the  debt,  sith  we  cannot  end  our  tears,  let  us  at  the 
least  reserve  them.  If  soiiow  cannot  be  shunned,  let  it  be  taken 
in  time  of  need,  sith  otherwise  being  both  troublesome  and  needless, 
it  is  a  double  misery,  or  an  open  foUy.  We  moisten  not  the  ground 
with  precious  waters ;  they  were  stilled  to  nobler  ends,  either  by 
their  fruits  to  delight  our  senses,  or  by  their  operation  to  preserve 
our  healths.  Our  tears  are  water  of  too  high  a  price  to  be  prodi- 
gally poured  in  the  dust  of  any  graves ;  if  they  be  tears  of  love,  they 
permme  our  prayers,  making  them  odour  of  sweetness,  fit  to  be 
offered  on  the  altar  before  the  throne  of  God ;  if  tears  of  contrition, 
they  are  water  of  life  to  the  dying  souls ;  learn,  therefore,  to  give 
sorrow  no  long  dominion  over  you. 

They  that  are  upon  removing  send  their  furniture  before  them ; 
and  you,^  still  standing  upon  your  departure,  what  ornament  could 
you  rather  wish  in  your  new  abode  than  this'  that  did  ever  please 
you  ?  God  thither  sendeth  your  adamants,  whether  He  would  draw 
your  heart ;  and  casteth  your  anchors  where  your  thoughts  should 
lie  at  road,  that  seeing  your  love  taken  out  of  the  world,  and  your 
hopes  disanchored  from  the  stormy  shore,  you  might  settle  your  de- 
sires where  God  seemeth  to  require  them.  The  terms  of  our  life 
are  like  the  seasons  of  the  year,  some  for  sowing,  some  for  growing, 
and  some  for  reaping ;  in  this  only  different,  uiat  as  the  heavens 
keep  their  prescribed  periods,  so  the  succession  of  times  have  their 
appointed  dianges.  But  in  the  seasons  of  our  life,  which  are  not' 
the  law  of  necessary  causes,  some  are  reaped  in  the  seed,  some  in 
the  blade,  some  in  the  unripe  ears,  all  in  me  end ;  this  harvest  de- 
pending upon  the  reaper^s  wilL 

Withdraw  your  eyes  from  the  ruin  of  this  cotta^,  and  cast  them 
upon  the  majesty  of  the  second  building,  which  St  Paul  saith  shall 
be  incorruptible,  glorious,  strange,  spiritual,  and  immortal  Night 
and  sleep  are  perpetual  mirrors,  figuring  in  their  darkness,  silence, 
shutting  up  of  senses,  the  final  end  of  our  mortal  bodies ;  and  for 
this  some  have  entitled  sleep  the  eldest  brother  of  death ;  but  with 
no  less  convenience  it  might  be  called  one  of  death's  tenants,  near 
unto  him  in  affinity  of  condition,  yet  fax  inferior  in  right,  being  but 
tenant  for  a  time  of  that  which  is  death's  inheritance.  For  by 
virtue  of  the  conveyance  made  unto  him  in  paradise,  that  dust  we 
were,  and  to  dust  we  must  return,  he  hath  hitherto  showed  his 
seigniory  over  all,  exacting  of  us  not  only  the  yearly,  but  hourly 
reverence  of  time,  which  even  by  minutes  we  defray  unto  him ;  so 
that  our  very  life  is  not  only  a  memoiy,^  but  a  part  of  our  death, 
sith  the  longer  we  have  lived,  the  less  we  have  to  live.  What  is 
the  daily  lessening  of  our  life  but  a  continual  dying  ? 

1  The  Honoorable  Robert  Sackyllle.  '  Lady  Sackvllle; 

*  Some  such  ezpreuion  aa  "  regnlated  by  **  seema  to  be  wanted  here  to  make  the 
aenae  complete. 

*  i  e.,  a  memorial,  something  to  remind  ua  of  death. 




1.  The  literature  of  this  period  may  be  conveniently  considered  as 
falling  into  two  sections,  that  which  preceded,  and  that  which  followed, 
the  Bestoration. 

1.  Feriod  before  (he  BeeioraUon, 

The  former  of  these  is  uniyersaUy  regarded  as  the  brightest  in  onr 
annals,  distingnished  beyond  all  others  by  its  abundance  in  men  of 
genius  of  the  highest  order.  For  this  extraordinary  fertility  in  talent 
many  reasons  may  be  assigned.  It  was  not  till  the  reign  of  Elizabeth 
that  the  influence  of  learning  could  be  said  to  have  been  sensibly  felt 
among  any  considerable  proportion  of  the  people  of  England.  Much, 
indeed,  had  been  already  accomplished  by  the  reyival  of  letters,  and 
the. diffusion  of  knowledge  through  the  press ;  and  so  rapid  had  been 
the  progress  of  events,  that  the  same  citizen,  who  in  his  youth  had 
gazed  with  wonder  at  Caxton  as  he  pursued  his  mysterious  craft  in 
the  Abbey  at  Westminster,  might  in  his  age  have  listened  to  the 
sermons  of  Latimer  at  Paul's  Cross.  Within  fifty  years  from  the 
issuing  of  the  "  Game  of  Chess,"  the  Bible  was  printed  in  English,  the 
Papal  authority  was  disowned,  the  monasteries  were  destroyed,  and 
the  Keformation  was  begun.  During  the  troubled  reigns  of  Edward 
VI.  and  Mary,  no  great  progress  in  the  diffusion  of  knowledge  was 
made  ;  still,  printing  was  gradually  making  more  accessible  to  all  the 
stores  of  learning  hitherto  monopolized  by  a  few,  religious  disputes 
awakened  the  public  mind  to  action,  and  the  Reformation,  which  owed 
its  origin  to  the  revival  of  letters,  contributed  in  its  turn  to  disseminate 
still  more  widely  that  enlightenment  and  spirit  of  free  inquiry  which 
were  essential  to  its  own  existence.  With  each  new  generation, 
knowledge  was  diffused  more  extensively  among  the  community,  and 
hence  the  writers  in  the  end  of  Elizabeth's  reign — ^in  the  fourth 
generation  from  the  introduction  of  printing — ^were  at  length  furnished 
with  an  audience  capable  of  appreciating  their  merits,  and  the  natural 
stimulus  which  the  sympathy  of  numbers  supplies,  operating  then 
with  more  vigour  from  its  novelty,  incited  genius  to  its  highest  efforts. 
Nor  was  empty  applause  all  for  which  an  author  might  look :  literary 
ability  was  still  sufficiently  uncommon  to  be  valued  for  its  rarity,  and 


the  rich  and  noble  were  proud  to  honour,  befriend,  and  reward  the 
man  of  talent ;  rank,  office,  and  estates  were  conferred  by  Elizabeth 
on  the  friends  of  the  muses,  and  her  courtiers  did  not  faU  to  imitate 
her  example.  The  spirit  of  enterprise  and  adventure,  moreover,  so 
widely  prevalent  at  the  time,  was  highly  favourable  to  the  growth  of 
vigour  and  originality  of  thought,  and  the  difficulties  of  Elizabeth's 
position,  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  enemies  who  menaced  her  with 
ever-impending  destruction,  served  to  kindle  and  keep  alive  in  the 
minds  of  her  subjects  a  warmth  of  patriotic  feeling  that  could  not  but 
excite  an  equally  ardent  glow  in  the  pages  of  the  writers  of  her  reign. 
Nor  were  circumstances  less  favourable  in  the  days  of  Elizabeth's 
successors;  literary  talent  was  still  favoured  with  royal  patronage; 
James,  with  all  his  conceit  and  pedantry,  was  not  destitute  of  real 
wit,  and  was  no  despicable  scholar ;  and  Charles,  with  all  his  faults, 
was  the  most  liberal  and  discriminating  patron  of  literature  and  the 
arts  that  has  ever  occupied  the  British  throne  since  the  days  of  Alfred. 
From  the  continued  influence  of  these  various  causes,  the  first  half  ot 
the  seventeenth  century  was  unusually  productive  of  talented  writers ; 
to  it  most  of  the  greatest  names  in  our  literature  belong ;  it  is  the  era 
of  Hooker,  and  Hall,  and  Taylor ;  of  Spenser,  and  Shakspere,  and 
Milton;  of  Raleigh,  and  Bacon,  and  Hobbes;  and  it  may  perhaps, 
without  undue  national  vanity,  be  doubted  whether  any  country  can 
produce  as  many  names  equally  illustrious  who  flourished  in  a  period 
of  equal  length. 

2.  The  first  distinguished  poet  of  this  period  was  Edmund  Spenser. 
He  was  bom  in  London,  educated  at  Cambridge,  and,  like  many 
other  literary  men  of  that  period,  was  employed  in  political  missions, 
and  rewarded  with  a  considerable  grant  of  land  at  Kilcolman  near 
Cork,  which  he  had,  however,  the  misfortune  to  lose  in  Tyrone's  re- 
bellion. His  chief  work,  the  "  Faery  Queen,"  is  an  allegorical  poem, 
which  was  originally  intended  to  fill  twelve  books,  but  of  these  only 
six  remain,  and  it  is  doubtful  whether  Spenser  ever  finished  the  work. 
It  is  written  in  the  stanza  which  from  him  has  been  called  Spenserian^ 
and  in  melody  of  language,  and  beauty  of  poetical  description,  it  has 
never  been  surpassed ;  but  it  is  generally  admitted  that  the  compli- 
cated nature  of  the  allegory,  and  the  superabundant  profuseness  of 
his  invention,  render  the  continuous  perusal  of  the  whole  work  tire- 
some to  a  modern  reader.  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  the  contemporary  of 
Spenser,  is  more  favourably  known  by  his  noble  character  than  by 
his  sonnets,  which  are  stiff  and  artificial.  Shakspere,  besides  his 
dramas,  wrote  one  hundred  and  fifty-four  sonnets  and  two  longer  poems, 
"  Venus  and  Adonis,"  and  the  "  Rape  of  Lucrece,"  all  displaying 
many  of  his  characteristic  excellences,  and  sufficient  to  have  secured 
him  an  abiding  reputation  as  a  poet,  though  his  admirers  could  wish 
that  some  of  his  sonnets  had  never  been  associated  with  his  name. 
The  next  name  of  importance  in  our  poetic  literature  is  that  of 
Michael  Drayton.  His  "Polyolbion"  is  an  interesting  and  curious 
poetical  account  of  the  topography  of  Britain ;  it  is  of  immense 
length,  extending  to  nearly  thirty  thousand  lines,  and  though  often 
highly  beautiful  and  vigorous,  the  double  disadvantage  of  being  long 
and  allegorical  has  proved  too  much  for  its  merits.  Thd  same 
allegorizing  style  prevails  in,  and  has  ruined  the  reputation  of,  the 


poems  of  the  two  Fletchers,  Fhineas,  and  Giles,  and  is,  in  fact, 
more  or  less  visible  in  all  the  poetry  of  the  period.  Among  lyrio 
poets,  Oarew,  Herrick,  Suckling,  and  Davenant,  have,  along  with 
much  that  is  worthless,  produced  some  short  pieces,  which  are  not 
inferior  to  anj  in  the  language.  The  pastoral  poetry  of  William 
Browne,  once  famous  and  full  of  feeling,  is  now  forgotten.  Two  other 
pastoral  poems,  or  dramas,  are,  however,  still  read  with  pleasure: 
Fletcher's  "Faithful  Shepherdess"  is,  without  doubt,  the  finest 
pastoral  poem  in  the  language,  and  was  the  model  of  Milton's 
"  Comus,"  which  it  even  excels  in  pastoral  simplicity ;  Jonson's  "  Sad 
Shepherd,"  though  every  way  inferior  to  Fletcher's  poem,  is  yet 
worthy  of  Jonson's  ability.  The  religious  poems  of  Oeorge  Herbert, 
and  the  quaint  conceits  of  Philip  Quarles,  though  often  ofiending 
against  g(x>d  taste,  still  find  a  large  circle  of  admirers.  Bishop  HaU 
was  the  first  who  wrote  polished  satire,  and  Donne  and  Sir  John 
Davis  were  the  earliest  composers  of  metaphysical  and  didactic  poetry. 
Many  of  the  dramatists  have  interspersed  in  their  plays  songs  and 
lyri(^  poems  of  various  merit,  those  of  Ben  Jonson  being  usually 
esteeiked  the  best ;  and  the  sonnets  of  Raleigh,  in  dignity,  melody,  and 
pathos,  have  few  superiors  in  our  literature.  To  this  period  also  belong 
Milton's  "Comus,"  "Lycidas,"and  "Arcades,"  which,  though  the  ear- 
liest productions  of  his  muse,  have  all  his  peculiar  beauties  in  language 
and  thought,  and  are  not  surpassed  by  anything  that  he  afterwards  wrote. 
8.  The  dramatic  writers  of  this  period  were  uncommonly  numerous 
and  equally  meritorious.  All  the  three  sovereigns  were  distinguished 
patrons  of  the  drama;  it  was  even  objected  against  Charles,  and  that 
by  Milton,  that  he  made  Shakspere  the  closest  companion  of  his  soli- 
tude. The  greatest  name  in  the  dramatic  literature  of  the  period  is 
that  of  the  pride  and  glory  of  our  nation,  Shakspere.  It  is  unneces- 
sary to  give  any  particulars  of  his  life  or  literary  career ;  not  much  is 
known,  but  what  is  ascertained  is  familiar  to  every  one.  His  plays 
were  produced  in  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth  and  James,  and  are  now  re- 
garded— and  that  not  only  by  English  partiality — as  the  greatest 
productions  of  the  human  mind.  In  the  ability  to  delineate  character 
in  all  its  shades,  to  pourtray  man  under  the  influence  of  all  the 
passions,  gentle  and  stormy,  to  which  our  nature  is  subject,  Shakspere 
is  admitted  to  be  without  a  rival.  His  fame  prevails  wherever  the 
English  language  is  known,  his  works  are  considered  a  treasure  of 
wisdom  and  sound  philosophy,  and  the  study  of  them  is  an  essential 
part  of  a  liberal  education.  Of  the  other  dramatists  of  this  period, 
Ben  Jonson,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  Massinger,  are  the  best. 
The  tragedies  of  Ben  Jonson  are  pedantic  and  declamatory,  but  his 
comedies  are  excellent,  the  best  being  the  "  Alchemist,"  "  Volpone," 
the  "  Silent  Woman,"  and  "  Every  Man  in  his  Humour."  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  wrote  in  combination  fifty-two  plays,  many  of  them  con- 
taining passages  of  superlative  merit,  but  betraying  too  frequently 
tokens  of  hasty  composition,  and  constantly  alloyed  with  an  inter- 
mixture of  much  that  is  worthless  and  indecent.  Massinger,  too, 
often  offends  against  decency,  but  has  many  fine  characters,  and  many 
striking  scenes,  and  is  perhaps  on  the  whole  entitled  to  rank  next  to 
Shakspere  in  our  dramatic  literature.  His  best  plays  are  the  "  New 
Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts,"  the  "  City  Madam,"  the  "  Fatal  Dowry,"  and 


the  "  Dake  of  Milan."  Of  the  other  dramatic  authors,  many  of  them 
men  who  in  any  other  age  would  deserve  longer  hotice,  it  will  be 
sufficient  to  mention  Marston,  Chapman,  Webster,  Dekker,  Marmion, 
Suckling,  and  Dayenant.  The  theatre  fell  with  the  power  of  Charles ; 
the  Puritans  had  idl  along  been  hostile  to  the  stage,  and  one  of  the 
first  consequences  of  their  ascendency  was  an  act  for  shutting  up  the 
theatres,  which  were  not  re-opened  till  after  the  Restoration.  It  has 
sometimes  been  said  that  this  step  was  justified  by  the  immorality  of 
our  older  dramatists ;  but  this  remark  has  very  little  foundation  in 
truth.  There  is,  undoubtedly,  in  these  writers  an  occasional  indecency 
of  language,  but  the  whole  tendency  and  scope  of  their  writings  is  to 
encourage  men  to  the  practice  of  yirtue,  and  to  hold  vice  up  to  public 
scorn.  The  fact  is,  that  it  was  not  because  the  theatres  were  schools 
of  vice  that  the  Puritans  closed  them,  but  because  they  were  places  of 
amusement,  and  in  their  eyes  all  amusement  was  sinful. 

4.  Our  prose  literature  begins  to  be  yaluable  in  the  end  of  Eliza- 
beth's reign.  Richard  Hooker,  bom  about  1668,  published  in  1694 
the  first  four  books  of  his  **  Laws  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity,"  a  work  de- 
signed as  a  defence  of  the  Church  against  the  Puritans.  It  is  not, 
however,  confined  to  a  mere  refutation  of  the  objections,  often  trifling 
and  absurd,  of  his  opponents,  but  enters  into  a  large  and  philosophi- 
cal investigation  of  the  fundamental  nature  of  law  in  general,  and 
hence  has  a  permanent  value  which  no  merely  polemical  treatise  can 
ever  possess.  It  would  be  difficult  to  name  any  English  writer  supe- 
rior to  Hooker:  his  learning  is  extensive,  his  reasoning  acute  and 
logical,  his  judgment  so  unfailing,  that  succeeding  ages  have  agreed 
to  style  him  **  the  judicious ;"  his  reflections  are  deep  and  philosophi- 
cal, and  his  style  is  manly,  dignified,  and  harmonious.  As  a  contro- 
versialist his  moderation  and  candour  have  never  been  equalled. 
Raleigh,  after  distinguishing  himself  as  a  courtier  and  a  soldier,  de- 
voted the  enforced  leisure  of  his  captivity  to  the  composition  of  a 
"  History  of  the  World,"  which  has  been  generally  admired  not  so 
much  on  account  of  its  historical  value,  as  for  its  graceful  style,  and 
the  vein  of  eloquent,  penetrating,  and  melancholy  refiection  which 
pervades  it ;  his  political  works,  most  of  them  posthumous,  are  neither 
so  well  known  nor  so  meritorious.  Bacon,  whose  most  important 
works  belong  to  the  reign  of  James,  is  distinguished  above  all  writers 
by  the  magnificence  of  his  designs,  which  extended  to  nothing  short 
of  the  remodelling  of  all  human  knowledge.  His  writings,  which 
exhibit  a  condensation  of  matter  not  usual  in  the  age  in  which  he 
lived,  are  composed  in  a  grave,  dignified  style,  admirably  in  keeping 
with  the  importance  of  the  subject ;  they  are  pregnant  with  thought, 
and  have  exercised  an  incalculable  influence  upon  the  progress  of 
knowledge  ever  since  his  day.  Burton's  "  Anatomy  of  Melancholy  " 
is  one  of  the  most  singular  books  in  the  language ;  full  of  quaint  wit, 
overflowing  with  Latin  quotation  and  learned  allusion,  and  highly 
amusing,  it  long  enjoyed  a  high  degree  of  popularity,  but  is  now  little 
read.  Chillingworth,  as  a  close,  powerful  reasoner,  has  no  superior  in 
our  literature ;  the  study  of  his  "  Religion  of  Protestants  "  is  itself  a 
complete  logical  education.  Selden,  "the  chief  of  learned  men," 
according  to  Milton,  wrote  several  learned  treatises  on  the  "  Syrian 
Gods,"  **  Tithes,"  "  Titles  of  Honour,"  &c.,  which  are  now  known 


only  to  the  antiquary,  but  his  "  Table-Talk  "  continues  to  enjoy  a 
modified  share  oi  popularity.  Joseph  Hall,  Bishop  of  Norwich,  is  one 
of  the  greatest  of  our  English  writers ;  his  works,  poetical,  deyotional, 
and  controversial,  are  very  numerous,  and  some  of  them  are  still  ex- 
tensively read.  They  duplay  great  power  of  observation,  and  rare 
knowledge  of  human  naturo ;  and  the  quaintness  of  the  style  renders 
more  emphatic  the  shrewd  and  penetrating  remarks  with  which  his 
works  abound.  Hobbes,  also  a  very  voluminous  writer,  is  viewed  with 
considerable  suspicion,  his  works  being  supposed  to  defend  atheism 
and  tyranny ;  his  opinions,  however,  it  is  believed,  have  been  some- 
what misrepresented ;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  excellency 
of  his  style,  which  is  the  very  perfection  of  philosophical  clearness 
and  precision.  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  a  physician  at  Norwich,  is  per- 
haps the  most  musical  writer  in  the  language ;  and  his  works,  the 
production  of  an  original,  well-informed,  and  honest,  though  some- 
what eccentric  mind,  continue  to  be  favourites  with  a  large  circle  of 
readers.  Jeremy  Taylor,  the  most  eloquent  of  British  divines,  lived 
during  the  stormy  period  of  the  civil  wars  and  the  Commonwealth. 
His  works,  characterized  throughout  by  saint-like  purity  of  thought 
and  practical  sagacity,  abound  in  passages  of  the  most  gorgeous  elo- 
quence, rich  witib  the  imagery  and  inspiration  of  poetry.  From  them 
detached  portions  could  be  selected,  to  which,  in  point  of  truth,  beauty, 
and  eloquence,  nothing  comparable  could  be  produced  from  the  works 
of  any  other  writer  in  the  language.  Of  the  other  writers  of  the 
period,  Usher,  Fuller,  Camden,  May,  and  Speed,  are  the  best  known. 
James  was  himself  an  author,  though  his  works  are  now  only  regarded 
as  literary  curiosities;  and  Charles  was  the  reputed  author  of  the 
famous  "  £ikon  Basilike,"  which  made  such  an  impression  on  its  first 
appearance,  and  has  occasioned  so  much  controversy  ever  since.  Most 
of  Milton's  prose  works  appeared  during  the  Commonwealth ;  they 
contain,  as  might  be  expected,  many  eloquent  and  noble  passages,  but 
on  the  whole  have  not  added  to  the  writer's  reputation.  They  are 
disfigured  by  extreme  violence  of  style ;  many  of  them  are  written  in 
defence  of  peculiar  and  mistaken  social  views,  or  on  subjects  with 
which  Milton  was  imperfectly  acquainted,  and,  except  his  "  Areopa- 
gitica,"  are  maintained  in  existence  only  by  the  fame  of  the  author  of 
"  Paradise  Lost." 

6.  Of  the  prose  writers  of  this  period  it  maybe  remarked  in  general, 
that,  as  compared  with  their  predecessors,  they  exhibit  greater  elegance 
and  dignity  of  style,  greater  copiousness  of  language,  and  greater  con- 
densation of  thought ;  that  their  fancy  is  more  vigorous,  their  imagery 
more  varied,  and  their  eloquence  more  impassioned.  There  is,  how- 
ever, a  great  want  of  equality  in  their  writings ;  beauties  and  blemishes 
occur  promiscuously;  and  there  is  no  effort  made  to  sustain  any  continu- 
ous uniformity  of  style.  Although  more  condensed  than  the  previous 
period,  their  works  are  still  very  diffuse  and  prolix ;  the  language, 
and  even  the  idiom,  is  too  frequently  pedantic,  and,  in  fact,  Latin 
rather  than  English ;  the  thoughts  often  degenerate  into  verbal  con- 
ceits, and  it  is  difficult  to  select  a  passage  of  any  length,  even  from 
the  best  writer  of  this  period,  in  which  the  fastidious  criticism  of 
modem  times  would  not  immediately  detect  numerous  faults.  By 
far  the  greater  part  of  the  literature  previous  to  the  Bestoration  treats 


of  theological  subjects,  and  especially  of  the  two  grand  ecclesiastical 
controversies, — that  between  the  Calvinists  and  Arminians,  and  that 
between  the  Church  and  the  Puritans.  The  former  of  these  contro- 
versies related  to  certain  abstruse  metaphysical  points  in  theology,  and 
did  not  begin  till  the  time  of  Charles,  when,  under  the  patronage  of 
Laud,  the  views  of  Arminius,  a  Dutch  divine,  gradually  supplanted 
the  Calvinistic  opinions  which  had  formerly  prevailed  in  the  Church. 
The  other  controversy  was  waged  fiercely  almost  from  the  beginning 
of  Elizabeth's  reign,  and  referred  to  the  discipline  and  ritual  of  the 
Established  Church,  which  were  attacked  by  the  one  party  as  un- 
scriptural  and  superstitious,  and  defended  by  the  other  as  decent  and 
of  wholesome  tendency,  and,  if  not  scriptural  and  apostolic,  at  least 
sanctioned  by  the  practice  of  the  earliest  ages  of  Christianity.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  enter  into  a  controversy  which,  though  it  led  to  such 
momentous  consequences,  is  not  generally  interesting  to  the  student 
of  literature.  It  may,  however,  be  remarked  in  general,  that  as  the 
two  parties  argued  upon  different  grounds,  and  as  neither  admitted 
the  fundamental  principles  of  the  other,  it  was  evident  from  the  first 
that  no  agreement  could  possibly  be  arrived  at ;  and,  as  might  have 
been  anticipated,  the  combatants,  becoming  daily  more  exasperated 
and  further  estranged,  proceeded  to  physical  violence;  the  Churchmen 
fined,  imprisoned,  and  pilloried  their  puritanical  opponents,  and  these 
in  their  turn  retaliated  with  equal  violence  when  the  civil  war  threw 
the  power  into  their  hands.  On  the  Church  side  the  chief  advocate 
was  Hooker, — distinguished  from  all  the  other  combatants,  not  more 
by  the  incontrovertible  strength  of  his  arguments  than  by  his  good 
temper  and  moderation, — HaJl,  Usher,  Bramhall,  Hammond,  Taylor, 
and  others;  while  the  cause  of  the  Puritans  was  maintained  by 
Calamy,  Newcomen,  Young,  and  Marshall.  On  the  whole,  the  pre- 
ponderance perhaps  of  argument,  and  certainly  of  learning,  lay  with 
the  Church  party.  It  would  be  an  abuse  of  words  to  apply  the  name 
literature  to  the  senseless  writings  of  Fox,  the  founder  of  the  Quakers, 
or  the  crazy  ravings  of  Muggleton  and  the  other  fanatics  who  esta- 
blished religious  sects,  and  became  the  spiritual  guides  of  multitudes 
in  the  era  of  the  Commonwealth. 

2.  Period  after  the  Bestoraiion, 

6.  The  early  Puritans  were  remarkable  for  an  austere  moral  system, 
which  they  not  only  practised  in  their  lives,  but  exhibited  in  their 
writings,  and  even  in  their  dress  and  amusements.  This  system, 
when  they  obtained  power,  they  imposed  upon  all.  But  morality 
cannot  be  established  by  act  of  Parliament ;  and  it  was  impossible 
that  any  permanent  reform  of  morals  could  be  effected  by  the  system 
of  the  Puritans.  It  was  overdone;  it  was  more  than  grave  and 
serious ;  it  was  sour  and  ascetic,  and  led  naturally  to  a  violent  re-action. 
Success  corrupted  their  purity;  and  even  in  Cromwell's  time,  an 
attentive  reader  of  English  history  can  trace  the  origin  and  gradual 
progress  of  a  corruption  of  manners,  which,  getting  full  liberty  after 
the  Restoration,  swept  away  religion  and  morality  before  it.  Nowhere 
is  this  demoralizing  process  more  conspicuously  observable  than  in 


the  literatnre  of  the  period.  The  writers,  especifdly  those  of  the 
lighter  depaxtments  of  literature,  jrielded  without  effort  to  the  tide 
of  corruption,  and  used  their  influence  to  debaae  the  morals  of  the 

Of  the  poets  of  this  period,  the  earliest  is  Waller,  whose  works  are 
chiefly  amatory  sonnets.  Oowley,  the  greatest  of  the  metaphysical 
poets,  produced  his  most  famous  work,  "  The  Mistress,"  in  the  heat 
of  the  war ;  but  his  most  popular  work  is  his  "  Anacreontics,"  short, 
spirited  poems,  after  the  model  of  the  Oreek  lyrist,  from  whom  they 
receiye  their  name.  His  "  Davideis,"  an  unfinished  epic  poem,  is 
heavy  and  uninteresting,  yet  it  contains  many  passages  which  Milton 
has  not  disdained  to  imitate  in  his  great  poem.  It  was  after  the  re- 
storation that  Milton  wrote  his  longest  poems,  ** Paradise  Lost"  and 
"  Paradise  Regained."  The  former  published  in  1667  is  beyond  all 
question  the  greatest  epic  poem  in  the  language.  The  subject  is  the 
noblest  which  any  poet  has  undertaken  to  celebrate,  and  no  poet  was 
better  qualified  than  Milton  to  do  justice  to  it ;  his  piety,  his  loftiness 
of  thought,  his  vivid  imagination,  the  dignity  and  beauty  of  his  lan- 
guage, and  his  thorough  acquaintance  with  Scripture,  pre-eminently 
fitted  him  for  his  work.  The  merits  of  "  Paradise  Lost"  were  ac- 
knowledged, from  the  very  first,  and  its  right  to  occupy  the  highest 
place  in  our  poetic  literature  has  never  been  disputed.  "  Paradise  Re- 
gained," while  it  contains  many  splendid  passages  worthy  of  the  genius 
of  Milton,  must,  in  its  general  conception,  be  considered  as  a  failure ; 
for  Paradise  was  not  Trained  by  Christ's  successful  resistance  of  the 
assaults  of  Satan  in  the  wilderness,  but  by  that  glorious  victory  on  the 
cross  which  the  poet  has  left  altogether  unsung.  "  Samson  Agonistes," 
written  in  imitation  of  the  ancient  drama,  possesses  many  beauties, 
but  has  little  merit  as  a  dramatic  production.  Samuel  Butler,  a  con- 
temporary of  Milton,  has  given  to  the  world,  in  his  "  Hudibras,"  the 
wittiest  of  all  poems.  His  work  is  a  satire  upon  the  absurdities  and 
extravagances  exhibited  during  the  reign  of  the  Puritans,  and  is  an 
inexhaustible  repository  of  wit,  humour,  and  sarcasm ;  the  very  super- 
abundance of  its  wit  is  perhaps  its  only  fault,  as  the  reader  is  almost 
overborne  by  the  exuberance  of  the  author's  too  copious  fancy.  Next  to 
Milton,  Dryden  is  the  greatest  name  in  the  poetical  literature  of  this 
period.  In  forcible  expression  and  vigorous  versification,  he  has,  in- 
deed, never  been  surpassed  in  our  country,  and  had  he  used  his  infiu- 
ence  honestly,  he  might  perhaps  hav&  stemmed  the  toirent  of  that 
vicious  and  fantastic  style  which  overflowed  the  country  after  the  Re- 
storation. But  Dryden  was  poor,  and  wealth  was  to  be  acquired  only 
by  complying  with  the  fashionable  style ;  and  disregarding  all  the  re- 
straints of  modesty  and  the  dictates  of  his  own  better  nature,  he  flat- 
tered to  the  full  the  vices  of  the  day,  and  much  of  his  poetry  is  in  con- 
sequence a  disgrace  to  our  literature.  This  applies  especially  to  his 
dramatic  works,  which  constitute  the  largest  portion  of  his  writings, 
and  which  have  few  excellences  to  compensate  their  want  of  moral 
purity ;  for  Dryden  had  no  peculiar  qualifications  for  dramatic  compo- 
sition, and  only  practised  it  as  it  was  then  the  best  remunerated.  Of 
his  poems,  his  ** Fables,"  "Tales  from  Chaucer,"  "Absalom  and 
Achitophel,"  " MacFlecnoe,"  and  "Ode  for  St  Cecilia's  Day,"  are 
tho  most  admired,  and  amply  justify  his  title  to  be  considered  as  one 


of  the  great  masters  ef  English  yerse.  Of  the  other  versifiers  of  the 
period  it  is  unnecessary  to  speak ;  Lords  Dorset,  Boscommon,  Halifax, 
and  Rochester,  and  the  other  minor  poets,  after  enjoying  a  brief  re- 
putation, are  now  almost  forgotten.  The  same  oblivion  has  overtaken 
most  of  the  dramatic  productions  of  this  age ;  indecent,  unnatural, 
un-English,  and  recommended  only  by  their  vice,  rodomontade,  and 
extravagance,  they  have  passed  away  with  the  generation  which  pro- 
duced and  applauded  them.  Of  the  tragic  literature  of  the  period, 
the  *'  Venice  Preserved"  of  Otway  is  the  only  play  that  still  main- 
tains its  existence.  The  comedies  of  Wycherley  possess  much  comic 
merit,  which  is,  however,  completely  overbalanced  by  his  gross  licenti- 

7.  The  theological  literature  of  the  period  is  copious  and  valuable, 
and  much  less  tinctured  with  the  false  taste  which  pervades  the  style 
of  other  departments  of  literature.  The  old  theological  controversies 
between  the  Church  and  the  Puritans  stiQ  prevailed,  and  to  these  were 
now  added  disputes  between  Protestants  and  Boman  Catholics,  and 
arguments  for  and  against  the  doctrines  of  non-resistance  and  passive 
obedience,  and  the  principles  of  the  non-jurors.  No  theological  writer, 
indeed,  of  this  age  can  be  compared  to  Hooker,  Taylor,  or  Hall,  in 
the  preceding ;  but  a  greater  approach  was  made  by  the  divines  than 
by  any  other  class  of  writers  to  the  glories  of  the  period  before  the 
civil  war.  Among  the  Churchmen,  the  earliest  of  note  was  Isaac 
Barrow,  distinguished  alike  as  a  divine  and  a  mathematician.  His 
"  Treatise  on  the  Pope's  Supremacy  "  is  an  admirable  controversial  work ; 
and  his  sermons,  though  disfigured  by  an  affectation  of  new  words, 
are  full  of  thought,  and  rich  in  sound,  eloquent  advice.  Tillotson, 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  a  man  of  most  estimable  character,  was 
also  the  most  famous  preacher  of  his  day ;  and  his  sermons  were  long 
considered  the  models  of  pulpit  eloquence,  though  now,  when  our  older 
literature  is  better  known,  and  a  more  vehement  style  of  oratory  is  in 
vogue,  their  popularity  has  somewhat  declined.  Stillingfleet,  Bishop 
of  Worcester,  is  one  of  the  most  acute  and  forcible  reasoners  in  the 
language ;  Sherlock  is  well  known  by  his  eloquent  treatise  on  "Ddath;" 
and  the  sermons  of  South,  though  not  particularly  evangelical  in  their 
character,  yet  display  such  power  of  wit,  such  knowledge  of  character, 
and  such  command  of  language,  combined  sometimes  with  eloquence 
of  the  very  highest  order,  that  they  are  deservedly  reckoned  inferior  to 
none  that  our  country  has  produced.  Of  the  other  theologians  of  the 
Church  party,  the  best  known  are  Wilkins,  Sprat,  Pearson,  Thomas 
Burnet,  More,  Cudworth,  Prideaux,  Aldrich,  Collier,  Patrick,  Beve- 
ridge.  Sharp,  Bull,  and  Bishop  Burnet;  many  of  them  men  of  great 
abiHty  and  extensive  learning,  whose  works  are  still  highly  valued  by 
the  theological  student.  Of  the  Dissenters  who  fiourished  at  this 
period,  the  most  famous  was  Richard  Baxter,  one  of  the  most  volu- 
minous writers  in  the  language.  He  was  a  man  of  great  ability,  estim- 
able in  his  character,  and  moderate  in  his  views ;  and  his  works, 
though  inferior  to  those  of  the  great  Church  divines  of  the  age;  are 
distinguished  by  an  earnestness  and  piety  which  have  secured  for 
them  an  extensive  popularity.  John  Owen,  President  of  Christ 
Church,  Oxford,  during  the  Commonwealth,  was  much  more  learned 
tiian  Baxter,  but  his  works  have  never  been  very  popular.    In  fact, 


with  the  exception  of  one  or  two  minor  treatises,  his  works  are  emin- 
ently unreadable,  and  this  not  only  from  the  natnre  of  their  subjects, 
and  the  heavy  mode  of  treating  them,  but  from  the  total  disregard  of 
all  the  graces  of  style,  which,  Owen  carefully  informs  us,  he  avoided 
and  despised  upon  principle.  Bates,  Calamy,  and  Howe,  men  of  con- 
siderable repute  in  th^ir  own  day,  and  possessing  much  merit,  are  now 
fallen  into  oblivion,  which,  except  in  reference  to  some  fragments  of 
their  works,  only  a  few  courageous  readers  disturb ;  but  the  commen- 
tary of  Matthew  Henry  is  still  popular  with  those  whose  object  in 
consulting  such  a  work  is  to  find  merely  a  plain  practical  exposition 
of  the  doctrines  of  Scripture.  Poole,  by  his  learned  "  Synopsis,"  en- 
titles himself  to  rank  with  Walton,  Castell,  and  Lightfoot,  the  great 
scholars  at  that  time  in  the  ranks  of  the  Church.  But  the  most  distin- 
guished of  all  the  dissenters  was  John  Bunyan,  the  immortal  tinker 
of  Elstow,  known  over  the  whole  civilized  world,  and  even  beyond  it, 
as  the  author  of  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress."  Whatever  might  have  been 
the  case  last  century,  when  a  false  and  artificial  taste  was  predomi- 
nant, it  is  not  now,  at  all  events,  necessary  to  apologize  for  referring  to 
80  vulgar  an  author ;  nor  will  any  minor  imperfections  in  his  work 
deduct  from  the  praise  justly  due  to  the  most  able  allegory  of  which 
our  literature  can  boast. 

8.  Among  the  historians  of  this  age  the  highest  place  is  occupied 
by  Lord  Clarendon,  whose  "  History  of  the  Rebellion  "  is  in  all  respects 
one  of  the  most  valuable  books  in  our  language.  Clarendon  was  a 
distinguished  member  of  the  Long  Parliament,  and  was  in  almost 
constant  attendance  upon  Charles  during  the  progress  of  hostilities, 
so  that  he  had  abundant  opportunities  of  becoming  acquainted  with 
the  whole  course  of  events.  Subsequent  criticism  has  discovered  incon- 
sistencies and  imperfections  in  his  narrative,  though  the  importance  of 
these  has  been  considerably  overrated.  His  work  is,  however,  written 
with  strong  Royalist  opinions,  though  this  should  not  mislead  any 
reader,  as  Clarendon  does  not  pretend  to  impartiality,  but  distinctly 
avows  that  he  writes  with  the  view  of  justifying  as  far  as  possible  the 
conduct  of  the  king.  Independently  of  its  historical  merits,  its  able 
reasoning  and  admirable  delineation  of  character  entitle  the  book  to 
very  high  commendation.  Clarendon  wrote  also  a  history  of  his  own 
life,  which  forms  a  valuable  continuation  of  the  history  of  the  civil 
war.  The  only  other  great  historical  name  of  the  period  is  Bishop 
Burnet,  whose  "  History  of  the  Reformation  in  England  "  is  still  the 
standard  work  on  that  subject.  His  "  History  of  My  Ow^  Times  " 
contains  a  narrative  of  events  from  the  Restoration  to  the  peace  of 
Utrecht,  and  possesses  great  value  from  the  author's  personal  concern 
in  many  of  the  most  important  transactions,  and  personal  e^quaintance 
with  most  of  the  actors.  Not  much  can  be  said  in  praise  of  Burnet's 
style,  which  is  neither  elegant  nor  vigorous ;  and,  as  he  is  even  a  more 
violent  partisan  than  Clarendon,  and  was  impressed  with  an  extra- 
ordinary opinion  of  his  own  importance,  his  accuracy  has  been  some- 
times called  in  question.  In  addition  to  the  professed  historians  of 
the  period,  various  memoirs  and  diaries  which  have  been  preserved 
furnish  the  historical  student  with  valuable  information,  especially  in 
reference  to  matters  of  domestic  detail,  and  the  secret  springs  which 
led  to  many  important  events,  subjects  which  graver  authors  too  often 


overlook.    The  moB^  valuable  works  of  this  sort  are  the  '*  Memoirs  of 
Colonel  Hutchinson,"  and  the  Diaries  of  Evelyn  and  Fepys. 

9.  Of  the  miscellaneous  prose  writers,  Cowley  has  left  a  few  essays* 
on  various  subjects,  and  a  "Discourse  on  Cromwell,"  written  with 
unusual  vigour  and  grace.  Algernon  Sidney  wrote  some  political 
tracts,  recommending  his  own  views  of  government.  Sir  William 
Temple,  the  famous  statesman,  wrote  a  number  of  essays  on  a  great 
variety  of  subjects,  exhibiting  considerable  acuteness  of  reasoning 
and  power  of  observation,  in  a  singularly  graceful  and  harmonious 
style.  Of  scientific  writers,  Wilkins,  Thomas  Burnet,  Ray,  and  Boyle 
are  entitled  to  favourable  notice,  and  are  still  known  to  fame,  though 
they  have  been  eclipsed  by  the  renown  of  Barrow  and  Newton,  the 
greatest  names  in  the  scientific  annals  of  our  country.  Of  the  cul- 
tivators of  mental  philosophy  Locke  is  the  most  distinguished,  and 
his  "  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding  "  still  exercises  a  most  im- 
portant influence  on  philosophical  speculation,  both  in  Britain  and 
elsewhere.  Cudworth,  an  able  and  learned  writer  on  morals,  has  been 
more  appreciated  on  the  Continent  than  in  his  own  country,  where 
his  "  Intellectual  System  "  is  seldom  read ;  and  of  the  numerous  host 
of  authors  who  combated  the  moral  dogmas  of  Hobbes,  and  obtained 
at  the  time  a  larger  or  smaller  share  of  public  applause,  only  a  few 
are  known  even  by  name  to  well-informed  readers.  Dryden,  in  the 
preface  to  his  poetical  works,  laid  the  foundation  of  the  art  of  poetical 
criticism,  and  his  critical  canons  are  so  just  as  to  render  all  the  more 
flagrant  and  inexcusable  his  wide  departure  from  them.  To  the 
antiquarian  the  names  of  Dugdale,  Wood,  and  Bymer,  who  flourished 
at  tlus  era,  are  familiar  as  "  household  words ;"  and  their  works,  the 
*'  Baronage  and  Monasteries  of  England,"  the  "  Athense  Oxonienses," 
and  the  "  Foedera,"  are  valuable  repositories  of  information.  News- 
papers, too,  may  be  considered  as  taking  their  origin  at  this  period. 
They  had,  indeed,  during  the  civil  war  been  issued  by  the  different 
parties,  with  the  view  of  disseminating  their  own  peculiar  opinions ; 
but  they  appeared  only  occasionally,  and  at  irregular  intervals ;  and 
it  was  not  till  the  time  of  the  Revolution  that  they  began  to  be  of  im- 
portance in  the  country.  Their  increased  importance  was  in  a  great 
measure  due  to  the  enterprise  of  Roger  L'Estrange. 

10.  The  contributions  to  literature  by  Scottish  authors  during  this 
period  were  both  few  and  of  comparatively  little  value.  In  poetry  the 
highest  name  is  that  of  Drummond  of  Hawthomden,  whose  poems, 
particularly  his  sonnets,  are  written  in  the  style  of  Spenser ;  and, 
though  somewhat  deficient  in  vigour,  are  characterized  by  graceful- 
ness in  thought  and  beauty  of  language.  No  other  poet  of  this  era  is 
now  generally  known,  though  Sir  Robert  Ayton,  Hume  of  Logie,  the 
Earl  of  Stirling,  and  James  VI.,  not  to  mention  others,  wrote  minor 
poems  of  some  merit ;  those  of  Ayton,  indeed,  were  commended  by 
Dryden  as  among  the  best  of  the  age.  Latin  poetry  was  still  culti- 
vated, especially  by  Arthur  Johnston,  a  native  of  Aberdeenshire,  ^hose 
Latin  version  of  the  Psalms  is  by  some  critics  preferred  to  that  of 
Buchanan.  The  prose  literature  of  the  period,  notwithstanding  the 
ceaseless  theological  and  political  contests,  which  might  have  been 
expected  to  call  forth  at  least  controversial  talents,  is  not  of  much 
value.    Buchanan  wrote  a  political  tract  which  has  sometimes  found 


admirers ;  Calderwood  and  Archbishop  Spottiswoode  have  left  histori- 
cal works,  which,  especially  the  latter,  are  still  consulted ;  and  Patrick 
and  John  Forbes,  successively  Bishops  of  Aberdeen,  were  men  of  very 
considerable  learning.  Of  the  controversial  works  produced  during 
the  dispute  between  the  Presbyterian  and  Episcopal  parties,  scarcely 
even  the  names  are  now  known ;  the  ground  taken  by  the  Presby- 
terian party  was  extreme  and  untenable,  and  was  maintained  with  a 
rigid  intolerance  wholly  indefensible,  and  such  as  to  provoke  the  in- 
dignation even  of  Milton,  who  was  himself  by  no  means  of  a  tolerant 
disposition.  Some  of  these  works  by  Calderwood,  Gillespie,  and 
Rutherford,  have  been  recently  reprinted ;  but  their  popularity  has 
too  manifestly  passed  away  with  the  age  which  produced  them.  *  The 
letters  of  Butherford  still  enjoy  a  considerable  reputation  in  certain 
quarters ;  and  those  of  Baillie,  containing  an  account  of  the  proceed- 
ings in  Jiondon  during  the  Westminster  Assembly,  are  more  generally 
known,  and  are  of  some  historical  value.  The  only  theological  writer 
of  the  period  who  has  acquired  any  celebrity  out  of  Scotland  is  Arch- 
bishop Leighton,  a  man  of  great  ability,  and  most  estimable  character, 
whose  "  Commentary  on  St  Peter  "  is  still  extensively  popular,  and 
has  had  its  reputation  considerably  augmented  of  late  by  the  praises 
which  Coleridge  has  bestowed  on  it.  The  period  after  the  Restora- 
tion is  in  theological  literature  nearly  a  blank ;  the  outed  ministers 
did,  indeed,  defend  their  peculiar  opinions  in  numerous  workfl,  of 
which  "  Naphtali,  or  the  Hind  let  Loose,"  is  one  of  the  best  known 
and  most  characteristic.  Such  works  are  not,  however,  usually 
deemed  worthy  of  a  place  in  the  literature  of  the  country.  Brum- 
mond,  already  mentioned  as  a  poet,  was  perhaps  superior  as  a  prose 
writer :  at  least,  his  "  Cypress  Grove  "  is  not  excelled  by  any  of  his 
poetical  productions.  In  the  latter  part  of  the  period  the  chief  prose 
writer  was  Sir  George  Mackenzie,  whose  conduct  as  Lord-Advocate 
brought  him  into  bad  odour  with  the  covenanting  party,  but  whose 
essays,  which  have  been  highly  lauded  by  Evelyn — no  mean  judge — 
give  abundant  evidence  of  a  highly-cultivated  mind,  well  acquainted 
with  all  the  literature  of  the  day. 



RiCHABD  HooE^B  was  bom  near  Exeter,  probably  in  1658.  His 
parents  were  too  poor  to  give  him  a  regular  education,  and  for  his 
university  training  he  was  indebted  to  the  discriminating  patronage 
of  the  learned  Bishop  Jewel.  At  Oxford  he  was  distinguished  by  his 
knowledge  of  the  Oriental  languages,  and  he  was  also  an  eloquent 
preach^r^  but  being  of  a  retiring  character,  and  averse  to  the 
vexatious  turmoil  of  a  public  life,  he  resigned  the  position  of  lecturer 
at  the  Temple,  to  which,  on  account  of  his  abilities,  he  had  been 
advanced,  and  retired  to  the  quiet  country  rectory  of  Boscomb  in 
Wiltshire,  where  he  devoted  his  leisure  to  the  composition  of  his  great 
work  on  "  Ecclesiastical  Polity."  The  first  half  of  his  work,  em- 
bracing four  books,  was  published  in  1694,  and  the  next  year  he  was 
rewarded  with  the  rectory  of  Bishop's*Boume  in  Kent,  where  he  died 
in  1600.  The  fifth  book  of  his  work  appeared  in  1697,  but  the  re- 
maining three  were  not  published  till  1647,  long  after  the  author's 
death,  and  there  are,  in  consequence,  some  doubts  as  to  the  genuine- 
ness of  the  text  of  the  sixth  book  as  usually  printed.  His  work  was 
designed  to  supply  a  defence  of  the  Church  against  the  Puritans,  not 
by  answering  aU  their  objections,  which  were  innumerable,  many  of 
them  exceedingly  trifling,  not  made  upon  any  uniform  principle, 
and  some  of  them  capable  of  being  brought  against  every  possible 
ecclesiastical  system,  but  by  showing  the  fundamental  nature  of  law, 
the  indispensable  conditions  of  all  church  polity,  and  the  general  con- 
formity of  the  Church  of  England  to  them.  Every  requisite  of  a  great 
writer  Hooker  possessed  in  an  eminent  degree ;  extensive  learning, 
sound  judgment,  acute  reasoning  powers,  unfailing  moderation,  and 
unlimited  command  of  rich,  musical,  and  dignified  language.  He  is 
perhaps  the  greatest  of  our  prose  authors,  nor  can  his  ability  be  better 
estimated  than  by  a  comparison  with  the  meagre  writings  of  his 


The  best  and  safest  way  for  you,  therefore,  my  dear  brethren,  is 
to  call  your  deeds  past  to  a  new  reckoning,  to  re-examine  the  cause 


ye  have  taken  in  hand,  and  to  tiy  it  eren  point  by  point,  argmnent 
by  argument,  with  all  the  diligent  exactness  ye  can  ;  to  lay  aside 
the  gall  of  that  bitterness  wherein  your  minds  have  hitherto  over- 
abounded,  and  with  meekness  to  search  the  truth.  Think  ye  are 
men  ;  deem  it  not  impossible  for  you  to  err ;  sift  impartially  your 
own  hearts,  whether  it  be  force  of  reason  or  vehemency  of  affection 
which  hath  bred  and  still  doth  feed  these  opinions  in  you.  If  truth 
do  anywhere  manifest  itself,  seek  not  to  smother  it  with  glossing 
delusions ;  acknowledge  the  greatness  thereof,  and  think  it  your  best 
victory  when  the  same  doth  preyail  over  you. 

That  ye  have  been  earnest  in  speaking  or  writing  again  and  again 
the  contraiy  way  should  be  no  blemish  or  discredit  at  all  unto  you. 
Amongst  so  many  so  huge  rolumes  as  the  infinite  pains  of  Saint 
Augnstine  have  brought  forth,  what  one  hath  gotten  him  greater 
love,  commendation,  and  honour,  than  the  book  ^  wherein  he  care- 
fully collecteth  his  own  oversi^ts,  and  sincerely  condenmeth  them  ? 
Many  speeches  there  are  of  Jobs  whereby  his  wisdom  and  other 
virtues  may  appear ;  but  the  glory  Of  an  ingenuous  mind  he  hath 
purchased  by  these  words  only,*  "  Behold,  I  will  lay  my  hand  on 
my  mouth ;  I  have  spoken  once,  yet  will  I  not  therefore  nftdntain 
argument ;  yet  twice,  howbeit  for  that  cause  further  I  will  not  pro- 
ceed." Far  more  comfort  it  were  for  us  (so  small  is  the  joy  we 
take  in  these  strifes)  to  labour  under  the  same  yoke,  as  men  that 
look  for  the  same  eternal  reward  of  their  labours,  to  be  joined  with 
you  in  bands  of  indissoluble  love  and  amity,  to  live  as  if  our  persons 
being  many  our  souls  were  but  one,  rather  than  in  such  dismembered 
sort  to  spend  our  few  and  wretched  days  in  a  tedious  prosecuting  of 
wearisome  contentions ;  the  end  whereof,  if  they  have  not  some 
speedy  end,  will  be  heavy  even  on  both  sides.  Brought  already  we 
are  even  to  that  estate  which  Gregory  Nazianzen'  mournfully 
describeth,  saying,  *^  My  mind  leadeui  me  (since  there  is  no  other  « 
remedy)  to  fly  and  to  convey  myself  into  some  comer  out  of  sight, 
where  I  may  'scape  from  this  cloudy  tempest  of  maliciousness,  where- 
by all  parte  are  entered  into  a  de^y  war  among  themselves,  and 
that  little  remnant  of  love  which  was  is  now  consumed  to  nothing. 
The  only  godliness  we  glory  in  is  to  find  out  somewhat  whereby  we 
may  judge  others  to  be  ungodly.  Each  other^s  faults  we  observe  as 
matter  of  exprobration,  and  not  of  grief  By  these  means  we  are 
grown  hateful  in  the  eyes  of  the  heauiens  themselves ;  and  (which 
woundeth  us  the  more  deeply)  able  we  are  not  to  deny  but  that  we 
have  deserved  their  hatred.  With  the  better  sort  of  our  own,*  our 
fiEune  and  credit  is  clean  lost.  The  less  we  are  to  marvel  if  they 
judge  vilely  of  us,  who,  although  we  did  well,  would  hardly  allow 
thereol    On^ur  backs  ^  tiiiey  a£o  build  that  are  lewd ;  and  what  we 

I  Angnatine's  C!oiifie«donfl. 

*  Job  xxxix.  37.    Hooker,  of  course,  uses  the  old  translation. 

'  A  fiunoos  Bishop,  so  called  from  his  See,  Nazianztim,  in  Cappadoda. 
^  te.^  those  of  onr  own  country  or  religion. 

*  i.e.,  the  wicked  found  their  argument*  npon  the  assertions  which  we  mutaally 
make  against  each  other. 


object  one  against  another,  the  same  they  use  to  the  utter  scorn 
and  disgrace  of  us  all.  This  we  have  gained  by  our  mutual  home- 
dissensions.  This  we  are  worthily  rewarded  with,  which  are  more 
forward  to  strive  than  becometh  men  of  yirtuous  and  mild  disposi- 
tion." But  our  trust  in  the  Almighty  is,  that  with  us  contentions 
are  now  at  their  highest  float,  and  that  the  day  will  come  (for  what 
cause  of  despair  is  there)  when,  the  passions  of  former  enmity  being 
allayed,  we  shall,  with  ten  times  redoubled  tokens  of  our  unfeignedly 
reconciled  love,  show  ourselves  each  towards  other  the  same,  whi(& 
Joseph  and  the  brethren  of  Joseph  were  at  the  time  of  their  inter- 
view in  Egypt.  Our  comfortable  expectation  and  most  thirsty 
desire,  whereof  what  man  soever  amongst  you  shall  any  way  help  to 
satisfy  (as  we  truly  hope  there  is  no  one  amongst  vou  but  some  way 
or  other  will),  the  blessmgs  of  the  God  of  peace,  both  in  this  world 
and  in  the  world  to  come,  be  upon  him  more  than  the  stars  of  the 
firmament  in  nomber. 


He  that  goeth  about  to  persuade  a  multitude  that  they  are  not 
so  well  governed  as  they  ought  to  be,  shall  never  want  attentive  and 
favourable  hearers,  because  they  know  the  manifold  defects  where- 
unto  every  kind  of  regiment*  is  subject ;  but  the  secret  lets*  and 
difficulties,  which  in  public  proceedings  are  innumerable  and  inevit- 
able, they  have  not  ordinarily  the  judgment  to  consider.  And  be- 
cause such  as  openly  reprove  supposed  disorders  of  state  are  taken 
for  principal  friends  to  the  common  benefit  of  all,  and  for  men  that 
cany  singular  freedom  of  mind,  imder  this  hii  and  plausible  colour 
whatsoever  they  utter  passeth  for  good  and  current.  That  which 
wanteth  in  the  weight  of  their  speech,  is  suppUed  by  the  aptness  of 
men's  minds  to  accept  and  believe  it.  Whereas,  on  the  otner  side, 
if  we  maintain  things  that  are  established,  we  have  not  only  to  strive 
with  a  number  of  heavy  prejudices  deeply  rooted  in  the  hearts  of 
men  who  think  that  herem  we  serve  the  time,  and  speak  in  favour 
of  the  present  state  because  thereby  we  either  hold  or  seek  prefer- 
ment ;  but  also  to  bear  such  exceptions  as  minds  so  averted  before- 
hand usually  take  a^inst  that  which  they  are  loath  should  be 
poured  into  them.  Albeit,  therefore,  much  of  that  we  are  to  speak 
m  this  present  cause  may  seem  to  a  number  perhaps  tedious,  per- 
haps obscure,  dark,  and  intricate  (for  many  talk  of  the  truth  wnich 
never  sounded  the  depth  from  whence  it  springeth ;  and  therefore, 
when  they  are  led  thereunto,  they  are  soon  weary,  as  men  drawn 
from  those  beaten  paths  wherewith  they  have  been  inured) ;  yet  this 
may  not  so  far  prevail  as  to  cut  off  that  which  the  matter  itself  re- 
quireth,  howsoever  the  nice  humour  of  some  be  therewith  pleased  or 
no.  They,  unto  whom  we  shall  seem  tedious,  are  in  nowise  injured 
by  us,  because  it  is  in  their  own  hands  to  spare  that  labour  which 

^      >  te.,  government.  s  ie.,  hindrances. 


they  are  not  willing  to  endure.  And  if  any  complain  of  obscurity, 
they  must  consider,  that  in  these  matters  it  cometh  no  otherwise  to 
pass  than  in  sundry  the  works  both  of  art  and  also  of  nature, 
where  that  which  hath  greatest  force  in  the  very  things  we  see,  is 
notwithstanding  itself  oftentimes  not  seen.  The  stateliness  of  houses, 
the  goodliness  of  trees,  when  we  behold  them,  deli^hteth  the  eye  ; 
but  that  foundation  which  beareth  up  the  one,  that  root  which 
ministereth  unto  the  other  nourishment  and  life,  is  in  the  bosom  of 
the  earth  concealed  ;  and  if  there  be  at  any  time  occasion  to  seitfch 
into  it,  such  labour  is  then  more  necessary  than  pleasant,  both  to 
them  which  undertake  it,  and  for  the  lookers  on.  In  like  manner 
the  use  and  benefit  of  good  laws ;  all  that  live  under  them  may  enjoy 
with  delight  and  comfort,  albeit  the  grounds  and  first  original  causes 
from  whence  they  have  sprung  be  unknown,  as  to  the  greatest  part 
of  men  they  are.  But  when  they  who  withdraw  their  obedience 
pretend  that  the  laws  which  they  should  obey  are  corrupt  and 
yicious,  for  better  examination  of  their  quality,  it  behoyeth  the 
yery  foundation  and  root,  the  highest  well-spring  and  fountain  of 
them,  to  be  discoyered.  Which,  because  we  are  not  oftentimes  ac- 
•  customed  to  do,  when  we  do  it,  the  pains  we  take  are  more  needM 
a  great  deal  than  acceptable ;  and  the  matters  which  we  handle 
seem,  by  reason  of  newness  (till  the  mind  grow  better  acquainted 
with  them),  dark,  intricate,  and  un&tmiliar. 

And  because  the  point  about  which  we  striye  is  the  quality  of 
our  laws,  our  first  entrance  hereinto  cannot  better  be  xnade  than 
with  consideration  of  the  nature  of  law  in  general 

All  things  that  are  haye  some  operation  not  yiolent  or  casual. 
Neither  doth  anything  eyer  begin  to  exercise  the  same  without 
some  fore-conceiyed  end  for  which  it  worketh.  And  the  end  which 
it  worketh  for  is  not  obtained,  unless  the  work  be  also  fit  to  obtain 
it  by.  For  unto  eyery  end  eyery  operation  will  not  serve.  That 
which  doth  assign  unto  each  thing  the  kind,^  that  which  doth  mode- 
rate the  force  and  power,  that  which  doth  appoint  the  form  and 
measure  of  working,  the  same  we  term  a  Law.  So  that  no  certain 
end  could  eyer  be  obtained  unless  the  actions  whereby  it  is  obtain- 
ed were  regular,  that  is  to  say,  made  suitable,  fit,  and  correspondent 
unto  their  end  by  some  canon,  rule,  or  law. 

Moses,  in  describing  the  work  of  creation,  attributeth  speech 
unto  God :  ''  God  said,  let  there  be  light ;  let  there  be  a  firmament ; 
let  the  waters  under  the  heayen  be  gathered  together  into  one  place ; 
let  the  earth  bring  forth  ;  let  there  be  lights  in  the  firmament  of 
heayen."  Was  this  only  the  intent  of  Moses,  to  signify  the  infinite 
greatness  of  God's  power  by  the  easiness  of  His  accomplishing  such 
effects,  without  travail,  pain,  or  labour  9  Surely  it  seemeth  that 
Moses  had  herein  besides  this  a  further  purpose,  namely,  first  to 
teach  that  God  did  not  work  as  a  necessary,  but  a  voluntary  Agent, 
intending  beforehand  and  decreeing  with  Himself  that  which  did 

^  i<.i  the  nature  and  spedee  of  ite  (q>eratioD. 


outwardly  proceed  from  Him ;  secondlj,  to  show  that  God  did  then 
institute  a  law  natural  to  be  observed  by  creatures,  and  therefore, 
according  to  the  manner  of  laws,  the  institution  thereof  is  described 
as  being  established  by  solemn  injunction.  His  commanding  those 
things  to  be  which  are,  and  to  be  in  such  sort  as  they  are,  to  keep 
that  tenure  and  course  which  they  do,  importeth  the  establishment 
of  nature's  law.  This  world's  first  creation,  and  the  preservation 
since  of  things  created,  what  is  it  but  only  so  fax  forth  a  manifesta- 
tion by  execution,  what  the  eternal  law  of  God  is  concerning  things 
natural  ?  And  as  it  cometh  to  pa^s  in  a  kingdom  rightly  ordered^ 
that  after  a  law  is  once  published  it  presently  takes  effect  &r  and 
wide,  all  states  fi:aming  themselves  thereunto  ;  even  so  let  us  think 
it  fiareth  in  the  natural  course  of  the  world  :  since  the  time  that 
God  did  first  proclaim  the  edicts  of  His  law  upon  it,  heaven  and 
earth  have  hearkened  unto  His  voice,  and  their  labour  hath  been  to 
do  His  will.  '^  He  made  a  law  for  the  rain,  he  gave  his  decree  unto 
the  sea,  that  the  waters  should  not  pass  his  commandment.*'  Now, 
if  nature  should  intermit  her  course,  and  leave  altogether,  though  it 
were  but  for  a  while,  the  observation  of  her  own  laws ;  if  wose 
principal  and  mother  elements  of  the  world,  whereof  all  things  in 
this  lower  world  are  made,  should  lose  the  qualities  which  now  they 
have ;  if  the  frame  of  that  heavenly  arch  erected  over  our  heads 
should  loosen  and  dissolve  itself ;  if  celestial  spheres  should  forget 
their  wonted  motions,  and  by  irregular  volubilities  tium  themselves 
any  way  as  it  might  happen  ;  if  the  prince  of  the  lights  of  heaven, 
which  now  as  a  giant  doth  run  its  unwearied  course,  should,  as  it 
were  through  a  lajiguishing  faintness,  begin  to  stand  and  to  rest  him- 
self ;  if  the  moon  should  wander  from  her  beaten  way ;  the  times 
and  seasons  of  the  year  blend  themselves  by  disordered  and  confused 
mixture ;  the  winds  breathe  out  their  last  gasp ;  the  clouds  yield  no 
rain  ;  the  earth  be  defeated  of  heavenly  influence  ;  the  fruits  of  the 
earth  pine  away  as  children  at  the  withered  breasts  of  their  mother, 
no  longer  able  to  yield  them  relief;  what  would  become  of  man 
himseli,  whom  these  things  now  do  all  serve  ?  See  we  not  plainly 
that  obedience  of  creatures  unto  the  law  of  nature  is  the  stay  of  the 
whole  world  ?  Notwithstanding,  with  nature  it  cometh  sometimes 
to  pass  as  with  art.  Let  Phidias^  have  rude  and  obstinate  stuff  to 
carve,  though  his  art  do  that  it  should,  his  work  will  lack  that  beauty 
which  otherwise  iu  fitter  matter  it  might  have  had.  He  that  strik- 
eth  an  instrument  with  skill  may  cause,  notwithstanding,  a  very 
unpleasant  sound,  if  the  string  whereon  he  striketh  chance  to  be  in- 
capable of  harmony.  In  the  matter  whereof  things  natural  consist, 
that  of  Theophrastus  taketh  place :  ''much  of  it  is  oftentimes  such  as 
will  by  no  means  yield  to  receive  that  impression  which  were  best 
and  most  perfect."  Which  defect  in  the  matter  of  things  natural, 
they  who  gave  themselves  unto  the  contemplation  of  nature  amongst 
the  heathen  observed  often ;  but  the  true  original  cause  thereof, 

A  The  most  flunou  of  the  Athenian  sculptoTS. 


diyine  malediction,  laid  for  the  sin  of  man  upon  those  creatures 
which  God  had  made  for  the  use  of  man,  this  being  an  article  of 
that  saving  truth  which  God  hath  revealed  to  His  Church,  was 
above  the  reach  of  their  merely  natural  capacity  and  understanding. 


ASTICAL  POLirr,"  BOOK  V.  3.) 

Two  affections  there  are,  the  forces  whereof,  as  they  bear  the 
greater  or  lesser  sway  in  man's  heart,  frame  accordingly  the  stamp 
and  character  of  his  religion, — ^the  one  zeal,  the  other  fear.  Zeal, 
unless  it  be  rightly  guided,  when  it  endeavoureth  most  busily  to 
please  God,  forceth  upon  Him  those  unseasonable  offices  which 
please  Him  not.  For  which  cause,  if  those  who  this  way  swerve  be 
Lnpaied  with  <mch  sinceie,  sounk,  and  discreet,  as  Abraham  was 
in  matter  of  religion,  the  service  of  the  one  is  like  unto  flattery,  the 
other  like  the  faithfal  sedulity  of  friendship.  Zeal,  except  it  be 
ordered  aright,  when  it  bendeth  itself  unto  conflict  with  things  either 
in  deed,  or  but  imagined  to  be,  opposite  unto  religion,  useth  the 
razor  many  times  wiUi  such  eagerness,  that  the  very  life  of  religion 
itself  is  thereby  hazarded ;  through  hatred  of  tares,  the  com  in  the 
field  of  God  is  pluckt  up.  So  that  zeal  needeth  both  ways  a  sober 
guide.  Fear,  on  the  other  side,  if  it  have  not  the  light  of  true 
understanding  concerning  Crod,  wherewith  to  be  moderated,  breedeth 
likewise  superstition.  It  is  therefore  dangerous  that  in  things 
divine  we  should  work  too  much  upon  the  spur  either  of  zeal  or 
fear.  Fear  is  a  good  solicitor  to  devotion.  Howbeit  sith*  fear  in 
this  kind  doth  grow  from  an  apprehension  of  deity  endued  with 
irresistible  power  to  hurt,  and  is  of  all  affections  (anger  excepted) 
the  unaptest  to  admit  any  conference  with  reason,  for  which  cause 
the  wise  man^  doth  say  of  fear,  that  it  is  a  betrayer  of  the  forces  of 
reasonable  understanding ;  therefore,  except  men  know  beforehand 
what  manner  of  service  pleaseth  God,  whUe  they  are  fearful  they 
tiy  all  things  which  fancy  offereth.  Many  there  are  who  never 
thmk  on  God  but  when  they  are  in  extremity  of  fear :  and  then, 
because  what  to  think,  or  what  to  do,  they  are  uncertain,  perplexity 
not  suffering  them  to  be  idle,  they  think  and  do,  as  it  were  in  a 
phrenzy,  they  know  not  what.  Superstition  neither  knoweth  the 
right  land,  nor  observeth  the  due  measure  of  actions  belonging  to 
the  service  of  Grod,  but  is  always  joined  with  a  wrong  opinion  touch- 
ing things  divine.  Superstition  is,  when  things  are  eitiier  abhorred 
or  observed  with  a  zealous  or  fearful,  but  erroneous  relation  to  God. 
By  means  whereof  the  superstitious  do  sometimes  serve,  though  the 
true  God,  yet  with  needless  offices,  and  defraud  Him  of  duties 
necessary,  sometimes  load  others  than  Him  with  such  honours  as 
properly  are  His.    The  one,  their  oversight  who  miss  in  the  choice 

1  t  e.,  since ;  the  word  ocean  in  the  Scotch  Torsion  of  the  Psalms, 
s  See  Wi^om  xviL  11. 


of  that  wherewith ;  the  other,  theirs  who  fail  in  the  election  of  Him 
towards  whom  they  show  devotion :  this,  the  crime  of  idolatry ;  that, 
the  &ult  of  Yoluntaiy  either  nioeness  or  superfluity  in  religion. 


Our  intermingling  of  lessons  with  prayers  is  in  their*  taste  a  thing 
as  unsavoury,  and  as  imseemly  in  their  sight,  as  if  the  like  should 
be  done  in  suits  and  supplications  before  some  mighty  prince  of  the 
world.  Our  speech  to  worldly  superiors  we  fiame  in  such  sort  as 
serveth  best  to  inform  and  persuade  the  minds  of  them,  who  other- 
wise neither  could  nor  would  greatly  regard  our  necessities ;  whereas, 
because  we  know  that  God  is  indeed  a  King,  but  a  great  King, 
who  understandeth  all  things  beforehand  wnich  no  other  king 
besides  doth,  a  King  readier  to  grant  than  we  to  make  our  requests, 
therefore  in  prayer  we  do  not  so  much  respect  what  precepts  art 
deHvereth  touching  the  method  of  persuasive  utterance  in  the  pre- 
sence of  great  men,  as  what  doth  most  avail  to  our  own  edification 
in  piety  and  godly  zeaL  If  they  on  the  contrary  side  do  think  that 
the  same  rules  of  decency  which  serve  for  things  done  unto  terrene 
powers  should  imiversally  decide  what  is  fit  in  the  service  of  Qod ; 
if  it  be  their  meaning  to  hold  it  for  a  maxim,  that  the  Church  must 
deliver  her  public  supplications  unto  God  in  no  other  form  of  speech ' 
than  such  as  were  decent  if  suit  should  be  made  to  the  great  Turk, 
or  some  other  monarch,  let  them  apply  their  own  rule  unto  their  own 
form  of  common  prayer.  Suppose  that  the  people  of  a  whole  town, 
with  some  chosen  man  before  them,  did  continually  twice  or  thrice 
in  a  week  resort  to  their  king,  and  every  time  they  came  first 
acknowledge  themselves  gmlty  of  rebellions  and  treasons,  then  sing 
a  song,  after  that  explain  some  statute  of  the  land  to  the  standers 
by,  and  therein  spend  at  the  least  an  hour ;  this  done,  turn  them- 
selves again  to  the  king,  and  for  every  sort  of  his  subjects  crave 
somewhat  of  him ;  at  the  length  sing  him  another  song,  and  so  take 
their  leave  ;  might  not  the  kmg  weU  think  that  "  either  they  knew 
not  what  they  would  have,  or  else  that  they  were  distracted  in 
mind,  or  some  such  other  like  cause  of  the  disorder  of  their  suppli- 
cation." "  This  form  of  suing  unto  kings  were  absurd.  This  form 
of  praying  unto  Grod  they  allow.  When  God  was  served  with  legal 
sacrifices,  such  was  the  miserable  and  wretched  disposition  of  some 
men's  minds,  that  the  best  of  eveirthing  they  had  being  culled  out 
for  themselves,  if  there  were  in  meir  nocks  any  poor,  starved,  or 
diseased  thing  not  worth  the  keeping,  they  thought  it  good  enough 
for  the  altar  of  Grod,  pretending  (as  wise  hypocrites  do  when  they 
rob  Grod  to  enrich  themselves)  that  the  fatness  of  calves  doth  bene- 

1  ie.,  the  taste  of  the  Parltans.  This  passage  is  glren  as  a  specimen  of  Hooker's 
method  of  meeting  particular  objections. 

'  These  were  the  very  words  in  which  the  Puritans  expressed  their  opinions  of 
the  service  of  the  Church ;  Hooker  ingeniously  retorts  their  own  criticisms  upon 


£t  Hiwi  nothing,  to  us  the  best  things  are  most  profitable ;  to  Him 
all  as  one  if  the  miud  of  the  offerer  be  good,  which  is  the  only  thing 
He  respecteth.  In  reproof  of  which  their  devout  fi»ud,  the  pro- 
phet ]Vliklachi  allegeth  mat  gifts  are  offered  unto  God,  not  as  supplies 
of  His  want  indeed,  but  yet  as  testimonies  of  that  affection  where- 
with we  acknowledge  and  honour  His  greatness.  For  which  cause, 
sith  the  greater  they  are  whom  we  honour,  the  more  regard  we  have 
to  the  quality  and  dioice  of  those  presents  which  we  bring  them  for 
honour's  sake,  it  must  needs  follow,  that,  if  we  dare  not  disgrace 
our  worldly  superiors  with  offering  unto  them  such  refuse  as  we 
bring  unto  Grod  Himself,  we  show  plainly  that  our  acknowledgment 
of  l£s  greatness  is  but  feigned ;  in  heart  we  fear  Him  not  so  much 
as  we  dread  them, 


BOOK  V.  37,  38.) 

The  choice  and  flower  of  all  things  profitable  in  other  books,  the 
Psalms  do  both  more  briefly  cont^,  and  more  movingly  also  ex- 
press, by  reason  of  that  poetical  form  wherewith  they  are  written. 
The  ancients,  when  they  speak  of  the  Book  of  Psalms,  use  to  feJl  into 
large  discourses,  showing  how  this  part,  above  the  rest,  doth  of  pur- 
pose set  forth  and  celebrate  all  the  considerations  and  operations 
which  belong  to  Grod;  it  magnifieth  the  holy  meditations  and 
actions  of  divine  men ;  it  is  of  things  heavenly  an  universal  de- 
claration, working  in  them  whose  hearts  God  inspireth  with  the 
due  consideration  thereof,  an  habit  or  disposition  of  mind  whereby 
they  are  made  fit  vessels  both  for  receipt  iad.  delivery  of  whatsoever 
spiritual  perfection.  What  is  there  necessary  for  man  to  know 
which  the  Psalms  are  not  able  to  teach  ?  They  are  to  beginners  an 
eafiy  and  faTniliar  introduction,  a  mighty  augmentation  of  all  virtue 
and  knowledge  in  such  as  are  entered  before,  a  strong  confirmation 
to  the  most  perfect  amongst  others.  Heroics^  magnanimity,  exqui- 
site justice,  grave  moderation,  exact  wisdom,  repentance  unfeigned, 
unwearied  patience,  the  mysteries  of  God,  the  siifferings  of  Christ, 
the  terrors  of  wrath,  the  comforts  of  grace,  the  works  of  providence 
over  this  world,  and  the  promised  joys  of  that  world  which  is  to 
come,  all  good  necessary  to  be  either  Known  or  done  or  had,  this 
one  celestial  fountain  yieldeth.  Let  there  be  any  grief  or  disease 
incident  into  the  soul  of  man,  any  wound  or  sickness  named,  for 
which  there  is  not  in  this  treasure-house  a  present  comfortable 
remedy  at  all  times  ready  to  be  found. 

Touching  musical  harmony,  whether  by  instrument  or  by  voice, 
it  being  but  of  high  and  low  in  sounds  a  due  proportionable  dis- 
position, such  notwithstanding  is  the  force  thereof,  and  so  pleasing 
eflbcts  it  hath  in  that  very  ps^  of  man  which  is  most  divine,  that 
some  have  been  thereby  induced  to  think  that  the  soul  itself  by 
nature  is,  or  hath  in  it,  harmony.  A  thing  which  delighteth  all 
ages,  and  beseemeth  all  states ;  a  thing  as  seasonable  in  grief  as  in 


joy;  as  decent  being  added  unto  actions  of  greatest  weight  and 
solemnity,  as  being  used  when  men  mosH)  sequester  themselves  from 
action.  The  reason  hereof  is  an  admirable  facility  which  music 
hath  to  express  and  represent  to  the  mind,  more  inwardly  than  any 
other  sensible  mean,  the  very  standing,  rising,  and  falling,  the  very 
steps  and  inflections  eyery  way,  the  turns  and  varieties  of  aJl  passions 
whereunto  the  mind  is  subject ;  yea,  so  to  imitate  them,  that 
whether  it  resemble  unto  us  the  same  state  wherein  our  minds 
already  are,  or  a  clean  contrary,  we  are  not  more  contentedly  by  the 
one  confirmed,  than  changed  and  led  away  by  the  other.  In  har- 
mony, the  very  image  and  character  even  of  virtue  and  vice  is  pro- 
served,  the  mind  delighted  with  their  resemblances,  and  brought, 
by  having  them  often  iterated,  into  a  love  of  the  thii]^  themselves. 
For  whidi  cause  there  is  nothing  more  contagious  and  pestilent 
than  some  kinds  of  harmony ;  than  some,  nothing  more  strong  and 
potent  unto  good.  And  that  there  is  such  a  difference  of  one  kind 
from  another,  we  need  no  proof  but  our  own  experience,  inasmuch 
as  we  are  at  the  hearing  of  some  more  inclined  unto  sorrow  and 
heaviness ;  of  some,  more  mollified  and  soffcened  in  mind ;  one  kind 
apter  to  stay  and  settle  us,  another  to  move  and  stir  our  affec- 
tions ;  there  is  that  draweth  to  a  marvellous  grave  and  sober  medio- 
crity ;  there  is  also  that  carrieth  as  it  were  into  ecsti^cies,  filling  the 
mind  with  a  heavenly  joy,  and  for  the  time  in  a  manner  severing  it 
from  the  body.  So  that,  although  we  lay  altogether  aside  the  con- 
sideration of  ditty  >  or  matter,  the  very  harmony  of  sounds  being 
framed  in  due  sort,  and  carried  from  the  ear  to  the  spiritual  faculties 
of  our  souls,  is,  by  a  native  puissance  and  efficacy,  greatly  available 
to  bring  to  a  perfect  temper  whatsoever  is  there  troubled ;  apt  as 
well  to  quicken  the  spirits,  as  to  allay  that  which  is  too  eager ; 
sovereign  against  melaincholy  and  despair ;  forcible  to  draw  forth 
tears  of  devotion,  if  the  mind  be  such  as  canyield  them ;  able  both 
to  move  and  to  moderate  all  affections.  They  must  have  hearts 
very  dry  and  tough  fropi  whom  the  melody  of  Psalms  doth  not 
sometimes  draw  t&it  wherein  a  mind  religiously  affected  delighteth. 


Francis  Bacon  was  bom  in  London,  22d  January  1561.  His 
father,  Sir  Nicholas  Bacon,  was  Keeper  of  the  Great  Seal ;  and  his 
mother,  a  lady  of  distinguished  ability,  translated  Jewel's  "  Apology  " 
into  English.  The  young  Bacon  was,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  sent  to 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  where  he  remained  little  more  than  two 
years.  After  a  brief  sojourn  on  the  Continent  he  returned  to  London, 
and  applied  himself  to  the  study  of  law ;  but  though  his  abilities  soon 
became  known,  though  his  relations  were  of  high  rank,  and  he  himself 
made  a  conspicuous  figure  in  Parliament,  he  was  very  slow  in  obtain- 
ing promotion.    Even  the  influence  of  Elizabeth's  powerful  favourite 

1  fe.,  the  subject,  the  words  of  the  song. 

OF  B0IJ)NE8&  77 

Essex,  who  generously  espoused  Ms  interests,  was  unable  to  procure 
Mm  any  lucrative  or  honourable  appointment.  Till  the  death  of 
the  Queen  he  remained  comparatively  obscure,  but  on  the  accession  of 
James  he  was  rapidly  promoted;  in  1607  he  was  made  Solicitor- 
Oeneral,  in  1613  Attorney-General,  in  1617  Lord  Keeper,  and  in  1618 
was  finally  advanced  to  the  dignity  of  Lord  Chancellor.  In  the  same 
year  he  was  created  Lord  Yemlam,  and  in  1621  was  raised  to  the 
Mgher  title  of  Viscount  St  Albans.  A  few  weeks  stripped  him  of  all 
his  honours :  he  was  accused  by  the  Parliament  of  bribery  and  corrup- 
tion, and,  on  his  own  confession,  was  fined  L.40,000,  deprived  of  edl 
his  offices,  and  committed  to  the  Tower.  After  a  few  days*  imprison- 
ment James  set  him  at  liberty,  and  mitigated  his  fine ;  but,  over- 
whelmed with  disgrace,  he  retired  to  his  country-seat,  where  he  spent 
the  most  of  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  the  pursuits  of  literature  and 
science,  till  his  death  in  1626.  Posterity,  in  admiration  of  his  dis- 
tinguished talents,  have  forgotten  Ms  corrupt  selling  of  justice,  Ms 
mean  betrayal  of  his  friend  Essex,  and  his  abject  flattery  of  every 
despicable  court-minion  whose  influence  might  promote  Ms  advance- 
ment, and  have  agreed  to  reverence  Mm  as  the  father  of  modem  phi- 
losophy, who  taught  men  to  look  for  truth  not  in  the  ingenious 
theories  of  their  own  brain,  but  in  the  careful  investigation  of  nature. 
His  works  are  numerous  and  varied,  but  all  of  a  high  order  of  excel- 
lence ;  they  are  written  in  a  grave  and  dignified  style,  less  difluse 
than  that  of  most  of  his  contemporaries,  and  MgMy  impressive,  but, 
except  Ms  "Essays,"  are  not  calculated  to  be  extensively  popular. 
The  most  important  of  his  writings  are  Ms  "  Essays,"  first  published 
in  1697,  but  enlarged  in  subsequent  editions ;  the  "  Advancement,  of 
Learning,"  1605,  a  publication  wMch  forms  an  era  in  the  Mstory  of 
the  human  mind ;  the  "  Wisdom  of  the  Ancients,"  1610 ;  the  "  Novum 
Organum,"  1620 ;  and  the  "  History  of  the  Beign  of  King  Henry 
VII.,"  1622. 

1.   OF  BOLDNESS.* — ("ESSAYS,"  NO.  Xn.) 

It  ifi  a  trivial  grammar-school  text,  bnt  yet  worthy  a  wise  man's 
consideration :  question  was  asked  of  Demosthenes,  What  was  the 
cMef  part  of  an  orator  ?  He  answered,  Action.  What  next  ?  Action. 
What  next  again  ?  Action.  He  said  it  that  knew  it  best,  and  had 
by  nature  himself  no  advantage  in  that  he  commended.  A  strange 
thing,  that  the  part  of  an  orator,  wMch  is  but  superficial,  and  rather 
the  virtue  of  a  player,  should  be  placed  so  high  above  those  other 
noble  parts  of  invention,  elocution,  and  the  rest ;  nay,  almost  alone, 
as  if  it  were  aU  in  alL  But  the  reason  is  plain.  There  is  in  human 
nature  generally  more  of  the  fool  than  of  the  wise ;  and  therefore 
those  faculties,  by  which  the  foolish  part  of  men's  minds  is  taken, 
are  most  potent.  Wonderfal  like  is  the  case  of  boldness  in  civil 
business.  What  first  ?  Boldness.  What  second  and  third  ?  Bold- 
ness. And  vet  boldness  is  a  child  of  ignorance  and  baseness,  &r 
inferior  to  other  parts.   But  nevertheless  it  doth  fietscinate,  and  bind 

1  TUs  WBs  one  of  the  Essays  added  by  Bacon  in  the  last  edition,  tbat  of  162& 


hand  and  foot  those  that  are  either  shallow  in  judgment  or  weak  in 
courage,  which  are  the  greatest  part,  yea,  and  prevaileth  with  wise 
men  at  weak  times ;  therefore  we  see  it  hath  done  wonders  in  popu- 
lar states,  but  with  senates  and  princes  less  ;  and  more,  ever  upon 
the  first  entrance  of  bold  persons  into  action,  than  soon  after ;  for 
boldness  is  an  ill  keeper  of  promise.  Surely,  as  there  are  mounte- 
banks for  the  natural  body,  so  are  there  mountebanks  for  the 
politick  body :  men  that  imdertake  great  cures,  and  perhaps  have 
been  lucky  in  two  or  three  experiments,  but  want  the  grounds  of 
science,  and  therefore  cannot  hold  out ;  nay,  you  shall  see  a  bold 
fellow  many  times  do  Mahomet's  miracle.  Mahomet  made  the 
people  believe  that  he  would  call  a  hill  to  him,  and  from  the  top  of 
it  offer  up  his  prayers  for  the  observers  of  his  law.  The  people 
assembled:  Mahomet  called  the  hiU  to  come  to  him  again  and 
again :  and  when  the  hill  stood  still  he  was  never  a  whit  abashed, 
but  said,  "  If  the  hiU  will  not  come  to  Mahomet,  Mahomet  will'go 
to  the  hilL"  So  these  men,  when  they  have  promised  great  matters, 
and  foiled  most  shamefully,  yet  (if  they  have  the  perfection  of  bold- 
ness) they  will  but  slight  it  over,  and  make  a  turn,  and  no  more  ado. 
Certainly,  to  men  of  great  judgment,  bold  persons  are  a  sport  to 
behold  ;  nay,  and  to  the  vulgar  also,  boldness  hath  somewhat  of  the 
ridiculous  ;  for  if  absurdity  be  the  subject  of  laughter,  doubt  you 
not  but  great  boldness  is  seldom  without  some  absurdity.  Especi- 
ally it  is  a  sport  to  see  when  a  bold  fellow  is  out  of  countenance, 
for  that  puts  his  face  into  a  most  shrunken  and  wooden  posture,  as 
needs  it  must,  for  in  bashfulness  the  spirits  do  a  little  go  and  come ; 
but  with  bold  men,  upon  like  occasion,  they  stand  at  a  stay,  like  a 
stale  ^  at  chess,  where  it  is  no  mate,  but  yet  the  game  cannot  stir  ; 
but  this  last  were  fitter  for  a  satire  than  for  a  serious  observation. 
This  is  well  to  be  weighed,  that  boldness  is  ever  blind,  for  it  seeth 
not  dangers  and  inconveniences  ;  therefore  it  is  ill  in  counsel,  good 
in  execution,  so  that  the  right  use  of  bold  persons  is,  that  they  never 
command  in  chief,  but  be  seconds,  and  under  the  direction  of  others. 
For  in  counsel  it  is  good  to  see  dangers ;  and  in  execution  not  to 
see  them,  except  they  be  very  great. 

2.   OP  DELAYS.* — ("  ESSAYS,"  XXI.) 

Fortune  is  Hke  the  market,  where  many  times,  if  you  can  stay  a 
little,  the  price  will  fall.  And  again,  it  is  sometimes  like  Sybilla's* 
offer,  which  at  first  offereth  the  commodity  at  full,  then  consumeth 
part  and  part,  and  still  holdeth  up  the  price.  For  occasion  (as  it  is 
in  the  common  verse)  tumeth  a  bald  noddle  after  she  hath  presented 
her  locks  in  front,  and  no  hold  taken ;  or  at  least  tumeth  the  handle 
of  the  bottle  first  to  be  received,  and  after  the  belly,  which  is  hard 
to  clasp.    There  is  surely  no  greater  wisdom  than  well  to  time  the 

1  ^  e.,  what  in  modem  lanioraage  is  called  stale  male. 

*  This  is  also  one  of  the  Essays  added  hy  Bacon  in  162S. 

*  AUnding  to  the  well-luiown  story  of  Tarqain  and  the  sybil. 


begiimiiig  and  onsets  of  things.  Dangers  are  no  more  light,  if  they 
once  seem  light ;  and  more  Angers  have  deoeiyed  men  than  forced 
them.  Kay,  it  were  better  to  meet  some  dangers  half  way,  though 
they  come  nothing  near,  than  to  keep  too  long  a  watch  upon  their 
approaches  ;'for  if  a  man  watch  too  long,  it  is  odds  he  will  &11 
asleep.  On  the  other  side,  to  be  deceived  with  too  long  shadows 
(as  some  have  been  when  the  moon  was  low,  and  shone  on  their 
enemies'  back),  and  so  to  shoot  off  before  the  time ;  or  to  teach 
dangers  to  come  on  by  over  early  buckling  towards  them,  is  another 
extreme.  The  ripeness  or  unripeness  of  the  occasion  (as  we  said) 
must  ever  be  well  weighed  ;  ana  generally  it  is  ffood  to  commit  the 
beginnings  of  all  great  actions  to  Argus,  with  nis  hundred  eyes  ; 
and  the  ends  to  Briareus,  with  his  hundred  hands, — ^first  to  watch, 
and  then  to  speed.  For  the  helmet  of  Pluto,  which  maketh  the 
politick  man  go  invisible,  is  secrecy  in  the  counsel,  and  celerity  in 
the  execution.  For  when  things  are  once  come  to  the  execution, 
Hiere  is  no  secrecy  comparable  to  celerity ;  like  the  motion  of  a 
bullet  in  the  air,  which  flieth  so  swift  as  it  outruns  the  eye. 

3.   OF  STUDIES.* — ("  ESSAYS,"  L.) 

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  abiUty,  is  in  the  judgment  and  disposition  of 
business.  For  escpert  men  can  execute,  and  perhaps  judge  of  par- 
ticolars,  one  by  one  ;  but  the  general  counsels,  and  the  plots  and 
niftTg]i5tniTig  of  affiiirs,  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  judgment  wholly  by  their  rules  is 
the  humour  of  a  scholar.  They  perfect  nature,  and  are  perfected 
by  experience,  for  natural  abilities  are  like  natural  plants  that  need 
pruning  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.  Bead 
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  r^,  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, 
Hashy  things.  Beading  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 

1  Tbls  Es0Ay,  first  printed  in  1697,  was  enlarged  in  l(n.2,  and  again  in  1636. 


need  hare  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  mathematicks  subtle  ;  natural  philo- 
sophy deep;  moral  grave;  logic  and  rhetoric  able  to  contend. 
Stu(&s  exercise  influence  upon  the  morals ;'  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 
mathematicks ;  for  in  demonstrations,  if  his  wit  be  called  away 
never  so  little,  he  must  begin  a^ain ;  if  his  wit  be  not  apt  to  dis- 
tinguish or  find  difference,  let  him  study  the  schoolmen,  for  they 
are  hair-splitters ;  if  he  be  not  apt  to  beat  over  matters,  and  to 
call  up  one  thing  to  prove  and  illustrate  another,  let  him  study  the 
lawyer^s  cases.  So  every  defect  of  the  mind  may  have  a  special 


The  ancients  have  exquisitely  described  nature  under  the  person 
of  Pan,  whose  original  they  leave  doubtful  But,  howsoever  be- 
gotten, the  Parcfie*  (they  say)  were  his  sisters.  He  is  portrayed  in 
this  guise :  on  his  head  a  pair  of  horns  that  reach  to  heaven,  his 
body  rough  and  hairy,  his  beard  long  and  shaggy,  his  shape 
biformed,  above  like  a  man,  below  like  a  beast,  his  feet  like  goat's 
hoofs,  bearing  these  ensigns  of  his  jurisdiction,  to  wit,  in  his  left 
hand  a  pipe  of  seven  reecU,  and  in  his  right  a  sheep-hook,  or  a  staff 
crooked  at  the  upper  end,  and  his  mantle  made  of  a  leopard's  skin. 
His  dignities  and  offices  were  these :  he  was  the  god  of  hunters,  of 
shepherds,  and  of  all  rural  inhabitants ;  chief  president  also  of  hills 
and  mountains,  and,  next  to  Mercury,  the  ambassador  of  the  gods. 
Moreover,  he  was  accounted  the  leader  and  commander  of  the 
nymphs,  which  were  always  wont  to  dance  the  rounds  and  frisk 
about  hun ;  he  was  accosted^  by  the  Satyrs  and  the  old  Sileni*  He 
had  power  also  to  strike  men  with  terrors,  and  those  especially  vain 
and  superstitious,  which  are  called  panic  fears. 

This  (if  any  be)  is  a  noble  tale,  as  beiog  laid  out  and  big  with  the 
secrets  and  mysteries  of  nature. 

^  I  have  yentnred  thus  to  translate  the  fragment  of  a  line  from  Orld,  which  Bacon 
liere  uses,  '*  abeunt  studia  in  morea"    Heroi£  xv.  83. 

^  ie.,  standi -WKat,  weakness. 

'  In  this,  the  most  ingenioos  of  all  his  works,  Bacon  interprets  the  most  important 
of  tlie  ancient  &ble8,  so  as  to  extract  from  them  the  lessons  of  hidden  wisdom  which 
t  hey  were  intended  to  convey.  It  embraces  thirty>one  fables ;  that  of  Pan  (from  which 
the  extract  given  above  is  abridged)  being  the  most  admired.  It  was  written  in  Latin, 
bnt  translated  into  English  by  Bacon's  friend,  Sir  Arthur  Gorges,  in  1619. 

<  The  fates  who  presided  over  the  destinies  of  human  lif& 

A  Accosted  is  here  used  in  its  original  sense,  the  meaning  being,  "  the  Satyrs  and 
the  old  Sileni  were  at  his  tide.'' 

*  A  name  given  to  the  Fauns  and  Satyrs,  the  drunken  companions  of  Bacchus. 


Pan  (as  his  name  imports)  represents  and  lays  open  the  all  of 
things  or  nature.  Concerning  his  orimnal,  there  are  two  only 
opinions  that  go  for  current ;  fov  either  ne  came  of  Mercuiy,  Uiat 
is  the  Word  of  God,  which  the  Holy  Scriptures  without  all  contro- 
versy affirm,  and  such  of  the  philosophers  as  had  any  smack  of 
divinity  assented  unto  ;  or  else  from  the  confused  seeds  of  things. 
The  Destinies  may  well  be  thought  the  sisters  of  Pan  or  nature, 
because  the  beginnings,  and  continuances,  and  x^omiptions,  and 
depressions,  and  dissolutions,  and  eminences,  and  labours,  and 
felicities  of  things,  and  all  the  chances  which  can  happen  unto  any- 
thing, are  linked  with  the  chain  of  causes  natural 

Horns  are  attributed  unto  him,  because  horns  are  broad  at  the 
root  and  shaip  at  the  ends,  the  nature  of  all  things  being  like  a 
pyramis,  sharp  at  the  top.  For  individual  or  singular  things  being 
infinite  are  first  collected  into  species,  which  are  many  also  ;  then 
from  species  into  generals ;  and  from  generals  (bv  ascending)  are  con- 
tracted into  things  or  notions  more  general,  so  that  at  len^  nature 
may  seem  to  be  contracted  into  a  unity.  Neither  is  it  to  be 
wondered  at  that  Pan  toucheth  heaven  with  his  horns,  seeing  the 
height  of  nature  or  universal  ideas  do  in  some  sort  pertain  to  things 
di^Le,  and  there  is  a  ready  and  short  passage  from  metaphysicto 
natural  theology. 

The  body  of  nature  is  elegantly  and  with  deep  judgment  de- 
painted  hairy,  representing  the  beams  or  operations  of  creatures  ; 
for  beams  are  as  it  were  the  hairs  and  bristles  of  nature,  and  eveiy 
creature  is  either  more  or  less  beamy ;  which  is  most  apparent  in 
the  faculty  of  seeing,  and  no  less  in  everv  virtue  and  operation  that 
effectuates  upon  a  distant  object ;  for  whatsoever  works  upon  any- 
thing afar  off,  that  may  rightly  be  said  to  dart  forth  rays  or  beams. 
Moreover,  Pan's  beard  is  said  to  be  exceeding  long,  because  the 
beams  or  influences  of  celestial  bodies  do  operate  and  pierce  farthest 
of  all,  and  the  sun  (when  his  higher  half  is  shadowed  with  a  cloud), 
his  beams  break  out  in  the  lower,  and  looks  as  if  he  were  bearded. 

Nature  is  also  excellently  set  forth  with  a  biformed  body,  with 
respect  to  the  differences  between  superior  and  inferior  creatures. 
For  the  one  part,  by  reason  of  their  pulcritude,^  and  equability  of 
motion,  and  constancy,  and  dominion  over  the  earth  and  earthly 
things,  is  worthily  set  out  by  the  shape  of  man  ;  and  the  other  part, 
in  respect  of  their  perturbations  and  unconstant  motions,  and  there- 
fore needing  to  be  moderated  by  the  celestial,  may  be  well  fitted 
with  the  figure  of  a  brute  beast.  This  description  of  his  body  per- 
tains also  to  the  participation  of  species,  for  no  natural  being  seems 
to  be  simple,  but  as  it  were  participating  and  compounded  of  two. 
As,  fox  example,  man  hath  something  of  a  beast,  a  oeast  something 
of  a  plant,  a  plant  something  of  an  inanimate  body ;  so  that  aU 
natural  things  are  in  very  deed  biformed,  that  is  to  say,  compounded 
of  a  superior  and  inferior  species. 

It  is  a  witty  allegory,  that  some  of  the  feet  of  a  goat,  by  reason 

>  i«.,  beaaty. 

82  LORD  BA.OON. 

of  the  npwarcl  tending  motion  of  terrestrial  bodies  towards  the  air 
and  heaven,  for  the  goat  is  a  climbing  creature  that  loves  to  be 
liRTigiTig  about  the  rocks  and  steep  mountains.  And  this  is  done 
also  in  a  wonderful  manner,  even  by  those  things  which  are  desti- 
nated  to  this  inferior  globe,  as  may  manifestly  appear  in  clouds  and 

The  two  ensigns  which  Pan  bears  in  his  hands  do  point,  the  one 
at  harmony,  the  other  at  empiry.  For  the  pipe  consisting  of  seven 
reeds  doth  evidently  demonstrate  the  consent,  and  harmony,  and 
discordant  concord  of  all  inferior  creatures,  which  is  caused  by  the 
motion  of  the  seven  planets  ;^  and  that  of  the  sheep-hook  may  be 
excellently  applied  to  the  order  of  nature,  which  is  partly  right,' 
partly  crooked ;  this  staff,  therefore,  or  rod,  is  especially  crooked  in 
the  upper  end,  because  all  the  works  of  divine  providence  in  the 
world  are  done  in  a  far-fetched  and  circular  manner,  so  that  one 
thing  may  seem  to  be  effected  and  yet  indeed  a  clean  contrary 
brought  to  pass,  as  the  selling  of  Joseph  into  Egypt,  and  the  like. 
Besides,  in  all  wise  human  government,  they  that  sit  at  the  helm  do 
more  happily  bring  their  purposes  about,  and  insinuate  more  easily 
into  the  minds  of  the  people  by  pretexts  and  oblique  courses  than 
by  direct  methods ;  so  that  eJl  sceptres  and  maces  of  authority 
ou^t  in  very  deed  to  be  crooked  in  the  upper  end. 

Pan's  doak  or  mantle  is  ingeniously  feigned  to  be  the  skin  of  a 
leopard,  because  it  is  full  of  spots.  So  the  heavens  are  spotted  with 
stars,  the  sea  with  rocks  and  islands,  the  land  with  flowers,  and 
every  particular  creature  also  is  for  the  most  part  garnished  with 
divers  colours  about  the  superficies,  which  is,  as  it  were,  a  mantle 
unto  it.  The  office  of  Pan  can  be  by  nothing  so  lively  conceived 
and  expre«ed  88  by  feigniBg  him  to  be  the  gol  of  hunters,  for  eveiy 
natural  action  is  nothins  else  but  a  hunting.  Arts  and  sciences 
have  their  works,  and  human  counsels  their  ends,  which  they 
earnestly  hunt  after.  All  natural  things  have  either  their  food  as  a 
prey,  or  their  pleasure  as  a  recreation,  which  they  seek  for,  and  that 
m  most  expert  and  sagacious  manner. 

Pan  is  also  said  to  be  the  god  of  the  country  clowns,  because  men 
of  this  condition  lead  lives  more  agreeable  unto  nature  than  those 
that  live  in  the  cities  and  courts  of  princes,  where  nature  by  too 
much  art  is  corrupted.  He  was  held  to  be  lord-president  of  the 
mountains,  because  in  the  high  mountains  and  hills  nature  lays  her- 
self most  open,  and  men  most  apt  to  view  and  contemplation. 
Whereas  Pan  is  said  to  be  (next  unto  Mercury)  the  messenger  of 
the  gods,  there  is  in  that  a  divine  mystery  contained,  for,  next  to 
the  Word  of  God,  the  image  of  the  world  proclaims  the  power  and 
wisdom  Divine,  as  sings  the  sacred  poet,  '^  The  heavens  declare  the 
glory  of  God,  and  the  firmament  showeth  the  works  of  His  hands." 

liiQ  nymphs,  that  is,  the  souls  of  living  things,  take  great  delight 

1  As  onr  older  anthon  constantly-  speak  of  the  ieven  planets^  it  is  right  to  mention 
that  these  were,  the  son,  the  moon^  Mercury,  Venus,  Mars,  Jupiter,  and  Saturn  The 
earth  was  considered  the  centre  of  the  system,  round  which  all' the  other  bodies 
revolyed.  '  i  e.,  straight 


in  Pan.  For  these  souls  are  the  delights  or  minions  of  nature,  and 
the  direction  or  condact  of  these  nymphs  is  with  great  reason  attri- 
buted unto  Pan,  because  the  souls  of  all  thin^  livinp;  do  follow  their 
natural  dispositions  as  their  guides,  and  with  infinite  variety  eveiy 
one  of  them  after  his  own  f^hion  doth  leap  and  frisk  and  dance 
with  incessant  motion  about  her.  The  Satyrs  and  Sileni  also,  to 
wit,  youth  and  old  age,  are  some  of  Pan's  followers ;  for  of  all 
natural  things  there  is  a  lively,  jocund,  and  (as  I  may  say)  a  dancing 
age,  and  an  age  again  that  is  dull,  bibling,^  and  reeling.  The 
carriages  and  dispositions  of  both  which  ages,  to  some  such  as 
Democritus'  was  (that  would  observe  them  duly),  might  peradventure 
seem  as  ridiculous  and  defonned  as  the  gambols  of  the  Satyrs  or 
the  gestures  of  the  SilenL 

Of  those  fears  and  terrors  of  which  Pan  is  said  to  be  the  author, 
there  may  be  this  wise  construction  made,  namely,  that  nature 
hath  bred  in  every  living  thing  a  kind  of  care  and  fear,  tending  to 
the  preservation  of  its  own  life  and  being,  and  to  the  repelling  and 
shunning  of  all  things  hurtfuL  And  yet  nature  knows  not  how  to 
keep  a  mean,  but  sdways  intermixes  vain  and  empty  fears  with  such 
as  are  discreet  and  profitable ;  so  that  all  things  (if  their  insides 
might  be  seen)  would  appear  fiill  of  Panic  frights.  But  men,  espe- 
cia&y  in  hard,  fearful,  and  diverse  times,  are  wonderfully  in&tuated 
with  superstition,  which  indeed  is  nothing  else  but  a  Panic  terror. 


1.  Of  unprofitable  subtlety. — ^The  precept  of  St  Paul  is  at  all  times 
seasonable :  "  avoid  profane  and  vain  babblings,  and  oppositions  of 
science  f&lsely  so  called.''  He  assigns  two  marks  of  suspected  and 
falsified  science :  the  one,  novelty  and  strangeness  of  terms ;  the 
other,  strictness  of  positions,  which  necessarily  induces  oppositions, 
and  thence  questions  and  altercations.  And,  indeed,  as  many  solid 
substances  putrefy,  and  turn  into  worms,  so  does  sound  knowledge 
often  putrefy  into  a  number  of  subtle,  idle,  and  vermicular  ques- 
tions, that  have  a  certain  quickness  of  life  and  spirit,  but  no  strength 
of  matter,  or  excellence  of  quality.  This  kind  of  degenerate  learn- 
ing chiefly  reigned  among  the  schoolmen  ;  who,  having  subtle  and 
strong  capacities,  abundance  of  leisure,  and  but  smaU  variety  of 
reading,  their  minds  being  shut  up  in  a  few  authors,  as  their  bodies 
were  in  the  cells  of  their  monasteries,  and  thus  kept  ignorant  both 
of  the  history  of  nature  and  times,  they,  with  infinite  agitation  of 
wit,  spun  out  of  a  small  quantity  of  matter  those  laborious  webs 
of  learning  which  are  extant  in  their  books.  For  the  human  mind, 
if  it  acts  upon  matter  and  contemplates  the  nature  of  things,  and 
the  works  of  God,  operates  according  to  the  stuff,  and  is  limited 

1  ie.,  tottering ;  so,  at  least,  nj  the  oommentatora  on  Bacon.  The  Latin  word  naed 
In  the  paasage  is  btimta^  and  its  ordinary  meaning  druntm  seems  as  appropriate  as 
that  which  the  commentators  give. 

*  Called  the  Ltmghing  l^Uuopher^  from  his  indulging  in  laughter  tt  the  sight  of  the 
lolly  of  mea 


thereby  ;  but  if  it  works  upon  itself,  as  the  spider  does,  then  it  has 
no  end ;  but  produces  cobwebs  of  learning,  admirable  indeed  for  the 
fineness  of  the  thread,  but  of  no  substance  or  profit. 

2.  Deference  to  great  names. — Credulity  in  respect  of  certain 
authors,  and  making  them  dictators  instead  of  consuls,  is  a  princi- 
pal cause  that  the  sciences  are  no  £a,rther  advanced  For  hence, 
though  in  mechanical  arts  the  first  inventor  MLs  short,  time  adds  per- 
fection ;  whilst  in  the  sciences  the  first  author  goes  furthest,  and  time 
only  abates  or  corrupts.  Thus  artillery,  sailing,  and  printing,  were 
grossly  managed  at  the  first,  but  received  impravement  by  time  ; 
whilst  the  phdosophy  and  the  sciences  of  Aristotle,  Plato,  Demo- 
critus,  Hippocrates,  Euclid,  and  Archimedes,  flourished  most  in  the 
original  authors,  and  degenerated  with  time.  The  reason  is,  that  in 
the  mechanic  arts,  the  capacities  and  industry  of  many  are  collected 
together ;  whereas  Iq  sciences,  the  capacities  and  industry  of  many 
have  been  spent  upon  the  invention  of  some  one  man,  who  has  com- 
monly been  thereby  rather  obscured  than  illustrated.  For  as  water 
ascends  no  higher  than  the  level  of  the  first  spring,  so  knowledge 
derived  from  Aristotle  will  at  most  rise  no  higher  again  than  the 
knowledge  of  Aristotle.  And  therefore,  though  a  scholar  must  have 
faith  in  his  master,  yet  a  man  well  instructed  must  judge  for  him- 
self, for  learners  owe  to  their  masters  only  a  temporary  1::^lief,  and  a 
suspension  of  their  own  judgment  till  they  are  fully  instructed,  and 
not  an  absolute  resignation  or  perpetual  captivity.  Let  great 
authors,  therefore,  have  their  due,  but  so  as  not  to  defraud  time, 
which  is  the  author  of  authors,  and  the  parent  of  trutL 

3.  Antiquity. — Some  errors  in  learning  require  to  be  particularly 
mentioned.  The  first  is  the  affecting  of  two  extremes,  antiquity 
and  novelty ;  wherein  the  children  of  time  seem  to  imitate  their 
father  ;  for  as  he  devours  his  children,'  so  they  endeavour  to  devour 
each  other ;  wMlst  antiquity  envies  new  improvements,  and  novelty 
is  not  content  to  add  without  defacing.  The  advice  of  the  prophet 
is  just  in  this  case  :  ^'  stand  upon  the  old  ways,  and  see  which  is  the 
good  way,  and  walk  therein.  For  antiquity  deserves  that  men 
should  stand  awhile  upon  it,  to  view  around  which  is  the  best  way ; 
but  when  the  discovery  is  well  made,  they  should  stand  no  longer, 
but  proceed  with  cheerfulness.  And  to  speak  the  truth,  antiquity, 
as  we  call  it,  is  the  young  state  of  the  world ;  fqr  those  times  are 
ancient  when  the  world  is  ancient ;  and  not  those  we  vulgarly  ac- 
count ancient  by  computing  backwards ;  so  that  the  present  time  is 
the  real  antiquity. 

4  Mistakes  as  to  Hie  true  emd  of  learning. — Some  men  covet 
knowledge  out  of  a  natural  curiosity  and  inquisitive  temper  ;  some 
to  entertain  the  miad  with  variety  and  delight ;  some  for  ornament 
and  reputation  ;  •  some  for  victory  and  contention  ;  many  for  lucre 
and  a  livelihood  ;  and  but  few  for  employing  the  Divine  gift  of  rea- 
son to  the  use  and  benefit  of  mankind.  Thus  some  appear  to  seek 
in  knowledge  ^  couch  for  a  searching  spirit ;  others,  a  walk  for  a 
>  SatuTQ,  the  god  of  time,  according  to  the  fiAbles,  devoored  his  cliildren. 


wandering  mind ;  others,  a  towei  of  state ;  others,  »  fort  or  com- 
manding ground ;  and  others  a  shop  for  profit  or  sale,  instead  of  a 
storehouse  for  the  gloiy  of  the  Creator  and  the  endowment  of  human 
life.  But  that  which  must  dignify  and  exalt  knowledge  is  the  more 
intimate  and  strict  conjunction  of  contemplation  and  action ;  a  con- 
junction like  that  of  Saturn,  the  planet  of  rest  and  contemplation, 
and  Jupiter,  the  planet  of  civil  society  and  action.  But  here,  by 
use  and  action,  we  do  not  mean  the  applying  of  knowledge  to  lucre, 
— ^for  that  diverts  the  advancing  of  knowledge,  as  the  golden  ball 
thrown  before  Atalanta,  which,  while  she  stoops  to  t&e  up,  the 
race  is  hindered. 

5.  Dignity  of  Learning. — ^The  dignity  and  excellence  of  know- 
ledge and  learning  is  what  human  nature  most  aspires  to  for  the 
securing  of  inmiortality,  which  is  also  endeavoured  after  by  raising 
and  ennobling  fiimilies ;  by  buildings,  foundations,  and  monuments 
of  fame ;  and  is,  in  effect,  the  bent  of  all  other  human  desires.  But 
we  see  how  much  more  durable  the  monuments  of  genius  and 
learning  are,  than  those  of  the  hand.  The  verses  of  Homer  have 
continued  about  five  and  twenty  hundred  years  without  loss,  in 
which  time  numberless  palaces,  temples,  castles,  and  cities  have 
been  demolished,  and  are  fallen  to  ruin.  It  is  impossible  to  have 
the  true  pictures  or  statues  of  Cyrus,  Alexander,  Csesar,  or  the 
great  personages  of  much  later  date ;  for  the  originals  cannot  last, 
and  the  copies  must  lose  life  and  truth ;  but  the  images  of  men*s 
knowledge  remain  in  books,  exempt  from  the  injuries  of  time,  and 
capable  of  perpetual  renovation.  Nor  are  these  properly  called 
images;  because  they  generate  still,  and  sow  their  seed  in  the 
minds  of  others,  so  as  to  cause  infinite  actions  and  opinions  in  suc- 
ceeding ages.  If,  therefore,  the  invention  of  a  ship  was  thought  so 
noble,  which  carries  commodities  from  place  to  place,  and  conso- 
eiateth  the  remotest  regions  in  participation  of  their  fruits,  how 
much  more  are  letters  to  be  valued,  which,  like  ships,  pass  through 
the  vast  ocean  of  time,  and  convey  knowledge  and  inventions  to 
'the  remotest  ages? 


Ralegh  was  bom  at  Hayes  Farm,  Devonshire,  in  1652.  At  an 
early  age  he  manifested  that  love  of  adventure  which  distinguished 
him  through  life.  At  seventeen  he  served  in  the  religious  wars  on  the 
Continent;  som6  time  after  he  joined  in  an  expedition  to  Newfound- 
land, and,  on  his  return,  he  was  employed  in  the  Irish  wars,  where  he 
displayed  such  courage  and  ability  that  he  was  rewarded  with  a  con^ 
siderable  grant  of  land.  He  had  also  the  good  fortune,  by  his  address, 
to  secure  the  favour  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  who,  besides  knighting  him, 
bestowed  on  him,  on  various  occasions,  substantial  marks  of  her 

Ralegh  spella  his  own  name  Ralegh,  not  Raleigh,  as  nsnally  given. 


regard.  But  the  thirst  for  adventare  was  unquenchable ;  and  after 
seyeral  unsuccesBful  expeditions  to  North  America,  he,  in  1696,  sailed 
in  search  of  imaginary  gold  mines  to  Gniana.  He  returned  again 
without  success,  and  distinguished  himself  more  honourably  by  his 
enterprise  in  the  Spanish  wars.  Shortly  after  the  accession  of 
James,  Balegh,  Cobham,  and  others,  were  apprehended  and  tried  on 
the  charge  of  conspiring  against  the  King.  The  plot  is  one  of  the 
mysteries  in  English  history ;  but  it  is  certain  that  against  Balegh 
no  sufficient  evidence  waa  brought.  The  jury,  however,  either  over- 
awed by  the  Court,  or  sharing  in  the  general  dislike  of  Balegh,  who 
was  very  unpopular  from  his  opposition  to  Essex,  the  people's  dar- 
ling, found  him  guilty,  and  he  was  sentenced  to  death. 

James  reprieved  him,  and  he  was  committed  to  the  Tower,  where 
he  lay  till,  in  1616,  having  proposed  to  James  to  fit  out  an  expedition 
to  Guiana,  from  which  he  hoped  to  reap  a  golden  harvest,  the  needy 
monarch  released  him,  and  entrusted  him  with  a  fleet.  Whatever 
may  have  been  his  ultimate  intentions,  Ralegh's  first  proceedings 
were  to  commence  war  on  the  Spaniards,  then  at  peace  with  Eng- 
land ;  and  for  this  he  was  arrested,  brought  home,  and  executed,  on 
the  old  sentence,  October  29,  1618.  His  chief  work  is  his  "  History 
of  the  World,"  written  to  beguile  the  tedium  of  a  twelve  year's  im- 
prisonment. It  was  never  finished ;  and,  according  to  Jonson,  he 
was  much  indebted,  while  composing  it,  to  the  labour  and  learning  of 
others.  In  style  it  is  clear  and  lively,  it  is  dignified  without  pomp, 
and  learned  without  pedantry,  and  is  pervaded  by  a  tone  of  melan- 
choly, naturally  springing  from  his  unhappy  position,  and  the  dis- 
appointment of  all  his  hopes. 


CAP.  n.,  SECT.  V.) 

"  Man,"  says  Gregory  Naziimsen,  '^  is  the  bond  and  chain  which 
tieth  together  both  natures ;"  and  because  in  the  little  frame  of  man's 
body  there  is  a  representation  of  the  nniveisal,  and  (by  allusion)  a 
kind  of  participation  of  oLL  the  ports  thereof,  therefore  was  man  called 
f/dcrocosTruMy  or  the  little  world.  His  blood,  which  disperseth  itself 
by  the  branches  of  veins  through  all  ihe  body,  may  be  resembled  to 
those  waters  which  are  carried  by  brooks  and  rivers  over  all  the 
earth ;  h\a  breath  to  the  air ;  his  natural  heat  to  the  enclosed  warmth 
which  the  earth  hath  in  itself,  which,  stirred  up  by  the  heat  of  the  sun, 
assisteth  nature  in  the  speedier  procreaticm  of  &ose  varieties  which 
the  earth  bringeth  forth ;  our  radical  moisture,  oil,  or  balsamun^ 
(whereon  the  natural  heat  feedeth  and  is  maintained),  is  resembled 
to  the  &kt  and  fertility  of  the  earth ;  the  hairs  of  man's  body,  which 
adorn  or  overshadow  it,  to  the  grass,  which  covereth  the  upper  face 
and  skin  of  the  earth ;  our  determinations,  to  the  light,  wandering, 
and  unstable  clouds,  carried  everywhere  with  uncertain  winds ;  our 
eyes,  to  the  light  of  the  sim  and  moon ;  and  the  beauty  of  our  youth, 
to  the  flowers  of  the  spring,  which,  either  in  a  very  short  time,  or 
with  the  sun's  heat,  diy  up  and  wither  away,  or  the  fierce  pufb  of 


wind  blow  them  from  the  stalks ;  the  thoughts  of  our  mind,  to 
the  motion  of  an^ls ;  and  our  pure  understuiding,  to  those  intel- 
lectual natures  much  are  always  present  with  God ;  and,  lastly, 
our  immortal  souls  (while  they  are  righteous)  are  by  God  Himself 
beautified  with  the  title  of  His  own  image  and  similitude.  In  this 
also  is  the  little  world  of  man  compared,  and  made  more  like  the 
uniyeTsal  {"  man  being  the  measure  of  all  things,"  saith  Aristotle 
and  Pythagoras),  that  the  four  complexions^  resemble  the  four 
elements,  and  the  seren  ages  of  man  the  seven  planets ;'  whereof 
oar  in&ncy  is  compared  to  the  moon,  in  which  we  seem  only  to  live 
and  grow  as  plants ;  the  second  age  to  Meicuiy,  whereiQ  we  are 
taught  and  instructed ;  our  third  age  to  Venus,  the  days  of  love, 
desire,  and  vanity ;  the  fourth  to  the  sun,  the  strong,  flouiishing, 
and  beautiful  age  of  man's  life ;  the  fifth  to  Mars,  in  which  we  se& 
honour  and  victory,  and  in  wluch  our  thouchts  travel  to  ambitious 
ends;  tibe  sixth  a^' is  ascribed  to  Jupiter,  TwUch  we  begin  to  take 
account  of  our  times,  judge  ourselves,  and  grow  to  the  perfection  of 
our  understanding;  the  last  and  seventh  is  Saturn,  wherein  our 
days  are  sad  and  overcast,  and  in  which  we  find,  by  dear  and 
lamentable  experience,  and  by  the  loss  which  can  never  be  repaired, 
that  of  all  our  vain  passions  and  affections  past,  the  sorrow  only 
abideth:  our  attendants  are  sicknesses,  and  variable  infirmities ;  and 
by  how  much  the  more  we  are  accompanied  with  plenty,  by  so  much 
the  more  greedily  is  our  end  desired,  whom,  when  time  hath  made 
unsociable  to  others,  we  become  a  burden  to  ourselves :  being  of  no 
other  use  than  to  hold  the  riches  we  have  from  our  successors.  In 
this  time  it  is,  when  (as  aforesaid)  we,  for  the  most  part,  and  never 
before,  prepare  for  our  eternal  habitation,  which  we  pass  on  unto 
with  many  sighs,  groans,  and  sad  thoughts,  and  in  the  end,  by  the 
workmanship  of  death,  finish  the  sorrowfol  business  of  a  wretched 
life,  towards  which  we  always  travel  both  sleeping  and  waking ; 
neither  have  those  beloved  companions  of  honour  and  riches  any 
power  at  all  to  hold  us  any  one  day,  by  the  glorious  promise  of 
entertainments ;  but  by  what  crooked  path  soever  we  walk,  the 
same  leadeth  on  directly  to  tiie  house  of  death,  whose  doors  lie 
open  at  all  hours,  and  to  all  persons.  For  this  tide  of  man's  life, 
shei  it  once  tumeth  and  dedineth,  ever  runneth  with  a  perpetual 
ebb  and  &lling  stream,  but  never  floweth  again :  our  kaf,  once  lallen, 
springeth  no  more ;  neither  doth  the  sun  of  the  summer  adorn  us 
again  with  the  garments  of  new  leaves  and  flowers.' 

^  Viz.,  the  black  or  melancholic,  ruddy  or  sanguine,  brown  or  choleric,  and  white  of 

*  The  reader  must  remember  that  Bacon  and  Balegh  did  not  receive  the  Copemican 
sjntem;  that  they  consequently  regarded  the  earth  as  the  centre  of  the  universe,  roimd 
yrhich  all  other  bodies,  the  sun  included,  revolved.  (See  page  83,  note.)  The  descrip^ 
tion  given  by  Ralegh  of  the  seven  ages  of  man  may  be  compared  with  that  given  by 
8liakq>ere,— "  As  you  like  it,*'  Act  II.,  Scene  viL 

'  Conqpaie  with  this  exquisite  passage  Beattie*s  "  Hermit,"  stanza  4. 

**  But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  mouldering  urn  ? 
0,  ^en  obftU  it  dawn  on  the  night  of  the  grave  ?  ** 



The  plants  and  trees  made  pocf  and  old 

Bj  winter  envious. 

The  spring-time  bounteous 
Covers  again  from  shame  and  cold : 
But  never  man  repair'd  again, 

His  youth  and  beauty  lost, 

Though  art,  and  care,  and  cost, 
Do  promise  nature's  help  in  vain." 

So  also  Catullus  saysy — 

"  The  sun  may  set  and  rise ; 
But  we  contrarywise, 
Sleep  after  our  short  light 
One  everlasting  night." 

Tor  if  there  were  any  baiting-place,  or  rest,  in  the  course  or  race  of 
man's  Ufe,  then,  according  to  the  doctrine  of  the  Academics,  the 
same  might  also  perpetualfy  be  maintained ;  but  as  there  is  a  con- 
tinuance of  motion  in  natural  living  things,  and  as  the  sap  and  juice, 
wherein  the  life  of  plants  is  preserved,  doth  evermore  ascend  or 
descend ;  so  is  it  with  the  life  of  man,  which  is  always  either  in- 
creasing towards  ripeness  and  perfection,  or  declining  and  decreasing 
towards  rottenness  and  dissolution. 

2.  of  thb  pleasant  habitations  ttnder  the  eqxnnootial. — 

(book  l,  cap.  iil,  sect,  viil) 

We  find  that  these  hottest  regions  of  the  world  seated  under  the 
equinoctial  line,  or  near  it,  are  so  refreshed  with  a  daily  gale  of 
easterly  wind  (which  the  Spaniards  call  the  hrize),  that  doth  evermore 
blow  strongest  in  the  heat  of  the  day,  as  the  downright  beams  of  the 
sun  cannot  so  much  master  it  that  there  is  any  inconvenience  or 
distemperate  heat  found  thereby.  Secondly,  the  nights  are  so  cold, 
fresh,  and  equal,  by  reason  of  the  entire  inteiposition  of  the  earth, 
as  ^or  those  places  which  myself  have  seen,  near  the  line  and  under 
it)  I  know  no  other  part  of  the  world  of  better  or  equal  temper ; 
only  there  are  some  tracts,  which  hj  accident  of  high  mountains 
are  barred  from  this  air  and  fresh  wmd,  and  some  few  sandy  parts 
without  trees,  which  are  not  therefore  so  well  inhabited  as  the  rest ; 
and  such  difference  of  soils  we  find  also  in  aU  other  parts  of  the 
world.  But  (for  the  greatest  part)  those  re^ons  have  so  many 
goodly  rivers,  fountains,  and  little  brooks,  abundance  of  hi^h  cedars, 
and  other  stately  trees  casting  shade,  so  many  6orts  of  delicate 
fruits,  ever  bearing,  and  at  all  times  beautified  with  blossom  and 
fruit,  both  green  and  ripe,  as  it  may  of  all  other  parts  be  best  comr 
pared  to  the  paradise  of  Eden :  the  boughs  and  branches  are  never 
unclothed  and  left  naked ;  their  sap  creepeth  not  under  ground 
into  the  root,  fearing  the  injury  of  the  frost ;  neither  doth  Pomona 
at  any  times  despise  her  husband  Yertumnus  in  his  vdnter  quarters 


and  old  age.  Therefore  are  those  comitries  called  ^'  vicious  coun- 
tries :"  for  nature  being  liberal  to  all  without  labour,  necessity  im- 
posing no  industry  or  travel,  idleness  bringeth  forth  no  other  fruits 
than  vain  thoughts  and  licentious  pleasures. 

3.   OP  THB  INDIiiN  FIG-TRHB. — ("  mSTORT,"  BOOK  I.,  CAP.  IV.,  SBCT.  II.) 

This  tree  beareth  a  fruit  of  the  bimiess  of  a  great  pea,  or,  as 
Pliny  reporteth,  somewhat  bigger,  and  Uiat  it  is  a  tree  always  plant- 
ing itself ;  that  it  spreadeth  itself  so  hi  abroad  as  that  a  troop  of 
horsemen  may  hide  themselves  under  it.  Strabo  saith  that  it  hath 
branches  bending  downwards,  and  leaves  no  less  than  a  shield. 
Aristobulus  affirmeth  that  fifty  horsemen  may  shadow  themselves 
under  one  of  these  trees.  Onesicritus  raiseth  this  number  to  four 
hundred.  This  tree,  saith  Theophrastus,  exceedeth  all  other  in 
bigness,  which  also  Pliny  and  Onesicritus  confirm ;  to  the  trunk  of 
which  these  authors  give  such  a  magnitude  as  I  shame  to  repeat. 
But  it  may  be  that  all  speak  by  an  ill-understood  report.  For  this 
Indian  fig-tree  is  not  so  rare  a  plant  as  Becanus  conceiveth,  who, 
because  he  found  it  nowhere  else,  would  needs  draw  the  garden  of 
paradise  to  the  tree,  and  set  it  by  the  river  Acesines.  But  many 
X)arts  of  the  world  have  them,  and  I  myself  have  seen  twenty 
thousand  of  them  in  one  valley,  not  far  from  Paria  in  America. 
They  grow  in  moist  grounds,  and  in  this  manner :  after  they  are 
first  shot  up  some  twenty  or  thirty  feet  in  length  (some  more,  some 
less,  according  to  the  soil),  they  spread  a  very  large  top,  having  no 
boush  nor  twig  in  the  trunk  or  stem ;  for,  from  Sie  utmost  end  of 
the  nead-brandies  there  issueth  out  a  gummy  juice  which  hangeth 
downward  like  a  cord  or  sinew,  and  within  a  few  months  reacheth 
the  ground,  which  it  no  sooner  toucheth  but  it  taketh  root ;  and 
then,  being  filled  both  from  the  top  boughs  and  from  his  own  proper 
root,  this  cord  maketh  itself  a  tree  exceeding  hastily.  From  the 
utmost  boughs  of  these  young  trees  there  fjEiil  again  the  like  cords, 
which  in  one  year  and  less  (in  that  world  of  a  perpetual  spring) 
become  also  trees  of  the  bigness  of  the  nether  part  of  a  lance,  and 
as  straight  as  art  or  nature  can  make  anything,  casting  such  a  shade, 
and  makiTig  such  a  kind  of  grove,  as  no  other  tree  in  the  world  can 
do.  Now  one  of  these  trees  considered,  with  all  his  young  ones, 
may  indeed  shroud  four  hundred  or  four  thousand  horsemen,  if 
they  please ;  for  they  cover  whole  valleys  of  ground  where  these 
trees  grow  near  the  sea  bank,  as  they  do  by  thousands  in  the  inner 
part  of  Trinidado.  The  cords  which  fall  down  over  the  banks  into 
the  sea,  shooting  always  downward  to  find  root  under  water,  are  in 
those  seas  of  the  Indies,  where  oysters  breed,  entangled  in  their 
beds,  so  as,  by  pulling  up  one  of  these  cords  out  of  the  sea,  I  have 
seen  five  hundred  oysters  hanging  in  a  heap  thereon  ;  whereof  the 
report  came,  that  oysters  grew  on  trees  in  India.  But  that  they 
bear  any  such  huge  leaves,  or  any  such  delicate  fruit,  I  could  never 
find,  and  yet  I  have  travelled  a  dozen  miles  together  under  them. 

90  SIR  WAX/TEB  BALHQH.     ' 


"  HlflTORT.") 

If  we  truly  examine  the  difference  of  both  oonditions, — ^to  wit, 
of  the  rich  and  mighty,  whom  we  call  fortunate,  and  of  the  poor 
and  oppressed,  whom  we  count  wretched,  we  shall  find  the  happi> 
ness  of  the  one,  and  the  miserable  estate  of  the  other,  so  tied  by 
God  to  the  veiy  instant,  and  both  so  subject  to  interchange  (wit- 
ness the  sudden  down&ll  of  the  greatest  princes,  and  the  speedy 
uprising  of  the  meanest  persons),  as  the  one  hath  nothing  so  certain 
wnereof  to  boast,  nor  t^e  other  so  uncertain  whereof  to  bewail 
itsell  For  there  is  no  man  so  assured  of  his  honour,  of  his  riches, 
health,  or  life,  but  that  he  may  be  depiiyed  of  either,  or  all,  the 
yeiy  next  hour  or  day  to  come.  And  although  the  air  which  com- 
passeth  adversity  be  veiy  obscure,  yet  therein  we  better  discern 
God  than  in  that  shining  light  which  environeth  worldly  gloiy ; 
through  which,  for  the  clearness  thereof,  there  is  no  yanity  which 
escapeth  our  sight.  And  let  adversity  seem  what  it  will;  to 
happy  men  ridiculous,  who  make  themselves  merry  at  other  men's 
misfortunes ;  and  to  those  imder  the  cross,  grievous ;  yet  this  is 
true,  that  for  all  that  is  past,  to  the  very  instant,  the  portions  re- 
mailing  are  equal  to  eitheT  For,  be  it  that  we  Ue  W  many 
years,  "  and  in  them  all  we  have  rejoiced ;"  or,  be  it  that  we  have 
measured  the  same  length  of  days,  and  therein  have  evermore 
sorrowed  ;  yet,  looking  back  from  our  present  being,  we  find  both 
the  one  and  the  other, — ^to  wit,  the  joy  and  the  woe, — sailed  out  of 
sight ;  and  death,  which  doth  pursue  us  and  hold  us  in  chase  from 
our  infancy,  hath  gathered  it.  Whatsoever  of  our  age  is  past,  death 
holds  it.  So  as,  whosoever  he  be  to  whom  fortune  hath  been  a 
servant,  and  the  time  a  friend^  let  him  but  take  the  account  of  his 
memory  (for  we  have  no  other  keeper  of  our  pleasures  past),  and 
truly  examine  what  it  hath  reserved,  either  of  beauty  and  youth, 
or  foregone  delights ;  what  it  hath  saved,  that  it  might  last,  of  his 
dearest  affections,  or  of  whatever  else  the  amorous  spring-time  gave 
his  thoughts  of  contentment,  then  invaluable,  and  he  shiJl  find,  that 
all  the  art  which  his  elder  years  have  can  draw  no  other  vapour 
out  of  these  dissolutions  than  heavy,  secret,  and  sad  sighs.  He 
shall  find  nothing  remaining  but  those  sorrows  which  grow  up 
after  our  fast-springing  youth,  overtake  it  when  it  is  at  a  stand,  and 
overtop  it  utterly  when  it  begins  to  wither :  insomuch  as,  looking 
back  from  the  very  instant  time,  and  from  our  now  being,  the  poor, 
diseased,  and  captive  creature  hath  as  little  sense  of  all  his  former 
miseries  and  pams,  as  he  that  is  most  blessed,  in  common  opin- 
ion, hath  of  his  fore|)ast  pleasures  and  delights.  For  whatsoever  is 
cast  behind  us,  is  just  nothing;  and  what  is  to  come,  deceitfol 
hope  hath  it.    Only  those  few  black  swans'  I  must  except  who, 

1  An  aUuslon  to  an  ancient  prorerb,  "As  rare  as  a  black  swan.**  The  ancients 
sapposed  that  no  snch  bird  was  to  be  found ;  and  hence  they  nsed  the  prorerb  to 
express  anything  very  nnnsnaL 


having  had  the  giaoe  to  Talue  wcfddij  Tanitiea  at  no  more  than 
their  own  price,  do,  by  retaining  the  comfortable  memory  of  a  well- 
acted  life,  behold  death  without  dread,  and  the  grare  without  fear, 
and  embrace  both  as  neoessaiy  goides  to  endlesB  glory. 


Chilling  woBTH  was  bom  at  Oxford  in  1602.  and  receiyed  his  ednca- 
tion  in  the  nniyersity  there.  He  was  distingaished  by  his  skill  in 
mathematics  and  logic ;  and  acquired,  from  the  very  acuteness  of  his 
intellect,  a  habit  of  doubting,  which  prerented  him  having  fixed 
opinions,  even  on  the  most  important  subjects,  and  led  to  his  being, 
at  one  time,  induced  to  join  the  Romish  Church.  This,  however, 
was  not  a  form  of  religion  in  which  one  given  to  doubting  could 
remain ;  and  in  a  short  time  Chillingworth  returned  to  that  faith  of 
which  he  was  destined  to  become  so  distinguished  a  defendant.  His 
own  habits  of  free  inquiry  led  him  to  doubt  the  propriety  of  imposing 
tests  on  any  one ;  and  he  himself,  for  some  time,  hesitated  to  sign 
the  Thirty-nine  Articles;  but  having  at  length  done  so,  he  was 
made  Chancellor  of  Salisbury.  During  the  cvni  war,  he  aided  the 
cause  of  Charles  with  his  pen,  and  accompanied  his  friend,  Lord 
Hopton,  to  the  field.  In  1644  he  was  taken  with  the  garrison  in 
Arundel  Castle,  and,  according  to  Clarendon,  "  as  soon  as  his  person 
was  known,  the  clergy  that  attended  that  army  prosecuted  him 
with  all  the  inhumanity  imaginable;  so  that,  by  their  barbarous 
usage,  he  died  within  few  days."  His  chief  work  is  his  "  Religion  of 
Protestants,  a  safe  way  to  salvation,"  written  in  opposition  to  a 
Roman  Catiiolic  attack  on  Protestantism.  It  embodies  his  opponent's 
work,  which  it  answers,  section  by  section ;  and  though  thu  some- 
what interferes  with  the  completeness  of  the  book  as  a  defence  of  Pro- 
testantism, it  renders  it  all  the  more  complete  as  a  safeguard  against 
Popery.  In  acuteness  of  reasoning,  Chillingworth  has  never  been 
surpassed ;  and  it  deserves  to  be  recorded  to  his  honour,  that  he  is 
not  less  disting^hed  by  moderation  and  opposition  to  all  employ- 
ment of  force  in  religion,  than  by  logical  power. 


When  you'  say  ^'that  unlearned  and  ignorant  men  cannot 
understand  Scripture/'  I  would  desire  you  to  come  out  of  the 
clouds,  and  tell  us  what  yon  mean  ;  whether  that  they  cannot 
understand  oil  Scripture,  or  that  they  cannot  understand  an/if 
Scriptnre  ;  or  that  they  cannot  understand  so  much  as  is  suflScient 
for  tneir  direction  to  hearen.  If  the  first,  I  believe  the  learned  are 
in  the  same  case ;  if  the  second,  every  man's  experience  will 
confute  you,  for  who  is  there  that  is  not  capable  of  a  sufficient 

>  ie.,  His  Roman  CaihoUc  opponent 


understanding  of  the  story,  the  precepts,  the  promises,  and  the 
threats  of  the  gospel?  If  the  third,  that  they  may  understand 
something,  but  not  enough  for  their  salvation :  I  ask  you,  first, 
why  then  doth  St  Paul  say  to  Timothy,  "  the  Scriptures  are  able  to 
make  him  wise  unto  salvation?"  Why  doth  St  Austin  say — 
''  those  things  which  are  plainly  revealed  in  Holy  Scriptures  contain 
all  things  which  relate  to  fiuth,  and  the  way  of  living?"  Why 
does  every  one  of  the  four  evangelists  entitle  their  book  the  Oospelf 
if  any  necessary  and  essential  parts  of  the  gospel  were  left  out  of 
it  ?  Can  we  imagine  that  either  they  admitted  something  neces- 
sary, out  of  ignorance,  not  knowing  it  to  be  necessary  ?— or,  know- 
ing it  to  be  so,  maliciously  conceal^  it  ?— or,  out  of  negligence,  did 
the  work  they  had  undertoken  by  halves  ?  If  none,  of  these  things 
can,  without  blasphemy,  be  imputed  to  them,  considering  they 
were  assisted  by  the  Holy  Ghost  in  this  work,  then  certainly  it 
most  evidently  follows,  that  every  one  of  them  writ  the  whole  eos- 
pel  of  Christ, — I  mean,  all  the  essential  and  necessary  parts  of  it. 
So  that,  if  we  had  no  other  book  of  Scripture  but  one  of  them 
alone,  we  should  not  want  anything  necessary  to  salvation.  And 
what  one  of  them  hath  more  than  another,  it  is  only  profitable,  and 
not  necessary ;  necessary  indeed  to  be  believed,  because  revealed ; 
but  not,  therefore,  revealed  because  necessary  to  be  revealed. 

Neither  did  they  write  only  for  the  learned,  but  for  all  men ; 
this  being  one  special  means  of  the  preaching  of  the  gospel,  which 
was  commanded  to  be  preached,  not  only  to  learned  men,  but  to 
all  men ;  and,  therefore,  unless  we  will  miagine  the  Holy  Ghost 
and  them  to  have  been  wilfi^y  wanting  to  tiieir  own  desire  and 
purpose,  we  must  conceive  that  they  intended  to  speak  plain,  even 
to  the  capacity  of  the  simplest; — at  least,  touching  all  things 
necessary  to  be  published  by  them  and  believed  by  us. 

And  whereas  you  pretend  "  it  is  so  easy  and  obvious,  both  for 
the  learned  and  the  ignorant,  both  to  know  which  is  the  Church, 
and  what  are  the  decrees  of  the  Church,  and  what  is  the  sense  of 
the  decrees,"  I  say,  this  is  a  vain  pretence. 

For,  first,  How  shall  an  unlearned  man,  whom  you  have  supposed 
now  ignorant  of  Scripture, — ^how  shall  he  know  which  of  all  th^ 
societies  of  Christians  is  indeed  the  Church  ?  You  will  say,  per- 
haps, "  He  must  examine  them  by  the  notes  of  the  dhurch, 
which  are,  perpetual  visibility,  succession,  conformity  with  the 
ancient  Church,^'  &c.  But  how  shall  he  know,  first,  that  these  are 
the  notes  of  the  Church,  unless  by  Scripture,  which,  you  say,  he 
understands  not?  You  may  say,  perhaps,  he  may  be  told  so. 
But  seeing  men  may  deceive,  and  be  deceived,  and  their  words  are 
no  demonstrations,  how  shall  he  be  assured  t^t  what  they  say  is 
true  ?  So  that,  at  the  first,  he  meets  with  an  impregnable  £fi&« 
culty,  and  cannot  know  the  Church  but  by  such  notes,  which, 
whether  they  be  the  notes  of  the  Church,  he  cannot  possibly  know. 
But  let  us  suppose  this  isthmus  digged  through,  and  that  he  is 
assured  these  are  the  notes  of  the  true  Church,  how  can  he  possibly 


be  a  competent  judge  which  society  of  Christians  hath  title  to  these 
notes,  ajid  which  hath  not  ? — seeing  this  trial,  of  necessity,  requires 
a  great  sufficiency  of  knowledge  of  the  monuments  of  Christian 
antiquity,  which  no  unlearned  man  can  have,  because  he  that  hath 
it  cannot  be  unlearned.  As,  for  example,  how  shall  he  possibly  be 
able  to  know  whether  the  Church  of  Kome  hath  had  a  perpetual 
succession  of  visible  professors,  which  held  always  the  same  doctrine 
which  they  now  hold,  without  holding  anything  to  the  contrary, 
unless  he  hath  first  examined  what  was  the  doctrine  of  the  Church 
in  the  first  age,  what  in  the  second,  and  so  forth  ?  And  whether 
this  be  not  a  more  difficult  work  than  to  stay  at  the  first  age,  and 
to  examine  the  Church  by  the  conformity  of  her  doctrine  with  Qie  doc- 
trine of  the  first  age,  every  man  of  ordinary  understanding  may  judge. 

Let  us  imagine  him  advanced  a  step  further,  and  to  know  which 
is  the  Church.  How  shall  he  know  what  the  Church  hath  decreed, 
seeing  the  Church  hath  not  been  so  carefcd  in  keeping  her  decrees, 
but  that  many  are  lost,  and  many  corrupted  ?  Besides,  when  even 
the  learned  among  you  are  not  agreed  concerning  divers  things, 
whether  they  be  matters  of  faith  or  not,  how  shaU  the  unlearned 
do  ?  Then,  for  the  sense  of  the  decrees,  how  can  he  be  more 
capable  of  the  understanding  of  them  than  of  plain  texts  of  Scrip- 
ture, which  you  will  not  suffer  him  to  understand? — especially 
seeing  the  decrees  of  divers  popes  and  councils  are  conceived  so 
obsciSely  that  the  learned  cannot  agree  about  the  sense  of  them  ; 
and  then  they  are  written  all  in  such  languages,  which  the  ignorant 
understand  not ;  and  therefore  must,  of  necessity,  rely  herein  upon 
the  uncertain  and  fallible  authority  of  some  particidar  men,  who 
inform  them  that  there  is  such  a  decree.  And  if  the  decrees  were 
translated  into  the  vulgar  languages,  why  the  translators  should  not 
be  as  fallible  as  you  say  the  translators  of  Scripture  are,  who  can 
possibly  imagine  ? 

Lastly,  How  shall  an  unlearned  man,  or  indeed  any  man,  be 
assured  of  the  certainty  of  that  decree,  the  certainty  whereof 
depends  upon  suppositions  which  are  impossible  to  be  known 
whether  they  be  true  or  no  1  For  it  is  not  the  decree  of  a  council 
unless  it  be  confirmed  by  a  true  pope.  Now,  the  pope  cannot  be 
a  true  pope  if  he  came  in  by  simony  ;  which,  whether  he  did  or  no, 
who  can  answer  me  ?  He  cannot  be  a  true  pope  unless  he  were 
baptized;  and  baptized  he  was  not,  unless  the  minister  had  due 
intention.  So,  likewise,  he  cannot  be  a  true  pope  unless  he  were 
rightly  ordamed  priest ;  and  that,  again,  depends  upon  the  or- 
d^ePs  secret  intention,  and  also  upon  his  having  the  episcopal 
character.  All  which  things,  as  I  have  formerly  proved,  depend 
upon  so  many  uncertain  suppositions,  that  no  human  judgment  can 
possibly  be  resolved  in  them.  I  conclude,  therefore,  that  not  the 
most  learned  man  among  you  all, — ^no,  not  the  pope  himself, — can, 
according  to  the  grounds  you  go  upon,  have  any  certainty  that  any 
decree  of  any  council  is  g;ood  and  valid,  and,  consequently,  not  any 
assurance  that  it  is  indeed  the  decree  of  a  council 



Tou  are  offended  with  Dr  Potter  for  not  uBTirpinc;  the  authorit  j 
which  he  hath  not;  in  a  word,  for  not  playing  the  pope.  Cer* 
taioly,  if  Protestants  be  faulty  in  this  matter,  it  is  for  doing  it  too 
much,  not  too  little.  ThispresumptuouB  imposing  of  the  senses  of 
men  upon  the  words  of  Clod,  and  laying  tnem  upon  men's  con- 
sciences together,  under  the  equal  penalty  of  death  and  damnation : 
this  vain  conceit  that  we  can  speak  of  the  things  of  God  better  than 
in  the  words  of  God ;  this  deifying  our  own  interpretations,  and 
tyrannous  enforcing  them  upon  others ;  this  restraining  of  the 
Word  of  God  from  that  latitude  and  generality,  and  the  imderstand- 
ings  of  men  from  that  liberty  wherem  Christ  and  the  apostles  left 
them,  is,  and  hath  been,  the  only  fountain  of  all  the  schisms  of  the 
Church,  and  that  wMcn  makes  them  inunortal ;  the  common  in- 
cendiary of  Christendom,  and  that  which  tears  into  pieces,  not  the 
coat,  but  the  bowels  and  members  of  Christ.  Take  away  these 
walls  of  separation,  and  all  will  quickly  be  one.  Take  away  this 
persecuting,  burning,  cursing,  damning  of  men  for  not  subscribing 
to  the  words  of  men  as  the  words  of  God ;  require  of  Christians 
only  to  believe  Christ,  and  to  call  no  man  master  but  Him  only ; 
let  those  leave  claiming  infallibility  that  have  no  title  to  it,  and  let 
them  that,  in  their  ivords  disclaim  it,  disclaim  it  likewise  in  their 
actions.  In  a  word,  take  away  tyranny,  which  is  the  devil's  instru- 
ment to  support  errors,  and  superstitions,  and  impieties,  in  the 
several  parts  of  the  world,  which  could  not  otherwise  long  with- 
stand the  power  of  truth ;  I  say^  take  away  tjnranny,  and  restore 
Christians  to  their  just  and  fiill  hberty  of  captivating  their  under- 
standing to  Scripture  only ;  and  as  rivers,  when  they  have  a  free 
passage,  run  all  to  the  ocean,  so  it  may  well  be  hoped,  by  Grod's 
blessing,  that  universal  liberty,  thus  moderated,  may  quickly 
reduce  Christendom  to  truth  and  unity. 


When  I  say  the  religion  of  Protestants  is,  in  prudence,  to  be 
preferred  before  yours,^  I  do  not  understand  the  doctrine  of  Luther, 
or  Calvin,  or  Melancthon;  nor  the  Confession  of  Augusta,'  or 
Geneva ;  nor  the  Catechism  of  Heidelberg ;  nor  the  Articles  of  the 
Church  of  England  ;  no,  nor  the  harmony  of  Protestant  confessions ; 
but  that  wherein  they  all  agree,  and  which  they  all  subscribe  with 
a  greater  harmony,  as  the  perfect  rule  of  their  faith  and  actions,— 7 
that  is,  THE  Bible.  The  Bible — I  say  the  Bible  only — ^is  the  reli- 
gion of  Protestants  I  Whatsoever  else  they  believe  besides  it,  and 
the  plain,  irrefragable,  indubitable  consequences  of  it,  well  may  they 
hold  it  as  a  matter  of  opinion  ;  but,  as  matter  of  faith  and  religion, 
neither  can  they,  with  coherence  to  their  own  grounds,  believe  it 

^  i.  t.,  The  Boman  Catholic.  *  i  e.,  AngBbnrg. 


ihemsehreB,  nor  regime  the  belief  of  it  of  others,  without  most  hi^ 
and  most  schismatical  presumption.  I,  for  my  part,  alter  a  long  and 
(as  I  Tenly  belieye  and  hojpe)  impartial  searcn  of  "  the  true  way  to 
eternal  happiness,"  do  profess  plamly  that  I  cannot  find  any  rest  to 
the  sole  of  my  foot  but  upon  this  Kock  only.  I  see  plainly,  and 
with  my  own  eyes,  that  there  are  popes  against  popes;  councils 
against  councils;  some  fathers  against  others;  the  same  fiEithers 
against  themselves ;  a  consent  of  mthers  of  one  age  against  a  con- 
sent of  &thers  of  another  age  ;  the  Church  of  one  age  against  the 
Church  of  another  age.  Traditive  interpretations  of  Scnpture  are 
pretended,  but  there  are  few  or  none  to  be  found.  No  tradition, 
but  only  of  Scripture,  can  derive  itself  from  the  Fountain,  but  may 
be  plainly  proved  either  to  have  been  brought  in,  in  sudi  an  age 
after  Chnst,  or  that  in  such  an  age  it  was  not  in.  In  a  word,  there 
is  no  sufficient  certainty,  but  of  Scripture  only,  for  any  considering 
man  to  build  upon,  llus,  therefore,  and  this  only,  I  have  reason 
to  bdieve ;  this  I  will  profess ;  according  to  this  I  will  live  ;  and 
for  this,  if  there  be  occasion,  I  will  not  only  willingly,  but  even 
gladly,  lose  my  life,  though  I  should  be  sorry  that  Chnstians  should 
take  it  from  me.  Propose  me  anything  out  of  this  Book,  and 
Tequiie  whether  I  believe  it  or  no,  and  seem  it  never  so  incompre- 
hensible to  human  reason,  I  will  subscribe  it  with  hand  and  heart, 
as  knowing  no  demonstration  can  be  stronger  than  this : — Qodhath 
said  so ;  tSerefore  it  is  true.  In  other  thmgs  I  will  take  no  man's 
liberty  of  judgment  from  him,  neither  shaSl  any  man  take  mine 
from  me.  I  will  think  no  man  the  worse  man,  nor  the  worse 
Christian ;  I  will  love  no  man  the  less  for  differing  in  opinion  from 
me.  And  what  measure  I  mete  to  others,  I  expect  frx>m  them 
again.  I  am  folly  assured  that  God  does  not,  and  therefore  that 
man  ought  not,  to  require  any  more  of  any  man  than  this,  to 
believe  me  Scripture  to  be  Goas  Word ;  to  endeavour  to  find  the 
true  sense  of  it ;  and  to  live  according  to  it. 

This  is  the  religion  which  I  have  chosen,  after  a  long  delibera- 
tion ;  and  I  am  verily  persuaded  that  I  have  chosen  wisely,  much 
more  wisely,  than  li  I  had  guided  myself  according  to  your 
Church's  authority. 


William  Dbummond,  of  Hawthomden,  was  bom  in  1585,  and  was 
educated  at  the  High  School  and  University  of  Edinburgh ;  and  as 
his  father  was  a  man  of  some  wealth,  he  was  thus  able  to  complete  his 
education  by  a  four  years'  residence  on  the  Continent.  On  his  return, 
not  feeling  any  inclination  for  public  life,  he  retired  to  his  country 
seat  at  Hawthomden,  near  Edinburgh,  one  of  the  most  picturesque 
spots  in  Britain,  and  devoted  himself  to  the  study  of  literature.  At  a 
later  period,  domestic  disappointment  led  him  to  revisit  the  Continent, 


where,  in  the  course  of  a  lengthened  tour,  he  acquired  a  knowledgd 
of  the  Continental  languages,  and  became  familiar  with  their  litera- 
ture, then  by  no  means  a  common  accomplishment.  He  never  took 
any  share  in  public  transactions  ;  but  on  the  breaking  out  of  the  dis- 
turbances in  Scotland,  his  enthusiastic  loyalty  led  him  to  publish 
some  pamphlets  in  defence  of  King  Charles,  which  exposed  him  to  the 
ire  of  the  covenanting  rulers.  He  died  in  1649,  the  fatal  event  being 
hastened,  it  is  said,  by  grief  at  the  success  of  the  insurgent  party,  and 
the  execution  of  the  King.  His  works  in  prose  and  verse  are  superior 
to  those  of  any  Scotch  writer  of  his  day :  his  sonnets  and  other  poems, 
though  not  free  from  conceits,  are  distinguished  by  elegance  of  lan- 
guage, smoothness  of  versification,  and  delicacy  of  sentiment.  His 
prose  works  consist  of  a  "  History  of  the  First  Five  Jameses,"  of  some 
merit,  some  pamphlets  against  the  Covenanters,  and  "A  Cypress 
Grove,"  or  "  Meditation  on  Death,"  which,  though  the  language  is 
sometimes  overcharged  and  the  thoughts  forced,  is  a  work  of  much 
excellence,  occasionally  reminding  the  reader  of  the  style  of  Dram-' 
mond's  great  contemporary,  Jeremy  Taylor. 

1.  DEATH. — (prom  THE  "  CTPRBSS  GROVE.") 

Death  is  the  violent  estranger  of  acquaintance,  the  eternal  divorcer 
of  marriage,  the  ravisher  of  the  children  from  the  parents,  the  stealer 
of  parents  from  their  children,  the  interrer  of  fame,  the  sole  cause 
of  forgetfulness,  by  which  the  living  talk  of  those  gone  away  as  of 
so  many  shadows  or  ag&-wom  stories :  aU  strength  by  it  is  en- 
feebled, beauty  turned .  into  deformity  and  rottenness,  honour  into 
contempt,  gloiy  into  baseness.  It  is  the  reasonless  breaker  off  of 
aJl  actions,  by  which  we  enjoy  no  more  the  sweet  pleasures  of  earth, 
nor  contemplate  the  stately  revolutions  of  the  heavens.  The  sim 
perpetually  setteth,  stars  never  rise  unto  us.  It,  in  one  moment, 
robbeth  us  of  what  with  so  great  toil  and  care  in  many  years  we 
have  heaped  together  ;  by  t\ns  are  successions  of  lineages  cut  short, 
kingdoms  left  heirless,  and  greatest  states  orphaned.  It  is  not  over- 
come by  pride,  soothed  by  flattery,  tamed  by  entreaties,  bribed  by 
benefits,  softened  by  lamentations,  nor  diverted  by  time.  Wisdom, 
save  this,  can  prevent  and  help  everything.  By  death  we  are  exiled 
from  this  fail  city  of  the  world ;  it  is  no  more  a  world  unto  us,  nor 
we  any  more  a  people  unto  it.  The  ruins  of  fiEuies,  palaces,  and 
other  magnificent  frsunes  yield  a  sad  prospect  to  the  soul,  and  how 
should  it  without  horror  view  the  wreck  of  such  a  wonderM  master- 
piece as  is  the  body  ? 

That  death  natiuraJly  is  terrible  and  to  be  abhorred  it  cannot  well 
and  altogether  be  denied  ;  it  being  a  privation  of  life,  and  a  not 
being,  and  every  privation  being  abhorred  of  nature  and  evil  in 
itself  the  fear  of  it,  too,  being  ingenerated  universally  in  all  creatures : 
yet  I  have  often  thought  tiEat  even  naturally,  to  a  mind  by  nature 
only  resolved  and  prepared,  it  is  more  terrible  in  conceit  than  in 
verity ;  and  at  the  first  glance,  than  when  well  pried  into  ;  and  that 
xatber  by  the  weakness  of  our  fantasy,  than  by  what  is  in  it ;  and 

DEATH.  07 

that  the  marble  coloicrs  of  obseqnies,  weeping,  and  fnnenJ  pomp 
(which  we  onrselyes  paint  it  with)  did  add  much  more  ghastliness 
imto  it  than  otherwise  it  hatL  To  avert  which  conclusion^  when  I 
had  gathered  my  wandering  thonghtSy  I  began  thus  with  mysell 

If  on  the  great  theatre  of  this  earth,  amongst  the  numberless 
number  of  men,  to  die  were  only  proper  to  thee  and  thine,  then  un- 
doubtedly thou  hadst  reason  to  repine  at  so  severe  and  partial  a 
law ;  but  since  it  is  a  necessity  from  which  neyer  any  age  bypast 
hath  been  exempted,  and  unto  which  they  which  be,  and  so  many 
as  are  to  come,  are  thralled  (no  consequent  of  life  being  more  com- 
mon and  funiliar),  why  shouldst  thou,  with  unprofitable  and  nou^t- 
availiDg  stubbornness,  oppose  so  inevitable  and  necessaiy  a  condi- 
tion ?  This  is  the  highway  of  mortality,  and  our  general  homa 
Behold  what  millions  have  trod  it  before  thee,  what  multitudes 
shall  after  thee,  with  them  which  at  that  same  instant  run.  In  so 
universal  a  calamity  (if  death  be  one)  private  complaints  cannot  be 
heard ;  with  so  many  royal  palaces,  it  is  no  loss  to  see  thy  poor 
cabin  bum.  Shall  the  heavens  stay  their  ever-rolling  wheels  (for 
what  is  the  motion  of  them  but  the  motion  of  a  swSt  and  ever- 
whirling  wheel,  which  twineth  forth,  and  again  uprolleth  our  life),  and 
hold  still  time  to  prolong  thy  miserable  days,  as  if  the  highest  of 
their  working  were  to  do  homage  unto  thee  ?  Thy  death  is  a  pace 
of  the  order  of  this  aU,^  a  part  of  the  life  of  this  world  ;  while  the 
world  is  the  world,  some  creatures  must  die,  and  others  take  life. 
Eternal  thioffs  are  raised  far  above  this  sphere  of  generati<»i  and 
corruption,  idiere  the  first  matter,  like  an  ever-flowing  and  ebbing 
sea,  with  divers  waves,  but  the  same  water,  keepeth  a  restless  and 
never-tiring  current ;  what  is  below,  in  the  imiversality  of  the  kind, 
not  in  itself  doth  abide  :  Mem  a  long  line  of  years  hath  continued, 
this  mem  eveiy  hundred  is  swept  away.'  This  globe,  environed  with 
air,  is  the  sole  region  of  death,  the  grave  where  everything  that 
taketh  life  must  rot,  the  stage  of  fortune  and  change,  only  glorious 
in  the  inconstancy  and  varying  alterations  of  it,  whidb,  though  many, 
seem  yet  to  abide  one,  and  hems  a  certain  entire  one,  are  ever  many. 
The  never-agreeing  bodies  of  the  elemental  brethren  turn  one  into 
another ;  the  earth  changeth  her  countenance  with  the  seasons, 
sometimes  looking  cold  and  naked,  other  times  hot  and  flowery. 
Nay,  I  cannot  tell  how,  but  even  the  lowest  of  those  celestial  bodies,' 
that  mother  of  months,  and  empress  of  seas  and  moisture,  as  if  she 
were  a  mirror  of  our  constant  mutability,  appeareth  (by  her  too  great 
nearness  unto  us)  to  participate  of  our  cnknges  ;  never  seeing  us 
twice  with  that  same  face  ;  now  looking  black,  then  pale  and  wan, 
sometimes,  again,  in  the  perfection  and  Alness  of  her  beauty,  shining 
over  us.  Death  no  less  than  life  doth  here  act  a  part,  the  taking 
awav  of  what  is  old  being  the  making  way  for  what  is  young.  This 
earth  is  as  a  table-book,  and  the  men  are  the  notes  ;  the  first  are 

1  i  &,  this  nnlyerse. 

2  ie.,  tiie  tamnan  species  has  continued  for  many  years,  thongh  every  individnal  o£ 
the  race  is  cut  off  before  a  hundred  years  nm  their  coarse.  '  i.  e.,  the  moon. 



washen  out  that  new  may  be  written  in.  They  who  forewent  us* 
did  leave  a  room  for  us,  and  should  we  grieve  to  do  the  same  to 
those  which  should  come  after  us  ?  Who,  being  suffered  to  see  the 
exquisite  rarities  of  an  antiquary's  cabinet,  is  grieved  that  the  cur- 
tain be  drawn,  "^nd  .to  give  place  to  new  pilgrims  ?  And  when  the 
Lord  of  this  universe  hath  showed  us  the  amazing  wonders  of  this 
various  ftame,  should  we  take  it  to  heart,  when  He  thinketh  time, 
to  dislodge  ?  This  is  His  unalterable  and  inevitable  decree  :  as  we 
had  no  part  of  our  will  in  our  entrance  into  this  life,  we  should  not 
presume  to  any  in  our  leaving  it,  but  soberly  learn  to  will  that 
which  He  wills,  whose  very  will  giveth  being  to  all  that  it  wills  ; 
and  reverencing  the  Orderer,  not  repine  at  the  order  and  laws,  which 
al-where  and  always  are  so  perfectly  established  that  who  would 
essay  to  correct  and  amend  any  of  them,  he  should  either  make 
them  worse  or  desire  things  beyond  the  level  of  possibility.  All 
that  is  necessary  and  convenient  for  us  He  hath  bestowed  upon  us, 
and  freely  granted  ;  and  what  He  hath  not  bestowed  nor  granted  us, 
neither  is  it  necessary  nor  convenient  that  we  should  have  it. 

If  thou  dost  complain  that  there  shall  be  a  time  in  which  thou 
shalt  not  be,  why  dost  thou  not  also  grieve  that  there  was  a  time  in 
which  thou  wast  not,  and  so  that  thou  are  not  as  old  as  that  en- 
livening planet  of  time  ?  For  not  to  have  been  a  thousand  years 
before  this  moment,  is  as  much  to  be  deplored  as  not  to  live  a 
thousand  -after  it,  the  effect  of  them  both  being  one.  That  will  be 
after  us  which,  long,  long  before  we  were,  was.  Our  children's 
children  have  that  same  reason  to  murmur  that  they  were  not  young 
men  in  our  days,  which  we  have  to  complain  that  we  shall  not  be 
old  in  theirs.  The  violets  have  their  time,  though  they  impurple 
not  the  winter,  and  the  roses  keep  their  season,  though  they  dis- 
close not  their  beauty  in  the  spring. 

Empires,  states,  and  kingdoms  have,  by  the  doom  of  the  Supreme 
Providence,  their  fatal  periods  ;  great  cities  lie  sadly  buried  in  their 
dust ;  arts  and  sciences  have  not  only  their  eclipses,  but  their  wan- 
ings  and  deaths.  The  ghastly  wonders  of  the  world,  raised  by  the 
ambition  of  ages,  are  overthrown  and  trampled.  Some  lights  above, 
not  idly  entitled  stars,  are  lost,  and  never  more  seen  of  us.  The 
excellent  fabric  of  this  universe  itself  shall  one  day  suffer  ruin,  or  a 
change  like  a  ruin ;  and  should  poor  earthlings  thus  to  be  handled 
complain  ? 

Yean'%  cure  a  sea  into  which  a  man  wadeth  until  he  drovm. 


Joseph  Hall  was  bom  at  Ashby-de-la-Zouch  in  Leicestershire  in 
1674,  and  received  his  education  at  Emmanuel  College,  Cambridge. 
"Wliile  yet  in  his  twenty-third  year  he  published  a  volume  of  satires, 
called  Virgidemiarum,  the  earliest  in  the  language  that  are  cha- 
racterized by  grace,  vigour,  and  truth  to  nature,  without  grossnesa 
His  abilities  and  eminent  piety  secured  for  him  distinguished  church 


preferment ;  he  was  appointed  chfplain  to  Prince  Henry,  the  heir- 
apparent  to  the  throne,  Dean  of  Worcester,  Bishop  of  Exeter  (1627), 
and  finally  Bishop  of  Norwich  (1641).  In  the  controversy  with  the 
Puritans,  he  took  an  active  part ;  he  is  supposed  to  have  had  a  share 
in  the  replies  to  the  famous  treatise  called  Smectymnutu^  and  he  thus 
exposed  himself  to  a  torrent  of  most  scurrilous  and  undeserved  ahuse 
from  the  reckless  pen  of  Milton.  Neither  his  piety  nor  his  learning 
could  shield  him  from  persecution  in  the  unhappy  times  which 
followed.  Having  joined  with  the  other  bishops  in  protesting  against 
the  violence  which  a  mob  of  ruflBans  we're  encouraged  by  the  leaders 
of  the  Commons  to  offer  to  his  order,  he  was  committed  with  them  to 
the  Tower,  from  which  he  was  released  in  1642.  The  next  year  the 
Presbyterians,  who  were  now  in  the  ascendency,  plundered  his  house, 
destroyed  his  cathedral  at  Norwich,  sequestered  his  estate,  and  drove 
him  out  to  spend  his  old  age — ^he  was  now  seventy — ^in  hopeless  des- 
titution. He  endured  his  misfortunes  with  that  cheerful  piety  and 
calm  fortitude  which  he  had  so  often  recommended  to  others  in  the 
days  of  his  prosperity,  and  died  in  1656  in  his  eighty-second  year. 

His  works,  which  are  numerous  enough  to  fill  twelve  volumes,  are 
all  excellent,  and  are  perhaps  more  read  at  the  present  day  than  those 
of  any  of  his  contemporaries.  His  largest  and  best  wort  "  Contem- 
plations on  the  Old  and  New  Testament,"  still  enjoys  a  high  degree 
of  popularity,  and  as  a  simple  commentary  upon  the  narrative  of 
Scripture,  is  far  superior  to  any  work  in  the  English  language.  Of 
his  other  writings,  the  best  known  are  his  "  Three  Centuries  of  Medi- 
tations and  Vows,"  "  Occasional  Medit'ations,"  and  "  Characters  of 
Virtues  and  Vices."  As  a  writer,  Hall  is  universally  allowed  to  form 
one  of  the  noble  trio  who  stand  at  the  head  of  our  prose  literature  ; 
and  of  the  three  he  is  perhaps  the  most  generally  read  at  the  present 
day.  It  must  be  admitted  that  Hall  is  inferior  in  learning  to  both 
the  others ;  that  Hooker  surpasses  him  in  majesty  of  style,  and  Taylor 
in  eloquence  ;  yet  in  his  power  of  shrewd  and  penetrating  observa- 
tion, his  intimate  knowledge  of  the  secret  workings  of  the  human 
mind,  the  force  of  his  quaint  and  homely  style,  and  the  unerring 
accuracy  with  which  he  points  his  earnest  personal  appeals,  he  has  no 
rival  in  our  literature.  At  the  distance  of  two  hundred  years,  the 
quiet  simple  earnestness  of  Hall  has  lost  nothing  of  its  force,  and  still 
comes  home  to  the  business  and  bosoms  of  readers  of  every  class. 



He  is  neither  well  full,  nor  fasting ;  and  though  he  abound  with 
complaints,  yet  nothing  dislikes  him  but  the  present ;  for  what  he 
condemned  while  it  was,  once  past,  he  magnifies,  and  strives  to 
recall  it  out  of  the  jaws  of  time.  What  he  ha^th,  he  seeth  not ;  his 
eyes  are  so  taken  up  with  what  he  wants  :  and  what  he  sees,  he 
cares  not  for;  because  he  cares  so  much  for  that  which  is  not. 
When  his  friend  carves  him  the  best  morsel,  he  murmurs  "  that  it 
is  a  happy  feast  wherein  each  one  may  cut  for  himseli"  When  a 
present  is  sent  him,  he  asks,  "Is  this  all  ?**  and  "  What !  no  better  ?" 
and  so  accepts  it,  as  if  he  would  have  his  friend  know  how  mucl" 


he  is  bound  to  him  for  youchsaflng  to  leceive  it :  it  is  hard  to  en- 
tertain him  with  a  proportionable  ^ift ;  if  nothing,  he  cries  out  of 
unthankfcdness ;  if  little,  that  he  is  basely  regarded ;  if  much,  he 
exclaims  of  flatteiy,  and  expectation  of  a  la^e  requital  Eveiy 
blessing  hath  somewhat  to  disparage  and  distaste  it :  children  bring 
cares ;  single  life  is  wild  and  soutaiy ;  eminency  is  envious ;  re- 
tiredness,  obscure;  fiusting,  painful;  satiety,  unwieldy;  religion, 
nicely  severe ;  liberty  is  lawless ;  wealth,  burdensome ;  mediocrity, 
contemptible ;  everything  £a.ulteth,  either  in  too  much  or  too  little. 
This  man  is  ever  headstrong  and  self-willed ;  neither  is  he  always 
tied  to  esteem  and  pronounce  according  to  reason :  some  things  he 
must  dislike,  he  knows  not  wherefore ;  but  he  likes  them  not :  and, 
other  where,  rather  than  not  censure,  he  will  accuse  a  man  of  virtue. 
Eveiy  thing  he  meddleth  with,  he  either  findeth  imperfect,  or 
maketh  so  :  neither  is  there  anything  that  soundeth  so  harsh  in  his 
ear  as  the  commendation  of  another;  whereto  yet  perhaps  he 
fiishionably  and  coldy  assenteth,  but  with  such  an  after-dause  of 
exception  as  doth  more  than  mar  his  former  allowance :  and,  if  he 
list  not  to  give  a  verbal  disgrace,  yet  he  shakes  his  head  and  smiles, 
as  if  his  sUence  should  say,  "  I  could,  and  will  not/'  And,  when 
himself  is  praised  without  excess,  he  complains  that  such  im- 
perfect kindness  hath  not  done  him  right  If  'but  an  unseasonable 
shower  cross  his  recreation,  he  is  ready  to  Ml  out  with  heaven,  and 
thinks  he  is  wronged  if  God  will  not  take  his  times  when  to  rain, 
when  to  shine.  He  is  a  slave  to  envy,  and  loseth  flesh  with  fretting, 
not  so  much  at  his  own  infelicity,  as  at  others'  good  :  neither  ham 
he  leisure  to  joy  in  his  own  blessings,  whilst  another  prospereth. 
Fain  would  he  see  some  mutinies,  but  dare  not  raise  them,  and 
suffers  his  lawless  tongue  to  walk  through  the  dangerous  paths  of 
conceited^  alterations  ;  but  so  as,  in  good  manners,  he  would  rather 
thrust  every  man  before  him  when  it  comes  to  acting.  Nothing 
but  fear  keeps  him  from  conspiracies,  and  no  man  is  more  cruel 
when  he  is  not  manacled  with  danger.  He  speaks  nothing  but 
satires  and  libels,  and  lodgeth  no  guests  in  his  heart  but  rebels. 
The  inconstant  and  he  agree  well  in  their  felicity,  which  both 
place  in  change,  but  herein  they  differ ;  the  inconstant  man  affects 
that  which  wiil  be,  the  male-content  commonly  that  which  was. 
Finally,  he  is  a  querulous  cur,  whom  no  horse  can  pass  by  without 
barking  at ;  yea,  in  the  deep  silence  of  night,  the  very  moonshine 
openeth  his  clamorous  mouth :  he  is  the  wheel  of  a  weU-couched 
firework  that  flies  out  on  all  sides,  not  without  scorching  itself 
Every  ear  was,  long  ago,  weary  of  hun,  and  he  is  now  almost  weaiy 
of  himself ;  give  hm  but  a  little  resjRte,  and  he  will  die  alone  of  no 
other  death  than  others'  wel&re. 


He  is  a  religious  man,  and  wears  the  time  in  his  cloister ;  and, 

'  ic,  intended  or  imagined. 


as  the  cloak  of  his  doing  nothing,  pleads  contemplation :  vet  he  is 
no  whit  the  leaner  for  his  thoughts ;  no  whit  leameder.  He  takes 
no  less  care  to  spend  time,  than  others  how  to  gain  by  the  expense ; 
and,  when  business  importunes  him,  is  more  troubled  to  forethink 
what  he  must  do  than  another  to  ^ect  it.  Summer  is  out  of  his 
favour  for  nothing  but  long  days  that  make  no  haste  to  their  even. 
He  loves  still  to  have  the  sun  witness  of  his  rising ;  and  lies  long, 
more  for  lothness  to  dress  him  than  will  to  sleep :  and,  after  soma 
stretching  and  yawning,  calls  for  dinner,  unwashed ;  which  having 
digested  with  a  sleep  in  his  chair,  he  walks  forth  to  the  bench  iji 
the  market-place,  and  looks  for  companions  :  whomsoever  he  meets 
he  stays  witn  idle  questions  and  lingering  discourse :  how  the  days 
are  lengthened  ;  how  kindly  the  weather  is ;  how  fJEibe  the  clock ; 
how  forward  the  spring;  and  ends  ever  with,  "What  shall  we 
do  ?"  It  pleases  him  no  less  to  hinder  others  than  not  to  work 
himseli  When  all  the  people  are  gone  from  church  he  is  left  sleep- 
ing in  his  seat  alone.  He  enters  bonds,  and  forfeits  them  by  for- 
getting the  day :  and  asks  his  neighbour,  when  his  own  field  was 
mlowed,  whether  the  ^ext  piece  of  ground  belong  to  himself.  His 
care  is  either  none  or  too  late :  when  winter  is  come,  after  some 
sharp  visitations,  he  looks  on  his  pile  of  wood,  and  asks  how  much 
was  cropped  the  last  spring.  Necessity  drives  him  to  every  action ; 
and  what  he  cannot  avoid  he  will  yet  defer.  Every  change  troubles 
him,  although  to  the  better ;  and  his  dulness  counterfeits  a  kind  of 
contentment.  When  he  is  warned  on  a  juiy,  he  would  rather  pay 
the  mulct  than  appeaor.  All  but  that  which  nature  will  not  permit 
he  doth  by  a  deputy:  and  counts  it  troublesome  to  do  nothing ; 
but  to  do  anything  yet  more.  He  is  witty  in  nothing  but  framing 
excuses  to  sit  stiU ;  which,  if  the  occasion  yield  not,  he  coineth 
with  ease.  There  is  no  work  that  is  not  either  dangerous  or  thank- 
less, and  whereof  he  foresees  not  the  inconvenience  and  painless- 
ness before  he  enters ;  which,  if  it  be  verified  ia  event,  his  next 
idleness  hath  found  a  reason  to  patronize  it.  He  would  rather 
freeze  than  fetch  wood ;  and  chuses  rather  to  steal  than  work,  to 
beg  than  take  pains  to  steal ;  and,  in  many  things,  to  want  than 
beg.  He  is  so  loth  to  leave  his  neighbour's  fire,  that  he  is  fain  to 
wuk  home  in  the  dark ;  and,  if  he  be  not  looked  to,  wears  out  the 
night  in  the  chimney-comer ;  or,  if  not  that,  Ues  down  in  his  clothes 
to  save  two  labours.  He  eat^  andprays  himself  asleep,  and  dreams 
of  no  other  torment  but  work.  Tjm  man  is  a  standmg  pool,  and 
cannot  chuse  but  gather  corruption:  he  is  descried,  amongst  a 
thousand  neighbours,  by  a  dry  and  nasty  hand,  that  stiU  savours 
of  the  sheet ;  a  beard  uncut,  uncombed ;  an  eye  and  ear  yellow 
with  their  excretions :  a  coat,  shaken  on,  ragged,  unbrushed ;  by 
linen  and  &ce  striving  whether  shall  excel  in  uncleanliness.  For 
body,  he  hath  a  swohi  leg,  a  dusky  and  swinish  eye,  a  blown 
cheek,  a  drawling  tongue,  a  heavy  foot,  and  is  nothing  but  a  colder 
earth  moulded  with  standing  water:  to  conclude,  is  a  man  in 
nothing  but  in  speech  and  shape* 



Ereiy  day  is  a  little  life :  and  our  whole  life  is  but  a  day  repeated  : 
whence  it  is,  that  old  Jacob  numbers  his  life  by  days ;  and  Moses 
desires  to  be  taught  this  point  of  holy  arithmetic,  to  number,  not 
his  years,  but  his  days.  Those,  therefore,  that  dare  lose  a  day  are 
dangerously  prodigal ;  those  that  dare  mis-spend  it,  desperate.  We 
can  best  teach  others  by  ourselves  :  let  me  tell  your  lordship  how  I 
would  pass  my  days,  that  you,  or  whosoever  others  overhearing  me, 
may  either  approve  my  thriffciness,  or  correct  my  errors. 

First,  therefore,  I  desire  to  awake  at  those  hours,  not  when  I 
will,  but  when  I  must :  pleasure  is  not  a  fit  rule  for  rest,  but  health : 
neither  do  I  consult  so  much  with  the  sun  as  mine  own  necessity, 
whether  of  body^  or  in  that  of  the  mind.  If  this  vassal  could  well 
serve  me  waking  it  should  never  sleep  ;  but  now  it  must  be  pleased 
that  it  may  be  serviceable.  Now,  when  sleep  is  rather  driven  away 
than  leaves  me,  I  would  ever  awake  with  God.  My  first  thoughts 
are  for  Him,  who  made  the  night  for  rest,  and  the  day  for  travel ; 
and,  as  He  gives,  so  blesses  botL  If  my  heart  be  early  seasoned 
with  His  presence,  it  will  savour  of  Him  all  day  after.  While  my 
body  is  dressing,  not  with  an  effeminate  curiosity,  nor  yet  with  rude 
neglect,  my  mind  addresses  itself  to  her  ensuing  task ;  bethinking 
what  is  to  be  done,  and  in  what  order ;  and  marshalling,  as  it  may, 
my  hours  with  my  work. 

That  done,  after  some  while  meditation,  I  walk  up  to  my  masters 
and  companions,  my  books  ;  and,  sitting  down  amongst  them,  with 
the  best  contentment,  I  dare  not  reach  iorth  my  hand  to  salute  any 
of  them  till  I  have  first  looked  up  to  heaven,  and  craved  favour  of 
Him  to  whom  all  my  studies  are  duly  referred,  without  whom  I 
can  neither  profit  nor  labour.  After  this,  out  of  no  over-great 
variety,  I  call  forth  those  which  may  best  fit  my  occasions  ;  wherein 
I  am  not  too  scrupulous  of  age :  sometimes  I  put  myself  to  school, 
to  one  of  those  ancients,  whom  the  Church  hath  honoured  with  the 
name  of  £a>thers,  whose  volumes  I  confess  not  to  open  without  a 
secret  reverence  of  their  holiness  and  gravity :  sometimes  to  those 
latter  doctors,  which  want  nothing  but  age  to  make  them  classical : 
always  to  God's  Book.  That  day  is  lost  whereof  some  hours  are 
not  improved  in  those  divine  monuments :  others  I  turn  over  out 
of  choice  ;  these  out  of  duty. 

Ere  I  can  have  sat  unto  weariness,  my  family,  having  now  over- 
come all  household  distractions,  invites  me  to  our  common  de- 
votions, not  without  some  short  preparation.  These,  heartily  pei^ 
formed,  send  me  up  with  a  more  strong  and  cheerful  appetite  to  my 
former  work,  which  I  find  made  easy  to  me  by  intermission  and 
variety.  Now,  therefore,  can  I  deceive  the  hours  with  change  of 
pleasures,  that  is,  of  labours.  One  while,  mine  eyes  are  busied ; 
another  while,  my  hand ;  and  sometimes,  my  mind  takes  the  burden 


from  them  both;  wherein  I  would  imitate  the  skilfullest  cooks, 
which  make  the  best  dishes  with  manifold  mixtures.  One  hour  is 
spent  in  textual  divinity,  another  in  controversy,  histories  relieve 
them  both.  Now,  when  the  mind  is  weaiy  of  other  labours,  it  be- 
gins to  undertake  its  own :  sometimes  it  meditates  and  winds  up  for 
Siture  use ;  sometimes  it  lays  forth  her  conceits  into  present  dis- 
course ;  sometimes  for  itself,  often  for  others.  Neither  know  I 
whether  it  works  or  plays  in  these  thoughts :  I  am  sure  no  sport 
hath  more  pleasure,  no  work  more  use  ;  only  the  decay  of  a  weak 
body  makes  me  think  these  delights  insensibly  laborious. 

Thus  could  I,  aU  day,  as  ringers  use,  make  myself  music  with 
changes  ;  and  complain  sooner  of  the  day  for  shortness,  than  of  the 
business  for  toil ;  were  it  not  that  this  faint  monitor  interrupts  me 
stiU  in  the  midst  of  my  busy  pleasures,  and  enforces  me  both  to  re- 
spite and  repast.  I  must  yield  to  both :  while  my  body  and  mind 
are  joined  together  in  those  unequal  couples,  the  better  must  follow 
the  weaker. 

Before  my  meals,  therefore,  and  after,  I  let  myself  loose  from  all 
my  thoughts  ;  and  now  would  forget  that  I  ever  studied.  A  full 
mind  takes  away  the  body's  appetite,  no  less  than  a  fuU  body  wakes 
a  dull  and  unwieldy  mind.  Company,  discourse,  recreations,  are 
now  seasonable  and  welcome.  These  prepare  me  for  a  diet,  not 
gluttonous,  but  medicinal :  the  palate  may  not  be  pleased,  but  the 
stomach ;  nor  that  for  its  own  sake.  Neither  would  I  think  any  of 
these  comforts  worth  respect  in  themselves,  but  in  their  use,  in  their 
end ;  so  far  as  they  may  enable  ^  me  to  better  things.  If  I  see  any 
dish  to  tempt  my  palate,  I  fear  a  serpent  in  that  apple ;  and  would 
please  myself  in  a  wilful  denial  I  rise  capable  of  more,  not  desir- 
ous :  not  now  immediately  from  my  trencher  to  my  book  ;  but  after 
some  intermission.  Moderate  speed  is  a  sure  help  to  all  proceed- 
ings ;  where  those  things  which  are  prosecuted  with  violence  of  en- 
deavour or  desire,  either  succeed  not,  or  continue  not. 

After  my  latter  meal  my  thoughts  are  slight ;  only  my  memory 
may  be  charged  with  her  task  of  recalling  what  was  committed  to 
her  custody  in  the  day :  and  my  heart  is  busy  in  examining  my 
hands,  and  mouth,  and  all  other  senses,  of  that  day's  behaviour. 
And,  now  the  eveniug  is  come,  no  tradesman  doth  more  carefully 
take  in  his  wares,  dear  his  shopboard,  and  shut  his  windows,  than 
I  would  shut  up  my  thoughts  and  clear  my  mind.  That  student 
shall  live  miserably  which,  like  a  camel,  lies  down  under  his  burden. 
All  this  done,  calling  together  my  family,  we  end  the  day  with 

I  grant,  neither  is  my  practice  worthy  to  be  exemplary,  neither 
are  our  callings  proportionable.  The  lives  of  a  nobleman,  of  a 
courtier,  of  a  scholar,  of  a  citizen,  of  a  countryman,  differ  no  less 
than  their  dispositions :  yet  must  all  conspire  in  honest  labour. 
Sweat  is  the  destiny  of  all  trades,  whether  of  the  brows  or  of  the 

i  e.,  This  tue  of  the  word  enoMe  Is  characteristic  of  Hall's  age. 


mind.  God  nerer  allowed  any  man  to  do  nothing.  How  miser- 
able is  the  condition  of  those  men  which  spend  the  time  as  if  it 
were  giren  to  them,  and  not  lent ! — as  if  honis  were  waste  crea- 
tures, and  snch  as  should  nerer  be  accounted  for ! — as  if  God  would 
take  this  for  a  good  bill  of  reckoning : — ^'  Item,  spent  upon  mj 
pleasures  forty  years."  These  men  shall  once  find  that  no  blood 
can  privilege  idleness,  and  that  nothing  is  more  precious  to  God 
than  that  which  they  desire  to  cast  away — ^time. 


1.  On  oecasum  of  a  redbrectst  commg  into  his  chamber  and 
amging. — Pretty  bird,  how  cheerfully  dost  thou  sit  and  sing,  and 
yet  knowest  not  where  thou  art,  nor  where  thou  shalt  make  thy 
next  meal,  and  at  night  must  shroud  thyself  in  a  bush  for  lodging ! 
What  a  shame  is  it  for  me,  that  see  before  me  so  liberal  proyisions 
of  my  God,  and  find  myself  set  warm  under  my  own  roof,  yet  am 
ready  to  droop  under  a  distrustful  and  unthankful  duhiess !  Had 
I  so  little  certainty  of  my  harbour  and  purveyance,  how  heartless 
should  I  be,  how  carefal,  how  little  list^  should  I  have,  to  make 
music  to  thee  or  myself !  Surely  thou  camest  not  hither  without 
a  providence.  Qod  sent  thee,  not  so  much  to  delight  as  to  shame 
me,  but  all  in  a  conviction  of  my  sullen  unbelief,  who,  under  more 
apparent  means,  am  less  cheerful  and  confident.  Beason  and  faith 
have  not  done  so  much  in  me,  as  in  thee  mere  instinct  of  nature. 
Want  of  foresight  makes  thee  more  merry,  if  not  more  happy,  here, 
than  the  foresight  of  better  things  maketh  me. 

0  God,  Thy  providence  is  not  impaired  by  those  powers  Thou 
hast  given  me  above  these  brute  things:  let  not  my  greater  helps 
hinder  me  £rom  a  holy  security  and  comfortable  reliance  upon 

2,  On  the  sight  of  a  crow  ptdling  off  wool  from  the  hack  of  a 
sheep, — How  well  these  creatures  ^ow  whom  they  may  be  bold 
with  I  That  crow  durst  not  do  this  to  a  wolf  or  a  masti£  The 
known  simplicity  of  this  innocent  beast  gives  advantage  to  this 

Meekness  of  spirit  commonly  draws  on  injuries.  The  cruelty  of 
iU  natures  usually  seeks  out  those  not  who  deserve  worst,  but  who 
will  bear  most.  Patience  and  mildness  of  spirit  is  ill  bestowed 
where  it  exposes  a  man«to  wrong  and  insultation.  Sheepish  dispo- 
sitions are  best  to  others,  worst  to  themselves.  I  could  be  willing 
to  take  injuries ;  but  I  will  not  be  guilty  of  provoking  Uiem  by 
levity :  for  hannlessness,  let  me  go  for  a  sheep,  but  whosoever  will 
be  tearing  my  fleece,  let  him  look  to  himsell 

Z,  On  the  sight  of  two  snails. — There  is  much  variety,  even  in 
creatures  of  the  same  kind.  See  these  two  snails.  One  hath  a 
house,  the  other  wants  it ;  yet  both  are  snails ;  and  it  is  a  question 

lift,  Fleasare,  tncUnatiozu  ■ 


whether  case  is  the  better.  That  which  hath  a  house  hath  more 
shelter  ;  but  that  which  wants  it  hath  more  freedom.  The  priyi- 
l^e  of  that  cover  is  but  a  burden ;  you  see,  if  it  hath  but  a  stone 
to  climb  over,  with  what  stress  it  draws  up  that  beneficial  load, 
and,  if  the  passage  prove  strait,  finds  no  entrance ;  whereas  the 
empty  snail  makes  no  difference  of  way. 

Surely  it  is  always  an  ease,  and  sometimes  a  happiness,  to  have 
nothing.  No  man  is  so  worthy  of  envy  as  he  that  can  be  cheerful 
in  want. 

4,  On  the  fiiea  gathering  to  a  gaUed  horse. — How  these  flies 
swarm  to  the  galled  part  of  this  poor  beast,  and  there  sit,  feeding 
upon  that  worst  piece  of  his  flesh,  not  meddling  with  the  other 
sound  parts  of  his  skin !  Even  thus  do  malicious  tongues  of  de- 
tractors ;  if  a  man  have  any  infirmity  in  his  person  or  actions,  that 
they  will  be  sure  to  gather  unto  and  dwell  upon ;  whereas  his  com- 
mendable parts  and  well-deservings  are  passed  by  without  mention, 
without  regard.  It  is  an  envious  self-love  and  base  cruelty  that 
causeth  this  ill  disposition  in  men.  In  the  meantime,  this  only  they 
have  gained :  it  must  needs  be  a  filthy  creature  that  feeds  upon 
nothing  but  corruption. 

b.  On,  the  sound  of  a  cracked  hdh — ^What  a  harsh  sound  doth 
this  beU  make  in  every  ear !  The  metal  is  good  enough  ;  it  is 
the  rift  that  makes  it  so  unpleasingly  jarring. 

How  too  like  is  this  beU  to  a  scandalous  and  ill-Hved  teacher ! 
His  calling  is  honourable  ;  his  noise  is  heard  fiu*  enough  ;  but  the 
flaw  which  is  noted  in  his  life  mars  his  doctrine,  and  ofiends  those 
ears  which  else  would  take  pleasure  in  his  teaching.  It  is  possible 
that  such  a  one,  even  by  that  discordous  noise,  may  ring  in  others 
into  the  triumphant  church  of  heaven ;  but  there  is  no  remedy  for 
himself  but  the  fire,  whether  for  his  reforming  or  judgment. 

6.  Oib  (he  whetting  of  a  scythe. — ^Recreation  is  intended  to  the 
mind  as  whetting  is  to  the  scythe,  to  sh^en  the  edge  of  it,  which 
otherwise  would  grow  dull  and  blunt.  Efe,  therefore,  that  spends 
his  whole  time  in  recreation  is  ever  whetting,  never  mowing ;  his 
grass  may  grow,  and  his  steed  starve.  As  contrarily,  he  that 
always  toils  and  never  recreates,  is  ever  mowing,  never  whetting ; 
labouring  much  to  little  purpose :  as  good  no  scythe  as  no  edge. 
Then  only  doth  the  work  go  forward  when  the  scythe  is  so  season- 
ably and  moderately  whetted  that  it  may  cut,  and  so  cuts  that  it 
may  have  the  help  of  sharpening.  I  would  so  interchange,  that  I 
neither  be  dull  with  work  nor  i(&e  and  wanton  with  recreation. 


With  a  heavy  heart,  and  a  covered  head,  and  a  weeping  eye,  and 
bare  feet,  is  David  gone  away  from  Jerusalem.  Never  did  he  with 
more  joy  come  up  to  this  city,  than  now  he  left  it  with  sorrow : 


how  could  he  do  otherwise,  whom  the  insurrection  of  his  own  son 
drove  out  from  his  house, — ^from  his  throne, — ^from  the  ark  of  Grod? 

And  now,  when  the  depth  of  this  grief  deserved  nothing  but 
compassion,  the  foul  mouth  of  Shimei  entertains  David  with 
curses.  There  is  no  small  cruelty  in  the  picking  out  of  a  time  for 
mischief.  That  word  could  scarce  gall  at  one  season  which  at  an- 
other killeth.  The  same  shaft,  flying  with  the  wind,  pierces  deep, 
which,  against  it,  can  hardly  find  strength  to  stick  upright.  The 
valour  and  justice  of  children  condemns  it  for  injuriously  cowardly 
to  strike  their  adversary  when  he  is  once  down.  It  is  the  murder 
of  the  tongue  to  iasult  upon  those  whom  God  hath  humbled,  and 
to  draw  blood  of  that  back  which  is  yet  blue  from  the  hand  of  the 
Almighty.  If  Shimei  had  not  presumed  upon  David's  dejection, 
he  durst  not  have  been  thus  bold  ;  now  he,  that  perhaps  durst  not 
have  looked  at  one  of  these  worthies  single,  defies  them  all  at  once, 
and  doth  both  cast  and  speak  stones  against  David  and  all  his  army. 
The  malice  of  base  spirits  sometimes  carries  them  further  than  the 
courage  of  the  valiant. 

In  all  the  time  of  David's  prosperity,  we  heard  no  news  of 
Shimei.  His  silence  and  colourable  obedience  made  him  pass  for  a 
great  subject ;  yet  all  that  while  was  his  heart  unsound  and  traitor- 
ous. Peace  and  good  success  hide  many  a  false  heart,  like  as  the 
snowdrift  covers  a  heap  of  dung, — ^wMch,  once  melting  away, 
descries  the  rottenness  that  lay  within.  Honour  and  weHare  are 
but  flattering  glasses  of  men's  affections.  Adversity  wiU  not  de- 
ceive us,  but  mil  make  a  true  report ;  as  of  our  own  powers,  so  of 
the  disposition  of  others. 

He  that  smiled  on  David  in  his  throne,  curseth  him  in  his  flight. 
If  there  be  any  quarrels,  any  exceptions  to  be  taken  against  a  man, 
let  him  look  to  have  them  laid  in  his  dish  when  he  fares  the 
hardest.  This  practice  have  wicked  men  learned  of  their  master, 
to  take  the  utmost  advantage  of  our  afflictions.  He  that  suffers 
had  need  to  be  double-armed,  both  against  pain  and  censure. 

Every  word  of  Shimei  was  a  slander.  He  that  took  Saul's  spear 
from  his  head,  and  repented  to  have  but  cut  the  lap  of  his  garment, 
is  reproached  as  a  man  of  blood.  The  man  after  God's  own  heart 
is  branded  for  a  man  of  Belial.  He  that  was  sent  for  out  of  the 
fields  to  be  anoiated,  is  taxed  for  an  usurper.  If  David's  hand 
were  stained  with  blood,  yet  not  of  Saul's  house,  it  waa  his  servant, 
not  his  master,  that  bled  by  him  ;  yet  is  the  blood  of  the  Lord's 
anointed  cast  in  David's  teeth  by  the  spite  of  a  Mse  tongue.  Did 
we  not  see  David,  after  all  the  proofs  of  his  humble  loy^ty,  shed- 
ding the  blood  of  that  Amalekite  who  did  but  say  he  shed  Saul's  ? 
Did  we  not  hear  him  lament  passionately  for  the  doath  of  so  ill  a 
master,  chiding  the  mountains  of  Gilboa  on  which  he  feU,  and 
angrily  wishing  that  no  dew  might  fall  where  that  blood  was 
poured  out ;  and  charging  the  daughters  of  Israel  to  weep  over 
Saul,  who  had  clothed  them  in  scarlet  1  Did  we  not  hear  and  see 
him  inquiring  for  any  remainder  of  the  house  of  Saul^  that  he 



might  show  him  the  kindness  of  God  ?  Did  we  not  see  him  hon- 
ouring the  lame  Mephibosheth  with  a  princely  seat  at  his  own 
table  1  Did  we  not  see  him  revenging  the  blood  of  his  rival  Ish- 
bosheth  upon  the  heads  of  Bechab  and  Baanah  ?  What  could  any 
living  marhave  done  more  to  wipe  off  these  bloody  aspersiono  7 
Yet  is  not  a  Shimei  ashamed  to  charge  an  innocent  David  with  all 
the  blood  of  the  house  of  Saul  ]  How,  is  it  likely  this  clamorous 
wretch  had  secretly  traduced  the  name  of  David  all  the  time  of  his 
government,  that  dares  thus  accuse  him  to  his  face  before  all  the 
mi^ty  men  of  Israel,  who  were  witnesses  of  the  contrary  ? 

The  greater  the  person  is,  the  more  open  do  his  actions  lie  to 
misinterpretation  and  censure.  Every  tongue  speaks  partially, 
according  to  the  interest  he  hath  in  the  cause  or  the  patient  It  is 
not  possible  that  eminent  persons  should  be  free  from  imputations ; 
innocence  can  no  more  protect  them  than  power. 


Milton  was  bom  in  London  in  1608,  and  received  his  early  educa- 
tion at  St  Paul's  School  in  that  city,  from  which  he  afterwards 
removed  to  Christ's  College,  Cambridge.  After  the  usual  course  of 
study,  he  retired  to  his  father's  country  seat  at  Horton,  in  Bucks, 
where  he  wrote  his  "  Comus,'*  "  L'Allegro,"  "  II  Penseroso,"  and 
"  Lycidas."  He  then  set  out  for  a  short  tour  on  the  Continent,  and 
on  his  return  settled  in  London ;  and  in  the  quarrel  which  ensued 
between  the  King  and  the  Commons,  he  espoused  the  side  of  the 
latter  with  all  the  vehemence  of  an  enthusiastic  mind  inspired  with 
love  of  republican  antiquity.  As  a  thorough  republican,  he  justified 
all  the  proceedings  of  the  most  violent  party  of  the  Commons ;  even 
the  execution  of  the  King  was  defended  by  him  in  his  "  Tenure  of 
Kings  and  Magistrates,"  and  his  "  Defence  of  the  People  of  England." 
For  these  and  other  similar  productions  he  received  from  the  Com- 
mons a  large  sum  of  money,  and  was  appointed  Latin  Secretary  to 
Cromwell.  On  the  Eestoration  he  was  exposed  to  some  danger  from 
his  previous  conduct ;  but  Davenant  procured  a  pardon  for  him,  and 
he  sx)ent  the  rest  of  his  life  in  peace  and  obscurity,  beguiling  the 
abundant  leisure  of  a  blind  old  age  with  literary  pursuits.  In  1667 
his  "  Paradise  Lost "  was  first  printed ;  in  1670  appeared  his  "  History 
of  Britain,"  and  in  the  next  year  "Paradise  Begained"  and  "  Sam- 
son Agonistes  ; "  he  also  prepared  for  the  press  his  largest  prose  work, 
"  A  Treatise  on  Christian  Doctrine  ; "  but  it  was  not  printed  during 
his  life.  He  died  1674,  and  was  buried  in  the  Church  of  St  Giles, 

Nothing  in  the  history  of  English  literature  is  more  calculated  to 
excite  feelings  of  regret  and  melancholy  than  the  career  of  Milton 
Abandoning  himself,  at  his  entrance  into  life,  to  the  uncontrolled 
impulse  of  youthful  feelings  ;  indulging  in  Utopian  visions  of  univer- 
sal happiness,  freedom,  and  virtue,  not  realizable  in  this  world ;  al  y- 


ing  himself,  in  order  to  overthrow  one  species  of  tyranny,  with  men 
who,  he  found  out  when  too  late,  only  intended  to  set  up  another,  he 
liyed  to  see  the  utter  frustration  of  all  his  hopes,  and  died  crushed 
and  broken  in  spirit,  ridiculed  by  the  one  party  and  disliked  by  the 
other,  and  almost  isolated  from  mankind  by  peculiar  opinions  with 
which  no  one  sympathized.  Even  his  immortal  poems,  "  Paradise 
Lost  and  Begained,"  give  unpleasant  evidence  of  a  mind  imbittered 
by  disappointed  hopes,  and  contrast  unfavourably  with  the  buoyant 
joyousness  of  his  youthful  poetry.  His  prose  works  have  been  only 
rescued  from  oblivion  by  his  poetical  reputation, — the  only  one  which 
merits  immortality  on  the  ground  of  its  own  excellences  being  the 
noble  " Areopagitica,"  or  "Defence  of  Unlicensed  Printing."  The 
style  of  his  prose  works  is  excessively  declamatory  and  rhetorical, 
and  is,  besides,  so  thoroughly  moulded  in  its  structure  t)n  the  Latin 
form,  that  it  can  only  perplex  an  ordinary  English  reader.  His 
language  is  at  all  times  violent  and  overcharged;  his  learning  is 
often  offensively  paraded,  and  the  impetuosity  of  his  invective  con- 
stantly led  him  astray  from  his  subject,  caused  him  to  apply  to  such 
men  as  Bishop  Hall  terms  which  would  not  be  too  weak  for  Judas 
Iscariot,  and  exposed  him  to  the  attacks  of  more  prudent  antagonists. 
Notwithstanding  these  defects,  however,  when  the  dignity  of  his  sub- 
ject admits  of  a  poetical  treatment,  Milton's  mind  rises  to  the  occar 
sion,  and  his  language  is  wonderfully  fine, — ^its  foreign,  un-English 
structure  even  contributing  to  give  it  additional  dignity.  Kone  of 
his  prose  works  are  now  read,  except  his  "  Areopagitica "  and  his 
"  Tractate  on  Education ;"  and' perhaps  Milton's  reputation  would  not 
have  suffered  had  time  spared  us  these  only. 


1.  The  value  of  a  hook. — I  deny  not  but  that  it  is  of  greatest 
concermnent  in  the  church  and  commonwealth  to  have  a  vigilant 
eye  how  books  demean  themselves,  as  well  as  man,  and  thereafter 
to  confine,  imprison,  and  do  sharpest  justice  on  them  as  malefac- 
tors,— ^for  books  are  not  absolutely  dead  things,  but  do  contain  a 
progeny  of  life  in  them  to  be  as  active  as  that  soul  was  whose  pro- 
geny they  are ;  nay,  they  do  preserve,  as  in  a  vial,  the  purest  ef&- 
cacy  and  extraction  of  that  living  intellect  that  bred  them.  I  know 
they  are  as  lively  and  as  vigorously  productive  as  those  fabulous 
dragon's  teeth  ;i  and,  being  sown  up  and  down,  may  chance  to 
spring  up  armed  men.  And  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  unless  wari- 
ness be  used,  as  good  almost  kill  a  man  as  kill  a  good  booL  Who 
kills  a  man  kills  a  reasonable  creature,  God's  image ;  but  he  who 
destroys  a  good  book,  kills  reason  itself ;  kills  the  image  of  CM,  as 
it  were,  in  the  eye.  Many  a  man  lives  a  burden  to  the  earth ;  but 
a  good  book  is  the  precious  life-blood  of  a  master-spirit,  embaJmed 
and  treasured  up  on  purpose  to  a  life  beyond  life.  It  is  true  no 
age  can  restore  a  life,  whereof,  perhaps,  there  is  no  great  loss  ;  and 

1  According  to  the  fable,  Cadmus,  having  killed  the  dragon  that  watched  the  foun- 
tain at  Thebes,  sowed  its  teeth,  which  immediately  spmng  up  armed  men,  who 
ibuglit  with  and  killed  each  other. 



rerolutioiis  of  ages  do  not  oft  recover  the  loss  of  a  rejected  trath, 
for  the  want  of  which  whole  nations  tare  the  worse.  We  should 
be  waiy,  therefore,  what  persecution  we  raise  against  the  living 
labours  of  public  men,  how  we  spill  that  seasoned  life  of  man  pre- 
served and  stored  up  in  books,  since  we  see  a  kind  of  homicide 
may  be  thus  committed, — sometimes  a  martyrdom ;  and  if  it 
extend  to  the  whole  impression,  a  kind  of  massacre,  whereof  the 
execution  ends  not  in  the  slaying  of  an  elemental  life,  but  strikes  at 
the  ethereal  and  fifth  essence, — me  breath  of  reason  itself ;  slays  an 
immortality  rather  than  a  life. 

2.  Difficulty  of  enforcmg  a  Ucefriamg  gystem, — ^How  shall  the 
licensers  themselves  be  confided  in,  unless  we  can  confer  upon 
them,  or  they  assume  to  themselves,  above  all  others  in  the  land, 
the  grace  of  in&Uibility  and  uncorruptedness  ?  And  again,  if  it  be 
true  that  a  wise  man,  Uke  a  good  re&ier,  can  gather  gold  out  of  the 
drossiest  volume,  and  that  a  fool  will  be  a  fool  with  the  best  book, 
yea,  or  without  book,  there*  is  no  reason  that  we  should  deprive  a 
wise  man  of  any  advantage  to  his  wisdom,  while  we  seek  to  restrain 
from  a  fool  that  which,  being  restrained,  wlU  be  no  hindrance  to 
his  folly.  For,  if  there  should  be  so  much  exactness  always  used  to 
keep  that  from  him  which  is  unfit  for  his  reading,  we  should,  in  the 
judgment  of  Aristotle  not  only,  but  of  Solomon,  and  of  our  Saviour, 
not  vouchsafe  him  good  precepts,  and,  by  consequence,  not  willingly 
admit  him  to  good  books,  as  being  certain  that  a  wise  man  wiU 
make  better  use  of  an  idle  pamphlet  than  a  fool  will  do  of  sacred 

It  is  next  alleged  we  must  not  expose  ourselves  to  temptations 
without  necessity ;  and,  next  to  that,  not  employ  our  time  in  vain 
things.  To  both  these  objections  one  answer  will  serve,  that  to  all 
men  such  books  are  not  temptations  nor  vanities,  but  useftd  drugs 
and  materials  wherewith  to  temper  and  compose  effective  and 
strong  medicines,  which  man's  life  cannot  want.  The  rest,  as 
childron  and  childish  men,  who  have  not  the  art  to  qualify  and  pre- 
pare these  working  minends,  well  may  be  exhorted  to  forbear ;  but 
hindered  forcibly  they  cannot  be,  by  all  the  licensing  that  sainted 
inquisition  could  ever  yet  contrive. 

There  is  yet  behind  of  what  I  purposed  to  lay  open,  the  incredible 
loss  and  detriment  that  this  plot  of  licensing  puts  us  to,  more  than 
if  some  enemy  at  sea  should  stop  up  all  our  havens,  and  ports,  and 
creeks  ;  it  hinders  and  retards  the  importation  of  our  richest  mer- 
chandise—truth ;  nay,  it  was  first  established  and  put  in  practice 
by  anti-Christian  malice  and  mystery,  on  set  purpose  to  extinguish, 
if  it  were  possible,  the  light  of  reformation,  and  to  settle  falsehood ; 
little  differing  from  that  policy  wherewith  the  Turk  upholds  his 
Alcoran  by  the  prohibiting  of  printing.  It  is  not  denied,  but  gladly 
confessed,  we  are  to  send  our  thanks  and  vows  to  heaven  louder 
than  most  of  nations,  for  that  great  measure  of  truth  which  we  en- 
joy, especially  in  those  main  points  between  us  and  the  pope,  with 
ms  appurtenances  the  prelates ;  but  he  who  thinks  we  are  to  pitch 


our  tent  here,  and  liave  attained  the  utmost  prospect  of  reformation 
that  the  mortal  glass  wherein  we  contemplate  can  show  us  till  we 
come  to  beatific  vision,  that  man,  by  this  very  opinion,  declares 
that  he  is  yet  hi  short  of  truth. 

Truth,  indeed,  came  once  into  the  world  with  her  divine  Master, 
and  was  a  perfect  shape  most  glorious  to  look  on ;  but  when  He 
ascended,  and  His  apostles  after  Him  were  laid  asleep,  then  straight 
arose  a  wicked  race  of  deceivers,  who,  as  that  story  goes  of  the 
Egyptian  Typhon,*  with  his  conspirators,  how  they  dealt  with  the 
good  Osiris,  took  the  virgin  Truth,  hewed  her  lovely  form  into  a 
thousand  pieces,  and  scattered  them  to  the  four  winds.  From  that 
time  ever  since,  the  sad  friends  of  truth,  such  as  durst  appear,  imi- 
tating the  careful  search  that  Isis  made  for  the  mangled  body  of 
OsirU,  went  up  and  down  gathering  up,  limb  by  limb,  still  as  they 
could  find  them.  We  have  not  yet  found  them  all,  Lords  and 
Commons,  nor  ever  shall  do,  till  her  Master's  second  coming  ;  He 
shall  bring  together  every  joint  and  member,  and  shaU  mould  them 
into  an  immortal  feature  of  loveliness  and  perfection.  Sufier  not 
these  licensing  prohibitions  to  stand  at  every  place  of  opportunity, 
forbidding  and  disturbing  them  that  continue  seeking,  that  con- 
tinue to  do  our  obsequies  to  the  torn  body  of  our  martyred  saint. 

As  this  licensing  is  a  particular  disesteem  of  every  knowing  per- 
son alive,  and  most  injuiious  to  the  written  labours  and  monuments 
of  the  dead,  so  to  me  it  seems  an  undervaluing  and  vilifying  of  the 
whole  nation.  I  cannot  set  so  light  by  all  the  invention,  the  art, 
the  wit,  the  grave  and  solid  judgment  which  is  in  England,  as  that 
it  can  be  comprehended  in  any  twenty*  capacities,  how  good  soever, 
much  less  that  it  should  not  pass  except  their  superintendence  be 
over  it,  except  it  be  sifted  and  strained  with  their  strainers,  that  it 
should  be  uncurrent  without  their  manual  stamp.  Truth  and 
understanding  are  not  such  wares  as  to  be  monopolized  and  traded 
in  by  tickets,  and  statutes,  and  standards.  We  must  not  think  to 
make  a  staple  commodity  of  all  the  knowledge  in  the  land,  to  mark 
and  license  it  like  our  broadcloth  and  our  wool-packs.  What  is  it 
but  a  servitude,  like  that  imposed  by  the  Philistines,  not  to  be 
allowed  the  sharpening  of  our  own  axes  and  coulters,  but  we  must 
repair  from  all  quarters  to  twenty  licensing  forges. 

3.  Evil  effects  of  Ucensing  in  suppressing  inquiry. — ^Behold,  now, 
this  vast  city,'  a  city  of  refuge,  the  mansion-house  of  liberty,  encom- 
passed and  surroimded  with  God*s  protection  ;  the  shop  of  war  hath 
not  there  more  anvils  and  hammers  working  to  fashion  out  the  plates 
and  instruments  of  armed  justice  in  defence  of  beleaguered  tnith, 
than  there  be  pens  and  heads  there  sitting  by  their  studious  lamps, 

1  Typhon,  according  to  the  fatle,  slew  his  brother  Osiris,  King  of  Eg>'pt,  and  cut 
his  body  into  many  pieces,  which  he  divided  among  his  fellow-conspirators.  Isis,  the 
wife  of  Osiris,  and  Oms,  their  son,  defeated  the  conspirators ;  and  after  a  long  and 
laborious  search,  Isis  recovered  her  husband's  mangled  remains,  and  in  his  honour 
made  as  many  statues  of  wax  as  she  had  found  pieces  of  his  body,  and  consigned 
them  to  the  care  of  the  priests. 

>  This  was  the  number  of  the  licensers.  ^  t.e.,  London. 


nitismg,  seaiching,  reyolving  new  notions  and  ideas  wherewith  to 
present,  as  with  their  homage  and  their  fealty,  the  approaching 
reformation  ;  others,  as  &st  reading,  trying  all  things,  assenting  to 
the  force  of  reason  and  oonyincement  This  is  a  lively  and  cheer- 
ful presage  of  our  happy  success  and  victory.  For  as  in  a  body 
when  the  blood  is  fresh,  the  spirits  pure  and  vigorous,  not  only  to 
vital,  but  to  rational  fiBLCulties,  and  those  in  the  acutest  and  the 
pertest  operations  of  wit  and  subtlety,  it  argues  in  what  good  plight 
and  constitution  the  body  is ;  so,  when  the  cheerfulness  of  the 
people  is  so  sprightly  up  as  that  it  has  not  only  wherewith  to  guard 
well  its  own  freedom  and  safety,  but  to  spare,  and  to  bestow  upon 
the  solidest  and  sublimest  points  of  controversy  and  new  invention, 
it  betokens  us  not  degenerated,  nor  drooping  to  a  fatal  decay,  by 
casting  off  the  old  and  wrinkled  skin  of  corruption,  to  outlive  these 
pangs,  and  wax  young  again,  entering  the  glorious  ways  of  truth 
and  prosperous  virtue,  destined  to  become  great  and  honourable  in 
these  latter  ages.  Methirika  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  miismnt 
naUon  rousing  herself  like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her 
in/vi/ncible  locks  ;  methiriks  I  see  her  as  an  eagle,  mewing  ^  her  mighty 
youth,  amd  kindling  her  undaxzled  eyes  aJt  the  fuU  mddrday  beam ; 
purging  and  unsealing  her  hng-dbused  sight  ai  the  fountain  itself  of 
heavenly  radiance  ;  while  the  whole  noise  of  timorous  and  flocking 
birds,  with  (hose  also  ihaJt  love  the  twilight,  flutter  about,  amaxed  ai 
whaJt  she  means,  and,  in  their  en/vious  gabble,  ujould  prognosticate  a 
year  of  sects  and  schisms. 

What  should  ye  do,  then  ?  Should  ye  suppress  all  this  flowery 
cn>p  of  knowled^  <md  new  light  sprang  up,  anj  yet  ipringing  dau/> 
in  this  city  ? .  Should  ye  set  an  oligarchy  of  twenty  engrossers '  over 
it,  to  bring  a  &mme  upon  our  mmds  again,  when  we  shall  know 
nothing  but  what  is  measured  to  us  by  uieir  bushel  ?  Believe  it, 
Lords  and  Commons,  they  who  counsel  ye  to  such  a  suppressing, 
do  as  good  as  bid  ye  suppress  yourselves  ;  and  I  will  soon  show 
how.  If  it  be  desired  to  know  the  immediate  cause  of  all  this  free 
writing  and  free  speaking,  there  cannot  be  assigned  a  truer  than 
your  own  mild,  and  free,  and  humane  government ;  it  is  the  liberty, 
Lords  and  Commons,  which  your  o^ti  valorous  and  happy  counsels 
have  purchased  us  ;  liberty,  which  is  the  nurse  of  all  great  wits, — 
this  is  that  which  hath  raniied  and  enlightened  our  spirits,  like  the 
influence  of  heaven  ;  this  is  that  which  hath  enfranchised,  enlarged, 
and  lifted  up  our  apprehensions  degrees  above  themselves.  Ye 
cannot  make  us  now  less  capable,  less  knowing,  less  eagerly  pursu- 
ing of  the  truth,  unless  ye  first  make  yourselves,  that  made  us  so, 
less  the  lovers,  less  the  founders,  of  our  true  liberty.  We  can  grow 
ignorant  again,  brutish,  formal,  and  slavish,  as  ye  found  us ;  but 
you,  then,  must  first  become  that  which  you  cannot  be,  oppressive, 

1  Mnoing^  i.e.^  mouMngy  casting  off  old  and  damaged  feathers  that  their  place  may 
be  supplied  with  new  and  nninJured  ones.  This  opcratHn  Is  analogous  to  the  conduct 
of  the  people  at  the  time  in  I'^ectlng  old  opinions  and  abolishing  old  institutions,  and 
replacing  them  by  others;  hence  Milton's  use  of  the  teim. 

>  i  «.,  monopoliiers. 

112  JOUN  KIim>K. 

arbitrary,  and  t3rraimoiis,  as  they  were  from  whom  ye  haye  fireed 
us.  Tluit  our  hearts  are  now  more  capacious,  our  thoughts  more 
erected  to  the  search  and  expectation  of  greatest  and  exaotest 
things,  is  the  issue  of  your  own  virtue  propagated  in  us  ;  ye  cannot 
suppress  that,  unless  ye  reinforce  an  abrogated  and  mercaless  law, 
that  fathers  may  dispatch  at  will  their  own  children ;  and  who 
shall  then  stick  closest  to  ye  and  excite  others  ?  Not  he  who  takes 
up  arms  for  coat  and  conduct,  and  his  four  nobles  of  Danegelt.' 
Although  I  dispraise  not  the  defence  of  just  inmiunities,  yet  I  love 
my  peace  better,  if  that  were  aH  Owe  me  the  liberty  to  know,  to 
utter,  arid  to  argue  freely,  according  to  conscience,  above  aU  Uberiies, 

(introductory  REMARKS  TO  BOOK  IIL  OP  "mSTORT  OP  BRITAIN.") 

In  the  late  troubles,  a  Parliament  being  called  to  redress  many 
things,  as  it  was  thought,  the  people,  with  great  courage  and  expec- 
tation to  be  eased  of  what  discontented  them,  chose  for  their  behoof 
in  Parliament  such  as  they  thought  best  affected  to  the  public 
good,  and  some^  indeed,  men  of  w£dom  and  integrity ;  the  rest  (to 
be  sure  the  greater  part),  whom  wealth  or  ample  possessions,  or 
bold  and  active  ambition  rather  than  merit,  had  commended  to  the 
same  place. 

But  when  once  the  superficial  zeal  and  popular  fumes  that  acted 
their  new  magistracy  were  cooled  and  spent  in  them,  straight  every 
one  betook  himself  (setting  the  Commonwealth  behind,  his  private 
ends  before,)  to  do  as  his  own  profit  or  ambition  led  ^^m.  Then 
was  justice  delayed,  and  soon  after  denied  ;  spite  and  fii>vour  deter- 
mined all :  hence  faction,  thence  treachery,  both  at  home  and  in 
the  field ;  everywhere  wrong  and  oppression ;  foul  and  horrid  deeds 
committed  daily,  or  maintained  in  secret  or  in  open.  Some  who 
had  been  called  from  shops  or  warehouses,  without  other  merit,  to 
sit  in  supreme  councils  and  committees  (as  their  breeding  was),  fell 
to  huckster  the  Commonwealth.  Others  did  thereafter  as  men 
could  soothe  and  humour  them  best ;  so  he  who  would  give  most, 
or,  under  covert  of  hypocritical  zeal,  insinuate  basest,  enjoyed  un- 
worthily the  rewards  of  learning  and  fidelity,  or  escaped  the  punish- 
ment of  his  crimes  and  misdeeds.  Their  votes  and  ordinances, 
which  men  looked  should  have  contained  the  repealing  of  bad  laws, 
and  the  immediate  constitution  of  better,  resounded  with  nothing 
else  but  new  impositions,  taxes,  excises, — ^yearly,  monthly,  weekly. 
Not  to  reckon  the  offices,  gifts,  and  preferments  bestowed  and 
shared  among  themselves,  they  in  the  meanwhile  who  were  ever 
faithfulest  to  this  cause,  and  freely  aided  them  in  person  or  with 

^  The  Danegelt  was  a  tax  imposed  on  the  people  to  defray  the  expense  of  roslstinf; 
the  invasions  of  the  Danes,  or  to  purchase  peace  by  an  ignominioos  tiibute.  It  waa 
flrst  levied  by  King  Ethelred,  and  was  abolished  by  Stephen. 

'  This  highly-instructive  retrospect  of  the  proceedings  in  which  he  was  engaged 
has  been  very  firequently  suppressed  in  editions  of  Milton's  works. 


their  subfltanoe  when  they  durst  not  compel  either,  slighted  and 
beieav^  after  of  their  just  debts  by  greedy  sequestrationfl,  were 
tossed  up  and  down,  after  miserable  attendance  from  one  committee 
to  another  with  petitions  in  their  hands,  yet  either  missed  the 
obtoming  of  their  suit,  or  though  it  were  at  length  granted  (mere 
shame  and  reason  ofttimes  extorting  from  them  at  least  a  show  of 
justice),  yet,  by  their  sequestrators  and  subcommittees  abroad^ 
men  for  me  most  part  of  insatiable  hands  and  noted  disloyalty,-— 
those  orders  were  commonly  disobeyed ;  which,  for  certain,  doret 
not  have  been  without  secret  compliance,  if  not  comj^act,  with  some 
superiors  able  to  bear  them  out  There  were  of  their  own  number 
those  who  secretly  oontriyed  and  fomented  those  troubles  and  com* 
bustions  in  the  land  whic}i  openly  they  sat  to  remedy,  and  who 
would  continually  find  such  work  as  should  keep  them  from  being 
ever  brought  to  that  terrible  atomd  of  laying  down  their  authority. 

And  if  the  state  were  in  this  plight,  religion  was  not  in  much 
better,  to  reform  which  a  certain  numoer  of  divines^  were  called, 
neither  chosen  by  any  rule  or  custom  ecclesiastical,  nor  eminent  for 
either  piet^or  knowledge  above  others  left  out, — only  as  each  mem- 
ber of  Parliament  in  his  private  fancy  thought  fit,  so  elected  one  by 
one.  The  most  part  of  them  were  such  as  had  preached  and  cried 
down,  with  great  show  of  zeal,  the  avarice  and  pluralities  of  bishops 
and  prelates :  that  one  cure  of  souls  was  a  full  employment  for  one 
spiritual  pastor,  how  able  soever,  if  not  a  charge  above  human 
strength.  Yet  these  conscientious  men  (ere  any  part  of  the  work 
done  for  which  they  came  together,  and  that  on  the  public  salary) 
wanted  not  boldness,  to  the  ignominy  and  scandal  of  their  pastor- 
like profession,  and  especially  of  their  boasted  reformation,  to  seize 
into  their  hands,  or  not  unwillingly  to  accept  (besides  one,  sometimes 
two  or  more  of  the  best  livings)  collegiate  masterships  in  the  univer- 
sities, rich  lectures  in  the  city,  setting  sail  to  all  winds  that  might 
blow  gain  into  their  covetous  bosoms  :  by  which  means  these  great 
rebukers  of  non-residence  among  so  many  distant  cures  were  not 
ashamed  to  be  seen  so  quickly  pluralists  and  non-residents  them- 
selves, to  a  fearfal  condemnation,  doubtless,  by  their  own  mouths. 

Thus  they  who  of  late  were  extolled  as  our  greatest  deliverers, 
and  had  the  people  wholly  at  their  devotion,  by  so  discharging  the 
trust  as  we  see,  did  not  only  weaken  and  unfit  themselves  to  be 
dispensers  of  what  liberty  they  pretended,  but  unfitted  also  the 
people,  now  grown  worse  and  more  disordinate,  to  receive  or  to 
digest  any  liberty  at  all  For  stories  teach  us  that  liberty,  sought 
out  of  season,  in  a  corrupt  and  degenerate  age,  brought  Rome  itself 
to  a  fMher  slavery ;  for  liberty  mth  a  sharp  and  double  edge,  fit 
only  to  be  handled  by  just  and  virtuous  men ;  to  bad  and  dissolute, 
it  l>ecomes  a  mischief,  unwieldy  in  their  own  hands ;  neither  is  it 
completely  given  but  by  them  who  have  the  happy  skill  to  know 
what  is  grievance  and  unjust  to  a  people,  and  how  to  remove  it 

>  uaton  bere  refen  to  tbe  Wettminster  AisemUf. 

114  JOHN  MILT0]!r4 

wisely ;  what  good  laws  are  wanting,  and  how  to  frame  them  sab* 
stantially,  that  good  men  may  enjoy  the  freedom  which  they  merit, 
and  the  bad  the  curb  which  they  need.  But  to  do  this,  and  to 
know  these  exquisite  proportions,  the  heroic  wisdom  which  is 
;required,  surmounted  Heit  the  principles  of  these  narrow  politicians* 
Britain,  to  spenk  a  truth  not  often  spoken,  as  it  is  a  land  fruitful 
enough  of  men  courageous  and  stout  in  war,  so  it  is  naturally  not 
over  fertile  of  men  able  to  govern  justly  and  prudently  in  peace, 
trusting  only  in  their  mother  wit ;  valiant,  indeed,  and  prosperous 
to  win  a  field ;  but  to  know  the  end  and  reason  of  winning,  injudi- 
cious and  unwise ;  in  good  or  bad  success  alike  unteachable.  For 
the  sun,  which  we  want,  ripens  wits  as  well  as  frmits  ;  and  as  wine 
and  oil  are  imported  to  us  from  abroad,  so  must  ripe  understand^ 
ing  and  many  civil  virtues  be  imported  into  our  minds  frx)m  foreign 
writings  and  examples  of  best  ages :  we  shall  else  miscarry  stUl^ 
and  come  short  in  tne  attempts  of  any  great  enterprise.^ 



It  is  of  no  moment  to  say  anything  of  personal  appearance ;  yet, 
lest  any  one,  from  the  representations  of  my  enemies,  should  be  led 
to  imagine  that  I  have  either  the  head  of  a  dog  or  the  horn  of  a 
rhinoceros,  I  will  say  something  on  the  subject,  that  I  may  have  an 
opportilnity  of  paying  my  grateful  acknowledgments  to  me  Deity, 
and  of  refuting  the  most  shameless  lies.  I  do  not  believe  that  I 
was  ever  once  noted  for  deformity  by  any  one  who  ever  saw  me ; 
but  the  praise  of  beauty  I  am  not  anxious  to  obtain.  My  stature 
certainly  is  not  tall,  but  it  rather  approaches  the  middle  than  the 
diminutive.  Yet,  what  if  it  were  diminutive,  when  so  many  men, 
illustrious  both  in  peace  and  war,  liave  been  the  same  1  And  how 
can  that  be  called  diminutive  which  is  great  enough  for  every  vir- 
tuous achievement  ?  Nor,  though  very  thin,  was  I  ever  deficient 
in  courage  or  in  strength  ;  and  I  was  wont  constantly  to  exercise 
myself  in  the  use  of  the  broadsword,  as  long  as  it  comported  with 
my  habit  and  my  years.  Armed  with  this  weapon,  as  I  usually 
was,  I  should  have  thought  myself  quite  a  match  for  any  one, 
though  much  stronger  than  myself,  and  I  felt  perfectly  secure 
against  the  assault  of  any  open  enemy.  At  this  moment  I  have 
the  same  courage,  the  same  strength,  though  not  the  same  eyes  ; 
yet  so  little  do  they  betray  any  external  appearance  of  injury,  that 
they  are  as  unclouded  and  bright  as  the  eyes  of  those  who  most 
distinctly  see.  In  this  instance  alone  I  am  a  dissembler  against  my 
wilL  My  £Ebce,  whidi  is  said  to  indicate  a  total  privation  of  blood, 
is  of  a  complexion  entirely  opposite  to  the  pale  and  the  cadaver- 

^  The  record  of  Hilton's  escperlence  given  in  this  extract,  after  every  allowance  is 
made  for  such  exaggeration  as  would  naturally  proceed  from  the  disappointment  of 
his  youthful  hopes,  furnishes  a  complete  recitation  of  the  half-fetbulons  romances 
that  have  heen  sometimes  written  as  the  history  of  the  Commonwealth,  while  it 
abundantly  corroborates  the  accounts  given  by  judidons  writers  such  as  Hallam. 


0U3;  80  that,  though  I  am  more  than  forty  yeara  old,  there  is 
scarcely  any  one  to  whom  I  do  not  appear  ten  years  younger  than  I 
am,  and  the  smoothness  of  my  skin  is  not,  in  the  l^Eust,  Sected  by 
the  wrinkles  of  age.  I  wish  that  I  could,  with  equal  facility,  refute 
what  this  barbarous  opponent  has  said  of  my  blindness  ;  but  I  can- 
not do  it,  and  I  must  submit  to  the  affliction.  It' is  not  so  wretched 
to  be  blind  as  it  is  not  to  be  capable  of  enduring  blindness.  But 
why  should  I  not  endure  a  misfortune  which  it  behoves  every  one 
to  be  prepared  to  endure  if  it  should  happen, — ^which  may,  in  the 
common  course  of  things,  happen  to  any  man,  and  which  has  been 
known  to  happen  to  the  most  distinguisned  and  virtuous  persons  in 
history?  Shall  I  mention  those  wise  and  ancient  bards  whose 
misfortunes  the  soda  are  said  to  have  compensated  by  superior 
endowments,  and  whom  men  so  much  revered,  that  uiej  chose 
rather  to  impute  their  want  of  sight  to  the  injustice  of  Heaven  than 
to  their  own  want  of  innocence  or  virtue  ?  With  respect  to  myself, 
though  I  have  accurately  examined  my  conduct  and  scrutinized  my 
soul,  I  call  thee,  0  Gk)d,  the  searcher  of  hearts,  to  witness,  that  I  am 
not  conscious,  either  in  the  more  early  or  in  the  later  periods  of  my 
life,  of  having  committed  anv  enormity  which  might  deservedly 
have  marked  me  out  as  a  fit  ooject  for  such  a  calamitous  visitation. 


HoBBES  was  bom  at  ftalmesbnry  in  1688.  He  was  educated  at 
Oxford,  and  had  the  good  fortune  to  become  connected  with  the 
Devonshire  family,  who  appreciated  his  services  as  tutor  so  highly 
that  he  ever  after  resided  and  travelled  with  them,  and  thus  enjoyed 
the  opportunity  of  becoming  acquainted  with  many  of  his  most  famous 
contemporaries — ^with  Bacon,  and  Jonson,  Galileo,  and  Descartes.  On 
the  outbreak  of  the  civil  war,  he  adopted  the  Koyallst  principles,  and 
apprehensive  that  the  vigour  with  which  he  defended  them  might 
excite  the  violence  of  the  dominant  party,  he  retired  to  Paris,  but 
shortly  after  returned  to  England,  and  found  an  undisturbed  shelter 
in  the  house  of  his  patron,  in  the  congenial  society  of  Cowley  and 
Selden.  Charles  II.,  on  his  restoration,  rewarded  the  services  of 
Hobbes,  who  had  formerly  been  his  tutor,  with  a  pension  of  £100,  but 
the  strong  opposition  made  by  the  clergy  against  the  principles  taught 
in  the  works  of  Hobbes  prevented  his  enjoying  much  benefit  from  the 
patronage  of  the  monarch.  He  therefore  lived  in  retirement  at  Chats- 
worth,  the  seat  of  the  Earl  of  Devonshire,  where  he  busied  himself  in 
literary  pursuits  till  his  death  in  1679. . 

His  works  are  numerous  and  varied :  the  chief  are  a  "  Translation 
of  Thucydides,"  a  "  Treatise  on  Human  Nature,"  "  Leviathan,  or  the 
Matter,  Form,  and  Power  of  a  Commonwealth,  Ecclesiastical  and 
Civil,"  "  Translations  of  the  Odyssey  and  Iliad,"  and  "Behemoth,  or  a 
History  of  the  Civil  Wars."  His  philosophical  writings  have  exercised 
great  influence  on  opinion  ever  since  his  time,  and  have  provoked 


perhaps  a  greater  amoant  of  controyeisy  than  those  of  any  other 
English  writer.  The  extracts  given  below  contain  his  chief  doctrines, 
which  his  opponents  have  not  always  expressed  with  sufficient  accu- 
racy. As  a  writer  Hohbes  is  in  some  respects  in  advance  of  his  con- 
temporaries ;  he  is  so  modem,  so  completely  free  &om  the  prevalent 
imperfections  of  his  age,  that  we  can  almost  fancy  him  to  belong  to 
our  own  day.  He  is  the  clearest  of  all  writers ;  his  meaning  is  never 
ambiguous ;  his  language  is  never. diffuse ;  his  terms  are  always  pre- 
rise  and  appropriate ;  he  never  stops  to  pun  or  quibble  on  words,  and 
carries  out  the  principles  of  his  system,  with  unbending  logical  rigour, 
to  their  complete  development.  His  system  of  morals  has  been  styled 
the  selfish  system,  and  though  many  works  have  appeared  in  refuta- 
tion of  Hobbes,  his  opinions  in  a  modified  form  have  had,  and  still 
have,  many  distinguished  advocates. 


PART  L,  CHAP.  IV.) 

Seeing  that  troth  consisteth  in  the  right  ordering  of  names  in  our 
affirmations,  a  man  that  seeketh  precise  troth  had  need  to  remember 
what  every  name  he  useth  stands  for,  and  to  place  it  accordingly, 
or  else  he  wiU  find  himself  entangled  in  words  as  a  bird  in  lime 
twigs  ^ — ^the  more  he  straggles  the  more  belimed.  And  therefore  in 
geometry,  which  is  the  only  science  that  it  hath  pleased  God  hitherto 
to  bestow  on  mankind,  men  begin  at  settling  the  significations  of 
their  words ;  which  settling  of  significations  they  ctul  definitions, 
and  place  them  in  the  beginning  of  their  reckoning. 

By  this  it  appears  how  necessary  it  is  for  any  man  that  aspires  to 
troe  knowledge  to  examine  the  definitions  of  former  authors ;  and 
either  to  correct  them  where  they  are  negligently  set  down,  or  to 
make  them  himself  For  the  errors  of  definitions  multiply  them- 
selves according  as  the  reckoning  proceeds,  and  lead  men  into  ab- 
surdities, which  at  last  they  see,  but  cannot  avoid  without  reckoning 
anew  from  the  beginning,  in  which  lies  the  foundation  of  their  errors. 
From  whence  it  happens  that  they  which  trust  to  books  do  as  they 
that  cast  up  many  little  sums  into  a  greater,  without  considering 
whether  those  little  sums  were  rightly  cast  up  or  not ;  and  at  last, 
finding  the  error  visible  and  not  mistrusting  their  first  grounds, 
know  not  which  way  to  clear  themselves,  but  spend  time  in  fluttering 
over  their  books,  as  birds  that,  entering  by  the  chimney,  flutter  at 
the  false  light  of  a  glass  window,  for  want  of  wit  to  consider  which 
way  they  came  in.  So  that  in  the  right  definition  of  names  lies  the 
first  use  of  speech,  which  is  the  acquisition  of  science,  and  in  wrong 
or  no  definitions  lies  the  first  abuse  ;  from  which  proceed  all  feJse 
and  senseless  tenets,  which  make  those  men*that  take  their  instruc- 
tion from  the  authority  of  books,  and  not  from  their  own  meditation, 
to  be  as  much  below  the  condition  of  ignorant  men  as  men  endued 
with  true  science  are  above  it.  For  between  true  science  and  erro- 
neous doctrines,  ignorance  is  in  the  middle.    Natural  sense  and  imar 

^  i  «.,  twigs  covered  with  bird-lime  in  order  to  catch  birda. 


gination  are  not  subject  to  absuidity.  Nature  itself  cannot  err ; 
and  as  men  abound  in  copiousness  of  language,  so  they  become 
more  wise  or  more  mad  thaii  ordinary.  Nor  is  it  possible  witliout 
letters  for  any  man  to  become  either  excellently^  wise,  or,  unless  his 
memory  be  hurt  by  disease  or  ill  constitution  of  organs,  excell^tly 
foolish.  For  words  are  wise  men's  counters, — ^they  do  but  reckon 
by  them ;  but  they  are  the  money  of  fools,  that  Talue  them  by  the 
authority  of  an  Aristotle,  a  Oioero,  or  a  Thomas,'  or  any  other  doctor 
whatsoever,  if  but  a  man. 


CHAP,  xm.) 

In  the  nature  of  man  there  are  three  principal  causes  of  quarrel : 
first,  competition ;  secondly,  diffidence  ;  thirdly,  glory.  Tne  first 
maketh  men  invade  for  gain  ;  the  second,  for  safety ;  and  the  third, 
for  reputation.  The  first  use  violence  to  make  themselves  masters 
of  other  men*s  persons,  wives,  children,  and  cattle  ;  the  second,  to 
defend  them ;  tne  third,  for  trifles,  as  a  word,  a  smile,  a  different 
opinion,  and  any  other  sign  of  undervalue,  either  direct  in  their 
persons,  or  by  reflection  in  their  kindred,  their  Mends,  their  nation, 
their  profession,  or  their  name. 

Hereby  it  is  manifest,  that  during  the  time  men  live  without  a 
conujion  power  to  keep  them  all  in  awe,  they  are  in  that  condition 
which  is  called  war,  and  such  a  war  as  is  of  every  man  against  every 
mau.  For  war  consisteth  not  in  battle  only,  or  the  act  of  fighting, 
but  in  a  tract  of  time,  wherein  the  will  to  contend  by  batUe  is  sufa- 
ciently  known  ;  and  therefore  the  notion  of  time  is  to  be  considered 
in  the  nature  of  war  as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  weather.  For  as  the 
nature  of  foul  weather  lieth  not  in  a  shower  or  two  of  rain,  but  in 
an  inclination  thereto  of  many  days  together  ;  so  the  nature  of  war 
consisteth  not  in  actual  fighting,  but  in  the  known  disposition 
thereto,  during  all  the  time  there  is  no  assurance  to  the  contrary. 
All  other  time  is  peace. 

Whatsoever,  therefore,  is  consequent  to  a  time  of  war,  where 
every  man  is  enemy  to  every  man,  the  same  is  consequent  to  the 
time  wherein  men  Hve  without  other  security  than  what  their  own 
strength  and  their  own  invention  shall  furnish  them  withaL  In 
such  condition  there  is  no  place  for  industry,  because  the  fruit  there- 
•  of  is  uncertain :  and,  consequently,  no  culture  of  the  earth ;  no  navi- 
gation, nor  use  of  the  commodities  that  may  be  imported  by  sea  ; 
no  commodious  building  ;  no  instruments  of  moving  and  removing 
such  things  as  require  much  force  ;  no  knowledge  of  the  face  of  the 
earth ;  no  account  of  time  ;  no  arts  ;  no  letters  ;  no  society  ;  and, 
which  is  worst  of  all,  continual  fear,  and  danger  of  violent  death  ; 
and  Uie  life  of  man  solitary,  poor,  nasty,  brutish,  and  short 

1  i«.,  In  modern  language,  extraordinarily. 

<  Hobbes  refers  to  Thomas  Aquinas— the  angel  of  the  schodla,  as  be  li  caUed-~one 
of  the  great  philosophers  of  the  middle  ageSi 


It  may  seem  strange  to  some  man  that  has  not  well  weighed 
these  things,  that  nature  should  thus  dissociate^  and  render  men  apt 
to  inyade  and  destroy  one  another :  and  he  may,  therefore,  not  trust- 
ing to  this  inference  made  from  the  passions,  desire,  perhaps,  to 
have  the  same  oonfirmed  by  experience.  Let  him,  therefore,  con- 
sider with  himself :  when  taking  a  journey,  he  arms  himself^  and 
seeks  to  go  well  accompanied  ;  when  going  to  sleep,  he  locks  his 
doors  ;  when  even  in  his  house  he  loc£  his  chests  ;  and  this  when, 
he  knows  there  be  laws,  and  public  officers,  armed  to  revenge  all 
injuries  shall  be  done  him  ;  what  opinion  he  has  of  his  fellow-sub- 
jects, when  he  rides  armed ;  of  his  fellow-citizens,  when  he  locks 
lus  doors ;  and  of  his  children  and  servants,  when  he  locks  his 
chests.  Does  he  not  there  as  much  accuse  mankind  by  his  actions 
as  I  do  by  my  words  ?  But  neither  of  us  accuse  man's  nature  in  it. 
The  desires,  and  other  passions  of  man,  are  in  themselves  no  sin. 
No  more  are  the  actions  that  proceed  from  those  passions,  till  they 
know  a  law  that  forbids  them  ;  which,  till  laws  be  made,  they  can- 
not know ;  nor  can  any  law  be  made  till  they  have  agceed,  upon 
the  person  that  shall  nu^e  it 

It  mav,  peradventure,  be  thought,  there  never  was  such  a  time 
nor  condition  of  war  as  this,  and  I  believe  it  was  never  generally 
so,  over  all  the  world :  but  there  are  many  places  where  they  live 
so  now.  For  the  savage  people  in  many  places  of  America,  except 
the  government  of  small  fEumlies,  have  no  government  at  all ;  and 
live  at  this  day  in  that  brutish  manner,  as  I  said  before.  Howsoever, 
it  may  be  perceived  what  manner  of  life  there  would  be  where  there 
were  no  conmion  power  to  fear,  by  the  manner  of  life  which  men 
that  have  formerly  lived  under  a  peaceful  govemmeut  use  to  dege- 
nerate into,  in  a  civil  wfur. 

To  this  war  of  every  man  against  every  man,  this  also  is  conse- 
quent— ^that  nothing  can  be  unjust.  The  notions  of  right  and  wrong, 
justice  and  injustice,  have  there  no  place.  Where  there  is  no  com- 
mon power  there  is  no  law  ;  where  no  law,  no  injustice.  Force  and 
fraud  are  in  war  the  two  cardinal  virtues.  Justice  and  injustice  are 
none  of  the  fsu^ulties,  neither  of  the  body  nor  mind.'  If  they  were, 
they  might  be  in  a  man  that  were  alone  in  the  world,  as  well  as  his 
senses  and  passions.  They  are  qualities  that  relate  to  men  in  society, 
not  in  solitude.  It  is  consequent  also  to  the  same  condition,  that 
there  be  no  propriety,'  no  dominion,  no  rrdne  and  ihme  distinct ;  but 
only  that  to  be  ever^  man's  that  he  can  get,  and  for  so  long  as  he  can  » 
keep  it.'  Out  of  this  state  in  which  man  by  nature  is  placed,  he  may 
come  partly  by  his  passions,  partly  by  ms  reason.  The  passions 
which  incline  men  to  peace  are — ^fear  of  death,  desire  of  sucn  things 

1  Hobbea,  it  mnst  be  remembered,  denied  ell  essential  distinction  between  right 
and  wrong. 
'  Propriety,  in  our  older  anthors,  means  right  of  property. 
'  An  anticipation  of  the  well-luown  modem  lines: — 

<*  The  good  old  law  snAceth  them, 
The  Rood  old  law,  the  simple  plan, 
Th»t  toe  J  should  take  who  have  the  power» 
And  they  ihould  keep  who  can.** 


^as  are  necessaty  to  commodious  liTing,  and  a  hope  hy  their  industry 
to  obtam  them.  And  reason  suggesteth  convenient  articles  of  peace, 
upon  which  men  may  be  diawn  to  agreement :  these  articles  are 
they  which  otherwise  are  called  the  Laws  of  Nature. 

PART  I.^  C3HAP.  XIV.  ;  PART  n.,  CHAP.  XVIH.) 

In  the  state  of  nature  such  as  has  been  already  described,  every 
man  has  a  right  to  everything,  and  as  long  as  this  natural  ri^t  en- 
dureth,  there  can  be  no  security  to  anv  man,  how  strong  or  wise 
soever  he  be,  of  living  out  the  time  which  nature  ordinarily  alloweth 
men  to  Uve.  And,  consequently,  it  is  a  precept,  or  general  rule  of 
reason,  that  every  man  ought  to  endeavour  peace,  as  far  as  he  has 
hope  of  obtaining  it ;  and  when  he  cannot  obtain  it,  that  he  may 
seek  and  use  all  helps  and  advantages  of  war.  The  first  branch  of 
which  rule  containetn  the  Qrst  and  fimdamental  law  of  nature,  which 
is,  to  ieek  peace  amd  follow  it  ;  the  second,  the  sum  of  the  ri^t  of 
nature,  which  ia,  by  cUl  means  we  can  to  drfend  oursehei.  From 
this  fundamental  law  of  nature,  by  which  men  are  commanded  to 
endeavour  peace,  is  derived  this  second  law  :  that  a  man  be  willing 
when  others  are  so  too,  as  far-forth  as  for  peace,  and  for  defence  of 
himself  he  shall  think  it  necessary,  to  lay  down  this  right  to  all 
tilings,  and  be  contented  with  so  much  libei^  against  other  men,  as 
he  would  allow  other  men  agabst  himself  fV)r  as  long  as  eveiy  man . 
holdeth  this  right  of  doing  anything  he  liketh,  so  lonff  are  all  men  in 
the  condition  of  war.  But  if  other  men  will  not  lay  down  their 
right  as  well  as  he,  then  there  is  no  reas<»i  for  any  one  to  divest 
huDself  of  his  ;  for  that  were  to  expose  himself  to  prey,  which  no 
man  is  bound  to,  rather  than  to  dispose  himself  to  peace.  This  is 
that  law  of  the  gospel:  whatsoever  ye  require  that  others  should  do  to 
you,  that  do  ye  to  mem. 

llie  final  cause,  end,  or  design  oi  men,  who  naturally  love  Hberty, 
and  dominion  over  others,  in  the  introduction  of  that  restraint  upon 
themselves,  in  which  we  see  them  live  in  commonwealths,  is  the 
foresight  of  their  own  preservation,  and  of  a  more  contented  life 
thereby ;  that  is  to  say,  of  getting  themselves  out  from  that  miserable 
condition  of  war  which  is  necesrarily  consequent,  as  has  been  shown, 
to  the  natural  passions  of  men,  when  there  is  no  visible  power  to 
keep  them  in  4iwe,  and  tie  them  by  fear  of  punishment  to  the  per^ 
formance  of  their  covenants,  and  observation  of  the  laws  of  nature. 
For  the  laws  of  nature,  as  justice,  equity,  modesty,  mercy,  and,  in 
sum,  doing  to  others  as  we  would  be  done  to,  of  themselves,  with- 
out the  terror  of  some  power  to  cause  them  to  be  observed,  are 
contrary  to  our  natural  passions,  that  carry  us  to  partiality,  pride, 
revenge,  and  the  lika  And  covenants,  without  the  sword,  are  but 
words,  and  of  no  strength  to  secure  man  at  alL 

The  only  way  to  erect  such  a  common  power,  as  may  be  able  to 
defend  men  from  the  invasion  of  foreigners,  and  the  injuries  of  one 

120  THOKAS  H0BBB8. 

another,  and  thereby  to  secure  them  in  sach  sort  as  that  by  their' 
own  industiy,  and  by  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  they  may  nourish  them- 
selves and  live  contentedly,  is  to  confer  all  their  power  and  strength 
upon  one  man,  or  upon  one  assembly  of  men,  that  may  reduce  all 
their  wills,  by  plurality  of  voices,  unto  one  will :  which  is  as  much 
as  to  say,  to  appoint  one  man,  or  assembly  of  men,  to  bear  their 
person  ;  and  every  one  to  own  and  acknowledge  himself  to  be  author 
of  whatsoever  he  that  so  beareth  their  person  shall  act,  or  cause  to 
be  acted,  in  those  things  which  concern  the  common  peace  and 
safety  ;  and  therein  to  submit  their  wills  every  one  to  his  will,  and 
their  judgments  to  his  judgment  This  is  more  than  consent  or 
concord  ;  it  is  a  real  unify  of  them  all  in  one  and  the  same  person. 
'Hub  done,  the  multitude  so  united  in  one  person  is  called  a  commonr 
weaUh,  This  ia  the  generation  of  that  great  leoicvthom,  or  rather,  to 
speak  more  reverently,  of  that  mortal  god,  to  which  we  owe,  under 
the  immortal  Qod,  our  peace  and  defence. 

("  leviathan/*  fart  IV.,  CHAF.  XLVn.) 

From  the  time  that  the  Bishop  of  Rome  hath  gotten  to  be  ac- 
knowledged for  bishop  universal,  by  pretence  of  succession  to  St 
Peter,  his  whole  hierarchy,  or  kingdom  of  darkness,  may  be  com- 
pared not  unfitly  to  the  kmgdom  of  fsiiries ;  that  is,  to  the  old  wives' 
&.bles  in  England,  concerning  ghosts  and  spirits,  and  the  feats  they 
plav  in  the  night  And  if  a  man  consider  the  original  of  this  ^tea,t 
ecclesiastical  dominion,  he  will  easily  perceive  that  the  Papacy  is  no 
other  than  the  ghost  of  the  deceased  Roman  Empire,  sitting  crowned 
upon  the  grave  thereol  For  so  did  the  Papacy  start  up  on  a 
sudden  out  of  the  ruins  of  that  heathen  power.  The  language,  also, 
which  the^  use,  both  in  the  churches  and  in  their  public  acts,  being 
Latin,  which  is  not  commonly  used  by  any  nation  now  in  the  worl(^ 
what  is  it  but  the  ghost  of  the  old  Roman  language  ?  The  fairies,  in 
what  nation  soever  they  converse,  have  but  one  universal  king, 
which  some  poets*  of  ours  call  King  Oberon ;  but  the  Scripture 
calls  Beelzebub,  prince  of  demons.  The  ecclesiastics  likewise,  in 
whose  dominions  soever  they  be  found,  acknowledge  but  one  uni- 
versal king,  the  Pope.  The  ecclesiastics  are  spvntudl  men  and 
ghostlAf  fEimers.  The  fairies  are  spirits  and  ghosts.  FaMes  and 
ghosts  inhabit  darkness,  solitudes,  and  graves.  The  ecdesiastUs 
walk  in  obscurity  of  doctrine,  in  monasteries,  churches,  and  church- 
yards. The  fairies  are  not  to  be  seized  on,  and  brought  to  answer 
for  the  hurt  the^  do.  So  also  the  ecclesiastics  vanish  away  from  the 
tribunals  of  civil  justice.  The  ecclesiastics  take  the  crtom  of  the 
land,  by  donations  of  ignorant  men,  that  stand  in  awe  of  them,  and 
by  tithes.  So  ako  it  is  in  the  fable  of  fairies,  that  they  enter  into 
the  dairies,  and  feast  upon  the  cream  which  they  skuu  from  the 
milk.    What  kind  of  money  is  current  in  the  kingdom  of  fairies, 

I  &0r.,  Shakapore. 

jjEBEKT  TATLOB.  •  121 

is  not  recorded  in  the  story.  But  the  ecckdagUes  in  their  leoeipts 
accept  of  the  same  money  that  we  do ;  though  when  they  are  to 
make  any  payment,  it  is  in  canonizations,  indabences,  and  masses. 
To  1Mb,  and  snch-like  resemblances  between  the  Papacy  and  the 
kingdom  of  &iries,  may  be  added  this,  that  as  the  fwiries  have  no 
existence  but  in  the  &ncies  of  ignorant  people,  rising  from  the 
traditions  of  old  wives  or  old  poets,  so  the  spiritual  power  of  the 
Pope,  without  the  bounds  of  his  own  ciyil  dominion,  consisteth  only 
in  the  fear  that  seduced  people  stand  in,  of  their  excommunications, 
upon  hearing  of  &lse  miracles,  fa^ae  traditions,  and  fiedse  interpreta- 
tions of  the  Scripture. 


Jebemt  Taylob  was  bom  at  Cambridge  in  1618.  His  father, 
though  following  the  humble  profession  of  a  barber,  was  able  to  give 
his  son  the  first  rudiments  of  a  learned  education,  which  was  after- 
wards completed  in  the  university  of  his  native  town.  After  he  had 
been  ordained,  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  attract  the  attention  of 
liaud,  who,  at  least,  had  the  merit  of  encouraging  learning,  and  who 
appointed  him  his  own  chaplain,  and  procured  for  him  some  church 
preferment.  Taylor,  of  course,  espoused  the  cause  of  Charles  in  the 
civil  conflicts,  and  the  monarch,  duly  appreciating  his  abilities,  kept 
him  in  personal  attendance  on  himself  during  the  war.  He  suffered 
the  usual  hardships  of  civil  strife;  he  was  taken  prisoner  by  the 
Parliamentarians  in  Wales,  and  was  afterwards,  oftener  than  once, 
thrown  into  confinement,  but  without  meeting  with  any  harsh  treat- 
ment.  During  the  nsui^ation  of  Cromwell,  he  officiated  privately 
to  small  congregations  who  still  ventured  to  employ  the  obnoxious 
Episcopalian  ritual ;  and  his  piety,  learning,  eloquence,  and  mildness 
of  disposition,  secured  him  patrons  both  in  England  and  Ireland. 
Shortly  after  the  Restoration  he  was  made  Bishop  of  Down  and 
Connor  in  Ireland,  the  see  of  Dromore  being  afterwards  added  to  his 
diocese,  and  he  spent  the  rest  of  his  life  in  the  assiduous  discharge  of 
his  duties.  He  died  at  Lisbum  in  1667.  Of  his  works  the  chief  are 
— "  Rules  and  Exercises  of  Holy  Living  and  Dying,"  **  Ductor 
Dubitantium,  or  Cases  of  Conscience,"  "Liberty  of  Prophesying," 
"  Gk>lden  Grove,"  "  Life  of  Christ,"  besides  numerous  sermons. 

In  point  of  eloquence,  Taylor  stands  without  a  rival  at  the  head  of 
our  literature ;  nor  is  this  the  only  merit  of  his  writings :  they  are 
characterized  by  genuine  and  unostentatious  piety,  extensive  learn- 
ing, and  lively  and  poetical  fancy,  by  the  soundness  of  the  moral 
precepts  which  they  inculcate,  and  the  genial  kindliness  of  spirit 
which  they  everywhere  breathe.  His  "Liberty  of  Prophesying" 
was  the  first  treatise  in  the  language  which  formally  defended  the 
doctrine  of  religious  toleration,  and  this  alone  would  lay  posterity 
under  deep  obligations  to  Taylor.  His  style,  however,  is  not  entirely 
free  from  blemish ;  his  fancy  is  sometimes  too  exuberant ;  his  periods 
sometimes  run  to  an  excessive  length,  and  axe  occasionally  obscure ; 

122  jbHeht  tatlob. 

bis  arguments  are  not  always  very  sound ;  and  his  learning  is  some- 
times out  of  place ;  but  wben  weigbed  against  bis  merits,  tbese  minor 
defects  sink  out  of  view,  and  are  scarce  felt  to  possess  any  importance. 

— (TATLOB's  "  HOLT  DYING,"  CHAP.  L,  SBOT.  I.) 

All  the  snccession  of  time,  all  tbe  cbanges  in  nature,  all  tbe 
varieties  of  ligbt  and  darkness,  tbe  tbousand  tbousands  of  accidents 
in  tbe  world,  and  every  contmgency  to  every  man,  and  to  every 
creature,  dotb  preacb  our  funeral  sermon,  and  calls  us  to  look  and 
see  bow  tbe  old  sexton,  Time,  tbrows  up  the  earth,  and  di^  a  grave, 
where  we  must  lay  our  sins  or  our  sorrows,  and  sow  our  bodies,  till 
they  rise  again  in  a  fair  or  an  intolerable  eternity.  Every  revolution 
which  tbe  sun  makes  about  tbe  world  divides  between  life  and 
death,  and  death  possesses  both  those  portions  bv  the  next  morrow ; 
and  we  are  dead  to  all  those  months  which  we  have  already  lived, 
and  we  shall  never  live  them  over  again,  and  still  God  makes  little 
periods  of  our  a^  First  we  change  our  world,  wben  we  come  £rom 
the  womb  to  feel  the  warmth  of  the  sun  ;  then  we  sleep  and  enter 
into  the  image  of  death,  in  which  state  we  are  unconcerned  in  all 
tbe  cbanges  of  tbe  world  ;  and  if  our  mothers  or  our  nurses  die,  or 
a  wild  boar  destrov  our  vineyards,  or  our  king  be  sick,  we  regard  it 
not,  but,  during  that  state,  are  as  disinterested  as  if  our  eyes  were 
closed  with  the  clay  that  weeps  in  tbe  bowels  of  the  earth.  At  the 
end  of  seven  years  our  teeth  Ml  and  die  before  us,  representing  a 
formal  prologue  to  tbe  tragedy,  and  still  every  seven  years  ^  it  is 
odds  but  we  shall  finish  tbe  last  scene ;  and  when  nature,  or  chance, 
or  vice,  takes  our  body  in  pieces,  weakening  some  parts  and  loosing 
others,  we  taste  tbe  grave  and  the  solenmities  of  our  own  funeral, 
first,  in  those  parts  tSa,t  ministered  to  vice,  and,  next,  in  them  that 
served  for  ornament ;  and  in  a  short  time,  even  they  tbat  served  for 
necessity  become  usdess  and  entangled,  like  the  wheels  of  a  broken 
clock.  Baldness  is  but  a  dressing  to  our  funerals,  the  proper  orna- 
ment of  mourning,  and  of  a  person  entered  very  fiEir  into  tbe  regions 
and  possession  of  death ;  and  we  have  many  more  of  tbe  same 
signification — gray  hairs,  rotten  teeth,  dim  eyes,  trembling  joints, 
short  breath,  stiff  limbs,  wrinkled  skin,  short  memory,  decayed  ap- 
petite. Every  day's  necessity  calls  for  a  reparation  of  that  portion 
which  death  fed  on  all  night  when  we  lay  m  bis  lap,  and  slept  in 
bis  outer  chambers.  The  very  spirits  of  a  man  prey  upon  his  daily 
portion  of  bread  and  fiesh,  and  every  meal  is  a  rescue  from  one 
death,  and  lays  up  for  another ;  and  while  we  think  a  thought  we 
die,  and  the  clock  strikes,  and  reckons  on  our  portion  of  eternity : 
we  form  our  words  with  tbe  breath  of  our  nostrils— we  have  the 
less  to  live  upon  for  every  word  we  speak. 

1  According  to  an  opinion  preralent  In  Taylor's  time,  every  seventh  or  ninth  year 
of  a  man's  life  was  considered  as  one  of  peculiar  importance  and  danger,  lliese  periods 
were  called  cKmaeteries,  and  a  man's  sixty-third  year,  which,  as  the  product  of  seven 
and  nine,  was  styled  the  ffrand  diTnactene^  was  held  pre-eminently  fktaL 


Thus  nature  calls  us  to  meditate  of  death  by  those  things  which 
are  the  instruments  of  acting  it ;  and  Qod,  b^  all  the  variety  of  His 
proyidenoe,  makes  us  see  death  everywhere,  m  all  variety  of  circum- 
stances, and  dressed  up  for  all  the  fieuicies  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  wrongs 
of  men  and  women  to  charnel-houses ;  and  all  the  summer  long 
men  are  recovering  from  their  evils  of  the  spring,  till  the  dog-davs 
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  sta^  for  another  opportunity,  which  the  distempers  of 
that  quarter  mmister  to  him  witn  mat  variety.  Thus  death  reigns 
in  all  the  portions  of  our  time.  The  autunm  with  its  fruits  pro- 
vides 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  all  minister  to  death ;  and  you  can  go  no  whither  but 
you  tread  upon  a  dead  man's  bones. 


SECT.  VI.) 

Poverty  is  better  than  riches,  and  a  mean  fortune  to  be  chosen 
before  a  great  and  splendid  one.  It  is  indeed  despised,  and  makes 
man  contemptible ;  it  exposes  a  man  to  the  insolence  of  evil  per- 
sons, and  leaves  a  man  defenceless ;  it  is  always  suspected ;  its 
stories  are  accounted  lies,  and  all  its  counsels  follies ;  it  puts  a  man 
from  aU  employment ;  it  makes  a  man's  discourse  tedious,  and  his 
society  troublesome.  This  is  the  worst  of  it ;  and  yet  all  this,  and 
far  worse  than  this,  the  apostles  sufiiered  for  being  Christians ;  and 
Christianity  itself  may  be  esteemed  an  aflUction  as  well  as  poverty, 
if  this  be  all  that  can  be  said  against  it ;  for  the  apostles  and  the 
most  eminent  Christians  were  really  poor,  and  were  used  con-> 
temptuously ;  and  yet,  that  poverty  is  despised  may  be  an  argu- 
ment to  commend  it,  if  it  be  despised  by  none  but  persons  vicious 
and  ignorant.  However,  certain  it  is  that  a  great  fortune  is  a  great 
vanity,  and  riches  is  nothing  but  danger,  trouble,  and  temptation ; 
like  a  garment  that  is  too  long,  and  b^rs  a  train  ;  not  so  useful  to 
one,  but  it  is  troublesome  to  two — ^to  him  that  bears  the  one  part 
upon  his  shoulders,  and  to  him  that  bears  the  other  part  in  his 
hand.  But  poverty  is  the  sister  of  a  good  mind|  the  parent  of 
sober  counsels,  and  the  nurse  of  all  virtue. 

For  what  is  that  you  admire  in  the  fortune  of  a  great  king  7  Is 
it  that  he  sdways  goes  in  a  great  company  ?  You  may  thrust  your- 
self into  the  same  crowd,  or  go  often  to  church,  and  then  you  have 
as  great  company  as  he  hath ;  and  that  may  upon  as  good  grounds 


please  yon  as  him,  tliat  is,  justly  neither ;  for  so  impertiiient  and 
useless  pomp,  and  the  other  circumstances  of  his  distance,  are  not 
made  for  him,  but  for  his  subjects,  that  they  may  learn  to  separate 
him  from  common  usages,  and  be  taught  to  be  govemed.  But  if  you 
look  upon  them  as  fine  things  in  themselves,  you  may  quickly  alter 
your  opinion  when  you  sh^  consider  that  they  cannot  cure  the 
toothadie,  nor  make  one  wise,  or  fill  the  belly,  or  give  one  nij^t's 
sleep  (though  they  help  to  break  many) — ^not  satisfying  any  appe- 
tite of  natiue,  or  reason,  or  religion ;  but  they  are  stat^  of  great- 
ness which  only  make  it  possime  for  a  man  to  be  made  extremely 
miserable ;  and  it  was  long  ago  observed  by  the  Greek  tragedians, 
and  from  them  by  Anianus,  saying,  that  "  all  our  tragedies  are 
of  kings  and  princes,  and  rich  or  ambitious  personages,  but  you 
never  see  a  poor  man  have  a  part,  unless  it  be  as  a  chorus,  or  to  fill  up 
the  scenes,  to  dance  or  to  be  derided ;  but  the  kings  and  the  great 
cenerals.  First,''  says  he, "  they  begin  with  joy, '  crown  tbe  houses ;' 
but  about  the  tliird  or  fourth  act  tiiey  ciy  out,  ^  0  Oitheron !  why 
didst  thou  spare  my  life  to  reserve  me  for  this  more  sad  calamity  ?'  ^ 
And  this  is  really  true  in  the  great  accidents  of  the  world ;  for  a 
great  estate  hath  great  crosses,  and  a  mean  fortune  hath  but  small 
ones.  It  mav  be  the  poor  man  loses  a  cow,  or  if  his  child  dies  he 
is  quit  of  his  biggest  care ;  but  such  an  accident  in  a  rich  and 
splendid  family  doubles  upon  the  spirits  of  the  parents.  Or,  it  may 
be,  the  poor  man  is  troubled  to  pay  his  rent,  and  that  is  his  biggest 
trouble ;  but  it  is  a  bigger  care  to  secure  a  great  fortune  in  a  troubled 
estate,  or  with  equal  greatness,  or  with  the  circumstances  of  honour 
and  the  niceness  of  reputation,  to  defend  a  law-suit ;  and  that  which 
will  secure  a  common  man's  whole  estate  is  not  enough  to  defend  a 
great  man's  honour. 

And,  therefore,  it  was  not  without  mystery  observed  among  the 
ancients,  that  they  who  make  gods  of  gold  and  silver,  of  hope  and 
fear,  peace  and  fortune,  garlic  and  onions,  beasts  and  serpents,  and  a 
quartan  ague,  yet  never  deified  money;  meaning,  that  however 
wealth  was  admired  by  common  or  abused  understandings,  yet  from 
riches,  that  is,  from  that  proportion  of  good  things  which  is  beyond 
the  necessities  of  nature,  no  moment  could  be  added  to  a  man's  real 
content  or  happiness.  Com  from  Sardinia,  herds  of  Calabrian 
cattle,  meadows  through  which  pleasant  Siris  glides,  silks  from 
T3nnis,  and  golden  chalices  to  drown  my  health  in,  are  nothing  but 
instruments  of  vanity  or  sia ;  and  suppose  a  disease  in  the  soul  of 
him  that  longs  for  them  or  admires  them.  And  this  I  have  other- 
wise represented  more  largely;  to  which  I  here  add,  that  riches 
have  very  great  dangers  to  their  souls,  not  only  who  covet  them, 
but  to  all  uiat  have  Siem.  For  if  a  great  personage  undertakes  an 
action  passionately,  and  upon  great  interest,  let  him  manage  it 
indiscreetly,  let  the  whole  design  be  unjust,  let  it  be  acted  wiSi  all 
the  malice  and  impotency  in  the  world,  he  shall  have  enough  to 
flatter  him,  but  not  enough  to  reprove  him.  He  had  need  be  a 
bold  man  that  shall  tell  his»patron  he  is  going  to  hell ;  and  that 


prince  had  need  be  a  good  man  that  shall  suffer  such  a  monitor; 
and  though  it  be  a  strange  kind  of  ciyility,  and  an  eril  dutifdness, 
in  friends  and  relatives,  to  suffer  him  to  perish  -without  reproof  or 
medicine,  rather  than  to  seem  unmannerly  to  a  great  sinner,  yet  it 
is  none  of  their  least  infelicities  that  their  weuth  and  greatness 
shall  pub  them  into  sin,  and  yet  put  them  past  reprool  I  need  not 
instance  in  the  habitual  intemperance  of  rich  tables,  nor  the  evil 
accidents  and  effects  of  fulness,  pride  and  lust,  wantonness  and 
softness  of  disposition,  huge  talkmg  and  an  imperious  spirit,  de- 
spite of  religion,  and  contempt  of  poor  persons :  at  the  bes^  '4t  is  a 
great  temptetion  for  a  man  to  haye  in  nis  power  whatsoever  he  can 
have  in  his  sensual  desires  ;"  and,  therefore,  riches  is  a  blessing  like 
to  a  present  made  of  a  whole  vinta^  to  a  man  in  a  hectic  fever, — he 
will  be  much  tempted  to  drink  of  it,  and  if  he  does,  he  is  inflamed, 
and  may  chance  to  die  with  the  kindness. 



One  thing  that  hiuders  the  prayer  of  a  good  man  from  obtaining 
its  effects,  is  a  violent  anger,  and  a  violent  storm  in  the  spirit  of  him 
that  prays.  For  anger  sets  the  house  on  fire,  and  all  the  spirits  are 
busy  upon  trouble,  and  intend^  propulsion,  defence,  displeasure,  or 
revenge ;  it  is  a  short  madness,  and  an  eternal  enemy  to  discourse^ 
and  sober  counsels,  and  fair  conversation ;  it  intends  its  own  object 
with  all  the  earnestness  of  perception,  or  activity  of  design,  and  a 
quicker  motion  of  a  too  warm  and  distempered  blood ;  it  is  a  fever 
in  the  heart,  and  a  calenture  in  the  head,  and  a  fire  in  the  face,  and 
a  sword  in  the  hand,  and  a  fury  all  over ;  and  therefore  can  never 
suffer  a  man  to  be  in  a  disposition  to  pray.  For  prayer  is  an  action, 
and  a  state  of  intercourse  and  desire,  exactly  contrary  to  this  cha- 
racter of  anger.  Prayer  is  an  action  of  likeness  to  the  Holy  Ghost, 
the  spirit  of  gentleness  and  dove-like  simplicity ;  an  imitation  of 
the  holy  Jesus,  whose  spirit  is  meek,  up  to  the  greatness  of  the 
biggest  example,  and  a  conformity  to  God,  whose  anger  is  always 
just,  and  marches  slowly,  and  is  without  transportation,  and  often 
hindered,  and  never  hasty,  and  is  fiill  of  mercy ;  prayer  is  the  peace 
of  our  spirit,  the  stillness  of  our  thoughts,  the  evenness  of  recollec- 
tion, the  seat  of  meditation,  the  rest  of  our  cares,  and  the  calm  of  our 
tempest ;  prayer  is  the  issue  of  a  quiet  mind,  of  untroubled  thoughts ; 
it  is  the  daughter  of  charity,  and  ihe  sister  of  meekness ;  and  he  that 
prays  to  God  with  an  angiy,  that  is,  with  a  troubled  and  discom- 
posed spirit,  is  like  him  that  retires  into  a  battle  to  meditate,  and 
sets  up  his  closet  in  the  oulniuarters  of  an  army,  and  chooses  a  fron- 
tier garrison  to  be  wise  in.  Anger  is  a  perfect  alienation  of  the  mind 
from  prayer,  and  therefore  is  contraiy  to  that  attention  which  pre- 
sents our  prayers  in  a  right  line  to  Grod.  For  so  have  I  seen  a  krk 
rising  from  his  bed  of  grass,  and  soaring  upwards,  singing  as  he 

^  iiftt  In  modem  phraseology,  nUad  or  attend  Uk 


rises,  and  hopes  to  get  to  heayen,  and  climb  above  the  clouds ;  but 
the  poor  bird  was  beaten  back  with  the  loud  sighings  of  an  eastern 
wind,  and  his  motion  made  irregular  and  inconstant,  descending 
more  at  every  breath  of  the  tempest  than  it  could  recover  by  the 
Hbiation  and  frequent  weighing  of  nis  wings ;  till  the  little  creature 
was  forced  to  sit  down  and  pant,  and  stay  till  the  storm  was  over, 
and  then  it  made  a  prosperous  flight,  and  did  rise  and  sing  as  if  it 
had  learned  music  and  motion  &om  an  angel,  as  he  passed  some- 
times through  the  air,  about  his  ministries  nere  below.  So  is  the 
prayer  of  a  good  man ;  when  his  affidrs  have  required  business,  and 
his  business  was  matter  of  discipline,  and  his  discipline  was  to  pass 
upon  a  sinning  person,  or  had  a  design  of  charity,  his  duty  met  with 
infirmities  of  a  man,  and  anger  was  its  instrument,  and  the  instru- 
ment became  stronger  than  the  prime  agent,  and  raised  a  tempest, 
and  overruled  the  man ;  and  then  his  prayer  was  broken,  and  his 
thoughts  were  troubled,  and  his  words  went  up  towards  a  doud, 
and  his  thoughts  pulled  them  back  again,  and  made  them  without 
intention ;  and  the  good  man  sighs  for  his  infirmity,  and  must  be 
content  to  lose  the  prayer,  and  he  must  recover  it  when  his  anger  is 
removed,  and  his  spirit  is  becalmed,  made  even  as  the  brow  of 
Jesus,  and  smooth  like  the  heart  of  God ;  and  then  it  ascends  to 
heaven  upon  the  wings  of  the  holy  dove,  and  dwells  with  God  till  it 
retiuns,  like  the  useful  bee,  loaden  with  a  blessing  and  the  dew  of 


CHAP,  rv.) 

"  For  everything  there  is  a  season,  and  a  time  to  every  purpose 
under  the  heaven."  But  neither  days,  nor  hours,  nor  seasons,  did 
ever  come  amiss  to  faithful  prayer.  Short  passes,  quick  ejections, 
concise  forms  and  remembrances,  holy  breathings,  prayer-like  little 
posies,*  may  be  sent  forth  without  number  on  every  occasion,  and 
God  will  note  them  in  his  book.  But  all  that  have  a  care  to  walk 
with  God,  fill  their  vessels  more  largely  as  soon  as  they  rise,  before 
they  begin  the  work  of  the  day,  and  before  they  Jie  down  again  at 
ni^t :  which  is  to  observe  what  the  Lord  appointed  in  the  Leviti- 
cal  ministry,  a  morning  and  an  evening  lamb  to  be  laid  upon  the 
altar.  So  Vith  them  tLt  are  not  starkkreli^ons,  pi^yer  i»  the  key 
to  open  the  day,  and  the  bolt  to  shut  in  the  night.  But  as  the  skies 
drop  the  early  dew  and  the  evening  dew  upon  die  grass,  yet  it  would 
not  spring  and  grow  green  by  that  constant  and  double  falling  of 
the  dew,  unless  some  great  lowers,  at  certain  seasons,  did  supply 
the  rest ;  so  the  customary  devotion  of  prayer  twice  a-day  is  the 
falling  of  the  early  and  the  latter  dew ;  but  if  you  will  increase  and 
flourish  in  the  works  of  grace,  empty  the  great  clouds  sometimes, 
and  let  them  fall  into  a  full  shower  of  prayer ;  choose  out  the  seasons 

I  i  e..  mottoes  or  maxlmt. 

HAABIA0B.  127 

m  your  own  discretion,  when  piayer  sball  oreiflow  like  Jordan  in 
the  time  of  harvest. 


Life  or  death,  felicity  or  a  lasting  sorrow,  are  in  the  power  of 
marriage.  A  woman  indeed  ventures  most^  for  she  hath  no  sanc- 
tuary to  retire  to  from  an  evil  husband ;  she  must  dwell  upon  her 
sorrow,  and  hatch  the  eggs  which  her  own  folly  or  infelicity  hath 
product ;  and  she  is  more  under  it,  because  her  tormentor  hath  a 
warrant  of  prerogative,  and  the  woman  may  complain  to  God  as 
subjects  do  of  tyrant  princes,  but  otherwise  she  hath  no  appeal  in 
the  causes  of  unkindness.  Aiid  though  the  man  can  run  from  many 
hours  of  his  sadness,  yet  he  must  return  to  it  again,  and  when  he 
sits  among  his  neighbours,  he  remembers  the  objection  that  lies  in 
his  bosom,  and  he  si^hs  deeply.  It  is  the  unhappy  chance  of  many 
men,  finding  many  mconveniences  upon  the  mountains  of  single 
life,  they  descend  into  the  valleys  of  marriage  to  refresh  their 
troubles,  and  there  they  enter  into  fetters,  and  are  bound  to  sorrow 
by  the  cords  of  a  man's  or  woman's  peevishness ;  and  the  worst  of 
the  evil  is,  they  are  to  thank  their  own  follies,  for  thev  fell  into  the 
snare  by  entering  an  improper  way ;  Christ  and  the  Cnurch  were  no 
ingredients  in  their  choice ;  but  as  the  Indian  women  enter  into 
fofly  for  the  price  of  an  elephant,  and  think  their  crime  warrantable, 
so  do  men  and  women  change  their  liberty  for  a  rich  fortune,  and 
show  themselves  to  be  less  than  money,  by  overvaluing  that  to  all 
the  content  and  wise  feUcity  of  their  lives ;  and  when  they  have 
counted  the  money  and  their  sorrows  together,  how  willingly  would 
they  buy,  with  the  loss  of  all  that  money,  modesty,  or  sweet  nature 
to  their  relative !  the  odd  thousand  pounds  would  gladly  be  allowed 
in  good  nature  and  fsur  manners.  As  very  a  fool  is  he  that  chooses 
for  beauty  principally ;  it  is  an  ill  band  of  affections  to  tie  two 
hearts  together  by  a  httle  thread  of  red  and  white.  And  they  can 
love  no  longer  but  until  the  next  ague  comes  ;  and  they  are  fond  of 
each  other  but  at  the  chance  of  fancy,  or  the  small-pox,  or  care,  or 
time,  or  anything  that  can  destroy  a  pretty  flower. 

There  is  nothing  can  please  a  man  without  love  ;  and  if  a  man  be 
weary  of  the  wise  discourses  of  the  apostles,  and  of  the  innocency  of 
an  even  and  a  private  fortune,  or  hates  peace  or  a  fruitful  year,  he 
hath  reaped  thorns  and  thistles  from  the  choicest  flowers  of  para- 
dise ;  for  nothing  can  sweeten  felicity  itself  but  love  ;  but  when  a 
man  dwells  in  love,  then  the  breasts  of  his  wife  are  pleasant  as  the 
droppings  upon  the  hill  of  Hermon,  her  eyes  are  fair  as  the  light  of 
heaven,  she  is  a  fountain  sealed,  and  he  can  quench  his  thirst,  and 
ease  his  cares,  and  lay  his  sorrow  down  upon  her  lap,  and  can  retire 
home  as  to  his  sanctuaiy  and  refectory,  and  his  gardens  of  sweetness 
and  chaste  refreshments.  No  man  can  tell  but  he  that  loves  his 
children,  how  many  delicious  accents  make  a  man's  heart  dance  in 
the  pretty  conversation  of  those  dear  pledges  ;  their  childishness. 


their  Btammoiing,  their  little  angers,  their  innocence,  their  imper- 
fections, their  necessities,  are  so  many  little  emanations  of  joy  and 
comfort  to  him  that  delights  in  their  persons  and  society ;  but  he 
that  loves  not  his  wife  and  children,  feeds  a  lioness  at  home,  and 
broods  a  nest  of  sorrows,  and  blessing  itself  cannot  make  him 

6.  FOLLT  OF  Snr. — (from  ''apples  of  SODOM."   GOLDEN  GROVE 


It  were  easy  to  make  a  catalogue  of  sins,  every  one  of  which  is  a 
disease,  a  trouble  in  its  very  constitution  and  nature ;  such  are 
loathing  of  spiritual  things,  bitterness  of  spirit,  rage,  greediness, 
confi2sion  of  mind,  and  irresolution,  cruelty  and  despite,  slothM* 
ness  and  distrust,  unquietness  and  anger,  effeminacy  and  nioeness, 
prating  and  sloth,  ignorance  and  inconstancy,  incogitancy  and 
cursing,  malignity  and  fear,  forgetfiilness  and  rashness,  pusillani- 
mity and  despair,  rancour  and  superstition :  if  a  man  were  to  curse 
his  enemy,  he  could  not  wish  him  a  greater  evil  than  these ;  and 
yet  these  are  several  kinds  of  sin  whidi  men  choose,  and  give  all 
their  hopes  of  heaven  in  exchange  for  one  of  these  diseases.  Is  it 
not  a  fearful  consideration  that  a  man  should  rather  choose  eter- 
nally to  perish  than  to  say  his  prayers  heartily  and  affectionately  ? 
But  so  it  is  with  very  many  men.  They  are  driven  to  their  devo- 
tions by  custom,  and  shame,  and  reputation,  and  evil  compliances ; 
they  sigh  and  look  sour  when  they  are  called  to  it,  and  abide  there 
as  a  man  under  the  chirurgeon's*  hands,  smarting  and  fretting  all 
the  while ;  or  else  he  passes  the  time  with  incogitancy,  and  nates 
the  employment,  and  suffers  the  torment  of  prayers,  which  he  loves 
not ;  and  all  this,  although  for  so  doing  it  is  certain  he  may  perisL 
What  fruit,  what  deliciousness,  can  he  fancy  in  being  weary  of  his 
prayers  ?    There  is  no  pretence  or  colour  for  these  thmgs. 

Can  any  imagine  a  greater  evil  to  the  body  and  soul  of  a  man 
than  madness,  and  furious  eyes,  and  a  distracted  look ;  paleness 
with  passion,  and  trembling  hands  and  knees,  and  furiousness  and 
folly  m  the  heart  and  head  1  And  yet  this  is  the  pleasure  of  anger ; 
and  for  this  pleasure  men  choose  damnation.  But  it  is  a  great 
truth  that  there  are  but  very  few  sins  that  pretend  to  pleasure ; 
although  a  man  be  weak  and  soon  deceived,  and  the  devil  is 
crafty,  and  sin  is  false  and  impudent,  and  pretences  are  too  many, 
yet  most  kinds  of  sin  are  real  and  prime  troubles  to  the  very  body, 
without  all  manner  of  deliciousness,  even  to  the  sensual,  natural, 
and  carnal  part;  and  a  man  must  put  on  something  of  a  devil 
before  he  can  choose  such  sins,  and  he  must  love  misdiief  because 
it  is  a  sin ;  for  in  most  instances  there  is  no  other  reason  in  the 
world.  Ab  for  the  pleasures  of  intemperance,  they  are  nothing  but 
the  relics  and  images  of  pleasure  after  that  nature  hath  been 

1  ic,  warg6QiD% 


feasted ;  for  so  long  as  she  needs — ^that  is,  so  long  as  tempeianoe 
waits — BO  long  pleasure  also  stands  there ;  but  as  temperance  begins 
to  go  away/having  done  the  ministries  of  nature,  every  morsel 
and  every  new  goblet,  is  still  less  delicious,  and  cannot  be  enduved 
but  as  men  force  nature  by  violence  to  stay  longer  than  she  would. 
How  have  some  men  rejoiced  when  they  have  escaped  ui  cup  !  and 
when  they  cannot  escape,  they  pour  it  in  and  receive  it  with  as 
much  pleasure  as  the  old  women  nave  in  the  Lapland  dances  ;  they 
dance  the  round,  but  there  is  a  horror  and  a  harshness  in  the 
music,  and  they  call  it  pleasure  because  men  bid  them  do  so  ;  but 
there  is  a  devil  in  the  companv,  and  such  as  is  his  pleasure,  such  is 
theirs :  he  rejoices  in  the  thnving  sin,  and  the  swelling  fortune  of 
his  darling  orunkenness,  but  his  ioys  are  the  jovs  of  him  that 
knows  and  always  remembers  that  he  shall  infaUibly  have  the  big- 
gest damnation ;  and  then  let  it  be  considered  how  forced  a  joy 
that  is  that  is  at  the  end  of  an  intemperate  feast !  Intemperanca 
takes  but  nature's  leavings  ;  when  the  belly  is  full,  and  nature  calls 
to  take  away,  the  pleasure  that  comes  in  afterwards  is  next  to  loath- 
ing ;  it  is  ike  the  relish  and  taste  of  meats  at  the  end  of  the  third 
course,  or  sweetness  of  honev  to  him  that  hath  eaten  till  he  can 
endure  to  take  no  more ;  and  all  his  pleasure  is  nothing  but  the 
sting  of  a  serpent ;  it  wounds  the  heart,  and  he  dies  with  a  taran- 
tula,* dancinff  and  singing  till  he  bows  his  neck  and  kisses  hjs 
bosom  with  the  Ma\  noddmgs  a^d  declensions  of  death. 



A  good  man  is  the  best  friend,  and  therefore  soonest  to  be  chosen, 
longer  to  be  retained,  and,  indeed,  never  to  be  parted  with,  unless 
he  cease  to  be  that  for  which  he  was  chosen.  The  good  man  is  a 
profitable,  useful  person ;  and  that  is  the  band  of  an  effective 
mendship.  For  I  do  not  think  that  friendships  are  metaphvsical 
nothings,  created  for  contemplation,  or  that  men  or  women  should 
stare  upon  each  other's  faces,  and  make  dialogues  of  news  and  pret- 
tinesses,  and  look  babies  in  o|ie  anothei's  eyes.  Friendship  is  the 
allay  of  our  sorrows,  the  ease  of  our  passions,  the  discharge  of  our 
oppressions,  the  sanctuaiy  to  our  calamities,  the  counsellor  of  our 
doubts,  the  clarity  of  our  mi^ds,  the  enussion  of  our  thoughts,  the 
exercise  and  improvement  of  what  we  meditate.  And  although  I 
love  my  friend  because  he  is  worthy,  yet  he  is  not  worthy  if 
he  can  do  no  good.  I  do  not  speak  of  accidental  hindraiices  and 
misfortunes,  by  which  the  bravest  man  may  become  unable  to 
help  his  child,  but  of  the  natural  and  artificial  capacities  of 
the  man.  He  only  is  fit  to  be  chosen  for  a  friepd  who  can 
do  those  offices  for  which  friendship  is  excellent;  he  only  is  fit 
to  be  chosen  for  a  friend  who  can  give  counsel,  or  defend  my 

'  A  Tenoinous  spider,  whoie  bit«,  according  to  popular  opinion,  could  only  be 
cured  by  music  and  Tiolent  dancing ;  hence  the  dance  known  as  the  "  tarantella  " 
reoelres  Its  name. 

130  JlEEUSmr  TAYLOB.  ' 

cause,  or  guide  me  right,  or  relieve  my  need,  or  oan  and  will, 
when  I  nMd  it,  do  me  good.  Only  this  I  add :  into  the  heaps  of 
doing  good,  I  will  reckon  loTinff  me ;  for  it  is  a  pleasure  to  be 
beloved ;  but  when  his  lore  signines  nothing  but  kissing  my  cheek, 
or  talking  kindly,  and  can  go  no  further,  it  is  a  prostitution  of 
the  braveiy  of  friendship  to  spend  it  upon  impertinent  people, 
who  are,  it  may  be,  loads  to  their  families,  but  can  never  ease  my 
loads :  but  my  Mend  is  a  worthy  person  when  he  can  become  to 
me  a  guide  or  a  support,  an  eye  or  a  hand,  a  staff  or  a  rule.  There 
must  be  in  friendsnip  something  to  distinguish  it  from  a  com- 
panion and  a  countryman,  from  a  schoolfellow  or  a  gossip,  from  a 
sweetheart  or  a  feUow-traveller.  Friendship  may  look  m  at  any 
one  of  these  doors  ;  but  it  stays  not  anywhere  till  it  come  to  be  the 
best  thing  in  the  world.  And  when  we  consider  that  one  man  is 
not  better  than  another,  neither  towards  God  nor  towards  man,  but 
by  doing  better  and  braver  things,  we  shall  also  see  that  that 
which  is  most  beneficent  is  also  most  excellent ;  and  therefore  those 
friendships  must  needs  be  most  perfect  where  the  friends  can  be 
most  useful  For  men  cannot  be  useful  but  by  worthinesses  in  the 
several  instances ;  a  fool  cannot  be  reUed  upon  for  counsel,  nor  a 
vicious  person  for  the  advantages  of  virtue,  nor  a  beggar  for 
relief,  nor  a  stranger  for  conduct,  nor  a  tattler  to  keep  a  secret,  nor 
a  pitUess  person  trusted  with  my  complaint,  nor  a  covetous  man 
with  my  child's  fortune,  nor  a  fiedse  person  without  a  witness,  nor  a 
suspicious  person  with  a  private  design,  nor  him  that  I  fear  with 
the  treasures  of  my  love ;  but  he  that  is  wise  and  virtuous,  rich 
and  at  hand,  dose  and  merciM,  free  of  his  money,  and  tenacious  of 
a  secret,  open  and  ingenuous,  true  and  honest,  is  of  himself  an  ex- 
cellent man,  and  therefore  fit  to  be  loved ;  and  he  can  do  aood  to 
me  in  all  capacities  where  I  can  need  him,  and  therefore  is  fit  to  be 
a  friend,  iconfess  we  are  forced,  in  our  friendships,  to  abate  some 
of  these  ingredients  ;  but  full  measures  of  friendship  would  have 
fuU  measures  of  worthiness  ;  and  according  as  any  defect  is  in  the 
fotmdation,  in  the  relation  also  there  may  be  imperfection :  and 
indeed  I  shall  not  blame  the  friendship  so  it  be  worthy,  though  it 
be  not  perfect ;  not  only  because  friendship  is  charity,  which  can- 
not be  perfect  here,  but  because  there  is  not  in  the  world  a  perfect 
cause  of  perfect  friendship.  Can  any  wise  or  good  man  be  angry  if 
I  say,  I  choose  this  man  to  be  my  friend  because  he  is  able  to  give 
me  counsel,  to  restrain  my  wanderings,  to  comfort  me  in  my  sor- 
rows ;  he  is  pleasant  to  me  in  private,  and  useful  in  public ;  he 
will  make  my  joys  double,  and  divide  my  ffrief  between  himself 
and  me  ?  For  what  else  should  I  choose  1  For  being  a  fool  and 
useless  ?     For  a  pretty  feuce  and  a  smooth  skin  ? 

True  and  brave  friendships  are  between  worthy  persons ;  and 
there  is  in  mankind  no  degree  of  worthiness  but  is  also  a  de^e  of 
usefulness  ;  and  by  everything  by  which  a  man  is  excellent  I  may 
be  profited ;  and  because  those  are  the  bravest  friends  which  can 
best  serve  the  ends  of  friendships,  either  we  must  suppose  that 

ffiOlCAS  FULLER.  131 

Mendfihipe  are  not  the  greatest  oomforta  in  the  world,  or  else  we 
must  say  he  chooses  his  fnsnd  best  that  chooses  such  a  one  by 
whom  he  can  receive  the  greatest  comforts  and  assistances. 


Thomas  Fulleb  was  bom  at  Aldwinkle  in  Northamptonshire  in 
1608.  He  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  where  he  afterwards  became 
incumbent  of  one  of  the  town's  churches,  and  acquired  great  popu- 
larity as  a  pulpit  orator.  His  reputation  procured  him  rapid  church 
preferment,  which,  as  in  so  many  other  instances  at  that  time,  was 
suddenly  stopped  by  the  outbreak  of  the  political  disturbances  in  the 
reign  of  Charles  I.  Fuller  was  moderate  in  his  sentiments ;  still,  like 
most  other  men  of  moderate  principles,  he  felt  that  the  maintenance 
of  some  measure  of  royal  authority  was  essential  to  the  existence  of  a 
free  constitution,  and  this  view  he  did  not  hesitate  to  express  in  a 
sermon  in  Westminster  Abbey,  preached  on  the  anniversary  of  the 
king's  accession.  He  thus  gave  great  offence  to  the  more  violent 
popular  leaders,  who  deprived  him  of  some  of  his  ecclesiastical 
dignities,  and  obliged  him  to  find  shelter  in  the  royal  camp.  When 
the  heat  of  parties  subsided,  Fuller  returned  to  London,  where  his 
popular  style  of  preaching  readily  secured  for  him  an  attentive  flock. 
On  the  Bestoration  he  was  reinstated  in  his  former  dignity,  became 
one  of  the  royal  chaplains,  and,  but  for  his  death  in  1661,  would 
probably  have  been  advanced  to  the  episcopal  bench. 

Of  his  numerous  works,  the  best  known  are  his  "  History  of  the 
Holy  War,"  "  Church  History  of  Britain,"  "  The  Worthies  of  Eng- 
land," "  Pisgah  View  of  Palestine,"  and  "  The  Holy  and  Profane 
State."  His  historical  works,  especially  his  "  Worthies,"  contain 
much  curious  information  not  now  procurable  from  other  sources,  but 
his  writings  are  chiefly  remarkable  from  the  extreme  quaintness  of 
the  style.  Fuller  abounds  in  puns,  quibbles,  and  humorous  com- 
parisons, generally  striking,  and  always  pleasing,  for  his  humour  is 
evidently  genuine  and  natural,  not  merely  assumed  for  the  occasion. 
His  wrinngs  yield  an  unfailing  supply  to  those  periodicals  which  set 
apart  a  comer  for  what  are  styled  "  Gems  of  the  Old  Authors."  The 
following  extracts  are  taken  from  his  "  Holy  and  Profane  State,"  a 
work  similar  in  character  to  Hall's  "  Characters  of  the  Virtues  and 
Vices,"  from  which  specimens  have  been  already  given,  and  a  species 
of  writing  very  popular  in  Fuller's  age. 


The  good  yeoman  is  a  gentleman  in  ore,  whom  the  next  age  may 
see  refined,  and  is  the  wax  capable  of  a  genteel  impression,  when 
the  prince  shall  stamp  it  Wise  Solon,  t^o  accounted  Tellus  the 
Athenian  the  most  happy  man,  for  living  privately  on  his  own 
lands,  wonld  surely  have  pronomiced  the  Eoglish  yeomaniy  ''a 
fortunate  condition,"  living  in  the  temperate  zone  between  greatness 
and  want,  an  estate  of  people  almost  peculiar  to  England.    Franco 


And  Italy  are  like  a  die  which  hath  no  points  between  cinque  and 
ace,'  nobility  and  peasantiy.  ^Their  walls,  though  high,  must  needs 
be  hollow,  wanting  fiUing-stones.  Indeed,  Germany  hath  her  boors, 
like  our  yeomen ;  but  by  a  tyrannical  appropriation  of  nobility  to 
some  few  ancient  &.milies,  their  yeomen  are  excluded  from  ever 
rising  higher  to  clarify  their  bloods.  In  England,  the  temple  of 
honour  is  bolted  agwst  none  who  have  passed  through  the  temple 
of  Tirtue ;  nor  is  a  capacity  to  be  genteel  denied  to  our  yeoman  who 
thus  behaves  himself  He  wears  russet  clothes,  but  makes  golden 
payment,  haying  tin  in  his  buttons  and  silver  in  his  pocket  If  he 
chance  to  appear  in  clothes  above  his  rank,  it  is  to  grace  some 
great  man  witii  his  service,  and  then  he  blusheth  at  his  own  bravery. 
Otherwise,  he  is  the  surest  landmark  where  foreigners  may  take  aim 
of  the  ancient  English  customs ;  the  gentry  more  floating  after 
foreign  fashions.  In  his  house  he  is  bountiful  both  to  strangers  and 
poor  people.  Some  hold,  when  hospitality  died  in  England,  she 
gave  her  last  groan  amonflst  the  yeomen  of  Kent.  And  still,  at  our 
yeoman's  table,  you  shall  have  as  many  joints  as  dishes ;  no  meat 
disguised  with  strange  sauces ;  no  straggUng  joint  of  a  sheep  in  the 
midst  of  a  pasture  of  grass,  beset  with  salads  on  every  side,  but 
solid,  substantial. food.  No  servitors  (more  nimble  with  their 
hands  than  the  guests  with  their  teeth)  take  avray  meat  before 
stomachs  are  taken  away.  Here  you  have  that  which  in  itself  is  good, 
made  better  by  the  store  of  it,  and  best  by  the  welcome  to  it.  He 
improveth  his  land  to  a  double  value  by  his  good  husbandry.  Some 
grounds  that  wept  with  water,  or  frowned  with  thorns,  by  draining 
the  one  and  clearing  the  other,  he  makes  both  to  laugh  and  sing 
with  com.  By  man  and  limestones  burnt  he  bettereth  his  ground, 
and  his  industry  worketh  miracles,  by  turning  stones  into  bread. 


He  endeavours  to  get  the  general  love  and  good^wiU  of  his  parish. 
This  he  doth,  not  so  much  to  make  a  benefit  of  them  as  a  benefit 
for  them,  that  his  ministry  may  be  more  effectual,  otherwise  he  may 
preach  his  own  heart  out  before  he  preacheth  anything  into  theirs. 
The  good  conceit  of  the  physician  is  half  a  cure,  and  his  practice 
wUl  scarce  be  happy  where  his  person  is  hated.  Yet  he  humours 
them  not  in  his  doctrine  to  get  their  love,  for  such  a  spaniel  is  worse 
than  a  dumb  dog.  He  shaU  sooner  get  their  good-will  by  walking 
uprightly,  than  by  crouching  and  creeping.  If  pious  living,  and 
painful  labouring  in  his  camng,  will  not  win  their  affections,  he 
counts  it  gain  to  lose  theuL  As  for  those  who  causelessly  hato  him, 
he  pities  and  prays  for  them,  and  such  there  will  be.  I  should 
suspect  his  preaching  had  no  salt  in  it,  if  no  galled  horse  did  wince. 
He  is  strict  in  ordering  his  conversation ;  as  for  those  who  cleanse 
blurs  with  blotted  fingers,  they  make  it  the  worse.    It  was  said  of 

^  i. «.,  like  a  die  which  has  no  intermediate  points  between  the  highest  number  and 
the  lowest 


one  who  preackecl  very  well,  and  lived  veiy  ill,  "  that  when  he  was 
out  of  the  pulpit  it  was  pity  he  should  ever  go  into  it ;  and  when 
he  was  in  the  pulpit,  it  was  pity  h^  should  ever  come  out  of  it." 
But  our  minister  lives  sermons ;  and  yet  I  deny  not  but  dissolute 
men,  like  unskilful  horsemen  who  open  a  gate  on  the  wrong  side, 
may,  by  the  virtue  of  their  office,  open  heaven  for  others  and  shut 
themselves  out.  He  will  not  offer  to  Qod  of  that  which  costs  him 
nothing,  but  takes  pains  aforehand  for  his  sermons.  Demosthenes 
never  made  any  oration  on  the  sudden ;  yea,  being  called  upon,  he 
never  ruse  up  to  speak,  except  he  had  well  sudied  the  matter  ;  and 
he  was  wont  to  sav,  that  he  showed  how  he  reverenced  and  honoured 
the  people  of  Atnens,  because  he  was  careful  what  he  spake  mito 
them.  Indeed  if  our  minister  be  surprised  with  a  sudden  occasion, 
he  counts  himself  rather  to  be  excused  than  commended  if,  pre- 
meditating only  the  bones  of  his  sermon,  he  clothes  it  with  flesh 
extempore.  Having  brought  his  sermon  into  his  head,  he  labours  to 
bring  it  into  his  h^irt  before  he  preaches  it  to  his  people.  Surely 
that  preaching  which  comes  from  the  soul  most  works  on  the  soul 
Some  have  questioned  ventriloquy  (when  men  strangely  speak  out 
of  their  bellies),  whetiier  it  can  be  done  lawfully  or  no ;  might  I 
coin  the  word  cordUoquy,  when  men  draw  the  doctrines  out  of  their 
hearts ;  sure,  all  would  count  this  lawful  and  commendable.  His 
similes  and  illustrations  are  always  familiar,  never  contemptible. 
Indeed,  reasons  are  the  pillars  of  the  fiabrLo  of  a  sermon;  but 
similitudes  are  the  windows  which  give  the  best  lights.  He  avoids 
such  stories  whose  mention  may  suggest  bad  thoughts  to  the 
auditors,  and  will  not  use  a  light  comparison  to  make  thereof  a 
^ve  application,  for  fear  lest  his  poison  go  farther  than  his  anti- 
dote. He  provideth  not  only  wholesome,  but  plentiful  food  for  his 
people.  Almost  incredible  was  the  painfulness  of  Baronius,  the 
compiler  of  the  voluminous  "  Annals  of  the  Church,**  who,  for  thirty 
years  together,  preached  three  or  four  times  a-week  to  the  i)eo|>le.  • 
As  for  our  minister,  he  preferreth  rather  to  entertain  his  people  with 
wholesome  cold  meat  which  was  on  the  table  before,  than  that  which 
is  hot  from  the  spit,  raw  and  half-roasted.  Yet,  in  repetition  of  the 
same  sermon,  every  edition  hath  a  new  addition,  if  not  of  new 
matter,  of  new  affections.  He  makes  not  that  wearisome  which 
should  ever  be  welcome,  wherefore  his  sermoas  are  of  an  ordinaiy 
leneth,  except  on  an  extraordinary  occasion.  What  a  gifb  had  John 
HalBebach,  professor  at  Vienna,  in  tediousness,  who  being  to  expound 
the  prophet  Isaiah  to  his  auditors,  read  twenty-one  years  on  the 
first  chapter,  and  yet  finished  it  not.  He  is  careful  in  the  discreet 
ordering  of  his  own  family.  A  good  minister,  and  a  good  father, 
may  weU  agree  together.  When  a  certain  Frenchman  came  to  visit 
Melanethon,  he  found  him  in  his  stove,  with  one  hand  dandling  his 
child  in  the  swaddling-clouts,  and  in  the  other  hand  holding  a  book 
and  reading  it.  Our  minister,  also,  is  as  hospitable  as  his  estate  will 
Ijermit,  and  makes  every  alms  two  by  his  cheerful  giving  it.  Lying 
on  his  death-bed,  he  bequeaths  to  each  of  his  parishioners  his  pre- 


cepts  and  example  for  a  legacy,  and  theyin  requital  erect  e^ery  one 
a  monument  for  him  in  their  hearts.  He  is  so  far  from  that  base 
jealousy  that  his  memory  should  be  outshined  by  a  brighter  suc- 
cessor, and  from  that  wicked  desire  that  his  people  may  find  his 
worth  by  the  worthlessness  of  him  that  succeeds,  that  he  doth 
heartily  pray  to  Grod  to  provide  them  a  better  pastor  after  his  decease. 
As  for  outward  estate,  he  commonly  lives  in  too  bare  pasture  to 
grow  fat  It  is  well  if  he  hath  gatiLered  any  flesh,  being  more  in 
blessing  than  bulk. 

3.  OP  BOOK& — ("  HOLT  STATE,"  BOOK  III.,  CHAP.  XVIIL) 

Solomon  saith  truly,  "  Of  making  many  books  there  is  no  end," 
so  insatiable  is  the  thirst  of  men  therein :  as  also  endless  is  the 
desire  of  many  in  reading  them.    But  we  come  to  our  rules. 

1.  It  18  a  vanity  to  perstuide  the  world  one  halh  m/uch  lea/rning  by 
getting  a  greaJt  librwry. — As  soon  shall  I  believe  every  one  is  valiant 
that  hath  a  well-fumished  armoury.  I  guess  good  housekeeping 
by  the  smoking,  not  the  nimiber  of  the  tunnels,  as  knowing  that 
many  of  them,  built  merely  for  uniformity,  are  without  chimneys, 
and  more  without  fires.  Once  a  dunce,  void  of  learning,  but  full  of 
books,  flouted  a  libraryless  scholar  with  these  words,  "  Hail,  doctor 
without  books !"  But  the  next  day,  the  scholar  coming  into  the 
jeerer^s  study  crowded  with  books, "  Hail  books,"  said  he,  "  without 
a  doctor!" 

2.  Few  hooks,  well  selected,  are  best, — ^Yet  as  a  certain  fool  bought 
all  the  pictures  that  came  out,  because  he  might  have  his  choice, 
such  is  the  vain  humour  of  many  men  in  gathemig  of  books.  Yet, 
when  they  have  done  aU,  they  miss  their  end;  it  being  in  the 
editions  of  authors  as  in  the  £Eishions  of  clothes, — ^when  a  man  thinks 
he  has  gotten  the  latest  and  newest,  presently  another  newer  comes 

3.  Some  hooks  are  only  cursorily  to  he  tasted  of. — Namely,  first, 
voluminous  books,  the  task  of  a  man's  life  to  read  them  over ; 
secondly,  auxiliary  books,  only  to  be  repaired  to  on  occasions ; 
thirdly,  such  as  are  mere  pieces  of  formality,  so  that  if  you  look  on 
them,  you  look  through  them ;  and  he  that  peeps  through  the  case- 
ment of  the  index,  sees  as  much  as  if  he  wei'e  in  the  house.  But 
the  laziness  of  those  cannot  be  excused  who  perfunctorily  pass  over 
authors  of  consequence,  and  only  trade  in  their  tables  and  contents. 
These,  like  city-cheaters,  having  gotten  the  names  of  all  country 
gentlemen,  make  siQy  people  believe  they  have  long  lived  in  those 
places  where  they  never  were,  and  flourish  with  skiU  in  those 
authors  they  never  seriously  studied. 

4.  The  genius  of  the  author  is  commonly  discovered  in  the  dedi- 
catory epistle. — Many  place  the  purest  grain  in  the  mouth  of  the 
sack,  for  chapmen  to  handle  or  buy ;  and  from  the  dedication  one 
may  probably  guess  at  the  work,  saving  some  rare  and  peculiar  ex- 
ceptions.   Thus,  when  onoe  a  gentleman  admired  how  so  pithy, 


learned,  and  witty  a  dedication  was  matched  to  a  flat,  dnll,  foolish 
lk)ok :  **  in  truth/'  said  another,  ''  they  may  be  well  matched  to- 
gether, for  I  profess  they  be  nothing  akin." 

6.  JProporUon  an  hour's  medUcUion  to  an  hour's  reading  of  a 
staple  OAiihoT. — This  makes  a  man  master  of  his  learning,  and  dis- 
spirits^  the  book  into  the  scholar. 



Gustavns  Adolphus,  King  of  Sweden,  bom  A.D.  1594,  had  princely 
education  both  for  arts  and  arms.  In  Italy  he  learnt  the  mathe- 
matics ;  and  in  the  other  places  abroad,  the  French,  Italian,  and 
German  tongues ;  and  after  he  was  king,  he  travelled  under  the 
name  of  Mr  Gars,  being  the  four  initial  letters  of  his  name  and  title.' 
He  was  but  seventeen  years  old  at  his  fathei^s  death,  being  left  not 
only  a  young  king,  but  also  in  a  younff  kingdom ;  for  his  title  to  the 
crown  of  Sweden  was  but  five  years  old,  to  wit,  since  the  beginning 
of  his  fikther^s  reign.  All  his  bordering  princes  (on  the  north, 
nothing  but  the  north  bordered  on  him)  were  his  enemies.  Yet  was 
he  too  great  for  them  in  his  minority,  both  defending  his  own,  and 
gaining  on  them.  "Woe  be  to  the  kingdom  whose  king  is  a 
child  r  yet  blessed  is  that  kingdom  whose  king,  though  a  cmld  in 
age,  is  a  man  in  worth.  These  his  first  actions  had  much  of  glory, 
and  yet  somewhat  of  possibility  and  credit  in  them.  But  chronicle 
and  belief  must  strain  hard  to  make  his  German  conquest  probable 
with  posterity;  coming  in  with  eleven  thousand  men,  having  no 
certain  confederates,  but  some  of  his  alliance  whom  the  emperor 
had  outed  of  all  their  estates;  and  yet,  in  two  years  and  four 
months,  he  left  the  emperor  in  as  bad  a  case  almost  as  he  found 
those  princes  in. 

He  was  a  strict  observer  of  nmrtial  discipline,  the  life  of  war, 
without  which  an  army  is  but  a  crowd  (not  to  say  herd)  of  people. 
He  would  march  all  day  in  complete  armour,  which  was  by  custom 
no  more  burden  to  him  than  his  arms ;  and  to  carry  his  helmet  no 
more  trouble  than  his  head ;  whilst  his  example  made  the  same  easy 
to  his  soldiers.  He  was  very  merciful  to  any  that  would  submit ; 
and  as  the  iron  gate  miraculously  opened  to  St  Peter  of  its  own 
accord,  so  his  mercy  wrought  miracles,  making  many  city-gates 
open  to  him  of  themselves,  before  he  ever  knocked  at  them  to  de- 
mand entrance,  the  inhabitants  desiring  to  shroud  themselves 
imder  his  protection.  Yea,  he  was  mercinil  to  those  places  which 
he  took  by  assault;  the  very  Jesuits  themselves  tasted  of  his 
courtesy,  though  merrily  he  laid  it  to  their  charge,  that  they  would 
neither  preach  fiiith  to,  nor  keep  faith  with  others. 

>  i«.,  takes  the  spirit  out  of  the  book  and  puts  it  into  the  scholar. 

*  Fuller's  biographies  have  always  been  much  admired. 

*  Viz.,  (ToBtayus  ildolphuB  Box  iSiiedomm. 


He  had  the  trae  art  (almost  lost)  of  encamping,  where  he  woold 
lie  in  his  trenches  in  despite  of  all  enemies,  keeping  the  clock  of  his 
own  time,  and  would  fight  for  no  man's  pleasure  but  his  own.  No 
seeming  flight  or  disonkr  of  his  enemies  should  cozen  him  into  a 
battle,  nor  their  daring  bravadoes  anger  him  into  it,  nor  any  violence 
force  him  to  fight  till  he  thought  fitting  himself ;  counting  it  good 
manners  in  war,  to  take  all,  but  ^ve  no  advantages. 

It  was  said  of  his  armies  that  they  used  to  rise  when  the  swallows 
went  to  bed,  when  winter  began,  his  forces  most  consisting  of  nor- 
thern nations  ;  and  a  Swede  fights  best  when  he  can  see  his  own 
breath.  He  always  kept  a  long  vacation  in  the  dos-days,  being 
only  a  saver  in  the  summer,  and  a  gainer  all  the  year  besides.  His 
best  harvest  was  in  the  snow ;  and  his  soldiers  had  most  life  in  the 
dead  of  winter. 

He  made  but  a  short  cut  in  takine  of  cities,  many  of  whose  forti- 
fications were  a  wonder  to  behold ;  but  what  were  they  then  to  as- 
sault and  conquer  1  At  scaling  of  walls  he  was  excellent  for  con- 
triving as  his  soldiers  in  executm^ ;  it  seeming  a  wonder  that  their 
bodies  should  be  made  of  air  so  light  to  climb,  whose  arms  were  of 
iron  so  heavy  to  strike.  Such  cities  as  would  not  presently  open 
unto  him,  he  shut  them  up  ;  and  having  business  of  more  importance 
than  to  imprison  himself  about  one  strength,  he  would  consign  the 
besieginff  thereof  to  some  other  captain.  And,  indeed,  he  wanted 
not  his  Joabs,  who,  when  they  had  reduced  cities  to  terms  of  yield- 
ing, knew,  with  as  much  wisdom  as  loyalty,  to  entitle  their  David 
to  the  whole  honour  of  the  action. 

He  was  highly  beloved  of  his  soldiers,  of  whose  deserts  he  kept  a 
fiiithfal  chronicle  in  his  heart,  and  advanced  them  accordingly. 

To  come  to  his  death,  wherein  his  reputation  sufifers,  in  we  judg- 
ments of  some,  for  too  much  hazarding  of  his  own  person  in  the 
battle.^  But  surely  some  conceived  necessity  thereof  urged  h\m 
thereunto.  For  this  his  third  grand  set  battle  in  Germany  was  the 
third  and  last  asking  of  his  banns  to  the  imperial  crown  ;  and  had 
they  not  been  forbidden  by  his  death,  his  marriage  in  all  proba- 
bility had  instantly  followed.  His  death  is  still  left  in  uncertainty, 
whether  the  valour  of  open  enemies,  or  treachery  of  false  Mends 
caused  it.  His  side  won  the  day,  and  yet  lost  the  sun  that  made  it. 
The  Jesuits  made  him  to  be  the  Antichrist,  and  allowed  him  three 
years  and  a  half  of  reign  and  conquest.  But  had  he  lived  the  full 
term  out,  the  true  Antichrist  might  have  heard  further  from  him, 
and  Bome's  tragedy  might  have  had  an  end,  whose  fifth  and  last 
act  is  still  behind.  Yet  one  Jesuit,  more  ingenuous  than  the  rest, 
gives  him  this  testimony,  that  save  the  bs^ess  of  his  cause  and 
religion,  he  had  nothing  defective  in  him  which  belonged  to  an  ex- 
cellent king  and  a  good  captain. 

Thus  let  our  poor  description  of  this  king  serve,  like  a  flat  grave- 
stone or  plain  pavement,  for  the  presen^^  the  richer  pen  of  some 

>  The  battle  of  Latzea. 

ABRAHAV  00WLE7.  137 

Grotius  or  Heinsius'  shall  provide  to  erect  some  statelier  monument 
in  his  memoiy. 


Old  Hu^  Latimer  was  Bidley^s  partner  at  the  stake,  some  time 
Bishop  of  Worcester,  who  crawled  thither  after  ^im  ;  one  who  had 
lost  more  learning  than  many  ever  had  who  flout  at  his  plain  ser- 
mons, though  his  downright  style  was  as  necessary  in  that  age  as  it 
would  be  ridiculous  in  ours.  Indeed,  he  condescended  to  people's 
capacity ;  and  many  men  unjustly  count  those  low  in  learning  who, 
indeed,  do  but  stoop  to  their  auditors.  Let  me  see  any  of  our 
sharp  wits  do  that  with  the  edge  which  his  bluntness  did  with  the 
back  of  the  knife,  and  persuade  so  many  to  restitution  of  ill-gotten 
soods.  Though  he  came  after  Ridley  to  the  stake,  he  got  before 
him  to  heaven.  His  body,  made  tinder  by  age,  was  no  sooner 
touched  by  the  fire  but  instantly  this  old  Simeon  had  his  nunc 
dijmttis,*  and  brought  the  news  to  heaven  that  his  brother  was 
foUowiog  after.  But  Bidley  suffered  with  £u*  more  pain,  the  fire 
about  hun  being  not  well  made  ;  and  yet  one  woidd  mink  that  age 
should  be  skilfiil  in  making  such  bonfires,  as  being  much  practised 
in  them.  The  gunpowder  that  was  given  him  (ud  little  service, 
and  his  brother-in-law,  out  of  desire  to  rid  him  out  of  pain,  increased 
it  ^reat  grief  will  not  give  men  leave  to  be  wise  with  it),  heaping 
fudiupon  him  to  no  purpose  ;  so  that  neither  the  faggots  which  his 
enemies'  anger  nor  Ms  brother's  good-will  cast  upon  nim  made  the 
fire  to  bum  kindly. 

In  like  manner,  not  much  before,  his  dear  friend  Master  Hooper 
suffered  with  great  torment, — ^the  wind  (which  too  often  is  the  bel- 
lows of  great  fires)  blowing  it  away  from  him  once  or  twice.  Of  all 
the  martyrs  in  those  days,  these  two  endured  most  pain  ;  it  being 
true  that  each  of  them  had  to  seek  fire  in  the  midst  of  fire, — ^both 
desiring  to  bum,  and  yet  both  their  upper  parts  were  but  confessors, 
when  flieir  lower  parts  were  martyrs,  and  burnt  to  ashes.  Thus 
(xod,  where  He  hath  given  the  stronger  Mth,  He  layeth  on  the 
stronger  pain ;  and  so  we  leave  them,  going  up  to  heaven,  like 
Elijah,  in  a  chariot  of  fire. 


Abraham  Cowley  was  born  in  1618,  in  London,  and  was  educated 
at  Westminster  School,  from  which  he  afterwards  removed  to  Cam- 
bridge University.    At  the  breaking  out  of  the  civil  wars,  the  Presby- 

^  Two  fiunoiu  Datch  ncholara,  both  of  whom  had  been  in  the  service  of  Gnstaviu 

'  This  acoonnt  may  be  adyantageonsly  compared  with  the  matter-of-fSEu:t  version 
ahvady  quoted  from  Fox. 

*  The  first  two  words  in  Latin  of  Simeon's  hymn,  **  Lord,  now  lettest  thon  thy  servant 
depart  in  peace,"  <fec. 


terian  yisitors  rdmoTed  Cowley  from  his  fellowship,  and  he  ever  after 
remained  a  firm  partizan  of  the  Royalists,  in  whose  service  he  was 
constantly  employed  during  the  whole  course  of  hostilities.  Like 
many  others  he  was,  at  the  Restoration,  disappointed  of  the  reward  to 
which  ho  conceived  his  services  entitled  him.  He  was,  however,  after 
some  interval,  presented  with  the  lease  of  a  small  property  near 
Chertsey,  on  the  Thames,  where  he  died  in  1667.  Cowley's  fame, 
during  his  lifetime,  was  founded  mainly  on  his  poetry,  which  is  now, 
however,  little  esteemed.  It  is  in  general  stiff  and  artificial,  though 
some  of  his  shorter  poems  are  natural  and  pleasing.  His  largest 
poetical  work,  the  "  Davideis,"  a  heroic  poem  on  the  life  of  David,  is, 
as  a  whole,  heavy  and  unimpressive,  hut  contains  some  fine  passages, 
which  Milton  has  imitated  and  improved  in  his  "  Paradise  Lost."  His 
prose  is  a  remarkable  contrast  to  his  poetry ;  unaffected,  eloquent, 
and  forcible,  it  will  stand  comparison  with  any  prose  of  the  age.  In 
this  department,  his  writings  consist  of  a  "  Discourse  concerning  the 
Government  of  Cromwell,"  and  Essays  on  Liberty,  Agriculture,  Soli- 
tude, &c. 

1.  Cromwell's  government. 

I  was  interrupted  by  a  strange  and  terrible  apparition,  for  there 
appeared  unto  me,  arising  out  of  the  earth,  as  I  conceived,  the 
figure  of  a  man  taller  than  a  giant,  or,  indeed,  than  the  shadow  of 
any  giant  in  the  evening.  His  body  was  naked,  but  that  nakedness 
adorned,  or  rather  deformed  all  over,  vrith  several  figures,  after  the 
manner  of  the  ancient  Britons,  painted  upon  it :  and  I  perceived 
that  most  of  them  were  the  representation  of  the  late  battles  in  our 
civil  wars,  and  (if  I  be  not  much  mistaken)  it  was  the  battle  of 
Naseby  that  was  drawn  upon  his  breajst.  His  eyes  were  like  burn- 
ing brass ;  and  there  were  three  crowns  of  the  same  metal  (as  I 
jessed),  and  that  looked  as  red-hot  too  upon  his  head.  I^  held 
in  his  right  hand  a  sword  that  was  yet  bloody,  and,  nevertheless, 
the  motto  of  it  was,  "Peace  is  sought  by  vxx/rl  and  in  his  left  a 
thick  book,  upon  the  back  of  which  was  written  m  letters  of  gold, 
acts,  ordinances,  protestations,  covenants,  engagements,  declarations, 
remonstrances,  &c.  Though  this  sudden,  unusual,  and  dreadful 
object  might  have  quelled  a  greater  courage  than  mine,  yet  so  it 
pleased  God  (for  there  is  nothmg  bolder  tlmn  a  man  in  a  vision), 
that  I  was  not  at  aU  daunted,  but  asked  him  resolutely  and  briefly, 
What  art  thou  7  And  he  said,  I  am  called  the  North- West  Prin- 
cipality, his  Highness,  the  Protector  of  the  Commonwealth  of  Eng- 
land, Scotland,  and  Ireland,  and  the  dominions  belonging  thereto, 
for  I  am  that  angel  to  whom  the  Almighty  has  committed  the 
government  of  those  three  kingdoms  which  thou  seest  from  this 
place.  And  I  answered  and  said.  If  it  be  so,  sir,  it  seems  to  me 
that  for  almost  these  twenty  years  past  your  highness  has  been 
absent  from  your  charge :  for  not  only  if  any  angel,  but  if  any  wise 
and  honest  man  had  since  that  time  been  our  governor,  we  should  not 
have  wandered  thus  long  in  these  laborious  and  endless  labyrinths 


of  confusion,  but  either  not  liaye  entered  at  all  into  them,  or  at  least 
have  returned  back  ere  we  had  absolutely  lost  our  way ;  but,  instead 
of  your  highness,  we  have  had  since  such  a  protector  as  was  his 
predecessor,  Richard  IIL,  to  the  king  his  nephew ;  for  he  presently 
Blew  the  commonwealth,  which  he  pretended  to  protect,  and  set  up 
himself  in  the  place  of  it :  a  little  less  guilty,  indeed,  in  one  respect, 
because  the  other  slew  an  innocent,  and  this  man  did  but  murder  a 
murderer.  Such  a  protector  we  have  had  as  we  would  have  been 
glad  to  have  changed  for  an  enemy,  and  rather  received  a  constant 
Turk  than  this  eveiy  month's  apostate ;  such  a  protector  as  man  is 
to  his  flocks,  which  he  shears,  and  sells,  or  devours  himself ;  and  I 
would  fain  know  what  the  wolf,  which  ne  protects  him  from,  could 

do  more.    Such  a  protector ^And  as  I  was  proceeding,  me- 

thought  his  highness  began  to  put  on  a  displeased  and  threatening 
countenance,  as  men  used  to  do  when  their  dearest  Mends  happen 
to  be  traduced  in  their  company,  which  gave  me  the  first  rise  of 
jealousy  against  him ;  for  I  did  not  believe  that  Cromwell,  among 
all  his  foreign  correspondences,  had  ever  held  any  with  angels. 
However,  1  was  not  h^ened  enough  yet  to  venture  a  quarrel  with 
him  then ;  and,  therefore  (as  if  I  had  spoken  to  the  Protector  him- 
self in  Whitehall),  I  desired  him  that  his  highness  would  please  to 
pardon  me,  if  I  had  unwittingly  spoken  anything  to  the  disparage- 
ment of  a  person  whose  relations  to  his  highness  I  had  not  the 
honour  to  know.  At  which  he  told  me,  that  he  had  no  other  con- 
cernment for  his  late  highness,  than  as  he  took  >^iTn  to  be  the  greatest 
man  that  ever  was  of  the  English  nation,  if  not  (said  he)  of  the 
whole  world,  which  gives  me  a  just  title  to  the  defence  of  his  repu- 
tation, since  I  now  account  myself,  as  if  it  were  a  naturalized  Eng- 
lish angel,  by  having  had  so  long  the  management  of  the  affairs  of 
that  country.  And  pray,  countryman  (said  he,  very  kindly,  and 
very  flatteringly) ;  for  I  would  not  have  you  fall  into  the  general 
error  of  the  world,  that  detests  and  decries  so  extraordmary  a 
virtue :  What  can  be  more  extraordinary  than  that  a  person  of 
mean  birth,  no  fortune,  no  eminent  qualities  of  body,  which  have 
sometimes,  or  of  mind,  which  have  often  raised  men  to  the  highest 
dignities,  should  have  the  courage  to  attempt,  and  the  happiness  to 
succeed  in  so  improbable  a  design,  as  the  destruction  of  one  of  the 
most  ancient  and  most  solidly  founded  monarchies  upon  the  earth  ? 
that  he  should  have  the  power  or  boldness  to  put  his  prince  and 
master  to  an  infamous  death  ?  to  banish  that  numerous  and  strongly- 
allied  family?  to  do  all  this  under  the  name  and  wages  of  a  parlia- 
ment, to  trample  upon  them  too  as  he  pleased,  and  spurn  them  out 
of  doors  when  he  grew  weary  of  them;  to  raise  up  a  new  and 
imheard-of  monster  out  of  their  ashes ;  to  stifle  that  in  the  very 
infiuK^,  and  set  up  himself  above  all  things  that  ever  were  called ' 
sovereign  in  England ;  to  oppress  all  his  enemies  by  arms,  and  all 
his  Mends  afterwards  by  artifice  ;  to  serve  all  parties  partially  for 
awhile,  and  to  command  them  victoriously  at  last ;  to  overrun  each 
comer  of  the  three  nations,  and  overcome  with  equal  felicity  both 


the  riclies  of  the  south  and  the  poverty  of  the  north ;  to  be  feared 
and  courted  by  all  foreign  princes,  and  adopted  a  brother  to  the 
gods  of  the  earth ;  to  caJl  together  parliaments  with  a  word  of  his 

Een,  and  scatter  them  again  with  the  breath  of  his  mouth ;  to  be 
umbly  and  daily  petitioned  that  he  would  be  pleased  to  be  hired 
at  the  rate  of  two  millions  a-year ;  to  be  master  of  those  who  had 
hired  him  before  to  be  their  servant ;  to  have  estates  and  lives  of 
three  kingdoms  as  much  at  his  disposal  as  was  the  little  inheritance 
of  his  £Ekmer,  and  to  be  as  noble  and  liberal  in  the  spending  of 
them  ;  and  lastly  (for  there  is  no  end  of  all  the  particular  of  his 
gloiy),  to  bequeath  all  this  with  one  word  to  his  posterity ;  to  die 
with  peace  at  home  and  triumph  abroad;  to  be  buried  among 
kin^,  and  with  more  than  regal  solemnity ;  and  to  leave  a  name 
behmd  him  not  to  be  eztinguiuied  but  with  the  whole  world,  which, 
as  it  is  now  too  little  for  his  praises,  so  might  have  been  too  for  his 
conquests,  if  the  short  line  of  his  human  life  could  have  been 
stretched  out  to  the  extent  of  his  immortal  designs  ? 

By  this  speech  I  began  to  understand  perfectly  well  what  kind  of 
angel  his  pretended  highness  was,  and  having  fortified  myself  pri- 
vately with  a  short  mental  prayer,  and  with  me  sign  of  the  cross 
(not  out  of  any  superstition  to  the  sign,  but  as  a  recognition  of  my 
baptism  in  Christ),  I  grew  a  little  bolder,  and  replied  in  this  man- 
ner :  I  should  not  venture  to  oppose  what  you  are  pleased  to  say 
in  commendation  of  the  late  great  and,  I  confess,  extraordinary  per- 
son, but  that  I  remember  Christ  forbids  us  to  give  assent  to  any 
other  doctrine  but  what  Himself  has  taught  us,  even  though  it  should 
be  delivered  by  an  angel ;  and  if  such  you  be,  sir,  it  may  be  you 
have  spoken  sdl  this  rather  to  try  than  to  tempt  my  frsolty ;  for 
sure  I  am,  that  we  must  renounce  or  forget  all  the  laws  of  the  New 
and  Old  Testament,  and  those  which  are  the  foundation  of  both, 
even  the  laws  of  moral  and  natural  honesty,  if  we  approve  of  the 
actions  of  that  man  whom  I  suppose  you  commend  by  irony.  There 
would  be  no  end  to  instance  in  the  particulars  of  all  his  wickedness ; 
but,  to  sum  up  a  part  of  it  briefly,  what  can  be  more  extraordinarily 
wicked  than  for  a  person,  such  as  yourself  qualify  him  rightly,  to  en- 
deavour not  only  to  exalt  himself  above,  but  to  trample  upon  all  his 
equals  and  betters  1  to  pretend  freedom  for  all  men,  and  under  the 
help  of  that  pretence,  to  make  all  men  his  servants  ?  to  take  arms 
against  taxes  of  scarce  two  hundred  thousand  pounds  a-year,  and  to 
raise  them  himseK  to  above  two  millions  ?  to  quarrel  for  the  loss  of 
three  or  four  ears,  and  to  strike  oflf  three  or  four  hundred  heads  ?  to 
fight  against  an  imaginary  suspicion  of  I  know  not  what ;  two  thou- 
sand guards  to  be  fetched  for  tiie  king,  I  know  not  from  whence ; 
and  to  keep  up  for  himself  no  less  than  forty  thousand  ?  to  pretend 
the  defence  of  parliaments,  and  violently  to  dissolve  all  even  of  his 
own  calling  and  almost  choosing  1  to  undertake  the  reformation  of 
religion,  to  rob  it  even  to  the  very  skin,  and  then  to  expose  it  naked 
to  Qie  rage  of  all  sects  and  heresies  ?  to  set  up  counsels  of  rapine 
and  courts  of  murder  ?  to  fight  against  the  king  under  a  commission 

OF  SOUTUDX.  141 

for  him  ?  to  take  him  forcibly  ont  of  the  hands  of  those  for  whom 
he  had  conquered  him  ;  to  dnw  him  into  his  net  with  protestations 
and  TOWS  of  fidelity,  and  when  he  had  canght  him  in  it,  to  batcher 
him  with  as  little  shame  as  conscience  or  humanity,  in  the  open  hce 
of  the  whole  world  ?  to  receiye  a  commission  for  king  and  parlia- 
ment, to  murder  (as  I  said)  the  one,  and  to  destroy  no  less  impu- 
dently the  other  ?  to  fight  against  monarchy  when  he  declared  for 
it,  and  to  declare  against  it  when  he  contriyed  for  it  in  his  own 
person  ?  to  abuse  perfidiously  and  supplant  ingratefullj  his  own 
general  first,  and  anerwards  most  of  those  officers  who,  with  tiie  loss 
of  their  honour  and  hazard  of  their  souls,  had  lifted  him  up  to  the 
top  of  his  unreasonable  ambitions  ?  to  break  his  &ith  with  all  ene- 
mies and  with  all  friends  equally  ?  and  to  make  no  less  frequent 
use  of  the  most  solenm  perjuries  than  the  looser  sort  of  people  do 
of  customary  oaths  ?  to  usuip  three  kingdoms  without  any  shadow 
of  the  least  pretensions,  and  to  coyem  them  as  unjustly  as  he  got 
them  ?  to  set  himself  up  as  an  idm  (which  we  know,  as  St  Paul  says, 
in  itself  is  nothing),  and  make  the  yery  streets  of  London  like  uie 
yalley  of  Hiunon  by  burning  the  bowels  of  men  as  a  sacrifice  to  his 
Moloch-ship  ?  to  seek  to  entail  this  usurpation  upon  his  posterity, 
and  with  it  an  endless  war  upon  the  nation  ?  and  lastly,  by  the 
seyerest  judgment  of  Almighty  Qod,  to  die  hardened,  and  mad,  and 
unrepentant,  with  the  curses  of  the  present  age  and  the  detestation 
of  all  to  succeed.^ 

2.  OFSOLrruDX. — (sEooin)  xssat.) 

"  Neyer  less  alone  than  when  alone''  is  now  become  a  yeiy  yulgar 
saying.  Eyery  man,  and  almost  eyery  boy,  for  these  seyenteen 
hund^d  years,  has  had  it  in  his  mouth.  But  it  was  at  first  spoken 
by  the  excellent  Scipio,  who  was  without  question  a  most  eloquent 
and  witty  person,  as  well  as  the  most  wise,  most  worthy,  most 
happy,  and  the  greatest  of  all  mankind.  His  meaning,  no  doubt, 
was  uiis,  that  he  found  more  satisfaction  to  his  mind,  and  more  im- 
proyement  of  it,  by  solitude  than  by  company ;  and,  to  show  that 
he  spoke  not  this  loosely  or  out  of  yanity,  after  he  had  made  Rome 
mistress  of  almost  the  whole  world,  he  retired  himself  from  it  by  a 
yoluntary  exile,  and  at  a  priyate  house,  in  the  middle  of  a  wood 
near  lintemum,  passed  the  remainder  of  his  glorious  life  no  less 
gloriously.  This  house  Seneca  went  to  see  so  long  after  with  so 
ereat  yeneration ;  and,  among  other  things,  describes  his  baths  to 
haye  been  of  so  mean  a  stru^ure,  that  now,  says  he,  the  basest  of 
the  people  would  despise  them,  and  ciy  out,  "  Poor  Scipio  under- 
stood not  how  to  liye.      What  an  authority  is  here  for  the  credit  of 

^  Cowley,  tt  has  been  alreadj  mentioned,  was  a  royalist,  and  his  opinions  on  Crom- 
well's character  and  gOTemment  would,  of  course,  be  materially  influenced  by  his  own 
conTlctiona,  and  must  therefore  be  taken  for  what  they  are  worth ;  this,  however,  does 
not  render  tt  the  less  dishonest  to  quote,  as  has  been  sometimes  done  of  late,  the  flrst 
yart  of  the  aibore  extract  as  Cowley's  own  belief;  when  it  is  in  fact  the  rery  opposite. 


retreat !  and  happy  had  it  been  for  Hannibal,  if  adversity  could 
have  taught  him  as  much  wisdom  as  was  learnt  by  Scipio  from  the 
highest  prosperities.  This  would  be  no  wonder,  if  it  were  as  truly 
as  it  is  colourably  ^  and  wittily  said  by  Monsieur  Montaigne,  "  That 
ambition  itself  might  teach  ub  to  love  solitude ;  there  is  nothing 
does  so  much  hate  to  hare  companions.''  It  is  true,  it  loves  to 
have  its  elbows  free,  it  detests  to  have  company  on  either  side  ;  but 
it  delights  above  all  things  in  a  train  behmd,  aye,  and  ushers,  too, 
before  it.  But  the  greatest  part  of  men  are  so  far  from  the  opinion 
of  that  noble  Boman,  that,  if  they  chance  at  any  time  to  be  without 
company,  they  are  like  a  becalmed  ship ;  they  never  move  but  by 
the  wind  of  other  men's  breath,  and  have  no  oars  of  their  own  to 
steer  withal.  It  is  very  fantastical  and  contradictory  in  human 
nature,  that  men  should  love  themselves  above  all  the  rest  of  the 
world,  and  yet  never  endure  to  be  with  themselves*  When  they 
are  in  love  with  a  mistress,  all  other  persoift  are  importunate  and 
burthensome  to  them :  they  would  live  and  die  with  ner  alone. 

"  With  thee  for  ever  I  in  woods  could  rest, 
Where  never  human  foot  the  ground  has  press'd ; 
Thou  from  all  shades  the  darkness  canst  exclude, 
And  from  a  desert  banish  solitude." 

And  yet  our  dear  self  is  so  wearisome  to  us,  that  we  can  scarcely 
support  its  conversation  for  an  hour  together.  This  is  such  an  odd 
temper  of  mind,  as  Catullus  expresses  towards  one  of  his  mistresses, 
whom  we  may  suppose  to  have  been  of  a  very  unsociable  humour. 

"  I  hate,  and  yet  I  love  thee  too ; 
How  can  that  be  ?    I  know  not  how ; 
Only  that  so  it  is  I  know, 
And  feel  with  torment  that  'tis  so." 

It  is  a  deplorable  condition  this,  and  drives  a  man  sometimes  to 
pitiful  shifts,  in  seeking  how  to  avoid  himsel£ 

The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  that  neither  he  who  is  a  fop  in  the 
world  is  a  fit  man  to  be  alone,  nor  he  who  has  set  his  heart  much 
upon  the  world,  though  he  have  never  so  much  understanding ;  so 
that  solitude  can  be  well  fitted,  and  sit  right,  but  upon  a  very  few 
persons.  They  must  have  enough  knowledge  of  the  world  to  see 
the  vanity  of  it,  and  enough  v&tue  to  despise  all  vanity;  if  the 
mind  be  possessed  with  any  lust  or  passions,  a  man  had  better  be  in  a 
fair  than  in  a  wood  alone.  They  may,  like  petty  thieves,  cheat  us 
perhaps,  and  pick  our  pockets,  in  the  midst  of  company ;  but,  like 
robbers,  they  use  to  strip,  and  bind,  or  murder  us,  when  they  catch 
ns  alone.  This  is  but  to  retreat  from  men,  and  fall  into  the  hands 
of  devils.  It  is  like  the  punishment  of  parricides  among  the  Bomans, 
to  be  sewed  into  a  bag  with  an  ape,  a  dog,  and  a  serpent. 

^  •.&,  in  modem  language,  pkuuiMjf, 


The  first  work,  therefore,  that  a  man  must  do,  to  make  himself 
capable  of  the  good  of  solitude,  is  the  very  eradication  of  all  lusts ;  for, 
how  is  it  possible  for  a  man  to  enjoy  himself  while  his  affections  are 
tied  to  thmgs  without  himself  ?  In  the  second  place,  he  must  learn 
the  art  and  get  the  habit  of  thinking ;  for  this,  too,  no  less  than 
well-speaking,  depends  upon  much  practice  ;  and  cogitation  is  the 
thing  which  distinguishes  the  solitude  of  a  Qod  from  a  wild  beast. 
Now,  because  the  soul  of  man  is  not  by  its  own  nature  or  observa- 
tion furnished  with  sufficient  materials  to  work  upon,  it  is  necessair 
for  it  to  have  continual  recourse  to  learning  and  books  for  fresh 
supplies,  so  that  the  solitary  life  wlQ  grow  indigent,  and  be  ready 
to  starve,  without  them ;  but  if  once  we  be  thoroughly  engaged  in 
the  love  of  letters,  instead  of  being  wearied  with  the  length  of  any 
day,  we  shall  only  complain  of  the  shortness  of  our  whole  life. 

"  0  life,  long  to  the  fool,  short  to  the  wise ! " 

The  first  minister  of  state  has  not  so  much  business  in  public,  as 
a  wise  man  has  in  private :  if  the  one  have  little  leisure  to  be  alone, 
the  other  has  less  leisure  to  be  in  company ;  the  one  has  but  part  of 
the  affiurs  of  one  nation,  the  other  all  the  works  of  God  and  nature 
under  his  consideration.  There  is  no  saying  shocks  me  so  much  as 
that  which  I  hear  very  often,  "  that  a  man  does  not  know  how  to 
pass  his  time.'*  It  would  have  been  but  iU-spoken  by  Methusalem 
in  the  nine  hundred  sixty-ninth  year  of  his  life ;  so  far  it  is  from 
us,  who  have  not  time  enough  to  attain  to  the  utmost  perfection  of 
any  part  of  any  science,  to  have  cause  to  complain  that  we  are  forced 
to  be  idle  for  want  of  work.  But  this,  you  will  say,  is  work  only 
for  the  learned ;  others  are  not  capable  either  of  the  employments 
or  divertisements  that  arrive  from  letters.  I  know  they  are  not ; 
and  therefore  cannot  much  recommend  solitude  to  a  man  totally 
illiterate.  But,  if  any  man  be  so  unlearned  as  to  want  entertain- 
ment of  the  little  intervals  of  accidental  solitude,  which  frequently 
occur  in  almost  all  conditions  (except  the  very  meanest  of  the 
people,  who  have  business  enough  in  the  necessary  provisions  for 
life),  it  is  truly  a  great  shame  both  to  his  parents  and  to  himself,  for 
a  very  small  portion  of  any  ingenious  art  wiU  stop  up  all  these  gaps 
of  our  time  ;  either  music,  or  painting,  or  designing,  or  chemistry, 
or  history,  or  gardening,  or  twenty  other  things,  wiB  do  it  usefully 
and  pleasantly ;  and  if  he  happen  to  set  his  affections  upon  poetry 
(which  I  do  not  advise  him  too  immoderately),  that  will  overdo  it ; 
no  wood  will  be  thick  enough  to  hide  him  from  the  importunities  of 
company  or  business,  which  would  abstract  him  from  his  beloved. 

Hail,  old  patrician  trees,  so  great  and  good ! 

Hail,  ye  plebeian  underwood  I 

"Where  the  poetic  birds  rejoice. 
And  for  their  quiet  rests  and  plenteous  food 

Pay^  with  their  grateful  voice. 


Hail,  the  poor  Muses'  richest  manor-seat ; 
Ye  country  houses  and  retreat, 
Which  all  the  happy  gods  so  love, 

That  for  you  oft  they  quit  their  bright  and  great  ^ 
Metropolis  above. 

Here  Nature  does  a  house  for  me  erect ; 

Nature,  the  wisest  architect, 
<     Who  those  fond  aHists  does  despise 
That  can  the  fair  and  living  trees  neglect, 

Yet  the  dead  timber  prize. 

Ah  wretched  and  too  solitary  he. 

Who  loves  not  his  own  company ! 
He'll  feel  the  weight  of*t  many  a  day, 

Unless  he  call  in  sin  or  vanity 
To  help  to  bear't  away. 

Oh  solitude,  first  state  of  human  kind ! 

Which  bless'd  remain'd,  till  man  did  find 
Ev'n  his  own  helper's  company. 

As  soon  as  two,  alas !  together  join'd. 
The  serpent  made  up  three. 


Sm  Thomas  Bbowne  was  bom  in  London  in  1605.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Winchester  and  Oxford,  and  after  graduating,  devoted  himself 
to  the  study  of  medicine,  which  he  prosecuted  at  Paidua  and  Leyden, 
then  the  most  famous  medical  schools  in  Europe.  Returning  from  the 
Continent,  he  settled  for  a  short  time  at  London,  and  thence  removed 
to  Norwich,  where  he  spent  the  rest  of  his  life,  carrying  on  his  scien- 
tific researches,  and  discharging  the  duties  of  his  profession,  undis- 
turbed by  the  din  of  civil  war  which  raged  all  around.  His  works 
procured  him  a  wide-spread  reputation,  and  in  1671  Charles  II.,  when 
on  a  visit  to  Norwich,  bestowed  on  him  the  honour  of  knighthood. 
He  died  in  1682.  His  works  are  "Religio  Medici,  or  ReUgion  of 
a  Physician,"  "Pseudodoxia  Epidemica,  or  Enquiries  into  Vulgar 
Errors,"  "  Hydriotaphia,  a  Discourse  on  Sepulchral  Urns,"  "  The 
Garden  of  Cyrus,"  "  Christian  Morals,"  and  some  minor  performances. 
Few  works  were  more  popular  when  first  produced  than  those  of  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  and  perhaps  none  of  that  age  have  at  the  present 
day  a  wider  circle  of  enthusiastic  admirers.  His  "  Religio  Medici" 
passed  through  twelve  editions  during  the  author's  life,  was  translated 

1  In  the  time  of  Cowley  grtcA  was  probably  always  pronounced  so  as  to  rhyme  to 
MoL  This  pronunciation  was  retained  till  near  the  close  of  last  century,  for  Dr  John- 
son, though  told  by  Lord  Chesterfield  that  grtab  should  be  made  to  rhyme  to  «to<e,  wan 
also  told  by  the  best  speaker  in  the  House  of  Commons  that  nobody  but  an  IriahmMi 
would  pronounce  it  in  any  other  way  than  so  as  to  rhyme  to  «eaf. 


into  most  of  the  Continental  languages,  called  forth  a  host  of  imitators, 
and  is  still  read  with  pleasure.  The  style  of  Browme's  works  is  very 
peculiar  and  characteristic ;  pedantic,  ohscure,  ahounding  in  new- 
coined  Latin  words  and  learned  allusions,  it  is  yet  dignified  and 
pleasing,  sometimes  eloquent  and  forcible,  and  flows  with  a  graceful 
musical  rhythm,  exceedingly  agreeable  to  a  cultiyated  ear,  and  not 
perceptible  to  the  same  extent  in  any  contemporary  writer.  His  re- 
marks may  sometimes  appear  unimportant,  and  are  not  seldom  far- 
fetched and  ingenious  rather  than  solid ;  but  they  are  never  common- 
place, and  always  bear  the  impress  of  a  mind  quaint,  perhaps,  and 
singularly  constituted,  but  yigorous,  original,  and  untiring  in  the  pur- 
suit of  truth.  The  following  extracts  are  from  the  excellent  edition 
of  Browne  by  Mr  Wilkin  of  Norwich. 

1.   FROM  THE  "  RKLIGIO  MEDICL*' ' — (PART  L,  SECT.  VI.) 

I  could  never  divide  myself  from  any  man  upon  the  difference  of 
an  opinion,  or  be  angry  with  his  judgment  for  not  agreeing  with  me 
in  that  from  which,  perhaps,  within  a  few  days,  I  should  dissent 
myself  I  have  no  genius  to  disputes  in  religion ;  and  have  often 
thought  it  wisdom  to  decline  them,  especially  upon  a  disadvantage, 
or  iMOien  the  cause  of  truth  might  suffer  in  the  weakness  of  my 
patronage.  Where  we  desire  to  be  informed,  'tis  good  to  contest 
with  men  above  ourselves ;  but,  to  confirm  and  stablish  our  opinions, 
'tis  best  to  argue  with  judgments  below  our  own,  that  the  frequent 
spoils  and  victories  over  uieir  reasons  may  settle  in  ourselves  an 
esteem  and  confirmed  opinion  of  our  own.  Every  man  is  not  a 
proper  champion  for  trum,  nor  fit  to  take  up  the  gauntlet  in  the 
cause  of  verity ;  many,  from  the  ignorance  of  these  maxims,  and  an 
inconsiderate  zeal  unto  truth,  have  too  rashly  charged  the  troops  of 
error,  and  remain  a^  trophies  unto  the  enemies  of  truth.  A  man 
may  be  in  as  just  possession  of  truth  as  of  a  city,  and  yet  be  forced 
to  surrender ;  'tis  therefore  far  better  to  enjoy  her  with  peace  than 
hazard  her  in  a  battle.  If,  therefore,  there  rise  any  doubts  in  my 
way,  I  do  forget  them,  or  at  least  defer  them,  till  my  better  settled 
judgment  and  more  manly  reason  be  able  to  resolve  them ;  for  I 
perceive  every  man's  own  reason  is  his  best  CEdipus,'  and  will,  upon 
a  reasonable  truce,  find  a  way  to  loose  those  bonds  wherewith  the 
subtleties  of  error  have  enchamed  our  more  flexible  and  tender  judg- 
ments. In  philosophy,  where  truth  seems  double-faced,  there  is  no 
man  more  paradoxical  than  myself:  but  in  divinity  I  love  to  keep 
the  road ;  and  though  not  in  an  implicit,  yet  an  humble  faith,  follow 
Hie  great  wheel  of  the  church ;  not  reserving  any  proper  poles  or 
motion  from  the  epicycle '  of  my  own  brain.    By  this  means  I  leave 

>  This  work  contains  a  somniary  of  Browne's  religions  opinions. 

I  OBdipns  became  King  of  Tliebes  by  solving  the  Sphinx's  riddle;  hence  the  pa»* 
sage  in  the  text  means,  every  man's  own  reason,  if  properly  used,  will  solve  all  douiitt 
and  difficulties  in  his  religion. 

*  An  epicycle  is  a  circle  described  round  a  point  in  the  circumference  of  another 
circle ;  the  meaning  Is,  *^  I  adhere  to  the  church's  authority  without  wandering  ip  anj 
peculiax  way  of  my  own.** 



no  gap  for  heresy,  scliiBins,  or  errors,  of  which  at  present  I  hope  I 
shaU  not  injure  truth  to  say,  I  have  no  taint  or  tincture.  I  must 
confess  my  greener  studies  have  been  polluted  with  two  or  three  ; 
not  any  begotten  in  the  latter  centuries,  but  old  and  obsolete,  such 
as  could  never  have  been  revived  but  by  such  extravagant  and  irre- 
gular heads  as  mine.  For.  indeed,  heresies  perish  not  with  their 
authors,  but  like  the  river  Aretiiusa,^  though  they  lose  their 
currents  in  one  place,  they  rise  up  again  in  another.  One  general 
council  is  not  able  to  extirpate  one  single  heresy ;  it  may  be  cancelled 
for  the  present,  but  revolution  of  time,  and  the  like  aspects  from 
heaven,  will  restore  it,  when  it  will  flourish  till  it  be  condemned 
again.  For,  as  though  there  were  a  metempsychosis,'  and  the  soul 
of  one  man  passed  to  another,  opinions  do  &id,  after  certain  revolu- 
tions, men  and  minds  like  those  that  first  begat  them.  To  see  our- 
selves again,  we  need  not  look  for  Plato's  year  ;•  every  man  is  not 
only  himself;  there  have  been  many  Diogeneses,  and  as  many 
Timons,  though  but  few  of  that  name ;  men  are  lived  over  again ; 
the  world  is  now  as  it  was  in  ages  past ;  there  was  none  then,  but 
there  hath  been  some  one  since  tiiat  parallels  him,  and  is  as  it  were 
his  revived  self 

The  vHmders  of  Natv/re, — (Part  L,  sections  15, 16.) — ^I  could  never 
content  my  contemplation  with  those  general  pieces  of  wonder,  the 
flux  and  reflux  of  the  sea,  the  in<arease  of  Nile,  the  conversion  of  the 
needle  to  the  North ;  and  have  studied  to  match  and  parallel  these 
in  the  more  obvious  and  neglected  pieces  of  nature  which,  without 
further  travel,  I  can  do  in  the  cosmography  of  myself.  We  carry 
with  us  the  wonders  we  seek  without  us ;  there  is  all  AMca  and  her 
prodigies  in  us.  We  are  that  bold  and  adventurous  piece  of  nature 
which  he  that  studies  wisely  learns  in  a  compendium^  what  others 
labour  at  in  a  divided  piece  and  endless  volume. 

Thus  there  are  two  books  from  whence  I  collect  my  divinity. 
Besides  that  written  one  of  Qod,  another  of  His  servant-nature,  that 
universal  and  publick  manuscript,  that  lies  exposed  unto  the  eyes 
of  alL  Those  that  never  saw  aim  in  the  one,  have  discovered  Him 
in  the  other :  this  was  the  scripture  and  theology  of  the  heathens ; 
the  natural  motion  of  the  sun  made  them  more  admire  Him  than 
its  supernatural  station  *  did  the  children  of  IsraeL  The  ordinary 
eflects  of  nature  wrought  more  admiration  in  them,  than  in  the  other 
all  His  miracles.  Surely  the  heathens  knew  better  how  to  join  and 
read  these  mystical  letters  than  we  Christians,  who  cast  a  more  care- 
less eye  on  these  common  hieroglyphics,  and  disdaia  to  suck  divinity 
from  the  flowers  of  nature.  Nor  do  I  so  forget  God  as  to  adore  the 
name  of  nature :  which  I  define  not,  with  the  schools,  to  be  the 

1  A  fountain  in  Sicily ;  according  to  the  belief  of  the  ancients,  this  fountain  was 
connected  under  the  sea  with  the  Alphseos,  a  river  in  Greece,  so  that  anything  throvm 
int-o  the  liver  rose  in  the  fountain. 

<  i.e.,  a  transmi^rration  of  souls. 

>  A  revolution  of  certain  thousand  years,  when  all  things  should  return  unto  their 
forma-  estate,  and  he  be  teaching  again  in  his  school,  as  when  he  delivered  thia 
epinion.  *  In  the  literal  sense  of  "standing  stilL" 


principle  of  motion  and  rest,  but  that  straight  and  regular  line,  that 
settled  and  constant  course  the  wisdom  of  Gk)d  hath  ordained  the 
actions  of  His  creatures,  according  to  their  several  kinds.  To  make 
a  reYolution  every  day  is  the  nature  of  the  sun,  because  of  that 
necessary  course  which  Qod  hath  ordained  it,  from  which  it  cannot 
swerve  but  by  a  &culty  from  that  voice  which  first  did  give  it 
motion.  Now  this  course  of  nature  Qod  seldom  alters  or  perverts ; 
but,  like  an  excellent  artist,  hath  so  contrived  His  work  tnat,  with 
the  self-same  instrument,  without  a  new  creation.  He  may  effect  his 
obscurest  designs.  I  call  the  effects  of  nature  the  works  of  Gk>d, 
whose  hand  and  instrument  she  only  is ;  and  therefore,  to  ascribe 
His  actions  unto  her  is  to  devolve  the  honour  of  the  principal  agent 
upon  the  instrument ;  which  if  with  reason  we  may  do,  then  let  our 
hammers  rise  up  and  boast  they  have  built  our  houses,  and  our  pens 
receive  the  honour  of  our  writings.  I  hold  there  is  a  general  beauty 
in  the  works  of  God,  and  therefore  no  deformity  in  any  kind  of 
species  or  creature  whatsoever.  I  cannot  tell  by  what  logic  we  call 
a  toad,  a  bear,  or  an  elephant  ugly ;  they  being  created  in  those  out- 
ward shapes  and  figures  which  best  express  the  actions  of  their 
inward  forms ;  and  having  passed  that  general  visitation  of  Qod, 
who  saw  that  all  that  He  had  made  was  good,  that  is,  conformable 
to  His  will,  which  abhors  deformity,  and  is  the  will  of  order  and 
beauty.  There  is  no  deformity  but  in  monstrosity ;  wherein,  not- 
withstanding, there  is  a  kind  of  beauty;  nature  so  ingeniously 
contriving^  the  irregular  parts,  as  they  beHCome  sometimes  more  re- 
markable than  the  principal  ikbria  To  speak  yet  more  narrowly, 
there  was  never  anything  ugly  or  misshapen,  but  the  chaos ; 
wherein,  notwithstanding,  to  speak  strictly,  there  was  no  deformity, 
because  no  form ;  nor  was  it  yet  impregnate  by  the  voice  of  Gk>d. 
Now  nature  is  not  at  variance  with  art,  nor  art  with  nature ;  they 
being  both  the  servants  of  His  providence.  Art  is  the  perfection  of 
nature.  Were  the  world  now  as  it  was  the  sixth  day,  there  were 
yet  a  chaos.  Nature  hath  made  one  world,  and  art  another.  In 
brief,  all  things  are  artificial,  for  nature  is  the  art  of  Qod, 

Books, — (Part  L,  sections  23, 24.) — Men's  works  have  an  age,  like 
themselves,  and  though  they  outlive  their  authors,  yet  have  they  a 
stmt  and  period  to  tneir  duration.  The  Scripture  only  is  a  work 
too  hard  for  the  teeth  of  time,  and  cannot  perish  but  in  the  general 
flames,  when  all  things  shall  confess  their  ashes.  I  have  heard 
some,  with  deep  sighs,  lament  the  lost  lines  of  Cicero ;  others,  with 
as  many  groans,  deplore  the  combustion  of  the  Library  of  Alex- 
andria ;  for  my  own  part,  I  think  there  be  too  many  in  the  world, 
and  could  wititi  patience  behold  the  urn  and  ashes  of  the  Vatican,* 
could  I,  with  a  few  others,  recover  the  perished  leaves  of  Solomon.' 
I  would  not  omit  a  copy  of  Enoch's  pillars,"  had  they  many  nearer 

1  The  .library  of  tbe  Vatican  at  Rome,  which  was  in  Sir  Thomas's  days  the  most 
yaloable  in  Europe,  as  indeed  in  some  respects  it  still  is. 

>  It  says  in  1  Kings  that  Solomon  wrote  five  thousand  proverbs,  and  one  thousand 
and  five  songs,  most  of  which  are  of  course  lost. 

s  \ccording  to  Josephns,  Enoch,  informed  by  Adam  that  the  world  was  to  be  twice 


authors  than  Josephus^  or  did  not  relish  somewhat  of  the  &ble. 
Some  men  have  written  more  than  others  have  spoken.  Pineda* 
quotes  more  authors  in  one  work  than  are  neoessaiy  in  a  whole 
world.  Of  those /three  creat  inventions  in  Germany,'  there  are  two 
which  are  not  without  their  incommodities.  'Tis  not  a  melancholy 
wish'  of  my  own,  but  the  desires  of  better  heads,  that  there  were  a 
general  synod,  not  to  unite  the  incompatible  difference  of  religion, 
but  for  the  benefit  of  learning,  to  reduce  it,  as  it  lay  at  first,  in  a 
few  and  solid  authors,  and  to  condenm  to  the  fire  those  swarms  and 
millions  of  rhapsodies,  begotten  only  to  distract  and  abuse  the 
weaker  judgments  of  scholars,  and  to  maintiain  the  trade  and  mys- 
tery of  typoffraphers. 

Mcm^s  oody.--(Patt  i,  sections  36, 37.)— In  our  study  of  anatomy, 
there  is  a  mass  of  mysterious  philosophy,  and  such  as  reduced  the 
venr  heathens  to  divinity ;  yet  amongst  all  those  rare  discoveries 
and  curious  pieces  I  find  in  the  &bric  of  man,  I  do  not  so  much 
content  myself,  as  in  that  I  find  not — ^that  is,  no  organ  or  instru- 
ment for  the  rational  soul ;  for  in  the  brain,  which  we  term  the 
seat  of  reason,  there  is  not  anything  of  moment  more  than  I  can 
discover  in  the  cranny  of  a  beast ;  and  this  is  a  sensible  and  no  in- 
considerable argument  of  the  inoj^mity  of  the  soul, — at  least  in 
that  sense  we  usually  receive  it  Thus  we  are  men,  and  we  know 
not  how ;  there  is  something  in  us  that  can  be  without  us,  and  will 
be  after  us  ;  though  it  is  Strang  that  it  hath  no  history  what  it  was 
before  us,  nor  cannot  tell  how  it  entered  in  us. 

Now,  for  these  walls  of  flesh  wherein  the  soul  doth  seem  to  be 
unmured  before  the  resurrection,  it  is  nothinff  but  an  elemental 
composition,  and  a  £a.bric  that  must  fall  to  a^es.  "  All  flesh  is 
grass,"  is  not  only  metaphorically  but  literally  true ;  for  all  those 
creatures  we  behold  are  but  the  herbs  of  the  field  digested  into  flesh 
in  them,  or  more  remotely  camified  in  ourselves,  ^ay,  further,  we 
are  what  we  all  abhor,  man-eaters  and  cannibals,  aevourers  not 
only  of  men  but  of  ourselves,  and  that  not  in  an  allegory,  but  a 
positive  truth  ;  for  all  this  mass  of  flesh  which  we  "behold  came  in 
at  our  mouths ;  this  frame  we  look  upon  hath  been  upon  our 
trenchers ;  in  brief,  we  have  devoured  ourselves. 

Of  the  end  of  the  world, — (Part  L,  sections  45, 46.)— I  believe  the 
world  grows  near  its  end ;  yet  it  is  neither  old  nor  decayed,  nor 
will  ever  perish  upon  the  ruins  of  its  own  principles.  As  the  work 
of  creation  was  above  nature,  so  is  its  adversary,  annihilation, 
without  which  the  world  hath  not  its  end,  but  its  mutation.  Now, 
what  force  should  be  able  to  consume  it  thus  &r  without  the  breath 
of  God,  which  is  the  truest  consuming  flame,  my  philosophy  cannot 

destroyed,  once  by  vrater  and  once  by  fire,  erected  two  pillars, — one  of  stone,  acrainst 
the  water,  the  other  of  brick,  against  the  fire ;  and  on  these  engraved  all  the  know- 
ledge of  hJs  time ;  and  thus  the  flood  did  not  sweep  away  ail  the  knowledge  of  man- 

1  In  one  wunc  he  quotes  one  thousand  and  forty  antbors. 

*  Gunpowder,  printing,  and  the  compass,  of  which  the  first  two  are  tboae  which 
have  occasioned  "  incommodities.** 

'  Bro\fne  here  uses  the  equivulent  I<atin  woi4 1 


infonn  me.  Some  belieye  there  went  not  a  minute  to  the  world*s 
creation,  nor  shall  there  go  to  its  destraction.  Those  six  days,  so 
punctually  described,  make  not  to  them  one  moment,  but  rallier 
seem  to  manifest  the  method  and  idea  of  that  sreat  work  in  the  in- 
tellect of  God  than  the  manner  how  He  preceded  in  its  operation. 
Now,  to  determine  the  day  and  year  of  thds  inevitable  time,  is 
not  only  convincible  and  statute  madness,  but  also  manifest  im- 
piety.^ How  shskll  we  inteipret  Elias's  six  thousand  years,'  or  ima- 
gine the  secret  communicated  to  a  rabbi  which  God  hath  denied 
unto  his  angels  ?  It  had  been  an  excellent  query  to  haye  posed  the 
devil  of  Delphos,'  and  must  needs  have  forced  mm  to  some  strange 
amphibology.^  It  hath  not  only  mocked  the  predictions  of  sund^ 
astrologers  in  past  ages,  but  the  prophecies  of  many  melancholy 
heads  in  these  present,  who,  neither  understanding  reasonably 
things  past  nor  present,  pretend  a  knowledge  of  things  to  come, 
heads  ordained  only  to  manifest  the  incredible  effects  of  melancholy, 
and  to  fiiM  old  prophecies'^  rather  than  be  the  authors  of  new. 


What  song  the  Syrens  sang,  or  what  name  AchiUes  assumed  when 
he  hid  himself  among  women,  though  puzzling  questions,'  are  not 
beyond  all  conjecture.  What  time  the  persons  of  these  ossuaries® 
entered  the  famous  nations  of  the  dead,  and  slept  with  princes  and 
counsellors,  might  admit  a  wide  solution.  But  who  were*  the  pro- 
prietaries of  these  bones,  or  what  bodies  these  ashes  made  up,  were 
a  question  above  antiquarism  ;  not  to  be  resolved*  by  man,  nor 
easily,  perhaps,  by  spirits,  except  we  consult  the  provincial  guar- 
dians, or  tutelary  observators.  Had  they  made  as  good  provision 
for  their  names  as  they  have  done  for  their  relics,  they  had  not  so 
grossly  erred  in  the  art  of  perpetuation.  But  to  subsist  in  bones, 
and  be  but  pyramidally  extant,  is  a  fallacy  in  duration.  Vain  ashes, 
which,  in  the  oblivion  of  names,  persons,  times,  and  sexes,  have  found 
unto  themselves  a  fruitless  continuation,  and  only  arise  unto  late 
posterity  as  emblems  of  mortal  vanities,  antidotes  against  pride, 
vain-glory,  and  madding  vices.  Pagan  vain-glories,  which  thought 
the  world  might  last  for  ever,  had  encouragement  for  ambition  ;  and, 

1  Becatuse  Christ  says,  "  Of  that  day  and  honr  knoweth  no  man,  no,  not  the  angels 
of  heaven/* 

2  According  to  the  Jewish  Rabbis,  El^ah  is  said  to  have  prophesied  the  destraction 
of  the  world  after  it  had  existed  6000  years. 

>  The  oracle  of  Apollo  at  Delphi. 

*  The  nse  of  words  capable  of  two  senses,  as  when  Shakspere  says, — 

«  The  duke  yet  IWefl  that  Henry  shall  depoea** 
—which  may  mean,  either  the  dnke  is  stiU  alive  who  is  to  depose  Henry,  or  the  duke 
is  still  alive  who  is  to  be  deposed  by  Henry. 
^  Snch  as,  *^In  those  days  shall  come  liars  and  fiilse  prophets.** 

*  This  treatise  was  written  as  a  discourse  npon  some  urns  fbund  in  a  field  near  Nor- 

^  These  were  the  questions  which  the  Emperor  Tiberius  proposed  to  the  grammarians 
tot  their  solution. 
«  i  e.,  &ane«,  the  persons  to  whom  the  bones  found  in  the  urns  belonged. 

*  t.  «.,  solved  or  answered. 


finding  no  Atn-opos^  unto  the  immortality  of  their  names,  were  never 
dampt  with  the  necessity  of  oblivion.  Even  old  ambitions  had  the 
advantages  of  ours,  in  the  attempts  of  their  vain-glohes,  who  acting 
early,  and  before  the  probable  meridian  of  time,  have  by  this  time 
found  great  accomplishment  of  their  designs,  whereby  ike  ancient 
heroes  have  already  outlasted  their  monuments  and  mechanical  pre- 
servations. But  in  this  latter  scene  of  time  we  cannot  expect  such 
mummies  unto  our  memories,  when  ambition  may  fear  the  prophecy 
of  Elias,'  and  Charles  the  Fifth  can  never  hope  to  live  within  two 
Methuselahs  of  Hector.' 

And,  therefore,  restless  inquietude  for  the  diutumity  of  our  me- 
morie?  nnto  pre^mt  consid^tions,  seenu,  a  vanity  X.08t  out  of 
date,  and  superannuated  piece  of  foUy.  We  cannot  hope  to  live  so 
long  iu  our  names  as  some  have  done  ia  their  persons.  One  &uce  of 
Janus  holds  no  proportion  to  the  other.^  'Tis  too  late  to  be  ambi- 
tious. The  great  mutations  of  the  world  are  acted,  or  time  may  be 
too  short  for  our  designs.  To  extend  our  memories  by  monuments 
whose  death  we  daily  pray  for,  and  whose  duration  we  cannot  hope 
without  injury  to  our  expectations  in  the  advent  of  the  last  day,  were 
a  contradiction  to  our  beliefs.  We,  whose  generations  are  ordained 
in  this  setting  part  of  time,  aw  piovidentiaUy  taken  off  from  such 
imaginations  ;  and  hems  necessitated  to  eye  the  remaining  particle 
of  Sturity,  are  naturaUy  constituted  unto  thoughts  of  the  next 
world,  and  cannot  excusably  decline  the  consideration  of  that  dura- 
tion, which  maketh  pyramids  pillars  of  snow,  and  aU  that's  past  a 

There  is  no  antidote  against  the  opium  of  time,  which  temporally 
considereth  all  things  :  our  Mhers  find  their  graves  in  our  shore 
memories,  and  sadly  tell  us  how  we  may  be  buried  in  our  survivors. 
Grave-stones  tell  truth  scarce  forty  years  ;^  generations  pass  whil^ 
some  trees  stand  ;  and  old  families  last  not  t&ee  oaks.  To  be  read 
by  bare  ioscriptions  like  many  in  Grater,'  to  hope  for  eternity  by 
enigmatical  epithets  or  first  letters  of  our  names,  to  be  studied  by 
antiquaries,  who  we  were,  and  have  new  names  given  us  like 
many  of  the  mummies,  are  cold  consolations  unto  the  students  of 
perpetuity,  even  by  everlasting  languages. 

To  be  content  tnat  times  to  come  should  only  know  there  was 
such  a  man,  not  caring  whether  they  knew  more  of  him,  was  a  frigid 
ambition  in  Cardan.^    Who  cares  to  subsist  like  Hippocrates's  pa- 

1  Atropos  was  one  of  the  Fates,  and  her  duty  was  to  cut  the  thread  of  human  life; 
hence  the  iMissage  means,  "  finding  nothing  to  prevent  their  obtaining  immortality/' 

2  Viz.,  that  the  world  was  to  last  only  6000  years. 

3  Because  Hector  lived  two  Methuselahs— that  is,  two  thousand  years— before  Chasles 
the  Fifth  was  bom. 

*  The  ancients  represented  Janus  with  two  feces,— one  looking  behind,  the  other 
before.  Sir  Thomas  means  that  the  period  during  which  the  world  was  likely  to  ex- 
ist, was  probably  very  small  in  comparison  with  that  during  which  it  had  already 

^  Because  other  bodies  are  laid  beneath  them,  and  they  themselves  are  moved. 

*  ie.,  in  Gruter*s  famous  collection  of  inscriptions. 

'  A  fiunous  Italian  physician  and  astrologer;  died  1576. 


tients,^  or  Achilles's  horses  in  Homer,  under  naked  nominations, 
without  deserts  and  noble  acts,  which  are  the  balsam  of  our  memo- 
ries, the  essence  and  soul  of  our  subsistences  ?  To  be  nameless  in 
worthy  deeds  exceeds  an  infisunous  history.  The  Canaanitish  woman 
lives  more  happily  without  a  name,  than  Herodias  with  one.  And 
who  had  not  rather  have  been  the  ^ood  thief  than  Pilate  ? 

But  the  iniquity  of  oblivion  blmdly  scattereth  her  poppy,  and 
deals  with  the  memory  of  men  without  distinction  to  merit  of  per- 
petuity. Who  can  but  pity  the  founder  of  the  pyramids  1  Hero- 
stratus  lives  that  burnt  the  temple  of  Diana,  he  is  almost  lost  that 
built  it.  Time  hath  spared  the  epitaph  of  Adrian's  horse,  confound- 
ed that  of  himself  In  vain  we  compute  our  felicities  by  the  ad- 
vantage of  our  good  names,  since  hauA.  have  equal  durations,  and 
Thersites  is  like  to  live  as  long  as  Agamemnon.  Who  knows 
whether  the  best  of  men  be  known,  or  ^mether  there  be  not  more 
remarkable  persons  forgot  than  any  that  stand  remembered  in  the 
known  account  of  time  ?  Without  the  favour  of  the  everlasting 
register,  the  first  man  had  been  as  unknown  as  the  last,  and  Methu- 
selah's long  life  had  been  his  only  chronicle. 

Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired.  The  greater  part  must  be  content  to 
be  as  though  they  had  not  been,  to  he  found  in  the  register  of  God, 
not  in  the  record  of  man.  Twentynseven  names  make  up  the  first 
story  before  the  flood,  and  the  recorded  names  ever  since  contain 
not  one  living  century.  The  number  of  the  dead  long  exceedeth  all 
that  shall  live.  The  night  of  time  far  surpasseth  the  dav,  and  who 
knows  when  was  the  equinox  ?  Every  hour  adds  unto  that  current 
arithmetic,  which  scarce  stands  one  moment.  And  since  it  cannot 
be  long  before  we  lie  down  in  darkness,  and  have  our  light  in  ashes  ;' 
since  the  brother  of  death'  daily  haunts  us  with  dying  mementos, 
and  time,  that  grows  old  in  itself,  bids  us  hope  no  long  duration ; 
diutumity  is  a  £:eam  and  folly  of  expectation. 

A  great  part  of  antiquity  contented  their  hopes  of  subsistency 
with  a  transmigration  of  their  souls, — a  good  way  to  continue  their 
memories,  while  having  the  advantage  of  plural  successions,  they 
could  not  but  act  something  remarkable  m  such  variety  of  beings, 
and  enjoy  the  fame  of  their  past  selves,  make  accumulation  of  glory 
unto  their  last  durations.  Others,  rather  than  be  lost  in  the  un- 
comfortable night  of  nothing,  were  content  to  recede  into  the  com- 
mon being,  and  make  one  particle  of  the  public  soul  of  all  things, 
which  was  no  more  than  to  return  into  their  unknown  and  divine 
original  again.  Egyptian  ingenuity  was  more  unsatisfied,  contriving 
their  bodies  in  sweet  consistences,  to  attend^  the  return  of  their  souls. 
But  all  was  vanity,  feeding  the  wind,  and  folly.  The  E^rptian 
mummies  which  Cambyses  or  time  hath  spared,  avarice  now  con- 

1  Hippocrates  waB  a  famoiu  physician  of  Cos,  in  the  fourth  centnry  B.a  . 

2  According  to  the  costom  of  the  Jews,  who  placed  a  lighted  wax  candle  in  a  pot  of 
ashes  by  the  corpse.  '  Sleep. 

*  i  &,  to  wait  for.    Browne  alludes  to  the  Egyptian  practice  of  emhaltning,  founded 
on  the  belief  that,  if  the  body  was  preserved,  the  soul  woold  again  reanimate  it. 


Biuneth.    Mmnmy  is  become  merchandise,  Mizraim  cures  wounds, 
and  Pharaoh  is  sold  for  balsams. 


EowABD  Hyde,  Lord  Clarendon,  was  bom  at  Dinton  in  Wilts,  in 
1608.  He  was  descended  of  an  ancient  and  highly  respectable  family, 
which  had  already  given  to  England  several  eminent  lawyers.  After  a 
short  residence  at  Oxford,  he  devoted  himself  to  the  same  profession, 
and  was  entered  in  the  Middle  Temple,  where  he  enjoyed  the  friendship 
of  many  of  the  most  eminent  men  of  the  day.  Lord  Falkland,  Ben 
Jonson,  Sir  Kenelm  Digby,  Selden,  Hales,  and  Chillingworth.  His 
rank,  influence,  and  ability  procured  for  him  a  seat  in  Parliament, 
and  he  speedily  acquired  a  respectable  standing  in  the  House.  In 
the  Long  Parliament,  he  was  from  the  first  one  of  the  most  conspicuous 
members,  and  one  of  that  party  who  desired  a  redress  of  grievances 
and  a  moderate  reform,  without  any  violent  alteration  of  the  consti- 
tution ;  and  when  matters  proceeded  to  an  extreme  which  threatened 
an  appeal  to  the  sword,  he  sided  openly  with  the  King.  During  the 
war  he  was  in  constant  attendance  upon  Charles,  and  most  of  the  able 
papers  issued  by  the  King  during  the  continuance  of  hostilities  were 
from  the  pen  of  Clarendon.  On  the  utter  prostration  of  the  royalists 
in  England,  he  escaped  to  France,  where  Charles  II.  appointed  him 
Lord  Chancellor,  and  committed  to  him  the  management  of  his 
affairs.  After  the  Restoration,  he  was  created  Earl  of  Clarendon,  and 
for  some  time  was  the  chief  adviser  of  the  thoughtless  monarch.  But 
his  stem  integrity  at  length  became  intolerable  to  the  dissolute 
Charles  and  his  unprincipled  favourites,  while  at  the  same  time  he 
had  become  unpopular  by  his  attempt  to  strengthen  the  royal  prero- 
gative ;  and  thus  deserted  by  all  parties,  and  threatened  with  an  im- 
peachment, he  fled  to  the  Continent,  where  he  died  at  Rouen  in  1674. 
His  chief  work  is  his  "  History  of  the  Rebellion,"  written  to  defend, 
as  far  as  possible,  the  proceedings  of  Charles  I.  Its  style,  from  super- 
abundance of  matter,  is  heavy  and  lumbering,  generally  dignified,  but 
never  elegant  or  lively.  The  narrative  is  overlaid  with  details,  and 
is  consequently  unimpressive  ;  but  in  power  of  delineating  character 
he  has  not  been  surpassed  by  any  English  writer.  His  accuracy  has 
been  of  late  much  questioned,  but  it  must  be  remembered  that  he  writes 
professedly  as  a  royalist,  and  he  therefore  naturally  dwells  but  slightly 
on  the  faults  of  his  party,  and  puts  the  best  face  upon  their  proceed- 
ings. His  incorruptible  integrity  altogether  forbids  the  supposition 
that  he  would  willingly  falsify  his  narrative ;  and  if,  in  the  great 
accumulation  of  details  which  his  voluminous  history  comprises,  in- 
accuracies and  contradictions  are  found,  many  of  these  must  be  at 
once  ascribed  to  the  carelessness  or  insincerity  of  his  informants ;  and 
as  to  others,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  the  influence  of  hostile  poli- 
tics, and  the  spirit  of  the  verbal  criticism  of  the  present  day,  which  is 
so  apt  to  elevate  trifles  into  importance,  have  not  unduly  magnified 
the  defects  of  one  who,  after  every  deduction  has  been  made,  must  be 
admitted  to  be  one  of  our  greatest  historians. 


P.  396.      OXFORD  EDITIOK,  1843.) 

Hampden  was  a  gentleman  of  a  good  family  in  Buckinghamshire, 
and  bom  to  a  fair  S>Ttune,  and  of  a  most  civil  and  affiible  deport- 
ment. In  his  entrance  into  the  world,  he  indulged  to  himseu  all 
the  licence  in  sports,  and  exercises,  and  company,  which  was  used 
by  men  of  the  most  jolly  conversation.  Afterwards,  he  retired  to  a 
more  reserred  and  ^elLicholy  society,  yet  preserv^  his  own  na- 
tural  cheerfulness  and  vivacity,  and,  above  all,  a  flowing  courtesy  to 
all  men  ;  thoush  they  who  conversed  nearly  with  him  found  him 
growing  into  a  didike  of  the  ecclesiastical  government  of  the  church, 
yet  most  believed  it  rather  a  dislike  of  some  churchmen,^  and  of 
some  introducements  of  theirs,  which  he  apprehended  might  dis- 
turb the  public  peace.  He  was  rather  of  reputation  in  hia  own 
country,  than  of  public  discourse  or  &me  in  the  kingdom,  before  the 
business  of  ship-money ;  but  then  he  grew  the  argument  of  all 
tongues,  every  man  inquiring  who  and  what  he  was  that  durst,  at 
his  own  charge,  support  the  liberty  and  property  of  the  kingdom, 
and  rescue  his  country,  as  he  thought,  from  being  made  a  prey  to 
the  court.  His  carriage  throughout  this  agitation  was  widi  that 
rare  temper  and  modesty  that  they  who  watched  him  narrowly  to 
find  some  advantage  against  his  person,  to  make  him  less  resolute 
in  his  cause,  were  compelled  to  ^ve  him  a  just  testimony.  And 
the  judgment  that  was  given  agamst  him  infinitely  more  advanced 
him  than  the  service  for  which  it  was  given.  When  this  parliament' 
began  (being  returned  knight  of  the  shire  for  the  county  where  he 
lived),  the  eyes  of  all  men  were  fixed  on  him  as  their  country's 
£ekther,  and  the  pilot  that  must  steer  the  vessel  through  the  tempests 
and  rocks  which  threatened  it.  And  I  am  persuaded  his  power  and 
interest  at  that  time  was  greater  to  do  good  or  hurt  than  any  man*s 
in  the  kingdom,  or  than  any  man  in  his  rank  hath  had  in  any  time ; 
for  his  reputation  of  honesty  was  universal,  and  his  affections  seemed 
so  publicly  guided  that  no  corrupt  or  private  ends  could  bias  them. 

He  was  of  that  rare  af&kbUity  and  temper  in  debate,  and  of  that 
seeming  humility  and  submission  of  judgment,  as  if  he  brought  no 
opinion  with  him,  but  a  desire  of  information  and  instruction  ;  yet 
he  had  so  subtle  a  way  of  interrogating,  and,  under  the  notion  of 
doubts,  insinuating  his  objections,  that  he  left  his  opinions  with 
those  from  whom  he  pretended  to  learn  and  receive  them.  And 
even  with  them  who  were  able  to  preserve  themselves  from  his  in- 
fusions, and  discerned  those  opinions  to  be  fixed  in  him,  with  which 
they  could  not  comply,  he  always  left  the  character  of  an  ingenious' 
and  conscientious  person.  He  was  indeed. a  very  wise  man,  and  of 
great  parts,  and  possessed  with  the  most  absolute  spirit  of  popularity, 
that  is,  the  most  absolute  Acuities  to  govern  the  people,  of  any  man 
I  ever  knew.  For  the  first  year  of  the  parliament,  he  seemed  rather 
>  €.g,t  Land.  *  The  Long  Parliameut.  '  i.  e.,  ingennoiu. 


to  moderate  and  soften  the  violent  and  distempered  hmnours  than 
to  inflame  them.  But  wise  and  dispassioned  men  plainly  discerned 
that  that  moderation  proceeded  from  prudence  and  observation  that 
tlie  season  was  not  ripe,  rather  than  that  he  approved  of  the  mode- 
ration ;  and  that  he  begat  many  opinions  and  notions,  the  education 
whereof  he  conmiitted  to  other  men ;  so  far  disguising  his  own  de- 
signs that  he  seemed  seldom  to  wish  more  than  was  concluded :  and 
in  many  gross  conclusions,  which  would  hereafter  contribute  to 
designs  not  yet  set  on  foot,  when  he  found  them  sufficiently  backed 
by  majority  of  voices,  he  would  withdraw  himself  before  the  ques- 
tion, tlmt  he  might  seem  not  to  consent  to  so  much  visible  unrea- 
sonableness ;  wmch  produced  as  great  a  doubt  in  some  as  it  did 
approbation  in  others  of  his  integrity.  What  combination  soever 
had  been  originally  with  the  Soots  for  the  invasion  of  England,  and 
what  farther  was  entered  into  afterwards  in  favour  of  them,  and  to 
advance  any  alteration  in  parliament,  no  man  doubts  was  at*  least 
with  the  privity  of  this  gentleman. 

After  he  was  among  tiiose  members  accused  by  the  king  of  high 
treason  he  was  much  altered;  his  nature  and  carriage  seeming 
much  fiercer  than  it  did  before.  And,  without  question,  when  he 
first  drew  his  sword  he  threw  away  the  scabbard ;  for  he  passionately 
opposed  the  overture  made  by  iiie  king  for  a  treaty  from  Notting- 
ham, and  as  eminently,  any  expedients  that  might  have  produced 
any  accommodations  in  this  that  was  at  Oxford ;  and  was  principally 
relied  on  to  prevent  any  infusions  which  might  be  made  into  the 
Earl  of  Essex  towards  peace,  or  to  render  them  inefifectual  if  they 
were  made ;  and  was  indeed  much  more  relied  on  by  that  party 
than  the  general  himself.  In  the  first  entrance  into  the  troubles 
he  undertook  the  command  of  a  regiment  of  foot,  and  performed 
the  duty  of  a  colonel,  on  all  occasions,  most  punctually.  He  was 
very  temperate  in  diet,  and  a  supreme  governor  over  all  his  passions 
and  affections,  and  had  thereby  a  great  -power  over  other  men's. 
He  was  of  an  industry  and  vigilance  not  to  be  tired  out  or  wearied 
by  the  most  laborious ;  and  of  parts  not  to  be  imposed  upon  by  the 
most  subtle  or  sharp ;  and  of  a  personal  courage  equal  to  his  best 
parts :  so  that  he  was  an  enemy  not  to  be  wished  wherever  he 
might  have  been  made  a  friend ;  and  as  much  to  be  apprehended 
where  he  was  so,  as  any  man  could  deserve  to  be.  And  therefore 
his  death  was  no  less  congratulated  on  the  one  party  than  it  was 
condoled  in  the  other.  In  a  word,  what  was  said  of  Cinna  might 
well  be  applied  to  him :  ''  He  had  a  head  to  contrive,  and  a  tongue 
to  persuade,  and  a  hand  to  execute  any  mischief.''  His  death, 
therefore,  seemed  to  be  a  great  deliverance  to  the  nation. 

2.   BATTLE  OP  DTJNBAR. — ("HISTORY,"  P.  751.) 

In  July  Cromwell  entered  Scotland,  and  marched  without  any 

opposition  till  he  came  within  less  than  a  day's  journey  of  Edin- 

^^ ;  where  he  found  the  Scottish  army  encamped  upon  a  very 


adyantageons  ground ;  and  he  made  his  quarteis  as  near  as  he  could 
oonyeniently,  and  yet  with  disadvantages  enough ;  for  the  oountiy 
was  so  destroyed  behind  him,  and  the  passes  so  guarded  before, 
that  he  was  compelled  to  send  for  all  his  provision  for  horse  and 
foot  from  England  by  sea  (and  Cromwell  beinff  seized  upon  by  a 
fever,  which  held  him  about  six  weeks,  during  much  time  the  army 
lay  still) ;  insomuch  as  the  army  was  reduced  to  great  straits  ;  and 
the  Scots  really  believed  that  they  had  them  aU  at  their  mercy, 
except  such  as  would  embark  on  board  their  ships.  But  as  soon  as 
Cromwell  had  recovered  a  little  strength,  his  army  began  to  remove, 
and  seemed  to  provide  for  their  march.  Whether  ih&t  march  was 
to  retire  out  of  so  barren  a  country  for  want  of  provisions  (which, 
no  doubt,  were  very  scarce ;  and  the  season  of  the  year  would  not 
permit  them  to  depend  upon  all  necessaiy  supplies  b^  sea,  for  it 
was  now  the  month  of  September),  or  whether  thiat  motion  was  only 
to  draw  the  Scots  £rom  the  advantageous  post  of  which  they  were 
possessed,  is  not  yet  understood.  But  it  was  confessed  on  all 
sides,  that,  if  the  Scots  had  remained  within, their  trenches,  and 
sent  parties  of  horse  to  have  followed  the  English  army  closely,  they 
must  have  so  disordered  them,  that  they  would  have  left  their 
cannon  and  all  their  heavy  carnage  behind  them,  besides  the  danger 
the  foot  must  have  been  in.  But  the  Scots  did  not  intend  to  part 
with  them  so  easily ;  they  doubted  not  but  to  have  the  spoil  of  the 
whole  army.  And,  therefore,  they  no  sooner  discerned  that  the 
English  were  upon  their  march  but  they  decamped,  and  followed 
with  their  whole  body  all  the  ni^ht  following,  and  found  themselves 
in  the  moruing  within  a  smaU  distance  of  the  enemy ;  for  Cromwell 
was  quickly  advertised  that  the  Scottish  army  was  dislodged,  and 
marched  after  him ;  and  thereupon  he  made  a  stand,  and  put  his 
men  in  good  order.  The  Scots  found  they  were  not  upon  so  clear 
a  chase  as  they  imagined,  and  placed  themselves  acain  upon  such  a 
side  of  a  hill  as  they  believed  the  English  woi2d  not  have  the 
courage  to  attack  them  there. 

But  Cromwell  knew  them  too  well  to  fear  them  upon  any  ground, 
when  there  were  no  trenches  or  fortifications  to  keep  him  irom 
them ;  and  therefore  he  made  haste  to  charge  them  on  all  sides, 
upon  what  advantage-ground  soever  they  stood.  Their  horse  did 
not  sustain  one  charge ;  but  fled,  and  were  pursued  with  a  great 
execution.  The  foot  depended  much  upon  their  ministers,  who 
preached,  and  prayed,  and  assured  them  of  the  victory,  till  the 
English  were  upon  them ;  and  some  of  their  preachers  were  knocked 
on  the  head  whilst  they  were  promising  the  victory.  Though  there 
was  so  little  resistance  made,  that  Cromwell  lost  very  few  men  by 
that  day's  service,  yet  the  execution  was  very  terrible  upon  the 
enemy;  the  whole  body  of  the  foot  being,  upon  the  matter,  cut  in 
pieces ;  no  quarter  was  given  till  they  were  weary  of  kiUmg ;  so 
that  there  were  between  nve  and  six  thousand  dead  upon  the  place ; 
and  veiy  few,  but  they  who  escaped  by  the  heels  of  their  horse,  were 
without  terrible  wo^ds,  of  wMch  very  many  died  shortly  after; 


especially  tmtch  of  their  ministen  who  were  not  IdUed  mNm  the 
place,  as  yery  many  were,  had  Teij  notable  mazks  about  ute  head 
and  die  fitoe,  thai  anybody  mig^t  know  thai  they  were  not  fanit  by 
dianoe,  or  in  the  crowd,  bat  by  Toy  good  wilL  ASL  the  cannon, 
amnmnition,  oariages,  and  baggage  wen  entncfy  taJk'en,  and  Orom- 
wdl,  with  his  Tictonoos  aimy,  maidbed  diredJy  to  Edinboi^g^ ; 
iHiere  he  foond  plenty  of  all  thines  idiich  he  wanted,  and  good 
acrjnunodatian  for  the  reficeshing  his  aimy,  idiidi  stood  in  need 


When  the  daikneas  of  the  night  was  over,  after  the  king  had  cast 
himself  into  that  wood,  he  disramed  another  man  idio  had  gotten 
iqmn  an  oak  in  the  same  wood,  near  the^aoe  where  the  ki^  had 
rested  himself,  and  had  slept  somidly.  The  man  npaa  the  tree  had 
first  seen  the  king,  and  knew  him  imd  came  down  to  him,  and  was 
known  to  die  ki^  being  a  gentloiian  of  the  nei^iboor  ooonty  of 
Staffordshire,  who  had  served  fab  late  majesty  dminff  the  war,  and 
had  now  been  one  of  the  few  idio  resorted  to  the  king  after  his 
coming  to  Woicester.  ffis  name  was  Gueless,  who  had  had  a  com- 
mand of  fi)ot,aboTe  the  degree  of  a  captain,  m^er  the  Lord  Loo^i- 
boroo^  HepersoadedthekiiigjSinoeit  cooldnot  besafefiirhim 
to  go  out  of  the  wood,  and  that  as  soon  as  it  shoold  be  fdSfy  fig^t, 
the  wood  itsdf  woold  prob^)fy  be  Tisited  by  those  of  the  ooimtiy, 
who  would  be  seardiing  to  find  those  whom  they  mi^t  make 
piisoneis,  that  he  woold  get  np  into  that  tree  irfiere  he  had  beat, 
where  the  bou^is  were  so  thick  with  leaves,  that  a  man  woold  not 
be  disooviaed  there  withoot  a  nanower  inqniiy  than  people  nsodly 
make  in  jJaoes  irfiidi  they  do  not  suspect.  The  kmg  thoo^t  it 
good  ooonsel,  and  widi  the  othei's  hel^  climbed  into  the  tree,  and 
then  helped  his  companion  to  ascend  after  him,  where  they  sat  all 
that  day,  and  secor^  saw  many  who  came  pmpoeefyinto  die  wood 
to  look  after  them,  a]^  heard  aU  their  disoomse,  how  they  would  nse 
the  king  hiptself  if  they  coold  take  him. 

The  day  being  spent  in  the  tree,  it  was  not  in  the  kii^s  power  to 

S!t  that  he  hid  lived  two  days  with  eating  veiy  litde,  and  two 
ts  with  as  little  sleep,  so  thai,  when  the  nig^t  came,  he  was 
wilhng  to  make  some  provision  for  both ;  and  he  reserved,  with  the 
advice  and  assistance  of  his  companion,  to  leave  his  Ueeed  tree, 
and.  whoi  the  night  was  dadc,  they  walked  through  the  wood  into 
those  endosnres  which  were  fiodiest  from  any  fairway,  and  Tn«¥iiig 
a  diift  to  get  over  hedges  and  ditdies,  after  walkii^  at  least  eight 
or  nine  miles,  which  were  die  more  grievous  to  dra  king  by  the 
wei^  id  his  boots,  for  he  could  not  put  them  aS,  whoi  he  cot  off 
his  hair,  for  want  of  shoes,  before  morning  they  came  to  a  poor 

IT,  aad  the 


cottage,  the  owner  whereof  beinc  a  Roman  Catholic  was  known  to 
Careless.  He  was  called  up,  and  as  soon  as  he  ^ew  one  of  them, 
he  easily  concluded  in  what  condition  they  both  were,  and  presently 
carried  them  into  a  little  bam,  full  of  hay,  which  was  a  better 
lodging  than  he  had  for  himselfl  But  when  they  were  there,  and 
had  confened  with  their  host  of  the  news  and  temper  of  the  country, 
it  was  resolyed  that  the  danger  would  be  the  greater  if  they  stayed 
tc^ther,  and  therefore  that  Careless  should  presently  be  gone,  and 
should  within  two  days  send  an  honest  man  to  the  king,  to  guide 
him  to  some  other  place  of  security,  and  in  the  meantime  his  majesty 
should  stay  upon  the  hay-mow.  The  poor  man  had  nothing  for  him 
to  eat,  but  promised  him  good  buttermilk  the  next  mormng ;  and 
80  he  was  once  more  left  alone,  his  companion,  how  weary  soever, 
departing  from  him  before  day,  the  poor  man  of  the  house  know- 
ing no  more  than  that  he  was  a  Mend  of  the  captain's,  and  one  of 
those  who  had  escaped  from  Worcester.  The  long  slept  very  wdl 
in  his  lodging,  till  the  time  that  his  host  brought  him  a  piece  of 
bread  and  a  great  pot  of  buttermilk,  which  he  thought  the  best  food 
he  ever  had  eaten. 

After  he  had  rested  upon  this  hay-mow,  and  fed  upon  this  diet 
two  days  and  two  nights,  in  the  eyening  before  the  third  night, 
another  fellow,  a  little  above  the  condition  of  his  host,  came  to  the 
house,  sent  from  Careless,  to  conduct  the  king  to  another  house,  more 
out  of  any  road  near  which  any  part  of  the  army  was  like  to  march. 
It  was  above  twelve  miles  that  he  was  to  go,  and  was  to  use  the 
same  caution  he  had  done  the  first  night,  not  togo  in  any  common 
road,  which  his  guide  knew  well  how  to  avoid.  Mere  he  new  dressed 
himself,  changing  clothes  with  his  landlord,  and  putting  on  those 
which  he  usually  wore ;  he  had  a  great  miad  to  have  kept  his  own 
shirt,  but  he  considered  that  men  are  not  sooner  discovered  by  any 
mark  in  disguises,  than  by  having  fine  linen  in  ill  clothes,  and  so  he 
parted  with  his  shirt  too,  and  took  the  same  his  poor  host  had  then 
on.  Though  he  had  foreseen  that  he  must  leave  his  boots,  and  his 
landlord  had  taken  the  best  care  he  could  to  provide  an  old  pair  of 
shoes,  yet  they  were  not  easy  to  him  when  he  first  put  them  on, 
and,  in  a  short  time  after,  grew  very  grievous  to  him.  In  this 
equipage  he  set  out  from  his  first  lodging  in  the  beginning  of  the 
night,  under  the  conduct  of  this  comrade,  who  guided  him  the 
nearest  way,  crossing  over  hedges  and  ditches,  that  they  might  be 
in  least  danger  of  meeting  passengers.  This  was  so  grievous  a 
march,  and  he  was  so  tired,  that  he  was  even  ready  to  despair,  and 
to  prefer  being  taken  and  suffered  to  rest,  before  purchasing  his 
safety  at  that  price.  His  shoes  had,  after  the  walking  a  few  miles, 
hurt  him  so  much,  that  he  had  thrown  them  away,  and  walked  the 
rest  of  the  way  in  his  ill  stockings,  which  were  quickly  worn  out ; 
and  his  feet,  with  the  thorns  in  getting  over  hedges,  and  with  the 
stones  in  other  places,  were  so  hurt  and  wounded,  that  he  many 
times  cast  himseu  upon  the  ground,  with  a  desperate  and  obstinate 
resolution  to  rest  there  till  the  morning,  that  he  might  shift  with 


leas  torment,  what  hazard  soeyer  he  might  ran.  But  his  stottt  guide 
still  prevailed  with  him  to  make  a  new  attempt,  sometime  promising 
that  the  way  should  be  better,  and  sometimes  assuring  him  that  he 
had  but  little  farther  to  go ;  and  in  this  distress  and  perplexity, 
before  the  morning,  they  arrived  at  the  house  designed,  whidi, 
though  it  was  bett^  than  that  which  he  had  left,  his  lodging  was 
still  m  the  bam,  upon  straw  instead  of  hay,  a  place  being  made  as 
easy  in  it  as  the  expectation  of  a  guest  could  dispose  it.  Here  he 
had  such  meat  and  porridge  as  sudi  people  used  to  have,  with 
which,  but  especially  with  the  butter  and  the  cheese,  he  thought 
himself  well  feasted,  and  took  the  best  care  he  could  to  be  supphed 
with  other,  little  better,  shoes  and  stockings ;  and  after  his  feet 
were  enough  recovered  that  he  could  go,  he  was  conducted  from 
thence  to  another  poor  house,  within  su(£  a  distance  as  put  him  not 
to  much  trouble ;  for  having  not  yet  in  his  thought  which  way,  or 
by  what  means  to  make  his  escape,  all  that  was  designed  was  only, 
by  shifting  £rom  one  house  to  another,  to  avoid  discovery. 



John  Bunt  an  was  bom  at  Elstow,  a  small  village  near  Bedford,  in 
1628.  His  father  was  a  gipsy,  and  followed  the  humble  craft  of  a 
tinker,  which  young  Bunyan  also  practised  for  some  time,  with  the  usual 
profligacy  and  immorality  of  his  race.  Marrying,  however,  at  an  early 
age,  he  was  reformed  by  the  counsels  of  his  wife,  and  joined  a  congre- 
gation of  Baptists  that  assembled  at  Bedford.  His  ability  soon  became 
known,  and  at  the  request  of  the  congregation  he  became  a  preacher, 
to  the  great  delight  of  the  common  people,  who  resorted  in  immense 
crowds  to  the  ministry  of  the  reformed  profligate  whose  words  were  so 
singularly  powerful  and  attractive.  Even  during  the  Commonwealth 
he  was  threatened  with  legal  proceedings,  and  after  the  Restoration, 
when  all  nonconforming  assemblies  were  forbidden  by  Parliament,  so 
conspicuous  an  offender  as  Bunyan  was  of  course  not  allowed  long  to 
escape.  He  was  condemned  to  imprisonment,  and  was  accordingly 
committed  to  Bedford  jail,  where  he  remained  nearly  thirteen  years. 
His  conflnement  was  not,  however,  very  rigorous,  as,  through  the  con- 
nivance of  his  jailor,  he  was  for  nearly  half  the  time  allowed  to  itine- 
rate and  preach  as  usual.  It  was  while  in  Bedford  jail  that  he  com- 
posed his  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  aided  only  by  the  fervour  of  his  own 
imagination,  and  the  constant  perusal  of  his  Bible  and  Foxe's  Book 
of  Martyrs,  which  formed  his  whole  library.  He  was  at  length  liber- 
ated, and  resumed  his  occupation  as  an  itinerant  preacher,  but  on  the 
proclamation  of  toleration  by  James  II.,  a  chapel  was  erected  for  him 
at  Bedford,  where  he  preached  during  the  rest  of  his  life.  While  on 
a  visit  to  some  religious  brethren  in  London,  he  turned  suddenly  ill 
and  died  1688.  Besides  the  "Pilgrim's  Progress,"  he  wrote  "The 
Holy  War,"  an  allegorical  work  of  a  similar  kind,  and  some  minor 
productions.  It  is  unnecessary  to  praise  the  **  Pilgrim's  Progress ;" 
it  is  more  generally  known,  not  only  in  England,  but  all  over  the 

CBErailAV  AT  THE  CB088L  159 

world,  thsn  any  other  RngHah  book,  and  is  nniTemlly  admitted  to  be 
the  finest  oi  all  allegories.  It  has  been  translated  into  almost  OTery 
language,  and  has  been  fonnd  to  be  eqnallj  intelligihle  and  pleasing 
in  eveiy  coontiy. 

1.    G&BIBTIAV  AT  THE  CBOSB. — (^  Vn/HLO^B  FBOGRBBa*) 

Now  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that  the  hi^wsy  ap  which  Christian 
was  to  go,  was  fienoed  on  either  side  with  a  wall,  and  that  wall  was 
called  SilTation.  Up  this  way,  therefore,  did  burdened  Christian 
run,  but  not  without  great  difficulty,  because  of  the  load  on  his  back. 
He  ran  thus  till  he  came  at  a  place  somewhat  ascending ;  and  upon 
that  place  stood  a  cross,  and  a  little  below,  in  the  bottom,  a  sepul- 
chre. So  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that  just  as  Christian  came  up  with 
the  cross,  his  burden  loosed  from,  off  his  shoulders,  and  fell  from  off 
his  back,  and  began  to  tumble ;  and  so  continued  to  do,  till  it  came 
to  the  month  of  the  sepulchre  where  it  fell  in,  and  I  saw  it  no 

Then  was  Christian  glad  and  l^tsome,  and  said,  with  a  menr 
heart, "  He  hath  giyen  me  rest  by  Hia  sorrow,  and  life  by  His  death.^* 
Then  he  stood  stall  awhile  to  look  and  wonder ;  for  it  was  veiy  sur- 
prising to  him,  that  the  si^ht  of  the  cross  should  thus  ease  him  of 
ids  biuden.  He  looked  therefore,  and  looked  aoun,  even  till  the 
springs  that  were  in  his  head  sent  the  waters  down  his  cheeks. 
Now,  as  he  stood  looking  and  weeping,  behold  three  shining  ones 
came  to  him,  and  saluted  nim  with  ''  Peace  be  to  thee ;"  so  the  first 
said  to  him,  "  thy  sins  be  foigiven  thee  ;*'  the  second  stripped  him 
of  his  rags,  and  clothed  him  with  change  of  raiment ;  the  third  also 
*^  set  a  mark  on  his  forehead,"  and  gave  him  a  roll,  with  a  seal  upon 
it,  which  he  bid  him  look  on  as  he  ran,  and  that  he  should  give  it 
in  at  the  celestial  gate :  so  they  went  their  way.  Then  Clmstian 
gare  three  leaps  for  joy,  and  went  on  singing, — 

Thus  far  did  I  come  loaden  with  my  sin ; 
Nor  could  aught  ease  the  grief  that  I  was  in, 
Till  I  came  hither :  what  a  place  is  this  I 
Most  here  be  the  beginning  of  my  bliss  ? 
Must  here  the  burden  fall  from  off  my  back? 
Must  here  the  strings  that  bound  it  to  me  crack  ? 
Bless'd  Cross !  bless'd  Sepulchre !  bless'd  rather  be 
The  Man  that  there  was  put  to  shame  for  me ! 

I  saw,  then,  in  my  dream,  that  he  went  on  thus,  even  until  he 
came  at  a  bottom,  where  he  saw,  a  little  out  of  the  way,  three  men 
fast  asleep  with  fetters  upon  their  heels.  The  name  of  the  one  was 
Simple,  another  Sloth,  the  third  Presumption.  Christian  then  see- 
ing them  lie  in  this  case  went  to  them,  if  peradventure  he  might 
awake  them  ;  and  cried,  "  You  are  like  them  that  sleep  on  the  top 
of  a  mast ;  for  the  Bead  Sea  is  under  you,  a  gulph  that  hath  no 
bottom ;  awake,  therefore,  and  come  away ;  be  willing  also,  and  I 


will  help  you  off  with  your  irons/'  He  also  told  them, ''  if  he  that 
goeth  about  like  a  roaring  lion  comes  by,  you  will  certainly  become 
a  prey  to  his  teeth."  With  that  they  looked  upon  him,  and  began 
to  answer  him  in  this  sort :  Simple  said,  "  I  see  no  danger ;"  Sloth 
said,  "  yet  a  little  more  sleep ;"  and  Presumption  said,  "  every  vat 
must  stand  upon  its  own  bottom."  And  so  tiiey  laid^  down  to  sleep 
again,  and  Christian  went  on  his  way. 



I  looked  after  Christian  to  see  him  go  up  by  the  hill,  where  I  per- 
ceived  he  feU  from  running  to  going,  tnd^m  going  to  dambe^ 
upon  his  hands  and  his  knees,  because  of  the  steepness  of  the  place. 
Now,  about  the  midway  to  the  top  of  the  hill  was  a  pleasant  arbour, 
made  by  the  Lord  of  the  hiU,  for  tne  refreshment  of  weary  travellers , 
thither,  therefore.  Christian  got,  where  also  he  sat  down  to  rest  him. 
Then  he  pulled  his  roll  out  of  his  bosom,  and  read  therein  to  his 
comfort ;  he  also  now  began  afresh  to  take  a  review  of  the  coat  or 
garment  that  was  given  to  him  as  he  stood  by  the  cross.  Thus 
pleasing  himself  a  while,  he  at  last  fell  into  a  slumber,  and  thence 
into  a  fast  sleep,  which  detained  him  in  that  place  until  it  was 
almost  night ;  and  in  his  sleep  his  roll  fell  out  of  his  hand.  Now, 
as  he  was  sleeping,  there  came  one  to  him,  and  awaked  him,  saying 
"  Go  to  the  ant,  thou  sluggard ;  consider  her  ways,  and  be  wise  y 
and  with  that  Christian  suddenly  started  up  and  sped  h\m  on  his 
way,  and  went  apace  till  he  came  to  the  top  of  the  hilL 

Now,  when  he  was  got  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  there  came  two 
men  running  to  meet  him  amain  ;  the  name  of  the  one  was  Timor- 
ous, and  of  the  other  Mistrust ;  to  whom  Christian  said,  "  Sirs, 
what  is  the  matter  ?  you  run  the  wrong  way."  Timorous  answered 
that  they  were  going  to  the  city  of  Zion,  and  had  got  up  that  diffi- 
cult place ;  "  but,"  said  he, "  the  further  we  go,  the  more  danger  we 
meet  with,  wherefore  we  turned,  and  are  going  back  again." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mistrust,  "  for  just  before  us  fie  a  couple  of  lions  in 
the  way  ;  whether  sleeping  or  waking  we  know  not ;  and  we  could 
not  thmk,  if  we  came  within  reach,  but  they  would  presently  pull 
us  in  pieces." 

Then  said  Christian,  "  You  make  me  afraid  ;  but  whither  shall  I 
flee  to  be  safe  ?  If  I  go  back  to  my  own  country,  that  is  prepared 
for  fire  and  brimstone,  and  I  shall  certainly  perish  there :  if  I  can 
get  to  the  celestial  city,  I  am  sure  to  be  in  safety  there.  I  must 
venture :  to  go  back  is  nothing  but  death  ;  to  go  forward  is  fear  of 
death,  and  life  everlasting  beyond  it ;  I  will  yet  go  forward." 

So  Mistrust  and  Timorous  ran  down  the  hill,  and  Christian  went 
on  his  way.  But  thinking  a^in  of  what  he  had  heard  from  the 
men,  he  felt  in  his  bosom  for  nis  roll,  that  he  might  read  therein 

^  This  use  of  tbe  active  verb  lay  instead  of  the  neuter  verb  Ue  was  common  in  Bun* 
yan^sUme,  and  was  not  by  any  means  considered  inaccurate  or  mlgar,  aa  at  present  It  iB, 


and  be  comforted  ;  but  he  felt,  and  found  it  not.  Then  was  Chris- 
tian in  great  distress,  and  knew  not  what  to  do ;  for  he  wanted 
that  whidi  used  to  reUeve  him,  and  that  which  should  have  been 
his  pass  into  the  celestial  city.  Here,  therefore,  he  began  to  be 
much  perplexed,  and  knew  not  what  to  do.  At  last  he  bethought 
himself  that  he  had  slept  in  the  arbour  that  is  on  the  side  of  the 
hill;  and  falling  down  Upon  his  knees,  he  asked  God forgiyeness 
for  that  foolish  act,  and  then  went  back  to  look  for  his  rolL  But  aU 
the  way  he  went  bkck,  who  can  sufficiently  set  forth  the  sorrow  of 
Christian's  heart  1  Sometimes  he  sighed,  sometimes  he  wept,  and 
oftentimes  he  chid  himself  for  being  so  foolish  to  fall  asleep  in  that 
place,  which  was  erected  only  for  a  little  refreshment  for  ms  weari- 
ness. Thus,  therefore,  he  went  back,  carefully  looking  on  this  side 
and  on  that,  all  the  way  as  he  went,  if  happUy  he  might  find  his 
roU,  that  had  been  his  colnfort  so  many  times  in  his  journey.  He 
went  thus,  tiQ  he  came  again  within  sight  of  the  arbour  where  he 
sat  and  slept ;  but  that  sight  renewed  his  sorrow  the  more,  by 
briDgmg  again,  even  afresh,  his  evil  of  sleeping  into  his  mini 
Thus,  therefore,  he  now  went  on,  bewading  his  smful  sleep.     • 

Now,  by  this  time,  he  was  come  to  the  arbour  again,  where,  for 
a  while,  he  sat  down  and  wept ;  but  at  last  (to  Providence  would 
have  it),  looking  sorrowfully  down  under  the  settle,*  there  he  espied 
his  roU,  the  which  he,  with  trembling  and  haste,  catched  up  and 
put  into  his  bosom.  But  who  can  tell  how  joyful  this  man  was 
when  he  had  gotten  his  roll  again  !  For  this  roU  was  the  assurance 
of  his  life  and  acceptance  at  the  desired  haYen.  Therefore  he  laid 
it  up  in  his  bosom,  gave  thanks  to  Grod  for  directing  his  eyes  to  the 
place  where  it  lay,  and  ^th  joy  and  tears  betook  himself  again  to 
his  journey.  But,  0  how  nimbly  now  did  he  go  up  the  rest  of  the 
hill !  Yet,  before  he  got  lip,  the  sun  went  down  upon  Christian  ; 
and  this  made  him  again  recall  the  vanity  of  his  sleeping  to  his  re- 
membrance, and  then  he  again  began  to  condole  with  himsel£  O 
thou  sinful  sleep  !  how,  for  thy  sake,  am  I  like  to  be  benighted  in 
my  journey  !  I  must  walk  without  the  sun,  datkness  must  cover 
the  path  of  my  feet,  and  I  must  hear  the  noise  of  the  doleful  crea- 
tures because  of  my  sinful  sleep.  Now,  also,  he  remembered  the 
story  that  Mistrust  and  Timorous  told  him  of,  how  they  were 
frighted  with  the  sight  of  the  lions.  Then,  said  Christian  to  him- 
se3  again,  "  these  beasts  range  in  the  night  for  their  prey,  and  if 
they  should  meet  with  me  in  the  dark,  how  should  I  shift  them  ?— 
how  should  I  escape  being  by  them  torn  in  pieces  1  Thus  he  went 
on  ;  but  while  he  was  thus  bewailing  his  ifiihappy  miscarriage,  he 
lift  up  his  eyes,  and  behold  there  was  a  very  stately  palace  before 
him,  the  name  of  which  wad  Beautiful  ;  and  it  stood  just  by  the 
highway  side. 

So  I  saw  in  my  dream  that  he  m^e  haste  and  went  forward, 
that,  if  possible,  he  might  get  lodging  there.    Now,  before  he  had 

1  ie.,  stool  or  seat;  the  word  is  still  used  colloquially; 



ffone  far,  he  entered  into  a  yeiy  narrow  passage,  'which  waB  abont  a 
nirlong  off  of  the  porter^B  lodge  ;  and,  looking  yeiy  narrowly  before 
him  as  he  went,  he  espied  two  lions  in  the  way.  Now,  thought  he, 
I  see  the  danger  that  Mistrost  and  Timorous  were  driven  back  by. 
(The  lions  were  chained,  but  he  saw  not  the  chains.)  Then  he  was 
a&aidj  and  thought  also  himself  to  go  back  after  them ;  for  he 
thougnt  nothing  but  death  was  before  him  ;  but  the  porter  at  the 
lodge,  whose  name  is  Watchful^  perceiving  that  Christian  made  a 
halt  as  if  he  would  go  back,  cried  unto  him,  saying,  ''Is  thy 
strength  so  small  ?  Fear  not  the  lions ;  for  they  are  chained,  and 
are  pkced  there  for  trial  of  faith  where  it  is,  and  for  discoveiy  of 
those  that  have  none ;  keep  in  the  midst  of  the  path,  and  no  hurt 
shall  come  unto  thee." 

Then  I  saw  that  he  went  on,  trembling  for  fear  of  the  lions ;  but, 
taking  good  heed  to  the  directions  of  the  porter,  he  heard  them 
roar :  but  they  did  him  no  harm.  Then  he  clapped  his  hands,  and 
went  on  till  he  came  and  stood  before  the  gate  where  the  porter 


Op  Owen  Felltham's  history  nothing  is  known  bnt  that  he  belonged 
to  the  county  of  Suffolk.  He  is  supposed  to  have  been  bom  towards 
the  end  of  Elizabeth's  reign,  to  have  been  connected  with  the  family 
of  the  Earl  of  Thomond,  to  have  been  educated  at  Cambridge,  and  to 
have  died  about  1670 ;  but  on  these  and  all  other  points  nothing  has 
been  ascertained  with  certainty.  He  attained  some  reputation  as  a 
poet,  but  is  chiefly  known  by  his  "  Resolves,"  one  of  the  most  popular 
books  of  his  day.  It  was  written  in  the  author's  youth,  and  passed 
through  at  least  nine  editions  in  his  lifetime ;  but  an  attempt  to  re- 
vive its  popularity  in  modem  times  has  failed.  In  his  best  parts  we 
are  occasionally  reminded  of  Hall  and  Fuller,  but  there  is  in  general 
a  want  of  knowledge  and  judgment  which,  added  to  a  conceited  style, 
has  prevented  the  book  becoming  a  favourite  in  our  day. 


It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  too  tart  in  his  jests.  Bitterness  is 
for  serious  potions ;  not  for  health's  merriment,  or  the  jollities  of  a 
mirthful  feast  An  offensive  man  is  the  devil's  bellows,  wherewith 
he  blows  up  contentions  and  jars.  In  wit  I  find  nothing  more 
galling  than  an  offensive  truth  ;  for  thereby  we  run  into  two  great 
errors  :  one  is,  we  chide  that  in  a  loose  laughter  which  should  be 
grave,  and  savour  both  of  love  and  pity ;  the  other  is,  we  descend 
to  personality,  and  by  that  means  draw  the  whole  company  to  wit- 
ness the  disgrace  of  him  at  whose  expense  the  joke  is.  The  soldier 
is  not  noble  who  makes  sport  with  the  wounds  of  his  companion. 
Whosoever  will  jest  should  be  like  him  who  flourishes  at  a  show  ; 
he  should  not  aim  more  at  one  than  at  another.    Things  like  truth. 


are  in  this  case  better  than  trath  itsel£  Nor  is  it  less  improper 
than  unsafe  to  fling  about  at  random  this  wormwood  of  the  brain, 
our  wit ;  for  some  noses  are  too  tender  to  endure  the  smell  of  it 
And  though  there  may  be  many  who,  like  tUed  houses,  can  admit  a 
falling  spark  without  mjury,  yet  some,  again,  are  covered  with  such 
light  dry  straw,  that  with  the  least  touch  they  will  kindle  and  flame 
about  our  ears ;  and  when  the  house  is  on  nre,  it  is  unayailing  to 
wonder  from  how  small  a  matter  it  arose.  Anger  is  but  a  step  &om 
nge,  and  rage  is  a  wfld  fii«  which  is  not  toW  extinguished.  It  is 
to^e,  anger^ner  inflames  a  fool  than  a  man  compo^  in  his  teso- 
lutions.  But  we  are  not  always  sure  to  meet  with  discreet  ones, 
nor  can  we  very  weU  hope  it  while  we  ourselves  are  otherwise,  in 
giving  the  occasion  for  folly  to  show  itself.  Fools  are  the  greater 
num&r ;  wise  men  are  like  timber-trees  in  a  wood,  here  and  there 
one.  But  when  we^grow  bitter  to  a  wise  man,  we  are  then  worst ; 
for  he  sees  farther  into  the  ofience,  and  is  able  to  make  us  feel  for  it 
more  than  the  other.  Laughter  should  dimple  the  cheek,  not  fur- 
row the  brow.  A  jest  should  be  such  that  all  shall  be  able  to  join 
in  the  laugh  which  it  occasions,  but  if  it  bears  hard  upon  one  of  the 
companyTlike  the  cra^^k  of  a  string,  it  makes  a  stop  in  the  music 
Though  all  have  not  wit  to  reject  the  arrow  which  is  aimed  at  them, 
yet  most  have  memory  to  retain  the  offence.  It  is  but  an  unhappy 
Wit  which  stiis  np  enemies  against  the  owner  of  it  A  man  Zj 
spit  out  his  friend  from  his  too^e,  or  laugh  him  into  an  enemy, 
(kl  and  miith  is  an  iU  and^tuial  iSxtuie,  and  sometimk 
truth  is  bitterness.  I  would  wish  every  man  to  be  pleasingly 
merry,  but  let  us  beware  we  bring  not  truth  on  the  stage  like  a 
wanton  with  an  edged  weapon. 


It  is  much  safer  to  reconcile  an  enemy  than  to  conquer  him. 
Victory  deprives  him  of  his  power  ;  but  reconciliation  of  his  will ; 
and  there  is  less  danger  in  a  will  which  wiU  not  hurt,  than  in  a 
power  which  cannot.  Besides,  an  enemy  is  a  perpetual  spy  upon 
thy  actions,  a  watch  to  observe  thy  falls  and  thy  wanderings.  "When 
he  is  free  from  thy  power,  his  malice  makes  him  nimble-eyed*;  apt 
to  mark  a  fault,  and  publish  it :  and  by  a  strained  construction,  to 
depreciate  those  things  which  thy  intentions  teU  thy  soul  are  honest. 
L^e  the  crocodile,  he  slimes  thy  way  to  make  thee  fall ;  and  when 
thou  art  down,  he  watches  for  thy  life.  Thy  ways  he  strews  with 
serpents  and  venomous  animals.  Thy  vices  he  sets  like  St  Paul's,^ 
on  nigh,  for  the  gaze  of  the  world  and  the  wide  city  ;  thy  virtues, 
like  §t  Faith's,  he  places  underground,  that  none  may  see  them. 
Certainly,  it  is  a  misery  to  have  for  one's  enemies  those  who  are  very 
powerful,  or  naturally  very  mahcious.    If  they  cannot  wound  upon 

1  ie..  like  old  St  Paul's  In  London,  very  conspicnons ;  St  Faitii's  is  the  crypt  beneath 
fit  Paul's,  and  therefore  la  concealed  from  view. 


proofs^  they  will  do  it  upon  likelihoods :  and  so^  by  degrees  and  sly 
ways,  imdennine  our  reputation  ; — and  they  have  this  adyantage, 
that  the  multitude  will  sooner  believe  them  than  ourselyes ;  for 
affirmations  are  apter  to  win  belief  than  negatives.    It  was  the  say- 
ing of  Machiavel,  that  a  slander  onoe  raised,  will  scarce  ever  die  or 
fau  of  finding  some,  who  will  allow  it  both  a  harbour  and  trust. 
The  world  is  of  itself  desirous  to  scar  the  isuce  that  is  fiEiirer  than 
her  own.    When  Seneca  asked  the  question,  what  is  most  hostile 
to  man  f  he  lumseK  answered,  another  man.    But  if  our  enemy  be 
noble-minded,  he  will  scorn  to  take  an  advantage  of  us  when  it 
may  be  in  his  power.    Let  his  worth  persuade  thee  to  a  reconciliation. 
He  that  can  be  a  worthy  enemy,  will,  when  reconciled,  be  a  worthier 
fhend.    If  thy  enemy  be  unworthy,  reconcile  him  too.    Though 
nothing  else  be  gained  by  it  but  the  stilling  of  a  scandalous  tongue, 
even  that  will  be  worth  thy  labour.    Use  him,  as  a  Mend,  in  out- 
vxxrd  fairness ;  but  beware  of  him  as  an  enemy,  apt  to  resume  his 
arms.    He  who  is  a  base  foe  will  hardly  be  otherwise  than  false  in 
friendship.    If  it  may  be  ^one  with  honour,  I  should  think  it  a 
work  of  good  discretion  to  regain  a  violent  adversary.    But  to  do 
it  so  as  to  bring  a  m^cmness  on  one's  self,  thowh  it  be  safe,  is  worse 
than  to  be  conquered  in  a  manful  contest    friendship  is  not  com- 
mendable when  it  arises  from  dishonourable  treaties.    But  he  that, 
upon  good  terms,  refuses  a  reconcilement,  may  be  stubborn,  but, 
certainly  is  neither  liberal  nor  wise.    I  shall  think  that  endeavour 
spent  to  purpose  that  either  makes  a  friend  or  unmakes  an  enemy. 
In  the  one,  a  treasure  is  won ;  in  the  other,  a  siege  is  raised.     When 
one  said  he  was  a  wise  king  ikat  was  hind  to  his  friends  and  sharp  to 
his  enemies :  says  another,  he  is  wiser  that  cam,  retmn  his  friends  in 
their  love,  and  mdke  his  enemies  like  them, 

3.   OP  LAW. 

Law  is  the  bridle  of  the  human  beast,  whereby  he  is  held  from 
starting,  and  from  stumbling  in  his  way.  It  is  the  hedge  on  either 
side  the  -road,  which  hinders  him  breaking  into  other  inen's  pro- 
perty. A  man  had  as  well  live  in  Egypt  among  aU  the  ten  plagues,  as 
m  the  world  among  the  wicked,  without  law  to  defend  him.  It  is 
every  man's  civil  armour,  that  guards  him  from  the  gripes  of  rapine. 
Andf  indeed,  it  is  for  this  chiefly  that  laws  are  in  use  among  men ; 
for  the  wise  and  good  do  not  need  them  as  a  guide,  but  as  a  shield ; 
they  can  Uve  civilly  and  orderly  though  there  were  no  law  in  the 
world.  And  though  wise  and  good  men  invented  laws,  they  were 
fools  and  wicked  men  that  put  Qiem  upon  the  study.  To  rule  such 
wild  cattle,  there  needed  both  the  judgment  and  the  wit  of  the  best 
and  ablest,  to  find  out  ways  to  trammel  them,  and  keep  them  with- 
in orderly  bounds.  In  the  beginnings  of  thriving  states,  when 
they  are  more  industrious  and  smiple,  they  have  the  fewest  laws. 
Kome  itself  had,  at  first,  but  twelve  tables ;  but,  afterwards,  how 
infinitely  did  their  laws  increase  !    Old  states,  like  old  bodies,  will 


be  sore  to  contract  diseases  ;  and  where  the  law-makers  are  many, 
the  laws  will  never  be  few.  That  nation  is  in  the  best  state  whidi 
has  the'fewest  laws,  and  those  good.  Variety  only  multiplies  snares. 
And  oftentimes,  when  the  law  did  not  intend  it,  men  are  m&de 
goilty  by  the  pleader^s  oratory,  which  is  exerted  either  to  display 
his  eloquence,  to  advance  his  practice,  or,  out  of  mastery,  to  carry 
his  cause.  To  go  to  law  is,  for  two  persons  to  kindle  a  &e  at  their 
own  cost,  to  warm  others,  and  singe  themselves  to  cinders.  Because 
they  cannot  agree  as  to  what  is  truth  and  equity,  they  will  both 
agree  to  unplume  themselves  that  others  may  be  stuck  with  their 
feathers.  Tne  Apostle  throws  the  brand  of  simple  on  those  who, 
by  striving  this  way,  consume  both  their  peace,  their  treasure,  and 
their  time ;  and  expose  a  game  to  the  packing  and  the  shuffling  of 
others,  when  they  might  soberly  cut  and  deal  the  cards  themselves. 
Is  there  none  wise  enough  to  compound  businesses  without  calling 
in  the  crafty  and  the  cunning  ?  Or  is  there  none  who  has  wisdom 
sufficient  to  moderate  a  little,  that  he  may  save  a  great  deal  more  ? 

A  lawsuit  is  like  a  building :  we  cast  up  the  chaise  in  gross,  and 
under-reckon  it ;  but  being  in  for  it  we  are  trained  along  through 
several  items,  till  we 'can  neither  bear  the  aooount,  nor  leave  off, 
though  we  have  a  mind  to  it.  The  anxiety,  the  trouble  the  attend- 
ance, the  hazard,  the  checks,  the  vexatious  delays,  the  surreptitious 
advantages  against  us,  the  defeats  of  hope,  the  falseness  of  pretend- 
ing firiends,  me  interests  of  parties,  the  negligence  of  agents,  and 
the  designs  of  ruin  upon  us,  do  put  us  upon  a  combat  against  all  that 
can  plague  poor  man  ;  or  else  we  must  lie  down,  be  trodden  upon, 
be  kicked,  and  die. 

So  far  law  may  be  compared  to  war — ^that  it  is  a  last  resort,  and 
ought  never  to  be  used  but  when  all  other  means  do  fail ; — and  then 
the  pleaders  ought  to  hold  themselves  to  that.  He  who  vindicates 
the  law  does  no  man  wrong  ;  but  he  that  digresseth  to  impertinen- 
cies  or  the  personal  stains  of  men,  is  rather  a  fly  that  buzzes,  and 
sucks  the  wound,  than  a  diampion  for  truth,  or  a  helmet  to  keep 
the  head  of  justice  whole. 


LiroT  Hutchinson  was  the  daughter  of  Sir  Allen  Apsley,  Lieu- 
tenant of  the  Tower,  where  she  was  bom  in  1620.  She  was  educated 
in  strict,  or  as  they  were  then  called,  puritanical  principles ;  and 
her  attachment  to  them  was  increased  by  her  marriage,  in  1638,  to 
Colonel  Hutchinson.  The  Colonel  belonged  to  a  respectable  family 
in  Nottingham,  and  was  one  of  the  first  to  take  up  arms  against  thft 
King  in  the  civil  war,  and  was  a  prominent  person  during  the  whole 
period  of  hostilities.  The  work  of  his  widow,  a  "  Memoir  of  her  Hus- 
band's Life,"  contains  a  lively  narrative  of  the  civil  war,  referring 
especially  to  those  actions  in  \vhich  her  husband  was  concerned ;  ana 


while,  from  the  times  in  which  he  lived,  and  the  important  part  ho 
played,  the  work  would  he  interesting  and  yalnahle  whateyer  were  its 
style,  it  possesses  douhle  yalne  from  the  writer's  ahility,  her  personal 
knowledge  of  many  of  the  men  concerned  in  the  civil  war,  and  her 
high  principle,  which,  though  it  may  not  have  kept  her  from  heing 
deceived,  yet  assures  the  reader  that  she  would  not  wittingly  pen 
what  was  false. . 


The  fauOQ  of  the  court  was  much  changed  in  the  change  of  the 
king ;  for  King  Charles  was  temperate,  chaste,  and  serious ;  so 
that  tiie  fools  and  mimics  of  the  former  court  grew  out  of  fitshion, 
and  the  nobility  and  courtiers,  who  did  not  quite  abandon  their 
debaucheries,  yet  so  reverenced  the  king  as  to  retire  into  comers  to 
practise  them.  Men  of  learning  and  ingenuity  in  aU  arts  were  in 
esteem,  and  received  encouitigement  from  the  king,  who  was  a 
most  excellent  judge,  and  a  great  lover  of  paintings,  carvings,  grav- 
ings,  and  many  other  ingenuities  less  offensive  than  the  pro&ne 
abusive  wit  which  was  the  only  exercise  of  the  other  court.  But, 
as  in  the  primitive  times  it  is  observed  that  the  best  emperors  were 
some  of  uiem  stirred  up  by  Satan  to  be  the  bitterest  persecutors  of 
the  Church,  so  this  king  was  a  worse  encroacher  upon  the  civil  and 
spiritual  liberties  of  his  people,  by  far,  than  his  &ther.  He  married 
a  papist,  a  French  lady,  of  a  haughty  spirit,  and  a  great  wit  and 
beauty,  to  whom  he  became  a  most  uxorious  husbemd.  By  this 
means  the  Court  was  replenished  with  papists ;  and  many  who 
hoped  to  advance  themselves  by  the  change,  turned  to  that  reli- 
gion. All  the  papists  in  the  kingdom  were  favoured,  and,  by  the 
king's  example,  matched  iato  the  best  £Eunilies :  the  puritans  were 
more  than  ever  discountenanced  and  persecuted,  insomuch  that 
many  of  them  chose  to  abandon  their  native  countiy  and  leave  their 
dearest  relations,  to  retire  into  any  foreign  soil  or  plantation  where 
they  mi^ht,  amidst  aU  outward  inconvemences,  enjoy  the  free  exer- 
cise of  God's  worship.  Such  as  could  not  flee  were  tormented  in 
the  bishops*  courts,  fined,  whipped,  pilloried,  imprisoned,  and  suf- 
fered to  enjoy  no  rest,  so  that  deatii  was  better  than  life  to  them  ; 
and  notwimstanding  their  patient  sufferance  of  all  these  things,  yet 
was  not  the  king  satisfied  till  the  whole  land  was  reduced  to  perfect 


This  name  of  Boundhead  coming  so  opportunely  in,  I  shall  make 
a  little  digression  to  tell  how  it  came  up.  When  puritanism  grew 
into  a  fEKstion,  the  zealots  distinguished  themselves,  both  men-  and 
women,  by  several  affectations  of  habit,  looks,  and  words,  which, 
had  it  been  a  real  forsaking  of  vanity,  and  an  embracing  of  sobriety 
in  all  those  things,  would  have  been  most  commendable ;  but  their 
quick  forsaking  of  those  things  when  they  had  arrived  at  thoir  ob- 


jecty  showed  that  they  either  never  took  them  up  for  oonscienoe,  or 
were  corrupted  by  meir  prosperity  to  take  up  those  vam  thrngs 
they  durst  not  practise  under  persecution.  Among  other  affect^ 
habits,  few  of  the  puritans,  what  decree  soever  they  were  o^  wore 
their  hair  long  enough  to  cover  theu:  ears ;  and  the  ministers  and 
many  others  cut  it  dose  round  their  heads,  with  so  many  little 
peaks,  as  was  something  ridiculous  to  behold ;  whereupon  Oleave- 
lEuid,^  in  his  Hue  and  CSy  after  them,  begins,— 

"  With  hair  in  characters,  and  text/'  &c. 

From  this  custom  of  wearing  their  hair,  that  name  of  Boundhead 
became  the  scomfol  term  given  to  the  whole  Parliament  party, 
whose  army,  indeed,  marched  out  as  if  they  had  been  only  sent  out 
till  their  hair  was  grown.  Two  or  three  years  after,  any  stranger 
that  had  seen  them  would  have  inquired  the  reason  of  that  name. 
It  was  ill  applied  to  Mr  Hutchinson,  who,  having  naturally  a  veiy 
fine  thicknset  head  of  hair,  kept  it  clean  and  handsome,  so  that  it 
was  a  great  ornament  to  him ;  although  the  godly  of  ihoae  days, 
when  he  embraced  their  party,  would  not  allow  him  to  be  religious 
because  his  hair  was  not  m  their  cut,  nor  his  words  in  their  phrase, 
nor  such  little  formalities  altogether  fitted  to  their  humour ;  who 
were,  many  of  them,  so  weak  as  to  esteem  such  insignificant  cir- 
cumstances rather  than  solid  wisdom,  piety,  and  courage,  which 
brought  real  aid  and  honour  to  their  party.  But  as  Mr  Hutchin- 
son diose  not  them,  but  the  €k>d  they  served,  and  the  truth  and 
righteousness  they  defended,  so  did  not  their  weaknesses,  censures, 
ingratitude,  or  discouraging  behaviour,  with  which  he  was  abun- 
dtmtly  exercised  aU  his  life,  make  him  forsake  them  in  anything 
wherein  they  adhered  to  just  and  honourable  principles  or  prac- 
tices ;  but  when  they  apostatized  from  these,  none  cast  them  off 
with  greater  indignation,  how  shining  soever  the  profession  was 
that  gQt,  not  a  temple  of  living  grace,  but  a  tomb,  which  only  held 
the  carcase  of  religion. 

3.  Hutchinson's  interview  with  cromwell. 

Colonel  Hutchinson  had  a  great  intimacy  with  many  of  the 
levellers ;  and,  so  far  as  they  acted  according  to  the  just,  pious,  and 
pubUc  spirit  which  they  professed,  he  owned  and  protected  them  as 
&r  as  he  had  power.  These  were  they  who  first  began  to  discover 
the  ambition  of  Lieutenant-General  Cromwell  and  his  idolaters,  and 
to  suspect  and  dislike  it.  About  this  time, he  was  sent  downjafter 
his  victory  in  Wales,  to  encounter  ELamilton  in  the  north.  When 
he  went  down,  the  chief  of  these  levellers,  following  him  out  of  the 
town  to  take  their  leave  of  him,  received  such  professions  from 

1  John  Clerelaad,  a  sturdy  and  Indomitable  cavalier,  was  the  motfc  popular  poet  of 
hla  time.  He  strongly  satirised  Cromwell,  the  Pnrltans,  and  especially  the  Scots, 
whom  he  held  in  perfect  detestation.  His  works  are  now  forgot,  though  quite  as 
worth  J  of  preserratlon  as  many  which  the  caprice  of  popular  taste  still  holds  in  honour. 


him,  of  a  spirit  bent  to  pursue  the  same  just  aud  honest  thin^ 
which  they  desired,  that  they  went  away  with  great  satisfieM^ion,  till 
they  heard  that  a  coachful  of  Presbyterian  priests  coming  after 
them  went  away  no  less  pleased ;  by  which  it  was  apparent  he 
di»embled  ^tb  (me  or  thl^  other/ana  by  so  doing  lost  Sis  credit 
with  both. 

When  he  came  to  Nottingham,  Colonel  Hutchinson  went  to  see 
him,  whom  he  embraced  with  all  the  expressions  of  kindness  that 
one  friend  could  make  to  another,  and  then  retiring  with  him, 
pressed  him  to  tell  him  what  his  Mends,  the  leyellers,  thought  of 
nim.  The  colonel,  who  was  the  freest  man  in  Hf^e  world  £rom  con- 
ceaUog  truth  from  his  friends  especially  when  it  was  required  of 
Mm  in  love  and  plainnessj^  not  only  told  him  what  others  thought 
of  him,  but  what  he  himself  conceived ;  and  how  much  it  would 
darken  all  his  glories  if  he  should  become  a  slave  to  his  own  ambi- 
tion, and  be  giulty  of  what  he  gave  the  world  just  cause  to  suspect ; 
and,  therefore,  he  begged  of  h^n  to.  wear  his  heart  m  his  face,  and 
to  scorn  to  delude  his  enemies,  buti  to  make  ^se  of  his  n,oble  courage 
to  maintain  what  he  believed  to  be  just  against  all  great  opposers. 
Cromwell  made  mighty  professions  of  a  sincere  heart  to  him ;  but 
it  is  certain  that  for  this,  and  suph-like  plain  dealing  with  him,  he 
dreaded  the  colonel^  and  made  it  his  particular  business  to  keep 
him  out  of  the  army;  but  the  colonel  desiring  command,  not  to 
serve  himself  but  his  country,  would  not  u^e  that  art  he  detested 
in  others  to  procuire  himself  any  a4^^9ntage. 


In  the  interim  Cromwell  and  his  army  grew  wanton  with  their 
power,  and  invented  a  thousand  tricks  of  government,  which,  when 
nobody  opposed,  they  themselves  fell  to  dislike  and  vary  every  day. 
First  he  calls  a  parliament  out  of  his  own  pocket,  himself  naming  a 
sort  of  godly  men  for  every  county,  who  meeting  and  not  agreeing, 
a  part  oi  them,  in  the  name  of  the  people,  gave  up  tiie  sovereignty 
to  him.  Shortly  after  he  makes  up  severed  sorts  of  mock  parliar 
ments,  but  not  finding  one  of  them  absolutely  to  his  turn,  turned 
them  off  agaio.  He  soon  quitted  hin^elf  of  his  triumvirs,  and  first 
thrust  out  Harrison,  then  took  away  Lambert's  commission,  and 
would  have  been  king  but  for  fear  of  quitting  his  generalship.  He 
weeded,  in  a  few  months'  time,  above  a  hundred  and  fifty  godly 
officers  out  of  the  army,  with  whom  many  of  the  religious  soldiers 
went  o£^and  in  their  room  abundance  of  the  king's  dissolute  soldiers 
were  entertained;  and  the  army  was  almost  changed  from  that 
godly  religious  army,  whose  valour  God  had  crowned  with  triumph, 
mto  the  dissolute  army  they  had  beaten,  bearing  yet  a  better  name. 
His  wife  and  children  were  setting  up  for  principality,  which  suited 
no  better  with  any  of  them  than  scarlet  on  the  ape ;  only,  to  speak 
the  truth  of  himself,  he  had  much  natural  greatness,  and  well  became 
the  place  he  had  usurped.    His  daughter  Fleetwood  was  humbled/ 


and  not  exalted  with  these  thines,  but  the  rest  were  insolent  fools. 
Claypole,  who  married  his  dawmter,  and  his  son  Henry,  were  two 
deikuobk,  ungodly  cav^^ers.  \i<-b!ixd  was  a  peasant  in  his  natoie, 
yet  gentle  and  virtuous,  but  became  not  greatness.  His  court  was 
full  of  sin  and  yonity,  and  the  more  abominable,  because  they  had 
not  yet  cast  away  the  name  of  Grod,  but  profEuied  it  by  ta^ng  it 
in  vain  upon  them.  True  reli^on  was  now  almost  lost,  even 
among  the  religious  party,  and  nypocrisy  became  an  epidemical 
disease,  to  the  ^  grief  of  Colonel  Hutchinson,  and  all  true-hearted 
Christians  and  Englishmen.  Almost  all  the  ministers  everywhere 
fell  in  and  worshipped  this  beast,  and  courted  and  made  addresses 
to  him.  So  did  the  city  of  London,  and  many  of  the  degenerate  lords 
of  the  law,  with  the  poor-spirited  gentry.  The  cavaliers,  in  policy, 
who  saw,  that  while  Cromwell  reduced  aU  by  the  exercise  of  tyran- 
nical power  under  another  name,  there  was  a  door  opened  for  the 
restoration  of  their  party,  fell  much  in  with  Cromwell,  and  height- 
ened aU  his  disorders.  He  at  last  exercised  such  an  arbitrary 
power  that  the  whole  land  grew  weaiy  of  him,  while  he  set  up  a  com- 
pany of  silly,  mean  fellows,  called  major-generals,  as  govemora  in 
every  county.  These  ruled  according  to  their  wills,  by  no  law  but 
what  seemed  good  in  their  own  eyes,  imprisoning  men,  obstructing 
the  course  of  justice  between  man  and  man,  perverting  right  through 
partiality,  acquitting  some  that  were  guilty,  and  punishing  some 
that  were  innocent  as  guilty.  Then  he  exercised  another  project 
to  raise  money,  by  decimation  of  the  estates  of  all  the  king^s  party, 
of  which  action  it  is  said  Lambert  was  the  instigator.  At  last  he 
took  upon  himself  to  make  lords  and  knights,  and  wanted  not 
many  fools,  both  of  the  army  and  gentry,  to  accept  of,  and  strut 
in  his  mock  titles.  Then  the  Earl  of  Warwick's  grandchild  and  the 
Lord  Falconbridge  married  his  two  daughters  ;  such  pitiful  slaves 
were  the  nobles  of  those  days.  At  last  I^mbert,  perceiving  himself 
to  have  been  all  this  while  deluded  with  hopes  and  promises  of 
succession,  and  seeing  that  Cromwell  now  intended  to  confirm  the 
government  in  his  own  family,  fell  off  from  him  ;  but  behaved  him- 
self veiy  pitifully  and  meanly ;  for  his  ambition  had  this  difference 
from  the  Protector^s, — ^the  one  was  gallant  and  great,  the  other  had 
nothing  but  an  unworthy  pride,  most  insolent  in  prosperity,  and  as 
abject  and  base  in  adversity. 


IzAAK  Walton  was  bom  at  Stafford  in  1698.  His  father  died 
when  he  was  very  young,  and  Izaak,  bred  to  trade,  established  himself 
as  a  linen-draper  in  London  in  a  small  shop  near  the  Exchange,  from 
which  he  afterwards  removed  to  Fleet  Street.  His  industry  was  re- 
warded with  wealth,  and  when  the  civil  wars  broke  out  he  had  already 

170  IZAAK  WALTOir. 

realized  sncli  a  competency  as  enabled  him  to  retire  from  bndnesfl  and 
spend  the  rest  of  Us  life  in  peace  at  Winchester,  where  he  died  in 
1688  at  the  adyanced  age  of  ninety.  He  was  generally  esteemed,  and 
occupied  a  highly  respectable  place  in  society ;  he  married  a  descen- 
dant of  Archbishop  Cranmer,  and  afterwards  the  sister  of  Bishop  Ken. 
In  1640  he  published  the  life  of  Dr  Donne,  Dean«of  St  Paul's,  which 
had  been  in  part  prepared  by  his  friend  Sir  Henry  Wotton,  but  left 
incomplete  at  his  death ;  and  the  success  with  which  he  accomplished 
this  task  induced  him  to  issue  at  various  periods  biographies  of 
Hooker,  George  Herbert,  Bishop  Sanderson,  and  Sir  Henry  Wotton, 
all  of  which  are  distinguished  by  cheerfulness,  simplicity,  and  good 
sense.  But  it  is  chiefly  as  the  author  of  the  "  Complete  Angler,  or 
the  Contemplative  Man's  Recreation,"  that  Walton  is  now  known, 
and  on  it  his  fame  rests  imperishably.  Its  pleasant  cheerful  tone, 
delightful  description,  genuine  and  unaffected  love  of  nature,  easy 
and  attractive  style,  and  charming  intermixture  of  prose  and  verse, 
happy  humour,  sound  advice,  and  piscatorial  instructions,  have  ren* 
dered  it  a  universal  favourite. 


{Addressed  by  Iiaak  Walton  to  hUpupU  in  the  art  of  Angling.) 

Wen,  scholar,  baviiu^  now  taught  yon  to  paint  your  lod,  and  we 
having  still  a  nule  to  Tottenham  High-Cross,  I  wiU,  as  we  walk  to- 
wards it,  in  the  cool  shade  of  this  sweet  honeysackle  hedge^  moitiaa 
to  you  some  of  the  thoughts  and  joys  that  have  possessed  mr  smiI 
since  we  two  met  together.  And  these  thoughts  shall  be  toli  jxmi, 
that  yon  also  may  join  with  me  in  thankfiilness,  to  the  Gitw  cf  «i«iT 
good  and  perfect  gift,  for  onr  happiness.  And,  that  qw  pn£>»ii 
happiness  may  appear  to  be  the  greater,  and  we  the  nK«e  tliKiikfiil 
for  it,  I  wiU  beg  you  to  consider  with  me  how  many  do,  ercn  at  Ihii 
very  time,  lie  under  the  torment  of  the  Stone,  the  Gout,  and  Toolh- 
ache  ;  and  this  we  are  free  from.  And  every  misery  that  I  mks  is 
a  new  mercy ;  and  therefore  let  ns  be  thankfoL  There  have  been, 
since  we  met,  others  that  have  met  disasters  of  broken  limbs ;  some 
have  been  blasted,  others  thunder-stricken ;  and  we  have  been  freed 
from  these,  and  aO  those  many  other  miseries  that  threaten  hmnan 
nature :  let  us  therefore  rejoice  imd  be  thankfuL  Nay,  wfaidi  is  a 
&r  greater  mercy,  we  are  free  from  the  unsupportable  burthen  of  an 
accusing,  tormenting  oonsci^oe ;  a  misery  that  none  can  bear,  and 
therefore  let  us  praise  Him  for  his  preventing  grace,  and  say, 
"  Eveiy  miseiy  thiat  I  miss  is  a  new  mercy."  Kay,  let  me  teD  you, 
there  be  many  that  have  forty  times  our  estates,  that  would  give 
the  greatest  part  of  it  to  be  healthful  and  cheerful  like  us ;  vriio, 
with  the  eTpenae  of  a  little  money,  have  eat  and  drank,  and  ka^ied 
and  angled,  and  song  and  slept  securely ;  and  rose  next  day,  and 
cast  away  care,  and  song  and  lao^ied,  and  an^ed  again ;  iHiidi  are 
Uessings  rich  men  cannot  pordiase  with  all  their  money.  Let  me 
tdl  yoo,  achoiar,  I  have  a  ndi  neighbour,  thai  is  always  so  bosy 


that  he  has  no  leisure  to  laugh ;  the  whole  business  of  his  life  is  to 
get  money,  and  more  money,  that  he  may  still  get  more  and  more 
money ;  he  is  still  drudging  on,  and  says  that  Solomon  says,  "  tiie 
diligent  hand  maketh  rich :  and  it  is  true  indeed ;  but  he  considers 
not  that  'tis  not  in  the  power  of  riches  to  make  a  man  happy :  for 
it  was  wisely  said  by  a  man  of  great  observation, ''  that  there  be  as 
many  misenes  beyond  riches  as  on  this  side  them :"  and  yet  Qod 
deUver  us  from  pinching  poverty ;  and  grant,  that  having  a  compe- 
tency, we  may  be  content  and  thankful. 

Let  not  us  repine,  or  so  much  as  think  the  gifts  of  Qod  unequally 
dealt,  if  we  see  another  abound  with  riches  ;  when,  as  God  knows, 
the  cares,  that  are  the  keys  that  keep  those  riches,  hang  often  so 
hewrily  at  the  rich  man's  girdle,  that  they  dog  him  with  weary  days, 
iuid  restless  nights,  eyen  when  others  sleep  quietly.  We  see  but 
the  outside  of  Uie  rich  man's  happiness :  few  consider  him  to  be  like 
the  silk-worm,  that,  when  she  seems  to  play,  is,  at  the  very  same 
time,  spinning  her  own  bowels,  and  consuming  herself.  And  this 
many  rich  men  do ;  loading  themselves  with  corroding  cares,  to 
keep  what  they  have,  probacy,  unconscionably  got.  Let  us  there- 
fore be  thankrnl  for  health  and  competence,  and  above  all,  for  a 
quiet  conscience.  Let  me  tell  you,  scholar,  that  Diogenes  walked 
on  a  day,  with  his  Mend,  to  see  a  countiy  fair;  "v^ere  he  saw 
ribbons,  and  looking-glasses,  and  nut-crackers,  and  fiddles,  and 
hobby-horses,  and  many  other  gimcracks ;  and  having  observed 
them,  and  all  the  other  finnimbrums  that  make  a  complete  country 
fair ;  he  said  to  his  friend,  ''  How  many  things  are  there  in  this 
world  of  which  Diogenes  hath  no  need."  And  tnily  it  is  so,  or  might 
be  so,  with  veiy  many  who  vex  and  toil  themselves  to  get  what  tney 
haye  no  need  of  Can  any  man  charge  God,  that  He  hath  not  giyen 
him  enough  to  make  his  life  happy  ?  No,  doubtless ;  for  nature  is 
content  with  a  little :  and  yet  you  shall  hardly  meet  with  a  man 
that  complains  not  of  some  want ;  though  he,  indeed,  wants  nothing 
but  his  will,  it  may  be,  nothing  but  the  will  of  his  poor  neighbour, 
for  not  worshipping,  or  not  flattering  him :  and  thus,  when  we  might 
be  happy  and  quiet,  we  create  trouble  to  ourselves.  I  haye  heard 
of  a  man  that  was  angry  with  himself  because  he  was  no  taller,  and 
of  a  woman  that  broke  her  looking-glass  because  it  would  not  show 
her  &ce  to  be  as  young  and  handsome  as  her  next  neighbour's  was. 
And  I  knew  another,  to  whom  God  hath  given  health  and  plenty, 
but  a  wife  that  nature  had  made  peevish,  and  her  husband's  riches 
had  made  purse-proud,  and  mUst,  because  she  was  rich,  and  for  no 
other  virtue,  sit  in  the  highest  pew  in  the  church ;  which,  being 
denied  her,  she  enga^d  her  husband  into  a  contention  for  it ;  an{ 
at  last,  into  a  law-suit  with  a  dogged  neighbour,  who  was  as  rich  as 
he,  and  had  a  wife  as  peevish  and  purse-proud  as  the  other ;  and 
this  law-suit  begot  higher  oppositions,  and  actionable  words,  and 
more  yexations  and  law-suits ;  for  you  must  remember,  that  both 
were  rich,  and  must  therefore  have  their  wills.  Well,  this  wilful 
purse-proud  law-suit  lasted  during  the  life  of  the  first  husband: 


after  which  his  wife  vexed  and  chid,  and  chid  and  vexed,  till  she 
also  chid  and  vexed  herself  into  her  grave ;  and  so  the  wealth  of 
these  poor  rich  people  was  curst  into  a  punishment ;  because  they 
wanted  meek  and  thankful  hearts ;  for  those  only  can  make  us 
happy.  I  knew  a  man  that  had  health  and  riches,  and  several 
houses,  all  beautiful  and  ready  furnished,  and  would  often  trouble 
himself  and  family  to  be  removing  from  one  house  to  another :  and 
being  asked  by  a  friend,  why  he  removed  so  often  from  one  house 
to  another,  replied,  "  it  was  to  find  content  in  some  one  of  them.'* 
But  his  Mend,  knowing  his  temper,  told  him,  if  he  would  find  con- 
tent in  any  of  his  houses,  he  must  leave  himself  behind  him  ;  for 
content  will  never  dwell  but  in  a  meek  and  quiet  souL  And  this 
may  appear  if  we  read  and  consider  what  our  Saviour  says  in  St 
MattheVs  Grospel ;  for  He  there  says :  "  Blessed  be  the  mercifiil,  for 
they  shall  obtam  mercy :  blessed  be  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall 
see  God :  blessed  be  the  poor  in  spirit,  for  theirs  is  the  kingdom  of 
heaven :  blessed  be  the  meek,  for  diey  shall  possess  the  eartk'*  Not 
that  the  meek  shall  not  also  obtain  mercy,  and  see  God,  and  be  com- 
forted, and  at  last  come  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven ;  but  in  the  mean- 
time he,  and  he  only,  possesses  the  earth  as  he  goes  toward  that 
kingdom  of  heaven ;  by  beinff  humble  and  cheerfal,  and  content 
with  what  his  good  God  has  allotted  him :  he  has  no  turbulent,  re- 
pining, vexatious  thoughts,  that  he  deserves  better ;  nor  is  vexed 
when  he  sees  others  possessed  of  more  honour,  or  more  riches  than 
his  wise  Grod  has  allotted  for  his  share ;  but  he  possesses  what  he 
has  with  a  meek  and  contented  quietness ;  such  a  quietness  as  makes 
his  verv  dreams  pleasing,  both  to  God  and  himself. 

My  nonest  scholar,  aU  this  is  told  to  incline  you  to  thankfulness ; 
and  to  incline  you  the  more  let  me  tell  you,  that  though  the  prophet 
David  was  guilty  of  murder  and  adultery,  and  many  other  of  the 
most  deadly  sins,  yet  he  was  said  to  be  a  man  after  God's  own 
heart ;  because  he  abounded  more  with  thankfulness  than  any  other 
that  is  mentioned  in  holy  Scripture,  as  may  appear  in  his  book  of 
Psakns,  where  there  is  such  a  commixture  of  his  sins  and  unworthy- 
ness,  and  such  thankfulness  for  God's  pardon  and  mercies,  as  did 
make  him  to  be  accounted,  even  by  God  Himself,  to  be  a  man  after 
His  own  heart ;  and  let  us  in  that  labour  to  be  as  like  him  as  we 
can  ;  let  not  the  blessings  we  daily  receive  from  God  make  us  not 
to  value,  or  not  to  praise  Him,  because  they  be  common.  Let  us 
not  forget  to  praise  Him  for  the  innocent  mirth  and  pleasure  we  have 
met  with  since  we  met  together.  What  would  a  blind  man  give  to 
see  the  pleasant  rivers,  and  meadows,  and  flowers,  and  fountains, 
that  we  have  met  with  since  we  met  together  ?  I  have  been  told, 
that  if  a  man  that  was  bom  blind  could  obtain  to  have  his  sight  for 
but  only  one  hour  during  his  whole  life,  and  should,  at  the  first 
opening  of  his  eyes,  fix  his  sight  upon  the  sun  when  it  was  in  his 
full  glory,  either  at  ^e  rising  or  settmg  of  it,  he  would  be  so  trans- 
ported and  amazed,  and  so  admire  the  glory  of  it,  that  he  would  not 
willingly  turn  his  eyes  from  that  first  ravishing  object,  to  behold  all 


the  other  yarious  beauties  this  world  could  present  to  him.  And 
this,  and  many  other  like  blessings,  we  enjoy  daiLy ;  and  for  most 
of  them,  because  they  be  so  common,  most  men  forget  to  pay  their 
praises ;  but  let  not  us,  because  it  is  a  sacrifice  so  pleasing  to  Him 
that  made  that  sun,  and  us,  and  still  protects  us,  and  gives  us 
flowers,  and  showers,  and  stomachs,  and  meat,  and  content,  and 
leisure  to  go  a-fishing. 

Well,  sdiolar,  I  have  almost  tired  myself,  and,  I  fear,  more  than 
almost  tired  you ;  but  I  now  see  Tottenham  High-Cross  ;  and  our 
short  walk  thither  shall  put  a  period  to  my  too  long  discourse  ;  in 
wUch  my  meaning  was,  and  isfto  pl<mt  tkt  in  your  mind,  -ktb 
which  I  labour  to  possess  my  own  soul :  that  is,  a  meek  and  thank- 
ful heart.  And,  to  that  end,  I  have  showed  you  that  riches  without 
them  do  not  make  any  man  happy.  But  let  me  tell  you,  that  riches 
with  them  remove  many  fears,  and  cares  ;  and  therefore  my  advice 
is,  that  you  endeavour  to  be  honestly  rich,  or  contentedly  poor ;  but 
be  sure  that  your  riches  be  justly  got,  or  you  spoil  alL  For  it  is 
well  said  by  Caussin,  "  he  that  loses  his  conscience  has  nothing  left 
that  is  worth  keeping."  Therefore  be  sure  you  look  to  that.  And, 
in  the  next  place,  look  to  your  health :  and  if  vou  have  it,  praise 
God,  and  value  it  next  to  a  good  conscience  ;  for  nealth  is  the  second 
blessing  that  we  mortals  are  capable  of ;  a  blessing  that  money  can- 
not buy ;  and  therefore  value  it,  and  be  thankful  for  it.  As  for 
money,  which  may  be  said  to  be  the  third  blessing,  neglect  it  not ; 
but  note,  that  there  is  no  necessity  of  being  rich :  for  I  told  you, 
there  be  as  many  miseries  beyond  riches,  as  on  this  side  them :  and 
if  you  have  a  competence,  enjoy  it  with  a  meek,  cheerful,  thankful 
heart.  I  will  tell  you,  scholar,  I  have  heard  a  grave  divine  say,  that 
God  has  two  dwellings,  one  in  heaven,  and  the  other  in  a  meek  and 
thankful  heart.  Which  Almighty  G<)d  grant  to  me,  and  to  my 
honest  scholar.  And  so  you  are  welcome  to  Tottenham  High- 

2.   PRAISE  OF  SONG  BIRDS. — (**  AltGLER,"  CHAP.  I.) 

I  will  not  pass  by  those  little  nimble  musicians  of  the  air  that 
warble  forth  their  curious  ditties^  with  which  nature  hath  furnished 
them,  to  the  shame  of  art.  As  first  the  lark,  when  she  means  to 
rejoice ;  to  cheer  herself  and  those  that  hear  her,  she  then  quits  the 
es^rth,  and  sings  as  she  ascends  higher  into  the  air,  and  having  ended 
her  heavenly  appointment,  grows  then  mute  and  sad  to  think  she 
must  descend  to  the  dull  earth,  which  she  would  not  toUch  but  for 
necessity.  How  do  the  blackbird  and  thrassel  with  their  melodious 
voices  bid  welcome  to  the  cheerful  spring,  and  in  their  fixed  mouths 
warble  forth  such  ditties  as  no  art  or  instrument  can  reach  to  ? 
Nay,  the  smaller  birds  also  do  the  like  in  their  particular  seasons,  as 
namely  the  laverock,  the  titlark,  the  little  linnet,  and  the  honest 
robin,  that  loves  mankind  both  alive  and  dead.  But  the  nightin- 
gale, another  of  my  airy  creatures,  breathes  such  sweet  loud  music 


out  of  her  little  instrumental  throat,  that  it  might  make  mankind  to 
think  miiades  are  not  ceased.  He  that  at  midnight,  when  the  very 
labourer  sleeps  securely,  should  hear,  as  I  have  veiy  often,  the  dear 
airs,  the  sweet  descants,  the  natural  rising  and  fidluur,  the  doublini; 
and  ledoubling  of  her  voice,  might  weU  1>e  liftedXve  earth  D 
say:  "Lord,  what  music  hast  thou  proyided  for  the  saints  in 
heaven,  when  thou  affordest  bad  men  such  music  on  earth !'' 


Isaac  Babbow  was  bom  in  London  in  1680,  and  received  his  early 
education  at  the  Charter-house,  where  he  was  chiefly  distinguished 
for  idleness,  slovenliness,  and  pugnacity.  As  he  grew  up,  however, 
he  reformed  his  conduct,  became  an  ardent  student,  and  was  coxt- 
spicuous  for  his  learning  and  industry  when  at  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge. He  and  bis  family  were  inflexible  royalists,  and  this,  of  course, 
precluded  all  hopes  of  advancement  under  the  government  of  Crom- 
well ;  Barrow,  therefore,  spent  some  years  in  travelling  on  the  Con- 
tinent. On  his  return,  wluch  was  about  the  period  of  the  Restoration, 
he  was  appointed  Greek  Professor  at  Cambridge,  and  afterwards  Pro- 
fessor of  Mathematics,  an  office  which  he  resigned  to  his  friend  Sir 
Isaac  Newton,  on  his  own  elevation  to  the  mastership  of  Trinity  Col- 
lege, in  1672.  He  did  not  long  survive  his  appointment  to  this  new 
dignity,  as  he  died  in  1677.  Barrow  is  equally  distinguished  as  a 
divine  and  as  a  mathematician.  His  chief  theological  works  are  his 
"  Treatise  of  the  Pope's  Supremacy,"  "  Expositions  of  the  Creed  and 
Lord's  Prayer,"  and  "  Sermons."  They  are  all  distinguished  by  the 
abundance  of  matter  and  thought  which  they  contain,  and  the  sound- 
ness and  good  sense  of  his  views.  His  style  is  clear,  though  not 
very  forcible,  but  he  has  justly  been  blamed  for  introducing  into  his 
writings  a  large  number  of  new  words  formed  from  the  Latin,  few  of 
which  were  necessary,  and  almost  all  have  become  quite  obsolete. 

1.   BENEFrrS  OF  WISDOM. — (bABRoVs  '^  SEBMONS,'*  SEBUON  L) 

Wisdom  acquaints  us  with  ourselves,  our  own  temper  and  consti- 
tution, our  propensions  and  passions,  our  habitudes  and  capacities ; 
a  thing  not  only  of  mighty  advantage,  but  of  infinite  pleasure  and 
content  to  us.  No  man  in  the  world  less  knows  a  fool  than  himself ; 
nay,  he  is  more  than  ignorant,  for  he  constantly  errs  in  the  point, 
takmg  himself  for,  and  demeaning  himself  as  toward  another,  a 
better,  a  wiser,  and  abler  man  than  he  is.  He  hath  wonderful  con- 
ceits of  his  own  qualities  and  fia.culties  ;  he  affects  commendations 
incompetent  to  hun ;  he  soars  at  employment  surpassing  his  ability 
to  manage.  No  comedy  can  represent  a  mistake  more  odd  and 
ridiculous  than  his ;  for  he  wanders,  and  stares,  and  hunts  after, 
but  never  can  find  nor  discern  himself,  but  always  encounters  with 
a  false  shadow  instead  thereof,  which  he  passionately  hugs  and  ad- 


mires.  But  a  wise  man .  by  constant  observation  and  impartial  re- 
flection  upon  himself,  gtpws^ery  &nuliar  irith  hiniself ;  hiperceiyeg 
his  own  indinaMons^  which,  if  Irad,  he  striyes  to  alter  and  correct ;  if 
good,  he  cherishes  and  corroborates  them :  he  apprehends  the  mat- 
ters he  is  fitting  for  and  capable  to  manage,  neither  too  mean  and 
unworthy  of  him,  nor  too  mgh  and  difficult  for  him,  and  those  ap- 
plying his  care  to,  he  transsu^  easily,  cheerfully,  and  successfully. 
So  being  neither  puffed  up  with  yain  and  oyerweening  opinion,  nor 
dejected  with  heartless  diffidence  of  himself ;  neither  adminng,  nor 
despising  ;  neither  irksomely  hating,  nor  fondly  loying  himseu ;  he^ 
continues  ia  good  humour,  maintains  a  siu'e  friendship  and  fair  cor- 
respondence with  himself,  and  rejoices  m  the  retirement  and  priyate 
conyersation  with  his  own  thoughts,  whence  flows  a  pleasure  and 
satis&ction  inexpressible. 

Wisdom  procures  and  preseryes  a  constant  &your  and  &ai  re* 
spect  of  men,  purchases  a  good  name,  and  upholds  reputation  in  the 
world ;  which  things  are  naturally  desirable,  commodious  for  life, 
encouragements  to  good,  and  preyentiye  of  many  inconyeniences. 
The  composed  frame  of  mind,  uniform  and  comely  demeanour,  com- 
pliant  and  inoffensiye  conyersation,  fiedr  and  punctual  dealing,  con- 
siderate motions,  and  dexterous  addresses  of  wise  men,  naturally 
beget  esteem  and  affection  in  those  that  obserye  them.  Neither 
than  these  things  is  there  anything  more  commendable  to  human 
regard.  As  symmetry  and  harmony  to  the  animal  senses,  so  de- 
lectable is  an  eyen  temper  of  soul  and  orderly  tenour  of  actions  to 
rational  apprehensions.  Folly  is  freakish  and  humorous,  imperti- 
nent and  obstreperous,  inconstant  and  inconsistent,  peeyish  and  ex- 
ceptions, and,  consequently,  fSastidious  to  society,  and  productiye  of 
ayersation  and  disrespect.  But  the  wise  man  is  stable  in  his  ways, 
consonant  to  himself,  suiting  Us  actions  to  his  words,  and  those  tc^ 
his  principles,  and  all  to  the  rule  of  right  reason,  so  that  you  may 
know  where  to  find  him,  and  how  to  deal  with  him,  and  may  easily 
please  him,  which  makes  his  acquaintance  acceptable,  and  his  person 
yaluable  ;  beside  that  real  worth  of  itself  commands  respect,  and 
extorts  yeneration  from  men,  and  usually  prosperity  waits  upon  his 
well-adyised  attempts,  which  exceedingly  adorn  and  adyance  the 
credit  of  the  undertaker  ;  howeyer,  if  he  fail  sometimes,  his  usual 
deportment  solyes  his  repute,  and  easily  makes  it  credible  it  was  no 
fault  of  his,  but  of  his  fortune.  If  a  fool  prosper,  the  honour  is  at- 
tributed to  propitious  chance  ;  if  he  miscarry,  to  his  own  iU-manage- 
ment ;  but  the  entire  glory  of  happy  undertakings  crowns  the  h^d 
of  wisdom,  whUe  the  disgrace  of  unlucky  eyents  fells  otherwhere. 
His  light,  like  that  of  the  sun,  cannot  totally  be  eclipsed  ;  it  may 
be  dimmed,  but  neyer  extinguished,  and  always  maintains  a  day 
though  oyerclouded  with  misfortune.  Who  less  esteems  the  famous 
African  captain^  for  being  oyerthrown  in  that  last  fatal  battle, 
wherein  he  is  said  to  haye  shown  the  best  skill,  and  yet  endured 

A  HannitaL 


the  worst  of  success  ?  Who  contenms  Cato,  and  other  the  grave 
citizens  of  Borne,  for  embracing  the  jast  but  improsperous  cause  of 
the  commonwealth?  A  wise  man's  circumstances  may  vary  and 
fluctuate  like  the  floods  about  a  rock ;  but  he  persists  unmovably 
the  same,  and  his  reputation  unshaken  ;  for  he  <ian  always  render  a 
good  account  of  his  actions,  and  by  reasonable  apology  elude  the 
assaults  of  reproach. 



From  hence,  that  the  use  of  speech  is  itself  a  great  ingredient 
into  our  practice,  and  hath  a  very  general  influence  upon  whateVG* 
we  do,  may  be  inferred,  that  whoever  govemeth  it  well,  cannot  also 
but  well  order  his  whole  life.  The  extent  of  speech  must  needs  be 
vast,  since  it  is  nearly  conmiensurate  to  thought  itself,  which  it  ever 
closely  traceth,  widely  ranging  through  all  ttie  immense  variety  of 
objects ;  so  that  men  almost  as  often  sx)eak  incogitantly,  as  they 
thmk  silently.  Speech  is  indeed  the  rudder  that  steereth  human 
afi^Edrs,  the  spring  that  setteth  the  wheels  of  action  on  going ;  the 
hands  work,  the  feet  walk,  all  the  members  and  all  the  senses  act  by 
its  direction  and  impulse ;  yea,  most  thoughts  are  begotten,  and 
most  affections  stirred  up  thereby ;  it  is  itself  most  of  our  employ- 
ment, and  what  we  do  beside  it,  is  however  guided  and  moved  by 
it.  It  is  the  profession  and  trade  of  many,  it  is  the  practice  of  all 
men,  to  be  in  a  manner  continually  talking.  The  chief  and  most 
considerable  sort  of  men  manage  all  their  concernments  merely  by 
words  ;  by  them  princes  rule  their  subjects,  generals  command  their 
armies,  senators  deliberate  and  debate  about  the  great  matters  of 
state ;  by  them  advocates  plead  causes,  and  judges  decide  them ; 
divines  perform  their  offices,  and  minister  their  instructions  ;  mer- 
chants strike  up  their  bargains,  and  drive  on  all  their  traffic. 
Whatever  almost  great  or  small  is  done  in  the  court  or  in  the  hall, 
in  the  church  or  at  the  exchange,  in  the  school  or  in  the  shop,  it  is 
the  tongue  alone  that  doeth  it :  it  is  the  force  of  this  little  machine 
that  tumeth  all  the  human  world  about.  It  is  indeed  the  use  of 
this  strange  organ  which  rendereth  human  life,  beyond  the  simple 
life  of  other  creatures,  so  exceedingly  various  and  compounded; 
which  creates  such  a  multiplicity  of  business,  and  which  transacts 
it ;  while  by  it  we  communicate  our  secret  conceptions,  transfusing 
them  into  others ;  while  therewith  we  instruct  and  advise  one 
another ;  while  we  consult  about  what  is  to  be  done  ;  contest  about 
right,  dispute  about  truth ;  while  the  whole  business  of  conversa- 
tion, of  commerce,  of  government,  and  administration  of  justice,  of 
learning,  and  of  religion,  is  managed  thereby  ;  yea,  while  it  stoppeth 
the  gaps  of  time,  and  filleth  up  the  wide  intervals  of  business,  our 
recreations  and  divertisements  (the  which  do  constitute  a  great  por- 
tion of  our  life)  mainly  consisting  therein,  so  that,  in  comparison 
thereof,  the  execution  of  what  we  determine,  and  all  other  action  do 

GHABITT.  177 

take  np  small  room ;  and  even  all  that  usoally  dependeth  upon  fore- 
going speech,  which  persuadeth,  or  connselleth,  or  conmumdeth  it. 
Whence  the  province  of  speech  being  so  very-  large,  it  being  so 
muversally  concerned,  either  immediately  as  tlie  matter,  or  by  con- 
sequence as  the  source  of  our  actions,  he  that  constantly  govemeth 
it  well  may  justly  be  esteemed  to  Uve  very  excellently. 

To  govern  the  tongue  weU  is  a  matter  of  exceeding  difficulty,  re- 
quiring not  only  heiffty  goodness,  but  great  judgment  and  art,  to- 
gether with  much  vigilance  and  circumspection :  whence  the  doing 
it  argues  a  high  pitdi  of  virtue.  For  since  the  tongue  is  a  very 
loose  and  versatile  engine,  which  the  least  breath  of  thought  doth 
stir  and  set  on  going  any  way,  it  camiot  but  need  much  attention  to 
keep  it  either  in  a  steady  rest  or  in  a  right  motion.  Since  number- 
leas  swarms  of  things  roving  in  the  &ncy  do  thence  incessantly 
obtrude  themselves  upon  the  tongue,  very  much  application  of  mind 
and  great  judgment  are  requisite  to  select  out  of  them  those  few 
which  are  good  and  fit,  rejecting  all  that  is  bad  and  improper  to  be 
spoken.  Since  continually  temptations  occur  provokiog  or  alluring 
to  miscarriage  in  this  kind  ^for,  beside  internal  propensions  and 
commotions  of  soul,  every  object  we  behold,  every  company  we  are 
engaged  in,  every  accident  befalling  us,  doth  suggest  somewhat 
invitmg  thereto ;  the  condition  of  our  neighbour  moving  us,  if 
high,  to  flatter ;  if  low,  to  insult :  our  own  fortune  prompting,  if 
prosperous,  to  boast ;  if  cross,  to  murmur  :  any  action  drawmgnx>m 
us,  if  it  pleaseth  us,  fond  admiration ;  if  it  disuketh,  harsh  censure : 
since,  I  say,  we  are  thus  at  every  turn  obnoxious  to  speak  amiss), 
it  must  be  matter  of  huge  skill  and  caution,  of  mighty  mdustry  and 
resolution,  to  decline  it.  We,  for  that  purpose,  need  to  imitate 
that  earnest  and  watchful  care  of  the  holy  Psahnist,  which  he  thus 
expresseth : — '^  I  have,"  saith  he,  *^  purposed  that  my  mouth  shall 
not  offend ;  and  I  said,''  saith  he  again,  "  I  will  take  heed  to  mv 
ways,  that  I  sin  not  with  my  tongue ;  I  wiU  keep  my  mouth  with 
a  bridle  while  the  wicked  is  before  me."  And  thus  to  maintain  a 
constant  guard  over  his  heart  and  ways,  thus,  in  consequence 
thereof,  to  curb  and  rule  his  speech  well,  must  assuredly  be  the 
markof  a  T«y  good  person. 

3.   GHARITT. — (barrow's  "  SBRMONS/'  SERMONS  XXVIL,  XXVTIT.) 

It  is  the  property  of  charity  to  mowm  wUh  those  (hat  mourn; 
not  coldly,  but  passionately  (for  it  is  to  weep  with  those  that  weep\ 
resenting^  every  man's  case  with  an  affection  suitable  thereto,  and 
as  he  doth  himself  resent  it.  Is  any  man  fsdlen  into  disgrace  ? 
charity  doth  hold  down  its  head,  is  abashed,  and  out  of  counte- 

1  Reaent  is  here  used  in  its  literal  sense,  equivalent  to  "  feeling/*  So,  In  his  "  Sermon 
on  the  Reward  of  Honoorlng  God,"  he  speaks  of  the  good  man  as  a  "grateftil 
ruenter  and  reqniter  of  oonrteBles ;"  where  resmter  means  **  a  cherlsher  of  grateftal 
feelings."  A  similar  use  of  the  word  **  resentment"  occurs  in  his  **  Sermon  on  the 
Gunpowder  Plot"  See  some  able  remarks  on  the  subject  in  Dean  Trench's  **  Lectures 
on  the  Study  of  Words." 


nance,  partaking  of  his  shame.  Is  any  man  disappointed  of  his 
hopes  or  endeavours  ?  charity  crieth  out  alcu  /  as  if  it  were  itself 
defeated.  Is  any  man  aflUcted  with  "jgain  or  sickness?  charii^ 
looketh  sadly,  it  sigheth  and  sroaneth,  it  £unteth  and  langoisheth 
with  him.  Is  any  man  pinched  with  hard  want  ?  charity,  if  it 
cannot  succour,  it  will  condole.  Doth  ill^  news  anive  ?  charity 
doth  hear  it  widi  an  unwilling  ear  and  a  sad  heart,  although  not 
particularly  concerned  in  it  The  sight  of  a  wreck  at  sea,  of  a  field 
spread  wiui  carcasses,  of  a  country  desolated,  of  houses  humt  and 
cities  mined,  and  of  tiie  like  calamities  incident  to  mankind,  would 
touch  the  bowels  of  any  man  ;  but  the  very  report  of  them  would 
affect  the  heart  of  charity.  It  doth  not  suffer  a  man,  with  comfort 
or  ease,  to  enjoy  the  accommodations  of  his  own  state  while  others 
before  him  are  in  distress.  It  cannot  be  merry  while  any  man  in 
presence  is  sorrowful ;  it  cannot  seem  happy  while  its  neighbour 
doth  appear  miserable.  It  hath  a  share  in  all  the  aflUctions  which 
it  dot^  behold  or  hear  of,  according  to  that  instance  in  St  Paul  of 
the  Philippians. ''  Ye  ham  dcme  wU  that  ye  did  conmvimicaie  with 
(or  partake  in)  nvy  aMictions;^^  and  according  to  that  precept, 
*^Itemember  ihase  which  are  in  Ixmde,  as  hound  wUh  them." 

Charity  is  the  imitation  and  copy  of  that  immense  loye  which  is 
the  fountain  of  all  being  and  all  good ;  which  made  all  things ; 
which  preseiYoth  the  world;  wh£h  sustaineth  erery  creature: 
nothing  advanceth  us  so  near  to  a  resemblance  of  Him  who  is  essen- 
tial love  and  goodness  ;  who  freely  and  purely,  without  any  regard 
to  His  own  amrantage  or  capacity  of  finding  any  beneficial  return, 
doth  bear  and  express  the  highest  good-wul,  with  a  liberal  hand 
pouring  down  showers  of  bounty  and  mercy  on  all  His  creatures ; 
who  daily  putteth  up  numberless  indignities  and  injuries,  uphold- 
ing and  maintaining  those  who  provoke  Him.  Charity  rendereth 
us  as  angels,  or  peers  to  tliose  glorious  and  blessed  creatures,  who, 
without  receiving  or  expecting  any  requital  from  us,  do  heartily  de- 
sire and  delight  m  our  good  ;  are  ready  to  promote  it ;  do  willingly 
serve  and  labour  for  it.  Nothing  is  more  amiable,  more  admirable, 
more  venerable,  even  in  the  common  eye  and  opinion  of  men ;  it 
hath  in  it  a  beauty  and  a  majesty  apt  to  ravish  every  heart ;  even  a 
spark  of  it,  in  generosity  of  dealing,  oreedeth  admiration ;  a  glimpse 
of  it  in  formal  courtesy  of  behaviour  procureth  much  esteem,  being 
deemed  to  accomplish  and  adorn  a  man.  How  lovely,  therefore, 
and  truly  gallant  is  an  entire^  sincere,  constant,  and  uniform  prac- 
tice thereof,  issuing  from  pure  good-^oll  and  affection  ! 

Love,  indeed,  or  goodness  (for  true  love  is  nothing  else  but  Red- 
ness exerting  itself  m  direction  toward  objects  capable  of  its  influ- 
ence), is  the  only  amiable  and  only  honourable  thing ;  power  and 
wit  may  be  admired  by  some,  or  have  some  fond  idolaters ;  but 
being  severed  from  goodness,  or  abstracted  from  their  subserviency 
to  it,  they  cannot  obtain  real  love,  they  deserve  not  any  esteem ; 
for  the  worst,  the  most  unhappy,  the  most  odious  and  contemptible 
of  beings,  do  partake  of  them  m  high  measure ;  the  Prince  of  Dark- 


ness  hath  more  power,  and  rekrneth  with  absolute  Borereignty  over 
more  subjects  by  many  than  tine  Great  Turk ;  one  deyil  may  hare 
more  wit  than  all  the  politic  Achitophels  and  all  the  pro&ne  Hectors 
ill  the  world  ;  yet,  with  all  his  power  and  all  his  wit,  he  is  most 
wretched,  most  detestable,  and  most  despicable :  and  such  in  pro- 
portion is  eyery  one  who  partaketh  in  his  accursed  dispositions  of 
malice  and  uncharitableness. 

For,  on  the  other  side,  uncharitableness  is  a  yery  mean  and  base 
thing  ;  it  oontracteth  a  man's  soul  into  a  narrow  compass,  or  strait- 
enet£  it,  as  it  were,  into  one  point,— drawing  all  his  thoughts,  his 
desires,  his  affections,  into  himself  as  to  their  centre  ;  so  that  his 
reason,  his  will,  his  activity,  have  but  one  pitiful  object  to  exercise 
themselves  about :  to  scrape  together  a  little  pelf,  to  catch  a  vapour 
of  fiime,  to  prog>  for  a  frivolous  semblance  of  power  or  dignity ;  to 
soothe  the  humour  or  pamper  the  sensuality  of  one  poor  worm,  is 
the  ignoble  subject  of  his  busy  care  and  endeavour. 


Samuel  Pepyb  was  bom  in  1632.  The  place  of  his  birth  is  un- 
certain, but  his  education  was  received  in  London,  whence  he  after- 
wards removed  to  Cambridge.  His  cousin,  Sir  Edward  Montagu, 
created  Earl  of  Sandwich  by  Charles  II.,  kindly  patronized  him,  and 
appointed  him  to  an  office  in  connection  with  the  navy.  He  applied 
himself  sedulously  to  the  discharge  of  his  duties,  and  became  in- 
timately acquainted  with  the  naval  affairs  of  the  country,  into  the 
administration  of  which  he  is'  said  to  have  introduced  several  im- 
portant improvements,  which  are  still  in  practice.  He  was  advanced 
to  a  responsible  post  in  the  Admiralty,  which  he  held  during  the 
reigns  of  Charles  and  James,  both  of  whom  placed  much  confidence  in 
his  sagacity  and  knowledge  of  the  state  of  the  navy ;  but  on  the 
accession  of  William  he  was  deprived  of  his  preferments,  and  the  rest 
of  his  life  was  spent  in  jetirement.  He  died  in  1708.  Pepys  was  a 
man  of  sound  principle  and  considerable  ability ;  a  member  of  the 
Boyal  Society,  and  a  liberal  patron  of  learned  and  charitable  institu- 
tions. Like  his  kinsman  Evelyn,  he  began  early  in  life  to  keep  a 
diary,  in  which  he  noted  all  passing  events  of  moment,  and  from 
his  minuteness,  his  prying  curiosity,  his  candour,  and  his  knowledge 
of  many  of  the  secret  springs  of  action,  his  diary  is  a  most  important 
source  of  historical  information.  Beyond  the  interest  of  its  details, 
and  the  information  which  it  contains,  it  has  to  the  literary  student 
no  other  merit ;  the  work  was  never  intended  for  public  use,  and  no 
attention  has  been  paid  by  the  author  to  the  graces  of  style. 

1.   DESCRIFTIOK  of  the  fire  is  LONDON. 

September  2d  (Lord's-day).  .  Some  of  our  maids  sitting  up  late 
last  night  to  get  things  ready  against  our  feast  to-day,  Jane  called 

I  To  seek  by  low  •rtlflcea ;  the  word  is  onlj  need  now-A-dsys  as  a  loit  of  akmff 

180  BAMXnai  FEPTBL 

UB  up  about  three  in  the  morning,  to  tell  us  of  a  great  fire  they  wW 
in  the  city.  So  I  rose,  and  slipped  on  my  night-gown,  and  went  to 
her  window,  and  thought  it  to  be  on  the  backside  of  Mark  Lane  at 
the  £Eurthest,  but  being  unused  to  such  fires  as  followed,  I  thought 
it  fiEur  enough  off,  and  so  went  to  bed  again,  and  to  sleep.  About 
seven,  rose  again  to  dress  myself  and  there  looked  out  at  the  window, 
and  saw  the  fire  not  so  much  as  it  was,  and  further  off  So  to  my 
closet  to  set  things  to  rights,  alter  yesterday's  cleaning.  By  and  by 
Jane  comes  and  tells  me  that  she  hears  that  aboye  30iD  houses  have 
been  burned  down  to-night  by  the  fire  we  fnw,  and  that  it  is  now 
burning  down  all  Fish  Street,  by  London  Bridge.  So  I  made  my- 
self reiSy  presently  and  walked  to  the  Tower,  and  there  got  up  upon 
one  of  the  high  places.  Sir  J.  Robinson's  little  son  going  up  with 
me ;  and  there  I  did  see  the  houses  at  that  end  of  the  bridge  all  on 
fire,  and  an  infinite  great  fire  on  this  and  the  other  side  the  end  of 
the  bridge,  which,  among  other  people,  did  trouble  me  for  poor  little 
Michell  and  our  Sarah  on  the  bridge.  So  down  with  my  heart  full 
of  trouble  to  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  who  tells  me  that  it 
begun  this  morning  in  the  King's  baker's  house  in  Pudding  Lane, 
and  that  it  hath  burned  down  St  Ma^us  Church  and  most  part  of 
Fish  Street  already.  So  I  down  to  me  waterside,  and  there  got  a 
boat,  and  through  bridge,  and  theie  saw  a  lamentable  fire,  i^oor 
Michell's  house,  as  far  as  the  Old  Swan,  already  burned  that  way, 
and  the  fire  running  farther,  that  in  a  veiy  little  time  it  got  as  &r 
as  the  Steel  Yard  while  I  was  there.  Everybody  endeavouring  to 
remove  their  goods,  and  flin^ng  into  the  river,  or  bringing  them 
into  lighters  that  lay  off ;  poor  people  staying  in  their  houses  as 
long  as  till  the  very  fire  touched  them,  and  then  running  into  boats, 
or  clambering  from  one  pair  of  stairs  by  the  water-side  to  another. 
And  amon£  other  things,  the  poor  pigeons,  I  perceive,  were  loth  to 
leave  their  nouses,  but  hovered  about  the  windows  and  balconies  till 
they  burned  their  wings,  and  fell  down.  Having  staid,  and  in  an 
hour^s  time  seen  the  fire  rage  eveiy  way,  and  no^dy,  to  my  sight, 
endeavouring  to  quench  it,  but  to  remove  their  goods  and  leave  aU  to 
the  fire,  and  having  seen  it  get  as  far  as  the  Steel  Yard,  and  the 
wind  mighty  high,  and  driving  it  into  the  city ;  and  everything  after 
so  long  a  drought  proving  combustible,  even  the  very  stones  of 
churches,  and,  among  other  things,  the  poor  steeple,  whereof  my  old 
schoolfellow,  Elborough  is  parson,  taken  fire  in  the  veiy  top,  and 
there  burned  till  it  fell  down ;  I  to  Whitehall  (with  a  gentleman 
with  me,  who  desired  to  go  off  from  the  Tower  to  see  the  fire  in  my 
boat),  and  there  up  to  the  king^s  closet  in  the  chapel,  where  people 
come  about  me,  and  I  did  give  them  an  account  dismayed  them  all, 
and  word  was  carried  into  the  King.  So  I  was  called  for,  and  did 
teU  the  King  and  Duke  of  York  what  I  saw,  and  that  unless  his 
Majesty  did  command  houses  to  be  pulled  down,  nothing  could  stop 
the  fire.  They  seemed  much  troubled,  and  the  Kins  commanded  me 
to  go  to  my  Lord  Mayor  from  him,  and  command  him  to  spare  no 
houses,  but  to  pull  down  before  the  fire  every  way.    The  Duke  of 


York  bid  me  tell  him,  that  if  he  would  have  any  more  soldien,  he 
shall ;  and  so  did  wj  Lord  Arlington  afterwards,  as  a  great  seo^et. 
Here  meeting  with  daptain  Cocke,  I  in  his  coach,  which  he  lent  me, 
and  Creed  with  me  to  Paul's,  and  there  walked  along  Watling  Street 
as  well  as  I  could,  every  creature  coming  away  leaden  with  goods  to 
save,  and  here  and  there  sick  people  earned  away  in  beds.  Extra- 
oidinaiy  good  goods  carried  away  in  carts  and  on  backs.  At  last 
met  my  Lard  Mayor  in  Canning  Street,  like  a  man  spent,  with 
a  handxercher  about  his  neck  To  the  King^s  message,  he  cried, 
like  a  £ftinting  woman,  ''  What  can  I  do  ?  I  am  spent ;  people  will 
not  obey  me.  I  have  been  pulling  down  houses,  but  the  fire  over- 
takes us  faster  than  we  can  do  it"  That  he  needed  no  more 
soldiers ;  and  that,  for  himself  he  must  go  and  refiresh  himself,  having 
been  up  all  night  So  he  left  me,  and  I  him,  and  walked  home, 
seeing  people  sol  almost  distracted,  and  no  manner  of  means  used 
to  quench  the  fire.  The  houses  too  so  very  thick  thereabouts,  and 
fiill  of  matter  for  burning,  as  pitch  and  tar  in  Thames  Street,  and 
warehouses  of  oyle,  and  wines,  and  brandy,  and  other  things.  Here 
I  saw  Mr  Isaac  Houblon,  the  handsome  man,  prettily  dressed,  and 
dirty  at  his  door  at  Dowgate,  receiving  some  of  his  brother's  things, 
whose  houses  were  on  fire,  and,  as  he  says,  have  been  removed  twice 
already ;  and  he  doubts  (aa  it  soon  proved)  that  they  must  be  in  a 
little  time  removed  from  nis  house  also,  which  was  a  sad  considera- 
tion. And  to  see  the  churches  all  filling  with  goods  by  people,  who 
themselves  should  have  been  quiedy  there  at  tnis  time. 

By  this  time  it  was  about  twdve  o'clock ;  and  so  home,  and 
there  find  my  guests,  who  were  Mr  Wood  and  his  wife  Barbary 
Shelden,  and  aSo  Mr  Moone ;  she  mighty  fine,  and  her  husband, 
for  aught  I  see,  a  likely  man.  But  Mr  Moone's  design  and  mine, 
which  was  to  look  over  my  closet,  and  please  him  with  the  sight 
thereof,  which  he  hath  long  desired,  was  wholly  disappointed ;  for 
we  were  in  great  trouble  and  disturbance  at  this  ^ley  not  knowing 
what  to  think  of  it  However,  we  had  an  extraordinary  good 
dinner,  luid  as  merry  as  at  this  time  we  could  ba  While  at  dinner. 
Mrs  Batelier  came  to  inquire  after  Mr  Woolfe  and  Stanes  (who  it 
seems  are  related  to  them),  whose  houses  in  Fish  Street  are  all 
burned,  and  they  in  a  sad  condition.  She  would  not  stay  in  the 
fright  Soon  as  dined,  I  and  Moone  away,  and  walked  through 
the  city ;  the  streets  ^ill  of  nothing  but  people,  and  horses  and 
carts  loaden  with  goods,  ready  to  run  over  one  another,  and  re- 
moving goods  from  one  burned  house  to  another.  They  now  re- 
moving out  of  Canning  Street  fwhich  received  goods  in  tiie  morn- 
ing) into  Lombard  Street,  and  further :  and  among  others,  I  now 
saw  my  little  goldsmith  Stokes  receiving  some  friend's  goods,  whose 
house  itself  was  burned  the  day  after.  We  parted  at  Paul's  ;  he 
home,  and  I  to  Paul's  Wharf,  where  I  had  appointed  a  hoat  to 
attend  me,  and  took  in  Mr  Ceunnsse  and  his  brother,  whom  I  met 
in  the  street,  and  carried  them  below  and  above  bric^  too.  And 
again  to  see  the  fire,  which  was  now  got  further,  both  below  and 

182  BAinJEL  FEPT8. 

above,  and  no  likelihood  of  stopping  it.  Met  with  the  King  and 
Duke  of  York  in  their  baige,  and  with  them  to  Queenhith,  and 
there  called  Sir  IMchaid  Browne  to  them.  Their  order  was  only  to 
pull  down  houses  apace,  and  so  below  bridge  at  the  waterside ;  but 
little  "was  or  could  be  done,  the  fire  coming  upon  them  so  fast. 
Good  hopes  there  was  of  stopping  it  at  the  Tl^ee  Cranes  above,  and 
at  Buttolph's  Wharf  below  bridge,  if  care  be  used ;  but  th)B  wind 
carries  it  into  the  city,  so  as  we  know  not  by  the  waterside  what  it  do 
there.  Eiver  full  of  lighters  and  boats  taking  in  goods,  and  good 
goods  swimming  in  the  water,  and  only  I  observed  that  hardly  one 
fighter  or  boat  in  three,  that  had  the  goods  of  a  house  in,  but  there 
was  a  pair  of  vimnalls  in  it.  Having  seen  as  much*  as  I  could 
now,  I  away  to  Whitehall  by  appointment,  and  there  walked  to 
St  James's  Park,  and  there  met  my  wife,  and  Creed,  and  Wood 
and  his  wife,  and  walked  to  my  boat ;  and  there  upon  the  water 
again,  and  to  the  fire  up  and  down,  it  still  increasing,  and  the  wind 
great.  So  near  the  fire  as  we  could  for  smoke  ;  and  all  over  the 
Thames,  with  one's  faces  in  the  wind,  you  were  almost  burned  with 
a  shower  of  fire-drops.  This  is  very  true ;  so  as  houses  were  burned 
by  these  drops  and  flakes  of  fire,  three  or  four,  nay,  five  or  six 
houses,  one  from  another.  When  we  could  endure  no  more  upon 
the  water,  we  to  a  little  alehouse  on  the  Bank  side,  over  against  the 
Three  Cranes,  and  there  staid  till  it  was  dark  almost,  and  saw  the 
fire  grow,  and  as  it  grew  darker,  appeared  more  and  more,  and  in 
comers,  and  upon  steeples,  and  between  churches  and  houses,  as 
far  as  we  could  see  up  the  hill  of  the  city,  in  a  most  horrid,  malicious, 
bloody  flame,  not  like  the  fine  flame  of  an  ordinary  fire.  Barbary 
and  her  husband  away  before  us.  We  staid  till  it  being  darkish, 
we  saw  the  fire  as  only  one  entire  arch  of  fire  from  this  to  the  other 
side  the  bridge,  and  in  a  bow  up  the  hill  for  an  arch  of  above  a  mile 
long :  it  made  me  weep  to  see  it  The  churches,  houses,  and  all  on 
fire,  and  flaming  at  once ;  and  a  horrid  noise  the  flames  made,  and 
the  crackling  of  houses  at  their  ruin.  So  home  with  a  sad  heart, 
and  there  find  everybody  discoursing  and  lamenting  the  fire. 


June  lOfhy  1667.  Up  ;  and  news  brought  us  that  the  Dutch  are 
come  up  as  high  as  the  Nore ;  and  more  pressing  orders  for  fire- 
ships.  W.  Batten,  W.  Pen,  and  I,  to  St  James  s ;  whence  the 
Duke  of  York  gone  this  morning  betimes  to  send  away  some  men 
down  to  Chathsun.  So  we  then  to  Whitehall,  and  meet  Sir  W. 
Coventry,  who  presses  all  that  is  possible  for  fire-ships.  So  we 
three  to  the  office*  presently;  and  thither  comes  Sir  Fretcheville 
HoUis,  who  is  to  command  them  all  in  some  exploits  he  is  to  do 
with  Ihd^  on  the  enemy  in  the  river.  So  we  all  down  to  Deptford, 
and  pitched  upon  ships  and  set  men  at  work :  but,  to  see  how  back- 
wardly  things  move  at  this  pinch,  notwithstanding  that  by  the 

>  Pepys's  office  at  the  Admiralty. 


enemy's  being  now  come  up  as  high  as  almost  tihe  Hope,  Sir  J. 
Minnes,  who  was  gone  down  to  pay  some  ships  there,  hatn  sent  up 
the  money ;  and  so  we  are  possessed  of  money  to  do  what  we  will 
wiiL  Yet  partly  ourselves,  being  used  to  be  idle  and  in  despair, 
and  partly  people  that  have  been  used  to  be  deceived  by  us  aa  to 
money,  won  t  believe  us ;  and  we  know  not,  though  we  have  it,  how 
almost  to  promise  it ;  and  our  wants  such,  and  men  out  of  the  way, 
that  it  is  an  admirable'  thing  to  consider  how  much  the  kipg 
suffers,  and  how  necessary  it  is  in  a  state  to  keep  the  king's  service 
always  in  a  good  posture  and  credit  Down  to  Gravesen^  where  I 
find  the  Duke  of  Albemarle  just  come,  with  a  great  many  idle 
lords  and  gentlemen,  with  their  pistols  and  fooleries  ;  and  the  bul- 
wark not  able  to  have  stood  half  an  hour  had  they  come  up ;  but 
the  Dutch  are  fallen  down  firom  the  Hope  and  Shellhaven  as  low  as 
Sheemess,  and  we  plainly  at  this  time  hear  the  guns  play. 

11^.  This  morning  Pelt  writes  us  word  that  Sheemess  is  lost 
here  last  night,  after  two  or  three  hours*  dispute.  The  enemy  hath 
possessed  hSnuelf  of  that  pLuje ;  which  is  very  sad,  and  puts  us  into 
great  fears  as  to  Chatham.  Home,  and  there  to  our  busmess,  hiring 
some  fire-ships,  and  receiving  every  hour  almost  letters  from  Sir 
W.  Coventry,  calling  for  more  fire-smps ;  and  an  order  from  Council 
to  enable  us  to  take  any  man's  ships ;  and  Sir  W.  Coventry,  in  his 
letter  to  us,  says,  we  do  not  doubt  but  at  this  time  (under  an  in- 
vasion, as  he  owns  it  to  be)  the  king  may  by  law  take  any  man's 

I2th,  Up  very  betimes  to  our  business  at  the  office,  the  hiring 
of  more  fire-ships ;  and  at  it  dose  aU  the  morning.  When  I  come 
to  Sir  W.  Coventry's  chamber,  I  find  him  abroad ;  but  his  derk, 
Powell,  do  tell  me  that  ill  news  is  come  to  court  of  the  Dutch 
breaking  the  chain  at  Chatham ;  which  struck  me  to  the  heart. 
And  to  Whitehall  to  hear  the  truth  of  it ;  and  there,  going  up  the 
Park  Stairs,  I  did  hear  some  lacquies  speaking  of  sad  news  come  to 
court,  saying,  there  is  hardly  anybody  in  the  court  but  do  look  as 
if  he  cried  Home,  where  all  our  hearts  do  now  ache ;  for  the  news 
is  true  that  the  Dutch  have  broke  the  chain,  and  burned  our  ships, 
and  particularly  "  The  Boyal  Charles  •"  other  particulars  I  know 
not,  but  it  is  said  to  be  so.  And  the  truth  is,  I  do  fear  so  much 
that  the  whole  kiogdom  is  imdone,  that  I  this  night  do  resolve  to 
study  with  my  father  and  wife  what  to  do  with  the  little  that  I 
have  in  money  by  me ;  for  I  give  all  the  rest  that  I  have  in  the 
king^s  hands  for  Tangier  for  lost.    So  Gk>d  help  us ! 


BiCHABD  Baxter,  the  most  eminent  of  the  Nonconforming  divines 
of  this  period,  was  bom  in  1616.  His  first  public  appearance  as  a 
clergyman  was  at  Dudley,  where  his  sincerity,  zeal,  and  unwearied 

^  i.e.,  extraordinary. 


exertionB  are  said  to  have  prodnced  a  great  reformation  among  the  in- 
habitants. In  the  civil  war  he  adopted  the  side  of  Parliament,  with 
the  hope  that  the  nation  would  gain  by  its  triumph  a  redress  of  griev- 
ances and  an  increase  of  liberty ;  when,  therefore,  he  found  that  Crofai- 
well  had  ceased  to  labour  exclusively  for  the  public  good,  and  contem- 
plated his  own  advancement,  he  forsook  his  party,  and  never  ceased 
to  regret  the  abolition  of  monarchy.  At  the  Bestoration,  which  he 
had  laboured  to  promote,  he  became  one  of  the  Boyal  chaplains,  and 
it  was  hoped  that  he  would  conform  to  the  rites  of  the  English  Church ; 
it  is  even  said  that  he  was  offered  a  bishopric ;  but  he  refused  to 
accede,  and  left  the  Church  with  the  Nonconformists  on  Bartholomew's 
Day.  While  thus  obeying  his  conscience,  he  by  no  means  promoted 
his  own  comfort ;  he  lost  the  esteem  of  the  Established  clergy,  while 
at  the  same  time  he  was  so  friendly  to  the  Establishment  as  to  expose 
himself  to  the  didike  of  the  more  bigoted  of  his  Dissenting  brethren. 
After  this  he  devoted  himself  with  untiring  zeal  to  his  ministerial 
duties,  in  which  he  was  occasionally  disturbed,  the  laws  having  pro- 
hibited the  meetings  of  Nonconformists,  and  in  one  instance  he  was 
tried  before  the  notorious  Jeffreys  and  fined,  but  the  penalty  was  re- 
mitted by  the  king.  He  died  in  1691.  His  works  sure  very  numerous, 
amounting,  it  is  said,  to  no  fewer  than  one  hundred  and  sixty-eight : 
and  some  of  them,  such  as  the  "  Saints'  Best,"  and  the  "  Call  to  the 
Unconverted,"  are  still  largely  read.  They  were  in  most  cases  hastily 
prepared,  and  being  issued  with  a  higher  end  than  mere  literary 
fame,  they  ought  not  to  be  tried  by  any  rigid  literary  standard. 
They  are,  however,  characterized  by  liberality,  charity,  thought, 
earnestness,  and  unaffected  piety ;  and  though  Baxter  can  never  be 
ranked  with  such  men  as  South  and  Barrow,  not  to  speak  of  Taylor 
or  Hall,  he  will  always  be  read  with  pleasure  as  an  instructive  writer, 
and  his  memory  revered  as  one  whose  whole  energies  were  devoted  to 
the  benefit  of  his  fellow-men. 


How  small  is  our  knowledge  in  comparison  of  our  ignorance. 
And  how  little  doth  the  knowledge  of  learned  doctors  differ  from 
the  thoughts  of  a  silly  child !  For  from  our  childhood  we  take  it 
in  by  drops,  and  as  trifles  are  the  matter  of  chil^h  knowledge,  so 
words,  and  notions,  and  artificial  forms,  do  make  up  more  of  the 
learning  of  the  world  than  is  commonly  understood,  and  many  such 
learned  men  know  little  more  of  any  great  and  excellent  things 
themselves,  than  rustics  that  are  contemned  by  them  for  their 
ignorance.  God  and  the  life  to  come  are  little  better  known  by 
titem,  if  not  much  less,  than  by  many  of  the  unlearned.  What  is  it 
but  a  child-game,  that  many  logicians,  rhetoricians,  grammarians, 
yea,  metaphysicians,  and  other  philosophers,  in  their  eagerest  studies 
and  disputes,  are  exercised  in  ?  Of  how  little  use  is  it  to  know 
what  is  contained  in  many  hundred  of  the  volumes  that  fill  our 
libraries !  Yea,  or  to  know  many  of  the  most  glorious  speculations 
in  physics,  mathematics,  &c.,  which  have  given  some  the  title  of 
Wffuosi,  and  irigeniod,  in  these  times,  who  have  little  the  more  wit 

YANITT  or  nOWLEDOE.  185 

or  virtue  to  live  to  God,  or  overoome  temptations  from  the  flesh  and 
world,  and  to  secure  their  everlasting  hopes.  What  pleasure  or 
quiet  doth  it  give  to  a  dying  man  to  know  ahnost  any  of  their 
trifles  ? 

Yea,  it  were  well  if  much  of  our  reading  and  learning  did  us  no 
harm,  nay,  more  than  good.  I  fear  lest  TOoks  are  to  some  but  a 
more  honourable  kind  of  temptation  than  cards  and  dice,  lest  manv 
a  precious  hour  be  lost  in  them,  that  should  be  employed  on  much 
higher  matters,  and  lest  many  make  such  knowledge  but  an  unholy, 
natural,  yea,  camal  pleasure,  as  worldlings  do  the  thoughts  of  their 
land  and  honours,  and  lest  they  be  the  more  dangerous  by  how  much 
tiie  less  suspected.  But  the  best  is,  it  is  a  pleasure  so  fenced  from 
the  slothful  with  thorny  labour  of  hard  and  long  studies,  that  lazi- 
ness saveth  more  from  it  than  crace  and  holy  wisdom  doth.  But, 
doubtless,  fssicy  and  the  natuiu  intellect  may,  with  as  little  sanc- 
tity, live  in  the  pleasure  of  reading,  knowing,  disputing,  and 
writing  as  others  spend  their  time  at  a  game  at  chess,  or  other 
ingenious  sport. 

For  my  own  part,  I  know  that  the  knowledge  of  natural  things  is 
valuable,  and  may  be  sanctified,  much  more  theological  theory,  and 
when  it  is  so,  it  is  of  good  use  ;  and  I  have  little  knowledge  which 
I  find  not  some  way  useful  to  my  highest  ends.  And  if  wishing  or 
money  could  procure  more,  I  would  wish  and  empty  my  purse  for 
it ;  but  yet  if  many  score  or  hundred  books  which  I  have  read  had 
been  all  unread,  and  I  had  that  time  now  to  lay  out  upon  higher 
things,  I  should  think  myself  much  richer  than  now  1  am.  And  I 
must  earnestly  pray,  the  Lord  forcive  me  the  hours  that  I  have 
spent  in  reading  things  less  profitable,  for  the  pleasing  of  a  mind 
that  would  fain  know  all,  nE^mch  I  should  have  spent  for  the  increase 
of  holiness  in  myself  and  others !  and  yet  I  must  thankfully  acknow- 
ledge to  Grod,  that  from  my  youth  He  taught  me  to  begin  with  things 
of  greatest  weight,  and  to  refer  most  of  my  other  studies  thereto, 
and  to  spend  my  days  under  the  motives  of  necessity  and  profit  to 
myself,  and  those  with  whom  I  had  to  do.  And  I  now  think  better 
of  the  course  of  Paul  that  determined  to  know  nothing  but  a  cruci- 
fied Christ  among  the  Corinthians,  that  is,  so  to  converse  with  them 
as  to  use,  and  glorying  as  if  he  knew  nothing  else,  and  so  of  the 
rest  of  the  apostles  and  primitive  ages.  And  though  I  still  love 
and  honour  (and  am  not  of  Dr  Colet*s  mind,  who,  as  lS:asmus  saith, 
most  slighted  Augustine),  yet  I  less  censure  even  that  Carthage 
council  which  forbade  the  reading  of  the  heathens'  books  of  learn- 
ing and  arts,  than  formerly  I  have  done.  And  I  would  have  men 
savour  most  that  learning  in  their  health,  which  they  will,  or  should, 
savour  most  in  sickness,  and  near  to  death. 

And,  alas !  how  dear  a  vanity  is  this  knowledge !  That  which  is 
but  theoretic  and  notional  is  but  a  tickling  delectation  of  the  fancy 
or  mind,  little  diflerins  from  a  pleasant  dream.  But  how  many 
hours,  what  gazing  of  me  wearied  eye,  what  stretching  thoughts  of 
the  impatient  brain  must  it  cost  us,  if  we  will  attain  to  any  excel- 


lency !  Well  saith  SolomoD,  "  Much  seading  is  a  weariness  to  tiie 
flesh,  and  he  that  increaseth  knowledge,  increaseth  sorrow/'  How 
many  hundred  studious  days  and  weeks,  and  how  many  hard  and 
tearing  thoughts,  hath  my  little,  my  very  little  knowledge,  cost  me : 
and  how  much  infirmity  and  painfulness  to  my  flesh,  increase  of 
painful  diseases,  and  loss  of  bodily  ease  and  health !  How  much 
pleasure  to  myself  of  other  kinds,  and  how  much  acceptance  with 
men  have  I  lost  by  it,  which  I  might  easily  have  had  in  a  more 
conversant  and  plausible  way  of  life !  And  when  all  is  done,  if  I 
reach  to  know  any  more  than  others  of  my  place  and  order,  I  must 
differ  so  much  (usuaUy)  6om  them ;  and  5  I  manifest  not  that 
difference,  but  keep  all  that  knowledge  to  myself,  I  sin  against 
conscience  and  nature  itsel£  The  love  of  man  and  tlie  love  of  truth 
oblige  me  to  be  soberly  communicative.  Were  I  so  indifferent  to 
truth  and  knowledge  as  easily  to  forbear  their  propagation,  I  must 
also  be  so  indifferent  to  them  as  not  to  think  them  worth  so  dear 

j^ « »^  ,.„«««  («»^ «.,«.«» ta  ^  <* 

But  if  I  obey  nature  and  conscience  in  commumcating  that 
knowledge  which  containeth  my  difference  aforesaid,  the  Dissenters 
too  often  take  themselves  disparaged  by  it,  how  peaceably  soever  I 
manage  it ;  and  as  bad  men  take  the  piety  of  the  godly  to  be  an 
accusation  of  their  impiety,  so  many  teachers  take  themselves  to  be 
accused  of  ignorance  by  such  as  condemn  their  errors  by  the  light 
of  truth ;  and  if  you  meddle  not  with  any  person,  yet  take  they 
their  opinions  to  be  so  much  their  interest,  as  that  aU  that  is  said 
against  them  they  take  as  said  against  tiiemselves.  And  then, 
a&s !  what  envyings,  what  whispering  disparagements,  and  what 
backbitings,  if  not  malicious  slanders  and  underminings,  do  we 
meet  with  from  the  carnal  clergy !  And  0  that  it  were  all  from 
them  alone!  and  that  among  the  zealous  and  suffering  party  of 
faithful  preachers  there  were  not  much  of  such  iniquity,  and  that 
none  of  them  preached  Christ  in  strife  and  envy !  It  is  sad  that 
error  should  find  so  much  shelter  under  the  selfishness  and  pride  of 
pious  men,  and  that  the  friends  of  truth  should  be  tempted  to  reject 
and  abuse  so  much  of  it  in  their  ignorance  as  they  do :  but  the 
matter  of  fauot  is  too  evident  to  be  hid. 

2.    SAXTER's  opinions    on    the   covenant   and    OCCAfllONAL   CON- 
FORMITY.— (from  his  farewell  sermon  intended  to  have 


I  am  glad  that  you  were  kept  from  taking  the  solemn  league 
and  covenant,  and  l^e  engagement,  and  all  consent  to  the  change  of 
the  constituted  government  of  this  kingdom.  I  took  the  covenant 
myself,  of  which  I  repent,  and  I  wiU  tell  you  why :  I  never  gave  it 
but  to  one  man  (that  I  remember),  and  he  professed  himself  to  be  a 
Papist  physician  newly  turned  Ftotestant,  and  he  came  to  me  to 


give  it  him :  I  was  persuaded  that  he  took  it  Iq  false  dissimulation, 
and  it  troubled  me  to  think  what  it  was  to  draw  multitudes  of  men 
bj  carnal  interest  so  fsdsely  to  take  it :  and  I  kept  it  and  the  en- 
gagement from  being  taken  in  your  town  and  county.  At  first  it 
was  not  imposed,  but  taken  by  volunteers ;  but  after  was 
made  a  test  of  such  as  were  to  be  trusted  or  accepted.  Besides  the 
UleeaUty,  there  are  two  things  that  cause  me  to  be  against  it. 

First,  That  men  should  make  a  mere  dividing  engine  and  pretend 
it  a  means  of  unity :  we  all  knew  at  that  time  when  it  was  imposed, 
that  a  great  part,  if  not  the  greatest,  of  church  and  kingdom  were 
of  anoUier  mind ;  and  that  as  learned  and  worthy  men  were  for 
prelacy,  as  most  the  world  had  (such  as  Usher,  Mprton,  Hall, 
Davenant,  Brownrig,  &c.)  And  to  make  our  terms  of  union  to  be 
such  as  should  exclude  so  many  and  such  men,  was  but  to  imitate 
those  church  dividers  and  persecutors,  who  in  many  countries,  and 
ages  have  still  made  their  own  impositions  the  engines  of  division 
by  pretence  of  union.  And  it  seemeth  to  accuse  Christ,  as  if  He 
had  not  sufficiently  made  us  terms  of  concord,  but  we  must  devise 
our  own  forms  as  necessary  thereto. 

Second,  And  it  was  an  imposing  on  the  Providence  of  God,  to  tie 
ourselves  by  vows  to  that  as  unchangeable,  which  we  knew  not  but 
Qod  might  after  change,  as  if  we  had  been  the  masters  of  his  Provi- 
dence. No  man  then  knew  but  that  Qod  might  so  alter  many  cir- 
cumstances, as  might  make  some  things  sins  that  were  then  taken 
for  dutv ;  and  some  things  to  be  duty,  which  then  passed  for  sin. 
And  when  such  changes  come,  we  that  should  have  been  content 
with  God's  obligations,  do  find  ourselves  ensnared  in  our  own  rash 

Maintain  union  and  communion  with  all  true  Christians  on  earth ; 
and  therefore,  hold  to  Catholic  principles  of  mere  Christianity,  with- 
out which  you  must  needs  crumble  into  sects.  Love  Christians  as 
Christians,  bnt  the  best  most ;  locally  separate  from  none,  as  accusing 
of  them,  forther  than  they  separate  from  Christ,  or  deny  you  their^ 
communion,  imless  you  will  sin.  The  zeal  of  a  sect  as  such  is 
partial,  turbulent,  hurtful  to  Dissenters,  and  maketh  men  as  thorns 
and  thistles ;  but  the  zeal  of  Christianity,  as  such,  is  pure  and  peace- 
able, fall  of  mercy  and  good  fruits,  mellow  and  sweet,  and  inclineth 
to  the  good  of  alL  If  God  give  you  a  faithful  or  a  tolerable  public 
minister,  be  thankful  to  God,  and  love,  honour,  and  encourage  him, 
and  let  not  the  imperfections  of  the  Common  Prayer  make  you 
separate  from  his  communion ;  prejudice  will  make  all  modes  or 
worship  different  from  that  which  we  prefer,  to  seem  some  heinous, 
sinful  crime ;  but  humble  Christians  are  most  careful  about  the 
frame  of  their  own  hearts,  and  conscious  of  so  much  &.ultiness  in 
themselves,  and  all  their  service  of  God,  that  they  are  not  apt  to 
accuse  and  aggravate  the  failings  of  others,  especially  in  matters 
which  God  has  left  to  our  own  determination.  Whether  we  shall 
pray  with  a  book  or  without,  in  divers  short  prayers,  or  one  long 
one ;  whether  the  people  shall  sing  God's  praise  in  tunes,  or  speak 


it  in  prose,  is  left  to  be  determined  by  the  general  rules  of  concord, 
order,  and  edification.  Yet  do  not  withdraw  from  the  oommmiion 
of  soberly,  godly  Nonconformists,  though  falsely  called  schismatics 
by  others. 

3.   THE  JOT  OF  THE  SAIirrs'  REST. — ("  SAIirrS*  REST,"  CHAP.  XVt.) 

Rest !  how  sweet  the  sound !  It  is  melody  to  my  ears !  It  lies 
as  a  reviving  cordial  at  my  heart,  and  from  thence  sends  forth 
lively  spirits  which  beat  through  aU  the  pulses  of  my  soul  I  Best, 
not  as  the  stone  that  rests  on  the  earth,  nor  as  this  flesh  shall  rest 
in  the  grave,  nor  such  a  rest  as  the  carnal  world  desires.  0  blessed 
rest !  when  we  rest  not  day  and  night  saying,  ''  Holy,  holy,  holy. 
Lord  God  Almighty :"  when  we  shul  rest  ^m  sin,  but  not  from 
worship  ;  from  suffering  and  sorrow,  but  not  from  joy !  0  blessed 
day !  when  I  shall  rest  with  God  I  when  I  shall  rest  in  the  bosom 
of  my  Lord !  when  my  perfect  soul  and  body  shall  together  perfectly 
enjoy  the  most  perfect  God !  when  €rod,  who  is  love  itself,  shall 
perfectly  love  me,  and  rest  in  this  love  to  me,  as  I  shall  rest  in  my 
love  to  Him  ;  and  rejoice  over  me  with  joy,  and  joy  over  me  with 
singing,  as  I  shall  rejoice  in  Him  ! 

This  is  that  joy  which  was  procured  by  sorrow,  that  crown  which 
was  procured  by  the  cross.  My  Lord  wept  that  now  my  tears 
might  be  wiped  away ;  He  bled  that  I  might  now  rejoice  ;  He  was 
forsaken  that  I  might  not  now  be  forsook ;  He  then  died  that  I 
might  now  live.  0  free  mercy,  that  can  exalt  so  vile  a  wretch ! 
Free  to  me,  though  dear  to  Chnst :  fr«e  grace  that  hath  chosen  me, 
when  thousands  were  forsaken.  This  is  not  Uke  our  cottages  of 
clay,  our  prisons,  our  earthly  dwellings.  This  voice  of  joy  is  not 
like  our  old  complaints,  our  impatient  groans  and  sighs  ;  nor  this 
melodious  praise  like  the  scoffs  and  revilings,  or  the  oaths  and 
curses,  which  we  heard  on  earth.  This  body  is  not  like  that  we 
had,  nor  this  soul  like  the  soul  we  had,  nor  this  life  like  the  life  we 
lived.  We  have  changed  our  place  and  state,  our  clothes  and 
thoughts,  our  looks,  language,  and  company.  Before,  a  saint  was 
weak  and  despised ;  but  now,  how  happy  and  glorious  a  thing  is  a 
saint !  Where  is  now  their  body  of  siu,  which  wearied  themselves 
and  those  about  them  ?  Where  aie  now  our  different  judgments, 
reproachful  names,  divided  spirits,  exasperated  passions,  strange 
looks,  uncharitable  censures  ?  Now  are  all  of  one  judgment,  of  one 
name,  of  one  heart,  house,  and  glory.  0  sweet  reconciliation! 
happy  union!  Now  the  gospel  shall  no  more  be  dishonoured 
through  our  folly.  No  more,  my  soul,  shalt  thou  lament  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  saints,  or  the  church's  ruins,  or  mourn  thy  suffering 
friends,  nor  weep  over  their  dying  beds  or  their  graves.  Thou 
shalt  never  suffer  thy  old  temptations  from  Satau,  the  world,  or  thy 
own  flesh.  Thy  pains  and  sickness  are  all  cured ;  thy  body  shall  no 
more  burden  thee  with  weakness  and  weariness  ;  thy  aching  head 
and  heart,  thy  hunger  and  thirst,  thy  sleep  and  labour,  are  all  gone. 


0  what  a  mighty  change  is  this  I  From  the  dunghiU  to  the  thione ! 
From  persecuting  sinners  to  praising  saints !  From  a  vile  body  to 
this  which  shines  as  the  brightness  of  the  firmament !  From  a 
sense  of  Gk)d*s  displeasure  to  uie  perfect  enjoyment  of  Him  in  love ! 
From  all  my  fearM  thoughts  of  death  to  this  joyful  life !  Blessed 
change !  Farewell  sin  and  sorrow  for  ever ;  farewell  my  rocky, 
proud,  unbelieying  heart ;  my  worldly,  sensual,  carnal  h^rt ;  and 
welcome  my  most  holy,  heavenly  nature.  Farewell  repentance, 
faith,  and  hope ;  and  welcome  love,  and  joy,  and  praise.  I  shall 
now  have  my  harvest  without  ploughing  or  sowing :  my  joy  with- 
out a  preacher  or  a  promise  :  even  Si  from  the  face  of  Gfod  Him- 
self. Whatever  mucture  is  in  the  streams,  there  is  nothing  but 
pure  joy  in  the  fountain.  Here  shaU  I  be  encircled  with  eternity, 
and  ever  live,  and  ever,  ever  praise  the  Lord.  My  fiace  wiU  not 
wrinkle,  nor  my  hair  be  gray :  for  this  corruptible  shall  have  put  on 
incorruption  ;  and  this  mortal,  immortality ;  and  death  shall  be 
swallowed  up  in  victory.  0  death  where  is  now  thy  sting  ?  0  grave 
where  is  thy  victory  ?  The  date  of  my  lease  will  no  more  expire, 
nor  shall  I  trouble  myself  with  thoughts  of  death,  nor  lose  my  joys 
through  fear,  of  losing  them.  When  millions  of  ages  are  past,  my 
glory  is  but  beginning ;  and  when  millions  more  are  past,  it  is  no 
nearer  ending.  Every  day  is  all  noon,  every  month  is  harvest, 
every  year  is  a  jubilee,  eveiy  age  is  a  fiiU  manhood,  and  all  this  is 
one  eternity.  0  blessed  eternity  I  the  glory  of  my  glory,  the  per- 
fection of  my  perfection* 


John  Tillotson  was  born  at  Sowerby,  near  Halifax,  in  1630.  His 
father  was  a  Puritan,  and  trained  up  hie  son  in  the  most  rigid  doctrines 
of  Calyinism  ;  but  during  his  residence  at  Cambridge,  the  views  of 
TUlotson  were  gradually  relaxed  from  the  uncompromising  rigour  of 
liis  early  education,  and  at  the  Restoration  he  conformed,  and  joined 
the  Established  Church.  He  early  attracted  attention  by  his  powers 
as  a  pulpit  orator,  which  induced  the  Society  of  Lincoln's  Inn  to  elect 
him  as  their  preacher.  Church  promotion  followed  in  due  course ;  he 
was  appointed  in  1670  Prebendary  of  Canterbury,  and  two  years  after- 
wards became  Dean  of  the  same  cathedral ;  he  was  also  Chaplain  to 
Charles  II.,  although  the  zeal  with  which  on  all  occasions  he  declaimed 
against  Popery  was  by  no  means  acceptable  to  that  monarch,  and 
was  very  offensive  to  his  brother.  He  afterwards  became  Dean  of  St 
Paul's,  and  finally,  after  the  Revolution,  on  Sancroft's  refusing  to  take 
the  oaths  to  the  new  government,  Tillotson  was  advanced  to  the 
Primacy,  which  he  held  till  his  death  in  1694.  He  left  behind  him 
a  laJTge  collection  of  sermons,  which  were  printed  in  ten  volumes,  and 
long  enjoyed,  as  they  well  deserved,  a  most  extensive  popularity, 
although  they  are  now  sinking  before  the  merits  of  Taylor  and  HaU. 
Few  sermons  in  the  language  are  entitled  to  more  praise  than  those 


of  Tillotson ;  they  do  not,  indeed,  contain  any  passages  rich  in  poetic 
imagery  or  quaint  apophthegms,  and  his  style  is  sometimes  languid 
and  clumsy,  yet  he  abounds  in  good  sense,  and  sound  practical  admo- 
nitions ;  his  language  is  always  clear,  often  forcible  and  precise  in  a 
high  degree,  and  his  manner  is  earnest,  unaffected,  and  impressive. 


Atheism  is  imprudent,  because  it  is  unsafe  in  the  issue.  The 
atheist  contends  against  the  religious  man  that  there  is  no  Qod ;  but 
upon  strange  inequality  and  odds,  for  he  ventures  his  eternal 
interest ;  mereas  the  religious  man  ventures  only  l^e  loss  of  his 
lusts,  which  it  is  much  better  for  him  to  be  without,  or  at  the  utmost 
of  some  temporal  convenience ;  and  all  this  while  is  inwardly  more 
contented  and  happy,  and  ususdly  more  healthful,  and  perhaps  meets 
with  more  respect,  and  faithfuller  friends,  and  lives  in  a  more  secure 
and  flourishing  condition,  and  more  free  from  the  evils  and  punish- 
ments of  this  world,  than  the  atheistical  person  does  ;  however,  it 
is  not  much  that  he  ventures ;  and  after  this  life,  if  there  be  no 
Qod,  is  as  well  as  he ;  but  if  there  be  a  God,  is  infinitely  better, 
even  as  much  as  unspeakable  and  eternal  happiness  is  better  than 
extreme  and  endless  misery.  So  that,  if  the  arguments  for  and 
against  a  Gk)d  were  equal,  and  it  were  an  even  question  whether 
there  were  one  or  not,  yet  the  hazard  and  danger  are  so  infinitely 
unequal,  that  in  point  of  prudence  and  interest  eveiy  man  were 
obliged  to  incline  to  the  affirmative ;  and  whatever  doubts  he  might 
have  about  it,  to  choose  the  safest  side  of  the  question,  and  to  make 
that  the  principle  to  live  bv.  For  he  that  acts  wisely,  and  is  a 
thoroughly  prudent  man,  will  be  provided  against  all  events,  and 
will  tsS^e  care  to  secure  the  main  chance,  w^Ltever  happens  ;  but 
the  atheist,  in  case  things  should  £a.U  out  contrary  to  his  oelief  and 
expectation,  hath  made  no  provision  for  this  case.  If  contrary  to 
his  confidence,  it  should  prove  in  the  issue  that  there  is  a  Qod,  the 
man  is  lost  and  undone  for  ever.  If  the  atheist,  when  he  dies, 
should  find  that  his  soul  remains  after  his  body,  and  has  only  quitted 
its  lodging,  how  will  this  man  be  amazed  and  blanked,  when,  con- 
traiy  to  his  expectation,  he  shall  find  himself  in  a  new  and  strange 
place,  amidst  a  world  of  spirits,  entered  upon  an  everlasting  and  un- 
changeable state  !  How  sadly  will  the  man  be  disappointed  when 
he  finds  all  things  otherwise  than  he  had  stated  and  determined 
them  in  this  world !  When  he  comes  to  appear  before  that  Gk>d 
whom  he  hath  denied,  and  against  whom  he  hath  spoken  as  despite- 
ful things  as  he  could,  who  can  imagine  the  pale  and  eoilty  looks  of 
this  man,  and  how  he  will  shiver  and  tremble  for  tEe  fear  of  the 
Lord,  and  for  the  glory  of  His  Majesty  ?  How  will  he  be  surprised, 
witii  terrors  on  every  side,  to  find  himself  thus  unexpectedly  and 
irrecoYerably  plimged  into  a  state  of  ruin  and  desperation  1  And 
tiius  things  may  happen  for  all  this  man's  confidence  now.  For  our 
belief  or  disbelief  of  a  thing  does  not  alter  the  nature  of  the  thing. 


We  cannot  fancy  thincs  into  hems,  or  make  them  yanish  into  nothing 
hy  the  stubborn  ooD^dence  of^ur  imaginationi).  Things  are  ^ 
sullen  as  we  are,  and  will  be  what  they  are  whatever  we  think  of 
them.  And  if  there  be  a  God,  a  man  cannot  by  an  obstinate  dis- 
belief of  Him  make  Him  cease  to  be,  any  more  than  a  man  can  put 
out  the  sun  by  winking. 



We  must  be  dUigent  in  our  particular  calling  and  charge,  in  that 
province  and  station  which  Grod  hath  appointed  us,  whatever  it  be ; 
whether  it  consists  in  the  labour  of  our  hands,  or  in  the  improve- 
ment of  our  minds,  in  order  to  the  gaining  of  knowledge  for  our 
own  pleasure  and  satisfaction,  and  for  the  use  and  benefit  of  others ; 
wheliier  it  lie  in  the  skill  of  government,  and  the  administration  of 

Eublic  justice ;  or  in  the  management  of  a  great  estate,  of  an 
onourable  rank  and  quality  above  others,  to  tiie  best  advantage, 
for  the  honour  of  God,  and  &e  benefit  and  advantage  of  men,  so  as, 
by  the  influence  of  our  power  and  estate,  and  by  the  authority  of 
our  example,  to  contribute  all  we  can  to  the  welfare  and  happiness 
of  others. 

For  it  is  a  great  mistake  to  think  any  man  is  without  a  calling, 
and  that  God  does  not  expect  that  every  one  of  us  should  employ 
himself  in  doing  good  in  one  kind  or  other.  Some  persons,  indeed, 
by  the  privilege  of  their  birth  and  quality,  are  above  a  common 
trade  and  profession,  but  they  are  not  hereby  eiHier  exempted  or 
excused  from  aU  business,  because  they  are  so  plentifully  provided 
for  themselves ;  nay,  on  the  contrary,  they  have  so  much  the  greater 
obligation,  having  tiie  liberty  and  leisure  to  attend  the  good  of 
others  ;  the  higher  our  character  and  station  is,  we  have  the  better 
opportunities  of  being  publicly  useful  and  beneficial;  and  the 
heavier  will  our  account  be  if  we  neglect  these  opportunities.  Those 
who  are  in  a  low  and  private  condition  can  only  shine  to  a  few,  but 
they  that  are  advanced  a  great  height  above  others  may,  like  the 
heavenly  bodies,  dispense  a  general  light  and  influence,  and  scatter 
happiness  and  blessings  among  all  that  are  below  them. 

And  as  they  are  capable  of  doing  more  good  than  others,  so  with 
more  ease  and  eflect ;  that  which  persons  of  an  inferior  rank  can 
hardly  bring  others  to,  by  all  the  importunity  of  counsel  and  per- 
suasion, as,  namely,  to  the  practice  of  any  virtue,  and  the  quitting  and 
abandoning  of  any  vice,  a  prince  and  a  great  man  that  is  eood  him- 
self may  easily  gain  them  to,  without  ever  speaking  a  word  to  them, 
by  the  silent  authority  and  powerful  allurement  of  nis  example.  So 
that  though  every  man  have  not  a  particular  profession,  yet  the 
highest  among  men  have  some  employment  allotted  to  them  by  God, 
suitable  to  their  condition,  a  provmce  which  He  expects  they  should 
administer  and  adorn  with  great  care. 


The  great  business  of  the  lower  part  of  mankiiid  is  to  pronde  for 
themselves  the  necessaries  of  life  ;  and  it  is  well  if  thej  can  do  it 
with  all  their  care  and  diligence.  But  those  who  are  of  a  higher 
rank,  their  proper  business  and  employment  is  to  dispense  good  to 
others ;  which,  surely,  is  a  much  happier  condition  and  employment, 
according  to  that  admirable  saying  of  our  Sai^our  mentioned  W  St 
Paul,  "  It  is  a  more  blessed  thing  to  give  than  to  receiye."  Those 
of  meaner  condition  can  only  be  men  to  one  another  ;  and  it  were 
well  if  they  would  be  so :  but  he  that  is  highly  raised  and  advanced 
above  others  hath  the  happy  opportunity  in  his  hands,  if  he  have 
but  the  heart  to  make  use  of  it,  to  be  a  kind  of  god  to  men. 

Let  no  man,  then,  of  what  birth,  or  rank,  or  quality  soever,  think 
it  beneath  him  to  serve  Gkxi,  and  to  be  useful  to  the  benefit  and 
advantage  of  men.  Let  us  remember  the  Son  of  Qod^  a  person  of 
the  highest  quality  and  extraction  that  ever  was,  who  spent  Himself 
wholly  in  this  blessed  work  of  doing  good  ;  toiled  ana  laboured  in 
it  as  if  it  had  been  for  His  life ;  submitted  to  ail  the  circumstances 
of  meanness,  to  all  the  degrees  of  contempt,  to  all  kind  of  hardship 
and  sufferings,  for  the  benefit  and  salvation  of  men, — sweat  drops  of 
blood,  and  at  last  poured  it  forth  in  fiill  streams,  to  save  us  from 
eternal  miseiy  and  ruin.  And  is  any  of  us  better  than  the  "  Son  of 
God,  the  heir  of  all  things,  and  the  elder  brother  of  us  all  ?^  Shall 
any  of  us,  after  this,  think  ourselves  too  good  to  be  employed  in  that 
work  which  God  Himself  disdained  not  to  do  when  He  appeared  in 
the  likeness  and  nature  of  men?  If  we  would  esteem  things 
rightly,  and  accoiding  to  reason,  the  true  privilege  and  advantage  of 
greatness  is,  to  be  able  to  do  iiore  good  than  others ;  and  in  this 
the  majesty  and  felicity  of  God  Himself  doth  chiefly  consist,  in  His 
ready  and  forward  inclination,  and  in  His  infinite  power  and  ability 
to  do  good.  The  creation  of  the  world  was  a  great  and  glorious 
design ;  but  this  God  only  calls  His  work.  But  to  preserve  and 
support  the  creatures  which  He  hath  made  ;  to  bless  them  and  to 
do  them  good  ;  to  govern  them  by  wise  laws,  and  to  conduct  them 
to  that  happiness  which  He  designed  for  them,  this  is  His  rest.  His 
perpetual  Sabbath,  His  great  delight  and  satisfaction  to  all  eter- 
nity. To  do  good  is  our  duty  and  our  business ;  but  it  is  likewise 
the  greatest  pleasure  and  recreation,  that  which  refresheth  the  heart 
of  God  and  man. 

I  have  insisted  the  longer  upon  this,  that  those  who  are  thought 
to  be  above  any  calling,  and  to  have  no  obligation  upon  them  but  to 
please  themselves,  may  be  made  sensible  that,  according  to  their 
ability  and  opportunity,  they  have  a  great  work  upon  their  hands, 
and  more  business  to  do  thiui  other  men,  which,  if  they  would  but 
seriously  mind,  they  would  not  only  please  Grod,  but,  I  daresay, 
satisi^  and  please  themselves  much  better  than  they  do  in  any 
other  course.  I  know  it  is  a  duty  particularly  incumbent  upon  the 
lower  part  of  mankind  to  be  diligent  in  their  particular  calling, 
that  so  they  may  provide  for  themselves  and  their  fiajnilies ;  but 
this  is  not  so  proper  for  this  place  ;  and  if  it  were,  the  necessity  of 


human  life  will  probably  prompt  and  urge  men  more  powerfully 
to  this  thau  any  argument  and  persuasion  that  I  can  use. 


Truth  and  integrity  have  all  the  advantages  of  appearance,  and 
many  more.  If  i£e  show  of  anything  be  g^>d  for  anything,  I  am 
sure  the  reality  is  better;  for  why  does  any  man  dissenu)le,  or 
seem  to  be  that  which  he  is  not,  but  because  he  thinks  it  good  to 
have  the  qualities  he  pretends  to  ?  For  to  counterfeit  and  dis- 
semble, is  to  put  on  the  appearance  of  some  real  excellency.  Now, 
the  best  way  for  a  man  to  seem  to  be  anything,  is  really  to  be  what 
he  would  seem  to  be.  Besides,  it  is  often  as  troublesome  to  sup- 
port the  pretence  of  a  good  quality  as  to  have  it ;  and  if  a  man 
have  it  not,  it  is  most  likely  he  will  be  discovered  to  want  it ;  and 
then  aU  his  labour  to  seem  to  have  it  is  lost.  There  is  something 
unnatural  in  painting,  which  a  skilful  eye  will  easily  discern  from 
native  beauty  and  complexion. 

It  is  hard  to  personate  and  act  a  part  long ;  for  where  truth  is 
not  at  the  bottom,  nature  will  always  be  endeavouring  to  return, 
and  will  betray  herself  at  one  time  or  other.  Therefore,  if  any  man 
think  it  convenient  to  seem  good,  let  him  be  so  indeed,  and  then 
his  goodness  wiU  appear  to  every  one's  satisfaction ;  for  truth  is 
convincing,  and  carries  its  own  light  and  evidence  along  with  it,  and 
wiU  not  only  commend  us  to  every  man's  conscience,  but,  which  is 
much  more,  to  God,  who  searcheth  our  hearts.  So  that,  upon  all 
accounts,  sincerity  is  true  wisdom.  Particularly  as  to  the  affairs  of 
this  world,  integrity  hath  many  advantages  over  all  the  artificial 
modes  of  dissimulation  and  deceit.  It  is  much  the  plainer  and 
easier,  much  the  safer  and  more  secure  way  of  dealing  in  the  world ; 
it  hath  less  of  trouble  and  difficulty,  of  entanglement  and  perplexity, 
of  danger  and  hazard,  in  it ;  it  is  the  shortest  and  nearest  way  to 
our  end,  carrying  us  thither  in  a  straight  line,  and  will  hold  out  and 
last  longest.  l£e  arts  of  deceit  and  cunning  continually  grow 
weaker,  and  less  effectual  and  serviceable  to  those  that  practise 
them  ;  whereas  integrity  gains  strength  by  use ;  and  the  more  and 
longer  any  man  practiseth  it,  the  greater  service  it  does  him,  by 
coiSrming  his  reputation,  and  encouraging  those  with  whom  he 
hath  to  do  to  repose  the  greatest  confidence  in  him,  which  is  an 
unspeakable  advantage  in  business  and  the  affairs  of  life. 

A  dissembler  must  always  be  upon  his  guard,  and  watch  himself 
carefully  that  he  do  not  contradict  his  own  pretensions ;  for  he  acts 
an  unnatural  part,  and  therefore  must  put  a  continual  force  and 
restraint  upon  himself;  whereas  he  that  acts  sincerely  hath  the 
easiest  task  in  the  world,  because  he  follows  nature,  and  so  is  put  to 
no  trouble  and  care  about  his  words  and  actions  :  he  needs  not  in- 
vent any  pretences  beforehand,  nor  make  excuses  afterwards  for  any- 
thing he  hath  said  or  done. 

But  insincerity  is  y^ry  troublesome  to  manage.    A  hypocrite 


1 94  JOHH  LOCK& 


hath  80  many  things  to  attend  to  as  makes  his  life  a  veiy  peiplexed 
and  intricate  thing.  A  liar  hath  need  of  a  good  memory,  lest  he 
contradict  at  one  time  what  he  said  at  another.  But  truth  is 
always  consistent  with  itself,  and  needs  nothing  to  help  it  out ;  it 
is  always  near  at  hand,  and  sits  upon  our  lips,  and  is  ready  to  drop 
out  before  we  are  aware ;  whereas  a  lie  is  troublesome^  and  one 
trick  needs  a  great  many  more  to  make  it  good. 

Add  to  all  this,  that  sincerity  is  the  most  compendious  wisdom, 
aud  an  excellent  instrument  for  the  speedy  despatch  of  busineBS. 
It  creates  confidence  in  those  we  have  to  deal  with,  saves  the  labour 
of  many  inquiries,  and  brings  things  to  an  issue  in  a  few  words. 
It  is  like  travelling  a  plain  beaten  road,  which  conmionly  brings  a 
man  sooner  to  his  journey's  end  than  by-ways,  in  which  men  often 
lose  themselves.  In  a  word,  whatever  convenience  may  be  thought 
to  be  in  &Isehood  and  dissimulation,  it  is  soon  over ;  but  the  incon- 
^eenienoe  of  it  is  perpetual,  because  it  brings  a  man  under  an  ever- 
laying  jealousy  and  suspicion,  so  that  he  is  not  believed  when  he 
speaks  truth,  nor  trusted  when  perhaps  he  means  honestly.  When 
a  man  has  once  forfeited  the  reputation  of  his  integrity,  nothing 
wiU  then  serve  his  turn,  neither  truth  nor  felsehood. 

Indeed,  if  a  man  were  only  to  deal  in  the  world  for  a  day,  and 
should  never  have  occasion  to  converse  more  with  mankind — ^never 
more  need  their  good  opinion  or  good  word,  it  were  then  no  great 
matter  (as  far  as  respects  the  afiairs  of  this  world)  if  he  spent  his 
reputation  all  at  once,  and  ventured  it  at  one  throw.  But  if  he  be 
to  continue  in  the  world,  and  would  have  the  advantage  of  reputa- 
tion whilst  he  is  in  it,  let  him  make  use  of  sincerity  in  all  his  words 
and  actions ;  for  nothing  but  this  will  hold  out  to  the  end.  All 
other  arts  will  taHl ;  but  tmth  and  integrity  will  cany  a  man 
through,  and  bear  him  out  to  the  last. 


JoHK  Locke  was  bom  at  Wrington,  in  Somerset,  in  1682,  and  was 
educated  at  Westminster  and  Oxford,  where  he  was  highly  distin- 
guished by  general  proficiency.  He  adopted  medicine  as  his  pro- 
fession, and  was  fortunate  enough  to  become  the  medical  adviser  of 
Lord  Ashley,  afterwards  the  famous  Earl  of  Shaftesbury,  who  highly 
appreciated  his  talents,  and  received  him  into  his  house,  where  he  had 
the  opportunity  of  meeting  with  many  of  the  most  distinguished  men 
of  the  day.  When  the  Cabal  came  into  power,  Ashley  rewarded  his 
friend  with  a  government  office,  which,  however,  he  soon  lost  when 
his  patron  forfeited  the  royal  favour.  Locke  adhered  steadily  to  Ashley 
in  all  his  career,  and  ^ven  followed  him  to  Holland,  when  he  was 
obliged  to  save  his  life  by  fleeing  from  his  country.  In  Holland 
Locke  was  said  to  have  aided  Monmouth's  insurrection,  and  James 
demanded  him  from  the  States  for  punishment,  but  the  philosopher 
escaped  by  prudently  concealing  himself  for  a  time*    At  the  Revelu- 


tion  Locke  came  over  in  the  fleet  with  William  of  Orange,  and  for 
some  time  held  office  under  his  government ;  hut  ill  health  obliged 
him  to  retire  from  public  life,  and,  after  a  few  years  spent  in  retire- 
ment, he  died  in  1704.  In  his  own  day  Locke  promoted  the  cause  of 
liberty  by  his  able  "  Letters  on  Toleration ;"  but  it  is  chiefly  as  a 
philosophical  writer  that  he  is  now  famous.  His  "Essay  on  the 
Human  Understanding,"  published  in  1690,  has  perhaps  exercised  a 
greater  influence  on  Mental  Philosophy  than  any  other  modem  work. 
It  has  been  of  essential  service  in  clearing  away  the  rubbish  of 
scholastic  phraseology  and  baseless  theories  which  had  obscured  the 
subject  of  Mental  Philosophy,  and  teaching  men  that  in  it,  as  in  all 
the  sciences,  truth  could  only  be  found  by  relying  on  experience  and 
common  sense.  It  may  be  doubted,  however,  whether  Locke  has  not 
carried  his  scepticism  too  far ;  and  to  many  it  appears,  that  the  view 
which  he  has  taken  of  the  operations  of  the  human  mind  is  defective 
and  one-sided.  Besides  the  works  mentioned,  Locke  wrote  "  Thoughts 
on  Education,"  *'  Essay  on  the  Conduct  of  the  Understanding,"  and  a 
"  Treatise  on  the  Beasonableness  of  Christianity." 


BOOK  II.,  CHAP.  I.) 

Every  man  being  conscious  to  himself  that  he  thinks,  and  that 
which  his  mind  is  applied  about,  whilst  thinking,  being  the  ideas 
that  are  there,  it  is  past  doubt  that  men  have  in  their  mind  several 
ideas,  such  as  are  those  expressed  by  the  words,  '^  Whiteness,  hard- 
ness, sweetness,  thinking,  motion,  man,  elephant,  army,  drunken- 
ness," and  others.  It  is  in  the  first  places,  then,  to  be  inquired,  how 
he  comes  by  them  ?  I  know  it  is  a  received  doctrine,  that  men 
have  native  ideas  and  original  character^  stamped  upon  their  minds 
in  their  very  first  being.  This  opinion  I  have  at  large  examined 
already ;  and,  I  suppose,  what  I  have  said  in  the  foregoing  book 
will  be  much  more  easily  admitted  when  I  have  shown  whence  the 
understanding  may  get  all  the  ideas  it  has,  and  by  what  ways  and 
degrees  they  may  come  into  the  mind ;  for  which  I  shall  appeal  to 
every  one's  observation  and  experience. 

Let  us  then  suppose  the  mind  to  be,  as  we  say,  white  paper,  void 
of  all  characters,  without  any  ideas ;  how  comes  it  to  be  furnished  ? 
Whence  comes  it  by  that  vast  store,  which  the  busy  and  boundless 
taaacj  of  man  has  painted  on  it,  with  an  almost  endless  variety  i 
Whence  has  it  all  the  materials  of  reason  and  knowledge  ?  To  this 
I  answer,  in  one  word,  from  eoffperience ;  in  that  all  our  knowledge  is 
founded,  and  from  that  it  ultimately  derives  itsel£  Our  observa- 
tion, employed  either  about  external  sensible  objects,  or  about  the 
internal  operations  of  our  minds,  perceived  and  reflected  on  by  our- 
selves, is  that  which  supplies  our  imderstandings  with  all  the  mate* 
rials  of  thinking.  These,  too,  are  the  fountain  of  knowledge,  from 
whence  all  the  ideas  we  have,  or  can  naturally  have,  do  spring. 

Fi/rsty  Our  senses,  conversant  about  particular  sensible  objects,  do 
convey  into  the  mind  several  distinct  perceptions  of  things,  accord* 

i06  JOHN  UOCKE, 

ing  to  those  various  ways  wherein  those  objects  do  affect  thein ;  and 
thus  we  come  by  those  ideas  we  have  of  yellow,  white,  heat,  cold, 
soft,  hard,  bitter,  sweet,  and  all  those  which  we  call  sensible  quali- 
ties ;  which  when  I  say  the  senses  convey  into  the  mind,  I  mean, 
they  from  external  objects  convey  into  the  mind  what  produces 
there  those  perceptions.  This  great  source  of  most  of  the  ideas  we 
have,  depending  wholly  upon  our  senses,  and  derived  by  them  to 
the  understanding,  I  call  senscUion, 

Secondly y  The  other  fountain,  from  which  experience  frimisheth 
the  understanding  with  ideas,  is  the  perception  of  the  operations  of 
our  own  minds  within  us,  as  it  is  employed  about  the  ideas  it  has 
got ;  which  operations,  when  the  soul  comes  to  reflect  on  and  con- 
sider, do  furnish  the  understanding  with  another  set  of  ideas  which 
could  not  be  had  from  things  without ;  and  such  are  perception, 
thinking,  doubting,  believing,  reasoning,  knowing,  willing,  and  all 
the  different  actings  of  our  own  minds  ;  which  we,  being  conscious 
of,  and  observing  in  ourselves,  do  from  these  receive  into  our  under- 
standings as  distinct  ideas,  as  we  do  from  bodies  affecting  our  senses. 
This  soiu>c6  of  ideas  every  man  has  wholly  within  himself ;  and 
though  it  be  not  sense,  as  having  nothing  to  do  with  external 
objects,  yet  it  is  very  like  it,  and  might  properly  enough  be  called 
''  internal  sense.''  But  as  I  call  the  other  "  sensation/'  so  I  call  this 
^'reflection ;"  the  ideas  it  affords  being  such  only  as  the  mind  gets 
by  reflecting  on  its  own  operations  within  itseli  By  reflection, 
then,  I  would  be  understood  to  mean,  that  notice  which  the  mind 
takes  of  its  own  operations  and  the  manner  of  them,  by  reason 
whereof  there  come  to  be  ideas  of  these  operations  in  the  under- 
standing. These  two,  I  say,  viz.,  external  material  things,  as  the 
objects  of  sensation,  a^id  the  opemtions  of  our  own  minds^thm  as 
the  objects  of  reflection,  are,  to  me,  the  only  originals  from  whence 
aU  our  ideas  take  their  beginning.  The  term  operations  here,  I 
use  in  a  large  sense,  as  comprehending  not  barely  the  actions  of  the 
mind  about  its  ideas,  but  some  sort  of  passions  arising  sometimes 
from  them,  suoh  as  is  the  satisfisu^tion  or  uneasiness  arising  from  any 

The  understanding  seems  to  me  not  to  have  the  least  glimmering 
of  any  ideas  which  it  doth  not  receive  from  one  of  these  two.  Ex- 
ternal objects  furnish  the  mind  with  the  ideas  of  sensible  qualities, 
which  are  all  those  different  perceptions  they  produce  in  us  ;  and 
the  mmd  furnishes  the  understanding  with  ideas  of  its  own  opera- 
tions. These,  when  we  have  taken  a  frill  survey  of  them,  and  their 
several  modes,  combinations,  and  relations,  we  shall  find  to  contain 
all  our  whole  stock  of  ideas ;  and  that  we  have  nothing  in  our  minds 
which  did  not  come  in  one  of  these  two  ways. 


No  private  person  has  any  right  in  any  manner  to  prejudice  an- 
other person  in  his  civiL  enjoyments,  because  he  is  of  another  church 


or  religion.  All  the  rights  and  franchises  that  belong  to  him  as  a  , 
man,  or  as  a  denizen,  are  inviolably  to  be  preserved  to  hinL  These 
are  not  the  business  of  religion.  No  violence  nor  injury  is  to  be 
oflfered  him,  whether  he  be  Christian  or  pagan.  Nay,  we  must  not 
content  ourselves  with  the  narrow  measures  of  bare  justice  :  charity, 
bounty,  and  liberality  must  be  added  to  it.  This  the  gospel  en- 
joins, this  reason  directs,  and  this  that  natural  fellowship  we  are 
bom  into  requires  of  us.  If  any  man  err  from  the  right  way,  it  is 
his  own  misfortune,  no  injury  to  thee :  nor  therefore  art  thou  to 
punish  him  in  the  things  of  this  life,  because  thou  supposest  he  will 
be  miserable  in  that  which  is  to  come. 

What  I  say  concerning  the  mutual  toleration  of  private  persons 
differing  from  one  another  in  religion,  I  understand  also  of  particular 
churches  ;  which  stand  as  it  were  in  the  same  relation  to  each  other 
as  private  persons  among  themselves :  nor  has  any  one  of  them  any 
manner  of  jurisdiction  over  any  other,  not  even  when  the  civU 
magistrate,  as  it  sometimes  happens,  comes  to  be  of  this  or  the  other 
communion.  For  the  civil  government  can  give  no  new  right  to 
the  church,  nor  the  church  to  the  civil  government  So  that 
whether  the  magistrate  join  himself  to  any  church,  or  separate 
from  it,  the  church  remains  always  as  it  was  before,  a  free  and 
voluntary  society.  It  neither  acquires  the  power  of  the  sword 
by  the  magistrate's  coming  to  it,  nor  does  it  lose  the  right  of  in- 
struction and  excommunication  by  his  going  from  it.  This  is  the 
fundamental  and  immutable  right  of  a  spontaneous  society,  that 
it  has  to  remove  any  of  its  members  who  transgress  the  rules  of 
its  institution :  but  it  cannot,  by  the  accession  of  any  new  mem- 
bers, acquire  any  right  of  jurisdiction  over  those  that  are  not 
joined  with  it.  And  therefore  peace,  equity,  and  Mendship,  are 
always  mutually  to  be  observed  by  particular  churches,  in  the  same 
manner  as  by  private  persons,  without  any  pretence  of  superiority 
or  jurisdiction  over  one  another. 

That  the  thing  may  be  made  yet  clearer  by  an  example :  let  us 
suppose  two  churches,  the  one  of  Arminians,  the  other  of  Calvin- 
ists,  residing  in  the  city  of  Constantinople.  Will  any  one  say,  that 
either  of  these  churches  has  right  to  deprive  the  members  of  the 
other  of  their  estates  and  liberty,  as  we  see  practised  elsewhere,  be- 
cause of  their  differing  from  it  in  some  doctrines  or  ceremonies ; 
whilst  the  Turks  in  the  meanwhile  silently  stand  by,  and  laugh  to 
see  with  what  inhuman  cruelty  Christians  thus  rage  against  Chris- 
tians ?  But  if  one  of  these  churches  hath  this  power  of  treating  the 
other  ill,  I  ask,  which  of  them  it  is  to  whom  that  power  belongs,  and 
by  what  right  ?  It  will  be  answered,  undoubtedly,  that  it  is  the 
orthodox  church  which  has  the  right  of  authority  over  the  erroneous 
or  heretical  This  is,  in  great  and  specious  words,  to  say  just 
nothing  at  aJL  For  every  church  is  orthodox  to  itself :  to  others, 
erroneous  or  heretical  Whatsoever  any  church  believes,  it  believes 
to  be  true  ;  and  the  contrary  thereunto  it  pronounces  to  be  error. 
So  that  the  controversy  between  these  churches  about  the  tilith  of 


their  doctrmes,  and  the  purity  of  their  worship,  is  on  both  sides 
equal ;  nor  is  there  any  judge,  either  at  Constantinople,  or  elsewhere 
upon  earth,  by  whose  sentence  it  can  be  determined.  The  decision 
of  that  question  belongs  only  to  the  Supreme  Judge  of  all  men,  to 
whom  also  alone  belongs  the  punishment  of  the  erroneous.  In  the 
meanwhile,  let  those  men  consider  how  heinously  they  sin,  who  add- 
ing injustice,  if  not  to  their  error,  yet  certainly  to  their  pride,  do 
rashly  and  arrogantly  take  upon  them  to  misuse  the  servants  of 
another  master,  who  are  not  at  all  accountable  to  them. 

Nay,  further :  if  it  could  be  manifest  which  of  these  two  dissent- 
ing churches  were  in  the  right  way,  there  would  not  accrue  thereby 
unto  the  orthodox  any  right  of  destroying  the  other.  For  churches 
haye  neither  any  junsdiction  in  worldly  matters,  nor  are  fire  and 
sword  any  proper  instruments  wherewith  to  convince  men's  minds 
of  error,  and  inform  them  of  the  truth. 



Let  US  now  consider  what  is  the  magistrate's  duty  in  the  business 
of  toleration  :  which  is  certainly  very  considerable : — 

We  have  already  proved  that  the  care  of  souls  does  not  belong  to 
the  magistrate,  not  a  magisterial  care,  I  mean,  if  I  may  so  dall  it, 
which  consists  in  prescribing  by  laws,  and  compelling  by  punish- 
ments. But  a  charitable  care,  which  consists  in  teaching,  admonish- 
ing, and  persuading,  cannot  be  denied  unto  any  man.  The  care, 
therefore,  of  every  man's  soul  belongs  unto  himself,  and  is  to  be 
left  unto  himsell  But  what  if  he  neglect  the  care  of  his  soul  ?  I 
answer,  what  if  he  neglect  the  care  of  his  health,  or  of  his  estate ; 
which  things  are  nearlier  related  to  the  government  of  the  magis- 
trate than  the  other  ?  Will  the  magistrate  provide  by  an  express 
law,  that  such  an  one  shall  not  become  poor  or  sick  ?  Laws  pro- 
vide, as  much  as  is  possible,  that  the  goods  and  health  of  sub- 
jects be  not  injured  by  the  fraud  or  violence  of  others ;  they 
do  not  guard  them  from  the  negligence  or  ill-husbandry  of  the 
possessors  themselves.  No  man  can  be  forced  to  be  rich  or  health- 
ful, whether  he  will  or  no.  Nay,  Grod  Himself  will  not  save  men 
against  their  wiUs.  Let  us  suppose,  however,  that  some  prince  were 
desirous  to  force  his  subjects  to  accumulate  riches,  or  to  preserve 
the  health  and  strength  of  their  bodies.  Shall  it  be  provided  by 
law,  that  they  must  consult  none  but  Koman  physicians,  and  shall 
every  one  be  bound  to  live  according  to  their  prescriptions  ?  What  ? 
shall  no  potion,  no  broth  be  taken,  but  what  is  prepared  either  in 
the  Vatican,  suppose,  or  in  a  Geneva  shop  ?  Or,  to  make  these 
subjects  rich,  shaJl  they  all  be  obliged  by  law  to  become  merchants 
or  musicians  ?  Or,  shall  every  one  turn  victualler,  or  smith,  because 
there  are  some  that  maintain  their  families  plentifully,  and  grow 
rich  in  those  professions  ? 

But  it  may  be  said,  there  are  a  thousand  ways  to  wealth,  but  one 


only  way  to  heaven.  It  is  well  said,  indeed,  especially  by  those  that 
plea^  for  compelling  men  into  this  or  the  other  way  ;  for  if  there 
were  several  ways  that  lead  thither,  there  would  not  be  so  much  as 
a  pretence  left  for  compulsion.  But  now,  if  I  be  marching  on  with 
my  utmost  vigour  in  that  way  which,  according  to  the  sacred 
geography,  leads  straight  to  Jerusalem,  why  am  I  beaten  and  ill- 
used  by  others,  because,  perhaps,  I  wear  not  buskins ;  because  my 
hair  is  not  of  the  right  cut ;  because,  perhaps,  I  have  not  been  dipt 
in  the  right  fashion ;  because  I  eat  flesh  upon  the  road,  or  some 
other  food  which  agrees  with  my  stomach  ;  because  I  avoid  certain 
by-ways,  which  seem  unto  me  to  lead  into  briars  or  precipices  ;  be- 
cause, amongst  the  several  paths  that  are  in  the  same  road,  I  choose 
that  to  walk  in  which  seems  to  be  the  straightest  and  cleanest: 
because  I  avoid  to  keep  company  with  some  travellefh  chat  are  less 
grave,  and  others  that  are  more  sour  than  they  ought  to  be  ;  or,  in 
fine,  because  I  follow  a  guide  that  either  is  or  is  not  clothed  in 
white,  and  crowned  with  a  mitre  ?  Certainly,  if  we  consider  right, 
we  shall  find  that  for  the  most  part  they  are  such  frivolous  things 
as  these,  that,  without  any  prejudice  to  religion,  to  the  salvation  of 
souls,  if  not  accompanied  with  superstition  or  hypocrisy,  might 
either  be  observed  or  remitted ;  I  say,  they  are  such  like  things  as 
these,  which  breed  implacable  enmities  among  Christian  brethren, 
who  are  all  agroed  in  the  substantial  and  truly  fundamental  part  of 


John  Evelyn  was  born  in  1620  at  Wotton,  in  Surrey,  the  resi- 
dence of  his  father,  Richard  Evelyn,  a  gentleman  of  good  family  and 
considerable  property.  He  was  educated  at  Oxford ;  and  on  the  out- 
break of  the  civil  war,  disliking  the  proceedings  of  the  Parliament,  and 
not  willing  to  adventure  his  life  in  the  quarrel,  he  left  England,  and 
travelled  for  some  years  on  the  Continent.  He  afterwards  zealously 
assisted  in  bringing  about  the  restoration  of  monarchy,  and  under 
Charles,  James,  and  William,  held  many  honourable  public  offices. 
He  began,  early  in  life,  the  habit  of  keeping  a  diary,  in  which  all  note- 
worthy occurrences  were  carefully  inserted,  and  as  his  wealth,  employ- 
ments, and  social  position  brought  him  into  daily  contact  with  the 
most  important  personages  in  the  reigns  of  Charles  and  James,  his 
Diary,  which  has  been  frequently  printed,  contains  much  valuable 
historical  information.  He  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Royal 
Society,  and  did  much  by  his  own  example  to  promote  in  England  a 
taste  for  scientific  pursuits ;  he  is  best  known,  however,  as  the  great 
patron  and  promoter  of  horticulture,  and  his  gardens  at  Sayes  Court 
near  Deptford,  of  which  he  has  left  us  a  careful  description,  were 
in  his  day  much  admired.  He  died  at  an  advanced  age  in  1706, 
leaving  behind  him  numerous  works,  of  which  the  chief,  besides 
his  Diary,  are  **  Sylva,  a  discourse  of  Forest  Trees,"  "  Fomifugium, 


a  piophetio'  invectiye  against  the  Fire  and  Smoke  of  London/' 
'*  Terra,  a  discourse  of  the  Earth,"  **  Kalendarinm  Hortense,|{  and 
**  Tyrannus,  or  the  Mode." 

1.   CHARACTER  OF  CHARTJS  II. — ("  DIART/*  1685.) 

Thus  died  King  Charles  11.,  of  a  vigorous  and  robust  constitu- 
tion, and  in  all  appearance  promising  a  long  life.  He  was  a  prince 
of  many  yirtues,  and  many  great  imperfections ;  debonai/re,^  easy  of 
access,  not  bloody  nor  cruel ;  his  countenance  fierce,  his  voice  great ; 
proper  of  person,  every  motion  became  him ;  a  lover  of  the  sea, 
and  skilful  in  shipping ;  not  afTecting  other  studies,  yet  he  had  a 
laboratory,  and  Imew  of  many  empirical  medicines  and  the  easier 
mechaniod  mathematics;  he  loved  planting  and  building,  and 
brought  in  a  politer  way  of  living,  which  passed  to  luxury  and  in- 
tolerable expense.  He  had  a  particular  talent  in  telling  a  story, 
and  fiicetious  passages,  of  which  he  had  innumerable.  This  made 
some  buffoons  and  vicious  wretches  too  presumptuous  and  familiar, 
not  worthy  the  fietvour  they  abused.  He  took  delight  in  having  a 
number  of  little  spaniels  follow  him  and  lie  in  his  bedchamber, 
which  rendered  it  very  offensive,  and,  indeed,  made  the  whole  court 
nasty  and  stinking.  He  would  doubtless  have  been  an  excellent 
prince  had  he  been  less  addicted  to  pleasure,  which  made  him  im- 
easy  and  always  in  want  to  supply  an  unmeasurable  profusion,  to 
the  detriment  of  many  indigent  persons  who  had  signally  served 
both  him  and  his  father.  He  frequently  and  easily  changed 
favourites,  to  his  great  prejudice. 

As  to  other  public  transaotions  and  unhappy  misC&rriages,  'tis 
not  here  I  intend  to  number  them  ;  but  certainly  never  had  king 
more  glorious  opportunities  to  have  made  himself,  his  people,  and 
all  Europe  happy,  and  prevented  innumerable  mischiefs,  had  not 
his  too  easy  nature  resigned  him  to  be  managed  by  crafty  men  and 
some  abandoned  and  pro&Jie  wretches,  who  corrupted  his  otherwise 
sufficient  parts,  disciplined  as  he  had  been  by  many  afflictions 
during  his  banishment,  which  gave  him  much  experience  and  know- 
ledge of  men  and  things  ;  but  those  wicked  creatures  took  him  off 
from  all  application  becoming  so  great  a  king.  The  history  of  his 
reign  will  certainly  be  the  most  wonderful  for  the  variety  of  matter 
and  accidents  above  any  extent  in  former  ages.  The  sad  tragical 
death  of  his  father ;  his  banishment  and  hardships  ;  his  miracu- 
lous restoration  ;  conspiracies  against  him  ;  parliaments ;  wars, 
plagues,  fires,  comets  ;  revolutions  abroad  happening  in  his  time, 
with  a  thousand  other  particulars.  He  was  ever  kind  to  me,  and 
very  gracious  on  all  occasions,  and  therefore  I  cannot,  without  in- 
gratitude, but  deplore  his  loss,  which  for  many  respects,  as  well  as 
duty,  I  do  with  all  my  soul, 

1  A  French  word,  meaning  easy^tempered,  which,  notwithstancUng  tho  ]>ationag9 
of  Miltou  and  othersi  has  not  been  naturalized  in  our  language. 


2.  TRIAL  OF  LORD  STAFFORD. —("  DLAJIT,'*  1680.) 

November  30ih. — This  signal  day  begun  the  trial  (at  which  I  was 
present)  of  my  Lord  Viscount  Stafford,  for  conspiring  the  death  of 
the  King.  The  trial  was  in  Westminster  Hall,  before  the  King, 
Lords,  and  Commons,  just  in  the  same  manner  as,  forty  years  past, 
the  great  and  wise  Earl  of  Strafford  (there  being  but  one  letter  dif- 
fering their  names)  received  his  trial  for  pretended  ill-government 
in  Ireland  in  the  very  same  place,  this  Lord  Stafford's  father  being 
then  High  Steward.  The  place  of  sitting  was  now  exalted  some 
considerable  height  from  the  paved  floor  of  the  hall  with  a  stage 
of  boards.  The  throne,  woolpacks  for  the  judges,  long  forms  for 
the  peers,  chair  for  the  Lord  Steward,  exactly  ranged  as  in  the 
House  of  Lords.  The  sides  on  both  hands  scaffolded  to  the  very 
roof  for  the  members  of  the  House  of  Commons.  At  the  upper 
end,  and  on  the  right  side  of  the  Kmg's  state,  was  a  box  for  his 
Majesty,  and,  on  the  left,  others  for  the  great  ladies ;  aQd  overhead 
a  gallery  for  ambassadors  and  public  ministers.  At  the  lower  end 
or  entrance  was  a  bar  and  place  for  the  prisoner,  the  Lieutenant  of 
the  Tower  of  London,  the  axe-bearer  and  guards,  my  Lord  Stafford's 
two  daughters,  the  Marchioness  of  Windiester  being  one.  There 
was  likewise  a  box  for  my  Lord  to  retire  into.  At  the  right  hand, 
in  another  box  somewhat  higher,  stood  the  witnesses ;  at  the  left, 
the  managers,  in  the  name  of  the  Commons  of  England, — ^viz., 
Sergeant  Maynard  (the  great  lawyer,  the  same  who  prosecuted  the 
cause  against  the  Earl  of  Strafford  forty  years  before,  being  now 
near  eignty  years  of  age) ;  Sir  William  Jones,  late  Attorney-Gene- 
ral ;  Sir  Francis  Winnington,  a  fetmous  pleader ;  and  Mr  Treby, 
now  Recorder  of  London, — ^not  appearing  in  their  gowns  as  lawyers, 
but  in  their  cloaks  and  swords,  as  representing  the  Commons  of 
England.  To  these  were  joined  Mr  Hampden,  Mr  Sacheverell,  Mr 
Poule,  Colonel  Titus,  Sir  Thomas  Lee,  all  gentlemen  of  quality, 
and  noted  parliamentary  men.  The  two  first  days,  in  which  were 
read  the  commission  and  impeachment,  were  but  a  tedious  entrance 
into  matter  of  fact,  at  which  I  was  but  little  present.  But  on 
Thursday  I  was  commodiously  seated  amongst  the  Commons,  when 
the  witnesses  were  sworn  and  examined.  The  principal  witnesses 
were  Mr  Gates  (who  called  himself  Dr),  Mr  Dugdale,  and  Turber- 
viile.  Gates  swore  that  he  delivered  a  commission  to  Viscount 
Stafford  from  the  Pope,  to  be  Paymaster-General  to  an  army  in- 
tended to  be  raised :  Dugdale,  that  being  at  Lord  Aston's,  the  prisoner 
dealt  with  him  plainly  to  murder  his  Majesty:  and  Turberville, 
that  at  Paris  he  also  proposed  the  same  to  him. 

6*^  Decefmher,  Sir  William  Jones  summoned  up  the  evidence ; 
to  him  succeeded  all  the  rest  of  the  managers,  and  then  Mr  Henry 
Poule  made  a  vehement  oration.  After  this  my  lord,  as  on  all 
occasions,  and  often  during  the  trial,  spoke  in  his  own  defence, 
denying  the  charge  altogether,  and  that  he  had  never  seen  Gates  or 


Turberville  at  the  time  and  manner  affirmed :  in  truth,  their  testi- 
mony did  little  weigh  with  me ;  Dugdale*s  only  seemed  to  press 
hardest,  to  which  my  lord  spake  a  great  while,  but  confusedly, 
without  any  method. 

One  thing  my  lord  said  as  to  Gates,  which  I  confess  did  ex- 
ceedingly ^ect  me,  that  a  person  who,  during  his  depositions, 
should  so  Tauntingly  brag  that  though  he  went  over  to  the  Church 
of  Rome,  yet  he  was  never  a  Papist,  nor  of  their  religion,  all  the 
time  that  he  seemed  to  apostatize  from  the  Protestant,  but  only  as 
a  spy ;  though  he  confessed  he  took  their  sacrament,  worshipped 
images,  went  through  all  their  oaths  and  discipline  of  their  prose- 
lytes, swearing  secrecy  and  to  be  £a.ithful,  but  with  intent  to  come 
over  again  and  betray  them ;  that  such  an  hypocrite,  that  had  so 
deeply  prevaricated  as  even  to  turn  idolater  (for  so  we  of  the  Church 
of  England  termed  it),  attesting  God  so  solemnly  that  he  was  en- 
tirely theirs,  and  devoted  to  their  interest,  and,  consequently  (as  he 
pretended),  trusted ;  I  say,  that  the  witness  of  such  a  proni^to 
wretch  should  be  admitted  against  the  life  of  a  peer, — ^this  my  lord 
looked  upon  as  a  monstrous  thing,  and  such  as  must  needs  redound 
to  the  dishonour  of  our  religion  and  nation.  And,  verily,  I  am  of 
his  lordship's  opinion ;  such  a  man's  testimony  should  not  be  taken 
against  the  life  of  a  dog.  But  the  merit  of  something  material 
vmich  he  discovered  against  Coleman  put  him  in  such  esteem  with 
the  Parliament,  that  now,  I  fancy,  he  stuck  at  nothing,  and  thought 
eveiybody  was  to  take  what  he  said  for  gospeL  The  consideration 
of  this,  and  some  other  circumstances,  began  to  stagger  me,  par- 
ticularly how  it  was  possible  that  one  who  went  amon^  the  Papists 
on  such  a  design,  and  pretended  to  be  entrusted  with  so  many 
letters  and  commissions  from  the  Pope  and  the  party,  nay,  and 
delivered  them  to  so  many  great  persons,  should  not  reserve  one  of 
them  to  show,  nor  so  much  as  one  copy  of  any  commission,  which 
he  who  had  such  dexterity  in  opening  letters  might  certainly  have 
done,  to  the  undeniable  conviction  of  those  whom  he  accused ;  but, 
as  I  said,  he  gained  credit  on  Coleman ;  but,  as  to  others  whom  he 
so  madly  flew  upon,  I  am  little  inclined  to  believe  his  testimony, 
he  being  so  sli^t  a  person,  so  passionate,  so  ill-bred,  and  of  such 
impudent  behaviour ;  nor  is  it  likely  that  such  piercing  politicians 
as  the  Jesuits  should  trust  him  with  so  high  and  so  dangerous 

7th.  On  Tuesday  I  was  again  at  the  trial,  when  judgment  was 
demanded ;  and  after  my  lord  had  spoken  what  he  could  in  deny- 
ing the  fact,  the  managers  answermg  the  objections,  the  peers 
adjourned  to  their  House,  and  within  two  hours  returned  again. 
There  was  in  the  meantime  this  question  put  to  the  judges, 
"  Whether,  there  being  but  one  witness  to  any  single  mme  or  act, 
it  could  amount  to  convict  a  man  of  treason?"  They  gave  an 
unanimous  opinion,  that  in  case  of  treason  they  all  were  overt  acts ; 
for  though  no  man  should  be  condemned  by  one  witness  for  any 
one  act,  yet  for  several  acts  to  the  same  intent  it  was  valid ;  whidb 


was  my  lord's  case.  This  being  past,  and  the  peers  in  their  seats 
again,  the  Lord  Chancellor  Finch  (this  day  the  Lord  High  Steward) 
removing  to  the  woolsack  next  his  Majesty's  state,  after  summoning 
the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower  to  bring  forth  his  prisoner,  and  procla- 
mation made  for  silence,  demanded  of  every  peer  (who  were  in  all 
eighty-six)  whether  William,  Lord  Viscount  Stafford,  were  guilty  of 
the  treason  laid  to  his  charge,  or  not  guilty. 

Then  the  peer  spoken  to  standing  up,  and  laying  his  right  hand 
upon  his  breast,  said  Guilty,  or  Not  Guilty,  upon  my  honour,  and 
then  sat  down,  the  Lord  Steward  notiag  their  suffrages  as  they 
answered  upon  a  paper  :  when  all  had  done,  the  number  of  Not 
Guilty  being  but  31,  the  Guilty  55,  and  then  after  proclamation 
for  silence  again,  the  Lord  Steward  directing  his  speedi  to  the  pri- 
soner, against  whom  the  axe.  was  turned  edgeways,  and  not  before, 
in  aggravation  of  his  crime,  he  being  ennobled  by  the  king's  father, 
and  since  received  many  favours  from  his  present  Majesty  (after  en- 
larging on  his  offence),  deploring  first  his  own  unhappiness  that  he 
who  had  never  condenmed  any  man  before  should  now  be  necessitated 
to  begin  with  him  ;  he  then  pronounced  sentence  of  death,  by  hang- 
ing, iawing,  and  quartering,  according  to  form,  with  great  solemnity 
and  dreadful  gravity ;  and,  after  a  short  pause,  told  the  prisoner 
that  he  believed  tho  Lords  would  intercede  for  the  omission  of 
some  circumstances  of  his  sentence,  beheading  only  excepted ;  and 
then  breaking  his  white  staff,  the  Court  was  dissolved.  My  Lord 
Stafford  during  all  this  latter  part  spake  but  little,  and  only  gave 
their  Lordships  thanks  after  the  sentence  was  pronounced;  and 
indeed  behaved  himself  modestly,  and  as  became  him. 

It  was  observed  that  all  his  own  relations  of  his  name  and  £Eimily 
condemned  him,  except  his  nephew,  the  Earl  of  Anmdel,  son  to  the 
Duke  of  Norfolk.  And  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  the  whole 
trial  was  carried  on  with  exceeding  gravity :  so  stately  and  august 
an  appearance  I  had  never  seen  before  ;  for,  besides  the  innumerable 
spectators  of  gentlemen  and  foreign  ministers  who  saw  and  heard  all 
the  proceedings,  the  prisener  had  the  consciences  of  all  the  Com- 
mons of  England  for  his  accusers,  and  all  the  Peers  to  be  his  judges 
and  jury.  He  had  likewise  the  assistance  of  what  counsel  he  womd, 
to  direct  him  in  his  plea,  who  stood  by  him.  And  yet  I  can  hardly 
think  that  a  person  of  his  age  and  experience  should  engage  men 
whom  he  never  saw  before  (and  one  of  them  that  came  to  visit  him 
as  a  stranger  at  Paris)  point  blank  to  murder  the  King :  Grod  only 
who  searches  hearts  can  discover  the  truth.  Lord  Stafford  was  not 
a  man  beloved,  espedaUy  of  his  own  family. 


Sib  William  Temple  was  bom  in  London  in  1628.  His  father 
held  an  important  law  office  in  the  reigns  of  Charles  I.  and  II.,  and 
yoimg  Temple  of  course  enjoyed  every  advantage  in  his  education. 


He  stndied  at  Cambridge,  the  famons  GudwArth  being  his  tator ;  and 
after  finishing  his  college  career,  travelled  for  some  years  on  the  Gon« 
tinent,  with  the  view  of  qualifying  himself,  by  a  knowledge  of  foreign 
affairs,  for  some  political  appointment.  After  the  Restoration  he  was 
employed  by  Charles  II.  in  some  important  diplomatic  transactions, 
which  he  managed  skilfully  and  successfully,  especially  the  famous 
Triple  Alliance,  which  formed  for  the  time  so  effectual  an  obstacle  to 
the  ambition  of  France.  The  high  reputation  which  he  thus  acquired 
induced  Charles  to  consult  him  in  the  difficulties  which  beset  the 
termination  of  his  reign ;  and  William  of  Orange,  who  had  known 
Temple  in  Holland,  also  condescended  to  ask  his  advice  in  the  ad- 
ministration of  public  affairs ;  and  thus,  without  ever  holding  any  im- 
portant office.  Temple  exercised  a  very  considerable  influence  on  the 
politics  of  his  time.  He  died  in  1699.  His  works  are  mostly  short, 
his  "  Observations  on  the  Netherlands  "  being  the  longest.  Among 
the  others  are  his  Essays  on  Gardening,  Poetry,  Heroic  Virtue,  and 
Ancient  and  Modem  Learning.  They  display  considerable  shrewd- 
ness and  sagacity,  and  great  power  of  observation,  but  are  not  other- 
wise remarkable.  His  style  has  been  often  commended  for  its 
elegance  and  musical  cadence,  but  this  praise  seems  to  have  been 
much  exaggerated,  as  there  are  several  of  his  contemporaries  who  in 
these  respects  unquestionably  excel  him. 


There  is  a  sort  of  variety  amongst  us  which  arises  from  our 
climate,  and  the  dispositions  it  naturally  produces.  We  are  not 
only  more  unlike  one  another  than  any  nation  1  know,  but  we  are 
more  unlike  ourselves  too  at  several  times,  and  owe  to  our  very  air 
some  ill  qualities  as  well  as  good.  We  may  allow  some  distempers 
incident  to  our  climate,  since  so  much  health,  vigour,  and  lengtii  of 
life  have  been  generally  ascribed  to  it ;  for,  among  the  Greek  and 
Koman  authors  themselves,  we  shall  find  the  Britons  observed  to 
live  the  longest,  and  the  Egyptians  the  shortest  of  any  nations  that 
were  knovm  in  those  ages.  Besides,  I  think  none  will  dispute  the 
native  courage  of  our  men  and  beauty  of  our  women,  which  may 
be  elsewhere  as  great  in  particulars,  but  nowhere  so  in  general ; 
they  may  be  (what  is  said  of  diseases)  as  acute  in  other  places,  but 
with  us  they  are  epidemical.  For  my  own  part,  who  have  conversed 
much  with  men  of  other  nations,  and  such  as  have  been  both  in 
great  employments  and  esteem,  I  can  say  very  impartially,  that  I 
have  not  observed  among  any  so  much  true  genius  as  among  the 
English ;  nowhere  more  sharpness  of  wit,  more  pleasantness  of 
humour,  more  range  of  fancy,  more  penetration  of  thought,  or  depth 
of  reflection,  among  the  better  sort ;  nowhere  more  goodness  of 
nature  and  of  meaning,  nor  more  plainness  of  sense  and  of  life,  than 
among  the  common  sort  of  country  people  ;  nor  more  blunt  courage 
And  honesty  than  among  our  seamen. 

But  with  all  this,  our  country  must  be  confessed  to  be,  what  a 
gi-eat  foreign  physician  called  it,  the  region  of  spleen ;  which  may 


arise  a  good  deal  &om  the  great  uncertainty  and  many  sadden 
changes  of  our  weather  in  all  seasons  of  the  year.  And  how  much 
these  affect  the  heads  and  hearts,  especially  of  the  finest  tempers,  is 
hard  to  be  believed  by  men  whose  thoughts  are  not  turned  to  such 
speculations.  This  makes  us  unequal  in  our  humours,  inconstant, 
in  our  passions,  uncertain  in  our  ends,  and  even  in  our  desires. 
Besides,  our  different  opinions  in  religion,  and  the  factions  they 
have  raised  or  animated  for  fifty  years  past,  have  had  an  ill  effect 
upon  our  manners  and  customs,  inducing  more  avarice,  ambition, 
disguise,  with  the  usual  consequences  of  them,  than  were  before 
in  our  constitution.  From  all  this  it  may  happen,  that  there  is 
nowhere  more  true  zeal  in  the  many  different  forms  of  devotion, 
and  yet  nowhere  more  knavery  under  the  shows  and  pretences. 
There  are  nowhere  so  many  disputes  upon  religion,  so  many 
reasoners  upon  government,  so  many  refiners  in  politics,  so  many 
curious  inquisitives,  so  many  pretenders  tq  business  and  state  em- 
ployments, greater  porers  upon  books,  nor  plodders  after  wealth ; 
and  yet  nowhere  more  abandoned  libertines,  more  refined  luxurists, 
extravagant  debauchees,  conceited  gallants,  more  dabblers  in  poetry, 
as  weU  as  politics,  in  philosophy,  and  in  chemistry.  I  have  had 
several  servants  far  gone  in  divinity,  others  in  poetry ;  have  known 
in  the  families  of  some  friends  a  keeper  deep  in  the  Bosicrucian  ^ 
principles,  and  a  laundress  firm  in  those  of  Epicurus.  What  effect 
soever  such  a  composition  or  medley  of  humours  among  us  may 
have  upon  our  lives  or  our  government,  it  must  needs  have  a  good 
one  upon  our  stage,  and  has  given  admirable  play  to  our  comical 
wits ;  so  that,  in  my  opinion,  there  is  no  vein  of  that  sort,  either 
ancient  or  modem,  which  excels  or  equals  the  humour  of  our  plays. 
And  for  the  rest,  I  cannot  but  observe,  to  the  honour  of  our  country, 
that  the  good  qualities  amongst  us  seem  to  be  natural,  and  the  ill 
ones  more  accidental,  and  such  as  would  be  easily  changed  by  the 
examples  of  princes,  and  by  the  precepts  of  laws  ;  such,  I  mean,  as 
should  be  designed  to  form  manners,  to  restrain  excesses,  to  en- 
courage industry,  to  prevent  men's  expenses  beyond  their  fortunes, 
to  countenance  virtue,  and  raise  that  tnfe  esteem  due  to  plain  sense 
and  common  honesty. 


They  must  be  confessed  to  be  the  softest  and  sweetest,  the  most 
general  and  most  innocent  amusements  of  common  ^time  and  life. 
They  still  find  room  in  the  courts  of  princes  and  the  cottages  of 
shepherds.  They  serve  to  revive  and  animate  the  dead  calm  of 
poor  or  idle  lives,  and  to  aUay  or  divert  the  violent  passions  and 
perturbations  of  the  greatest  and  busiest  of  men.  And  both  these 
effects  are  of  equal  use  to  human  life ;  for  the  mind  of  man  is  like 

>  A  sect  of  philosophers  so  called  from  Rosenkrentz  their  fonnder.  They  acqnirpd 
much  celebrity  in  the  beginning  of  the  serenteenth  ceutury,  but  thdr  dodalnes  were 
not  revealed  except  to  the  initiated* 


the  sea,  which  is  neither  agreeable  to  the  beholder  nor  to  the  voyager 
in  a  calm  or  in  a  storm,  but  is  so  to  both  when  a  little  agitated  by 
gentle  gales ;  and  so  the  mind,  when  moved  by  soft  and  easy  passions 
and  affections.  I  know  veiy  well,  that  many,  who  pretend  to  be 
wise  by  the  forms  of  being  grave,  are  apt  to  despise  both  poetry 
and  music,  as  toys  and  trifles  too  light  for  the  use  and  entertainment 
of  serious  men.  But  whoever  find  themselves  wholly  insensible  to 
these  charms,  would,  I  think,  do  well  to  keep  their  own  counsel, 
for  fear  of  reproaching  their  own  temper,  and  bringing  the  goodness 
of  their  natures,  if  not  of  their  understandings,  into  question :  it 
may  be  thought  at  least  an  ill  sign,  if  not  an  m  constitution,  since 
some  of  the  others  went  so  far  as  to  esteem  the  love  of  music  a 
sign  of  predestination,  as  a  thing  divine,  and  reserved  for  the  felici- 
ties of  heaven  itself.  While  this  world  lasts,  I  doubt  not  but  the 
pleasure  and  requests  of  these  two  entertainments  will  do  so  too, 
and  happy  those  that  content  themselves  with  these,  or  any  other 
so  easy  and  so  innocent,  and  do  not  trouble  the  world,  or  other 
men,  because  they  cannot  be  quiet  themselves,  though  nobody  hurts 

When  all  is  done,  human  life  is,  at  the  greatest  and  the  best, 
but  like  a  froward  child,  that  must  be  played  with  and  humoured 
a  little,  to  keep  it  quiet  till  it  falls  asleep,  and  then  the  care  is 


The  force  of  all  that  I  have  met  with  on  this  subject,  either  in 
talk  or  in  writing,  is,  first,  as  to  knowledge,  that  we  must  have  more 
than  the  ancients,  because  we  have  the  advantage  both  of  theirs  and 
of  our  own,  which  is  commonly  illustrated  by  the  similitude  of  a 
dwarfs  standing  upon  a  giant^s  shoulders,  and  seeing  more  and 
farther  than  he. 

Next,  as  to  wit  or  genius,  that,  nature  being  still  the  same,  these 
must  be  much  at  a  rate  in  skll  ages,  at  least  in  the  same  climates,  ris 
the  growth  and  size  of  plants  and  animals  commonly  are ;  and  if  hofh 
these  are  allowed,  they  think  the  cause  is  gained.  But  I  cannot 
teU  why  we  should  conclude  that  the  ancient  writers  had  not  as 
much  advantage  from  the  knowledge  of  others  that  were  ancient  to 
them,  as  we  have  from  those  that  are  ancient  to  us.  The  invention 
of  printing  has  not  perhaps  multiplied  books,  but  only  the  copies  of 
them ;  and  if  we  believe  there  were  six  hundred  thousand  in  the 
library  of  Ptolemy,  we  shall  hardly  pretend  to  equal  it  by  any  of 
ours — ^not,  perhaps,  by  all  put  together  ;  I  mean  so  many  originals, 
that  have  lived  any  time,  and  thereby  given  testimony  of  their 
having  been  thought  worth  preserving.    For  the  scribblers  are  in- 

1  This  Essay  gare  rise  to  one  of  the  most  ftmons  controrersies  in  onr  langoas^o  as  to 
the  comparatiye  merits  of  the  ancients  and  the  modems. 


finite,  that,  like  musluooinfl  or  flies,  are  bom  and  die  in  small  cirdos 
of  time ;  whereas  books,  Hke  proverbs,  receive  their  chief  valne  firom 
the  stamp  and  esteem  of  ages  through  which  they  have  passed. 
Besides  the  account  of  this  library  at  Alexandria,  and  others  very 
voluminous  in  the  lesser  Asia  and  Rome,  we  have  frequent  mention 
of  ancient  writers  in  many  of  those  books,  which  we  now  call 
ancient,  both  philosophers  and  historians.  'Tis  true  that,  besides 
what  we  have  in  Scripture  concerning  the  original  and  progress  of 
the  Jewish  nation,  all  that  passed  in  the  rest  of  our  world  before 
the  Trojan  War  is  either  sunk  in  the  depths  of  time,  wrapped  up  in 
the  mysteries  of  fieibles,  or  so  maimed  by  the  want  of  testimonies 
and  loss  of  authors,  that  it  appears  to  us  in  too  obscure  a  shade  to 
make  any  judgment  upon  it.  For  the  fragments  of  Manethon 
about  the  antiquities  of  Egypt,  the  relations  in  Justin  concerning 
the  Scythian  empire,  and  many  others  in  Herodotus  and  Diadorus 
Siculus,  as  well  as  the  records  of  China,  make  such  excursions 
beyond  the  periods  of  time  given  us  by  the  Holy  Scriptures,  that 
we  are  not  aUowed  to  reason  upon  them.  And  this  disagreement 
itself,  after  so  great  a  part  of  the  world  became  Christian,  may  have 
contributed  to  the  loss  of  many  ancient  authors.  For  Solomon  teUs 
us,  even  in  his  time,  of  writing  many  books  there  was  no  end ;  and 
whoever  considers  the  subject  and  the  style  of  Job,  which  by  many 
ia  thought  more  ancient  than  Moses,  will  hardly  think  it  was  written 
in  an  age  or  country  that  wanted  either  books  or  learning ;  and  yet 
lie  speaks  of  the  ancient«  then,  and  their  wisdom,  as  we  do  now. 
But  if  any  should  so  very  rashly  and  presumptuously  conclude,  that 
there  were  few  books  before  those  we  have  either  extant  or  upon 
record,  vet  that  cannot  argue  there  was  no  knowledge  or  learning 
before  tnose  periods  of  time,  whereof  they  give  us  the  short  account. 
Books  may  be  helps  to  learning  and  knowledge,  and  make  it  more 
common  and  diffused ;  but  I  doubt  whether  they  are  necessary  ones 
or  no,  or  much  advance  any  other  science,  beyond  the  particular 
records  of  actions  or  registers  of  time  ;  and  these  perhaps  might  be 
as  long  preserved  without  them,  by  the  care  and  exactness  of  tradi- 
tion in  the  long  successions  of  certain  races  of  men,  with  whom  they 
are  intrusted.  So  in  Mexioo  and  Peru,  before  the  least  use  or  men- 
tion of  letters,  there  was  remaining  among  them  the  knowledge  of 
what  had  passed  in  those  mighty  nations  and  governments  for  many 
ages.  Whereas  in  Ireland,  that  is  said  to  have  flourished  in  books 
and  learning  before  they  had  much  progress  in  Gaul  or  Brittany, 
there  are  now  hardly  any  traces  left  of  what  passed  there  before  thci 
conquest  made  of  that  country  by  the  English  in  Henry  the  Second's 
time.  A  strange  but  plain  demonstration  how  knowledge  and 
ignorance,  as  well  as  civility  and  barbarism,  may  succeed  each  other 
in  the  several  countries  of  the  world ;  how  much  better  the  records 
of  time  may  be  kept  by  tradition  in  one  country  than  by  writing  in 
another ;  and  how  much  we  owe  to  those  learned  languages  of  Greek 
and  Latin,  without  which,  for  ought  I  know,  the  world  in  all  these 
western  parts  would  hardly  be  known  to  have  been  above  five  or  six 


hundied  years  old,  nor  any  oortainty  remain  of  what  passed  in  it 
before  that  time. 

I  do  not  know  whether  the  high  flights  of  wit  and  knowledge, 
like  those  of  power  and  of  empire  in  the  world,  may  not  have  b^u 
made  by  the  pure  native  force  of  spirit  or  genius  in  some  single 
men,  rather  l^an  by  any  derived  s^ngth  among  them,  however 
increased  by  succession ;  and  whether  they  may  not  have  been  the 
achievements  of  nature  rather  than  the  improvements  of  art.  Thus 
the  conquests  of  Ninus  and  Semiramis,  of  Alexander  and  Tamerlane, 
which  I  take  to  have  been  the  greatest  recorded  in  story,  were  at 
then:  height  in  those  persons  that  began  them ;  and  so  far  from 
being  increased  by  their  successors,  that  they  were  not  preserved  in 
their  extent  and  vigour  by  any  of  them,  grew  weaker  in  every  hand 
they  passed  through,  or  were  divided  into  many  that  set  up  for 
great  princes  out  of  several  small  ruins  of  the  first  empires,  till  they 
withered  away  in  time,  or  were  lost  by  the  change  of  names,  and 
forms  of  families  or  of  governments. 

Just  the  same  fate  seems  to  have  attended  the  highest  flights  of 
learning  and  of  knowledge  that  are  upon  our  registers.  Thales, 
Pythagoras,  Democritus,  Hippocrates,  Plato,  Aristotle,  Epicurus, 
were  9ie  fbrst  mighty  conquerors  of  ignorance  in  our  world,  and 
made  greater  progresses  in  the  several  empires  of  science  than  any 
of  their  successors  have  been  since  able  to  reach.  These  have  hardly 
eve):  pretended  more  than  to  learn  what  the  others  taught,  to  re- 
member what  they  invented,  and,  not  able  to  compass  that  itself, 
they  have  set  up  for  authors  upon  some  parcels  of  those  great 
stocks,  or  else  have  contented  themselves  only  to  comment  upon 
those  texts,  and  make  the  best  copies  they  could  after  those 

I  have  long  thought  that  the  different  abilities  of  men,  which  we 
call  wisdom  or  prudence,  for  the  conduct  of  public  affairs  or  private 
life,  srow  directly  out  of  that  little  grain  of  intellect  or  good  sense 
which  they  bring  with  them  into  the  world ;  and  that  the  defect  of 
it  in  men  comes  from  some  want  in  their  conception  or  birth.  And 
though  this  may  be  improved  or  impaired  in  some  degree  by  acci- 
dents of  education,  of  study,  and  of  conversation  and  business,  yet 
it  cannot  go  beyond  the  reach  of  its  native  force,  qo  more  than  life 
can  go  beyond  the  period  to  which  it  was  destined,  by  the  strength 
or  weakness  of  the  seminal  virtue. 

If  these  speculations  should  be  true,  then  I  know  not  what 
advantages  we  can  pretend  to  modem  knowledge,  by  any  we  receive 
from  the  ancients :  nay,  'tis  possible  men  may  lose  rather  than  gain 
by  them ;  may  lessen  the  force  and  growth  of  their  own  genius,  by 
constraining  and  forming  it  upon  that  of  others ;  may  have  less 
knowledge  of  their  own,  for  contenting  himself  with  that  of  those 
before  them.  So  a  man  that  only  translates  shall  never  be  a  poet, 
nor  a  painter  that  always  copies,  nor  a  swimmer  that  swims  always 
with  bladders.  So  people  that  trust  wholly  to  others'  charity,  and 
without  industry  of  their  own,  will  be  always  poor.    Besides,  who 


can  tell  whether  learning  may  not  even  weaken  inyention  in  a  man 
that  has  great  advantages  from  nature  and  birth;  whether  the 
weight  and  number  of  so  many  other  men's  thoughts  and  notions 
may  not  suppress  his  own,  or  hinder  the  motion  and  agitation  of 
them,  from  which  all  invention  arises ;  as  heaping  on  wood,  or  too 
many  sticks,  or  too  close  together,  suppresses,  and  sometimes  quite 
extinguishes  a  little  spark,  ^t  would  otherwise  have  grown  up  to  a 
noble  flame.  The  strength  of  mind,  as  well  as  of  body,  grows  more 
from  the  warmth  of  exercise  than  of  clothes ;  nay,  too  much  of  this 
foreign  heat  rather  makes  men  £,  and  their  constitutions  tender, 
or  weaker  than  they  would  be  without  them.  Let  it  come  about 
how  it  will,  if  we  are  dwarfs,  we  are  still  so,  though  we  stand  upon 
a  giant's  shoulders ;  and  even  so  placed,  yet  we  see  less  than  he,  if 
we  are  naturally  shortnsighted,  or  if  we  do  not  look  as  much  about 
us,  or  if  we  are  dazzled  with  the  height,  which  often  happens  from 
weakness  either\)f  heart  or  brain.^ 


GiLBEBT  BuBNET  was  bom  at  Edinburgh  in  1643,  and  received  his 
education  at  the  University  of  Aberdeen.  He  officiated  for  some  time 
as  a  clergyman  in  Scotland,  but  disliking  the  tyranny  of  Lauderdale, 
he  removed  to  London,  where  he  became  famous  as  one  of  the  greatest 
pulpit  orators  of  the  day.  In  1679  he  published  the  first  volume  of 
his  "  History  of  the  Beformation  in  England,"  which  was  completed 
by  the  issue  of  a  second  volume  in  1681,  and  a  third  in  1714.  He 
had,  however,  no  prospect  of  rising  in  the  Church,  for  his  politics  were 
opposed  to  the  court,  which  he  had  mortally  offended  by  attending 
Lord  William  Eussell  to  the  place  of  execution ;  and  at  length  he 
quitted  England  and  settled  at  the  Hague,  where  he  enjoyed  the 
friendship  of  William  of  Orange.  He  took  a  prominent  share  in  the 
Kevolution,  ^nd  his  services  were  rewarded  with  the  Bishopric  of 
Salisbury  in  1689.  From  that  time  till  his  death,  he  was  unceasingly 
occupied  either  in  important  political  and  religious  transactions,  or  in 
the  assiduous  discharge  of  the  duties  of  his  diocese.  In  addition  to 
his  "  History  of  the  Beformation,"  which  is  allowed  to  have  been  com- 
piled with  great  care  and  accuracy,  and  contains  a  large  appendix  of 
valuable  documents,  he  wrote  an  "Exposition  of  the  Thirty-nine 
Articles,"  which  is  a  standard  theological  work,  and  left  for  publica- 
tion a  "  History  of  his  own  Times,"  which,  according  to  his  own 
directions,  was  not  printed  for  some  years  after  his  death.  This  last 
work  provoked  much  hostile  criticism,  and  is  peculiarly  open  to  ridi- 
cule from  the  self-importance  which  Burnet  displays  in  it,  and  which 
has  been  imitated  with  such  caustic  sarcasm  by  Pope  in  his  "  Memoirs 
of  P.  P.,  Clerk  of  this  Parish."  The  style  Is  deficient  both  in  dignity 
and  strength,  and  the  narrative  is  of  course  coloured  according  to 

'  This  Essay  yras  replied  to,  and  part  of  its  reasoning  triumphanfly  oyeithrovn  \>y 
the  famous  Bentlej.  Swift  defended  his  patron  Temple  In  his  well-known  "  Battle  of 
the  Books." 



Burnet's  own  opinions ;  still  the  work  is  highly  yalnable  from  his  per- 
sonal knowledge  of  the  events  and  characters  which  he  describes. 


BOOK  V.     1692.) 

There  was,  at  this  time,  a  very  barbarous  massacre  committed  in 
Scotland,  which  showed  both  the  cruelty  and  the  treachery  of  some 
of  those  who  had  unhappily  insinuated  themselves  into  tne  king^s 
confidence.  The  Earl  of  Breadalbane  formed  a  scheme  of  quieting 
all  the  4iighlander8  if  the  king  would  give  L.12,000  or  L.15,000  for 
doing  it,  which  was  remitted  down  from  England,  and  this  was  to 
be  <&Yided  amons  the  heads  of  the  tribes  or  clans  of  the  high- 
landers.  He  employed  his  emissaries  among  them,  and  told  them 
the  best  service  they  could  do  King  James  was  to  lie  quiet,  and 
reserve  themselves  to  a  better  time ;  and  if  they  wrould  take  the 
oaths,  the  king  would  be  contented  with  that,  and  they  were  to 
have  a  share  of  the  sum  that  was  sent  down  to  buy  their  quiet :  but 
this  came  to  nothing ;  their  demands  rose  high ;  they  knew  this 
lord  had  money  to  distribute  among  them  ;  they  believed  he  in- 
tended to  keep  the  best  part  of  it  to  himself ;  so  they  asked  more 
than  he  could  give.  Among  the  most  clamorous  and  obstinate  of 
these  were  the  Macdonalds  of  Glencoe,  who  were  believed  guilty  of 
much  robbery  and  many  murders ;  and  so  had  gained  too  much  by 
their  pilfering  war  to  be  easily  brought  to  give  it  over.  The  head 
of  that  valley  had  so  particularly  provoked  Lord  Breadalbane,  that 
as  his  scheme  was  quite  defeated  by  the  opposition  that  he  raised, 
so  he  designed  a  severe  revenge.  The  king  had,  by  a  proclamation, 
oflfered  an  indenmity  to  aU  the  highlandeis  that  had  been  in  aims 
against  him,  upon  their  coming  in,  by  a  prefixed  day,  to  take  the 
oaths.  The  day  had  been  twice  or  thrice  prolonged ;  and  it  was  at 
last  carried  to  the  end  of  the  year  1691 ;  with  a  positive  threaten- 
ing of  proceeding  to  military  execution  against  such  as  should  not 
come  into  his  obedience  by  the  last  day  of  December. 

All  were  so  terrified  that  they  came  in,  and  even  that  Macdonald 
went  to  the  governor  of  Fort- William  on  the  last  of  December,  and 
offered  to  take  oaths ;  but  he,  being  only  a  military  man,  could  not 
or  would  not  tender  them,  and  Macdonald  was  forced  to  seek  for 
some  of  the  legal  magistrates  to  tender  them  to  him :  the  snows 
were  then  fallen,  so  four  or  five  days  passed  before  he  could  come 
to  a  magistrate ;  he  took  the  oaths  in  his  presence  on  the  4th 
or  6th  of  January,  when,  by  the  strictness  of  law,  be  could  claim 
no  benefit  by  it;  the  matter  was  signified  to  the  council,  and 
the  person  had  a  reprimand  for  giving  him  the  oaths  when  the  day 
was  passed. 

This  was  kept  up  from  the  king,  and  the  Earl  of  Breadalbane 
came  to  court  to  give  an  account  of  his  diligence,  and  to  bring  back 
the  money,  since  ne  could  not  do  the  service  for  which  he  had  it. 
He  informed  against  this  Macdonald  as  the  chief  person  who  had 


defeated  that  good  design ;  and  that  he  might  both  gratify  his  own 
revenge,  and  render  the  king  odious  to  all  the  highlanders,  he  pro- 
posed that  oiders  should  be  sent  for  a  militaiy  execution  on  those  of 
Glencoe.  An  instruction  was  drawn  by  the  Secretaiy  of  State,  the 
Master  of  Stair,  to  be  both  signed  and  countersigned  by  the  king 
(that  so  he  might  bear  no  part  of  the  blame,  but  that  it  might  be 
wholly  on  the  king),  that  suoh  as  had  not  taken  the  oaths  by  the 
time  limited  should  be  shut  out  of  the  benefit  of  the  indemnity,  and 
be  received  only  upon  mercy.  But  when  it  was  found  that  this 
would  not  authorize  what  was  intended,  a  second  order  was  sot  to 
be  signed  and  countersigned,  that  if  the  Glencoe  men  coiud  be 
separated  from  the  rest  of  the  highlanders,  some  examples  might  be 
made  of  them,  in  order  to  strike  terror  into  the  rest.  The  king 
signed  this  without  any  inquiry  about  it,  for  he  was  too  apt  to  sign 
papers  in  a  hurry,  without  examining  the  importance  of  them. 
Tlus  was  one  effect  of  his  slowness  in  despatching  business ;  for  as  he 
was  apt  to  suffer  things  to  run  on  till  there  was  a  great  heap  of  papers 
laid  before  him,  so  then  he  signed  them  a  little  too  precipitately.  But 
all  this  while  the  king  knew  nothing  of  Macdonald's  offering  to  take 
the  oaths  within  the  time,  nor  of  his  having  taken  them  soon  after 
it  wsa  past,  when  he  came  to  a  proper  magistrate.  As  these  orders 
were  sent  down,  the  Secretary  of  State  writ  many  letters  to  Leving- 
stoun,  who  commanded  in  Scotland,  giving  him  a  strict  charge  and 
particular  directions  for  the  execution  of  them ;  and  he  ordered  the 
passes  in  the  valley  to  be  kept,  describing  them  so  minutely  that 
the  orders  were  certainly  drawn  by  one  who  knew  the  country  welL 
He  gave  also  a  positive  direction  that  no  prisoners  should  be  taken, 
that  so  the  execution  might  be  as  terrible  as  was  possible.  He 
pressed  this  upon  Levingstoun,  with  strains  of  vehemence,  that 
looked  as  if  there  was  something  more  than  ordinary  in  it :  he,  in- 
deed, grounded  it  on  his  zeal  for  the  king's  service,  adding,  that  such 
rebels  and  murderers  should  be  made  examples  ot 

In  February  a  company  was  sent  to  Glencoe,  who  were  kindly 
received  and  quartered  over  ^e  valley,  the  inhabitants  thinking 
themselves  safe,  and  looking  for  no  hostUities :  after  they  had  staid  a 
week  among  them,  they  took  their  time  in  the  night,  and  killed 
about  six  and  thirty  of  them,  the  rest  taking  the  alarm  and  escaping ; 
this  raised  a  mighty  outcry,  and  was  published  by  the  French  in 
their  gazettes,  and  by  the  Jacobites  in  their  libels,  to  cast  a  reproach 
on  the  king^s  government  as  cruel  and  barbarous,  though  in  all 
other  instances  it  had  appeared  that  his  own  inclinations  were 
gentle  and  mild  rather  to  an  excess.  The  king  sent  orders  to 
inquire  into  the  matter;  but  when  the  letters,  writ  upon  this 
business,  were  all  examined,  which  I  myself  read,  it  appeared  that 
so  many  were  involved  in  the  matter,  that  the  kings  gentleness 
prevailed  on  him  to  a  fault,  and  he  contented  himself  with  dismissing 
only  the  Master  of  Stair  from  his  service.  The  highlanders  were  so 
inflamed  with  this,  that  they  weru  put  in  as  forward  a  disposition 
as  the  Jacobites  could  wish  for,  to  have  rebelled  upon  the  first 

212  BISHOP  BtntNET. 

feyourable  oppoitunity ;  and,  indeed,  the  not  punishing  this  with 
a  due  ngonr  was  the  greatest  blot  in  this  whole  reign,  and  had  a 
very  ill  effect  in  alienating  that  nation  from  the  king  and  his 

"  fflSTORT  OF  MT  OWN  TIMES.") 

I  have  had  the  honour  to  be  admitted  to  much  free  conyersation 
with  five  of  our  soyereigns.  King  Charles  II.,  King  James  II.,  King 
William  III.,  Queen  Mary,  and  Queen  Anne.  King  Charles's 
behayiour  was  a  thing  never  enough  to  be  commended ;  he  was  a 
perfectly  well-bred  man,  easy  of  access,  free  in  his  discourse,  and 
sweet  in  his  whole  deportment ;  this  was  managed  with  gr^t  art, 
and  it  covered  bad  designs ;  it  was  of  such  use  to  him,  that  it  may 
teach  all  succeeding  princes  of  what  advantage  an  easiness  of  access 
and  an  obliging  li^haviour  may  be;  this  preserved  him;  it  often 
disarmed  those  resentments  which  his  ill  conduct  in  everything, 
both  public  and  private,  possessed  all  thinking  people  with  very 
early,  and  aU  sorts  of  people  at  last ;  and  yet  none  could  go  to  him, 
but  they  were  in  a  great  measure  softened  before  they  left  him ;  it 
looked  Uke  a  charm  that  could  hardly  be  resisted ;  yet  there  was  no 
good  nature  under  that,  nor  was  there  any  truth  in  him.  King 
James  had  great  application  to  business,  though  without  a  right 
understanding ;  that  application  gave  him  a  reputation,  till  he  took 
care  to  throw  it  off ;  if  he  had  not  come  alter  King  Charles,  he  would 
have  passed  for  a  prince  of  a  sweet  temper,  and  easy  of  access. 
King  William  was  the  reverse  of  all  this ;  he  was  scarce  accessible, 
and  was  always  cold  and  silent ;  he  minded  affiiirs  abroad  so  much, 
and  was  so  set  on  the  war,  that  he  scarce  thought  of  his  government 
at  home ;  this  raised  a  general  disgust,  which  was  improved  by  men 
of  ill  designs,  so  that  it  perplexed  all  his  afiairs,  and  he  could  scarce 
support  himself  at  home,  whilst  he  was  the  admiration  of  all  abroad. 
Queen  Mary  was  afi^ble,  cheerful,  and  lively,  spoke  much,  and 
yet  under  great  reserves,  minded  business,  and  came  to  understand 
it  well ;  she  kept  close  to  rules,  chiefly  to  those  set  her  by  the  king, 
and  she  charmed  all  that  came  near  her.  Queen  Anne  is  easy  of 
access,  and  hears  everything  v^ry  gently ;  but  opens  herself  to  so 
few,  and  is  so  cold  and  general  in  her  answers,  that  people  soon 
find  that  the  chief  application  is  to  be  made  to  her  ministers  and 
£a,vourites,  who,  in  their  turns,  have  an  entire  credit  and  full  power 
with  her ;  she  has  laid  down  the  splendour  of  a  court  too  much,  and 
eats  privately ;  so  that,  except  on  Sundays,  and  a  few  hours  twice 
or  thrice  a-week  at  night  in  the  drawing-room,  she  appears  so  little, 
that  her  court  is  as  it  were  abandoned.  But  of  all  these  princes* 
conduct,  and  from  their  successes  in  their  affairs,  it  is  evident  what 
ought  to  be  the  measures  of  a  wise  and  good  prince,  who  would 
govern  the  nation  happily  and  gloriously. 


The  first,  the  most  essential,  and  most  indispensable  rule  for  a 
king  is,  to  study  the  interest  of  the  nation,  to  be  ever  in  it,  and  to 
be  always  pursuing  it :  this  will  lay  in  for  him  such  a  degree  of 
confidence,  that  he  will  be  ever  safe  with  his  people  when  they  feel 
they  are  safe  in  him.  No  part  of  our  story  shows  this  more  visibly 
than  Queen  Elizabeth's  reign,  in  which  the  true  interest  of  the 
nation  was  constantly  pursu^ ;  and  this  was  so  well  understood  by 
all,  that  everything  else  was  forgiven  her  and  her  ministers  both. 
Sir  Simon  d'Ewe's  journal  shows  a  treatment  of  pariiament  that 
could  not  have  been  borne  at  any  other  time,  or  under  any  other 
administration.  This  was  the  constant  support  of  King  William's 
reign,  and  continues  to  support  the  present  reign,^  as  itwiQ  support 
all  who  adhere  steadily  to  it 

A  prince  that  would  command  the  affections  and  purses  of  this 
nation,  must  not  study  to  stretch  his  prerogative,  or  be  uneasy 
under  the  restraints  of  law.  As  soon  as  this  humour  shows  itself, 
he  must  expect  that  a  jealousy  of  him,  and  an  uneasy  opposition  to 
him,  will  follow  through  the  whole  course  of  his  reign ;  whereas,  if 
he  governs  well,  parliaments  will  trust  him  as  much  as  a  wise  prince 
wo^d  desire  to  be  trusted,  and  wiU  supply  him  in  every  war  that  is 
necessary,  either  for  their  own  preservation  or  the  preservation  of 
those  allies  with  whom  mutual  interests  and  leagues  unite  him ;  but 
though,  soon  after  the  Bestoration,  a  slavish  Parliament  supported 
King  Charles  in  the  Dutch  war,  yet  the  nation  must  be  strangely 
changed  before  anythmg  of  that  sort  can  happen  again. 



He  had  a  thin  and  weak  body,  was  brown-haired,  and  of  a  clear 
and  delicate  constitution.  He  had  a  Roman  eagle  nose,  bright  and 
sparkling  eyes,  a  large  front,  and  a  countenance  composed  to  ^»vity 
and  authority.  All  his  senses  were  critical  and  exquisite.  He  was 
always  asthinatical ;  and  the  dregs  of  the  small-pox  fedling  on  his 
lungs,  he  had  a  constant  deep  cough.  His  behaviour  was  solemn 
and  serious,  seldom  cheerful,  and  but  with  a  few.  He  spoke  little, 
and  very  slowly,  and  most  commonly  with  a  disgusting  dryness, 
which  was  his  character  at  all  times,  except  in  a  day  of  battle ;  for 
then  he  was  all  fire,  though  without  passion.  He  was  then  every- 
where, and  looked  to  evei^hing.  He  had  no  great  advantage  from 
his  education.  De  Witt's  discourses  were  of  great  use  to  him ;  and 
he,  being  apprehensive  of  the  observation  of  those  who  were  looking 
narrowly  into  everything  he  said  or  did,  had  brought  himself  under 
a  habitual  caution  that  he  could  never  shake  off,  though,  iq  another 
sense,  it  proved  as  hurtful  as  it  was  then  necessary  to  his  affairs. 
He  spoke  Duteh,  French,  English,  and  German  equally  well ;  and 
he  understood  the  Latin,  Spanish,  and  Italian ;  so  that  he  was  well 

1  lliis  WM  written  in  th»  reign  of  Qaeeu  Anne. 


fitted  to  command  armies  composed  of  seyeral  nations.  He  had  a 
memoiy  that  amazed  all  about  him,  for  it  never  failed  him.  He 
was  an  exact  observer  of  men  and  things.  His  strength  lay  rather 
in  a  tme  discerning  and  sonnd  judgment  than  in  imagination  or  in- 
vention. His  designs  were  always  great  and  good;  but  it  was 
thought  he  trusted  too  much  to  that,  and  that  he  did  not  descend 
enough  to  the  humours  of  his  people  to  make  himself  and  his  notions 
more  acceptable  to  them.  This,  m  a  government  that  has  so  much 
of  freedom  in  it  as  ours,  was  more  necessary  than  he  was  inclined  to 
believe.  His  reservedness  grew  on  him ;  so  that  it  disgusted  most 
of  those  who  served  him.  But  he  had  observed  the  errors  of  too 
much  talking  more  than  those  of  too  cold  a  silence.  He  did  not 
like  contradiction,  nor  to  have  his  actions  censured ;  but  he  loved 
to  employ  and  &vour  those  who  had  the  arts  of  complaisance ;  yet 
he  did  not  love  flatterers.  His  genius  lay  chiefly  in  war,  in  which 
his  courage  was  more  admired  than  his  conduct.  Great  errors  were 
often  committed  by  him ;  but  his  heroical  courage  set  things  right, 
as  it  inflamed  those  who  were  about  him.  He  was  too  lavish  of 
money  on  some  occasions,  both  in  his  buildings  and  to  his  favour- 
ites ;  but  too  sparing  in  rewarding  services,  or  in  encouraging  those 
who  brought  intelligence.  He  was  apt  to  take  ill  impressions  of 
people,  and  these  stuck  long  with  him ;  but  he  never  carried  them 
to  indecent  revenges.  He  gave  too  much  way  to  his  own  humour 
almost  in  everything,  not  excepting  that  which  related  to  his  own 
health.  He  knew  all  foreign  affairs  well,  and  understood  the  state 
of  every  court  in  Europe  very  particularly.  He  instructed  his  own 
ministers  himself;  but  he  did  not  apply  enough  to  affairs  at  home. 
He  believed  the  truth  of  the  Christian  religion  very  firmly,  and  he 
expressed  a  horror  of  atheism  and  blasphemy;  and  though  there 
was  much  of  both  in  his  court,  yet  it  was  always  denied  to  him  and 
kept  out  of  his  sight  He  was  most  exemplarily  decent  and  devout 
in  the  public  exercises  of  the  worship  of  God ;  only  on  week-days 
he  came  too  seldom  to  them.  He  was  an  attentive  hearer  of  ser- 
mons, and  was  constant  in  his  private  prayers  and  in  reading  the 
Scriptures ;  and  when  he  spoke  of  religious  matters,  which  be  did 
not  often,  it  was  with  a  becoming  gravity.  His  indifference  as  to 
the  forms  of  church  government,  and  his  being  zealous  for  tolera- 
tion, together  with  his  cold  behaviour  towards  the  clergy,  gave  them 
generally  very  ill  impressions  of  him.  In  his  deportment  towards 
all  about  him,  he  seemed  to  make  Httle  distinction  between  the 
good  and  the  bad,  and  those  who  served  well  or  those  who  served 
him  ilL  He  loved  the  Dutch,  and  was  much  beloved  among  them ; 
but  the  ill  returns  he  met  from  the  English  nation,  their  jealousies 
of  him,  and  their  perverseness  towards  him,  had  too  much  soured 
his  mind,  and  had  in  a  great  measure  alienated  him  from  them, 
which  he  did  not  take  care  enough  to  conceal,  though  he  saw  the  iU 
effects  this  had  on  his  business.  He  grew,  in  his  last  years,  too 
remiss  and  careless  as  to  all  affairs,  till  the  treacheries  of  France 
awakened  him,  and  the  dreadful  ooi^unction  of  the  monarchies  gave 


80  loud  an  alarm  to  all  Europe ;  for  a  watching  over  that  court,  and 
a  bestirring  himself  against  their  practices,  was  the  prevailing  pas- 
sion of  his  whole  life.  Few  men  had  the  art  of  conceaUog  and 
governing  pMsioni,  more  than  he  had;  yet  few  men  had  stronger 
passions,  which  were  seldom  felt  but  by  inferior  servants,  to  whom 
he  usually  made  such  recompences  for  any  sudden  or  indecent  vents 
he  might  give  his  anger,  that  they  were  glad  at  every  time  that  it 
broke  upon  them.  He  was  too  easy  to  the  faults  of  those  about 
him  when  they  did  not  lie  in  his  own  way  or  cross  any  of  his 
designs,  and  he  was  so  apt  to  think  that  his  ministers  might  grow 
insoSS  if  they  should  ^d  that  they  had  much  creditl^th^ 
that  he  seemed  to  have  made  it  a  maxim  to  let  them  often  feel  how 
little  power  they  had,  even  in  small  matters.  His  favourites  had  a 
more  entire  power ;  but  he  accustomed  them  only  to  inform  him  of 
things,  but  to  be  spanng  in  ofiering  advice,  except  when  it  was 
asked.  I  had  occasion  to  know  him  well,  having  observed  him  very 
carefully  in  a  course  of  sixteen  years.  I  had  a  large  measure  of  his 
favour,  and  a  free  access  to  him  all  the  while,  tnough  not  at  all 
times  to  the  same  degree.  The  freedom  that  I  used  with  him  was 
not  always  acceptable ;  but  he  saw  that  I  served  him  faithfully,  so 
that,  after  some  intervals  of  coldness,  he  always  returned  to  a  good 
measure  of  confidence  in  me.  I  was  in  many  great  instances  much 
obliged  by  him ;  but  that  was  not  my  chief  bias  towards  him.  I 
considered  him  as  a  person  raised  up  by  Grod  to  resist  the  power  of 
France,  and  the  progress  of  tyranny  and  persecution.  After  all  the 
abatements  that  may  be  allowed  for  his  errors  and  faults,  he  ought 
still  to  be  reckoned  among  the  greatest  princes  that  our  history,  or 
indeed  that  of  any  other  country,  can  afford.^ 


Dryden  was  bom  at  Aldwinkle,  in  Northamptonshire,  in  1631.  He 
was  educated  at  Westminster  School  under  the  famous  Busby,  and 
afterwards  removed  to  Cambridge,  where,  without  making  a  brilliant 
figure,  he  acquired  a  respectable  amount  of  scholarship.  His  first 
pubUshed  work  was  a  copy  of  highly  laudatory  verses  on  the  death  of 
Cromwell ;  but,  changing  his  opinions,  he,  at  the  Bestoration,  cele- 
brated the  return  of  Charles  IL,  in  a  poem  entitled  "  AstrsBa  Redux  ;** 
and  from  that  time  to  the  end  of  his  Hfe,  his  fertUe  pen  issued  poems, 
plays,  and  translations  in  rapid  and  almost  uninterrupted  succession. 
On  the  death  of  Davenant,  he  was  created  by  Charles  Poet-Laureate,  a 
dignity  which  he  enjoyed  till  the  Revolution,  when,  having  become  a 
Papist  to  please  James,  he  was  removed  by  the  Prince  of  Orange. 
Deprived  of  his  pecuniary  resources,  he  was  again  left  to  support  him- 
self by  his  pen,  and  he  continued  occupied  in  literary  labour  tUl  his 
death  in  1701.    As  a  poet,  Dryden  is  one  of  the  greatest  names  in 

1  The  reader  wonld  do  well  to  compare  this  character  of  William,  sketched  from 
penonal  knowledge,  with  that  quoted  from  Macaulay  in  a  subsequent  part  of  the  book. 

216  JOHN  DRTDEN'. 

our  literature ;  and  Ida  peculiar  merits  are  happily,  and  on  the  wholo 
justly,  summed  up  by  Pope  in  his  well-known  lines  :— 

"Waller  was  smooth,  bnt  Dryden  taoRht  tojoin 
The  yarying  Terse,  the  (till  resounding  Une, 
The  long  nu^lestic  march,  and  energy  divlxM.** 

His  works  are  too  numerous  to  be  specified;  but  the  chief  are, 
"Astrsea  Redux,"  "Annus  Mirabilis,"  the  "Fables,"  the  "Hind 
and  Panther,"  "  Ode  on  St  Gecilia*s  Day,"  "  Absalom  and  Achitho- 
phel," — his  translations,  of  which  his  "  Virgil "  is  the  best,  and  his 
dramatic  works,  of  which  "Don  Sebastian"  and  the  "Spanish 
Friar"  are  considered  the  finest.  His  prose  works  consist  of  the 
introductions  to  his  poems,  and  are  chiefly  remarkable  as  the  first 
attempt  in  the  language  to  reduce  criticism  to  a  science ;  and  though 
that  science  has  made  great  progress  since  Dryden's  day,  yet  the 
liyeliness  of  his  style  and  the  general  truth  of  his  remarks  will 
always  prevent  these,  the  earliest  of  our  critical  essays,  from  falling 
into  obliyion. 

1.  COMPAItlSOK  OF  yniQIL  Aim  HOMER. 

In  the  works  of  Yiigil  and  Homer,  we  may  read  theif  maimers 
and  natural  inclinations,  which  are  wholly  difierent.  Virgil  was  of 
a  quiet,  sedate  temper ;  Homer  was  violent,  impetuous,  and  full  of 
fire.  The  chief  talent  of  Virgil  was  propriety  of  thoughts,  and 
ornament  of  words :  Homer  was  rapid  in  his  thoughts,  and  took  all 
the  liberties,  both  of  numbers  and  of  expression,  wmch.  his  language 
and  the  age  in  which  he  lived  allowed  bun.  Homer's  invention  was 
more  copious,  Virgil's  more  confined ;  so  that  if  Homer  had  not  led 
the  way,  it  was  not  in  Virgil  to  have  begun  heroic  poetry:  for 
nothing  can  be  more  evident,  than  that  the  Koman  poem  is  but  the 
second  part  of  the  "  Iliad,"  a  contiauation  of  the  same  story,  and  the 
persons  already  formed ;  the  manners  of  iSneas  are  those  of  Hector, 
superadded  to  those  which  Homer  gave  him.  The  adventures  of 
Ulysses  in  the  "  Odyssey"  are  imitated  in  the  first  six  books  of 
Vii^^'s  "iOineid:"  and  though  the  accidents  are  not  the  same 
(which  would  have  argued  him  of  servile  copying  and  total  barren- 
ness of  invention),  yet  the  seas  were  the  same  in  which  both  the 
heroes  wandered;  and  Dido  cannot  be  denied  to  be  the  poetical 
daughter  of  Calypso.  The  six  latter  books  of  Virgil's  poem  are 
the  four-and-twenty  Iliads  contracted:  a  quarrel  occasioned  by  a 
lady,  a  single  combat,  battles  fought,  and  a  town  besieged.  I  say 
not  this  in  derogation  to  Virgil,  neither  do  I  contradict  anything 
which  I  have  formerly  said  in  lus  just  praise :  for  his  episodes  are 
almost  wholly  of  his  own  invention ;  and  the  form  which  he  has 
given  to  the  telling  makes  the  tale  his  own,  even  though  the 
original  story  had  been  the  same.  But  this  proves,  however,  that 
Homer  taught  Virgil  to  design ;  and,  if  invention  be  the  first  virtue 
of  an  epic  poet,  then  the  Latin  poem  can  only  be  allowed  the  second 
place.    Mr  Hobbes,  in  the  ^lefa/ce  to  his  own  bald  translation  of 

OHAUCBB.  217 

ihe  ^'  Iliad"  (stadying  poetry,  as  he  did  mathematics,  when  it  was 
too  late),  Mr  Hobbes,  I  say,  begins  the  praise  of  Homer  where  he 
should  have  ended  it  He  tells  us,  that  the  first  beauty  of  an  epio 
poem  consists  in  diction,  that  is,  in  the  choice  of  words  and  har- 
mony of  numbers :  now,  the  words  are  the  colouring  of  the  work, 
whidi,  in  the  order  of  nature,  is  the  last  to  be  considered.  The 
design,  the  disposition,  the  manners,  and  the  thoughts,  are  all  before 
it:  where  an^  of  these  are  wanting,  or  imprfect,  so  much  wants  or 
is  imperfect  m  the  imitation  of  human  life,  which  is  the  very  de- 
finition of  a  poem.  Words,  indeed,  like  glariDg  colours,  are  the 
first  beauties  that  arise  and  strike  the  sight ;  but  if  the  draught  be 
false  or  lame,  the  figures  ill-disposed,  the  manners  obscure  or  mcon- 
sistent,  or  the  thoughts  unnatural,  then  the  finest  colours  are  but 
daubing,  and  the  piece  is  a  beautiful  monster  at  the  best.  Neither 
Virgil  nor  Homer  were  deficient  in  any  of  the  former  beauties ;  but 
in  uiis  last,  which  is  expression,  the  Roman  poet  is  at  least  equal 
to  the  Grecian,  supplying  the  poverty  of  his  language  by  his  musical 
ear  and  lus  diligence.  But  to  return :  our  two  great  poets,  being 
so  different  in  their  tempers,  one  choleric  and  sanguine,  the  other 
phlegmatic  and  melancholic,  that  which  makes  them  excel  in  their 
several  ways  is,  that  each  has  followed  his  own  natural  inclination, 
as  well  in  forming  the  design  as  in  the  execution  of  it  The  very 
heroes  show  their  authors ;  Achilles  is  hot,  impatient,  revengeful ; 
.tineas  patient,  considerate,  careful  of  his  people,  merciful  to  his 
enemies,  and  ever  submissive  to  the  will  of  Heaven.  I  could 
please  myself  with  enlarging  on  this  subject,  but  I  am  forced  to 
defer  it  to  a  future  time.  From  all  I  ha^e  said,  I  will  only  draw 
this  inference,  that  the  action  of  Homer,  being  more  full  of  vigour 
than  that  of  Virgil,  according  to  the  temper  of  the  writer,  is  of  con- 
sequence more  pleasing  to  the  reader.  One  warms  you  by  degrees ; 
the  other  sets  you  on  fire  aU  at  once,  and  never  intermits  his  heat 
It  is  the  same  difference  which  Longinus  makes  betwixt  the  effects 
of  eloquence  in  Demosthenes  and  ^IXilly.  One  persuades,  the  other 
commands.  Ton  never  cool  while  you  read  Homer,  not  even  in  the 
second  book  (a  graceful  flattery  to  his  coimtrymen) ;  but  he  hastens 
from  the  ships,  and  concludes  not  that  book  till  he  has  made  you 
amends  by  the  violent  playing  of  a  new  machine.  From  thence  he 
hurries  on  his  action  with  variety  of  events,  and  ends  it  in  less 
compass  than  two  months. 


As  he  is  the  fEkther  of  English  poetry,  so  I  hold  hun  in  the  same 
degree  of  veneration  as  the  Grecians  held  Homer,  or  the  Komans 
Virgil :  he  is  a  perpetual  fountain  of  good  sense ;  learned  in  all 
sciences;  and,  therefore,  speaks  propeny  on  all  subjects:  as  he 
knew  what  to  say,  so  he  knows  also  when  to  leave  off;  a  continence 
which  is  practised  by  few  writers,  and  scarcely  by  any  of  the  an- 


cients,  excepting  Viigil  and  Hoiaoe.  Chaucer  followed  nature  ereiy- 
where ;  but  was  never  so  bold  as  to  go  beyond  her. 

The  Terse  of  Chaucer,  I  confess,  is  not  harmonious  to  us ;  but  it 
is  like  the  eloquence  of  one  whom  Tacitus  commends,  it  was  suited 
to  the  ears  of  his  time ;  they  who  liyed  with  him,  and  some  time 
after  him,  thought  it  musical ;  and  it  continues  so  even  in  our  judg- 
ment, if  compuned  with  the  numbers  of  Lidgate  and  Oower,  ms 
contemporaries :  there  is  the  rude  sweetness  of  a  Scotch  tune  in  it, 
which  IS  natural  and  pleasing,  though  not  perfect.  It  is  true,  I 
cannot  go  so  fe^  as  he  who  published  the  last  edition  of  him;  for 
he  would  make  us  belieye  the  fault  is  in  our  eais,^  and  that 
there  were  really  ten  syllables  in  a  yerse  where  we  find  but  nine ; 
but  this  opinion  is  not  worth  confuting ;  it  is  so  gross  and  obvious 
an  error,  that  common  sense,  which  is  a  rule  in  eyeiything  but 
matters  of  faith  and  revelation,  must  conviace  the  reader,  that 
equality  of  numbers  in  every  verse,  which  we  call  heroic,  was  either 
not  known  or  not  always  practised  in  Chaucer^s  age.  It  were  an 
easy  matter  to  produce  some  thousands  of  his  verses  which  are 
lame  for  want  of  half  a  foot,  and  sometimes  a  whole  one,  and  which 
no  pronunciation  can  make  otherwise.  We  can  only  say,  that  he 
lived  in  the  infemcy  of  our  poetry,  and  that  nothing  is  brought  to 
perfection  at  the  first  We  must  be  children  before  we  grow  men. 
There  was  an  Ennius,  and,  in  process  of  time,  a  Lucilius  and  a 
Lucretius,  before  Virgil  and  Horace ;  even  after  Chaucer,  there  was 
a  Spencer,  a  Hamngton,  a  FairfiEix,  before  Waller  and  Denham 
were  in  being;  and  our  numbers  were  in  their  nonage  till  these  last 

Chaucer  must  have  been  a  man  of  a  most  wonderfal  comprehen- 
sive nature,  because,  as  it  has  been  truly  observed  of  him,  he  has 
taken  into  the  compass  of  his  "Canterbuiy  Tales"  the  various 
manners  and  humours  (as  we  now  call  them)  of  the  whole  English 
nation  in  his  age.  Not  a  single  character  has  escaped  him.  All 
his  pilgrims  are  severally  distinguished  from  each  other ;  and,  not 
only  in  their  inclinations,  but  in  their  physiognomies  and  persons. 
Baptista  Porta'  could  not  have  described  their  natures  better  than 
by  the  marks  which  the  poet  gives  them.  The  matter  and  manner 
of  their  tales,  and  of  their  telling,  are  so  suited  to  their  different 
educations,  humours,  and  callings,  that  each  of  them  would  be  im- 
proper in  any  other  mouth.  Even  the  grave  and  serious  characters 
are  distioguished  by  their  several  sorts  of  gravity ;  their  discourses 
are  such  as  belong  to  their  age,  their  callmg,  and  their  breeding ; 
such  as  are  becoming  of  them,  and  them  only.  Some  of  his  persons 
are  vicious,  and  some  are  virtuous;  some  are  unlearned,  or  (as 
Chaucer  calls  them)  lewd,  and  some  are  learned.  Even  the  ribaldry 
of  the  lower  characters  is  different:  the  Reeve,  the  Miller,  and  the 

>  The  reader  will  find  the  metrical  ^yBtem  of  Chaucer  diacnased  in  ahnost  every 
edition  of  tiiat  poet's  works. 

*  A  famous  Neapolitan  philosopher  of  the  sixteenth  century,  much  distinguished 
for  the  study  of  physiognomy. 


Cook,  are  several  men,  and  distinguislied  from  each  other,  as  much 
as  the  mincing  Lady  Ftioress,  and  the  broad-speaking,  gape-toothed 
wife  of  Bath.  But  enough  of  this :  there  is  such  a  yariety  of  game 
springing  up  before  me,  that  I  am  distracted  in  my  choice,  and 
know  not  wiiich  to  follow.  It  is  sufficient  to  say,  according  to  the 
proverb,  that  here  is  God's  plenty.  We  have  our  forefathers  and 
great-grandames  all  before  us,  as  they  were  in  Chaucer's  days ;  their 
genersJ  characters  are  still  remaining  in  mankind,  and  even  in  Eng- 
land, though  they  are  called  1^  other  names  than  those  of  Monks, 
and  Friars,  and  Canons,  and  Lady  Abbesses,  and  Nuns ;  for  man- 
kind is  ever  the  same,  and  nothing  lost  out  of  nature,  though  every- 
thing is  altered. 


Shakspere  was  the  man  who,  of  all  modem,  and  perhaps  ancient 
poets,  had  the  largest  and  most  comprehensive  souL  All  the 
images  of  nature  were  still  present  to  him,  and  he  drew  them  not 
laboriously,  but  luckily.  When  he  describes  anything,  you  more 
than  see  it — ^you  feel  it  too.  Those  who  accuse  him  to  have  wanted 
learning  give  him  the  greater  conmiendation.  He  was  naturally 
learned ;  he  needed  not  the  spectacles  of  books  to  read  nature ;  he 
looked  inwards,  and  found  her  there.  I  cannot  say  he  is  every- 
where alike ;  were  he  so,  I  should  do  him  injury  to  compare  him 
with  the  greatest  of  mankind.  He  is  many  times  flat  and  insipid ; 
his  comic  wit  degenerating  into  clenches,  his  serious  swelling  into 
bombast.  But  he  is  always  great  when  some  great  occasion  is  pre- 
sented to  him ;  no  man  can  say  he  ever  had  a  fit  subject  for  his  wit, 
and  did  not  then  raise  himself  as  high  above  the  rest  of  poets,* 

**  As  the  tall  cypress  towers  above  the  shrubs."  ^ 

The  consideration  of  this  made  Mr  Hales  of  Eton  say,  that  there 
was  no  subject  of  which  any  poet  ever  writ,  but  he  would  produce 
it  much  better  done  in  Shakspere ;  and  however  others  are  now' 
generally  preferred  before  him,  yet  the  age  wherein  he  lived,  which 
had  contemporaries  with  him,  Fletcher  and  Jonson,  never  equalled 
them  to  him  in  their  esteem.  And  in  the  last  king's'  court,  when 
Ben's  reputation  was  at  highest,  Sir  John  Suckling,  and  wi^  him 
the  greater  part  of  the  courtiers,  set  our  Shakspere  far  above  him. 

J^  for  Jonson,  if  we  look  upon  him  while  he  was  himself  (for  his 
last  plays  were  but  his  dotages),  I  think  him  the  most  learned  and 
judicious  writer  which  any  uieatre  ever  had.  He  was  a  most  severe 
judge  of  himself,  as  weU  as  others.  One  cannot  say  he  wanted  wit, 
but  rather  that  he  was  frugal  of  it.  In  his  works  you  find  little  to 
retrench  or  alter.    Wit  and  language,  and  humour  also  in  some 

1  Dryden  here  quotes  fhe  well-known  line  of  Vir)^  Eclogue  1.— 

Quantum  lente  Bolent  Inter  Tlbnnu  oninenL 
*  In  fhe  degenerate  ages  after  the  Restoration.  *  Charles  I. 


measure,  we  had  before  lum ;  but  something  of  art  was  wanting  to 
the  drama  till  he  came.  He  managed  his  strength  to  more  adyan- 
tage  than  any  who  preceded  hinL  You  seldom  find  him  m^ng 
love  in  any  of  his  scenes,  or  endeavouring  to  move  the  passions ;  his 
genius  was  too  sullen  and  saturnine  to  do  it  gracefully,  especially 
when  he  knew  he  came  after  those  who  had  penormed  both  to  such 
a  height  Humour  was  his  proper  sphere ;  luid  in  that  he  delighted 
most  to  represent  mechanic  people.  He  was  deeply  conversant  in 
the  ancients,  both  Greek  and  Latin,  and  he  borrowed  boldly  £rom 
them ;  there  is  scarce  a  poet  or  historian  amon^  the  Bonoan  authors  of 
those  times  whom  he  has  not  translated  in  "  Sejanus''  and  "Catiline."^ 
But  he  has  done  his  robberies  so  openly,  that  one  may  see  he  fears 
not  to  be  taxed  by  any  law.  He  invades  authors  like  a  monarch ; 
and  what  would  be  weft  in  other  poets,  is  only  victory  in  him. 
With  the  spoils  of  these  writers  he  so  represented  Rome  to  us,  in  its 
rites,  ceremonies,  and  customs,  that  if  one  of  their  poets  had  written 
either  of  his  tra^dies,  we  had  seen  less  of  it  than  in  him.  If  there 
was  any  fault  in  his  language,  'twas  that  he  weaved  it  too  closely 
and  laboriously,  in  his  comedies  especially :  perhaps,  too,  he  did  a 
little  too  much  Boniamze  our  tongue,  leaving  the  words  which  he 
translated  almost  as  much  Latin  as  he  found  them ;  wherein,  though 
he  learnedly  followed  their  language,  he  did  not  enough  comj^y 
with  the  idiom  of  ours.  If  I  would  compare  him  with  Skakspere, 
I  must  acknowledge  him  the  more  correct  poet,  but  Shakspre  the 
greater  wit  Shakspere  was  the  Homer,  or  father  of  our  diamatic 
poets :  Jonson  was  the  Viigil,  the  pattern  of  elaborate  writing ;  I 
admire  him,  but  I  love  Shakspere. 


BoBEBT  SoxTTH  was  bom  in  London  in  1688,  and  was  educated  at 
Westminster  and  Oxford,  where  he  made  himself  very  conspicuous  by 
his  ability,  and  was  chosen  University  orator.  On  the  Bestoration  he 
became  chaplain  to  Lord  Clarendon,  and  the  influence  of  that  power- 
ful nobleman  secured  for  him  a  considerable  share  of  church  prefer- 
ment, though  he  never  reached  the  position  to  which  his  wit,  talents, 
and  enthusiastically  royalist  principles  might  seem  to  entitle  him. 
He  died  in  1714.  South  is  universally  allowed  to  be  the  wittiest  of 
our  divines ;  and  though  wit  is  not  usually  considered  a  clerical 
excellence,  yet  it  has  been  used  by  him  with  groat  discretion, — ^for 
his  judgment  is  as  great  as  his  wit,  and  so  as  effectually  to  serve  the 
interests  of  religion  and  morality.  He  belonged  to  the  High  Church 
party,  and  never  hesitates  to  express  in  the  strongest  possible  terms 
his  dislike  of  the  Dissenters,  his  hatred  of  many  of  their  doctrines,  his 

1  Two  of  JonBon*8  most  famoni  tragedies;  they  are  literally  crammed  with  tran»> 
lations  from  the  Jjatio. 


contempt  of  their  peculiar  worship  and  language,  and  his  disgnst  at 
the  law  which  tolerated  their  assemblies.  His  sermons  are  still  con- 
sidered as  models  of  pulpit  eloquence:  their  wit,  variety,  depth  of 
thought,  novelty  of  treatment,  felicity  of  illustration,  force  of  language, 
earnestness,  and  good  sense,  present  a  combination  of  excellences, 
such  as  few  writers  can  exhibit. 


The  generality  of  mankind  is  wholly  and  absolutely  goyemed  by 
words  or  names ;  without,  nay,  for  the  most  part,  even  against  the 
knowledge  men  have  of  things.  The  multitude,  or  common  rout, 
like  a  drove  of  sheep,  or  an  herd  of  oxen,  may  be  managed  by  any 
noise  or  cry  which  their  drivers  shall  accustom  them  to.  And  he 
who  will  set  up  for  a  skilfol  manager  of  the  rabble,  so  long  as  they 
have  but  ears  to  hear,  needs  never  inquire  whether  they  have  any 
understanding  whereby  to  judge :  but  with  two  or  three  popular 
empty  woidsfsuch  Jpop^yZd  »u,p^>mion,  rigU  ofth/^^bya, 
liberty  of  conscience,  well-timed  and  numoured,  may  whistle  them 
backwards  and  forwards,  upwards  and  downwanls,  till  he  is  weary; 
and  get  up  upon  their  backs  when  he  is  so. 

As  for  the  meaning  of  the  word  itself,  that  may  shift  for  itself: 
and  as  for  the  sense  and  reason  of  it,  that  has  little  or  nothing  to  do 
here :  only  let  it  sound  full  and  round,  and  chime  right  to  the 
humour  which  is  at  present  agog  (just  as  a  big,  long,  rattling  name 
is  said  to  command  even  adoration  from  a  Spaniard),  and  no  doubt, 
with  this  powerfal  senseless  engine,  the  rabble-driver  shall  be  able 
to  carry  all  before  him,  or  to  draw  all  after  him,  as  he  pleases.  For 
a  plausible,  insignificant  word,  in  the  mouth  of  an  expert  dema- 
gogue, is  a  dangerous  and  a  dreadful  weapon.  You  Imow,  when 
Os^sar^s  army  mutinied  and  grew  troublesome,  no  argument  from 
interest  or  reason  could  satisfy  or  appease  them :  but  as  soon  as  he 

gave  them  the  appellation  of  QuvriteSf^  the  tumult  was  immediately 
ushed,  and  all  were  quiet  and  content,  and  took  that  one  word  in 
good  payment  for  aU.  Such  is  the  trivial  slightness  and  levity  of 
most  minds.  And,  indeed,  take  any  passion  of  the  soul  of  man, 
while  it  is  predominant  and  afloat,  and,  just  in  the  critical  height  of 
it,  nick  it  with  some  lucky  or  unlucky  word,  and  you  may  as  cer- 
tajnly  overrule  it  to  your  own  purpose,  as  a  spark  of  fire  falUng 
upon  gunpowder  will  infallibly  blow  it  up. 

The  truth  is,  he  who  shall  duly  consider  these  matters  will  find 
that  there  is  a  certain  bewitcheiy  or  fascination  in  words,  which 
makes  them  operate  with  a  force  beyond  what  we  can  naturally 
give  an  accoimt  o£  For  would  not  a  man  think  ill  deeds  and 
shrewd  turns  should  reach  farther  and  strike  deeper  than  ill  words? 
And  yet  many  instances  might  be  given  in  wMch  men  have  much 

1  Quiritet  was  the  name  applied  to  the  Romaiis  as  citizens,  and  by  nsing  this  tenn 
Caesar  Intimated  to  the  rebellious  army  that  they  were  mere  citizens,  and  so  longer 


more  easily  pardoned  ill  things  done  than  ill  things  Mid  against 
them:  such  a  peculiar  rancour  and  yenom  do  they  leaye  behind 
them  in  men's  minds,  and  so  much  more  poisonously  and  incurably 
does  the  serpent  bite  with  his  tongue  than  with  his  teeth.  Nor  are 
men  preyailed  upon  at  this  odd  unaccountable  rate  by  bare  words, 
onhr  through  a  defect  of  knowledge ;  but  sometimes  also  do,  they 
suffer  themselyes  to  be  carried  away  with  these  puiSs  of  wind,  eyen 
oontraiy  to  knowledge  and  experience  itsel£  For  otherwise  how 
could  men  be  brought  to  surrender  up  their  reason,  their  interest, 
and  their  credit  to  flatteiy, — gross,  fiilsome,  abusiye  fiatteiy? — ^in- 
deed, more  abusiye  and  reproachful,  upon  a  true  estimate  of  things 
and  persons,  than  the  rudest  scofis  and  the  sharpest  inyectiyes. 
Yet  so  it  is,  that  though  men  know  themselyes  utterly  yoid  of  those 
qualities  and  peifections  which  the  impudent  sycophant,  at  the 
same  time,  both  ascribes  to  them,  and  in  his  sleeye  laughs  at  them 
for  belieying;  nay,  though  they  know  that  the  flatterer  himself 
knows  the  falsehood  of  hui  own  flatteries,  yet  they  swallow  the  faX- 
lacious  morsel,  loye  the  impostor,  and  with  both  arms  hug  the 
abuse ;  and  that  to  such  a  degree,  that  no  offices  of  friendship,  no 
real  services,  shall  be  able  to  He  in  the  balance  against  those  lusci- 
ous falsehoods  which  flattery  shall  feed  the  mind  of  a  fool  in  power 
with ;  the  sweetness  of  the  one  infinitely  oyercomes  the  substance 
of  the  other. 

And  therefore  you  shall  seldom  see  that  such  an  one  cares  to 
haye  men  of  worth,  honesty,  and  yeracity  about  him ;  for  such  per- 
sons cannot  £el11  down  and  worship  stocks  and  stones,  though  they 
are  placed  neyer  so  high  aboye  them ;  but  their  yea  is  yea,  and 
their  nay,  tuvy ;  and  they  cannot  admire  a  fox  for  his  sincerity,  a 
wolf  for  his  generosity,  nor  an  ass  for  his  wit  and  ingenuity,  and 
therefore  can  neyer  be  acceptable  to  those  whose  whole  credit,  inte- 
rest^ and  adyantage  lies  in  their  not  appearing  to  the  world  what 
they  are  really  in  themselyes.  None  are  or  can  be  welcome  to  such 
but  those  who  speak  paint  and  wash ;  for  that  is  the  thing  they 
loye ;  and  no  wonder,  since  it  is  the  thing  they  need. 

There  is  hardly  any  rank,  order,  or  degree  of  men  but,  more  or 
less,  haye  been  captivated  and  enslaved  by  words.  It  is  a  weak- 
ness, or  rather  a  fate,  which  attends  both  high  and  low, — ^the  states- 
man who  holds  the  helm,  as  well  as  the  peasant  who  holds  the 
plough.  So  that,  if  ever  you  find  an  ignoramus  in  place  and 
power,  and  can  have  so  little  conscience  and  so  much  confidence  as 
to  tell  him  to  his  face  that  he  has  a  wit  and  an  understanding  above 
all  the  world  besides,  and  that  what  his  own  reason  cannot  suggest 
to  him,  neither  can  tiie  united  reason  of  all  mankind  put  tog^er, 
I  dare  undertake  that  as  fulsome  a  dose  as  you  giye  nim,  he  shall 
readily  take  it  down  and  admit  the  commendation,  though  he  can- 
not believe  the  thing.  TeU  him  that  no  history  or  antiquity  can 
match  his  policies  and  his  conduct ;  and  presently  the  sot  (because 
he  knows  neither  history  nor  antiquity)  shall  begin  to  measure  him- 
self by  himself  (which  is  the  only  sure  way  for  hnn  not  to  fell  short), 


and  so,  iminediately  amongst  his  outward  admirers  and  his  inward 
despisers,  Touched  also  by  a  ''  Take  my  word  for  ity*  he  steps  forth 
an  exact  politician,  and,  by  a  wonderful  and  new  way  of  arguing, 

Cres  himself  no  fool,  because,  forsooth,  the  sycophant  who  tells 
so  is  an  egregious  knaye.  But  to  giye  you  yet  a  grosser  in- 
stance of  the  force  of  words,  and  of  the  extreme  yanity  of  man's 
nature  in  being  influenced  by  them,  hardly  shall  you  meet  with  any 
person,  man  or  woman,  so  aged  or  iU-feiyoured,  but,  if  you  will  yen- 
ture  to  commend  them  for  their  comeliness,  nay,  and  for  their 
youth  too,  though  "  tirm  otU  of  mdnd"  is  wrote  upon  every  line  of 
their  &ce,  yet  Uiey  shall  take  it  very  well  at  your  hands,  and  begin 
to  think  with  themselves  that  certainly  they  have  some  perfections 
which  the  generality  of  the  world  are  not  so  happy  as  to  be  aware 
of.  But  now  are  not  these,  think  we,  strange  self-delusions,  and 
yet  attested  by  common  experience  almost  every  day  ?  But  whence, 
in  the  meantime,  can  all  this  proceed,  but  from  the  besotting  intoxi- 
cation which  this  verbal  magic,  as  I  may  so  call  it,  brings  upon  the 
mind  of  man?  For  can  anything  in  nature  have  a  more  certain, 
deep,  and  undeniable  efiect  than  foUy  has  upon  man's  mind,  and 
age  upon  his  body  ?  And  yet  we  see  that,  in  both  these,  words  are 
able  to  persuade  men  out  of  what  they  find  and  feel,  to  reverse  the 
very  impressions  of  sense,  and  to  amuse  men  with  fiBuicies  and  para- 
doxes, even  in  spite  of  nature  and  experience. 


The  understanding,  the  noblest  &culty  of  the  mind,  was  then 
sublime,  dear,  and  (Spiring,  and  as  it  we»  the  soul's  u^^r  legion, 
lofty  and  serene,  free  from  the  vapours  and  disturbances  of  the 
inferior  affections.  It  was  'the  leading,  controlling  fsiculty ;  all  the 
passions  wore  the  colours  of  reason ;  it  did  not  so  much  persuade  as 
command;  it  was  not  consul,  but  dictator.  Discourse  was  then 
almost  as  quick  as  intuition ;  it  was  nimble  in  proposing,  firm  in 
concluding;  it  could  sooner  determine  than  now  it  can  dispute. 
Like  the  sun,  it  had  both  light  and  a^ty ;  it  knew  no  rest  but  in 
motion ;  no  quiet  but  in  activity.  It  did  not  so  properly  apprehend 
as  irradiate  the  object ;  not  so  much  find  as  make  things  intelligible. 
It  arbitrated  upon  the  several  reports  of  sense,  and  all  the  varieties 
of  imagination;  not,  like  a  drowsy  judge,  only  hearing,  but  also 
directing  their  verdict.  In  short,  it  was  vegete,  quick,  and  lively ; 
open  as  the  day,  untainted  as  the  morning,  mil  of  the  innocence  and 
sprightliness  of  youth ;  it  gave  the  soul  a  bright  and  full  view  into 
all  things;  and  was  not  only  a  window,  but  itself  the  prospect 
Adam  came  into  the  world  a  philosopher,  which  sufficiently  ap- 
peared by  his  writing  the  nature  of  things  upon  their  names ;  he 
could  view  essences  in  themselves,  and  read  forms  without  the 
conmient  of  their  respective  properties ;  he  could  see  consequents 
yet  dormant  in  their  principles,  and  effects  yet  unborn  in  the 
womb  of  their  causes ;  his  understanding  could  almost  pierce  into 

824  ROBERT  soorii.    ' 

fhture  contiiigents,  his  oonjectares  impioviiig  even  to  prophecy,  or 
the  certainties  of  prediction ;  till  his  Mi,  he  was  ignorant  of  nothing 
but  sin ;  or  at  least  it  rested  in  the  notion,  without  the  smart  of  the 
experiment  Conld  anj  difficulty  have  been  prc^posed,  the  resolu- 
tion would  have  been  as  early  as  the  propoflai ;  it  could  not  have 
had  time  to  settle  into  doubt.  Like  a  better  Archimedes,  the  issue 
of  all  his  inquiries  was  an  ^*  I  have  found  it,  I  have  found  it !'' ' — ^the 
of^ring  of  nis  brain,  without  the  sweat  of  his  brow.  Study  was 
not  then  a  duty,  night-watchings  were  needless ;  the  light  of  reason 
wanted  not  the  assistance  of  a  candle.  This  is  the  doom  of  fallen 
man,  to  labour  in  the  fire,  to  seek  truth  in  the  deep,*  to  exhaust  his 
time,  and  to  impair  his  health,  and  perhaps  to  spin  out  his  days  and 
hini^lf  into  one^tifiil  controUrtXoncWo/  Theie  was  t£en  no 
poring,  no  straggling  with  memory,  no  straining  for  invention ;  his 
fieunilties  were  quick  and  expedite ;  they  answered  without  knock- 
ing, they  were  ready  upon  the  first  summons ;  there  was  freedom 
and  firmness  in  all  their  operations.  I  confess  it  is  as  difficult  for 
us,  who  date  our  ignorance  from  our  first  being,  and  were  still  bred 
up  with  the  same  infiimities  about  us  with  wmch  we  were  bom,  to 
raise  our  thoughts  and  ima^ations  to  those  intellectual  perfections 
that  attended  our  nature  m  the  time  of  innocence,  as  it  is  for  a 
peasant  bied  up  in  the  obscurities  of  a  cottage  to  &ncy  in  his  mind 
the  unseen  splendours  of  a  court.  But  by  rating  positives  by  their 
privatives,  and  other  acts  of  reason,  by  which  discourse  supplies  the 
want  of  the  reports  of  sense,  we  may  collect  the  excellency  of  the 
understanding  then  by  the  glorious  remainders  of  it  now,  and  guess 
at  the  stateliness  of  the  building  by  the  magnificence  of  its  ruins. 
All  those  arts,  rarities,  and  inventions,  which  vulgar  minds  gaze  at, 
the  ingenious  pursue,  and  all  admire,  are  but  the  relics  of  an  intellect 
de£Eu;ed  with  sin  and  time.  We  admire  it  now  only  as  antiquaries 
do  a  piece  of  old  coin,  for  the  stamp  it  once  bore,  and  not  for  those 
vanishing  lineaments  and  disappearing  draughts  that  remain  upon 
it  at  present.  And  certainly  that  must  needs  have  been  very 
glorious  the  decays  of  which  are  so  admirable.  He  that  is  comely 
when  old  and  decrepit,  surely  was  very  beautiful  when  he  was 
young.  An  Aristotle  was  but  the  rubbish  of  an  Adam,  and  Athens 
but  the  rudiments  of  Paradise. 

1  South  here  refers  to  the  -vrell-known  story  of  Archimedes  having  discorered,  while 
in  the  bath,  the  principle  of  a  problem  which  had  long  puzzled  him,  and  rushing  out 
exclaiming,  "I  have  found  it!**  (Heureka.) 

2  South  here  uses  the  Latin  "  in  profundo,"  alluding,  perhaps,  to  the  Latin  version 
of  Psalm  cxxx.  Quotations  in  Latin  were  common  in  the  sermons  of  this  age,— more 
so  perhaps  among  Dtasenters  than  among  Churchmen. 





1.  A  change  in  the  national  style  of  literary  composition  necessarily 
implies  a  previous  change  in  the  moral  and  social  character  of  the 
nation,  and  an  important  alteration  in  the  established  habits  of 
thought.  The  difference  between  the  styles  of  different  countries  is 
not  more  certainly  an  index  of  difference  of  national  character,  than 
are  the  varieties  of  style  in  the  same  country  at  different  epochs,  of 
the  fluctuations  of  the  moral  and  social  condition  of  the  state.  When, 
therefore,  after  the  Restoration,  a  complete  change  of  manners  took 
place  in  England,  a  corresponding  change  followed  as  a  matter  of 
course  in  the  literary  style.  What  suited  the  earnest  gravity  of  the 
times  of  Charles  I.  would  have  been  quite  out  of  place  amid  the 
heartless  frivolity  of  the  reign  of  his  son,  or  the  dull  routine  of  the 
Orange  and  Brunswick  families.  The  nation  had  become  French  in 
its  morals  and  tastes,  and  an  imitation  of  French  style  in  compositions, 
intended  to  gratify  these  tastes,  was  in  the  nature  of  things  unavoid- 
able. Not  the  writer's  matter,  but  his  manner  was  now  all-important ; 
his  aim  was  to*  be  witty,  and  say  smart  things ;  but  how  could  the 
language  of  Taylor  and  Bacon  be  accommodated  to  such  purposes  ? 
The  dignity  of  the  former  style  rendered  it  quite  unsuitable  as  a 
vehicle  for  wit;. and- a  lighter  and  more  flexible  style  was  thus  re- 
quired to  suit  the  wants  of  an  age  in  which  gravity,  earnestness,  and 
learning  were  no  longer  valued  as  an  author's  highest  recommenda- 
tions. Such  a  style  was  not  of  course  formed  at  once,  or  by  one 
author ;  it  was  some  time  before  it  succeeded  in  displacing  the  old 
style,  and  did  not  reach  its  perfection  till  the  days  of  Addison  and 
Pope.  In  many  respects,  the  style  that  now  became  prevalent  was  in- 
ferior to  that  which  had  preceded  it ;  it  wanted  its  dignity,  its  copious- 
ness, and  its  variety  of  musical  rhythm.  It  had,  however,  merits  of 
its  own ;  it  was  less  obscure,  less  heavy,  more  suitable  for  narrative  and 
controversy,  and  more  easily  adapted  to  light  compositions  and  the 
more  common  purposes  of  life.  The  French  manners,  which  were 
now  introduced,  were  those  of  a  highly  artificial  state  of  society,  and 
a  corresponding  conventional  uniformity  in  style  was  established  in 
every  department  of  literature.  Thought  and  expression  were  in  a 
great  measure  moulded  into  one  form;  profound  sentiment,  true 

226  HmiOBlGAL  8EXTCH. 

pathoB,  and  simple  lore  of  nature  were  almost  wholly  banished  from 
poetry,  and  the  poet  was  tanght  to  confide  for  snocess  in  his  smooth 
and  antithetical  couplets,  his  judicious  employment  of  a  system  of 
stereotype  images,  his  polished  sarcasm,  his  knowledge  of  genteel 
society,  and  his  accurate  delineation  of  the  conyentionalities  of  artifi- 
cial life.  For  the  purposes  for  which  in  a  degenerate  age  literature 
was  employed,  the  style  now  introduced  was  indeed  admirably  adapted, 
but  these  purposes  wero  by  no  means  of  the  highest  order.  Well 
suited  for  irony  and  satire,  controyersy  and  narrative,  it  was  ill 
adapted  to  express  warmth  of-  feeling,  depth  of  thought,  and  dignity 
of  sentiment ;  and  hence  this  period  of  our  literature  exhibits  a  great 
deficiency  in  aU  that  is  of  the  highest  excellence  in  tragedy,  in  poetry, 
and  the  higher  departments  of  prose.  This  style  continued  to  pre- 
vail for  nearly  a  century,  for  so  long  did  the  same  habits  of  thought 
prevail  in  the  nation.  During  that  period  the  energies  of  the  nation 
seemed  to  remain  dormant ;  the  quiet,  commonplace  decorum  of  the 
reigns  of  William  and  Anne  was  succeeded  by  tiie  dull  and  heartless 
scepticism  of  the  early  Gorges,  and  nothing  occurred  to  awaken  into 
life  that  intensity  and  earnestness  of  feeling,  without  which  no  litera- 
ture of  the  highest  dass  has  ever  been  produced. 

2.  Of  the  poets  of  this  period,  the  earliest  in  point  of  time  was 
Matthew  Prior,  one  of  the  fortunate  sons  of  the  Muses,  who  contrived 
by  his  abilities  to  procure  for  himself  honourable  and  lucrative  politi- 
cal employment  His  "  Tales  "  afford  one  of  the  finest  specimens  of 
the  new  French  style,  for  they  possess  in  perfection  all  the  excellences 
of  which  that  style  is  capable,  and  his  subject  required  no  higher. 
They  are,  however,  oonsiderably  tinged  with  the  prevalent  licentious- 
ness of  the  period.  Addison's  poems  are  distinguished  by  the  same 
moral  purity  and  correctness  of  language  which  characterize  his  prose, 
but  aro  deficient  in  all  the  higher  virtues  of  poetry.  His  short  de- 
votional hymns  are  perhaps  bis  best  works ;  they  are  certainly  those 
by  which  he  is  at  present  best  known  and  most  likely  to  be  remem- 
bered. Garth,  a  well-known  physician  in  London,  is  the  author  of 
a  mock-heroic  poem  called  the  '*  Dispensary,"  which  was  long  de- 
servedly popular,  as  the  light,  graoefol  style  in  which  it  is  written  is 
admirably  in  keeping  with  the  object  of  the  author.  Equally  popular  at 
the  time,  though  long  ago  forgotten,  wero  the  solemn  epics  of  another 
noted  physician,  Sir.Richard  Haokmore.  His  **  Prince  Arthur,"  **  King 
Arthur,"  "  Creation,"  "  Eliza,"  "  Nature  of  Man,"  and  "  King  Alfred," 
all  heroic  and  philosophical  poems,  were  written  on  the  model  of  the 
graver  French  writers,  and,  besides  abounding  in  instances  of  false 
taste  and  bombast,  which  Swift  and  Pope  delighted  to  hold  up  to 
ridicule,  are  perhaps  the  dullest  poems  ever  written.  Pope,  the  next 
great  poet  of  the  age,  holds  the  unquestioned  pre-eminence  among  all 
the  poets  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Aime.  He  possessed,  in  the  highest 
excellence,  all  those  accomplishments  whidi  were  tiien  considered 
essential  to  the  poetical  character,  combined  with  others  which, 
though  less  esteemed  in  his  own  day,  are  now  more  highly  appre- 
ciated. His  vemification,  in  polish,  roundness,  and  epigrammatic 
smartness,  has  never  been  equalled,  and  whatever  objection  may  be 
made  to  the  uniformity  and  monotonous  excellence  of  the  heroic 
couplet  in  his  hands,  it  must  at  least  be  admitted  that  he  has  given 


to  that  measure  eivexj  ptixfection  of  which  it  is  capable.  His  "  Elegy 
on  an  Unfortunate  Lady/'  and  his  "  Epistle  of  Eloisa  p)  Abelard/* 
display  a  greater  depth  of  feeling  than  has  been  manifested  by  any  of 
the  poets  of  that  era ;  and  the  recent  discovery  that  we  owe  to  Pope's 
suggestions  many  iA  the  finest  passages  in  Thomson's  **  Seasons/' 
shows  that  amidst  the  conventionalities  of  an  artificisl  generation,  he 
retained  an  eye  for  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  a  heart  capable  of 
feeling  her  charms.  His  earliest  works  were  his  ** Pastorals"  and 
"  Windsor  Forest/'  in  the  latter  of  which  his  unrivalled  powers  of 
versification  were  first  exhibited.  His  next  work,  the  "Essay  on 
Criticism/'  displays  great  maturity  of  judgment,  and  is  an  admirable 
summary  of  the  principles  that  should  regulate  what  may  be  called 
the  mechanical  parts  of  criticism  and  composition.  His  "  Rape  of  the 
Lock  "  is  the  finest  of  all  his  poems,  and  is  unequalled  in  richness  of 
fancy,  sprightliness  of  language,  and  the  exquisite  taster  with  which 
he  has  introduced  by  way  of  machinery  the  sprites  of  the  lU)sicrucian 
Philosophers.  His  "  Elegy  on  an  Unfortunate  Lady  "  and  "  Epistle 
of  Eloisa  to  Abelard  "  have  been  already  noticed.  His  translations 
of  the  "Iliad"  and  "Odyssey/'  which  followed,  are  now  generally 
admitted  not  to  have  reached  the  nmple  grandeur  which  characterizes 
their  great  original,  though  his  command  of  the  language  has  enabled 
him  to  produce  an  admirable  modernized  version  of  Homer.  His 
"  Dunciad,"  a  satire  upon  some  rival  veiaifiers,  though  not  very  credit- 
able to  Pope's  good  nature^  is  the  finest  satirical  poem  in  the  lan- 
guage; and  his  "Essay  on  Man,"  to  which,  on  the  score  of  religion, 
objections  have  been  made,  not  without  reason,  has  earned  the  power 
of  polished  versification  and  sententious  expression  to  a  height  which 
has  never  been  surpassed.  Gay,  a  contemporary  and  friend  of  Pope, 
has. written  a  volume  of  faUes  of  very  high  merit,  this  being  one  of 
those  subjects  to  which  a  light  style  of  versification  is  peculiarly 
adapted^  Swift's  verses  are;  as  might  be  expected,  chiefiy  satirical, 
and  a£e  perhaps  scarcely  entitled  to  be  ranked  as  poetry.  It  is  un- 
necessary to  xeeito  the  names  of  the  ininor  poets  whose  works  have 
been  now  consigned  to  oblivion :  Tickell,  a  fiequent  contributor  to 
tiie  "  Spectator/'  PameU,  author  of  the  ''  Hermit/'  and  Fenton  and 
Broome,  who  assisted.  Pope  in  translating  the  "  Odyssey,"  are  almost 
the  only  writers  whdse  names  still  survive. 

^.  At  a  later  period  a  new  race  of  poets  sprung  up,  who  ventured 
to  depart,  in  some  respects,  from  the  sdiiool  of  Pope,  without^  however, 
following  in  tiie  footisteps  of  the  older  authors.  They  did  not  confine 
themselves  exclusively  to  the  use  of  the  heroic  couplet,  but  varied  it 
with,  blank  verse  and  other  measures,  and  they  employed  language  of 
a  more  energetic  character  than  had  been  customary  in  the  previous 
writers ;  but  there  was,  in  general,  no  return  to  the  study  of  nature, 
and  no  throwing  off  of  the  artificial  trammels  by  which  the  free 
BcUoD.  of  the  mind  was  impeded.  Young  is  still  well  known  by  his 
"  Night  Thoughts,"  which  appeared  in  1742,  and  which,  amid  much, 
affected  gloom  and  over-charged  bombast,  contain  many  striking  and 
impressive  passages.  Thomson  displays  a  greater  love  of  nature  than 
any  of  his  contemporaries;  and  his  "  Seasons,'' though  the  sentiments 
are  sometimes  low,  and  the  language  turgid  and  tautologous,  never 
fail  to  please  from  their  beautifiil  descriptions. of  natural  scenery. 


Hifl  "  Castle  of  Indolence,"  a  poem  in  the  style  and  stanza  of  Spenser, 
is  the  most  perfect  prodnction  of  his  muse,  and  is  one  of  the  best 
which  the  century  has  left  us.  Gray  is  one  of  the  finest  lyrical  poets 
in  the  language.  His  "  Bard,"  and  his  *'  Progress  of  Poesy,"  are 
written  in  a  rery  dignified  and  eleyated  strain,  with  perfect  purity  of 
taste,  and  are  constructed  with  exquisite  skill  in  a  yaried  and  highly- 
musical  measure.  In  a  softer  strain,  but  equally  excellent,  are  lus 
"  Elegy  in  a  Country  Church-yard,"  and  his  **  Ode  on  a  Distant  View 
of  Eton  College."  Lyrical  poetry  was  also  cultivated  by  Collins, 
whose  "Ode  on  the  Passions"  is  perhaps  next  to  Dryden's  "  Ode  on 
8t  Cecilia's  Day,"  the  most  famous  in  the  language.  Akenside's 
"  Pleasures  of  Imagination,"  a  sort  of  philosophical  poem  in  blank 
verse,  possesses  many  both  of  the  excellences  and  failings  of  Young's 
"  Night  Thoughts."  Its  fine  passages  are  too  often  declamatory,  and 
his  enthusiasm  often  degenerates  into  extravagant  rhapsody.  Gold- 
smith's "  Traveller  "  and  "  Deserted  Village  "  are  perhaps  the  most 
pleasing  works  which  that  generation  of  poets  has  bequeathed  to  pos- 
terity; and  akin  to  theia,  in  their  calm,  contemplative  air,  is  the 
"  Minstrel "  of  Beattie,  the  first  Scotch  poet,  if  we  except  Thomson 
(who,  however,  spent  most  of  his  time  in  London),  who  distinguished 
himself  as  a  writer  of  English  verse.  The  poetry  of  Dr  Johnson,  his 
**  London,"  a  satire,  and  "  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,"  resembles  that 
of  Pope  in  the  roundness  of  the  versification  and  the  terseness  of  the 
language,  but  has  a  moral  dignity  to  which  Pope  could  not  pretend. 
Many  of  the  minor  poets  of  this  period  still  enjoy  a  small  share  of 
reputation,  and  are  occasionally  quoted.  Among  these  may  be  men- 
tioned Blair,  a  Scotch  clergyman,  autiior  of  the  "  Grave,"  a  highly 
impressive  piece ;  Logan,  likewise  a  Scotch  clergyman,  and  best 
known  by  his  "  Ode  to  the  Cuckoo ;"  Falconer,  author  of  the  "  Ship- 
wreck ;"  Smollett  the  novelist,  author  of  the  famous  "  Ode  to  Liberty;" 
Miekle,  Armstrong,  and  Michael  Bruce,  all  Scotsmen ;  Isaac  Watts, 
whose  hymns  are  so  well  known  to  the  juvenile  population ;  Somer- 
ville,  author  of  the  "Chase;"  Shenstone,  whose  "Schoolmistress" 
and  "Pastoral  Ballads"  have  been  generally  admired;  Smart,  the 
Waxtons,  Hammond,  and  Dodsley.  The  poems  of  Chatterton  display 
a  precocity  of  genius  such  as  our  country  has  never  since  seen ;  but 
an  untimely  fate  cut  him  off  before  his  muse  had  reached  her  matu- 
rity. In  the  Scotch  dialect  two  poets  are  of  sufficient  note  to  require 
special  mention : — ^Allan  Ramsay,  whose  "  Gentle  Shepherd  "  is  now 
generally  allowed  to  be  the  best  pastoral  poem  which  our  country  haa 
produced ;  and  Bobert  Ferguson,  who,  though  he  died  in  early  youth, 
left  behind  him  poems  which  entitle  him  to  be  considered  as  the 
poetical  forerunner  of  Bums. 

4.  The  tragic  dramatists  of  this  period  are  not  entitled  to  much 
praise.  Their  works  are  in  general  unimpressive  and  deficient  in 
feeling,  while  they  possess,  of  course,  the  virtues  of  smoothness  of 
versification  and  appropriateness  of  language.  Southeme  was  one  of 
the  most  popular  of  the  early  tragedians,  and  his  "  Isabella"  is  still 
occasionally  represented.  Lillo's  "  GkM>rge  Barnwell,"  founded  on  a 
weS-known  ballad,  and  drawing  its  characters  from  ordinary  life,  is 
kept  in  memory  by  the  tragic  interest  which  attaches  to  the  story. 
Bowe  was  perhaps  the  most  distinguished  tragedian  of  the  period;  his 


**  Fair  Penitent "  and  **  Jane  Shore  "  still  retain  their  place  on  the 
stage.  He  was  better  versed  than  most  of  his  contemporaries  in  the 
literature  of  the  previous  century, — ^his  edition  of  Shakspere  being 
the  first  which  contributed  to  throw  any  light  on  the  history  of  our 
great  dramatist.  Nothing  could  more  conspicuously  display  the 
almost  total  neglect  into  which  the  writers  of  the  reigns  of  James  and 
Charles  I.  had  fallen,  than  the  fact  that  Kowe  has  ventured,  in  the 
confidence  of  perfect  security,  to  borrow  the  plot,  and  much  of  the 
details  and  speeches,  of  his  "  Fair  Penitent "  from  the  "  Fatal  Dowry" 
of  Massinger.  Addison's  "  Gato  "  has  been  found  unfitted  for  drama- 
tic representation ;  but,  though  cold  and  often  uninteresting,  it  contains 
many  admirable  speeches,  which  never  fail  deeply  to  impress  the 
reader.  Gongreve's  "  Mourning  Bride  "  is  much  inferior  to  the  come- 
dies of  the  same  author,  but  contains  some  passages  of  high  merit :  its 
commencement,  in  particular,  has  always  been  much  admired.  Of 
the  later  tragedians  of  the  period,  few  have  acquired  a  permanent 
reputation ;  tibey  exhibit  the  same  want  of  passion,  and  the  same  in- 
clination to  supply  its  place  by  stilted  declamation.  Such  is  the  cha- 
•racterof  "Revenge,"  a  taragedy,  by  the  author  of  the  "Night  Thoughts;" 
of  Thomson's  "  Sophonisba  "  and  "  Agamemnon ;"  and  Dr  Johnson's 
"  Irene."  Mason,  in  his  "  Elfrida "  and  "  Garactacus,"  attempted 
unsuccessfolly  to  produce  on  our  stage  plays  written  on  the  model  of 
the  old  Greek  tragedies ;  and  in  the  dearth  of  original  genius,  some 
translations  were  made  from  the  French  of  Voltaire.  The  only 
tragedy  of  the  period  that  is  now  read  with  pleasure  is  "  Douglas," 
written  by  Home,  a  Presbyterian  clergyman,  who  was,  however, 
obliged  to  resign  his  office  for  what  was  deemed  so  gross  a  breach  of 
propriety.  The  simple  and  genuine  affection  which  Douglas  displays 
is  so  true  to  nature,  that  it  irresistibly  compells  the  sympathies  of  the 
audience.  The  poverty  and  inferiority  of  the  tragedians  of  the  period 
was  amply  compensated  by  the  great  fertility  and  excellence  of  the 
comic  writers.  Everything  was  favourable  for  the  development  of 
comic  talent ;  the  follies  and  absurdities  of  a  highly  artificial  state  of 
society,  in  contrast  with  the  rusticity  and  awkwardness  of  those  who 
lived  out  of  the  "  world,"  offered  an  admirable  field,  and  the  universal 
conversational  smartness  allowed  the  writer  to  give  full  rein  to  his 
wit,  without  the  risk  of  transgressing  the  limits  of  what  was  natural. 
Hence  the  regular  comedy  of  this  period  reached  a  pitch  of  excellence 
which  it  has  never  since  attained.  Of  the  comic  writers,  Gongreve, 
already  mentioned  as  a  tragedian,  is  usually  considered  the  best ;  and 
his  "Love  for  Love"  and  the  "Double  Dealer"  are  admired  as 
among  the  finest  comedies  in  the  language.  Farquhar  and  Sir  John 
Vanbrugh,  contemporaries  of  Gongreve,  were  his  rivals  in  dramatic 
fame ;  the  "  Beaux'  Stratagem "  of  the  former,  and  "  Provoked 
Husband  "  of  the  latter,  contesting  the  palm  of  superiority  with  the 
works  of  Gongreve.  To  these  must  be  added  GoUey  Gibb^  and  Mrs 
Gentlivre,  bo&  of  whom  have  produced  plays  which  still  rank  among 
our  best  comedies.  The  only  objection  to  the  merit  of  these  writers 
arises  from  their  licentiousness,  which  cannot  but  offend  the  more 
refined  morals  of  a  modem  reader.  This  immorality  of  the  drama 
drew  down  upon  it  the  censure  of  Addison  and  the  other  essayists ; 
and  their  efforts  led,  by  degrees,  to  the  purification  of  the  stage,  and 


the  ptodnetioli  of  a  daas  of  comedies  of  a  less  objectionable  cbaracier, 
known  in  works  on  Uteratnre  as  the  "  Genteel  Comedy."  Of  this  class 
of  comic  writers,  Colman  and  Goldsmith  are  the  best  known.  A 
lower  dass  of  productions,  of  which  the  **  Beggar's  Opera  "  of  Gay, 
and  the  varions  ftoces  of  Ganick  and  Foote,  may  serve  as  examples, 
also  enjoyed  an  extensiye,  and,  on  the  whole,  weU-eamed  popularity. 

6.  Tlie  essayists  form  a  class  of  writers  peculiar  to  this  pmod,  their 
place  being  supplied  in  our  days  by  the  numerous  writers  in  news- 
papers, magazines,  and  reyiews.    The  essays  were  issued  sometimes 
daily,  sometimes  at  longer  interrals,  and  the  merit  of  originating  the 
idea  belongs  to  Defoe,  though  for  the  practical  realization  of  it  we  are 
indebted  to  Sir  Richard  Steele.    Happening  to  enjoy  a  government 
office  which  secured  for  him  the  eariy  possession  of  the  news  from 
abroad,  Steele  resolved  to  avail  himself  of  the  opportunity,  and  issued 
three  times  a-week  a  small  penny  sheet,  containing  the  most  recent 
intelligence,  the  rest  of  the  paper  being  occupied  with  some  tale,  alle- 
gory, imaginary  correspondence,  or  original  essay,  designed  to  "  expose 
tiie  false  arts  of  life,  and  encourage  simplicity  in  dress,  discourse,  and 
behaviour."    Such  was  the  origin  of  the  "Tatler;"  and  the  plan 
proved  eminently  successful,  Steele's  diversity  of  talents  qualifying 
him  well  for  the  duties  which  he  had  undertaken.    He  was  also 
assisted  by  his  friends,  at  first  by  Swift,  who  afterwards  changed  his 
politics  and  deserted  him,  but  chiefly  by  Addison,  who  wrote  a  large 
part  of  the  best  papers  in  the  "  Tatler."    After  being  issued  for  nearly 
two  yearn  it  was  discontinued,  but  encouraged  by  the  unmistakable 
approbation  of  the  public  for  such  a  work,  Steele  immediately  started 
the  "  Spectator,"  the  most  famous  of  our  British  series  of  essays,  and  the 
only  one  which  a  student  of  literature  is  still  expected  to  peruse.    In 
the  "  Spectator,"  which  appeared  daily,  Steele  was  again  assisted  by 
Addison,  and  occasional  papers  were  contributed  by  Tickell,  Budgell, 
Hughes,  and  others.  Besides  furnishing  a  never-fWiling  supply  of  whole- 
some and  amusing  reading,  the  "  Spectator  "  rendered  essential  service 
to  our  literature  by  purifying  and  elevating  the  tastes  of  the  public,  and 
introducing  into  the  minor  civilities  of  life  a  spirit  of  greater  propriety, 
and  a  higher  morality  than  had  hitherto  prevailed.    The  "  Spectator  " 
was  followed  by  the  "  Guardian,"  conducted  mainly  by  the  same 
authors,  with  some  small  aid  also  from  Pope ;  and  periodicals  of  the 
same  kind  appeared  at  intervals  during  the  century.   The  "  Examiner  " 
was  largely  contributed  to  by  Swift,  and  was  characterized  by  the 
extreme  vigour  of  its  political  articles.    At  a  subsequent  period  Br 
Johnson  issued  the  "  Rambler"  and  "  Idler,"  which,  though  wanting 
the  ease  and  sprightliness  of  Addison  and  Steele,  are  impressive  from 
the  dignified  strain  of  morality  which  pervades  them.    The  "  World  " 
by  Moore, the  ^'Adventurer"  by  Hawkesworth, and  the  "Connoisseur** 
by  Colman  and  Thomtonv  are  the  best  known  of  the  other  essayists ; 
while  in  Scotland,  Henry  Mackenzie  issued  the  **IiOunger"  and 
"Mirror,^'  highly  creditable  to  the  ability  of  the -writers,  and  the 
state  of  literature  in  the  country  at  the  time.    The  **  Gentleman's 
Magazine"  and  some' reviews  also  belong  to  this  period,  but  they 
possessed  only  a  fraction  of  the  influence  which  they  now  exert. 

6.  The  sceptical  spirit,  which  was  at  this  time  so  widely  prevalent, 
may  be  considered  as  on  the  whole  highly  favourable  to  the  jjroduo- 

mSTOmCAL  8EB9X3H.  231 

tiou  of  able  Mstorical  works.  A  wise  and  judicions  scepticism  is  in 
fact  the  prime  qualification  in  a  historian  who  has  to  weigh  conflict- 
ing statements,  and  single  ont  from  them  that  which  is  most  probable, 
to  determine  when  and  how  far  a  document  is  credible,  to  distinguish 
what  an  authority  has  advanced  upon  sufficient  evidence,  and  what 
has  been  coloured  in  accordance  with  the  views  of  religion  and  party. 
The  general  spirit  of  the  eighteenth  century  was  eminently  fitted  to 
promote  the  growth  of  this  important  qualification,  and  to  this  period 
accordingly  our  greatest  historians  belong;  for  whatever  may  be  their 
defects;  no  subsequent  writers  can  be  preferred  to  Hume,  Bobertson» 
and  Gibbon.  Their  works  have  a  oompleteness  as  wholes^  which  is 
wtotihg  in  those  of  their  suceessoxs.  Their  style,  with  individual 
pecuMnrities,  is  admirably  suited  to  history ;  simple  end  perspicuous, 
with  sufficient  dignity  to  keep  it  from  being  low  or  familiar,  and 
siifficient  ornament  to  keep  it  from  being  flat  or  monotonous.  Their 
narratiiv^  is  a  happy  medium  between  prolixity  and  excessive  brevity; 
full  enough  to  prevent  all  obscurity,- and  yet  unincumbered  by  the  in- 
troduetion  of  extraneous  and  subordinate  matters,  which  are  better 
discuCised  in  notes.-  Hume,  the  earliest  of  the  three,  is  also  much  the 
simplest  in  his  style,  which,  for  all  the  purposes  of  history,  has  never 
been  exceed.  He  has  been  frequently  accused  of  inaccuracy  and 
carelessness,  and  it  is  evident  that  Ms  ignorance  of  English  law  haa 
led  him  into  several  errors,  and  he  was  at  all.  times  more  anxious  to 
remove  defects  in  style  than  to  correct  errors  in  fact.  His  political 
leadings  are  too  obviously  exhibited  to  mislead  any  one ;  and  it  can 
hardly  be  doubted  that  in  accusing  Hume  of  dishonesty,  critics  have 
often  been  led  to  exaggerate 'his  faults  through  hatred  of  his  politics. 
Bobertson  is  inferior  to  Hume  in  simplicity^  and  his  style  is  occasion- 
ally faulty;  but  his  narrative  is  at  ail  times  highly  interesting,  and 
his  philosophical  views  are  characterized  by  great  truth  and  profound- 
ness. His  works  are  the  result  of  careful  and  ext«isive  research,  and 
though  objection  has  sometimes  been  taken  to  some  of  his  statemtots, 
subsequent  investigations  have  satisfiMtorily  shown  that  he  judged 
with  great  impartiality  on  the  evidence  he  possessed.  Gibbon  wrote 
in  a  much  more  dignified  and  ornate  style  than  his  two  predecessors, 
yet  not  too  much  so  considering  the  greater  grandeur  of  his  subject. 
The  almost  boundless  range  cJ  his  knowledge  is  better  appreciated 
now  than  it  was  in  his  own  day ;  and  the  masterly  ability  with  which 
he  has  grappled  with  and  overcome  the  difficulties  of  a  subject  which 
no  other  historian  could  have  undertaken,  has  quite  superseded  all 
necessity  of  farther  labour  cfB.  the  same  field.  His  indirect  attack 
upon  Ohristianity  must  ever  be  regretted  as  the  great  blot  upon  his 
"  Decline  and  Fiall,"  while,  like  evei^  other  attack  on  tbe  truth,  it  has 
only  served  to  point  out  to  Christian  divines  that  point  in  the  line  of 
their  defences  which  was  most  vulnerable,  and  to  rouse  all  their 
energies  in  defence  of  their  faith.  Besides  the  three  historians  now 
named,  others  of  less  note  flourished  in  this  period.  Of  these  the 
earliest  was  Eclaird,  whose  **  History  of  England  "  was  the  best  in  our 
language  till  it  was  superseded  by  that  of  Hume.  Bishop  Kennet 
was  ift  port  the  author  of  a  work  On  the  same  subject,  and  a  vahiable 
collection  of  materials  in  illustration  of  our  history  was  accumulated 
by  Carte,  a  non-juring  deigyman.    The  "  Hisftory  of  the  Beign  of 


Henry  11/'  was  written  hj  Lord  Lyttleton,  and  that  of  "Oreat 
Britain"  till  the  time  of  Henry  VIII.  was  composed  with  consider- 
able ability  by  Dr  Henry,  a  clergyman  in  Edinburgh.  The  "  Roman 
History"  of  Hooke  was  a  good  performance  for  its  time,  thongh,  of 
oonrse,  since  the  days  of  Niebuhr  it  has  been  forgotten.  In  the  time 
of  G^rge  II.,  a  ponderous  '*  Uniyersal  History  "  was  issned,  the  work 
of  nnmerons  hands,  of  whom  Bower,  Gnthiie,  and  Campbell  are 
tolerably  well  known  by  other  publications  of  a  similar  nature.  A  con- 
tinuation of  "  Hume's  History,"  but  in  a  yery  inferior  style,  was 
written  by  Smollett  the  noyelist;  Goldsmith  wrote  seyeral  small 
histories,  which,  though  possessing  no  other  merit  than  their  pleasing, 
easy  style,  haye,  such  is  the  yirtue  of  a  graceful  style,  continued  to  be 
used  as  sdiool-books  eyer  since.  Russell's  "  History  of  Modem 
Europe"  is  still  a  well-known  and  useful  compilation;  and  the 
'*  History  of  the  Roman  Republic"  by  Ferguson,  and  of  "  Greece"  by 
Dr  Gillies,  though  now  superseded,  were  also  ably-written  works.  The 
"History  of  Music"  by  Dr  Bumey,  and  of  "Poetry"  by  Waiton; 
yarious  biographical  works  by  Birch,  Echard,  Oampbell,  and  others ; 
works  on  antiquities  by  Potter  and  Eennet ;  the  "Annual  Register" 
begun  by  Dodsley,  and  its  opponent  the  "  New  Annual  Register,"  are 
all  entitled  to  a  place  in  the  historical  literature  of  the  century,  and 
many  of  them  are  still  yaluable  to  the  student. 

7.  The  theological  literature  of  the  period  is  rich  and  yaried,  and 
still  retains  much  of  its  yalue.  On  it,  as  on  all  other  departments  of 
literature,  the  genius  of  the  age  exercised  a  most  important  influence. 
There  was  almost  a  general  consent  among  the  wits  and  authors  of 
the  day  to  attack  Christianity  on  all  pointo ;  the  credibility  of  the 
Christian  eyidences  was  called  in  question ;  it  was  eyen  maintained 
by  writers  of  no  mean  note  that  it  was  impossible  to  establish  the 
trath  of  the  Christian  doctrines  by  any  amount  of  eridence ;  and  the 
whole  system  of  the  Christian  faith  was  ridiculed  as  contrary  to 
hum'an  reason,  as  unworthy  of  its  alleged  diyine  origin,  and  opposed 
to  all  the  ordinary  principles  of  diyine  operation  in  the  natural  world. 
These  attacks  called  forth  a  yoluminous  and  yaried  literature  on  the 
part  of  the  adyocates  of  Christianity,  which  is  still  yaluable  to  the 
theological  student,  though  the  better  feeling  towards  religion  which 
happily  preyails  in  the  present  age  has  rendered  it  less  necessary  for 
the  general  reader  to  peruse  such  works.  On  eyerything  connected 
with  natural  theology  and  the  external  eyidences  of  Christianity,  the 
theological  literature  of  the  eighteenth  century,  which  may  be  con- 
sidered as  beginning  with  Tillotson  and  ending  with  Paley,  is  by  far 
the  best  which  we  yet  possess.  Besides  the  main  controyersy  with 
the  sceptical  spirit  of  the  age,  two  subordinate  discussions  were  carried 
on  within  the  Church.  The  one,  referring  to  the  mysterious  doctrines 
of  the  Trinity,  was  excited  by  a  publication  of  Dr  Samuel  Clarke's, 
the  principal  combatants  being  Clarke  and  Waterland,  and  was  after- 
wards reyiyed  and  carried  on  with  great  yigoi^  between  Horsley, 
Priestley,  and  Wakefield.  The  other,  on  the  extent  of  Church  author- 
ity, excited  by  a  sermon  of  Dr  Hoadley,  Bishop  of  Bangor,  was  known 
in  consequence  as  the  Bangorian  Controyersy,  and  caused  much  and 
long-continued  animosity,  from  its  ranking  against  each  other  the  two 
great  parties  of  the  Church,  the  High  and  the  Low,  as  well  as  the  two 


great  parties  of  the  State,  the  Whigs  and  the  Tories.  In  defence  of 
religion  against  Atheism,  the  earliest  writer  was  Leslie,  an  Irish  non- 
juror, whose  "Short  and  Easy  Method  with  the  Deists,"  though 
limited  in  dimensions,  is  not  excelled  in  argnmentatiye  ability  by 
any  of  the  works  which  appeared  during  the  controyersy.  Still  more 
famous  at  the  time  were  the  Lectures  of  Dr  Samuel  Clarke  on  the 
"  Being  and  Attributes  of  God,"  in  which  he  endeavoured  to  establish 
the  Diyine  existence  and  peifections  by  what  is  usually  known  as  the 
d  priori  argument.  The  soundness  of  this  argument  is  now  very 
generally  denied ;  it  is  impossible,  however,  not  to  admire  the  ability 
with  which  it  is  urged ;  while  it  proved  of  great  service  at  the  time 
by  confounding  the  sceptics  with  metaphysical  subtleties  to  which 
they  could  make  no  satisfactory  reply.  A  "  Vindication  of  the  Divine 
Authority  and  Inspiration  of  Scripture,"  by  Bishop  Lowth,  is  charac- 
terized by  the  usual  learning  of  that  eminent  prelate ;  and  Bishop 
Berkeley,  in  his  '*  Minute  Philosopher,"  has  refuted  witii  great  ability 
and  soundness  many  of  the  arguments  which  were  most  customarily 
adduced  by  the  Freethinkers  of  the  time  against  revealed  religion. 
The  best-known,  however,  of  the  works  of  this  period  is  the  "  Analogy" 
of  Bishop  Butler,  in  which  he  shows  that  the  same  objections  which 
had  been  made  against  natural  and  revealed  religion  could  be  made 
with  equal  force  against  God's  ordinary  government  of  the  world,  and 
that  consequently  a  Deist  who  admitted  God  to  be  the  author  and 
ruler  of  the  external  world,  could  not  consistently  deny  the  truth  of 
the  principles  of  religion.  His  work  is  written  in  a  cumbrous  style, 
totally  destitute  of  all  the  graces  of  composition,  and  the  high  popu- 
larity which  it  has  always  enjoyed  and  still  retains  is  therefore  the 
strongest  proof  that  could  be  given  of  its  great  merit.  Equally  solid 
and  more  learned,  though  not  at  present  so  highly  esteemed,  are  the 
Discourses  of  Dr  Jortin  on  the  "  Truth  of  the  Christian  Revelation." 
The  "History"  of  Gibbon  called  forth  a  host  of  opponents  eager  to  defend 
Christianity  against  his  attacks ;  few  of  them,  however,  were  qualified 
for  the  task,  and  the  "  Apology  for  Christianity  "  of  Bishop  Watson  is 
the  only  one  now  remembered.  The  Dissenters  on  their  part  were 
not  wanting  in  defence  of  the  common  religion,  one  of  the  most 
laborious,  learned,  and  useful  works  which  appeared  during  the  cen- 
tury being  produced  by  Dr  Lardner,  minister  of  a  dissenting  chapel 
in  London.  His  "  Credibility  of  the  Gk)spel  History  "  has,  indeed, 
from  want  of  skill  in  composition,  and  its  formidable  dimensions  (it 
extends  to  fifteen  volumes),  never  enjoyed  any  great  share  of  popu- 
larity, but  it  affords  an  inexhaustible  supply  of  admirable  materials, 
which,  in  the  hands  of  more  expert  workmen  such  as  Paley,  have 
been  of  great  service  to  the  cause  of  Christian  truth.  Leland's  "  View 
of  the  principal  Deistical  Writers  "  is  a  work  still  highly  prized  for  its 
ability ;  and  the  "  Dissertation  on  Miracles  "  by  Farmer  is  considered 
by  some  judges  the  best  refutation  that  we  possess  of  the  sceptical 
views  by  which  Hume  endeavoured  to  deprive  religion  of  one  of  its 
strongest  evidences.  The  efforts  of  the  clergy  in  defence  of  the  faitti 
were  also  ably  seconded  by  the  pen  of  Addison,  and  still  more  by  the 
noble  energy  of  Johnson,  whose  superiority  of  character  and  vast 
literary  influence  contributed  much  to  infose  a  healthier  tone  in 
speaking  of  religious  matters ;  and  doubtless  the  sarcasm  of  Swift  on 


tiie  same  snbject  was  not  spent  in  vain.  The  miscellaneona  theo- 
logical literature  of  the  age  is  not  so  yalnable  as  that  which  has  been 
already  noticed;  still  it  embraces  many  works  of  merit.  Bishop  War- 
burton's  "  Divine  Legation  of  Moses  "  is,  in  point  of  emdition,  inferior 
to  no  work  in  the  English  language ;  but,  besides  the  extreme  arro- 
gance and  dogmatism  which  disfigure  it,  it  is  now  generally  admitted 
Ihat  the  author  was  mistaken  in  the  views  which  he  sought  to  defend. 
Lowtii's  "  Lectures  on  Hebrew  Poetry "  are  still  admired ;  and  the 
"  Free  Inquiry  into  the  Miraculous  Powers  of  the  early  Ohristians  " 
by  Middleton,  and  the  "Remarks  on  Ecclesiastical  Histbry"  of 
Jortin,  though  perhaps  a  little  too  sceptical,  w^e  yet  of  great  service 
in  inducing  the  clergy  to  inquire  with  more  care  and  discrimination 
into  the  ecclesiastical  history  of  the  early  centuries.  Law's  *^  Serious 
CaU"  is  a  well-known  work ;  and  Hervey's  "  Meditations  among  the 
Tombs,"  though  full  of  false  ^rhetoric,  is  still  held  in  considerable 
esteem.  Among  the  Dissenters,  the  names  and  writings  of  Watts, 
Doddridge,  Bootii,  and  Guyse,  are  those  most  familiar  to  the  men  of 
the  present  generation.  The  revival  of  religious  feeling,  and  the  rise 
of  the  Methodists  by  the  labours  of  Wesley  and  Whitefield,  led  to  the 
production  of  a  new  style  of  theological  literature,  in  which  it  would 
be  difficult  to  praise  anything  beyond  the  zeal  which  is  displayed. 
Scotland  makes  a  highly-respectable  contribution  to  the  theology  of 
the  century.  Boston's  "  Fourfold  State,"  though  its  theology  is  of 
the  narrowest  kind,  is  an  able  and  vigorous  work,  the  production 
of  a  masculine  mind ;  the  Sermons  of  Logan,  and  still  more  of  Blair, 
acquired  a  reputation  such  as  no  Scotch  theological  Work  had  ever 
before  possessed ;  the  "  Essay  on  Miracles,"  by  Dr  OtUnpbell  of  Aber- 
deen, was  an  able  reply  to  the  objections  made  by  Hume  against  the 
credibility  of  the  gospel  mirades ;  and  the  learning  of  Macknight  was 
highly  creditable  to  his  country. 

8.  To  this  period  we  owe  the  origin  of  the  Novd,  The  merit  of 
devising  a  form  of  composition  that  is  now  so  important  a  part  of 
our  literature  belongs  to  Daniel  Defoe ;  and,  though  the  earliest  ol 
our  novelists,  his  merits  have  in  some  respectis  not  been  surpassed  by 
any  succeeding  writer.  Such  was  his  power  of  producing,  by  the  cir^ 
cumstantiality  of  his  nairative,  and  its  air  of  perfect  tru&,  an  irresis- 
tible conviction  of  the  reality  of  what  he  describes,  that  many  of  his 
novels  were  long  believed  to  be  genuine  histories, — a  belief  which  is 
perhaps  not  yet  quite  extinct.  His  best  work,  "  Robinson  Crusoe," 
is  too  weU  known  to  need  any  description ;  he  wrote  also  a  "  History 
of  the  Plague,"  "  Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier,"  "  Moll  Flanders,"  "  Colonel 
Jack,"  and  other  works,  aU  distinguished  by  the  same  characteristic 
features, — ^many  of  them,  however,  highly  objectionable  in  a  moral 
point  of  view.  The  next  great  novelist  was  Richardson,  an  imita^ 
tor  of  Defoe,  happily  with  a  higher  moral  aim.  His  "  Pamela," 
"  Clarissa  Harlowe,"  and  "  Sir  Charles  Grandison,'.  are  somewhat 
too  long  for  modem  taste,  and  somewhat  defideht  in  action;  but 
his  powerful  delineation  of  all  that  affects  the  padsions  sddom 
fails  to  entrance  his  reader;  Great  as  were  the  improveiaents  intro- 
duced into  the  novel  by  Richardson,  a  still  further  advance  was  made 
under  his  contemporary  Fielding.  Possessed  of  singular  ability 
in  the  delineation  of  character  and  manners,  great  power  of  observa- 


tion,  a  happy  satirical  vein,  eminent  skill  in  concocting  his  plots,  and 
inexhaustible  invention  in  diyersifying  his  incidents,  Fielding  is  the 
father  of  the  novel  in  its  modem  character,  and  the  great  model  whom 
most  of  onr  modem  novelists  have  endeavonred  to  imitate.  Unfortnt 
nately  it  is  impossible  not  to  condemn  the  loose  morals  of  his  works ; 
but  Fielding  was  a  rake,  and  his  writings  contain  only  too  faithful  a 
picture  of  l£e  profligacy  which  brought  their  author  to  poverty,  dis- 
grace, and  an  untimely  grave.  Still  more  licentious  are  the  novels  of 
Smollett,  Fielding's  great  rival,  who,  with  less  skill  in  the  oonstroc* 
tion  of  his  plots,  and  inferior  judgment  in  the  introduction  of  his  inci- 
dents, possessed  a  broader  humour,  which  makes  his  works  more  fas- 
cinating, and  therefore  more  likely  to  exert  their  evil  influence  on 
the  unwary  reader.  Sterne,  the  other  great  novelist  of  the  period, 
owed  much  of  his  early  popularity  to  the  extreme  eccentricity  of  his 
style.  His  "  Tristram  Shandy"  is  at  one  time  grossly  licentious,  and 
immediately  afterwards  so  tender  and  pathetic  as  to  melt  the  most 
obdurate  reader.  Passages  containing  keen  sarcastic  remarks  upon 
the  follies  and  the  foibles  of  mankind,  alternate  with  others  that  are 
full  of  mere  talk  and  nonsense.  An  exquisite  tale  is  narrated  with 
consummate  skill ;  but  when  the  interest  is  at  its  height,  the  author 
capriciously  darts  off  to  some  totally  different  subject,  interpolates 
half-a-dozen  impertinent  episodes,  and  finishes,  perhaps,  with  a  chap- 
ter consisting  wholly  of  blank  paper  and  asterisks.  The  effect  of  this 
style  gradually  wore  off,  and  his  fame  declined  as  the  public  came 
accustomed  to  his  vagaries ;  but  Sterne,  as  a  humorist,  still  holds  a 
very  high  rank  in  our  literature.  Goldsmith's  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield" 
though  very  faulty  in  its  composition,  is  perhaps  the  most  pleasing 
tale  in  the  language,  and  enjoys  a  reputation  on  which  time  is  not 
likely  to  have  any  influence.  Johnson's  "  Rasselas  "  is  an  able  tale, 
and  produces  a  deep  impression  on  the  reader,  but  partakes  too  much 
of  the  gloomy  views  of  human  nature,  in  which  the  worthy  moralist 
was  apt  to  indulge.  Brooke's  **  Fool  of  Quality,"  after  a  temporary 
oblivion,  has  been  again  revived  and  reintroduced  as  a  claimant  for 
public  favour ;  and  Mackenzie's  *'  Man  of  Feeling  "  and  *'  Man  of  the 
World,"  though  deficient  as  pictures  of  human  life,  are  able  and  well- 
written  works.  The  old  romances  were  again  revived  by  Horace 
Walpole  in  his  "Castle  of  Otranto,"  which,  as  well  as  "The  Old 
Engli^  Baron  "  by  Mrs  Beeve,  are  well  known  to  the  juvenile  part 
of  the  community.  Towards  the  end  of  the  century  the  novel  sadly 
degenerated;  but  able  works  were  still  produced  by  Miss  Bumey, 
M^  Charlotte  Smith,  and  Dr  Moore. 

9.  Philosophy  has  been  defined  to  be  **  the  art  of  doubting  well ;" 
and  a  century  universally  abandoned  to  doubting,  as  the  eighteenth 
was,  very  naturally  produced  some  of  the  most  famous  systems  of 
mental  and  moral  philosophy.  The  nature  of  our  knowledge  of  the 
external  world  has  always  been  one  of  the  grand  subjects  of  dispute 
in  metaphysics,  and  on  this  various  theories  were  maintained  during 
the  period  now  under  notice.  Bishop  Berkeley  held  that  the  proper- 
ties of  bodies,  such  as  hardness,  were  not  qualities  in  the  bodies 
themselves,  but  ideas  in  our  minds ;  and  from  this  doctrine,  which  its 
author  intended  as  a  proof  of  the  omnipresence  of  the.  Deity,  sceptical 
writers  drew  the  conclusion  that  we  had  no  reason  to  believe  in  the 

236  HierroRiCAL  sxktcr. 

ezistence  of  an  external  world  at  all.  Hame,  in  his  "  Essays/' "  Trea- 
tise on  Human  Nature/'  and  other  metaphysical  writings,  asserted, 
that  from  the  fallaciousness  of  our  reason  and  other  mental  powers, 
^  well  as  of  our  senses,  we  had  no  good  grounds  for  certainty  in  any 
of  our  beliefs.  Hartley,  a  contemporary  of  Hume,  taught,  in  his 
"  Observations,"  that  all  our  thoughts  were  occasioned  by  the  associa- 
tion of  ideas  in  our  minds,  and  that  ideas  were  produced  in  us  by 
vibrations  in  the  brain.  To  oppose  such  doctrines  as  these,  which 
seemed  to  establish  nothing  but  universal  scepticism  and  mat^alism, 
and  to  justify  the  often-repeated  taunt  that  metaphysics  was  a  mere 
juggling  with  words,  Dr  Reid,  Professor  of  Moral  Plulosophy  in  Glas- 
gow, promulgated  a  new  system.  He  maintained,  in  his  "  Enquiry  " 
and  his  "  Active  Powers,"  that  all  men  had  an  immediate  knowledge 
of  the  world,  and  as  firm  a  conviction  of  its  existence  as  of  their  own, 
and  laid  down  certain  principles  taught  by  common  sense  as  the 
basis  on  which  alone  any  sound  philosophical  system  could  be  bnilt. 
His  opinions  have  exercised  a  very  important  influence  on  the  course 
of  speculation  ever  since  his  day.  In  moral  philosophy  opinions  have 
been  principally  divided  on  the  answers  whidi  should  be  given  to  two 
questions,  viz. — ^Is  there  any  essential  and  immutable  difference  be- 
tween right  and  wrong,  and  if  so,  wherein  does  it  consist  ?  and,  How 
is  it  that  we  disting^h  the  one  from  the  other  ?  To  these  questions 
very  various  answers  have  been  given.  Lord  Shaftesbury,  in  his 
"  Inquiry  concerning  Virtue,"  asserted  that  right  and  wrong  were 
necessanly  distinct,  and  that  in  our  judgment  of  actions  we  were 
regulated  by  a  "  moral  sense."  Dr  Clarke,  author  of  the  d  prion 
argument,  taught  that  right  and  wrong  consisted  in  the  fitness  or  un- 
fitness of  a  certain  line  of  conduct  to  certain  necessary  and  eternal 
differences  of  things  perceived  by  the  understanding.  Hutcheson, 
Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  Glasgow,  held,  with  Shaftesbury, 
that  we  perceived  moral  qualities  in  actions  by  means  of  a  moral 
sense,  just  as  we  perceive  the  qualities  of  external  bodies  by  our 
bodily  senses,  and  that  we  judged  of  actions  without  any  necessity  of 
reasoning  upon  their  consequences.  Bishop  Butler's  moral  system, 
contained  in  his  "  Sermons,"  is  disting^hed  mainly  by  the  promin- 
ent place  assigned  to  the  doctrine  of  the  supremacy  of  conscience,  to 
which  he  assigns  the  right  to  control  all  our  actions,  and  to  judge  of 
them  as  right  or  wrong  according  as  they  do  or  do  not  correspond  to 
the  dignity  of  our  nature.  Dr  Adam  Smith,  in  his  "Theory  of 
Moral  Sentiments,"  holds  that  we  are  able  to  judge  of  the  propriety 
or  impropriety  of  actions  only  through  sympathy,  by  supposing  our- 
selves to  be  in  the  place  of  the  actor,  and  judging  accordingly.  A 
different  view  was  taken  by  Hume,  who  taught  that  utility  was  the 
sole  ground  of  the  distinction  between  actions ;  that  those  actions 
were  good  which  tended  to  promote  our  happiness,  and  that  those 
which  had  a  contrary  tendency  were  bad.  This  theory  of  morals  is 
known  as  the  utilitarian  theory,  and,  with  various  modifications,  has 
been  widely  prevalent  ever  since  the  times  of  Hume.  These  were 
the  chief  writers  in  moral  and  mental  philosophy ;  but  the  same  de- 
partments of  literature  were  cultivated  with  more  or  less  success  by 
many  others,  of  whom  Beattie  and  Lord  Kames  are  the  beet  known. 
It  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  a  large  proportion  of  the  writers  that  have 


been  named  were  Scotsmen ;  and,  for  nearly  a  centnry,  the  study  of 
mental  philosophy  attracted  a  mnch  greater  number  of  doTotees  in 
Scotland  than  in  any  other  part  of  the  British  dominions. 

10.  There  still  remain  to  be  noticed  some  compositions  which  can- 
not be  distinctly  classed  nnder  any  of  the  previons  heads,  and  mhst, 
therefore,  be  considered  together  as  miscellaneons  works.  Of  writers 
of  this  class  the  earliest  was  Swift,  Dean  of  St  Patrick's,  Dublin,  and 
already  enumerated  among  the  minor  poets  and  the  essayists.  His 
works  are  very  numerous,  but  almost  all  short,  and  chiefly  on  political 
subjects,  and  of  a  satirical  cast.  He  may,  indeed,  be  said  to  have 
brought  political  satire  to  its  perfection,  and  no  one  ever  possessed  in 
higher  eminence  all  the  requisites  of  a  satirist.  Using  the  plainest 
and  most  forcible  language,  however  gross,  and  sparing  no  taunt,  how- 
ever coarse,  his  sole  object  was  to  overwhelm  his  political  opponents 
with  ridicule ;  and  in  this  he  succeeded  so  well  that,  unable  to  answer 
him  in  any  other  way,  they  oftener  than  once  threatened  him  with  a 
prosecution,  and  offered  a  large  reward  for  his  apprehension.  His  chief 
works  are  the  **  Tale  of  a  Tub,'*  in  which  he  satirizes,  not  always  in  very 
choice  language,  the  differences  among  Christians,  and  especially  the 
opinions  of  the  Roman  Catholics  and  Presbyterians ;  and  "  Gulliver's 
Travels,"  a  political  satire  in  the  form  of  a  humorous  book  of  travels, 
which  enjoyed  an  unequalled  popularity  at  the  time  of  its  issue,  and 
is  still  popular  with  many  who  have  no  suspicion  of  its  author's 
political  views  in  publishing  it,  Arbuthnot,  a  friend  of  Swift  and 
Pope,  and  their  associate  in  many  literary  projects,  was  the  author  of 
part  of  the  "  Memoirs  of  Martinus  Scriblerus,"  a  fragment  of  a  large 
work,  which  the  illustrious  trio  designed  as  a  satire  upon  the  history 
of  human  folly.  Lord  Bolingbroke,  also  a  friend  and  correspondent 
of  Swift,  is  the  author  of  "  Letters  on  the  Study  of  History,"  "  Letters 
on  the  Spirit  of  Patriotism,"  and  "  Philosophical  Essays."  His  works 
are  written  in  a  very  forcible  and  eloquent  style,  but  contain  many 
oblique  reflections  upon  morality  and  Christianity,  which  cannot  but 
prove  offensive  to  a  reader  of  good  principles.  Unhappily  his  more 
powerful  mind  exeicised  an  evil  moral  influence  over  the  poetry  of 
Pope,  most  conspicuously  manifested  in  the  "Essay  on  Man."  In 
the  next  generation,  the  chief  miscellaneous  writer  was  Samuel  John- 
son. Without  any  of  the  accidental  advantages  of  wealth,  high 
descent,  or  powerful  patrons,  Johnson,  by  sheer  force  of  learning, 
strong  good  sense,  and  high  moral  energy  of  character,  gradually  won 
his  way  to  the  first  rank  in  literature,  and  was  for  many  years  a 
sort  of  literary  dictator,  whose  style  was  the  model  for  universal  imi- 
tation, whose  opinions  formed  the  standard  of  criticism,  and  whose 
sentence  of  approval  or  condemnation  sealed  the  fate  of  every  literary 
production.  He  introduced  a  new  style,  which,  though  occasionally 
pompous  and  pedantic,  was  yet  more  dignified  and  sonorous  than  that 
which  had  been  established  by  the  authority  of  Addison ;  he  in- 
fused a  higher  moral  tone  into  the  literature  of  the  day ;  and  estab- 
lished a  code  of  critical  laws,  which,  though  unjust  to  the  literature  of 
the  fancy  and  imagination,  are  yet,  on  the  whole,  eminently  sound  and 
judicious.  His  chief  works  are  his  "  Lives  of  the  Poets,"  "  Journey  to 
the  Hebrides,"  and  numerous  articles  in  the  "Gentleman's  Magazine  " 
and  other  periodicals.     His  "Dictionary,"  moreover,  though  such 


worki  aie  not  usually  reckoned  among  the  liteiatnie  of  a  oonntry; 
forms  an  important  era  in  the  historj  of  onr  language,  and  its  yalne, 
with  all  its  faults,  is  shown  yery  conroicnonsly  by  the  faUnre  of 
almost  every  work  of  the  same  kind  which  has  been  {oojected  to 
snpply  his  deficiencies.  T<^  tiie  same  period  belong  the  misoel- 
laneoos  works  of  Goldsmith,  his  *' Essays,"  **  History  of  Animated 
Nature,"  Ac.,  all  characterized  by  the  graoefnl  ease  of  narratire  whidi 
is  so  conspicuous  in  all  that  GokdsDuth  wrote.  It  is  impossible 
to  mention  the  names  of  Johnson  and  Goldsmith  withoni  refer- 
ring to  one  of  the  most  delightful  books  in  our  literature,  the  *f  Life 
of  Dr  Johnson"  by  Boswell,  a  work  which,  by  its  interesting  sevela- 
tions  of  the  private,  intercourse  of  that  famous  band  of  Uterary 
associates  of  which  Johnson  was  the  centre,  has  more  than  any  other 
contributed  to  impress  us  with  a  high  opinion  of  the  inteUeotual 
eminence  of  the  men  whose  brilliant  oonrersational  sallies  it  so  |aith- 
ftilly  records.  Of  the  younger  ftiends  of  Johnson,  the  most  eminent 
by  far  was  Edmund  Burke,  an  Irishman,  whose  ability  mada  him  the 
foremost  orator  in  the  House  oi  Oommons,  and  who  was  favourably 
known  in  Johnson's  days  by  his  "  Essay  on  the  Sublime  and  Beauti- 
ful." His  first  work  is  in  style  a  remarkable  contrast  to  his  later  pro- 
ductions ;  it  is  plain  and  unadorned,  while  they  afibrd  the  finest  speci- 
mens of  florid,  highly-coloured,  impassioned  eloqueoice  of  which  our 
language  can  boast.  As  a  parliamentary  orator,  ha  has  been  seldom 
equalled,  and  he  is  now  universally  allowed  to  be  the  most  philoso- 
phical of  all  political  writers.  His  latest  works  were  occasioned  by 
the  outbreak  of  the  French  Revolution,  which  he  fiercely  condemned, 
and  though  his  prognostications  were  at  the  time  considered  by  many 
of  his  old  friends  as  unfounded  and  improbable,  sujsseqnent  events 
unhappily  showed  that  they  were  in  general  only  too  true.  The 
study  of  political  economy  was  Immensely  advanced  and  placed  on  a 
firm  foundation  by  Adam  Smitii  in  his  "  Wealth  of  Nations,"  a  work 
displaying  great  sagacity,  and  much  power  of  patient  observation  and 
acute  conjecture.  A  similar  service  was  rendered  to  the  study  of  law 
by  the  publication  of  Blaokstone's  "Commentaries  on  the  Law  of 
England,"  a  work  which,  with  some  imperfections,  is  still  highly 
valued  as  an  able  summary  of  the  nature  of  our  constitution,  and  the 
spirit  of  our  jurisprudence.  Of  a  similar  nature  is  the  famous  work  on 
the  **  British  Oonstitution  "  by  De  Lohne,  a  Swiss  lawyer,  which  has 
however  lost  much  of  its  original  reputation*  The  "  History  of  Civil 
Society"  by  Dr  Adam  Ferguson  has  been  admired,  both  for  its  senti- 
ment and  its  eloquence ;  and  Lord  Monboddo's  "  Essay  on  the  Origin 
of  Languages,"  among  much  that  is  strange,  and  even  positively 
ludicrous,  gives  proof  of  extensive  learning  and  great  shrewdness.  The 
"  Letters  of  Junius,"  a  series  of  letters  full  of  the  most  cutting  sarcasm, 
appeared  anonymously,  and  though  the  question  of  the  authorship  has 
been  vigorously  canvassed  ever  since,  it  still  remains  unsettled ;  the 
main  difficulty,  in  fact,  being  to  discover  among  the  less  eminent 
authors  of  the  age  (for  none  of  the  more  eminent,  except  Burke,  has 
been  suspected)  any  one  capable  of  producing  a  work  so  talented.  The 
letters  of  Walpole  are  perfect  models  of  gra^fnl  epistolary  correspond- 
ence, and  throw  much  light  on  the  characters,  manners,  politics,  and 
transactions  of  the  long  period  over  which  they  extend.    Three  female 


^imten  obtained  a  considerable  share  of  public  applause,  Mrs  Montago, 
Mrs  Chapone,  and  Hannah  More,  the  last  of  them  being  by  mndb  the 
most  popular,  and  the  only  one  whose  fame  has  reached  onr  day.  The 
"  Disconrses  on  Painting"  of  Sir  Joshna  Reynolds  are  worthy  of  the 
distinguished  friend  of  Johnson,  and  have  always  been  considered  as 
high  authority  upon  eyerything  connected  with  the  art  to  which  they 
ref^r.  Of  writers  on  natural  history,  the  names  of  Pennant  and  Gilbert 
White  of  Selbome  are  best  known  to  ordinary  readers ;  and  to  the 
antiquarian,  the  names  of  Strype  and  Grose  are  still  familiar.  Books  of 
travel  were  not  then  so  popular  as  now,  and  formed  a  much  smaller 
constituent  part  of  the  current  literature :  this  period,  however,  pro- 
duced some  works  of  merit  in  this  department,  of  which  those  now 
most  usually  read  are— the  **  Voyages  of  Captain  Gooke,"  the  account 
of  the  "Embassy  to  China"  by  Lord  Macartney  and  Sir  George 
Staunton,  and  the  '*  Travels  in  Abyssinia"  of  Bruce.  The  scholar- 
ship of  Bentley  at  the  beginning,  and  Person  at  the  close  of  the 
period,  has  never  been  surpassed  in  our  country ;  and  to  the  diligence 
of  Malone  and  Ritson,  we  are  much  indebted  for  the  knowledge  we 
now  possess  of  our  earUer  literature. 



Joseph  Addison  waa  the  son  of  the  Dean  of  Lichfield,  and  was 
bom  in  1672  at  Milston,  in  Wilts.  His  early  education  was  received 
at  SaUsbnrj,  Lichfield,  and  the  Gharter-honse  School  in  London; 
and  on  his  removal  to  Oxford,  he  greatly  distingmshed  himself  by  his 
proficiency  in  classical  literature,  and  especially  by  his  skill  in  com- 
posing Latin  verse.  He  joined  the  Whig  party,  and  his  ability  was 
rewarded  with  pensions  and  offices ;  he  commemorated  the  victory  of 
Blenheim  in  a  poem  called  the  "  Campaign,"  and  received  in  return 
the  office  of  "  Commissioner  of  Appeals ;"  he  was  afterwards  advanced 
to  the  Secretaryship  for  Ireland,  and  finally  became  one  of  the  Secre- 
taries of  State,  from  which  post,  after  a  brief  tenure  of  office,  he  retired 
with  an  abundant  pension  of  L.1600  a-year.  He  died  at  Holland 
House  near  London,  in  1719.  Addison  occupies  a  high  position  in 
our  literature  as  a  poet,  and  still  more  as  a  prose  writer :  of  his  poems 
the  most  admired  is  his  "  Letter  from  Italy,"  and  some  of  his  exquisite 
hymns  are  universal  favourites.  His  famous  tragedy  of  Cato,  though 
containing  many  magnificent  passages,  is  too  deficient  in  feeling  to 
suit  the  taste  of  the  present  day.  Of  his  prose  writings,  the  papers 
in  the  "  Spectator  "  are  the  best  known,  and  on  these  his  fame  rests 
imperishably.  They  are  justly  considered  models  of  a  graceful  style, 
pure  language,  and  polished  humour.  In  delineation  of  character 
Addison  was  peculiarly  happy ;  his  **  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  "  is  not 
surpassed  by  anything  in  the  whole  range  of  our  literature.  It  should 
also  be  mentioned  to  his  honour  that  his  pen  is  always  employed  in 
the  service  of  virtue  and  morality,  a  commendation  which  few  writers 
of  the  period  deserve. 



A  man's  first  care  should  be  to  avoid  the  reproaches  of  his  own 
heart ;  his  next,  to  escape  the  censures  of  the  world.  If  the  last 
interferes  with  the  former,  it  ought  to  be  entirely  neglected ;  but 
otherwise  there  cannot  be  a  greater  satisfaction  to  an  honest  mind, 
than  to  see  those  approbations  which  it  gives  itself  seconded  by  the 
applauses  of  the  publia    A  man  is  more  sure  of  his  conduct  when 


the  verdict  which  he  passes  upon  his  own  behaviour  is  thus  wap- 
ranted  and  confirmed  b^  the  opinion  of  all  that  know  him. 

My  worthy  fnend,  Sur  Boser,  is  one  of  those  who  is  not  only  at 
peace  within  himself,  but  bek>ved  and  esteemed  by  all  about  him. 
He  receives  a  suitable  tribute  for  his  universal  benevolence  to  man- 
kind, in  the  returns  of  affection  and  good-will  which  are  paid  him 
by  every  one  that  lives  within  his  neighbourhood.  I  latelv  met 
with  two  or  three  odd  instances  of  that  general  respect  which  is 
shown  to  the  good  old  knight.  He  would  needs  carry  Will  Wimble 
and  myself  with  him  to  the  country  assizes.  As  we  were  upon  the 
road,  Will  Wimble  joined  a  couple  of  plain  men  who  Hd  before  us, 
and  conversed  with  them  for  some  time ;  during  which  my  friend, 
Sir  Boger,  acquainted  me  with  their  characters. 

The  first  of  them,  says  he,  that  has  a  spaniel  by  his  side,  is  a  yeo-. 
man  of  about  an  hundred  pounds  a-year,  an  honest  man.  He  is 
just  within  the  Game  Act,  and  qualified  to  kill  an  hare  or  a  pheasant. 
He  knocks  down  a  dinner  with  his  sun  twice  or  thrice  a-week ;  and 
by  that  means  lives  much  cheaper  uian  those  who  have  not  so  good 
an  estate  as  himself.  He  would  be  a  good  neighbour  if  he  did  not 
destroy  so  many  partridges.  In  short,  he  is  a  very  sensible  man ; 
shoots  flying ;  and  has  been  several  times  foreman  of  the  petty 

The  other  that  rides  along  with  him  is  Tom  Touchy,  a  feUow 
fEimous  for  taking  the  law  of  everybody.  There  is  not  one  in  the 
town  where  he  lives  that  he  has  not  sued  at  a  quarter-sessions. 
The  rogue  had  once  the  impudence  to  go  to  law  with  the  widow. 
His  head  is  fuU  of  costs,  damages,  and  ejectments.  He  plagued  a 
couple  of  honest  gentlemen  so  long  for  a  trespass  in  breaking  one 
of  his  hedges,  that  he  was  forced  to  sell  the  ground  it  enclosed  to 
defray  the  charges  of  the  prosecution ;  his  fsither  left  him  fourscore 
pounds  aryear ;  but  he  has  cast  and  been  cast  so  often  that  he  is 
not  now  worth  thirty.  I  suppose  he  is  going  upon  the  old  business 
of  the  Willow-Tree. 

As  Sir  Eoser  was  giving  me  this  account  of  Tom  Touchy,  Will 
Wimble  and  nis  two  companions  stopped  short  tiU  we  came  up  to 
them.  After  having  paid  their  respects  to  Sir  Eoger,  Will  told 
him  that  Mr  Touchy  and  he  must  appeal  to  him  upon  a  dispute 
that  arose  between  them.  WiU,  it  seems,  had  been  giving  his 
fellow-traveller  an  account  of  his  angling  one  day  in  such  a  nole, 
when  Tom  Touchy,  instead  of  hearing  out  his  story,  told  him  that 
Mr  Such-a-one,  if  he  pleased,  might  take  the  law  of  him  for  fishing 
in  that  part  of  the  river.  My  friend.  Sir  Roger,  heard  them  both 
upon  a  round  trot ;  and,  after  having  paused  some  time,  told  them, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  would  not  give  his  judgment  rashly,  that 
^'  Much  might  be  said  on  both  sides."  They  were  neither  of  them 
dissatisfied  with  the  knight's  determination,  because  neither  of 
them  found  himself  in  the  wrong  by  it.  Upon  which  we  made  the 
best  of  our  way  to  the  assises. 

The  Court  was  sat  before  Sir  Boger  came ;  but,  notwithstanding 

248  J06SFH  ADDISOK. 

all  the  juBtioes  had  taken  their  places  upon  the  bench,  they  made 
room  for  the  old  knight  at  the  head  of  them:  who,  for  his  reputa- 
tion in  the  cotmtiy,  took  occasion  to  whisper  in  the  judge's  ear, 
''  That  he  was  glad  his  lordship  had  met  with  so  much  good  weather 
in  his  circuit.  I  was  listenmg  to  the  proceeding  of  tiie  Court 
with  much  attention,  and  infinitely  pleased  with  that  great  appear- 
ance and  solemnity  whidh  so  properly  accompanies  such  a  public 
administration  of  our  laws,  when,  after  about  an  hour's  sitting,  I 
observed,  to  my  great  surprise,  in  the  midst  of  a  trial,  that  my 
friend,  Sir  Roger,  was  gettmg  up  to  speak.  I  was  in  some  pain 
for  him,  until  I  found  he  had  acquitted  himself  of  two  or  three 
sentences  with  a  look  of  much  business  and  great  intrepidity. 

Upon  his  first  rising  the  Court  was  hushe<^  and  a  general  whisper 
ran  among  the  oountiy  people  that  Sir  Boger  was  up.  The  speech 
he  made  was  so  little  to  the  purpose  that  I  shall  not  trouble  my 
readers  with  an  account  of  it ;  and  I  beliere  was  not  so  much  de- 
signed by  the  knight  himself  to  inform  the  Court,  as  to  give  him  a 
figore  in  my  eye,  and  keep  irp  his  credit  in  the  country. 

I  was  highly  delighted,  when  the  Court  rose,  to  see  the  gentle- 
men of  the  country  gathering  about  my  old  friend,  and  striving  who 
should  compliment  him  most ;  at  the  same  time  that  the  ormnaiy 
people  gazed  upon  him  at  a  distance,  not  a  little  admiring  his 
courage  that  was  not  afraid  to  speak  to  the  judge. 

In  our  return  home  we  met  with  a  veiy  odd  accident,  which  I 
cannot  forbear  relating,  because  it  shows  how  desirous  all  who 
know  Sir  Boger  are  of  giving  him  marks  of  their  esteem.  When 
we  were  arrived  upon  the  verce  of  his  estate,  we  stopped  at  a  little 
inn  to  rest  ourselves  and  our  horses.  The  man  of  the  house  had,  it 
seems,  been  formerly  a  servant  in  the  knight's  &mily ;  and,  to  do 
honour  to  his  old  master,  had  some  time  since,  unknown  to  Sir 
Roger,  put  him  up  in  a  sign-post  before  the  door;  so  that  the 
knight's  head  had  hung  out  upon  the  road  about  a  week  before  he 
himself  knew  anything  of  the  matter.  As  soon  as  Sir  Boger  was 
acquainted  with  it,  finding  that  his  servant's  indiscretion  proceeded 
wholly  from  affection  and  good-will,  he  only  told  him  that  he  had 
made  him  too  high  a  compliment ;  and  when  the  fellow  seemed  to 
think  that  could  hardly  be,  added  with  a  more  decisive  look,  that 
it  was  too  great  an  honour  for  any  man  under  a  duke ;  but  told 
him,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  might  be  altered  with  a  very  few 
touches,  and  that  he  himself  would  be  at  the  charge  of  it  Accord- 
ingly they  got  a  painter,  by  the  knight's  directions,  to  add  a  pair  of 
whiskers  to  the  face,  and,  by  a  nttle  aggravation  of  the  features,  to 
change  it  into  the  "  Saracen's  Head."  I  should  not  have  known  this 
story  had  not  the  innkeeper,  upon  Sir  Boger^s  alighting,  told  him 
in  my  hearing,  that  his  honour^s  head  was  brought  back  last  night, 
with  the  alterations  that  he  had  ordered  to  be  made  in  it.  Upon 
this  my  friend,  with  his  usual  cheerfalness,  related  the  particulars 
above  mentioned,  and  ordered  the  head  to  be  brought  into  the 
room.    I  could  not  forbear  discovering  greater  expressions  of  mirth 


than  oidinaiy  upon  the  appearance  of  this  monstrous  fiioe,  under 
which,  notwithstanding  it  was  made  to  frown  and  stare  in  a  most 
extraordinary  manner,  I  could  still  discoyer  a  distant  resemblance 
of  my  old  Mend.  Sir  Roger,  upon  seeing  me  lau^h,  desired  me  to 
tell  him  truly  if  I  thought  it  possible  for  people  to  know  him  in  that 
disguise.  I  at  first  kept  my  usual  silence ;  but,  upon  the  knight's 
conjuring  me  to  tell  him  whether  it  was  not  still  more  like  himself 
than  a  Saracen,  I  ooo^osed  my  countenance  in  the  best  manner  I 
could,  and  replied,  "  Th&t  mum  might  be  said  on  both  sides." 


I  was  yesterday,  about  sunset,  walking  in  the  open  fields,  until  the 
night  insensibly  fell  upon  me.  I  at  mi  amused  myself  with  all 
the  richness  and  variety  of  colours  which  appeared  in  the  western 
parts  of  heaven.  In  proportion  as  they  &ded  away  and  went  out^ 
several  stars  and  planets  appeared  one  after  another,  until  the  whole 
firmament  was  in  a  glow.  The  blueness  of  the  ether  was  exceedingly 
heightened  and  enlivened  by  the  season  of  the  year,  and  by  the  rays 
of  Sil  those  luminaries  that  passed  through  it.  The  galaxy  appeared 
in  its  most  beautiful  white.  To  complete  the  scene,  the  fulf  moon 
rose  at  length  in  that  clouded  majesty  which  Milton  takes  notice  of, 
and  opened  to  the  eye  a  new  picture  of  nature,  which  was  more 
finely  shaded,  and  disposed  among  softer  lights,  than  that  which  the 
Sim  had  before  discovered  to  us. 

As  I  was  surveying  the  moon  walking  in  her  brightness,  and 
taking  her  progress  among  the  constellations,  a  thought  rose  in  me 
which  I  believe  very  often  perplexes  and  disturbs  men  of  serious 
and  contemplative  natures.  David  himself  fell  into  it  in  that  xefleo- 
tion :  '^  When  I  consider  the  heavens,  the  work  of  Thy  fingers,  the 
moon  and  the  stars  which  Thou  hast  ordained,  what  is  man  that 
Thou  art  mindful  of  him,  and  the  son  of  man  that  Thou  regardest 
him  1"  In  the  same  manner,  when  I  considered  that  infinite  host 
of  stars,  or,  to  speak  more  philosophically,  of  suns,  which  were  then 
shining  upon  me,  with  those  innumerable  sets  of  planets  or  worlds 
which  were  moving  round  their  respective  suns — ^when  I  still  en- 
larged the  idea,  and  supposed  another  heaven  of  suns  and  worlds 
rising  stiU  above  this  which  we  discovered,  and  these  still  enlightened 
by  a  superior  firmament  of  luminaries,  which  are  planted  at  so  great 
a  distance  that  they  may  appear  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  former  as 
the  stars  do  to  us — ^in  short,  while  I  pursued  this  thought,  I  could 
not  but  reflect  on  that  little,  insignificant  figure  which  I  myself  bore 
amidst  the  immensity  of  God's  works. 

Were  the  sun  which  enlightens  this  part  of  the  creation,  with  aU 
the  host  of  planetary  w^ds  that  move  about  him,  utterly  extin- 
guished and  annihilated,  they  would  not  be  missed  more  than  a 
grain  of  sand  upon  the  sea-shore.  The  space  they  possess  is  so  ex- 
ceedingly little  in  comparison  of  the  whole,  that  it  would  scarce 
make  a  blank  in  the  creation.  The  chasm  would  be  imperceptible 
to  an  eye  that  could  take  in  the  whole  compass  of  nature,  and  pass 


firom  one  end  of  the  creatjon  to  the  other ;  as  it  is  possible  there 
may  be  such  a  sense  in  ourselves  hereafter,  or  in  creatures  which 
are  at  present  more  exalted  than  ourselves.  We  see  many  stars  by 
the  help  of  glasses  which  we  do  not  discover  with  our  naked  eyes; 
and  the  finer  our  telescopes  are,  the  more  still  are  our  discoveries. 
Huycenius  carries  this  thought  so  fieur,  that  he  does  not  think  it  im- 
possible there  may  be  stars  whose  light  has  not  yet  travelled  down 
to  us  since  their  first  creation.  There  is  no  question  but  the  universe 
has  certain  bounds  set  to  it ;  but  when  we  consider  that  it  is  the 
work  of  infinite  power,  prompted  by  infinite  goodness,  with  an  in- 
finite space  to  exert  itself  in,  how  can  our  imagination  set  any  bounds 
to  it  ? 


It  is  a  celebrated  thought  of  Socrates,  that  if  all  the  misfortune! 
of  mankind  were  cast  into  a  public  stock,  in  order  to  be  equally  dis- 
tributed among  the  whole  species,  those  who  now  think  themselves 
the  most  unhappy  would  prefer  the  share  they  are  already  possessed 
of  before  that  which  would  fiall  to  them  by  such  a  division.  As  I 
was  ruminating  upon  this,  and  seated  in  my  elbow-chair,  I  insensibly 
fell  asleep,  when,  on  a  sudden,  methought  there  was  a  proclamation 
made  by  Jupiter,  that  eveiy  mortal  should  bring  in  his  griefs  and 
calamities,  and  throw  them  together  in  a  heap.  There  was  a  large 
plain  appointed  for  this  purpose.  I  took  my  stand  in  the  centre  of 
it,  and  saw,  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  the  whole  human  species 
marching  one  after  another,  and  throwing  down  their  several  loads, 
which  immediately  grew  up  into  a  prodigious  mountain,  that  seemed 
to  rise  above  the  clouds.  There  was  a  certain  lady,  of  a  thin,  airy 
shape,  who  was  very  active  in  this  solemnity.  She  carried  a  magni- 
fying glass  in  one  of  her  hands,  and  was  clothed  in  a  loose,  flowing 
robe,  embroidered  with  several  figures  of  fiends  and  spectres,  that 
discovered  themselves  in  a  thousand  chimerical  shapes  as  her 
garments  hovered  in  the  wind.  There  was  something  wild  and  dis- 
tracted in  her  looks.  Her  name  was  Fancy.  She  led  up  every 
mortal  to  the  appointed  place,  after  having  very  officiously  assisted 
him  in  making  up  lus  pack  and  laying  it  upon  his  shoulders.  My 
heart  melted  within  me  to  see  my  fellow-creatures  groaning  under 
their  respective  burdens,  and  to  consider  that  prodigious  bulk  of 
human  calamities  which  lay  before  me.  There  were,  however, 
several  persons  who  ^ve  me  great  diversion.  Upon  this  occasion 
I  observed  one  bringmg  in  a  fardel,'  very  carefully  concealed  under 
an  old  embroidered  cIosJe,  which,  upon  his  throwing  it  into  the  heap, 
I  discovered  to  be  poverty.  I  saw  multitudes  of  old  women  throw 
down  their  wrinkles,  and  several  young  ones  who  stripped  them- 
selves of  a  tawny  sMn.  There  were  very  great  heaps  of  red  noses, 
large  lips,  and  rusty  teetL  But  what  most  of  all  surprised  me  was 
a  remark  I  made,  that  there  was  not  a  single  vice  or  folly  thrown 

^  ie.,  a  bundle.    The  reader  will  remember  Hamlet*B  question,  "  Who  would  fardda 


into  the  whole  heap,  at  which  I  was  veiy  much  astonished,  having 
concluded  within  myself  that  every  one  would  take  this  opportunity 
of  getting  rid  of  his  passions,  prejudices,  and  frailties.  I  took 
notice  in  particular  of  a  very  profligate  fellow,  who,  I  did  not  ques- 
tion, came  loaden  with  his  crimes;  but,  upon  searching  into  his 
bundle,  I  found  that,  instead  of  throwing  hi^  guilt  from  him,  he 
had  only  laid  down  his  memory.  He  was  followed  by  another 
worthless  rogue,  who  flung  away  his  modesty  instead  of  his  ignorance. 
When  the  whole  race  of  mankind  had  thus  cast  their  bui^ens,  the 
phantom  which  had  been  so  busy  on  this  occasion,  seeing  me  an  idle 
spectator  of  what  passed,  approached  towards  me.  I  ^w  uneasy 
at  her  presence,  when  of  a  sudden  she  held  her  magnifying-glass. 
full  before  my  eyes.  I  no  sooner  saw  my  £EU2e  in  it  than  I  was 
startled  at  the  shortness  of  it,  which  now  appeared  to  me  in  its  ut- 
most affgravation.  The  immoderate  breadth  of  the  features  made 
me  ye^much  out  of  humour  with  my  own  coimtenance,  upon 
which  I  threw  it  from  me  like  a  mask.  It  happened  very  luckily 
that  one  who  stood  by  me  had  just  before  thrown  down  his  visage, 
which,  it  seems,  was  too  long  for  him.  It  was  indeed  extended  to  a 
most  shameful  length ;  I  believe  the  very  ohin  was,  modestly  speak- 
ing,  as  long  as  my  whole  face. 

As  we  were  regarding  very  attentively  this  confusion  of  miseries, 
this  chaos  of  calamity,  Jupiter  issued  out  a  second  proclamation, 
that  every  one  was  now  at  liberty  to  exchange  his  affliction,  and 
return  to  his  habitation  with  any  such  bundle  as  should  be  allotted 
to  him.  Upon  this.  Fancy  began  again  to  bestir  herself,  and,  par- 
celling out  the  whole  heap  with  incredible  activity,  recommended  to 
every  one  his  particular  packet.  The  hurry  and  confusion  at  this 
time  were  not  to  be  expressed.  A  poor  galley-slave  who  had  thrown 
down  his  chains  took  up  the  gout  instead,  but  made  such  wry  faces 
that  one  might  easily  perceive  he  was  no  great  gainer  by  the  bar- 
gain. It  was  pleasant  enough  to  see  the  several  exchanges  that 
were  made, — ^for  sickness  against  poverty,  himger  against  want  of 
^petite,  and  care  against  pain.  I  must  not  omit  my  own  particu- 
lar adventure.  My  friend  with  a  long  visage  had  no  sooner  taken 
upon  him  my  short  face,  than  he  made  sucn  a  grotesque  figure  in 
it,  that  as  I  looked  upon  him  I  could  not  forbear  laughing  at  my- 
self, insomuch  that  I  put  my  own  face  out  of  countenance.  The 
poor  gentleman  was  so  sensible  of  the  ridicule,  that  I  found  he  was 
ashamed  of  what  he  had  done;  on  the  other  side,  I  found  that  I 
myself  had  no  great  reason  to  triumph,  for,  as  I  went  to  touch  my 
forehead,  I  missed  the  place,  and  clapped  my  finger  upon  my  upper 
lip.  Besides,  as  my  nose  was  exceedingly  prominent,  I  gave  it  two 
or  three  unlucky  knocks  as  I  was  playing  my  hand  about  my  face, 
and  aiming  at  some  other  part  of  it.  I  saw  two  other  gentlemen  by 
me  who  were  m  the  same  ridiculous  circumstances.  These  had 
made  a  foolish  exchange  between  a  pair  of  thick  bandy  le^  and 
two  long  trap-sticks  uiat  had  no  calves  to  them.  One  of  these 
looked  like  a  man  walking  upon  stilts,  and  was  so  lifted  up  into  the 


ail  above  his  oidinaiy  hei^t,  that  his  head  tamed  round  with  it ; 
while  the  other  made  such  awkward  circles  as  he  attempted  to  walk, 
that  he  scarcely  knew  how  to  move  forward  upon  his  new  sup- 
porters. The  heap  was  at  last  distributed  among  the  two  sexes, 
who  made  a  most  piteous  sight  as  they  wandered  up  and  dovm 
under  the  pressure  of  their  seyeral  burdens.  The  whole  plain  was 
filled  with  murmurs  and  complaints,  groans,  and  lamentations. 
Jupiter  at  length,  taking  compassion  on  the  poor  mortals,  ordered 
them  a  second  time  to  lay  down  their  loads,  with  a  design  to  give 
eyezy  one  his  own  again.  They  discharged  themselyes  with  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure,  after  whidi  tiie  phantom  who  had  led  them  into 
such  gross  delusions  was  commanded  to  disappear.  There  was 
sent  in  her  stead  a  goddess  of  a  quite  different  figure  ;  her  motions 
were  steady  and  composed,  and  her  aspect  serious,  but  cheerful 
She  every  now  and  then  cast  her  eyes  towards  heaven  and  fixed 
ikem  upon  Jupiter.  Her  name  was  Patience.  She  had  no  sooner 
placed  herself  by  ti^e  Mount  of  Sorrows  than,  what  I  thought  yery 
remarkable,  the  whole  heap  sunk  to  such  a  d^ree  that  it  did  not 
appear  a  third  part  so  big  as  it  was  before.  She  afterwards  re- 
turned eyery  man  his  own  proper  calamity,  and,  teaching  him  how^ 
to  bear  it  in  the  most  commodious  manner,  he  marched  off  with  it 
oontentedly,  being  very  well  pleased  that  he  had  not  been  left  to  his 
own  choice  as  to  the  kmd  of  evils  which  fell  to  his  lot. 

Besides  the  several  pieces  of  morality  to  be  drawn  out  of  this 
vision,  I  learnt  from  it  never  to  repine  at  my  own  misfortones,  or 
to  envy  the  happiness  of  another,  since  it  is  impossible  for  any  man 
to  form  a  right  judgment  of  his  neighbour's  sufferings ;  for  which 
reason  also  I  have  determined  never  to  think  too  lightly  of  another's 
oomplaiats,  but  to  regard  the  sorrows  of  my  fellow-creatures  with 
sentiments  of  humanity  and  compassion. 


There  liyed  some  years  since,  within  my  neighbourhood,  a  yeiy 
graye  person,  an  upholsterer,  who  seemed  a  man  of  more  than  ordi- 
nary application  to  business.  He  was  a  yery  early  riser,  and  was 
often  abroad  two  or  three  hours  before  any  of  his  neighbours.  He 
had  a  particular  carefulness  in  the  knitting  of  his  brows,  and  a  kind 
of  impatience  in  all  his  motions,  that  plainly  discovered  he  was 
always  intent  on  matters  of  importance.  Upon  my  inquiry  into  his 
fife  and  conversation,  I  found  him  to  be  the  greatest  newsmonger  in 
our  quarter  ;  that  he  rose  before  day  to  read  the  '' Postman,  and 
that  he  would  take  two  or  three  turns  to  the  other  e^d  of  the  town 
before  his  neighbours  were  up,  to  see  if  there  were  any  Dutch  mails 
ceme  in.  He  had  a  wife  and  several  children,  but  was  much  more 
inquisitive  to  know  what  passed  in  Poland  than  in  his  own  funily, 
and  was  in  greater  pain  and  anxiety  of  mind  for  King  Augustus's 
welfare  than  that  of  his  nearest  relations.  He  look^  extremely 
thin  in  a  dearth  of  news,  and  never  enjoyed  himself  in  a  westerly 


wind.  This  indefatigable  kind  of  life  was  the  ruin  of  his  shop  ;  for 
about  the  time  that  hisfEiyourite  prince  left  the  crown  of  Pokuid^he 
broke  and  disappeared. 

This  man  and  his  affiurs  had  been  long  out  of  my  mind,  till,  about 
three  days  a^,  as  I  was  walking  in  St  James's  Park,  I  heard  some- 
body at  a  distance  hemming  after  me ;  and  who  should  it  be  but 
my  old  neighbour  the  uphokterer  1  I  saw  he  was  reduced  to  ex- 
treme poverty  by  certain  shabby  superfluities  in  his  dress;  for,  not- 
withstanding that  it  was  a  very  sultry  day  for  the  time  of  the  year, 
he  wore  a  loose  greatcoat  and  a  muff,  with  a  long  campaign  wig  out 
of  curl,  to  which  he  had  added  the  ornament  of  a  pair  of  black  gar- 
ters, buckled  under  the  knee.  Upon  his  coining  up  to  me  I  was 
going  to  inquire  into  his  present  circumstances,  but  was  prevented 
by  his  askiog  me,  with  a  whisper,  whether  the  last  letters  brought 
any  accounts  that  one  might  lely  upon  fiK>m  Bender  ?  I  told  mm 
none  that  I  heard  of,  and  asked  him  whether  he  had  yet  married 
his  eldest  daughter  ?  He  told  me  no.  But  pray,  says  he,  tell  me 
sincerely  what  are  your  thoughts  of  the  King  of  Sweden  1  ^  For 
though  his  wife  and  children  were  starving,  I  found  his  chief  con- 
cern at  present  was  for  this  great  monarch.  I  told  him  that  I 
looked  upon  him  as  one  of  the  first  heroes  of  the  age.  But  pray, 
says  he,  do  you  think  there  is  anything  in  the  story  of  his  wound  ? 
And  finding  me  surprised  at  the  question, — Nay,  says  he,  I  only 
propose  it  to  you.  I  answered  that  I  thought  tliere  was  no  reason 
to  doubt  of  it  But  why  in  the  heel,  says  he,  more  than  in  any 
other  part  of  the  body  ?  Because,  said  1,  the  bullet  chanced  to 
light  there. 

This  extraordinary  dialogue  was  no  sooner  ended  but  he  began  to 
launch  out  into  a  long  dissertation  upon  the  affairs  of  the  north  ; 
and  after  having  spent  some  time  on  uiem,  he  told  me  he  was  in  a 
great  perplexity  how  to  reconcile  the ''  Supplement"  with  the  '^ Eng- 
lish Post,  and  had  been  just  now  examining  what  the  other  papers 
say  upon  the  same  subject.  The  '*  Daily  Courant,"  says  he,  has 
these  words  : — ^We  have  advices  from  very  good  htmds  that  a  cer- 
tain prince  has  some  matters  of  great  importance  under  considerar 
tion.  This  is  very  mysterious  ;  but  the  ''  rostboy "  leaves  us  more  in 
the  dark,  for  he  tells  us  that  there  are  private  intimations  of  mea- 
sures taken  by  a  certain  prince,  which  time  will  bring  to  light. 
Now,  the  "  Postman,''  says  he,  who  uses  to  be  very  clear,  refers  to 
the  same  news  in  these  words: — The  late  conduct  of  a  certain 
prince'  affords  great  matters  of  speculation.  This  certain  prince, 
says  the  upholsterer,  whom  they  are  all  so  cautious  of  naming,  I 

take  to  be .    Upon  which,  thouch  there  was  nobody  near  us, 

Ee  whispered  somethmg  in  my  ear,  ^mich  I  did  not  hear  or  think 
worthy  my  whUe  to  nu^e  him  repeat 

'  Charles  XIL,  whoae  career  then  attracted  the  notice  of  Europe. 

*  i  e.,  the  joang  Pretender,  aa  he  was  called,  the  son  of  James  II.  Strange  m- 
mouTB  were  circulated  at  the  time  of  an  Intended  inTaaion  of  Britain  in  behalf  of  the 
Stewarts,  under  the  auspices  of  Charles  XIL 


We  were  now  got  to  the  upper  end  of  the  Mall,  where  were  three 
or  four  yeiy  odd  fellows  sitting  together  upon  the  bench.  These,  I 
found,  were  all  of  them  politicians,  who  used  to  sun  themselves  in 
that  plaoe  every  day  about  dinner-time.  Observing  them  to  be 
curiosiiaes  in  their  kmd,  and  my  friend's  acquaintance,  I  sat  down 
among  them.  The  chief  politician  of  the  bench  was  a  great  asserter 
of  paradoxes.  He  told  us,  with  a  seeming  concern,  that  by  some 
news  he  had  lately  read  from  Musoovy,  it  appeared  to  him  that 
there  was  a  storm  gathering  in  the  Black  Sea,  which  might  in. 
time  do  hurt  to  the  naval  forces  of  this  nation.  To  this  he  added, 
that  for  his  part,  he  could  not  wish  to  see  the  Turk  driven  out  of 
Europe,  which  he  believed  could  not  but  be  prejudicial  to  our  woollen 
manufiEbcture.  He  then  told  us,  that  he  looked  upon  those  extra- 
ordinaiy  revolutions,  which  had  lately  happened  in  those  parts  of 
the  world,  to  have  risen  from  two  persons  who  were  not  much  talked 
of;  and  those,  savs  he,  are  Prince  Menzikoff  and  the  Duchess  of 
Mirandola.  He  backed  his  assertions  with  so  many  broken  hints, 
and  such  a  show  of  depth  and  wisdom,  that  we  gave  ourselves  up  to 
his  opinions. 

The  discourse  at  length  fell  upon  a  point  which  seldom  escapes  a 
knot  of  true-bom  En^isbmen,  whether,  in  case  of  a  religious  war, 
the  Protestants  would  not  be  too  strong  for  the  Papists  ?  This  we 
unanimously  determined  on  the  Protestant  side.  One,  who  sat  on 
my  ri^t  hand,  and,  as  I  found  by  his  discourse,  had  been  in  the 
West  Indies,  assured  us,  that  it  would  be  a  very  easy  matter  for  the 
Protestants  to  beat  the  Pope  at  sea ;  and  added,  that  whenever  such 
a  war  does  break  out,  it  must  turn  to  the  good  of  the  Leeward 
Islands.  Upon  this,  one  who  sat  at  the  end  of  the  bench,  and,  as 
I  afterwards  found,  was  the  geographer  of  the  company,  said,  that 
in  case  the  Papists  should  drive  the  Protestants  from  these  parts  of 
Europe,  when  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  it  would  be  impossible 
to  beat  them  out  of  Norway  and  Greenland,  provided  the  northern 
crowns  hold  together,  and  the  Czar  of  Muscovy  stand  neuter.  He 
further  told  us,  for  our  comfort,  that  there  were  vast  tracts  of  lands 
about  the  pole,  inhabited  neither  by  Protestants  nor  Papists,  and  of 
greater  extent  than  all  the  Roman  Catholic  dominions  in  Europe. 

When  we  had  fuUy  discussed  this  point,  my  friend  the  upholsterer 
began  to  exert  himself  upon  the  present  negotiations  of  peace,  in 
which  he  deposed  princes,  settled  the  bounds  of  kingdoms,  and 
balanced  the  power  of  Europe,  with  great  justice  and  impartiality. 

I  at  length  took  my  leave  of  the  company,  and  was  going  away ; 
but  had  not  gone  thirty  yards,  before  the  upholsterer  hemmed  again 
after  me.  Upon  his  advancing  towards  me,  with  a  whisper,  I  ex- 
pected to  hear  some  secret  piece  of  news,  which  he  had  not  thought 
fit  to  communicate  on  the  bench ;  but,  instead  of  that,  he  desired  me 
in  my  ear  to  lend  him  half-a- crown.  In  compassion  to  so  needy  a 
statesman,  and  to  dissipate  the  oonfasion  I  found  he  was  in,  I  told 
him,  if  he  pleased,  I  would  give  him  five  shillings,  to  receive  five 
pounds  of  him  when  the  great  Turk  was  driven  out  of  Constanti- 


nople,  which  he  very  readily  accepted,  but  not  before  he  had  laid 
down  to  me  the  impossibility  of  sudi  an  event,  as  the  affidiv  of 
Europe  now  stand. 


RiCHABD  Steele  was  bom  in  Dublin  in  1676,  and  was  educated  at 
the  Charter-House  in  London,  where  he  became  acquainted  with 
Addison,  then  a  scholar  in  the  same  institution,  and  whom  he  also 
accompanied  to  Oxford.  On  leaving  college,  having  no  fixed  inclina- 
tion for  any  profession,  he  enlisted,  and  led  for  some  time  a  very 
irregular  and  disreputable  life.  In  1701  he  published  his  "  Christian 
Hero,"  a  tolerably  true  description  of  all  that  he  himself  was  not^  and 
afterwards  produced  several  dramatic  works,  and  having  thus  acquired 
a  reputation  as  an  author,  he  was  employed  to  write  in  support  of  the 
ministry,  and  the  services  of  his  pen  were  liberally  rewarded.  In 
1709  he  established  the  "  Tatler,"  a  work  in  imitation  of  Defoe's 
"  Review,"  but  conducted  with  much  more  ability ;  and  it  was  followed 
by  the  "  Spectator,"  the  most  famous  of  our  British  essays,  and  at  a 
later  period  by  the  "  Guardian."  In  these  periodicals  Steele  was 
assisted  by  Pope,  Swift,  Berkeley,  and  others,  but  especially  by, 
Addison,  to  whose  ability  their  reputation  was  mainly  owing.  On  the 
accession  of  the  Hanover  family,  Steele  engaged  in  politics,  and 
entered  the  House  of  Commons,  but  without  making  any  conspicuous 
figure,  and  he  died  in  1729  in  Wales,  deeply  involved  in  debt  by  a 
life  of  constant  thoughtlessness  *and  extravagance.  After  suffering  a 
temporary  eclipse,  the  fame  of  Steele  is  again  reviving,  and,  as  is  usual 
in  such  cases,  his  merit  is  perhaps  somewhat  exaggerated  by  his 
admirers.  His  writings,  however,  ^e  easy  and  lively  in  their  style, 
and  to  him  we  owe  ihe  first  outline  of  many  of  those  inimitable 
characters,  which,  when  completed  by  the  superior  genius,  taste,  and 
industry  of  Addison,  have  become  universal  favourites. 


Boccalini/  in  his  '^  Parnassus/'  indicts  a  laconic  writer  for  speak- 
ing that  in  three  words  which  he  might  have  said  in  two,  and 
sentences  him  for  his  punishment  to  read  over  all  the  works  of 
Guicciardine.'  This  Guicciardine  is  so  very  prolix  and  circum- 
stantial in  his  writings,  that  I  remember  our  countryman  Dr  Donne, 
speaking  of  that  majestic  and  concise  manner  in  which  Moses  has 
describe  the  creation  of  the  world,  adds,  *^  that  if  such  an  author  as 
Guicciardine  were  to  have  written  on  such  a  subject,  the  world  itself 
would  not  have  been  able  to  have  contained  the  books  that  gave  the 
history  of  its  creation." 

'  A  ftunons  satirical  writer  of  modem  Rome. 

<  The  historian  of  Florence;  hit  history  is  much  admired  notwithstanding  its 


I  look  upon  a  tedious  talker,  or  what  is  generally  known  by  the 
name  of  a  stoiy-teller,  to  be  much  more  insufferable  than  even  a 
prolix  writer.  An  author  may  be  tossed  out  of  your  hand,  and 
thrown  aside  when  he  grows  dull  and  tiresome,  but  such  liberties 
are  so  far  from  being  aUowed  towards  your  orators  in  common  con- 
Teisation,  that  I  have  known  a  challenge  sent  a  person  for  going  out 
of  the  room  abruptly,  and  leaving  a  man  of  honour  in  the  mi£t  of 
a  dissertation.  This  eyil  is  at  present  so  yeiy  common  and  epi- 
demical, that  there  is  scarce  a  coffee-house  in  town  that  has  not 
some  speakers  belonging  to  it,  who  utter  their  political  essays,  and 
draw  parallels  out  of  Baker^s  "  Chronicle**  to  almost  every  part  of 
her  majestyti  reign.  It  was  said  of  two  ancient  authors,  who  had 
▼eiy  different  beauties  in  their  style,  "  that  if  you  took  a  word  from 
one  of  them,  you  only  spoiled  his  eloquence;  but  if  you*  took  a 
word  from  the  other,  you  spoiled  his  sense."  I  have  often  applied 
the  first  part  of  this  criticism  to  several  of  these  coffee-house  speakers 
whom  I  nave  at  present  in  my  thoughts,  though  the  character  that 
is  given  to  the  last  of  those  authors  is  what  I  would  recommend  to 
the  imitation  of  my  loving  countrymen.  But  it  is  not  only  public 
places  of  resort,  but  private  clubs  and  conversations  over  a  bottle, 
that  are  infested  with  this  loquacious  kind  of  animal,  especially  with 
that  species  which  I  comprehend  under  the  name  of  a  story-teller. 
I  woukL  earnestly  desire  uiese  gentlemen  to  consider,  that  no  point 
of  wit  or  mirth  at  the  end  of  a  story  can  atone  for  the  half-hour 
that  has  been  lost  before  they  come  at  it.  I  would  likewise  lay  it 
home  to  their  serious  consideration,  whether  they  think  that  every 
man  in  the  company  has  not  a  right  to  speak  as  well  as  themselves  ? 
and  whether  they  do  not  think  they  are  invading  another  man's 
property,  when  they  engross  the  time  which  should  be  divided 
equally  among  the  companv  to  their  own  private  use  ? 

What  makes  this  evil  tne  much  greater  in  conversation  is,  that 
these  humdrum  companions  seldom  endeavour  to  wind  up  their 
narrations  into  a  point  of  mirth  or  instruction,  which  might  make 
some  amends  for  the  tediousness  of  them,  but  think  they  have  a 
nght  to  tell  anything  that  has  happened  within  their  memory, 
^ey  look  upon  matter  of  fact  to  be  a  sufficient  foundation  for  a 
story,  and  give  us  a  long  account  of  things,  not  because  they  are 
entertaining  or  surprising,  but  because  they  are  true. 

My  ingenious  lonsman,  Mr  Humphrey  Wagstaff,'  used  to  say, 
"  The  life  of  man  is  too  short  for  a  story-teller." 

Methusalem  might  be  half  an  hour  in  telling  what  o'clock  it  was ; 
but  as  for  us  post£luvians,  we  ought  to  do  everything  in  haste ;  and 
in  our  speeches,  as  well  as  actions,  remember  that  our  time  is  short. 
A  man  that  talks  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  together  in  company,  if  I 
meet  him  frequently,  takes  up  a  great  part  of  my  span.  A  quarter 
of  an  hour  may  be  reckoned  the  eight4.nd-fortieth  part  of  a  day,  a 
day  the  three  himdred  and  sixtiem  part  of  a  year,  and  a  year  the 

i  An  allnaion  perhaps  to  Swift. 


three  score  and  tenth  part  of  life.  £7  this  moral  arithmetic,  8a]>- 
posing  a  man  to  be  in  the  talking  world  one-third  part  of  the  day, 
whoever  gives  another  a  quarter  of  an  hour^s  hearing,  makes  him  a 
sacrifice  of  more  than  the  four  hundred  thousandth  part  of  his  con- 
versable life. 

I  would  establish  but  one  great  general  rale  to  be  observed  in  all 
conversation,  which  is  this,  "  That  men  should  not  talk  to  please 
themselves,  but  those  that  hear  thenL**  TioB  would  make  them 
consider  whether  what  they  speak  be  worth  hearing ;  whether  there 
be  either  wit  or  sense  in  what  they  are  about  to  say ;  and  whether 
it  be  adapted  to  the  time  when,  the  place  where,  and  the  person  to 
whom,  it  is  spoken.  For  the  utter  extirpation  of  these  orators  and 
story-tellers,  which  I  look  upon  as  very  great  pests  of  society,  I 
have  invented  a  watch  which  divides  the  minute  into  twelve  TMots, 
after  the  same  manner  that  the  ordinary  watches  are  divided  into 
hours ;  and  will  endeavour  to  get  a  patent,  which  shall  oblige  every 
dub  or  company  to  provide  themselves  with  one  of  these  watches, 
that  sUbU  lie  upon  the  table,  as  an  hour-glass  is  often  placed  near 
the  pulpit,  to  measure  out  the  length  of  a  discourse. 

I  shall  be  willing  to  allow  a  man  one  round  of  my  watch,  that  is, 
a  whole  minute  to  speak  in ;  but  if  he  exceeds  that  time,  it  shall  be 
lawful  for  any  of  tne  company  to  look  upon  the  watch,  or  to  call 
him  down  to  order.  Provided,  however,  that  if  any  one  can  make 
it  appear  he  is  turned  of  threescore,  he  may  take  two,  or,  if  he 
pleases,  three  rounds  of  the  watch  without  giving  offence.  Provided, 
also,  that  this  rule  be  not  construed  to  extend  to  the  fiur  sex,  who 
shall  still  be  at  liberty  to  talk  by  the  ordinaiT  watch  that  is  now  in 
use.  I  would  likewise  earnestly  recommend  this  little  automaton, 
which  may  easily  be  carried  in  the  |)ocket  without  any  incumbrance, 
to  all  such  as  are  troubled  with  this  infirmity  of  speech,  that  upon 
pulling  out  their  watches,  they  may  have  firequent  occasion  to  con- 
sider what  they  are  doing,  and  by  that  means  cut  the  thread  of  the 
story  short,  and  hurry  to  a  conclusion. 


Mr  Thomas  Inkle,  of  London,  aced  twenty  years,  embarked  in 
the  Downs,  in  the  good  ship  called  we  Achilles,  bound  for  the  West 
Indies,  on  the  16th  of  June  1647,  in  order  to  improve  his  fortune 
by  trade  and  merchandise.  Our  adventurer  was  the  third  son  of  an 
eminent  citizen,  who  had  taken  particular  care  to  instil  into  his 
mind  an  early  love  of  gain,  by  making  him  a  perfect  master  of 
numbers,  and,  consequently,  giving  him  a  quick  view  of  loss  and 
advantage,  and  preventing  the  natural  impulses  of  his  passion,  br 
,  prepossession  towards  his  interests.  Witn  a  mind  thus  turned, 
*  voung  Inkle  had  a  person  every  way  agreeable,  a  ruddy  vigour  in 
liis  countenance,  strength  in  his  limbs,  with  ringlets  of  &r  hair 
loosely  flowing  on  his  shoulders.  It  happened,  in  the  course  of  the 
voyage,  that  Sie  Achilles,  in  some  distress,  put  into  a  creek  on  the 


main  of  America,  in  search  of  proyisions.  The  youth,  who  is  the 
hero  of  my  stoiy,  among  others  went  on  shore  on  this  occasion. 
From  their  first  landing  they  were  observed  by  a  party  of  Indians, 
who  hid  themselves  in  the  woods  for  that  purpose.  The  English 
unadvisedly  marched  a  great  distance  from  tne  shore  into  the 
country,  and  were  intercepted  by  the  natives,  who  slew  the  greatest 
number  of  them.  Our  adventurer  escaped,  among  others,  by  fly- 
ing into  a  forest.  Upon  his  coming  into  a  remote  and  pathless  part 
of  the  wood,  he  threw  himself,  tired  and  breathless,  on  a  little 
hillock,  when  an  Indian  maid  rushed  from  a  thicket  behind  him. 
After  the  first  surprise  they  appeared  mutually  agreeable  to  each 
other.  If  the  European  was  highly  charmed  with  the  Umbs, 
features,  and  wild  graces  of  the  .^nerican,  the  American  was  no 
less  taken  with  the  dress,  complexion,  and  shape  of  the  European. 
The  Indian  grew  immediately  enamoured  of  him,  and,  conse- 
quently, solicitous  for  his  preservation.  She  therefore  conveyed 
him  to  a  cave,  where  she  gave  him  a  delicious  repast  of  fruits,  and 
led  him  to  a  stream  to  slake  his  thirst.  In  the  midst  of  these  good 
offices,  she  would  sometimes  play  with  his  hair,  and  delight  in  the 
opposition  of  its  colour  to  that  of  her  fingers.  She  was,  it  seems,  a 
person  of  distinction,  for  she  came  every  day  in  a  different  dress,  of 
the  most  beautiful  shells,  bugles,  aud  beads.  She  likewise  brought 
him  a  great  many  spoils,  which  her  other  lovers  had  presented  to 
her,  so  that  his  cave  was  richly  adorned  with  all  the  spotted  skins  of 
beasts,  and  most  party-coloured  fowls,  which  that  world  afforded. 
To  make  his  confinement  more  tolerable,  she  would  carry  him  in 
the  dusk  of  the  evening,  or  by  the  favour  of  moonlight,  to  unfre- 
quented groves  and  sohtudes,  and  show  him  where  to  lie  down  in 
safety,  and  sleep  amidst  the  &k\\a  of  waters  and  melody  of  nightin- 
gales. Her  part  was  to  watch  and  hold  him  awake  in  her  arms  for 
fear  of  her  countrymen,  and  wake  him  on  occasions  to  consult  his 
safety.  In  this  maimer  did  the  lovers  pass  away  their  time,  till 
they  had  learned  a  language  of  their  own,  in  which  the  voyager 
communicated  to  his  mistress  how  happy  he  should  be  to  have  her 
in  his  country,  where  she  should  be  clothed  in  such  silks  as  his 
waistcoat  was  made  of,  and  be  carried  in  houses  drawn  by  horses 
without  being  exposed  to  wind  or  weather. 

All  this  he  promised  her  the  enjoyment  of,  without  such  fears 
and  alarms  as  they  were  there  tormented  witL  In  this  tender 
correspondence  these  lovers  lived  for  several  months,  when  Yarico, 
instructed  by  her  lover,  discovered  a  vessel  on  the  coast,  to  which 
she  made  signals ;  and  in  the  night,  with  the  utmost  joy  and  satis- 
fiEUition,  accompanied  him  to  a  sMp's  crew  of  his  countrymen,  bound 
for  Barbadoes.  When  a  vessel  from  the  main  arrives  in  that 
island,  it  seems  the  planters  come  down  to  the  shore,  where  there 
is  an  immediate  market  of  the  Indians  and  other  slaves,  as  with  us* 
of  horses  and  oxen. 

To  be  short,  Mr  Thomas  Inkle,  now  coming  into  English  terri- 
tories, began  seriously  to  reflect  upon  his  loss  of  time,  and  to  weigh 


with  himself  how  many  days'  interest  of  his  money  he  had  lost 
during  his  stay  with  Yarico.  This  thought  made  the  young  man 
pensive,  and  careful  what  account  he  should  be  able  to  give  his 
friends  of  his  voyage.  Upon  which  consideration,  the  prudent  and 
frugal  young  man  sold  Tarioo  to  a  Barbadian  merchant. 


It  is  generally  to  be  observed,  that  the  person  most  agreeable  to 
a  man  for  a  constancy^  is  he  that  has  no  shining  qualities,  but  is  a 
certain  degree  above  great  imperfections,  whom  ne  can  live  with  as 
his  inferior,  and  who  will  either  overlook  or  not  observe  his  little 
defects.  Such  an  easy  companion  as  this,  either  now  and  then 
throws  out  a  little  flattery,  or  lets  a  man  silently  flatter  himself  in 
his  superiority  to  him.  If  you  take  notice,  there  is  hardly  a  rich 
man  in  the  world  who  has  not  such  a  led  friend  of  smaU  considera- 
tion, who  is  a  darling  for  his  insignificancy.  It  is  a  great  ease  to 
have  one  in  our  own  shape  or  species  below  us,  and  who,  without 
being  listed  in  our  service,  is  by  nature  of  our  retinue.  These 
dependents  are  of  excellent  use  on  a  rainy  day,  or  when  a  man  has 
not  a  mind  to  dress ;  or  to  exclude  solitude,  when  one  has  neither  a 
mind  to  that  nor  to  company.  There  are  of  this  good-natured  order, 
who  are  so  kind  as  to  divide  themselves,  and  do  these  good  offices 
to  many.  Five  or  six  of  them  visit  a  wnole  quarter  of  the  town, 
and  exclude  the  spleen,  without  fees,  from  the  feunilies  they  frequent. 
If  they  do  not  prescribe  physic,  they  can  be  company  when  you 
take  it.  Very  great  bene&ctors  to  the  rich,  or  those  whom  they  call 
people  at  their  ease,  are  your  persons  of  no  consequence.  I  have 
known  some  of  them,  by  the  help  of  a  little  cunning,  make  delicious 
flatterers.  They  know  the  course  of  the  town,  and  the  general 
characters  of  persons ;  by  this  means  they  will  sometimes  tell  the 
most  agreeable  falsehoods  imaginable.  They  will  acquaint  you 
that  such  one  of  a  quite  contraiy  party  said  that,  though  you  wtre 
engaged  in  difierent  interests,  yet  he  had  the  greatest  respect  for 
your  good  sense  and  address.  When  one  of  these  has  a  little  cun- 
ning, he  passes  his  time  in  the  utmost  satisfaction  to  himself  and 
his  friends ;  for  his  position  is  never  to  report  or  speak  a  displeasing 
thing  to  his  friend.  As  for  letting  him  go  on  in  an  error,  he  knows 
advice  against  them  is  the  office  of  persons  of  greater  talents  and 
less  discretion. 

The  Latin  word  for  a  flatterer*  implies  no  more  than  a  person  that 
l>arely  consents ;  and  indeed  such  a  one,  if  a  man  were  able  to  pur- 
chase or  mention  him,  cannot  be  bought  too  dear.  Such  a  one  never 
contradicts  you,  but  gains  upon  you,  not  by  a  fulsome  way  of  com- 
mending you  in  broad  terms,  but  liking  whatever  you  propose  or 
utter ;  at  the  same  time  he  is  ready  to  b%  your  pardon,  and  gainsay 
you  if  you  chance  to  speak  ill  of  yourself    An  old  lady  is  very  seldom 

1  ie.,  for  a  constant,  pemuuient  MeaiL  .  *  Vis.,  aaentator. 


without  sudi  a  companion  as  this,  who  can  ledte  the  names  of  all 
her  loYeis,  and  the  matches  refused  by  her  m  the  days  when  she 
minded  such  vanities  (as  she  is  pleased  to  call  them,  though  she  so 
much  approves  the  mention  of  them).  It  is  to  be  noted  that  a 
woman's  flatterer  is  generally  elder  than  herself,  her  years  serving  to 
recommend  her  patroness's  sge,  and  to  add  weight  to  her  complais- 
ance in  all  other  particulars. 

We  eentlemen  of  small  fortunes  are  extremely  necessitous  in  this 
particular.  I  have  indeed  one  who  smokes  with  me  often,  but  his 
parts  are  so  low  that  all  the  incense  he  does  me  is  to  fill  his  pipe 
with  me,  and  to  be  out  at  just  as  many  whifib  as  I  take.  Thisisallthe 
praise  or  assent  that  he  is  capable  of,  yet  there  are  more  hours  when 
I  would  rather  be  in  his  company  than  that  of  the  brightest  man  I 
know.  It  would  be  a  hard  matter  to  give  an  account  of  this  inclina- 
tion to  be  flattered  ;  but  if  we  go  to  me  bottom  of  it,  we  shall  find 
that  the  pleasure  in  it  is  something  like  that  of  receiving  money 
which  lay  out  Every  man  thinks  he  has  an  estate  of  reputation, 
and  is  glad  to  see  one  that  will  bring  any  of  it  home  to  him ;  it  is  no 
matter  now  dirty  a  ha^  it  is  conveyed  in,  or  by  how  clowmsh  a  mes- 
senger, so  the  money  is  good.  All  that  we  want  to  be  pleased  with 
flattery,  is  to  believe  that  the  man  is  sincere  who  gives  it  us.  It 
is  by  this  one  accident  that  absurd  creatures  often  outrun  the  most 
skilful  in  this  art.  Their  want  of  ability  is  here  an  advantage,  and 
their  bluntness,  as  it  is  the  seeming  efiect  of  sincerity,  is  the  best 
cover  to  artifice. 


'  LoBD  Shaftesbubt  was  bom  in  London  in  1671.  His  early  edu- 
cation was  superintended  by  Locke,  to  whom  he  probably  owed  his 
subsequent  inclination  for  speculation.  After  a  Continental  tour  he 
entered  the  House  of  Commons,  and  succeeding  not  long  afterwards  to 
the  Earldom,  he  took  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords,  where  his  appear- 
ance as  an  orator  was  highly  creditable  to  his  education  and  reputation. 
In  1699  was  published  his  earliest  and  most  important  work,  "An 
inquiry  concerning  Virtue  or  Merit ;"  and  he  afterwards  wrote  "  A 
letter  on  Enthusiasm,"  "  The  Moralists,  a  Rhapsody,"  "  An  Essay  on 
the  Freedom  of  Wit  and  Humour,"  and  "Advice  to  an  Author." 
Delicate  health  obliged  him  to  leave  Britain,  and  retire  to  Naples, 
where  he  died  prematurely  in  1718.  After  his  death  was  published  a 
volume  of  "  Miscellanies,"  and  his  whole  works  have  been  frequently 
reprinted  in  three  volumes  as  his  "  Characteristics."  As  a  philosopher, 
Shaftesbury  was  very  popular,  both  in  this  country  and  on  the  Conti- 
nent ;  and  his  influence  is  not  yet  exha