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CHAMBERS'S 



CYCLOPEDIA 



OF 



ENGLISH LITERATURE 

A HISTORY, CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL, OP BRITISH 

AND AMERICAN AUTHORS, WITH SPECIMENS 

OP THEIR WRITINGS, 

ORIGINALLY EDITED BY ROBERT CHAMBERS, LL.D. 

THIRD EDITION, 

REVISED BY ROBERT CARRUTHERS, LL.D. 
IN EIGHT VOLUMES. 

voum, 



* * * 



NEW YORK : 

AMERICAN BOOK EXCHAira^B, 

65 BEEKMAN STREET. 
1870. 



* »■ •y 

•» 1 • • 



THE NF'-' YORK 

PUBLIC Li ,.>ARY 



971918 

ASTCR, len; :. and 

tlL.DEbi b\y A'DATIlNS 
B .•■■•. ^ L 



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- * I , - • . » 



TABLE OF CONTENTS— VOL. IIL 



THEOLOaiANB. 



PAGB 



Bishop StiUiDgfleet 0636—1699) 1 

TraeWiadom 8 

Bithop Ken (163«--1T11) 3 

ArchbiBhop Tenison (1<»6— 1715), Dr. 

Aldrich (164T— 1710) 4 

George Fox (1634— 1690) 4 

Fox's Ill-treatment at TJlverstone. . . 6 
Interview with Oliver Cromwell .... 6 
Cromwell's Last Appearance in Pab- 

lic T 

William Penn (1644-1718) 8 

Against the Pride of Noble Birth.. . 10 

Penn's Advice to his Children 18 

Bobert Barclay (1648— 1690) 18 

Against Titles of Honour. 14 

Bichard Baxter (1651—1691) 15 

Baxter's Jndgment of his Writings 17 
Proits of Bxperience of Human 

Character 17 

Desire of Approbation 17 

Change in the Estimate of Men's 

Knowledge 18 

On the Credit dae to Histooj 18 

Character of Sir Matthew Hale 19 

Observance of the Sabbath in Bax- 
ter's Yonth 19 

Theological Controversies 80 

John Banyan (1688— 1688) 80 

Extracts from Banyan's Aatobio- 

graphy 28 

TheGofdenCity 25 

Dr John Owen (1616—1688) 28 

John Howe (1680— 1706) 29 

Fanaticism of Cromwell'toCoort.... 29 
Edmond Calamy (1600—1666), John 
Flavel (1627—1601), Matthew Hen- 
ry (1668-in4) 80 

Ye cannot serve God and Mammon 81 
Samael Rntherford a600 — 1661), 
Thomas Halyborton (1674—1712), 
Thomas Boston (1676—1782) 38 

XXTAPHTSIOAL AND SOIXNTinO ^ 
WBITXB8. ■ 

John Locke a63»— 1704) 88 

Christmas Ceremonies at Cleves. ... 83 
Causes 'of Weakneae in Men's Un- 
standinga 88 



PASB 

Practice and Habit 88 

Prejadlce 89 

Injadicioas Haste in Stady 40 

Pleasure and Pain 41 

History 48 

Disputation— Liberty 48 

Opposition to New Doctrines 48 

Duty of Preserving Health 48 

Sir Isaac Newton (IMS— 1787) 48 

The Prophetic Language 45 

Letters of Newton ana Locke 47 

Religious Belief of Newton 49 



OBITIOAL AND lOSOELLANXOUS 
WBITXBS. 

James Howell (1604-1666) 60 

Letter from Venice 61 

Letter from Rome 58 

Description of the Wine Countries. 63 
Tales of Travellers 66 

Sir Thomas Herbert (eirea 1610—1682) 65 

Sir Thomas Browne (1606—1682) 66 

Oblivion 69 

Light the Shadow of Ood 61 

Study of God's Works 68 

Ghosts— Of Myself-^Charity 68 

Sir Matthew Hale (1609—1676) 63 

On Conversation 63 

John Earle (1601— 1666) 64 

The Clown 65 

Peter Heylln (1600— 1662) 65 

The French 66 

French Love of Dancing 67 

Owen Jieltham {eirea 1610—1678) 67 

Moderation in Grief 68 

Limitation of Human Knowledge. . 68 
Against Readiness to take Offence. . 68 

Against Detract.on 68 

Of Neglect 69 

No M£ui can be Good to All 69 

Meditation 69 

Abraham Cowley (1618— 1661^ 70 

Of Myself 70 

The Spring-tides of Public Affairs. 78 

The Antiquity of Agriculture 78 ' 

Of Obscurity ^% 

The Dttnsei ol ■?TQ«xw*i:MS2kssiv. "VW v 

"V\b1oxl3 Otoea: Oi«inw^^ . . ... J^Vk 



iy 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Izaak Walton (1593—1683) 75 

The Singing Birds 7T 

The Anglers Wish T9 

Thankfulness for Worldly Blessings 81 

Thomas EUwood (1689— 1T13) 83 

Ellwood'fi IntcTcoorse with Milton 84 

JohnDryden (1631— 16T0) 85 

A Sea-fight heard at a Distance 86 

Shakspeare— Beaumont and Fletcher 87 

Ben Johnson 88 

• Improved Style of Dramatic Dia- 
logue.... t.t.i 88 

Translations of the Ancient Poets.. 89 

Spens^ and Milton 91 

On Lampoons .92 

History and Biography 93 

Sir WUliam Temple (1628—1699) 96 

The English Climate 98 

Against Excessive Grief 99 

Right of Private Judgment iji Reli- 

mon 102 

Schemes of Projectors 105 

Sir Georsce Mackenzie (1636—1691) ... .106 

Praise of a Country Life 107 

Against Envy. 107 

Fame— True Path to Esteem 108 

John Evelyn (16«)— 1706) 108 

The Last Sunday of Chiirles II 110 

The Great Fire in London, 1666 a. d 110 
A Fortunate Courtier not Envied. ..112 
Frost Fair on the Thames, 1684 a.d113 
Evel3m'B Account of his Daughter 

Mary. 114 

Fashions in DrePB 114 

Samuel Pepys (1682—1708) 115 

Mrs Pepys in a New Dress 116 

Charles IL and the Queen in the 

Park 117 

Mr. Pepys sets up a Carriage 117 

Mr. Pepys tries to admire * Hudibra8'118 

Mr. Pepys at the Theatre 118 

Mr. Pepjys at Church 119 

Domestic Scene between Mr. and 

Mrs. Pepys .119 

Mr. Pepvs makes a Great Speech. . .120 

Sir Roger L'Estrange (1616—1704) 121 

Liberty of the Imprisoned RoyalistslSl 
^sop's Invention to bring back his 

Mistress 122 

The Popish Plot 123 

Samuel Butlor (1612—1680) 123 

A Small Poet— A Vintner .124 

A Prater— An Antiquary 126 

Walter Charleton <1619^1707) 125 

The Ready and Nimble Wit— The 

Slow but Sure Wit 126 

Lucy Hutchinson (1620—1659) 127 

Co/oacJ Hatchm»cm. on Condemnsr 

.. , ii'oQ of Charles I. 127 

'^^il^^^V^^ a^S5--1679) 128 

-jS^Sy^^psliawe eeea a, Qhost 128 



t>AGB 

A Domestic Scene. . « 128 

Lady Rachel RusseU (1636—1723) 129 

To Dr. Fitzwilliam on her Sorrow. .130 

To the Earl of Galway on Friendship 131 

To Lord Cavendish — ^Bereavement..l31 

^ Thoniae Urquhart,(circa 1613—1660)131 

Newspapers , , 132 



FIFTH P^ERIOD, 

1689—1727 : REIGNS OF WILLIAM HI., 
QUEEN ANNE, AND GEORGE I. 

POETS. 

W. Walsh (1663—1708), Charles Mon- 
tagu (1661— 1715) 137 

Joseph Addison (1672—1719) 137 

The French People in 1699 142 

From the » Letter from Italy ' 143 

Ode, *■ How are thy Servants blest, 

O Lord I' 144 

Ode, '*■ The Spacious Firmament on 

High' 145 

The Battle of Blenheim 145 

Extract from the Tragedy of ' Cato M46 

Matthew Prior (1664— 1721) 149 

Extract from * Verses to Chloe * 150 

For My Own Monument .151 

Epitaph Extempore 152 

An Epitaph 152 

ToaChildof Quality 153 

Abra*s Love for Solomon 153 

Written in Mezeray's * History of 

France * 155 

The Thief and the Cordelier 165 

Ode to a Lady refusing to continue a 

dispiite 156 

Theory of the Mind, from *Alma *. .157 
Rev. Jiames Bramston (1694— 1744).... 157 
Extracts from * Art of Politics' and 

* Man of Taste ». 153 

Jonathan Swift (1667—1745} 158 

Extract from Imitation of Horace. .161 
Ode to Spring, by Vanessa, note. . . .161 

A Description of the Morning 163 

A Description of a City Shower 164 

Baucis and Philemon 165 

From *■ V^ses on \h& Death of Dr. 

Swift' 166 

The Grand Question Debated 170 

Alexander Pope (1668—1744) 173 

Hope — The Poor Indian — Happi- 
ness 178 

The Messiah 182 

The Toilet, from *The Rape of the 

Lock' 184 

DeBcri^ou ot Belinda and the 
Syjp^i a ^...^>>>> ASA. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAGB 

From * Eloisa to Abelard ' 186 

Elegy to the Memory of an Unf or- 

tonate Lady 188 

Happiness depends not on Biches. ..190 
From the * Prologue to the Satires M92 

The Man of Ross 194 

Death of Villiers, Duke of Bucking- 
ham 195 

The Dying Christian to his Soul 196 

Extract n*om Translation of the 
*Iliad' 196 

Elijah Fenton (1683 — 1730) — W. 
Broome (1689—1745) 197 

Minor Poets Satirised in the *Dun- 
ciad ' — Theobald. Dennis, Gildon, 
Welsted, Cooke, A. Hill. Ac 197 

Richard Savage (1697—1743) 199 

Extract from * The Bastard * 201 

Extract from * The Wanderer ' 202 

Sir Samuel Garth (1670—1719) 2C3 

Extract from * The Dispensary * 20 4 

On Death 205 

Sir Richard Blackmore {drca 1650— 

1729) 205 

The Scheme of Creation 20r) 

Thomas Pamell (1679—1718) 207 

A Night-piece— The Churchyard 208 

The Hermit 208 

John Gay (1688— 1732) 212 

The Country Ballad Singer 216 

Walking the Streets of London 217 

Song, * Sweet Woman is like the fair 

Flower' 218 

The Court of Death 219 

The Hare with many Friends 219 

Song, ' Black-eyed Susan ' 220 

A Ballad, "Twas when the Seas 
were Roaring' 221 

Thomas Tickell (1636—1740) 221 

On the Death of Mr. Addison 222 

Colin and Lucy : a Ballad 223 

An Imitation of the Prophecy of 
NereuB 224 

Ambrose PhiMps (1671—1749) 225 

Fragment from Sappho 226 

To Miss Charlotte Pulteney 226 

Epistle to the Earl of Dorset 226 

From the First Pastoral— Lobbin. . .227 

Gteorge Granville, Lord Lansdowne 
(eirca 1665—1735) 228 

Anne, Countess of Winchelsea (.circa 

1660—1720) 229 

A Nocturnal Reverie 220 

Life's Progress 230 



SCOTTISH POETS. 

Francis Sempill— Ladv Wardlaw 230 

Extract from • Hardyknute ' 231 

Allan Bamsay (168^-1758) 232 



PAGB 

Ode from Horace 888 

Song, * Bush aboon Traquair ' 289 

Lochaber no More 289 

Rustic Courtship 989 

Dialogue on Mamage 240 



DRAMATISTS. 

Thomas Southeme (1659-^1746) 242 

Extract from * Oroonoko » 243 

Return of Bkon 244 

Nicholas Rowe {.circa 1673—1718) 247 

Penitence and Death of Jane Shore.948 
Calista's Passion for Lothario 250 

William LiUo (1693—1739) 261 

Fatal Curiosity 262 

William Congreve (1670—1730) 256 

Description of a Cathedral 257 

Gay Youn§ Men upon Town 258 

A Swaggering Bully and Boaster 268 

Scandal and Literature in High Life.260 
From *Love for Love * 261 

Sir John Vanbrugh {circa 1666— 1726). 264 
The Life of a Woman of Fashion. . .265 
Fable 266 

George Farquhar (1678—1707). 266 

Humorous Scene at an Inn 267 

Extract from the •Recruiting Offi- 
cer' 269 

Colle^ Cibber (1671 — 1757) — Steele, 
Philips, Aaron Hill, Mrs. Centlivre 
(1667—1723) 271' 

PROSE LITERATURE. 

ESSAYISTS. 

Sir R. Steele (1672-1729) 273 

Love, Grief, and Death 276 

Agreeable Companions and Flat- 
terers 277 

Quack Advertisements 278 

Story-telling 279 

Story of Unnion and Valentine 280 

Extracts from Addison's Essays 280 

The Political Upholsterer 281 

The Vision of Mirza 283 

Sir Roger de Coverley's Visit to 

Westminster Abbey. 285 

Genealogy of Humour 286 

Ned Softly 287 

The Works of Creation 288 

Eustace Budgell (1686—1737) 290 

The Art of Growing Rich ^291 

John Hughes (1677—1720) 293 

THEOLOGIANS AND METAPHYSICIANS. 

Richard Bentley (1662—1742) 298 

Authority ol T^a^eora. Vsi ^S^^^^^xa. 
HaXtftift *^*^ 



Yl 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAOE 

Dr. Franda Atterbary(l«62— 1782)... 295 

Farewell Letter to Pope 295 

Usefulness of Church Music 296 

Dr. Samuel Clarke (1675—1729) 298 

Difference between Eight and 

Wrong 301 

Dr. William Lowth (1661—1732) 302 

Dr. Benjamin Hoadley (1676— 1761)... 302 
The Kinsrdom of Christ not of this 

World." 303 

Charles Leslie (1650—1722) 305 

Bishop Patrick (1026—1707), and Dr. 

Waterland (1683—1740) 305 

WilUam Whiston (1667—1752) 306 

Discovery of the Newtonian Phil- 
osophy 306 

Dr. William Nicholson (1655—1727)— 

Dr. Matthew Tindal (1657— 1733).. 307 
JohnToland (1669— 1722)— Dr. Hum- 
phrey Prideaux (1648-1724) 307 

Earl of Shaftesbury (1671—1713) 308 

Scale of Beauty and Love 310 

God in the Universe .311 

Bishop Berkeley (1685—1753) 313 

Verses on Arts and Learning in 

America 315 

Industry 316 

Prejudices and Opinions 317 

From Maxims concerning Patriot- 
ism 318 

The Rev. John Norris (1657— 1711). . . .319 

Short Extracts from Poems 319 

On Perfect Happiness 820 

HISOEIXANEOUS WBITEBB 

Daniel Defoe (1661—1731) 331 

What if the Pretender should 

Come ? 325 

The Great Plague in London 326 

The Troubles of a Young Thief. . . .328 
Address to a Youth of Rambling 
Disposition 329 

Bernard de Mandeville (1670— 1783)... 830 

Division of Labour 331 

Flattery of the Great 832 

Pomp and Superfluity 332 

Mrs. Manly (died in 1724) 333 

Andrew Fletcher of Saltoun (1658— 

1716) 884 

State of Scotland in 1698 834 

Murdoch Martin (died after 1718) 835 

The Second Sight 885 

Dress in the Western Islands 885 

Jonathan Swift (1667—1745) 336 

Ludicrous Imi^e of Fanaticism 341 

Satire upon Dress and Fashion 841 

CbaracteriaticB of Modem Critics.. 842 
Oo Boo^ of LeamiDR 342 

-4 Meditation upon a Broomatick, . .343 



VASS 

Inconveniences likely to Result 
from the Abolition of Christian- 
ity 343 

Diversions of the Court of Lilliput.344 
Satire on Pretended Philosophers.. 345 

Thoughts on Various Subjects 347 

Overstrained Politeness 348 

Alexander Pope (1688—1744) .S49 

On Sickness and Death 351 

Pope IQ Oxford 351 

Death cf two Lovers by Lightning. .352 
Description of an Ancient Country- 

Seat 353 

Pope to Bishop Atterbury in the 

Tower 355 

A Recipe to make an Epic Poem 356 

Dr John Arbuthnot (1667—1735) 357 

Epitaph on Chartres 359 

Characters of John Bull, Nic Frog 

and Hocus 359 

Character of John Bull's Mother... 360 
Character of John Bull's Sister. . .360 
The Celerity and Duration of Lies.. .361 
Usefulness of Mathematical Learn- 
ing 362 

Lord Bolingbroke (1678—1751) 362 

TheDeclme of Life 363 

The Order of Providence 364 

National Partiality and Prejudice.. .'J64 
Unreasonableness of Complaints of 
the Shortness of Human Life. ...365 

Pleasures of a Patriot 366 

Wise Distinguished from Cunning 

Ministers 367 

Lady Mary W. Montagu (1690— 1762). .368 

On Matrimonial Happiness 869 

Eastern Manners and Language . . 370 

Inoculation for the Small-pox 371 

France in 1718 3T2 

On Female Education 372 

William Wotton (166^—1726) 374 

Decline of Pedantry in England 374 

Tom D'Urfey (1630—1723), and Tom 

Brown (1663— 1704) 375 

Letter from Scarron in the next 

Worid to Louis XIV 375 

An Indian's Account of a Gaming 

House 376 

Laconics or Maxims 377 



SIXTH PERIOD, 

1720—1780: THE REIGNS OF GEORGE 
IL AND GEORGE TO.. 

POETS. 

Matthew Green (1696—1737) 881 

Cures for Melancholy 381 

Contentisxeut— A Wish 882 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



▼ii 



PA OB 

Isaac flawkms Browne (170ft— 1760).. 383 
ImitatioDS of Cibber, Philips, and 

Thomson , 383 

Imitation of Pope 384 

Sir C Hanbury Williams (1709— 1T69). 384 
Lines on Pulteney, and Gteneral 

ChurchiU 385 

John Dyer {circa 169S— 1768) 386 

GrongerHiU 387 

Edward Young (1684—1765) 388 

Short Extracts from * Night 

Thoughts' 390 

On Life, Death, and Immortali^. . .393 



PAOB 

Thoughts on Time. 395 

The Man whose Thoughts are not of 

this World 396 

Procrastination 897 

Extracts from * The Love of Fame '.398 
Envious Grub Street Authors and 
Critics 399 

William Somervile (1677—1742) 399 

Extract from * The Chase * 399 

James Thomson (1700—1748) 401 

Showers in Spring ^ . . . .406 

Birds Pairing in Spring 406 

Summer Ev^iing 407 



CYCLOPEDIA 

OF 

ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



FOTJEfH PERIOD. 

1-(1626— 1689.) 

MILTON— BUTLER— DRYDEN—BUNYAN. 

(Contintted.) 



•BISHOP STILLINGFLEET. 

Edward Stillingfleet (1635-1699) distinguished himself in 
early life by his writings in defence of the doctrines of the church. 
His * Irenicum, a Weapon-salve for the Church's Wounds/ 1661, was 
considered by Burnet * a masterpiece.* The title of his principal 
work is * Origines Sacree ; or a Rational Account of the Grounds of 
Natural and Revealed Religion * (1662). His abilities and extensive 
learning caused him to be raised in 1689 to the dignity of Bishop of 
Worcester. Towards the end of his life (1697) he published * A De- 
fence of the Doctrine of the Trinity, in which some passages in 
Locke's * Essay on the Human Understanding ' were attacked as 
subversive of fundamental doctrines of Christianity; but in the 
controversy which ensued, the philosopher was generally held to 
have come off victorious. So great was the Bishop's chagrin at this 
result, that it was thought to have hastened his death. The promi- 
nent matters of discussion in this controversy were the resurrection 
of the body and the immateriality of the soul. On these points, 
Locke argued, that although the resurrection of the dead is revealed 
in Scripture, the reanimation of the identical bodies which inha- 
bited this world is not revealed ; and that even if the soul were 
proved to be material, this would not imply its mortality, since an 
Omnipotent Creator may, if he pleases, impart the faculty of think- 
mg to matter as well as to spirit. But, as Stillingfleet remarked, 
there is no self-consciousness in matter, and mind, when united to it, 
is still independent. The general theological views of StilllRgflLeet 
leaned towards the Armlnian sectloTi o^ X'\i^ Q;\i\ttOcL ^^ ^^sv^^csA, 



% CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

During the reign of James II. he was the great defender of Protes- 
tantism. His works are chiefly argumentative* but his Sermons, 
published after his death, deservedly bear a high character for good 
sense, sound morality, energy of style, and the knowledge of human 
nature which they display. 

True Wisdom, 

That is the traest wiedom of a man which doth moet condnoe to the happiness of 
life. For wisdom as it refers to action lies in the proposal of a right ena, and the 
choice of the most proper means to attain it: which end doth not refer to anyone 
part of a man's life, but to the whole as taken together. He therefore only deserves 
the name of a wise man, not that considers how to be rich and great when he is poor 
and mean, nor how to be well when he is sick, nor how to 'escape a present danger, 
nor how to compass a particular design ; but he that considers the whole course of 
his life together, and what is fit for him to make the end of it, and by what means 
he may best enjoy the happiness of it. I confessJt is one great part of a wise man 
never to propose to himself too much happiness here ; for whoever doth so is sure to 
find himself deceived, and consequently is so much more miserable as he fails in his 
greatest expectations. But since Gk>d did not make men on -purpose to be misera- 
ble, since there is a great difference as to men*s conditions, smce that difference 
depends very much on their own choice, there is a great deal of reason to place true 
wisdom in the choice of those things which tend most to the comfort and happiness 
of life. 

That which gives a man the greatest satisfaction in what he doth, and either pre- 
vents, or lessens, or makes him more easily bear the troubles of life, doth the most 
conduce to the happiness of it. It was a bold saying of Epicurus : * That it is more 
desirable to be miserable by acting according to reason, than to be happy in going 
against it ;* and I cannot tell how it can well agree with his notion of felicity : but it 
is a certain truth, that in the consideration of Happiness, the satisfaction of a man's 
Own mind doth weigh down all the external accidents of life. For suppose a man 
to have riches and honours as great as Ahasuerus bestowed on his highest favourite 
Haman, ^et by his sad instance we find that a small discontent, when the mind suf- 
fers it to increase and to spread its venom, doth so weaken the power of reason, 
disorder the passions, make a man's life so uneasy to him as to precipitate him from 
the height of his fortune into the depth of ruin. But, on the other side, if we sup- 
pose a man to be always pleased with his condition, to enjoy an even and quiet mind 
in every state, being«neither lifted up with prosperity nor cast down with adversity, 
he is really happy in comparison with the other. It is a mere speculation to dis- 
course of any complete happiness in this world ; but that which doth either lessen 
the number, or abate the weight, or take off the malignity of the troubles of life, 
doth contribute very much to 3iat degree of happiness which may be exi.ected here. 

The integrity and simplicity of a man's mind doth all this. In the first place, it 
gives the greatest satisfaction to a man's own mind. For although it be impossible 
for a man not to be liable to error and mistake, yet, if he doth mistake with an in- 
nocent mind, he hath the comfort of his innocency when he thinks himself bouiid 
to correct his error. But if a man prevaricates vdth himself, and acts against 
the sense of his own mind, though his conscience did not judge aright at that time, 
yet the goodness of this bare act, with respfect to the rule, will not prevent the sting 
that follows the want of inward integrity in doing it. * The backshder in heart,' 
aaith Solomon, * shall be filled with his own ways, but a good man shall be satisfied 
from himself.' The doing just and worthy and generous things without any sinister 
ends and designs, leaves a most agreeable pleasure to the mind, like that of a con- 
stant health, which is better felt than expressed. When a man applies his mmd to the 
knowledge of his duty, and when he doth understand it (as it is not hard for an 
honest mind to do, for, as the oracle answered the servant who desired to know how 
he might please his master : * If yon will seek it, you will be sure to find it '), sets him- 
^}f ivith B firm resoiution to pursue it ; though the rain faUs wid ttie floods arise, 
and tbe winds blow on every side of him, yet he enjoys peace and quiet withm, not- 
^'^BtaudiDg aU the noiae and blustering abroad; aadia cure to.hold out after all. 



KEN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 8 

because he is fonnded upon a rock. But take one that endeavonrs to blind or 
corrupt or master his conscience^ to make it serve some mean end or design ; what 
uneasy reflections hath he upon himself, what perplexing thoughts, what torment- 
ing fears, what suspicions and jealousies do distaro his imagination and rack his 
mmd I What art and pains doth such a one take to be believed honest and sincere ! 
and so much the more because he doth not believe himself : he fears still he hatli 
not given satisfaction enough, and by overdoing it, is the most suspected. Secondly, 
because integrity doth more become a man, and doth really promote his interest m 
the worltf. It is the saying of Dio Chrysostom, a heathen orator, that * simplicity 
and truth is a ^at and wise thing, but cunning and deceit is foolish and mean ; 
for,' saith he, * observe the beasts : the more courage and spirit they have, the less 
art and subtilty they use ; but the more timorous and ignoble they are, the more 
false and deceitful.' True wisdom and greatness of mina raises a man above the 
need of using little tricks and devices. Sincerity and honesty carries one 
through many difiScultics, which all the arts he can mvent would never help him 
through. For nothing doth a man more real mischief in the world than to be sus- 
pected of too much craft ; because every one stands upon his euard against him, 
and suspects plots and designs where there are none intended; insomuch that, 
thougjh he speaks with all the sincerity that is possible, yet nothing he saith can 
be believed. . . . 

* The path of the just,' saith the wise man, ' is as the shining light, which shineth 
more ana more unto the perfect day.* As the day begins with obscurity and a great 
mixture of darkness^ till oy quick and silent motions the light overcomes the mists 
and vapours of the night, and not only spreads its beams upon the tops of the moun- 
tains, but darts them into the deepest and most shady valleys ; thus simplicity and 
integrity may at first appearing look dark and suspicious, till by degrees it breaks 
through the clouds of envy and detraction, and then shines with a greater glory. 

BISHOP KEN. 

Thomas Ken (1637-1711) was a native of Little Berkhampstead, 
Hertfordshire. He was educated at Winchester College and New 
College, Oxford. In 1667, he obtained from Morley, Bishop of Win- 
chester, the living of Brightstone, Isle of Wight, and there he wrote 
his * Morning and Eveuing Hymns,' which he sang daily himself, 
with the accompaniment of a lute. These hymns, or part of them 
are in every collection of sacred poetry and in the memory of almost 
every English child. Who has not repeated the opening lines ? 

Awake, my soul, and with the sun. 
Thy daily stage of duty run ; 
Shake off duU sloth, and joyful rise 
To pay thy morning sacrifice 1 

Other poems, devotional and didactic, were written by Ken. In 
1681, he published a * Manual of Prayers for the use of the Scholars 
of Winchester College.' In 1684, he was made Bishop of Bath 
and Wells. Having refused to sign the Declaration of Indulgence 
issued by J^mes II. Ken was one of the seven bisho{>s sent to the 
Tower. He afterwards declined to take the oath of allegiance to 
William III. and was deprived. He had then saved a sum of £700, 
and for this money Lord Weymouth allowed him £80 a year and 
residence at his mansion of Longleat, where Ken lived till his death. 
In his latter years, the bishop is described as travelling about the 
country, like Old Mortality, on an old white horse, collecting sub- 
scriptions for relief of the poor nonjurors. Ken's works, in 4 vols. 
were published by W. Hawkins, his execwtoijYDiVl'KV, Vk^^Kik ^^\fiissaL 



4 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to i68y. 

were written by Hawkins (1713), by the Rev. W. L. Bowles (1830), 
by J. T. Round (1838), and by Anderson (1853). 

This list of eminent divines of the Anglican Church might easily 
be extended by notices of men eminent in their own day, and remark- 
able for erudition, but whose writings, chielQy of a polemical charac- 
ter, are now seldom read. Among these were tlie two Pocockes, 
father and son, distinguished for their Oriental learning ; *ARcn- 
Bisnop Tegison (1636-1715), who succeeded Tillotson in the prim- 
acy; and Dr. Henry Aldrich, Dean of Christ Church (1647-1710), 
who was an accomplished musician, as well as polemic and logician, 
and who added about forty fine anthems to our church-music. Ox- 
ford seems at this time to have been pre-eminently distinguished for 
its divines and scholars ; and Lord Macaulay has remarked that it 
was chiefly in the university towns, or in London, that the celebrated 
clergy were congregated. The country clergy, without access to 
libraries, and travelling but little, in consequence ot the imperfect 
means of locomotion, were a greatly inferior class — rude, unpolished, 
and prejudiced ; such as the wits and dranaatists loved to ridicule. 

The increasing body of Nonconformists, or Protestant dissenters, 
had also some eminent names (to be hereafter noticed) ; and Baxter, 
Owen, Calamy, Flavel, and Bunyan, are still as well known as their 
more erudite brethren of the establishment. 

GEORGE FOX. 

George Fox, the originator of the Society of Friends, or Quakers, 
was one of the most prominent religious enthusiasts of the age. He 
was the. son of a weaver at Drayton, in Leicestershire, and was born 
in 1624. Having been apprenticed to a shoemaker who traded in 
wool and cattle, he spent much of his youth in tending sheep, an em- 
ployment which afforded ample room for meditation and solitude. 
When about nineteen years of age, he was one day vexed by a dis- 
position to intemperance which he observed in two professedly reli- 
gious friends whom he met at a fair. * I went away,' says he in his 
Journal, * and, when I had done my business, returned home; but I 
did not go to bed that night, nor could I sleep ; but sometimes walked 
up and down, and sometimes prayed, and cried to the Lord, who said 
unto me : "Thouseest how young people go together into vanity, 
and old people^nto the earth ; thou must forsake all, you«g and old, 
keep out of all, and be a stranger to all." * This divine couimuiiica- 
tiou, as, in the warmth of his imagination, he considered it to be, was 
scrupulously obeyed. Leaving his relations and master, he betook 
himself for several years to a wandering life, which was interrupted 
only for a few months, during which he was prevailed upon to reside 
at home. At this period, as well as during the remainder of his life, 
Fox had many dreams and visions, and supposed himself to receive 
su/fcrnatural messages from heaven. In his Journal he gives an ac- 
^^^u^ or a particular movement of his mind m %mgv3L\%.Y\y beautiful 



FOX.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 5 

and impressive language : * One morning, as I was sitting by the 
fire, a great cloud came over me, and a temptation beset me, and I 
sate still. And it was said, All things come by nature ; and the Ele- 
ments and Stars came over me, so that I, was m a moment quite 
clouded with it ; but, inasmuch as I sate still and said nothing, the 
people of the house perceived nothing. And as I sate still under it and 
let it alone, a living hope rose in me, and a true voice arose in me 
which cried : These is a living God who made all things. And im< 
mediately the cloud and temptation vanished away, and the life rose 
over it all, and my heart was glad, and I praised the living God.' 
Afterwards he tells us, * the Lord s power broke forth, and I had great 
openings and prophecies, and spoke unto the people of the things of 
God, which they heard with attention and silence, and went away 
and spread the fame thereof.* He began about the year 1647 to teach 
publicly in the vicinity of Duckenfield and Manchester, whence he 
travelled through several neighbouring counties. He had now formed 
the opinions, that a learned education is unnecessary to a minister ; 
that the existence of a separate clerical profession is unwarranted by 
the Bible ; that the Creator of the world is not a dweller in temples 
made with hands; and Uiat the Scriptures are not the rule either of 
conduct oriudgment, but that man should follow * the light of Christ 
within.' He believed, moreover, that he was divinely commanded to 
abstain from taking off his hat to any one, of whatever rank ; to use 
the words thee and thou in addressing all persons with whom he com- 
municated ; to bid nobody good-morrow or good-night ; and never to 
bend his knee to any one in authority, or take an oath, even on the 
most solemn occasion. Acting upon these views, he sometimes went 
into churches while service was going on, and interrupted the clergy- 
men by loudly contradicting their statements of doctrine. By these 
breaches of order, and the employment of such unceremonious 
fashions of address as, * Come down, thou deceiver !' he naturally gave 
great offence, which led sometimes to his imprisonment, and some- 
times to severe treatment from the hands of the populace. At Der- 
by, he was imprisoned in a loathsome dungeon for a year, and after- 
wards in a still more disgusting cell at Carlisle for half that period. 
To this ill-treatment he submitted with meekness and resignation. 
As an illustration of the rough usage which the patient Quaker ex- 
periencedj^ we extract this narrative from his * Journal :' 

Fox*8 lU'treatment at Ulverstone. 

The people were in a rage, and fell njwn me in the Bteeplc-honse before his (Jus- 
tice Sawrey's) face, knock^ me down, kicked me, and trampled upon me. So great 
was the uproar, that some tumbled over their seats for fear. At last he came and 
took me from the people, led me out of the steeple-house, and put me into the hands 
of the constables and other officers, bidding them whip me, and put mo out of the 
town. Many friendly people being come to the market, and some to the steeple- 
house io bear me, diyers of these they knocked down also, and broke their heads, so 
that th0 blood ran down several; and Judge Fell's son running after to ee.e.'^KbAiu 
th^ would do with me, they threw him into «k diVt^v ol ^^Xet , ^.orcofc ^"t Nis^ssov ^ac^ssas:'. 



6 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1689. 

' Knock the teeih out of his head.* When they had hauled me 'to the common moss- 
side, a multitude following, the constables and other officers gave me some blows 
over my back with wUlow-rods, and thrust me amone the rude multitude, who, haT- 
ing furnished themselTes with staves, hedge-stakes, nolm or holly bushes, fell upon 
me, and beat me upon the head, arms, and shoulders, tUl they had deprive me of 
sense ; so that I fell down upon the wet common. When I recovered aealn, and 
saw myself lyius in a watery common, and the people standing about me. 1 lay still 
a littie while, and the power of the Lord sprang through me. and the eternal refresh- 
ings revived me, so that I stood up again in the strengthening power of the eternal 
God, and stretching out my arms amongst them, I said with a loud voice : * Strike 
again ! here are my arms, my head, and cheeks !' ;Then they began to fall out 
among themselves. 

In 1635, Fox returned to his native town, where he continued to 

g reach, dispute, and hold conferences, till he was sent by Colonel 
[acker to Cromwell, under the charge of Captain Drury. Of this 
memorable interview, he gives an account in his * Journal ; ' 

Interview mth Oliver Cromwell, 

Altiet Captain Drury had lodged me at the Mermaid, over against the Hews at 
Charing Cross, he went to give the Protector an account of me. When he came to 
me agam, he told me the Protector required that I should promise not to take up a 
camS sword or weapon against him or the government, as it then was ; and that I 
should write it in what words I saw good, and set my hand to it. I said little in 
reply to Caption Drury, but the next morning I was moved of the Lord to write a 
paper to the Protector, by the name of Oliver Cromwell, wherein I did, in the pres- 
ence of the Lord God, declare that I did deny the wearing or drawing of a * carnal 
sword, or any other outward weapon, against him or any man ; and uiat I was sent 
of God to stand a witness against all violence, and against the works of darkness, 
and to turn people from darkness to light ; to bring them from the occasion of war 
and fighting to the peaceable Gk)spel, and from being evil-doers, which the magis- 
trates' swora should be a terror to.' When I had written what the Lord had given 
me to write, I set my name to it, and gave it to Captain Drury to hand to Oliver 
Cromwell, which he did. After some time. Captain Dniry brought me before the 
Protector himself at Whitehall. It was in a morning, before he was dressed ; and 
one Harvey, who had come a little among friends, but was disobedient, waited 
upon him. When I came in, I was moved to say : ' Peace be in this house ; ' and I 
exhorted him to keep in the fear of Gk)d, that he might receive wisdom from him ; 
that by it he might oe ordered, and with it might order all things under his hand 
unto God's glonr. I spoke much to him of truth ; and a great deal of discourse I 
had with him about religion, wherein he carried himself very moderately. But he 
said we quarrelled with tiie priests, whom he called ministers. I told him * I did 
not quaiTel with them, they quarreled with me and my friends. But, said I, if we 
own the prophets, Christ, and the apostles, we cannot hold up such teachers, 
prophets, and shepherds, as the prophets, Christ, and the apostles declared against ; 
but we must declare against them oy the same power and spirit.' Then I shewed 
him that the prophets, Christ, and the apostles, declared freely, and declared against 
them that did not declare freely ; such as preached for filthy lucre, divined for 
money, and preached for hire, and were covetous and greedy, like the dumb dogs 
that could never have enough ; and that they who have the same spirit that Christ, 
and the prophets, and the apostles had, could not but declare against all such now, 
as they did then. As I spoke, he several times said it was very good, and it was 
truth. I told him : ' That all Christendom, so-called, had the Scriptures, but they 
wanted the power and spirit that those who gave forth the Scriptures, and that was 
the reason they were not in fellowsldp with the Son, nor with the Father, nor with 
the Scriptures, nor one with another.* Many more words I had with him, but 
people coming in, I drew a little back. As I was turning, he catched me by the 
hand, and with tears in his eyes said : * Come again to my house, for if thou and I 
^TfT^ ^"^ ^° Aoor of a day together, we should be nearer one to the other ;' adding, 
autfjie wished me no more X/Tthan he did to his ovm eoxd. 1 told him, if he did, he 



FOX.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 7 

wronged bis own soul, and admonished bim to hearken to God's yoice, that he might 
stand in his cotmsel, and obey it ; and if he did so, that would keep mm from hardr 
ness of heart ; but if he did not bear God's voice, his heart woold oe hardened. He 
said it was tme. Then I went oat ; and when Captain Drury came ont after me, he 
told me the lord Protector said I was at liber^, and might go whither I would. 
Then I was brought into a great hall, where the Protector's gentlemen were to dine, 
t asked them what they brought me thither for. They said it was by the Protector's 
order, that I might dine with them. I bid them let the Protector know I would not 
eat of his bread, nor drink of his drink. When he heard this, he said : ^ Now I see 
there is a people risen that I cannot win, either with gifts, honours, ofAces, or 
places ; but all other sects and people I can.' It was told him aeain, *■ That we had 
forsook our own, and were not hke to look for such things from him.' 

Fox had a brief meeting with Cromwell very shortly before the 
Protector's death, which we shall subjoin, adding Mr. Carlyle*s 
characteristic comment : 

OromweWs Last Appea/rance in Pvhlie. 

* The same day, taking boat, I went down (up) to Einsnton, and from thence to 
Hampton Court, to speak with the Protector about the simerin^ of friends. I met 
him riding into Hampton Court Park ; and before I came to him. as he rode at the 
head of his life-guard, I saw and felt a waft {whiff) of death go forth against him.'— 
Or in favour of him, George ? His life, if thou knew it, has not been a merry thing 
for this man, now or heretofore I I f anc^ he has been looking this long while to 
give it up, whenever the Commander-in-chief required. To quit ms laborious sentry- 
post ; honourably lay up his arms, and be gone to his rest— all eternity to rest in 
Geoi^a^e I Was thy own life meny, for example, in the hollow of the tree ; clad 
permanently in leather ? And does kindly purple, and governing refractory worlds 
instead of stitching coarse shoes, make it merrier ? The waft of death is not against 
Aim, I think— perhaps, against thee, and me, and others, O George, when the Nell 




came 
sufferings of friends before 
him, and had warned him according as I was moved to epeak to him, he bade me come 
to his house. So I returned to Kmgston, and the next day went up to Hampton 
Court to speak further with him. But when I came, Harvey, who was one that 
waited on him, told me the doctors were not willing that I should speak with him. 
So I passed away, and never saw him more.' 

Amidst much opposition, Fox still continued to travel through 
the kingdom, expounding his views and answering objections, both 
verbally and by the publication of controversial pamphlets. In the 
course of his peregrinations he suffered frequent imprisonment some- 
times as a disturber of the peace, and sometimes because he refused 
to uncover his head in the presence of magistrates, or to do violence 
to his principles by taking the oath of allegiance. After reducing— 
with the assistance of his educated disciples, Robert Barclay, Samuel 
Fisher, and George Keith— the doctrine and discipline of his sect to 
a more systematic and permanent form than that in which it had 
hitherto existed, he visited Ireland and the American plantations, 
employing in the latter nearly two years in confirming and increas- 
ing' his followers.. He died in London in 1690, aged sixty-six. 

That Fox was a sincere believer of what he preached, no doubt 
can be entertained ; and that he was of a meek and fot^WL^ ^\%V^ 
Biijon towards bis persecutors, is equally \Mi(VVi«ft^^QTi«Xi\^» "^SSa Ns^ft%- 



8 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

ritv, also, was so remarkable that his word was taken as of equal 
yalue with his oath. Religious enthusiasm, however, amounting to 
madness in the earlier stage of his career, led him into many extrav- 
agances, in which few members of the respectable society which he 
founded have partaken. Fox not only acted as a prophet, but 
assumed the power of working miracles— in the exercise of which he 
claims to have cured various individuals, including a man whose arm 
had long been disabled, and a woman troubled with king's evil. On 
one occasion he ran with bare feet through Lichfield, exclaiming : 

* Wo to the bloo(3y city of Lichfield I' and, when no calamity followed 
this denouncement as expected, he found no better mode of account- 
ing for the failure than discovering that some Christians had once 
been slain there. 

The writings of George Fox are comprised in three folio volumes, 
printed respectively in 1694, 1698, and 1706. The first contains his 

* Journal -, the second, his * Epistles •' the third, his * Doctrinal 
Pieces.' 

WILLIAM PENN. 

William Penn (1644-1718), the son of an English admiral, is cele- 
brated not only as a distinguished writer on Quakerism, but as the 
founder of the state of Pennsylvania in North America. In his fif- 
teenth year, while a student at Oxford, Penn embraced the doctrines 
of the Society of Friends. He was expelled the university, and his 
father sent him abroad to travel on the continent. He returned at the 
end of two years, accomplished in all the graces of the fine gentleman 
and courtier. In a short time, however, the plague broke out in Lon- 
don, and William Penn's serious impressions were renewed. He ceased 
to frequent the court and to visit his gay friends, ehaploying himself in 
the study of divinity. His father conceived that it was time he should 
again interfere. An estate in. Ireland had been presented to the ad- 
miral by the king ; it required superintendence, and William Penn 
was despatched to Dublin, furnished with letters to the Viceroy, the 
Duke of Ormond. Again the cloud passed off"; Penn was a favourite 
in all circles, and he even served for a short time as a volunteer offi- 
cer in the army. One day, however, in the city of Cork, he went to 
hear a sermon by the same Quaker preacher that he had listened to 
in Oxford. The effect was irresistible : Penn became a Quaker for 
life. His father sent for him home, and finding him immovable in 
his resolution to adhere to the despised and persecuted sect, he turned 
him out of doors. William Penn now began to preach and write in 
defence of the new creed. He was committed to the Tower, but this 
only increased his ardour. During a confinement ot eight months 
in 1688-9, he produced four treatises, the best of which, ' No Cross, 
no Crown,' enjoyed great popularity. In 1670, shortly after his re- 
Jease, he was again taken up and tried by the city authorities. The 
Jajyr sympathised with the persecuted apoaX\e ot ^^aR&,^a\d would 



PENN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 6 

return no harsher verdict than * Guilty of speaking in Gracechurch 
Street.' They were browbeat by the insolent court, and kept two 
days and nights without food, nre, or light ; but they would not 
yield', and their final verdict was * Not Guilty.' Penn and the jury 
were all thrown into Newgate. An appeal was made to the Court 
of Common Pleas, and Penn was triumphant ; thus vindicating tlie 
right of juries to judge of the value of evidence independent of the 
direction of the court. Admiral Penn died in 1670, having been re- 
conciled to his son, whom he left sole executor of his will. The 
admiral's estate was worth £1500 a year, and he had claims on the 
government amounting to about £15,000. In consideration of these 
unlfquidated but acknowledged < claims, Charles II. gmnted to 
William Penn — who longed to establish a Christian democracy 
across the Atlantic — a vast territory on the banks of the Delaware 
in North America. Penn was constituted sole proprietor and gover- 
nor. He proposed to call his colony Sylvania, as it was covered 
with woods. The king suggested, in compliment to the admiral, 
that Penn should be prefixed, and in the charter the colony was 
named Pennsylvania. With the aid of Algernon Sidney, articles for 
the settlement and government of the new state were drawn up by 
Penn. They were liberal and comprehensive allowing the utmost 
civil and religious freedom to the colonists. 

The governor sailed to America in 1682, ana enierea mto a treaty; 
of peace and friendship with the native tribes, which was religiously 
observed. The signing of this treaty under an elm-tree, the Indian 
king being attended by his sacliems or warriors, and Peuu accom- 
panied by a large body of his pilgrim-followers, forms one of those 
picturesque passages in history on wh;ch poets and painters delight 
to dwell. The governor having constituted his council or legislative 
assembly, laid out his capital city of Philadelphia, and made other 
arrangements, returned to England. He landed in June 1084 For 
the next four years and a half, till the abdication of James II., Penn 
appears in the novel character of a court favourite. He attended 
Whitehall almost daily, his house was crowded with visitors, and in 
consequence of his sui)posed influence with the king, he might, as he 
states, have amassed great riches. He procured the release of abi)ut 
fourteen hundred of his oppressed Quaker brethren who had been 
imprisoned for refusing to take the oath of allegiance or to attend 
church. Penn was accused of being a Jesuit in disguise, and of hold- 
ing correspondence with the court of Rome. Even the pious and 
excellent Dr. Tillotson was led to give credence to this calumny, but 
was convinced by Penn of the entire falsehood of the charge. In our 
own day, an eminent historian. Lord Macaulay, has revived some of 
the accusations against Penn, and represented him as conniving at 
the intolerance and corruption of the court. Specific cases are 
adduced, but they rest on doubtful evidence, and seem to i^rove. \i<3 
more than that renn, misled by a ViU\e \a.mV.^ ^.li^ ^'^-\ssi^Qi\a»RR.. 



10 CYCLOPEDIA OP [to 1689. 

had mixed himself up too much with the proceedings of the court, 
and could not prevent those acts of cruelty and extortion which dis- 
graced the miserable reign of the last of the Stuart monarchs. The 
uniform tenor of Penn's life was generous^ self-sacrificing, and bene- 
ficent. After the Revolution, Penn*s formal intimacy with James 
caused him to be regarded as a disaffected person, and led to various 
troubles ; but he still continued to preach and write in support of his 
favourite doctrines. Having once more gone out to America in 1699, 
he there exerted himself for the improvement of his colony till 1701, 
when he finally returned to England. His latter days were imbit- 
tered by personal griefs and losses,. and his mental vigour was pros- 
tirated by disease. He died in 1718. 

Besides the work already mentioned, Penn wrote * Reflections and 
Maxims relating to the Conduct of Life,* and * A Key, &c. to discern 
the Diflference between the Religion professed by the Quakers, and 
the Misrepresentations of their Adversaries.* To George Fox's 
* Journal,* which was published in 1694, he prefixed *A Brief Account 
of the Rise and Progress of the People called Quakers* His works 
fill three volumes; and an excellent Life of Penn has been written by 
Mr. Hepworth Dixon (1851, and much enlarged in 1872). The style 
of Penn*s works is often harsh and incorrect, but his language is 
copious and his enthusiasm occasionally renders him forcible and 
impressive. The first of the subjoined specimens is extracted from 
his * No Cross, no Crown.* 

Against the Pride of NoUe Birth, 

That people are generally proud of their persons, is too visible and troublesome, 
especially if they have any pretence either to blood or beauty ; the one has raised 
many quarrels among men, and the^ other among women, and men too often for 
their sakes, and at their excitements. But to the first : what a pother has this noble 
blood made in the world, antiquity of name or family, whose father or mother, 
great-grandfather or great-grandmother, was best descended or allied ? what stock 
or what clan they came of? what coat of arms they gave ? which had, of right, the 

{>recedence ? But, methinks, nothing of man's folly has less show of reason to pal- 
iate it. 

For, first, what matter is it of whom any one is descended, that is not of ill-fame ; 
since 'tis his own virtue that must raise, or vice depress him ? An ancestor's char- 
acter is no excuse to a man's ill actions, but an aggravation of his degeneracy ; and 
since virtue comes not by generation, I neither am the better nor the worse for my 
forefather : to be sure, not in God's account ; nor should it be in man's. Nobody 
would endure injuries the easier, or reject favours the more, for coming by the hand 
of a man well or ill descended. I confess it were greater honour to have had no 
blots, and with an hereditary estate to have had a lineal descent of worth : but that 
was never found ; no, not in the most blessed of families upon earth ; I mean Abra- 
ham's. To be descended of wealth and titles, fills no man's head with brains, or 
heart with truth ; those qualities come from a higher cause. 'Tis vanity, then, and 
most condemnable pride, for a man of bulk and <maracter to despise another of less 
size in the world, and of meaner alliance, for want of them ; because the latter may 
have the merit, where the former has only the effects of it in an ancestor ; and 
though the one be great by means of a forefather, the other is so too, but 'tis by his 
own ; then, pray, which is the bravest man of the two ? 

'<?A 'eaj-s the person proud of blood, *.it was never a good world since we have had 
^o m&njr npetart gentlemen V Bat what should others have said ot that man's ances- 



PENN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. It 

tor, when he started first np into the knowledge of the world ? For he, and all men 
and families, ^y, and all states and kingdoms too, have had their npstarts, that is, 
their beginnings. This is hke being the True Church, because old, not because 
good ; for famines to be noble by being old, and not by being virtuous. No such 
matter: it must be age in virtue, or e^se virtue before age; for otherwise, a man 
should be noble by means of his predecessor, and yet the predecessor less noble than 
he, because he was the acquirer ; which is a paradox that will puzzle all their lieral- 
dry to. explain. Stranse I that they should be moi*e noble than their ancestor, that 
got their nobility for them 1 But if this be absurd, as it is, then the upstart is the 
noble man ; the man that got it by his virtue : and those only are entitled to his 
honour that are imitators of his virtue ; the rest may bear his name from his blood, 
but that is all. If virtue, then, give nobility, which heathens themselves agree, then 
families are no longer truly^ noble than they are virtuous. And if virtue go not by 
blood, but by the qualifications of the descendants, it follows, blood is excluded ; else 
blood would bar vui;ue, and no man that wanted the one should be allowed the ben- 
efit of the other ; which were to stint and bound nobility for want of antiquity, and 
make virtue useless. No, let blood and name go together ; but pray, let nobility and 
virtue keep company, for they are nearest of km. . . . 

But, mcthinks, i^should suffice to sa^, our own eyes see that men of blood, out 
of their gear and trappings, without their feathers and finery, have no more marks of 
honour by nature stamped upon them than their inferior neighbours. Nay, them- 
selves being judges, they will frankly tell us they feel all those passions in their blood 
that make them like other men, if not further from the virtue that truly dignifies. 
The lamentable ignorance and debauchery that now rages among too many of our 
gri^ater sort of folks, is too clear and casting an evidence in the point : and pray, tell 
me of what blood are they come ? 

Howbeit, when I have said all this, I intend not, by debasing one false quality, to 
make insolent another that is not true. I would not be thought to set the churl 
upon the present gentleman's shoulder : by no means ; his rudeness will not mend 
the matter. But what I have writ, is to give aim to all, where true nobility dwells, 
that every one may arrive at it by the ways of virtue and goodness. But for all this, 
I must allow a great advantage to the gentleman ; and therefore jjrefer his station, 
just as the apostle Paul, who, after he had humbled tiie Jews, that insulted upon the 
Chi-istians with their law and rites, gave them the advanta^ge upon all other nations 
in statutes and judgments. I must grant that the condition of our groat men is 
much to be preferred to the ranks of inferior people. For, first, they have more 
power to do good ; and, if their hearts be equal to their ability, they are blessings to 
the people of any country. Secondly, the eyes of the people are usually directed to 
them ; and if they will be kind, just, and helpful, they shall have their affections and 
services. Thirdly, they are not under equal straits with the inferior sort; and con- 
sequently they have more help, leisure, and occasion, to polish their passions and 
tempers with books and conversation. Fourthly, they have more time to observe 
the actions of other nations ; to travel and view the laws, customs, and Interests of 
other countries ; and bring home whatsoever is worthy or imitable. And so, an 
easier way is open for great men to get honour ; and such as love true reputation 
will embrace the best means to it. But because it too often happens that great men 
do little mind to give God the glory of their prosperity, and to hve answerable to 
his mercies, but, on the contrary, live without God in the world, fulfilling^ the lusts 
thereof. His hand is often seen, either in imi)overi8hing or extinguishing them, 
and raising up men of more virtue and humility to their estates and dignity. How- 
ever, I must allow, that among people of this rank, there have been some of them 
of more than ordinary virtue, whose examples have given light to their families. 
And it has been something natural for some of their descendants to endeavour to 
keep up the credit of their houses in proportion to the merit of their founder. And, 
to say true, if there be any advantage in such descent, 'tis not from blood, but edu- 
cation : for blood has no intelligence in it, and is often spurious and uncertain ; but 
education has a mighty influence and strong bias upon the affections and actions of 
men. In this the ancient nobles and gentry of this kingdom did excel ; and it were 
much to be wished that our great people would set about to recover the ancient eco- 
nomy of their houses, the strict ana virtuous discipline of their ancestors, when 
men were honoured for their achievements, and when nothing more exposed a man 
to shame, than his being bom to a nobility that he had not & wctoa \o ^tt^vs^?^ 



1?, CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 16S9. 

PcnrCs AdDice to his GhUd-ren. 

Next, betake yourself to some honest, industrious course of life, and that not of 
sordid covetousness, but for example, and to avoid idleness. And if you change 

Sour condition and marry, choose with the knowledge and consent of your mother, 
: living, or of guardians, or of those that have the charge of you. Mind neither 
beauty nor riches, but the fear of the Lord, and a sweet and amiable disposition, 
such as you can love above all this world, and that may make your habitations 
pleasant and desirable to you. 

And b jing married, be tender, affectionate, patient, and meek. Live in the fear 
of the Lord, and He will bless you and your offspring. Be sure to live within com- 
pass ; borrow not, neither be beholden to any. Kuin not yourselves by kindness to 
others ; for that exceeds the due bonds of friendship, neither will a true friend ex- 
pect it. Small matters I heed not. 

Let your industry and parsimony go no further than for a sufficiency for life, and 
to make a provision for your children, and that in moderation, if the Lord gives you 
any. I charge you help the poor and needy : let the Lord have a voluntary share of 
your income for the good of the poor, both in our society and others : forVe are all 
his creatures ; remembering that ' he that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.' 

Know well your incomings, and your outgoings may be better regulated. Love 
not money nor the world : use them only, and they will serve you ; but if you love 
them, you serve them, which will debase your spirits, as well as offend tne Lord. 
Pity the distn^ssed, and hold out a hand of helj) to them ; it may be your case, and 
as you mete to others, God wUl mete to you again. Be humble and gentle in your 
conversation ; of few words, I charge you ; but always pertinent when you speak, 
hearing out before you attempt to answer, and then speaking as if you would per- 
suade, not impose. Affront none, neither revenge the affronts that are done to you ; 
but forgive, and you shall be forgiven of your heavenly Father. 

In making friends, consider well first ; and when you are fixed, be true, not waver- 
ing by reports, nor deserting in afiliction, for that becomes not the good and virtu- 
ous. Watch against anger ; neither speak nor act in it ; for, like drunkenness, it 
makes a man a beast, and throws people into desperate inconveniences. Avoid flat- 
terers, for they are thieves in disguise ; their praise is costly, designing to get by 
those they bespeak ; they are the worst of creatures ; they lie to flatter, and flatter to 
cheat ; and which is worse, if you believe them, you ch(;at yourselves most danger- 
ously. But the virtuous, though poor, love, cherish, and' prefer. Remember Da\id, 
who, asking the Lord : * Who shall abide in thy tabernacle ? who shall dwell in thy 
holy hill?' answers: *He that walketh uprightly, and worketh righteousness, and 
speaketh the truth in his heart ; in whose eyes a vile person is contemned ; but he 
honoureth them that fear the Lord.' 

Next, my children, be temperate in all things : in your diet, for that is physic by 
prevention ; it keeps, nay, it makes people healthy, and their generation sound. This 
IS exclusive of the spiritual advantage it brings. Be also plain in your apparel ; keep 
out that lust which reigns too much over some ; let your virtues be your ornaments, 
remembering life is more than food, and the body than raiment. Let your furniture 
Jae simple and cheap. Avoid pride, avarice, and luxury. Read my ' No Cross, no 
Crown.* There is instruction. Make your conversation with the most eminent for 
wisdom and piety, and shun all wicked men as you hope for the blessing of God and 
the comfort of your father's living and dying prayers. Be sure you speak no evil of 
any, no, not of the meanest ; much less of your superiors, as magistrates, guardians, 
tutors, teachers, and elders in Christ. 

Be no busybodies ; meddle not with other folk's matters, but when in conscience 
and duty pressed ; for it procures trouble, and is ill manners, and very nnseemly to 
wise men. In your families remember Abraham, Moses, and Joshua, their integrity 
to the Lord, and do as you have them for your examples. Let the fear and service of 
the living God be encouraged in your houses, an4 that plainness, sobriety, and moder- 
ation in all things, as becometh God's chosen people ; and as I advise you, my be- 
loved children, do you counsel yours, if God ^ould give yon any. Yea, I counsel 
and command them as my posterity, that they love and serve the Lord God with an 
upright heart, that he may nlass you and yours from generation to generation. 

And sp for you, who are likely to be concerned in the government of Pennsylvania 
and my parts of East Jersey ^ especially the first, I do charge you before the Lord God 



BARCLAY.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 18 

and his holy angels, that yon be lowly, diligent, and tender, fearing God, lovins the 
people, and hating covetoasneBs. Let justice have its impartial coarse, and thelaw 
free passage. Though to your loss^ protect no man against it ; for you are not above 
the law, but the law above you. Live, therefore, the lives yourselves you would have 
the people live, and then you have right and boldness to punish the transgressor. 
Keep upon the square, for God sees you : therefore, do your duty, and be sure you 
bee with your own ejres, and hear with your own ears. Entertain no lurchers, cherish 
no informers for gam or revenge, use no tricks, fly to no devices to support or cover 
injustice ; but let your hearts 1^ upright before the Lord, trusting in mm above the 
contrivances of men, and none shall be able to hurt or supplant. 

BOBERT BARCLAY. 

The two great founders of Quakerism, as a respectable and consid- 
erable religious body in this country, were Robert Barclay and 
William Penn. Both were gentlemen by birth and education, ami- 
able and accomplished men, who sacrificed worldly honours, and suf- 
fered persecution for conscience* salie. Barclay was born at Gordons- 
town, in Morayshire, December 23, 1648. He was educated at the 
Scots College at Paris, of which his uncle was rector, but returned to 
his native country in 1664. Two years afterwards, his father, Colonel 
Barclay of Ury, in Kincardineshire, made open profession of the 
principles of Quakerism ; and in 1667, when only nineteen years of * 
age, Robert Barclay became * fully convinced,' as his friend William 
Peun has expressed it, * and publicly owned the testimony of the 
true light.' His first defence of the new doctrines appeared in 1670, 
and boie the title of * Truth cleared of Calumnies.' It was a reply 
to a work published in Aberdeen. About this time (1672), Barclay 
walked through the streets of Aberdeen clothed in sackcloth and 
ashes, and published a * Seasonable Warning and Serious Exhorta- 
tion to, and Expostulation with, the Inhabitants of Aberdeen.' Other 
controversial treatises followed: *A Catechism and Confession of 
Faith,' 1673 ; and * The Anarchy of the Ranters,' &c. 1674. His 
great work, originally written and published in Latin, appeared in 
1676, and is entitled *An Apology for the true Christian Divinity, as 
the same is held forth and preached by the People called in scorn 
Quakers, &c.' The * Apology ' of Barclay is a learned and methodi- 
cal treatise, very different from what the world expected on such a 
subject, audit was therefore read with avidity both in Britain and on 
the continent. ' Its most remarkable theological feature is the attempt 
to prove that there is an iLternal light in man, which is better fitted 
to guide him aright in religious matters than even the Scriptures 
themselves ; the genuine doctrines of which he asserts to be rendered 
uncertain by various readings in different manuscripts, and the falli- 
bility of translators and interpreters. These circumstances, says he, 
*and much more which might be alleged, put the minds, even of the 
learned, into infinite doubts, scruples, and inextricable difficulties ; 
whence we may very safely conclude, that Jesus Christ, who promised 
to be always with his children, to lead them into all truths to ^iix<i 
tbe722 against the devices of the enemy, and to ^^\»2cJC\^ NJckSsa Ss&!^ 



14 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

upon an unmovable rock, left them not to be principally ruled by that 
which was subject, in itself, to many uncertainties ; and therefore he 
g^ve them his Spirit as their principal guide, which neither moths 
nor time can wear out, nor transcribers nor translators corrupt; 
which none are so young, none so illiterate, none in so remote a place 
but they may come to be reached and rightly informed by it.' It 
would be erroneous, however, to regard this work of Barclay as an 
exposition of all the doctrines which have been or are prevalent 
among the Quakers, or, indeed, to consider it as anything more than 
the vehicle of such of his own views as, in his character of an apolo- 
gist, he thought it desirable to state. The dedication of Barclay's 
* Apology ' to King Charles II. has always been particularly admired 
for its respectful yet manly freedom of style, and for the pathos of 
its allusion to his majesty's own early troubles, as a reason for his ex- 
tenxiing mercy and favour to the persecuted Quakers. * Thou hast 
tasted,* says he, * of prosperity and adversity ; thou knowest what it 
is to be banished thy native country, to be over-ruled as well as to 
rule and sit upon the throne ; and, being oppressed, thou hast reason 
to know how hateful the oppressor is to both God and man : if, after 
. all these warnings and advertisements, thou dost not turn unto the 
Lord with all thy heart, but forget Him, who remembered thee in 
thy distress, and give thyself up to follow lust and vanity, surely great 
will be thy condemnation.' But this appeal had no effect in stopping 
persecution ; for after Barclay's return from Holland and Germany, 
which he had visited in company with Fox and Penn,hewas, in 1677, 
imprisoned along with many other Quakers, at Aberdeen, through 
the instrumentality of Archbishop Bliarp. In prison he wrote a 
treatise on * Universal Love.' He watf soon liberated, and subse- 
quently gained favour at court. Both Penn and he were on terms of 
intimacy with James II; and just before the sailing of the Prince of 
Orange for England in 1688, Barclay, in a private conference with 
his majesty, urged James to make some concessions to the people. 
The death of this respectable and amiable person took place at his 
seat of Ury on the 3d of October 1690. 

Against Titles of Honour. 

We aflOrm positively, that it is not lawful for Christians either to give or to re- 
ceive these titles of honour, as. Your Holiness, Your Majesty, Tour Excellency, 
Your Eminency, &c. 

First, because these titles are no part of that obedience which is due to magis- 
trates or superiors ; neither doth the giving them add to or diminish from that pub- 
jection we owe to them, which consists in obeying their just and lawful commands, 
not in titles and designations. 

Secondly, we find not that in the Scripture any such titles are used, either under 
the law or the gospel ; but that, in speaking to kings, princes, or nobles, they used 
only a simple compellation, as, ' O King I ' and that without any further designa- 
tion, save, perhaps, the name of the person, as, ' O King Agrippa,' &c. 

Thirdly, it lays a necessity upon Christians most frequently to lie ; because the 

persons obtaining these titles, either by election or hereditArily, may frequently be 

ioand to have nothing really in them deserving them, or answering to them : as 

Bome, to whom it ia said, * Your JExceUency,' havmg nottmi^ ot excellency in them ; 



BAXTER.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 1^ 

and wUo is called ' Yonr Grace/ appear to be an enemy to ^race ; imd he who fe 
called * Your HonouTi' is known to be oase and ignoble. I wonder what law of man, 
or what patent* ought to oblige me to make a lie, in calling good evil and evil good. 
I wonder what law of man can secure me, in so doing, from the best judgment of 
God, that will make me count for every idle word. And to lie is something more. 
Surely Christians should be ashamed that such laws, manifestly crossing the law of 
God, should be among them. 

Fourthly, as to those titles of * Holiness,' * Eminency,' and * Excellency,* used 
among the Papists to the pope and cardinals, &c. ; and * Grace,* ' Lordship,* and 
* Worship,' used to the clergy among the Protestants, it is a most blaphemous usur- 
pation. For if they use * Holiness * and * Grace ' because these things ought to be in 
a pope or a bishop, how came they to usurp that peculiarly to themselves ? Ought 
not holiness and grace to be in every Christian ? And so every Christian should 
say ' Your Holiness ' and * Your Grace * one to another. Next, how can they in 
reason claim any more titles than were practised and received by the ai)ostles and 
primitive Christians, whose successors they pretend they are ; and as whose succes- 
sors, and no otherwise, themselves, I judge, will confess any honour they seek is 
due to them ? Now, if they neither sought, received, nor admitted such honour 
nor titles, how came these b^ them ? If they say they did, let them prove it if they 
can : we find no such thing m the Scripture. The Christians speak to the apostles 
without any such denomination, neither saying, * If it please your Grace,' * your 
Holiness,' nor 'your Worship ;' they are neither called My Lord Peter, nor My Lord 
Paul ; nor yet Master Peter, nor Master Paul \ nor Doctor Peter, nor Doctor Paul ; 
but singly Peter and Paul ; and that not only m the Scripture, but for some hmidreds 
of years after : so that this appears to be a manifest fruit of the apostasy. For if 
these titles arise either from the office or worth of the i)ersons, it will not be denied 
but the apostles deserved them better than «ny now that call for them. But the case 
is plain ; the apostles had the holiness, the excellency, the grace ; and because they 
were holy, excellent, and gracious, they neither used nor admitted such titles ; but 
these having neither holiness, excellency, nor grace, will needs be so called to satisfy 
their ambitious and ostentatious mind, which is a manifest token of their hy- 
pocrisy. 

Fifthly, as to that title of * Majesty ' usually ascribed to princes, we do not find it 
given to any such in the Holy Scripture ; but that it is specially and peculiarly as- 
cribed unto God. We find in the Scripture the proud king Nebuchadnezzar assum- 
ing tills title to himself, who at that time received a sufficient reproof, by a sudden 
judgment which came upon him. Therefore, in all the compellations used to 
princes in the Old Testament, it is not to be found, nor yet in the New. Paul was 
very civil to Agrippa, yet he gives him no such title. Neither was this title used 
among Christians m the primitive times. 

RICHARD BAXTER. 

Richard Baxter (1615-1691) is justly esteemed tlie most eminent 
of the Nc^nconformist divines of this period. He was a native of 
Row ton, in Shropshire, and was educated chiefly at Wroxeter. * My 
faults,' he said, * are no disgrace to any university, for I was of none ; 
I have little but what I bad out of books, and inconsiderable helps of 
country tutors. Weakness and pain helped me to study how to die ; 
that set me on studying how to live.' In 1638 he was ordained, and 
was appointed master of the Free School of Dudley. From 1640 to 
1642 he was pastor of Kidderminster, and was highly popular and 
useful. During the Civil War he sided with the Parliament, and 
accepted the office of chaplain in the army, in which capacity he was 
present at the sieges of Bridgewater, Exeter, Bristol, and Worcester. 
He was disgusted with the frequent and vehement disputes about 
liberty of conscience, and was glad to leave the army and t^taxxs. \r» 
Kidderminster, Whikt there, whilst Teco'^eim^^xoxxi ^ ^^■H^<^\SissRS8s»^ 



16 CYCLOPiEbiA OF [to 16^9. 

be wrote his work, *The Saints* Everlasting Rest/ 1653. When 
Cromwell assumed the supreme power, Baxter openly expressed his 
disapprobation, and, in a conference with the rrotector, told him 
that * the honest people of the land took their ancient monarchy to 
be a blessing, and not an evil.* He was always opposed to intoler- 
ance. * We intended not,* he said, * to dig down the banks, or pull 
up the hedge, and lay all waste and common, when we desired the 
prelates* tyranny might cease.* After the Restoration, Baxter was 
appointed one of the royal chaplains, but, like Owen, refused a 
bishopric offered him by Clarendon. The Act of Uniformity, in 1662, 
drove him out of the Established Church, and he retired to Acton, in 
Middlesex, where he spent several years in peaceful study and lite- 
rary labour. The Act of Indulgence, in 1672, enabled him to repair 
to London ; but the subsequent persecution of the Nonconformists 
interfered with his ministerial duties. In 1685, he published a 

* Paraphrase on the New Testament,* a plain practical treatise, but 
certain passages in which were held to be seditious, and Baxter was 
tried and condemned by the infamous Judge Jeffreys. When Baxter 
endeavoured to speak : * Richard I Richard!' ejaculated the Judge, 

* dost thou think we'll hear thee poison the court? Richard, thou art 
an old fellow, an old knave ; thou hast written books enough to load 
a cart. Hadst thou been whipt out of thy writing trade forty years 
ago, it had been happy.* 

He was sentenced to pay 500 marks, and in default to be impris- 
oned in the King's Bench until it was paid. Through the generous 
exertions of a Catholic peer, Lord Powis, the fine was remitted, and 
after eighteen months' imprisonment, Baxter was set at liberty. He 
had now five years of tranquillity, dying *in great peace and joy,' 
December 8, 1691. Baxter is said to have written no less than 168 
separate works or publications I His practical treatises are still read 
and republished, especially his * Saints' Rest * and * Call to the Un- 
converted,' 1669. The latter was so popular, that 20,000 copies, it 
was said, were sold in one year. His 'Reasons of the Christian 
Religion,* 1667, * Life of Faith,* 1670, ' Christian Directory,* 1675, are 
also much prized tlieological works. His * Catholic Theology,' 1675, 
and 'Methodus Theologise Christiana),' 1681, embody the views and 
opinions of Baxter on religious subjects. In 1696, appeared 'Reli- 
quiae Baxterianae,' including an autobiography, entitled A Narrative 
of the most Memorable Passages of my Life and Times,* published by 
Baxter's friend, Matthew Sylvester, a Nonconformist divine. This 
work is highly instructive, and, like Baxter's writings generally, was 
a favourite book of Dr. Johnson. In our own day, it met with no less 
warm an admirer in Mr. Coleridge, who terms it ' an inestimable 
work;' addiig: ' I may not unfrequently doubt Baxter's memory, 
or even his competence, in consequence of his particular modes of 
i/iinkln^; but I coulA almost as soon doubt the Gospel verity as his 
reracJty, ' It is this truthfulness which gives so deep wid p^iviiy.Tieut 



BAXTER.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 17 

an interest to Baxter's life. We see what Mr. Carlyle would call the 
life of a real many eYBT ia action or in self-retrospection; and as to 
what was pa8sing around him, Baxter was an acute observer as well 
as profound thinker. 

A complete edition of Baxter's works, with a Life of the Author, 
by the Rev. W. Orme, was published in 1827, in twenty-three vol- 
umes. Also, his * Practical Works,' four volumes, 1888. 

Baxter's Judgment of Tds Writings, 

Concerning almost all m^ writings, I must confess that my own judgment is, that 
fewer, well studied and polished, had been better ; but the reader who can safely 
censure the books, is not fit to censure the author, unless he had been upon the 
place, and acquainted with all the occasions and circumstances. Indeed, for the 
* Saints' Rest,' I had four months' vacancy to write it, but in the midst of continufU 
languishing and medicine ; but, for the rest, I wrote them in the crowd of all my 
other employments, which would allow me no great leisure for polishing and exactness, 
or any ornament ; so that I scarce ever wrote one sheet twice over, nor stayed to 
make any blots or interlmings, but was fain to let it go as it was first conceived ; 
and when my own desire was rather to stay upon one thing long than run over many, 
eom& sudden occasions or other extorted all my writings from me ; and the appre- 
hensions of present usefulness or necessity prevailed against all other motives ; so 
that the divines which were at hand with me still put me on, and approved of what I 
did, because they were moved by present necessities as weU as I : but those that 
were far oft, and felt not those nearer motives, did rather wish that I had taken the 
other way, and published a few elaborate writmgs ; and I am ready myself to be of 
their mind, when I forgot the case that I then stood in, and have lost the sense of 
former motives. 

Fruits of Experience of Human (Jha/racter. 

I now eee more good and more evil in all men than heretofore I did. I see that 
^ood men are not so good as I once thought they were, but have more imperfec- 
tions ; tmd that i^earer approach and fuller trial doth make the best appear more 
weak and faulty than their admirers at a distance think. And I find that few are so 
bad as either malicious enemies or censorious separating professors do imagine. In 
some, indeed, I find that human nature is corrupted into a .ereater likeness to devils 
than I once tnought any on eaxth had been. But even in the wicked, usually there 
is more for grace to make advantage of, and more to testify for God and holiness, 
than I once oelieved there had been. 

I less admire gifts of utterance, and bare profession of religion, than I once did ; 
and have much more charity for many who, by the want of gifts, do make an ob- 
scurer profession than they. I once thought that almost all that could pray movingly 
and fluently, and talk weU of religion, had been Siiints. But experience hath opened 
to me what odious crimes may consist with high profession ; and I have met with 
divers obscure persons, not not«d for any extraordinary profession, or forwardness 
in religion, but only to live a quiet blameless life, whom I have after found to have 
long lived, as far as I could discern, a truly icodly and sanctified life ; only, their 

Erayers and duties were by accident kept secret from other men's observation. Yet 
e that upon this pretence would confound the godly and the ungodly, may as well 
go about to lay heaven and hell together. 

Desire of Approbation. 

I am much less regardful of the approbation of man, and set much lighter by con- 
tempt or applause, than I did long ago. I am oft suspicions that this is not only 
from the increase of self-denial and humility, but partly from my being glutted and 
surfeited with human applause : and all worldly things appear most vain and un- 
satisfactory when we have tried them most. But though I feel that this hath some 
hand in the effect, yet, as far as I can perceVvc, tYva Vav^ywVe^^^ <afL 'as»ss"%.Ti5:ip«ss\^ 
jieae, and God's transcendent greatuesB, ^t\x Vbftm \X \» \)a»5t\XiSw^^ ^aaR.\.N»^^% 



18 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

~^ 
and the sense of the brevity of hnman things, and the nearness of eternity, are the 
principal causes of this effect ; which some have impated to self-conceiteoness and 
morosity. 

Change in the Estimate of his Own and Oth&r Men's Knowledge. 

Heretofore, I knew much less than now, and yet was not half so much acquainted 
with my ignorance. I had a ^at delight in the daily new discoveries which I 
made, and of the light which shined in upon me— like a man that cometh into a 
country where he never was before — ^but I little knew either how imperfectly I un- 
derstood those yerj points whose discovery so much delighted me, nor how much 
might be said agamst them, nor how many things I was yet a stranger to : but now 
I find far greater darkness upon all things, and perceive now very little it is that we 
know, in comparison of that which we are ignorant of, and have far meaner thoughts 
of my own understanding, though I must needs know that it is better furnished 
than it was then. 

Accordingly, I had then a far higher opinion of learned persons and books than 
I have now ; for what I wanted myself, I thought every reverend divine had at- 
tained, and was familiarly acquainted with ; and what books I understood not, by 
reason of the strangeness of the terms or matter, I the more admired, and thought 
that others understood their worth. But now experience hath constrained me against 
my will to know, that reverend learned men are imperfect, and know but little as 
well as I, especiiilly those that think themselves the wisest ; and the better X am 
acquainted with them, the more I perceive that we are all yet in the dark : and the 
more I am acquainted with holy men, that are all for heaven, and pretend not much 
to subtilities, the more I value and honour them. And when I have studied hard to 
understand some abstruse admired book— as *De Scientia Dei,' 'De Providentia 
circa Malum,' * De Decretis,' 'De PrBedeterminatione,' * De Libertate Creaturse,' &c. 
—I have but attained the koowledge of human imperfections, and to see that the 
author is but a man as well as I. 

And at first I took more upon my author's credit than now I can do ; and when 
an author was highly commended to me by others, or pleased me in pome part, I was 
ready to entertain the whole ; whereas now I take and leav^ in the same author, and 
dissent in some things from him that I like best, as well as from others. 

- On the Credit dice to History, 

I am much more cantelous [cautious or wary] in my belief of histoiy than here- 
tofore ; not that I run into their extreme that will oelieve nothing because they 
cannot believe all things; But I am abundantly satisfied by the experience of this 
age that there is no believing two sorts of men, ungodly men and partial men : 
though an honest heathen, of no religion, may be believed, where enmity against 
religion biaseth him not ; yet a debauched Christian, besides his enmity to the power 
ana practice of his own religion, is seldom without some further bias of interest or 
faction ; especially when these concur, and a man is both ungodly and ambitious, 
espousing an interest contrary to a holy heavenly life, and also factious, embodying 
himself with a sect or party suited to his spirit and designs ; there is no believing 
his word or oath. If you read any man partially bitter against others, as differing 
from him in opinion, or as cross to his greatness, interest, or designs, take heed how 
you believe any more than the historical evidence, distinct from his word, com- 
pelleth you to believe. The prodigious lies which have been published in this age in 
matters of fact, with unblushing confidence, even where thousands of multitudes of 
eye and ear witnesses knew all to be false, doth call men to take heed what history 
they believe, especiaUy where power and violence affordeth that privilege to the 
rejKjrter, that no man dare answer him or detect his fraud ; or if they do, their 
writings are all supprest. As long as men have liberty to examine and contradict 
one another, one may partly conjecture, by comparing their words, on which side 
the truth is like to lie. .But when great men write history, or flatterers by their ap- 
pointment, which no man dare contradict, believe it but as you are constrained. 
Yet, in these cases, I can freely believe history : 1. If the i)erson shew that he is 
scguamUid with what he saith. 2. And if he shew you the evidences of honesty and 
conacience, and the fear of Chad, which may be much perceived in the spirit of a 
wniw£r. B, jfhe appear to tfe impartial and Qharitaljle, aa^ a iQver of goooness and 



BAXTER.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 19 

of mankind, and not possessed of malignity or personal ill-will and malice, nor caiv 
ricd away by faction or personal interest. Conscionable men dare not Ue: but 
faction and intereat abate men's tenderness of conscience. And a charitable impar- 
tial heathen may speak truth in a love to truth, and hatred of a lie ; but ambitious 
malice and false religion will not stick to serve themselves on anything. ... 
Sure I am, that as the lies of the Papists, of Luther, Zwinglius, Calvin, and Beza 
are visibly malicious and impudent, by the common plenary contradicting evidence, 
and yet the multitude of their seduced ones believe them aU, in despite of truth and 
charity ; so in this age there have been such things written against parties and per- 
sons, whom the writers design to make odious, so notoriouSy false, as you would 
think that the sense of their honour, at least, should have made it impossible for 
«uch men to write. My own eyes have read such words and actions asserted with 
most vehement, iterated, unblushing confidence, which abundance of ear-witnesses, 
even of their own parties, must needs know to have been altogether false ; and there- 
fore having myself now written this history of myself, notwithstanding my protestation 
that I have not in anything wilfully ^one against the truth, I expect no more credit 
from the reader than the self-evidencmg light of the matter, with' concurrent rational 
advantages from persons, and things, and other witnesses, shall constrain him to, if 
he be a person that is unaccjuainted with the author himself, and the other evidences 
of his veracity and credibility. 

Character of Sir Matthew Hale. 

He was a man of no quick utterance, but spake with great reason. He was most 
precisely just ; insomuch that, I believe, he would have lost all he had in the world 
rather than do an unjust act. Patient in hearing the most tedious speech which any 
man had to make for himself. The pillar of justice, the refuge of the subject, who 
feared oppression, and one of the greatest honours of his majesty's government ; 
for, with some other upright judges, he upheld the honour of the English nation, 
that it fell not into the reproach of arbitrariness, cruelty, and utter confusion. 
Every man that had a just cause was almost past fear if he could but bring it to the 
court or assize where he was judge ; for the other judges seldom contradicted him. 

He was the great instrument for rebuilding London ; for when an act was made 
for decidiug all controversies that hindered it, he was the constant judge, who for 
nothing followed the work, and, by his prudence and justice, removed a multitude 
of great impediments. 

His great advantage for innocency was, that he was no lover of riches or of 
grandeur. His garb was too plain ; he studiously avoided all unnecessary familiar- 
ity with great persons, and all that manner of living which signifleth wealth and 
greatueBS. He kept no greater a family than myself. I lived in a small house, 
which, for a pleasant back opening, he had a mind to ; but caused a stranger, that 
he might not be suspected to be the man, to know of me whether I were willing to 
part with it, before he would meddle with it. In that house he lived contentedly, 
without any pomp, and without costly or troublesome retinue or visitors ; but not 
without charity to the poor. He continued the study of physics and mathematics 
still, as his great delight. He had got but a very small estate, though he had long 
the greatest practice, l)ecause he would take but little money, and undertake no 
more business than he could well despatch. He often offered to the lord chancellor 
to resign his place, when he was blamed for doing that which he supposed was jus- 
tice. He had been the learned Selden's intimate friend, and one of his executors ; 
and because the Hobbians and other infidels would have persuaded the world that 
Selden was of their mind, I desired him to tell me the truth therein. He assured 
me tliat Seldon was an earnest professor of the Christian faith, and so angry an ad- 
versary to Hobbes, that he hath rated him out of the room. 

Observance of the Sabbath m Baxter'' a Youth. 

I cannot forget that in my youth, m those late times, when we lost the labours of 
some of our conformable godly teachers, for not reading publicly the Book of 
Sports * and dancing on the Lord's Day, one of my father's own tenants w^s the 



» James I. pnblisbed a declaration permVttvns TfecteaXVyaa <stk. ^^svsAsc 
Aichery, May-nameBt xaorris-dances« &c. This N'i«i& ox^«t^^ V» >*^ 't'^'' 



20 CYCLOPEDIA OB [to 1689. 

town-piper, hired by the year, for many years together, and the place of the dancing 
assembly was not a hundred yards from our door. We could not, on the Lord's Day, 
either read a chapter, or pray, or sing a psalm, or catechise, or instruct a servant, 
but with the noise of the pipe and tabor, and the shoutings in the street, continually 
r in our ears. Even among a tractable people, we were the common scorn of all the 
rabble in the streets, and called puritans, precisians, and hypocrites, because we 
rather chose to read the Scriptures than to do as they did ; though there was no 
savour of nonconformity in our family. And when the people by the book were 
allowed to play and dance out of public service-time, they could so hardly break off 
their sports, that many a time the reader was fain to stay till the piper and players 
would give over. Sometimes the morris-dancers would come into the church in all 
their linen and scarfs, and antic dresses, with morris-bells jingling at their le^ ; 
and as soon as common prayer was read, did haste out presently to their play again. 

Theological Controversies. 

My mind being these many years immersed in studies of this nature, and having 
also lonjg wearied myself in searching what fathers and schoolmen have said of such 
things before us, and my genius abhorring confusion and equivocals, I came, by 
many years' longer study, to perceive that most of the doctrinal controversies among 
Protestants are far more about equivocal words than matter ; and it wounded my 
soul to perceive what work both tyrannical and unskilful disputing clergymen had* 
made these thirteen hundred years in the world ! Experience, since the year 1643, 
till this year, 1675, hath loudly called me to repent of my own prejudices, sidings, 
and censurings of causes and persons not understood, and of aU the miscarriages of 
my ministry and life which have been thereby caused ; and to make it my chief work 
to call men that are within my hearing to more peaceable thoughts, affections, and 
practices. And my endeavours have not been in vain, in that the ministers of the 
county where I lived were very many of such a peaceable temper, and a great num- 
ber more through the land, by God's grace, rather than any endeavours of mine, are 
so minded. But the sons of the cowl were exasperated the more against me, and 
accounted him to be against every man that called all men to love and peace, and was 
for no man as in the contrary way. 

JOHN BUNYAN. 

John Bunyan (1628-1688), the son of a tinker residing at Elstow, 
in Bedfordshire, is one of the most remarkable of English authors. 
He was taught in childhood to read and write, and afterwards, hav- 
ing resolved to follow his father's occupation, travelled for many 
years about the country in the usual gipsy-life of his profession. ^Lt 
this time he is represented to have been sunk in profligacy and wick- 
edness ; but, like many other religious enthusiasts, Bunyan exagge- 
rated the depravity of his unregenerated condition, and his biogra- 
phers have too literally taken him at his word. Ringing bells, danc- 
ing, and playing at hockey were included among his sinful propensi- 
ties. He was also addicted to profane swearing ; but on a woman 
remonstrating with him as to this vice, lie at once abandoned it. His 
early marriage, at the age of nineteen, saved him from another species 
of wickedness. And as Macaulay has remarked, * those horrible in- 
ternal conflicts which Bunyan has described with so much power of 
language, prove, not that he was a worse man than his neighbours, 

but that Ms mind was constantly occupied by religious considora- 

• — «- , 

F^^mS^' ^o^^^f*^' w's.s not enforced In the reign of James, but it was renewed by Charles 
n^r^fihJ^u^^ who refused to read this edict or Book of Sports from the pulpit, were 



BUNYAN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE.' 21 

tions ; that his fervour exceeded his knowledge ; and that his imagi- 
nation exercised despotic power over his body and mind.' When a 
young man, Bunyan served in the army of the Parliament. After 
his first spiritual impulses had been awakened, he continued long 
hanging — to use his own figurative language — * as in a pair of scales, 
sometimes up and sometimes down ; now in peace, and now again in 
terror.* By degrees his religious impressions acquired strength and 
permanence ; till, after many doubts respecting his salvation, and the 
reality of his possession of faith — which last circumstance he was 
once on the eve of putting to the test by commanding some water- 
puddles to be dry — he at length attained a comfortable state of mind ; 
and, having resolved to lead a moral and pious life, was, about the 
year 1655, baptised and admitted as a member of the Baptist congre- 
gation in Bedford. By the solicitation of the other members of that 
body, he was induced to become a preacher, though not without 
, some modest reluctance on his part. After zealously preaching the 
gospel for five years, he was apprehended as a maintainer and up- 
holaer of assemblies for religious purposes, which, soon after the 
Restoration, had been declared unlawful. His sentence of condem- 
nation to perpetual banishment was commuted to imprisonment in 
Bedford jail, where he remained for twelve years and a half Dur- 
ing that long period he employed himself partly in writing pious 
works, and partly in making tagged laces for the support of himself 
and his family. His library while in prison consisted but of two 
books, the Bible and Fox's ' Book of Martyrs,' with both of which his 
own productions shew him to have become familiar. Having been 
liberated through the benevolent endeavours of Dr. Barlow, bishop 
of Lincoln, he resumed his occupation of itinerant preacher, and con- 
tinued to exercise it until the proclamation of liberty of conscience 
by James 11. After that event, he was enabled, by the contributions 
of his friends, to erect a meeting-house in Bedford, where his preach- 
ing attracted large congregations during the remainder of his life. 
He fi-equently visited and preached to the Nonconformists in London, 
and when there in 1688, was cut oS by fever in the sixty -first year of 
his age. 

While in prison at Bedford, Bunyan, as we have said, composed 
several works ; of these, * The Pilgrim's Progress from this World to 
that which is to come' is the one which has acquired the most ex- 
tensive celebrity. Ten editions were published bet^\een 1678 and 
1685. The second part (now always printed with the first) appeared 
in 1684. The popularity of the work is almost unrivalled ; it has 
gone through innumerable editions, and been translated into most of 
the European languages. The object of this remarkable production, 
it is hardly necessary to say, is to give an allegorical view of the life 
of a Christian, his difficulties, temptations, encouragements, and ulti- 
mate triumph ; and this is done with such skill axvd ^t:'a.\v\v\r> q.^^^V 
that the book, though upon the moat &^uQ\3i& qI ^^ito\^^^i^^^s^ ^^^^>»i 



22 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 168^. 

children with nearly as much pleasure as fictions professedly written 
for their amusement. The work is, throughout, strongly Imbued with 
the Calvinistic principles of the author., who, in relating the conten- 
tions of his hero with the powers of darkness, and the terrible visions 
by which he was so frequently appalled, has doubtless drawn largely 
from what he himself experienced under the influence of his own 
fervid imagination. A vein of latent sarcasm and humour also runs 
through the work, as Bunyan depicts his halting and time-serving 
characters — the worldly personages that cumber and obstruct the 
pilgrim on his way. Of the literary merits of * The Pilgrim*s Pro- 
gress,' Mr. Southey speaks in the following terms : * His is a home- 
spun style, not a manufactured one; and what a difference is there 
between its homeliness and the flippant vulgarity of the Roger 
L'Estrange and Tom Brown school ! If it is not a well of English 
undefiled to which the poet as well as the philologist must repair, if 
they would drink of the living waters, it is a clear stream of current 
English, the vernacular speech of his age, sometimes, indeed, in its 
rusticity and coarseness, but always in its plainness and its strength. 
To this natural style Bunyan is in some degree beholden for his 
general popularity; his language is everywhere level to the most 
ignorant reader and to the meanest capacity ; there is a homely reality 
about it ; a nursery tale is not more intelligible, in its manner of nar- 
ration, to a child. Another cause of his popularity is, that he taxes 
the imagination as little as the understanding. The vividness of his 
own, which, as his history shews, sometimes could not distinguish 
ideal impressions from actual ones, occasioned this. He saw the 
things of which he was writing as distinctly with his mind*s eye as if 
they were indeed passing before him in a dream. And the reader 
perhaps sees them more satisfactorily to himself, because the outline 
of the picture only is presented to him, and the author having made 
no attempt to fill up the details, every reader supplies them according 
to the measure and scope of his own intellectual and imaginative 
powers.' * By universal assent the inspired tinker is ranked with 
our English classics and great masters of allegory ; yet, so late as 
1782, Cowper dared not name him in his poetry, lest the name should 
provoke a sneer I Another allegorical production of Bunyan, which 
is still read, though less extensively, is * The Holy War made by King 
Shaddai upon Diabolus, for the Kegaining of the Metropolis of the 
World, or the Losing and Retaking of Mansoul ' (1682). The fall of 
man is typified by the capture of the flourishing city of Mansoul by 
Diabolus, Qie enemy of its rightful sovereign, ohaddai, or Jehovah ; 
whose son Immanuel recovers it after a tedious siege. Bunyan's 
* Grace abounding to the Chief of Sinners ' — of which the most re- 
markable portions are given below — is an interesting though highly 
coloured narrative of his own life and religious experience. His other 

* Life of Bunyajx prefixed to The Pilgri-nC 8 Proflrew, \i5SL 



BUNYAN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 23 

works are numerous, bfit inferior, and collected editions of the whole 
have often been reprinted. One of the best is that of 1853, in three 
volumes, edited by George Offor. 

Extracts from Bunyan*B AutoUogro/phy, 

In this my relation of the merciful working of God npon my soul, it will not be 
amiss, if, in the first place, I do, in a few wor&, give yon a hint of my pedigree and 
manner of bringing up, that thereby the goodness and beauty of God towards me 
may be the more advanced and magnified before the sons of men. 

For my descent, then, it was, as is well known by many, of a low and inconsid- 
able generation, my father's house being of that rank that is meanest and most de- 
spised of all the families of the land. Wherefore I have not here, as others, to boast 
of nob^ blood, and of any high-born state, according to the flesh, though, all things 
considered, I magnify the heavenly majesty, for that by this door he brought me into 
the world, to partake of the grace and life that is in Christ by the ^spel. But, not- 
withstancUng the meanness and inconsiderableness of my parents, it pleased God to 
put it into their hearts to put me to school, to learn me both to read and write ; the 
which I also attained, according to the rate of other poor men's children, though to 
my shame, I confess I did soon lose that I had learned, even almost utterly, and that 
long before the Lord did work his gracious work of conversion upon my soul. As 
for my own natural life, for the time that I was without God in the world, it was, 
indeed, according to the course of this world, and the spirit that now worketh in the 
chil<^en of disobedience, Eph. ii. 2, 3. It was mv delight to be taken captive by the 
devil at his will, 2 Tim. ii. 26, being filled with all unrighteousness ; the which did 
sJso 80 strongly work, both in my neart and life, that I nad but few eauals, both for 
cursing, swearing^ lyiiig> and blaspheming the holy name of God. Yea, so settled 
and rooted was Iin these things, that they became as a second nature to me ; the 
which, as I have also with soberness considered since, did so offend the Lord, that 
even in my childhood he did scare and terrify me with fearful dreams and visions. 
For often, after I had spent this and the other day in sin, I have been greatly afflict- 
ed while asleep with the apprehensions of devils and wicked spirits, who, as I then 
thought, laboured to draw me away with them, of which I could never be rid. Also 
I should, at these years, be greatly troubled with the thoughts of the fearful tor- 
ments of hell-fire, still fearing that it would be my lot to be found at last among 
those devils and hellish fiends, who are there bound down with the chains and bonds 
of darkness unto the judgment of the great day. 

These things, I say, when I was but a child but nine or ten years old, did so dis- 
tress my soul, that then, in the midst of my many sports, and childish vanities, amidst 
my vain companions, I was often much cast down and afflicted in my mind there- 
with, yet could I not let go my sins. Yea, I was also then so overcome with despair 
of life and heaven, but I should often wish either that there had been no hell, or that 
I had been a devil, supposing they were only tormentors, that if it must needs be 
that I went thither, I might be rather a tormentor than be tormented myself. 

A while after, these terrible dreams did leave me, which also I soon forgot ; for 
my pleasures did quickly cut off the remembrance of them, as if they had never 
been ; wherefore, with more greediness, according to the strength of nature, I did 
still let loose the reins of my lusts, and delighted in sHll transgressions against the law 
of God ; so that, until I came to the state of marriage, I was the very ringleader in 
all manner of vice and ungodliness. Yea, such prevalency had the lusts or the flesh 
on my -poor soul, that, haonot a miracle of precious grace prevented, I had not only 
perished by the stroke of eternal justice, but also laid myself open to the stroke of 
those days which bring some to disgrace and shame before the face of the world. 

In these days the thoughts of reugion were very grievous to me ; I could neither 
endure it myself, nor that any other should ; so that when I have seen some read in 
those books that concerned Christian piety, it would be as it were a prison to me. 
Then I said unto Gk)d : * Depart from me, for I desire not the knowledge of thy 
ways,' Job, xxi. 14, 15. I was now void of all good consideration ; heaven and hell 
were both out of sight and mind ; and as for saving and damning, they were least 
In my thoughts. * O Lord, thou knowest my life, and my ways are not hidfecrasL^J^ft&i 

But this I well remember, that, lho\ig\i 1 co\i\!9i m-jib^ «sim>2sv "CsNa "^^-^ii^sj^ ^^ 



24 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1689. 

light and ease, yet even then, if I had at any time se^i wicked things, hj those who 
professed goodness, it wonld make my spirit tremble. As once, a^ve all the rest* 
when I was in the height of vanity, yet hearing one to swear that was reckoned for 
a relis:iou8 man, it had so great a stroke upon my spirit, that it made my heart ache. 
But God did not utterly leave me, but followed me still, not with convictions, but 
judgments mixed with mercy. For once I fell into a creek of the sea, and hardly 
escaped drowning. Another time I fell out of a boat into Bedford river, but mercy 
yet preserved me ; besides, another time being in the field with my companions, it 
chanced that an adder passed over the highway, so I, having a stick, struct her over 
the back, and having stunned her, I forced open her mouth with my stick, and 
plucked her sting out with my fingers ; by wMch act, had not God been merciful to 
me, I might, by my desperateness^ have brought myself to my end. This, also, I 
have taken notice of with thanksgiving : when I was a soldier^ I with others were 
drawn out to go to such a place to besiege it ; but when I was ]ust ready to go, one 
of the company desired to go in my room ; to which, when I had consented, he took 
my place, and coming to the siege, as he stood sentinel, he was shot in the head 
with a musket-bullet, and died. Here, as I said, were judgments and mercy, but 
neither of them did awaken my soul to righteousness ; wherefore I sinned still, and 
grew more and more rebellious against Qod, and careless of my own salvation. 

Presently after this I changed my condition into a married state, and my mercy 
was to light upon a wife whose father and mother were counted godly ; this woman 
and I, though we came together as poor as poor might be— not having so much 
household stufE as a dish or spoon betwixt us both— yet this she had for her part, 
*The Plain Man's Pathway to Heaven,' and *The Practice of Piety,' which her 
father had left her when he died. In these two books I sometimes read, wherein I 
found some things that were somewhat pleasant to me — ^but all this while I met 
with no conviction. She also often would tell me what a godly man her father was, 
and how he would reprove and correct vice, both in his house and among his neigh- 
bours, and what a strict and holy life he lived in his days, both in word and deed. 
Wherefore these books, though they did not reach my heart to awaken it about my 
sad and sinful state, yet they did beget within me some desires to reform my vicious 
life, and fall in very eagerly with the religion of the times ; to wit, to go to church 
twice a day, and there very devoutly both say and sing as others did, yet retaining 
my wicked life ; but withal was so overrun with the spirit of superstition, that I 
adored, and that with great devotion, even all things-Hbotb the high-place, priest, 
clerk, vestment, service, and what else— belonging to the church: counting all 
things holy that were therein contained, and especially the priest and clerk most 
happy, and, without doubt, greatly blessed, because they were the servants, as I 
then thought, of God, and were principal in the holy temple, to do his work therein. 
This conceit grew so strong upon my spirit, that had I but seen a priest, though 
never so sonud and debauched in his life, I should find my gjirit fall under him, 
reverence him, and knit unto him ; yea, I thought for the love I did bear unto them— 
supposing they were the ministers of Qod — I could have lain down at their feet, 
and have oeen trampled upon by them— their name, their garb, and work did so in- 
toxicate and bewitch me. . . . 

But aU this while I was not sensible of the danger and evil of sin ; I was kept 
from considering that sin would danm me, what religion soever I followed, unless I 
was found in Christ. Nay, I never thought whether there was such a one or no. 
Thus man, while blind, doth wander, for he knoweth not the way to the city of God, 
Eccles. X. 15. 

But one day, amongst all the sermons our parson made, his subject was to treat 
of the Sabbath-day, and of the evil of breaking that, either with labour, sports^ or 
otherwise ; wherefore I fell in my conscience under his sermon, thinking and believ- 
ing that he made that sermon on purpose to shew me my evil doing;. And at that 
time I felt what guDt was, though never before that I can rememoer ; but then I 
was for the present greatly loaded therewith^ and so went home, when the sermon 
was ended, with a great burden upon my spirit. This, for that instant, did embitter 
my former pleasures to me ; but hold, it lasted not, for before I had well dined, the 
trouble began to go off my mind, and my heart returned to its old course ; but oh, 
Low glad was I that this trouble was gone from me, and that the fire was put out, 
that I might sin again without control I Wherefore, when I had satisfied nature 



BUNYAN.] ENGLISH literature: 25 

with my food, I shook the sennon ont of my mind, and to mybld custom of sports 
and gaming I retm*ned with great delight. 

But the same day, as I was in the midst of a ^me of cat, and having stmck it 
one blow from the hole, jnst as I was about to strike it the second time, a voice did 
suddenly dart from heaven into my soul, which said : * Wilt thou leave thy sins and 
go to heaven, or have thy sins and go to hell ?' At this I was put to an exceeding 
maze : wherefore, leaving my cat upon the ground, I looked up to heaven, and was 
as if I had, with the eyes of my understandmg, seen the Lord Jesus look down upon 
me, as being very hotly displeased with me, and as if he did severely threaten me 
VTith some grievous punishment for those and other ungodly practices. . . . 

But quickly after this, I fell into company with one poor man that made profes- 
sion of religion, who, as I then thought, did talk pleasantly of the Scriptures and of 
religion ; wherefore, likiug what he said, I betook me to my Bible, and began to 
take great pleasure in reading. . . . Wherefore I fell to some outward reforma- 
tion both in my words and hfe, and did set the commandments before me for my 
way to heaven ; which commandments I also did strive to keep, and, as I thought 
did keep them pretty well sometimes, and then I should have comfort ; yet now and 
then should break one, and so affict my conscience ; but then I should repent, and 
say I was sorry for it, and promise God to do better next time, and there got help 
again ; for then I thought I pleased God as well as any man in England. 

Thus I continued about a year, all which time our neighbours did take me to be a 
very godly and religious man, and did marvel much to see such great alteration in 
my life and manners ; and, indeed, so it was, though I knew not Christ, nor grace, 
nor faith, nor hope ; for, as I have since seen, had I then died, my state had been 
most f earfid. But, I say, my neighbours were amazed at this my great conversion 
— ^from prodigious profaneness to something like a moral life and sober man. Now, 
therefore, they began to praise, to commend, and to speak well of me, both to my 
face and behmd my back. Now I was, as they said, become godly ; now I was 
become a right honest man. But oh I when I understood those were their words 
and opinions of me, it pleased me mighty well ; for though as yet I was nothihg but 
a poor painted hypocrite, yet I loved to be talked of as one that was truly godly. I 
was proud of my godliness, and, indeed, I did all I did either to be seen of or well 
spoken of by men ; and thus I continued for about a twelvemonth or more. 

Now you must know, that before this I had taken much delight in ringyjg, but 
my conscience beginning to be tender, I thought such practice was but vain, and 
therefore forced myself to leave it ; yet my mind hankered ; wherefore I would go 
to the steeple-house and look on, though I durst not ring ; but I thought this did not 
become rehgion neither ; yet I forced myself, and would look on still. But quickly 
after, I began to think, * How, if one of the bells should fall ? * Then I chose to 
stand under a main beam that lay overthwart the steeple, from side to side, thinking 
here I might stand sure ; but then I thought again, should the bell fall with a swing, 
it might nrst hit the wall, and then rebounding upon me, might kill me for all this 
beam; This made me stand in the steeple-door ; and now, thought I, I am safe 
enough ; for if the bell should then fall, I can slip out behind these thick walls, and 
so be preserved notwithstanding. So after this I would yet go to see tlu-m ring, but 
would not go any further than the steeplc-rtoor ; but then it came into my head, 
* How, if the steeple itself should fall ?' And this thought— it may, for aught I know, 
when I stood and looked on-nlid continually so shake my mind,tliat 1 durst not 
stand at the steeple-door any longer, but was forced to flee, for fear the steeple should 
fall upon my head. 

Another thing was my dancing ; I was a full year before I could quite leave that. 
But all this while, when I thought I kept that or tliis commandment, or did by word 
or deed anything I thought was good, 1 hatl great peace in my conscience, and would 
tiiink with myself, God cannot choose but be now pleascid with me ; yea, to relate it 
in my own way, I thought no man in England could please God better than I. But, 
poor wretch as I was, I was all this while ignorant ot Jesus Christ, and going about 
U) establish my own righteousness ; and had perished therein, had not God in Ids 
mercy shewed me more of my state by nature. 

TTie Golden City. — From * The Pilgrim's Proqre%%,^ 
Now I saw in my dream that by this time t\\c \>\\cT\m^ vjexci s|c>\.'Qr«ct NO^^a'^Kv^Scv'Ks&RA^ 
Groimcl, and entering into the country ot Bcv\i^, ^\iosQk ^ ^^^a ^^^ ^^^&\. «s^ 



26 CYCLOP^DIATOF; [to" 1689. 

pleasant, the way lying directly through it, they Bolaced them there for the season.^ 
Yea, here they heard continually the singing or birds, and saw every day the flowers 
appear in the earth, and heard the voice of the turtle in the land. In this country the 
sun shineth night and day ; wherefore it was beyond the Valley of the Shadow of 
Death, and albo out of the reach of Giant Despair ; neither could they from this place 
so much as see Doubting Castle. Here they wei^e within sight of the city they were 
going to ; also here met them some of the inhabitants thereof ; for in this land the 
shining ones commonly walked, because it was upon the borders of Heaven. In this 
land, also, the contract between the bride and bridegroom was renewed ; yea. here, 
* as the bridegroom rejoiceth over the bride, so did their God rejoice over them.' 
Here they had no want of com and wine j for in this place they met abundance of 
what they had sought for in all their pilgrimage. Here they heard voices from out of 
the city, loud voiceSj saying : * Say ye to the daughter of Zion, behold thy salvation 
Cometh ! Behold, his reward is with him I ' Here aU the inhaoitants of the country 
called them * the holy people, the redeemed of the Lord, sought out,' &c. 

Now, as they walked in this land, they had- more rejoicing than in parts more 
remote from the kingdom to which they were bound ; and drawing nearer to the city 
yet, they had a more perfect view thereof: it was built of pearls and precious stones, 
also the streets thereof were paved with gold ; so that, by reason of the natural glory 
of the city, and the reflection of the sunbeams upon it. Christian with desire fell sick ; 
Hopeful also had a fit or two of the same disease : wherefore here they lay by it a 
while, crying out, because of their pangs : * If you see my Beloved, tell him that I 
am sick of love.' 

But being a little strengthened, and better able to bear their sickness, they 
walked on their way, and came yet nearer and nearer, where were orchards, vine- 
yards, and gardens, and their gates opened into the highway. Now, as they came 
up to these places, behold the gardener stood in the way, to whom the pilgrims 
said : Whose goodly vineyards and gardens are these ? He answered : They are the 
King's, and are planted here for his own delight, and also for the solace of pilgrims ; 
so the gardener had them into the vineyards, and bid them reftesh themselves with 
dainties ; he also showed them there the King's walks and arbours, where he delighted 
to be ; and here they tarried and slept. 

Now, I beheld in my dream that they talked more in their sleep at this time than 
ever they did in all their journey ; and being in a muse thereabout, the gardener said 
even to me : Wherefore musest thou at the matter ? It is the nature of the fruit of 
the grapes of these vineyards to go down so sweetly, as to cause the lips of them 
that are asleep to speak. 

So I saw that when they awoke, they addressed themselves to go up to the city. 
But, as I said, the reflection of the sun upon the city — for the city was pure gold — 
was so extremely glorious, that they could not as yet with open face behold it, but 
through an instrument made for that purpose. So I saw that, as they went on, 
there met him two men in raiment that shone like gold ; also their faces shone as the 
light. 

These men asked the pilgrims whence they came : and they told them. They 
also asked them where they had lodged, what difficulties and dangers, what comforts 
and pleasures, they had met with in their way ; and they told them. Then said the 
men that met them : You have but two difficulties more to meet with, and then you 
are in the city. _ 

Christian ana his companion then asked the men to go along with them ; so 
they told them that they would. But, said they, you must obtain it by your oWn 
faith. So I saw in my dream that they went on together till they came in sight of 
the gate. 

Now, I further saw that betwixt them and the gate was a river, but there was no 
bridge to go over, and the river was very deep. At the sight, therefore, of this river, 
the pilgrims were much stimned ; but the men that went with them said : You most 
go through, or you cannot come to the gate. 

The pilgrims then began to inquire if there was no other way to the gat« ; to 

which they answered ; Yes : but there hath not any, save two, to wit, Enoch apd . 

Elijah, been permitted to tread that path since the foundation of the world,'nor shul, 

unt]/ the last trumpet shall sound. The pilgrims then — especially Christian — ^began, 

to despond in their minds, and looked th\a way and that ; but no way could be found 

oj- them hy which they might escape the Tivei, T:\vetx \lfckfti ^^ft^'adL the men if the 



•BtrNYAN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 27 

.waters were all of a depth. They said : No ; yet they could not help them in that 
'case : for said they, yon shall find it deeper or shallower, as you believe in the King 
of the place. 

I Thejr then addressed themselves to the water, and entering, Christiau began to sink, 
and crying out to his good friend Hopeful, he said : I sink in deep waters : the bil- 
, lows go over over my nead ; all the waters go over me. Solah. 
y Then said the other : Be of g.)od cheer, my brother ; I feel the bottom, and it is 
good. Then said Christian : Aii ! my friend, the sorrow of death hath encompassed 
me about : I shall not see the land that flows with milk and honey. . . . 
' Then I saw in my dream that Christian was in a muse a while. To whom, also, 
Hopeful added these words : Be of ^ood cheer ; Jesus Christ maketh thee whole : 
and with that Christian brake out with a loud voice — Oh ! I see him again ; and he 
tells me : * When thou passest through the waters, I %vill be with thee ; and through 
the rivers, they shall not overflow tnee.' Then they both took courage, and the 
enemy was after that as still as a stone, until they were gone over. Christian, there- 
fore, presently found ground to stand upon, and so it followed tha^he rest of the 
river was but shallow ; but thus they got over. Now, upon the bank of the river on 
the other side, they saw the two shining men again, who there waited for them ; 
wherefore, being come out of the river, they saluted them, saying : * We are minis- 
tering spirits, sent forth to minister to those that shall be heirs of salvation.' Thus 
they went along toward the gate. Now, you must note that the city stood upon a 
mighty hill ; but the pilgrims went up that hill with ease, because they had these two 
men to lead them up i)y the arms ; they had likewise left their mortal garments be- 
hind them in the river ; for though they went in with them, they came out without 
them. They therefore went up here with much agility and speed, though the founda- 
tion upon .which the city was framed was higher than the clouds : they therefore 
went up through the region of the air, sweetly talking as they went, being comforted 
because they got safely over the river, and had such glorious companions to attend ■ 
them. 

Now, while they were thus drawing towards the gate, behold a company of the 
heavenly host came out to meet them ; to whom it was said by the other two shining 
ones ; These are the men who loved our Lord when they were in the world, and have 
left all for his holy name ; and he hath sent us to fetch them, and we have brought 
them thus far on their desired journey, that they may go in and look their Redeemer 
in the face with joy. Then the heavenly host gave a great shout, saying : ' Blessed 
are they that are called to the marriage-supper of the Lamb.' There came also out 
at this time to meet them several of the King's trumpeters, clothed in white and 
shinine raiment, who, with melodious and loud noises, made even the heavens to 
echo with their sound. These trumpeters saluted Christian and his fellow with ten 
thousand welcomes from the world ; and this they did with shouting and sound of 
trumpet. 

This done, they compassed them round about on every side ; some went before, 
some behind, and some on the right hand, some on the left — as it were to guard 
them through the upper regions — continually sounding as they went, with melodious 
noise, in notes on high ; so that the very sight was to them that could behold it as if 
heaven itself was come down to meet them. Thus, therefore, they walked on to- 
gether ; and as they walked, ever and anon these trumpeters, even with joyful sound, 
would, by mixing their music with looks and gestures, still sijpiify to Chriytian and 
his brother how welcome they were into their company, and with what gladness they 
came to meet them : and now were these two men, as it were, in heaven before they 
came at it, being swallowed up with the sight of angels, and with hearing their melo- 
dious notes. I^re, also, they had the city itself in view, and thought they heard all 
the bells therein to ring, to welcome them thereto. But, above all, the wanii and 
joyful thoughts that they had about their own dwelling there with such comj)auy, and 
that for ever and ever. Oh I by what tongue or pen can their glorious ]oy be ex- 
]^e88ed I Thus they came up to the gate. 

Now when they were come up to the gate, there was written over iu letters of 

)ld : * Blessed are they that do liis commandments, that tht-y may have a right to 
i tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city.' 
^ Then I saw in my dream that the shining men bid them call at t\\>i ^^aXfc % ^<iSi 
iWliich, when they did, some from above looked over the gale, to ns\\.,^^'^^'»^'^^^"» 
lBi jah» jfcc. iJo whom it was said : These pilgrims are come Uo\a. \XxQk ^NX.^ ol^ v>«j- 



gold 



28 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

Btxuctioii, for the love that they bear to the Kin^ of this place ; and then the pUgrims 
gave in unto them each man his certificate, which they had received in the begin- 
ning : those, therefore, were carried in to the Being, who, when he had read them, 
said : "Where are the men ? To whom it was answered : They are standing without 
the gate. The King then commanded to open the gate, ' That the righteous nation,' 
said he, * that keepeth truth, may enter in.' 

Now, I saw in my dream that these two men went in at the gate ; and lo, as they 
entered, they were transfigured, and they had raiment put on that shone like gold. 
There were also that met them with harps and crowns, and gave to them the harps 
to praise Nvithal, and the crowns in token of honour. Then I heard in my dream 
that all the bells in the city rang again for joy, and that it was said unto them : 
* Enter ye into the joy of your Lord.' I also heard the men themselves, that thsy 
sang with a loud voice, saying : * Blessing, honour, and glory, and power be to Him 
that sitteth upon the throne, and to the Lamb, for ever and ever.* 

Now, just as the gates were opened to let in the men, I looked in after them, 
and behold the city shone like the sun ; the streets, also, were paved with gold, and 
in them walked many men with crowns on their heads, palms in their h^ds, and 
golden harps, to sing praises withal. 

DR. JOHN OWEN. 

Dr. John Owen (1616-1683), after studying at Oxford for the 
Church of England, became a Presbyterian, but finally joined the 
Independents. He was highly esteemed by the Long ParUament, 
and was frequently called upon to preach before them on public 
occasions, Cromwell, in particular, was so highly pleased with him, 
. that, when going to Ireland, he insisted on Dr. Owen acconipanying 
him, for the purpose of regulating and superintending the College of 
Dublin. After spending six months in that city, Owen returned to 
his clerical duties in England, from which, however, he was again 
speedily called away by Cromwell, who took him in 1650 to Edin- 
burgh, where he spent six months. Subsequently, he was promoted 
to the deanery of Christ Church College in Oxford, and soon after, 
to the vice-chancellorship of the university, which oflBices he held till 
Cromwell's death. After the Restoration, he was favoured by Lord 
Clarendon, who offered him a preferment in the church if he would 
conform; but this Dr. Owen declined. The persecution of the Non- 
conformists repeatedly disposed him to emigrate to New England, 
but attachment to his native country prevailed. Notwithstjyiding 
his decided hostility to the church, the amiable dispositions and 
agreeable manners of Owen procured him much esteem from many 
eminent churchmen, among whom was the king himself, who on one 
occasion sent for him, and, after a conversation of two hours, gave 
him a thousand guineas to be distributed among those who had suf- 
fered most from the recent persecution. He was a man of extensive 
learning, and most estimable character. His extreme industry is 
evinced by the voluminousness of his publications, which amount to 
no fewer than seven volumes in folio, twenty in quarto, and about 
thirty in octavo. Among these are a collection of * Sermons,* *An 
Exposition on the Epistle to the Hebrews,' * A Discourse of the Holy 
Spirit, * and ' The Divine Original and Authority of the Scriptures.* 
TMe style of Owen merits Uttle praiBe. He wrote too rapidly and 



H0WE.1 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 29 

carelessly to produce compositions either vigorous or beautiful. 
Robert Hall entertained a decided antipathy to the writings of this 
celebrated divine. *I can't think how you like Dr. Owen,* said he 
to a friend ; * I can't read him with any patience ; I never read a page, 
of Dr. Owen, sir, without finding some confusion in his thoughts, 
either a truism or a contradiction in terms. Sir, he is a double Dutch- 
man, floundering in a continent of mud.' For moderation in contro- 
versy, Dr. Owen was most honourably distinguished among the theo- 
logical warriors of his age. 

J6HN HOWE. 

This able and amiable Nonconformist (1630-1705) was a native of 
Loughborough, in Leicestershire, where his father was ^aarish minis- 
ter. He was educated at Cambridge, and was the friend of Cud- 
Worth and Henry More. In 1652, he was ordained minister of Great 
Torrington, in Devonshire. His severe clerical duties is thus 
described: Upon public fasts he used to begin at nine in the morning 
with a prayer of a quarter of an hour, then read and expounded 
Scripture for about three quarters ; prayed an hour, preached another 
hour, and prayed again for half an hour. The people then sung for 
a quarter of an hour, during which he retired and took a little 
refreshment : he then went into the pulpit again, prayed an hour 
more, preached another hour, and concluded with a prayer of half an 
hour ! In 1656, Howe was selected by Cromwell to reside at White- 
hall as one of his chaplains. As he had not coveted the office, he 
seems never to have liked it. The * affected disorderliness ' of the 
Protector's family as to religious matters tnade him despair of doing 
good in his office of chaplain, and he conscientiously opposed and 
preached against a doctrine which is thus stated by Mr. Henry 
Rogers, the biographer of Howe : 

FanatiQ,i8m of CromweU'a Court. 

It was a very prevalent opinion in Cromwell's court, and seems to have been 
entertained by Cromwell himself, that whenever the * special favourites ' of Heaven 
offered up their supplications for themselves or others, secret intimations were con- 
veyed to the mind, that tlie particular blessings they implored would be certainly 
bestowed, and even indications afforded of the particular method in which their 
wishes would be accomplished. Howe himself confessed to Calamy, in a private 
conversation on this subject, that the i)revalence of the notion at Whitehall, at the 
time ho lived there, was too notorious to be denied ; that great pains were taken to 
cherish and diffuse it ; and that he himself iiad heard * a person of note ' preach a 
sennon with the avowed design of maintaining and defending it. To point out iho 
pernicious consequences of such an opinion would be superfluous. Of course, there 
could be no lack of ' si)ecial favourites of Heaven ' in an age and court like those of 
Cromwell ; and all the dangerous illusions which a fanatical imagination might 
Inspire, and all the consequent horrors to which a fanatical zeal could prompt, would 
of course plead the sanction of an express revelation. 

Howe continued chaplain to the Protector, and, after 01iver*s death, 
he resided in the same capacity with Richard Cromwell. When 
Richard was set aside, the minister relurneOL Xo Q^i^\v\.^oTcsxi^ssa.;\s^ 



30 CYCLOP-^DIA OF [to i68^ , 

was ejected by the Act of Uniformity in 1662. He subsequently 
officiated as minister in Ireland and London, and found leisure to 
write those admirable works of practical diviniUr which have placed 
him among the most gifted and eminent of the Nonconformist divines 
of England. He has been termed the ' Platonic Puritan.' The prin- 
cipal works of John Howe are his * Living Temple ' (1676-1702), a 
treatise on * Delighting in God,' * The Blessedness of the Righteous,' 
* The Vanity of Man as Mortal,' a * Tractate on the Divine Presence,' 
an * Inquiry into the Doctrine of the Trinity,' and * The Redeemer's 
J)ominion over the Invisible World ' (1699). To the excellence of 
these works all theological "writers and critics have borne testimony. 
Robert Hall acknowledged that he had learned more from John Howe 
than from any other author he ever read, and he said there was *an 
astonishing magnificence in his conceptions.' A collected edition of 
Howe's works, with a Life by Dr. Edmund Calamy, was published in 
1724. Other editions followed, and the latest we have seen is one in 
three volumes, 8vo, 1848, firith Life by Rev. J. P. Hewlett. The * Life 
and Character of John Howe, with an Analysis of his Writings,' by 
Henry Rogers, is a valuable work, and affords a good view of the 
state of religious parties and controversies in England from the time 
of the Commonwealth down to the death of Howe. 

EDMUND CALAMY — JOHN FLAVEL — MATTHEW HENRY. 

Edmund Calamy (1600-1666) was originally a clerg3rman of the 
Church of England, but had become a Nonconformist before settling 
in London as a preacher in 1639. A celebrated production against 
Episcopacy, called * Smectymnuus,' from the initials of the names of 
the writers, and in which Calamy was concerned, appeared in the 
following year. He was much in favour with the Presbyterian party ; 
but was, on the whole, a moderate man, and disapproved of those 
measures which terminated in the death of the king. Having exerted 
himself to promote the restoration of Charles II. he subsequently re- 
ceived the offer of a bishopric ; but, after much deliberation, it was 
rejected. The passing of the Act of Uniformity in 1662 made him 
retire from his ministerial duties in the metropolis several years before 
his death. His sermons were of a plain and practical character ; and 
five of them, published under the title of ' The Godly Man's Ark, or 
a City of Refuge in the Day of his Distress,' acquired much popu- 
larity. 

John Flavel (1627-1691) was a zealous preacher at Dartmouth, 
where he suffered severely for his nonconformity. In the pulpit he 
was distinguished for the warmth, fluency, and variety of his devo- 
tional exercises, which, like his writings, were somewhat tinged with 
enthusiasm. His works, occupying two folio volumes, are written in 
a plain and perspicuous style, and some of them are still highly 
valued. Among the Scottish peasantry, many of Flavel's works are 
popuJar, 



HENRY.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 31 

Matthew Henry (1662-1714) was the son of Philip Henry, a pious 
and learned Nonconformist minister in Flintshire. He entered as si 
student of law in Gray's Inn; but, yielding to a strong desire for the 
office of the ministry, he soon abandoned the pursuit of the law, and 
turned his attention to theology, which he studied with great diligence 
and zeal. In 1685 he was chosen pastor of a Nonconformist congre- 
gation at Chester, where he officiated for twenty -five years. In 1711 
he changed the scene of his labours to Hackney, where he continued 
till his death in 1714. Of a variety of theological works published 
by this excellent divine, the largest and best known is his Commen- 
tary on the Bible, which he did not live to complete. It was origin- 
ally printed in five volumes folio. The Commentary on the Epistles 
was added by various divines. Considered as a learned explanation 
of the sacred volume, this popular production is not of great value ; 
but its practical remarks are peculiarly interesting, and have secured 
for it a place in the very first class of expository works. Robert 
Hall, for the last two years of his life, read daily two chapters of 
Matthew Henry's Commentary, a work which he had not before read 
consecutively, though he had long known and valued it. As he pro- 
ceeded, he felt increasing interest and pleasure, greatly admiring the 
copiousness, variety, and piou? ingenuity of the thoughts ; the sim- 
plicity, strength, and pregnancy of the expressions. Dr. Chalmers 
was also a warm admirer of Henry, whose Commentary is still fre- 
quently republished. The following extract from the exposition of 
Matthew vi. . 24, may be taken as a specimen of the nervous and 
pointed remarks with which the work abounds : 

Te Cannot Serve God and Mammon, 

Mammon is a Syriac word that siffDifies ^ain, so that whatever is, or is ftccotmted 
by us to be gain, is mammon. * Whatever is in the world— the lust of the flesh, the 
lust of the eye, and the pride of life ' — is mammon. To some their belly is their 
mammon, and they serve that ; to others, th«ir ease, their sports and pastimes, are 
their mammon ; to others, worldly riches ; to others, honours and preferments : the 
praise and applause of men was the Pharisees' mammon ; in a wora, self— the unity 
in wjiich the world's trinity centres — sensual secular self, is the mammon which can- 
ijot be served in conjunction with God ; for if it be served, it is in competition with 
hhn, and in contradiction to him. He does not say we must not, or we should not, 
but we cannot serve God and mammon ; we cannot love both, or hold to both, or hold 
by both, in observance, obedience, attendance, trust, and dependence, for they are 
contrary the one to the other. God says, * My son, give me thine heart; ' Mammon 
says : * No— give it me.' God says : ' Be content with such things as ye have ; ' 
Mammon says : ' Grasp at all that ever thou canst-" Rem, rem, quocungue modo, 
rem " — money, money, by fair means or by foul, money.' God says : * Defraud not ; 
never lie ; be honest and just in thy dealings ; ' Mammon says : * Cheat thy own 
father if thou canst gain by it.' God says : * Be charitable ; ' Mammon says : 
' Hold thy own ; this giving undoes us.' God says : ' Be careful for nothing ; ' 
Hammon says : * Be careful for everything.' God says : * Keep holy the Sabbath- 
day ;' Mammon says : ' Make use of that day, as well as any other, for the world.* 
Thus inconsistent are the commands of God and Mammon, so that we cannot serve 
both. Let us not, then, halt between God and Baal, but * choose ye tbia <ia.'5 ^^oss^sx 
ye ^dU serve,' and abide by your choice. 



33 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

SAMUEL RUTHERFORD— THOMAS HALTBURTON — THOMAS BOSTON. 

There were several Scottish doctrinal writers and divines at this 
period whose works still enjoy considerable popularity, especially in 
the rural parishes, and constitute the favourite reading of old and se- 
rious persons. Among tliese we may mention Samuel Rutherford 
(1600-1661), author ot ' The Trial and Triumph of Faith,' ' Christ 
dying and drawing Sinners,* &c. Rutherford was a stanch defender 
of Presby terianism, and one of his controversial works, 'Lex Rex* 
(1644), written in reply to the Bishop of Ross, was, after the Restora- 
tion, burned by order of the Committee of Estates. A volume of 

♦ Familiar Letters ' by this divine, published after his death, evinces 
literaiy taste and power. He was one of the most learned of the 
Scottish clergy, and was successively Professor of Divinity in St. An- 
drews (1639), Commissioner to the Assembly of Divines at Westmin- 
ster (1643-1647), and Principal of New College, St. Andrews (1649).— 
Thomas Halyburton (1674-1712) was Professor of Divinity in the 
University of St. Andrews. He wrote * Natural Religion Insufficient,* 
an able reply to Lord Herbert*s 'De Veritate,' and * The Great Con- 
cern of Salvation,' and ' Ten Sermons preached before and after the 
Celebration of the Lord's Supper.*— Thomas Boston (1676-1732) 
was minister of Ettrick, and a leading member of the church courts 
in opposition to patronage and tests. His * Fourfold State,* first 
printed in 1720, is still the most popular of religious books among 
rigid Presbyterians, and a course of ' Sermons' by this divine is also 
highly prized. Boston was wannly engaged in what has been termed 

* the great Marrow controversy,* which divided the Scottish church. 
A book named * The Marrow of Modern Divinity* (1645), written by 
an English Puritan, Edward Fisher, was revived in Scotland by the 
more devout portion of the clergy, and being denounced by the rul- 
ing party in the Assembly, was adopted as a standard round which 
the popular ministers rallied. The peace of the church was long dis- 
turbed by this Marrow controversy. The works of the above divines, 
though tinged with what we may "call a gloomy and unamiable theol- 
ogy, are marked by a racy vigour of thought and unction. As illus- 
trations of at least one phase of national character and history, they 
deserve to be studied. 



METAPHYSICAL AND SCIENTIFIC WRITERS. 

JOHN LOCKE. 

England, durmg the latter half of the seventeenth century, was 
adorned by some illustrious philosophers, who, besides making im- 
portant contributions to science, were distinguished by simplicity and 
moral excellence of character, and by an ardent devotion to the in- 
tercsts of religion, virtue and truth. 
Jornf Locke wa,3 born at Wrington, ^omeia^V&\x\x.^, August 29, 



LOCKE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 33 ~ 

1682, son of a small proprietor who served in the Parliamentary 
army. He received his elementary education at Westminister School, 
and completed his studies at Christ-church College, Oxford. In the 
latter city he resided from 1651 till 1664, during which period he be- 
came disgusted with the verbal subtleties of the Aristotelian philoso- 
phy. Having chosen the profession of medicine, he made considei*- 
able progress in the necessary studies, but found the delicacy of his 
constitution an obstacle to successful practice. In 1664, 4ie accom- 
panied, in the capacity of secretary, Sir William Swan, who was sent- 
by Charles II. as envoy to the Elector of Brandenburg during the 
Butch war : some lively and interesting letters written by him from 
Germany on this occasion were published by the late Lord King. 
Those who are acquainted with Locke only in the character of a 
grave philosopher, will be surprised to find the following humorous 
description, which he given to one of his friends, of some Christmas 
ceremonies witnessed by him in a church at Cleves. 

Christmas Ceremanies at Cleves, 

About one in the morning I went a-gossiping to our Lady. Tliink me not pro- 
fane, for the name is a great deal modester than the service I was at. I shall not 
describe all the particulars I observed in that church, being the principal of the 
Catholics in Cleves ; but only those that were particular to the occasion. Near the 
high-altar was a little altar for this day's solemnity ; the scene was a stable, wherein 
was an ox, an ass, a cradle, the Virgin, the babe, Joseph, shepherds, and angels, 
dramatis jiernonm. Had they but given them motion, it had been a perfect puppet- 
play, and might have deserved pence apiece : for they were of the same size and 
make that our English puppi^ts are; and I am confident these shepherds and this 
Joseph are kin to that Jiidith and Holophemea which I have seen at Bartholomew 
Fair. A little without the stable was a flock of sheep, cut out of cards ; and these, 
as they then stood without their shepherds, appeared to me the best emblem I had 
seen a long time, and m(jithoiight represented these poor innocent people, who, 
whilst their shepherds pretend so much to follow Christ, and pay their devotion to 
him, are left unroj^arded in the barren ^vildemess. This was the show : the nmsic 
to it was all vocal m the quinj adjoining, but such as I never heard. They had strong 
voices, but so ill-tuned, so ill-managed, that it was their misfortune, as well as ours, 
that they could be heard. Ue that could not, though he had a cold, make better 
music with a chevy chase over a pot of smooth ale, deserved well to paj^ the reckon- 
ing, and go away athirst. However, I think they were the honestest sin^ng-men I 
have ever seen, "for they endeavoured to d(^serve their money, and earned it certainly 
with pains enough ; for what they wanted in skill, they made up in loudness and 
varitjty. Every one had his ovni tune, and the result of all was like the noise of 
choosnig ])arliament-men, where (ivery one endeavours to cry loudest. I^esides the 
men, there were a company of little choristers. I thought, when I saw them at first, 
they had danccui to the others' music, and that it bad been your Gray's Inn revels ; 
for they were jumning up and down about a good charcoal-fire that was in the mid- 
dle of the quire — this their devotion and th<nr singing was enough, I think, to keep 
them wann, though it were a very cold night — but it was not dancing, but singing 
they served for ; for when it came to their turns, away they ran to their places, and 
there they made as good harmony as a concert of little pigs would, and they were 
much about as cleanly. Their part being done, out they sallied again to the fire, 
^-Where they played till their cue called them, and then back to their places they 
huddled. So negligent and slight are they in their service in a place where the near- 
ness of adversanes might teach them to be more careful. 

In less than a year, Locke returned \o O^lot^.^V'et^'^^ ^ci^^f^'j^'et- 
w&rda received an offer of consideisAA^ ^x^toTSSkSoX "^v. *^^ VD^a- 



84 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1689. 

Church, if he should think fit to take orders. This, after due cousid- 
eration, he declined. *A man's affairs and whole course of his life,' 
says he, in a letter to the friend who made the proposal to him, ' are 
not to be changed in a moment, and one is not made fit for a calling, 
and that in a day. I believe you think me too proud to undertake 
anything wherein I should acquit myself but unworthily. I am sure 
I cannot content myself with being undermost, possibly the middle* 
most, of my profession ; and you will allow, on consideration, care is 
Xo be taken not to engage in a calling wherein, if one chance to be a 
bungler, there is no retreat.' 

In 1666, Locke became acquainted with Lord Ashley, afterwards 
Earl of Shaftesbury ; and so valuable did his lordship find the medi- 
cal advice and general conversation of the philosopher, that a close 
and permanent friendship sprang up between them, and Locke be- 
came an inmate of his lordship's house. This brought him into the 
society of Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham, the Earl of Halifax, and 
other celebrated wits of the time. An anecdote is told of him which 
shews the easy terms on which he stood with these noblemen. On 
an occasion when several of them were met at Lord Ashley's house, 
the party, soon after assembling, sat down to cards, so that scarcely 
any conversation took place. Locke, after looking on for some time, 
took out his note-book, and began to write in it, with much appear- 
ance of gravity and deliberation, One of the party observing this, 
inquired what he was writing. * My lord,' he replied, * I am endeav- 
ouring to profit as far as I am able in your - company ; for having 
waited with impatience for the honour of being in an assembly of the 
greatest geniuses of the age, and having at length obtained this good- 
fortune, 1 thought that I could not do better than write down your 
conversation ; and indeed I have set down the substance of what has 
been said for this hour or two.' 

A very brief specimen of what he had written was sufficient to 
make the objects of his irony abandon the card-table, and engage in 
rational discourse. While residing with Lord Ashley, Locke super- 
intended the education, first of his lordship's son, and subsequently 
of his grandson, the third Earl of Shaftesbury, celebrated as an able 
philosophical and moral writer in the reign of Queen Anne. In 1672, 
when Lord Ashley received an earldom and the office of chancellor, 
he gave Locke the appointment of secretary of presentations, which 
the philosopher enjoyed only till the following year, when his patron 
lost favour with the court, and was deprived of the seals. The deli- 
cate state of Locke's health induced him in 1675 to visit France, 
where he resided several years, first at Montpellier, and afterwards at 
Paris, where he had opportunities of cultivating the acquaintance of 
the most eminent French literary men of the day. When Shaftes- 
baiy regained power for a brief season in 1679, he recalled Locke to 
^ngl&nd ; and, on taking refuge in HoWand, Wii^^ yeara afterwards, 
waafolloj^ed, thither by his friend, 'wlxoae a»&Xy'^'5r«\ssa^^\si.\'eRiv 



LOCKE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 85 

ardy, from the connection which subsisted between them. After the 
death of his patron in 1683, Locke found it necessary to prolong his 
stay in Holland, and even there was obliged, by the machinations of 
his political enemies at home, to live for upwards of a year in conceal- 
ment. In 1684, by a special order from Charles II. he was deprived 
of his studentship at Christ Church, Oxford. In 1687, he instituted, at 
Amsterdam, a literary society, the members of which — among whom 
were Le Clerc, Limborch, and otlier learned men — met weekly for 
the purpose of enjoying each other's conversation. 

The Revolution of 1688 finally restored Locke to his native coun- 
try, to which he was conveyed by the fleet that brought over the 
Princess of Orange. He was made a Commissioner of Appeals, with 
a salary of £200 a year. He now became a prominent defender of 
civil and religious liberty, in a succession of works which have ex- 
erted a highly beneficial influence on subsequentgenerations^ot only 
in Britain, but throughout the civilised world. While in Holland, he 
had written in Latin, *A Letter concerning Toleration :' this appeared 
at Gouda in 1689, and translations of it were immediately published 
in Dutch, French, and English. The liberal opinions which it main- 
tained were controverted by an Oxford writer, in reply to whon\ 
Locke successively wrote three additional 'Letters.* In 1690 was 
published liis most celebrated work, * An Essay concerning Human 
Understanding.' In the composition of this treatise, which his retire- 
ment in Holland afforded him leisure to finish, he had been engaged 
for eigliteen years. His object in writing it is thus explained in the 
Prefatory Epistle to the Reader : * Were it fit to trouble thee with the 
history of this Essay, I should tell thee that five or six friends meet- 
ing at my chamber, and discoursing on a subject very remote from 
this, found themselves quickly at a stand by the difficulties that rose 
on every side. After we had a while puzzled ourselves, without 
coming any nearer a resolution of those doubts which perplexed us, 
it came into my thoughts, that we took a wrong course, and that, be- 
fore we set ourselves upon inquiries of that nature, it was necessary 
to examine our own abilities, and see what objects our understand- 
ings were, or were not, fitted to deal with. This I proposed to the 
company, who all readily assented.' 

-In proceeding to treat of the subject originally proposed, he found 
tliis matter increase upon his hands, and was gradually led into 
other fields of investigation. It hence happens, that of tlie four 
books of which the Essay consists, only the last is devoted to an 
inquiry into the objects within the sphere of the human understand- 
ing. In the first book of his Essay, Locke treats of innate ideas. He 
denies altogether the doctrine of innate ideas or innate principles in 
the mind : * God having endued man with those faculties of knowing 
which he hath, was no more obliged by His ^ood\i<i.«s. ^-o^ \sk^v»»^» 
those iDDate notions in his mind, than l\ia\. \ia.V\Ti^ ^^^\i\v\\xv x^^'sssks^^ 
Jisnds, and materials, he should build bim'bndg!^^ ox Vo>aa.^^^ ^^^^ 



36 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1^689. 

he argues that the idea or sense of a God is so manifest from the 
visible marks of wisdom and power in creation, that no rational 
creature could, on reflection, miss the discovery of a Deity. In the 
second book, Locke follows up this principle or position by tracing 
the origin of our ideas, simple and complex, which he derives from 
sensation and reflection. His reasoning on the latter is somewhat 
indefinite. ' Duration is certainly no mode of thinking, yet the idea 
of duration is reckoned by Locke among those .with which we are 
furnished by reflection. The same may perhaps be said as to his 
account of several other ideas, which cannot be deduced from external 
sensation, nor yet can be reckoned modifications or operations of the 
soul itself; such as number, power, existence * {Hallam). The third 
book of the Essay is on language and signs as instruments of truth ; 
and the fourth book is intended to determine the nature, validity, and 
limits of the understanding. Of the importance of this great work 
in diffusing a just mode of thinking and inquiry, it is unnecessary to 
speak. Some passages may appear contradictory, * but any person 
reading the Essay carefully through will,' says Mr. Lewes, * find all 
clear and coherent. 

, The style of the work is simple, pure, and expressive ; and, as it 
was designed for general perusal, there is a frequent employment of 
colloquial phraseology. Locke hated scholastic jargon, and wrote in 
language intelligible to every man of common-sense. * No one,' says 
his pupil, Shaftesbury, * has done more towards the recalling of phi- 
losophy from barbarity, into the use and practice of the world, and 
into the company of the better and politer sort, who might well be 
ashamed of it in its other dress.' 

In 1C90, Locke published two * Treatises on Civil Government,' in 
defence of the principles of the Revolution against the Tories ; or, as 
he expresses himself, * to establish the throne of our great restorer, 
our present King William ; to make good his title in the consent of 
the people, which, being the only one of all lawful governments, he 
has more fully and clearly than any prince in Christendom ; and to 
justify to the world the people of England, whose love of their just 
and natural rights, with their resolution to preserve them, saved the 
nation when it was on the very brink of slavery and ruin.' The chief 
of his other productions are — * Thoughts concerning Education ' (1693), 
' The Reasonableness of Christianity ' (1695), two ' Vindications ' of 
that work (1G96), and an admirable tract * On the Conduct of the Un- 
derstanding,' printed after the author's death. A theological contro- 
versy in which he engaged with Stillingfleet, bishop of Worcester, 
has already been mentioned in our account of that prelate. Many 
letters and miscellaneous pieces of Locke have been published, partly 
m the beginning of last century, and partly bv Lord King in his Life 
of tJie philosopher (1829). 

la reference to the writings of Locke, ^\y 5«k.me,9» "SAabCkVwtoah ob- 
serres, that Justly to understand t^eir c\iax«i.c,\,e;i,\V \^ Tiftv:ftas«x73 \a 



LOCKE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE 87 

take a deliberate survey of the circumstances in which the writer was 
placed. * Educated among the English dissenters, during the short 
period of their political ascendency, he early imbibed that deep piety 
and ardent spirit of liberty which actuated that body of men ; and 
he probably imbibed also in their schools the disposition to metaphy- 
sical inquiries which has everywhere accompanied the Calvinistio 
theology. Sects founded in the right of private judgment, naturally 
tend to purify themselves from intolerance, and in time learn to re- 
spect in others the freedom of thought to the exercise of which they 
owe their own existence. By the Independent divines who were his 
instructors, our plylosopher was taught those principles of religious 
liberty which they were tlie first to disclose to the world. When free 
inquiry led him to milder dogmas, he retained the severe morality 
which was their honourable singularity, and which continues to dis- 
tinguish their successors in those communities which have abandoned 
their rigorous opinions. His professional pursuits afterwards en- 
gaged him in the study of the physical sciences, at the moment when 
the spirit of experiment and observation was in its youthful fervour, and 
when a repugnance to scholastic subtleties was the ruUngpassionof the 
scientific world. At a more mature age, he was admitted into the society 
of great wits and ambitious politicians. During the remainder of bis life 
he was often a man of business, and always a man of the world, without 
much undisturbed leisure, and probably with that abated relish for mere- 
ly abstract speculation which is the inevitable result of converse with 
society and experience in affairs. But his political connections agree- 
ing with his early bias, made him a zealous advocate of liberty in 
opinion and in government ; and he gradually limited his zeal and 
activity to the illustrations of such general principles as are the guar- 
dians of these great interests of human society. Almost all his 
writings, eVen his Essay itself, were occasional, and intended directly 
to counteract the enemies of reason and freedom in his own age. 
The first Letter on Toleration, the most original perhaps of his works, 
was composed in Holland, in a retirement where he was forced to 
conceal himself from the tyranny which pursued him into a foreign 
land ; and it was published in England in the year of the Revolution, 
to vindicate the Toleration Act, of which the author lamented the 
imperfection.' On the continent, the principal works of Locke be- 
came extensively known through the medium of translation. 

Immediately after the Revolution, employment in the diplomatic 
service was offered to Locke, who declined it on the ground of ill- 
health. In 1695, having aided government with his advice on the sub- 
ject of the coinage, he was appointed a member of the Board of Trade, 
which office, however, the state of his health also obliged him to re- 
sign. The last years of his existence were spent at Gates, in Essex, 
the seat of Sir Francis Masham, who had invited him to taaka \}x^ 
mansion his home. Lady Masham, a daug\\l^T o^T>T.Vj\y\^QrtX^.,wv^ 
to whom Locke was attached by strong iVeaolitvevi^^\iA^>^<^'^'^^2^^^ 



88 CYCLOPEDIA OF, [to 1689. 

her attention the infirmities of his declining yearsT The death of this 
excellent man took place October 28, 1704, when he had attained the 
age of seveaty-two. 

Causes of Weakness in MerCs Understandings, 

There is, it is visible, great variety in men's understandings, and their natnnd 
constitutions put so wide a difference between some men in this respect, that art and 
industry would never be able to master ; and their very natures seem to want a foun- 
cAation to raise on it that which other men easily attain unto. Amongst men of 
equati education, there is a great inequality of parts. And the woods of America, as 
well as vthe schools of Athens, produce men of several abilities in the same Idnd. 
Though Tibia be so, yet I imagine most men come very short of what they might at- 
tain unto in tlTijiic sev(;ral degrees, by a neglect of their understandings. A few rules 
of logic are thougltl^-^fBcient in this case for those who preteud to the highest im- 
provement; whereas r4hink there are a great many natural defects in the under- 
standing capable of amenalm<»nt, which are overlooked and wholly neglected. And 
it is easy to perceive that men afcr^jpmlty of a great many faults m the exercise and 
improvement of this faculty of the nnnc^i^liich hinder them in their progress, and 
keep them in ignorance and error all their livdfcK*.,^^Some of them I shall taKe notice 
of, and endeavour to point out proper remedies fShKin the following discourse. 
Besides the want of determined ideas, and of sagacif^tta^d exercise in iinding out 
■ and laying in order intermediate ideas, there are three rals^rriagcs that men are 
guilty of m reference to their reason, whereby this faculty is hii^dered in them from 
that service it might do and was designed for. And he that reflecHSi^upon the actions 
and discourses of mankind, will find their defects in this kind very frel5*fi£*^^ ^^^ ^^^ 
observable. ^V^ 

1. The first is of those who seldom reason at all, but do and think accl^inp to 
the example of others, whether parents, neighbours, ministers, or who (?lse rfr«y are 
pleased to make choice of to have an implicit faith4n, for the saving of thenl«*clves 
the pains and trouble of thinking and examining for themselves. \ 

2. The second is of those who put passion in the place of reason, and bein Af®" 
solved that shall govern their actions and arguments^ neither use their own, i*^ 
hearken to other people's reason, any further than it suits th(?ir humour, interest, V~ 

Earty ; and these, one may observe, commonly content themselves with words whici 
ave no distinct ideas to them, though, in other matters, that they come with an un-. 
biassed indilferency to, they want not abilities to talk and hear reason, where thej 
have no secret inclination that hinders them from being untra^table to it. 

8. The third sort is of those who readily and sincerely follow reason, but for wantl 
of having that which one may call large, sound, round-about sense, have not a full 
view of all that relates to the question, and may be of moment to decide it. We arc 
all short-sighted, and very often see but one side of a matter ; our views are not ex- 
tended to all that has a connection with it. From this defect, I think, no man is free. 
We see but in part, and we know but in part, and therefore it is no wonder we con- 
clude not right from our partial views. This might instruct the proudest esteemer 
of his own parts how usef nl it is to talk and consult with others, even such as came 
short with him in capacity, quickness, and penetration ; for, since no one sees all, 
and we generally have different prospects of the same thing, according to our differ- 
ent, as I may say, positions to it, it is not incongruous to think, nor beneath any man 
to try, whether another may not have notions of things which have escaped hiin, and 
which his reason would make use of if they came into his mind. The faculty of 
reasoning seldom or never deceives those who trust to it ; its consequences from 
what it builds on are evident and certain ; but that which it oftenest, if not only, 
misleads us in, is, that the principles from which we conclude, the ground upon 
which we bottom our reasoning, arc but a part ; something is left out which should 
go into the reckoning to make it just and exact 

Practice and Habit 

We are bom with facaltiea and powers capable almost of anything, such at * L^a* 

^r.Z^^ *^"^ °? /orf/ier than can be easily imaginea ; \)\3l\, \\.\ft ^ivV^ t\vft ^x-aTcC csK.^Jo 

^^J!^^^"^ ^^^ ^>efl. *w ability aud sldU in anyttwig, ttti^Vi«iaja\a Vy«^tcL- ^^ 




LocitfiO ENGLISH LITERATURE. 39 

A middle-aged plonghman will scarce ever be brought to the carriage and laognage 
g£ a gentleman, though his body be as well proportioned, and his joints as sappfe, 
and Qs natural parts not any way inferior. The legs of a dancing-master, and the 
fingers of a musician, fall, as it were, naturally without thought or pains into regu- 
lar and admirable.motions. Bid them change their parts, and they will in vain en- 
d^YOur to produce like motions in the members not used to them, and it will require 
length of time and long practice to attain but some degrees of a like ability. What 
incredible and astonishing actions do we find rope-dancers and tumblers brhig their 
bodies 1o I not but that sundry in almost all manual arts are as wonderful ; but I 
name those which the world takes notice of for such, because, on that very account, 
they give money to see them. All these admired motions, beyond the reach, and 
almost the concei)tion of unpractised spectators, are nothing but the mere effects of 
use and industry in men, whose bodies have nothing peculiar in them from those of 
the amazed lookers-on. 

As it is in the body, so it is in the mind ; practice makes it what it is ; and most 
even of those excellences which are looked on as natural endowments, will be found, • 
when examined into more narrowly, to be the product of exercise, and to be raised 
to that pitch only by repeated actions. Some men are remai'ked for pleasantness in 
raillery, others for apologues and apposite diverting stories. This is apt to be taken 
for the effect of pure nature, and that the rather, because it is not got by rules, and 
those who excel m either of them, never pui-posely set themselves to the study of it 
as an art to be learnt. But yet it is true, that at fii-st some lucky hit which took with 
somebody, and gained him commendation, encouraged him to try again, inclined his 
thoughts and endeavours that wav, till at last he insensibly got a facility in it without 
perceiving how ; and that is attributed wholly to nature, which was much more the 
effect of use and practice. I do not deny that naturjU disposition may often give the 
first rise to it ; but that never carries a man far without use and exercise, and it is 
practice alone that brings the powers of the mind as well as those of the body to 
their perfection. Many a good poetic vein is buried under a trade, and never pro- 
duces anything for want of improvement. We see the ways of discourse and reason- 
ing are very different, even couceminij the same matter, at court and in the university. 
And he that will go but from Westminster Ilall to the Exchange, will find a different 
genius and turn in their ways of talking ; and one cannot think that all whose lot 
feu in the city were bom with different parts from those who were bred at the uni- 
vereity or inns of court. 

To what purpose all this, but to shew that the difference, so observable in men's 
onderstandings and parts, does not arise so much from the natural faculties, as ac- 
quired habits ? He would bci laujijiicd at that should go about to make a fine dancer 
out of a country hedger at past fifty. And he will not have much better success who 
ibaU endeavour at that age to make a man reason well, or speak handsomely, who 
Ins never been used to it, though you sliould lay before him a collection of all the 
.. -toert precepts of logic or oratory. Nobody is made anything by hearing of rules, or 
> Iljlng them np in his memory ; practice must settle the habit of doing without re- 
f lecting on the rule ; and you may as well hoi>e to make a good painter or musician, 
«stempore, by a lecture and instruction in the arts of music and painting, as a co- 
kerant thinker, or strict rcasbner, by a set of rules, shewing him wherein right reason- 
ing consists. 

This being so, that defects and weakness in men's understandings, as well as other 

Hides, come from want of a right use of their own minds, I am apt to think the 

teilt is generally mislaid upon nature, and there is often a complaint of want of 

FIrtB, when the fault lies in want of a due improvement of them. We see men fre- 

nmtly dexterous and sharp enough in making a bargain, who, if you reason with 

' Qflini about matters of religion, appear perfectly stupid 

Prejudices, 

m Erezy one is forward to complain of the prejudices that mislead other men or 
% pvttes, as if he were free, and had none of his own. This being objected on all 
• ft rides, it is a^eed that it is a fault, and a hinderance to knowledge. What^ now, is 
^\ tte care ? No other but this— that every man should let aXoxva oV\v«*^ ^x*i\\A\^<»> toA. 
o^». taamine his own. Nobody is convinced of his by lYve actueaXVou oi waaXiasst \ \ifcxvi?- 
;r* eBbnlaates by tbegame rulCf and is clear. The only -way to T»mw^ >iXv\^ ^^w. <i»sisfe 



I 



40 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to i68^. 

of ignorance and error out of the world, is for every one impartially to examine him- 
Belf . If others will hot deal fairly with their own minds, does that make my errors 
truths, or ought it to make me iu love with them, and willing to impose on myself ? 
If others love cataracts on their eyes, should that hinder me from couching of mine 
as soon as I could ? Every one declares against blindness, and yet who almost is not 
fond of that which dims his sight, and keeps the clear light out of his mind, which 
should lead him into truth and knowledge ? False or doubtful positions, relied upon 
as unquestionable maxims, keep those in the dark from truth who build on them. 
Such are usually the prejudices imbibed from education, party, reverence, fashion, 
interest, &c. This is the mote which every one sees in his brother's eye, but never 
regards the beam in his own. For who is there, almost, that is ever brought fairly 
to examine his own principles, and see whether they are such as will bear the trial ? 
But yet this should be one of the first things every one should set about, and be 
scrupulous in, who would rightly conduct his understanding in the search of truth 
and knowledge 

To those who are willing to get rid of this great hinderance of knowledge— for t6 
such only I write — to those who would shake ofE this great and dangerous impostor 
Prejudice, who dresses up falsehood in the likeness of truth, and so dexterously hood- 
winks men's minds, as to keep them in the dark, with a belief that they are more 
in the light than any that do not see with their eyes, I shall offer this one mark 
whereby prejudice may be known. He that is strongly of any opinion, must suppose 
— unless he be self-condemned — that his persuasion is built upon good grounds, and 
that his assent is no greater than what the evidence of the truth he holds forces him 
to ; and that they are arguments, and not inclination or fancy, that make him so con- 
fident and positivo in his tenets. Now if, after all his profession, he cannot bear any 
opposition to his opinion, if he cannot so much as give a patient hearing, nmch less 
examine and weigh the arguments on the other side, does he not plauily confess it 
is prejudice governs him? And it is not evidence of truth, but some lazy anticipa- 
tion, some beloved presumption, that he desires to rest undisturbed in. For if what 
he holds be as he gives out, well fenced with evidence, and he sees it to be true, what 
need he fear to put it to the proof ? If his opinion be settled upon a firm foundation, 
if the arguments that support it, and have obtained his assent, be clear, good, and 
convincing, why should lie be shy to have it tried whether they be proof or not ? He 
whose assent goes beyond his evidence, owes this excess of his adherence only to 

Srejudice, and does in effect own it when he refuses u. hear what is offered against it ; 
eclariog thereby, that it is not evidence he seeks, but the quiet enjoyment of the 
opinion ne is fond of, with a forward condemnation of all that may stand in opposi- 
tion to it, unheard and unexamined. 

Injudicious Haste in Study, 

The eagerness and strong bent of the mind after knowledge, if not warily regula- 
ted, is often a hinderance to it. It still presses into further discoveries and new ob- 
jects, and catches at the variety of knowledge, and therefore often stays not long 
enough on what is before it, to look into it as it should, for. haste to pursue what is 
yet out of sight. He that rides post through a country may be able, from the tran- 
sient view, to tell in general how the parts lie, and may be able to give some loose 
description of here a mountain and there a plain, here a morass and there a river ; 
woodland in one part, and savannahs in another. Such superficial ideas and obser- 
vations us these he may collect in galloping over it ; but the more useful observations 
of the soil, plants, animals, and innabitants, with their several sorts and i)ropertie8, 
must necessarily escape him ; and it is seldom men ever discover the rich mines 
without some digging. Nature commonly lodges her treasures and jewels in rocky 
ground. If the matter be knotty, and the sense lies deep, the mind must stop and 
buckle to it, and stick upon it with labour and thought, and close contemplation, and 
not leave it until it has mastered the difficulty and got possession of truth. But here 
care must be taken to avoid the other extreme : a man must not stick at every use- 
less nicety, and expect mysteries of science in every trivial question or scruple that 
he may raise. He that will stand to pick up and examine every pebble that comes in 
Mff way. Is as unlikely to return ennched and laden with jewels, as the other that 
tmvelled faU speed, Tratba are not the better nor tkxe YfQi;^^ toe tik)i^ QVsviQUHiQas 



LOCKE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 411 

or difficulty, but their value is to be measured by their usefulness and .tendency. In- 
Bignlflcaut observations should not take up any of our minutos ; and those that en- 
large our view, aud give light towards further and useful discoveries, should not be 
neglected, though they stop our course, aud spend some of our time in a fixed 
attention. 

There is another haste that does often, and will, mislead the mind, if it be left to 
itself and its own conduct. The understanding is naturally forward, not only to learn 
its knowledge by variety — which makes it skip over one to get speedily to auother 
part of knowledge — but also eager to enlarge its views by running too fast into gen- 
eral observations and conclusions, without a due examination of particulars ijuough 
whereon to fouud those general axioms. This seems to enlarge their stock, but it is 
of fancies, not realities ; such theories, built upon narrow foundations, stand but 
weakly, and if they fall not themselves, are at least very hardly to be supported 
against the assaults of oppositicn. And thus men. being too hasty to erect to them- 
selves general notions and ill-grounded theories, find themselves deceived in their 
stock of knowledge, when they come to examine their hastily assumed maxims 
themselves, or to have them attacked by others. Gene.ral obsen-ations, drawn from 

Particulars, are the jewels of kuowled|je, comprehending great store in a little room ; 
ut they are therefore to be made with the greater care aud caution, lest, if we take 
counterfeit for true, our loss and shame will be the greater, when our stock comes 
to a severe scrutiny. One or two particulars may suggest hints of inquiry, and th(;y 
do well who take those hints ; but if they turn thtim into conclusions, and make 
them presently general rales, they are forward indeed ; but it is only to impose on 
themselves by propositions assumed for truths without sufficient warrant. To make 
such observations is, as has been already remarked, to make the head a magazine of 
materials which can hardly be called knowledge, or at least it is but like a collection 
of lumber not reduced to use or order ; and he that niak(;s everything iin observation, 
has the same useless plenty, and nmch more falsehood mixed with it. The extremes 
on both sides are to be avoid(!d ; and he will be able to give the bt;st account gf his 
fitndies who keeps his understanding in the right mean botwueu them. 

Pleasure and Pain, 

The infinitely wise Anthor of our being, having given ns the power over several 
parts of our bodies, to move or keep them at rest, as we think fit ; and also, by the 
motion of them, to move om-selves and contiguous bodies, in which consists all the 
actions of our body ; having also given a power to our mind, in several instances, to 
choose amongst its ideas wliich it will think on, and to pursm; th(; inquiry of this or 
that subject with consideration and attention ; to excite us to these actions of tliink-' 
ing and motion that we are capable of, has been pleased to join to several thoughts 
and several sensations a perception of deliglit. If tliis were wholly separated from 
all our outward sensations and inward thoughts, we should have no reason to prefer 
one thought or action to another, negligence to attention, or motion to rest. And ho 
we shoulu neither stir our bo<lies nor employ our minds ; but let onr thoughts — if 1 
may so call it — run adrift, without any (hrection or design ; and sufter the ideas of 
our minds, like unregarded shadows, to make tlunr ai)pearanc(^8 thert?, as it hai>- 
p<;ned, without attending to them. In which state, man, however furnished with 
the faculties of understanding and will, would be a very idle, inactive creaturts and 
pass his time only in a lazy lethargic dn^am. It has tluu-efore ])leaE-e(l our wise Crea- 
tor to annex 8ev<.*ral objects, and the ideas which we receive from tliem, as also to 
several of our thoughts, a concomitant pleasure, and that in st'veral object:^ to sev- 
eral deuces, that those faculties which ne had endowed ua with might not remain 
wholl;jr idle and unemployed by us. 

Pain has the same eflicacy aud luje to set us on work that pleasure has, we being 
as ready to employ our faculties to avoid that, as to pursue this; only this is 
worth our consitleration, * that pain is often produced by the same objects and ideas 
that produce pleasure in us.' This, their near con jimction, which makes us often 
feel pain in tlie sensations where we exixjcted pleasure, gives usiiew occftsion of ad- 
miring[ the wisdom and goodness of our Maker, who, designing the preservation of 
our being, has annexed pain to the application of many tbingat-o o\a>awi^a«>,\,^^^'f^^ 
tw of the harm that they will do, anaaa advices to withdiaw ixom XJosmi. ^\>x ^^^i 



4d CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

not designing our preservatipn barely, but the preservation of every part and organ 
in its perfection, hath, in many cases, annexea pain to those very ideas which de- 
light ns. Thus heat, that is very agreeable to ns in one degree, by a little greater in- 
crease of it, proves no ordinary torment ; and the most pleasant of all sensible ob- 
jects, light itself, if there be too much of it, if increased oeyond a due proportion to 
our eyes, causes a very painful sensation ; which is wisely and favourably so ordered 
by nature, that when any object does, by the vehemency of its operation, disorder 
the instruments of sensation, whose structures cannot but be very nice and delicate, 
we might by the pain be warned to withdraw, before the organ be quite put out of 
order, and so be unfitted for its proper function for the future. The consideration of 
those objects that produce it, may wellpersuade us that this is the end or use of 

Sain. For, though great light be insufferable to our eyes, yet the highest degree of 
arkness does not at all disease them ; because that causing no disorderly motion in 
it, leaves that curious organ unharmed in it« natural state. But yet excess of cold, 
as well as heat, pains us, because it is equally destructive to that temper which is 
necessary to the preservation of life, and the exercise of the several functions of the 
body, and which consists in a moderate degree of warmth, or, if you please, a mo- 
tion of the insensible parts of our bodies, confined within certain bounds. 

Beyond all this, we may find another reason why God hath, scattered up and down 
sever^ degrees of pleasure and pain in all the things that environ and affect us, and 
blended them together in almost aU that our thoughts and senses have to do with ; 
that we, finding imperfection, dissatisfaction, ana want of complete happiness in all 
the enjoyments which the creatures can afford us, might be led to seek it in the en- 
joyment of Him * with whom there is fulness of joy, and at whose right hand are 
fdoasures for evermore.' 

History, 

The stories of Alexander and C»sar, further than they instruct us in the art of 
living well, and furnish us with observations of wisdom and prudence, are not one 
jot to be preferred to the history of Robin Hood, or the Seven Wise Masters. I do 
not deny out history is very^ useful, and very instructive of human life ; but if it be 
studied only for the reputation of being a historian, it is a very empty thing ; and he 
that can tell all the particulars of Herodotus and Plutarch, Curtius and Livy, with- 
out making any other use of them, may be an igiiorant man with a good memory, 
and with ull his pains, hath only filled his head with Christmas tales. And, which is 
worse, the greatest part of the history being made up of wars and conquests, and 
their style, esjKJCially the Romans, speaking of valour as the chief if not the only 
virtue, we are in danger to be misled by the general current and business of history ; 
and, looking on Alexander and Csesar, and such-like heroes, as the highest instances 
of human greatness, because they each of them caused the death of several hundred 
thousand men, and the ruin of a much greater number, overran a great part of the 
earth, and killed the inhabitants to possess themselves of their couutnes— we are 
apt to make butchery and rapine the chief marks and very essence of human great- 
ness. And if civil history be a great dealer of it, and to many readers thus useless, 
curious and difficult inquirings in antiquity are much more so ; and the exact dimen- 
sions of the Colossus, or figure of the Capitol, the ceremonies of the Greek and Ro- 
man marriages, or who it was that flret coined money ; these, I confess, set a man 
well off in the world, especially amongst the learned, but set him very little on in his 
way. . . . 

I shall only add one word, and then conclude ; and that is, that whereas in the be- 
^nning I cut oS. history from our study as a useless part, as certainly it is where it 
IS read only as a tale that is told ; here, on the other side, I recommend it to one who 
hath well settled in his mind the principles of morality, and knows how to make a 
judgment on the actions of men, as one of the most useful studies he can apply him- 
self to. There he shall see a picture of the world and the nature of mankind, and so 
learn to think of men as they are. There he shall see the rise of opinions, and find 
from what slight and sometimes shameful occasions some of them nave taken their 
rise, which yet'af terwards have had great authority, and passed almost for sacred in 
^e world, anH borne down all before them. There also one may learn great and use- 
^fiJ j^sta-actionB of prudence, and he warned against the cheats and rogueries of the 
^.^.jmr/tf, jfith many more advantages wldch 1 Blmi not here eaumcx«.\A. 



NEWTON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 43 

Disputation, 

One should not dispute with a man who, either through stnpidity or shameless* 
ness, denies olain and -visible troths. 

Liberty, 

Let yonr will lead whither necessity would drive, and ''ou will always preserve 
your liberty. 

Opposition to New Doctrines, 

The imputation of novelty is a terrible chai^ amongst those who judge of men's 
heads, as they do of their perukes, by the fashion, and can aUow none to be right but 
the received doctrines. Truth scarce ever yet carried it by vote anywhere at its first 
appearance : new opinions are always suspected, and usually opposed, without any 
other reason but because they are not already common. But truth, like gold, is not 
the less so for being newly brought out of the mine. It is trial and examination 
must give it price, and not any antique fashion ; and though it be not yet current by 
the public stamp, yet it may, for all that, be as old as nature, and is certainly not the 
less genuine. 

Duty of Preserving Health, 

If by gaining knowledge we destroy our health, we labour for a thing that will be 
useless in our hands ; ana if, by harassing our bodies— though with a design to ren- 
der ourselves more useful — ^we deprive ourselves of the abilities and opportunities of 
doing that good we might have done with a meaner talent, which God thought suf- 
ficient for us, by having denied us the strength to improve it to that pitch which men 
of stronger constitutions can attain to, we rob God of so much service, and our 
neighbour of all that help which, in a state of health, with moderate knowledge, we 
mi^t have been able to perform. He that sinks his vessel by overloading it, though 
it TO with gold, and silver, and precious stones, will give his owner but an ill account 
of his voyage. 

SIR I8AAC NEWTON. 

Sir Isaac Newton holds, by universal consent, the highest rank 
among the natural philosophers of ancient or modern times. He 
was bom, December 25, 1642, at Woolstborpe, in Lincolnshire, where 
his father cultivated a small paternal estate. From childhood, he 
manifested a strong inclination towards mechanical and mathemati- 
cal pursuits. He received his early education at the Grammar- 
school of Grantham, and at the age of fifteen was summoned to take 
charge of the farm at home ; but he was found unfit for business, 
and was allowed to return to school and follow the bent of his 
genius. In 1661, he was admitted as a sizar in Trinity College, Cam- 
bridge; became a Junior Fellow in 1667, And M.A. in 1668. In 
1669, he succeeded Barrow as mathematical professor ; in 1671, he 
became a Fellow of the Royal Society, and communicated to it his 
new theory of Light. He served repeatedly in parliament as member 
for the university ; was appointed Warden of the Mint in 1695, 
became President of the Royal Society in 1703 ; and, two years after- 
wards, received the honour of knighthood from Queen Anne. To 
the unrivalled genius and sagacity of Newton, the world is indebted 
for a variety ofsplendid discoveries in natural philosophy and math- 
ematics ; among these, his exposition of the laws which regulate the 
movements of the solar system may be lefeii^^ Vo %a NXi^ ^cckSssJv^Xs^^- 
liant The Grat Btep in the formatioii ot \Xie ^eT^WsCvKo. ^^N!s«^ ^"^ 



44 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

philosophy was his discovery of the law of gravitation, which, as he 
proved, affected the vast orbs that revolve around the sun, not less 
than the smallest objects on our own globe. The traditional story of 
the philosopher sitting in his garden one day, and bemg led by the fall 
of an apple to meditate on the law of gravitation, may be a mere 
myth— the apple may be as fabulous as the golden fruit of the Hes- 
perides; but the train of thought which led to the discovery may 
have been suggested by some circumstance as trivial. He saw that 
there was a remarkable power or principle which caused all bodies 
to descend towards the centre of the earth, and that this unseen 
power operated at the top of the highest mountains and at the bottom 
of the deepest mines. 

When the true cause, the law of gravitation, dawned upon his mind, 
Newton is said to liave been so agitated as to be unable to work out 
the problem. Mathematical calculation soon demonstrated the fact, 
and placed it on an immovable basis. * The whole material universe,* 
as Sir David Brewster says, * was spread out before him ; the sun with 
all his attending planets, the planets with all their satellites, the 
comets wheeling in their eccentric orbits, and the system of the fixed 
stars stretching to the remotest limits of space.* What must have 
been the sensations of Newton when all these varied movements of 
the heavenly bodies were thus presented to his mind — and presented, 
let. us remember, as the result of that law which he had himself dis- 
covered! The situation of Columbus when, afier his long voyage, he 
first descried the shores of the new world he had so adventurously 
sailed to explore, was one of moral and intellectual grandeur. ^ 
was the position of Milton, when old, and blind, and poor, he had 
realised the dream of his youth, completed his great epic, and sent it 
forth on its voyage of immortality. But the situation of Newton was 
one still more transcendent. His feelings were perhaps the most 
strange — the most sublime — ever permitted to mortality. He had 
laid his hand on the key of Nature's secrets, and unlocked the mighty 
mystery — a mystery hidden from mankind for countless ages, and at 
that moment known only to himself. And in his joy at this vast dis- 
covery there was no roon^ for fear or regret. The conqueror or ex- 
plorer of a new country may sigh to think what sin and suffering may 
be introduced with civilisation, supplanting the ignorant innocence 
of the natives ; but in this case nothing could result but fresh and 
astounding proofs of that divine wisdom and law of order which form 
the htmnony of the universe. 

The work in which Newton unfolded his simple but sublime sys- 
tem was written in Latin, and appeared in 1687, under the title of 
* Philosophise Natural is Principia Maihematica.' To Newton we owe 
likewise extensive discoveries in optics, by which the aspect of that 
science was so entirely changed, that he may justly be termed its 
/bunder. He was the drat to conceive and demonstrate the divisibil- 
Jtr of n^ht into rays of aeyen different colours, aa^ i^ssft«&m^ ^y'Sb^- 



NEWTON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. • 45 

ent degrees of refrangibility. After pursuing liis optical investiga- 
tions during a period of tliirty years, lie gave to the world, in 1704, a 
detailed account of his discoveries in an admirable work entitled 
' Optics : or a Treatise of the Refractions, Inflections, and Colours of 
Light.* Besides these, he published various profound mathematical 
works, which it is unnecessary here to enumerate. Like his illustri- 
ous contemporaries, Boyle, Barrow, and Locke, this eminent man de- 
voted much attention to theology as well as to natural science. The 
prophetic books of Scripture were those which he cliiefly investigated ; 
and to his great interest in these studies we owethe composition of 
his * Observations upon tlie Prophecies of Holy Writ, particularly 
the Prophecies of Daniel and the Apocalypse of St. John,* published 
after his death. A,niong his manuscripts were found many other 
theological pieces, mostly on such subjects as tlie Prophetic Style, 
the Host of Heaven, the Revelations, the Temple of Solomon, the 
Sanctuary, the Working of the Mystery of Iniquity, and the Contest 
between the Host of Heaven and the Transgressors of tbe Covenant. 
The whole manuscripts left by Sir Isaac were perused by Dr. Pellet, 
by agreement with the executors,, with the view of publishing such 
as were thought fit for the press : the report of that gentleman,. how- 
ever, was, that, of the whole mass, nothing but a work on the Chro? 
nology of Ancient Kingdoms was adapted for publication. That 
treatise accordingly appeared ; and, contrary to Dr. Pellet's opinion, 
tlie * Observations upon the Prophecies,' already mentioned, were 
likewise sent to the press. * An Historical Account of Two Notable 
Corruptions of Scripture* (John, v. 7, and 1 Tim. iii. 16), also from 
the pen of Sir Isaac, first appeared in a perfect form in Dr. Horsley's 
edition of his works in 1779. The timidity, no less than the profound 
humility, of this great man led him to shrink from any publication 
hkely to lead to controversy, and perhaps the only defect in his noble 
nature was this morbidly sensitive and somewhat suspicious tempera- 
ment. We subjoin a specimen of his remarks on 

The Prophetic Language. 

For anderstanding the pro])hccio8, w(; arc, iu tlic llrgt place, to acquaint ourselves 
with the figurative laii<'uuge of rht; nrophetn. This language is taken from the anal- 
ogy b(»tweeu the world natural, and an empire or kingdom considered as a world 
politic. 

Accordingly the wlioU^ world natural, consisting of heaven and etirth, signifies the 
whole world politic, consisting of thrones and prople ; or so much of it as is con- 
sidered ill the prophecy. And the things in that world signifies the analogous tilings 
in this. For tlie heavens, and the things therein, signify thrones and dignities, and 
those who enjoy them ; and tin; earth, with the things thereon, the inferior people ; 
and the lowest pjirts of th«; e irth, called Hades, or H<!ll, the lowest or most miserable 
part of them. Wlujncn, ancending towards heaven, and descending to the earth, are 
put for rising and falling in ^)ower and honour ; rising out of th^-eartli or waters, and 
lalliug into them, for the rising up to any dignity, or dominion, out of the inferior 
state of the people, or falling down from the same into that inferior etatc ; deac.0Tv<i- 
ing into the lower parts of the earth, for de.sct;ud\ug to a "ver^j \ov< ruOl. \\\v\vcc^\rs \?\a^K\\ 
ip&tkingwith a faint voice out of th(j dust, for being Vn a weaVi. wi<i \^nn vivya}ii5Cvvsv\.\ 
moriDghomoDeplacoto another ^ for translation froiu outt oSis», (^\^Vj,ox<^vi^ 



46 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1689. 

minion to another ; great earthquakes, and the shaking of heaven and earth, for the 
shaking of dominiOBS, so as to distract or overthrow them ; the creating a new hea- 
ven and earth, and the passing away of an old one, or the beginning auu end of the 
world, for the rise and reign of the body politic si^ified thereby. 

In the heavens, the smi and moon are, by the interpreters of dreams, put for the 
persons of kings and queens. But in sacrea prophecy, which regards not single per- 
sons, the sun is put for the whole species and race of kings, in tlie kingdom or king- 
doms of the world politic, shining with regal power and glory ; the moon for the 
body of the common people, considered as the King's wife ; the stars for subordinate 

})rince8 and great men, or for bishops and rulers of the people of God, when the sun 
s Christ ; liuht for the glory, truth, and tattowledge, wherewith great and good men 
shine and illuminate others ; darkness for obscurity of condition, and tor error, 
blindness, and ignorance; darkening, smiting, or setting of the sun, moon, and 
stars, for the ceasing of a kingdom, or for the desolation thereof, proportional to the 
darkness ; darkening the sun, turning the moon into blood, and falling of the stars, 
for the same ; new moons, for the return of a dispersed people into a body politic or 
ecclesiastic. 

Fire and meteors refer to both heaven and earth, and signify as follows : Burning 
anjrthing with fire, is put for the consuming thereof by war ; a conflagration of the 
earth, or turning a country into a lake of Are, for the consumption of a kingdom by 
war ; the being in a furnace, for the being in slavery under another nation ; the 
ascending up of the smoke of any burning thing for ever and ever, for the continu- 
ation of a conquered people under the misery of perpetual subjection and slavery ; 
the scorching heat of the sun, for vexatious wars, persecutions, and troubles inflicted 
by the king ; riding on the clouds, for reigning over much people ; covering the Bun 
with a cloud, or with smoke, for oppression of the king by the armies of an enemy ; 
tempestuous winds, or the motion of clouds, for wars ; thunder, or the voice of a 
cloud, for the voice of a multitude ; a storm of thunder, lightning, hail, and over- 
flowing rain, for a tempest of war descending from the heaveus aiHlclouds politic on 
the heads of their enemies; rain, if not immoderate, and dew, and livinj]: watt*r, for 
the graces and doctrines of the Spirit ; and the defect of rain, for si)iritual barren- 
ness. 

In the earth, the dry land and congregated waters, as a sea, a river, a flood, arc 
put for the people of several regions, nations, and dominions ; imbittoring of waters, 
for great amiction of the people by war and persecution ; turning things into blood, 
for the mystical death of bodies politic — that is, for their dissolution ; the overtiow- 
ing of a sea or river, for the invasion of the earth politic, by the people of the 
waters ; drying up of waters, for the conquests of their regions by the earth ; foun- 
tains of waters, for cities, the permanent heads of rivers politic ; mountaius and 
islands, for the cities of the earth and sea j)olitic, with the territories and dominions 
belonging to those cities ; dens and rocks of mountains, for the temples of cities ; 
the hiding of men in those dens and rocks, for the shutting up of idols in their tem- 
ples ; houses and ships, for families, assemblies, and towns in the earth and s<'a jxjI- 
itic ; and a navy of ships of war, for an army of that kingdom that is signified ])y 
the sea. 

Animals also, and vegetables, are put for the p>eople of several regions and condi- 
tions ; and particularly trees, herbs, and land-animals, for the people of the earth 
politic ; flags, reeds, and fishes, for those of the waters politic ; birds and instctH, 
for those of the politic heaven and earth ; a forest ^or a kingdom ; and a wilderness, 
for a desolate and thin i)€ople. 

If the world politic, considered in prophecy, consists of many kingdoms, they are 
represented by as many parts of the world natural, as the noblest oy the c(;lcstial 
frame, and then the moon and clouds are put for the common people ; the less noble, 
by the earth, sea, and rivers, and by the animals or vegetables, or buildings therein ; 
and then the greater and more powerful animals and taller trees, are put for kings, 
princes, and nobles. And because the whole kingdom is the body politic of the king, 
therefore the sun, or4i tree, or a beast, or bird, or a man, whereby the king is repre- 
sented, is put in a large signification for the whole kingdom ; and several animals, as 
a IJon, a bear, a Jeopard, a goat, according to their qmuities, are put for several kiiig- 
doawand bodies politic ; and sacrificing of beasts, for alaughtering and couquoiing 
of .kJngdoma ; ana fiiendsbip between beasts, tor peaca witN^viftii 'feXu^^iwxvs.. Xvi\. 
^OMoetime v^^tabloB and itnlmi^ia are, by certain epiuieteOT cVic\m»\5Wi^<i*,^^VQiTv»^^^ 



NEWTON.J ENGLISH LITERATURE. 47 

to other signlficatioiis ; as a tree, when called the ^ tree of life ' or ' of knowledge ;' 
and a beast, when called * the old serpent/ or worshipped. 

A question with relfepect to Sir Isaac Newton excited much contro- 
versy in the literary world. During the last forty years of his life, 
the inventive powers of this great philosopher seemed to have lost 
their activity ; he made no further discoveries, and, in his later scien- 
tifio publications, imparted to the world only the views which he had 
formed in early life. In the article * Newton * in. the French * Bio- 
graphiie Universelle,' written by M. Biot, a statement was for the first 
time advanced, that his mental powers were impaired by an attack 
of insanity, which occurred in the years 1692 and 1693. That New- 
ton's mind was much out of order at the period mentioned, appears 
to be satisfactorily proved. Mr. Abraham de la Pryme, a Cambridge 
student, under date the 3d of February 1692-3, relates, in a passage 
which Brewster has published, the loss of Newton*s papers by fire 
while he was at chapel ; adding, that when the philosopher came 
home, * and had seen what was done, every one thought he would 
have run mad ; he was so troubled thereat, that he was not himself 
for a month after.' Newton himself, writing on the 13th September 
1693 to Pepys, secretary to the Admiralty, says : * I am extremely 
troubled at the embroilment I am in. and have neither ate nor slept 
well this twelvemonth, nor have my former consistency of mind.* 
Again, on the 16th of the same month, he writes to his friend Locke 
in the following remarkable manner ; 

Sir — Being of opinion that yon endeavoured to embroil me with women, and by 
other means, I was so nmch affected with it, as when one told nie you were sickly, 
tfnd would not live, I answered, 'twere better if you were dead. I desire you to for- 
give me this uncharitableness ; for I am now satisfied that what you have done is 
jast, and I beg your pardon for my havuig hard thoughts of you for it, and for repre- 
senting that you struck at the root of morality, in a principle you laid in your book 
of Ideas, and designed to pursue in another book, ana that 1 took you for a Hobbist. 
I beg your pardon, also, for saying or thinking that there was a design to sell me an 
office, or to embroil me. I am your most humble and unfortunate seiTaut. — ^Is. 
Newton. 

The answer of Locke is admirable for the gentle and affectionate 
spirit in which it is written : 

Sir — I have been, ever since I first knew you, so entirely and sincerely your friend 
and thought you so much mine, that I could not have believed what you tell me of 
yourself, liad I had it from anybody else. And though I cannot but be mightUy 
troubled that you should have had so many \\Tong and unjust thoughts of me, yet, 
next to the return of good offices, such as from a sincere good-will I have ever done 
yon, I receive your acl:nowledgment of the contrary as the kindest thing you could 
iiave done me, 'since it gives me hopes that I have not lost a friend I so much valued. 
After what your letter expresses, I shall not need to say anything to justify myself 
to you. I shall always think your own reflection on my carriage both to you and all 
mankind will sufllci(;ntly do that. Instead of that, give me leave to assure you, that 
I am more ready to forgive you than you can be to desire it ; and I do it so freely and 
fully, that I \\'ish for nothing more than the opportunity to convince you that I truly 
love and esteem you ; and that I have still the same good-will for you as if nothing 
of tbia had happened. To conflrm this to you mote tmy ,l&\vo\M\yi ^»siA\si\s\sj^^<2kXv 
anjrwhere, and the rather, because the concluBiouot ^o\a\JBWuaTSi»isR»\si^«5S^'«?^a^^ 



48 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1689. 

it would not be whoUv nseless to yon. But whether you think it fit or not, I leave 
wholly to you. I shall always be ready to serve you to my utmost, in any way you 
shall like, and shall only need your commands or pemiissioii to do it. 

My book is going to press for a second edition ; and though I can answer for the 
design with which I writ it, yet since you have so opportunely given me notice of 
what you have said of it, I should take it as a favour if you would point out to me 
the places that gave occasion to that censure, that, by explaining myself better, I 
may avoid being mistaken by others, or unawares doing the least prejudice to truth 
or virtue. I am sure you are so much a friend to them both, that were you none' to 
me, I could expect this from you. But I cannot doubt but you would do a great deal 
more than this for my sake, who, after all, have all the concern of a friend for you, 
wish you extremely well, and am, without compliment, &c. 

To this Sir Isaac replied on the 5th of October : 

Sir — Th^ last winter, by sleeping too often by my fire, I got an ill habit of sleep- 
ing : and a distemper, which this summer has been epidemical, put me further out of 
order, so that when I wrote to you, I had not slept an hour a-night for a fortnight 
together, and for five days together not a wink. I remember I wrote you, but what 
~ I said of your book I remember not. If you please to send me a transcript of that 
passage, I will give you an account of it if I can. I am your most humble servant- 
Is. Newton. 

On the 26th September, Pepys wrote to a friend of his, at Cam- 
bridge, a Mr. Millington, making inquiry about Newton's mental 
condition, as he liad ' lately received a letter from him so surprising 
to me for the inconsistency of every part of it, as to be put into great 
disorder by it, from the concernment I Iiave for him, lest it should 
arise from that whicli of all mankind I should least dread from him, 
and most lament for — I mean a discomposure in head, or mind, or 
both.* Millington answers on the 30th, that, two days previously, he 
had met Newton at Huntingdon ; * where,' says he, ' upon his own ac- 
cord, and before I had time to ask him any question, he told me that 
he had writ to you a very odd letter, at which he was much con- 
cerned ; and added, that it was a distember that much seized his head, 
and that kept him awake for about five niglits together ; which upon 
occasion he desired I would represent to you, and beg your pardon, 
he being very much ashamed he should be so rude to a person for 
whom he hath so great an honour. He is now very well, and though 
I fear he is under some small degree of melancholy, yet I think there 
is no reason to suspect it hath at all touched his understanding, and 
I hope never will.' 

This conclusion is proved to have been the correct one. Sir David 
Brewster has examined the point at some length in his elaborate 
* Life of Newton,' 2 vols. 1855, and has established the fact that the 
great philosopher's illness was temporary. Sir David had access to 
the papers in the possession of Lord Portsmouth, the descendant of 
Newton's niece, Mrs. Barton, and has thrown much light on the pri- 
vate character and social relaticms of Sir Isaac, besides describing his 
discoveries in fluxions, optics, and gravitation. Among the papers 
thus published for the first time, is the following account, by Sir 
-&*%?, ofMsreligiouB Mth or belief; 



NEWTON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 49 

Rdigio^ Belief of Sir IsauG Newton. 

1. There is one God the Father, ever living, omnipresent, omniscient, almighty, 
the maker of heaven and earth, and one Mediator between God and man, the man 
Christ Jesns. 

2. The Father is the invisible God whom no eye hath seen, nor can see. AH other 
heings are sometimes visible. 

3. The Father hath life in himself, and hath given the Son to have life in himself ^ 

4. The Father is omniscient, and hath all knowledge originally in his own breast, 
and communicates knowledge of future things to Jesus Chriet ; and none in heaven 
or earth, or under the earth, is worthy to receive knowledge of future things im-» 
mediately from the Father, but the Lamb. And, therefore, the testimony of Jesua 
is the spirit of prophecy, and Jtsus is the Word or Prophet of God. 

5. The Father is immovable, no place being capable of becoming emptier or fuller 
of him than it is by the eternal necessity of nature. All other beings are movable 
from place to place. 

6. All the worship— whether of prayer, praise, or thanksgiving — which was due 
to the Father before the coming of gjphrist, is stiU due to him. Christ came not to 
diminish the worship of his Father. 

T. Prayers are most prevalent when directed to the Father in the name of the Son. 

8. We are to return thanks to the Father alone for creating us, and giving us food 
and raiment and other blessings of tliis life, and whatsoever we- are to thank him 
for. or desire that he would do for us, we ask of him immediately in the name of 
Christ. 

9. We need not pray to Christ to intercede for us. If we pray the Father aright, 
he will intercede. 

10. It is not necessary to salvation to direct our prayers to any other than the 
Father in the name of the Son. 

11. To give the name of God to angels or kings, is not against the First Com- 
mandment. To give the worship of the God of the Jews to angels or kings, is 
against it. The meaning of the commandment is. Thou shalt worship no other Gk)d 
but me. • 

12. To us there is but one God, the Father, of whom are all things, and one Lord 
Jesus Christ, by whom are all things, and we by him. This is, we are to worship 

. the Father alone as God Almighty, and Jesus alone as the Lord, the Messiah, the 
Great King, the Lamb of God, who was slain, and hath redeemed us with his blood, 
and made us kings and priests. 

The character and most prominent discoveries of Newton are sum-" 
mod np in his epitaph, of wliicb tlie following is a translation : * Here 
lies interred Isaac Newton, Knight, who, with an energy of mind 
almost divine, guided by the light of mathematics purely his own, 
first demonstrated the motions and figures of the planets, the paths 
of comets, and the causes of the tides; who discovered, wliat before 
bis time no one bad even suspected, that rays of light are differently 
refrangible, and that this is the cause of colours ; and who was a dil- 
igent, penetrating, and faithful interpreter of nature, antiquity, and 
the sacred writings. In bis philosophy, be maintained the majesty 
of the Supreme Being ; in bis manners, be expressed the simplicity 
of the gospel. Let mortals congratulate themselves that the world 
has seen so great and excellent a man, the glory of buman nature.' 
Newton died March 20, 1737 



60 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. ^ 

CRITICAL AND MISCELLANE015S WRITERS. 

JAMES HOWELL. 

James Howell (1594-1666) was one of the most intelligent trav- 
ellers and pleasing miscellaneous writers in the early part of the 
seventeenth century. Born in Caermarthenshire, he received his ed- 
ucation at Hereford and Oxford, and repaired to London in quest of 
employment. He was there appointed steward to a patent-glass 
manumctory, in which capacity he went abroad, to procure materials 
and engage workmen. In the course of his travels, which lasted three 
years, he visited many commercial towns in Holland, Flanders, 
France, Spain, and Italy ; and, being possessed of an acute and in- 
quiring mind, laid up a store of useiil observations on men and 
manners, besides acquiring an extensive knowledge of modem 
languages. His connection with the glass-company soon after ceased, 
and he again- visited France as the travelling companion of a 
young gentleman. After this he was sent to Spain (1622), as agent 
for the recovery of an English vessel which had been seized in 
Sardinia on a charge of smuggling ; but all hopes of obtaining redress 
being destroyed by the breaking off of Prince Charles's proposed 
marriage with the Infanta, he returned to En^and in 1624. His next 
office was that of secretary to Lord Scrope, as JPresident of the North ; 
and in 1627 he was chosen by the corporation of Richmond to be one 
of their representatives in parliament. Three years afterwards, he 
visited Copenhagen as secretary to the English ambassador. About 
the beginning of the Civil War, he was appointed one of the Clerks 
of Council ; but being * prodigally inclined,' according to Anthony k 
Wood, * and therefore runneth much into debt,' he was imprisoned 
in the Fleet, by order of a committee of parliament. Here he 
remained till after the king's death, supporting himself by translating 
and composing a variety of works. At the Restoration, he became 
historiographer royal, being the first who everenjoved that title; and 
he continued his literary avocations till his death in 1666. Of 
upwards of forty publications of this lively and sensible writer, none 
is now generally read except his * Epistolse Ho-Elianse, or Familiar 
Letters,' which were published in four successive instalments, in 1645, 

. 1647, 1650, and 1655. This work is considered to be the earliest 
specimen of epistolary literature in the language. The letters are 
dated from various places at home and abroad ; and though some of 
them are supposed to have been composed from memory while the 
author was in the Fleet Prison, the greater number seem to bear 
sufficient internal evidence of having been written at the times and 
places indicated. His remarks on the leading events and characters 
of the time, as well as the description of what he saw in foreign coun- 
tries, and the reflections with which his Letters abound, contribute 

/5c? render the work one of permanent inlereal and value. 



HOWELL.] ENGLISH LITERATURE 61 

Letter from Venice, 

These wishes come to you from Venice, a place where there is notning wanting 
that heart can yn&h ; renowned Venice, the admired'st city in the world, a city that 
all Europe is bound unto, for she is her greatest rampart against that huge eastern 
tyrant, the Turk, by sea ; else, I believe, he had overrun all Christendom by this time. 
Against him this city hath performed notable exploits, and not only against him, but 
divers others : she hath restored emperors to then* thrones, and popes to their chairs, 
and \>'ith her galleys often preserved St. Peter's bark from sinking : for which, by 
way of reward, one of his successors espoused her to the sea,, which marriage is 
solemnly renewed every year in solemn procession by the Doge and all the Clarissi- 
mos, and a gold ring cast into the sea out of the great galeasse, called the Bucentoro. 
wherein the first ceremony was performed by tlie poix? himself, above three hundred 
years since, and they say it is the self-same vessel stiU, though often put upon the 
careen and trimmed. This made me think on that famous ship at Athens ; nay, I 
fell upon an abstracted notion in philosophy, and a speculation touching the Ijody of 
man, which being in perpetual flux, and a kind of succession of decays, and conse- 
quently requiring, ever and anon, a restoration of what it loseth of the virtue of the 
former aliment, and what was converted after the third concoction into a blood and 
fleshy substance, which, as in all other sublunary bodies that have internal principles 
of heat, useth to transpire, breathe out, and waste away through invisible pores, by 
exercise, motion, and sleep, to make room still for a supply of new nurriture : I fell, 
I say, to consider whether our bodies may be said to be of like condition with this 
Bucentoro, which, though it be reputed still the game vessel, yet I believe there's not 
a foot of that timber remaining which it had upon the fli-st dock, having been, as 
the^ tell me, so often planked and ribbed, caulked and pieced. In like manner, our 
bodies may be said to be daily repaired by new sustenance, which begets new blood, 
and consequently new spirits, new humours, and, I may say, new flesh ; the old by 
continual deperdition and insensible perspirations, evaporating still out of us, and 
giving way to fresh ; so that I make a question whether, oy reason of these perpetual 
reparations and accretions, the body of man may be said to be the same numerical 
body in his old age that he had in his manhood, or the same in his manhood that he 
had in his youth, the same in his youth that he carried about with him in his child- 
hood, or the same in his childhood which he wore first in the womb. I make a 
doubt whether I had the same identical, indi\idually numerical body, when I carried 
a calf-leather satchel to school in Hereford, as when I wore a lambskin hood in Ox- 
ford ; or whether I have the same mass of blood in my veins, and the same flesh, 
now in Venice, which I carried about me three years since, up and down Loudon 
street*, having, in lieu of beer and ale. drunk wine all this while, and fed upon dif- 
ferent viands. Now, the stomach is like a crucible, for it hath a chemical kind of 
virtue to transmute one body into another, to transubstantiate fish and fruits into 
flesh within and about us ; but though it be questionable whether I wear the same 
flesh which is fluxible, I am sure my hair is not the same, for you may remember I 
went flaxen-haired out of England, "but you shall ^d me returned with a very dark 
brown, which I impute not only to the heat and air of those liot countries I have eat 
my bro^ in. but to the quality and difference of food : you will say that hair is but 
an excrementitious thing, and makes not to this purpose ; moreover, methiuks I 
hear thee say that this may be true only in the blood and spirits, or such fluid parts, 
nit in the solid and heterogeneal parts. But I will press no further at this time this 
philosophical notion, which the sight of Bucentoro infused into me. for it hath al- 
ready made me exceed the bounds of a letter, and, I fear me, to trespass too much 
upon your patience ; I leave the further disquisition of this point to your own con- 
templations, who are a far rijier philosopher than I, and have waded deeper into and 
drunk more of Aristotle's well. But, to conclude, though it be doubtful whether I 
carry about me the same body or no in all points that T had in England, I am well as- 
sured I bear still the same mind, and therem I verify the old verse : 

Coclum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt. 

The air. but not the mind, they change, 
Who in outlandish comitries range. 

For, what alterations Boewer happen in tins inictocoftm/vsiVSa^ft\v\J\<i"WQ>^'^>*<ica^^'ais2^ 



62 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

bnlk and body of mine, yon may be confident that nothing shall alter my affections, 
epecially towards you, but that I will persevere still the same — ^the very same 
Venice, 25«/t June, 1621. J. H. 

Letter from Rome. 

I am now come to Rome, and Rome, they say, is every man's country; she -is 
called Communis Patriae for every one that is within the compass of the Latin 
Church finds himself here, as it were, at home, and in his mother's house, in regard 
of interest in religion j which is the cause that for one native there be five strangers 
that sojourn in this city ; and without any distinction or mark of strangeness, they 
come to preferments and offices, both in church and state, according to merit, which 
is more valued and sought after here than anywhere. 

But whereas I expected to have found Rome elevated upon seven hills, I met 
her rather spreading upon a flat, having humbled h<;rself, since she was made a 
Christian, and descended from those hills to CamT)us Martins ; with Trastevere, and 
the suburbs of Saint Peter, she hath yet in compass about fourteen miles, which is 
far short of that vast circuit she had in Claudius his time ; for Vopiscus writes she 
was then of fifty miles* circumference, and she had five hundred thousand free 
citizens in a famous cense that was made, which, allowing but six to every family in 
women, children, and servants, came to three inilhons of souls ; but she is now a 
wilderness in comparison of that number. The pope is grown to be a great temporal 
prince of late years, for the state of the church extends above three hmidred miles 
m length, and two hundred miles in breadth ; it contains Ferrara, Bologna, Romag- 
nia, the Marquisate of Ancona, Umbria, Sabiua, Perugia, with a part of Tuscany, 
the patrimony, Rome herself, and Latium. In these there are above fifty bishoprics ; 
the pope hath also the duchy of Spoleto, and the exarchate of Ravena ; he hath the 
to>\'n of Benevento in the kingdom of Naples, and the country of Venissa, called 
A\ignon, in France. He hath title also good enough to Naples itself ; but, rather 
than offend his champion, the king of Spain, he is contented with a white mule, and 
purse of pistoles about the neck, which he receives every year for a heriot or homage, 
or what you will call it ; he pretends also to be lord-paramount of Sicily, Urbia, 
Parma, and Masseran ; of Norway, Ireland, and England, since King John did 
prostrate our crown at Pandulfo his legate's feet. 

The state of the apostolic see here in Italy lieth 'twixt two seas, the Adriatic 
and the Tyrrhene, and it runs through the midst of Italy, which makes the pope 
powerful to do good or harm, and more capable than any other to be an umpire or 
an enemy. His authority being mixed 'twixt temporal and spiritual, disperseth 
itself into so many members, that a young man may grow old here before he can 
well understand the form of government. 

The consistory of cardinals meet but once a week, and once a week they solemnly 
wait all upon the pope. I am told there are now in Christendom but sixty-eight 
cardinals, whereof there are six cardinal bishops, fifty-one cardinal priests, and 
eleven cardinal deacons. The cardinal bishops attend and sit near the pope, when 
he celebrates any festival ; the cardinal priests assist him at mass ; and the cardinal 
deacons attire hnu. A cardinal is made by a short breve or writ from the pope in 
these words: ^Creamus tesocium reriibus, (niperiorem ducilnis, et fratrem nostrum* 
[* We create thee a companion to kings, superior to dukes, and our brother 'J. If a 
cardinal bishop should be questioned f»r any offence, there must be twenty-fQur 
witnesses produced against him. The bishop of Ostia hath most privilege of any 
other, for he consecrates and installs the pope, and goes always next to liim. Ail 
these cardinals have the repute of princes, and besides other incomes, they have the 
annats of benefices to support their greatness. 

For point of power, the pope is able to put 50,000 men in the field, in case of 
necessity, besides his naval strength in galleys. We read how Paul III. sent CharK-s 
III. twelve thousand foot and five hundnid horse. Pius V. sent a greater aid to 
Charles IX.; and for riches, besides the temporal dominions he hath in all the 
countries before named, the datany or despatching of bulls, the triennial subsidies, 
annats, and other ecclesiastical rights, mount to an unknown sum ; and it is a coiu- 
mon saying here, that as long as thy pope can finger a pen, he can want no pence. 
JV/7S V. jiotwithBtandmg his expenses in buildinji^s, left four millions in the Oastleof 
SaiatAMgeio in less tixsm fire years ; more, 1 beliQ^Q, ttiwiVJcoft Q^i<i©irj XV. wli, for 



HOWELL.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 63 

he bath many nephews; and better is it to be the pope's nephew, than to be a 
favourite to any prince in Christendom. 

Touching the temi)oral government of Rome, and oppidan afEairs, there is a 
preetor and some choice citizens, which sit in the capitol. Among other pieces of 
policy, there is a synagogue of Jews ^rmitted here— ^as in other places of Italy — 
under the pope's nose, but they go with a mark of distinction in their hats ; they 
are tolerated for advantage of commerce, wherein the Jews are wonderful dexterous, 
though most of them be only brokers and Lombardeers ; and they are held to be 
here as the cynic held women to be — malum necessarium. , . , 

Present Rome may be said to be but a monument of Rome past, when she was in 
that flourish that St Austin desired to see her in. She who tamed the world, tamed 
herself at last, and falling under her own weight, fell to be a prey to time ; yet there 
is a providence seems to have a care of her soil ; for though her air be not so good, 
nor her circumjacent soil so kindly as it was, yet she has wherewith to keep life and 
soul together still, b^ her ecclesiastical courts, whiQh is the sole cause of her peo- 
pling now ; so that it may be said, when the pope came to be her head, she was 
reduced to her first principles ; for as a shepherd was founder, so a shenherd is still 
governor and preserver. 

Description of the Wine Countries. 

Greece, with all her islands, Italy, Spain, Prance, one part of four of Germany, 
Hungary, with divers countries thereabouts, all the islands in the Mediterranean and 
Atlantic sea, are wine-countries. 

The most generous wines of Spain grow in the midland parts of the continent, 
and St. Martin bears the bell, which is near the court. Now, as in Spain, so in all 
other wine-countries, one cannot pass a day's journey but he will find a differing race 
of wine ; those kinds that our merchants carry over are those only that grow upon 
the sea-side, as Malagas, Sherries, Tents, and Alicants ; of this last there's httle 
comes over right ; therefore the vintners make Tent — which is a name for all wines 
in Spain, except white — to supply the place of it. There is a gentle kind of white 
wine grows among the mountains of Galicia, but not of body enough to bear the 
sea, called Rabidavia. Portugal affords no wines worth the transporting.* They 
liave an odd stone we call Yef, which they use to throw into their wines, which 
darifieth it, and makes it more lasting. There's also a driak in Spain called Alosha, 
which they drink between meals in hot weather, and 'tis a hydromel made of water 
and honey ; much of them take of our mead. In the court of Spain there's a Ger- 
man or two that brew beer ; but for that ancient drink of Spain which Pliny speaks 
of, composed of flowers, the receipt thereof is utterly lost. 

In Greece there are no wines that have bodies enough to bear the sea for long 
voyages ; some few Muscadels and Malmsies are brought over in small casks : nor is 
there in Italy any wine transported to England but in DOttles, as Verde and others ; 
for the length of the voyage makes them subject, to pricking, and so lose colour by 
reason of iheir delicacy. 

France, participating of the climes of all the countries about her, affords wines of 
quality accordingly ; as, towards the Alps and Italy, she hath a luscious rich M-ine 
called Frontiniac. In the country of Provence, towards the Pyrenees in Lauguedoc, 
there are wines concustable with those of Spain ; one of the prime sort of white 
wines is that of Boaume ; and of clarets, that of Orleans, though it be interdicted to 
wine the king's cellar with it, in rcjspect of the corrosiveness it carries with it. As 
in France, so in all other \^ine*countriep, the white is called the female, and the 
claret or red wine is called the male, because commonly it hath more sulphur, body, 
and heat in't : the wines that our merchants bring over upon the river of Garonne, 
near Bordeaux, in Gascony, which is tlie greatest mart for winces in all France. The 
Scot, because he hath always been a useful confederate to France against England, 
hath (amon^ other privileges) right of pre-emption of first choice or wines in Bor- 
deaux ; he IS also pennitted to carry his ordnance to the very walls of the town, 

* The importation of wines from Portugal dates from tho reign of Charles II. In 1703, 
the Methuen Treaty was entered into with Poriutral, binding England to receive her pro- 
duce at a rate of one-third less than on that of France. Port then became tho most im- 
portant wine for British use. Since tho reduction of duty on French wines » the cou.- 
sumption of pori has greatly declined. 



54 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1689. 

whereas the English are forced to leave them at Blay, a good way distant down 
the river. There is a hard green wine, that grows about Rochelle, and the islands 
thereabouts, which the cunning Hollander sometimes used to fetch, and he hath a 
trick to put a ba^ of herbs, or some other infusions, into it— as he doth brimstone 
in Rhenish — ^to give it a whiter tincture and more sweetness ; then they re-embark 
it for England, where it passeth for Bachrag, and this is called stuming of wines. 
In Normandj[ there's little or no wine at all grows ; therefore the common drink of 
that country is cider, specially in low Normandy. There are also many beer-houses 
in Paris and elsewhere ; but though their barley and water be better than ours or 
that of Germany, and though they have English and Dutch brewers among them, 
yet they cannot make beer m that perfection. 

The prime wines of Germany grow about the Rhine, specially in the Psallts or 
lower Palatinate about Bachrag, which hath its etymology from Bachiara ; for in 
ancient times there was an altar erected there to the honour of Bacchus, in regard 
of the richness of the wines. Here, and all France over, 'tis held a great part of 
incivility for maidens to drink wine until they are married, as it is in Spain for them 
to wear high shoes, or to paint till then. The German mothers, to make their sons 
fall into a hatred of wine, do use, when they are little^ to put some owls* e^gs into a 
cup of Rhenish, and sometimes a little living eel, which twingllns in the wine while 
the child is drinking, so scares him, that many come to abhor and have an antipathy 
to wine all their lives after. From Bachrag the first stock of vines which grow now 
in the grand Canary Island were brought, which, with the heat of the sun and the 
soil, is grown now to that height of perfection, that the wines which they aifford are 
accounted the richest, the most firm, the best bodied, and lastingsL wine, and the 
most defecated from all earthly grossncss, of any other whatsoever ; it hath little or 
no sulphur at all in% and leaves less dregs behind, though one drink it to excess. 
French wines may be said but to pickle meat in the stomachs, but this is the wine 
that digests, and doth not only breed good blood, but it nutrifieth also, being a glu- 
tinous substantia liquor : of this wine, if of any other, may be verified that merry 
induction, * that good wine makes good blood, good blood causeth good humours, 
good humours cause good thoughts, good thoughts bring forth good works, good 
works carry a man to heaven— ergo, good wine carrieth a man to heaven.* If this 
be true, surely more English go to heaven this way than any other j for I think 
there's more Canary brought mto England than to all the world besides. I think 
also, there is a hundred times more drunk under the name of Canary wine than there 
is brought in ; for Sherries and Malc^as, well-mingled, pass for Canaries in most 
taverns, more often tiian Canary itself; else I do not see now 'twere possible for the 
vintner to save by it, or to live by his calling, unless he were permitted sometimes to 
be a brewer. When Sacks and Canaries were brought in first among us, they were 
used to be drunk in aqua-vitse measures, and 'twas neld fit only for those to drink 
who were used to carry their legs in their hands, their eyes upon their noses, and an 
^manac in their bones ; but now they go down every one's throat, both young and 
old, like milk. 

The countries that are freest from excess of drinking are Spain and Italy. If a 
woman can prove her husband to have been thrice drunk, by the ancient laws of 
Spain she may plead for a divorce from him. Nor indeed can the Spaniard, being 
hot-brained, bear much drink, yet I have heard that Goudamar was once too hard 
for the king of Denmark, when he was here in England. But the Spanish soldiers 
that have been in the wars of Flanders will take their cups freely, and the Italians 
also. When I lived t' other side the Alps, a gentieman told me a merry tale of a Li- 
gurian soldier, who had got drunk in Genoa : and Prince Doria going a-horseback to 
walk the round one night, the soldier took his horse by the bridle, and asked what 
the price of him was, for he wanted a horse. The prince, seeing in what humour he 
was, caused him to be taken into a house and put to sleep. In uie morning he sent 
for him, and asked him what he would give for his horse. * Sir,' said the recovered 
soldier, * the merchant that would have bought him last night of your Highness went 
away betimes in the morning.' The boonest companions for drinking are the Greeks 
and Germans ; but the GreeK is the merriest of the two, for he will smg, and dance, 
and kiss his next companions ; but the other will drink as deep as he. If the Greek 
will drink as many glasses as there be letters in his mistress's name, the other will 
drfnir ibe namber 01 hiB yeaxB ; and though he be not apt to break out in singing, 
beia£^not of 00 airy a constitution, yet he >vill drink otteii m\iav»lly & hoalth to every 



HERBERT.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. . 65 

one of these six notes, tOj re, mi, fa, sol, la ; which, with his reason, are all compre- 
hended in this hexameter : 

lit relivet misermn fatom solitosqae labores. 

The fewest draoghts he drinks are three — the first to qnench the thirst past, the sec- 
ond to quench the present thirst, the third to prevent the f utore. I heiurd of a com- 
pany of Low Dutchmen that had drunk so deep, that heginning to stagger, and their 
neads turning round, they thought verily they were at sea, and that the upper cham- 
her where they were was a ship, insomuch tnat, it being foul windy weather, they 
fell to throw the stools and other things out of the window, to lighten the vessel, for 
fear of suffering shipwreck. 

From another of Howell's works, entitled * Instructions for Foreign 
Travel,' published in 1642, and which, like his Letters, contains many 
acute and humorous observations on men and things, we extract the 
following passage on the 

Tales of Travellers. 

Others have a custom to be always relating strange things and Wonders (of the 
humour of Sir John Mandeville), and they usually present them to the hearers 
through multiplying-glasses, and thereby cause the thing to appear far greater than 
it is in itself ; they make mountains of mole-hills, like Cnarenton Bridge echo, which 
doubles the sound nine times. Such a traveller was he that reported the Indian fly 
to be as big as a fox, China birds to be as big as some horses, and their mice to be as 
big as monkeys ; but they have the wit to fetch this far enough off, because the 
hearer may rather believe it than make a voyage so far to disprove it. 

Every one knows the tale of him who reported he had seen a cabbage under 
whose leaves a» regiment of soldiers were sheltered from a shower of rain. Another 
who was no traveller^ yet the wiser man, said he had passed by a place where there 
were 400 brasiers makmg of a caldron— 200 within and 200 without, beating the nails 
in ; the traveller asking for what use that huge caldron was, he told him : * Sir, it was 
to boil your cabbage.' 

Such another was the Spanish traveller, who was so habituated to hyperbolise and 
relate wonders, that he became ridiculous in all companies, so that he was forced at 
last to give order to his man, when he fell into any excess this way, and report any- 
thing improbable, he should pull him by the sleeve. The master falling into his 
wonted hyperboles, spoke of a church in China that was ten thousand ytS^s long ; 
his man, standing behind, and pulling him by the sleeve, made him stop suddenly. 
The company asking : ' I pray, sir, how broad might that church be ?' he replied : 
* But a yard broad ; and you may thank my man for pulliog me by the sleeve, else I 
had made it foursquare for you.' 

SIR THOMAS HEUBERT. 

The only other traveller of much note at this time was Sm Thomas 
Hebbbrt, who, in 1626, set out on a journey to the East, and, after 
his return, published, in 1634, *A Relation of some Years' Travels 
into Africa and the Greater Asia, especially the Territory of the Per- 
sian Monarchy, and some Parts of the Oriental Indies and Isles adja- 
cent.' In the civil wars of England, Herbert sided with the Parlia- 
ment, and, when the king was required to dismiss his own servants, was 
chosen by His Majesty one of the grooms of the bedchamber. Her- 
bert then became much attached to the king, served him with much 
zeal and assiduity, and was on the scaffold when the ill-fated monarch 
was brought to the block. After the Restoration, he was rewarded 
by Charles Jl, with a baronetcy, and 6\)L\iaftcvxx«Ti>-\l ^^-^^Xfc^ ^sss»sS^ 



.66 . CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to i68g. 

time to literary pursuits. In 1678, he wrote * Threnodia CliFolina, 
containing an Historical Account of the Two Last Years of the Life 
. of King Charles L ' Herbert died in 1682. 

SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 

Sir Thomas Browne (1605-1682) was a learned, desultory, but 
' eloquent writer, fond of discussing abstruse and conjectural points, 
such as only a humourist cau seriously concern himself with ; and he 
displays throughout his works the mind rather of an amiable and 
eccentric scholar, than that of a man who takes an interest in ti^e 
great concerns of humanity. Browne was born in London, and after 
being educated at Winchester and Oxford, proceeded to travel, first 
in Ireland, and subsequently in France, Italy, and Holland. He be- 
longed to the medical profession, and having obtained his doctor's 
degree at Leyden, settled finally as a practitioner at Norwich. His 
first work, entitled * Religio Medici* (The Religion of a Physician), 
was published surreptitiously in 1642, and next year a perfect copy 
was issued by himself; it immediately rendered him famous as a 
literary man. In this singular production he gives a minute account 
of his opinions, not only on religion, but on a variety of philosophical 
and fanciful questions, besides affording the reader glimpses into the 
eccentricities of his personal character. The language of the work is 
bold and poetical, adorned with picturesque imagery, but frequently 
pedantic, rugged, and obscure. His next publication, entitled * Pseu- 
dodoxia Epidemica,* or treatise on Vulgar Errors, appeared in 1646. 
It is much more philosophical in its character than the * Religio 
Medici,* and is considered the most solid and useful of his produc- 
tions. The following enumeration of some of the errors which he 
endeavours to dispel, will serve both to shew the kind of subjects he 
was fond of investigating, and to exemplify the notions which pre- 
vailed in the seventeenth century : * That crystal is nothing else but 
ice strongly congealed ; that a diamond is softened or broken by the 
blood of a goat ; that a pot full of ashes will contain as much water 
as it would w ithout them ; that bays preserve from the mischief of 
lightning and thunder; that an elephant hath no joints ; that a wolf, 
first seeing a man, begets a dumbness in him ; that moles are blind ; 
that the flesh of peacocks corrupteth not ; that storks will only live 
in republics and free states ; that the chicken is made out of the yolk 
of the egg; that men weigh heavier dead that alive; that the forbid- 
den fruit was an apple ; that there was no rainbow Ijefore the Flood ; 
that John the Baptist should not die.* He treats also of the ring- 
finger ; saluting upon sneezing; pigmies ; the canicular or dog days; 
the picture of Moses with horns ; the blackness of negroes ; the river 
Nilus; gipsies; Methuselah ; the food of John the Baptist ; the cessa- 
tion of oracles ; Friar Bacon's brazen head that spoke ; the poverty 
i?f Beljsarius ; and the wish of Philoxenus to have the neck of a 
crane. la 1658, Browne published his * Hydrio\aLp\ii&, oi XSxii'Bwxla.l?, 



BROWNE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 67 

a Discourse on the Sepulchral Urns latel^ found in Norfolk,* a work 
not inferior in style to the * Religio Medici.* Here the author's learn- 
ing appears in the details which he gives concerning the modes in 
which the bodies of the dead have been disposed of in different ages 
and countries ; while his reflections on death, oblivion, and immor- 
tality are, for solemnity and grandeur, probably unsurpassed in Eng- 
lish literature. The occasion would hardly have Qalled forth a work 
from any less meditative mind. In a field at Walsiugham were dug 
up between forty and fifty urns, containing the remains of human 
bones, some small brass instruments, boxes, and other fragmentary 
relics. Coals and burnt substances were found near* the same plot of 
ground, and hence it was conjectured that this was the Uatrina^ or 
place of burning, or the spot whereon the Druidical sacrifices were 
made. Furnished with a theme for his philosophic musings. Sir 
Thomas Browne then comments on that vast charnel-house, the earth. 

* Nature,* he says, *hath furnished one part of the earth, and man 
another. The treasures of time lie high, in urns, coins, and monu- 
ments, scarce below the roots of some vegetables. Time hath endless 
rarities, and shows of all varities ; which reveals old things in heaven, 
makes new discoveries in earth, and even earth itself a discovery. 
That great antiquity , Americay lay Imried for a thousand years ; and 
a large part of tie earth is still in the urn unto us. Though, if Adam 
were made out of an extract of the earth, all parts might challenge a 
restitution, yet few have returned their bones far lower than they 
might receive them ; not affecting the graves of giants, under hilly 
and heavy coverings, but content with less than their own depth, 
have wished their bones might lie soft, snd the earth be light upon 
them ; even such as hope to rise again would not be content with 
central interment, or so desperately to place their relics as to lie be- 
yond discovery, and in no way to be seen again ; which happy con- 
trivance hath made communication with our forefathers, and left unto 
our view some parts which they never beheld themselves.* 

He then successively describes and comments upon the different 
modes of interment and decomposition — whether by fire (*some ap- 
prehending a purifying virtue in fire, refining the grosser commixture, 
and firing out the ethereal particles so deeply immersed in it*); by 
making their graves in the air like the Scythians, * who swore by 
wind and sword ; * or in the sea, like some of the nations about Egypt. 
*Men,* he finely remarks, * have lost their reason in nothing so much 
as their religion, wherein stones and clouts make martyrs ; and since 
the religion of one seems madness unto another, to afford an account 
or rational of old rights requires no rigid reader. That they kindled 
the pyre aversely, or turning their face from it, was a handsome sym- 
bol of unwilling ministration; that they washed their bones with wine 
and milk ; that the mother wrapt them in linen and dried them in her 
bosom, the first fostering part, and place of Wievc xvoxm^x^v^^^^N "^fes^ 
they opened their eyea towards heaven, \iefoxft >Xve^ Vvxv^^^ ^^^ ^st'^^ 



58 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1689. 

as the place of their hopes or original, were no improper cere- 
monies. Their last valediction, thrice uttered by the attendants, 
was also very solemn, and somewhat answered by Christians, 
who thought it too little if they threw not the earth thrice upon the 
interred body. That, in strewing their tombs, the Romans affected 
the rose, the Greeks, amaranthus and myrtle; that the funeral 
pyre consisted of sweet fuel, cypress, fir, larix, yew, and trees per- 
petually verdant, lay silent expressions of their surviving hopes ; 
wherein Christians, who deck their coffins with bays, have found a 
more elegant epiblem — for that it seeming dead, will restore itself 
from the rdot, and its dry and exsuccous leaves resume their verdure 
again ; which, if we mistake not, we have also observed in furze. 
Whether the planting of yew in churchyards hold not its original 
from ancient funeral rites, or as an emblem of resurrection, from its 
perpetual verdure, may also admit conjecture.* Among the beauties 
of expression in Browne, may be quoted the following eloquent defini- 
tion : * 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 belief, 
all things are artificial, for nature is the art of God.' This seems the 
essence of true philosophy. To the * Hydriotaphia ' is appended a 
small treatise, called *The Garden of Cyrus; or the Quincuncial 
Lozenge, or Network Plantations of the Ancients, artificially, natur- 
ally, and mystically considered.' This is written in a similar style, 
and displays much of the author's whimsical fancy and propensity to 
laborious trifling. One of the most striking of these fancies has been 
often quoted. Wishing to denote that it is late, or that he was writ- 
ing at a late hour, he says that * the Hyades (the quincunx of heaven) 
run low — that we are unwilling to spin out our awaking thoughts 
into the phantasms of sleep — that to keep our eyes open longer were 
but to act our antipodes— that the huntsmen are up in America — and 
that they are already past their first sleep in Persia.' This is fan- 
tastic, but it is the offspring of genius. Among Browne's posthumous 
pieces is a collection of aphorisms, entitled * Christian Morals,' to 
which Dr. Johnson prefixed a life of the author. He left ulso vari- 
ous essays on antiquarian and other subjects. Sir Thomas Browne 
died in 1682, at the age of seventy-seven. He was of a modest and 
cheerful disposition, retiring in his habits, and sympathised little with 
the pursuits and feelings of the busy multitude. His opinions were 
tinged with the credulity of his age. He believed in witchcraft, ap- 
paritions, and diabolical illusions ; and gravely observes, ^ that to 
those who would attempt to teach animals the art of speech, the dogs 
and cats that usually speak unto witches may afford some encourage- 
ment' 
In the writings of Sir Thomas Browne, the practice of employing 
£fatin words witii English termiDatious is caxrVe^ V> ^iLC^-sa, Thus, 



BROWNE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE 69 

speaking in his * Vulgar Errors ' of the nature of ice, he says : * Ice is 
only water congealed by the frigidity of the air, whereby it acquireth 
no new form, but rather a consistence or determination of its difflu- 
ency, and admitteth not its essence, but condition of fluidity. Neither 
doth there anything properly conglaciate but water, or watery hu- 
midity; for the determination of quicksilver is properly fixation; 
that of milk, coagulation ; and that of oil and unctuous bodies, only 
incrassation.' He uses abundantly such words as dilucidate, ampli- 
ate, mauuduction, indigitate, reminiscential, evocation, farraginous, 
advenient, ariolation, lapifidical. 

Those who are acquainted with Dr. Johnson's style will at once 

Eerceive the resemblance, particularly in respect to the abundance of 
latin words, which it bears to that of Sir Thomas Browne. Indeed, 
there can be no doubt that the author of the * Rambler * acquired 
much of his fondness for pompous and sounding expressions from the 
writings of the learned knight of Norwich. Coleridge, who was so 
well qualified to appreciate the writings of Browne, hj^s numbered him 
among his first favourites. * Rich in various knowledge, exuberant 
in conceptions and conceits ; contemplative, imaginative, often truly 
great and magnificent in his style and diction, though, doubtless, too 
often big, stiff, and hyper-Latinistic. He is a quiet and sublime eii- 
thusiasty with a strong tinge of the fantast : the humorist constantly 
mingling with, and flashing across, the philosopher, as the darting 
colours in shot-silk play upon the main dye.' The same writer has 
pointed out the entireness of Browne in every subject before him. He 
never wanders from it, and he has no occasion to wander ; for what- 
ever happens to be his subject, he metamorphoses all nature into it. 
We may add the complete originality of his mind. He seems like no 
other writer, and his vast and solitary abstractions, stamped with his 
peculiar style, like the hieroglyphic characters of the East, carry the 
imagination back into the primeval ages of the world, or forward into 
the depths of eternity 

OUivion. 

What song the Birens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself 
amons womien, thoogh pazzHn^ qnestions, are not beyond all conjecture. What 
time the persons of these ossoaries 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 
antiqnarianism ; not to be resolved by man, nor easily perhaps by spirits, except we 
consult the provincial guardians, or tutelary observators. Had they made as good 
provision for their names as they have done for their relics, they had not so grossly 
errod 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 cf names, per- 
sons, times, and sexes, have found unto themselves a fruitless continuation, and 
only arise unto late posterity, as emblems of mortal vanities, antidotes against pride, 
vainglory, and maddening vices. Pagan vainglories, which thought the world might 
last for ever, had encouragement for ambition, and finding no Atropos unto the im- 
mortality of their names, were never damped with the necessity of oblivion. Even 
old ambitions had the advantage of ours, in the attempts of their \a.m^lQ^x^fc%,^^^5^^^ 
acting early, and before the probable meridian ot \Vme,\i'a.'^fe \il ^^Kv% "CvKsa J^'"*^^ 
great accompliebment of their designs, whereby the aiit\eii\.\kaxc«»\iwi«ivJct«»a:3 'c*"^^ 



60 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

lasted their monuments and mechanical preservatione. Bat in this latter scene of 
time we canuot expect such mummies uuto our memories, when ambition maj fear 
the prophecy of EHos ; (1) and Charles Y. can never hope to live within two Hetho- 
selahs of Hector. (2) 

And therefore restless inquietude for the diutnmity of our memories unto present 
considerations, seems a vanity almost out of date, and superannuated piece ex folly. 
We cauDOt hope to live so long in our names as some have done in tueir persons ; 
one face of Janus holds no proportion unto the other. It is too late to be ambitious. 
The great mutations of the world are acted, or time may be too short for onr 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 sottin^^ part of time, are providentially taken off from such imaginations ; and 
being necessitated to eye the remaining particle of futurity, are naturauy constituted 
uuto thoughts of the next world, and cannot excusably decline the consideration of 
that duration, which maketh pyramids pillars of snow, and all that is past a 
moment. 

Circles and light lines limit and close all bodies, and the mortal right>lined drcle 
(3) must conclude and shut up all. There is no antidote against the opium of time, 
which temporally considoreth all things. Our fathers find their graves in our short 
memories, and sadly tell us now we may bo buried in our survivors. Gravestones 
tell truth scarce forty years. Generations pass while some trees stand, and old fan>- 
ilies last not three daks. To be read by bare inscriptions like many in Grater, (4) 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 mamr 
luies, are cold consolations imto the students of perpetuity, even by everlai^ing lan- 
guages. 

To be content that times to come should only kn&w there was such a man, not 
caring whether they knew more of him, was a f ri^d ambition in Cardan ; disparag- 
ing his horoscopal inclination and judgment of himself, who cares to snbsii^ like 
Hippocrates' patients, or Achilles' horses in Homer, under naked nominations, with- 
out deserts and noble acts, which are the balsam of our memories, the entelechia and 
soul of our subsistences. To be nameless in worthy deeds exceeds an infamous 
history. The Canaanitish woman lives more happily vtrithout a name than Herodias 
with one. And who had not rather have been the good thief, than Pilate. 

But the iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the 
memorj' of men vnthout distinction to merit or perpetuity : who can but pity the 
founder of the Pyramids. Herostratus lives that burnt the temple of Diana ; ne is 
almost lost that built it : time hath spared the epitaph of Adrian's horse ; coi^oonded 
that of himself. In vain we compute our felicities by the advantage of our cood 
names, since bad have equal durations ; and Thersites is like to live as long as A&r 
meinnou, without the favour of the everlasting register. Who knows whether toe 
])est of men be known ; or whether there be not more remarkable persons forgot 
than any that stand rciincmbered in the known account of time. Without tlie favour 
of the everlasting register, the first man had been as unsown as the last, and Me- 
thupelaii's long life had been his only chronicle. 

Oblivion is not to be hired : the greatest part must be content to be as though 
they had not been ; to be found in the register of God, not in the record of man. 
Twenty-seven names make up the first story before the Flood ; and the recorded 
nam^^s ever since contain not one living century. The number of the dead long ex- 
cecdeth all that shall live. The night of time far surpasseth the day, and who 
knows when was the equinox. Every hour adds unto that current arithmetic which 
scarce stands one moment. And since death must be the Lucina of life ; and even 
pagans could doubt whether thus to live were to die ; since our longest sun sets at 
right d(.»scension9, and makes but winter arches, and therefore it cannot be long be- 
fore we lie down in darkness, and have our light in ashes ; since the brother of <feath 
doily haunts us with dying mementos, and time, that grows old in itself, bids us. 
hope no long duration : diutnmity is a dream, and folly of expectation. 

1 That the world may last but six thousand yeais. 

2 Hector' ti fawo lustiag above two live;* Of ^leihvvae\ab\i,\>ftlotfe^*XlwBtfyMi^tijioe waa 
extant. 3 xhe character of death. 4 Gxuiori Inscrlptiouw AnUquot. 



BROWNE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 61 

Darknesif and light divide the coarse of time, and oblivion shares with memory a 
great part even of our living beings ; we slightly remember our felicities, and the 
smartest strokes of affliction leave out short smart upon us. Sense endureth no ex- 
tremities, and sorrows destroy us or themselves. To weep into stones are fables. 
Afflictions induce callosities ; miseries are slippery, or fall uke snow upon us, which, 
notwithstanding, is no unhappy stupidity. To be ignorant of evils to come, and 
forgetful of evils past, is a merciful provision in nature, whereby we digest the mix- 
ture of our few and evil days ; and our delivered senses not relasping into cutting re- 
membrances, our sorrows are not kept raw by the edge of repetitions. A great part 
of antiquity contented their hopes of subsistenc^r 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 in such variety of beings ; 
and, enjoying the fame of their passed selves, make accumulation of glory unto their 
last durations. Others, rather than be lost in the uncomfortable night of nothing, 
were content to recede into the common 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 consistencies to attend the return of their souls. But all was vanity, feeding 
the wind, and folly. The IWptian mummies, which Cambyses or time hatn spared, 
avarice now consumetb. Mummy is become merchandise ; Mizraim cures wounds, 
and Pharaoh is sold for balsams. . . . 

There is nothing strictly immortal but immortality. Whatever hath no beginning 
may be confident of no end, which is the peculiar of that necessary essence that 
cannot destroy itself, and the highest strain of omnipotency to be so powerfully con- 
stituted as not to suffer even from the power of itself ; all others have a dependent 
being, and within the reach of destruction. But the sufficiency of Christian immor- 
tality frustrates all earthly glory, and the qn«Jity of either state after death makes a 
folly of posthumous memory, ^od, who can only destroy our souls, and hath as- 
sured our resurrection, either of our bodies or names hath directly promised no du- 
ration ; wherein there is so much of chance, that the boldest expectants have found 
unhappy frustration, and to hold long subsistence seems but a scape in obUvion. 
But man is a noble animal, splendid in ashes, and pompous in the grave, solemnis- 
ing nativities and deaths with equal lustre, nor omitting ceremonies of bravery in 
the infamy of his nature. . . . 

Pyramids, arches, obelisks were but the irregularities of vainglory, and wild 
enormities of ancient magnanimity. But the most magnanimous resolution rests in 
the Christian religion, wmch trampleth upon pride, and sits on the neck of ambition, 
humbly pursuing that infallible perpetuity, unto which all others must diminish their 
diameters, and be poorly seen in angles of contingency. 

Pious spirits, who passed their days in raptures of futurity, made little more of 
this world than the world that was before it, while they lay obscure in the chaos of 
pre-ordination and night of their fore-beings. And if any have been so happy as 
truly to understand Christian annihilation, ecstasies, exolution, liquefaction, trans- 
formation, the kiss of the spouse, gustation of God, and ingressiou into the divine 
sliadow, they have already had a handsome anticipation of heaven : the glory of the 
world is surely over, and the earth in ashes unto tnem. 

To subsist in lasting monuments, to live in their productions, to exist in their 
names, and predicament of chimeras, was large satisfaction unto old expectations, 
and made one part of their elyslums. But all this is nothing in the metaphysics of 
true belief. To live indeed is to be again ourselves, which being not only a hope'.but 
an evidence in noble believers, 'tis alfone to lie in St. Innocent's churchyard, as in 
the sands of Egypt ; ready to be anything in the ecstasy of being ever, and as content 
with six foot 88 the moles of Adrianus. 

Light the Shadow of God. 

Light, that makes things seen, makes some things invisible. Were it not for 
darkness, and the shadow of the earth, the noblest part of creation had remained 
unseen, and the stars in heaven as invisible as on tne fourth day, when they werie 
created above the horizon with the sun, and there was not an eye to behold them. 
The greatest mystery of religion is expressed by adumbratioTi, wi^ m \^^a \v:5^'5*j. 
part of Jewish types we find the cherubim shadowing ths iaetc^-»a«X. _V^^ ^*^ ^^ 



63 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

but the shadow of death, and souls departed but the shadows of the livftig. All thines 
fall under this name. The sun itself is but the dark Simulachrum, and tight but the 
shadow of God. 

Study of Ood's Works. 

The world was made to be inhabited by beasts, but studied and contemplated by 
man:; it is the debt of our reason we owe unto Gkid, and the homage we pay for not 
being beasts ; without this, the world is still as though it had not been, or as it wa& 
before the sixth day, when as yet there was not a creature that could conceive or say 
there was a world. The wisdom of God receives small honour from those vulgar 
heads that rudely stare about, and with a gross rusticity admire his works ; those 
highly magnify him whose judicious inquiry into his acts, and deliberate research 
into his creatures, return the duty of a devout and learned admiration. 

• Gliosis. 

I believe that the whole frame of a beast doth perish, and is left in the same state 
after death as before it was materialed into life ; that the souls of men know neither 
contrary or conniption ; that they subsist beyond the body, and outlive death by the 
privilege of their proper natures, and without a miracle ; that the souls of the faithful, 
as they leave earth, take possession of heaven ; that those apparitions and ghosts of 
departed persons are not the wandering souls of men. but the miquiet walks of devils, 
prompting and suggesting us unto mischief, blood, and villainy, instilling and steal- 
mg into our hearts ; that the blessed spirits are not at rest in their graves, but wander 
solicitous of the affairs of the world ; but that those phantasms appear often, and do 
frequent cemeteries, charnel-houses^ and churches, it is because those are the dormi- 
tories of the dead, where the devil, hke an insolent champion, beholds with pride the 
spoils and trophies of his victory over Adam. 

OfMysdf, • 

For my life it is a miracle of thirty years, which to relate were not a history, but 
a piece of poetry, and would sound to common ears like a fable. For the world, I 
count it not an mn, but an hospital, and a place not to live, but to die in. The world 
that I regard is myself ; it is the microcosm of my own frame that I can cast mine 
eye on— for the other, I use it but like my globe, and turn it round sometimes for my 
recreation. . . . The earth is a point not only in respect of the heavens above us, but 
of that heavenly and celestial part within us. That mass of flesh that circumscribes 
me, limits not my mind. That surface that tells the heavens it hath an end, cannot 
I)ersuade me I have any. . . . Whilst I study to find how I am a microcosm, or little 
world, I find myself something more than the great. There is surely a piece of 
divinity in us — something that was before the heavens, and owes no homage unto the 
sun. Nature tells me I am the image of God, as well as Scripture. He that under- 
stands not thus much, hath not his introduction or first lesson, and hath yet to begin 
the alphabet of man. 

ChoHty, 

But to return from philosophy to charity : I hold not so narrow a conceit of this 
virtue as to conceive that to give alms is only to be charitable, or think a piece of 
liberality can comprehend the total of charity. Divinity hath wisely divided the acts 
thereof into many branches, and hath taught us in this narrow way many paths unto 
goodness : as many ways as we may do good, so many ways we may be charitable ; 
there are infirmities, not only of body, but of soul and fortunes, which do require the 
merciful hand of our abilities. I cannot contemn a man for ignorance, but behold 
him with as much pity as I do Lazarus. It is no greater charity to clothe his body, 
than apparel the nakedness of his soul. It is an honourable object to see the reasons 
of other men wear our liveries, and their borrowed understandings do homage to the 
bounty of ours. It is the cheapest way of beneficence, and, like the natural charitv 
of the sun, illuminates another without obscuring itself. To be reserved and caitiff 
in this part of goodness^ is the sordidest piece of covetousness, and more contempti- 
ble than pecumary avance. To this, as calling myself a scholar, I am obliged by the 
datyof my condition : I make not, therefore, my head a grave, but a treasure of 
J^owJedge ; I intend no monopoly, but a community in learning; I study not for my 
orrn sake only, but for theirs that study not for ttLemee\ve%. \ viuvs ^<i 'oaan that 



HALE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. eS 

knows more than myself, bat pitjr them that know less. I instruct no man as an 
exercise of my knowledge, or with an intent ratlier to noorish and keep it alive in 
mine own head, than h%et and propagate it in his ; and in the midst of all my 
endeavoorSt there is hat one thought that dejects me, that my acquired parts must 
perish with myself, nor can be legacied among my honoured friends. I cannot fall 
out^ or contemn a man for an error, or conceive why a difference in opinion should 
divide an affection ; for controversies, disputes, and argumentations, both in philoso- 
phy and in divinity, if they meet with discreet and peaceable natures, do not mMnge 
the laws of charity. 

SIR MATTHEW HALE. 

Sir Matthew Halb (1609-1676) not only acquired some reputa- 
tion as a literary man, but is celebrated as one of the most upright 
judges that ever sat upon the English bench. Both in his studies and 
in the exercise of his profession he displayed uncommon industry, 
which was favoured by his acquaintance with Selden, who esteemed 
him so highly as to appoint him hiS executor. Hale was a judge 
both in the time of the Commonwealth and under Charles II. ; he 
was appointed Chief-baron of the Exchequer in 1660, and Lord Chief- 
juslice of the King's Bench eleven years ^'terwards. In the former 
capacity, one of his most notable and least creditable acts was the 
condemnation of some persons accused of witchcraft at Bury St. 
Edmunds in 1664. Amidst the immorality of Charles II.'s reign, Sir 
Matthew Hale stands out with peculiar lustre as an impartial, incor- 
ruptible, and determined administrator of justice. His works are 
various, but relate chiefly to natural philosophy, divinity, and law. 
His religious opinions were Calvinistic ; and his chief theological 
work, entitled * Contemplations, Moral and Divine,' retains consider- 
able popularity. As a specimen of his ^tyle, we present part of a let- 
ter of advice to his children, written about the year 1662. 

On Conversation. 

Deab Children— I thank God I came well to Fan*ington this day, about five 
o'clock. And as I have some leisure time at my inn, I cannot spend it more to my 
own satisfaction and your benefit, than, by a letter, to give you some good conuscl. 
The subject shall be concerning your speech ; because much of the good or evil that 
befalls persons arises from the well or ill managing of their conversation. When I 
have leisure and opportunity, I shall give you my directions on other subjects. 

Never speak anything for a truth which you know or believe to be false. Lying 
is a ereat sm against God, who gave us a tongue to speak the truth, and not false- 
hood. It is a great offence against humanity itself ; for, where there is no regard to 
truth, there can be no safe society between man and man. And it is an injury to the 
speaker ; for, besides the disgrace which it brings upon him, it occasions so much 
baseness of mind, that he can scarcely tell truth, or avoid lying, even when ho has no 
colour of necessity for it ; and, in time, he comes to such a pass, that as other people 
cannot believe he sptaks truth, so he liimself scarcely knows when he tells a false- 
hood. As you must be careful not to he, so you must avoid coming near it. You 
must not equivocate, nor speak anything positively for which you have no authority 
but report, or conjecture, or opinion. 

Be not too earnest, loud, or violent in your conversation. Silence your opponent 
with reason, not with noise. Be careful not to inten-upt another when he is speak- 
ing : hear him out, and you win understand him the better, «twvk\^^^ V5\A^\» 'gcvsvi.yvKv. 
the i5'»tter answer. Coneider before you speak, capma\Vj v?\\«g. \Xia ^iNx^vQa-aJs. Sa. 5S- 
moment; weigh tboeenseoi what you mean to uUw, aa'\X^i^«i^^^'c«es^.wi^^«^^^ 



64 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to i68g. 

tend to use, that they maybe significant, pertinent, and inoffensive. Inconsiderate 
persons do not think till they speak ; or they speak, and then think. 

Some men excel in husban^y, some in gardening, some in mathematics. In con- 
versation, learn, as near as yon can, where the skill or excellence of any person lies; 
put him npon talking on that subject, observe what he says, keep it in yonr meniMy, 
or commit it to writing. By this means you will glean the worth and knowledge ox 
everybody yon converse with ; and at an easy rate, acquire what may be of use to 
you on many occasions. 

When you are in company with light, vain, impertinent persons, let the observing 
of their failings make you the more cautious botn in your conversation with them 
and in your general behaviour, that you may avoid their errors. 

If a man, whose integrity you do not veiy well know, makes you great and extra- 
ordinary professions, do not give much credit to him. Probably, yon will find that 
he aims at something besides Kindness to joUf and that when he has served his turn, 
or been disappointed, his regard for you will grow cool. 

Beware also of him who natters you, and commends you to your face, or to one 
who, he thinks, will tell you of it ; most probably he has either deceived and abused 
yon. or means to do so. Remember the table of the fox commending the singing of 
the crow, who had something in her mouth which the fox wanted. 

Be careful that you do not commend yourselves. It is a sign that your reputSr 
tion id small and sinking, if your own tongue must praise you ; and ft is fulsome 
and uupleasing to others to hear such commendations. 

Speak well of the absent whoever you have a suitable opportunity. Never speak 
ill of them, or of anybody, unless you are sure they deserve it, and unless it is nec- 
essary for their amendment, or for the safety and oeneflt of otiiers. 

Avoid, in your ordinary, communications, not only oaths, but all imprecations 
and earnest protestations. Forbear scoffing and jesting at the condition or natural 
defects of any person. Such offences leave a deep impression ; and they often cost 
a man dear. 

Never utter any profane speeches, nor make a jest of any Scripture expressions. 
When you pronounce the name of God or of Christ, or repeat any passages or words 
of Holy Scripture, do it with reverence and seriousness, and not lightly, for that is 
* taking the name of God in vain.* If you hear of any unseemly expressions used in 
religious exercises, do not publish them ; endeavour to forget them ; or, if vou menr 
tion them at all, let it be with pity and sorrow, not with derision or reproacn. 

I have little f urfhcr to add at tbis time but my wish and command that you will 
remember the former counsels that I have frequently given you. Begin and end the 
day with private prayer ; read the Scriptures often and seriously ; be attentive to the 
public worship of God. Keep yourselves in some useful employment ; for idleness 
IS the nursery of vain and sinful thoughts, which corrupt the mind, and disorder the 
life. Be kind and loving to one another. Honour your minister. Be not bitter nor 
harsh to my servants. Be respectful to all. Bear my absence patiently and cheer* 
fully. Behave as if I were present among you and saw you. Rememb<Br, you have 
a greater Father than I am, who always, and in all places, beholds you, and knows 
your hearts and thoughts. Study to requite my love and care for yon with dutiful- 
iie«s, observance, and obedience ; and account it an honour that you have an oppor- 
tunity, by your attention, faithfulness, and industry, to pay some part of that debt 
which, by the laws of nature and of gratitude, you owe to me. Be frugal in my 
family, but let there be no want ; and provide conveniently for the poor. 

I pray God to fill yonr hearte with his grace, fear, and love, and to let you see the 
comfort and advantage of serving him ; and that his blessing, and presence, and dir 
rection, may be with you, and over you all. — ^I am your ever loving father. 

JOHN EARLE. 

John Earle (1601-1665), a native of York, bishop of Worcester, 

and afterwards of Salisbury, was a xery successful miscellaneous 

writer. He was a man of great learning and eloquence, extremely 

agreeable and /acetious in conversalion, «iAid ot ^yick excellent moral 

^d religious qualities, that — in ike \augvx«t^ ol'^«\\ftxir-!Cs!ka\^\a& 



HEYLIN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 65 

lived since the death of Kichard Hooker no man * whom God had 
blessed with more innocent wisdom, more sanctified learning, or a 
more pious, peaceable, primitive temper.' He was at one period 
chaplain and tutor to Prince Charles, with whom he went into exile 
during the Citil War, after being deprived of his whole property for 
his aaherence to the royal cause. His principal work is entitled 
* Microcosmography, or a Piece of the World Discovered, in Essays 
and Characters,* published about 1628, and often reprinted ; it is a 
valuable storehouse of particulars illustrative of the manners of the 
times. Among the characters drawn are those of an antiq^iary, a 
carrier, a player, a pot-poet, a university dun, and a clown. We shall 
give the last 

The Claim, 

The plain country fellow is one that manorea bis gronnd well, bnt lets himself lie 
fallow and untilled. He has reason enough to do hid business, and not enough to be 
idle or melancholy. He seems to have the punishment of Nebuchadnezzar, for his 
conversation is among beasts, and his talons none of the shortest, only he eats not 
grass, because he loves not sallets. His hand guides the plough, and tlie ]^lough his 
thooghts, and his ditch and l^d-mark is the very ihound of his meditations. He 
expostulates with his oxen very understandin^Iy, and speaks gee and ree better than 
English. His mind is not much distracted with objects ; but if a good fat cow come 
in ms way, he stands dumb and astonished, and though his haste be never so great, 
will fix here half an hour's contemplation. His habitation is some poor thatched 
roof, distin^shed from his barn by the loopholes that let out smoke, which the rain 
had long l9ince washed thi'ough, bnt for the double ceiling of bacon on the inside, 
which has hung there from his grandsire's time, and is yet to make rashers for pos- 
teri^. His dinner is his other work, for he sweats at it as much as at his labour ; 
he is a terrible fastener on a piece of beef, and you may hope to stave the guard off 
sooner. His religion is a part of his copyhold, which he takes from his landlord, 
and refers it wholly to his discretion : yet if he give him leave, he is a good Chris- 
tian, to his power (that is), comes to church in his best clothes, and sits there with 
his neighbours, where he is capable only of two prayers, for rain and fair weather. 
He apprehends God's blessings only in a good year or a fat pasture, and never praises 
him oat on good ^ound. Sunday he esteems a dav to make merry in, and thinks a 
bagpipje as essential to it as evening-prayer, where he walks very tjolemnlv after ser- 
vice with his hands coupled behind nim, and censures the dancing of his parisli. 
His compliment with his neighbour is a good thump on the back, and his salutation 
commonly some blunt curse. He thinks nothing to be vices bnt pride and ill-hus- 
bandry, from which he will gravely dissnade the youth, and has some thrifty hobnail 
Sroverbs to clout his discourse. He is a niggard all the week, except only market- 
ay^ where, if his com sell well he thinks he may be drunk with a good conscience. 
He is sensible of no calamity but the burning a stack of com, or the overflowing uf 
a meadow, and thinks Noah's flood the greatest plague that ever was, not because it 
drowned the world, but spoiled the grass. For deatn he is never troubled, and if he 
get in bat his harvest before, let it come when it wUl, he cares not. 

PETER HEYLIN. 

Among those clerical adherents of the king, who, like Bishop 
Earle, were despoiled of their goods by the parliament, was Peteu 
Heylin (1600-1662), bom near Oxford. This industrious writer, 
who figures at once as ageo^apher, a divine, a poet, and an historian, 
composed not fewer than thirty-seven publications, of which one of 
the most celebrated is his * Microcoamua, or ^ 'De^c.fv^NAovjL ^1 'Cc^^ 
Great World/ £rst printed in 16S1. Among YA^ o\*\iaT: ^Q>t>ss» ^^' ^ 



66 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1689. 

Help to English History ' (1641), and * History of the Reformation ' 
(1661). As an historian, he displays too much of the spirit of a parti- 
san and bigot, and stands among the defenders of civil and ecclesias- 
tical tyranny. His works, though now almost forgotten, were much 
read in the seventeenth century, and portions of them may still be 
perused with pleasure. After the Restoration, his health suflPered so 
much from disappointment at the neglect of his claims for preferment 
in the church, that he died soon after, in 1662. In a narrative which 
he published of a six weeks' tour to France in 1625, he gives the fol- 
lowing humorous description of 

Tlie French. 

The present French Is nothing but an old Ganl moulded into a new name : as 
rash he is, as head-strong, and as hare-brained. A nation whom you shall win with 
a feather, and lose with a straw ; upon the first sight of him, you shall have him as 
familiar as your sleep, or the necessity of breathing. In one hour's conference you 
may endear him to you, in the second unbutton him, the third pumps him dry of all 
his secrets, and he gives them you as faithfully as if you were his ghostly father, 
and bound to conceal them «ub sigillo confesm'onia [* under the seal ot confession ^J 
— ^when you have learned this, you may lay him aside, ftr he is no longer serviceable. 
If you have any humour in holding him m a further acquaintance — a favour which 
he confesseth, and I believe him, he is unworthy of— himself will make the first 
separation : he hath said over his lesson now unto you, and now must find out some- 
body else to whom to repeat it. Fare him well ; he is a garment whom 1 would be 
loath to wear above two days together, for in that time he will be tlyreadbare. 
Familiare est honiinis omnia sibi remittere [* It is usual for men to overlook their 
own faults^], saith Velleius of all; it holdeth most properly in this people. He is 
very kind-hearted to himself, and thinketh himself as free from wants as he is full ; 
80 much he hath in him the nature of a Chinese, that he thinketh all men blind but 
himself. In this private self-conceitedness he hateth the Spaniard, loveth not the 
English, and contemneth the German ; himself is the only courtier and complete 
gentleman, but it is his own glass which he seeth in. Out of this conceit of his own 
excellency, and partly out of a shallowness of brain, he is very liable to exceptions ; 
the least distaste that can be draweth his swor^, and a minute's pause sheatheth it 
to your hand : afterwards, if you beat him into better manners, he shall take it 
kindly, and cry serviteur. In this one thing they are wonderfully like the devil ; 
meekness or submission makes them insolent ; a little resistance putteth them to 
their heels, or makes them your spaniels. In a word— for I have held him too long 
— he is a walking vanity in a new fashion. 

I will give you now a taste of his table, which you shall find in a measure fur- 
nished — Ispeak not of the peasant — ^but not with so full a manner as with us. Their 
beef they cut out into such chops, that that which goeth there for a laudable dish, 
would be thought here a university commons, new served from the hatch. A loin of 
mutton serves amongst them for three roastings, besides the hazard of making pot- 
tage with the rump. Fowl, also, they have in good plenty, esi)ecially such as the 
king found in Scotland ; to say truth, that which they have is sufficient for nature 
and a friend, were it not for the mistress or the kitchen wench. I have heard much 
fame of the French cooks, but their skill lieth not in the neat handling of beef and 
mutton. They have — as generally have all this nation — good fancies, and are special 
fellows for the making of puflE-pastes, and the ordering of banquets. Their trade is 
not to feed the belly, but the palate. It is now time you were set down, where the 
first thing you must do is to say your grace : private graces are as ordinary there as 
private masses, and from thence I think they learned them. That done, fall to where 
you like best ; they observe no method in their eating, and if you look for a carver, 
j^on may rise fasting. When you are risen, if you can digest the sluttishness of the 
cookery, which ia most abominable at first sight, I dare trust you in a garrison. Fol- 
Jow bim to church, and there he will shewMmaeVtmoatVctft^^owft ana irreverent ; I 
^peaic not of all, but the generaL At a mass, to. Cot^eWsw? QXwcK!a.\si^«ft&,\^8aw 



FELTHAM.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 67 

two French papists, even when the most sacred mj^ery of their faith was celebrat- 
ing, break out into snch a blasphemons and atheistical laughter, that even an Ethnic 
would have hated it ; it was well they were Catholics, otherwise some French hothead 
or other would have sent them laughing to Pluto. 

The French language is, indeM, very sweet and delectable : it is cleared of all 
harshness, by the cutting and leaving out the consonants, which maketh it fall ofE 
the tongue very volubly ; yet, in my opinion, it is rather elegant than copious ; aud, 
therefore, is much troubled for want of words to find out paraphrases. It expressjcth 
very much of itself in the action ; the head, body, and shoulders concur all in the 
pronouncing of it ; and he that hopeth to speak it with a good grace, must have 
something in him of the mimic. It is enriched with a full number of significant 
proverbs, which is a great help to the French humour in scoffing ; and very full of 
courtship, which maketh all the people complimental. The poorest cobbler in the 
village hath his court cringes and his eau h6nite de cour, his court holy-wator, as per- 
fectly as the Prince of Conde. 

French Love of Dancing. 

At my being there, the sport was dancing, an exercise much used by the French, 
who do naturally affect it. Aud it seems this natural inclination is so strong and 
deep rooted, that neither age nor the absence of a smiling fortune can prevail against 
it. For on this dancing green there assembleth not only youth and gentry, but also age 
aud beggary ; old wives, which could not set foot !o ground without a crutch in the 
streets, had here taught their feet to amble ; you would have thought, by the cleanly 
conveyance and carriage of their bodies, that they had been troubled with the sciatica, 
and yet so eager in the sport, as if their dancing-days should never be done. Some 
there was so ragged, that a swift galliard would almost have shaken them into naked- 
ness, and they, also, most violent to have their carcasses directed in a measure. To 
have attempted the staying of them at home, or the persuading of them to work 
when they heard the fiddle, had been a task too unwieldly for Herculos. In this 
mixture of age and condition, did we observe them at their pastime ; the rags boinuj 
so interwoven with the silks, and \vrinkled brows so interchangeably mingled with 
fresh beauties, that you would have thought it to have been a mummery of fortunes ; 
as for those of both sexes which were altogether past action, they had caused them- 
selves to. be carried thither in their chairs, and trod the measures with their eyes,* 

OWEN FEIiTHAM. 

Owen Feltham or Felltham (circa 1610-1678), the author of a 
work of great popularity in its day, entitled * Resolves ; Divine, 
Moral, and Political,' is a writer of whose personal history little is 
known, except that he was of a good Suffolk family, and lived for 
some years in the house of the Earl of Thomond. The first part of 
his * Resolves ' appeared in 1628 ; the second part in 1707, and in two 
years it had reached the twelfth edition. The work consists of es- 
says moral and religious, in the sententious style of that period, and 
was perhaps suggested by Bacon's Essays. Mr. Hallam has cliarac- 
terised Felthamas one of our worst writers in point of style. He is, 
mdeed, often affected and obscure, but his essays have a fine vein of 
moral observation and reflection, with occasional picturesqueness of 
expression. 

• Goldsmith, a century and a quarter after this period, finely illustrated tho same na-" 

tlonal peculiarity : . , , 

Alike all &Ken : dameH of ancient days 

Have led their childrea through tho mirthful maze : 

And the gay grandKire, Hkilled in gestic lore, 

Ea8 frisked beneath the buideiL oi xiaiftaftcox^i • ™^ m_ ^^ 



68 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

Moderation in Grief. 

I like of Solon's course, in confortdnff his constant friend ; when, taking him up 
to the top of a turret, over-looking all uie piled hnildings, he hids him thmk how 
maiiy discontents there had been in those houses shice their framing— how many are, 
and how many will be ; then, if he can, to leave the world's calamities, and mourn 
but for his own. To mourn for none else were hardness and injustice. To mourn 
for all were endless. The best way is to uncontract the brow, and let the world's 
mad ppleen fret, for that we smile in woes. 

Silence was a full answer in that philosopher, that being asked what he thonght 
of human life, said nothing, turned him round, and vanished. 

Limitation of Human Knowledge, 

Leaniing is like a river whose head being far in the land, is at first rising little, 
and easily viewed ; but, still as you go. It gapeth -with a wider bank, not without 
pleasure and delightful winding, while it is on both sides set with trees, and the beau- 
tics of various flowers. But still the further you follow it, the deeper and the broader 
'tis ; till at last, it in waves itself in the nnfathomed ocean ; there you see more water, 
but no shore— no end of that liquid, fluid vastness. In many things we may sound 
Nature, in the shallows of her revelations. We may trace her to her second canses : 
but, beyond them, we meet with nothing but the puzzle of the soul, and the dazzle ' 
of the mind's dim eyes. While w^ speak of things that are, that we may dissect, 
and have power and means to find the causes, there is some pleasure, some certainty. 
But when we come to metaphysics, to long-buried antiqmty, and unto unrevealed 
divinity, we are in a sea, which is deeper than the short reach of the line of man. 
Much may be gained by studious inquisition ; but more will ever rest, which man 
cannot discover. 

Against Readiness to take Offence. 

We make ourselves more injuries than are offered us ; they many times pass for 
wrongs in our own thoughts, that were never meant so by the heart of him that 
speaketh. The apprehension of wrong hurts more than the sharpest part of the 
wrong done. So, hy falsely making ourselves patients of wrong, we become the true 
and first actors. It is not good, in matters of discourtesy, to dive into a man's mind, 
beyond his own comment ; nor to stir upon a doubtful indignity without it, unless 
we have proofs that carry weight and conviction with them. Words do sometimes 
fiy from the tongue that the heart did neither hatch nor harbour. While we think 
to revenge an injury, we many times begin one ; and after that, repent our miscon- 
ceptions. In things that may have a double sense, it is j^ood to think the better was 
intended ; so shall we still both keep our friends and quietness. 

Against Detraction. 

In some dispositions there is such an envious kind of pride, that they cannot en- 
dure that any but themselves should be set forth as excellent ; so that, when they 
hear one justly praised, they will either openly detract from his virtues, or, if those 
virtues be like a clear and shining Ught, eminent and distinguished, so that he can- 
not be safely traduced by the tongue, they will then raise a suspicion against him by 
a mysterious silence, as if there were something remaining to be tola, which over- 
clouded even his brightest glory. Surely, if we considered detraction to proceed, as 
it does, from envy, and to belong only to deficient minds, we should find that to ap- 
plaud virtue would procure us far more honour, than underhandedly seeking to dis- 
{)arage her. The former would shew that we loved what we commended, while the 
atter tells the world we grudge that in others which we want in ourselves. It is one 
of the basest offices of man to make his tongue the lash of the worthy. Even if we 
do know of faults in others, I think we can scarcely shew ourselves more nobly vir- 
tuous than in having the charity to conceal them ; so that we do not flatter or en- 
courage them in their failings. But to relate anything we may know against our 
neighbour, in his absence, is most unbeseeming conduct. And who will not con- 
demn him as a traitor to reputation and society, who tells the private fault of his 
friend to the public and iii-natured world ? When two friends part, they should lock 
np one another's fiecreta, and exchange their keya. T\ve\iOTie«X.TCk3B3a.ViS^x«ttisx \« a 
£2:ave to his neighbour's errors, than in any way expose \3a.em. 



FELTHAM.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 69 

Of Neglect. 

There is the eame difference between diligence and neglect, that there is between 
a ^rden properly cultivated and the slnggard^s field which fell nuder Solomon's view, 
when overgrowTQ with nettles and thorns. The one is clothed with beauty, the other 
is unpleasant and disgusting to the sight. Negligence is the rust of the soul, that 
corrodes through all her best resolutions. What nature made for use, for strength, 
and ornament, neglect alone converts to trouble, weakness, and deformity. We need 
only alt still, and diseases will arise from the mere want of exercise. 

How fair soever the soul may be, yet while connected with our fleshy nature, it 
requires continual care and vigilance to prevent its being soiled and discoloured. 
Take the weeders from the FloraTmm and a very little time will change it to a wil- 
derness, and turn that which was before a recreation for men into a habitation for 
vermin. Our life is a warfare ; and we ought not., while passing through it, to sleep 
without a sentinel, or march without a scout. He who neglects either of these pre- 
cautions exposes himself to surprise, and to becoming a prey to the diligence and 
perseverance of his adversary. 

The moimds of life and virtue, as well as those of pastures, will decay ; and if we 
do not repair them, all the beasts ot the field will enter, and tear up everything good 
which grows within them. With the religious and well-disposed, a slight deviation 
from wisdom's laws will disturb the mind's fair peace. Macarins did j)enance for 
only killing a gnat in anger. like the Jewish touch of things unclean, tnc least mis- 
carriage requires purification. Man is like a watch ; if evening and morning he he 
not wound up witn prayer and circumspection, he is unprofitable and false, or serves 
to mislead. If the iustrument be not truly set, it will be harsh and out of tune ; the 
diapason dies, when every string docs not perform his part. Surely, without a union 
to God, we cannot be secure or well. Can he be happy who from happiness is divid- 
ed 7 To be united to God. we must be influenced oy His goodness, and strive to 
imitate His perfections. Diligence alone is a good patrimony ; but neglect will waste 
the fairest fortune. One preserves and gathers ; the other, like death, is the dissolu- 
tion of all. The industrious bee, by her sedulity in summer, lives on honey alt the 
winter. But the drone is not only cast out from the hive, but beaten and punished. 

No Man can be Good to All, 

I never yet knew any man so bad, but some have thought him honest and afforded 
liim love j nor ever any so good, but some have thought him evil and hated him. Few 
are so stigmatical as that they are not honest to some ; and few, again, are so just, 
as that they seem not to some unequal ; either the ignorance, the envy, or the parti- 
ality of those that judge, do constitute a various man. Nor can a man in himself 
always appear alike to all. In some, nature hath invested a disparity ; in some, re- 
port hath fore-blinded judgment ; and in some, accident is the cause of disposing 
us to love or hate. Or, if not these, the variation of the bodies' humours ; or, per- 
haps, not any of these. The soul is often led by secret motions, and loves she knows 
not why. There are impulsive privacies which urge us to a liking, even against the 
parliamental acts of the two houses, reason and the common sense ; as if there were 
some hidden beauty, of a more magnetic force than all that the eye can see ; and this, 
too, more powerful at one time than another. Undiscovered influences please us 
now, with what we would sometimes contemn. I have come to the same man that 
hath now welcomed me with a free expression of love and courtesy, and another 
time hath left me unsalnt^ at all ; yet, knowing him well, I have been certain of his 
sound affection ; and have found this not an intended neglect, but an indisposed- 
ness, or a mind seriously busied within. Occasion reins the motions of the stirring 
mind. like men that walk in their sleep, we are led about, we neither know whither 
nor how. 

Meditation, 

jjfeditation is the soul's perspective glass ; whereby, in her long remove, she dis- 
oemeth Gk>d, as if he were nearer hand. I persuade no man to make it his whole 
life's business. We have bodies as well as souls ; and even this world, while we are 
in it, ought somewhat to be cared for. As those states are likely to flourish where 
execution follows sound advisements, so is man when. conlerKV^\^\\wi v^^«yy5>\v^«a^^ 
Mction. C'oi2tei2ip7a£/on generates ; action propagatef^. SN\\XiQ.nXX3cv^ ^x«X^NXia\s*^Kt 



70 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to i68g. 

is defective ; without the last, the first is bnt abortive and embryous. St. Bernard 
compares contemplation to Kachel, which was the more fair ; but action to Leah, 
which was the more fruitful. I will neither always be busy and doing, nor ever shut 
up in nothing but thought. Yet that which some would call idleness, I will call the 
sweetest part of my life, and that is, my thinking. 

ABRAHAM COWIiET. 

Cowley (1618-1667) holds a distinguished position among the 
prose writers of this age ; indeed, he has been placed at the head of 
those who cultivated that clear, easy, and natural style which was 
subsequently employed and improved by Dryden, Tillotson, Sir Wil- 
liam Temple, and Addison. Johnson has pointed out as remarkable 
the contrast between the simplicity of Cowley's prose, and the stiff 
formality and affectation of his poetry. * No author,* says he, * ever 
kept his verse and his prose at a greater distance from each other. 
His thoughts are natural, and his style has a smooth and placid 
equability, which has never yet obtained its due commendation. 
Nothincj is far-sought or hard-laboured ; but all is easy without feeble- 
ness, and familiar witliout grossness.' The prose works of Cowley 
extend to but sixty folio pages, and consist of * Essays,* which treat 
of Liberty, Solitude, Obscurity, Agriculture, The Garden, Greatness, 
Avarice, The Dangers of an Honest Man in much Company, The 
Shortness of Life and Uncertainty of Riches, The Danger of Procras- 
tination, Of Myself, &t. He wrote also a ' Discourse, by way of Vis- 
ion, concerning the Gk)vemment of Oliver Cromwell,* and a ' Propo- 
sition for the Advancement of Experimental Philosophy.' In his 
Essays, Cowley's longing for peace and retirement is a frequently re- 
curring theme. But he has also wit and humour, with an occasional 
touch of satire 

OfMy^lf. 

It is a hard and nice subject for a man to write of himself ; it grates his own 
heart to say anything of disparagement, and the reader^s ears to hear anything of 
praise from him. There is no danger from me of offending him in this kmd ; neither 
my mind, nor my body, nor my fortune allow me any materials for that vanity. It is 
sufficient for my own contentment, that they have preserved me from being scan- 
dalous, or remarkable on the defective side. But besides that, I shall here speak of 
myself only in relation to the subject of these precedent discourses, and snail be 
likelier thereby to fall into the contempt, than rise up to the estimation of most peo- 
ple. As far as my memory can return back into my past life, before 1 knew or was 
capable of guessing what the world, or glories, or business of it were, the natural 
ailectious of my soul gave a secret bent of aversion from them, as some plants are 
said to turn away from others, by an antipathy imperceptible to themselves, and in- 
scrutable to man's understanding. Even when I was a very young boy at school, 
instead of running about on holidays, and playing with my fellows, I was wont to 
steal from them, and walk into the fields, either alone with a book, or with some one 
companion, if I could find any of the same temper. I was then, too, so much an 
enemy to constraint, that my masters could never prevail on me, by any persuasions 
or cucouragemonts, to learn, \nthout book, the common rules of grammar, in which 
they dispensed with me alone, because they found I made a shift to do the usual ex- 
ercise out of my own reading and observation. That I was then of the same mind 
as I am now— which, 1 confess, I wonder at myself— may appear at the latter end of 
an ode which I made when I was but thirteen years old, and which was then printed, 
m/iA many other verses. The beginning of it is boyiBh; but of this part which I 
Here set dotvn, if a very Uttie were corrected, I BhoxddYiai^y iiOvi\i^Tsw^\i*3SsiajBSisa^ 



COWLEY.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 71 

This only grant me, that my means may Ue 
Too low for envy, for contempt too high. 

Some honour 1 would have, 
Not from great deeds, hut good alone ; 
Th* unknown are better than ill-known. 

Rumour can ope the grave : 
Acquaintance I would have ; but when 't depends 
Not on the number, but the choice of friends. 

Books should, not business, entertain the light. 
And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night. 

My house a cottage, more 
Than palace, and should fitting be 
For all my use, no luxury. 

My garden painted o*er 
With Nature's handj not Art's ; and pleasures yield, 
Horace might envy m his Sabine field. 

Thus would I double my life's fading space, 
For he that runs it well, twice runs his race. 

And in this t^ue aelight. 
These unbought sports, that happy state, 
I .would not fear nor wish my fate, 

But boldly say each night, 
To-morrow let my sun his beams display. 
Or in clouds hide them ; I have lived to-day. 

Yrra may seo by it I was even then acquainted with the poets, for the Conclusion 
is t&V3n out of Horace ; and perhaps it was the immature and immoderate love of 
them which stamped first, or rather engraved, the characters in me. They were like 
letters cat ui the bark of a young tree, which, with the tree, stiU grow proportiona- 
bly. But how this love came to be produced in me so early, is a hard question ; I 
believe I can tell the particular little chance that filled my hend first with such chimes 
of verse, as have never since left ringing there : for I remember when I began to 
read, and take some pleasure in it, there was wont to he in my mother's parlour— 
I know not by what accident, for she herself never in her life read anv book but of 
devotion — ^but there was wont to he Spender's works ; this I happened to fall upon, 
and was infinitely delighted with the stories of the knights, and giants, and mons- 
ters, and brave houses which I found everywhere there— though my understanding 
had little to do with all this— and by degrees, with the tinkling of the rhyme, and 
dance of the numbers ; so that I think f had read him all over before I was twelve 
years old. With these affections of mind, and my heart wholly set upon letters, I 
went to the univerbity ; but was soon torn from thence by that public violent storm, 
which would suffer nothing to stand where it did, but rooted up every plant, even 
from the princel^r ce jars, to me, the hyssop. Yet I had as good fortune as could 

have befallen me in st,ch a tempest ; for I was cast by it into the family of one of the 
"" " ^ - - . . J' . ... ,^^ j^Q^^ 

my life ; 

^ ^ of great- 

nesSjboth militant anS triumphant— for that was the state then of'theTEnglish and 
the French courts— yet all this was so far from altering my opinion, that it only 
added the confirmation of reason to that which was before but natural inclination. 
I saw plainly all the paint of that kind of life the nearer I came to it ; and that beauty 
which I did not fall in love with, when, for aught I knew, it was real, was not like 
to bewitch or entice me when i saw it was adulterate. I met with several great per- 
sons, whom I liked very well, but could not perceive that any part of their greatness 
was to be liked or desired, no more than I would be glad or content to be in a storm. 
though I saw many ships which rid safely and bravtly in it. A storm would not 
agree with my stomach, if it did with my courage; thoiigh I was in a crowd of 
as good company as coidd be found anywhere, though iwas in business of great 
aoa honourable trust, though I eat at the best table, imd«u^oi«A.l\!ift\ife*\.^$<vc^'«^^ 
eaeee A>r preeeDt enbBietence that ought to be deB\Ted\>^ iMosaiolTKS ws^^^sSass^-iXsv 




72 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [xo 1689. 

banishment and public distresseB ; yet I could not abstain from renewing my old 
schoolboy's wish, in a copy of verses to the same effect: 

Well, then, I now do plainlr see 

This busy world and I shall ne*er agree, &c 

And I never then proposed to myself any other advantage from his majesty's happy 
restoration, but the getting into some moderately convenient retreat in the count^, 
which I thought in that case I might easily have compassed, as well as some others, 
who, with no greater probabilities or pretences, have arrived to extraordinary for- 
tunes. But I had before written a shrewd prophecy against myself, and I think 
Apollo inspired me in the truth, though not in the elegance of it : 

Thou neither great at court nor in the war, 

Kor at the Exchange shalt be, nor at the wrangling bar ; 

Content thyself with the small barren praise 

Wtiich thy neglected verse does raise, &c. 

However, by the failing of the forces which I had expected, I did not quit the de- 
sign which I had resolved on ; I cast myself into it a corpus perditwrn^ without 
making capitulations, or taking counsel of fortune. But God laughs at man, who 
saya to his soul, ' Take thy ease :' I met presently not only with many little incum- 
brances and impediments, but with so much sickness — ^a new misfortune to me — ^as 
would have spoiled the happiness of an emperor as well as mine. Yet I do neither 
repent nor alter my course ; Non ego perfidum dixi aacramenturrv (I have not falsely 
sworn]. Nothing shall separate me from a mistress which I have loved so long, and 
have now at last married ; though she neither has brought me a rich portion, nor 
lived yet so quietly with me as I hoped from her. 

Nee vo8f duldssi'ma mundi 
Nomina, vos mvscB^ lihertas, otia, librt, 
Hortiquef aylvceque, anima remaneTUe relinquam. 

Nor by me e*er shall you. 
You of all names the sweetest and the best, 
Tou muses, books, and liberty, and rest ; 
Tou gardens, fields, and woods forsaken be, 
As long as life itself forsakes not me. 

The Spring-tides of Pvhlic Affairs, 

I have often observed, with all submission and resignation of spirit tO the inscm- 
tUble mysteries of Eternal Providence, that when the fulness ahd maturity of time 
is come that {produces the great confusions and changes in the World, it usually pleases 
God to make it appear, by the manner of them, that they are not the effects of human 
force or policy, but of the divine justice and predestination ; and, though we see d 
man, like that which we call Jack of the Clock-house, striking as it were, the hour 
of that fulness of time, yet our reason must heeds be convinced that his hand is 
moved by some secret, and, to us who stand without, invisible direction. And the 
stream of the current is then so violent, that the strongest men in the world cannot 
draw up against it ; and none are so weak but they may sail down with it. These are 
the spnng-tldes of public affair, which we see often happen, but seek in vain to dis- 
cover any certain causes. And one man then, by maliciously opening all the sluices 
that he can come at, can never be the sole author of all this — ^though he may be as 
guilty as if he really were, by intending and imagining to be so — ^but it is God that 
breaks up the flood-gates of so general a deluge, and all the art then, and industry of 
mankind, is not sufScicnt to raise up dikes and ramparts against it. 

The Antiquity of Agriculture, 

The three first men in the world were a gardener, a ploughman, and a grazier ; and 

if any man object that the second of these was a murtherer, I desire he would con- 

jedder that, as soon as he was so, he quitted our profession and turned builder. It is 

/i?r tbiB reason, J sappoBe, that Ecclesiasticus forbids us to hate husbandry; *be- 

^offff, 'aajB he, *the Moat High has created it.' "We Yrece 8^ XiQini \o >2tA& «3^ «sul 



CO\O^LEY.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. . 73 

tftoght by Nature to noiirifih onr bodies by the same earth out of which they were 
made, and to which they must return, and pay at last for their sustenance. Behold 
the ori^al and primitive nobility of all these great persons, who are too proud now, 
not oiuy to till the ground, but almost to txead upon it ! We mav talk what we 

E lease of lilies and lions rampant, and spread eaf^Ies in fields d^or or a? argent ; but if 
eraldry were guided by reason, a plough in a field arable would be the most noble 
and ancient arms. 

Of Obscurity, 

What a brave privilege is it to be free from all contentions, from all envying or 
being envied, from receiving and from paying all kind of ceremonies I It is, in my 
mind, a y&ry delightful pastime for two good and agreeable friends to travel up and 
down together, in places where they are by nobody known, nor know anybody. It 
was the case of JSneas and his Achates, when they walked invisibly about the fields 
and streets of Carthage. Venus herself 

A veil of thickened air arpund them cast, 

That none might know, or see them, as they passed. 

ViBG. 1 ^n. 

The common story of Demosthenes's confession, that he had taken great pleasure in 
hearing of a tanker-woman say, as he passed : * This is that Demosthenes,* is won- 
derfully ridiculous from so solid an orator. I myself have often met with that 
temptation lo vanity, if it were any ; but am so far from finding it any pleasure, that 
it only makes me run faster from the place, till I get, as it were, out of sight-shot. 
Democritus relates, and in such a manner as if he gloried in the good fortune and 
commodity of it, that, when he came to Athens, nobod;^ there did so much as take 
notice of him ; and Epicurus lived there very well, that is, lay hid many years in his 
gardens, so famous since that time, with his friend Metrodorus : after whose death, 
making, in one of his letters, a kind commemoration of the happiness which they 
t>vo h^ enjoyed together, he adds at last that he thought it no disparagement to 
those great felicities of their life, that, in the midst of the most talked-of and talking 
countiy in the world, they had lived so long, not only without fame, but almost with- 
out bemg heard of ;~and yet, within a very few years afterward, there were no two 
nam(» of men more known or more generally celebrated. If we engage into a large 
acquaintance and various familiarities, we set open our gates to the invaders of most 
of our time ; we expose our life to a quotidian ague of frigid impertinences, which 
would make a wise man tremble to think of. Now, as for being known much by 
sight, and pointed at, I cannot comprehend the honour that lies in that ; whatsoever 
it oe, every mountebank has it more than the best doctor, and the hangman more 
than the lord chief-justice of a city. Every creature has it, both of nature and art, if 
it be anyways extraordinary. It was as often said : * This is that Bucephalus,* or, 
* This is that Incitatus,* when they were led prancing through the streets, as, ' This 
islihat Alexander.' or, *Thi8 is that Domftian;' and trmy, for the latter, I take 
Incitatus to have been a much more honourable beast than his master, and more 
deserving the consulship than he the empire. 

I love and commend a true good fame, because it is the shadow of virtue ; not 
that it doth any good to the oody which it accompanies, but it is an efficacious 
shadow, and like that of St. Peter, cures the diseases of others. The best kind of 
glory, no doubt, is that which is refiected from honesty, such as was the gloiy of Cato 
and Aristides ; but it was harmful to them both, and is seldom beneficial to any man 
whilst he lives ; what it is tP him after his death I cannot say, because I love not 
philosophy merely notional and conjectural, and no man who has made the experi- 
ment has been so kind as to come back to inform us. Upon the whole matter, I 
account a person who has a moderate mind and fortune, and lives in the conversa- 
tion of two or three agreeable friends, ¥dtii little commerce in the world besides, 
who is esteemed well enough by his few neighbours that know him, and is truly 
irreinroachable by anybody ; and so, after a heuthf ul quiet life, before the great in- 
conveniences of old age, goes more silentiy out of it than he came in — ^for 1 would 
not have him so much as cry in the exit ; this innocent deceiver of the world, as 
Horace calls him, this inutci persona, I take to have been mote \\a.^'^'^ \sv V&&'^»\.'Cci»xv 
tile gte&teat actors th&t M the stage with show and noiee \ liK^, «s^\i\X2k»xv^:a<s^^>^ 



74 ' CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1689. 

himself, ytho asked, with his last breath, whether he had not played his farce veiy 
well. 

T7i6 Danger of Procrastination. 

1 am glad that yon approve and applaud my design of withdrawing myself from 
all tnmnlt and business of the world, and consecrating the little rest of my time to 
those studies which nature so motherly inclined me, and from which fortune, like a 
Btei)-mother, has so lon^ detained me. But, nevertheless, you say (which but is 
cerugo mera, a rust which spoils the good metal it grows upon) — but you 
say you would advise me not to precipitate that resolution, but to stay a while longer 
with patience and complaisance, till I had gotten such an estate as might afford me — 
according to the saying of that person, whom you and I love very much, and would 
believe as soon as another man — cum dignitate otiufm. This were excellent advice to 
Joshua, who could bid the sun stay too. But there's no fooling with life, when it is 
once turned beyond forty : the seeking for a fortune then is but a desperate after- 
game ; 'tis a hundred to one if a man fling two sixes, and recover all ; especially if 
his hand be no luckier than mine. 

There is some help for all the defects of fortune; for if a man cannot attain to 
the length of his wishes, he may have his remedy by cutting of them shorter. 
Epicurus Avrites a letter to Idomeneus — who was then a very powerful, wealthy, and, 
it seems, a bountiful person — to recommend to him, who had made so many rich, 
. one Pythocles, a friend of his, whom he desired might be made a rich man too ; * but 
I entreat you that you would not do it just the same way as you have done to many 
less deserving persons ; but iu the most gentlemanly manner of obliging him, which 
is, noj. to add anything to his estate, but to take something from his desires.' 

The sura of this is, that for the certain hopes of some conveniences, we ought not 
to defer the execution of a work that is necessary ; especially when the use of those 
things which we would stay for may otherwise be supplied, but the loss of time never 
recovered ; nay, farther yet, though we were sure to obtain all that we had a mind to, 
though we were sure of getting never so much by continuing the ^ame, yet when the 
light of life is so near going out, and ought to be so precious, le jeu ne vaut pcis la 
cfiandellBf the play is not worth the expense of the candle ; after having been long 
tossed in a tempest, if our masts be standing, and we have still sail and 
tackling enough to carry us to port, it is no matter for the'want of streamers 
and topgallants. A gentleman, in our late civil wars, when his quarters were 
beaten up by the enemy, was taken prisoner, and lost his life afterwards only by 
staying to put on a band and adjust his periwig : he would escape like a person of 
of quality, or not at all, and died the noole martyr of ceremony and gentility. 

Vision of Oliver CromtoelL 

I was interrupted by a strange and terrible apparition ; for there appeared to me 
—arising out of the earth as I conceived— ^;he 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 with 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 
raittiiken, it was the battle of Naseby that was drawn upon his breast. His eyes 
were like burning bra^ ; and there were three crowns of the same metal, as I 
guessed, and that looked as red-hot, too, upon his head. He held in his right hand 
a sword that was yet bloody, and nevertheless, the motto of it was Pax quceritur 
hello [' We war for peace 'J ; and in his left hand a thick book, upon the back of 
which was written, in letters of gold. Acts, Ordinances, Protestations, Covenants, 
Engagements, Declarations, Remonstrances, «fcc. 

Though this sudden, unusual, and dreadful object might have quelled a greater 
courage than mine, yet so it pleased God— rfor there is nothing bolder than a man in 
a vision— that I was not at all daunted, but asked him resolutely and briefly : * What 
art thou ?' And he said : ' I am called the North-west Principality, his highness the 
Protector of the Commonwealth of England, Scotland, •and Ireland, and the domin- 
ions belonging thereunto ; for I am that Angel to whom the Almighty has committed 
^27e government of those three kingdoms, which thou seest from this place.' And I 
answered and said : *If it he so, sir, it seems to me that for almost these twenty 
j-esre past your higbneaa baa been absent from your c\iarg,e*, toe wo\. otsJl-^ \i any 



WALTON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 75 

• 

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 have enter^ at all into them, or at least have returned back 
ere we bad absolutely lost our way ; but, in^ad of your highness, ^^e have had since 
such a protector as was his predecessor Kichard lU. to the king, his nephew ; for 
he presenthr slew 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 oth( r 
slew an innocent, and this man did but murder a murderer. Such a protector we haye 
had as we would have been glad to have changed for an enemy, and rather received a 
constant Turk than this every 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 he protects him from, could do more ? Such a protector ' And. 

as I was proceeding, methoaght his highness began to put on a displeased and 
threatening countenance, as men use to do when their dearest friends happen 
to be traduced in their company; which gave me the first rise of jealousy agamst 
him ; for I did not believe that OromweU, among all his foreign correspondences, 
had ever held any with angels. However, I was not hardened enough yet to 
venture a quarrel with him then; and therefore — as if I had spoken to the 
Protector himself in Whitehall— I desired him ' that his highness would please 
to pardon me, if I had unwittingly spoken anything to the disparagement of a person 
whose relations to his highness I had not the honour to know.' At ^'liich he 
told me, ' that .he had no other concernment for his late highness, than as he took 
him 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 t)f his reputation, since 
I now account myself, as it were, a naturalised English angel, by havrng had so long 
the management of the affairs of that country.— And pray, countryman,' baid 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 extraordinary 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 
sncceed in, so improbable a design as the destruction of one of the most ancient and 
most solidly founded monarchies upon the earth 7 that he should have the power or 
boldness to put his prince and master to an open and infamous death ; to bauieh 
that numerous and strongly allied family : to do all this under the name and wages 
of a parliament; 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 unheard-of monster out 
of their ashes ; to stifle that in the very infancy, and set up himself above all things 
that ever were called sovereign in England ; to oppress all his enemies by arms, and 
all his friends afterwards by artifice ; to serve au parties patiently for a while, and 
to command them victoriously at last ; to overrun each comer of the three nations, 
and overcome with equal facility both the riches 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 call together parliaments with a word of iiis pen, and scatter 
them again with the breath of his mouth ; to be humbly and daily petitioned, that 
he woiua please to be hired, at the rate of two millions a year, to be the master 
of those wno had hired him before to be their servant ; to have the estates and lives 
of three kingdoms as much at his disposal as was the little inheritance of his father, 
and to be as noble and liberal in the spending of them ; and, lastly— for there is no 
end of all the particulars of his glory — to bequeath all this with one word to his pos- 
terity ; to die with peace at home, and triumph abroad ; to be buried among kings, 
and with more than regal solemnity ; and to leave a name behind him not to oe 
extnaguished but with the whole world ; which, as it is now too little for his praises, 
so.misfat 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.' 

IZAAK WALTON. 

One of the most interesting and popular of our earljr writers was 
IzAAK Walton (1593-1683), an English worthy of the simijle avvtvo^xA 
cast, who retained in the heart of Londoii, asi§L Vxi XJaa tk\.^\» c»1 O^s^rs^ 



76 . CYCLOPiEDlA OF [to 1689. 

and successful application to business, an unworldly simplicity of 
character, and an iuextinsuishable fondness for country scenes, pas- 
times, and recreations. He had also a power of natural description 
and lively dialogue that has rarely been surpassed. His * Complete 
Angler ' is a rich storehouse of rural pictures and pastoral poetry, of 
quaint but wise thoughts, of agreeable and humorous fancies, and of 
truly apostolic purity and benevolence. The slight tincture of super- 
stitious credulity and innocent eccentricity which pervades his works, 
gives them a finer zest, and original flavour, without detracting from 
their higher power to soothe, instruct, and delight. Walton was 
born in the town of Stafford. Of his education or his early years 
nothing is related ; but according to Anthony & Wood, he acquired a 
moderate competency, by following in London the occupation of a 
sempsier or linendraper. He had a shop in the Royal Burse in Corn- 
hill, which was seven feet and a half long, and five wide. Lord Bacon 
has a punning remark, that a small room helps a studious man to 
condense his thoughts, and certainly Izaak Walton was not destitute 
of this intellectual succedaneum. He had a more pleasant and spa- 
cious study, however, in the fields and rivers in the neighbourhood 
of London, * in such days and times as he laid aside business, and 
went a-fishing with honest Nat. and R. Roe.' From the Royal Burse, 
Izaak — for so he always wrote his name — removed to Fleet Street, 
where he had one half of a shop^ the other half being occupied by a 
hosier. About the year 1632, he was married to Anne, the daughter 
of Thomas Ken, of FumivaFs Inn, and sister of Dr. Ken, Bishop of 
Bath and Wells. This respectable connection probably introduced 
Walton to the acquaintance of the eminent men and dignitaries of the 
church, at whose houses he spent much of his time in his latter years, 
especially afler the death of his wife, * a woman of remarkable pru- 
dence, and of the primitive piety.* 

Walton retired from business in 1643, and lived forty years afterwards 
in uninterrupted leisure. His first work was a ' Life of Dr. Donne ' pre- 
fixed to a collection of the doctor's sermons, published in 1640. Sir 
Henry Wotton was to have written Donne's life,Walton merely collect- 
ing the materials ; but Su* Henry dying before he had begun to execute 
the task, Izaak * reviewed his forsaken collections, and resolved that the 
world should see the best plain picture of the author's life that his artless 
pencil, guided by the hand of truth, could present. The memoir is 
circumstantial and deeply interesting. He next wrote a * Life of Sir 
Henry Wotton' (1651), and edited his literary remains. In 1652 h6 
published a small work, a translation by Sir John Skefflngton, from 
the Spanish, * The Heroe of Lorenzo,' to which he prefixed a short 
afiectionate notice of his deceased friend, the translator, who had 
died the previous year. His principal production, * The Complete 
Angler, or Contemplative Man's Recreation,* appeared in 1653 ; and 
ybur other editions of it were called fot dxmxi^ \i\& Ufe — ^namely, in 
i6ffS, 1664, 1668, and 1676. Walton a\ao ^mo\fe ^ 'XisSfc ^l^x^easst^ 



WALTON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 77 

Hooker' (1662), a * Life of George Herbert' (1670), and a * Life of 
Bishop Sanderson' (1678). They are all exquisitely simple, touch- 
ing, and impressire. Though no man seems to have possessed his 
soul more patiently during the troublous times in which he lived, the 
venerable Izaak was tempted, in 1680, to write and publish anony- 
mously two letters on the * Distempers of the Times,' * written from a 
quiet and conformable citizen of London to two busie and factious 
shopkeepers in Coventry.' In 1683, when in his ninetieth year, he 
published the * Thealma and Clearchus' of Chalkhill, which we have 
previously noticed ; and he died at Winchester on the 15th Decem- 
ber of the same year, while residing with his son-in-law, Dr. Hawkins, 
prebendary of Winchester Cathedral. 

The * Complete Angler ' of Walton is a production unique in our 
literature. In writing it, he says he made ' a recreation of a recrea- 
tion,' and, by mingling innocent mirth and pleasant scenes with the 
graver parts of his discourse, he designed it as a picture of his own 
disposition. The work is, indeed, essentially autobiographical in 
spirit and execution. A hunter and falconer are introduced as parties 
in the dialogues, but they serve only as foils to the venerable and 
complacent Piscator, in whom the interest of the piece wholly cen- 
tres. The opening scene lets us at once into the genial character of 
the work and its hero. The three interlocutors meet accidentally on 
Tottenham Hill, near London, on a * fine fresh May morning.' They 
are open and cheerful as the day. Piscator is going towards Ware, 
Venator to meet a pack of other dogs upon Am well Hill, and Auceps 
to Theobald's, to see a hawk that a friend there metos or moults for 
him. Piscator willingly joins with the lover of hounds in helping to des- 
troy otters, for he * hates them perfectly, because they love fish so well 
and destroy so much.' The sportsmen proceed onwards together, and 
they agree each to ' commend his recreation ' or favourite pursuit. 
Piscator alludes to the virtue and contentedness of anglers, but gives 
the precedence to his companions in discoursing on their different 
crafts. The lover of hawking is eloquent on the virtues of air, the 
element that he trades in, and on its various winged inhabitants. He 
describes the falcon 'making her highway over the steepest moun- 
tains and deepest rivers, and, in her glorious career, looking with 
contempt upon those high steeples and magnificent palaces which we 
adore and wonder at.' The singing birds, * those little nimble musi- 
cians of the air, that warble forth their curious ditties with which 
nature hath furnished them to the shame of art,* are descanted upon 
• with pure poetical feeling and expression. 

The Singing Birds. 

At first the lark, when she moans to rejoice, to cheer herself and those that hear 
her, she then quits the earth, and sings as she ascends higher into the air ; and having 
«Qded her heavenly empJoyment, grows then mute and BMi,\o\XvY\3^^^"Kv\i^V^'«*Rjes^ 
to the dall earth, which ahe would not touch but tor iiecftae.\\,^ . ^ ., j. 

How do the blackbird and throssel (song-thrush^, Y^\l\i ItieVc m"fc\ciftiCiX»^^NRft&0«^^ 



78 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1689. 

welcome to the cheerful spring, and in their fixed mouths warble forth sach 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 (skylark), the titlark, the little linnet, ana the honest robin, that loves man- 
kind both alive and dead. 

But the nightingale, another of my airy creat&res, breathes such sweet loud music 
out of her little instrumental throat that it might make mankind to think miracles 
are not ceased. He that at midnight, when the very labourer sleeps securely, should 
hear, as I have very often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural rising and 
falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might well be lifted above earth, 
and say : ' Lord, what music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou 
affordest bad men such music on earth I ' 

The lover of hunting next takes his turn, and ccmments, though 
with less force — for here Walton himself must have been 2X fault — on 
the perfection of smell possessed by the hound, and tbe joyous music 
made by a pack of dogs in full chase. Piscator then unfolds his long- 
treasui'ed and highly prized lore on the virtues of water — sea, river, 
and brook; and on the antiquity and excellence of fishing and ang- 
ling. The latter, he says, is * sovneuihat like poetry : men must be horn 
soJ* He quotes Scripture, and numbers the prophets who allude to 
fishing. -He also remembers with pride tliat four of the twelve 
apostles were fishermen, and that our Saviour never reproved them 
for their employment or calling, as he did the Scribes and money- 
changers ; for * He found that the hearts of such men, by nature, were 
fitted for contemplation and quietness ; men of mild, and sweet, and 
peaceable spirits, as, indeed, most anglers are.^ The idea of angling 
seems to have unconsciously mixed itself with all Izaak Walton's 
speculations on goodness, loyalty, and veneration. Even worldly 
enjoyment he appears to have grudged to any less gifted mortals. A 
finely dressed dish of fish, or a rich drink, he pronounces too good 
for any but anglers or very honest men ; and his parting benediction 
is upon * all that are lovers of virtue, and dare trust in Providence, 
and be quiet, and go a-angling.' The last condition would, in his 
ordinary mood, when not pecuUarly solemn or earnest, be quite 
equivalent to any of the others. The rhetoric and knowledge of 
Piscator at length fairly overcome Venator, and make him a 
convert to the superiority of angling, as compared with his more 
savage pursuit of hunting. He agrees to accompany Piscator in 
his sport, adopts him as his master and guide, and" in time be- 
comes initiated into the practice and mysteries of the gentle craft. 
The angling excursions of the pair give occasion to the practical 
lessons and descriptions in the book, and elicit what is its greatest 
charm, the minute and vivid painting of rural objects, the display of 
character, both in action and conversation, the flow of generous sen- 
timent and feeling, and the associated recollections of picturesque 
poetry, natural piety, and examples and precepts of morality. Add 
to this the easy elegance of Walton's style, sprinkled, but not ob- 
scured, by the antiquated idiom and expiesaiou o^\i\a»t\me8^and clear 
i^d aparkling sls one of his own favoxinte axromiet sM^^tos*. '^^x. ^sv 



WALTON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 79 

hour of the fishing day is wasted or unimproved. The master and 
scholar rise with the early dawn, and after four hours' fishing, break- 
fast at nine under a sycamore that shades them from the sun's heat. 
Old Piscator reads his admiring scholar a lesson on fly-fishing, and 
they sit and discourse while a * smoking shower' passes oflT, freshen- 
ing all the meadow and the flowers. 

And now. scholar, I think it will be time to repair to oar allele rods, which we 
left in the water to fish for themselves ; and yon shall choose which shall be yonrs ; 
and it is an even lay, one of them catches. 

And. let me tell you, this kind of fishing with a dead rod, and laying night hooks, 
are like putting money to use ; for they both work for their owners when they do 
nothing but sleep, or eat, or rejoice, as yon know we have done this last hour, and 
sat as quietly and as free from cares under this sycamore, as Virgil's Tityrus and his 
Melibceus did under their broad beech-tree. No life, my honest scholar, no life so 
happy and so pleasant as the life of a well-governed angler ; for when the lawyer is 
swallowed up with business, and the statesman is preventing or contriving plots, 
then we sit on cowslip banks, hear the birds sing, and possess ourselves in as much 

?uietness as these silent silver streams which we now see glide so quietly by us. 
ndced, my good scholar, we may say of angling as Dr. Botefrr said of strawberries, 
' Doubtless «od could have made a better berry, bnt donbtless God never did :' and 
so if I mi^ht be judge, * God never did make a mnr ~ calm, quiet, innocent recreation 
than angling.' 

I'll tell yon, scholar, when I sat last on this primrose bank, and looked down 
these meadows, I thought of them a»<!harle8 the Bmperor did of the city of Flor- 
ence, ' that they were too pleasant to be looked on bnt only on holidays.' As I then 
sat on this very grass, I tnmed my present thoughts into verse : 'twas a wish which 
I'll repeat to you : 

The Angler's Wis/i 

I in these flowery meads would be ; 
These crystal streams should solace me ; 
To whose harmonious bubbling noise, 
I with my angle would rejoice ; 

Sit here^ and see the turtle-dove 

Court his chaste mate to acts of love ; ^ 

Or on that bank feel the west wind 
Breathe health and plenty : please my mind. 
To see sweet dew-drops Kiss these flowers. 
And then washed off by April showers ; 

Here, hear my Kenna sing a song ; 

There sec a blackbird feed her young, 

Or a laverock build her nest : 

Here give my wearjr spirits rest, 

And raise my low-pitched thoughts above 

Earth, or what poor mortals love : 

Thus, free from lawsuits and the noise 

Of Princes' courts, I wotlld rejoice. 

Or with my Bryan (1) and a book. 
Loiter long days near Shawf ord brook ; 
There sit by him and eat my meat. 
There sec the sun both rise and set. 
There bid good-morning to next day. 
There mcoltate my time away. 

And angle on ; and beg to have 

A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 

1 Supposed to be the nam« otVAa do\&' 



80 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

The master and scholar, at another time, sit under a honeysuckle- 
hedge while a shower falls, and encounter a handsome milkmaid and 
her mother, who sing to them * that smooth song which was made 
by Kit Mario w' 

Come live with me, and be my love ; 

and the answer to it^ ' which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his 
younger days' (see cmte). At night, when sport and instruction 
are over, they repair to the little alehouse, well known to Pisca- 
tor, where they find a * cleanly room, lavender in the windows, and 
twenty ballads stuck about the wall.' The hostess is cleanly, hand- 
some, and civil, and knows how to dress the fish after Piscator's own 
fashion — he is learned in cookery — and having made a supper of their 
gallant trout, they drink their ale, tell tales, sing ballads, or join with 
a brother-angler who drops in, in a merry catch, till sleep overpowers 
them, and they retire to the hostess' two beds, * the linen of which 
looks white and smells of lavender.' All this humble but happy 
painting is fresh as nature h3rself, and instinct with moral feeling 
and beauty. The only speck upon the brightness of old Piscator's 
benevolence is one arising from his entire devotion to his art. He 
will allow no creature to take fish but the angler, and concludes that 
any honest man may make a ju8t quarrel with swan, geese, ducks, 
the sea-gull, heron, &c. His directions for making live-bait have 
subjected him to the charge of cruelty,* and are certainly curious 
enough. Painted flies seem not to have occurred to him, and the 
use of snails, worms, &c. induced no compunctious visitings. For 
taking pike he recommends a perch, aa the longest lived fish on a hooky 
and the poor frog is treated with elaborate and extravagant inhu- 
manityi: 

And thus use your frog, that he may continue long alive : put your hook into his 
mouth, which you may easily do from the middle of April till August ; and then the 
frog's mouth grows up, and he continues so for at least six months without eating, 
but is sustained none out He whose name is Wonderful knows how. I say, put your 
hook, I mean the arming wire, through his mouth and out at his gills ; and with a 
fine needle and silk sew the upper part of his leg, with only one stitch, to the arm- 
ing wire of your hook ; or tie the frog's leg above the uj)per joint to the armed wire ; 
and^ inso doing^ use him as thmigh you loved him^ that is, harm him as little as you 
may possible, that he vnay live the longer. 

Modern taste and feeling would, recoil from such experiments as 
these, and we may oppose to the aberrations of the venerable Walton 
the philosophical maxim of Wordsworth: 

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels. 

* And anglinff, too. that solitary vice, 

Whatever Izaak Walton sings or sa^s : 

The quaint, old. cruel coxcom\), \Ti"h\a RuWeX. 

Should bavoA hook, and a smaU trou\, Xo dvjA^ ^^. „ . • v 

Dou Juau^C^i.'Q.Vci^m. 



WALTON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 81 

If this observation falls into the opposite extreme— seeing that it 
would, if rigidly interpreted, suppress field-sports, and many of the 
luxuries and amusements of life — we must admit that it is an excess 
more amiable than that into which Piscator was led by his attach- 
ment to angling. Towards the conclusion of his work, Walton in- 
dulges in the following strain of moral reflection and admonition, and 
is as philosophically just and wise in his counsels, as his language and 
imagery are chaste, beautiful and animated. 

TMnkfulneas for Worldly Blessings, 

Well, scholar, having now taught you to jwdnt your rod, and we having still a 
mile to Tottenham High Cross, I will, as we walk towards it in the cool shade of this 
sweet honeysuckle-hedge, mention to you some of the thoughts and joys that have 
possessed my soul since we two met together. And these thoughts shall be told yon, ' 
that you also may join with me in thankfulness to tlie Giver of every good and per- 
fect gift for our happiness. And that our present happiness may appear to be the 
greater, and we the more thankful for it, I will beg you to consider with me how 
many do, even at this very time, lie under the torment of the stone, the gout, and 
toothache; and this we are free from. And every misery that I miss is a new 
mercy ; and therefore let us be thankful. There have been, since we met, others 
that have met disasters of broken limbs ; some have been blasted, others thunder- 
strucken ; and we have been freed from these and all those many other miseries that 
threaten human nature : let us therefore rejoice and be thankful. Nay, which is a 
far greater mercy, we are free from the unsupportable burden of an accusing, tor- 
menting conscience — a misery that none can bear ; and therefore let us praise Him 
for his preventing grace, and say, Every misery that I miss is a new mercy. Nay, 
let me tell 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, who, with the expense of a 
nttle money, have eat and orank, and laughed, .and angled, and sung, and slept se- 
curely ; and rose next day, and cast away care, and sung, and laughed, and angled 
again, which are blessings rich men cannot purchase with all their money. Let me 
toll you, scholar, I have a rich neighbour that is always so busy that he has no leis- 
ure to lau^h ; 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 Solo- 
mon says, * The hand of the diligent maketh rich ;' and it is true indeed : but he 
considers not that it is not in the power of riches to make a man hap^y : for it was 
wisely said by a man of great observation, * that there be as many miseries beyond 
riches as on thiB side them.' And yet God deliver us from pinching poverty, and 
grant that, having a competency, we may be content and thankful I Let us not re- 
pine, or so much as think the gifts of God unequally dealt, if w6 see another abound 
with riches, when, as God knows, the cares that are the keys that keep those riches 
hang often so heavily at the rich man's girdle, that they clog him with weary days 
and restless nights, even when others sleep quietly. We see but the outside of the 
rich man's happiness ; few consider him to be like the silkworm, that, when she 
seems to play, is at the very same time spinning her own bowels, and consuming 
herself ; aud this many rich men do, loading themselves with corroding cares, to 
keep what they have probably unconscionably got. Let us therefore be thankful for 
health and competence, and, above all, for a quiet conscience. 

Let me tell you, scholar, that Diogenes walked on a day, with his friend, to see a 
country fair, where he saw ribbons, and looking-glasses, and nut-crackers, and 
fiddles, and hobby-horses, and many other glracracks ; and having observed them, 
and all the other flnnimbruns that make a complete country fair, he said to his 
friend : * Lord, how many things are there in this world of which Diogenes hath no 
need I' And truly it is so, or might be so, with very many who vex and toil them- 
selves to get what they have no need of. Can any man charge God that he hath not 
given him enough to make his life happy? No, doubtless; for nature is content 
with a little. And yet yon shall hardly meet witYv a m«ii \\i«iX. co\w^T^\v!es\\)CiV <j>\ ^'SkXssft. 
want, though he, indeed, wants nothing but b\av?\\\; \\.m«5\>fe.Ti»^i^>^»?,^s^^sv^ 
of luB poor neighbor, for not worshippmg or not tLatXftim^ ^[^m*. «£v<aL\Xs5»>Nf^i&^^^ 



82 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

might be happy and quiet, xre create trouble to ourselves. I have heard of a man 
that was augry with uimself because he was no taller ; and of a woman that broke 
her lookiug-glass because it would not shew her face to be as young and handsome 
as her next neighbour's was. And I Knew another to whom God had given health 
and plenty, but a wife that nature had made peevish, and her husband's riches had 
made pnrse-jiroud ; and must, because she was rich, and for no other virtue, sit in the 
highest pew in the church ; which being denied her, she engaged her husband into a 
contention for it, and at last into a lawsuit witli a dogged neighbour, who was as 
rich as he. and had a wife as peevish and purse-proud as the other ; and this lawsuit 
begot higher oppositions and actionable words, and more vexations and lawsuits ; 
for you must remember that both were rich, and must therefore have their wills. 
Well, this wilful purse-proud lawsuit lasted during the life of the first husband, after 
which his wife vexed and chid, and chid and vexed, tiil she also chid and vexed her- 
self into her grave ; and so the wealth of these poor rich people was cursed into a 
punishment, because they wanted .meek and tnankful hearts, for those only can 
make us happy. I knew a m^n that had health and riches, and several houses,-all 
• beautiful and ready furnished, and would often trouble himself and family to be re- 
moving 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 m some one of 
them.' But his friend knowing his temper, told him, * if he would find content 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. Matthew's gospel, for he there says : ' Blessed be the merci- 
ful, for they shall obtain 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. And blessed be 
the meek, for they shall possess the earth.' Not that the meek shall not also obtain 
mercy, and see God, and be comforted, and at last come to the kingdom of heaven ; 
but, m the meantime, he, and he only, possesses the earth, as he goes toward that 
kingdom of heaven, by being humble and cheerful, and content with what Ids good 
God has allotted him. He has no turbulent, repining, vexatious thoughts that he de- 
serves better ; nor is vexed when he sees others possessed of more honour or more 
riches than his wise God has allotted, for his share ; but he possesses wliat he has 
with a meek and contented quietness, such a quietness as makes his very dreams 
pleasing, both to God and himself. 

My honest scholar, all this is told to incline you to thankfulness ; and, to incline 
you the more, let me tell you, that though the propjhet 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 Psalms,* where 
there is such a commixture of his confessing of his sins and uuworthiuess, 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 receive daily from God make us not to 
value, or not praise Him, because they be common : let not us forget to praise Him 
for the innocent mirth and pleasure we have met with since we met together. "WhaJ; 
would a blind man give to see the pleasant rivers and meadows, and flowers and foun- 
tains, 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 the rising or setting 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 various 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. 

WeS, BchoJ&Tf I have almost tired myself, and I fear, more than almost tired you. 
Bat I BOW see Tottenham High Cross, and out Rbort walk thither will put a period 
<■ ^ '^y too lon^ diecourae, in which my meaning waa, M\dL\e,,\.o\\?a\V\V^Vva.NCi>w 
fipMo^ w/th which I labour to possess my own boxA— t\ia.t \a, «^^^vi^ ^^^^-^^^^^aSxiJiL 
"'^ And to that end I have enewed you, that riciiea vj\\3a.out.\ii<i\SL ^^isSss^ssa «si^ 



ELLwooD.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 83 

thankfnlDGSs) do not make any man happy. But let me tell you that riches with 
them nniiovc many fears and cares. And therefore my advice is, that you endeavor 
to be honestly rich, or contentedly poor ; but be sure that your riches be justly ffot, 
or you ^spoil all ; for it is well said by Causein : * He that loses his conscience Tias 
nothing left that is worth keeping.* Therefore, be sure you look to that. And, in 
the next place, look to your health ; and if you have it, praise God, and value it next 
to a good conscience ; for health is the second blessing that we mortals are capable 
of — a blessing that money cannot 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 miser- 
ies 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 Gtod has two dwellings, one in heaven, and the other in a meek and thank- 
ful heart ; which Almighty God grant to me and to my honest scholar I And so you 
are welcome to Tottenham High Cross. 

Venator. Well, master. I thank you for all your good directions, but for none 
more than this last, of thankfulness, which I hope I shall never forget. 

To the fiftli edition of the ' Complete Angler* was added a second 
part, by Charles Cotton, the poet, and translator of Montaija:ne. It 
consisted of instructions how to angle for a trout or grayling in a 
clear stream. Though the work was written in the short space of 
ten days, Cotton, who had long been familiar with fly-fishing, and 
was an adopted son of Izaak Walton, produced a treatise valuable for 
its technical knowledge and accuracy. Walton's form of conveying 
instruction in dialogues is also preserved, the author being Piscator 
junior, and his companion a traveller (Viator), who had paid a visit 
to the romantic scenery of Derbyshire, near which the residence of 
Cotton was situated. This traveller turns out to be the Venator of 
the first part, ' wholly addicted to the chase,' till Mr. Izaak Walton 
taught him as good, a more quiet, innocent, and less dangerous diver- 
sion. The friends embrace : Piscator conducts bis new associate to 
his * beloved river Dove/ extends to him the hospitalities of his man- 
sion, and next morning shows him his fishing-house, inscribed * Pis- 
catoribus Sacrum,' with the * prettily contrived' cipher including the 
first two letters of father Walton's name and those of his son Cotton. 
A delicate clear river flowed about the house, which stood on a little 
peninsula, with a bowling-green close by, and fair meadows and 
mountains in the neighbourhood. Tliis building still remains, adding 
interest to the romantic and beautiful scenery on the banks of the 
river Dove, and recalling the memory of the venerable angler and his 
disciple, whose genuine love of nature, and moral and descriptive 
pages, have silently but powerfully influenced the taste and literature 
of their native country. 

THOMAS ELLWOOD. 

Thomas Ellwood (1689-1713) was a humble but sincere Quaker — 
anxious to do good, and diligent to acquire knowledge. His father 
was as averse to the new creed as Admiral Penn. He sometimes beat 
him with great severity, particularly when the son persisted v\ x^- 
maJDing covered in his presence. To ptevenX. V\ie xtcxvtx^w^^ <5{v S5K>a» 
offence, he successively took from Thomas aXV Xm YiSvXa*,'^^'^ SSsxet^ 



84 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1689. 

remainea another cause of offence; for, * whenever I had occasion,' 
says EUwood, * to speak to my father, though I had no hat now to 
offend him, yet my language did as much ; for I durst not say "you" 
to him, but " thou " or " thee," as the occasion required, and then 
he would be sure to fall on me with his fists. At one of these times, 
I remember, when he had beaten me in that manner, he commanded 
me — as he commonly did at such times — to go to my chamber, which 
I did, and he followed me to the bottom of the staii*s. Being come 
thither, he gave me a parting blow, and in a very angry tone said: 
*• Sirrah, if ever I hear you say thou or tJiee to me again. Til strike 
your teeth down your throat." I was greatly grieved to hear him say 
say so, and feeling a word rise in my heart unto him, I turned again, 
and calmly said unto him : *' Should it not be just if God should serve 
thee so, when thou sayest *thou* or * thee' to him." Though his 
hand was up, I saw it sink, and his countenance fall, and he turned 
away, and left me standing there.' 

But what has given a peculiar interest to Ellwood is his having 
been a pupil of Milton, and one of those who read to the poet after 
the loss of his sight. The object of Ellwood in offering his services 
as a reader was, that he might, in return, obtain from Milton some 
assistance in his own studies. This was in 1662. 

Mlvx>od*s Intercourse with MUton, 

He received me conrteoiiBly, as well for the sake of Dr. Paget, who introduced 
me, as of Isaac Peunington, who recommended me, to both of whom he bore a good 
respect ; and having inqaired divers things of me, with respect to my former pro- 
gressions in learning, he dismissed me, to provide myself of such accommodations 
as might be most smtable to my future stuaies. 

I went, therefore, and took myself a lodging as near to his house — ^whlch was then 
in Jewin Street — as conveniently I could; and, from thenceforward, went every 
day, in the afternoon, except on the first day of the week ; and sittuig by him in his 
dining-room, read to him such books, in the Latin tongue, as he pleased to hear me 
read. 

At my first sitting to read to him, observing that I used the English pronunciation, 
he told me if I woula have the benefit of the Latin tongue — ^not only to read and un- 
derstand Latin authors, but to converse with foreigners, either abroad or at home — ^I 
must learn the foreign pronunciation. To this I consenting, he iustmcled me how 
to sound the vowels, so different from the common pronunciation used by the Eng- 
lish—who speak Anglice their Latin— that, with some few other variations in sound- 
ing some consonants, in particular cases — ^as C, before E or J, like Ch ; Sc, before J, 
like Sh, &c. — the Latin thus spoken seemed as different from that which was delivered 
as the English generally speak it, as if it was another language. 

I had, before, during my retired life at my father's, by unwearied diligence and 
industry, so far recovered the rules of grammar— in which I had once been very 
ready— that I could both read a Latin author, and after a sort, hammer out his 
meaning. But this change of pronunciation proved a new difficulty to me. It was 
now harder to me to read, than it was before to understand when read. But 

* Labor omnia vincit improbus.* 
Incessant pains the end obtains. 

And so did I, which made my reading the moi>e acceptable to my master. He, on the 
other band, perceiving with what earnest desire I pursued learning, gave me not 
onhr all the enconragemeut, but all the help he could; ioT,\\a.N\Ti^».Q,\mo\!fi>fe«.T,he 
aiiderstood, by my tone, wlien I understooa what 1 reaA, siud v^Xveia. \ ^\«^ \i*a.X\ «sA 



nRYDEN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 85 

accordingly would stop me, examine me, and open the most diflBcult paB8age« to 
me. . . . 

Some little time before I went to Ayfesbury prison, I was desired by my qnondam 
master, Milton, to take a honse for him in the neighbourhood where I dwelt, that he 
might get out of the city, for the safety of himself and his family, the pestilence then 
growing hot in London (lfi65). I took a pretty box for him in Giles Chalf ont, a mile 
from me, of which I gave him notice, and intended to have waited on him, and seen 
him well settled in it, but was prey^ated by that imprisonment. 

But now, being released, and returned home, I soon made a visit to him, to wel- 
come him into the country. 

After some common discourses had x>a88ed between us, he called for a manuscript 
of his, which, being brought, he delivered to me, bidding me to take it home with 
me, and read it at my leisure, and, when I had so done, return it to him, with my 
iudgment thereupon. 

vVhen I came home, and had set myself to read it, I found it was that excellent 
poem which he entitled * Paradise Lost.' After I had, with the utmost attention 
read it through, I made him another visit, and returned him his book, with due 
acknowledgment for the favour he had done me, in communicating it to me. Ho 
asked me how I liked it, and what I thought of it,«ehich I modestly but freely told 
him ; and after some further discourse about it, I pleasantly said to him : * Thou 
hast said much here of Paradise lost ; but what hast thou to say of Paradise found 7' 
He made me no answer, but sat some time in a muse ; then brake ofE that discourse, 
and feU upon another subject. 

After the sickness was over, and the city well cleansed, and become safely habit- 
able again, he returned thither ; and when, afterwards. I wont to wait on him there 
— ^which I seldom failed of doing, whenever my occasions drew me to London— he 
shewed me his second poem, called ' Paradise Regained,' and, in a pleasant tone, 
said to me : * This is owing to you, for you put it into my head at Chalfont ; which 
before I had not thought of.' 

Ellwood fdrnishes some interesting particulars concerning the Lon- 
don prisons, in whicli he and many of his brother Quakers were con- 
fined, and the manner in which they were treated both there and out 
of doors. Besides his Autobiography, he wrote numerous controver- 
sial treatises, the most prominent of which is * The Foundation of 
Tithes Shaken,' published in 1682 ; also, * Sacred Histories of the Old 
and New Testaments,' which appeared in 1705 and 1709. 

JOHN DRTDEN. 

Dbyden, who contributed more than any other English author to 
improve tlie poetical diction of his native tongue, performed also 
essential service of the same kind to our prose. Throwing ofiF, still 
more than Cowley had done, those inversions and other forms of 
Latin idiom which abound in the pages of his most distinguished 
predecessors, Dryden speaks in the language of polite and well-edu- 
cated society. Strength, ease, copiousness, variety, and animation, 
are the predominant qualities of his style. He excels also in pointed 
epigram and antithesis. * Nothing is cold or languid,' as Johnson 
remarks ; he overflows with happy illustration ; but the haste with 
which he composed, and his inherent dislike to the labour of correc- 
tion, are visible in the negligence and roughness of some of his sen- 
tences. On the whole, however, to Dryden may be assigned the 
palm of Buperiority, in his own geiiera\ioii, toi ^t«jc"e&c\^^^ ^^'^^ 
forcible and idionaatic English. 



86 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1689. 

This great author has left no extensive work in prose : the pieces 
which he wrote were merely accompaniments to his poems and plays, 
and consist of Prefaces, Dedications, and Critical Essays. His long 
dedications are noted for the fulsome and unprincipled flattery in 
which he seems to have thought himself authorised by the practice of 
the age to indulge. The critical essays, though written with more 
carelessness than would now be tolerated in similar productions, em- 
body many sound and valuable opinions on classic authors and sub- 
jects connected with polite literature. According to Johnson, Dry- 
den's * Essay on Dramatic Poesy * * was the first regular and valuable 
treatise on the art of writing.* It opens with the following graphic 
and magnificent exordium : 

A Sea-fight Heard at a Distance, 

It was that memorable day m the first summer of the late war [Jmie 3« 1665] when 
onr navy engaged the Dutch ; a day wherein the two most mighty and best appointed 
fleets which any age had ever seen, disputed the command of the greater halt of the 

globe, the commerce of nations, and uie riches of the miiverse : while these vast 
oating bodies, on either side, moved against each other in parallel lines, and onr 
countrymen, under t^ie happy conmiand of his Royal Highness [Duke of York, 
afterwards James II.] went oreakiug, little by little, into the line of the enemies; the 
noise of the cannon from both navies reached our ears about the city. * So that all 
men being alarmed vvith it, and in a dreadful suspense of the event, which they knew 
was then deciding, every one went following the sound as his fancy led him ; and 
leaving the town almost empty, some took towards the Park, some cross the river, 
others down it ; all seekii^ the noise in the depth of silence. Amongst the rest it 
was the fortune of Eugenius, Crites, Lisideius, and Neander to be in company to- 
gether. . . . Taking then a barge, which a servant of Lisideius had provided for 
them, thejr made haste to shoot the bridge, and left behind them that great fall of 
waters which hindered them from hearing what they desired : after which having 
disengaged themselves from many vessels which rode at anchor in the Thames, and 
almost blocked up the passage towards Greenwich, they ordered the watermen to let 
fall their oars more gently ; and then every one favouring his own curiosity, with a 
strict silence, it was not long ere they perceived the air to break about them like the 
noise of distant thunder, or of swallows in a chimney— those little undulations of 
sound, though almost vanishing before they reached them, yet still seeming to retain 
somewhat of their first horror which they had betwixt the fleets. After they had at- 
tentively listened till such time as the sound, by little and little, went from them, 
Eugenius, lifting up hfs head, and taking notice of it, was the first who congratulated 
to the rest that happy omen of our nation's victory, adding, that we had but this to 
desire in confirmation of it, that we might hear no more of that noise which was now 
leaving the English coast. 

Scott is as enthusiastic as Johnson in his praise of Dryden's essays 
and prefaces. * The prose of Dry den,* says Sir Walter, * may rank 
with the best in the English language. It is no less of his own form- 
ation than his versification ; is equally spirited, and equally harmo- 
nious. Without the lengthened and pedantic sentences of Clarendon, 
it is dignified when dignity is becoming, and is lively without the ac- 
cumulation of strained and absurd allusions and metaphors, which 
were unfortunately mistaken for wit by many of the author's contem- 

. ' TAe en^afFfiment took place otf the coast uew "Lo^fts.loU, Va. %tvS^ "^ W^ 
^f u,^" ^ar^e Dutch shipft. and destroyott fnurtoeu oiVxeTa. T\i^Tiw\.t\v«.^m\x^\, ^^^A'wa.x 
** ^'/oira up, and he and all his crew perished. 



DRYDEN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 87 

poraries.' It is recorded by Malone, that Dryden's prose -writings 
were held in high estimation by Burke, who carefully studied them 
on account equally of their style and matter, and is thought to have 
In some degree taken them as the model of his own diction. Drydeii 
himself acknowledged that he had^made Tillotson his model. In this 
saying he must have referred to the easy modern style of the compo- 
sition. In all other respects, the copy immensely surpasses the 
model. Besides his Prefaces and Essays, Dryden published tw^o 
translations from the French — Bonhours* *Life of Francis Xavier' 
(1687), and Du Fresnoy's *Art of Painting' (1695). The following 
finely drawn characters of the great Elizalj^than dramatists are from 
the ♦ Essay on Dramatic Poesy ' (1668) : 

Shakspeare, 

To b^dn* then, with Shakspeare. He was the man who, of all modern, and per* 
haps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive sonl. All the images of 
nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laborioasly, but luckily. 
When he describes anything, you more than see it— you feel it too. Those who ac- 
cuse him to have wanted learning, give him the greater commendation. He was 
naturally learned ; he needed not the spectacles of TOoks to read nature : he looked 
inwards, and found her there. I caimot say he is everywhere alike ; were he so, 1 
should do him injury to compare him with the greatest of mankind. He is manjr 
times flat, insipid ; his comic wit degenerating into clenches, his serious swelling in- 
to bombast. But he is always great wh^i some great occasion is presented 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, 

Quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi.(l) 

The consideration of this made Mr. Hales cf Eton say, that there was no subject of 
which any poet ever writ, but he would produce it much better done in Shakspeare ; 
and however others are now generally preferred before him, yet the age wherein he 
Hved, 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 with him the greater part of the courtiers, set our 
Shafe^eare far above him. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Besumont and Fletcher, of whom I am next to speak, had, with the advantage of 
l^akspeare's wit, which was their precedent, great natural gifts, improved by study ; 
Beaumont especially, being so accurate a judge of plays, that Ben Jonson, while he 
lived, submitted all bis writings to his censure, and, 'tis thought, used his judgment 
in correcting, if not contriviug, all his plots. What value he had for him, appears by 
the verses he writ to him, and therefore I need speak no farther of it. The first play 
that brought Fletcher and him in esteem was their ' Philaster ;' for before that they 
had written two or three very unsuccessfully ; as the like is repoi-tcd of Ben Jonson, 
before he writ * Every Man in his Humour.' Their plots were generally more regular 
than Shakspeare's, especially those which were made before Beaumont's death ; and 
they understood and imitated the conversation of gentlemen much better ; whose 
wild debaucheries, and quickness of wit in repartees, no poet before them could paint 
as they have done. Humour, which Ben Jonson derived from particular persons, 
they made it not their business to describe ; they represented all the passions very 
lively, but above all, love. I am apt to believe the English language in them arrived 
to its highest perfection : what words have since been taken in, are rather superflu- 
ous than ornamental. Their plays are now the most pleasant an^lTec^eoX. «e^\\s&xv- 

7 JAke shrubs when lofty cypresses arc i\paT. 



88 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1689. 

ments of the stage ; two of theirs being acted through the year, for one of Shaks- 
peare'8 or Jonson's : the reason is, because there is a certain gaiety in their comedies, 
and pathos in their more serious pJavs, which suits generally with all men's humours. 
Shakspeare's language is likewise a little obsolete, and Ben Jonson's wit comes short 
of theu«. 

Ben ffonaon. 

As for Jonson, to whose character I am now arrived4 if we look upon him While 
he was himself —for his last plays were but his dotages— X think him the most learned 
and judicious writer which any theatre ever had. He was a most severe judge of 
himself, as well 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 measure, we had before him ; but something of art was want- 
ing to the drama, till he came. He managed his strength to more advantage than 
any who preceded him. You seldom find him making K>ve in any of his scenes, or 
endeavounng 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 perf oi-med both to 
such a height. Humour was his proper sphere ; and in that he del^hted most to 
represent mechanic people. He was deeply conversant in the ancients, both Greek 
and Latin, and he borrowed boldly from them; there is scarce a poet or historian 
among the Roman authors of those times whom he has not translated in * Sejanus ' 
and ' CatiJine.' But he has done his robberies so openly, that one may see he fears 
net to be taxed by B.ny law. He invades authors like a monarch ; and what would be 
theft in other poets, is onlv victory in him. With the spoils of these writers he so 
represents old Home to us, in its rites, ceremonies, and customs, that if one of thcdr 
poets had wktten either of his tragedies, we had seen less of it than in him. If ihete 
was any fault in his language, 'twas that he weaved it too closeh" and laboriously, in 
his comedies especially : perhaps, too, he did a little too much Komanise 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 comply with 
the idiom of ours. If I would compare him with Shakspeare, I must acknowledge 
him the more correct poet, but Shakspeare the greater wit. Shakspeare was the 
Homer, or father of our dramatic poets : Jonson was the Virgil, the pattern of elab- 
orate writing ; I adHiire him, but I love Shakspeare. To conclude of him : as he has 
given us the most correct play, so, in the precepts which he has laid dovm in his 
"Discoveries,' we have as manv and profitable rues for perfecting the stage, as any 
wherewith the French can furnish us. 

Improved Style of Dramatic Dialogue after tJie Restoration, — From 

'Defence of the EpUogue,' dc. 1672. 

I have always acknowledged the wit of our predecessors with all the veneration 
which becomes me ; but, I am sure, their wit was not that of gentlemen ; there was 
ever somewhat that was ill-bred and clownish in it, and which confessed the conver- 
sation of the authors. 

And this leads me to the last and greatest advantage of our writing, which pro- 
ceeds from conversation. In the age wherein those poets lived, there was less of 
gallantry than in ours ; neither did they keep the best company of theirs. Their for- 
tune has been much like that of Epicurus In the retirement of his gardens ; to live 
almost unknown, and to be celebrate after their decease. I cannot find that any of 
them had been conversant in courts, except Ben Jonson ; and his genius lay not so 
much that way, as to make an improvement by it Greatness was not then so 
easy of access, nor conversation so nree, as it now is. I cannot, therefore, conceive 
it any insolence to affirm, that by the knowledge and pattern of their wit who writ 
before us, and by the advantage of our own conversation, the discourse and raillery of 
our comedies excel what has been written by them. And this \^dll be denied by none, 
but some few old fellows who value themselves on their acquaintance with the Black 
JFriara; who, becanae they saw their plays, would pretend a right to judge ours. . . , 
^ow, if any aak me whence it is that our convereoXioTi \a «o much refined, I must 
freely, and without flattery, ascribe it to tYie cowrt, an^m\V,^wc^<i\3\wcV3 X^XXx^Vva^ 
^vhosc example gives a Jaw to it. His own miBtortaivftfe, ouQl IXxfc w^\A.a\3J%, %&>it^<g^ 
^m an opportunity which is rarely allowed to BONeteVgia. vwq««»A^^«2^ ^"^ \xw<^ 



DRYDEN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 89 

lingj and being conversant in the most polished courts of Europe ; and thereby of 
cnltiyating a spirit which was formed by nature to receive the impressions of a 
caliant and generous education. At his return, he found a nation lost as much in 
barbarism as in rebellion : and as the excellency of his nature forgave the one, so the 
excellency of his manners reformed the other. The desire of imitating so groat a 
pattern, nrst awakened the dull and heavy spirits of the English from their natural 
reservedness ; loosened them from their stiff forms of conversation, and made them 
easy and pliant to each other in discourse. Thus, insensibly, our way of living be- 
came more free ; and the fire of the English wit, which was before stifled mider a 
constrained melancholy way of breeding, began first to display its force by^ mixing 
the solidity of oar nation with the air and gaiety of our neighbours. This being 
granted to be true, it would be a wonder if the poets, whose work is imitation, should 
be the only persons in the three kingdoms who should not receive advantage by it ; / 
or if they should not more easily imitate the wit and conversation of the present age 
than of the past. 

Trandationa of the Ancient Poets. — From Preface to tTie * Second 

MisceUomyt' 1G85. 

TranBlation is a kind of drawing after the life ; where every one will acknowledge 
there is a double sort of likeness, a good one and a bad. It is one thing to draw the 
. outlines true, the features like, the proportions exact, the colouring itself perhaps 
tolerable ; and another thing to make all these graceful, by tlie posture, the shadow- 
inss, and cliiefly by the spirit which animates the whole. I cannot, without some 
.indignation, look on an ill copy of an excellent original ; much less can I behold with 
patience Virgil, Homer, and some others, whose beauties I have been endeavouring 
all my life to imitate, so abused, as I may sa^r, to their faces by a botching interpre- 
ter. What English readers, unacquainted with Greek or Latin, will belfcve me or 
any other man, whe^we commend these authors, and confess we derive all that is < 
pardonable in us from their fountains, if they take those to be the same poets whom 
our O^ebies have translated ? But I dare assure them that a good poet is no more 
like himself in a dull tianslation, than Ids carcass would be to his livuig body. There 
are many who understand Greek and Latin, and yet are ignorant of their mother- 
tongue. The proprieties and delicacies of the English are knovv-n to few ; it is 
impossible even for a good wit to understand and practise them without the help of 
a libersJ education, long reading, and digesting of those few good authors we have 
amongst us ; the knowledge of men and manners, tho freedom of habitudes and 
conversation with the bust company of both sexes ; and, in short, without wearing 
off the rust which he contracted while ho was laying in a stock of learning. Thus 
difficult it is to understand the purity of English, and critically to discern, not only 
good writers from bad, and a proper style from a corrupt, but also to distinguish 
that which is pure in a good author, from that which is vicious and corrupt in nim. 
And for want of all these requisites, or the ei-eatest part of them, moet of our in- 
genious young men take up some cried-up iSiglish poet for their model ; adore him, 
and imitate him, as they think, without kuowmg wherein he is defective, where he 
is boyish and ti-ifling, wherein either his thoughts are improper to his subject, or his 
expressions unworthy of his thoughts, or the turn of both is unharmouious. 

Thus it appears necessary that a man should be a nice critic in his mother-tongue 
before he attempts to translate in a foreign language. Neither is it sufficient that 
he be able to judge of words and style, out he must be a master of them too : he 
must perfectly understand his author's tongue, and absolutely command his own ; 
so that to be a thorough translator, he must be a thorough poet. Neither is jt 
enough to give bis author's sense, in good English, in poetical expressions, and in 
musical numbers; for, though all these are exceeding difficult to perform, yet there 
, remidns a harder task ; and it is a secret of which few translators have sufficiently 
thought. I have already hinted a word or two concoming it ; that is the maintMU- 
ing the character of an author, which ddstinguiph«^8 him from all others, and makes 
him appear that individual poet whom you would uitc^rpret. For example, wot otil^ 
the thoughts, but the style and versification of ViT«;\\ vvw^ 0\\(\ wq N^ix^ ^^J^^^'^ 
^etJBee, even in our beet poote. who have tran8latei\ sottvo paxVa ot \)cv^\tv,\Jcv«\. ^J^;^^ 
isve confoanded their fieverul talents : and by e.iideavoxiT\n^ oiv^J »J^ ^t'o^T^^^V 
Mid harmony of nambera, h&ve made them bbtk BO m\ifc\i a:^«6, \Xia.\. \S.^ <»sxt»» 



90 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

know the originals, I shonid never be able to judge by the copies which was "Virgil 
and which was Ovid. It was objected against a late noble painter, that he drew 
many graceful pictures, but few of them were like. And this happen^ to him, 
because he alwavs studied himself more than those who sat to him. In such trans- 
lators I can easily distinguish the hand which performed the >>'ork, but I cannot dis- 
tinguish their poet from another. Suppose two authors are equally sweet ; yet there 
is as great distmction to be made in sweetness, as in that of sugar, and that of honey. 
I can make the diflEcrcnce more plain, by giving you — if it be worth knowing — my 
own method of proceeding, in my translations out of four several poets in this 
volume — Virgil, Theocritus, Lucretius, and Horace. In each of these, before I un- 
dertook them, I considered the genius and distin^shing character of my author. 
I looked on Virgil as a succinct and grave majestic writer ; one who weighed not 
only every thought, but every word and syllable ; who was still aiming to crowd his 
sense into as narrow a compass as possibly he could ; for which reason he is so very 
figurative, that he requires — I may almost saj — a grammar apart to construe him. 
ifis verse is everywhere sounding the very thmg in your ears whose sense it bears ; 
yet the numbers are perpetually varied, to increase the delight of the reader, so that 
the same sounds are never repeated twice together. On the contrary, Ovid and 
Claudian, though they write in styles differing from each other, yet have each of them 
but one sort 01 music in their verses. All the versification and little variety of Clau- 
dian is included within the compass of four or five lines, and then he begins again in 
the same tenor, perpetually clo»ng his sense at the end of a verse, and that verse 
commonly which they call golden, or two substantives and two adjectives, with avert 
betwixt them to keep the peace. Ovid, with all his sweetness, has as little variety of 
numbers and sound as he ; he is always, as it were, upon the hand-gallop, and bis 
verse runs upon carpet ground. He avoids, like the other, all synalaipLas, or cutting 
off one vowel when it comes before another in the following word ; so that, minding 
only smoothness, he wants both variety and majesty. But to return to Virgil : thousE 
he is smooth where smoothness is required, yet he is so far from affecting it, that he 
seems rather to disdain it ; frequently makes use of synaleeiAias, and concludes hlfi 
sense in the middle of his verse. He is everywhere above conceits of epigrammatic 
wit and gross hyperboles ; he maintains majesty in the midst of plainness ; he shines, 
but glares not ; and is stately without ambition. . . . 

He who excels all other poets in his own language, were it possible to do him right, 
must appear above them in our tongue, which, as my Lord Koscommon justly ob- 
serves, approaches nearest to the Roman in its majesty ; nearest, indeed, but with a 
vast interval betwixt them. There is an inimitable ^race in Virgil's words, and in 
them principally consists that beauty which ^ves so inexpressible a pleasure to hira 
who best understands their force. This diction of his — I nmst once again say — is 
never to be copied ; and, since it cannot, he "will appear but lame in the best tranr'a- 
tion. The turns of his verse, his breakings, his propriety, his numbers and hie 
gravity, I havti as far imitated as the poverty of oar language and the hastiness of my 
performance would allow. I may seem sometimes to have varied from his sense j 
out I think the greatest variations may be fairly deduced from him ; and where I 
leave his commentators, it may be I understand him better ; at least I writ without 
consulting them in many places. But two particular lines in Mezentius and Lausns 
I cannot so easily excuse. They are, indeed, remotely allied to Virgil's sense ; but 
they are too like the trifling tenderness of Ovid, and were printed before I had con- 
sidered them enough to alter them. The first of them I have forgotten, and cannol 
easily retrieve, because the copy is at the press. The second is this : 

When Lausus died, I was already slain. 

This appears pretty enough, at first sijght ; but I am convinced, for many reasons, 
that the expression is too Dold ; that Virgil would not have said it, though Ovid would. 
The reader may pardon it, if he please^ for the freeness of the confession : and. In- 
stead of that, and the former, admit these two lines, which are more according to the 
author : 

Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design ; 

As I had used my fortune, uae IhovitMue. 

•Bavin ff with much ado got clear of Yirm\,l \iaiNe,\3a.^^iftTi<i^^^J^aRfc^\a^\isaafi 
fae genius of LacretioB, whom I have tranBYatcd mote Yvav>\S\^ \\i\\iQ«ft^«sM^ «il\i 



DRYDEN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 91 

\vhich I nndertook. If he was not of the best age of Roman poetry, he was at least 
of that which preceded it ; and he himself refined it to that degree of perfection, 
both in the language and the thoaghtSj that he left an easy task to Virgil, who, as he 
succeeded him in time, so he copied his excellences; for the method of the 
* Geormcs * is plainly derived from him. Lucretius had chosen a subject naturally 
crabbed ; he therefore adorned it with poetical descriptions, and precepts of morality, 
in the beginning and ending of his books, which you see Virgil has imitated with 

freat. success in those four books, which, in my opinion, are more perfect in their 
ind than even his divine *^neids.' The turn of his verses he has likewise followed 
in those places which Lucretius has most laboured, and some of his very lines he 
has transplanted into his own works, without much variation. If I am not mistaken, 
the distinguishing character of Lucretius— I mean of his soul and genius— is a cer- 
tain kind of noble pride, and positive assertion of his opinions. He is everywhere 
confident of his own reason, and assuming an absolute command, not onlv over his 
vulgar reader, but even his patron Memmius : for he is always bidding him attend, 
as K he had the rod over hun, and using a magisterial authority while he instructs 
him. From his time to ours, I know none so like him as our poet and philosopher 
of MaJmesbury [Hobbes]. This is that perpetual dictatorship which is exercised by 
Lucretius, who, though often m the wron^, yet seems to aeal bona fide with his 
reader, and tells him nothing but what he thinks ; in which plain sincerity, I believe, 
he differs from our Hobl)es, who could not but be convinced, or at least doubt, of 
some eternal truths which he has opjwsed. But for Lucretius, he seems to disdain 
all manner of replies, and is so confident of his cause, that he is beforehand with his 
antagonists ; urging for them whatever he imagined they could say, and leaving 
them, as he supposes, without an objection for the future ; all this, too, with so much 
scorn and indignation, as if he were assured of the triumph before he entered into 
the lists. From this sublime and daring genius of his, it must of necessity come to 
pass that this thoughts must be masculine, full of argumentation, and that suffi- 
ciently warm. From the same fiery temper proceeds the loftiness of his expressions, 
and the perpetual torrent of his verse, where the barrenness of his subject does not 
too mucn constrain the quickness of his fancy. For there is no doubt to be made 
but that he could have been everywhere as poetical as he is in his descriptions, and 
. in the moral part of his philosophy, if he liad not aimed more to instruct, in his Sys- 
tem of Nature, than to delight. But he was bent upon making Memmius a materi- 
alist, and teaching him to defy an invisible power ; in short, he was so much an 
atheist, that he forgot sometimes to be a poet. These are the considerations which 
I had of that author, before I attempted to translate some parts of him. And accord- 
ingly I laid by my natural diffidence and scepticism for awhile, to take up that 
dogmatical way of his, which, as I said, is so much his character, as to make him 
that individual poet. As for his opinions concerning the mortality of the soul, they 
are so absurd, that I cannot, if I would, believe them. I think a future state demon- 
strable even by natural argmnents ; at least, to take away rewards and punishments 
is only a pleasing prospect to a man who resolves beforehand not to live morally. 
Bat, on the other side, the thought of being nothing after death is a burden insup- 
portable to a virtuous man, even though a heathen. We naturally aim at happiness, 
and cannot bear to have it confined to the shortness of our present being ; especially 
when we consider that virtue is generally unhappy in this world, and vice fortunate ; 
so that it is hope of futurity alouc that makes this life tolerable, in expectation of a 
better. Who would not commit all the excesses to which he is prompted by his 
natiltal inclinations, if he may do them with security while he is alive, and be incap- 
able of punisment after he is dead ? If he be cunning and secret enough to avoid 
the laws, there is no band of morality to restrain him : for fame and reputation are 
weak ties ; many men have not the least sense of them. Powerful men are only 
awed by them as they conduce to their interest, and that not always when a passion 
is predominant ; and no man will be contained within the bounds of duty, wnen he 
may safely trangress them. These are my thoughts abstractedly, and without enter- 
ing into the notions of our Christian faith, wldch ia the pTO\«t \i\3AVD.e«» ol ^ccsfSs^R.^. 

Sjperissr and Milton. — From ^I)iscour%e on t?i6 Ortgiuol aud pTogTe^fc 

rr , ^ of Satire; 169^. ^ .,,, ^. ^ 

«^/?lS?^f^^^^^/¥ ^Dgrliflh have only to boast ot SpeTx^ex «^«^^^^^,;^^ 
neitber of them wanted either genius or Iciuing to Ixave \)^u v«i^^^ V>^^> ^^^^ 



Q3 CYCLOP/EDIA OF [to 1689. 

both of them are liable to many ccpsnres. For there is no nniformity in the dcsiffn 
of Spenser ; ho ainia at the accuinpIiBhment of no one action, he raises up a hero &t 
every one of his adventures, and endows each of tlieiii vrith 8ome particular moral 
virtue, which renders them all equal, without subordination or preference. Every 
one is most valiant in his own legend ; only, we must do him that justice to observe, 
that Magnanimity, which is the character of Prince Arthur, shines throughout the 
whole poem, and succours the rest when they are in distress. The orirfnal of eveiy 
knight was then living in the court of Queen Elizabeth ; and he attributed to each 
of them that virtue which he thought was most conspicuous in them — an mgenions 

Eiece of flattery, though it turned not much to his account. Had he lived to finish 
is poem, in the six remaining legends, it had certainly been more of a piece, but 
could not have been perfect, because the model was not true. But Prince Arthur, 
or his chief patron, Sir Philip Sydney, whom he intended to make happy by the 
marriage of his Gloriana, dying before him, deprived the poet both of means and 
spirit to accomplish his design. For the rest, his obsolete language, and the ill 
choice of his stanza, are faults but of the second magnitude ; for, notwithstanding 
the first, he is still intelligible, at least after a little practice ; and for the last, he u 
the more to be admired, that, labouring under such a diflaculty, his verses are so 
numerous, so various, and so harmonious, that only Virgil, w^om he professedly 
imitated, has surpassed him among tho \Romans, and only Mr. Waller among the 
English. 

As for Mr. Milton, whom we all admire with so much justice, his subject is not 
that of a heroic poem, properlv so called. His desim is the losing of our happiness ; 
his event is noi prosperous, like that of all other epic works ; his heavenly machines 
are many, and his human x^^rsons are but two. But I will not take Im*. Rymer*8 
work out of his hands : he has promised the world a critique on that author, wherein, 
though he will not allow his poem for heroic, I hope he will grant us that his 
thoughts are elevated, his words sounding, and that no man has so happily copied 
the manner of Homer, or so copiously translated his Grecisms, and the Latin 
elegances of Virgil. It is true he runs into a fiat of thought sometimes for a hun- 
dred lines together, but it is when he has got into a track of Scripture. His 
antiquated words were his choice, not his necessity ; for therein he imitated Spenser, 
as Spenser did Chaucer. And though, perhaps, the love of their masters may have 
transported both too far, in the frequent use of them, yet, in my opinion, obsolete* 
words may then be laudably revived, when either they are more^ sounding or more 
significant than those in practice ; and when their obscurity is taken away by joining 
other words to them which clear the sense, according to the rule of Horace, for the 
admission of new words. But in both cases a moderation is to be observed in the 
use of them ; for unnecessary coinage, as well as unnecessary revival, runs into 
affectation ; a fault to be avoided on either hand. Neither will I justify Milton for 
his blank verse, though I may excuse him, by the example of Hannibal Caro, and 
othtjr Italians, who have used it ; for whatever causes he alleges for the abolishing 
of rhyme — wliich I have not now the leisure to examine— his own parlic'ilar reason 
is plainly this, that rhyme was not his talent ; he had neither the ease of doing it, nor 
the graces of it, which is manifest in his * Juvenilia,' or verses written in his jrouth, 
where his rhyme is always constrained and forced, and comes hardly from him, at 
an age when the soul is most pliant, and the passion of love makes almost every 
man a rhymer, though not a poet. 

On Lampoons. — From tJie Same, 

In a word, that former sort of satire, which is known in England by the name of 
lampoon, is a dangerous sort of weapon, and for the most part unlawful. We have 
no moral right on the reputation of other men. It is taking from them what we can- 
not restore to them. There are only two reasons for wliich we may be permitted to 
write lampoons ; and I will not promise that they can always justify us. The first is 
revenge, when we have been afironted in the same nature, or have been anyways no- 
toriously abused, and can make ourselves no other reparation. And yet we know, 
that, in Christian charity, all offences are to be forgiven, as we expect the like pardon 
for those which we daily commit against Almighty God. And this consideration has 
often mnde me tremble when I was saying our Saviour' a w«^ex ; tor the plain condi- 
aon of the forgivenoBB which we beg, is the pardouma ot o\Wu \}ttfc ^jSk^rr* ^VViK 



DRYrrx.l ENCxLISH LITERATURE. 93 

they have done to ur ; for which reason I hnvo many times avoided tho commisBiou 
of that fault, eveu when I have been notoiiou>]y provoked. i,«t. not this, my lord 
[Dorset], pass for vanity in me. for it is truth. Viore libols have l-tevn written against 
me than almost any man now living ; and I hud reason on my side to have defended 
mj own innocence. I speak not of my poetry, which I have wholly given up to the 
critics ; let them use it as they please : posterity, perhaps, may be nioro favourable to 
me ; for interest and passion will lie buried in another age, and partiality and i)reju- 
dico be forgotten. I speak of my morals, which have been sufficiently aspersed : that 
only sort of reputation ought to be dear to every honest man, and is to me. But let 
the world witness for me, that I have been often wanting to myself in that particu- 
lar: I have seldom answered any scurrilous lampoon, when it was m my power to 
have exposed my enemies*: and, being naturally vindicative, have suffered m silence, 
and possessed my soul in quiet. 

Anything, though never so little, which a man speaks of himself, in my opinion, 
is still too much ; and therefore, I will waive this subji ct. and proceed to give the 
second reason which may justify a poet when he writ(;s against a particular person ; 
and that is, when ne is become a public nuisance. All tlior^e wllom Horace in his 
Satires, and Persius and Juvenal have mentioned in theirs, with a brand of infamy, 
are wholly such. It is an action of virtue to make examples of vicious men. They 
may and ought to be upbraided with their criuKjs and follies ; both for their amend- 
ment, if tihey are not yet incorrigible, and for the ttaror of others, to hinder them 
fi'om falling into those enormities, which they see are so severely punished in the 
persons of others. The first reason was oidy an excuse for revenge ; but this second 
18 absolutely of a poet's offtce to perform ; but how few lami)()Ouers are now living 
who are capable of this duty 1* When they come in my way, it is impossible some- 
times to avoid reading them. But, good God I how remote they are, in common jus- 
tice, from the choice of such persons as are the proper subject of satire ! And how 
little wit they bring for the support of their injustice I The weaker sex is th<!ir most 
ordinary theme ; and the best and fairest are sure to be rhc most severely handled. 
Amongst men, those who are prosperously unjust are entitled to panegyric; but af- 
flicted virtue is insolently stabbed with all manner of n^proaches ; no decency is con- 
sidered, no fulsomeness omitted ; no vemon is wanting, as far as duhiess can supply 
It; for there is a perpetual dearth of wit ; a barrenntiss of good sense and entertaln- 
jnent. The neglect of the readers will soon put an end to this sort of scribbling. 
There can bt^ no pleasantry where there is no wit ; no impression can be made where 
there is no truth for the foundation. To conclude : they are like tluj fruits of the 
earth in this unnatural season : the corn which held up iti* h'^ad is spoiled with rank- 
uess ; but the greater part of the harvv.'8t is laid along, and little of good income and 
wholesome nourishment is received into the bams. This is almost a digression, I 
confess to your lordship ; but a just indignation forced it from me. 

History and BiograpJiy. — From ^ The Life of Plutarch,' 1083. 

It may now be expected that, having written the life of an Instorian, I should take 
occasion to write somewhat concerning histoi y itself. Bur 1 think to commend it is 
unnecessary, for the profit and pleasure of that study are so very obvious, that a 
quick reader will be beforehand with me, and imagin(! faster than I can WTite. Be- 
^dcs. that the post is taken up already ; and few authors have tn;vell<.'d this way, but 
who have strewed it with rhetoric as th(;y i)asi*ed. For my own pari, who must con- 
fess it to my shame, that I never read anything but for p'U;asure, it has always been 
the most delightful entertainment of my life ; but they who have employed the study 
of it, as they ought, for their instruction, for the regulation of their private manners. 
and the management of public affairs, must agr^^e with me that it is the most pleasant 
school of wisdom. It is a familiarity with past ages, and En ucquaintance with all 
the heroes of them ; it is. if you will pardon the similitude, a prospective glass, car- 
rying your soul to a vast distjmce. and takiiijL; in the farthest objects of antiquity. It 
informs the understanding by the memoiy ; it helps us to judge of what will happen, 

•The abuse of personal satireH, or lampoons, as they were called, was carried to a 
prodigious extent in the days of Di-ydeu. whou every man of laHhion wa» obliged to 
write verses: and those who had neither poetry nor wit. had tecovu^ft V> YCoa.\vV.x-^ "assA^ 
libellinif.— AVr Matter Scott. 



94 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

by Bbewing ns the like revolutions of former times. For mankind being the same in 
all ages, agitatt^d by the same passions, and moved to action by the same interests, 
nothing can come to pass bat some precedent of the like nature has already been 
produced ; so that, having the causes before our eyes, we cannot easily be deceived 
in the efEects, if we have judgment enough but to draw the parallel. 

God, it is true, with his divine providence overrules and guides all actions to the 
secret end he has ordained them ; but in the way of human causes, a wise man may 
easily discern that there is a natural connection betwixt them ; and though he cannot 
foresee accidents, or all things that possibly can come, he may apply examples, and 
by them foretell that from the like counsels will probabljr succeed the like events ; 
and thereby iu all concernments, and all offices of life, be- instructed in the two main 
points on which depend our happiness — that is, what to avoid, and what to choose. 

The laws of history, in general, are truth of matter, method, and clearness of ex- 
pression. The first propriety is necessary, to keep our understanding from the fm- 
positions of falsehood ; for history is an argument framed from many particular 
examples or inductions ; if these examples are not true, then those measures of life 
which we take from them will be false, and deceive us in their consequence. The 
second is j^rouuded on the former ; for if the method be confused, if the words or 
expressions of thought are any way obscure, then the ideas which we receive must 
be imperfect ; and if such, we are not taught by them what to elect or what to slion. 
Truth, therefore, is required as the foundation of history to inform us, disposition 
and perspicuity as the manner to inform us plainly ; one is the being, the other the 
well-being of it. 

History is principally divided into these three species — commentaries, or annals ; 
history, properly so called ; and biographia, or the lives of particular men. 

ComiU'Mitaries, or annals, are — as I may so call them— naked history, or the plain 
relation of matter of fact, according to the succession of time, divested of all other 
ornaments. The springs and motives of actions are not here sought, unless they 
offer themselves, and are open to every man's discernment. The method is the most 
natural that can be imagined, depending only on the observation of months and 
years, and drawing, in the order of them, whatsoever happened worthy of relation. 
The style is easy, simple, unforced, and unadorned with the pomp of figures ; coun- 
cils, guesses, politic observations, sentences^ and orations, are avokled ; in fe^ 
words, a bare narration is its business. Of this kind, the * Commentaries ' of Csesar 
are certainly the most admirablo, and after him the 'Annals' of Tacitus may have 
place ; nay, even the prince of Greek historians, Thucydides, may almost be adopted 
into the number. For, though he instructs everywhere by sentences, though he 
gives the causes of actions, the councils of both parties, and makes orations where 
they are necessary, yet it is certain that he first designed his work a commentary ; 
every year writing down, like an unconcerned spectator as he was, the particular 
occurrences of the time, in the order as they happcnc d ; and his eighth book ia 
wholly written aftor the way of annals ; though, outhviiig the war, ho iripertedin his 
others those ornaments which render his work the most complete and most instruc- 
tive now extant. 

History, properly so called, may be described by the addition of those parts which 
are not required to aimals ; and therefore there is little further to be said concerning 
it ; only, that the dignity and gravity of style is h(?re necessary. That the guesses of 
secret causes inducing to the actions, be drawn at least from the morst probable cir^ 
cunistanc(;s, not pcjrverted by the malignity of the author to sinister iiiterpret4itions — 
of which Tacitus is accused— but candidly laid down, and left to the judgment of 
the reavler ; that nothing of concernment be omitted ; but things of trivial moment 
are still to be neglected, as debashig the majesty of the work ; that neither partiality 
nor prejudice appear, but that truth may eveiywhere be sacred. . . . 

Bio^aphia, or the history of particular men's lives, comes next to be considered; 
which in dignity is inferior to the other two, as being more confined in action, and 
treating of wars and councils, and all oth(;r public affairs of nations, only as th^y re- 
late to him whose life is written, or as his fortunes have a p:n'ticular dependence on 
them, or connection to them. All things here are circumscribed and driven to a 
point, so as to terminate in one ; coustjquently, if the action or counsel were man- 
ag'ed by coHoagnefi, some part of it must bo oither lame or wanting;, except it bo sup- 
pllod hy the excursion of the WTiter, HereUi, \\kevf\se, \\ttva\. \ift Yoaa qI n^mxcVj ,lat 
ilie same reason ; becansQ the fortunes and ac^ona ot ona mask. «aKi x«i\5sX*iii, \vcjv.\^Q»iftk 



DRYDEN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. . 96 

of many. Thiis the actions and achievements of Sylla, Laciillus, and Pompey, are all 
of them bnt the successive parts of the Mithridatic war ; of which we con^ have no 
perfect ima^, if the same hand hud not given us the whole, though at several views, 
in their particular lives. 

Yet though we allow, for the reasons above alleged, that this kind of writing is in 
dignity inferior to history and ainials, in pleasure and instruction it equals, or even 
excels, both of them. It is not only commended by ancient practice to celebrate 
the memoiy of great and worthy men, as the best thanks which poBterity can pay 
them, but also the examples of virtue are of more vigour when they are thus con- 
tracted into individuals. As the sunbeams, united in a burning-glass to a point, 
have greater force than when they are darted from a plain superficies, so the virtues 
and actions of one man, drawn -together in a single story, strike upon our minds a 
stronger and more lively impresssion than the scattered relations of many men 
and many actions ; and by the same means that they give us pleasure, they afford 
US profit too. For when the understanding is intent and fixed upon a single thing, 
it carries closer to the maik ; every part of the object sinks into it, and the soul 
receives it unmixed and whole. For this reason, Aristotle commends the unity of 
action in a poem ; because the mind is not capable of digesting many things at once, 
nor of conceiving fully any more than one idea at a time. Whatsoever distracts the 
pleasure, lessens it: and as the reader is more concerned at one man's fortune 
than those of many, so likewise the writer is more capable of making a perfect work 
if he confines himself to this narrow compass. The lineaments, features, and col- 
ourings of a single picture may be hit exjictly ; but in a history-piece of many figures, 
the general design, the ordonnance or disposition of it, the relation of one figure to 
another, the diversity of the posture, habits, shadowings, and all the other graces con- 
spiring to a uniformity, are of so difficult performance, that neither is the resemblance 
of particular persons often perfect, nor the beauty of the piece complete ; for any 
considerable error in the parts renders the whole disagi-eeabfe and lame. Thus, then, 
the perfection of the work, and the benefit arising from it, are both mon? absolute in 
biography than in history. All history is onljr the i)recepts of moral philosophy 
reductKl into examples. Moral philosophy is divided into two parts, ethics and poli- 
tics : the first instructs us in our private offices of virtue, the second in those which 
relate to the management of the commonwealth. Both of these teach by argumen- 
tation and reasonnig, which rush, as it were, into the mind, and possess it vnth vio- 
lence ; hut history rather allures than forces us to virtue. There is nothing of the 
tyrant in example ; but it gently glides into us, is easy and pleasant in its passage, 
and, in one word, reduces into practice our speculative notions ; therefore the more 
powerful the examples are, they are the more useful also, and by being more known, 
they are more powerful. Now, unity which is defined, is in its own natm-e more apt 
to be understood than multiplicity, which in some measure participates of infinity. 
The reason is Aristotle's. 

Biographia, or the histories of particular lives, though circumscribed in the sub- 
ject, is yet more extensive in the style than the other two ; for it not only compre- 
hends them bothj but has somewhat superadded, which neither of them have. The 
style of it is various, according to the occasion. There are proper places in it for 
the plainness and nakedn<»ss or narration, which is ascribed to annals ; there is also 
room reserved for the loftiness and gi-i'.vity of general history, wlu^n the actions re- 
lated shall require that manner ut exi)ref-si()n. But there is, withal, a descent into 
minute circumstances and trivial pasi^ages of life, which are natural to this way of 
writing, and which the dignity of the other two will not admit. There you are con- 
ductea only into the rooms i f state, here you are led into tlie private loaginjrs of the 
hero ; you see him in his undress, and arc; made familiar with his most i)rivate ac- 
tions and conversations. You may behold a Scipio and a Lirlius gathering cockle- 
shells on the shore, Augustus playmjj at bounding-stones with boys, and Agesilaus 
riding on a hobby-horse among his cliildren. The pag(^antry oi life is taken away ; 
you see the poor reasonable anmial as naked as ever nature made; him ; are madi^ ac- 
quainted with his passions and his folli(is ; and find the demi-god a man. Plutarch 
himself has more than once dtifended this kind of relating litth; passages ; for, in the 
life of Alexander, he says thus: *In writinsr the lives of illustrious men, I am not 
tied to the laws of history ; nor does it folFow, that, b(>caupe an action is great, it 
(hcrefore manifests the greatness and virtue of him who did It; but, ou thtt <ilb»ftx 
side, sonoetjme* a word or a casual jcH betrays a man more \o o\vi VviOvAKsii'^^ ^"IVsscv^ 



9C ' CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1689. 

than a battle fought wherciu ten thousand men were slain, or sacking of cities, or a 
course of victories.' In another place, he quotes Xenophon on the like occasion : 
* The eayiuga of great men in thtJir familiar discourses, and amidst their >vine, have 
somewhat in them which is worthy to be transmitted to posterity.* Our author there- 
fore ncieds no excuse, but rather deserves a commendation, when he relates, as pleaa- 
aut, some sayings of his heroes, which ai)pear — I must confess it — very cold and fai- 
sipid mirth to us. For it is not his meaning to commend the jest, but to paint the 
man ; besides, we may have lost somewhat of the idiom of that language in whicbit 
M'as spoken ; and wh<?re the conceit is couched in a single word, if all the significa- 
tions of it are not critically understood, the grace and the pleasantry are lost. 

Drydcn was exceedingly sensitive to tiie criticisms of the paltry 
versifiers of his day. Among those who annoyed him was Elkanah 
Settle, a now forgcnten rhymster, witli whom he carried on a violent 
war of ridicule and abuse. The following is an amusing specimen of 
a criticism by Dryden on Settle's tragedy, called ' The Empress of 
Morocco,' which was acted at court, and seems to have roused the 
jealousy and indignation of the critic : 

To conclude this act with the most rumbling piece of nonsense spoken yet — 

To flattering lightning our feiffloed smiles conform, 
Which, backed with tnunder, do but gild a storm. 

Confonn a smile to lightmin.g^ make a smtVe imitate ?t<7fc<ni»w7, and /attcrtTi^r lightnings 
lightuing, sure, is a tlirealening thing. And this lightning must gild a storm,. Now* 
if I inuir-i conform my smiles to lightning, then my smiles must gild a storm too : to 
(fi/d with Hinilea is a new invention of gilding. And gild a storm by being backed 
with thunder. Thunder is part of the storm ; so one part of the storm must help to 
ni'd another part, and help by backing ; as if a man would gild a thing the better for 
Dein^ backed, or havinjij a load upon his back. 80 rhat there is gilding oy conforming. 
stHtiing, lightning, baching^ and thundering. The whole is as if I should say thus: I 
will make my counterfeit smiles look like a flattering horse, which, being backed 
with a trooper, does but gild the battle. I am mistaken if nonsense is not here 
pretty thick sown. 

The controversies in which Dryden was frequently engaged were 
not restrained within the bounds of legitimate discussion. The 
authors of those days descended to gross personalities. * There was/ 
says Sir Walter Scott, ' during the reign of Charles II. a semi-bar- 
barous virulence of controversy, even upon abstract points of litera- 
ture, which would be now thought injudicious and unfair, even by 
the newspaper advocates of contending factions. A critic of that 
time never deemed he had so elfectually refuted the reasoning of his 
adversary, as when he had said something disrespectful of his talents, 
person, or moral character. Thus, literary contest was embittered 
by personal hatred, and truth was so far from being the object of the 
combatants, that even victory was tasteless unless obtained by the 
disgrace and degradation of the antagonists.* 

Sm WILLIAM TEMPLE. 

• 

Sir AVilliam Temple (1628-1699), a well-known statesman and 

miscellaneous writer, ])()ssesses a high reputation. He was the son 

of Sir John Temple, Master of the Rolls in Ireland in the reigns of 

ChnrlcH I. and II. Sir William was born in London. He studied at 

Citmbriclt^c under Cud worth as tulor •, l)\v\.\ie\>;i^ mX^\iJ\ft^iQit ^>ahU.c 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. d7 

ted bis attention chiefly to the French and Spanish Ian- 
After travellins: for six years on the continent, he went to 
th his father in Ireland, where he represented the county of 
a tlie parliament at Dublin in lOGl. Removing, two years 
Is, to England, tbe introductions which he carried to tlie 
talesmen of the day speedily procured him employment in 
matic service. He was sent, in 1665, on a secret mission to 
)p of Munster, and performed his duty so well, that on bis 
baronetcy was bestowed on him, and he was ap'^ointed Eng- 
ent at the court of Brussels. The peace of Western Europe 
is time in danger from the ambitious desip:ns of Louis XIV. 
3d at the subjugation of the Spanish Nctlierlands. Temple 
sit to the Dutch governor, De Witt, at the Hague, and with 
.1 brought about, in 1668, the celebrated ' triple alliance ' be- . 
igland, Holland, and Sweden, by which the career of Louis 
time effectually checked. In the same year he received the 
lent of ambassador at the Hague, where he resided in that 
for about twelve months, on terms of intimacy with De 

1 also with the young Prince of Orange, afterwards William 
ngland. 

irrupt and wavering principles of the English court having 

2 recall of Temple in 1669, he retired from public business to 
ence at Sheen, near Richmond, and there employed himself 
y occupations and gardening. In 1674, however, he, with 
actance, consented to return as ambassador to Holland ; in 
luntry, besides engaging in various important negotiations, 
ibuted to bring about the mariiage of the Prince of Orange 

Duke of York's eldest daughter, Mary. That important 
liar event took place in 1677. Having finally returned to 
in 1679', Temple was pressed by the king to accept the ap- 
it of Secretary of State, which, however, he persisted in re- 
Charles was now in the utmost perplexit}', in consequence 
scontents and difficulties which a long course of misgovern- 
d occasioned; and used to hold anxious conferences with 
m the means of extricating himself from his embarrassments, 
sure advised by Sir William was the appointment of a privy- 
•f thirty persons, in conformity with whose advice tlie king 
.ways act, and by whom all his affairs should be freely and 
ebated; one half of the members to consist of the great offl- 
ate, and the other of the most influential and wealthy noble- 
gentlemen of the country. This scheme was adopted by 
and excited great joy throughout the nation. The hopes of 
le were, however, speedily frustrated by the turbulent and 
pled factiousness of some of the members. Temple, who 
self one of the council, soon became disgusted with Its \\ro- 
, as well as those of the king,and,ml^ft\,ivw^\\^ T^Wx^^'ttQTc^ 
k He spent the remainder of his days chV^^y ^X^^oTi^^is^i 



98 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

in Surrey — * the sweetest place/ he says, * that I have seen in my life 
either before or since, at home or abroad.* He has given a descrip- 
tion of tlie garden at Moor Park in the second of his essays — that , 
upon Gardening in the year 1685, "which has been considered the best ' 
of his miscellaneous treatises. It is very pleasingly written, and 
abounds in interesting facts and short descriptions. In this essay, 
Temple vindicates the English climate, and relates a saying of 
Charles II. : 

The English Climate. 

I must needs add one thing more in favour of our climate which I heard the kine 
say, and I thought new and right, and truly like a king of England that loved and 
esteemed his own country. 'Twas iu reply to some of the company that were reviling 
6ur climate, and extolling those of Italy and iSpaiu, or at least of France. He said, he 
thought that was the best climate where he could be abroad in the air with pleasure, 
or at least without trouble and inconvenience, the most days of the year, and the 
most hours of the day ; and this he thought he could be in England more than in any 
country he knew of in Euroi)e. And I believe it true, not only of the hot and the 
cold, but even among our neighbours of France and the Low Countries themselves, 
where the heats or the colds, and changes of the seasons are less treatable than they 
are with us. 

The truth is, our climate wants no heat to produce excellent fruits ; and the de- 
fault of it is only the short seasons of our heats or summers, by which many of the 
later are left behind and imperfect with us. But all such as are ripe before the end 
of August are, for aught I know, as good with us as anywhere else. This makes me 
esteem the true region of gardens in England to be the compass of ten miles about 
London, where the accidental warmth of air from the fires and steams of so vast a 
town, makes fruits as well as com a great deal forwarder than in Hampshire or 
Wiltshire, though more southward by a full degree. 

^ There are, besides the temper of our climate, two things particular to us that con- 
tribute much to the beauty and elegance of our gardens, which are the gravel of our 
walks, and the fineness and almost perpetual greenness of our turf. The first is not 
known anywhere else, which leaves all their dry walks in other countries very un- 

{>leasant and uneasy. I'he other cannot be found in France or in Holland, as we have 
t, the soil not admitting that fineness of blade in Holland, nor the sun that green- 
ness in France, during most of the summer ; nor, indeed, is it to be found but in the 
finest of our soils. 

At Moor Park, Temple had for secretary and humble companion 
the famous Jonathan Swift, who retained no very agreeable recollec* 
tion of that period of dependence and obscurity. There also resided 
one with whom Swift was indissolubly associated. Esther Johnson, 
immortalised as ' Stella,' was the daughter of Temple's housekeeper; 
she was seventeen years younger than Sir William's Irish secretary, 
and the latter became her instructor, her companion, and life-long 
friend. Yet never was genius more disastrous or friendship more 
fatal in its influence I 

After the Revolution, King "William sometimes visited Temple, in 

order to consult him about public affairs. His death took place in 

January 1C98-9. Throughout his whole career, the conduct of Sir 

William Temple was marked by a cautious regard for his personal 

comfort and reputation; which strongly disposed him to avoid risks 

of every kind, and to stand aloof from public business where the ex- 

erciae of eminent courage and deciaion ^aa lecvvivt^^, "^Sa cWracter 

^ « patriot 18 therefore not one ^\iic\i caW^ fex W^ ^mYn»2^\!L\ 



TEMi'LE.J ExNGLISH LITERATURE. 99 

though it ought to be remarked in his favour, that as he seems to 
have had a lively consciousuess that neither his abilities nor disposi- 
tions fitted him for vigorous action in stormy times, he probably 
acted with prudence in withdrawing from a field in which he would 
have only been mortified by failure, and done harm instead of good 
to the public. Being subject to frequent attacks of low si)irits, he 
might have been disabled for action by the very emergencies which 
demanded the grt atest mental energy and self-possession. But as an 
adviser, he was enlightened, safe and sagacious. As a private char- 
.acter, Sir William was respectable and decorous : his temper, natur- 
ally haughty and unamiable, was generally kept under good regula- 
tion ; and among his foibles, vanity was the most prominent. 

The works of Sir William Temple consist chiefly of short miscel- 
laneous pieces. His longest production is 'Observations upon the 
United Provinces of the Netherlands,' composed during his first 
retirement at Sheen, and which, compared with his 'Essay on the 
Original and Nature of Government,' written about the same time, 
shews that he had much more ability as an observer and describer, 
than as a reasoner on what he saw. Besides several political tracts 
of temporary interest, he wrote Essays on Ancient and Modern 
Learning; the Gardens of Epicurus ; Heroic Virtue; Poetry; Popu- 
lar Discontents ; Health and Long Life. In these are to be found 
many sound and acute observations, expressed in the perspicuous and 
easy, but not very correct or precise language, for wiiich he is noted. 
His memoirs and correspondence have been published by T. Pere- 
grine Courtenay (2 vols. 18H6). 

Dr. Johnson said * Sir William Temple was the first writer who 
gave cadence to English prose : before his time, they were careless of 
arrangement, and did not mind whether a sentence ended with an 
important word or an insignificant word, or with what part of speech 
it was concluded.' It is true that some of Temple's productions are 
eminently distinguished by harmony and cadence; but that he was 
the first who introduced the latter, will not be admitted by any one 
who is familiar with the prose of Cowley, Bishop Hall, Jeremy Taylor, 
and Dryden, 

• 

Against Excessive Grief.* 

The honour which I received by a letter from your ladyship was too great not to 
be ackiiowle^ed ; yet I doubted whether that occasion could bear me out in the con- 
fidence of giving your ladyship any further trouble. But I can no longer forbear, on 
account of the seus<ible wountw that have so often of late been given your friends 
here, by the desperate expressions in several of your letters, respecting your tem- 
per of mind, your health, and your life ; in aU which you must allow them to be ex- 
tremely concerned. Perhaps none can be, at heart, more partial than I am to what- 
ever H'gards your ladyship, nor more inclined to defend you on this very occasion, 
how unju&t and unkind soever you are to yourself. But when you throw away your 
health, or your life, so great a remainder of your own family, and so great hopes of 
that into which you are entered, and all by a desperate melancholy, upon an event 
past remedy, and to wliirfi all the mortal race is perpetually subject, give me leave to 

* Addressed to the Countess of Essex in 1674, after l\i<b d&a,\.\xol Vet OTji^i ^-w^^Xftx. 



100 CYCLOP.KDIA OF [to 1689. 

tell you, madam, that what you do is not at all conpistent elthjsr with sogoodaChii^ 
tian, or bo reiieouable and great a person, as your hidyship appears to the world in all 
oth<3r lights. 

I know no duty in i(;ligion more generally agreed on, nor more jastly required by 
God Almighty, than a i)ertt^ct submission to his will in all things ; nor do I thintc any 
dic^positiou of mind can cither phrase him more, or become us better, than that of 
being satit^ilid with all he gives," and contented with all he takes away. None, I am 
suits can be of more honour to God, nor of more ease to ourselves. For, if we con- 
sidiT him as our i^Iaker, we cannot contt^nd with him ; if as our Father, we ought not 
to di8tru»<t him; so that we may be confident, whatever he does is intended for good ; 
and whatever hapiKJus that we iuterpret otherwise, yet we can get nothing by repin- 
ing, nor save anything by resisting. 

But if it were lit for us to reason with God Almighty, and your ladyship's loss M'ere 
acknowK dged as great as it could have been to anyone, yet, I doubt, you would have 
but ill grace to complain at the rate you have done, or rather as you do ; for the fii«t 
emotions or passions may bo pardoned ; it is only the continuance of them which 
makort them inexcusable. In this world, madam, there 13 notliiug; perfectly sood ; 
and whatever is called s«), is but cither comparatively with other things of its K.lud, 
or else with the evil that is mingled in its composition ; so he is a good man who is 
better than men commonly are, or in whom the good qualities are more than tlie bad ; 
80, in the course of hfe, his condition is esteemed good which is better than of most 
other men, or in which the good circumstances are more than the evil. Bj* this 
measure, I doubt, madam, your complaints ought to bo tinned into acknowledgments, 
and your friends would have cause to rejoice rather than to condole with you. When 
your ladyship has fairly considered how Go,d Almighty has dealt with you in what he 
has given, you may bo Ijf t to judge yourself how you have dealt v.ith him in yom* 
complaints for what ho has taken away. K you look about you, and consider other 
lives as well as yom* own, and what your lot is, in comparison with those that have 
been draw:i in the circle of your knowledge ; if you think how few are bom with 
lionour, how miiny die without n.inie or ehildrcn, how little beauty we see, how few 
friends we hear of, how much poverty, and how many disciases th«^re are in the world, 
you will fall down upon j'our knees, and, instead of repining at one affliction, will 
admire ho many bletsi'igs as you have received at the hand of God. 

To pnt your lady-^iiip in mind of what you are. and of thvj advantages which you 
have, would look like a design to flatter you. But this I may say, that we will pity 
you as nmch as you please, if you will tell us who they are whom you think, upon ail 
circumstances, you liave n-ason to envy. Now, if I had a master who gave mo all I 
could at^k, but thought fit to take one thing from me again, either be(;ause I used it 
ill, or gave myself so much over to it as to neglect what I owed to him, or to the 
world ; or, perhaps, because he would shew his power, and put me in mind from 
whom I held all the rest, would you think I had much reason to complain of hard 
usage, and never to remember any more Avhat was left uie, never to forget what was 
tak.n away ? 

It id tiiie you have lost a child, and all that could bo lost in a child of that age ; 
but you have kept one child, and you are likely to do so long ; you have the assurance 
of another, ai:d the hopt s of many more. You have kept a husband, great in cm- 
ploymciiit, in fortune, and in the esteem of good men. You have kept your beauty 
and your health, unless you have destroyed thcnn yourself, or discouraged them to 
stay with you by using them ill. Y'ou have friends who are as kind to you as yoa 
can wish, or as you can give them leave to be. Yon have honour and esteem from all 
>vho know you ; or if ever it fails in any degree, it is only upon that poiut of yom: 
Bceming to be fallen out with God and the whole world, and neither to cure for your- 
self, nor anything else, after what you have lofct. 

You will say, perhaps, that one thing was all to you, and your fondness of it made 
you indiHerent to everything el.ie. But this, I doubt, will be so far from justifj'ing 
you, that it will prove to be your fault as wAl as your misfortune. God Almighty 

gave you all the blessings of life, and you s t your heart wholly upon one, and 
espise or undervalue all the rest: is this his fault or yours? Nay, is it not to 
ho very unthankful to Heaven, as well as very scornful to the rest of the world ? is 
it not to 8jy, bacausc yon have lost one thing God has given you, you thank him for 
nothiu;^ ha has le£t, and care not what he VakviS awa^ 1 \ftSx.uoX\<i «a.Y, since that 
oiiu thiu^ U goim out of the world, thevcVinoV^Al;i^\*ilVYu\\.^s\a0^llWb.XJcL!^^^ 



TEMPLE.J ENGLISH LITERATURE. 101 

deserve your kindness or esteem? A friend makes me a feast, and places before 
me all tbat his care or kindness could provide ; but I set my heart upon one dish 
alone, and if that happens to be throvm down, I scorn all the rest ; and though he 
sends for another of the same kind, yet I rise from the table in a rage, and say : ' My 
friend is become my enemy, and he has done me the greatest wrong iu the world.' 
Have I reason, madam, or good grace in what I do ? or would it become me bett^ir 
to eat of the rest that is before me, and think no more of what had happened, and 
could not be remedied ? 

Christianity teaches and commands us to moderate our passions : to temper our 
affections towards all things below ; to be thankful for the possession, and patient 
under the loss, whenever He who gave shall see tit to take away. Your exti'ume fond- 
ness was perhaps as displeasing to God before as now your extreme affliction is ; and 
your loss may nave been a punishment for your faults in the manner of enjoying 
what you had. It is at least pious to ascribe all the ill that befalls us to our own 
demerits, rather than to iujustice in God. And it becomes us better to adore the 
issues of his providence in the effects, than to inquire into the causes ; for submis- 
sion is the only way of reasoning between a creature and its Maker ; and content- 
ment in his will is the greatest duty we can pretend to, and tlie best remedy we can 
apply to all our misfortunes. 

Passions are perhaps the stings without which, it is said, no honey is made. Yet 
I think all sorts of men have ever agreed they ought to be our servants, and not our 
masters ; to give us some agitation for entertainment or exercise, but never to throw 
our reason out of its seat. It is better to have no i)a8sious at all, than to have them 
too violent ; or such alone as, instead of heightening cur pleasures, afford us noth- 
ing but vexation and pain. 

In aU such losses as your ladyship's has been, there is something that common 
nature cannot be denied : there is a great deal that good nature may be allowed. 
But all excessive and outrageous grief or lanioutatiou for the dead was accounted, 
among the ancient Christians, to have something heathenish ; and, among the civil 
nations of old, to have something barbarous : and thorofore it has been the care of the 
first to moderate it by their precepts, and of the latter to restrain it by their laws. 
When young cliildren are taken away, we are sure they are well, and escape much ill, 
which would in all api)carance have befallen them if they had stayed longer with us. 
Our kindness to them is doemed to proceed from common opmions or fond imagina- 
tions, not friendship or esteem ; and to be grounded upon entertainment rather than 
use in the many offices of life. Nor would it pass from any person besides your 
ladyslnp to say you lost a companion and a friend of nine years old ; though you 
lost one, indeed, who gave the fairest hopes that could be of boin^ both in time and 
everything else that is estimable and good. But j'et that itself is very uncertain, 
cons'kloring the chances of time, the infection of company, the snares of the world, 
and the passions of youth : so that the most excellent and agi'eeable creature of that 
tender age might, by the course of years and accidents, become the most miserable 
herself ; and a greater trouble to her friends by living long, than she could have been 
by d^ing young. 

\ et, after all, madam, I think your loss so great, and some measure of your grief so 
deserved, that, would all your passionate compliants, all the anguish of your heart, do 
anything to retrieve it ; could tears water the lovely plant, so as to make it grow 
again aner once it is cut down ; could sighs furnish new breath, or could it draw life 
and spirits from the wasting of yours. I am sure your friends would be so far from 
accusing your passion, that they would encourage it as inuch^ and share it as deeply, 
as they could. But alas I the eternal laws of the creation cximguiah all such hopes, 
forbid all such designs ; na^^urc gives us many children and friends to take tnem 
awaj', but takes none away to give them to us again. And tliis makes the excesses 
of grief to be universally condemned as unnatural, because so much in vain ; whereas 
nature does nothing in vain : as unreasonable, because so contrary to our own 
designs ; for we all design to be well and at ease, and by grief we make ourselves 
troubles motot properly out of the dust, whilst our naiiigs and complaints are but 
like arrows shot up into the air at no mark, and so to no purpose, but only to fall 
back upon our o\vn heads and destroy ourselves 

Perhaps, madam, you will say this is your design, or, if not, your desire ; but I 
hope you are not yet so far gone, or so desperately bent. Your ladyc^hip knows vcr«{ 
weJ youx- UIv in not yoiu- own, but Ilis who lent \l you lo rnvx-uvx-jvi \x\i<i^x»i"s&\:\^\si.'<scssi.. 



102 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

best way yon can, and not to throw it away, as if it came from so&e common hand. 
Our life belongs, in a great measure, to our country and our family : therefore, by ail 
human lawe, as well as divine, self-murder has ever been agreed upon as the greatest 
crime ; and it is punished here with the utmost shame, which la all that can be in- 
flicted upon the dead. But is the crime much less to kill ourselves by a slow poison 
than by a sudden wound ? Now, if we do it, and Itnow we do it, by a long and con- 
tinual grief, can we think ourselves innocent ? What great difEerence is there, if we 
break our hearts or consume them, if we pierce them or bruise them ; since all ter^ 
minates in the same death, as all arises from the same despair? But v(diat if it does 
not go so far : it is not, indeed, so bad as it might be, but that does not excuse it. 
Though I do not kill iny neighbour, is it no hurt to wound him, or to spoil him of 
the conveniences of life ? llie greatest crime is for a man to kill himself ; is it a 
small one to wound himself by anguish of heart, by .grief, or despair : to ruin his 
health, to shorten his age, to deprive himself of all the pleasure, ease, and enjoyment 
of life? . . . 

Whilst I had any hopes that that your tears would ease you, ov that yonr grief 
would consume itself by liberty and time, your ladyship knows very well I never 
accused it, nor ever increased it by the common formal ways of attempting to assuage 
it : and this, I am sure, is the first office of the kind 1 ever performed, otherwise than 
in the most ordinary forms. I was in hopes what was to violent could not be lone ; 
but when I observed it to ^w stronger with age, and increase like a stream the 
further it ran ; when I saw it draw out to such unhappy consequences, and threaten 
not less than your child, your health and your life, I could no longer forbear this en- 
deavour. Nor can I end it without begging of your ladyship, for God's sake, for your 
own, for that of your children and your friends, your country and your family, that 
you would no longer abandon yourself to so disconsolate a passion ; but that yon 
would at lengrth awaken your piety, give way to your prudence, or, at least, rouse 
up the invincible spirit of the P<.Tcies, which never yet shrunk at any disaster ; that 
you would sometimes remember the great honours and fortunes of your family, not 
always the losses ; cherish those veins of good humour that are so natural to you, 
and sear up those of ill, that would make you so unkind to your children and to your- 
self ; and, above all, that you would enter ujmn the cares of your health and your Ufe. 
For my part, I know nothing that could be so great an honour and a satisfaction to 
me, as if your ladyship would own me to have contributed towards this cure ; but, 
however, none can perhaps more justly pretend to your pardon for the attempt, 
since there is none, I am sure, who has always had at heart a greater honour for your 
ladyship's family, nor can have more esteem for you, than, madam, your most obedi- 
ent and most humble servant. 

BigJit of Private Judgment in Religion. 

Whosoever designs the change of reli^on in a country or government by any 
other means than that of a general conversion of the people, or the greatest part of 
them, designs all the mischiefs to a nation that use to usner in, or attend, the two 
great distempers of a state, civil war or tyranny ; which are violence, oppression, 
cruelty, rapine, intemperance, injustice ; and, in short, the miserable cnnsion of 
human blood, and the confusion of all laws, orders and virtues among men. 

Such consequences as these, I doubt, arc something more than the disputed 
opinions of any man, or any particular assembly of men, can be worth ; since the 
great and general end of all religion, next to men's happiness hereafter, is their hap- 
piness here ; as appears by the commandments of God being the best and greatest 
moral and civil, as well as divine precepts, that have been given to a nation ; and by 
the rewards proposed to the piety of the Jews, throughout the Old Testament, which 
were the blessings of this life, as health, length of age, number cf children, plenty, 
peace, or victory. . . . 

A man that tells me my opinions are absurd or ridiculous, impertinent or unrea- 
sonable, because they differ from his, seems to intend a quarrel instead of a dispute, 
and calls me fool, or madman, with a little more circumstance ; though, perhaps, I 
pass for one as well in my senses as he, as pertinent in talk, and as prudent in life : 
yet these arc the common civilities, in religious argument, of sufficient and conceited 
men, who talk much of right reason, and mean always their own, and make their 
private imagination the jneaBure ot general truth. But euch language determines all 



TEMPLE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 103 

between us, and the dispute comes to end in three words at last, which it might as 
well have ended in at fli-st : That he is in the right, and I am in the wrong. 

. The other great end of religion, which is our happiness here, has been generally 
agreed on by all mankind, as appears in the records of all their laws, as well as aU 
tfieir religions, which comes to be established by the concurrence of men's customs 
and opinions ; though, in the latter, that concurrence may have been produced by 
divine impressions or inspirations. For all agree in teaching uud commandine:, in 
planting and improving, not only those moral virtues which conduce to the f eucity 
and tranquility as every private man's life, but also those manners and dispositions 
that tend to the peace, order, and safety of all civil societies and govemments among 
men. Nor could I ever understand how those who call themselves, and the world 
usually calls, religiaua nien, come to put so great weight upon those points of belief 
which men never have agreed in, and so little upon mose of virtue and morality, in 
which they have hardly ever disagreed. Nor why a state should venture the subver- 
sion of their peace, and their order, which are certain g^ods, and so universally 
esteemed, for the propagation of uncertain or contested opinions. 

Sir William Temple's * Essay upon the Ancient and Modern Learn- 
ing ' gave occasion to one of liie most celebrated literary controver- 
sies which have occurred in England. The composition of it was 
suggested to him principally by a French work of Charles Perrault, 
on * The Age of Louis the Great,' in which, with the view of flatter- 
ing the pride of the grand monarque^ it was afl3rmed that the writers 
of antiquity had been excelled by those of modern times. This doc- 
trine excited a warm discussion in France, where the poet Boileau 
was among those by whom it was strenuously opposed. It was in 
behalf of the ancients that Sir William Temple also took the field. 
The first of the enemy's arguments which he controverts is the alle- 
gation, * that we must have more knowledge than the ancients, be- 
cause we have the advantage both of theirs and our own ; just as a 
dwarf standing upon a giant's shoulders sees mor© and further than 
he.' To this he replies, that the ancients may have derived vast stores 
of knowledge I'rom their predecessors — namely the Chinese, Egyp- 
tians, Chaldeans, Persians, Syrians, and Jews. Among these nations, 
he remarks, * were planted and cultivated mighty growths of astro- 
nf)my, astrology, magic, geometry, natural philosophy, and ancient 
story ; and from these sources Orpheus, Homer, Lycurgus, Pythagoras, 
Plato, and others of the ancients, are acknowledged to have drawn 
all those depths of knowledge or learning which have made them so 
renowned in all succeeding ages.' Here Temple manifests extreme 
ignorance and credulity in assuming as facts the veriest fables of the 
ancients, particularly with respect to Orpheus, of whom he after- 
wards speaks in conjunction with that equally authentic personage, 
Arion, and in reference to whose musical powers he asks triumph- 
antly, * What are become of the charms of music, by which men and 
beasts, fishes, fowls, and serpents, were so frequently enchanted, and, 
their very natures changed ; by which the passions of men were raised 
to the greatest height and violence, and then as suddenly appeased, 
so that they might be justly said to be turned into lions or lambs, into 
wolves or mto horts^ by the powers and c\i«xm& ol \Xi\^ %^ss&l<^2R^& 
music?* 



104 CYCLOP-^DIA OF [to 1689. 

In the same credulous spirit, he affirms that * the more ancient sages 
of Greece appear, by the characters remaining of them, to have been 
much greater men than Hippocrates, Plato, and Xenophon. They 
were generally princes or lawgiyers of their countries, or at least 
offered or invited to be so, either of their own or of others, that 
desired them to frame or reform their several institutions of civil 
government. Tliey were commonly excellent poets and great phy- 
sicians : they were so learned in natural philosophy, that they fore- 
told not only eclipses in the heavens, but earthquakes at land, and 
storms at sea, great drougJits,and great plagues, much plenty or much 
scarcity of certain sorts of fruits or grain ; not to mention the magi- 
cal powers attributed to several of them to allay storms, to raise gales, 
to appease commotions of the people, to make plagues cease ; which 
qualities, whether upon any ground of trutli or no, yet, if well be- 
lieved, must have raised them to that strange height tliey were at, of 
common esteem and honour, in their own and succeeding ages.' The 
objection occurs to him, as one likely to be set up by the admirers of 
modern learning, that there is no evidence of the existence of books 
before those now either extant or on record. This, however, gives 
him no alarm : for it is very doubtful, he tells us, whether books, 
though they may be helps to knowledge, and serviceable in diffusing 
it, * are necessary ones, or much advance any other science beyond the 
particular records of actions or registers of time' — as if any example 
could be adduced of science having flourished where tradition was 
the only mode of handing it down ! His notice of astronomy is 
equally ludicrous : * There is nothing new in astronomy,* says he, * to 
vie with the ancients, unless it he tlie Copemican system ' — a system 
which overturns the whole fabric of ancient astronomical science, 
though Temple declares with great simplicity that it * has made no 
change in the conclusions of astronomy.* In comparing * the great 
wits among the moderns * with the authors of antiquity, he mentions 
no Englishmen except Sir Philip Sidney, Bacon, and Selden, leaving 
Shakspeare and Milton altogether out of view. How little he was- 
qualified to judge of the comparative merits of ancient and modem 
authors, is evident not only from his total ignorance of the Greek 
language, but from the very limited knowledge of English literature 
evinced by his considering Sir Philip Sidney to be *both the greatest 
poet and the noblest genius of any that have left writings behind 
them, and published in ours or any other modern language.' He 
further declares, that after Ariosto, Tasso, and Spenser, he * knows 
none of the modems that have made any achievements in heroic poe- 
try worth recording.' 

Descartes and Hobbes are * the only new philosophers that have 

made entrie% upon the noble stage of the sciences for fifteen hundred 

years past,' and these ' have by no means eclipsed the lustre of Plato, 

ArlstotJe, Epicurus, and others of the ancients.' Bacon, Newton, and 

SojrJe^ are not regarded as philosophers at aW. ftu\. \\\^\xiQie\.\a!\svRfc^ 



^TEMPLE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 105 

blunder committed by Temple on this occasion wasiiis adducing the 
Greek Epistles oC Piialaris in support of the proposition, thai 'the 
oldest books we have are still in their kind tlie best.' These Epistles, 
says he, * I think to have more grace, more spirit, more force of wit 
and genius, than any others I have seen, either ancient or modern.' 
Some critics, he admits, have asserted that they are not the produc- 
tion of Phalaris— who lived in Sicily more than'^five centuries before 
Christ — but of some writer in the declining age of Greek literature. 
In reply to these scej)tics, he enumerates such transcendent excel- 
lences of the Epistles, that any man, he thinks, * must have little skill 
in painting that cannot find out this to be an original.' The celebrity 
giyen to these Epistles by the publication of Temple's Essay, led to 
the appearance of a new edition of them at Oxford, under [he name 
of Charles Boyle as editor. Boyle, while preparing it for the press, 
got into a quarrel with the celebrated critic, Richard Bentley, a man 
deeply versed in Greek literature; on whom he inserted a bitter 
reflection in his preface. Bentley, in reply, demonstrated the Epis- 
tles to be a forgery, taking occasion at the same time to speak some- 
whaf irreverently of Sir William Temple. Boyle, with the assistance 
of Aldrich, Atterbury, and other Christ-church doctors — Tvho, indeed, 
were the real combatants — sent forth a reply, the plausibility of which 
seemed to give him the advantage ; till Bentley, in a most triumph- 
ant rejoinder, exposed the gross ignorance which lay concealed under 
the wit and assumption of his opponents. To these parties, however, 
the controversy was not confined. Boyle and his friends were backed 
by the sarcastic power.-^, if not by the learning, of Pope, Swift, Garth, 
Middleton, and others. Swift, who came into the field on behalf of 
his patron. Sir William Temple, published on this occasion his fam- 
ous * Battle of the Books,' and to the end of his life continued to speak 
of Bentley in the language of hatred and contempt. In the work just 
mentioned. Swift has ridiculed not only that scholar, but also his 
friend, the Rev. William Wotton, who had opposed Temple in a treatise 
entitled * Reflections upon Ancient and Modern Learning,' published 
in 1604. To some parts of that treatise Sir William wrote a reply, 
the following passage in which perhaps suggested the satirical account 
given long afterwards by Swift, in ' Gulliver's Travels,' of the experi- 
mental researches of the projector at Lagodas : 

Schemes of Projectors. 

What has been produced for the use, benefit, or pleasure of mankind, by all the 
airy speculations of those who have passed for the great advancers of knowledge and 
learning these last fifty years— which is the date of our modem pretenders — I confess 
I am yet to seek, and should be very glad to find. I have indeed heard of wondrous 
pretensions and visions of men possessed with notions of the strange advancement 
of learning and sciences, on foot in this age, and the progress they are like to make in 
the next ; as the universal medicine, which will certainly cure all that have It ; the 
philosopher's stone, which will be found out by men that care not for riches ; the 
transfuftion of young blood into old men's veins, which will makethe\\\«*^«cVftft»ft\ssa 
as the lambB from which 'tis to be derived ; a umveTBal \&iig;vx^e, V5^5i.0tt. T^va.-^ ^i&ts' 



106 CYCL0Py4i:niA OF [to 1689. 

all men*8 turn when fhcy have forgot their own ; the knowledge of one another's 
thoughts without the grievous trouble of speaking ; the art of flying, till a man hap- 
pens to fall down, and break his neck ; double-bottomed ships, whereof none can 
ever be cast away besides the first that was made ; the admirable virtues of that noble 
and necessary juice called spittle, which will come to be sold, and very chean, in the 
apothecaries' shops ; discoveries of new worlds in the planets, and voyages between 
this and tliat in the.moon to be made as frequently as between York and London : 
which such poor mortals as I am think as wild as those of Ariosto, but without half 
so much wit, or so much instruction ; for there, these modem sages may know where 
they may hope in time to find their lost senses, preserved in phials, with those of 
Orlando. 

SIB GEORGE MACKENZIE. 

Sir Georg^i Mackenzie, lord advocate under Charles II. and James 
II. (1636-1691), was a native of Dundee, son of Simon Mackenzie of 
.Locbslin, brother of the Earl of Seaforth. He was educated at St 
Andrews and Aberdeen, and studied civil law at Bourges, in France. 
In 1660, he published *Aretine ; or the Serious Romance.* He seems 
to have been almost the only learned man of his time in Scotland 
who maintained an acquaintance with the lighter departments of con- 
temporary English literature. Sir George was a friend of Dry den, 
by whom he is mentioned with great respect ; and he himself com- 
posed poetry, which, if it has no other merit, is at least in pure En- 
glish, and appears to have been fashioned after the best models of the 
time. He also wrote some moral essays, which possess the same 
merits. These are entitled — * On Happiness ;' * The Religious Stoic ;* 
' Moral Gallantry ;' * The Moral History of Frugality ;' and * Reason.' 

In 1665, Sir George published at Edinburgh 'A Moral Essay, pre- 
ferring Solitude to Public Employment,' which drew forth an answer 
from John Evelyn. Both are curious and pleasing works, and it is 
remarkable us illustrating the propensity of men to dwell in imagin- 
ation on pleasures which they do not possess, that the writer who 
contended for solitude was. a person busily employed in scenes of 
active life, the king's advocate for Scotland ; while Evelyn, whose 
pursuits were principally those which ornament retirement — who 
longed to be * delivered from the gilded impertinences of life ' — btood 
forward as the champion of public and active employment The 
arguments of Evelyn are, however, unanswerable. He ought to be 
a wise and good man, indeed, that dares to live alone ; for ambition 
and malice, lust and superstition, or torpid indolence, are in solitude 
as in their kingdom. The most busy may find time for occasional 
retirement from the world, while the highest virtues lose their efficacy 
from being unseen. Even the love of letters — the chief delight and 
attraction of a secluded life — palls upon the mind, and fails to render 
instruction, for * not to read men, and converse with living libraries, 
is to deprive ourselves of the most useful and profitable of studies.' 
The literary efforts of Sir George Mackenzie were but holiday recre- 
ations. JSia business was law. He was author of * Institute of the 
Zfaw of 8cot]and/ and * Laws and Cvisloma Vn "^AaAXfix^ Criminal;* 
also 'A Defence of the Royal Line ol ^coWan^', mNN\i\OQL\^^Siw^ 



MACKENZIE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 107 

supports tlie story of the forty fabulous kings deduced from Gathelus, 
son-in-law of Pharaoh, and his spouse Scota! An important histori- 
cal production of his pen, entitled * Memoirs of the Affairs of Scotland, 
from the Restoration of Charles II.' lay undiscovered in manuscript 
till the present century, and was not printed till 1821. Sir George 
disgraced himself by subserviency to the court, and by the inhu- 
manity and cruelty which, as Lord Advocate, he was instrumental in 
perpetrating against the Covenanters. He is distinguished as the 
founder of the Library of the Faculty of Advocates in Edinburgh. 
At the Revolution, he retired to England, where his death took place 
in. 169!. 
Sir George Mackenzie was less successful in verse than in prose : 

Praise of a Country Life, 

O happy country life I pnre like its air ; 

Free from the rage of pride, the pangs of care. 

Here happy souls lie bathed in soft content, 

And are at once secure and innocent. 

No passion here but love : here is no wound 

But that by which lovers their names confound 

On barks of trees, whilst with a smiling face 

They see those letters as themselves embrace. 

Here the kind myrtles pleasant branches spread ; 

And sure no laurel casts so sweet a shade. 

Yet all these country pleasures, without love, 

Would but a dull and tedious prison prove. 

But oh I what woods [and] parks [and] meadows lie 

In the blest circle of a mistress' eye I 

What courts, what camps, what triumphs may one find 

Displayed in Cselia, when she will be kind I 

What a dull thing this lower world had been, 

If heavenly beauties were not sometimes seen I 

For when rair Cselia leaves this charming place, 

Her absence all its glories does deface. 

Against Envy, 

We may. cure envy in ourselves either by considering how neeless or how ill these 
things were for which we euvy our neighbours ; or else how we possess as much or 
as good things. If I envy his greatness, I consider that he wants my quiet : as also 
I consider tmit he possibly envies me as much as I do him ; and that when I begun 
to examine exactly his perfections, and to balance them with my own, I fomid my- 
self as happy as he was. And though many envy others, yet very few would change 
their condition even with those whom they euvy, all being considered. And I have 
oft admired whv wc? have suffered ourselves to b(j so cheated by contradictory vices, 
as to contemn this day him whom we envied the last ; or why we envy so many, since 
there are so few whom we think to deserve us much as we do. Another great help 
against envy is, that we ought to cont^ider how much the thing envied costs him 
whom we euvy. and if we would tak(; it at the price. Thus, when I euvy a man for 
being learned, I consider how much of his health and time that leaniiug consumes : 
if for being great, how he should flatter and serve for it ; and if I would not pay his 
price, no reason I oaght to hav(i what he has got. Sometimes, also, I cousider that 
there is no reason for my envy : he whom I euvy deserves more than he has, and I 
less than I possess. And by thinking much of these, I repress their en^'y, which 
grows still from the contempt of our neighbour and the ov(;rrating ourselves. As 
also I consider that the perfections ( nvieaby me may Ix; advantageous to me ; and 
thus I check myself for envying a great pleader, but am rather glad that theni ia sucb. 
a man, who mdy defend my innocence : or to envy a g;reat. ^<dCL<^^\^<^^^^^^ Nvii<:3»\>s. 



108 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

may defend my estate or country. And when any of my countrymen begin to rai«e 
envy in me, I alter the scene, and begin to be glad that Scotland can boast of so fine 
a man ; and I remember, that thoogh now I am angry at him when I compare him 
with myself, yet, if I were discoursing of my nation abroad, I would be glad of that 
merit in him which now displeases me. Nothing is envied but what appears beauti- 
ful and charming : and it is strange that I should be troubled at the si^t of what is 
pleasant. I endeavor also to make such my friends as deserve my envy ; and no man 
la yo base as to envy his friend. Thus, whilst others look on the angry side of merit, 
and thereby trouble themselves, I am pleased in admiring the beauties and charms 
which bum them as a fire, whilst they warm me as the sun. 

Fame, 

I smile to see underling pretenders, and who live in a country scarce desij^ed in 
the exactest maps, sweat and toil for so unmass]^ a reputation, that, when it is ham- 
mered out to the most stretching dimensions, will not yet reach the nearest towns 
of a neighbouring country : whereas, examine such as have but lately returned from 
travelling in most flourishing kingdoms, and though curiosity was their ^eatcst 
en-aiid, yet ye will find that they scarce know who is chancellor or president m these 
places ; and in the oxactcst histories we hear but few news of the famousest pleaders, 
divincts, or physicians ; and by soldiers tliese are undervalued as pedants, and these 
by them as madcaps, and both by piiilosophers as fools. 

The True Path to Esteem. 

I have remarked in my own time that some, by taking too much care to be es- 
teemed and admired, have by that course missed their aim ; whilst others of them 
who shunned it, did meet with it, as if it had fallen on them whilst it was flyine from 
the others ; which proceeded from the unfit means these, able and reasouab^ men 
took to establish their reputation. It is very strange to hear men value themselves 
upon their honour, and their being men of their word in trifles, when yet that same 
lionour cannot tie them to pay the debts they have contracted upon solemn promise 
of secure and speedy repayment ; starving poor widows and orphans to feed their 
lusts ; and adding thus robbery and oppression to the dishonourable breach of trust. 
And how can we think them men of honour, who, when a potent and foreign mon- 
arch is oppressing bis weaker neighbours, hazard their very lives to assist him, 
thon|;:h they would rail at any of their acquaintance, that, meeting a strong man 
fight mg with a weaker, should assist the stronger in his oppression? 

The surest and most pleasant path to universal esteem and true popularity is to 
bo just ; for all men esteem him most who secures most their private interest, and 
protects best their innocence. And all who have any notion of a Deity, believe that 
justice is one of his chief attributes ; and that, therefore, whoever is just, is next in 
nature to Him, and the best picture of .Him, and to be reverenced and loved. But 
yet how few trace this path I most men choosing rather to toil and vex themselves, 
in seeking ix)pDlar applause, by living high, and in profuse prodigalities, which are 
entertained by injustice and oppression ; as if rational men would pardon robbers 
because they feasted them upon a part of their own spoils ; or did let them see fine 
and glorious shows, made for the honour of the giver upon the expense of the robbed 
spectators. But when a virtuous person appears great oy liis merit, and obeyed only 
by the charming force of his reason, all men think him descended from that heaven 
which he serves, and to him they gladly pay the noble tribute of deserved praises. 

JOHN EVELYN. 

JonN Evelyn (1620-1706), a gentleman of easy fortune, and the 
most amiable personal character, distinguished himself by several 
scientific works written in a popular style. His * Bylva, or a Dis- 
coui*se of Forest Trees, and the Propagation of Timber in his Majes- 
ty j» Dominions,* published in 1664, was written in consequence of an 
appJication to the Koyal Society by Ihe commissioners of the navy, 
rvMo dreaded a scarcity of timber inttLVi eoMaXrj, ^\5^s»^vi\L^^^^ ml<ad 



EVELYN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 109 

by the king's example, stimulated tlie landholders to plant an im- 
mense number of oak trees, which, a century after, proved of the 
greatest service to the nation in the construction of ships of war. 

* Terra ; a Discourse of the earth, relating to the Culture and Im- 
provement of it, for Vegetation and the Propagation of Plants,' ap- 
peared in 1675 ; and a treatise on medals is another production of the 
venerable author. There has been printed, also, a volume of his 

* Miscellanies.' Evelyn was one of the first in this country to treat 
gardening and planting scientifically; and his grounds at Sayes- 
Coiirt, near Deptford, where he resided during a great part of his life, 
attracted much admiration, on account of the number of foreign 
plants which he reared in them, and the fine order in which they 
were kept. Tlie czar Peter was tenant of that mansion after the 
removal of Evelyn to another estate ; and the old man was mortified 
by tlie gross manner in which his house and garden were abused by 
the Russian potentate and his retinue It was one of Peter's amuse- 
ments to demolish a 'most glorious and impenetrable holly-hedge,' 
by riding through it on a wheelbarrow. 

Evelyn travelled abroad in 1646, and visited the magnificent 
scenery of the Alps, which he considered horrid and melanclioly. 
Nature, he thought, had * swept up the rubbish of the earth in tlie 
Alps, to form and clear the plains of Lombardy ' — so little, at that 
time, was wild picturesque scenery appreciated 1 The unroniantic 
cavalier, throughout the greater part of his life, kept a diary, in which 
he entered every remarkable event in which he* was in any way con- 
cerned. Tills was published in 1818 (two volumes quarto), and 
proved to be a most valuable addition to our store of historical mate- 
rials respecting the latter half of the seventeenth century. Evelyn 
chronicles familiar as well as important circumstances ; but he does 
it without loss of dignity, and even^where preserves the tone of an 
educated and reflectini^ observer. It is curious to read, in this work, 
of great men going after dinner to attend a council of state, or the 
business of their particidar offices, or the bowling-green, or even the 
churcli ; of an hour's sermon being of moderate length ; of ladies 
pain tins: their faces being a novelty; or of their receiving visits from 
gentlemen whilst dressing, after having just risen out of bed ; of the 
female attendant of a lady of fashion travelling on a pillion behind 
one of the footmen, and the footmen riding with swords In his 
notices of the court, Evelyn passes quickly, but with austere dignity, 
over the scenes of folly and vice exhibited by Charles. On one occa- 
sion he writes : * I thence walked through St. James's Park to the 
garden, when I both saw and heard a very ^miliar discourse between 
(the king) and Mrs. Nelly, as they called an impudent comedian 
[Nell Gwynne] ; she looking out of her garden on a terrace at the 
top of the wall, and (the king) standing on the green walk under it. 
I was heartily sorry for this scene. Thence the kiu^ >N«Ak«.<i \.Ck \3jl^ 
Duchess of Cleveland^ another lady of plvia-SMYvi^ \x\3l'\ <i.N\t^vi. oJl '5k\>5. 



110 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

nation.' The following is a striking picture of the court of Charles 
II. on the Sunday preceding his death, February 6, 1685: 

The Last Sunday of Gha/rles II. 

I can never forget the inexpressible lumry and profaneness, gaming, and all die- 
solateness, and as it were total forgetfnlness of God — it being SuDua^ evening — 
which this day se*ennight I was witness of — the king sitting and toying with his con- 
cubines, Portsmouth, Cleveland, and Mazarin, &c. ; a French boy singmg love-songs 
in that glorious gallery, whilst about twenty of the great courtiers and other disso- 
lute persons were at basset round a large table, a bank of at least £20004n gold be- 
fore them, upon which two gentlemen who were with me made reflections with 
astonishment. Six days after, all was in the dust. 

Of the following extracts from the * Diary/ the firat is given in the 
original spelling : 

I7i6 Great Fire in London, 

1666. 2d Sept. This fatal night about ten began that deplorable fire near Fish 
Streete in London. 

3d. The fire continuing, after dinner I took coach with my wife and sonn and 
went to the Bank side in Southwark, where we beheld that dismal spectacle, the 
whole citty in dreadful flames near ye water side ; all the houses from the Bridge, aU 
Thames Street, and upwards towards Cheapeside, downe to the Three Cranes, were 
now consumed. 

The flre having continued all this night — ^if I may call that night which was light 
as day for 10 miles round about, after a dreadful manner — when conspiring with a 
fierce eastern wind in a very drie season, I went on foote to the same place, and saw 
the whole south part of ye citty burning from Cheapside to ye Thames, and f 11 along 
Comehill— for it Kindl'd back against ye wind as well as forward — Tower Jtreete, 
Fenchurch Streete, Gracious Streete, and so along to Bainard's Castle, and was now 
taking hold of St. Paule's Church, to which the scafEolds contributed exceedingly. 
The conflagration was so universal, and the people so astouish'd, that from the oe- 
ginning, I know not by what despondency or fate, they hardly stirr'd to quench it, so 
that there was nothing heard or scene but crying out and lamentation, running about 
like distracted creatures, without at all attempting to save even their goods, such a 
strange consternation there was upon them, so as it burned both in breadth and 
length, the churches, publiq halls, exchange, hospitals, monuments, and ornaments, 
leaping after a prodigious manner from house to house and streete to streete, at 
greate distances one rrom ye other ; for ye heate with a long set of faire and warme 
weather had even ignited the air, and prepared the materials to ox)nceive the fire, 
which devour'd, after an Incredible manner, houses, furniture, and everything. Here 
we saw the Thames covered with goods floating, all the barges and boatt^ laden with 
what some had time and courage to save, as, on ye other, ye carts, &c. carrying out 
to the fields, which for many miles were strew'd with moveables of all sorts, and 
tents erecting to shelter both people and what goods they could get away. Oh the 
miserable and calamitous spectacle ! such as haply the world had not scene the like 
since the foundation of it, nor be outdone till the universal conflagration thereof. 
All the skie was of a fiery aspect, like the top of a burning oven, and the light scene 
above 40 miles round about for many nights. God grant my eyes may never behold 
the like, who now saw above 10,000 houses all in one fiarae : the noise, and cracking, 
and thunder of the impetuous flames, ye shrieking of women and children, the 
hurry of people, the fall of towers, houpes, and churches, was like an hideous storme, 
and the aire all about so hot and Inflam'd, that at last one was not able to approach 
it, so that they were forc'd to stand still and let ye flames bum on, wch they did for 
neere two miles in length and one in bredth. The clouds of smoke were dismall, and 
reach'd upon computation neer 60 miles in length. Thus I left it this afternoon© 
burning, a resemblance of Sodom or the last day. It forcibly called to my mind that 
passage — non enim hie Jiabemus stabilem eivitatem : the ruins resembling the picture 
of Troy. London was, but is no more 1 Thus, I returned. 
4tb. The hnrning stUl rages, and it Is now ROttPin a* tw %». Wve iTvner Temple : all 
^eete Streete, the Old Bailey, Ludgate HiU, Warvric\LliaJie,'&fe^«,^\fe^'e^^w\3^C^^3ti^^^^ 



EVELYN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. Ill 

Watling Streete, now flaming, and most of it rednc'd to ashes ; the stones of Panles 
flew like granados, ye meaItin|L lead running downe the streetes in a strcame, and 
the very pavements glowing wiW fiery rednesse, so as no horse nor man was able to 
tread on them, and the demolition had stopp'd all the passages, so that no help 
could be applied. The eastern wind still more impetuonsly drove the flames forward. 
Nothing but ye Almighty power of God was able to stop them, for vaine was ye help 
of man. 

6th. It crossed towards Whitehall : but oh I the confusion there was then at that 
court ! It pleased his Maty to command me among ye rest to looke after the quench- 
ing of Fetter Lane end, to preserve, if possible, that part of Holbum, whilst the rest 
of ye gentlemen tooke their several posts — for now they began to bestir themselves, 
and not till now, who hitherto had stood as men intoxicated, with their hands acrosse 
— and began to consider that nothing was likely to put a stop but the blowing up of 
BO many liouses, as might make a wider gap than any had yet ben made by the ordi- 
nary method of pulling them down with engines ; this some stout seamen propos'd 
early enough to nave sav'd near ye whole citty, but this some tenacious and avari- 
tious men, aldermen, &c. would not permit, because their houses must have ben of 
the first. It was therefore now commanded to be practis'd, and my concern being 
particularly for the hospital of St. Bartholomew, neere Smilhfield, where I had many 
wounded and sick men, made me the more diligent to promote it, nor was my care 
for the Savoy lesse. It now pleas'd God, by abating the wind, and by the industrie 
of ye people, infusing a new spirit into them, that the fury of it began sensibly to 
abate about noonc, so as it came no farther than ye Temple westward, nor than 
ye entrance of Smithfield north. But continued all this day and night so impetuous ' 
towards Cripplegate and the tower, as made us all despaire ; it also broke out againe 
in the Temple, biit the courage of the multitude persisting, and many houses Being 
blown up, such gaps and desolations were soone made, as with the former three 
day's consumption, the back fire did not so vehemently urge upon the rest as formerly. 
There was yet no standing neere the burning and glowing rumes by neere a furlong's 
space. 

The coale and wood wharf es and magazines of oyle, rosin, &c. did infinite mis- 
chiefe, so as the invective which a little before I had dedicated to his Maty, and 
publish'd, giving warning what might probably be the issue of sufEering those shops . 
to be in the citty, was look'd on as a prophecy. 

The poore inhabitants were dispers'd about St. George's Fields, and Moorefields, 
as far as Ilighgate, and severall mues in circle, some under tents, some under miser- 
able hutts and hovells, many without a rag or any necessary utensills, bed or board, 
who, from delicatenessc, riches, and easy accommodations in stately and well- 
funiish'd houses, were now reduc'd to extremest misery and poverty. 

In this calamitous condition, I retum'd with a sad heart to my house, blessing 
and adoring the mercy of God to me and mine, who in the midst of all this ruine 
was like Lot, in my little Zoar, safe and sound. ... 

7th. I went this moniing on foot fm Whitehall as far as London Bridge, thro' the 
late Fleete Street, Ludgate Hill, by St. Paules, Cheapside, Exchange, Bishop^ate, 
Aldersgate, and out to Moorefields, thence thro' Cornehill, &c. with extraordmary 
diflaculty. clambering over heaps of yet smoking rubbish, and frequently mistaking 
where I was. The ground under my f eete was so hot, that it even burnt the soles of 
my shoes. In the meantime his Muty got to the Tower by water, to demolish y 
houses about the graff, which being built intirely about it, had they taken fire and 
attack'd the White Tower where the magazine of powder lay, would undoubtedly 
not only have beaten down and destroy'd all ye bridge, but sunke and tome the ves- 
eells in ye river, and render'd ye demolition beyond all expression for several miles 
about the couutrey. 

At my return, 1 was infinitely concem'd to find that goodly church, St. Paules, 
now a sad ruine, and that beautiful portico — for structure comparable to any in 
Europe, as not long before rcipair'd by the late king— now rent in pieces, flakes of vast 
stones split asunder, and nothing remaining intire but the inscnption in the archi- 
trave, showing by whom it was built, which had not one letter of it def ac'd I It was as- 
tonishing to see what immense stones the heat had in a manner calcin'd, so that all 
ye ornaments, columns, freezes, and projectures of massic Portland stone flew off, 
even wye very roofe, where & sheet of lead coverlnga K]re&\.«.p«rf:^v<«a>\»"vaSs::^ ^^"^"^^^^^^^^ 
tberaineB of the vaulted roofe falling broken into »l.^8Ji\)a!ft,^\i\<i^i\»N2a^^JS^RSv.^^^ 



113\ CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 16S9. 

the magazines of bookes belonging to ye stationers, and carried thither for safety, 
they were all consnm'd, burning for a weeke following. It is also observable, that 
the lead over ye altar at ye east end was untouch'd, ^d among the divers monu- 
ments, the bpdy of one bishop remain'd iutire. Thus lay in ashes that most vener- 
able church, one of the most antient pieces of early piety in ye Christian world, be- 
sides neere 100 more. The lead, yron worke, bells, plate, &c. mealted ; the exquis- 
itely wrought Mercers Chapell, the sumptuous Exchange, ye august fabriq of Christ 
Church, all ye rest of the Companies Halls, sumptuous buildings, arches, all in dust; 
the fountain?^ dried up and ruin'd, whilst the very waters remain'd boiluig; 
the vorago's of subterranean cellars, wells, and dungeons, formerly warehouses, 
still burning in stench and dark clouds of smokg, so that in 5 or 6 miles, in 
traversing about, I did not see one load of timber unconsum'd, nor many stones but 
what were calciu'd white as snow. The people who now walk'd about ye ruines 
appear'd like men in a dismal desart, or rather in some greate citty laid waste 
by a cruel enemy; to which was added the stench that came from some poore 
creatures bodies, beds, &c. Sir Tho. Gressham's statue, tho' fallen from its nich 
in the Royal Exchange, remain'd intire, when all those of ye kings since ye Con- 
quest were broken to pieces, also the standard in ComehlU, and Q. Elizabeth's 
effigies, with some armcs oi»Ludgate, continued with but little dotrimeut, whilst the 
.V:i8t yron chaines of the citty streetes, hiupes, burrs, and gates of prisons, were 
many of them mealted and reduc'd to cinders by ye V(ihement hente. I was not 
able to passe through any of the narrow strectcs, but kei)t the widest ; the ground 
and air, smoake and fiery vapour continu'd fo intense, that my haire was aJmost 
sing'd, and my feete unsufferably sur-heated. The hie lanes and narrower streetes 
wore quite fill d up \\'ith rubbish, nor could one have kno\^^le where he was, brt by 
ye ruines of some church or hall, that had some remarkable tower or pinnnacle re- 
maining. I then went towards Islington and Highgate, where one might have scene 
200,000 people of all ranks and deCTees dispers'd and lying along by their heapes of 
what they could save from the fire, deploring their losse ; and tho' ready to prrish 
for hunger and destitution, yet not asking one penny for relief, which to me ap- 
pear'd a stranger sight than any I had ycjt beheld. Ills Majesty and Council indeede 
tooke all imagmable care for their relief e, byjproclamation for the country to come in 
and refresh them witli provisions. In ye nndst of all this calamity an ^. confusion, 
th^re was, I know not how, an alanne begun that the French and Diitch, with whom 
we were now in hostility, were not onely landed, but even entering the citty. There 
was. in truth, some days before, greate suspicion of those 2 nations joining ; and now 
that they had ben the occasion of firing the towne. This report did so tt'i-rifle, that 
on a suddaine there was such an uproare and tumult, that they ran from their goods, 
and taking what weapons they could come at, they could not be stopp'd from falling 
on some of those nations, whom they casually met, without sense or reason. The 
clamour and peril grew so excessive, that it made the whole court amaz'd, and they 
did with infinite pames and greate difficulty reduce and appease the people, sending 
troops of soldiers and enaMs to cause them to retire uito ye fields agaiue, where 
they were watched all this night. I left them pretty quiet, and came home suffi- 
ciently weary and broken. Their spirits thus a httle calmed, and the affright abated, 
they now began to repaire into ye suburbs about the citty, where such as had friends 
or opportunity got shelter for the present, to which his Matys proclamation also 
invited them. 

A Fortunate Courtier not Enmed. 

Sept. 6 [1680].— I dined with Sir Stephen Fox, now one of the Lords Commiesion- 
ers of the Treasury. This gentleman came first a poor boy from the choir of Salis- 
bury, then was taken notice of by Bishop Duppa, and afterwards waited on my 
Lord Percy, brother to Algernon, Earl of Northumberland, who procured for him an 
inferior place amongst the clerks of the kitchen and green cloth side, where he was 
fotmd so humble, diligent, industrious, and prudent in his behaviour, that his ma- 
jesty being in exile, and Mr. Fox waiting, both the king and lords about him fre- 
quently employed him about their affairs ; and trusted hm both with receiving and 
paymg the little money they had. Returning ^-ith his majesty to England, after 
£Teat wants and^reat sufferings, his majesty foimd him so honest and industrious, 
and witbal 80 capable aud ready, that being advai\ced tToia. cVetk. of the kitchen to 
tliat of the green cloth, he procured to be paymastat to tiaa -wYioVi ^mxo^ \ «sA\fg\£» 



EVELYN,] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 113 

dexterity and pnnctnal dealing, he obtained such credit among the bankers, that he 
was in a short time able to borrow vast snms of them upon any exigence. The con- 
tinnal taming thus of mone^, and the soldiers' moderate allowance to him for his 
keeping toncn with them, did so enrich him, that he is believed to be worth at least 
£^),000 honestly eottuu and unenvied, which is next to a miracl^. With all this he 
continues as humwe and ready to do a courtesy as ever he was. He is generous, and 
lives very honourably ; of a sweet nature, well-spoken, well-bred, and is so highly in 
his majesty*s esteem, and so useful, that, being long since made a knight, he is also 
advanced to be one of the X^ords Commissioners of the Treasuiy, and has the rover- 
piou of the cofferer's place after Hjirry Brounkor. He has married his eldest daugh- 
ter to my Lord Comwallis, and gjive her £12,000, and restored that entangled family 
besides. He matched his eldest son to Mrs. Trollope, who brings with her, besides 
a great sum, near, if not altogether, ^£2000 per annum. Sir Stephens's lady, an ex- 
cellont woman, is sister to Mr. Whittle, one of the king's chirurgeons. In a word, 
never was man more fortunate than Sir Stephen ; he is a handsome person, virtuous, 
and very religious.* 

Prost Fair on the Thames, 

1683-4. l8t January. The weather continuing intolerably severe, streets of booths 
were set upon the Thames ; the air was so very cold and thick, as of many years 
there had not been the like. 

9th. I went across the Thames on the ice, now become so thick as to bear not only 
streets of booths, in which they roasted meat, and had divers shops of wares, quite 
across as in a town, but coaches, carts, and horses passed over. So I went from 
Westminster-stairs to Lambeth, and dined with the ai'Chbishop : where I met my 
Lord Bruce, Sir George Wheeler, Cotonel Cooke, and several divines. After dinner 
and discourse with his Grace till evening prayers. Sir George Wheeler and I walked 
over the ice from Lambeth-stairs to the Horse-ferry. 

\Uh Janiiary. The Thames was filled with people and tents, selling all sorts of 
wares as in the City. 

24<A. The frost continuing more and more severe, the Thames before London 
was still planted with booths ni formal streets, all sorts of trades and shops furnished, 
and full of commodities, even to a printing-press, where the people and ladies took 
a fancy to have their names printed, and the day and year set down when printed on 
the Thames : this humour took so universally, that it was estimated the printer 
gained £b a day, for printing a line only, at sixpence a name, besides what he got by 
ballads, &c. Coaches plied from Westminster to the Temple, and from severaiother 
stairs to and fro, as in the streets, sleds, sliding with skates, a bull-baiting, horse and 
coach-races, puppet-plays and interludes, cooks, tippling, and other lewd places, so 
that it seemed to be a bacchanalian triumph, or carnival on the water, whilst it was 
a severe judgment on the land, the trees not only splitting as if lightning-struck, but 
men and cattle perishing in divers places, and the very seas so locked up with ice, 
that no vessels could stir out or come in. The fowls, flsh, and birds, and all our ex- 
otic plants and greens, universally perishing. Many parks of doer were destroyed, 
and all sorts of riiel so dear, that there were great contributions to preserve the poor 
alive. Nor was this severe weather much less intense in most parts of Europe, even 
as far as Spain and the most southern tracts. London, by reason of the excessive 
coldness or the air hindering the ascent of the smoke, was so filled with the fuligin- 
ous steam of the sea-coal, that hardly could one see across the streets, and this filling 
the lungs \nnth its gross particles, exceedingly obstructed the breast, so as one could 
scarc(!ly breathe. Here was no water to be had from the pipes and engines, nor could 
the brewers and divers other tradesmen work, and every moment was full of disas- 
trous accidents. 

bth Febrtiary. It began to thaw, but froze again. My coach crossed from Lam- 
beth to the Horse-ferry at Milbank, Westminster. The booths were almost all taken 
do^^'n ; but there was first a map or landscape cut in copper representing all the man- 
ner of the camp, and the several actions, sports, and pastimes thereon, m memory of 
BO signal a frost. 



* Sir Stephen Fox was the progenitor of the noble howM of HoU«.wd, wix«va5&x\La3si\A 
for the line of distingniahed statesmen which it has given. \a 'EtUfL^^uCkdu 



114 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

3ddyn*% Account of his Daughter Ma/ry, ^ 

March 7 [1686].— My daughter Mary [in the nineteenth year of her age] was taken 
with the small-pox, and there was soon found no hope of her recovery. A great 
affliction to me, but God's holy will be done I 

March 10.— She received the blessed sacrament ; after which, disx)osing herself to 
suffer what God should determine to inflict, she bore the remainder of her sickness 
with extraordinary patience and piety, and more than ordinary resignation and 
blessed frame of mind. She died tne 14th, to our unspeakable sorrow and affliction ; 
and not to ours only, but that of all who knew her, who were many of the best 
quality, greatest and most virtuous persons. The justness of her stature, i>erson, 
comeliness of countenance, gracefulness of motion, unaffected, though more than 
ordinarily beautiful, were the least of her ornaments, compared with those of her 
mind. Of early piety, singularly religious, spending a part of every day in private 
devotion, reading, and other virtuous exercises ; she had collected and written out 
many of the most useful and judicious periods of the books she read in a kind of 
commonplace, as out of Dr. Hammond on the New Testament, and most of the "best 
practical treatises. She had read and digested a considerable deal of history and of 

§ laces [geography]. The French tongue was as familiar to her as English ; she im- 
erstood Italian, and was able to render a laudable account of what she read and ob- 
served, to which assisted a most faithful memory and discernment ; and she did 
make very prudent and discreet reflections upon what she had observed of the con- 
versations among which she had at any time been, which being continually of persons 
of the best quality, she thereby improved. She had an excelfcnt voice, to which she 
played a thorough base on the harpsichord. . . . What shall I say, or rather not say, 
of the cheerfulness and agreeableness of her humour ? Condescending to the mean- 
est servant in the family, or others, she still kept up respect, without the least pride. 
She would often read to them, examine, instruct, and pray with them If they were 
sick, so as she was exceedingly beloved of everybody. She never played at cards * 
without extreme importunity. No one could read prose or verse better or with more 
judgment ; and, as she read, so she writ, not only moat correct orthography, with 
that maturity of judgment and exactness of the pcriodSj choice of expressions, and 
familiarity of style, that some letters of hers have astonished me and others. Noth- 
ing was so delightful to her as to s^ into my study, where she would willingly have 
8X)ent whole days, for, as I said, she had read abundance of history, and aU the best 
poets ; even Terence, Plautus, Homer, Virgil, Horace, Ovid ; all the best romances 
and modem poems ; she could compose happily, as in the * Mundus Muliebris,' wherein 
is an enumeration of the immense variety of the modes and ornaments belonging to 
her sex ; but all these are vain trifles to the virtues that adorned her soul ; she was 
sincerely religious, most dutiful to her parentjs, whom she loved with an affection 
tempKjred with great esteem, so as we were easy and free, and never were so well 
pleased as when she was with us, nor needed we other conversation. She was kind 
to her sisters, and was still improving them by her constant course of piety. O dear, 
sweet, and desirable child I how shau I part with all this goodness and virtue \*ithont 
the bitterness of sorrow and reluctance of a tender parent ? Thy affection, duty, 
and love to me was that of a friend as well as a child. Nor less dear to thy mother, 
whose example and tender care of thee was unparalleled ; nor was thy return to her 
les6 conspicuous. Oh, how she mourns thy loss I how desolate hast thou left us ! to 
the grave shall we both carry thy memory. 

Fashions in Dress. — From ''Tyr annus ^ or the Mode* 

'Twas a witty expression of Malvezzi, 7 vestimenli negli animali sono molto eieuri 
segni della loro natura ; negli huomini del lor ceruello — garments, says he, in Rniinftlff 
are infallible signs of their nature; in men, of their understanding. Though I 
vfonld not judge of the monk by the hood he wears, or celebrate the humour of 
Julian's court, where the philosophic mantle made all his officers appear like so 
many conjurors, 'tis worth the observing yet, that the people of Rome left off the 
toga, an ancient and noble garment, with their power, and that the vicissitude of 
their habit was little better than a presage of that of their fortune ; for the military 
air^a, differeDc'iDg them from their slaves, was no small indication of the dedlning 
of their courage, which shortly followed. And 1 «ini ot o^SiaGTx\Jaa.t. -vbien once we 



PEPYs] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 115 

shall see the Venetian senate quit the gravity of their vests, the state itself will not 
long sahsist without some cousiderabJe alteration. I am of opinion that the Swiss 
had not been now a nation but for keeping to their prodigious breeches. 

Be it excusable in the French to alter and impose the mode on others, 'tis no less 
a weakness and a shame in the rest of the world, who have no dependence on them, 
to admit them, at least to that degree of levity as to turn into all their shapes with- 
out discrimination ; so as when the freak takes our Monsieurs to appear Uke so 
many farces or Jack Puddings on the stage, all the world should alter shape, and 
play the pantomimes with them. 

Methiiiks a French tailor, with his ell in his hand, looks the enchantress Circe 
over the companions of Ulysses, and changes them into as many forms. One while 
we are made to be loose in our clothes, and by and by appear like so many male- 
factors sewed up in sacks, as of old they were wont to treat a parricide, with a dog, 
an ape, and a serpent. Now, we are aU twist, and at a distance look like a pair of 
tongs, and anon stuffed out behind hke a Duichman. This gallant goes so pinched 
in the waist, as if he were prepared for the question of the fiery plate in Turkey ; and 
that so loose in the middle, as if he would turn insect, or drop in two ; now, the 
short waists and shirts in Pye-court is the mode ; then the wide hose, or a man in 
eoats again. Methinks we should learn to handle distaff too ; Hercules did so when 
he courted Omphale ; and those who sacrificed to Ceres put on the petticoat with 
much confidence. . . . 

It was a fine silken thing which I spied walking tother day through Westminster 
Hall, that had as much ribbon about him as would have plundered six shops, and set 
up twenty country pedlers. All his body was dressed like a May-pole, or a Tom-a- 
Bedlam's cap. A frigate newly rigged kept not half such a clatter in a storm, as this 
puppet's streamers did when the wmd was in his shrouds ; the motion was wonder- 
ful to behold, and the well-chosen colours were red, orange, blue, and well gummed 
satin, which argued a happy fancy; but so was our gallant ovorchargea, [that] 
whether he did wear this garment, or as a porter bear it only, was not easily to be 
resolved. . . . 

For my part, I profess that I delight in a cheerful gaiety, affect and cultivate 
variety. The universe itself were not beautiful to me without it : but as that is in 
constant and uniform succession in the natural, where men do not disturb it, so 
would I have it also in the artificial. If the kings of Mexico changed four times a 
day, it was but an upper vest, which they were used to honour some'meritorious ser- 
vant with. Let men change their habits as oft as they please, so the change be for 
the better. I would have a summer habit, and a winter ; for the spring and for the 
autumn. Something I would indulge to youth ; something to age and humour. But 
what have we to do with these foreign butterflies ? In God's name, let the change 
be our own, not borrowed of others ; for why should I dance after a Monsieur's fla^ 
geolet, that have a set of English viols for my concert ? We need no^French inven- 
tions for the stage, or for the back. 

SAMUEL PEPYS. 

Very difFerenl from the diary of good and grave John Evelyn is 
that of his friend Samuel Pkpys (1632-1703), who was Secretary of 
the Admiralty in the reigns of Charles 11. and James II. Tliough 
not undistinguished in his official career, Pepys would have been 
slightly remembered had he not left behind him, in short-hand, a diary 
extending over above nine years — from January 1659-60 to May 1669 
— which being deciphered a^d published by Lord Braybrooke in 1825, 
gave the world a curious and faithful picture of the times, including 
almost every phase of public and social life, from the gaieties of the 
court to the pettiest details of domestic economy, business, and 
amusements. The character of Pepys himself, and his gradual rise 
in the world, with all his recorded foiblea,7?e«kk\i^«afc^,%si'i^^^^Nii^s^^ 
ties, as displayed in his daily inteicouise m\^i ^ocveX'^ o^ ^ Okaa»fc'^> 



11« CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 16S9. 

form a highly amusing and msinictive study, quite dramatic in its 
lights and shades, and of never-failing interest He had excellent 
opportunities for observation, and nothing appeared too minute for 
notice in his diary, while his system of short-hand writing gave him 
both facility and secrecy in recording his memoranda of passing 
events. Pepys was of humble origin, the son of a London tailor, who 
had retired to Brampton, near Huntingdon, where he died. 

Samuel had a powerful and wealthy cousin, Sir Edward Montagu, 
afterwards the first Earl of Sandwich, to whose good offices lie owed 
his advancement Having studied at the university of Cambridge as 
a sizar, Pepys, in his twenty- third year, married a young lady of 
fifteen, who had just left a convent, and had no fortune. The conse- 
quences of this imprudent step might have been serious had not Sir 
Edward Montagu afforded an asylum in his house to the youthful 
pair. When the patron sailed upon his eXpodition to the Sound, in 
1658, he took Pepys with him ; and on their return, the latter was 
employed as a clerk in one of the government oflOices — living, he says, 
* in Axe Yard, having my wife, and servant Jane, and no other in 
family than us three.' The times, however, were stirring — the resto- 
ration of monarchy was at hand, and Pepys's patron, J\iontagu. was 
employed to bring home Charles IL He took his cousin with him as 
secretary to the generals of the fieet ; and when Montagu was re- 
warded for his loyal zeal and services with an earldom and public 
office, Pepys was appointed Clerk of the Acts of the Navy. This sit- 
uation he afterwards exchanged for the higher one of Secretary to the 
Admiralty, which he held until the accession of William and Mary. 
He lived afterwards in a sort of dignified retirement, well earned by 
faithful public services, and by a useful and meritorious life. 

The diary of Pepys can only be well understood or appreciated by 
longer extracts than our limits will' permit At the period of its 
commencement, his fortunes were at a low ebb ; but after his voyage 
with Montagu, in June 1660. he records that on castmg up his ac- 
counts he found that he was worth £100, * for which,' he piously adds, 
*I bless Almighty God, it being more than I hoped for so soon, being, 
I believe, not clearly worth £25 when I come to sea, besides my 
house and goods.* The emoluments and perquisites of his oflQce soon 
added to his riches, and the Clerk of the Acts gradually soared into 
that region of fashion and gaiety which he had contemplated witli 
wonder and admiration from a distance. On the 10th of July, he put 
on his first silk suit ; and the subsequent additions to his wardrobe — 
camlet cloaks, with gold and silver buttons, &c. — are all carefully 
noted. His wife (whom he is never tired of praising) also shares in 
this finery, and her first grand appearance is thus recorded : 

Mrs. Pepys iji a New Dress, 

Au/nMt 38.— Towards Westminster by water. I landed my wife at Whitefriars 
with jCS to buy ber a, petticoaU and ray father petftnadedYiet to buy a most fine clotb, 
or 26s. a yard, and a rich Jace, that the petticoat 'wWi come \tt fia\\s«\,«\iviiJvWQ.^^ 



PEPYS.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 117 

very innocently, I conid not be angry. Captain Ferrers took me and Creed to the 
Cockpit plaj, the first that I have had time to see since my coming trom uea, * The 
LoyaU Subject * where one Kinaston, a boy, acted the Duke's sister, but made the 
loyeiiest lady that ever I saw in my life. After the play done, we went to drink, and, 
by Captain Ferrers' means. Kinaston. and another that acted Archas the General, 
came and drank with as. 

19. (Lord's Dav.)--Thi8 morning Sir W. Batten, Pen, and myself, went to church 
to the chnrchwardens, to demand a pew, which at present could not be given us ; but 
■we are resolved to have one built. So we staid, and heard Mr. Mills, a very good 
minister. Home to dinner, where my wife had on her new petticoat that she 'bought 
yesterday, which indeed^ a very flntj cloth and a fine lace ; but that being of a light 
colour, and the lace all silver, it makes no great show. 

Of this gossiping complexion are most of Pepys*s entries. The severe 
morality and deeper feeling of Evelyn would have suppressed much 
of what his friend set down without comment or scruple, but the 
picture thus presented of the court, and of the manners of the time, 
would have been less lively and less true. We subjoin, almost at 
random, a few passages from Pepys's faithful and minute chronicle: 

Cha/rle^ IL and tlie Queen in the Pa/rk. 

Hearing that the King and Qneenc are rode abroad with the Ladies of Honoor to 
the Park ; and seeing a great crowd of gallants staying here to see their return, I also 
staid, walking ap and down. By and by the King and Qneene, who looked in this 
dress, a white laced waistcoate and a crimson short petticoat, and her hair dressed a 
la negfigence, mighty pretty ; and the King rode hand in hand with her. Here was 
also my Lady Castlemainc, [who] rode among the rest of the ladies ; but the king 
took, methonght, no notice of her ; nor when she Might, did anybody prcs8, as she 
seemed to expect, and staid for it, to take her down, but was taken down by her own 
gentleman. She looked mighty out of humour, and had a yeUow plume in her hat, 
which aU took notice of. and yet is very handsome, but very melancholy ; nor did 
anybody speak to her, or she so much as smile or speak to anybody. I followed them 
up into Whitehall, and into the (^ueene's presence, where all the latlies walked, talk- 
ing and fiddling with their hats and feathers, and changing and trying one another's 
by one anothers heads, and laughing. But it was the finest sight to me. connidering 
their great beautys and dress, that ever I did see in all my Ufe. But, above all, Mrs. 
Stewart [afterwards Duchess of Richmond] in this dresso, with her hat cocked and a 
red plume, with her sweet eye, little Koman nose, and ezceUent taille, is now the 
greatest beauty I ever saw, I think, in my life ; and, if evdr woman can, do exceed my 
Lady Castlemaine, at least in this dress : nor do I wonder if the king changes, which 
I verily believe is the reason of his coldness to my Lady Castlemaine. 

Mr, Pepys sets up a Carriage. 

November 6^ 1668. — With Mr. Povy spent all the afternoon going up and down 
among the coachmakers in Cow Lane, and did sec several, and at last did pitch upon 
a little chariott, whose body was framed, but not covered, at the widow's, thut made 
Mr. Lowther's fine coach ; and we are mightily pleased with it, it being light, and 
will be very genteel and sober : to be covered with leather, but yet wiU hold four. 
Being much satisfied with this, I carried him to Whitehall. Home, where I give my 
wife a good account of my day's work. 

30. — ^My wife, after dinner, went the first time abroad in her coach, calling on Ro^r 
Pepys, and visiting Mrs. Creed, and my cosen Turner. Thus ended this month with 
very good content, but most expeneeiul to my purse on tlungs of pleasure, having 
ftmiished my wife's closet and the best chamber, and a coach and horses, that cverl 
Iniew in the world : and I am put into the greatest condition of outward state that 
ever I was in, or hoped ever to be. or desirea. 

December 2.— Abroad with my wife, the first time that ever I rode in my own coach, 
which do make my heart rejoice, and praise God, and pray him to ble^a U ta vcs^' ^\\^ 
coDtinae it So abe and I to the King's playhonfie, ana \2bete «!VR ** 'Y\i<i^\^^\av^T*; <^ 



118 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

pretty good play, in all but what, is designed to rcsemblo Cromwell and Hugh Peters, 
which 18 mighty silly. The play done, we to Whitehall ; where my wife staid while 
I up to the Duchesse's an^ Queene's side, to ^peak witli the Duke of York : and here 
saw all the .ladies, and heard the silly discourse of the King, with his people abont 
him. 

April 11, 1669. — Thence to the Park, my wife and I ; and here Sir W. Coventry 
did first see me and my wife in a coach of Our own ; and so did also this night the 
Duke of York, who did eye my wife mightily. But I begin to doubt that my being 
so much seen in my own coach at this time may be observed to my prejudice ; but I 
must venture it now. ^ 

May 1. — Up betimes. Called by my tailor, and there first put on a summer sait 
this year ; but it was not my fine one of flowered tabby vest, and coloured camelott 
tuniqne, because it was too fine with the gold lace at the bands, that I was afraid to 
be seen in it ; but put on the stuff suit 1 made the last year, which is now repaired ; 
and so did go to the Office in it, and sat all the morning, the day looking as if it would 
be fowle. At noon, home to dinner, and there find my wife extraordinary fine, with 
her flowered tabby gown that she made two years ago, now laced exceeding pretty ; 
and, indeed, was fine all over ; and mighty earnest to go, though the day was very 
lowering ; and she would have me put on my fine suit, winch 1 did. And so anon we 
went alone througb the town with our new liveries of serge, and the horses* manes 
and tails tied with red ribbons, and the standards gilt with varnish, and all clean, and 
green reines, that people did mightily look upon us ; and, the truth is, I did not see 
any coach more pretty, though more gay, than ours, all the day. But we set out, out 
of humour — I because Betty, whom 1 expected, was not come to go with us ; and my 
wife that I would sit on the same seat with her, which she likes not, being so fine : 
and she then expected to meet Sheros, which we did in the Pell Mell, and, against my 
will, I was forced to take him into the coach, but was sullen all day almost, and little 
complaisant : the day being unpleasing, though the Park fuU of coaches, but dusty, 
and windy, and cold, and now and then a little dribbling of rain ; and, what made it 
worse, there were so many hackney-coaches as spoiled the sight of the gentlemen's ; 
and so we had little pleasure. But here was W. Batelier and his sister in a borrowed 
coach by themselves, and I took them and we to the lodge ; and at the door did give 
them a syllabub, and other things, cost me 12«. and pretty merry. 

Mr. Pepys tries to admire Hu,d%br(is, 

December 26, 1662.— To the Wardi'Obe. Hither come Mr. Battersby: and we 
falling into discourse of a new book of drollery in use, called * Hudibras,' I would 
needs go find it out, and met with it at the Temple : cost me 28. 6d, But when I 
come to read it, it is so silly an abuse of the Presbyter Knight going to the warrs, 
that I am ashamed of it ; and by and by meeting at Mr. Townsend's at dinner, I sold 
it to him for 18d. 

February 6. — To Lincoln's Inn Fields ; and it being too soon to go to dinner, I 
walked up and down, and looked upon the outside of the new theatre building in 
Covent Garden, which will be very fine. And so to a bookseller's in the Strand, and 
there bought * Hudibras' again, it being certainly some ill-humour to be so against 
that wliich all the world cries up to be the example of wit ; for which I am resolved 
once more to read him, and see whether I can find it or no. 

November 28. — To Paul's Church-yard, and there looked upon the second part of 
* Hudibras,' which I buy not, but borrow to read, to see if it be as good as the first, 
which the world cried so mightily up, though it hath not a good liking in me, though 
I had tried but twice or three times reading to bring myself to think it witty. 

Mr, Pepys at tJie Theatre, 

March 2, 1667.— After dinner, with mjr wife, to tbe King's house to see * The 

Maiden Queen,' a new play of D. yden's mightily commended for the regularity of it, 

and the strain and wit; and, tbe truth is, there is a comical part done by Nell 

Gwynne, which is Florimell^ that I never can hope ever to see the like done again, 

by man or woman. Tbe King and Duke of York were at the play. But so great 

performance of a comical part was never, 1 Y)e\\evo., m VYvc vjat\a Xs^lcst^ %a "^«^V do 

this both aa a mad girle, then most and best oi aii, 'wYven. ?Jtta cai\afta*va.>S&a ^^^\esi%, 



PEPYS.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 119 

gaUant ; and hath the motions aud carriage of a spark the most that ever I saw any 
man have. It makes me, I confess, admire her. 

October 6. — To the King's hoase ; aud there, going in, met with Knipp, and she 
took us np into the tireing-rooms : and to the woman^ shift, where Nell was dress- 
ing herself, and was all unready, and is very pretty, prettier than I thought. And 
into the scene-room, and there sat down, and she gave us fruit : and here I read the 
questions to Knipp, while she answered me through all her part of ' Flora Figarys,* 
which was acted to-day. But, Lord ! to see how they were both painted would make 
a man mad, and did make me loath them ; and what base company of men comes 
nmong them, and how lewdly they talk ! aud how poor the men are in clothes, and 
yet what a show they make on the stage hy candle-light, is very observable. But to 
see how Nell cursed for haviug so few people hi the pit, was pretty ; the other liouf-ie 
carrying away all the people at the new play, and is said, now-u-days, to have gen- 
erally most company, as being better players. By and by into the pit, and there isaw 
the play, which is pretty good. 

Veceniber 28. — To the King's house, and there saw * The Mad Couple,' which is 
bnt an ordinary play ; but only Nell's and Hart's mad parts are most excellent done, 
but especially hers : which makes it a miracle to me to think how ill she do any 
serious part, as, the other day, just like a fool or changeling ; aiid in a mad part do 
beyond imitation almost. It pleased us mightily to see the natural affection of a 
poor woman, the mother of one of the children, brought on the stage : the child cry- 
ing, she by force got npon the stage, and took up her chUd, and carried it away o£E 
of the stage from Hart. Many fine faces here to-day. 

February 27, 1667-8. — With my wife to the King's house, to see 'The Virgin 
Martyr,' the first time it hath been acted a great while : and it is mighty pleasant ; 
not that the play is worth much, but it is finely acted by Bock Marshall. But that 
which did please me beyond anything in the whole world was the wiud-musick when 
the angel comes down, which is so sweet that it ravished me, aud indeed, in a word, 
did wrap up my soul so that it made me really sick, just as I have formerly been 
when in love with my wife ; that neither then, nor all the evening going home, and 
at home, I was able to think of anything, but remained all night transported, so as I 
could not believe that ever any musick hath that real command over the soul of a 
man as this did upon me : and makes me resolve to practise wind-musick, and to 
make my wife do the like. 

Mr. Pepya at Church. 

May 26, 1667. — My iHfe and I to church, where several stran^rs of good condi- 
tion come to our pew. After dinner, I by water alone to Westminster to the parish 
church, and there did entertain myself with my perspective glass up aud down the 
church, by which I had the great pleasure of seeing and gazing at a. great many very 
fine women ; and what with that, aud sl(;eping, I passed away the time till sermon was 
done. I away to my boat, and up with it as far as Bame lilmes, reading of Mr. Eve- 
lyn's late new book against Solitude, in which I do not find much excess of good 
matter, though it be pretty for a bye discourse. 

AugvM 18. — To Crce Church, to see it how it is : but I find no alteration there, as 
they say there was, for my Lord Mayor a^id Aldermen to come to sermon, as they do 
every Sunday, as they did formerly to Paul's. There dined with me Mr. Turner and 
his daughter Betty. Betty is grown a fine young lady as to carriage and discourse. 
"We had a good haunch of venison, powdered and boiled, aud a good dinner. I 
walked towards Whitehall, but, being wearied, turned into St. Dunstan's Church, 
where I heard an able sermon of the mhiister of the place ; and stood by a pretty, 
modest maid, whom I did labour to take by the hand ; but she would not, but got 
further and further from me ; and, at last, I could perceive her to take i)ins out of 
her pocket to prick me if I should touch her again — which, seeing, I did forbear, and 
was glad I did spy her design. And then 1 fell to gaze upon another pretty maid, in 
a pew close to me, and she on me ; and I did go alK>nt to take her by the hand, which 
she suffered a little and then withdrew. So the sermon ended. 

Domestic Scene between Mr. and Mrs. Pepys, 

May 11 , 1667. — My wife being dressed this day in fair hair did make me so mad» 
that I spoke not one word to her, thoiTrh T was ready to burpt with anger After 
that, Crcjcd aud I into liie i*ark, and walked, a inosi p\<ivxavxu\, *:Nc.vmj^, vvxA ^'^ \Kk^S«. 



120 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1689. 

coach, and took up my wife, and in mj way home discovered my tronble to my wife 
for her white locks, swearing several times, which I pray God forgive me for, and 
bending my fist that 1 would not endure it. She, poor ^^Tetch, was surprised with it, 
and made me no answer all the way home ; but there we parted, and I to the office 
late, and then home, and without supper to bed, vexed. 

12. (Lord's day.) — Up and to my chamber, to settle some accounts there, and by 
and by down comes my wife to me in her night-gown, and we begun calmly, that, 
upon having money to lace her gown for second mourning, she would promise to 
wear white locks no more in my sight, which I, like a severe fool, thwking not 
enough, begun to except against, and made her fly out to very high terms and cry, 
and m her heat, told me of keeping company with Mrs. Kuipp, saying, that if I 
would promise never to see her more — of whom she hath more reason to suspect 
than I had heretofore of Pembleton — she would never wear white locks more. This 
vexed me, but I restrained myself from saying anything, but do think never to see 
this woman — at least, to have her here more ; and so all very good friends as ever. 
H^ wife and I bethought ourselves to go to a French house to dinner, and so in- 
quired out Monsieur Robins, my perriwi^-maker, who keeps an ordinary, and in an 
ugly street in Covent Oarden, did find him at the door, and so we in ; and in a mo- 
ment almost had the table covered, and clean glasses, and all in the French manner, 
and a mess of potage first, and then a piece of boeuf-a-la-mode, all exceeding well 
seasoned, and to our great liking ; at least it would have been anywhere else but in 
this bad street, and in a perriwigg-maker's house ; but to see the pleasant and ready 
attendance that we had, and all thin^ so desirous to please, and ingenious in the 
people, did take me mightily. Our dinner cost us 66. 

Mr, P&py^8 makes a Cheat Speech at the Bar of the Souse of 
Commons in defence of the Naxiy Boa/rd. 

ifarcA 5, 1668.— I full of thoughts and trouble touching the issue of this day: 
and, to comfort myself, did go to the Dog, and drink half a pint of mulled sack, and 
in the hall did drink a dram of brandy at Mrs. Hewlett's ; and with the warmth of 
this did find myself in better order as to courage, truly. So we all up to the lobby ; 
and, between eleven or twelve o'clock, were called in, with the mace oef ore us, into 
the House, where a mighty fuU House ; and we stood at the bar — namely, Brounc- 
ker, Sir J. MinneSj Sir T. Harvey, and myself, W. Penn being in the House, as a 
member. I perceive the whole House was full of expectation of our defence what 
it would be, and with great prejudice. After the Speaker had told us the dissatisfac^ 
tion of the House, and read the Report of the Committee. I began our defence most 
acceptable and smoothly, and continued at it without any tiesitation or loss, but with 
full scope, and all my reason free about me, as if it had been at my own table, from 
that time till past three in the afternoon ; and so ended, without any intermption 
from the Speaker ; but we withdrew. And there all my fellow-officers, and aU the 
world that was within hearing, did congratulate me, and cry up my speech as the 
best thing they ever heard. To my wife, whom W. Hewer had told of my success, 
and she overjoyed ; and, after talking a while, I betimes to bed, ha\'ing had no quiet 
rest a good while. 

6.— Up betimes, and with Sir D. Gaudcn to Sir W. Coventry's chamber ; where 
the first word he said to me was : * Good-morrow, Mr. Pepys, that must be Speaker of 
the Parliament-house :' and did protest I had got honour for ever in Parliament. He 
said that his brother, that sat by him, admires me ; and another gentleman said that 
I could not get less than XIOOO a year, if I would put on a gOAvn and plead at the 
Chancery-bar ; but what pleases me mcst, he tells me that the Solicitor-general did 
protest that he thought I spoke the best of any man in England. After several talks 
with him alone touching his own businesses, he carried me to Whitehall, and there 
parted ; and I to the Duke of York's lodgings, and find him going to the Park, it 
bcnng a very fine morning, and I after him ; and, as soon as he saw me, he told me, 
with great satisfaction, that I had converted a great many yesterday, and did, with 
great jpraise of me, go on with the discourse with me. And, by and by, overtaking 
the King, the King and Duke of York came to me both ; and he [the King] said: 
'Mr. Pcpya, I am very ghid of your success yewterday ;' and fell to talk of my well 
speaking; andjnaDV of the Lords there. Mv Lotd li«.T>8.cv\%7 ^^ cr? \a«i xuj for what 
tncj- had heard a^jt ; and oUiere, Parliameatrmeii Xi^ss^, ^JocwX Xiia ^Si^^^^i^ ^gici 



NGE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 121 

neyer heard such a speech in their lives deUvered in that manner. Progers, 
Michamber, swore to me afterwards before Brooncker, in the afternoon, that 
1 the King that he thought I mi^ht match the Solicitor-general. Everybody 
me almost came to me, as Joseph Williamson and others, with such eulo^es 
t be expressed. From thence I went to Westminster Hall, where I met mt. 
i^, who came to me and kissed me, and told me that he had often hereto- 
e^ my hands, but now he would kiss my lips ; protesting that I was another 
nd said, all the world said the same of me. 

Sjlike Evelyn, records the daily devastation of the Great Fire, 
h less minuteness. He bad, however, watched the poor people 
tg about their houses and furniture until the fire touched them ; 
n running into boats, or clambering by the waterside from one 
stairs to another ; * and among other things, the poor pigeons 
th to leave their houses, and hovered about the windows and 
BS till they burned their wings and fell down.' 

Sm BOOBB l'estrakge. 

BoGEB L'EsTRANOE (1616-1704) enjoyed in the reigns of 
II. and James II. great notoriety as a political writer. Dur- 
Civil War, he had fought as a Royalist soldier; being cap- 
Y the Parliamentary army, he was tried and condemned to 
md lay in prison almost four years, constantly expecting to 
forth to execution. A poem ascribed to him, entitled *the 
of tlie Imprisoned Royalists,' must have been written at this 
The following are a few of the stanzas: 

Beat on, proud billows I Boreas, blow I 

Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof I 
Your incivility shall shew 

That iunocence is tempest-proof. 
Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; 
Then Btrike, AfiUction, for thy wonn£ are hahxu 

That which the world miscalls a gaol, 

A private closet is to me. 
Whilst a good conscience is my bail, % 

And innocence my liberty. 
Locks, bars, walls, leanness, though together xiiet» 
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. . • • 

'■#" 
My soul is free as ambient air, 

Although mv baser parts be mewed ; 
Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair, 

To company my solitude ; 
And though rebellion may my body bind, ' 
My king can only captivate my mind. 

Have you not seen the nightingale 

A pilgrim cooped into a case. 
And heard her tell her wonted tale. 

In that her narrow hermitage? 
Even then ber charming melMiy doth ipfitr?« 
72uU Aff iier hare are trwB, her cage ft 9EQf^%> 



122 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689, 

I am the bird whom they combine 

Thus to deprive of liberty ; 
But though tney do my corps confine, 

Yet, mangre hate, my sool is free ; 
And though I 'm mewed, yet I can chirp and sing, 
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king I 

L'Estrange was at length set free, and lived in almost total obscnrily 
till the Restoration. In 1663, he published a pamphlet, entitled ' Con- 
siderations and Proposals in order to the Regulation of the Press,' 
for which he was rewarded by being appointed licenser or censor of 
the press, and also the sole priyilege of printing and publishing news. 
In August 1663 appeared his newspaper, * The Public Intelligenoer.' 
From this time, till a few years before his death, he was constantly 
occupied in editing newspapers and writing pamphlets, mostly in ben 
half of the court, from which he at last received the honour of knight- 
hood. As a controversialist, L'Estrange was bold, lively,' and vigor- 
ous, but coarse, impudent, abusive, and by no means a scrupulous 
regarder of truth. He is known also as a translator, having produced 
versions of Msop^a * Fables,* Seneca's * Morals,' Cicero's * Offices,' 
Erasmus's * Colloquies,' Quevedo's * Visions,' and the works of Jo- 
sepbus. In 1687, he published 'A Brief History of the Times,' re- 
lating chiefly to the Popish Plot. The following^ is a chapter of his 
life of j£sop, prefixed to the translation of the * Fables': 

JE%(yp^i Inventum to bring his Histress back again to her Hutband 

after she had left him. 

The wife of Xanthns was well bom and wealthy, bnt so proud and domineering 
withal, as if her fortune and her extraction had entitled her to the breeches. She 
was horribly bold, meddling and expensive, as that sort of women commonly are, 
easily pat off the hooks, and monstroos hard to be pleased again ; perpetnadly chat- 
tering at her husband, and upon all occasions of controversy threatening him to be 
gone. It came to this at last, that Xanthos's stock of patience being quite spent, he 
took up a resolution of going another way to work with her, and of ^ing a course 
of severity, since there was nothing to be done with her by kindness. But this ex- 
periment, instead of mending the matter, made it worpe ; for, upon harder usage, 
the woman grew desperate, and went away from him in earnest. She was as bad, 
'tis true, as bad might well be, and yet Xanthus had a kind of hankering for her still; 
beside that, the v was matter of interest in the case ; and a pestilent tongue she had, 
that the poor husband dreaded above all things under the sun. But the man was 
willing, however, to make the best of a bad game, and so his wits and his friends 
were set at work, in the fairest manner that might be, to get her home again. Bat 
there was no good to be done in it, it seems ; and Xanthus was so visibly out of hu- 
mour upon it, that ^sop in pure pity bethought himself immediately how to comfort 
hira. ' Come, master,' says he, * pluck up a good heart, for I have a project in my 
noddle, that shall bring my mistress to you back again, with as good a will as ever 
she went from you.' What does my u£sop, but awav immediately to the nuu^rat 
araonff the butchers, poultearers, fishmongers, confectioners, Ac, for the best of 
everything that was in season. Nay, he li&es private people in his way too, and 
chops into the very house of his mistress's relations, as by mistake. This way of 
proceeding set the whole town i^^og to know the meaning of all this bustle ; and 
uEsop innocently told everybody fiat his master's wife was run away from him, and 
he had married another ; his friends up and down were all invited to come and make 
merry with him, and this was to be the wedding-feast. The news flew like light- 
-,»««. -^^ I- carry ttie t!i3nrt, \idJisi?!& Qit V^ ^» ^«i runaway 



/fiP-^' f°^ ^^PPy were they that could carry ttie toi^ \idia?:& ot \\. \» ^Sxa runaway 
jaay~-for everybody Jfeneif wISflGp to be a " "^ ----- - -- 



BufLER.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 123 

rolling, as all other stories do in the telling, especially where women's tongues and 
passions have the spreading of them. The wife, that was in her nature violent and 




aliye. 
upon this as one of .^Esop's master-pieces ; and for that bout all was well again he- 
twixt master and mistress. 

The Popish Plot. 

At the first opening of this plot, almost all people's hearts took fire at it, and 
nothing was heard bat the bellowing of execrations and revenge against the accursed 
bloody Papists. It was impnted at firet, and in the general, to the principles of the 
religion ; and a Roman Catholic and a regicide were made one and^the Hume thing. 
Nay, it was a saying frequent in some of our great and holy mouths, that thev were 
confident there was not so much as one soul of the whole party, within his majesty's 
dominions, that was not either an actor in this plot, or a friend to 't. In this heat, 
they fell to picking up of priests and Jesuits as fast as they could catch 'em, and so 
went on to consult their oracles the witnesses— with all formalities of sifting and ex- 
amining—upon the particulars of place, time, manner, persons, &c. ; whuc West- 
minster Hall and the Court of Requests were kept warm, and rindng still of new 
men come in, corroborating proofs, and further discoveries, &c. Under this train and 
method of reasoning, the managers advanced, decently enough, to the finding out of 
what they themselves had laid and concerted beforehand : and, to give the devil his 
dae, the whole story was but a farce of so many parts, and the noisy informations no 
more than a lesson that they had much ado to go through with, even with the help of 
diligent and careful tutors, and of many and many a prompter, to brin^ them on at 
a dead lift. But popery was so dreadful a thing, and the danger of the kmg's life and 
of the Protestant reli^on so astonishing a surprise, that people were almost bound 
in duty to be inconsiderate and outrageous upon 't ; ana loyalty itself would have 
looked a little cold and indifferent if it had not been intemperate ; insomuch that 
seal, fierceness, and jealousy were never more excusable than upon this occasion. 
And now, liaving excellent matter to work upon, and the passions of the people al- 
ready disposed ^r violence and tumult, there needed no more than blowing the coal 
of Chettes's narrative, to put all into a fiame ; and in the meantime, all arts and acci- 
dents were improved, as well toward tlie entertainment of the humour, as to the 
kindling of it. The people were first haired out of their senses with tales and jeal- 
ousies, and then made judges of the danger, and consequently of the remedy ; which 
in>on the main, and briefiy, came to no more than this : The plot was laid all over the 
three kingdoms ; Prance, Spain, and Portugal taxed their quotas to 't ; we wore all 
to be burnt in our beds, ana rise with our throats cut ; and no way in the world but 
exclusion and union to help us. The fancy of this exclusion spread immediately, 
like a gangrene, over the whole body of the monarchv ; and no savmg the life of his 
majes^ without cutting off every limb of the prerogative : the device of union passed 
insensibly into a league of conspiracy ; and, instead of uniting Protestants against 
Papists, concluded in an association of subjects against their sovereign, confounding 
poncy with religion. 

SAMUEL BUTLER. 

The fame of the author of ' Hudibras * led to a general desire after 
his death for the publication of such literaiy remains as he might 
have left behind him. Two spurious compilations were issued (1715- 
1720), but out of fifty pieces thus thrust upon the world only three 
werejgenulne. At length, in 1759, two volumes of * Remains in Verse 
and Prose ' were published from the original MSS. which Butler had 
left to his friend Longueville, and which had come into the posses- 
sion of Mr. B. Thjer, Manchester. TVie mo^\. ViiXfewaNAXi^ ^"l ^^^ 
jr&Hca are * CharacterSf* ixx prose leBembYiii^ Vn iX^^^ NJsiSJSA o*^ vy^^st- 
barjr, Earle, and Hall, 



124 CVCLOPiEDIA OF fro ^^ 

A 8maU Poet 

Is one that wonld fain make himself that which nature never meant him ; like a fi^ 
natic that inspires himself with his own whimsies. He sets up haberdasher of small 

Soetry, with a very small stock and no credit. He believes it is invention enongh to 
nd oat other men's wit ; and whatsoever he lights upon, either in books or com- 
pany, he makes bold with as his own. This he pats together so nntowardly, that 
yon may perceive his own wit as the rickets, bv the swelling disproportion of the 
joints. You may know his wit not to be natural, 'tis so unquiet and troublesome in 
him : for as those that have money but seldom, are always shaking their pockets 
when they have it, so does ho, when he thinks he has got something that will make 
him appear. He is a x>erpetual talker ; and you may know by the freedom of his 
discourse that he came lightly by it, as thieves spend freely what they get. He is 
liko an Italian thief, that never robs but he murders, to i;)revent discovery ; so sore 
is be to cry down the man from whom he purloins, that his petty larceny of wit maj 
pass unsuspected. He appears so over-concerned in all men's wits, aa if they were 
out disparagements of his own ; and cries down all tliev do, as if they were encjroacb- 
ments upon him. He takes jests from the owners and breaks them, as justices do 
false weights, and pots that want measure. When he meets with anything that is 
very good, he changes it into small money, like three groats for a shilling, to serve 
several occasions. He disclaims study, pretends to take things in motion, and to 
shoot flying, which appears to be very true, by liis often missing of his mark. As 
for epithets, he always avoids those that are near akin to the sense. Such matches 
are unlawful and not fit to be made by a Christian poet : and therefore all his care is 
to choose out such as will serve, like a wooden leg, to piece out a maimed verse that 
wants a foot or two, and if they will but rhyme now and then into the barapain, or 
run upon a letter, it is a work of supererogation. For similitudes, he l&es the 
hardest and most obscure best ; for as ladies wear black patches to make their com- 
plexions seem fairer than they are, so when an illustration is more obscure than the 
sense that went before it, it must of necessity make it appear clearer than it did ; for 
contraries are best set ofE with contraries. He has found out a new sort of poetical 
Georgics— a trick of sowing wit like clover-grass oh barren subiects, which would 
yield nothing before. This is very useful for the times, wherein, some men say, 
there is no room left for new invention. He will take three grains of wit like the 
elixir, and, projecting it upon the iron age, turn it immediatwy into gold. All the 
business of mankina has presently vanished, the whole world has kept holiday : there 
has been no men but heroes and poets, no women but nymphs ana shepherdessea: 
trees have borne fritters, and rivers flowed plam-porridge. when he writes, he com- 
monly steers the sense of his lines by the rhyme that is at the end of them, as butchen 
do calves by the tail. For when he has made one line, which is easy enough, and 
has found out some sturdy hard word that will but rhyme, he will hammer the sense 
upon it, like a piece of hot iron upon an anvil, into what form he pleases. There is 
no art in the world so rich in terms as poetry ; a whole dictionary is scarce able to 
contain them ; for there is hardly a pond, a sheep-waJk, or a gravel-pit in all Greece. 
but the ancient name of it is become a term of art in poetry; By this means, small 
poets have such a stock of able hard words lying by them, as diyades, hamadryadesL 
aouides, fauni, n3rmph8e, sylvani, &c. that signify nothing at all ; and such a world 
of pedantic terms of the same kind, as may serve t.o furnish all the new inventions 
and * thorough reformations ' that can happen between this and Plato's great year. 

A Vintner 

Hangs out his bush to shew he has not good wine ; for that, the proverb says, needs 

it not. He had rather sell bad wine than good, that stands him in no more ; for it 

makes men sooner drunk, and then they are the easier over-reckoned. By the 

knaveries he acts above-board, which every man sees, one may easily take a measnra 

of those he does underground in his cellar ; for he that will pick a man's pocket to 

his face, will not stick to use him worse in private, when he knows nothing of U. 

JETe does not only spoil and destroy his wines, but an ancient reverend proverB, widft 

brewing and racking, that says, * In vino verVlaa;' tox t\kftxeS&Tio\x>axh. in his, hot 

all false and BophSBticated ; for he can counterte\l vAne iva cutmoXsi^i ^ ic^^ <£dL 

grapee, and cheat men with it, as he did birds. B.e \b «ai MsSi-^S^ijAsKasL ec^flX^ltR 



CHARLKTON.J ENGLISH LITERATURE. 1^ . 

Christ tamed water into wine, and he tnms wine into water. He scores all his reo- 
konings npon two tables, made like those of the Ten Commandments, that he may 
be pot in mind to break them as oft as possibly he can ; especially that of stealing 
and bearing false witness against his neighbour, when he draws him bad wine, and 
swears it is good, and that he can take more for the pipe than the wine will yield him 
by the bottle — a 'trick that a Jesuit taught him to cheat his own conscience with. 
When he is found to over-reckon notorfously, he has one common evasion for all, 
and that iff, to say it was a mistake ; by which he means, that he thought they had 
not been sober enough to discover it ; for if it liad passed, there had been no error 
at all tn the case. 

A Prater 

Is a common nuisance, and as great a ^evance to those that come near him, as a 
pewterer is to his neighbomrs. His discourse is like the braying of a mortar, the 
more impertinent, the more voluble and loud, as a pestle makes more noise when it 
is rung on the sides of a mortar, than when it stamps downright, and hits upon the 
business. A dog that opens u^n a wrong scent will do it oftener than one that 
never opens but npon a rignt He is as long-winded as a ventiduct, that fills as fast 
as it empties ; or a trade-wind, that blows one way for half a year together, and 
another as long, as if it drew in its breath for six mouths, and blew it out ^ain for 
six more. He has no mercy on any man's ears or patience that he can get within his 
sphere of activity, but tortures him, as they correct boys in Scotland, oy stretching 
their lugs without remorse. He is like an earwig, when he gets within a man's ear, 
he is not easily to be got out again. He is a siren to himself, and has no way to es- 
cape shipwreck but by having his mouth stopped instead of nis ears. He plays with 
his tongue as a cat does with her tail, and is transported with the delight he gives 
himself of his own making. 

An Antiquary 

Is one that has his being in this age, but his life and conversation is in the days of 
old. He despises the present age as an innovation, and slights the future ; but has a 
CTcat value for that which is past and gone, like the madman that fell in love with 
Cleopatra. • 

All his cnriosities take place of one another according to their seniority, and he 
values them not by their aoilities, but their standing. He has a great veneration for 
words that are stricken in years, and are grown so aged that they have outlived their 
employments, ^hese he uses with a respect a^eeable to their antiquity, and the 
good services they have done. He is a great tiine-sei-ver, but it is of time out of 
mind, to which he conforms exactly, but is wholly retired from the present. His 
days were spent and gone long before he came into the world ; and since, his only 
business is to collect what he can out of the ruius of them. He has so strong a 
natural affection to anything that is old, that he may truly say to dust and worms, 
* You are my father,' and to rottenness, * Thou art my mother.' He has no provi- 
dence nor foresight, for all his contemplations look backward upon the days of old, 
and his brains are turned with them, as if he walked backwards. He values things 
wrongftillv upon t-heir antiquity, forgetting that the most modem are really the most 
ancient of all things in the world, like those that reckon their pounds before their 
shillings and pence, of which they are made up. He esteems uo customs but such 
as have outlived themselves, and are long since out of use ; as the Catholics allow 
of no saints but such as are dead, and the fanatics, in opposition, of none but the 
living. 

WALTER CHARLETON. 

Another liveiy uescriber of human character, who flourished in 
this i>eriod, was Dr. Walter Charleton (1G19-1707), physician to 
Charles II. a friend of Hobbes, and for several years President of the 
College of Physicians in London He wrote many works on theology, 
natiiral history, natural philosophy, medicme, ^\^^ ^\iNl\Qji\>oiRa»\\sv 
-which ]sst department Ms most noted piod\ic,\A.oiiSa^Vc^'«^'CNsfc^>i5v- 
Jiahed in 1668, maintaining the DanisYi otVgisi ol ^\sya.€^^^%^> «^ 



126 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 16^9. 

Salisbury Plain, in opposition to Inigo Jones, who attributed that 
remarkable structure to the Romans. The work, however, which 
seems to deserve more particularly our attention in this place is 'A 
Brief Discourse concerninff the different Wits of Men,'' published by 
Dr. Charleton in 1675. It is interesting, both on accoant of the 
lively and accurate sketches of character which it contains, and be- 
cause the author attributes the varieties of talent which are found 
among men to differences in the form, size and quality of their brains. 
We shall give two of his happiest sketches. 

The Ready a/nd Nimble Wit, 

Such as are endowed wherewith have a certain extemporary acaieness of conceit, 
accompanied with a quick delivery of their thoughts, bo as they can at pleasure en- 
tertain their auditors with facetious passages ana fluent discourses even upon slight 
occasions ; bet being generally impatient of second thoughts and deliberations, they 
seem fitter for pleasant colloquies and drollery than for counsel and design ; like 
fly-boats, good only in fair weather and shaUow waters, and then, too, more for 
pleasure than traffic. If they be, as for the most part they are, narrow in the hold, 
and destitute of ballast sufficient to counterpoise their large sails, they reel with 
every blast of argument, and are often driven upon the sands of a * nonplus ;* but 
where favoured with the breath of common applause, they sail smoothly and proudly, 
and, like the City pageants, discharge whole volleys of squibs and crackers, and 
skirmish most furiously. But take them from their familiar and private couveraa^ 
tion into ^ave and severe assemblies, whence all extemporary flaehes of wit, 
all fantastic allusions, all personal reflections, are excluded, and there engage them 
in an encounter with solid wisdom, not in light skirmishes, but a pitched field of 
long and serious debate concerning any important question, and then you shall eo(m 
discover their weakness, and contemn that oarrenness of understanding which is in- 
- capable of struggling with the difficulties of apodictical knowledge, and the deduction 
of truth from a long series of reasons. Again, if those very concise sayings and 
lucky repartees, wherein they are so happ^, and which at first hearing; were enter- 
tained with so much of pleasure and admiration, be written down, and brou^^t to a 
strict examination of their pertinency, coherence, and verity, how shidlow, how 
frothy, how forced will they be found I how much will they lose of that applause, 
which their tickling of the ear and present fiight through the imagination had 
gained I In the greatest part, therefore, of such men, you ought to expect no deep 
or continued river of wit, but only a few plashes, and those, too, not allogethw free 
from mud and putrefaction. 

The Slow hut Bare Wit. 

Some neads there are of a certain close and reserved constitution, which makes 
them at first sight to promise ps little of the virtue wherewith they are endowed, as 
the former appear to be above the imperfections to which they are aabject 
Somewhat slow they are^ indeed, of both conception and expression ; yet no 
whit the less provided with solid prudence. When they are engaged to speak, 
their tongue doth not readily interpret the dictates of tlieir mind, so that their 
lanjijuage comes, as it were, dropping from their lips, even where they are en- 
couraged by familiar entreaties, or provoked by the smartness of jests, which 
sudden and nimble wits have newly darted at them. Costive they are also in ki- 
vention ; so that when they would deliver somewhat solid and remarkable, they 
are long in seeking what is fit, and as long in determining in what manner and 
words to utter it. But after a little consideration, they penetrate deeply into the 
substance of things and marrow of business, and conceive proper and emphatic 
words by which to express their sentiments. Barren they are not, bat a little neavy 
and retentive. Their gifts he deep and concea\ed ; \>xA\»Vivii\vms!«v«^.'?rtM^T«jt^ 
i'^^fCr and ambratil ones borrowed from the vedanttemofv^i^ «R3BLW^\swX.\roafc«ft> 
!^l^7^^ ^^ ^^^y ^ave been manured with good \eMvAii%, «ivd ^ti ^**X^ «»- 
-^^^os-tbeirpen-^ftentimes they produce many excft\i«nt cOTvcftV^Ta^-^otNiKSXaX* 



HUTCHINSON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 127 

traDsmitttid to posterity. Having, however, an aspect very like to narrow and dull 
capacities, at first sight most men talce them to be really such, and strangers look 
upon fhem with the eyes of neglect and contempt. Hence it comes, that excellent 
iwrts remaining i^uknown, often want the favour and patronage of great persons, 
wliereby they might be redeemed from obscurity, and raised to employments an- 
swerable to their faculties, and crowned with honours proportionate to their merits. 
The best course, therefore, for these to overcome that eclipse which prejudice usually 
brings npon them, is to contend against their own modesty, and either, by frequent 
converse with noble and discerning: spirits, to enlarge the windows of their minds, 
and dispel those clouds of reservedness that darken the lustre of their faculties ; or, 
by writing on some new and useful subject, to lay open their talent, so that the 
world may be convinced of their intrinsic value. 

In 1670, Dr. Charleton published a vigorous translation of Epi- 
curus's * Morals.' 

I.UCY HUTCHINSON. 

There is a group of ladies of the seventeenth century whose Memoirs 
and Letters are of very great interest. 

Lucy Hutchinson (1620-1659) was a daughter of Sir Allan Apsley, 
and widow of Colonel John Hutchinson, governor of Nottingham 
Castle, and one of the judges of Charles I. Mr. Hutchinson wrote 
Memoirs of her husband's life and of her own, which were first pub- 
lished by their descendant, the Rev. Julius Hutchinson, in 1806. Few 
books are more interesting than this biographical narrative, which, 
besides adding to our knowledge of the period of the Civil War and 
the Commonwealth, furnishes information as to the domestic life, 
the position of women in society, the state of education, manners, 
&c. all related in a frank, lively, and engaging style. The lady was 
a person of great spirit and talent, of strong feelings, and of unbounded 
devotion to her husband and his political views. Though concurring 
in the sentence which condemned Charles I. to the scaflfold. Colonel 
Hutchinson testified against Cromwell's usurpation, and lived in 
retirement till the Restoration. He was afterwards included in the 
act of amnesty. In the debate on the treatment to be dealt to the 
regicides, Colonel Hutchinson, as his faithful wife relates, shewed 
great address and firmness. 

Col. HuUhinaon Defends his Condemnation of Charles I. 

When it came to Inelesby's turn, he, with many tears, professed his repentance 
for that murther ; and told a lalse tale, how Cromwell held his hand, and forced him 
to snbscribe the sentence I And made a most whiniiu^ recantation ; after which he 
retired^ and another bad almost ended, when Colonel Hutchinson, who was not there 
at the beeinning, came in, and was told what they were about, and that it would be 
expected ne should say somethiue. lie was surprised with a thing he expected not, 
yet neither then nor in any the like occasion, did he ever fail himself, but told them, 
* that for his actings in those days, if he had erred, it was the inexperience of his 
age, and ttie defect of his judgment, and not the malice of his heart, which had ever 
prompted him to pursue the g:encral advantage of his country more than his own ; 
and if the sacrifice of him might conduce to the public peace and settlement, he 
should freely submit his life and fortune to their dispose : that the vain expense of his 

Sjje, and the great debts his public employments had run him into, as they were tftSi- 
monies that neither avarice nor any other intereBl YvaA <ia.ttVi^ \vvssv «v\,^vi "vi^^ 
rkHdedhim jaat cause to repent that he ever forsook Y\\a ovjxv\Aei«»fc^Q^\vi\.V^'s«iawrB. 
Ai M9^ M froiibled tea, when? he had made ehipy/reck oi aJ^VSoSs^^Xw^^^^A- ^^- 



128 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

science. And as to that particolar action of the king, be desiied them to beUeve he 
had that sense of it that befitted an Englishman, a Christian, and a gentleman. As 
soon as the colonel had spoken, he retir^ into a room where Inslesby was, vrith hii 
eyes yet red, who had called up a little spirit to succeed his wbmings, and embrac- 
ing Colonel Hutchinson : * O colonel,' said he, * did I ever imagine we could be lutrajght 
to this ! Could I have suspected it when I brought them Lambert in the other day, 
this sword should have redeemed us from being dealt with as criminals, by that peo* 
pie, for whom we had so gloriously exposed ourselves.' The colonel told him he had 
foreseen, ever since those usurpers thrust out the lawful authority of the land to 
enthrone themselves, it could end in nothing else ; but the integrity of his heart in 
all he bad done made him as cheerfully ready to suffer as to triumph in a good cause. 
The result of the House that day was to suspend Colonel Hutchinson and the rest 
from sitting in the House. Monk, after all his great professions, now sate still, and 
had not one word to interpose for any person, but was as forward to set vaigeanoe 
on foot as any man. 

LADY FAN8HAWB. 

Anne Habribon Fanshawb (162d-1679) was the daughter of Sir 
John Harrison, and wife of Sir Richard Fanshawe, ambassador from 
Charles II. to the court of Madrid in 1665. Lady Fanshawe wrote 
Memoirs of her own life, to which were added extracts from the cor- 
respondence of her husband. They were published in* 1829, edited 
by Sir E. Harris Nicholas, but unfortunately from a very imperfect 
and inaccurate copy of the original manuscript The original is ex- 
tant in the possession of J. G. Fanshawe of Parsons, Essex, and as 
the Memoirs are of historical and general interest, the work should 
be re-edited and correctly printed. 

Lady Fanshawe sees a Okost in IreHand, 

We went to the Lady Honor O'Brien's. She was the youngest daughter of the 
Earl of Thomond. There we staid three nights — the first of which I was sormiMd 
by being laid in a chamber, when, about one o'clock, I beard a voice that awakened 
me. I drew the curtain, and^ on the casement of the window, I saw, by the light of 
the moon, a woman leaning mto the window through the casement, in white, with 
red hair, and pale and ghastly complexion. She spake loud, and in a tone I bad 
never heard, thrice, *A horse !' and then with a sigh more like the wind than breath, 
she vanished, and to me her body looked more like a thick cloud than substance. I 
was so much frightened, that my hair stood on end, and my night-clothes fell o£L I 
palled and pinched your father, who never woke during the disorder I was in ; but 
at last was much surprised to see me in this fright, and more so when I related the 
story and shewed him the window opened. Neither of us slept more that night, but 
he entertained me with telling me now much more these apparitions were usual in 
this coontrv than in England ! and we concluded the cause to be the great supersti- 
tion of the Irish, and the want of that knowing faith which should defeoid them from 
the power of the devil, which he exercises among them very much. 

About five o'clock the lady of the house came to see us, saying she had not been 
in bed all night, because a cousin O'Brien of hers, whose ancestors had owned that 
house, had desired her to stay with him in his chamber, and that he died at two 
o'clock, and she said : * I wish you had no disturbance, for 'tis the 



you had no disturbance, for 'tis the custom of the 

Daily are dying, the shape of a woman appears in the 

window every night 'till they be dead. This woman was many ages ago got with 



child by the owner of this place, who murdered her in his garden, and flung her into 
the river under the window ; but truly I thought not of it when I lodged yon here, 
it being the best room in the house.' We made little reply to her speech, bat dis- 
poeed ourselvcB to be gone suddenly. 

A Domestic Scene, ik..i>. \^^. 
My bnsband bad provided very good lod^ngs tox t» \«.\.'&^Wjri£V, «^ ^*i«na. ik 
Ae could oome home from the coundl, wliete Y» -«•» tfc tKj isflni^^^«^«k^ar 



X.] ENGLISH LITERATWRE. 12© 

18 of joy, received me in his arms, and gave me a hundred pieces of sold, say- 
know thoa that keeps my heart so welTwill keep my fortmie, which from cms 
rer put into thy hands as Qod shall hless me with increase ;' and now I thought 
a perfect qneen, and mv husband so glorious a crown, that I more valued my- 
be called by his name than bom a pnncess ; for I knew him very wise and 
K>d, and bis soul doted on me— upon which confidence I will tell you what 
ed. My Lady Rivers, a brave woman, and one that had suffered many thou- 
lunds loss for the king, and whom I had a great reverence for, and she akind- 
r me as a kinswoman, in discourse she tacitly commended the knowledge of 
£airs, and that some women were very happy in a good understanding thereof. 
Lady Aubigny, Lady. Isabel Thvnne, ana divers others, and yet none was at 
)re capable than I ; that in the night she knew there came a post from Paris 
le queen, and that she would be extremely glad to hear what the queen com- 
i the king in order to his affairs, saying if I would ask my husband privately 
Id tell me what he found in the packet, and I might tell her. I, that was 
and innocent, and to that day had never in my month * What news V began to 
here was more inquirius into public affairs than I thought of, and that it 
fashionable thing woulamake me more beloved of my husband, if that had 
)8sible, than I then was. When my husband returned home from council, 
nt ^-ith his handful of papers into his study for an hour or more, I followed 
e turned hastily and said : * What wouldst thou have, my life ?' I told him, 
the prince had received a packet from the queen, and I *gue88ed it was that 
and, and I desired to know what was in it. He smilingly replied : * My love, 
nmediately come to thee ; pray thee, go, for I am very busy J When he came 
lis closet, I revived my smt ; he kis^ me, and talked of other things. At 
I would eat nothing ; he as usual sat by me, and drank often to me, which 
custom, and was full of discourse to company that was at table. Ooing to 
sked again, and said I could not believe he loved me if he refused to tell me 
aiew ; but he an8wered nothing, but stopped my mouth with kisses. So we 
bed ; I cried, and he went to sleep. Next morning early, as his custom was, 
d to rise, but began to discourse with me first, to which I made no reply ; he 
me on the other side of the bed, and kissed me,- and drew the curtains softly 
it to court. When he came home to dinner, he presently came to me as 
nd when I had him by the hand, I said : * Thou dost not care to see me 
i ;' to which he, taking me in his arms, answered : ' My dearest soul, nothing 
rth can afflict me like that ; but when you asked me of my business, H was 
3Ut of my power to satisfy thee : for my life and fortune shall be thiae, and 
lought of my heart in which the trust 1 am in may not be revealed ; but my 
is my own : which I cannot preserve If I communicate the prince's affairs ; 
y thee, with this answer rest satisfied.' So great was his reason and good- 
at, upon consideration, it made my folly appear to me so vile, that from that 
U the day of his death, I never thought fit to ask him any business, but what 
nunicated freely to me in order to ma estate or family. 

LADY RAGHBL BUSSBLL. 

letters of this lady have secured her a place in literature, 
) less elevated than that niche in history which she has won 
oism and conjugal attachment. Rachel Wriothesley was the 
. daughter and co-heiress of the Earl of Southampton. In 1667, 
widow of Lord Vaughan, she married Lord Wiiliam Russell, a 
the first Duke of Bedford. She was the senior of her second 
id by five years, and it is said that her amiable and prudent 
ter was the means of reclaiming him from youthful follies into 
he had plunged at the time of the Restoration. His subse- 
political career is kuown to every leatdet ot "Eai^v^ ^Ks.^'jsrj. 
a man oppcmed the course of a coverDixi<WiV\xi^ V^x^^ja^^^^ss^- 
pint, tb&tman was Lord Wi\Vvam B.\ifiafeYL "IXsl^ ^oss^^sassoa. 



IBO <:YCLOPifiDlA OF [to 1689. 

correspondence with Barillon, alluded to in the notice of Algernon 
Sidney (ante)y leaves him unsullied, for the ambassador distinctly 
mentions Kussell and Lord Hoi lis as two who would not accept 
bribes. When brought to trial (July 1688), under the same circum- 
stances as those which have been related in Sidney's case — with a 
packed jury and a brutal judge — and refused a counsel to conduct 
his defence, the only grace that was allowed him was to have an 
amanuensis. 

Lord Russeli*. May I have somebody to write, to aeaiBt my memory 7 
Mr. Attorney-general. Yes, a servant. 

Lord Chief-justice. Any of your servants shall assist yoa in writing anything 
you please for you. 

Lord Russell. My wife is here, my lord, to do it. 

And when the spectators, we are told, turned their eyes and beheld 
the devoted lady, the daughter of the virtuous Earl of Southampton, 
rising up to assist her lord in his uttermost distress, a thrill of anguish 
ran through the assembly. Lady Russell, after the condemnation of 
her husband, personally implored his pardon without avail. He 
loved her as such a wife deserved to be loved; and when he took his 
final farewell of her, remarked : * The bitterness of death is now past !' 
Her ladyship died in 1723, at the age of eighty-seven. Fifty years 
afterwards, appeared that collection of her Letters which gives her a 
name in our literary history. 

To Dr. FitzwUlia/m — On Tier Sorrow, 

WOBORNE Abbet, 87^ Noo, 1686. 

As yon profess, good doctor, to take pleasure in your writings to me, from the 
testimony of a conscience to forward my spiritual welfare, so w> I to receive them 
as one to me of your friendship in both worldly and spiritual concernments ; doing 
so, I need not waste my time nor yours to tell you they are very valuable to me. 
That you are so contented to read mine, I make the just allowance for ; not for the 
worthiness of them, I know it cannot be ; but, however, it enables me to keep up an 
advantageous conversation without scruple of being too troublesome. You say 
something sometimes, by which I should think you seasoned or rather tainted with 
being so much where compliment or praising is best learned ; but I conclude, that 
often what one heartily wishes to be in a friend, one is apt to believe is so. The 
effect is not nought towards me, whom it animates to have a true, not false title to 
the least virtue you are disposed to attribute to me. Yet I am far from such a vigour 
of mind as surmounts the secret discontent so hard a destiny as mine has fixed in my 
breast ; but there are times the mind can hardly feel displeasure, as while such 
friendly conversation entertained it ; then a grateful sense moves one to expreas the 
courtesy. 

If I could contemplate the conducts of Providence with the uses you do, it would 
give ease indeed, and no disastrous events should much affect us. Th6 new soraes 
of each day make me often conclude myself very void of temper and reason, that I 
still shed tears o£» sorrow and not of joy, that so good a man is landed safe on the 
happ^r shore of a blessed eternity ; doubtless he is at rest, though I find none with- 
out mm, so true a partner he was in all my joys and griefs ; I trust the Almis^ty 
will pass by this my infirmity ; I speak it in respect to the world, from \i^K>8e en- 
ticing delights I can now be better weaned. I was too rich in posBesaioiiui whili^ I 
jToasessed nim : all relish is now gone, I bless €k)d for it, and pray, and ask of all 
good people— do it tor me from such you know are so^also to pray that I nuiy more 
and more tarn the etream of my affections npivaidftjttn^ «fiX,Ta:^\k!e«(\'<KQ(C»ithe e?w- 
^tiBfjring perfections ot God: not starting at hiftOKrkesfc^KwS^^ 
oerwff continually either his glory, justtcc, ox pON?« \a »a:^ww»ft.\ji^ w«i caut O. 



URQUHART.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 181 

them, and that mercy is over all his works, as we shaH one day with ravisbiufi; delight 
Me : in the meantime, I endeavour to suppress all wild imaginations a mdancholy 
fancy. Is apt to let in ; and say wUh the man in the gospel : ' I oelieve ; help thou my 
nnbelkf.' 

To the Earl of Gnlway — On Friendship. 

I have before me, my good lord, two of your letters, both partiallv and tenderly 
kind, and coming from a sincere heart and honest mind— the fast a plain word, but, 
if I mistake not, very significant— are very comfortable to me, who, I hope, have no 
IHroad tboagfats of myself as to any sort. The opinion of an esteemed friend, that 
one is not very wrong, assists to strengthen a weak and willing mind to do her duty 
towards that Almighty Being, who has, from infinite bonuty and goodness, so 
checkered my days on this earth, as I can thankfully refiect I felt many,"! may say 
as many vears of pore and, I trust, innocent, pleasant content, and happy enjoy- 
menta as this worlacan afford, particularly that oiggest blessing of loving and being 
loved by those I loved and respected ; on earth no enjovmeut certainly to be put in 
the balance with it. All other are like wine^which intoxicates for a time, but the 
end is bitterness, at least not profitable. Mr. WaUer, whose picture you look upon, 
has, I long remember, these words : 

All we know they do above 

Is, that they sing, and that they love. 

The best news I have heard is, you have two good companions with you, which. 
I trust, wffl oontribate to divert you this sharp season, when, after so sore a fit as I 
ai^rebend you have felt, the air even of your improving pleasant garden cannot be 
enjoyed without hazard. 

IV Lord Cavendish — Bereavement. 

Though I know my letters do Lord Cavendish no service, yet, as a respect I love 
to pay him, and to thank him also for his last from Limbeck, I had not been so long 
silent, if the death of two persons, both very near and dear to me, had not made me 
so uncomfortable to myself, that 1 knew I was utterly unfit to converse where I 
would never be ill company. The separation of friends is grievous. My sister Mon- 
taene was one I loved tenderly ; my Lord Gainsborough was the only son of a sister 
I loved with too much passion ; they both deserved to be remembered kindly by all 
that Imew them. They both b^an their race long after me, and I hoped should have 
aided it 80 too : but the great and wise Disposer of all things, and who knows where 
it is best to place his creatures, either in this or in the other world, has ordered it 
otherwise. The best improvement we can make in these cases, and you, my dear 
lord, rather than I, whose glass runs low, while you are young, and I hope have 
many hjumy years to come, is, I say, that we should all reflect there is no passing 
tiirongh this to a better world without some crosses ; and the scene sometimes shifts 
so fan, our coimMt of life may be ended before we think we havejgone half-way, and 
that a happy eternity depends on our spending well or ill that time allotted us here 
forprobalion. 

Uve virtooosly my lord, and you cannot die too soon, nor live too long. I hope 
the last shall be your lot, with many blessings attending it 

SIR THOMAS URQUHART. 

A traDslation of ' Rabelais/ * partly executed in this period, and 
which still maintains it place as a faithful rendering of the sense and 
style of the original, is deserving of notice. The first three books of 
the * History or Gargantua and Pantagruel ' were translated by Sir 

* Fraaelt Babelaia. bom in 1483 at Chiaon, in Tooraine, was sometimea churchman, 
but ran away from his convent and studied medicine. He obtained the Pope's absolur- 
tioa lor the breach of his monastic vows, and died care or rector of Mendon. about 160S. 
In Ids Mtirloal romance. Rabelais, under an allefotical veil, lashes the vices of his age. 
especially the vices of the clergy . His work is stained with grossness and buffoonery. 
which were perhaps necessary, as Coleridge argues, 'as an amulet against the monks 
and legates. '^ 



182 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

Thomas Ukquhabt in 1^3; two books were published in bis life- 
time ; and PifiTER ANTHONY MoTTBUX (166i>-1718)— a Frenchman by 
birth, but known as a dramatic writer in English — republished llie 
work of Urquhart, and added the three remaming books translated 
by himself. This joint production was a^ain published by John 
OzELL (died in 1743), with corrections of the text of Urquhart and 
Motteux, and notes by a French editor, Jacob lb Duchat (lfi58- 
1735), who is said to have spent forty years in composing annotaticns 
on Rabelais. 

Sir Thomas Urquhart of Cromarty was a man of lively fancy, 
wit, and learning, but on some points hopelessly crazed. He traces 
the genealogy of his family up to Adam, from whom he was the 158d 
in descent, and by the mother's side he ascends to Eve. The first of 
the family who settled in Scotland was one Nomostor, married to 
Diosa (daugliter of Alcibiades), who took his farewell of Greece and 
arrived at Cromarty, or Partus SaZviia^ 389 years before Christ I Sir 
Thomas was knighted by Charles I. and having proceeded with 
Charles II. into England, was present at the battle of Worcester, and 
there taken prisoner. He is said to have died of an inordinate fit of 
laughter, combined with the effect of * flowing cups,* on hearing of 
the restoration of Charles II. Besides his excellent translation of 
Rabelais, the eccentric knight was author of a treatise on Trigo- 
nometry, (1650), * Epigrams, Divine and Moral ' (1646) ; * Introduction . 
to the Universal Language' (1653); 'The Discovery of a most ex- 
quisite Jewel, more precious than Diamonds inchased in Gold, the 
like whereof was never seen in any age ; found in the Kennel of 
Worcester Streets the day after the Fight and six before the Autumnal 
Equinox,' anno 1651. This * Jewel ' is a vindication of the honour 
of Scotland from tlie * infamy' cast upon it by the rigid Presbyterian 
party. It contains the adventures of the Admirable Crichton and 
other brave and eminent Scotsmen. The following is one of Sir 
Thomas's epigrams : 

Take man from loomon, all that sht can shew, 
Of her own proper, is nonght else but wo. 

NEWSPAPERS. 

We have referred in a previous page (cmte), to the rise of newspa- 
pers. Down to the middle of the seventeenth centuiy, and even 
later, intelligence of public events was chiefly conveyed by means of 
news-letters. *■ To prepare such letters,' says Macaulay, * beceune a 
calling in London, as it now is among the natives of Xndia. i The 
news writer rambled from coffee-room to coffee-room, collecting re- 
ports ; squeezed himself into the Sessions House at the Old :Bai1ey, 
if there was an interesting trial ; nay, perhaps obtained admissi^^ to 
the gallery of Whitehall, and noticed how the king and dnkef (Carles 
// and the Duke of York] looked. In this WQ,y he gathered mate- 
naJs for weekly epistJes, destined lo en\\g\i\«si ^oisi'a ^^mtlVs xwhul or 



NEWSPAPERS.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 188 

some bench of rustic magistrates. Such were the sources from which 
the inhahitaDts of the largest provincial cities, and the great body of 
the gentry and clergy, learned almost all that they knew of the his- 
tory of their own time.' 

At this period, there existed a censorship of the press. In 1637, 
the Star Chamber of Charles I. issued a decree prohibiting the print- 
ing of all books, pamphlets, &c that were not specially licensed and 
authorised. The Long Parliament continued the restriction by an 
Order, dated June 14, 1643, which prompted the *Areopagitica* of 
Jiiilton, published the following year. But the newspapers appear to 
have been unmolested. During the civil war, * Diurnals' and * Mer- 
curies,' in small quarto, began to be disseminated by the different 
parties into which the state was divided. Nearly a score are said to 
have been started in 1643, when the war was at its height Peter 
Heylin, in the preface to his * Cosmography,' mentions that ' the af- 
fairs of each town or war were better presented in the weekly news- 
books.' Accordingly, we find some papers, entitled * News from 
Hull,' * Truths from York,' * Warranted Tidings from Ireland,' and 
* Special Passages ' from other places. As the contest proceeded, the 
impatience of Uie public for early intelligence led to the shortening 
of the intervals of publication ; and papers began to be distributed 
twice or thrice in every week. Among these were the * French In- 
telligencer,' the * Dutch Spy,' the * Irish Mercury,' the * Scots Dove,' 
the ^Parliament Kite,' and the * Secret Owl.' There were likewise 
weekly papers of a humorous character, such as * Mercurius Acher- 
on ticus,' or * News trom Hell ;* * Mercurius Democritus,' bringing 
wonderful news from the world in the moon ; the * Laughing Mer- 
cury,' with perfect news from the antipodes ; and * Mercurius Mas- 
tix, laithfully lashing all Scouts, Mercuries, Posts, Spies, and other 
intelligencei*s. On one side was the * Weekly Discoverer,' and on the 
other, the * Weekly Discoverer Stripped Naked.' So important an 
auxiliary was the press considered, that each of the rival aimies car- 
ried a printer along with it. 

The most conspicuous of the journalists and political writers of 
that period were Marchmont Nbedham (1620-1678), Sir John 
Birkenhead (1615-1670), and Sir Roger L'Estrange, already 
noticed as author and translator (ante), Needham was a servile 
politician. With his * Mercurius Britannicus' be supported the par- 
liamentarians from 1648 to 1647 ; with his * Mercurius Pragmaticus ' 
he defended the king and royalists from 1647 till 1649 ; and with his 
^Mercurius Politicus' he was the champion of the Independents and 
Commonwealth till the Restoration in 1660. Birkenhead was a con- 
sistent, unscrupulous royalist, with considerable talent for satire and 
ridicule. His ^ Mercurius Aulicus,' or Court Mercury, was the medium 
of conmiunication between the court at Oxford and the country at large. 

Cromwell, with characteristic magnanimity^ abolv&hfid tiva office <i^ 
licenser; but it was restored by the g6veTIl^ieu\.olQ^l^K^^^^^Aa'^'^^^' 



134 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

In 1663, UEstran^e was appointed licenser ; and in August of tbat 
year, he started bis ' Public Intelligencer/ which was continued till 
November 1665, when the * Q^'ord Gazette * appeared. The court 
had retired to Oxford, in consequence of the plague in London, and 
when this malady had ceased and the court returned to the metropo- 
lis, the title of * Oxford Gazette ' was changed to that of ' Lonaon 
Gazette.* L'Estrange afterwards defended the arbitrary measures of 
the court from 1679 to 1687 in his journal, * The Observator.' He 
had many rivals, but was never eclipsed, in ready wit or raillery, 
or as a purveyor of news. In his character of licenser, L'Estrange 
issued a * proclamation for suppressing the printing and pub- 
lishing unlicensed news-books and pamphlets of news, because 
it has become a common practice for evil-disposed persons to 
vend to his majesty's people all the idle and malicious reports 
that they could collect or invent contrary to law ; the continuance 
whereof would in a short time endanger the peace of the kingdom; 
the same ipanifestly tending thereto, as has been declared by all his 
majesty's subjects unanimously.* Tiie charge for inserting advertise- 
ments, as appears from the ' Jockey's Intelligencer,' 1688, was then 
a shilling for a horse or coach^ for notification, and sixpence for 
'renewing ;' also in the * Observator Reformed,' it is announced that 
advertisements of eight lines are inserted for one shilling ; and Mor- 
phew's * County Gentleman's Courant,' two years afterwards, says, 
that * seeing promotion of trade is a matter that ought to be encour- 
aged, the price of advertisements is advanced to 2d. per line.* The 
publishers at this time, however, seem to have been sorely puzzled 
for news to fill their sheets, small as they were ; and a few of them 
got over the difliculty in a sufficiently ingenious manner. Thus, thd 
' Flying Post,' in 1695, announces, that * if any gentleman has a mind 
to oblige his country friend or correspondent with this account of 
public affairs, he may have it for 2d. of J. Salisbury, at the Rising 
Sun in Comhill, on a sheet of fine paper; Tialf of which being blanks 
he may thereon write his own private business, or the material news 
of the day.' And again, * Dawkes's News-letter — * This letter will 
be *done up on good writing paper, and blan^ space left, that any 
gentleman may write his own private business. It will be useful to 
improve the younger sort in writing a curious hand 1' Between 1661 
and 1688, it appears that no less than seventy newspapers were pub- 
lished — none oftener than twice a week, and some of them very short- 
lived. In 1709, the first morning paper appeared, under the title of 
the ' Daily Courant,' and the discussion of political topics in niws- 
papers is referred to this period. Hallam says : * I find very little 
expression of political feelings till 1710, after the trial of Sacheverell 
and change of ministry. The " Daily Courant '* and ** Postman ** then 
begin to attack the Jacobites, and the " Postboy" the Dissenters. Bat 
these newsp&peTs were less important than the periodical sheets, such 
AS the "Ej^fiminer " and " Medley ,'* 'wludi'^c»w>V\5 d«7QtAd to party 



KEWSPAPERS.J ENGLISH LITERATURE. 135 

controversy.* Swift and Bolingbroke were among the writers for 
these periodical publications. The Tory ministers, in 1712, put a 
stamp-duty of a half-penny on every printed half-sheet, and a penny 
on a whole sheet, besides a duty of one shilling on every advertise- 
ment. Many of the papers were immediately stopped : ^ all Grub 
Street is ruined by the Stamp Act,' said Swift; but the periodical 
press continued to do battle for popular rights, though subjected to 
restrictions and persecution. From the accession of George I. may 
be dated the publication of parliamentary reports, though they were 
at first but general outlines, and the speakers were indicated by names 
drawn from Roman history. Even in 1740, Walpole was * Tullius 
Cicero,* and Chesterfield * Piso.* The real liberty of the press is of 
very recent date, the result of a long succession of struggL^. 

The first newspaper printed in Scotland was issued under the 
auspices of a party of Cromwell's troops at Leith, who caused their 
attendant printer to furnish impressions of a London Diurnal for 
their information and amusement. This was Needhain's ' Mercurius 
Politicus,' and the first number of the Scotch reprint appeared on 
the 26th of October 1653. In November of the following year, the 
establishment was transferred to Edinburgh, where this reprinting 
system was continued till the 11th of April 1660. About nine months 
afterwards appeared the * Mercurius Caledonius,* of which the ten 
numbers published contain some curious traits of the extravagant 
feeling of jojr^ccasioned by the Restoration, along with many poor 
attempts at wit and cleverness * It was succeeded by the ' King- 
dom's Intelligencer,' which continued about seven years. After this, 
there were only reprints of the English newspapers till 169?, when 
the * Edinburgh Gazette ' was established. 

In Ireland, the rebellion of 1641 called forth a news-sheet, entitled 
' Warranted Tidings from Ireland.' It was soon dropped ; and it was 
not until 1685 that a regular newspaper, * The Dublin News-letter,' 
was published. This was followed by * Pue's Occurrences,* a small 
daily journal printed in Dublin, which was popular, and had vitality 
enough to exist for half a century. 

-* For example : 'March 1, 166?.— A Report from London of a new gallows, the sup- 
porters to be of stones, and beautified with statues of the three grand traitors, Crom^yell, 
Bradshaw. and Ireton. ' 

* As our old laws are renewed, so likewise are our good honefit customs . for nobility 
in streets are known by brave retinues of th«*ir relations; when, during the Captivity 
[the Commonwealth], a lord was scarcely to be distinguished from a commoner. Nay. 
the •Id hospitality returns ; for that laudable custom of suppers, which was covenanted 
out with raisins and roasted cheese, is again in fa.shion ; and where before a peevish 
nurse would have been seen tripping up-stairs and down-stairs, with a posset for the lord 
or the lady, you shall now see sturdy jackmen, groaning with the weight of sirloins of 
beef, and chargers leaden with wild-fowl and capon. ' 

* But of all our bontadoes and capriccios Con the day of the coronation of Charles II. ], 
that of the immortalJanet Oeddes, princess of theTron adventurers [herb- women] was 
the most pleasant ; for she was not only coni«nt to assemble all her creels, baskets, 
ereepies, forms, and other ingredients that composed her shop, but even her weather chair 
of state, where she used to dispense justice to her lang-kal« vassals, which were aU 
▼ery orderly burnt, sh« ii«£Mlf oounttnasiciag \i^ mV.\o\l ^\\^ ^\iS:iC^-W«^ w^:^^:^^ 
T0rmilioa lUMJeatj, * 



FIFTH PERIOD. 

(1«»— 172T.) 

ADDISON— SWIFT— POPE. 



The course of EDglish literature was now becoming more correct, 
regular, and artificial, descending from Dryden, as trom a new foun- 
tain of Englisli lliought, expression, and harmony, but losing in 
its progress some of the old native power and freedom. To be re- 
lined and critical, rather than original and inventive, was the ambi- 
tion of our authors. The poets enj <^y ed a degree of worldly prosperity 
and importance in society that has too rarely blessed the general 
community of authors. Some filled higli diplomatic and other 
official situations, or were engaged in schemes of politics and ambi- 
tion. The reigns of Queen Anne and George I. have been designated 
the Augustan age of English literature, but excepting^n the amount 
of patronage extended to authors, this eulogy has not been confirmed 
by later generations. The writings preceding the Restoration and 
those qf our own times are more original, more imaginative, and at 
the same time more natural. The poetry of this period, exquisite as 
much of it is in the works of Prior and Pope, possesses none of the 
lyrical grandeur and enthusiasm which redeem so many errors in 
the elder poets. Where excellence is attained, it is seldom in tlie 
delineation of strong ^passion, and never in bold fertility of invention. 
Pope was at the head of this school of artificial life and manners. 
He was master of higher powers; he had access to the haunted 
ground of imagination, but it was not his favourite or ordinary walk. 
Others were content with humbler worship, with propitiating a 
minister or a mistress, reviving the forms of classic mythology, or 
satirising without seeking to reform the fashionable follies of the day. 
Several authors, however, were, each in his own line, mastei's. 
Satire, conveyed in language forcible and copious, was certainly car- 
ried to its utmost pitch of excellence by Swift. The wit of Arbuthnot 
is not yet eclipsed. The art of describing the manners and discus- 
sing the morals of the passing time was practised with unrivalled 
felicity by Steele and Addison ; and with all the licentiousness of 
Congreve and Farquhar, it may fairly be said that English comedy 
waa ID tbeir hands what it had never been betbre^ and what it has 
acarcely in any instance but that of Siiendoa «vi>aiftaw»fcTiVW ^^dKs&^^d. 



AnDisoN.j ENGLISit LITERATURE. - 137^ 



POETS. 

WALSH — CHARLES MONTAGU. 

Among the minor poets, contemporaries of Dryden, may be men- 
tioned William Walsh (1663-1708), who was popular as a critic 
and scholar, and author of some miscellaneous pieces in prose and 
verse. These are now all forgotten, and Walsh is remembered only 
as the friend of Dryden and Pope. He directed the youthful studies 
of Pope, invited him to his seat of Abberley, in Worcestershire — 
which country Walsh represented in parliament — and generally ex- 
tended to the young poet a degree of favour and kindness which was 
generous and never forgotten. The great patron of poetry at this 
time was Charles Montagu, Earl of Halifax (1661-1715), who first 
distinguished himself by some verses on the death of Charles II. and 
by joining with Prior in a burlesque poem, * The City Mouse and the 
Countrjr Mouse,* written in ridicule of Dryden's * Hind and Panther.* 
Becommg a member of tlie House of Commons, Montagu evinced a 
knowledge of public affairs and talents for business which soon 
raised him to honours and emoluments. He filled some of the high- 
est oflSces of the state ; in 1700 he was created Baron Halifax, and on 
th^ accession of George I. he was made Earl of Halifax, Knight of 
the Garter, and first commissioner of the Treasury. Halifax was, as 
Pope says, * fed with soft dedication all day long.* Steele, Congreve, 
Rowe, Tickell, and numerous other authors, dedicated works to the 
literary statesman; Swift solicited his patronage, but was disap- 
pointed ; Pope said Halifax was one of the first to favour him, but 
the poet afterwards satirised him in the character of Bufo ; Addison 
— whom Halifax nobly patronised — inscribed to him his best poetical 
production, *A Letter from Italy.* Thus Halifax continued the liberal 

Satronage of literature begun in the previous reign by tlie Earl of 
Dorset ; and the Tor^ leaders, Harley and Bolingbroke, * vied with 
the chiefs of the Whig party,* as Macaulay remarks, * in zeal for the 
encouragement of letters.* This fostering influence declined under 
the House of Hanover ; but during the period now before us. the 
change was little felt. 

JOSEPH ADDISON. 

Joseph Addison, the son of an English dean, was bom at Milston, 
Wiltshire, in 1072. His prose works constitute the chief source of 
his fame ; but his muse proved the architect of his fortune, and led 
him first to distinction. From his character, station, and talents, no 
man of his day exercised a more extensive or beneficial influence on 
literature. He distin^ished himself at Oxford by his Latin poetry, 
and appeared first in English verse by an address to Dryden, written 
in his twentysecond yeai. It opens Uixxax 



18d ^ CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

How long, great poet I shall thy sacred lays 

Provoke oar wonder, and transcend our praise I 

Can neither injuries of time or age 

Damp thy poeUc heat, and quench thy rage 7 

Not so thy Ovid in his exile wi'ote ; 

Grief chilled his breast, and checked his rising thought ; 

Pensive and sad, his drooping muse betrays 

The Roman genius in its fast decays. 

The youthful poef s praise of his great master is confined to his trans- 
lations, works which a modern eulogist would scarcely select as the 
peculiar glory of Dryden. Addison also contributed an Essay on 
Virgirs * Georgics/ prefixed to Dryden's translation. His remarks 
are brief, but finely and clearly written. At the same time, he trans- 
lated the fourth * Georgic/ and it was published in Dryden*s * Miscel- 
lany,' issued in 1698, with a warm commendation from the aged poet 
on the 'most ingenious Mr. Addison of Oxford.* Next year, he 
ventured on a bolder flight — *An Account of the Greatest English 
Poets/ addressed to Mr. H. S. (the famous Dr. Henry Sacheverell), 
April 3, 1694. This ' Account ' is a poem of about 150 lines, containing 
sketches of Chaucer, Spenser, Cowley, Milton, Waller, &c. We sul? 
join the lines on the author of the * Faery Queen,' though, if we are to 
believe Spence, Addison had not then read the poet he ventured to 
criticise : # 

Old Spencer next, warmed with poetic rage, 
In ancient tales amused a barbarous age ; 
An age, that yet uucultivate and rude, 
Whei-e^er the poet's fancy led, pursued 
Through pathless fields, and unfrequented floods. 
To dens of dragons and enchanted woods. 
But now the mystic tale, that pleased of yore, 
Can charm an understanding age no more ; 
The long-spun allegories fulsome grow, 
While the dull moral lies too plain below. 
We view well pleased, at distance, all the sights 
Of arms and palfreys, battles, fields, and flints, 
And damsels In distress, and courteous knights. 
But when we look too near, the shades decay, 
And all the pleasing landscape fades away. 

This subdued and frigid character of Spenser shews that Addison 
wanted both the fire and the fancy of the poet. And, strange to say, 
he does not mention Shakspeare ! His next production is equally 
tame and commonplace, but the theme was more congenial to his 
style : it is 'A Poem to his Majesty, Presented to the Lord-keeper.' 
Lord Somers, then the keeper of the great seal, was gratified by this 
compliment, and became one of the steadiest patrons of Addison. In 
1699, he procured for him a pension of £300 a year, to enable him to 
make a tour in Italy. The government patronage was never better 
bestowed. The poet entered upon his travels, and resided abroad 
two years, writing from thence a poetical * Letter from Italy to 
Cbarfea Lord EalifaXf* 1701. This is iVie mo^l e\fc%;MiV» «sA «si\ma.ted 
ofaJJ bis poetical productions. The classic Tm\3ka ol'^\svft^\^^''>aww- 



ADDisoNfi ENGLISH LITERATURE. 139 

eojy figures * of Raphael, the river Tiber, and streams * immortalised 
in soDg/ and all the golden groves and flowery meadows of Italy, 
seem, as was justljr remarked, * to have raised his fancy, and bright- 
ened his expressions.' There was also, as Goldsmith observed, a 
strain of political thinking in the ^ Letter,- that was then new to our 
I)oetry. He returned to England in 1703. 

The death of King William deprived him of his pension, and ap- 
peared to crush his hopes and expectations ; but being afterwards 
engaged to celebrate in verse the battle of Blenheim, Addison so 
gratified the lord-treasurer, Godolphin, bjr his * gazette in rhyme,' 
that he was appointed a commissioner ot appeals. This successful 
poem, * The Campaign,' was published in 1705, and the same year 
appeared the account of the poet's travels, entitled * Remarks on sev- 
eral Parts of Italy,' &c. dedicated to Lord Somers. Early in 1706, 
Addison, by the recommendation of Lord Godolphin, was appointed 
Under Secretary of State, and about a twelvemonth afterwards 
(March 4, 170^7) his dramatic poem or opera, * Rosamond,' was pro- 
duced at Drury Lane, but acted only for three nights. The story of 
fair Rosamond would seem well suited for dramatic representation ; 
and in the bowers and shades of Woodstock, the poet had materials 
for scenic description and display. The genius of Addison, however, 
was not adapted to the drama ; and his opera being confined in ac^ 
tion, and written wholly in rhyme, possesses little to attract either 
readers or spectators. He wrote afterwards a comedy, * The Drum- 
mer, or the Haunted House,' which Steele brought out after the death 
of the author. This play contains a fund cf quiet natural humour, 
but has not strength or breadth enough of character or action for the 
stage. In 1709, when the Marquis of Wharton was appointed Lord 
Lieutenant of Ireland, Addison accompanied him as secretary, and 
was made keeper of records, with a salary of £300 a year. In the 
summer of that year he was elected MP. for Cavan, and in the jour- 
nals of two sessions his name frequently appears — occasionally as a 
debater in the Irish Parliament. He had also entered upon his bril- 
liant career as an essayist. 

The *Tatler' was commenced by Steele on the 12th of April 1709 ; 
Addison's first contribution to it appeared on the 26th of May. By 
his papers in the ' Tatler,' * Spectator,' and * Guardian,' Addison left 
all his contemporaries far behind in this delightful department of 
literature. In these papers, he first displayed that chaste and deli- 
cate humour, refined observation, and knowledge of the world, which 
now form his most distinguishing characteristics ; and in his * Vision 
of Mi^'za,' his * Reflections in Westminster Abbey,' and other of his 
graver essays, he evinced a more poetical imagination and deeper 
vein of feelmg than his previous writings had at all indicated. In 
1713, his tragedy of * Oato' was brought upon the stage. Pope 
thought the piece deficient in dramatic interest, and the world has 
confirmed his judgment ; but he wrote a prologue for the tragiedy in 



140 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

his happiest manner, and it was performed with almost unexampled 
success. Party-spirit ran high : the Wbigs applauded the hberal sen- 
timents in the play, and their cheers were echoed back by the Tories, 
to shew that they did not apply them as censures on themselves. 
After all the Whig enthusiasm, Lord Bolingbroke sent for Booth the 
actor, who personated the character of Cato, and presented him with 
fifty guineas, in acknowledgment, as he said, of his defending the 
cause of liberty so well against a perpetual dictator (a hit at the Duke 
of Mailbo rough). Poetical eulogiums were showered upon the 
author, Steele, Hughes, Young, Tickell, and Ambrose PJiilllps being 
among the writers of these encomiastic yei ses. The queen expressed 
a wish that the tragedy should be dedicated to her, but Addison had 
previously designed this honour for his friend Tickell ; and to avoid 
giving offence either to his loyalty or his friendship, he published it 
without any dedication. It was translated into French, Italian, and 
German, and was performed by the Jesuits in their college at St 
Omer. * Being,* says Sir Walter Scott, * in form and essence rather a 
Fi*ench than an English play, it is one of the few English tragedies 
which foreigners have admired.' The unities of time and place have 
been preserved, and thn action of the play is. consequently much re^ 
stricted. Cato abounds in generous and patriotic sentiments, and 
contains passages of great dignity and sonorous diction ; but the poet 
fails to unlock the sources of passion and natural emotion. It is a 
splendid and imposing work of art, with tne grace and majesty, and 
^o the lifelessness of a noble antique statue. 

Addison was now at the height of his fame. He had long aspired 
to the hand of the Countess-dowager of Warwick, whom he had first 
known by becoming tutor to her son, and he was united to her in 
1716. The poet is said to have * married discord in a noble wife.' 
His marriage was reported to be as unhappy as Dryden's with Lady 
Elizabeth Howard, and that both ladies awarded to their husbancfs 
the * heraldry of hands, not hearts,' but in the case of Addison we 
have no direct trustworthy information on the subject. Addison re- 
ceived his highest political honour in 1717, when he was made secre- 
tary of state ; but he held the office only for a ghort time. He wanted 
the physical boldness and ready resources of an effective public 
speaker, and was unable to defend his measures in parliament He 
is also said to have been slow and fastidious in the discharge of the 
ordinary duties of office. When he held the situation of under-secre- 
tary, he was employed to send word to Prince George at Hanover of 
the death of the queen, and the vacancy of the throne ; but tlie criti- 
cal nicety of the author overpowered his official experience, and Ad- 
dison was iso distracted by the choice of expression, that the ta^ was 
given to a clerk, who boasted of having done what was too hard for 
Addison. The vulgar love of wonder may have exaggeraied the 
poet's inaptitude for business, but it is certain he was no oratcnr. He 
retired from tZie principal Secretaryship w\XYi«bV«^^si^^'^^'^^S^'^st 



ADDISON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 141 

axmnm, and during his retirement, engaged himself in writing a work 
on the * Evidences of the Christian Beligion,' wliich he did not live 
to complete. He was oppressed by asthma and dropsy, and was 
conscious that he should die at comparatively an early age. Two 
anecdotes are related of his death-bed. He sent, as Pope relates (but 
Pope is a very bad authority for any circumstance reflecting upon 
Addison, or indeed for any question of fact), a message by the Earl of 
Warwick to Gay, desiring lo see him. Gay obeyed the summons; 
and Addison begged his forgiveness for an injury he had done him, for 
which, he said, he would recompense him if he recovered. TJie na- 
ture or extent of the injury he did not explain, but Gay supposed it 
referred to his having prevented some preferment designed for him 
bv the court At another time, he requested an interview with the 
E&r\ of Warwick, whom he was anxious to reclaim from a dissipated 
and licentious life. * I have sent for ypu,' he said, ' that you may see 
in what peace a Christian can die.' The event thus calmly anticipa- 
ted took place in Holland House on the 17tli June, 1719. 

A minute or critical review of the daily life of Addison, and bis in- 
tercourse with his literary associates, is calculated to diminish our 
reverence and affection. He appears to have been jealous and 
taciturn, until thawed by wine ; and the fact of his putting an execu- 
tion into Steele's house to recover a sum of money he had lent him — 
a fact which seems to rest on good authority — forms a disagreeable 
incident in his lile. Though reserved in general society, his conver- 
sation was peculiarly fascinating among his friends, and he was 
highly popular with the public. Witli Swift he maintained through- 
out nfe, notwithstanding their political differences, a warm and 
cordial friendship. The quarrel between Addison and Pope is well 
known. Addison preferred TickelFs version of the first book of the 
* Iliad,* and sought to make the fortune of the translator. Pope re- 
sented this as a personal injury, and wrote his memorable satire on 
Atticus, in which some truth is mingled with bitterness and malig- 
nity. The charge that Addison could * bear no rival near the throne * 
seems to have had some foundation in fact, but as respects Pope's 
insinuations against his illustrious contemporary, recent investigations 
have considerably shaken that poet's character for veracity. With all 
deductions from the idolatry of friends and the servility of flatterers, 
enough remains to establish Addison's title to the. character of a good 
man and a sincere Christian. The uniform tendency of all his writings 
is his best and hiehest eulogium. No man can dissemble upon paper 
through years of literary exertion, or on topics calculated to disclose 
the nature of his tastes and feelings, and the qualities of his heart and 
temper. The display of these by Addison is so fieuscinating and un- 
affected, that the impression made by his writingis, as has been finely 
remarked, is * like being recalled to a sense of something like that 
original puritv from which man has been long estranged.' 

A *Lm of Addjflon,' in two volumea^b^ li\Mt^. l^>8jsa>^\i!si^6s^^ 



142 CYCLOPy*:DIA OF [to 1727. 

1843, contains several letters supplied by a descendant of Tickell. 
The most interesting of the letters were written by Addison during 
his early travels ; and though brief, and careless, contain touches of 
his inimitable pen. He thus records his impressions of France : 

. T?ie French People in 1699. 

Truly, by what I have yet seen, they are the happiest nation in the world. Tis 
not in the power of want or slavery to make *em miserable. There is nothing to be 
met with in the country but mirth and poverty. Every one sings, laughs, and KU^ee. 
Their conversation is generally agreeable ; for if they have any wit or sense, they 
are sure to shew it. They never mend upon a second meeting, but use all the free- 
dom anA familiarity at first sight that a long intimacy or abundance of wine can 
scarce draw from an Englishman. Their women are perfect mistresses in this art 
of shewing themselves to the best advantage. They are always gay and si^ightly, 
and set off the worst faces in Europe with the best airs. Every one knows how to 
give herself as charming a look and posture as Sir Godfrey Kneller could draw her 
in. ... 

I have already seen, as I informed you in my last, all the king's palaces, and have 
now seen a great part of the country ; I never thought there had been in tiie world 
such an excessive magnificence or poverty as I have met with in both together. (>ae 
can scarce conceive the pomp that appears in everything about the king ; but at the 
same time it makes half his subjects go barefoot. The people are, however, the hap- 

Siest in the world, and enjoy, from t£e benefit of their climate and natural constita- 
on, such a perpetual mirth and easiness of temper, as even liberty and plenty cannot 
bestow on those of other nations. Devotion and loyalty are everywhere at their 
greatest height, but learning seems to rim very low, especially in the younger people : 
for all the rising geniuses have turned their ambition another way, and endeavoured 
to make their fortunes in the army. The bellee-lettres in particular seem to be but 
short-Hved in Frfmee. 

In acknowledging a present of a snuff-box, we see traces of the 
easy wit and playfulness of the * Spectator :' 'About three days ago, 
Mr. Bocher put a very pretty snuflf-box in my hand. I was not a 
little pleased to hear that it belonged to myself, and was much more 
so when I found it was a present from a gentleman that I have so 
great an honour for. You do not probably foresee that it would 
draw on you the trouble of a letter, but you must blame yourself for 
it. For my part, I can no more accept of a snuflf-box without return- 
ing my acknowledgements, than I can take snuff without sneezing 
after it. This last, I must own to you, is so great an absurdity, that 
I should be ashamed to confess it, were not I in hopes of correcting 
it very speedily. I am observed to have my box oftener in my hand 
than those that have been used to one these twenty years, for I can't 
forbear taking it out of my pocket whenever I think of Mr. Bash- 
wood. You know Mr. Beyes recommends snuflf as a great provoca- 
tive to wit, but you may produce this letter as a standing evidence 
against him. I have, since the beginning of it, taken above a dozen 
pinches, and still find myself much more inclined to sneeze than to 
jest. From whence I conclude, that wit and tobacco are not msep- 
arable ; or, to make a pun of it, though a man may be master of a 
snuflf-box, 

Non cuicunque datum est habere Nasam. 

I should be aG^id of being thought apeda;ntloixccj c^cA&MQTL^^\d.TsatI 



ADblSON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE I4S 

know that the gentletnan I am writing to always carries a Horace in 
his pocket' 

The same taste which led Addison, as we have seen, to censure as 
fulsome the wild and gorgeous genius of Spenser, made him look 
with indifference, if not aversion, on the splendid scenery of the Alps. 
* I am just arrived at Geneva,' he says, * by a very troublesome jour- 
ney over the Alps, where I have been for some days together shiver- 
ing among the eternal snows. My head is still giddy with mountains 
and precipices, and you can't imagine how much I am pleased with 
^e sight of a plain, that is as agreeable to me at present as a shore 
was about a year ago, after our tempest at Genoa.' 

The matured powers of Addison shew less of this tame prosaic feel- 
ing. The higher of his essays, and his criticism on the * Paradise 
Lost,* evince no insensibility to the nobler beauties of creation, or the 
sublime effusions of genius. His conceptions were enlarged, and his 
mind expanded by that literary study and reflection from which his 
political ambition never divorced him, even in the busiest and most 
engrossing period of his life. 

From tlie 'Letter from Italy* 

For wheresoe'er I turn mj ravished eyes, 
Oay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise ; 
Poetic fields encompass me around. 
And still I seem to tread on classic gronnd ; (1) 
For here the muse so oft her harp has strung, 
That not a mountain rears its head unsung ; 
Renowned in verse each shady thicket grows, 
And every stream in heavenly numbers flows. . . . 

See how the golden groves around me smile, 
That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle ; 
Or when transplanted and preserved with care. 
Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. 
Here kindly warmth their mountain juice ferments 
To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents ; 
Even the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, 
And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. 
Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, 
Or cover me in Umbria*s green retreats ; 
Where western gales eternally reside, 
And all the seasons lavish all their pride ; 
Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise. 
And the whole year in gay confusion lies. . . . 

How has kind heaven adorned the happy land. 
And scattered blessings with a wasteful hand I 
But what avail her unexhausted stores, 
Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores, 
With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart. 
The smiles of nature and the charms of art. 
While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, 
And tyranny usurps her happy plains ? 
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain 
The redd'ning orange, and the swelling grain : 



1 Mfalone states that thin was the ftrst time Oio, pVi^ftfe cla^JsVc ^touu(V,^^^^^s^^^ 
# ever used. It was ridiculed by some coutemvOTM^tft* «a ^ wi ^^J^aiaX vttS»^vfts>Rws»^ 



144 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

JoyleBs he sees the growing oils and wlnet. 
And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines : 
Starves in the midst of nature's boantv curst, 
And in the loaded vineyard dies for thirst. 

O Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright. 
Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with denght I 
Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, 
And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train : 
Eased of her load, subjection grows more light. 
And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight ; 
Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, 
Giv*st beauty to tne sun, and pleasui*e to the day. 

Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores ; 
How has she oft exhausted all her stores. 
How oft in fields of death thy presence sought. 
Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought ? 
On foreign mountains may the sun refine 
' The grape's soft juice and mellow it to wine ; 
With citron groves adorn a distant soil, 
And the fat olive swell with floods of oil : 
We envy not the warmer clime, that lies 
In ten agrees of more induleent skies ; 
Nor at the coarseness of our neaven repine. 
Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiaos shine : 
'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle. 
And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile. 

Ode. 

How are thy servants blest, O Lord I Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord ! 

How sure is their defence I Thy mercy set me free ; 

Eternal wisdom is the^r g^de. Whilst in the confidence of prayer 

Their help Omnipotence. My soul took hold on thee. 

In foreign realms, and lands remote, For though in dreadful whirls we hnng 

Supported by thy care, High on the broken wave,* 

Through burning climes I passed unhurt, I knew thou wert not slow to hear, 

And oreathed in tainted ahr. Not impotent to save. 

Thy mercy sweetened every soil. The storm was laid, the winds retired. 

Made every region please ; Obedient to thy will ; 

The hoary Alpine hills it warmed. The sea that soared at thy command, 

And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. At thy command was still. 

Think, O my soul devoutly think, In midst of dangers, fears, and death, 
How ^^-ith affrighted eyes. Thy goodness I '11 adore : 

Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep I '11 pr^se thee for for thy mercies past. 
In all its horrors rise. And humbly hope for more. 

Confusion dwelt en every face, l&jyiie, if thou preserv'st my life, 

And fear in every heart. Thy sacrifice shall be ; 

When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs, And death, if death must be my doom, 

O'ercame the pilot's art. Shall join my soul to thee. 

' ' The earliest composition that I recollect taking any pleasure in was the Vittionqf 
Mlrza. and a hymn of Addison's, beginninff. "How are thy servants blest, O Lord !" 1 
partioularly remember one half-stanza, which was music to my boyish ear: 

For though in dreaWuV ■v»\At\ti 'w*\x^vsv% 
High on the broken. -wa-Nft.' _ ^^ » ,._ ^ ^ 



SON.] 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



145 



Ode. 



pacionfi finnament on high, 
all the blae ethereal sky, 
$paugled heavens, a shining frame, 
■ great Original proclaim : 
nwearied sun, from ^ay to day, 
his Creator's power display, 
publishes to every land 
vork of an Almighty hand. 

as the evening shades prevail, 
noon takes up the wondrous tale, 

nightly to the list'niDg earth, 
ats the story of her birth : 



While all the stars that round her bum. 
And all the planets in their torn. 
Confirm the tidings as they roll. 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? 
What though no real Toice, nor sound. 
Amid their radiant orbs be found 7 
In Season's ear they all rejoice. 
And utter forth a glorious voice ; 
For ever singing as they shine, 
*■ The hand that made us is divine.* 



Tlie Battle of Blenlieim. — From *The Campaign,^ 

Bat now the trumpet terrible &om far. 
In shriller clangours animates the war ; 
Confederate drums in fuller concert beat. 
And echoing hills the loud alarm repeat : 
Qallia's proud standards to Bavaria's joined, 
Unfurl their gilded lilies in the wind , 
The daring prince his blasted hopes renews, 
And while the thick embattled host he views 
Stretched out in deep array, and dreadful length, 
His heart dilates, and glories in his strength. 

The fatal day its mighty course began, 
That the grieved world had long des&ed in vain ; 
States that their new captivity bemoaned. 
Armies of martyrs that m exile groaned. 
Sighs from the depth of gloomy dungeons heard, 
And prayers in bitterness of soul preferred ; 
Europe's loud cries, that Providence assailed. 
And Anna's ardent vows, at length prevailed ; 
The day was come when Heav'u designed to shew 
His care and conduct of the world below. 

Behold, in awful march and dread array 
T'ne long extended squadrons shape tiieir way I 
Death, in approaching, terrible, imparts 
An anxious horror to the bravest hearts ; 
Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife. 
And thirst of glory quells the love of life. 
No vulgar fears can British minds control ; 
Heat of revenge, and noble pride of soul. 



\ finepasRage in Sir Thomas Browne's Religio Medici (Part II. sec- 9) refiembles 
and probably suggeHted U: ' There is a masfc wherever there is a harmoDy, order, 
uporticn; aud thu.-^far wemay inaintaia the music of the spheres: for those well* 
■ed uuiioa.s. aud regular paces, thouifh they give no sound auvO the ear. yet to the 
rsstanding they strike a note most full of harmony. Whatsoever is harmonically 
losed delights m harmony, which mnkes me much distrust tne symmetry of those 
s wl)ich declaim again>'t all church music. For myself, not only fram my obedience 
ly particular genius I do embrace it: for even that vulgar and tavern music, which 
*s one man merry, another mad, strikes iu me a deep fit of devotion, and a profound 
mplation of the first composer. There in something in It of divinity more than the 
iscovers : it is an hieroglyphical and shadowed lesion of the whole world and crea- 
; of God— such a melody to the ear as the whole world, well understood, would 
/ Che nnderacaading. la brief, it is a sensible tit ot t!h«X YAXtoKtui ^\sik>0&.\!^j^<e^\?>r 
ouade ia the eajra of Qod. ' 



146 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

O'erlook the foe, advantaged by his post, 
Lessen his numbers, and contract his host : 
Though fens and floods possessed the middle space. 
That unprovoked they would have feared to pass ; 
ITor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands. 
When her proud foe ranged on their borders stands. 

But O, my muse, what numbers wilt thou find 
To sine the furious troops in battle joined ? 
Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound. 
The victor's shouts and dying groans confound : 
The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies, 
And all the thunder of the battle rise. 
'Twas then great Marlbro's mighty soul was proved, 
ThaL in the shock of charging hosts unmoved, 
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, 
Exsuuined all the dreadful scenes of war ; 
In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed, 
To fainting squamous sent the timely aid. 
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage. 
Ana taught the doubtful battle where to rage. 
So when an angel, by divine command. 
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land. 
Such as of late o^er pale Britannia passed. 
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast. 
And, pleased th' Almighty's orders to perform, 
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. 

The concluding simile of the angel has been much celebrated, and 
was so admired by the lord treasurer, that on seeing it, without 
waiting for the completion of the poem, he rewarded the poet byj|p- 
pointing him, in the place of Locke — who had been promoted— -a 
commissioner of appeals. 

From the Tragedy of Goto. 

Act IV,— Scene A.—R^-^nter Pobtitjs. 

PoRTrus. Misfortune on misfortune I grief on grief ! 
My brother Marcus 

Cato. Ha 1 what has he done ? 
Has he forsook his post ? has he given way ? 
Did he look tamely on, and let them pass ? 

Fortius. Scarce had I left my father, but I met him. 
Borne on the shields of his surviving soldiers. 
Breathless and pale, and covered o'er with wounds. 
Long at the head of his few faithful fiiends 
He stood the shock of a whole host of foes ; 
Till obstinately brave, and bent on death. 
Oppressed with multitudes, he greatly fell. 

Cato. I'm satisfied. 

Fortius. Nor did he fall before 
His sword had pierced through the false heart of Syphax. 
Yonder he lies. I saw the hoary traitor 
Orin in the pangs of death, and bite the ground. 

Cato. Thanks to the gods I my boy has done his duty. 
Fortius, when I am dead, be sure thou place 
His urn near mine. 

P0MTIU8. Long may they keep asunder. 
Lucius. O Cato I arm thy sotii wiUi 8l)\ V\A^«^!i£iiCft\ 
ffee where the corse of thy dead sou appTOfiU(;^ue«^\ 



ADDISON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. UK 

The citizens and senatora, alarmed. 

Have gathered round it, and attend it weeping. 

Cato. [meeting the corpse ] 
Welcome, my son ! here lay him down, my friends. 
Full in my sight, that I may view at leisnre 
The bloody corse, and count those glorious wounds. 
How beautiful is death, when earned by virtue I 
Who would not be that youth ? what jaty is it 
That we can die but once to serve our country I 
Why sits this sadness on your brows, my friends ? 
I should have blushed if Cato's house had stood 
Secure, and flourished in a civil war. 
Fortius, behold thy brother, and remember 
Thy life is not thy own when Rome demands it. 

JuBA. Was ever man like this I [Aside. 

Cato. Alas I my friends, 
Whv mourn you thus 7 let not a private loss 
Afflict vour hearts. 'Tis Rome requires our tears. 
The mistress of the world, the seat of empire, 
The nurse of heroes, the aelight of gods, 
That humbled the proud tyrants of the earth, 
And set the nations free, Rome is no more. 
O liberty ! O virtue I O my country ! 

JuBA. Behold that upright man I Rome fills his eyes 
With tears that flowed not o'er his own dead son. [Aside. 

Cato. Whato'er the Roman virtue has subdued. 
The sun's whole course, the day aAd year, are Csesar's. 
For him the self-devoted Decil died, 
The Fabii fell, and the great Scipios conquered : 
Even Porapey fought for Caesar. Oh I my friends I 
How is the toil of fate the work of ages. 
The Roman empire fallen I O curst ambition I 
Fallen into Caesar's hands I our great forefathers 
Had left him nought to conquer out his country. 

JuBA. While Cato lives, Ceesar will blush to see 
Mankind enslaved^ and be ashamed of empire. 

Cato. Csesar asnamed I has not he seen Pharsalla ? 

Lucius. Cato, 'tis time thou save thyself and us. 

Cato. Lose not a thought on me, I'm out of danger. 
Heaven will not leave me in the victor's hand. 
Csesar shall never say : * I conquered Cato.' 
But oh I my friends, your safety fills my heart 
With anxious thoughts : a thousand secret terrors 
Rise in my soul : how shall I save my friends I 
'TIS now, O Csesar, I begin to fear thee ! 

Lucius. Csesar has mercy, if we ask it of him. 

Cato. Then ask it, I conjure you 1 let him know 
Whate'er was done against him, Cato did it. 
Add, if you please, that if I request it of him, 
The virtue of my friends may pass unpunished. 
Juba, my heart is troubled for thy sake. 
Should 1 advise thee to regain Numidia, 
Or seek the conqueror 7 

JuBA. If I forsake thee ^ 

Whilst I have life, may Heaven abandon Jnba I 

Cato. Thy virtues, prince, if I foresee aright, 
Will one day make thee great ; at Rome, hereafter, 
'Twill be no crime to have been Cato's friend. 
Fortius, draw near I My son, thou oft has seen 
Tbj aire engaged in a corrupted Btale, 
Wreatling w/th vice and faction : uon? lYiou wwft.Ts» 
Spentf overpowered, despairing oi woLCceaa*. 



14S CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Let me advise thee to retreat betimes 

To thy paternal seat, the Sabine field, 

Where the great Censor toiled with bis own handB, 

And all oar frugal ancestors were blest 

In bumble virtues and a rural life. 

There live retired ; pray for the peace of Rome ; 

Content thyself to be obscurely good. 

When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway, 

The post of honour is a private station. 

Fortius. I hope my father does not recommend 
A life to Fortius that he scorns himself. 

Cato. Farewell, my friends I if there be any of you 
Who dare not trust the victor's clemency. 
Know, there are ships prepared by my command — 
Their sails already opening; to the winds— 
That shall convey yon to the wished-for port. 
Is there aught else, my friends, I can do for you ? 
The conqueror draws near. Once more farewell ! 
If e'er we meet hereafter, we shall meet 
In happier climes, and on a safer shore, 
Where Csesar never shall approach us more. 

[Fointinfi to his dead son. 
There the brave }routh, with love of virtue fired. 
Who greatly in his country's cause expired. 
Shall know he conquered. The firm patriot there — 
Who made the welrare of mankind his care — 
Though still, by faction, vice, and fortune crossed, 
Shall nnd the generous labour was not lost. 

Act V. — Scene 1. 

[Cato, alone, sitting in a thoughtful posture : in his hand Plato's book on the Im- 
mortality of the Soul. A drawn sword on the table by him.] 

It must be so— Plato, thou reason'st well I — 

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 

This longing aiiet immortality ? 

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, 

Of falling into nought? why shrinks the soul 

Back on nerself, and startles at destruction 7 

*Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; 

'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter. 

And intimates eternity to man. 

Eternity I thou pleasing, dreadful thought I 

Through what variety of untried being. 

Through what new scenes and changes roust we pass T 

The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me ; 

But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 

Here will I hold. If there 's a power above us — 

And that there is, all natr.rc cnes aloud 

Through all her works— he must delight in virtue ; 
■ And that which he delights in must 1^ happy. 

But when? or where? This world was made for CaeBar. 

I 'm weary of conjectures. This must end them. 

[Laying his Jtand on hi» sword. 

Thus am I doubly armed : my death and life. 

My bane and antidote, are both before me : 

This in a moment brings me to an end ; 

But this informs me I shall never die. 

The Boalf secured in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and deftea its "poVnt. 
The stara ahaU fade away, the B\m ramaeVt 
Orowjdim with age, and nature stokbt-jeaia*, . 



R.] ENGLISH LITERAtURE, 14^ 

Bat thou 8ba]t flourish in immortal youth. 

Unhurt amidst the wars ot elements, 

The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds. 

What means this heaviness that hangs upon me T 
This lethargy that creeps through all my senses? 
Nature oppressed, and harassed out with care,. 
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her. 
That my awakened soul may take her flight, 
Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life. 
An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear 
Disturb man's rest : Cato knows neither of them ; 
Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die. 

MATTHEW PBIOB. 

ATTHBW Prior was bom at a place called Abbot Street, one 
! from Wimbome-Minster, Dorsetshire, on the 21st of July 1664. 
v^as, as Swift told Stella, of mean birth ; but fortunately a superior 
nation was within his reach. His uncle, Samuel Prior, who kept 
Rummer Tavern at Charing Cross, took the charge of bringing up 
lephew, and he placed him at Westminster School. It is said he 
afterwards taken home to assist in the business of tlie inn, and 
1st there, was one day seen by the Earl of Dorset reading Horace, 
earl generously undertook the care of his education ; and in his 
teenth year. Prior was entered of St. John's College, Cambridge, 
distinguished himself during his academical career, and amongst 
;r copies of verses, produced (1687), in conjunction with the Hpn- 
ible Charles Montagu, the * City Mouse and Country Mouse,' in 
3ule of Dryden's * Hind and Panther.' The Earl of Dorset did 
forget the poet he had snatched from obscurity. He invited him 
jondon, and obtained for him an appointment as secretary to the 
I of Berkeley, ambassador to the Hague. In this capacity. Prior 
lined the approbation of King William, who made him one of the 
lemen of his bed-chamber. In 1697, be was appointed secretary 
le embassy on the treaty of Ryswick, at the conclusion of which 
7as presented with a considerable sum of moneyby the lords-jus- 
j. I^ ext year he was ambassador at the court of Versailles. John- 
relates that as the poet was one day surveying the apartments at 
sallies, beina: shewn the victories of Louis pamted by Le Brun, 
asked whether the King of England's palace had any such dec- 
ions : * The monuments of my master's actions,' said he, * are to 
sen everywhere but in his own house.* On his return to England 
poet was appointed a Commissioner of Trade. In 1701, he en- 
i the House of Commons as representative for the borough of 
, Grinstead, and abandoning his former friends, the Whigs, joined 
Tories in impeaching Lord Somers. This came with a peculiarly 
grace from Prior, for the charge against Somers was, that he had 
sed the partition treaty, in which treaty the poet himself had 
i as a^ent. He evinced his patrioUam, \\o^eyer.^bY ftftar^^xda 
rating in verse the battles of B\eTi\ieVni ^^.tl'^'S^^^^ ^'^^^ 



1(K) CYCLOPiEDIA or [to 1727. 

When the Whig government was at length overturned, Prior be- 
came attached to Harley's administration, and went witii Bolingbroke 
to France in 1711, to negotiate a treaty of peace. He lived in splen- 
dour inTaris, was a favourite of the French monarch, and enjoyed 
all the honours of ambassador. He returned to London in 1715. 
Queen Anne was then dead (August 1, 1714) ; and the Whigs being 
again in oflBce, Prior was committed to custody on a charge of high 
treason. The accusation against him was, that he had held clandes- 
tine conferences with the French plenipotentiary, though, as he justly 
replied, no treaty was ever made without private interviews and pre- 
liminaries. The Whigs were indignant at the disgraceful treaty of 
Utrecht ; but Prior only shared in the culpability of the government. 
The able but profligate Bolingbroke was the master-spirit that 
prompted the humiliating concession to France. After two years* 
confinement, the poet was released without a trial. He had in the 
interval written his poem of * Alma ;* and being now left without any 
other support than his fellowship of St. John's College, he continued 
his studies, and produced his * Solomon,' the most elaborate o*" his 
works. He had also recourse to the publication of a collected edition 
of his poems (1718), which was sold to subscribers for two guineas 
each copy, and which realised four thousand guineas. An eoual sum 
was presented to Prior by the Earl of Oxford, and thus he ^ad laid 
up a provision for old age. He was ambitious only of comfort and 
private enjoyment. These, however, he did not long possess ; for he 
died on the 18th of September 1721, at Lord Oxford's seat at Wim- 

g>le, being at the time in the fifty-seventh year of his age. The 
uchess of Portland, Lord Oxford's daughter, said Prior made him- 
self beloved by every living thing in the house — master, child, and 
servant, human creature or animal. He is, however, described as 
having been fond of low company, and at the time of his death, was, 
according to Arbuthnot, on the point of marrying a certain Bessy 
Cox, who kept an alehouse in Long Acre. To this worthless female 
and to his man-servant, Prior left his estate. Arbuthnot, writing to 
a friend the month after Prior's death, says : * We are to have a bowl 
of punch at Bessy Cox's. She would fain have put it upon Lewis 
that she was his (Prior's) Emma : she owned Flanders Jane was his 
Chloe.' To this doubtful Chloe some of his happiest effusions were 
devoted. The fairest and most high -bom lady in the land might have 
envied such complimentary strains as the following : 

What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shews 

The difference there is betwixt nature and art ; 
I conrt others in verse, but I love thee in prose ; 

And they have my whimsies, bat thou hast my heart. 

The god of us verse-men— you know^ child— the Sun, 
How after his journey he Beta up Yaa xe%\. ; 
If at morning o'er earth 'tis Mb iancy Xx^ tvm.. 
At night he reclines on hia Tbe\^^B\>Te«ka!t. 



PRIOR.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 161 



So when I am wearied with wandering all day, 

To thee, my delight, in the evening I con 
No matter what beanties I Bawin my way, 



To thee, my delight, in the evening I come ; 

o matter what beanties I Bawin my way. 

They were but my visits, bnt thon art my home. 

To Chloe was inscribed his * Henry and Emma,' a poem upon the 
model of the * Nut-brown Maid ;* but Prior, in discarding the rude 
simplicity of the original, sacrificed a great portion of its charm. 

The works of Prior range over a variety of styles and subjects — 
odes, songs, epistles, epigrams, and tales. His longest poem, * Solo- 
mon,' is of a serious character, and was considered by its author to 
be his best production, in which opinion he is supported by Cowper. 
It is the most moral, and perhaps the most correctly written ; but 
the tales and lighter pieces of Prior are undoubtedly his happiest 
efforts. In these he displays that * charming ease * with which Cow- 
per says he embellished all his poems, added to the lively illustration 
and colloquial humour of his master, Horace. No poet ever pos- 
sessed in greater perfection the art of graceful and fluent versifica- 
tion. His narratives flow on like a clear stream, without break or 
fall, and interest us by their perpetual good-humour and vivacity, 
even when they wander into metaphysics, as in *Alma,' or into licen- 
tiousness, as in his tales. His expression was choice and studied, 
abounding in classical allusions and images — which were then the 
fashion of the day — but without any air of pedantry or constraint 
Like Swift, he loved to versify the common occurrences of life, and 
relate his personal feelings and adventures. He had, however, no 
portion of the dean's bitterness or misanthropy, and employed no 
stronger weapons of satire than raillery and arch allusion. He 
sported on the surface of existence, noting its foibles, its pleasures, 
and eccentricities, but without the power of penetrating into its 
recesses, or evoking the higher passions of our nature. He was the 
most natural of artificial poets — a seeming paradox, yet as true as the 
old maxim, that the perfection of art is the art of concealing it 

For My Own Monument. 

As doctors give phvsic by way of prevention, 
Matt, alive and in health, of his tomb-stone took care : 
For delays are unsafe, and his pions Intention 
May haply be never fulfilled by his heir. 

Then take Matt's word for it, the sculptor is paid ; 
That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye ; 
Yet credit but lightly wnat more may be said. 
For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie. 

Yet counting as far as to fifty his years. 

His virtues and vices were as other men's are ; 

High hopes he conceived, and he smothered ^at fears. 

In a life party-coloured, half pleasure, half care. 

Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave. 
He strove to make interest and freedom agree ; 
In public emplovments industrious and ^%ve> 
Ana a/oce with his friends, Lov^\ ^^ t&kit^ ^«i^\ift. 



153 



CYCLOPEDIA OF 



[to 1727. 



Now in eqnlpaee st«te]j, now bnmblj on foot, 
Both fortunes be tried, but to neitber vonld trust ; 
And whirled in the round as the wheel turned about. 
He iound riches had wings, and knew man was but dnsL 

This Terse, little polished, though mighty sincere. 

Sets neither his titles nor merit to view ; 

It says that his relics collected lie here. 

And no mortal yet knows if this may be tme. 

Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, 
So Matt may be killed, and his bones never found; 
False witness at court, and fierce tempest at sea. 
So Matt may yet chance to be hanged or be drowned. 

If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air, 
To fate we must yield, and the thing is the same ; 
And if passing thou giv'st him a snule or a tear, • 
He cares not— yet, prithee, be kind to his fame. 

Epitaph Extempore, 

Nobles and heralds, by your leave. 
Here lies what once was Matthew Prior, 

The son of Adam aud of five ; 
Can Stuart or Nassau claim his/her 7 

An Epitaph, 



Interred beneath this marble stone. 
Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. 
While rolling threescore years and one 
Did round this globe their courses run ; 
If human things went ill or well. 
If changing empires rose or fell. 
The morning past, the evening came, 
And found this couple just the same. 
They walked and ate, good folks : What 

then? 
Why, then they walked and ate again ; 
They soundly slept the night away ; 
They did just nothing all the day. 
Nor sister either had nor brother ; 
The^ seemed just tallied for each other. 
Their moral and economy 
Most perfectly they made asree ; 
Each virtue kept its proper Dound, 
Nor trespassed on the other's (ground. 
Nor fame nor censure they regarded ; 
They neither punished nor rewarded. 
He cared not what the footman did ; 
Her maids she neither praised nor chid : 
So every servaot took his course. 
And, bad at first, tney all grew worse. 
Slothful disorder filled his stable. 
And sluttish plenty decked her table. 
Their beer was strong, their wine was 

port; 
Tbelr m^al was large, their grace was 
abort. 
They gave the poor the remnant meat* 



Just when it grew not fit to eat 
They paid the church and parish rate, 
And took, but read not the receipt ; 
For which they claimed their Sunday'B 

due. 
Of slumbering in an upper pew. 
No man's defects sought they to know. 
So never made themselves a foe. 
No man's good deeds did they commend, 
So never raised themselves a friend. 
Nor cherished they relations poor. 
That might decrease their present store *, 
Nor barn.nor house did they repair. 
That might oblige their future heir. 
They neither aided nor confounded ; 
They neither wanted nor abounded. 
Nor tear nor smile did they employ 
At news of public grief or joy. 
When bells were rung and bonfires made. 
If asked, they ne'er denied their aid ; 
Their jug was to the ringers carried. 
Whoever either died or married. 
Their billet at the fire was found. 
Whoever was deposed or crowned. 
Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise. 
They would not learn, nor could advise ; 
Without love, hatred, joy, or fear. 
They led—a kind of— as it were ; 
Nor wished, nor cared, nor laughed, nor 

cried * 
And eo t^bies^ ^edi, ixAt» tkey died. 



.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. ' 158 

Child of Quality, Five Tears Old, 1704, tJie AutJuyr then Forty. 

knights, and squires, the nnmer- Whilst all the house mv passion readB, 
OS band In papers round her baby's hair ; 

wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, « 

nmmoned by her high command She mav receive and own my flame, 
lew their passion by their letters. For tnongh the strictest prades should 

know it, 
amongst the rest I took, She 11 pass for a most yirtnons dame, 

those bright eyes that cannot read And I for {tn unhappy poet, 
dart their kindling fires, and look 
>ower they have to be obeyed. Then, too, alas I when she shall hear 

The lines some yomiger rival sends ; 
ility nor reputation She 11 give me leave to write, I fear, 

d me yet my name to telL And we shall still continue friends, 

'e-years-old befriends my passion, 
I may write till she can spell. •^For, as our different ages move, 

Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend 
He she makes her silkworms' beds it I) 

aU the tender things I swear ; That I shall be past making love. 

When she begins to con^rehepd tt. 

Ahra*8 Love for Solomon, 

AnothOT nymphj amongst the many fair, 
That made my sorter hours their solemn care, 
Before the rest dSected still to stand. 
And watched my eye, preventing my command* 
Abra— «he so was called— did soonest haste 
To grace my presence ; Abra went the last ; 
Abra was reaay ere I called her name ; 
And, though I called another, Abra (uune. 
Her equals first observed her ^rowing zeal, 
And laughing, glossed that Abra served so weQ* 
To me her actions did unheeded die. 
Or were remarked but with a common eye ; 
Till, more apprised of what the rumour saiOf 
]liore I observed peculiar in the maid. 
The sun declined had shot his western rav. 
When tired with business of the solemn day, 
I purposed to unbend the evening hours. 
And banquet private in tiie women's bowery. 
I called before I sat to wash my hands— 
For so the precept of the law commands-:- 
JiOve had ordained that it was Abra's turn 
To mix the sweets, and minister the urn. 
With awful homage, and submissive dread, 
The maid approached, on my declining head 
To pour the oils : she trembled 4s she poured ; 
With an unguarded look she now devoured 
My nearer race, and now recalled her eye. 
And heaved, and strove to hide, a sudden sleh. 
'And whence,' said I, ' canst thou have dread or pailit 
What can thy imagery of sorrow mean 7 
Secluded from the world and all its care. 
Hast thou to grieve or joy, to hope or fear 7 
For sure,' I added, * sure thy little heart 
Ne'er felt love's aneer, or received his dart.' 

Abashed she blnuied, and with disorder spol^e S 
Her rising shame adorned the words it broke: 

' If the great master will descend to hear 
The humme series of his handmaid^e cax^X 
O J while Bhe tells it, let him not put ou ^ 



1&4 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

The look that awes the nations from the throne t 

O I let not death severe in glory lie 

In the king's frown and terror of his eye I 

Mine to ol^y, thy pseft is to ordain ; 

And, though to mention be to suffer pain, 

If the king smile whilst I my wo recite, 

If weeping, I find favour in his sight. 

Plow fast my tears, full rising his delight, 

O I witness earth beneath, and heaven above I 

For can I hide it? I am sick of love ; 

If madness may the name of passion bear, 

Or love be called what is indeed despair. 

* Thou Sovereign Power, whose secret will controlB 
The inward bent and motion of our souls I 
Why hast thou placed such infinite degrees 
Between the cause and dtlre of my disease? 
The mighty object of that raging fire. 
In which un pitied, Abra must expire. 
Had he been bom some simple shepherd's heir,* 
The lowing herd or fleecy sheep his citfe, 
At mom with him I o'er the huls had run, 
Scornful of winter's frost and summer's sun. 
Still asking where he made his flock to rest at noon ; 
For him at night, the dear expected guest, 
I had with hasty joy prepared the feast ; 
And from the cotta^^e, o'er the distant plain. 
Sent forth my longing eye to meet the swain, 
Wavering, impatient, tossed by hope and fear, 
Till he and jov together should appear. 
And the loved dog declare his master near. 
On my declining neck and open breast 
I should have lulled the lovely youth to rest, 
And from beneath his head, at dawning day. 
With softest care have stol'n my arm away, 
To rise, and from the fold release his sheep. 
Fond of his flock, indulgent to his sleep. 
Or if kind heaven, propitious to my flame^^ 
For sure from heaven the faithful ardour came— 
Had blest my life, and decked my natal hour 
With height of title, and extent of power ; 
Without a crime mf passion had aspired, 
Found the loved pnnce, and told what I desired 
Then I had come^ preventing Sheba's queen. 
To see the comeliest of the sons of men. 
To hear the charming poet's amorous song. 
And gather honey falling from his tongue. 
To take the fragrant kisses of his momh, 
'Sweeter than breezes of her native South, 
Likening his grace, his person, and his mien. 
To all that great or beauteous I had seen.' . . • 

Here o'er ner speech her flowing eves preinaiL 

foolish maid I and oh, unhappy tale I 

1 saw her ; 'twas humanity ; it gave 
Some respite to the sorrows of my slave. 
Her fond excess proclaimed her passion tni^ , 
And generous pify to that truth was due. 
Well I entreated her, who well deserve ; 
I called her often, for she always served. 
Use made her person easy to my sight. 

And ease insensibly proauced de\\g\v\.. 
Whene'er I revelled in the women!a\>oN?«t«p-* 
For first I sought her but at \oQ«et>as>\«»— 



PRIOR.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 165 

The apples she had gathered smelt most sweet. 
The cake she kneaded was the savoury meat ; 
Bat fmits their odour lost, and meats their taste, 
If gentle Abra had not decked the feast. 
Dishonoured did the sparkling goblet stand, 
Unless received from gentle Aora's hand. 
And, when the virgins formed the evening choir, 
Baising their voices to the master lyre, 
Too flat I thought this voice, and that too shrill. 
One shewed too much, and one too little skill ; 
Nor could my soul approve the music's tone, 
Till all was hushed, and Abra sung alone. 
Fairer she seemed distinguished from the rest, 
And better mien disclosed, as better drest. 
A bright tiara round her forehead tied, 
To juster bounds confined its rising pride. 
The blushing ruby on her snowy breast . 
Rendered its panting whiteness more confessed ; 
Bracelets of pearl gave roundness to her arm. 
And every gem augmented every charm. 
Her senses pleased, her beauty still improved. 
And she more lovely grew, as more beloved. 

Written in Mezeray's History of France, 

Whate'er thy countrymen have done It's strange, dear author, yet it true is. 

By law and wit, by sword and gun, That down, from Pharamond to Louis, 

In thee is faithfully recited ; All covet life, yet call it pain : 

And all the living world that view All feel the ill, yet shun the cure. 

Thv work, give ttiee the praises due. Can sense this paradox endure ? 

At once instructed and delighted. Resolve me, Cambray, or Fontaine. 

Yet for the fame of all these deeds. The man in graver tragic known 

What beggar in the Invalides, (Though his best part long since was 

With lameness broke, with blindness done) 

smitten. Still on the stage desires to tarry ; 

Wished ever decently to die. And he who played the Harlequin, 

To have been either Mezeray After the jest still loads the scene. 

Or any monarch he has written T Unwilling to retire, though weary.* 

The Ihief and tJie Cordelier, — A Ballad, — To the tune of * King John ' 

and the 'Abbot of Canterbury,* 

Who has e'er been at Paris, must needs know the Grdve, 
The fatal retreat of th' unfortunate brave ; 
Where honour and justice most oddly contribute 
To ease heroes' pains by a halter and gibbet. 
Deny down, down, hey derry down. 

There death breaks the shackles which force had put on. 
And the hangman completes what the judge but begun ; 
There the 'squire of the pad, and the knight of the post. 
Find their pains no more balked, and their hopes no more crossed. 
Derry down, &c. 

Great claims are there made, and great secrets are known ; 
And the king, and the law, and the ttiief , has his own ; 

* Sir Walter Soott, about a year before his doath, repeated the above when on a Bor- 
der tour with Mr. Lockhart. They met two begg^ars. old soldiers, ono of whom recog- 
nised the baronet, and bade Ood bles!) him. * Tho mendicantn went oa their way and we 
stood breathing on tho knoll. Sir Walter followed them \vVl\i YA?. ft'sfe,vav^, -^X-ax^AssLN^^c^a. 
stick ttrmlr on the sod. repeated without break ox heft\lv\l\oxi"PT\ot'''A's«t%«e»\ft"C5^'ek\ia5*R»- 
rUn Mezeray. That he applied them to himselC w aa U)n.c\:A\i«,Vj cMVowa."* 



166 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [TO 1727. 

Bat my hearers ciy out : * What a deuce dost thou ail ? 
Cut off thy reflections, and give as thy tale.' 
Derry down, &c. 

Twas there, then, in dvil respect to harsh laws, ' 
And for want of false witness to back a bad caose, 
A Norman, thongh late, was obliged to appear ; 
And who to assist, bat agraye Cordelier? 
Derry down, &c. 

The 'sqaire, whose good nace was to open the scene. 
Seemed not in great haste &at the show should begin ; . 
Now fitted the halter, now trayersed the cart ; 
And often took leaye, but was loath to depart. 
Derry down, &c. 

' What frightens you thos, my good son 7' says the priest ; 
* Ton mordered, are sony, and have been confessed/ 
' O father ! my sorrow will scarce save my bacon ; 
For 'twas not that I mardered, bat that I was taken.' 
Derry down, &c. 

* Pooh, prithee ne'er trouble thy head with snch fancies ; 
Kely on the aid yoa shall have from St. Francis ; 
If the money yoa promised be brooght to the chest, 
Yoa'haye only to oie ; let the church do the rest.' 
Derry down, &c. 

'And what will folks say, if they see you afraid 7 
It reflects upon me, as I knew not my trade. 
Ck>ura£e, friend, for to-day is your period of sorrow ; 
And things will go better, oelieye me, to-morrow.' 
Derry down, &c 




I)erry down, &c. 



'Alas I' quoth the 'squire, * howe'er sumptuous the treat, 
Parbleu I I shall have little stomach to eat ; 
I should therefore esteem it great favour and grace. 
Would you you be so kind as to go in my place.' 
Derry down, &c. 

* That I would,' quoth the father, * and thank you to boot ; 
But our actions, you know, with our duty must suit; 
The feast I proposed to you, I cannot taste. 
For this night by our order, is marked for a fast.' 
Derry down, &c. 

Then turning about to the hangman, he said : 
* Despatch me, I prithee, this troublesome blade ; 
For thy cord and my cord both equally tie, 
And we live by the gold for which other men die.* 
Derry down, &c. 

Ode to a Lady : She refusing to Corvtinue a Dispute with me^ and 

leaving me in tTie'a/rgument, 

Spare, generous victor, spare the slave, In the dis^\]A}&, "*\\».te'er t said, 
fVIio did unequal war pursue ; "NLy "heait. vj«a\s^ m^s Xravi^ft \s^^\ 

That more than triqinphs he might have And m laj \oo\sa ijwiLXC^igcAXisc^^^KsA 
^ being oyercome hj joxLl H.ON?mu<cto.l«t®»A«0'l^^^S«s^ 



'.] 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



157 



)in danger as from fear, 
ire sostained an open fight ; 
your opinions err, 
ire always in the right. 

>ne, would you not rely 

a's force with beauty's joined ? 

ir prevalence denv, 

. once be deaf and blind. 

loping to subdue, 
the fight aspired ; 
e beauteous foe in view, 
he glory I desired. 



But she, however of victory sure, 
Contemns the wreath so lon^ delayed ; 

And, armed with more immediate power, 
Calls crue] silence to her aid. 

Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight : 
She drops her arms, to gain the field : 

Secures her conquest by her fiight ; 
And triumphs when she seems to yield. 

So when the Parthian turned his steed, 
And from the hostile camp withdrew* 

With cruel skill, the backward reed 
He sent, and as he fled he slew. 



TJieory of the Mind — From ^Alma.^ 



«ver you maintain 
) in the heart or brain, 
3t man alive may tell ye 

empire is the belly, 
e she sends out those supplies 
le us either stout or wise ; 
Ach makes the fabric roll 

bias rules the bowl. 
\chilles might employ 
th deaiguea to ruin Troy ; 
n lion's marrow, spread 
)f ammunition bread ; 
r mother sent away 
he Thracian girls to play, 
! he sat and quiet— 
oduct of a cheese-cake diet I 
e various operations 
d drink in several nations. 
Tartar fierce or cruel 
jtrength of water-gruel ? 
aall stand his rage or force 
rides, then eats his horse 7 
1 eg^s, and lighter fare, 
talTan spark's guitar ; 
ake Dan Cougreve right, 
ad beef make Britons fight. 
[ coffee cause this work 
tie German and the Turk : 

as they provisions want, 
.void, retire, and faint. 

atch's fine machine, 

any artful springs are seen ; 



The added movements which declare 
How full the moon, how old the year, 
Derive their secondary power 
From that which simply points the hour ; 
For though these gimcracks were away — 
Quare (2) would not swear, but Quare 

would say — 
However more reduced and plain, 
The watch would still a watch remain : 
But if the horal orbit ceases, 
The whole stands still or breaks to pieces. 
Is now no longer what it was, 
And you may e'en go sell the case. 
So, if unprejudiced you scan 
The goings of this clockwork, man. 
You find a hundred movements made 
By fine devices in his head ; 
But 'tis the stomach's solid stroke 
That tells his being what's o'clock. 
If you take ofC this rhetoric trigger, 
He talks no more in trope and figure ; 
Or clog his mathematic wheel. 
His bmldings fall, his ship stands still : 
Or, lastly, break his politic weight, 
His voice no longer rules the stat« : 
Yet, if these finer whims are gone. 
Your clock, though plain. wilTstill go on ; 
But, spoil the organ of digestion. 
And you entirely change the question 
Alma's affairs no power can mend ; 
The jest, ^as I is at an end : 
Soon ceases all the worldly bustle, 
And you consign the corpse to Russell. (8) 



BEY. JAMBS BRAMSTON. 

jatirical poems by the Rey. Jambs Bramston (circa 1694- 
cluded in Dodsley's * Collection,* were much admired in their 
hese are : * Tlie Art of Politics ; in imitation of Horace's Art 
ry,* 1729; and *The Man of Taste; occasioned by Pope's 
)n that Subject/ 1731. Bramston also wrote an imitation of 
\ * Splendid Sliilling,* entitled * The Crooked Sv^ewcfe.' 1\\. 



ind. 



2 A noted watchmaker of t\i«day. 



^ KsLT&sA<biNaXsi« 



158 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

1707, Bramston was admitted at Westminster School ; in 1713, he 
was elected to a studentship at Christ Church, Oxford, and in 1785 
he became vicar of Harting, in Sussex. His two principal poems are 
good imitations of the style of Young's and Pope's satires. The fol- 
lowing is the conclusion of his * Art of Politics :' 

Parliamenteering is a sort of itch, 
That wiU too oft unwary knights bewitch. 
Two good estates Sir Harry Clodpole spent ; 
Sate tnrice, but spoke not once, in Parhament. 
Two good estates are gone — who Ml take his word? 
Oh, should his uncle die, he 'li spend a ttiird ; 
He 'd buy a house his happiness to crown. 
Within a mile of some good borough-town ; 
Tag-rag and bobtail to Sir Harry's run. 
Men that have votes, and women that have none ; 
Sons, daughters, grandsons, with his Honour dine ; 
He keeps a public-house without a sign. 
Cobblers and smiths extol th' ensuing choice, 
And drunken tailors boast their right of voice. 
Dearly the free-bom neighborhood is bought, 
They never leave him while he 's worth a groat 
So leeches stick, nor quit the bleeding wound, 
Till off they drop with skinfuls to the ground. 

In * The Man of Taste ' he thus ironically expatiates : 

^ Swift's whims and jokes for my resentment call, 

For he displeases me that pleases all. 
Verse without rhyme I never could endure, 
Uncouth in numbers, and in sense obscure. 
To him as nature, when he ceased to see, 
Hilton's an universal blank to me. 
Confirmed and settled by the nation's voice, 
Rhyme is the poet's pride and people's choice, 
Always upheld by national support, 
Of market, university, and court : 
Thomson, write blank ; but know that for that reason 
These lines shall live when thine are out of season. 
Bhyme binds and beautifies the poet's lays, 
As London ladies owe their shape to stays. 

JONATHAN SWIFT. 

Jonathan Swift, one of the most remarkable men of the age, was 
born in Dublin, November 30, 1667. He was of English parentage — 
a fact which he never forgot, conceiving that there was a great dis- 
tinction (as he wrote to Pope) * between the English gentry of Ireland 
and the savage old Irish.' His grandfather was vicar of Goodrich, in 
Herefordshire, who lost his fortxine through his zeal and activity for 
Charles I. during the Civil war. Three of the vicar's sons settled in 
Ireland ; and Jonathan Swift, father of the celebrated author, was 
bred to the law in Dublin He was steward to the society of the 
King's Inns, but died in great poverty before the birth of his distin- 
guished son. Swift was supported by his uncle ; and the circum- 
stances of want and dependence "wUYv w\\\c\i \x^^aa early familiar, 
seem to have sunk deep inio his liauglxXy ftovA. ^'&ox\i^V^^'^^''^'^i2^'^'^ 



SWIFT.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 159 

child,' says Sir Walter Scott, * and bred up an object of charity, he 
early adopted the custom of observing his birthday as a term, not of 
joy, but of sorrow, and of reading, when it annually recurred, the 
striking passage of Scripture in which Job laments and execrates the 
day upon which it was said in his father's house " that a man-child 
was born." ' Swift was sent to Trinity College, Dublin, which he left 
in his twenty-first year — having only received his degree by special 
favour — and was received into the house of Sir Wiluam Temple, a 
distant relation of his mother. Here Swift met King William, and 
indulged hopes of preferment, which were never realised. In 1692, 
he repaired to Oxford, for the purpose of taking his degree of M.A. ; 
and shortly after obtaining this distinction, he resolved to quit the 
establishment of Temple, and take orders in the Irish Church. He 
procured the prebend of Kilroot, in the diocese of Connor, but was 
soon disgusted with the life of an obscure country clergyman with an 
income of £100 a year. He returned to Moor Park, the house of 
Sir William Temple, and threw up his living at Kilroot. Temple 
died in 1699, and the poet was glad to accompany Lord Berkeley to 
Ireland in the capacity of chaplain. From this nobleman he obtained 
the rectory of Aghar, and the vicarages of Laracor and Rathveggan ; 
to which was afterwards added the prebend of Dunlavin, making his 
mcome only about £200 per annum. At Moor Park, Swift had (as 
stated in our notice of Temple) contracted an intimacy with Mits 
Esther Johnson, nominally the daughter of Sir William Temple's 
housekeeper ; but her face, her position in the family, and Sir W il- 
liam's treatment of her, seemed to some to proclaim tibe fact that she 
was Temple's natural child. He left her £1000. She went, with a 
female friend, to reside in Ireland, to be near Swift, her early in- 
structor,' but they never were alone together. 

In 1701, Swift became a political writer on the side of the Whigs, 
and on his visits to England, he associated with Addison, Steele, and 
Halifax. In 1704 was published his * Tale of a Tub,* the wildest and 
wittiest of all polemical or controversial works. In 1710, conceiving 
that he was neglected by the ministry, he quarreled with the Whigs, 
and united with Harley and the Tory administration. He was re- 
ceived with open arms. * I stand with the new people,' he writes to 
Stella, * ten times better than ever I did with the old, and forty times 
more caressed.' He carried with him shining weapons for party 
•warfare — irresistible and unscrupulous satire, steady hate, and a 
dauntless spirit. From his new allies, he received, in 1713, the 
deanery of St. Patrick's. During his residence in England, he had 
engaged the aflTections of another young lady, Esther Vanhomrigh, 
who, under the name of Vanessa, rivalled Stella in poetical celebrity, 
and in personal misfortune. After the death of her father, this young 
lady and her sister retired to Ireland, where their father had Mt «. 
small property near Dublin. Humun ivaXvxT^i \\«kS,,^^\\i"a:^'a»^\sfc^^^^^sfc- 
i&re or since presented the spectacle oi a olml oi wsjciXi Xx-as^stf^K^^^sc^ 



160 CYCLOP-^DIA OF [to 1727. 

powers as Swift involycd in such a pitiable labyrinth of the affections. 
His pride or ambition led him to postpone indefinitely his marriage 
with Stella, to whom he was early attached. Though, he said, he 
* loved her better than his life a thousand millions of times,' he kept 
her hanging on in a state of hope deferred, injurious alike to her 
peace and reputation. Did he fear the scorn and laughter of the 
world, if he should marry the obscure daughter of Sir William Tem- 
ple's housekeeper ? He dared not afterwards, with manly sincerity, 
declare his situation to Vanessa, when this second victim avowed her 
passion. He was flattered that a girl of eighteen, of beanty and 
accomplishments, * sighed for a gown of forty-fbur,' and he did not 
stop to weigh the consequences. The removal of Vanessa to Ireland, 
as Stella had gone before, to be near the presence of Swift— her irre- 
pressible passion, which no coldness or neglect could extinguish — 
her life of deep seclusion, only checkered by the occasional visits of 
Swift, each of which she commemorated by planting with her own 
hand a laurel in the garden where they met — her agonising remon- 
strances, when all her devotion and her oflTerings had failed, are 
touching beyond expression. 

* The reason I write to you,' she says, * is because I cannot tell it 
to you, should I see you. For when I begin to complain, then you 
are angry ; and there is something in your looks so awful, that it 
strikes me dumb. Oh ! that you may have but so much regard for 
nfe left, that this complaint may touch your soul with pity. -I say as 
little as ever I can. Did you but know what I thought, 1 am sure it 
would move you to forgive me, and believe that I cannot help telling 
you this and live.* 

To a being thus agitated and engrossed with the strongest passion, 
how poor, how cruel, must have seemed the return of Swift ! 

Cadenus, common forms apart. 




But books, and timcj and state affairs. 
Had spoiled his fashionable airs ; 
He now could praise, esteem, approve, 
But understood not what was love : 
Hiff'Conduct might have made him styled 
A father, and the nymph his child. 
That innocent delight he took 
To see the virgin mind her book, 
Was but the master's secret joy 
In school to hear the finest boy. 

The tragedy continued to deepen as it approached the close. Eight 

years had Vanessa nursed in solitude the hopeless attachment At 

length she wrote to Stella, to ascertain the nature of the connection 

between her and Swift ; the latter obtained the fatal letter, and rode 

Instantly to Marley Abbey, the residence of the unhappy Vanessa. 

'AsJjo entered fZie apartment.* to adopt l\ve p\e\.\xxe^c^<& \^\^^ga38c^<^ ol 

^cott in recording the scene, * the alexixiiea& ol \tta ^wMoXfe^miRRk, 



SWIFT.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 161 

which was peculiarly formed to express the stronger passions, struck 
the unfortunate Vanessa with such terror, that she coul^ scarce ask 
whether he would not sit down. He answered by flinging a letter 
on the table ; and instantly leaving the house, mounted his horse, 
and returned to Dublin. When Vanessa opened the packet, she 
only found her own letter to Stella. It was her death-warrant. 
She sunk at once under the. disappointment of the delayed yet 
cherished hopes which had so long sickened her heart, and beneath 
the unrestrained wrath of him for whose sake she had indulged 
them. How long she survived this last interview is uncertain, but 
the time does not seem to have exceeded a few weeks.' * 

Even Stella, though believed by her friends to have been ultimately 
united to Swift, dropped into the grave without any public recogni- 
tion of the tie ; they were married, it is said, in secrecy in the garden 
of the deanery, when on her part all but life had faded away. The 
fair suflferers were deeply avenged. But let us adopt the only char- 
itable — perhaps the just — interpretation of Swift's conduct; the mal- 
ady which at length overwhelmed his reason might then have been 
lurking in his frame ; and consciousness of the fact kept him single. 
Some years before Vanessa's death, a scene occurred which has been 
related by Young, tlie author of the * Night Tiioughts.' Swift was 
walking with some friends in the neighbourhood of Dublin. * Per- 
ceiving he did not follow us,' says Young, * I went back, and found 
him fixed as a statue, and earnestly gazing upward at a noble elm, 
which in its uppermost branches was much decayed. Pointing at it, 
he said: "I shall be like that tree; I shall die at the top."' The 
same presentiment finds expression in his exquisite imitation of Hor- 
ace (Book ii. Satire 6), made in conjunction with Pope : 

I Ve often wished that I bad clear All this is mine bat tiU I die ; 

For life six hundred pounds a year, I can't but think 'twould sound more 

A handsome house to lodge a friend, clever, 

A river at my garden's end, To me and to my heirs for ever. 

A terrace-wal^ and half a rood If I ne'er got or lost a groat 

Of land, set out to plant a wood. By anv trick or any fault ; 

Well, now I have all this and more, And if I pray by re^ison's rules, 

I ask not to increase my store ; And not like forty other fools. 

But here a grievance seems to lie, As thus : * Vouchsafe, O gracious Maker I 

* The talents of Vanessa may be seen from hor letters to Swift, They are further 
evinced in the following Ode to Spring, in which she alludes to her unhappy attach- 
ment: 

Hail, blushing goddess, beauteous Spring I And shared with me those joys serene. 

Who in thy jocund train dost bring When, unperceived, tho lambent fire 

Loves and graces — smiling hours — Of friendship kindled new desire ; 

Balmy breezes— fragrant Bowers ; Still listening to his tuneful tongue. 

Come, with tints of roseate hue, The truths which angels might have sung, 

Nature's faded charms renew ! Divine imprest their gentle sway, 

Yet why should I thy presence hail? And sweetly stole my soul away. 

To me no more the breathing gale My guide, instructor, lover, friend, 

Comes fraught with sweets, no more the Dear names, in one idea. bl«wd\ 

rose Oh \ stUV conjoVtieA., -j owt VcL«i«tkS.%i f«» , 

With each transcendent beauty blows. And watt SVf Wl ods>\»« Vo ^^ s^vssiX ^ 

As when Cadenna bleat the Bceaet — — 



162 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

To grant me this and. t'other acre ; Preserve, Almighty Providence I 

Or u it be thy will and pleasure, Just what you gave me, competence. 

Direct my plough to find a treasure I' And let me in these shades compose 

But onlv wiiat my station fits, Something in verse as true as prose. 
And to he kept in my right vrita ; 

Swift was at first disliked in Ireland, but the * Drapier's Letters * 
and other works gave him unbounded popularity. His wish to serve 
Ireland was one of his ruling passions ; yet it was something like the 
instinct of the inferior animals towards their offspring ; wayward- 
ness, contempt, and abuse were strangely mingled with affectionate 
attachment and ardent zeal. Kisses and curses were alternately on 
his lips. Ireland, however, gave Swift her own heart — he was more 
than king of the rabble. After various attacks of deafness and giddi- 
ness, his temper became ungovernable, aud his reason gave way. 
Truly and beautifully has Scott said, ^ the stage darkened ere the 
curtain fell.* 

The sad story of his latter days melts and overawes the imagina- 
tion. Fits of lunacy were succeeded by the dementia of old age. For 
three years he uttered only a few words and broken interjections. 
He would often attempt to speak, but could not recollect words to 
express his meaning, upon which he would sigh heavily. Babylon 
in ruins (to use a simile of Addison's) was not a more melancholy 
spectacle than this wreck of a mighty intellect 1 In speechless 
silence his spirit passed away, October 19, 1745. He was interred in 
St. Patrick's Cathedral, amidst the tears and prayers of his country- 
men. An inscription on his tomb, composed by himself, records his 
exertions for liberty and his detestation of oppression.* * The swva 
indignatio of which he spoke as lacerating his heart,' says Thack- 
eray, * and which he dares to inscribe on his tombstone, as if the 
wretch who lay under tliat stone, waiting God's judgment, had a 
right to be angry, breaks out from him in a thousand pages of his 
writing, and tears and rends him.' Swift believed he had a right to 
be angry — angry against oppression, against triumphant wrong, cor- 
ruption, and hypocrisy. * Doest thou well to be angry V was the 
question asked of the Hebrew prophet of old, and he answered: * I 
do well.' So thought Swift, often self-deluded, mistaking hatred for 
duty, faction for patriotism ; misled by passion, by egotism, and 
caprice. 

Swift's fortune, amounting to about £10,000, he left chiefly to found 
a lunatic asylum in Dublin. 

He eave the little wealth h» had 
To build a house for fools and mad ; 
To shew, by one satiric touch, 
No nation wanted it so much. 

Gulliver's Travels ' and the * Tale of a Tub ' must ever be the 

* nic deposltnm est corpus Joitathaw Swift, S. T. "P., VwvvwftccleaiaCathedralis 
JJecani, nbi ftaera indignatio ulterius cor lacei&re neq^uM. kXAVvaJWiT eVwsAXax^ sv:w^tAtU 
streaaumpro vMli Ubert&tis vindicem, &c 



SWIFT ] 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



163 



chief corner-stones of Swift's fame. The purity of his prose style 
renders it a model of English composition. He could wither with 
his irony and invective ; excite to mirth with his wit and invention ; 
transport as with wonder at his marvellous powers of grotesque and 
ludicrous combination, his knowledge of human nature — piercing 
quite through the deeds of men — and his matchless power of feign- 
ing reality, and assuming at pleasure different characters ^nd situa- 
tions in life. He is often disgustingly coarse and gross in his style and 
subjects; but he is never licentious; his grossness is always repul- 
sive, not seductive. 

Swift's poetry is perfect, exactly as. the old Dutch artists were per- 
fect painters. He never attempted to rise above this * visible diurnal 
sphere.' He is content to lash the frivolities of the age, and to depict 
its absurdities. In his too faithful representations, there is much to 
condemn and much to admire. Who has not felt the truth and hu- 
mour of his * City Shower,' and his description of * Morning ?' Or 
the liveliness of his * Grand Question Debated,' in which the knight, 
his lady, and the chambermaid, are so admirably drawn ? His most 
ambitious flight is his ' Rliapsody on Poetry,' and even this is pitched 
in a pretty low key. Its best lines are easily remembered : 



Not empire to the rieing sun. 
By valour, conduct, fortune won ; 
Not highest wisdom in debates 
For framing laws to govern states ; 
Not skill in sciences profound, 
So large to grasp the circle round, 
Such neavenl:^ influence require. 
As how to strike the Muses' lyre. 
Not beggar's brat on bulk begot ; 



Not bastard of a pedler Scot ; 

Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, 

The spawn of Bridewell or the stews ; 

Not infants dropt, the spurious pledges 

Of gipsies littering imder hedges, 

Are so disqualified by fate 

To rise in church, or law, or state, 

As he whom Phoebus in his ire 

Hath blasted with poetic fire. 



Swift's Verses on his own Death are the finest example of his pe- 
culiar poetical vein. Hs predicts what his friends will say of his ill- 
ness, his death, and his reputation, varying the style and the topics 
to suit each of the parties. The versification is easy and flowing, 
with nothing but the most familiar and common-place expressions. 
There are some little touches of homely pathos, which are felt like 
trickling tears, and the effect of the piece altogether is electrical : it 
carries with it the strongest conviction of its sincerity and truth; 
and we see and feel — especially as years creep on — how faithful a de- 
picter of human nature, in its frailty and weakness, was the misan- 
thropic Dean of St. Patrick's. 

A Description of the Morning. 

Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach 

Appearing shewed the ruddy mom's approach. ... 

The slipshod 'prentice from his master's door 

Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor. 

Now Moll had whirled her mop with dexterous airs, 

Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs. J 

The vonth with broomy stumpa bftgvm \o tt«jt^ 

The kennel's edge, where wYveeVa muQl -woni >i)cka ^-aRfc* 



164 CYCLOPiEDIA OF (to 1727, 

The small-coal man was heard with cadtece deep, 

Till drowned in shriller notes of chimney-sweep : 

Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet, 

And brick-dost Moll had screamed through half the street 

The turnkey now his flock returning sees, 

Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees ; 

The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands. 

And school-boys lag with satchels in their hands* 

• A Description of a City Shower, 

Careful observers may foretell the hour i 

(By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower. 

While ram depends, the pensive cat gives o*er 

Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. 

Betuming home at night, you'll find the sink 

Strike your offended sense with double stmk. 

If you be wise, then go not far to dine ; 

You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine. 

A coming shower your shooting corns presage. 

Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage : 

Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen ; 

He damns the climate, and complains of spleen. 

Meanwhile the south, rising with dabbled wings, 
A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, 
That swilled more liquor than it could contain, 
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again. 
Brisk Susan whips her linen from ttie rope. 
While the first drizzling shower is borne a^ope ; 
Such is that sprinkling, which some careless quean 
Flirts on you from her mop— but not so clean ; 
You fiy, invoke the gods ; then turning, stop 
To rail ; she, singing, still whirls on her mop. 
Not yet the dust had shunned the unequal strife, 
But aided by the wind, fought still for life, 
And wafted with its foe by violent gust, 
'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dosL 
Ah I where must needy poet seek for aid. 
When dust and rain at once his coat invade ? 
Sole coat, where dust cemented by the rain 
Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain I 

Now in contiguous drops the fiood comes down. 
Threatening with deluge this devoted town. 
To shops in crowds the daggled females fiy. 
Pretend to cheapen goods, out nothing buy. 
The Templar spruce, while every spout 's a-broach, 
Stays till *tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. 
The tucked-np sempstress walks with hasty strides. 
While streams run down her oiled umbrella's sides. 
Here various kinds, by various fortunes led. 
Commence acquaintance underneath a shea. 
Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs, 
Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. 
Boxed in a chair the beau impatient sits. 
While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits ; 
And ever and anon with frightful din 
The leather sounds ; he trembles from within. 
So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, 
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed— 
Those bully Greeks, who, as the modems do, 
iDBtead of paying chairmen, T\m ttieiQ.\iBcoT!kgjDe— 
LaocooD sonck the oatside wit\iMs e^^eax. 



1 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



m 



And each imprisoned hero qnaked for fear. 

^ow from aU parts the swelling kennels flow. 
And bear their trophies with them as they go : 
Filths of all hues and odours seem to tell 

What street they sailed from by their sight and smell. - 

They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force, ■^, 

From Smithfield or St. Tulchre's shape their coarse, 
And in hnge confluence joined at Snowhill ridge, 
Fall from me conduit prone to Holbom Bridge. 
Sweepings from batchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood. 
Browned puppies, stinking sprats, all drenched in mno. 
Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood. 

s and PhUemon. — Imitated from t?ie Eighth Book of (hid — 

Written about 1708. 



lent times, as story tells, 
ints would often leave their cells, 
roll about, but hide their quality, 
good people's hospitality, 
ppened on a winter night— 
lors of the l^end write — 
'Other-hermits, saints by trade, 
■ thdr tour in masquerade, 
ted in tattered' habits, went 
aall village down in Kent; 

in the stroller's canting strain, 
egged from door to door in vain ; 
very tone might pity win, 
t a soul would let them in. 
vandering saints in wof ul state, 
i at this ungodly rate, 
: through all the village x>a8t, 
nail cottage came at fast, 

dwelt a good old honest yeoman, 
in the neighborhood Philemon, 
indly did the saints invite * 
)Oor hut to pass the night. 
en the hospitable sire 
ody Baucis mend the fire, 
le from out the chimney took 
1 of bacon oft the hook, 
3ely from the fattest side 
t large slices to be fried ; 
tepped aside to fetch them drink, 
1 large pug up to the brink, 
w it fairly twice go round ; 
'hat was wonderful — ^they found 
still replenished to the top, 
hey ne'er had touched a orop. 
od old couple were amazed, 
ten on each other gazed : 
th were frightenedto the heart, 
St began to cry : * "What art ?* 
of tly turned aside to view 
er the lights were burning blue. 
Qtlc pil^ms soon aware on't, 
lem their calling and their errant : 
folks, you need not be afraid, 
! but saints,' the hermits said; 
trt shall come to you or yours ; 
r that pack of churlish Doois^ 



Kot flt to live on Christian mund, 
The^ and their houses shall oe drowned : 
While you shall see your cottage rise. 
And grow a church before your eyes.* 

They scarce had spoke, when fair and 
soft. 
The roof began to mount aloft ; 
Aloft rose every beam and rafter. 
The heavy wall climbed slower after. 

The chimney widened and grew higher ; 
Became a steeple with a spire. 

The kettle to the top was hoist. 
And there stood fastened to a joist ; 
But with the up-side down, to shew 
Its inclination for below : 
In vain ; for some superior force. 
Applied at bottom, stops its course ; 
Doomed ever in suspense to dweU, 
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. 

A wooden jack, which had almost 
Lost by disuse the art to roast, 
A sudden alteration feels. 
Increased by new intestine wheels ; 
And, what exalts the wonder more. 
The number made the motion slower; 
The flier, though it had leaden feet. 
Turned round so quick you scarce could 

see't; 
But, slackened by some secret power. 
Now hardly moves an inch an nour. 
The jack and chimney, near allied. 
Had never left each other's side : 
The chimney to a steeple grown. 
The jack would not be left alone. 
But, up against the steeple reared. 
Became a clock, and still adhered : 
And still its love to household cares. 
By a shrill voice at noon, declares ; 
Warning the cook-maid not to bum 
That roast meat, which it cannot turn. 

The groaning chair began to crawl, 
Like a huge snail, along the wall ; 
There stuck aloft in public view. 
And with small change a pulpit grew.' 

The porringers, that in a row 



166 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF 



[to 1727, 



To a less noble substance changed, 
Wore now but leath(;rii backets ranged. 

The ballads pasted on the wall, 
Of Joan of France, and English Moll, 
Fair Rosamond, and Hobin Hood, 
The Little Children in the Wood, 
Now seemed to look abundance better, 
Improved in picture, size, and letter ; 
And, high in order placed, describe 
The heraldiy of every tribe. 

A bedstead of the antique mode. 
Compact of timber many a load ; 
Such as our ancestors did use, 
"Was metamorphised into pews ; 
Which still their ancient nature keep. 
By lodging folks disposed to sleep. 

The cottage, by such feats as these, 
Grown to a church by just degrees; 
The hermits then desire their nost 
To ask for what he fancied most. 
Philemon, having paused awhile. 
Returned them thanks in homely style ; 
Then said : * My house is grown so fine, 
Methiuks I still would call it mine : 
I'm old, and fain would live at ease : 
Make me the parson, if you please.' 

He spoke, and presently he feels 
His grazier's coat fall down his heels: 
He sees, yet hardly can believe. 
About each arm a pudding sleeve : 
His waistcoat to a cassock grew. 
And both assumed a sable hue ; 
But, being old, continued just 
As threadbare and as full of dust. 
His talk was now of tithes and dues ; 
Could smoke his pipe, and read the news : 
Knew how to preach old sermons next. 
Vamped in the preface and the text : 
At cluistenings well could act his part. 
And had the service all by heart : 
Washed women might have children fast, 
And thought whose sow had farrowed 

last: 
Against Dissenters would repine. 
And stood up firm for right divine : 
Found his head filled with many a system. 



But classic authors— he ne'er missed them. 

Thus having f urbislibd up a parson. 
Dame Baucis next they played their farce 

on: 
Instead of homespun coifs, were seen 
Good pinners, edged with Colberteen : 
Her petticoat, transformed apace, 
Became black satin flounced with lace. 
Plain Goody would no longer down ; 
'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown. 
Philemon was in great surprise. 
And hardly could believe his eyes: 
Amazed to see her look so prim ; 
And she admired as much at him. 

Thus, happy in their change of life. 
Were several years the man and wife : 
Wben on a day^ which proved their last, 
Discoursing o'er old stories past. 
They went Dv chance, amid^ their talk, 
To the churchyard to take a walk ; 
When Baucis hastily cried ont : 
' My dear, I see your forehead sprout V 
* Sprout,' quoth the man, * what 's ttiis yon 

tell us ? ' 

I hope you don't believe me jealous t 
But yet, methinks, I feel it true ; 
And really yours. is budding too — 
Nay — now I cannot stir my foot ; 
It feels as if 'twere taking root.' 

Description would but tire my muse ; 
In short, they both were turned to yews. 

Old Goodman Dobsoc, of the green, 
Remembers he th4 trees has seen ; 
He'll talk of them from noon to night, 
And goes with folks to shew the sight; 
On Sundays, after evening-prayer, 
He gathers all the parish there ; 
Points out the place of either yew. 
Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew. 
'Till once a parson of our town. 
To mend his bam, cut Baucis down ; 
At which 'Us hard to be believed. 
How much the other tree was grieved ; 
Grew scrubby, died a-top, was stunted ; 
So the next parson stubbed and burnt it. 



From ' Verses on the Death of Dr. Stoift/ Nov. 1731. * 



As Rochef oucault his Maxims drew 
From nature, I believe them true : 
They argue no corrupted mind 
In him ; the fault is in mankind. 

This maxim more than all the rest 
Is thought too ba?e for human breast : 
* In all distresses of our friends 
We first consult our private ends ; 



Wbile nature kindly bent to ease us, 
Points out some circumstance to please 
us.' 

If this perhaps your patience move, 
Let reason and ei^rience prove. 

We all behold with envious eyes 
Our equal raised above our size. 
Who would not at a crowded show 



* Occasioned by reading the fo\\ovi\n% maxim in Rochefomcault : ' Dans Tad versite 
de ao8 meilleuvs amis, nous trouvons toujours queVque cYvo?,^ c\.\x\.Tift XtfyQAdeplaltpas.' 
{In the adveraity of oar best friends, we always &xid eoin&\iiuxiL% \\i».\i^<(M&u<c^^S)a5^«wft 



'0 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



167 



bigh himself, keep others low ? 
my friend as well as yon ; 
ly should he obstract my view ? 
et me have the higher post ; 
3e it but an inch at most, 
battle you should find 
bom you love of all mankind, 
>me heroic action done, 
npion killed, or trophy won ; 
' than thus be overtopt, 
1 you not wish his laurels cropt? 
onest Ned is in the gout, 
icked with pain, ana you without : 
•atiently you hear him groan 1 
lad the case is not your own ! 
it poet would not grieve to see 
other write as weU as he ? 
ither than they should excel, 
. wiih his rivals all in hell ? 
end when emulation misses, 
ms to env^, stings, and hisses : 
rongest friendship yields to pride, 
; the odds be on our side, 
human kind ! fantastic race ! 
irious follies who can trace ? 
ve, ambition, envy, pride, 
3mpire in our hearts divide, 
thers riches, power, and station, 

I on me an usurpation, 
no title to aspire ; 

hen you sink, I seem the higher ; 

*e I cannot read a line, 

th a sigh I wish it mine : 

he can in one couplet fix 

ense than I can do in six, 

s me such a jealous fit. 

* Pox take him and his wit.* 

e to be outdone by Gay 

own humorous biting way. 

mot is no more my mend, 

ares to irony pretend, 

I was bom to introduce, 
d it first, and shewed its use. 
hn (1), as well as Fulteney (2), 
mows 

had some repute for prose ; 
111 they drove me out of date, 
maul a minister of state. 

have mortified my pride, 
ade me throw my pen aside ; 

such talents heaven hath blest 'em, 
! not reason to detest 'em 7 

II my foes, dear Fortune, send 
f ts, but never to my friend : 
ly can endure the first ; 

is with envy makes me burst. 
» much may serve by way of proem ; 
d we therefore to oar poem, 
time is not remote, when I 
>y the course of nature die ; 



When, I foresee, my special friends 
Will try to find their private ends ; 
And, though 'tis hardly understood. 
Which way my death can do them good. 
Yet thus, inethinks, I hear them speak 

* See, how the dean begins to breas ! 
Poor gentleman ! he droops apace I 
You plainly find it in his face. 
That old vertigo in his head 

Will never leave hiui, till he 's dead. 
Besides, his memory decays : 
He recollects not what he says ; 
He cannot call his friends to mind ; 
Forgets the place where last he dined ; 
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er ; 
He told them fifty times before. 
How does he fancy we can sit 
To hear his out-of-fashion wit ? 
But he takes up with younger folks, 
Who for his wine will bear his jokes. 
Faith, he must make his stories shorter. 
Or change his comrades once a quarter : 
In half the time he talks them round, 
There must another set be found. 

* For poetry, he's past his prime ; 
He takes an hour to find a rhyme : 
His fire is out, his wit decayed. 
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. 
I'd have him throw away his pen — 
But there 's no talking to some men.' 

And then their tencHirness appears 
By adding largely to my years : 

* He 's older than he would be reckoned. 
And well remembers Charles the Second. 
He hardly drinks a pint of wine ; 

And that, I doubt, is no good sign. 
His stomach, too, begins to fail; 
Last year we thought him strong and hale; 
But now he's quite another thing ; 
I wish he may hold out till spriug.' 
They hug themselves and reason thus : 

* It is not yet so bad vdth us.' 

In such a case they talk in tropes. 
And by their fears express their hopes. 
Some great misfortune to portend 
No enemy can match a friend. 
With all the kindness they profess. 
The merit of a lucky guess — 
When daily How-d'ye's come of course. 
And servants answer : * Worse and 

worse !' — 
Would please them better than to tell. 
That, * God be praised ! the dean is well." 
Then he who prophesied the best. 
Approves his foresight to the rest : 

* y ou know I always feared the worst, 
And often told you so at first.' 

He 'd rather choose that I should die, 
Than his prediction prove a lie. 
Not one foretells I snail recover, 



sooant BoUnghroke . 2 WUliam Pulleufty , a.lXArs^x^Va w:«a.\«d.Ya5.V<ji,l ^*«bw 



168 



CYCLOPEDIA OF 



[to 1727. 



But all agree to give me over. 

Yet ahoold some neighbour feel a pain 
Just in the parts where I complain, 
How many a message would he send I 
What hearty pra;^er9 that I should mend I 
Inquire what regimen I kept ? 
What gave me ease, and how I slept ? 
And more lament when I was dead, 
Than all the snivellers round my bed. 

My good companions, neVer fear ; 
For, though you may mistake a year, 
Though your prognostics run too fast^ 
They must be verified at last. 

Behold the fatal day urive I 
How is the dean 7 * He 's just alive.* 
Now the departing prayer is read ; 
He hardly breathes. The dean is dead. 

Before the passing-bell begun. 
The news through half the town is run ; 
*Oh I may we aU for death prepare I 
What has he left ? and who 's his heir ?' 
I know no more than what the news is ; 
*Tis all bequeathed to public uses. 

• To public uses I there 's a whim I 
What had the public done for him? 
Here envy, avarice, and pride : 

He gave ft all— but first he died. 
Andhad the dean in all the nation 
No worthy friend, no poor illation ? 
80 ready to do strangers good. 
Forgetting his own flesh and blood T . . . 
Now Curll (1) his shop from rubbish 
drains: 
Three genuine tomes of Swift's RemainsI 
And then to make them pass the glibber, 
Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Gib- 
ber. (2) 
He '11 treat me as he does my betters. 
Publish my will, my life, my letters ; (3) 
Revive the libels bom to die. 
Which Pope must bear, as well as L 
Here shift the scene, to represent 
How those I love my death lament. 
Poor Pope will grieve a montii, and Gay 
A week, and Aronthnot a day. 
St John himself will scarce forbear 
To bite his pen, and drop a tear. 
The rest will give a shrug, and cry : 

* I *m sorry— but we all must die r . . . 



One year is past ; a different wsene I 
No further mention of the dean, 
Who now, alas I no more is mi0ised» 
Than if he never did exist. 
Where 's now the favourite of ApoUo f 
Departed : and his woi^ must follow ; 
Must undergo the common fate t 
His kind of wit is out of date. 

Some country squire to lintot goes, (4) 
Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. 
Says Lintot : * I have heard the name ; 
He died a year ago.' * The same.' 
He searches all me shop in vain ; 
' Sir, you may find them in Dnc^^lane. (5) 
I sent them, with a load of b0(dES» 
Last Monday to the pastry-cooks. 
To fancy they could live a year I 
I find you 're but a stranger here. 
The dean was famous in his time. 
And had a kind of knack at rhyme. 
His way of writing now is past ; 
The town has got a better taste. 
I keep no antiquated stuff, 
But spick<and-span I have enough. 
Pray, do but rive me leave to shew 'em : 
Here's CoUey Cibber's birthday poem ; 
This ode you never yet have seen 
By Stephen Duck upon the queen. (6) 
Then here's a letter finely penned 
Against the Craftsman and his friend ; 
It clearly shews that all reflection 
On ministers is disaffection. 
Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication, 
And Mr. Henley's (7) last (xratlon. 
The hawkers have not got tliem yet ; 
Your honour please to buy a set ?' * 

Suppose me dead ; and then suppose 
A club assembled at the Rose, 
Where, from discourse of this and that, 
I grow the subject of their chat. 
And while they toss my name about. 
With favour some, and some without, 
One, quite indifferent in the cause. 
My character impartial draws : 
* The dean, if we believe report. 
Was never ill received at court. 
Although ironicaUy grave, 
He shamed the fool and lashed the knave. 
To steal a hint was never known, 



1 An infamoas bookseller, who published pieces in the dean's name, which he never 
wrote. 

2 Louis Theobald, the editor of Shakspeare ; James Moore Smjrthe (a forgotten dra- 
matist satirised in Uie Duttciad) ; and CoUey Gibber the actor, dramatist, and poet- 
laureate. 

3 For some of these practices he was brought before the House of Lords. Arbuthnot 
humorously styled Gorll one of the ue w tem>rs of death . 

4 Bernard Lintot. a bookseller- See Pope's Dunciad and Letters. 
6 A place where old books are sold. 

SStephea Duek was a humble rhymestei>-a thrasher, or afirricnltural labourer— whom 
Queen Caroline p&tronised. His works are now uilotY-y loTWAXfexi. 
TCoauaonly called OnUor Henley, a quack pteac^et Va i^aAoa, ^ ^cw^iiS^wAstei^a. 



.] 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



169 



at he writ was ail his own/ 
I have heard another story ; 

a most confoonded Tory, 
3w, or he is much belied, 
ely dnll, befbre he died.' 
e the DratHer then foi^et ? 
>ar nation in his debt f 
le that writ the Drapier^s Letters V 
Duld have left them for his betters ; 
I a hundred abler men, 
id depend upon his pen. 
at yon will about his reading, 
ver can defend his breeding ; 
1 his satires running riot 
lever leave the world in quiet ; 
ng, when he took the whim, 
city, camp — all one to him. 
y would he, except he slobbered, 
our patriot^ great Sir Bobert, 

counsels aid the sovereign power 
3 the nation every hour ? 
cenes of evil he unravels, 
'e^ libels, lying travels I 
inng his own dergy-cloth, 
s into it, like a moth I' 
baps I may allow, the dean 
o much satire in his vein, 
emed determined not to starve it, 
e no age could more deserve it. 
: it e'er can be abashed, 
e or ridiculed or lashed, 
resent it, who's to blame ? 
ther knew you, nor your name 

vice expect to 'scape rebuke, 
te its owner is a duke ? 
cndships, still to few confined, 
ilways of the middling kind ; 
Is of rank or mongrel breed, 
lin would pass for lords indeed, 
titles ^ve no right or power, 
jerage is a withered flower, 
lid have deemed it a disgrace, 

a wretch had known his face. . . . 
never thought an honour done him, 
e a peer was proud to own him ; 
rather slip aside, and choose 
: with wits in dirty shoes ; 
om the tools with stars and gar- 
ers, 

n seen caressing Chartres. (1) 
t with princes due decorum, 
rei stood in awe before 'em. 
Dwed David's lesson just ; 
ces never put his trust : 
ould you make him truly sour. 



Provoke him with a slave in power. 

The Irish Senate if you nam^. 

With what impatience he declaimed ! 

Fair Liberty was all his cry ; 

For hier he stood prepared to die ; 

For her he boldly stood alone ; 

For her he oft exposed his own. 

Two kingdoms, just as faction led. 

Had set a price upon his head ; 

But not a traitor could be found 

To sell him for six hundred pound. (2) . . . 

* Alas, poor dean ! his only scope 
Was to be held a misanthrope. 
This into general odium drew him. 
Which, if he liked, much good may »t do 

him. 
His zeal was not to lash our crimes. 
But discontent against the times ; 
For had we made him timely offers 
To raise his post, or fill his coffers. 
Perhaps he might have truckled down, 
Like other brethren of his gown. 
For party he would scu'ce have bled t 
I sayno more— because he *s dead.* 

* What writings has he left behind ?* 
* I hear they 're of a different kind : 

A few in verse ; but most in prose : 
Some hish-flown pamphlets, I suppose : 
All scribbled in the worst of times. 
To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes ; 
To praise Queen Anne, nay, more, defend 

her, 
As never favouring the Pretender : 
Or libels yet concealed from sight, 
Against the court, to shew his spite : 
Perhaps his Travels, part the third ; 

A lie at every second word 

Offensive to a loyal ear : — 

But— not one sermon, you may swear.* 

* He knew a hundred pleasant stories. 
With all the turns of Whigs and Tories ; 
Was cheerful to his dying day, 

And friends would let him have his way. 
As for his works in verse or prose, 
I own myself no judge of those. 
Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em ; 
But this I know, all people bought 'em ; 
As with a moral view designed. 
To please, and to reform mankind : 
And, if he often missed his aim. 
The world must own it to their shame. 
The praise is his, and theirs the blame. 
He gave the little wealth he had 
To build a house for fools and mad ; 
To shew, by one satiric touch. 



onel Francis Chartres or Charteris, of infamous character, on whom a severe in- 
; epitaph was written by Arbuthnot. 

1713 the Queen was prevailed upon to issue a proclamation offering jCSOO for the 
ry of the anthorof a pamphlet called The Public Spirit of the Whign: and in Ire- 
the year 1724, Lord Carteret, as Viceroy of Ireland, oScred. \XiftYOKAt<s^^^^«iV 
my person who would discover the author of The Drapier"' » FourtK LeXitT. 



CYCLOP.«DIA OF 

That MnifdDiD he balh lef 
I wlah It BOOH aiM} have e 

TA« Qrand Quettion Debated: — Whether SamUton't Bafen thou 
turned into a Barrack <fr a Malt-htnwe. 1729.* 

Thna spoke to m^ lady the knight (1) full at care : 

This Hsmillon's Ba»-n.(«) whilst if atfcka on'my hand, 
I lose by thehonae what I get bj the land; 

For atarrant or vtaO-lumte, we now moat conilder. 
' First, let me suppose I make it t. malt-honBe, 

Tbere'a nine hundred poTindn for laboar and er^ia, 
I Increase It to twelve, eo three hnndred rem^Q ; 



Three diahea a day, and three hogsheads a year : 
With H dozen lareo TeaselB mTvaqll ahall be stored; 
No little Bctnh joint ahali come on my board ; 
And yon and the dean no more shiiU combine 
ToBflntmefltnlBhtloonebottleof wine; 
Nor shall 1, forhuhnmonr. permit yon to purloin 
A stone and aqnarterof beef from my airlom. 
II I m>ke It a barrack, the Crown la my Ifuant ; 
My dear, 1 hare pondered sgnln and ngain ont: 

WhalOTMaey rite me, I must be content. 

Or join with the conn In every debate ; 

And mtber than that I wonld lose my estate.' 

ThnB ended the knight : tliQS began his meek wife ; 
• It inusl uid 11 than be a barrack, my life. 
I'm grown a mere mopna ; no company comes. 
Bat a nibble of tenants and raaty dall nims.(S) 
With pareons what lady can keep herself clean T 
"m all over donbod when I sit by the dean. 



But If yon wills 






Tack, my 


T^ptaln, I'l. 


lalneki 


rilli 








n"stiip^e 


wSTe 






nill keep 1 


^lendM* 




Mik anS 


itcbapla 


)^,l 


.'L™!!-;,^ 



uid be minding their prayers, 
Aiid not amone ladlee to give tbemaelvea alra.* 

Thus argnedmy lady, but argned in vain ; 
The k^ghi hia irolnion resolycd to maintain. 

But Hiiinali,(4 who Halened to all that was past, 
And conH not endure bo vnlgar a taate, 
As soon w her ladyship called to be drcaeed, 

• Swift pppDt j,li.i,..t ,1 IV I,..',. v,.„r (1725-9) at Oosford, in Iho north «f Ireland, 
flf Sir Arthur ■,.-!,- .. ..-- r-. ■ V Vrlhur b his aehcuituraHmgrov^ente^^ 



IFT.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 171 

Cried : * Madam, why, snrely my master's possessed. 
Sir Arthnr the malster I how fine it will sonnd I 
I *d rather the bawn were sunk under ground. 
But, madam, I guessed there would never come good, 
When I saw him so often with Darby and Wood. (1) 
And now my dream 's out ; for I was a-dreamed 
That I saw a huge rat ; O dear, how I screamed I 
And after, methoueht, I had lost my new shoes ; 
And Molly she said I should hear some ill news. 

* Dear madam, had you but the spirit to tease. 
You might have a barrack whenever you please : 
And. madam, I always believed you so stout, 
That for twenty denials you would not give out. 
If I had a husband like him, I purteaty 

'Till he gave me my will, I would give him no rest; 
And rather than come in the same pair of sheets 
With such a cross man, I would lie in the streets. 
But, madam, I beg you contrive and invent. 
And worry lum out, till he gives his consent. 

' Dear madam, whene'er of a barrack I think, 
An' I were to be hanged, I can't sleep a wink : 
For if a new crotchet comes into my brain, 
I cant get it out, though I 'd never so fain. 
I fancy already a barrack contiived. 
At Hajnilton's Bawn, and the troop is arrived ; 
Of this, to be sure. Sir Arthur, has warning. 
And waits on the captain betimes the next morning. 

*Now see when they meet how their honours behave : 
Noble captain, your servant— Sir Arthur, your slave ; 
You honour me much — The honour is mine — 
Twas a sad rainy night — But the morning is fine. 
Pray, how does my lady ?— My wife 's at your service. 
I think I have seen her picture by Jervas. 
Good-morrow, good captain— I '11 wait on you down— 
You shan't stir a foot— You '11 think me a clown— 
For all the world, captain, not half an inch farther— 
You must be obeyed — your servant. Sir Arthur ; 
My humble respects to my lady unknown — 
I hope you will use my house as your own.* 

* Go, oring me my smock, and leave off your prate ; 
Thou hast certainly gotten a cup in thy pate.' 

* Pray, madam, be quiet : what was it 1 said ? 
Yon had like to have put it quite out of my head. 

* Next day, to be sure, the captain will come 

At the head of his troop, with trumpet and drum ; 

Now, madam, observe how he marches in state | 

The man with the kettle-drum enters the gate ; 

Dub, dub, adub, dub. The trumpeters follow, 

Tantara, tantara, while all the boys halloo. 

See now comes the captain all daubed with gold-lace ; 

O la I the sweet gentleman, look in his face ; 

And see how he rides like a lord of the land. 

With the fine flaming sword that he holds in his hantl ; 

And his horse, the dear creterj it prances and rears, 

With ribbons and knots at its tail and its ears ; 

At last comes the troop, by the word of command. 

Drawn up in our court, when the captain cries *' Stand." 

Your ladyship lifts up the sash to be seen 

(For sure I had dizened you out like a queen) ; 

Tile captain, to shew he is proud of the favour^ 



1 Two of Sir ArthTU* a nxBAB^Qn, 



173 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Looks up to your window, and cocks up his beaver. 

OSis beaver is cocked ; pray, madam, mark that, 

For a captain of horse never takes off his hat ; 

Because ne has never a hand that is idle, 

For the right holds the sword, and the left holds the bridle) ; 

Then flourishes thrice his sword in the air. 

As a compliment due to a lady so fair ; 

(How I tremble to think of the blood it hath spilt 

Then he lowers down the point and kisses the nilt. 

Tour ladyship smiles, and thus ;^ou begin : 

*' TT&y, captain, be pleased to alight and walk in.*' 

The captam salutes you with congee profound, 

And your ladyship curtsies half-way to the ground. 

" Kit, run to your master, and bid him come to ns; 
I'm sure he'U be proud of the honour you do us ; 
And, captain, you'll do us the favour to stay, 
And take a short dinner here with us to-day ; 
You're heartily welcome ; but as for good cheer, 
You come in the very worst time of me year. 

If I had expected so worthy a guest " 

**Lord, madam I your ladyshijp sure is in jest ; 

You banter me, madam, the kiugdom must grant " 

" You officers, captain, are so complaisant." ' 

* Hist, hussy ; I think I hear somebody coming ;* 

* No, madam ; 'tis only Sir Arthur a-humming. 

* To shorten my tale (for I hate a long story), 
The captain at dinner appears in his glory ; 

The dean and the doctor (1) have humbled their pride, 

For the captain's entreated to sit by your side ; 

And, because he's their betters, you carve for him first. 

The parsons for envy are ready to burst ; 

The servants amazed are scarce ever able 

To keep off their eyes, as they wait at the table ; 

And Molly and I have thrust m our nose 

To peep at the captain in all his fine clothes ; ^ 

Dear madam, be sure he's a fine-spoken man ; 

Do but hear on the clergy how glib his tongue ran ; 

** And, madam," says he, " if such dinners you give, 

You'll never want parsons as long as you live : 

I ne'er knew a parson without a good nose, 

But the devil's as welcome wherever he goes. 

G— d me, they bid us reform and repent, 

But, zounds, oy their looks they never keep Lent. 
Mister curate, for all your grave looks, I'm afraid 
You cast a sheep's eye on her ladyship's maid ; 
I wish she would lend you her pretty white hand 
In mending your cassock, and smoothing your band ; 
(For the dean was so shabby, and looked like a ninny. 
That the captain supposed he was curate to Jenny). 
Whenever you see a cassock and gown, 
A hundred to one but it covers a down ; 
Observe how a parson comes into a room ; 

Q— d me, he hobbles as bad as my groom. 

A scholard, when just from his college broke lopsd, 
Can hardly tell how to cry bo to & goose : 
Your Noveda and Bluturka and Omura (2) and stnl^ 
By Q — , they don't signify this pinch of snuff. 
To give a young gentleman right education. 
The army 's the only good school in the nation ; 

J Dr. Jeany, a, clergym&n in the nelghboiirtiood. ^ O'^\^%,'5\x&to0Q&,"^«iBK». 



I ENGLISH LITERATURE. 178 

Hy schoolmaster tailed me a dnnce and a fool. 
But at cnffs I was aiw&jB the cock of the school ; 
I never could take to my book for the blood o' me, 
And tiie pnppy confessed he expected no good o' me. 
He canght me one morning coquetting his wife, 
But he mauled me ; J ne'er was so mauled in my life ; 
So I took to the road, and what 's yery odd. 
The first man I robbed was a pfurson, by Q — , 
Now, madam, you *11 think it a strange thing to say, 
But the sight of a book makes me sick to tms day." 

* Never since I was bom did I hear so much wit. 
And, madam, I laughed till I thought I should split. 
So then yon looked scornful, and sniffed at the dean, 
As who should say, Now am 1 Skinny and Lean ? (1) 
But he durst not so much as once open his lips. 
And the doctor was plaguily down m the hips.* 

Thus merciless Hannah ran on in her talk. 
Till she heard the dean call : * Will your ladyship walk?' 
Her ladyship answers : * I'm just coming down.*^ 
Then turning to Hannah, and forcing a frown. 
Although it was plain in her heart she was glad. 
Cried : ' Hussy ! why sure the wench is gone mad ; 
How could these chimeras get into your brains ? 
Come hither, and take this old gown for your pains. 
But the dean, if this secret should come to his ears, 
Will never have done with his gibes and his jeers. 
Por your life, not a word of the matter, I charge ye ; 
Give me bat a barrack, a fig for the clergy.' 

ALEXANDER POPE. 

itcd with Swift in friendship and in fame, but possessing far 
)r powers as a poet, and more refined taste as a satirist, was 
LANDER Pope, bom in London, May 21, 1688. He claimed to 
' ^ gentle blood,' and stated that his father was of a gentleman's 
y in Oxfordshire, the head of which was the Earl of Downe; 
lother was the daughter of William Turner, Esq. of York. To 
n formation, a relative of the poet added, that Pope's grandfather 
a clergyman in Hampshire, who had two sons, the younger of 
n^Alexander, the poet's father, was sent to Lisbon to be placed 
Mercantile house, and that there he became a Roman Catholic. 
Qt researches have been directed to the poet's personal history, 
t has been found that at the proper period (from 1681 to 1645), 
was a Hampshire clergyman of the name of Alexander Pope, 
r of Thruxton, and holding two other livings in the same coun- 
•ut as there is no memorial of him in the church, and no entry 
e register of his having had children, it is still doubtful whether 
rector of Thruxton was an ancestor of the poet The poet's 
mal descent has been clearly traced.* His grandfather, Mr. 
am Turner, held property in Yorkshire, including the manor of 
thorpe, which he inherited from his uncle. He was wealthy, but 
lot take rank amongst the gentry, as there is no mention of the 



' »!• I- 



ioknames for my lady. 



174 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727 

Turner family in the * Herald's Visitations.' Of the reputed alliance 
with the Earls of Downe tliere is no proof; if the poet's femily was 
of the same stock, it must have been two centuries before his birth, 
when the Popes, afterwards ennobled as Earls of Downe, were in the 
rank of humble yeomen. In 1677 the poet's father is found carrying 
on business as a linen-merchant in London, and haying acquired a 
respectable competency by trade, and additional property by his mar- 
riage with Edith Turner — who enjoyed £70 per annum, a rent-charge 
on an estate in Yorkshire — he retired from business about the year 
1688, to a small estate which he had purchased at Binfield, near 
Windsor. The poet was partly educated by the family priest. He 
was afterwards sent to a Catholic seminary at Twyford, near Win- 
chester, where he lampooned his teacher, was seyerely whipped, and 
then remoyed to a small school in London, where he learned little or 
nothing. In his twelfth or thirteenth year, he returned home to Bin- 
field, and deyoted himself to a course of self-instruction, and to the 
enthusiastic pursuit of literature. He delighted to remember that he 
had seen Dryden ; and as Dryden died on the 1st of May 1700, his 
youthful admirer could not haye been quite twelye years of age. But 
Pope was then a poet. 

As yet a child, and all unknown to fame, 
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. 

At the age of sixteen, he had commenced his ' Pastorals,' translated 
part of Siatius, and written imitations of Waller and other English 
poets. He soon became acquainted with some of the most eminent 
persons of the age — with Walsh, Wycherley, Congreye, Lansdowne, 
and Garth ; and from this time his life was that of a popular poet 
enjojang high social distinction. His * Pastorals ' were published in 
Touson's * Miscellany' in 1709. In 1711 appeared his * Essay on 
Criticism,' which is said to have been composed two years before publi- 
cation, when Pope was only twenty-one. The ripeness of judgment 
which it displays is remarkable. Addison commended the ' Essay ' 
warmly in the ' Spectator,' and it soon rose into great popularity. 
The style of Pope was now formed and complete. His yersificatioh 
was that of his master, Dryden, but he gaye the heroic couplet a pe- 
culiar terseness, correctness, and melody. The * Essay ' was shortly 
afterwards followed by the * Rape ot the Lock * (1712). The stealing 
of a lock of hair from a beauty of the day, Miss Arabella Fermor, 
by her loyer. Lord Petre, was taken seriously, and caused an es- 
trangement between the families, and Pope wrote his poem to make 
a jest of the aflfair, * and laugh them together again.' In this he did 
not succeed, but he added greatly to his reputation by the eflfort The 
mcbchinery of the poem, founded upon the Rosicrucian theory, that 
the elements are inhabited by spirits, which they called sylphs, 
gnomeBy nymphs, and salamanders, "w^b %.^^^^ \tl 111^^ and published 
in the spring of 1714. The addition ioima X\v^ mo^V ^\SacX ^^-e*. ^ 
dope's genius and art. Sylphs had h^ett ^xervoxx^i TJi^Tx>:\wA.^ ^ 



POP^.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 175 

invisible attendants on the f^ir, and the idea is shadowed out in 
Shakspeare's Ariel, and the amusements of the fairies in the ' Mid- 
summer Night's Dream.' But Pope has blended the most delicate 
satire with the most lively fancy, and produced the finest and most 
brilliant mock-heroic poem in the world. * It is/ says Johnson, * the 
most siryj the most ingenious, and the most delightful of all Pope's 
compositions.' In 1713 appeared his * "Windsor Forest,' evidently 
founded on Denham's * Cooper's Hill,' which it far excels. Pope was, 
properly speaking, no mere descriptive poet. He made the pictur- 
esque subservient to views of historical events, or to sketches of life 
and morals. But most of the * Windsor Forest ' being composed in 
his earlier^ears, amidst the shades of those noble woods which he 
selected for the theme of his verse, there is in this poem a greater 
display of sympathy with external nature and rural objects than in 
any of his otber works. The lawns and glades of the forest, the rus- 
set plains, and blue hills, and even the * purple dyes ' of the * wild 
heath,' had struck his young imagination. His account of the dying 
pheasant is a finished picture — 

See from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, 
And mounts exalting on triumphant wings ; 
Short is his joy ; he feels the fiery wound, 
Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground. 
Ah I what avail his glossy vanring dyes, 
His pniple crest and scarletncircled eyes ; 
The vivid green his shining plumes unfold, 
His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold ? 

Another fine painting of external nature, as picturesque as any to be 
found in the purely descriptive poets, is the winter-piece in the 
* Temple of Fame' — a vision after Chaucer, published by Pope, in 
1716— 

So Zembla's rocks— the beauteous work of frost — 
Rise WKte in air, and glitter o'er the coast ; 
Pale suns, unfelt, at distance roll away, 
And on the impassive ice the lightnings play ; 
External snows the growing mass supply. 
Till the bright mountains prop the incumbent sky : 
As Atlas fixed, each hoary pile appears. 
The gathered winter of a thousand years. 

Pope now commenced his translation of the * Iliad,' for which he 
issuea proposals in 1713. It was published at intervals between 1715 
and 1720. At first, the gigantic task oppressed him with its diflacul- 
ty. He was but an indiflferent Greek scholar ; but gradually he grew 
more familiar with Homer's images and expressions, and m a short 
time was able to despatch fifty verses a day. Great part of the man- 
uscript was written upon the backs and covers of letters, evincing 
that it was not without reason Swift called him paper-sparing Pope. 
The poet obtained a clear sum of £5320, is. by this translation. His 
exclMuation — 



176 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

And thanks to nomer, since I live and thrive. 
Indebted to no prince or peer alive— 

was, however, scarcely just, if we consider that this large sum was 
in part a * benevelence * from the upper classes of society, designed to 
reward his literary merit. The fame of Pope was not advanced in an 
equal degree with his fortune by his labours as a translator. The 

* fatal facility* of his rhyme, the additional false ornaments which he 
imparted to the ancient Greek, and his departure from the nice dis- 
crimination of character and speech which prevails in Homer, are 
faults now universally admitted. Cowper — though he failed himself 
in Homer— justly remarks, that the ' Iliad * and * Odyssey * in Pope's 
hands ' have no more the air of antiquity than if he hfW himself 
invented tbem.' They still, however, maintain their popularity with 
the great mass of readers, and are unequalled in splendid versification. 

The * Odyssey * was not published until 1725, and Pope on this 
occasion called in the assistance of his poetical friends Broome and 
Pen ton. These two coadjutors translated twelve books, and the 
notes were compiled by Broome, who received from Pope a sum of 
£500, besides being allowed the subscriptions collected from personal 
friends, amounting to £70, 4s. Fenton's share was only £200. 
Deducting the sums paid to his co-translators. Pope realised by the 

* Odyssey * upwards of £3500 ; and together the * Iliad' and 'Odyssey* 
had brought to the poet a fortune of from eight to nine thousand 
pounds — a striking instance of the princely patronage then extend- 
ed to literature. 

While engaged with the 'Iliad,' Pope removed from Binfield, his 
father having sold his estate there, and resided, from April 1716 till 
the beginning of 1718, at Chiswick. Here he collected and published 
his poetical works; and in this volume first appeared the most 
picturesque, melodious, and passionate of all his productions, the 

* Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortimate Lady,' aA the * Epistle of 
Eloisa to Abelard.' The delicacy of the poet in veiling over the story 
of Abelard and Eloisa, and at the same time preserving the ardour of 
Eloisa's passion; the beauty of his imagery and descriptions; the 
exquisite melody of his versification, rising and falling like the tones 
of an Eoliau harp, as he successively portrays the tumults of guilty 
love, the deepest penitence, and the highest devotional rapture, have 
never been surpassed. If less genial tastes and a love of satire with- 
drew Pope from those fountain-springs of the muse, it was obviously 
from no want of power in the poet to display the richest hues of 
imagination, or the finest impulses of the heart At Chiswick, Pope's 
father died (October 23, 1717), and shortly afterwards the poet 
removed with his aged mother to Twickenham, where he had taken 
a lease of a house and grounds, and where he continued to reside 
during- the remainder of his life. This classic spot, which Pope 

delighted to improve j and where he was V\svX<b^\i^ xcivDXaNat^ Qit«i<&t»^ 



POPE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 177 

wlla, poets, and beauties, is now greatly defeced— his house pulled 
down, and his pleasure-grounds broken up and vulgaiiaed.* 

Having completed the 'Iliad,' the poet's nest great uodertakinff 
was an edition of Sh^cspeare, published in 1739, in six quarto yo^ 
umes, Tlie preface to this work is the best of Iiia prose productions, 
but Pope failed as an editor. He wanted the requisite knowledge of 
Elizabethan literature, and the diligence necessary to collate copies 
and fix and illustrate the lest. Fenton gave assielance in this edition 
of Shakspeare, for which he received £S0, H». Pope's remuneration 
as editor was £217, 12* In 1727 and 1728, Pope published, in con- 
junction with his friend Swift, three volumes of ' Miscellauies,' which 
drew down upon the authors a torrent of invective, lampoons, and 
libels, and led to the 'Dunciad.' This elaborate and splendid satire 
was first printed in an imperfect form in May 1728, then enlarged 
with notes, the ' Prolegomena ' of Scribierus, &c. and published in 
April 1736. The work displays tlie fertile invention of the poet, the 
variety of illustration at his commaDd, and the unrivalled force and 
facility of his diction ; but it is often indelicate, and still oftener nn- 
just towards the miserable poets and critics against whom be waged . 
war. 'I have often wondered,' says Cowper, 'that the same poet 
who wrote the " Dunciad " should have written these lines : 

That mercy I to Dthera eliew, 
Ttial mUKy ehew to me. 

Alas for Pope, if the mercy he shewed to others was Ihe measure of 
the mercy ije received 1' air Waller Scott has justly remarked, that 
Pope must have suffered the most from these wretched contentions. 
His propensity lo satire was, however, irresistible; he was eminently 
sensitive, vain, and irritable, and implacable in his resentment to- 
wai'ds all who had questioned or slighted bis poetical supremacy. 






clgwly Hdjnlned , on Ibe olhnr. bi nunnnT lawnalopliiiita UuTIumhi. Aidacearpliui. 
Aurc-ifnuiid. Iqclndkiic anidAD. wa4 out ott bT tlko pnDlunut lu ftvkvivd uid nn- 
poetlual arnDgflmeut. whutblbopnipiiubic did nil beHl lo Impnila. b> eoiutnicUii(U* 
gniltaorjiuiiiwelipluwibrjbiEliwaT- .4fWr las [loM'i d«Uu ths villa wu pnnhuHl 
br mr Wi) llniD Gmnlivpii. imd BDbavqiienllT ccenpled bv Lonl Hendlp; bnl. b^fln 
1807 mid Id tba Bantioia Move, H iru bv OaX lidytakm down. tbA a larcar honM 
miiilit ba ball) niuiT lU aife. TbeEnmnda biuTa snlhrsd » eoopMaghuiie lines Pops'! 
ttmo-andaiiohellit v-bicli he erented In Uib mpmorr of Us nwtlMr, at Ih^ tnitbsr sx- 
trciDity, haa baoa ntinnTt^ Tbe duIt (trrlaln Kinnula or Iha Dost'a maniioii ars Ihs 
tidIUdpod which 11 irssbnilt.threHiniiDiiiliar.UucsBtnl oasHi^ni BamMcted wUh a 
LiLiibel, ivhich. paaniiiff aodBr Ihq raad, Eives admiidoa to tha bdiumi ; while tfas alda 
-DjiiM^ uro-or thorbaruorDrorgrntlM-piLTDirnjtfaiiquanbziaki.aBclfitiickQTSTwUhalifllLi, 

Iaivd iimmDniLfl ^ and ovaf the othdr. Ihn ploDS of hardBned elay iBwIil^^tlicaat VM 
iDft. l'«pa miut haro r°»ird*d these morels iicurioiilIlM. or f>uwi uiiMiira, llttis dnHm. 
leg of ihairondertDl tabiuf tbeeulTcuiidltloaotinirflob«wMditb«r midst In Wiling, 
AFhortiiHm«plaitaln'ruiil»r Ih^roltos >h pniliablr 'Ibaevanlnicolaunade' ol iHe 
oWhlTgKondHMTwkReaKam'tSveiSSc^iiBmTt'ldaniarkode^lon Englieh^end- 
MMpi^-tSatdfiniHII, Tlin Prini'iidf Walrit limit (he ilralgnor' hta gjirdeD from Ihe HWt'i ; 
Mod Kent, the inipmvisr nod ciiihviiiilnt of pleaHarft'ar<nt.ii^(c<^4^Vu'^u4.\wU4n& 
Otaaempa. ,&aAfdedoulaIf■]lr]I)bwll>blnBthaBt^St<lIm&lt><liJ<^1Nl^». 



178 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1727. 

His next works were more worthy of his fame. Between the years 
1731 and 1735, he had published his Epistles to Burlington, Bathurst, 
Cobham, and Arbuthnot, and also his greatest ethical work, his * Es- 
say on Man/ being part of a course of moral philosophy in verse 
which he projected. The * Essay * is now read, not for its philoso- 
phy, but for its poetry. Its metaphysical distinctions are neglected 
for those splendid passages and striking incidents which irradiate the 
poem. In lines like the following, he speaks with a mingled sweet- 
ness and dignity superior to his great master Dryden : 

Hope, 

Hope spring eternal in the human breast: 
Man never I8, bat always to be blest. 
The sool, uneasy and confined from home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 

The Poor Indian, 

Lo I the poor Indian, whose untutored mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ; 
]BQs soul, proud Science never taught to stray 
Far as the solar walk or milky way : 
Tet simple nature to his hope has given 
Behind the cloud-topped hill an humbler heaven ; 
Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, 
Some happier island in the watery waste, 
Where slaves once more their native land behold, 
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
To be, contents his natural desire. 
He asks no angePs wing, no seraph's fire ; 
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky. 
His faithful dog shall bear him company. 

Happiness, 

O Hapi^ess ! our being's end and aim. 
Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content, whate'er thy name ; 
That something still which prompts th' eternal sign, 
For which we bear to live, or dare to die ; 
Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies. 
Overlooked, seen double by the fool and wise I 
Plant of celestial seed I if dropped below, 
Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow 7 
Fair openine to some court's propitious wine, 
Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine 7 
Twined with the wreaths Parnassian laurels \deld,* 
Or reaped in iron harvests of the field 7 ^ 

Where crows I— where grows it not 7 If vain our toil, 
We ought fo blame the culture, not the soil : 
Fired to no spot is Happiness sincere ; 
*Tis nowhere to be found, or everywhere ;" 
»Tis never to be bought, but always free. 
And, fled from monarchs, St. John I dwells with thee. 
Ask of the learned the way I The learned are blind ; 
Tills bids to serve, and that to shun mankind ; 
Some place the bliss in action, some in ease ; 
Those call it pleasure, and contentment these ; 
Somef smik to beasts, find pleasure end In pain ; 
Some BweWed to gods, confess e'en-vittua^aJca.^ 
Or indolent, to each extreme they iaXi, 
To trast in eveiything, or doubt ot aXL 



POPE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 179 

The * Essay on Man * is in four Epistles, the first of which was 
published anonym* mshr in February 1733, and the second about three 
months afterwards. The third and fourth appeared in the winter of 
173S-4. The right to print these Epistles for one year was bought 
by a publisher, Gilliver, for £50 an epistle. 

Pope's future labours were chiefly confined to satire. Misfortunes 
were also now gathering round him. Swift was fast verging on im- 
becility, and was lost to the world ; Atterbury and Oay died in 1732 ; 
and next year his venerable mother, whose declining years he had 
watched with affectionate solicitude, also expired. Between the years 
1735 and 1739, Pope published his inimitable * Imitations of Horace,' 
satirical, moral, and critical, containing the most noble and generous 
sentiments, mixed up with withering invective and the fiercest de- 
nunciations. In 1743, he added a fourth book to the * Dunciad,' dis- 
playing the final advent of the goddess to destroy order and science, 
and to substitute the kingdom of the dull upon earth. The point of 
his individual satire, and the richness and boldness of his general de- 
sign, attest the undiminished powers and intense feeling of the poet. 
]Next year, Pope prepared a new edition of the four books of the 
* Dunciad,' and elevated Colley Gibber to the situation of hero of the 
poem. This unenviable honour had previously been enjoyed by 
Theobald, a tasteless critic but successful commentator on Shaks- 
peare ; and in thus yielding to his personal dislike of Gibber, Pope 
injured the force of his satire. The laureate, as War ton justly re- 
marks, * with a great stock of levity, vanity, and affectation, had 
sense, and wit, and humour ; and the author of the " Gareless Hus- 
band " was by no means a proper king of the dunces. ' Gibber was all 
vivacity and conceit — the very reverse of personified dulness, 

Sinking from thought to thought^ a vast profound. 

Political events came in the rear of this accumulated and vehement 
satire to agitate the last days of Pope. The anticipated approach of 
the Pretender led the government to issue a proclamation prohibit- 
ing every Roman Gatholic from appearing within ten miles of Lon- 
don. The poet complied with the proclamation ; and he was soon 
afterwards too ill to be in town. This * additional proclamation from 
the Highest of all Powers,' as he terms his sickness, he submitted to 
without murmuriiig. A constant state of excitement, added to a life 
of ceaseless study and contemplation, operating on a frame natur- 
ally delicate and deformed from birth, had completely exhausted the 
powers of Pope. He complained of his inability to think; yet, a 
short time before his death, he said : * I am so certain of the soul's 
being immortal, that I seem to feel it within me as it were by intui- 
tion. Another of his dying remarks was : * There is nothing that is 
meritorious but virtue and friendship ; and, indeed, friendship itself 
Is only a part of virtue.' He died at Twickenham ou the 30th of 
May, 1744. 



180 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1727, 

Tbe character and genius of Pope have given rise to abundance of 
comment and speculation. The occasional fierceness and petulance 
of his satire cannot be justified, and must be ascribed to his extreme 
sensibility, to over-indulged vanity, and to a hasty and irritable 
temper. His sickly constitution debarring him from active pursuits, 
he placed too high a value on mere literary fame, and was deficient 
in the manly virtues of sincerity and candour. There was no artifice 
to which he was not willing to stoop to elevate his own reputation or 
lower that of an opponent. The most elaborate of his stratagems 
was that by which he published his correspondence, charging the 
publication upon some unknown literary burglar in alliance with 
Curll the bookseller. The whole of his literarj' history is indeed fiill 
of small plots and manoeuvring, and no reliance can be placed on his 
statements. He appreciated moral excellence — the feeling and the 
admiration were there — but the lower part of his nature was con- 
stantly dragging him down to little meannesses and duplicity. At 
the same time he was a public benefactor, by stigmatising the vices 
of the great, and lashing the absurd pretenders to taste and literature. 
He was a fond and steady friend ; and in all our' literary biography, 
there is nothing finer than his constant undeviating affection and 
reverence for his venerable parents. 

Me let the tender office lon^ engage, 

To rock the cradle of reposing age ; 

W^ith lenient arts extend a mother's breath. 

Make lan^or smile, and smooth the bed of death ; 

Explore tne thooght, explain the asking eye. 

And keep at least one parent from the sky. 

Prologue to the Satires, 

As a poet, it would be absurd to rank Pope with the greatest mastera 
of the lyre. He was the poet of artificial life and manners rather 
than the poet of nature. He was a nice observer and an accurate 
describer of the phenomena of the mind and of the varying shades 
and gradations of vice and virtue, wisdom and folly. He was too 
fond of point and antithesis, but the polish of the weapon was 
equalled by its keenness. * Let us look,* says Campbell, *to the spirit 
that points his antithesis, and to the rapid precision of his thoughts, 
and we shall forgive him for being too antithetic and sententious. 
His wit, fancy, and good sense are as remarkable as his satire. His 
elegance has never been surpassed, or perhaps equalled : it is a com- 
bination of intellect, imagination, and taste, under the direction of an 
independent spirit and refined moral feeling. If he had studied more 
in the school of nature and of Shakspeare, and less in the school of 
Horace and Boileau ; if be had cherished the frame and spirit in 
which he composed the ' Elegy' and the * Eloisa/ and forgot his too 
exclusive devotion to that which inspired the * Dunciad,' the world 
would have hallowed his memory witbaatlU more affectionate and 
permanent interest than even that w\uc\i n<j».\\.^ oti\\Vkv s>.^ ot^fc <il q^ 
^ost JbrWJimt and accomplished EngWsU poeVa. ^^. C,«cK^\is^\\\^\i>^ 



POPE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 181 

' Bpecimens * has given an eloquent estimate of the general powers 
of Pope, with reference to his position as a poet : * That Pope was 
deitber so insensible to the beauties of nature, nor so indistinct in des- 
cribing them, as to forget the character of a genuine poet, is what I 
mean to urge, without exaggerating his picturesqueness. But before 
speaking of that quality in his writings, I would beg leave to observe, 
in the first place, that the faculty by which a poet luminously des- 
cribes objects of art, is essentially the same faculty which enables 
hini to be a faithful describer of simple nature ; in the second place, 
that nature and art are to a greater degree relative terms in poetical 
description than is generally recollected ; and, thirdly, tliat artificial 
objects and manners are of so much importance in fiction, as to make 
the exqui^te description of them no less characteristic of genius than 
the description of simple physical appiearances. The poet is **creation's 
heir." He deepens our social interest in existence. It is surely by the 
liveliness of the interest which he excites in existence, and not by the 
class of subjects which he chooses, that we most fairly appreciate the 
genius or the life of life which is in him. It is no irreverence to the ex- 
ternal charms of nature to say, that they are not more important to a 
poet's study than the manners and affections of his species. Nature is 
the poet's goddess ; butby nature, no one rightly understands her mere 
inanimate face, however charming it may be, or the simple landscape 
painting of trees, clouds, precipices, and fiowers. Why, then, try 
Pope, or any other poet, exclusively by his powers of describing in- 
animate phenomena ? Nature, in the wide and proper sense oi the 
word, means life in all its circumstances — ^nature, moral as well as 
external. As the subject of inspired fiction, nature includes artificial 
forms and manners. Richardson is no less a painter of nature than 
Homer. Homer himself is a minute describer of works of art; and 
Milton is full of imagery derived from it. Satan's spear is com- 
pared to the pine that makes *' the mast of some great ammiral ;" 
and his shield is like the moon, but like the moon artificially 
seen through the glass of the Tuscan artist. The " spirit-stirring 
drum, the ear-piercing fife, the royal banner, and all the quality, 
pride, pomp, and circumstance or glorious war," are all artificial 
images. When Shakspeare groups into one view the most sublime 
objects of the universe, he fixes on " the cloud-capt towers, the 
gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples." Those who have ever wit- 
nessed the spectacle of the launching of a ship-of-the-line, will 
perhaps forgive me for adding this to the examples of the sublime ob- 
jects of artificial life. Of tliat spectacle I can never forget the im- 
pression, and of having witnessed it refiected from the faces of ten 
thousand spectators. They seem yet before me. I sympathise with^ 
their deep and silent expectation, and with their final burst of enthu- 
siasm. It was not a vulgar joy, but an affecting national solemnity. 
When the vast bulwark sprang from hei eiadl^, \.\\^ q».\wv^«&.Ksx^<n^ 
which she swung majestically round, gave l\vft jmgi.^c^\qv^ ^ ^<^\^to.'^>s^ 



182 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1727. 

of the stormy element in which she was soon to ride. All the days of 
battle and nights of danger which she had to encounter, all the ends 
of the earth which she had to visit, and all that she had to do and to 
suffer for her country, rose in awful presentiment before the mind; 
and when the heart gave her a benediction, it was like one pronounced 
on a living being.* 

Pope has had numerous editors and annotators. Warburton's 
authorized edition, containing the poet's last corrections, was pub- 
lished in nine volumes, 1751. In 1797, appeared an enlarged edition, 
with memoir, notes, and illustrations, by Joseph Warton, in nine 
volumes ; in 1806, the Rev. W. Lisle Bowles edited another edition, 
in ten volumes, which contained some additional letters and notes, 
and an original memoir of the poet, which led to some controversy ; 
and in 1871, the Rev. Whitwell Elwin commenced an edition, also to 
extend to ten volumes, and to include several hundred unpublished 
letters and other new materials, collected in part by the Right Hon. 
John Wilson Croker. Of the poetical works (apart from the prose 
treatises and correspondence) editions have been published by the 
Rev. A. Dyce (1835), the Rev. Dr. George Croly (1835), the Rev. H. F. 
Gary (1858), and Adolphus W. Ward, M.A. (1869). Of these, the last 
is incomparably the best. 

The Messiah : A Sacred Eclogue. Composed of Several Pasmges of 
Isaiah the Propliet, Written in Imitation of VirgiTs ^FoUio** 

Ye nymphs of Solyma 1 begin the song : 
To heavenly themes sablimer strains l^long. 
The mossy fonntams and the sylvan shades. 
The dreams of Pindas and the Aonian maids, 
Delight no more — O thou my voice inspire, 
Who tOQched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire I 

Rapt into future times, the bard begun : 
A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a Son I 
Prom Jesse's root behold a branch arise, 
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies : 
The ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move. 
And on its top descends the mystic Dove. 
Ye heavens ! from high the dewy nectar pour, 
And in soft silence shed the kindly shower. 
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid," 
From' storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. 
All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail ; 
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale ; 
Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend. 
And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend. 
Swift fly the years, and rise the expected mom I , 
Oh, iSpnng to light^ auspicious Babe, be bom ! 
See, nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, • 

With all the incense of the breathing spring ! 
See lofty Lebanon his head advance! 
See nodding forests on the mountains dance !J 
See spicy clouds from lowly Saron rise. 
And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies I 

• Pirst published in the Spectator lot "NV^i.^ \\, Vi^^- 



DPE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 188 

Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers ; 

Prepare the way I a Qod, a God appears I 

A Cfod, a God I the vocal hills reply ; 

The rocks proclaim the approachmg Deity. 

Lo I earth receives him from the bendiog skies ; 

Sink down, ye momi tains ; and ve valleys, rise ; 

With heads declined, ye cedars, homage, pay ; 

Be smooth, ye rocks : ye rapid floods, give way I 

The Saviour comes ! bv ancient bards n)retold : 

Hear him, ye deaf, and all ye blind, behold ! 

He from tMck films shall purge the visual ray. 

And on the sightless eyeball pour the day : 

'lis he the obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 

And bid new music charm the unfolding ear : 

The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutcn forego, 

And leap exulting \&e the bounding roe. 

No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear ; 

Prom every face he wipes off evenr tear. 

In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, 

And hell's grim tyrant feel the eternal wound. 

As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, 

Seeks ^eshest pasture, and the purest air, 

Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, 

Bv day o'ersees them, and by nijght protects, 

Tne tender lambs he raises in his arms, 

Peeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms'; 

Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage. 

The promised Father of the future age. 

No more shall nation against nation nse, 

Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes ; 

Nor fields with gleaming steel be covered o'er. 

The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more : 

But useless lances into scythes shall bend. 

And the broad falchion in^a ploughshare end. 

Then pidaces shall rise ; the joyful son 

Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun ; 

Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, 

And the same hand that sowed, shall reap the field. 

The swain, in barren deserts with surprise 

Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise ; 

And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear 

New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 

On drifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes. 

The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. 

Waste sandy valleys, once perplexed with thorn. 

The spiry fir and shapely box adorn : 

To leofiesa shrubs the flowering palm succeed. 

And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. 

The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead, 

And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead : 

The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, 

And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. 

The smiling infant in his hand shall take 
• The crested basilisk and speckled snake. 

Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey, 

And with their forky tongue shall innopently play. 

Bise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise I , 

Exalt thy towery head, and hft thy eyes I 

See a long race thy spacious courts adorn I 

See future sons, and daughters yet unborn, 

In crowflmg rnnks on, nvcry side arise, 
Demaudine: life, impatient for the akieal 



18i CYCLOPAEDIA OF £to 173 

See barbarons nations at thy eate attend. 

Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend I 

See thy bright altars thronged wiui prostrate kingBi 

And heaped with products of Sabaean springs ; 

For thee Idume's spicy forests blow. 

And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. 

See heaven its sparkling portals wide display, 

And break upon thee in a flood of day I 

No more the rising son shall gild the mom. 

Nor evening Cvnthia fill her Slver horn ; 

Bat lost, dissolved in thy superior rays. 

One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze 

O'erflow thy courts : the Light himself shall shlno 

Bevealed, and God's eternal day be thine I 

The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay. 

Bocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; 

But fixed his word, his saving poww remains ; 

Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns I 

The ToUet—From 'The Bape of the Lock. 

And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed. 
Bach silver vase in mystic order laid ; 
First, robed in white, the nymph intcoit adorep. 
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. 
A heavenly image in the glass appears, 
To that she bends, to that her eye she ream ; 
The inferior priestess, at her altar's dde. 
Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. 
Unnumbered u*easures ope at once, and here 
The various offerings of the world appear : 
From each she nicely culls with curious tou. 
And decks the goddess with the glittering spoO. 
This casket Inma*s glowing gems unlocks. 
And all Arabia breames Cfom yonder box. 
The tortoise here and elephant unite. 
Transformed to combs, tne speckled and the whifto. 
Here files of pins extend the& shining rows, 
PufEs, powders, patches. Bibles, billet-doux. 
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms ; 
The fair each moment rises in her chaiins, 
Bepairs her smiles, awakens everv grace, 
And calls forth all the wonders of her face ; 
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise. 
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
The busy svlpns surround their darling care. 
These set the head, and these divide the hair ; 
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown. 
And Betty 's praised for labours not her own. 

Description of Belinda and the Sylphe, — Worn the same. 

Not with more glories, in the ethereal plain, 

The sun first ri^s o*er the purpled mam, 

Than issuing forth, the rival oz his beams, ^ 

Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. 

Fair nymphs and well-drest youths around her shome^ 

But every ey€ was fixed on her alone. 

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore. 

Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. 

JBTer lively looks a Bprigbtly nAw^ d\wi\oaft, 

Quick, as her eyes, and aa unfixed aftt^c^sc^a^ 

favours to none, to aU ekiQ em2^«a «sX«sodA\ 



B.3 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 185 

Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 

Briffht as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike^ 

And, like the suit, thev shine on all alike. 

Tet graceful ease, ana sweetness void of pride. 

Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide ; 

If to her share some female errors fall. 

Look on her face, and you 11 forget them all. 

This nymph, to the destruction of mankind. 
Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behind 
In equal curls, and well conspired to deck. 
With shining ringlets, the smooth ivorjr neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detaincu 
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. 
With hauy springes we the birds betray. 
Slight lines of htur surprise the finny prey ; 
Fair tresses man's imperial race ensare. 
And beauty draws us ^ith a single hair. 

The advent'rous baron the bright locks admired ; 
He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. 
Resolved to win, he meditates the way. 
By force to ravish, or by fraud betray ; 
For when success a lover's toil attends. 
Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends. 

For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implored 
Propitious heaven, and. every power adored ; 
But chiefly Love — to Love an altar built. 
Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. 
There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves. 
And all the trophies of his former loves ; 
With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre, 
And breathes three amorous sighs tc raise the fire. 
I'hen prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes 
Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize ; 
The powers gave ear, and granted halt his prayer ; 
The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. 

But now secure the painted vessel ^ides 
The sunbeams trembhng on. the floatmg tides : 
. While meltine music st^s upon the skv. 
And softenea sounds along the waters die ; 
Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently {day, 
Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. 
All but the Sylph, with careful thoughts oppressed. 
The impending woe sat heavy on his breast. 
He summons straight his denizens of air ; 
The lucid squadrons round the sails repair. 
Soft o'er the shrouds 4&ial whispers breathe. 
That seemed but zeph:ps to the train beneath. 
Some to the sun their insect wings unfold, 
Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold ; 
Transparsut forms, too flue for mortal sight, 
Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light. 
Loose to the wind their airy garments flew. 
Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew. 
Dipped in the richest tincture of the skies, 
Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes ; 
While every beam new transient colours flings. 
Colours that change whene'er they wave the& wings. 
Amid the circle on the gilded mast, 
Superior by the head was Ariel placed ; 
JEUb parple piniona opening to tue B\m, 
Be raJaed his azure wand, and thua \)eg;aii'. ^ 
* Ye BylphB and sylphids, to yoitf cihki ^^e cnx\ 



186 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1737 

Faye, fairies, genii, elves, and dsemons, hear I 
Te know the Bph^*e8, and various taskis assigned 
By laws eternal to the atrial kind. 
Some in the fields of pnrest ether play 
And bask and whiten in the blaze of day ; 
Some jguide the coarse of wandering orbs on high. 
Or rolTthe planets through the boundless eky ; 
Some, less refined, beneath the moon's pale light 
Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, 
Or suck the mists in grosser air below. 
Or dip their pinions in the painted bow. 
Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, 
Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain. 
Others on earth o'er human race preside, 
Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide : 
Of these the chief the care of nations own, 
And guard with arms divine the British throne. 

* Our humbler province Is to tend the fair. 
Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care ; 
To save the powder from too rude a gale, 
Kor let the imprisoned essences exhale ; 
To draw fresh colours from the vernal flowers ; 
To steal from rainbows ere they drop in showen 
A brighter wash ; to curl their waving hairs, 
Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs ; 
Nay oft, in dreams, invention "we bestow. 
To change a flounce, or add a furbelow.' 

From ' Eloisa to Abelard.' 

In these deep solitudes and awful cells. 
Where heavenly-pensive Contemplation dwells, 
? And ever-musing Melancholy reigns. 

What means thu tumult in a vestal's veins? 
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat? 
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat ? 
Yet, yet I love I— Prom Abelard it came, 
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. 

Dear, fatal name I rest ever unrevealed. 
Nor pass these lips in holy silence sealed : 
Hide it, my heart,- within that close disguise. 
Where, mixed with Ood's, his loved idea, lies : 

write it not, my hand — the name appears 
Already written — ^wash it out. my tears I 
In vain lost Eloisa weeps ana prays, , 

Her heart still dictat^, and her band obeys. 

Relentless walls I whose darksome round contains 
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains : ' 
Ye rugged rocks, which holy ^eeis have worn ; 
Ye grots and caverns shagged with horrid thorn ! \ 
Shrmes, where their -vigils pale-eyed virginsfkeep. 
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep 1 
Though cold like you, unmoved and silent grown, 

1 have not yet forgot myself to stone. 

All is not heaven's while Abelard has part. 
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart ; 
Nor prayers nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain. 
Nor tears for ages taught to flow in vain. 
Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose, 
That well-known name awakens «S!Lm"s "wofct^. 
Oh, name for ever sa/d, tot evet d^w \ 
^ fitijl breathed in ^hA, «tiiV xjitaeaKiQL^nVCki^iXmx., 



OPK.J ENGLISH LITERATURE. 18t 

I tremble, too, where'er my own I find. 

Some dire misfortmie follows close behind. 

line after line my gustdng eyes overflow, 

Led through a said variety of woe : 

Kow warm in love, now withering in my bloom. 

Lost in a convent's solitary gloom I 

There stem religion qaenched the miwilling flame. 

There died the best of passions, love and fame. 

Tet write, oh, write me all, that I may join 
Orief to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine I 
Nor foes nor fortune take this power away : 
And is my Abelard less kind than they ? 
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare ; 
Love but demands what else were shed in prayer : 
No happier task these faded eyes pursue i 
To read and weep is all they now can do. 

Then share thv pain, allow that sad relief ; 
Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief. 
Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid, 
Some banished lover, or some captive maid ; 
They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires. 
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires. 
The virgin's wish without her fears impart. 
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the neait. 
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, 
Ajid waft a sigh from Indus to the pole. ... 

Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care. 
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy prayer ; 
From the false world in early youth they fled. 
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led, 
Tou raised these hallowed walls ; the desert smiled. 
And Paradise was opened in the wild. 
No weeping orphan saw his father's stores 
Our shrmcs irradiate, or emblaze the floors : 
No silver saints, by dying misers given. 
Here bribed the rage of iB-requited heaven : 
But such plain roofs as piety could raise. 
And only vocal with the Maker's praise. 
In these lone walls— their day's eternal bound — 
These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crowned. 
Where awf uTarches make a noonday night. 
And the dim windows shed a solemn ligat ; 
Thy eyes diffused a reconciling ray. 
And gleams of glory brightened all the day. 
But now no face divine contentment wears, 
'TIS aU blank sadness or continual tears. 
See how the force of others' prayers I try, 
O pious fraud of amorous charity I 
But whv should I on others' prayers depend? 
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend I 
Ah, let thy handmaid, sister, daughter, move. 
And all those tender names in one, thy love I 
The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclined. 
Wave high, ana muxmur to the hollow wind; 
The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills. 
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills. 
The dying gales that pant upon the trees. 
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze ; 
No more these scenes my meditatVou &i<^ 
Or lull to rest the visionary maid. 
Bat o*er the twilight groves and duety CKve^ 
U)ng8ouadins aiaieB, and intftrminffiifid vc«^^ 



18d CYCLOPEDIA OF [to r 

Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws 

A deathlike silence, and a dread repose : 

Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, 

Shades every flower, and darkens every green, 

Deepens the mnrmor of the falling floods, 

And breathes a browner horror on the woods. . • • 

What scenes appear where'er I turn my view I 
The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue, 
Kise in the grove, before the altar rise, 
Stain aU my soul, and wanton in my eyes. 
I waste the matin-lamp in sighs for thee ; 
Thy image steals between my God and me ; 
Thy voice I seem in every hymn to hear. 
With every bead I drop too soft a tear. 
When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll, 
And swelling organs lift the rising soul. 
One thought of tnee puts all the pomp to flight. 
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight ; 
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drowned. 
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round. 

While prostrate here in humble srief I lie. 
Kind virtuous drops just gatheiing in my eye ; 
While pra^g, trembling in the dust I roll, 
And dawning grace is opening on my soul : 
Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art t 
, Oppose thyself to heaven ; dispute my heart: 
Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes 
Blot out each bright idea of the 'skies ; 
Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears; 
Take back my miitless penitence and prayers ; 
€natch me, just mounting, from the blest abode ; 
Assist the flends, and tear me from my God I 

No, fly me, fly me ! far as pole from pole ; 
Bise Alps between us I and whole oceans roll t 
Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me. 
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee. 
Thy oaths I qmt, thy memory resign ; 
Forget, renounce me. hate whatever was mine. 
Fair eves, and tempting looks (which yet I view I) 
Long loved, aidored ideas, all adieu I 
O grace serene I O virtue heavenly fair t 
Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care I 
Fresh-blooming hope, gay (mughter of the sky t 
And faith, our early immortality ! 
Enter, each mild, each amicable guest 
Beceive, and wrap me in eternal rest I 

Megy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady, 

What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shade,) 

Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? 

'Tis she I— but why that bleeding bosom gored? 

Why dimly gleams the visionary sword ? 

Oh^ ever beauteous, ever friendly I tell. 

Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well? 

To bear too tender, or too flrm a heart. 

To act a lover's or a Roman's part ? 

Is there no bright reversion in the sky. 

For thoee who greatly think, or bravely die ? 

Why bade ye else, ye powers \ \ax ftoxii b»s>Vm 
Above the vulgar flight of low deaVtel 
AmhltiOR first sprung from yom bVesl 8\kA^\ 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 18© 

The glorious fault of angels and of gods : 
Thence to their images on earth it flows, 
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows. 
Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age. 
Dull sullen prisoners in the body's cage : 
Dim lights of life, that bum a length of years. 
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres ; 
Like Eastern kings, a lazy^ state they keep, 
And, close confined to their own palace, sleep. 

From these perhaps — ere nature bade her ale- 
Fate snatched her early to the pitying sky. 
As into air the purer spirits flow. 
And separate from their kindred dregs below ; 
So flew the sonllo its congenial place. 
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. 

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good* 
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's bloodi 
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath. 
These cheeks now fading at the blast of death ; 
Cold is that breast which warmed the world before, 
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. 
Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball. 
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall : 
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits. 
And frequent hearses shall Sesiege your gates : 
There passengers shall stand, and, pointuig say-r 
While the long funerals blacken all the way — 
Lo ! these were they, whose souls the Furies steried 
And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield. 
Thus unlamented pass the proud away, 
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day I 
So perish all, whose breast ne'er learned to glow 
For others' good, or melt at others' woe. 

What can atone — Oh, ever-injured shade I — 
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid? 
Ko friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear 
Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier ; 
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed^ 
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, 
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned. 
By strangers honoured, and by straneers mourned I 
What though no friends in sable weeds appear. 
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, 
And bear about the mockery of woe 
To midnight dances and the public show ; 
What though no weeping Loves thy ashes grace, 
Nor polished marble emulate thy face ; 
What though no sacred earth allow thee room. 
Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o'er thy tomb ; 
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dressed. 
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast : 
There shall the Mom her earliest tears bestow ; 
There the first roses of the year shall blow ; 
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade 
The ground, now sacred by the relics made. / 

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name. 
What once had beauty, titles, w^ealth, and fame. 
How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not. 
To whom related, or by whom begot ; 

A heap of dust alone remains of thee : . 

TiB ail thou art, and all the proud «\ia&\M\ ^ 

Poets themselves muBt tsiil, WYLe tYioae \2tie^ «sQA%t 



I 



* slj 



IdO CYCLOlP^DIA OF [10173^ 

Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongUOj 
Even he whose soul uow melts iu mouruf ul layB, 
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays ; 
Then from Ids closing eyes thy form shall part, 
And the last pang sh^l tear thee from his heart ; 
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, 
The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more I 

Happiness depends, not an Riclies, but on Virtue, — From the ^ Essay (tn 

Man,' Epistle IV, 

Know, all the good that individuals find, 

Or God and nature meant to mere mankind, 

Eeasou's whole pleasure, all the j^s of sense, 

Ide in three words — Health, Peace, and Comjpetence. 

But Health consists with temperance alone ; 

And Peace, O virtue I Peace is all thy own. 

The good or bad the gifts of fortune gain ; 

But these less taste them, as they worse obtain. 

Say, in pursuit of profit or delight. 

Who risK the most, that take wrong means or right? 

Of vice or virtue, whether blost or cursed, 

Which meets contempt, or which compassion first ? 

Count all the advantjige prosperous vice attains, 

'TIS but what virtue flics from and disdains : 

And grant the bad what hap^nuess they would. 

One they must want, which is, to pass for good. 

O blind to truth, and God's whole scheme below, 
Who fancy bliss to vice, to virtue woe I 
Who sees and follows that great scheme the best. 
Best knows the blessing, and will most be blessed. 
But fools the good alont) unhappy call, 
For ills or accidents that chance to all. 
See Falkland dies, the virtuous and the justl 
See godlike Turenne prostrate on the dust ! 
See Sidney bleeds amid the martial strife I * 
Was this their virtue, or contempt of life ? 
Say, was it virtue, more though Heaven ne*er gave, 
Lamented Di^by 1 + sunk thee to the grave? 
Tell me, if virtue made the son expire, 
Why, full of days and honour, lives the sire ? 
Why drew Marseilles' good bishop purer breath, 
When nature sickened, and each gale was death? $ 
Or why so long— in life If long can be — 
Lent Heaven a parent to the poor and me ? . . . 

Honour and shame from no condition rise ; 
Act well your part, there all the honour lies. 
Fortune m men has some small difference made. 
One flaunts in rags, one flutters iu brocade ; 
The cobbler aproned, and the parson gowned, 
The friar hooded, and the monarch crowned. 
• What differ more,' you cry, • than crown and cowl 1' 
I '11 tell you, friend— a wise man and a fool. 
You Ml find, if once the monarch acts the monk, 
Or, cobbler-like, the parson wall be drunk ; 



• Lucius Gary, Lord Falkland, fell fighting under the royal standard, in the battle of 
Newbury. Sept. 20, 1643 (see aw/^). Marshal Tureune was killed by a cannoif-ball at 
Salzhach In Baden. July 26, 1675. Sir Philip Sidney was mortally wounded at Zatpheo, 
Sept. 22. 1586 (see aiiteY ^ , ..... .«.. 

f The Hon Rnhfirt Digby. third «ou oi LotA "DVftM , ^\vQjM^Va\m. 

. ^M. de BelHfince WHH made Bishop ol MaTseWVea >^>1^' ^^vT^^^"**-^^. ^it^ia* 
t^epl&srue iu MtimeUlea, in the year 172D, \xo d\sX.va«\3L\a\i«a.>aiai&«VlVf to*>M3^^V|. 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 191 

Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow : 
The rest is all bat leather or prunella.* . . . 

But by your father's worth if yours you rate, 
Count me those only who were good and great. / 

Go I if your ancient but ignoble blood / 

Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood, 
60 1 and pretend your family is young; 
Nor own your f atliers have been fools so long. 
What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards 7 
Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards. 

Look next on greatness ; say where greatness lies : 

* Where, but among the heroes and the wise ?' 
Heroes are much the same, the point 's agreed, 
From Macedonia's madman to tuo Swede ; 

The whole strange purpose of their lives to find. 
Or make, an enemy of all mankind I . , . 
If parts allure thoc, think how Bacon shincd. 
The wise^, brightest, meanest of mankind : 
Or ravished with the whistling of a name. 
See Cromwell, damned to everlasting fame I 
If all united tny ambition call. 
From ancient story leani to scorn them all. . 

There, in the rich, the honoured, famed, and great. 
See the false scale of happiness complete I 
In hearts of kings, or arms of queens who lay, 
ilow happy I those to ruin, these betray : 
Mark by what wretched steps their glory grows. 
From dirt and sea-weed as proud Venice rose ; 
In each how guilt and greatness equal ran. 
And all that raised the hero, sunk the man : 
Now Europe's laurels on their brows behold, 
But stained with blood, or ill exchanged for gold : 
Then see them broke with toils, or sunk in ease. 
Or infamous for plundered provinces. 
O wealth ill-fated I which no act of fame 
E'er taught to shine, or sanctified from shame I 
What greater bliss attends their close of life? 

Some greedy minion, or imperious wife, • 

The trophied arches, storied halls invade, 
And haunt their slumbers in the pompous shade. 
Alas I not dazzled with their noontide ray, 
Compute the morn and evening to the day ; 
The whole amount of that enormous fame, 
A tale, that blends their glory with their shame I + 
Know then this truth — enough for man to know— 

* Vktne alone is happiness below.' 
Thinly point where human bliss stanj}0 still. 
And tastes the good without the fall to ^ ; 
Where only merit constant pay receives^ 

Is blest in what it tiikcs. and what it gSf es ; 
The joy unequalled, if it49 end it gain, /, ' 
And if it lose, attended with no pain : n, 
Without satiety, though e'er so blessed, ' 
And but more relishea as the more distressed: 
The broadest mirth unfeeling Folly wears, 
Less pleasing far than Virtue's very tears : 
Good from each object, from each place acquired, 



.was a species of woollen stuff, of which clergymen's gowns were often 

9lon in this splendid p&sB&ge is to the great I>\\k.e ot l&.«;t\XMtQ'^^ vgAVA^ 
dacbeea. 



IW CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to tin 

For ever exercised, yet never tired ; 
Never elated, while one man 's oppreseed ; 
Never dejected, while another 's blessed ; 
And where no wants, no wishes can remain, 
Since but to wish more virtue, is to gain. 

JPh'om 'The Prologue to the Satires,^ addressed to Dr, ArbuthwA. 

P. Shut up the door, good John I fatigued I said. 
Tie up the maocker ; say I'm sick, I'm dead. 
The dog-star rages I nay, 'tis past a doubt. 
All Beolam or Parnassus is let out : 
Fire in each e^e, and papers in each hand. 
They rave, recite, and madden round the land. 

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? 
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide. 
By land, by water, they renew tlie charee ; 
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 
No place is sacred, not the church is free. 
Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me ; 
Then from tbe Mint walks forth the man of rhyme . 
Ha|)py to catch me just at dinner time.* 

^jthere a parson, much bemused in beer, 
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, 
A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross. 
Who pens a stanza when he should engross 7 
Is there, who, locked from ink apd paper, scrawls 
With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls ? 
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain 
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. . . . 

Who shames a scribbler ? Break one cobweb through. 
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew ; 
Destroy his fib or sophistry : in vain I 
The creature 's at his dirty work again. . . . 

One dedicates in high heroic prose. 
And ridicules beyond a hundrea foes : 
One from all Grub Street will my fame defend, 
' And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. 

* This prints my letters, that expects a bribe. 

And others roar aloud : * Subscribe, subscribe !* 

There are, who to my person pay their court : 
I cough like Horace, ana though lean, am short. 
Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high. 
Such Ovid's nose, and, * Sir ! you have an eye I' 
Gk) on, obliging creatures, make me see 
All that disgraced my betters, met in me. 
Say for my comfort, languishing in bed : ^ 

* Just so imi9ortal Maro lield his head ;' ^ 

And when Ijflie, be sure you let me know 
Great Homeflsdied three thousand years ago. 

Why did IMriie ? what sin to me unknown 
Dipped me iiMnk; my parents', or my own? 
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. 
I left no calling for this idle trade. 
No duty broke, no father disobeyed : 
The muse but served to ease some friend, not wife ; 
To help me through this long disease, my life ; 
To second, Arbuthnot I thy art and care. 
And teach the being you preserved, to bear. ... 

A man's true merit 'Ua not \\aT^ Vo tax^V 



• The Mint in Southwarli was a aax^ctw^rj lot Vsw!W«sA ^<(^\toi». 



fiNGLtSH LitfiRATURfi. IM 

But each man's secret standard in his mind. 

That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness. 

This, who can gratify 7 for who can gness? 

The bard whom pilfered Pastorals renown, 

Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown, 

Jast writes to make his barrenness appear. 

And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year ; * 

He who, still wanting^ though he lives on theft. 

Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left : 

And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, 

Means not, but blunders round about a meaning ; 

And he, whose fustian 's so sublimely bad, 

It is not poetry, but prose run mad : 

All these my modest satire bade translate, 

And owned that nine such poets made a Tate. 

How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe I 

And swear, not Addison himself was safe. 

Peace to all such I but were there one whose fires 
True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires ; 
Blest with each talent and each art to please. 
And bom to write, converse, and live with ease : 
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone. 
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,^ 
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, 
And hate for arts that caused himself to rise ; 
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, 
And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer ; 
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike. 
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike ; 
Alike reserved to blame or to commend, 
A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend ; 
Dreading even fools, by flatterers besieged, 
And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged; 
like Cato, ^ve bis little senate laws. 
And sit attentive to his own applause ; 
While wits and Templars every sentence raise, 
And wonder with a foolish face of praise. 
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be 7 
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he ? t 

Let Sporus tremble t A. What I that thing of 8ilk, 

Spoms, that mere white curd of asses' milk 7 
Satire or sense, alas I can Sporus feel 7 
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel 7 

P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings. 
This painted child of dirt, that stinKs and stings ; 
Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys. 
Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys : 
So well-bred spaniels civilly delight 
In mumbling of the game they dare not bite. 
Eternal smiles his emptiness betrav, 
As shallow streams run dimpling all the way ; 
Whether in flond impotence he speaks, 
And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks ; 
Or at the ear of iSre, familiar toad. 
Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad. 
In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies, 

roRe Philips. 

jealousy betwixt Addison and Pope, originating in literary &iidpQUtlca.ltW«lrr « 
rendered memonble by the above highly ftnisned aiidv<AfE&'&>'f^^%'^^<^^* '^'^^^ 
'-readU.beBAwtb&tPope'sBtrfMigth. layUi salVtVca\ v«>\"rL, wi*^ Xi^'VNfwiV* 
taffer that talent to be unemployed. i vat^'CL'vc^vi . 



lU CYCLOPEDIA .01^ tTO t:? 

Or spite, or smut, or rh3nne8, or blasphemies i 

His wit all seesaw, between that and tkiSj 

Now hish, now low, now master up, now miss. 

And he mmself one vile antithesis. 

Amphibious thing ! that acting either part, 

The trifling head, or the corrupted heeul, 

Fop at the toilet, flatterer at the board, 

Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord. 

Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins have expressed : 

A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest. 

Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust, 

Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust. 

Not fortune's worshipper, nor fashion's fool ; 
Not lucre's madman, nor ambition's tool : 
Not proud nor servile : be one poet's praise. 
That, if he pleased, he pleased by manly ways ; 
That flattery even to kings he held a shame. 
And thought a lie in verse or prose the same ; 
That not in fancy's maze he wandered long. 
But stooped to truth, and moralised his song; 
That not for fame, but virtue's better end. 
He stood the furious foe, the timid friend, 
The danmins critic, half -approving wit. 
The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be nit ; 
Laughed at the loss of friends he never had. 
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad ; 
The distant threats of vengeance on his head ; 
The blow, unfelt, the tear he never shed ; 
The tale revived, the lie so oft o'erthrown. 
The imputed trash, and dulness not his own ; 
The morals blackened when the writings 'scai)e 
The libelled person, and the pictured shape ; 
Abuse on all he loved, or loved him, spread, 
A friend in exile, or a father dead ; 
The whisper, that to greatness still too near, 
Perhaps yet vibrates on his sovereign's ear. 
Welcome for thee, fair Virtue, all the past ; 
For thee, fair Virtue I welcome even the last I 

The Man of Boss* — From ^ Moral Essays, Epistle 111.* 

But all our praises why should lords engross 7 
Rise, honest Muse I and sing the Man of Ross : 
Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, 
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. 
Who hung with woods yon uiouutaiu's sultry brow? 
Prom the diy rock who bade the waters flow ? 
Not to the skies in useless columns tossed. 
Or in proud falls magnificently lost ; 
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain. 
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. 
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows 7 
Whose seats the weary traveller repose 7 
Who taught the heaven-directed spire to rise 7 
* The Man of Ross,' each lisping oabe replies. 
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread ; 
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread : 
He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state, 
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate r 

^ * The Man of Boss was Mr. Zo\va. KyxYe. tw^o ft\«A Va. \TA, ^wjA^^^ta , S^^«« 
l^rred in the ohoroh of Ross, In HeretoxdahYre. Hit. Tt^xXa^^ «\i^\«AAs^«n^i^^ 
A& benevolent puSoros by tiho aabwuuice ol I Aeu^i* Vo vi\iom V^ wdwA %a »^m»»Nt. 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphuia btesaad. 
The yxmBIF who labour, and the old wlio naL 
la asf sick 7 the Man of Bou relisvea. 
Prescribes, atteods, and med'ciDe makes and liTia. 
la tbere a Tarlance 7 ent«r bat bis door. 
Balked are tbe coDrts, and contest la no more : 
Demairins qoBcks vltb cnrses fled tbe place, 
And Tile attorneys, nov an nscloaa race. 

B. Tbrice banpy nun. enabled to pursue 
Wltet all so vlBh, bnt want tbe power to do I 
C SS7, wbat anms tbat generons band HUppIrT 
What mines to swell that boundlsBB cbarlfy T 

P. Ot debtasi- " " 



poaseSBcd— flTe hundred pounds a rear I 



Blnah, Qmndenr, bhuh 1 proud 
Te little stars I hide yonr dlmi- 



iough. thai Tirtnt filled the space lielween" 
■roved bj tber-^- -' >--'--■- -^ — ' 



Of rich and pi 

if bcin^ to 

, Heath of ViUiert, Duke of Svcking/uan. 

In the wore! Inn's won-t rooni, with mat half-hmic,, 
Tbe floors of platter, and ihe walla of dau^. 
On once a flock-bed, trat repaired with atraw, 
With Upo-tied cprtains, never mpant to draw. 
The George and Oartcr dangling froui tbat bed 
Where Uwdry vfllow strove wifli diriy red. 
Great Vlllera Ilea* — alaal bow cban^d from bleu 
Tbat life of plesanre, and that sodI <X whhnl 
Gallant aQd eaj, in Cliveden 'a prond alcoTe, 
Tbe bower of wanton ShrewsbarT and love; 
Or jmi aa gaj, at conncil. in a ring 



I deallii bedldaot dla 
ai KUbf. Hooralde' Tkt 
- " "-'-toCllef- 



"■TheCounlL 
, Tbe Eul. b 



'TheCoun 

at darisf Ihs 

euol wii. with t, pKsnllsr turuliy 6f tarunKHlltliliiElata ridleule. Of Ibis 

lece. theDolievisaHlKtldbr Batlcr. Bpral. C^urd. andeLhers. Daien- 
bBchusctarol ■ Bllboa. ' va> the oil^ual hen>of Ihe luee. andafterhl* 

were parodied, andBrydpn'sdrei*. mannT, sad asualexpreislaiiH copied 
Mlawit^ataeomtolmiiate nature; but are «lTeii allonOier loalerataj^ 
irhenBB,veB IB reminded thai tho pint iiaudi still. habrsakioBt; 'FlBl 

why whata devil lalheBlulgmidW. bnt to biJi«tn^|ne^thlaeirPnt^ 
OTed^'^llDEd^l' ^vMsllDdaiMth^: -If Umia write familiar thlnfa, 
A Armids, asd Se like. I make nue of stswed prones only i bnt when I have 
tbooihiand (err Bi?"--'''^''" -nn Bin.iYiiies.nR™of Hi.™n.iv.™rt. 
ijfijwjly. 



IM CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Of mimic statesrnen, and their merry king. 
No wit to flatter, left of all his store I 
No fool to langh at, which he valned more. 
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, 
And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. 

TJie Dying Christian to his Soul. 

Vital spark of heavenly flame. Steals my senses, shots my sight, 

Quit, O quit this mortal frame : Drowns my spirits, draws my bre»th 7 

Irembling, hoping, lingering, flying— Tell me, my soul, can this hie death 7 
O the pain, the bhss of dying I 

Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife. The world recedes : it disappears I 

And let me languish into life I Heaven opens on my eyes ! my eara 

With sounds seraphic ring : 

Hark I they whisper ; angels say, Lend, lend your wines I I mount I I fly I 

* Sister spirit, come away !' O Grave I where is thy victory 7 
What is this absorbs me quite 7 O Death I where is thy 8ting7 * 

We may quote, as a specimen of the melodious yersification of 
Pope's Homer, the \7ell-kn0wn moonlight scene in the ^ Iliad ' (Book 
viii.), which has been both extravagantly praised and censured. 
Wordsworth and Southey unite in considering the lines and imagery 
as contradictory and false. It will be found in tliis case, as in many 
passages of Dryden that, though natural objects be incorrectly 
described, the beauty of the language and versiiication elevates t£e 
whole into poetry of a high imaginative order : 

The troops exulting sat in order round. 

And beaming fires illumined all the ground. 

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night I 

O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light ; 

When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, 

And not a dond o'ercasts the solemn scene ; 

Around her throne the vivid planets roll, 

And stars unnumbered ffild the flowing pole ; t 

O'er the dark trees a yellow verdure shed. 

And tip with silver every mountain's head; 

Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, 

A flood of glory bursts from all the skies : 

The conscious 8w.ains, rejoicing in the si^ht, 

Eye the bine vault, and bless the useful hght. 1 

So many flames before proud Lion blaze, ' 

And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays ; 

The long reactions of the distant flres 

Gleam on the walls and tremble on the s^dres. 

A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild, 

And shoot a ehady lustre o'er the field. 

Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend, 

Whose umbered arms, by fits, thick flashes send : 

* Pope was Indebted to an obscure rhymester, Thomas Fljltmav (168B-187S), far ■ems 
of the ideas in this ode. For example : 

When on my sick-bed I lantmi^h 

Full of sorrow, full of ansuish ; 

Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying, 

Panting, groaning, speechless, dying; 

Methinks i hear aome sentV« vi^Vclt say, 

' Pe not fearful, come avitt.7 V 
FlMtnuui was an artist He was author ot some P\ndAs\c o^«% vA Q»^«tv>«sas^«ft. ^\&jj^ 
» volume was published in 1674, 



POPE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. W 

Load neigh the coorserB o'er their heaps of com. 
And ardent warriors wait the rising, mom. 

Pope followed the old version of Chapman ; 

And spent all night in open fields ; fires round about them shined, 

As when about me silver moon, when air is free from wind, 

And stars shine clear, to whose sweet beams, high prospects, and the brows 

Of all steep hills and pinnacles, thrust up themselves for shows ; 

And even the lowly valleys joy to flitter in their sight. 

When the unmeasured firmameut bursts to disclose her light, 

And all the signs in heaven are seen, that glad the shepherd's heart : 

80 many fires disclosed their beams, made by the Trojan part. 

Before the face of Ilion, and her bright turrets shewed. 

A thousand courts of guard kept fires, and every guard allowed 

Fifty stout men, by whom their horse cat oats, and hard-white corDf 

And aU did wistfuOy expect the silver-thronM mom. 

Cowper's translation is brief, but vivid and distinct : 

And when around the clear bright moon, the stars 

Shine in full splendour, and the winds are hushed. 

The groves, the mountain-tops, the headland heights 

Stand all apparent, not a vapour streaks 

The boundless blue, but ether opened wide 

All glitters, and the shepherd's heart is cheered. 

So numerous seemed those fires, between the stream 

Of Xanthus blazing, and the fleet of Qreece, 

In prospect aU of Troy, a thousand fires, 

Each watched bv fifty warriors seated near ; 

The steeds beside the chariot stood, their com 

Chewing, and waiting till the golden-throned 

Aurora should restore the light of day. 

Associated with Pope in his Homeric labours were, as already 
stated, Fenton and Broome. Elijah Fenton (1688-1730) was an 
amiable scholar and man of letters ; a native of Shelton, near Stoke 
in Staffordshire ; took his degree of B. A. in Jesus College, Cambridge, 
in 1704, but being a Nonjuror in principle, he was, as Johnson says, 

* driven out a commoner of nature,* and subsisted chiefly by teach- 
ing. In 1717, he published a volume of poems; in 1723, a tragedy, 
entitled * Mariamne,' by which, Dr. Young says, he made £1500; and 
in 1729 he annotated the works of Waller. One of Fenton*s poetical 
productions, a Pindaric Ode, addressed to Lord Gower, was greatly 
admired by Pope and A^kenside. — William Brooms (1689-1745) was 
a native of Haslington, county of Chester, took his degree of M.A. 
in St. John's College, Cambridge, in 1716. He entered the church, 
married a wealthy widow, and died rector of Pulham, in Norfolk. 
He collected and published his poems in 1739. He was happier as 
a translator than as an original poet, and his annotations on the 

* Iliad * and ' Odyssey * evince his learning. 

MINOR POETS SATIRISBD IN THE DUNCIAD. 

The satire of Pope has invested with literary interest many names 
that woidd oUierwise have long since passed to oblivion. The bad 
poets ovtwitted him, as Swift predicted, and provoked him to trans- 
jait their names to posteri ty . The ftrst, \xexo ol W\^ ' T>>xwiN».^\ \is;:^^s^ 



Id8 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Theobald (who died in 1744), procured the enmity of Pope by 
criticising his edition of Shakspeare, and editing a more valuable 
edition himself. Being well versed in the Elizabethan writers, and 
in dramatic literature generally, Theobald excelled Pope as a com- 
mentator. He also wrote some poetical and dramatic pieces, but 
they are feeble performances. — John Dennis (1657-1734) was known 
as * the critic/ and some of his critical disquisitions evince an acute 
but narrow and coarse mind. He had received a learned education, 
and was well read in ancient and modern literature ; but his intolera- 
ble vanity, irritable temper — lieightened by intemperance — and the 
want of literary success, seem to have led him into absurdities, and 
rendered his whole life a scene of warfare. His critiques on Addi- 
son's * Cato ' and Pope's Homer are well known. He wrote several 
plays, for one of which — a tragedy called *Appiu8 and Virginia ' (1708) 
— he invented a new species of thunder, which was approved of in 
the theatres. His play was not successful ; and some time afterwards 
being present at the representation of ' Macbeth,' he heard his own 
thunder made use of, on which he exclaimed : * See how these rascals 
use me ; they will not let my play run, and yet they steal my thun- 
der !' Many other ludicrous stories are told of Dennis, whose self- 
importance amounted to a disease. Southey has praised Dennis's 
critical powers; and no doubt vigorous, discriminative passages may 
be selected from his works. They are, in general, however, heavy, 
and destitute of any fine perception or well-regulated judgment. — 
Chaiij.es Gildon (1665-1724) wrote a number of works, critical and 
dramatic. His plays were unsuccessful, but his 'Complete Art of 
Poetry' (1718) is a work of considerable research and care. One 
volume consists of criticism on the ancient and modern poets, and a 
second contains selected specimens. 

As Gildon preferred Tickell as a translator, and Ambrose Philips as 
a pastoral poet, to Pope, he was keenly satirised in the * Dunciad ' 
and * Moral Essays.' Leonabd Welstbd (1689-1747) was the 
author of two volumes of miscellaneous poetry, collected and repub- 
lished by Nichols in 1788. Welsted was clerk in ordinary to the 
Ordnance. He was an accomplished scholar and an elegant poet, 
but his works, not being characterised by any novelty of design or 
originality of style, are now almost unknown. — Thoicas Cooes 
(1702-1756) was the author of several dramatic pieces, poems, and 
translations. His translation of Hesiod was able and popular. — 
Aaron Hill (1685-1750) wrote several poems and plays, and was 
conspicuous among the literary men of the first half of the eighteenth 
century ; but his best title to distinction is his correspondence with 
Pope, and the allusion to him in the * Dunciad.' The spirit with 
which Hill met the attack of Pope, and the victory he obtained over 
him in the correspondence that ensued, are creditable to him both as 
s man and an author. Only one ot EWV^ di«.mfts, the tragedy of 
'Zara/ after FoJtaire, can be said lo laave \iecii ^o^xsX-Kt. '^^a ^^^s^ «^ 



SAVAoa.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 199 

ingenious specalative man, bat seldom successful in any of liH 
schemes — Of the numerous other small victims of Pope — James 
Moore Smythe, Concanen, fireval, Ralph, Arnall, &c. it seems un- 
necessary to give any notice here. They have been preserved, like 
straws in amber, in the poet's satire, but had no influence on the lite- 
rature of the age. In almost every instance. Pope was the aggressor. 
He loved satire; some fancied slight, rivalry, or political difference 
inspired his resentment, and he wasted on inferior objects powers 
fitted for the higher and nobler purposes of the moral Muse. 

KICHARD SAVAGE. 

One of Pope's assistants, though in a very undignified capacity, 
was RiCHAKD Savage, who supplied the 'private Intelligence* and 
secret incidents ' which add poignancy to the satire of the * Dunciad.' 
Savage is better, known for his misfortunes, as related by Johnson, 
than for any peculiar novelty or merit in his poetry. The latter 
rarely rises or continues long above th^evel of mediocrity ; the former 
seem a romance in real life. It is almost certain, however, that 
Johnson's memoir, derived directly or indirectly from Savage him- 
self, is little else than a romance, and its hero an impostor. Savage 
was bom in London, January 16, 1696-7, the reputed issue of an 
adulterous connection between the wife of Charles Lord Brandon, 
afterwards Earl of Macclesfield, and Richard Savage, Earl Rivers. 
Lady Brandon had been separated from her husband about ten years 
when she formed a liaison with Lord Rivers, by whom she had two 
children, a female child (that lived only a short time, and was 
christened after the father and mother, 'Ann Savage'), and a male 
chifd, baptised as 'Richard Smith.' Richard Smith, like the pre- 
ceding child, was^removed and placed at nurse, being taken away by 
a baker's wife, named Portlock, who said the child was her own, and 
from this time all trace of the infant is lost. ' If we are to believe 
Savage's story, the countess, from the hour of his birth, discovered a 
resolution of disowning him, and would never see her child again; 
suffered a large legacy left to him by his godmother to be embezzled for 
want of some one to prosecute his claim; told Earl Rivers, his father, 
on his death-bed (1712) that his child was dead, with the express 
object of depriving him of another legacy of £6000 ; endeavoured to 
have him kidnapped and transported ; and finally interfered to the 
utmost of her power, and by means of an " atrocious calumny," to 
prevent his being saved from the hangman.'* Most of these asser- 
tions have been disproved. Indeed, the story of the legacy is palpa- 
bly untrue, for, as Mr. Croker has remarked, if Savage had a title to 
the legacy, he could not have found any difficulty in recovering it. 
If the executors had resisted his claims, the whole costs, as well as 

* See Notes and Queries fox 18&8, where (he case i» fully iavestigated by Mr. Moy 



SOO C:YCLOPiEt)tA OF [*«> ^W- 

the legsLcy, must have been paid by them, if he had been the child to 
"Whom it was given. 

Savage or (Smith) is first heard of in 1717, when was published 
* The Convocation, or a Battle of Pamphlets, a Poem, written by Mr. 
Hichard Savage.* Next year (1718) he i)rocluced a comedy, * Love in 
a Veil,* which was published by Curll, and stated on the title-page 
to be * written by Richard Savage, Gent, son of the late Earl Rivers.* 
In Jacob's * Lives of the Poets ' (1717), the same story is repeated with 
additions; and Aaron Hill in his periodical, *The Plain Dealer,' in- 
serted letters and statements to the same efiect, which were furnished 
by Savage. His remarkable history thus became known, but, unfor- 
tunately, the vices and frailties of his character began also to be dis- 
played. Savage was not destitute of a love of virtue and principles 
of piety, but his habits were low and sensual. His temper was irri- 
table and capricious ; and whatever money he received, was instantly 
spent in obscure haunts of dissipation. In a tavern brawl, in 1727, 
be had the misfortune to kill a Mr. James Sinclair, for which he was 
tried and condemned to death, but was pardoned by Queen Caroline, 
and set at liberty. He published various poetical pieces as a means 
of support; and having addressed a birthday ode to the queen, call- 
ing himself the * Volunteer Laureate * — to the annoyance, it is said, of 
Colley Cibber, the legitimate inheritor of the laurel — her majesty sent 
him £50, and continued the same sum to him every year. His threats 
and menaces induced Lord Tyrconnel, a friend of his mother, to take 
him into his family, where he lived on equal terms, and was allowed 
a sum of £300 per annum. This, as Johnson remarks, was the * golden 
period * of Savage's life. As might have been foreseen, however, the 
habits of the poet differed very widely from those of the peer; they 
soon quarrelled, and the former was again set adjift on the world. 
The death of the queen also stopped his pension ; but his friends 
made up an annuity for him of equal amount, to which Pope gener- 
ously contributed £20. Savage agreed to withdraw to the country 
to avoid the temptations of London. He selected Swansea, but stop- 
ping at Bristol, was treated with great kindness by the opulent mer- 
chants and other inhabitants, whom he afterwards libelled in a sar- 
castic poem. In Swansea he resided about a year; but on revisiting 
Bristol, he was arrested for a small debt, and being unable to find 
bail, was thrown into prison. His folly, extravagance, and pride, 
though it was * pride that licks the dust,' had left him almost without a 
friend. He made no vigorous effort to extricate or maintain himself. 
Pope continued his allowance; but being provoked by some part of 
bis conduct, he wrote to him, stating that he was * determined to 
teep out of his suspicion by not being officious any longer, or obtrud- 
ing into any of his concerns' Savage felt the force of this rebuke 
from the steadiest and most illustrious of his friends. He was soon 
afterwards taken ill, and his condition not enabling him to procure 
medJoaJ assistance, he was found dead Va\i\a\i^^ o\i \Jaa xMsrcMi^^t 



fAGK.] fiNGLlStt LITERATURE. . 001 

tst of Angust, 1743. The keeper of the prison, who had treated 
1 with great kindness, buried the unfortunate poet at his own 
»ense. 

^vage was the author of two plays, and a volume of miscellane- 
1 poems. Of the latter, the principal piece is *The Wanderer** 
39), written with greater care than most of his other productions, 
t was the offspring of that happy period of his life when he lived 
h Lord Tyrconnel. Amidst much puerile and tawdry descrip- 
3, * The Wanderer * contains some impressive passages. The ver- 
nation is easy and correct. * The Bastard * (1728) is also a superior 
im, and bears the impress of true and energetic feeling. One cou- 
t is worthy of Pope. Of the bastard, he says : 

He lives to build, not boast, a generons race : 
No tenth transmitter cffa/ooiish /ace, 

i concluding passage, in which he mourns over the fatal act by 
ich he deprived a fellow-mortal of life, and over his own distress- 
condition, possesses genuine and manly pathos : 

Is chance of guilt, that my disastrous heart. 
For mischief never meant, must ever smart ? 
Can self-defence be sin ? Ah, plead no more I 
What though no purposed malice stained thee o'er, 
Had Heaven befriended thy unhappy side, 
Thou hadst not been provoked— or thou hadst died. 

Far be the guilt of bomeshed blood from all 
On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall I 
Still the pale dead revives, and lives to me, 
To me I through Pity's eye condemned to see. 
Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate ; 
Grieved I forgive, and am grown cool too late. 
Young and unthoughtf ul then ; who knows, one day. 
What ripening virtues might have made their way I 
He might have lived till folly died in shame. 
Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame; 
He might perhaps his country's friend have proved ; 
Both happy, generous, candid, and beloved ; 
He might have saved some worth, now doomed to fall. 
And I, perchance, in him, have murdered all. 

O fate of late repentance I always vain : 
Thy remediet* but lull undying pain. 
Where shall my hope find rest ? No mother's care 
Shielded my infant innocence with prayer ; 
No father's guardian hand my youth maintained. 
Called forth my virtues, or from vice restrained ; 
Is it not thine to snatch some powerful arm, 
First to advance, then screen from future harm? 
Am I returned from death to live in pain 7 
Or would imperial pity save in vain ? 

Distrust it not. What blame can mercy find, / 

Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind ? * 

Mother, miscalled, farewell— of soul severe^ 
This sad reflection yet may force one tear; 
All I was wretched by to you I owed : 
Alone from strangers every comfort flowed I 

Lost to the life you gave, your botx txo mora. 
And BOW adopted, who was doomed. )QetoiQ, 



/ 



j^ CYCLOPAEDIA Ot [to 172: 

New born, I may a nobler mother claim, 
Bnt dare not whisper her immortal name ; 
Sa];)reme]y lovely, and serenely great. 
Majestic mother of a kneeling 8tat« ; 
Queen of a people's heart, who ne*er before 
Agreed — ^yet now with one consent adore I 
One contest yet remains in this desire, 
Who most shall give applause where aJl admire. 

From the Wanderer, 

Ton mansion, made by beaming tai>er8 gay. 
Drowns the dim night, and couuteiteits the day; 
From 'lumined windows glancing on the eye. 
Around, athwart, the frisKing shadows fly, 
There midnight riot spreads illusive joys. 
And fortune, health, and dearer time destroys. 
Soon death's dark agent to luxuriant ease 
Shall wake sharp warnings in some fierce disease. 
O man I thy fabric's like a well-formed state ; 
Thy thoughts, first ranked, were sure designed the great 
Passions plebeians are, which factions raise ; 
Wine, like poured oil, excites the raging blaze ; 
Then giddy anarchy's rude triumphs rise : 
Then sovereign Reason from her empire flies : 
That ruler once deposed, wisdom and wit, 
To noise and folly, place and power, submit ; 
like a frail bark tny weakened mind is toss^ 
Unsteered, unbalanced, till its wealth is lost. 
The miser-spirit eyes the spendthrift heir. 
And mourns, too late, effects of sordid care. 
His treasures fly to cloy each fawning slave, 
Yet grudge a stone to dignify his grave. 
For this, low-thoughted craft his Ufe employed ; 
For this, though wealthy, he no wealth enjoyed ; 
For this he griped the poor, and alms denied, 
Unfriended nved, and unlamented died. 
Tet smile, grieved shade ! when that unprosperons store 
Fast lessens, when gay hours return no more ; 
Smile at thy heir, beholding, in his fall, 
Men once obliged, like him, ungrateful all I 
Then thought-inspiring woe his heart shall mend, 
And prove his only wise, unflattering friend. 

FoUy exhibits thus unmanly sport. 
While plotting Mischief keeps reserved her court. * 

Lo I from that mount, in blasting sulphur broke. 
Stream flames voluminous, enwrapped with smoke I 
In chariot-shape they whirl up yonder tower. 
Lean on its brow, and like destruction lower I 
From the black depth a fiery legion springs ; 
Each bold bad sceptre claps her sounding wings : 
And straight beneath a summoned, traitorous oand. 
On horror bent, in dark convention stand : 
From each fiend's mouth a ruddy vapour flows. 
Glides through the roof, and o'er the council glows : 
The villains, close beneath the infection pent, 
Feel, all possessed, their rising galls ferment ; 
And bum with faction, hate, and vengeful ire. 
For rapine, blood, and devastation dire I 
But Justice marks their Nvaja*. a^vfe vjwe»VQ.«ax 
The sword, high-tbreateiniitt,\V^ft «.wycEv«!e^^asfe, 
While here dark Viilaiii^ tL««ft\t ^ftK««^ : 



OARTH.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 303 

. _.« 

There stodions Honesty our view relieves. 

A feeble taper from yon lonesome room, 

Scattering thin ravs, jnst glimmers through the gloom ; 

There sits the sapient bara in museful mood, 

And glows impassioned for his country's good ! 

All the bright spirits of the just combined, 

Inform, renne, and prompt nis towering mind I 

A prose pamphlet, * The Author to be Let,' written under the name 
of Iscariot Hackney, is ascribed by Johnson to Savage; but it was 
undoubtedly the work of Pope. It is a satire on the petty writers of 
that period. It has also been confidently stated, that both the * Vol- 
unteer Laureate ' and * The Bastard ' were written by Aaron Hill to 
serve, the cause of his friend or protege. 

SIR SAMTTEL GAKTH. 

Sir Samuel Garth, an eminent physician, was a native of York- 
shire, and educated at Peterhouse, Cambridge, of which he was 
admitted Fellow m 1693. Garth published in 1699 his poem of * The 
Dispensarjr/ to aid the College of Physicians in a war they were then 
waging with the apothecaries. The latter had ventured to prescribe 
as well as compound medicines ; and the physicians, to outbid them 
in popularity, advertised that they would give advice gratia to the 
poor, and establish a dispensary of their own for the sale of cheap 
medicines. The College triumphed ; but in 1703 the House ol Lords 
decided that apothecaries were entitled to exercise the privilege 
which Garth and his brother-physicians resisted. Garth was a pop- 
tilar and benevolent man, a firm Whig, yet the early encourager of 
Pope; and when Dryden died, he pronounced a Latin oration over 
the poet's remains. With Addison, he was, politically and person- 
ally, on terms of the closest intimacy. On the accession of George I. 
he was knighted with Marlborough's sword, and received the double 
appointment of Physician in ordinary to tlie King, and Physician- 
general to the Army. He edited Ovid's ' Metamorphoses,' * Trans- 
lated by the most eminent hands,' in 1717. In that irreligious age, 
Gkirth seems to have partaken of the general scepticism and volui^tu- 
ousness. Several anecdotes of him were related by Pope to Spence, 
and he is said to have remarked in his last illness, that he was glad 
he was dying, for he was weary of having his ishoes pulled off and 
on ! Yet, if the date assigned to his birth (1670) be correct, he could 
then have been only forty -nine years of age. He died January 18, 
1718-19, and was buried in the chancel of the church at Harrow-on- 
the-Hill. 'The Dispensary' is a mock-heroic poem in six cantos. 
Some of the leading apothecaries of the day are happily ridiculed ; 
but the interest of the satire has passed away, and it does not con- 
tain enough of the life of poetry to preserve it. A few lines will give 
a specimen of the manner and the versification of the poem. It 
opens in the following strain ; 



304 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Extract from the ^Dispensary.^ 

Speak, goddess ! eince 'tis thon that best caxuBt teQ 
How ancient leagnes to modem discord fell ; 
And why physicians were so cautions grown 
Of others'^ lives, and lavish of their own ; 
How by a jonmey to the Elysian plain. 
Peace triumphed, and old time returned again. 

Not far from that most celebrated place (1) 
Where angry Justice shews her awful face; 
Where litUe villains must submit to fate. 
That great ones may enjoy the world in state ; 
There stands a dome, (2) majestic to the sight. 
And sumptuous arches bear its oval height ; 
A golden globe, placed high with aiiful skill, 
Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill ; 
TMs pile was, by the pious patron's aim, 
Baised for a use as noble as its frame ; 
Nor did the learned society decline 
The propagation of that great design ; 
In all her mazes. Nature's face they viewed, 
And, as she disappeared, their search pursued. 
Wrapt in the shade of ni^ht the goddess lies, 
Tet to the learned unveils her dark disguise. 
But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes. 

Now she unfolds the faint and Owning strife 
Of infant atoms kindling into life ; 
How ductile matter new meanders takes, 
And slender trains of twisting fibres makes ; 
And how the viscous seeks a closer tone, 
By ^ust degrees to harden into bone ; 
While the more loose flow from the vital urn. 
And in full tides of purple streams return ; 
How lambent flames from life's bright lamps arise, 
And dart in emanations through the ^es ; 
How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours. 
To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers ; 
Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim ; 
How areaX their force, how delicate their frame ; 
How me same nerves are fashioned to sustain^ 
The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain ; 
Why Diliotrs luice a golden light puts on, 
And floods of chyle m silv^ currents run ; 
How the dim speck of entity began 
To extend its recent form, and stretch to man ; • • • 
Why Envy oft transforms with wan disguise, 
And why gay Hirth sits smiling in the eyes ; . . . 
Whence Milo's vigour at the Olympic's shewn. 
Whence tropes toFinch, or impudence to Sloane ; 
How matter, hj the varied shape of pores 
Or idiots frames, or solemn senators. 

Hence tis we wait the wondrous cause to find. 
How body acts upon impassive mind ; 
How fumes of wine the thinking part can fire, 
Past hopes revive, and present }oys inspire ; 
Why our complexions oft our soul declare. 
And how the passions in the features are ; 
How touch and harmony arise between 
Corporeal figure and a tonn. wnieen : 
"How quick fheir faciiitie« tbie \\m\M& toSiS^ 



I Old Bailey, ^"^^^ Cq\1%«,% q1 V>Ki«vs2«tft», 



I.ACKMORE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 2M 

And act at every summons of the will : 
With mighty truths, mysterions to descry. 
Which in the womb of distant causes lie. 

But now DO grand inquiries are descried ; * 

Mean faction reigns where knowled^ shonld preside; 
^ Fends are increased, and leamiue laid aside ; 

Thus synods oft concern for faith conceal, 
And for important nothinm shew a zeal : 
The drooping sciences neglected pine. 
And Peean*s heams with fading lustre shine.^ 
Ko readers here with hectic looks are foimd, 
Kor eyes in rheum, through midnight watching drowned : 
The lonely edifice in sweats complains 
That nothing there but sullen sileuce reigns. 

This place, so fit for uudisturbed repose. 
The goa of Sloth for his aerjrlum choee ; 
Upon a couch of down in these abodes. 
Supine with folded arms, he thoughtless nods ; 
Indulging dreams his godhead lull to ease. 
With murmurs of soft rills, and whispering trees : 
The poppy and each numbing plant dispense 
Their drowsy virtue and dull indolence ; 
Ko passions interrupt his easy reign, 
Ko problems puzzle his lethargic brain : 
But dark oblivion guards his peaceful bed. 
And lazy fogs hang lingering o'er his head. 

On Death. 

Tis to the vulgar death too harsh appears ; 

The ill we feel is only in our fears. 

To die, is landing on some silent shore. 

Where billows never break, nor tempests roar : 

Ere well we feel the friendly stroke, *tis o'er. 

The wise through thought the insults of death defy ; 

The fools through blessed insensibility. 

Tis what the guilty fear, the pious crave ; 

Sought by the wretch, and vanquished by the brave. 

It eases lovers, sets the captive free: 

And, though a tyrant, offers liberty. 

Garth wrote the epilogue to Addison's tragedy of * Cato/ which 
ends with the following pleasing lines : 

Oh, may once more the happy age appeaf. 
When words were artless, and the thoughts sincere ; 
When gold and grandeur were unenvied things, 
And courts less coveted than groves and springs I 
Love then shall onlv mourn when Truth comp&ins, 
And Constancy feel transport in his own chains ; 
Sighs with success their own soft language tell, 
And eyes shall utter what the lips conceiu : 
Virtue again to its bright station climb, 
And Beauty fear no enemy but time ; 
The fair shall listen to desert alone, 
And every Lucia find a Cato*s son. 

SIB RICHARD BLACKMORB. 

Sib Richard Blackmore was one of the most fortunate physicians 
BDd most persecuted poets of the age. H.e w^A^ocsm ol ^ ^gci^^^swss.- . 
Ujr in Wiltshire, and took the degree ot "NL iv.. ^X O-sSsst^m^KV^. ^^^ 



206 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

was in extensive medical practice, was knighted by King William III. 
and afterwards made censor of the College of Physicians. In 1695, he 
published * Prince Arthm*/ an epic poem, which he says he wrote 
amidst the duties of his profession, in coffee-houses, or m passinq^up 
and down the streets ! Dryden, whom he had attacked for licentious- 
ness, satirised him for writing ' to the rumbling of his chariot-wheels.' 
Blackmore continued writing, and published a series of epic poems 
on King Alfred, Queen Elizabeth, the Redeemer, the Creation, &c. 
All have sunk into oblivion ; but Pope has preserved his memory in 
various satirical allusions. Addison extended his friendship to the 
Whig poet, whose private character was exemplary and irreproacha- 
ble. Dr. Johnson included Blackmore in his edition of the poets, but 
restricted his publication of his works to the poem of * Creation,' 
which, he said, * wants neither harmony of numbers, accuracy of 
thought, nor elegance of diction.' Blackmore died in 1729. The 
design of * Creation ' was to demonstrate the existence of a Divine 
Eternal Mind. He recites the proofs of a Deity from natural 
and physical phenomena, and afterwards reviews the systems 
of the Epicureans and the Fatalists, concluding with a hymn to the 
Creator of the world. The piety of Blackmore is everywhere appar- 
ent in his writings ; but the genius of poetry too often evaporates 
amidst his commonplace illustrations and prosing declamation. One 
passage of * Creation ' — addressed to the disciples of Lucretius — ^will 
suffice to show the style of Blackmore. in its more select and im- 
proved manner : 

The ScJieme of Creation, 

Yon ask ns why the soil the thistle hreecls ; 
Why its spontaneous hirth are thorns and weeds ; 
T^^ for the harvest it the harrow needs ? 

The Author might a nobler world have made, 
In brighter dress the hills and vales arrayed. 
And all its face in flowery scenes displayed : 
The elebe nntilled might plenteons crops have borne. 
And Drought forth spicy groves instead of thorn : 
Rich fruit and flowers, without the gardener's pains. 
Might every hill have crowned, have honoured aU the plains : 
This Nature might have boasted, had the Mind 
Who formed the spacious universe designed 
That man, from laoour free, as well as grief, 
Should pass in lazy luxury his life. 
But He nis creature gave a fertile soil. 
Fertile, but not without the owner's toil. 
That some reward his industry should crown. 
And that his food in part- might be his own. 

But while insulting you arraign the land. 
Ask why it wants the plough, or labourer's hand • 
Kind to the marble rocks, you ne'er complain 
That they, without the sculptor's skill and pain. 
No nerfect statue yield, no basse relieve, 
Or jonifihed column for thepaVac^ ^^e. 
Yet it from the hills unlabouted f^teB cKove, 
Man might have ease enioyed, t\vo\xcJa.ivevct lws», 
yon may the world of mote deiecX. \rp\««ad. 



^AkNjXLj ENGLISH LITERATURE. fM 

That other works by Nature are unmade : 

That she did never, at her own expense, 

A palace rear, and in magnificence 

Oat-rival art, to grace the stately rooms ; 

That she no castle builds, no lofty domes. 

Had Nature's hand these various works prepared. 

What thoughtful care, what labour had been siMured I 

But then no realm would one great master shew. 

No Phidias Greece, and Rome no Angelo. 

With equal reason, too, you might demand 

Why boats and ships require the artist's hand ; 

Why generous Nature did not these provide, 

Topass the standing lake, or flowing tide. 

You say the hills, which high in air arise, 
Harbour in clouds, and mingle with the skies. 
That earth's dishonour and encumbering load. 
Of many spacious regions man defraud ; 
For beasts and birds of prey a desolate abode. 
But can the objector no convenience find 
In mountains, hills, and rocks, which gird and bind 
The mighty frame, that else would be oisjoined I 
Do not those heaps the raging tide restrain, 
And for the dome afford the marble vein ? 
Do not the rivers from the mountains flow. 
And bring down riches to the vale below ? 
See how the torrent rolls the golden sand 
From the high ridges to the flatter land I 
The lofty lines abound with endless store 
Of mineral treasure and metallic ore. 

THOMAS FAKNBLL. 

In the brilliant circle of -wits and poets, and a popular author of 
that period, was Thomas Parnell (1679-1718). His father pos- 
sessed considerable estates in Ireland, but was descended of an Eng- 
lish family long settled at Congleton, in Cheshire. The poet was 
born and educated in Dublin, went into sacred orders, and was ap- 
pointed Archdeacon of Clogher, to which was afterwards added, 
through the influence of Swift, the vicarage of Finglass, estimated by 
Goldsmith (extravagantly) at £400 a year. Parnell, like Swift, dis- 
liked Ireland, and seems to have considered his situation there a 
cheerless and irksome banishment. As permanent residence at their 
livings was not then insisted upon on the part of the clergy, Parnell 
lived chiefly in London. He married a young lady of beauty and 
merit, Miss Anne Minchin, who died a few years after their union. 
His grief for her loss preyed upon his spirits — which had always been 
unequal — and hurried him into intemperance. He died at Chester, 
on his way to Ireland, and was interred there (as the register of 
Trinity Church states) on the 18th of October, 1718. Pai-neli was an 
accomplished scholar and a delightful companion. His Life was 
written by Goldsmith, who was proud of his distinguished country- 
man, considering him the last of the great school that had modelled 
itself upon the ancients. ParnelPs works are of a miscellaneous 
nature — translationSf songs, hymns, ep\a\\e«», dwi, ^\^ \s!kfif^\.<t,^^'«s^^ 
piece 28 ' The Hermit/ familiar to mo&\, i^^i.^'W^ it^^ ^^>^^ >5sS»ms\ 



806 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to xW- 

Pope proDOunced it to be * very good ;* and its sweetness of diction 
and picturesque solemnity of style must always please. His * I^ight- 
piece on Death * was indirectly preferred by Goldsmith to Gray*s 
celebrated ' Elegy;' but few men of taste or feeling will subscribe to 
such an opinion. In the * Night-piece/ Parnell meditates among the 
tombs. Tired with poring over the pages of schoolmen and sages, he 
sallies out at midnight to the. churchyard. 

A Night-piece — The Churchyard, 

How deep yon azare dyes the sky ! Those with bendine osier bound. 

Where orbs of gold nnnnmbered lie ; That nameless heave the cmmbled 

While through their ranks, in silver pride, groond, 

The nether crescent seems to glide. Oaick to the glancing thought disdoBe 

The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, Where toil and poverty repose. 

The lake is smooth and clear beneath, The flat smooth stones that bear a name. 

Where once again the spangled show The chisel's slender help to fame — 

Bescends to meet our eyes below. Which, ere our set of friends decay. 

The grounds, which on the right aspire, Their frequent steps may wear away — 

In dimness from the view retire : A middle race of mortals own. 

The left presents a place of graves. Men half ambitions, all unknown. 

Whose wall the silent water laves. The marble tombs that rise on high. 

That steeple guides thy doubtful sight Whose dead in vaulted arches lie. 

Among the livid gleams of night. Whose pillars swell with sculptured 

There pass, with melancholy state, stones. 

By all the solemn heaps of fate, Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones ; ' 

Aiid think, as softly sad you tread These all the poor remains of state, 

Above the venerable dead, Adorn the rich, or praise the great, 

* Time was, like thee, they life possessed. Who, while on earth in fame they live. 

And time shall be that thou shalt rest' Are senseless of the fame they give. > 

The Hermit. 

Par in a wild, ucknown to public view. 
From youth to age a reverend Hermit grew ; 
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell. 
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well ; 
Remote from men, with God he passed his days. 
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. 

A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose — 
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey ; 
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway ; 
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast. 
And all the tenor of his soul is lest. 
So, when a smooth expanse receives impressed 
Calm nature's image on its watery breast-, 
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow. 
And skies beneath with answering colours glow ; 
But, if a stone the gentle sea divide, 
Swift rufiling circles curl on every side. 
And glimmering fragment of a broken sun,' 
Banl^, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. 
• To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, 
To find if books, or swains, report it right — 
For yet by swains alone the world he knew. 
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew — 
He quits his cell ; the pil^m-stafE he bore, 
And Axed the scallop in his Y\at belote \ 
Then, with the rising sun, a ^ouraey -weiut, 
Sedate to think, and watcbing eack e^enX. 



PA&iCBix.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 900 

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, 
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ; 
But, when the southern son had warmed the day, 
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; 
His raiment decent, his complexion fair, 

And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair ; ; 

Then, near approaching, * Father, hail I' he cried, 
And, * Hail, my son !' the reverend sire replied. 
Wonis followed words, from question answer flowed. 
And talk of various kind deceived the road : 
Till each with other pleased, and loath to pturt, f,. 

While in their age they differ, join in heart. 
Thus stands an ased elm in ivy bound, 
Thus useful ivy chisps an ehn aronnd. 

Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day 
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ; 
Nature, in silence, bid the world repose, 
When, near the road, a stately palace rose. 
There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass. 
Whose verdure crowned tbeir sloping sides with grass. 
It chanced the noble master of the dome 
Still made his house the wandering stranger's home ; 
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of piaise, 
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. 
The pair arrive ; the liveried servants wait ; 
Their lord receives them at the pompous eate ; 
The table groans with costly piles of fooa. 
And all is more than hospitably good. 
Then led to rest, the dav's long toil they drown, 
Deep sunk in sleep, ana silk, and heaps of down. 
At length 'tis mom, and, at the dawn of day. 
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ; 
* Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, 

And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep. 
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call, 
An early banquet decked the splendid hall ; 
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced, 
Which the kind master forced the guests to taste. 
Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch they go ; 
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe ; 
His cup was vanished ; for in secret guise. 
The younger guest purloined the flittering prize. 

As one who spies a serpent in his way. 
Glistening and basking in the summer ray, 
Disorder^ stops to shun the danger near. 
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear ; 
So seemed the sire, when, far upon the road. 
The shining spoil his wily partner shewed. 
He stopped with silence, walked vidth trembling heart, 
And much he wished, but durst not ask to part ; 
Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard 
That generous actions meet a base reward. 
While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds. 
The chan^Dg skies hang out their sable clouds ; 
A sound in air presaged approaching rain. 
And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
Warned by the signs, the wandering pair retreat 
To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat. 
Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground. 
And stroug, and large, and unimproved around \ 
Its owner*8 temper, tirjorous and se^txe., 
UnkiDd and piping, caused a desert X\i«ie, 



210 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Afi near the miser's heavy door they drew, 

Fierce rising gusts with sadden f nry blew ; 

The nimble lightning, mixed with showers, began. 

And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders ran ; 

Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, 

Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain. 

At length some pity warmed the master's breast — 

*Twa8 then his threshold first received a guest — 

Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care. 

And half he welcomes in the shivering pair ; 

One frugal fagot lights the naked walls, 

And Nature's fervour through their limbs recalls; 

Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wine — 

Bach hardly granted— served them both to dine ; 

And when the tempest first appeared to cease, 

A ready warning bid them part in peace. 

With still remarkj the pondering hermit viewed. 

In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ; 

And why should such— within himself he cried — 

Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside ? 

But what new murks of wonder soon take place 

In every settling feature of his face, 

When, from his Vest, the young companion bore 

That cup, the generous landlord owned before, 

And paid profusely with the precious bowl. 

The stinted kindness of this churlish soul I 

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ; 
The sun emerging, opes an azure sky ; 
A fresher green the smelling leaves display. 
And, glittering as they tremble, cheer tiie day : 
The weather courts them from their poor retreat, 
And the ^rlad master bolts the weary gate. 
While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought 
With all the travail of uncertain thought : 
His partner's acts without their cause appear; 
'Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness here : 
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, 
Lost ana confounded with the various shows. 
Now night's dim shades again involve ttie sky ; 
Again the wanderers want a place to lie ; 
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. 
The soil improved around, the mansion neat. 
And neither poorly low, nor idly great ; 
It seemed to speak its master's turn of mind. 
Content, and not for praise, but virtue, kind. 
Hither the walkers turn their weary feet. 
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet. 
Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest guise. 
The courteous master hears, and thus replies : 

* Without a vain, without a grudging heart. 
To him who gives us all, lyield a part ; 
From Him you come, for mm accept it here, 
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer I' 
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread. 
Then talked of virtue till the time of bed ; 
When the grave household round his hall repair. 
Warned by a bell, and close the hour with prayer. 
At length the world, renewed by calm repose, 
WaB Btrong for toil ; the dappled mom arose ; 
Before the pilgrims part, the yoxmget creTpiV. 
Near a clewed cradle where an \iiia.n\. eXeot, 
fAnd writhed hffi neck : tbe landVoi^'eWdie vc^«^ 



^ARNBLL.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 211 

O strange retnm I grew black, and gasped, and died I 
Horror of horrors fwhat 1 his only son I 
How looked our hermit when the fact was done I 
Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part. 
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. 

Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, 
He flies, but trembling, fails to fly with speed ; 
His steps the youth pursues : the country lay 
Perplexed with roans ; a servant shewed the way ; 
A nver crossed the path ; the passage o'er 

Was nice to find I the servant trod before ; 
Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied, 
And deep the waves beneath them benoing glide. 
The youth, who seemed to watch a time to sin, 
Approached the careless guide, and thrust him in ; 
Plunging he falls, and rising, lifts his head. 
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. 

While sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes. 
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries : 
* Detested wretch I' — ^but search his speech began. 
When the strauge partner seemed no longer man I 
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; 
His robe turned white, and flowed upon hi8*feet; 
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; 
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air ; 
And wings, whose colours glittered on the day, 
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. 
The form ethereal bursts upon nis sight. 
And moves in all the majesty of light. 
Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grewj 
Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do! 
Surprise, in secret chains, his word suspends, 
Ana in a calm, his settling temper ends ; 
But silence here the beauteous angel broke — 
The voice of music ravished as he spoke : 

*Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown. 
In sweet memorial rise before the throne : 
These charms success in our bright reigion find. 
And force an angel down, to calm thy mind ; 
For this, commissioned, I forsook the sky : 
Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow-servant I. 
Then know the truth of government divine. 
And let these scruples be no longer thine. 
The Maker justly claims that world He made ; 
In this the right of Providence is laid ; 
Its sacred majesty through all depends 
On using second means to work Ms ends . 
'TIS thus, withdrawn in state from human eye. 
The power exerts his attributes on high ; 
Your action uses, nor controls your will. 
And bids the doubting sous of men be still. 
What strange events can strike with more surprise, 
Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes ? 
Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just. 
And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust. 
The great vain man, who fared on costly food. 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; 
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine. 
And forced his guests to morning draughts of wine. 
Has, with the cup, the gracelcfts custom \o«l. 
And bWI be welcomes, out witb \e»« ot co«X,. 
The mean, snspicioas vnretcki, YfYioaQ)MA!(»^ddy» 



did CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Ne'er moyed in inly to the wanderiDg poor ; 
With him I left the cap, to teach his mind 
That HeaveD can bless, if mortals will be kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl. 
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead. 
With heaping coals of fire upon its head : 
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow. 
And, loose from dross, the silver runs below. 
Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, » 

But now the child half-weaned his heart from God- 
child of his age — for him he lived in pain. 
And measured^ back his steps to earth again. 
To what excesses had his dotage n:n I 
But Qod to save the father took the son. 
To an but thee, in fits he seemed to go, 
And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow. 
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, 
Now owns in tears the punishment was just. 
But how had all his fortunes felt a wrack. 
Had that false servant sped in safety back I 
This night his treasured beaps he meant to steal, ^ , 

And what a fund of charity would fail I 
Thus Heaven instructs thy mind : this trial o'er. 
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more.' 

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew. 
The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew ; 
Thus looked Elisha, when, to mount on high, 
His master took the chariot of the sky ; 
The fiery pomp ascending left the view ; 
The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too. 

The bending Hermit here a prayer begun : 
* Lord, as in heaven, on earth thy will be done.* 
Then gladly tumine. sought his ancient place. 
And passed a life of piety and peace. 

JOHN GAT. 

The ItsdiaD opera and English pastorals — both sources of fashion- 
able and poetical affectation — were driven out of the field at this time 
by the easy, indolent, good-humoured John Gat (1688-1732), who 
seems to have been the most artless and the best-beloved of all the 
Pope and Swift circle of wits and poets. Gay was born in Devon- 
shire, the second son of John Gay, Esq., of Frithelstock, near Great 
Torrington. The family was reduced in circumstances, and both 
parents dying when the poet was about six years of age, he was, after 
receiving hia education in the town of Barnstaple, put apprentice to 
a silk-mercer in the Strand, London. He disliked this employment, 
and at length obtained his discharge from his master. In 1708, he 
published a poem in blank verse, entitled * Wine;' and in 1713 ap- 
peared his * Rural Sports,* a descriptive poem, dedicated to Pope, ui 
which we may trace his joy at being emancipated from the drudgery 

of a shop : 

But 1, who ne*er was hlessed by Fortune's hand. 
Nor brightened ploughshate^ vu ipaiteTnal land ; 
Long in the noisy town \iavc\ieeu\\uTtt\a^, 
Reapimd it8 smoke, and a\\ \Va coc^a eu^xjjwa- 
fVUJ^ed at last, a calm re\xeaXlO;iQa^ 



GAY.] fiNGUSH LITERATURE. 218 

And soothed my harassed mind with sweet iepo8e» 
Where fields, and shades, and the refreshhig dime 
Inspire the sylvan song, and prompt my rhyme. 

The same year, Gay obtained the appointment of domestic secretary 
to the Duchess of Monmouth. He also brought out a comedy, ' The 
Wife of Bath,' which was not successful. In 1714, he published his 

* Shepherd's Week, in six Pastorals/ written to throw ridicule on 
those of Ambrose Philips ; but containing so much genuine comic 
humour, and entertaining pictures of country-life, that they became 
popular, not as satires, but on account of their intrinsic merits, as af- 
fording * a prospect of his own country.* In an address to the * cour- 
teous reader,* Gay says : * Thou wilt not find my shepherdesses idly 
piping on oaten reeds, but milking the kine, tying up the sheaves ; or 
if the hogs are astray, driving them to their sties. Mv shepherd 

fathereth none other nosegays but what are the growth of our fields ; 
e sleepeth not under myrtle shades, but under a hedge ; nor doth he 
vigilantly defend his flock from wolves, because there are none.' 
This matter-of-fact view of rural life has been admirably followed by 
Crabbe, with a moral aim and effect to which Gay never aspired. 
His next attempt was dramatic. In February 1714-15 appeared 

* What d' ye Call It ?' a tragi-comic pastoral farce, which the audi- 
ence had * not wit enough to take ;' and next year he produced his 
' Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Streets of London,' and * The Fan,' 
a poem in three books. The former of these is in the mock-heroic 
sUrle, in which he was assisted by Swift, and gives a graphic account 
of the dangers and impediments then encountered in traversing the 
narrow, crowded, ill-lighted, and vice-infested thoroughfares of the 
metropolis. His paintings of city-life are in the Dutch style, low and 
familiar, but correctly and forcibly drawn. The following sketch of 
the frequenters of book-stalls in the streets may still be verified: 

Volames on sheltered staUs expanded lie. 

And various science lures the learned eve ; 

The bending shelves with ponderous scholiasts groan, 

Aud deep dmnes, to modem shops unkoown ; 

Here, like the bee, that on industrious wing 

Collects the various odours of the spring, 

Walkers at leisure learning's flowers may spoU, • ~^ 

Nor watch the wasting of tne midnight oil ; 

May morals snatch from Plutarch's tattered page, \ 

A mildewed Bacon, or Stagjrra's sage : 

Here sauntering 'prentices o'er Otway weep, 

O'er Congreve smile, or over D'Urfey sleep ; 

Pleased sempstresses the Lock's famed Rape unfold ; 

And Squirts* read Garth till apozems grow cold. 

The poet gives a lively and picturesque account of the great frost 
in London, m 1716, when a fair was held on the river Thames : 

O roving Muse I recall that wondrous ^p'ear 
When winter reigned in black Britannia's air ; 

'Squirt ia the name of an apothecary' s boy Vn Qi«xV.V » BUpwMar'tt « 



214 CYCLOPAEDIA OF t7x> ^W- 

When hoary Thames, Tvith frosted osiers crowned. 
Was three long moons in icy fetters bound. 
The waterman, forlorn, along the shore, 
Pensive reclines npon his useless oar : 
See harnessed steeds desert the stony town. 
And wander roads unstable, not their own, 
Wheels o'er the hardened water smoothly glide. 
And raze with whitened tracks the slippery tide ; 
Here the fat cook piles high the blazing fire. 
And scarce the spit can turn the steer entire ; 
Booths sadden hide the Thames, long streets ajq>ear. 
And numerous games proclaim the crowded fan:. 
So, when a general bids the martial train 
Spread their encampment o'er the spacious plain, 
Tnick-rising tents a canvas city build. 
And the loud dice resound through all the field. 

Gay was always sighing for public emplo3anent, for which he was 
eminently unfit, and in 1714 he had obtained a short glimpse of this 
fancied happiness. He wrote with joy to Pope : * Since you went 
out of the town, my Lord Clarendon was appointed envoy-extra- 
ordinary to Hanover, in the room of Lord Paget ; and by making use 
of those friends which I entirely owe to you, he has accepted me for 
his secretary.* The poet accordingly quitted his situation in the 
Monmouth family, and accompanied Lord Clarendon on his em- 
bassy. He seems, however, to have held it only for about two 
months ; for on the 28d of September of the same year, Pope wel- 
comes him to his native soil, and counsels him, now that the queen 

• was dead, to write something on the king, or prince, or princess. 
Gay was an anxious expectant of court favor, and he complied with 
Pope's request. He wrote a poem on the princess, and the royal 
family went to see his play of *What d'ye Call It?* Gay was 
stimulated to another dramatic attempt (1717), and produced a piece 
entitled * Three Hours After Marriage.* Some personal satire and 
indecent dialogue, together with the improbability of the plot, sealed 
its fate with the public. It soon fell into disgrace ; and its author, 
being afraid that Pope and Arbuthnot would suflfer injury from their 
supposed connection with it, took * all the shame on himself.* The 
trio of wits, however, were attacked in two pamphletis, and Pope*8 
quarrel with Cibber originated in this unfortunate drama. Gay was 
silent and dejected for some time ; but in 1720 he published his poems 
by subscription, and realised a sum of £1000. He received, also, a 
present of South Sea stock, and was supposed to be worth £20,000, 
all of which he lost by the explosion of that famous delusion. This 
serious calamity, to one fond of finery in dress and of luxurious liv- 
ing, almost overwhelmed him, but his friends were zealous, and h« 
was prompted to further literary exertion. In 1724, Gay brought 
out another drama, * The Captives,* which was acted with moderate 
success; and in 1726 he wrote a volume oC * Fables,* designed for the 
special improvement of the Duke oi C\rai>aet\«i.Ti^^^\ka ^^wswycJc^ <^^A. 

not learn mercy or humanity from X\iem» Ttxa «bQ5ft.^sfis\aTiQ!l\5aa^T\5iSfc 



GAY.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 315 

and princess to the throne seemed to augur well for the fortunes of 
Gay ; but he was only offered the situation of gentleman-usher to one 
of the young princesses, and considering this an insult, he rejected it 
In 1726, Swift came to England, and resided two months with Pope 
at Twickenham. Among other plans, the Dean of St. Patrick sug- 
gested to Gay the idea of a Newgate pastoral, in which the charac- 
ters should be thieves and highwaymen ; and the * Beggars' Opera ' 
was the result. When finished, the two friends were doubtful of the 
success of the piece ; but it was received with unbounded applause. 
The songs and music aided greatlv its popularity, and there was also 
the recommendation of political satire; for the quarrel between 
Peachum and Lockit was an allusion to a personal collision between 
"Walpole and his colleague. Lord Townshend. The spirit and variety 
of the piece, in which sons and sentiment are so happily intermixed 
with vice and roguery, still render the * Beggars* Opera * a favourite 
with the public ; but as Gay has succeeded in making highwaymen 
agreeable, and even attractive, it cannot be commended for its moral 
tendency. Of this, we suspect, the Epicurean author thought little. 
The opera had a run of sixty-two nights, and became the rage of 
town and country. Its success had also the effect of giving rise to the 
English opera, a species of light comedy enlivened by songs and 
music, which for a time supplanted the Italian opera, with all its 
exotic and elaborate graces. By this successful opera. Gay, as ap- 
pears from the manager's account book, cleared £693 ,13s. 6d. besides 
what he derived from its publication. He tried a sequel to the * Beg- 
gars' Opera,' under the title of * Polly ;' but as it was supposed 
to contain sarcasms on the court, the lord chamberlain prohibited 
its representation. The poet had recourse to publication; and 
such was the zeal of his friends, and the effect of party-spirit, 
that * Polly' produced a profit of £1100 or £1200. The Duch- 
ess of Marlborough gave £100 as her subscription for a copy. 
Gay had now amassed £3000 by his writings, which he resolved to 
keep * entire and sacred.' He was at the same time received into the 
house of his kind patrons the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry, with 
whom he spent the remainder of his life. His only literary occupa- 
tion was composing additional fables, and corresponding occasion- 
ally with Pope and Swift. A sudden attack of inflammatory fever 
hurried him out of life in three days. He died on the 4th of Decem- 
ber 1738, aged 44. Pope's letter to Swift announcing the event was 
endorsed : * On my dear friend Mr. Gay's death. Received, Decem- 
ber 15th, but not read till the 20th, by an impulse foreboding some 
misfortune.' The friendship of these eminent men seems to have 
been sincere and tender ; and nothing in the life-of Swift is more 
touching or honourable to his memory than those passages in his 
letters where the recollection of Gay melted his haughty stoicism, 
and awakened bis deep though unavailing sotio'w. Po^^ v(«& eo^ial- 
ty gheyed b^ tbe loa$ of him whom he loiaa c\iWW5\ftfssfc^^ 



dl5 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 172% 

Of manners gentle, of affectkm« mild ; 
Ir wit, a man, simplicity, a child. 

Gay was bnried in Westminster Abbey, where a handsome monn- 
ment was erected to his memory by the Duke and Duchess of Queens- 
berry. The works of this easy and genial son of the Muses have lost 
much of their popularity. He has the licentiousness, without the 
elegance of Prior. His * Fables * are still, however, the Ijest we pos- 
sess; and if they have not the nationality or rich humour and arch- 
ness of La Fontaine's, they are light and pleasing, and the yersificar 
tion always smooth and correct. * The Hare with Many Friends * is 
doubtless drawn from Gay's own experience. In the * Court of 
Death,' he aims at a higher order of poetry, and marshals his ' dis- 
eases dire' with a strong and gloomy power. His song of * Black- 
eyed Susan,' and the ballad beginning * 'Twas when the seas were 
roaring/ are full of characteristic tenderness and lyrical melody. The 
latter is said by Cowper to have been the joint production of Arbath- 
not, Swift, and Gay, but the tradition is not supported by eyidence. 

The Country Ballad-singer ,— From 'The 8heph&r^B Week,* 

Snhlimcr strains, O rustic Muse I prepare ; 

Forget awhile ttie bam and dairy's care ; 

Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise. 

The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays ; 

With Bowzybeus' songs exalt thy verse. 

While rocks and woods the vaiious notes rehearse. 

Twas in the season when the reapers' toil 
Of the ripe harvest 'gau to rid the soil ; 
Wide through the field was seen a goodly rout, 
Clean damsels bound the gathered sheaves about ; 
The lads with sharpened hook and sweating brow 
Cut down the labours of the winter plough. . . • 

When fast asleep they Bowzybeus spied, 
His hat and oaken stafc lay close beside ; 
That Bowzybeus who could sweetlv sing. 
Or with the rosined bow torment the stung ; 
That Bowzybeus who, with fingers' speed, 
Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed; 
That Bowzybeus who, with jocund tongue. 
Ballads, and roundela} s, and catches sung : 
They loudly laugh to see the damsels' fright. 
And in disport surround the drunken wight. 

Ah, Bowzybee, why didst thou stay so long ? 
The mugs were large, the drink was wondrous strong I 
Thou shouldst have left the fair before twas night, 
But thou sat'st toping till the morning light. . . • 

No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song. 
But lads and lasses round about him throng. 
Not ballad-singer placed above the crowd 
Sings with a note so shrilling sweet and loud ; 
Nor parish-clerk, who calls the psalm so clear, 
Like Bowzybeus soothes the attentive ear. 

Of Nature's laws his carols first begun— 
Why the grave owl can never iace l\ie woax. 
For owls, as swains observe, de\«e\.\Yift''i^^V 
And only sing and seek tUeir pteTj \^n lAgw* 
flow turnips hide their swemng^eaaB w»av. 



ir.J ENGLISH LITERATURE. 217 

And how the clodxig coleworts apwards srow ; 
How Will-arwiflp misleads night-faring downs 
O'er hills, and sraking bogs, and pathfess downfli 
Of stars he told that shoot with shining trail. 
And of the glowworm's light that gilds his taiL 
He song where woodcocks in the sommer feed, 
And in what climates they renew their breed- 
Some think to northern coasts their flight they tend. 
Or to the moon in midnight hoars ascend- 
Where swallows in the winter's season keep, 
And how the drowsy bat and dormonse sleep ; 
How Nature does the pnppy's eyelids close 
TUl the bright snn has nioe times set and rose : 
(For huntsmen bv their long experience find, 
lliat puppies still nine rolling sons are bUnd). 

Now he goes on, and sings of fairs and showi^ 
For still new fairs, before his eves arose. 
How pedlers' stalls with glittermg toys are laid« 
The various fairings of the country maid. 
Long silken laces fismg upon the twine. 
And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine . 
How the tight lass knives, combs, and sdseon Bfktl, 
And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes. 
Of lotteries next with tuneful note he told. 
Where silver spoons are won, and rings oi gold. 
The lads and lasses trudge the street aSong, 
And all the fair is crowed in his song. 
The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells 
His pills, his balsams, and his aguenspells ; 
Ndw o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler springs, 
And on the rope the venturous maiden swings ; 
Jack Pudding, in Ids party-coloured jacket, 
Tosses the gR>ve, and jokes at every packet. 
Of raree-shows he sung, and Punch's feats. 
Of pockets picked in crowds, and various dieats. 

Walking the Streets of London, — From 'TrMa.* 

Through winter streets to steer your course arig^i^ 
How to walk clean by day, and safe by night ; 
How jostling crowds with prudence to decune, 
When to assert the wall, and when resign, 
I sing ; thou. Trivia, goddess, aid my song, ' 
Through spacious streets conduct thy bara along; 
By thee transported, I securely stray 
Where winding allevs lead the doubtful way ; 
The silent court and opening square explore^ 
And long perplexing lanes nntrod before. 
To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken waySi 
Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays : 
For thee the sturdy pavior thumps the ground, T 
Whilst every stroke his labouring lunes resound; 
For thee the scavenger bids kennels glide 
Within their bounds and hem of curt subsideu 
My youthful bosom bums with thirst of f ame^ 
From the great theme to build a glorious name ; 
To tread in paths to ancient banu unknown, 
And bind my temples with a civic crown : 
But more my country's love demands mv lays ; 
Mycountry's be the profit, mine the praue I 

When the black vouth at chosen slaiid&TQ\c\CA« 
And * Clean your shoes ' resounds fxovi e;^en '^^^X 
When late tbeir miry sides stage-ccMuckeA iJkMm^ 



218 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1689. 

And their stiff horses through the town move alow; 

When all the Mall in leafy rain lies, 

And damsels first renew their oyster-cries ; 

Then let the prudent walker shoes proTid^ 

Not of the Spanish or Morocco hide ; 

The wooden neel may raise the dancer's bonnd, 

And with the scalloped top his step be crowned : 

Let firm, well-hammered soles protect thy feet 

Through freezing snows, and rains, and soaking sleet. 

Should Uie big last extend the shoe too wide, 

Each stone will wrench the unwary step aside ; 

The sadden turn may stretch the swelling vein, 

Thy cracking joint unhinge, or ankle sprain ; 

Aiid when too short the modish shoes are woniy 

You *\\ judge the seasons by your shooting com. 

Nor shomd it prove thy less important care 
Tb clKWse a proper coat for winter's wear. 
Now in thy trunk thy D'Oily habit fold, 
The silken drugget iU can fence the cold ; 
The frieze's spongy nap is soaked with rain. 
And showers soon drench the camblet's cockled grain ; 
True Witney (1) broadcloth, with its shag unshorn, 
' Unplerced is in the lasting tempest worn : 

Be tins the horseman's fence, for who would wear 
Amid the town the spoils of Russia's bear ? 
Within the roquelanre's clasp thy hands are pent, 
Hands, that, stretched forth, invading harms prevent. 
liCt the lo(^d bavaroy the top embrace. 
Or Ms deep cloak bespattered o'er with lace. 
That garment best the winter's rage defends. 
Whose ample form without one plait dqpends ; 
Sy various names in various counties ^own, 
Yet held in all the true surtout alone ; 
Be thine of kersey firm, though small the cost, 
Then brave unwet the rain, unchiUed the frost. 

If thy strong cane support thy walldng hand^ 
^ - Chairmen no longer shall the wall command ; 
Even sturdy carmen shall thy nod obey, 
And rattling coaches stop to make thee way : 
This shall mrect thy cautious tread aright. 
Though not one glaring lamp enliven mght. 
Let beaux their canes, with amber tint, produce ; 
Be theirs for empty show, but thine for use. 
In gilded chariots while they loll at ease, 
And lazily insure a life's disease ; 
While sorter chairs the tawdry load convey 
To Court, to White'gj(2) assemblies, or the play ; 
Rosy-complexioned Health thy steps attends, 
Ana exercise thy lasting youth defends. 

Song, 
Sweet woman is like the fair flower in its Iqstre, 

Which in the garden enamels the ground ; 
Near it the bees, in play, flutter and cluster, 

And gaudy butternies frolic around. 

Bat when once plucked, 'tis no longer alluring. 

To Oovent Garden 'tis sent (as yet sweet). 
There fades, and shrinks, and grows past all enduring, 

liots, stinks, and dies, and is tcod under feet.(8) 



1 A town in Oxfordshire. 2 A choco\&te-^ouftft \ti %V.. l^.wffc'^^wX., 
^ ' / thought o' the bonny bit thorn that out lalhftt twAfc^ wsX <i' >ijBft i^s^Nskikil 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



81« 



The Gowrt of DecLth, 



I & Bcdemii night of state, 
pomp of terror sate : 
idantaof his gloomy reign, 
dire, a ghastfy train I 
le vast court. With hollow tone, 
hna thnndeied from the throne : 
rht our minister we name ; 
' servant speak his claim ; 
ill bear this ebon wand.' 
he word, stretched forth their 
id. 

with baming heat possessed, 
d, and for the wand addressed : 
weekly bills appeal ; 
! express my fenrant zeal ; 
slight occasion near, 
lence I persevere.* 
tout appears with limping pace, 
3w he snifts from place to place ; 
ad to foot how swut he flies, 
7 joint and cinew plies ; 
king when he aeems supprest, 
enacious stubborn guest, 
^rd spectre from the crew 
9rth, and thus asserts hJB due : 
ho taint the sweetest joy, 
tie shape of love destroy, 
ks, sunk eyes, and noseless face, 
f pretension to the place.' 



Stone urged his overgrowing force ; 
And, next. Consumption's meagre corse. 
With feeble voice that scarce was heard. 
Broke with short coughs, his suit pre- 
ferred: 

* liCt none object my lihgering way ; 
I gain, like Pabius, oy delay ; 
Fatigue and weaken every foe 

By long attack, secure, though slow.' 
rlague represents Ifls. rapid power. 

Who thinned a nation In an hour. 
AU spoke their daim, and hoped the 
wand. 

Now expectation hushed the band, 

When thus the mona^xh.from the throne \ 

* Merit was ever modest known. 
What I no physician speAk his right ? 
None here I but fees tneir toils requite. 
Let, then, Intemperance take the wand, 
Who fills with g^dlhei^. zealous hand. 
You, Fever, Gout, aiid AD the rest— 
Whom wary men as foes detest— 
Forego your claim. No riiore pretend 
Intemperance is esteemed a friend ) 

He shares their mirth, thtir social joys, 
And as a courted gueik' destroys. 
The chan^ on him must jhstly fall. 
Who fin£ employment.for you aU.' 



The Ha/re with Many FrieTkds. 



lip, like love, is but a name, 
) one you stint the flame, 
i whom many fathers share, 
dom known a father's care. 
I in friendship ; who depend 
r, rarely find a friend. 
3, who, in a civil way, 
i with everything, like Gay, 
twn by all the bestial train 
int the wood, or graze the plain, 
was never to offend, 
ry creature was her friend, 
th she went at early dawn, 
the dew-besprinkled lawn, 
he hears the hunter's cries, 
a the deep-mouthed thunder flies: 
«, she stops, she pants for breath; 
8 the near advance of death ; 
>le8, to mislead the hound, 
isures back her mazy round ; 
ting in the public way, 
d with fear she gasping lay ; 
insport In her bosom grew, 
»t the Horse appearea in idew I 



' Let me,' says she, * yoor bacfc flSCend, 
And owe my safetjr to a friend. 
You know my feet betray my flight ; 
To friendship every burden 's light. 
The Horse replied : ' Poor Honest Puss, 
It grieves my neart to see thee thus ; 
Be comforted ; relief is near, 
For all your friends are in the rear.' 

She next the stately Bull implored. 
And thus replied Uie mi^ity lord : 

* Since every beast alive can tell 
That I sincerely vAsYi you weU, 
I may, without offence, pretend 
To take the freedom of a friend. 
Love calls me hence ; a favourite cow 
Expects me near yon barley-mow ; 
And when a lady 's in the case. 

You know, all other things give place. 
To leave you thus mi^ht seem unkind ; 
But see, the Goat is yas^ behind.' 

The Goat remarked her pulse was high, 
Her languid head, her heavy eye ; 

* My back,' says he, * may do you harm ; 
The Sheep 's at hand, and wool is warm.' 



a* the flush o' biossoms on it ; and then it lav in the court till the beasts had 
to pieces wi' their feet- I little thought when I was wae for th« bit e>U.W 
"I was to gang the BamftS«t\Am^«sS^»^— EjjiftTi<i.ai\AVfti 



lad a 

la' 

»h And ita ttowen, that 

' JfM'LoiMan. ' 



d20 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF 



[to i7*7« 



The Sheep was feeble, and complained 
His Bides a load of wool sostainea : 
Said he was slow, confessed his fears, 
For honnds eat sheep as weU as hares. 

She now the trotting Calf addressed, 
To saye from death a friend distressed. 
' Shall I/' says he, * of tendei age, 
In this important care engage 7 



Older and abler passed yon by ; 
How strong are those, how weak am 1 1 
Should I presume to bear yon beno^ 
Those friends of mine may take oSasd, 
Excuse me, then. You know my heart ; 
But dearest friends, alas I most part 
How shall we all lament I Adieu I 
For, see, the hoauda are jnat in ligwV 



Song, — Black-eyed Susan. 

All in the Downs the fleet was moored, 

The streamers waving in the wind. 
When Black-eyed Susan came aboard, 

* Oh I where shall I my true loye find 7 
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, 
If my sweet William sails among the crew V 

WiDiam, who high upon the yard 

Rocked with the billow to and fro^ 
Soon as her well-known voice he heard. 

He sSghed, and cast his eyes below : 
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing handfl^ 
And, quick as lightning, on the deck he sttmda. 

So the sweet lark, high i>oi8ed in air, 
Shuts close his pinions to his breast— 

If chance his mate's shrill call he hear— 
And drops at once into her nest. 

The noblest captain in the British fleet 

Kight envy William's lips those kisses sweet 

* O Susan, Susan, lovely dear. 

My vows shall ever true remain ; 
Let me kiss off that falling tear ; 

We only part to meet again. 
Change as ye list, ye winds ! my heart shall be 
The nithf ul compass that still points to thee. 

' Believe not what the landmen say. 
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind ; 

They '11 tell thee, sailors, when away, 
In.every port a mistress find : 

Yes, y«*» believe them when they tell thee so, 

For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. 

' If to fair India's coast we sail, 
Thv eyes are seen in diamonds bright, | 

Thv breath is Afric's spicy^ gale, 
Thy skin is ivory so white. 

Thus every beauteous object that I view, 

Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 

' Though battle call me from thy arms. 

Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 
Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, 

Wiluam shall to his dear return. 
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly. 
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's ^e*' 

The boatswain e;ave the dreadful word ; 

The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 
No longer must she stay aboard : 

They kissed— she signed— Xie Ywm^ bis head. 
Hier lessening boat unvnWing tovib \o XttoA^ 
' Adiea J' she cries, and waved \ie;t "\aiVs YuK&du 



TICKELL.] 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



221 



A BaUad.-^From * What d* ye OcUl It r 



Twas when fhe seas were roaring 

With hollow blasts of wind, 
A damsel lay deploring. 

AU on a rock reding. 
Wide o'er the foaming billows 

She cast a wistful look : 
Her head was crowned with wiUows, 

That trembled o'er the brook. 

' Twelve months are gone and over, 

And nine long tedioos days ; 
W^ didst thon, ventoroos lover, 

Why didst thon trost the seas ? 
Cease, cease, thon cruel ocean, 

And let my lover rest : 
Ah I what 's thy troubled motion 

To that withm my breast ? 

* The merchant, robbed of pleasure, 
Sees tempests in despair ; 

But what 's the loss of treasure, 
To losing of my dear 7 



Should you some coast be laid on 
Where gold and diamonds grow, 

You'd find a richer maiden, 
But none that loves you so. 

' How can they say that nature 

Has nothing made in vain ; 
Why, then, beneath the water, 

Should hideous rocks remain ? 
No eyes the rocks discover 

That lurk beneath the deep, 
To wreck the wandering lover, 

And leave the maid to weep.' 

All melancholy lying. 

Thus wailea she for her dear ; 
Repaid each blast with sighing. 

Each billow with a tear. 
When o'er the white wave stooping 

His floating corpse she spied. 
Then, like a uly drooping, 

She bowed her head, and died. 



THOIIAS TICSSLL* 

The friendship of Addison has shed a reflected light on some of 
his contemporaries, and it eleyated them, in their own day, to con- 
siderable importance. Amongst these was Thomas Tickell (1686- 
1740), born at Bridekirk, near Carlisle, son of a clergyman, and 
educated at Queen's College, Oxford. He was a writer in the * Spec- 
tator ' and * Guardian ;' and when Addison went to Ireland as secre- 
tary to Lord Sunderland, Tickell accompanied him, and was 
employed in public business. He published a translation of the first 
book of thfe *. Iliad* at the same time with Pope. Addison and the 
Whigs pronounced it to be the best, while the Tories ranged under 
the banner of Pope. The circumstance led to a breach of the friend- 
ship betwixt Addison and Pope, which was never healed. Addison 
continued, his patronaee, and when made Secretary of State in 1717, 
he appointed his friend under-secretary. He also left him the charge 
of publishing his works, and on his death-bed recommended him to 
Secretary Craggs. Tickell prefixed to the collected works of Addi- 
son an elegy on his deceased friend, which is justly considered one of 
the most pathetic and sublime poems in the language. In 1722, 
^ Tickell published a poem, chiefly allegorical, entitled ' Kensington 
Gardens ;' and being in 1724 appointed secretary to the lords-justices 
of Ireland, he seems to have abandoned the Muses. He died at Bath 
in 1740, but was buried at Glasneven, near Dublin, where he had 
long resided. The monumental tablet in Glasneyen Church to the 
memory of Tickell records that * his highest honour was that of 
haying been the friend of Addison.* His elegy, and his beautiful 
ballad of * Colin and Lucy/ would have aet^ei^ \3ksy^'i'^i'i\^\a v^^* 



222 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 

petuate his name, while even his opponent Pdpe admitted ths 
was an * honest man/ 

From the Lines ^To the EaH of Warwick, on the Death of Mr 

Addison.^ 

Can I forget the dismal night that gave 

My soul's Deet part for ever to the grave ? 

How silently did his old companions tread, 

By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, 

Through breathing statoes, then nnheeded things. 

Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings I 

What awe did the slow solenyi knell Inspire ; 

The pesdine organ, and the pausing choir ; 

The duties Dy the lawn-robed prelate paid : 

And the last wonK that dust to dust conveyed I 

While roeechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, 

Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. 

Oh, gone for ever I take this long adieu ; 

And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague. 

To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, 

A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine ; 

Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, 

And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. 

If e'er from me thy loved memorial part, 

May shame afflict this alienated heart ; 

Of thee forgetful if I form a song, 

My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue. 

My grief be doubled from ttiy image free. 

Ana mirth a torment, onchastiBed oy thee I 

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles aloi>e. 
Sad luxury I to vulgar minds unknown, 
Along the walls where epeakihg marbles shew 
What worthies form the hallowed mould below ; 
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held ; 
In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled ; 
Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood ; 
Stem patriots, who for sacred nreedom stood ; 
Just men. by whom impartial laws were given ; 
And saints who taught and led the way to heaven ; 
Ne'er to these chamoers, where the mighty rest, 
Since their foundation came a nobler guest; 
NcHT e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed 
A furer spirit or more welcome shade. 

In what new region, to the just assigned, 
What new emptoyments please th' unbodied mind? 
A winged virtue, through th' ethereal sky. 
From world to world unwearied does he fly ? 
Or curious trace the long laborious maze 
Of heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gase T 
Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell 
How Michael battled, and the dragon fell ; 
Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow 
In hymns of love, not iU essayed below ? 
Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, 
A task well suited to thy gentle mind? 
Oh I if sometimes thy spotless form descend. 
To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend ! 
When ra^e misguides me, or 'Vfbeti tear alarms, 
Wlien pam distresses, or when p\e«k£>\uce OcivraA, 
In silent whisperiuga purer tho\xg)a\&Vmisas\^ 



TICKSLL.] 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



223 



And tarn from ill a frail and feeble heart : 
Lead throogh the paths thy virtue trod before, 
Tin bliss shall join, nor death can part ns more. 

That awful form, which, so the heavens decree. 
Most still be loved and still deplored by me. 
In nightly visions seldom f {dls to rise. 
Or. roQsed by fancy, meets my waking eyes. 
If Dosiness calls, or crowded courts invite, 
Th' unblemished statesman seems to strike my sights 
If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, 
I meethis scrol which breathes vo^ Gato there ; 
If pensive to the rural shades I rove. 
His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove ; 
'Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong. 
Cleared some ^eat truth, or raised some serious song: 
There patient shewed us the wise coarse to steer, 
A candid censor, and a friend severe ; 
There taught us how to live ; and— oh I too bish 
The price for knowledge— taught us how to die. 

Thou hill whose brow the antique structures grace, 
Reared by bold chiefs of WarwicVs noble race. 
Why, once so loved, when*er thy bower appears. 
O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudd^i tears? 
How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, 
Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted atr I 
How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees. 
Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze I 
His image thy f orsakien bowers restore ; 
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more ; 
No more the summer in ihy glooms allayed. 
Thy evening breezes, and thy noonday shade. 

Colin and Jjucy. — A BaUad, 



Of LeinBter, famed for maidens fair, 
Bright Lacy was the grace, 

Kor e°er did IMey's limpid stream 
Reflect so sweet a face ; 

Till lacklesB love and pining care 

Impair*^ her rosy hoe, 
Her coral lips and damask cheeks. 

And eyes of glossy blue. 

Oh 1 have you seen a Uly pale 
When beating rains Ascend ? 

So drooped the slow-consuming maid, 
Her Uie now near its end. 

By Imcs warned, of flattering swains 

Take heed, ye easy fair I 
Of vengMnoe due to broken vows, 

Te pexjored swains I beware. 

Three times all in the dead of night 

A bell was heard to ring. 
And shrieking, at her window thrice 

The raven &pped his wing. 

Too well the lovelorn maiden knew 

The solemn boding sound. 
And OinBin dying words bespokQ 
The virging Weeping round ; 



* 1 hear a voice yon cannot hear. 

Which says I must not stay ; 
I see a hand you cannot see. 
Which beckons me away. 

' By a false heart and broken vows 

in early youth I die. 
Was I to blame because his bride 

Was thrice as rich as I ? 

* Ah, Colin I give not her thy vows. 

Vows due to me alone ; 
Nor thou, fond maid I receive his kiss 
Nor think him all thy own. 

' To-morrow in the church to wed. 

Impatient both prepare ; 
But know, fond maid I and know, false 

man I 
- That Lucy will be there. 

' Then bear my corpse, my comrades { 
bear. 

This brid^room blithe to meet ; 
He in his wading trim so gay, 

I in my winding-sheet.' 

She spoke ; fd[v<& ^"eA^ 'ast wstv^fc ^>>jk 
Vome 



224 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF 



[to 1727. 



The bridegroom blithe to meet 
He in his wedding trim so gay, 
She in her winmng-sheet. 



When stretched before her rival's corpae 
She saw her husband dead. 



Then what were 
thoughts ? 

How were these nuptials kept ? 
The bridesmen flocked.round Lucy dead, 

And all the village wept. 



Then to his Lucy's new-made grave 
perjured Colin's Conveyed by teembling swains, 

One mould with her, beneath one sod, 
For ever he remains. 



Confusion, shame, remorse, despair, 

At once his bosom swell ; 
The damps of death bedewed his brow ; 

He shook— he groaned— he fell I 

From the vain bride— ah I bride no 
more ! — 
The varying crimson fled 



Oft at this erave the constant hind 
And plighted maid are seen ; 

With garltmds gay and true-love knots 
They deck the sacred green. 

But. swidn forsworn I whoe'er thou art, 
Tms hallowed spot forbear ; 

Remember Colin*s dreadful fate. 
And fear to meet him there. 



Tickell occasionally tried satire, and the following piece shews a 
stronger and bolder nand than the bulk of his verses. It was written 
to ridicule the Jacobite Earl of Mar and his rash enterprise in 1715-16 
in favour of the Chevalier. 



An Imitation of the Prophecy of Nereta — From Horace, Book iU, 

Ode 25. 



As Mar his round one morning took— 
Whom some call earl, and some call 

duke — 
And his new brethren of the blade, 
Shivering with fear and frost, surveyed, 
On Perth's bleak hills he chanc^ to spy 
Au aged wizard six foot high. 
With bristled hair and visage blighted, 
Wall-e^ed, bare haunched, and second- 
sighted. 
The grisly sage in thought profound 
Beheld the chief with t«ck so round, 
Then rolled his eyeballs to and fro 
O'er his paternal hills of snow. 
And into these tremendous speeches 
Brake forth the prophet without breeches : 

* Into what ills, betrayed by thee 
This ancient kingdom do I see I 
Her realms unpeopled and forlorn — ■ 
Wae's me I that ever thou wert bom I 
Proud English loons— our dans over- 
come — 
On Scottish pads shall amble home ; 
I see them dressed in bonnet blue — 
The spoils of thy rebellious crew— 
I see the target cast away. 
And checkered plaid become their prey — 
T/je checkered plaid to make a gown 
J^'or many a Joss in London town. 
'In vain the hungry mountaineers 
/^ome forth in all their warlike gear&- 
The Bhield, the pistol, dirk, and dagger, 



In which they daily wont to swagger, 
And oft have sallied out to pillage 
The hen-roosts of some peacefm village; 
Or, while their neighbors were adeep. 
Have carried off a Lowland sheep. 

*What boots thy high-bom host of 
beggars, 
Macleans, Mackensdes, and Macgr^on f 
Inflamed with bagpipe and with Draac^, 
In vain thy lads around thee bandy. 
Doth not bold Sutherland the trusty. 
With heart so true, and voice so rusty— 
A loyal soul I— thy troops affright 
While hoarsely he demands the flgbt? 
Dost thou not generous Iday dreiud. 
The bravest hand, the wisem head ; 
Undaunted dost tnou hear th' alarms 
Of hoary Athole sheathed in arms 7 

* Douglas, who draws his lineage down 
From thanes and peers of high renown, 
Fiery and young, and uncontrolled. 
With knights and squires and barons 

bolf- 
His noble household band— advances 
And on his milk-white courser prancM. 
Thee Forfar to the combat dares. 
Grown swarthy in Iberian wars. 
And Monro kindled into rage, 
&out\5 defLea thee to engage ; 
"atfW TOTQ.X.MXi's tQ«»\.,\Sciwv!goL\v'^'« eo many, 
And YiOWfe Xo \jw>VAlX}QSSQL\i3sfts^ %5£s\ 
* "But see, M^\'&^''«^Sa.'"W^»2s!&si^^si^ 



PHILIPS.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 225 

Lodj;^ in his deep iDtrenchments lies ; With Highland sceptre in his hand, 
Couched like a lion in thy way, Too good for his pretended birth- 
He waits to spring upon his prey ; Then down shall fall the King of Perth I 
Willie, like a tiera of timorous deer, * 'Tis so decreed, for Gteorge shall reign, 
Thy army shakes and pants with fear And traitors be forsworn in vain. 
Led by their doughty general's skill Heaven shall for ever on him smile, 
From frith to frith, and hill to hill. And bless him still with an Argyle ; 

* Is this thy haughty promise paid While thou, pursued by vengeful foes. 

That to the Chevalier was made, Condemned to barren rocks and snowSf 

When thou didst oaths and dut^ barter And hindered passing Inverlochy, 

B'or dukedom, generalship, and garter 7 Shall bum thy clan, and curse poor 
Three moons thy Jamie shall command, Jocky I' 

AMBROSE P RTT.TP fl. 

Among the poets of the day whom Addison's friendship and Pope's 
enmity raised to temporary importance, was Ambrose Philips (1671- 
1749). He was a native of Shropshire, and educated at St. John's 
College, Cambridge. He made his appearance as a poet in the same 
year and in the same volume as Pope — the * Pastorals ' of Philips 
being the first poem, and the * Pastorals ' of Pope, the last in Ton- 
son's * Miscellany * for 1709. They had been printed the year pre- 
vious. Tickell injudiciously praised Philip's Pastorals as the finest 
in the language, and Pope resented this unjust depreciation of his 
own poetry by an ironical paper in the 'Guardian,' calculated to make 
Philips appear ridiculous. Pretending to criticise the rival * Pastor- 
als,' and compare them, Pope gives the preference to Philips, but 
quotes all his worst passages as his best, and places by the side of 
them his own finest lines, which he says want rusticity and deviate 
into downright poetry. Philips felt the satire keenly, and even vowed 
to take personal vengeance on his adversary, by whipping him with 
a rod, which he hung up for the purpose in Button's Coffee-house. 
Pope — faithful to the maxim that a man never forgives another whom 
he has injured— continued to pursue Philips with his hatred and 
satire to the close of his life. The pastoral poet had the good sense 
not to enter the lists with his formidable assailant, and his character 
and talents soon procured him public employment. In 1715, he was 
appointed paymaster of the Lottery ; he afterwards was selected by 
Archbishop Boulter, primate of Ireland, as his secretary, and sat for 
the county of Armagh in the Irish parliament. In 1734, he was made 
registrar of the Prerogative Court. From these appointments, Pliil- 
ips was able to purchase an annuity of £400 per annum, with which 
he hoped, as Johnson says, * to pass some years of life (in England) in 
plenty and tranquility ; but his hope deceived him ; he was struck 
with a palsy, and died, June 18, 1749.' The * Pastorals' of Pliilips 
are certainly poor productions ; but he was an elegant versifier, and 
Gk)ldsmith has eulogised the opening of his * Epistle to the Earl of 
Dorset' as * incomparably fine.' A fragment of B&^^ho^ tra.wsX«.la<l 
by PhiHpa, ia a poetical gem so brilliant, ttiaX \\. Sa \5ws\i'gD^» fck.^^s^sss^ 
must bare assisted in its composition: 



226 



CYCLOPEDIA OF 



[to 1727. 



Fragment from SappTio. 

Blessed as the immortal gods is he, My bosom glowed ; the SBbtle flame 

The youth who fondly sits by thee, Han qaick throngh all my vital frame; 

And bears and sees thee all the while, O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung ; 

Softly speak and sweetly smile. My ears with hollow marmnrs rang. 

'Twas this deprived mv soul of rest, In dewy damps my limbs were chilled, 

And raised such tumults in my breast ; My blood with gentle horrors thrilled ; 

For while I gazed in transport tossed. My feeble pulse forgot to play ; 

My breath was gone, my voice was lost ; I fainted, sunk, andTdied away. 

Philips produced three tragedies, but only one — * The Distressed 
Mother,' from the *Andromaque' of Racine — was successful; he 
wrote in the Whig journal the * Freethinker ' (1718-19), and he trans- 
lated some Persian tales. Certain short complimentary pieces, by 
which Philips paid court, as Johnson says, * to all ages and charac- 
ters, from Walpole, the steerer of the realm, to Miss Pulteney in the 
nursery,* procured him the nickname of * Namby Pamby ;' first given, 
it is said, by Harry Carey, the. dramatist and song- writer, and cordi- 
ally adopted by Pope as suited to Philips's * eminence in the infantile 
style.' The following is a specimen of this style: 

To Miss CTiarloUe Pulteney ^ in Tier Mother's Arms, May 1, 1724. 



Timelv blossom, infant fair, 
Fondling of a happy pair. 
Every mom, and every night. 
Their solicitous delight. 
Sleeping, waking, still at ease. 
Pleasing, without skill to please ; 
Little gossip, blithe and hale, 
Tattling many a broken tale, 
Siu^ng many a tuneless song, 
Lavish of a heedless tongue. 
Simple maiden, void of art. 
Babbling out the very heart. 
Yet abandoned to thy will, 
Tet imagining no ill. 
Yet too mnocest to blush. 



like the linnet in the bush. 
To the mother linnet's note 
Moduling her slender throat. 
Chirping forth thy petty joye. 
Wanton in the change of toys, 
Like the linnet green, in May, 
Flitting to each Dloomv spray. 
Wearied then, and glad of rest, 
like the linnet in the nest. 
This thy present happv lot. 
This, in time, will be forgot : 
Other pleasures, other cares. 
Ever busy Time prepares ; 
And thou Shalt in thy daughter see 
This picture once resembled thee. 



EpMe to ths Ea/rl of Dorset. 

CdPENHAOEir, March, 9, 1709. 

From froz«i climes, and endless tracts of snow, 

From streams which northern winds forbid to flow. 

What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring. 

Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing? 

The hoai^ winter h^e conceals from si^t 

All pleasing objects which to verse invite. 

The hills and dales, and the delightful woods. 

The flowery plains, and silver-streaming flooos, 

By snow disguised, in bright confusion lie. 

And Mdth one dazzling wa^te fatigue the eye. 

No gentle-breathing breeze prepares the spring, 
2^0 biros within the cTeaeTt te^ou am^. 
The ships, unmoved, the \io\ft\eTaxja ^wacAa QfiS^^ 
While rattling chariots o'ex t\ie ocfewx ftj . > - - 

The vast leviathan wanta xoomto^^^. 
And 8i)oat bis watexa in Uie tace at ^^« 



.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 227 

The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, 
And to the moon in icy vuleys howl. 
O'er many a shining league the level main 
Here spreads itself Into a glassy plain ; 
There solid billows of enormons size, 
Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise. 

And yet but lately have I seen, even here, 
The winter in a lovely dress appear. 
Ere jet the eloads let fall the treasured snow, 
Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow : 
At evening a keen eastern breeze arose, 
Ana the descending rain unsullied froze. 
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew. 
The ruddy mom disclosed at once to view 
The face of nature in a rich disguise. 
And brightened every object to my eyes : 
For every shrub, and every blade of grass. 
And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in glass ; 
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns shew. 
While through the ice the crimson berries glow. 
The thick-sprung reeds, which watery marshes yield, 
Seemed polished lances in a hostile field. 
The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise 
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise : 
The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine 
Gli|zed over, m the freezing ether shine. 
The frighted birds the rattung branches shnuy 
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun. 

When, if a sndcten gust of wind arise. 
The brittle forest into atoms flies ; 
The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends. 
And in a spangled shower the prospect ends : 
Or, if a southern gale the region warm. 
And by degrees unbind the wintry charm, 
The travelfer a miry country sees, • 

And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees : 
Like some deluded peasant, Merlin leads 
Through fragrant bowers, and throng delicious meads 
While nere enchanted gardens to him rise. 
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes, 
His wandering feet the magic paths pursue, 
And, while he thinks the fair illusion true, 
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air, 
Ajid woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear . 
A tedious road the weary wretch returns, 
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns. 

From the Mrst Pastoral^Lobbin: 

If we, O I>orset I quit the city throng, 

To meditate in shades the rural song, 

Bv your command, be present ; and, O bring 

The Muse along! The Muse to you shall sing. 

Her influence, Buckhurst, let me there obtain, 

And I forgive the famed Sicilian swain. 
Begin.— In nnluxurious times of vore. 

When flocks and herds were no inglorions store, 

Lobbin, a shepherd boy, one evening fair. 

As wegtem'wiDdB had cooled the wutx^ 8l\x, 
;ffi8 numbered sheep within the told honv pe!i\.> 
Tbmwjah^ Jiim o< his dreary difM^ntAnX.; 
seaenth a Jhoaiy poplar*B ^whispednsYMfaiipaA, 



228 CYCLOPi^iDIA OF [to 1727. 



m\'^ 



He, eolitary, sat, to breathe his vows. I ^i^X. 

Venting the tender anguish of his heart. I xjg,^ 

As passion taught, in accents free of art ; .1 " 

And little did he hope, while, night by night, I ?^^ 

His sighs were lavisned thus on Lucy bright. ■ J^ - 

' Ah I well-a-day, how long must 1 endure I ^^-jj 

This pining pain 7 Or who shall speed my cure T I Id n ' 

Fond love no cure will have, seek no repose, ■ J j- 

Delights in -grief, nor any measure knows : 
And now the moon begins in clouds to rise ; I tots 

The brightening stars mcrease within the skies ; ■ 

The winds are hushed ; the dews distil ; and sleep 
Hath closed the eyelids of my weary sheep ; 
I only, with a prowling wolf, constrained 
All night to wake : with hunger he is pained, I tnr 

And 1 with love. His hunger he may tame ; I p^ 

But who can quench, O cruel love 1 thy flame T 1 r . 

Whilome did I, all as this poplar fair, I Oi 

Upraise my heedless head, then void of care, I im: 

'Mong rustic routs the chief for wanton game ; 1 ^ 

Nor could they merry make, till Lobbin came. m ^^ 

Who better seen than I in shepherd's arts, m ^ 

To please the lads and win the lasses' hearts ? I VlD 

How deftly, to mine oaten reed so sweet, I »g] 

Wont they upon the green to shift their feet ! 
And, wearied in the dance, how would they yearn 
Some well-devisdd tale from me to learn I 
For many songs and tales of mirth had I, 
To chase the loitering sun adown the sky . 
But ah I since Lucy coy deep-wrought her spite 
Within my heart, unmmdf ul of delight. 
The jolly grooms I fly, and, all alone. 
To rocks and woods pour forth my fruitless moan. 
, Oh ! quit thy wonted scorn, relentless fair. 
Ere, lingering long, I perish through despair, 
Had Kosalind been mistress of my mind. 
Though not so fair, she would have proved more kind 
O think, unwitting maid, while yet is time. 
How flying years impair thy youthful prime 1 
Thy virgin bloom will not for ever stay. 
And flowers, though left nngathered, wul decay : 
The flowers, anew, returning seasons bring. 
But beauty faded has no second spring. 
My words are wind I She, deaf to all my crifiSy 
Takes pleasure in the mischief of her eyes. 
Like frisking heifer, loose in flowery meads, 
She gads where'er her roving fancy leads ; 
Yet still from me. Ah me I the tiresome chase I 
Shy as the fawn, she flies my fond embrace. 
She flies, indeed, but ever leaves behind, 
Fly where she will, her likeness in my mind.' 

GEORGE GRANVILLB, LORD LANSDOWNB. 

Pope has commemorated among his early friends and patrons 

* Oraaville the polite.' He was eatXy d\^V\Ti%\3i\»fefid and commended 

by Waller, of whom he was an imVlaiVot. B\^ v^^'co^ '^'l ^tw^r.^^ 

'Mira'^the Countess of ]^ew\)\iTg\i— ^«t^ ^o^\J\sKt ^\. >iJafc nIwsjl^ ^\ 

t^eir production. Bind he waa the awWiOt ot «fi^«iX^^TM£^^^\^^viRRA 

-DOTF forgotten. He stood liig\i in X\ie ^vlo^a o^ Qjva^^ Kssa.^^^ 

^ 



sviLLE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 229 

ated to the peerage in 1711, and was successively comptroller and 
surer of the household. In the reign of Gheorge 1. he fell into dis- 
se, and was committed to the Tower, on a charji^e of disloyalty to 
Hanover succession. He was released after a confinement of 
ut a year and a half, and was restored to his seat in parliament. 
L732, he published his works in two volumes. He died January* 
1734-35, aged about seventy. Though oBcasionally a pleasing 
ufier, Granville cannot be considered a poet. 

ANNE, COUNTBSS OF WINCHBLSBA. 

It is remarkable/ says Wordsworth, * that excepting the " Noc- 
aal Reverie," and a passage or two in the " Windsor Forest " of 
)e, the poetry of the period intervening between the publication 
' Paradise Lost " and the " Seasons," does not contain a single new 
ge of external nature.' The * Nocturnal Reverie * was written by 
BTB, Countess of Winchelsea, the daughter of Sir William 
igsmill, Southampton, who died in 1720, aged about sixty. Her 
s are smoothly versified, and possess a tone of calm and con- 
plative observation. 

A NoctwrnaL Beverie. 

In such a night, when every loader wind 

Is to its distant cavern safe confined, 

And only gentle zephyr fans his wings, 

And lonely Philomel still waking sings ; 

Or from some tree, famed for the owPs delight. 

She, holloaine dear, directs the wanderer right : 

.In such a nisht, when passing cloads give place, 

Or thinly veu the heaven's mysterious face ; 

Wlien in Some river overhung with green. 

The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen ; 

When freshened grass now hears itself upright, 

And makes cool l^ks to pleasing rest invite, 

Whence springs the woodbine, and the bramble rose. 

And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows ; 

Whilst now a paler hue the loxslove takes, 

Tet checkers still with red the dusky brakes ; 

When scattered glowworms, but in twilight fine, 

Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine ; 

Whilst Salisbury stands the test of every light, 

In perfect charms and perfect virtue bnght : 

When odours which declined repelling day. 

Through temperate air uninterruptedstray ; 

When aarkened groves their softest shadows wear, 

And falling waters we distinctly hear ; 

When througn the gloom more venerable shews 

Some ancient fabric, awful in repose ; 

While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal. 

And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale : 

When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads, 

Comes slowly grazing through the adjoining meads, 

Whose stealing pace and lengthened Bhade we te&c. 

Till tom-np forage in his teem "we heat *, 

Wb^n nihUing eSieep at large puxeae ttiwi IwA, 
And unmolested kine rechew uie cad ; 
When cnrJews cry beneath the vfflaea ^w«S\»» 



380 CYCLOVJEDIA OF [to 1727. 

And to her stra^ling brood the partridge callB ; 

Their short-livea jubilee the creatures keep, 

Which but endures whilst tyrant man does sleep ; 

When a sedate content the spirit feels, 

And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals ; 

But silent musings urge the mind to seek 

Something too high for syllables to speak ; 

Till the free soul to a composedness charmed, 

Fmdiug the elements of rage disarmed^ 

O'er all belfew a solemn quiet grown, 

Joys in the inferior world, and thinks it like her own : 

In such a night let me abroad remain, 

Till morning breaks, and all's confused again ; 

Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renewed. 

Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued. 

The following is another specimen of the correct and smooth yersi- 
fication of the comitess, and seems to us superior to the * Nocturnal 
Reverie :* 

Life's Progress, 

How gaily is at first begun Whilst beauty compensates our eaie, 

Our life's uncertain race I And youth each vapour clears. 
Whifst^ vet that sprightly morning sun, 

With which we just set out to run, But oh, too soon, alas I we cHmb, 

Enlightens aU the place. Scarce feeling we ascend 

The gently rising hill of Time, 

How smiling the world's prospect lies I From whence with grief we see that 

How tempting to go through ! prime, 

Not Canaan to that prophet's eyes. And all its sweetness end. 
From Pisgah, with a sweet surprise. 

Did more inviting shew. The die now cast, our station known, 

' Fond expectation past : 

How soft the first ideas prove The thorns which former days had sown, 

Which wander through our minds I To crops of late repentance grown, 

How full the joys, how free the love. Through which we toil at last. 
Which does that early season move. 

As flowers the western winds ! Whilst every care *8 a driving harm 

That helps to bear us down ; 

Our sighs arc then but vernal air. Which faded smiles no more can charm, 

But April drops our tears. But every tear 's a winter storm. 

Which awiftJy poeslugi aU grows fair, And every look '8 a frown. 



SCOTTISH POETS. 

Francis Sempill of Bel trees (son of Robert Sempill, see ante)y 
who died between 1680 and 1685, wrote some excellent rustic son^ 
— • Fy, let us a' to the Bridal,' * She raise and loot me in,* and * Maggie 
Lauder/ 

In the years 1706, 1709, and 1711, was published in Edinburgh, in 
three parts, * A Choice Collection of Comic and Serious Scots Poems, 
both Ancient and Modern ,* by Jamea "Nf^ «A.?>cm. Ail XXj^a ^ftVVwitlon ap- 
peared the oldest known Yersiou. ol ' ^lxA^ \i«tt!Ks^x^^> >^ws.^Tgtfir 
babJy founded on one of earlier da\ft. 't\i<& ^teSiomxi^ N& "^^ ^asS. 
stanza ; 



SCOTTISH POETS.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 231 

Should old acquaintance be forgot, Is thy kind heart now grown bo cold, 

And never thought upon ? In that loving breast of thine. 

The flames of love extinguished, That thou canst never once reflect 

And freely past and gone ? On old longsyne ? 

Another stanza seems to fix the date of the song to the time of the 
civil war, about the middle of the 17th century : 

If e'er I have a house, my d^, Thoa&:h thou wert rebel to the king, 
That truly is called mine. Ana beat with wind and rain, 

And can amxd but country cheer. Assure thyself of welcome, love, 
Or ought that's good therein : ^ For old long^yne. 

This poem or song of * Old Longsyne * has been ascribed (though 
only from supposed internal evidence) to Sir Robert Ayton (see cmte) 
and also to Francis Sempill, but we have no doubt it is of later date. 
Another version (also ascribed to Francis Sempill) is given in Herd's 
collection, 1776. It begins : 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot. Welcome, my Varo, to my breast ; 

Though they return with scars ? Thy arms about me twine, 

These are the noble heroes' lot And mak me ance again as blest, 

Obtained in glorious wars. As I was langsyne. 

It is needless to point out how immeasurably superior is Bunis's 
* Auld Langsyne.' James Watson, in 1719, gave to the world a pre- 
tended fragment of an old heroic ballad entitled * Hardyknute.' This 
imitation was greatly admired by Gray and Percy — who believed it 
to be ancient, though retouched by some modem hand — and by 8ir 
Walter Scott, who said it was the first poem he ever learned, the last 
he should forget. It is understood to have been written by Eltza^ 
BETH, daughter of Sib Charles Halket, Bart, of Pitferran, who was 
married in 1696 to Sir Henrt Wardlaw, Bart, of Pitreavie, in Fife* 
Lady Wardlaw died in 1727, aged fifty. * Hardyknute ' is a fine 
martial and pathetic ballad, though irreconcilable, as Scott acknow- 
ledged, with all chronology ; * a chief with a Norwegian name is 
strangely introduced as the first of the nobles brought to resist a 
l^orse invasion at the battle of Largs.' The ballad extends to for* 
ty-two stanzas, and opens thus picturesquely : 

Stately stept be east the wa', ^^M^ ^° ^ ^^ ^^^ castle stood, 

And stately stept he west, With ha's and towers a height, 

Full seventy years he now had seen, And goodly chambers fair to see. 

With scarce seven years of rest. Where he lodged mony a knight. 

He lived when Britons' breach of faith His dame sae peerless ance and f air^ 

Wrought Scotland mickle wae ; For chaste and beauty deemed, 

And aye his sword tauld to their cost, Nae marrow had in all the land. 

He was their deadly fae. Save Eleanor the Queen. 

The following also is very spirited : 

The king of Norse in summer tide, * To horse, to horse, my royal liege, 
Putfed up with power and might. Your faes stand on the strand, 

Landed in fair Scotland tbe isle Full twenty thousand glittering spears 
With mony a hardy knight. The king of Norse commands/ 

The tidings to our good Scots king * Bring me my steed Madge dapple ^ay^^ 

Csm^ aa lie aat at dine. Our good sin^ to^fc mvQl ms^\ 

wm noble chief B in brave array, * A trustier \)e«J6t *m «I \>aft\MA^ . 

Jmnking me Muid-red wime. A SicolB kins ^«^«^ ^^nsftu 



282 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Go, little page, tell Hardyknnte, Then red, red grew his dark-brown 
. That lii«s on hill sae hie, cheeks. 

To draw his sword, the dread of f aes, Sae did his dark-brown brow ; 

And haste and follow me.' His looks grew keen, as th^ Were wont 
The little page flew swift as dart In dangers great to do ; 

Flung by his master's arm : He 's ta'en a horn as green as glass, 
* Come down, come down. Lord Hardy- And gi'en five sounds sae shnll, 

knute. That trees in greenwood shook thereat, 
And lid your king frae harm.* Sae loud i^|ng ilka hilL 

ALLAK BAMSAT. 

Thg genius of the country was at len^tti reyiyed in all its force and 
nationality, its comic dialogue, Doric simplicity, and tenderness, by 
Allan Ramsay, whose yery name is now an impersonation of SGO^ 
tish scenery and character. The religious austerity ot the Coyenan- 
ters still hung oyer Scotland, and damped the efforts of poets and 
dramatists ; but a freer spirit found its way into the towns, along 
with the increase of trade and commerce. The higher classes were 
in the habit of yisiting London, though the journey was still per- 
formed on horseback ; and the writings of Pope and Swift were cir- 
culated oyer the north. Clubs and taverns were rife in Edinburgh, 
in which the assembled wits loyed to indulge in a pleasantry that 
ojften degenerated to excess. Talent was readily known and appre- 
ciated ; and when Ramsay appeared as an author, he found the nation 
ripe for his native humour, his ' manners-painting strains,' and his 
lively original sketches of Scottish life. Allan Ramsay was bom in 
1686, in the village of Leadhills, Lanarkshire, where his father held 
the situation of manager of Lord Hopetoun's mines. When he be- 
came a poet, he boasted that he was of the * auld descent ' of the Dal- 
housie family, and also collaterally * sprung from a Douglas loin.* 
His mother, Alice Bower, was of English parentage, her father hay- 
ing been brought from Derbyshire to instruct the Scottish miners iti 
their art Those who entertain the theory that men of genius usually 
partake largely of the qualities and dispositions ot their mother, may 
perhaps recognise some of the Derbyshire blood in Allan Ramsay s 
frankness and joviality of character. His father died while the poet 
was in his infancy ; but his mother marrying again in the same dis- 
trict, Allan was brought up at Leadhills, and put to the village school, 
where he acquired learning enough to enable him, as he tells us, to 
read Horace * faintly in the original.' His lot might have been a hard 
one, but it was fortunately spent in the country till he had reached 
his fifteenth year ; and his lively temperament enabled him, with 
cheerfulness — 

To wade throngh glens wi' chorking (1) feet. 
When neither plaid nor kilt coald fend the weet; 
Tet blithely wad he bang oat o'er the brae, . 
And stend (2) O'er bums as light as ony rae, 
Hoping the mom might prove a\>eU«c ^7. 



I^^^t*^OTcMrkingt the noise made by the leel-w^i^u l\ift *\tfw»».^tQ3X^"l^^S»» 



&AB1SAY.] 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



233^ 



At the age of fifteen, Allan was put apprentice to a wig-maker in 
Edinburgh — a light employment, suited to his slender frame and' 
boyish amctrtness, but not very congenial to his literary taste. His 
poetical talent, however, was more* observant than creative, and he 
did not commence writing till he was about twenty-six years of age. 
He then penned an address to the * Easy Club,^ a convivial society of 
young men, tinctured with Jaeobite predilections, which were also 
imbil^d by Ramsay, and which probably formed an additional' 
recommendation to the favour of Pope and Gay, a distinction that 
he afterwards enjoyed. Allan was admitted a member of this * blithe 
society,* and became their poet-laureate. He wrote various light 
pieces, chiefly of a local and humorous description, which were sold 
at a pepny each, and became exceedingly popular. He also sedu- 
lously courted the patronage of the ^reat, subduing his Jacobite 
feelings, and never selecting a fool for his patron. In this mingled 
spirit of prudence and poetry, he contrived 

To theek the out, and line the inside. 
Of manv a douce and wltt^ pash, 
And bafth ways gathered in the cash. 

In the year 1712 he married a writer's daughter, Christian Ross,. 
who was his faithful partner for more than thirty years. He greatly 
extended his reputation by writing a continuation to King «fames'& 
* Christ's Kirk on the Green,' executed with genuine humour, fancy, 
and a perfect mastery of the Scottish language. Nothing so rich had 
appeared since the strains of Dunbar or Lindsay. What an inimita- 
ble sketch of rustic-yfe, coarse, but as true as any by Teniers, is pre- 
sented in the first stanzas of the third canto ! — 



Now frae the east nook of Fife the dawn 
Speeled (1) westlins up the )ift ; 

Carls wha heard the cock had craw'n, 
Bqgoud to rax and rift ; 



And greedy wives, wi' giming thrawn, 

Cr^d lasses up to thrift ; 
Dogs bark^, and the lads frae hand 

Banged to their breeks like drift 
By break of day. 



Ramsay now left off wig-making, and set up a bookseller's shop, 
' opposite to Niddry's Wynd.' He next appeared as an editor, and 
published two works, * The Tea-table Miscellany,' being a collection 
of songs, partly his own ; and * The Evergreen,' a collection of Scot- 
tish poems written before 1600. He was not well qualified for the 
task of editing works of this kind, bein^ deficient both in knowledge 
and taste. In the ' Evergreen,' he published, as ancient poems, two 
pieces of his own, one of which, * The Vision,' exhibits -high powers 
of poetry. The genius of Scotland is drawn with a touch of the old 
heroic Muse : 



Great daring darted frae his ee, 
A Inraid'Sword shogled at his thie. 

On his left arm a targe ; 
A shining spear filled his right hand, 



Of stalwart make In bane and brawnd, 

Of just proportions large ; 
A various ndnbow-coloured plaid 
Owre his left spawl (2> he threw. 



1 Climbed. 



WiiSsSsa^ 



234 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Duwu hiB braid back, frae his white head. To see, led at command. 

The silver wimplera (3) grew. A stampant and rampant 

Amazed, Ij^azed, Fierce lion in his hand. 

In 1725, appeared his celebrated pastoral drama, ' The Q«ntle Shep- 
herd,' of which two scenes had previously been published under the 
titles of * Patie and Roger/ and * Jenny and Meggy.* It was received 
with universal approbation, and was republished both in London and 
Dublin. When Gay visited Scotland in company with his patrons, 
the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry, he used to lounge in Allan 
Ramsay's shop, and obtain from him explanations of some of the 
Scottish expressions, that he might communicate them to Pope, who 
was a great admirer of the poem. This was a delicate and marked 
compliment, which Allan must have felt, though he had previously 
represented himself as the vicegerent of Apollo, and equal to Homer ! 
He now removed to a better shop, and instead of the Mercury's head 
which had graced his sign-board, he put up * the presentment of two 
brothers ' of the Muse, Ben Jonson and Drummond. He next estab- 
lished a circulating library, the first in Scotland. He associated on 
familiar terms with the leading nobility, lawyers, wits, and literati. 
His son, afterwards a distinguished artist, he sent to Rome for instruc- 
tion. But the prosperity of poets seems liable to an uncommon share 
of crosses. He was led by the promptings of a taste tlien rare in 
Scotland to expend his savings in the erection of a theatre, for the 
performance of the regular drama. He wished to keep his * troop ' 
together by the * pith of reason ;' but he did not calculate on the pith 
of an act of parliament in the hands of a hostile magistrate. -The 
statute for licensing theatres prohibited all drama^c exhibitions with- 
out special licence and the royal letters-patent ; and on the strength 
of this enactment the magistrates of Edinburgh shut up Allan's 
theatre, leaving him without redress. To add to his mortification, 
the envious poetasters and strict religionists of the day attacked him 
with personal satires and lampoons, under such titles as — * A Look- 
ing-glass for Allan Ramsay ;* * The Dying Words of AUan Ramsay,' 
&c. Allan endeavoured to enlist President Forbes and the judges on 
his side by a poetical address in which he prays for compensation 
from the legislature— 

&piet for amends for what I*ve lost, 
mlge me into wvm canny post. 

His circumstances and wishes at this crisis are more particularly ex- 
plained in a letter to the president, which now lies before us : 

* Will you,' he writes, * give me something to do ? Here I pass a 

sort of half-idle scrimp life, tending a trifling trade, that scarce affords 

me the needful. Had I not got a parcel of guineas from you, and 

such asyoUf who were pleaded to patToii\seT£i^«vx\i«iT\^tlona^ I should 

not ha re had & grey groat. I thmk abtame— XiwX. ^\i^ ^wi\^ Vnr\\ksv 

1 "Waving locks ol \i3BAx. 



RAMSAY.l ENGLISH LITERATURE. 235 

I open my mind to one of your goodness ? — to hint that I want to have 
some small commission, when it happens to fall in your way to put 
me into it.' a) 

It does not appear that he either got money or a posty but he ap- 
plied himself attentively to his business, and soon recruited his purse. 
A citizen-like good sense regulated the life of Ramsay. He gave over 
poetry * before/ he prudently says, ' the coolness of fancy that attends 
advanced years should make me risk the reputation I had acquired.* 

Frae twen^-fiye to five and forty, Streaking his wings np to the lift ; 

My muse waa nowther sweer nor dorty; (2) Then, then, my soul was in a lowe. 

My Pegasos wad break his tether That gart my numbers safely row. 

B'en at the ehag^ng of a feather. Bat eOd and jodgment 'ein to say, 

And tbroagh iaeas scour like drift. Let be yonr sangs, and ^am to pray. 

About the year 1743, his circumstances were sufficiently flourishing 
to enable him to build himself a small octagon-shaped house on tlie 
north side of the Castle-hill, which he called Ramsay Lod^e, but 
which some of liis waggish friends compared to a goose-pie. He told 
Lord £libank one day of this ludicrous comparison. * What V said 
the witty peer, 'a goose-pie 1 In good faith, Allan, now that I see 
YOU in it, Itliink the house is not ill named.' He lived in this sineu- 
lar-looking mansion — which has since been much improved— twelve 
years, anddied of a complaint that had long afflicted him, scurvy in 
the gums, on the 7th of January, 1658, at the age of seventy-two. So 
mucfi of pleasantry , good-humour, and worldly enjoyment is mixed 
up with the history of Allan Ramsay, that his life is one of the * green 
and sunny spots* in literary biography. His genius was well re- 
warded ; and he possessed that turn of mind which David Hume says 
it is more happy to possess than to be bom to an estate of ten 
thousand a year — a disposition always to see the favourable side of 
things. 

Ramsay's poetical works are sufficiently various ; and one of his 
editors has ambitiously classed them under heads of serious, elegiac, 
comic, satiric, epigrammatical, pastoral, lyric, epistolary, fables ana 
tales. His tales are quaint and humorous, though, like those of 
Prior, they are too often indelicate. * The Monk and Miller's Wife,' 
founded on a humorous old Scottish poem, is as happy an adaptation 
as any of Pope's or Dry den's from Chancer. His lyrics want the 
grace, simplidty, and beauty which Burns breathed into these * wood 
notes wild,' designed alike for cottage and hall ; yet some of those in 
the* Gentle Shepherd' are delicate and tender; and others, such as 
*The Last Time I came o'er the Moor,' and * The Tellow-haired Lad- 
die,' are still favourites with all lovers of Scottish song. In one of 
the least happy of the lyrics there occurs this beautiful image : 

How joyfully my sidrlts rise, 
When dancing sne moves finely, O : 
less what heaven \b by Yi^t eye«^^ 
^hich sparkle so divincAy, O. 



J gnest 
Whi< 



1 From the auuiuBoript collectiona In CuUoden Hotvto. ^ 'Sk^kVetwst ^«^ Tissi-vS*^^ 



236 



CYCLOPi*:DIA OF 



[to 1727. 



His ' Lochaber no More ' is a strain of manly feeling and unaffected 
pathos. The poetical epistles of Ramsay were undoubtedly the pro- 
totypes of those by Bums, and many of the stanzas may challenge 
comparison with them. He makes frequent classical allusions, es- 
pecially to the firorks of Horace, with which he seems to have been 
well acquainted, s^nd whose gay and easy turn of mind harmonised 
-with his own. In an epistle to Mr. James Arbuckle, the poet gives a 
characteristic and minute painting of himself: 

Imprimis, then, for taUnesB, I 
Am five foot and f onr inches high ; 
A black-a-viced (1) snod dapper f eliow. 
Nor lean, nor overlaid wi* tallow ; 
With phiz of a morocco cut. . 
Resembling a late man of wit, 
Auld gabbet Spec, (2) who was so cun- 
ning 
To be a dummie ten years running. 
Then for the fabric of my mind, 
'Tie mair to mirth than ^ef inclined : 
I rather choose to laugh at folly. 
Than shew dislike by melancholy ; 



Well judging a sour heavy face 
Is not the truest mark of grace. 
I hate a drunkard or a glutton, 
Yet I 'm nae f ae to wine and mutton : 
Great tables ne'er engaged my wishes 
When crowded with o'er mony dishes ; 
A healthf u' stomach, sharply set. 
Prefers a back-sey (8) piping het. 
I never could imagine t vicions 
Of a fair fame to be ambitions : 
Proud to be thought a comic poet, 
And let a judge (S numbers Know it, 
I court occasion thus to shew it. 



Ramsay addressed epistles to Gay and Somerville, and the latter paid 
him in Jdnd^ in very flattering verses. In one of Allan's answers is 
the following picturesque sketch, in illustration of his own contempt 
for the stated rules of art : 

I love the garden wild and wide. May sometimes cheat the gardener's care, 

Where oate have plum-trees by Uieir side; Tet this to me's a paradise 



Where woodbines and the twisting^ vine 
Clip round the pear-tree and the pine ; 
Where mixed jonquils and gowans grow. 
And roses 'midst rank clover blow 
Upon a bank of a clear strand. 
In wimpUngs led by nature's hand ; 
Though docks and brambles here and 
there 



Compared with prime cut plots and nice, 
Where nature has to art resigned. 
Till all looks mean, stifE, and confined* 

Heaven Homer taught ; the critic draws 
Only from him and such their laws : 
The native bards first plunge the deep 
Before the artful dare to leap. 



The ' Gentle Shepherd * is the ^eatest of Ramsay's works, and 
perhaps the. finest pastoral drama in the world. It possesses that 
air of primitive simplicity and seclusion which seems indispensable 
in compositions of this class, at the same time that its landscapes are 
filled with lifelike beings, who interest us from their character, situa- 
tion, and circumstances. It has none of that studied pruriency and 
unnatural artifice which are intruded into the *■ Faithful Skepherdess ' 
of Fletcher, and is equally free from the tedious allegory and forced 
conceits of most pastoral poems. It is a genuine picture of Scottish 
Jife, but of life passed in simple rural employments, apart from the 
£^iJt and fever of large towns, and tefl^Wxi^ ox\^ >Ccvfc ^xa^^xiAmi- 



2ThfK^'^^l'^^^^^^' ^rom black and Ft. t)i«, ikkft '^\»a«.«k, 
2 The Spectator, No. 1. by Addison. 



^ ^^Vt\s^s.. 



RAMSAY. J ^ ENGLISH LITERATURE. 237 

sophisticated emotions of our nature. The affected sensibilities and 
feigned distresses of the ^ Oorydons ' and ^ Delias ' find no place in 
Ramsay's clear and manly page. He drew his shepherds from the 
life, placed them in scenes which he actually saWt &nd made them 
speak the language which he every day heard — the* free idiomatic 
speech of his native vales. His art lay in the beautiM selection of his 
materials — in the grouping of his well-defined characters— the inven- 
tion of a plot, romantic, yet natural — the delightful appropriateness 
of every speech and auxiliary incident — and in the tone of generous 
sentiment and true feeling which sanctifies this scene of hum me virtue 
and happiness. The love of his ' gentle ' rustics is at firat artless and * 
confiding, though partly disguised by maiden coyness and arch hu- . 
mour ; and it is expressed in language and incidents alternately amus-' 
ing and impassioned. At length the hero is elevated in station above 
his mistress, and their affection assumes a deeper character from the 
threatened dangers of a separation. Mutual distress and tenderness 
break down reserve. The simple heroine, without forgetting her 
natural dignity and modesty, lets out her whole soul to her early 
companion ; and when assured of his unalterable attachment, she not 
only, like Miranda, * weeps at what she is glad of,' but, with the true 
pride of a Scottish maiden, she resolves to study ' gentler charms,' 
and to educate herself to be worthy of her lover. Poetical justice is 
done to this faithful attachment, by both the characters being found 
equal in birth and station. The poet's taste and judgment are 
evinced in the superiority which he gives his hero and heroine, with- 
out debasing their associates below their proper level ; while a 
ludicrous contrast to both is supplied by the underplot of Bauldy and 
his courtships. The elder characters in the piece afford a fine relief 
to the youthful pairs, besides completing the rustic picture. While 
one scene discloses tJhe young shepherds by * craigy bields ' and 
' crystal springs,' or presents Peggy and Jenny on the bleaching- 
green — 

A trotting bomie wimpling through the ground— 

another shews us the snug thatched cottage with its bam and peat- 
stack, or the interior of the house, with a clear ingle glancing on the 
floor, and its inmates happy with innocent mirth and rustic plenty. 
The drama altogether makes one proud of peasant-life and the virtues 
of a Scottish cottage. In imitation of Gay in his * Beggar's Opera,' 
Hamsay interspersed songs throughout the ' Gentle Shepherd,' which 
tend to interrupt the action of the piece, and too often merely repeat, 
in a diluted form, the sentiments of the dialogue. These songs in 
themselves, however, are simple and touching lyrics, and added 
greatly to the effect of the drama on the atagje. In reading it, the 
songs may be advantageously passed o^et^ \<i«kV\\i^ \«i^>s^\»x>jsfc^l ssss^ 

most perfect delineation of rural V\fe anOL mv«m^\^,^\^'^'Q^ ^^^^^ 

humility or ajfectation, that was ever dtaNHTi. 



238 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF 



[to 1727. 



Ode from Horaae, 



Look np to Pentland's towering tap, 
Buried beneath jereat wreaths of Bnaw, 

O'er Uka clengh, ilk scaur, and Biap« (1) 
As high as ony Jloman wa\ 

Driving their ba's frae whims or tee. 
There 's no ae goWf er to be seen, 

Nor douser fouk wysing aiee 
The biassed bowls on Tamson's green. 

Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs. 

And beck the house baith bat and ben ; 
That mntchkin-stonp it hands but dribs. 

Then let 's get in tne tappit hen. (9) 

Good claret best keeps oat the canld, 
And drives away the winter soon ; 

It makes a man baith gash and banld, 
And heaves his saol beyond the moon. 

Leave to the gods your ilka care, 
If that they think us worth their while ; 

They can a rowth of blessings spare. 
Which will our f ashoiis fears beguile. 

For what they have a mind to do. 
That will they do, should we gang wud ; 

If they command the storms to blaw, 
Then upo' sight the hailstanes thud. 

But soon as e'er the^r cry, * Be quiet,' 
The blatterbig winds dare nae mair 
move. 

But cour into their caves, and wait 
The iii^ command of supreme Jove. 

Let neist day come as it thinks fit. 
The present minute 's only ours ; 



On pleasure let 's empl05^ OQf wit. 
And laugh at fortune's feckless powers. 

Be sure ye dinna quat the grip 
Of ilka joy when ye are young, 

Before auld age your vitals nip, 
And lay ye twafald o'er a rung. 

Sweet youth's a blithe and heartsome 
time; 

Then lads and lasses, while it's May, 
Gae pa' the gowan in its prime. 

Before it wither and decay. 

Watoh the saf t minutes of delight. 
When Jenny speaks beneath her breath; 

And kisses, laying a' the wyte 
On you, if she axsp ony SKaith. 

* Haith, ye 're ill-bred,' she '11 smiling say : 
* Ye 11 worry me, you greedy rook ;' 

Syne frae your arms sheTll rin away. 
And hide hersell in some dark nook. 

Her laugh will lead you to the place. 
Where lies the happiness you want, 

And plainly tells you to your face. 
Nineteen naysays are half a grant. 

Kow to her heaving bosom cling. 
And sweetly tooue for a kiss, 

Frae her fair finger whup a ring, 
As token of a future bliss. 

These benieons, I 'm very sure. 
Are of the gods' indulgent grant; 

Then surly carles, wMsm, fOrbear 
To plt^gue us with your whining cant 



In this instance, the felicitous manner in which Ramsay has preserved 
the Horatian ease and spirit, and at the same time clothed the whole 
in a true Scottish garb, renders his version superior even to Dryden'a 
English one. For comparison two stanzas of the latter are sub- 
joined : 



Secure those golden earlv joys, 
That youth unsoured with 
bears, 

Bre withering time the taste destroys 
With sickness and unwieldy years. 

For active sports, for pleasing rest, 

This is the time to be possest ; 

The beat is bat in season best. 



The appointed hour of promised bliss, 
sorrow The pleasing whis{>er in the dark. 
The half-unwilling willing kiss. 

The laugh that guides thee to the mark. 
When the kind nymph would coyness 

feign. 
And hides but to be found again ; 
These, these are joys the gods for youth 



/ CXffu^A, a boUow between hills ; scaur, & \>Mft YAW-«fA^\ tiUKp, ^.t^kcntw vMA\«r 
•ween two IUU8' « . .^^ 

^-A lave bottle of daret holding three mo&uums ot ^coXa-BWiWi. 



«SAY.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 289 

8ong, — Tune, *Bush Ahoon Traquair,^ 

X setting day and rising mom, ~ To all onr haonts I will repair, 
With soul that still shall love thee. By greenwood shaw or fountain ; 

11 ask of Heaven thy safe return, Or where the summer day I 'd share 
With all that can improve thee. With thee upon yon mountain : 

'11 visit aft the birken bush. There will I tell the trees and flowers, 
Where first thou kindly told me From thoughts unfdffued and tender ; 

weet tales of love, and hid thy blush. By vows you°re mine, oy love is yours 
Whilst round thou didst enfold me. A heart that cannot wander. 

Lochaberjio More, 

Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean, 
Where hearteome with thee I've mony day been ; 
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more. 
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. 
These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear. 
And no for the dangers attending on weir ; 
Though borne on roug^h seas to a far bloody shore. 
May De to return to Lochaber no more. 

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind. 
They'll ne'er raak a tempest like that in my mind ; 
Though loudest o' thunaer on louder waves roai. 
That % naething like leaving my love on the shore. 
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained ; 
By ease that 's inglorious no fame can be gained ; 
And beauty and &ve 's the reward of the biave. 
And I must deserve it before I can crave. 

Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse ; 
^ Since honour commands me, how can I refuse ? 

Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee. 
And without thy favour I'd better not be. 
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame. 
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame* 
I'll bring alieart to thee with love running o'er. 
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. 

BiLStic Courtship—From the * Gentle Shepherd^^-^Act L 

Hear how I served my lass I lo'e as weel 

As ye do Jenny, and wi' heart as leal. 

Last morning 1 was gye and early out. 

Upon a dike 1 leanecL glowering about ; 

I saw my Meg come linkin' o'er the lea ; 

I saw my Meg, but Megjonr saw na me ; 

For yet the sun was wamng through the mist, 

And she was close upon m6 ere she wist ; 

Her coats were ktid^ and did sweetly shaw 

Her straight bare legs, that whiter were than snaw. 

Her cockemony 8n^>ded up f u' sleek, 

Her haffet locks hang waving od her cheek ; 

Her cheeks sae ruddy, and her een sae clear ; 

And oh I her mouth 's like ony hinny pear. 

Neat, neat she was, in bustine waistcoat clean, 

As she came skifflng o'er the dewy green. 

Blithsome, I cried : * My bonny Meg, come here, 

I f erly wherefore ye 're so soon asteer ; 

Bat 1 can guess ; ye 're gaun to gather dew.' 

She scoured away, and said •. * WtiAX.*** X^X. \o \«^ \ 

'Then, fare-ye-weU, M.egI>ot\», wAe^wDi'^lOawi? 



240 CYCLOPiEDIA OF £to 1727. 

I careless cried, and lap in o'er the dike. 
I trow, when that she saw, within a crack, 
She came with a right thieveless errand back. 
Misca'd me first ; then bade me homid mv dog. 
To wear up three waff ewes strayed on the bog. 
I lengh ; and sae did she ; then wi' great haste 
I clasped my arms about her neck and waist; 
About her yielding waist, and took a f oath 
O' sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth. 
While hard and fast I held her in my grips, 
My very saul came loupmg to mj lips. 
Sair, sair she fiet wi' me 'tween lika smack. 
But weel I kend she meant nae as she spak. 
Dear Roger, when your ]o puts on her gloom. 
Do ye sae too, and never fash your thumb. 
Seem to forsake her, soon she '11 change her mood ; 
Gae wcro anither, and she 'II gang clean wud. 

Dialogue on Ma/rria^ge, 
Fegot and Jenkt. 

Jenny. Come, Meg, let 's fa' to wark upon this green ; 

This shining day wllfbleach our linen clean ; 

The water dear, the lift unclouded blue, 

Will mak them like a lily wet wi' dew. 
Peggy. Gae far'w up the bum to Habbie's How, 

There a' the sweets o' spnng and summer jgrow : 

There 'tween twa birks, out ower a little Imn, 

The waiter fa's and maks a singin' din ; 

A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear a glass, 

Kisses wi' easy whirls the bordering ^ass. . . . 

We 're far frae ony road, and out o* sight ; 

The lads they 're feeding far beyont the height. 

But tell me, now, dear Jenny, we 're our lane. 

What gars ye plague vour wooer wi' disdain ? 

The neebours a' tent this as weel as I, 

That Roger lo'es ye, yet ye carena by. 

What ails ye at him ? Troth, between us twa, 

He 's word^ you the best day e'er ye saw. 
Jenny. Idinna like him, Peggy, there 's an end; 

A herd maii sheepish yet I neverkend. 

He kames his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug, 

Wi' ribbon knots at his blue bannet lug, 

Whilk t>ensily he wears a thought a^jee. 

And spreads his gartens diced oeneath his knee ; 

He f aids his o'crlay down bis breast wi* care. 

And few gang trigger to the kirk or fair : . 

For a' that, he can neither sing nor say, 

Except, * How d' ye ?'— or, * There's a bonny day.' 
Peggy. Te dash the lad wi' constant sUghtlog pride. 

Hatred for love is unco sair to bide : 

But ye »11 repent ye, if his love grow cauld— 

What likes 's a dorty maiden when she 's auld ? . . , 
Jenny. I never thought a allele life a crime. 
Peggy. Nor I : but love in whispers let's us ken. 

That men were made for us, and we for men. . . . 

Yes, it 's a heartsome thing to be a wife. 

When round the Ingle-e^e young sprouts are rife. 

Gifl 'm Boe happy, 1 shaU hae dSgut 

To bear their Little plaints, and keep tYkem t^e^Xk 
^ow 1 Jenny, can there greater pVeaswceXje, 
ThAB eee sic wee tots toofying at your knee ; 



RAMSAY.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. Ml 

When a' they ettle at— their greatest wish. 
Is to be made o'. and obtain a kiss 7 
Can there be toil in tending day and night 
The like o* them, when love maks care aelight ? 

Jenkt. Bnt poortith, Peggy, is the warst o' a' ; 
Gif o'er yonr heads ill-chance should begg'ry draw* 
Bat little love or canty cheer can come 
Frae daddy doublets, and a pantry toom. 
Yoar nowt may die— the s^Mite may bear away 
Frae aff the holms yonr dainty mcks o* hay. 
The thick-blawn wreaths o* snaw, or blashy thow0y 
Hay smoor yonr wethers, and may rot yoar ewes. 
A dyvour buys your butter, woo, and cheese. 
But, or the day o' payment, breaks, and flees. 
Wi' gloomin' brow, uie laird seeks in his rent ; 
It 's no to gie ; your merchant's to the bent. 
His honour maunna want— he poinds your cear ; 
Syne, driven frae house and haid, where wifl ye steer? 
Dear Meg, be wise, and live a single life ; 
Troth, it '8 nae mows to be a married wife. 

Peqoy. May sic ill-luck befa' that silly she . 
Wha has sic fears, for tnat was never me. 
Let f oak bode we^ and strive to do their best ; 
Nae mair 's reqniined ; let Heaven mak out the rwt. 
I've heard my i»i>nest uncle af ten say, 
That lads should a' for wives that 's virtuous pray ; 
For the maist thrifty man could never get 
A weel-stored room, unless his wife wad let : 
Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part^ 
To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart : 
Whate'er he wins, 1 11 guide vrt' canny care, 
And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair, 
For halesome, dean, cheap, and sufficient ware. 
A flock o' Iambs, cheese, butter, and some woo, 
Shall first be said to pay the laird his due ; 
Syne a' behind 's our ain. Thus witboat fear, 
Wi' love and rowth, we through the warld will steer ; 
And when my Pate in bairns and gear ^ows rife, 
He'll bless the daiUie gat me for ms wife. 

Jenny. But what if some young giglet on the green, 
Wi' dimpled cheeks and twa Dewitching een, 
Should gar jrour Patie think his half-worn Meg, 
And her kenned kisses, hardly worth a feg ? 

Peggy. Nae mair o' that— Dear Jenny, to be free, 
There's some men constanter in love than we : 
Nor is the feriy great, when nature kind 
Hast blest them wi' solidity o' mind. 
They'll reason calmly, and wi' kindness smile. 
When our short passions wad our peace beguile : 
Sae, whenso'er they slight their maiks at hame, 
It's ten to ane the wives are maist to blame. 
Then I'll employ wi* pleasure a' my art 
To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart. 
At e'en, when he come weary frae the hill, 
I'll ha'e a' things made ready to his will ; 
In winter, when he toUs through wind and rain, 
A bleezing inele, and a clean hearthstane * 
And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff. 
The seethiDg pat's be readv to tak aff ; 
Clean hag-aHbag 111 spread upon his board. 
And serve him wi' the best we can afi.ocd; 
Oood-humour and white bigonets akaSW)^ 



343 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Guards to my face to keep his love for me. 

Jennt. a dish o* married love right soon grows canld, 
And dosens dovm to nane, as f oak ^row aula. 

PEaoY. Bat we 11 grow aold tfaegither, and n*er find 
The loss 0' joath, when love grows on the mind. 
Bairns and their bairns mak sore a firmer tie. 
Than aoght in love the like of as can spy. 
See yon twa elms that grow ap side by side, 
Sappose them some vear syne bridegroom and bride: 
Nearer and nearer ilka year they've prest, 
Till wide their spreading branches are increast 
And in their mixtore now are folly blest : 
This shields the ither frae the eastlin blast, 
That, in retam, defends it frae the wast. 
Sic as stand single — a state sae liked by yon ! — 
Beneath ilk storm, frae every airt, mann bow. 

Jennt. I've done— I yield, dear lassie ; I maun yield ; 
Your better sense has fairly won the field. 



DRAMATISTS. 



The dramatic literature of this period was, like its general poetry, 
polished and artificial. In tragedy, the highest name is that of 
Southeme, who may claim, with Otway, the power of touching the 
passions, yet his language is feeble compared with that of the great 
dramatists, and his general style low and unimpressiye. Addison's 
* Cato * is more properly a classical poem than a drama — ^as cold and 
less vigorous than the tragedies of Jonson. In comedy, the national 
taste is apparent in its faithful and witty delineations of polished life, 
of which Wycherley and Congreve had set the example, and which 
was well continued by Farquhar and Vanbrugh. Beaumont and 
Fletcher first introduced what may be called comedies of intrigue, 
borrowed from the Spanish drama; and the innovation appears to 
have been congenial to the English taste,^or it still pervades our 
comic literature. The vigorous exposure of the immorality of the 
stage by Jeremy Collier, and the essays of Steele and Addison, im- 
proving the taste and moral feeling of the public, a partial reforma- 
tion took place of those nuisances of the drama which the Bestora- 
tion bad introduced. The Master of the Revels, by whom all plays 
had to be licensed, also aided in this work of retrenchment ; but a 
glance at even those improved plays of the reign of William III. and 
his successors, will shew that ladies frequenting the theatres had still 
occasion to wear masks, which CoUey Gibber says they usually did 
on the production of a new play. 

THOMAS 80I7THEB17E. 

Thomas Southbbnb (1659-1746) may be classed either with the 

last or the present period. His life was long, extended, and prosper- 

ous. He was a native of Dublui, but came to England, and enrolled 

Iilmself in the Middle Temple as a BtudenX. oi\«k^. 1^^ ^l\fcx^^^d<& 

entered the army, And held the rank o^ ca^\»:m \xa^«t ^^\ixiiiJ^ ^\ 



soirrHERNE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 248 

Tork, at the time of Monmouth's insurrection. His latter days were 
spent in retirement, and in the possession of a considerable fortune. 

Southerne wrote ten plays, but only two exhibit his characteristic 
powers, namely * Isabella, or the Fatal Marriage,' and ^ Oroonoko.* 
The latter is founded on an actual occurrence ; Oroonoko, an African 
prince, having been stolen from his native kingdom of Angola, and 
carried to one of the West India islands. The impassioned grandeur 
of Oroonoko's sufferings, his burst of horror and indignation at the 
Blaye-trade, and his unhappy passion for Imomda, are powerful and 
pathetic. In the following scene, the hero and heroine unexpectedly 
meet after a long absence : 

Oroonoko. My sonl steals from my bo^y through my eyes ; 
All that is left of life 111 gaze away, 
And die upon the pleasure. 

LnsuT. This is strange I 

Oboo. If you but moK^ me with her image here : 
If she be not Imoindfr— 

[She looks upon him and falU into a mooon ; ht rwM to her, 
Hal she faints I 

Nay, then, it must be she— it is Imoinda I 
Hy heart confesses her, and leaps for joy, 

To welcome her to her own empire here. [KisMs her, 

Imoinda I oh, thy Chroonoko calls. 

Imoinda {recovering), lAj Oroonoko I Oh I I can't beUeve 
What any man can sav. But if I am 
To be deceived, there 's something in that name, 
That voice, that face— [Stares at him. 

Oh I if I know myself, I cannot be mistaken. [Embraces him, 

' Oboo. Never here : 
Ton cannot be mistaken : I am yours. 
Tour Oroonoko, all that you would have ; 
Tour tender, loving husband. 

Imo. All, indeed, 
That I would have : ray husband I then I am 
Alive, and waking to the joys I feel : 
They were so great, I could not think 'em true ; 
But I believe SH that you say to me : 
For truth itself, and everlasting love 
Grows in this breast, and pleasure in these arms. 

Oboo. Take, take me all ; inquire into my heart 
Ton know the way to every secret there — 
Hy heart, the sacred treasury of love : 
And if, in absence, I have disemployed 
A mite from the rich store ; if I nave spent 
A wish, a sigh, but what I sent to you. 
Hay I be cursed to wish and sigh in vain, 
And you not pity me. 

Imo. Oh! I believe, 
And know you by myself. If these sad eyes, 
Since last we parted, have beheld the face 
Of any comfort, or once wished to see 
The lig[ht of any other heaven but von. 
May I oe struck this moment blind, and lose 
Tour blessed sight, never to find you more. 

Oboo. Imoinda I Oh! this separation 
Has made you dearer, if it can be so. 
Than you were ever to me. Tou appear 
Like a kind atar to my beuighied atepa. 



244 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

To guide me on my way to happiness : 

I cannot miss it now. Ck>vemor, friend, 

Yon think me mad : bat let me bless yon all, 

Who anyways have been the instraments 

Of finding her again. Imoinda 's found I 

And eveiytiiing that I wonld have in her. [Embraces her. 

Bland. Sir, we congratulate your happiness ; I do most heartily. 

Lieut. And all of us : but how it comes to pass 

Oboo. That would require 
More precious' time than I can spare you now. 
I have a thousand things to sak of her. 
And she as many more to know of me. 
But you have made me happier, I confess. 
Acknowledge it, much happier than I 
Have words or power to tell you. Captain, yon. 
Even you, who most have wronged me, I forgive. 
I will not say you have betrayedme now : 
I '11 think you but the minister of fate. 
To bring me to my loved Imoinda here. 

Imo. How, how shall I receive you ? how be worthy 
Of such endearments, all this tenderness ? 
These are the transports of prosperity, 
When fortune smiles upon us. 

Oboo. Let the fools 
Who follow fortune live upon her smiles ; 
All our prosperity is placed in love ; 
We have enough of that to make us happy. 
This little spot of earth you stand upon 
Is more to me than the extended pluns 
Of mv great father's kingdom. Here I reign 
In full delights, in joys to power unknown ; 
Tour love my empire, and your heart my Hurone. [Exeunt. 

Mr. Hallam says that Southerne was the first English writer who 
denounced (in this play) the traffic in slaves and the cruelties of their 
West Indian bondage. This is an honour which should neyer be 
omitted in any mention of the dramatist. * Isabella' is more correct 
and regular than * Oroonoko,' and the part of the heroine affords 
scope fer a tragic actress, scarcely inferior in pathos to Belvidera. 
Otway, however, has more depth of passion, and more vigorous de- 
lineation of character. The plot of * Isabella ' is simple. In abject 
distress, and believing her husband, Biron, to be dead, Isabella is 
hurried into a second marriage. Biron returns, and the distress of 
the heroine terminates in madness and death. Comic scenes are in- 
terspersed throughout Southeme*s tragedies, which, though they re- 
lieve the sombre colouring of the main action and interest of the 
piece, are sometimes misplaced and unpleasant. 

Betum of Biron, 

A Chamber— ErUer Isabeixa. 

Isabella. I've heard of witches, magic spells, and charms, 
That have made natura start from her old course ; 
The sun has been eclipsed, the moon drawn down 
From her career, still pvder, and subdued 
To the abuses of this under world. 
Now I believe all possible. This ring, 
This little ring, with necromantio force. 



IINE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. S84o 

Has raised the ghost of pleasure to my fears ; 
Conjured the sense of honour and of love 
Into such shapes, they fright me from myself I 
I dare not think of them. 

Enter NuBfiB. 

KuBSE. Madam, the gentleman 's below. 

IsA. I had forgot ; pray, let me speak with him. iExit^JSurae, 

This ring was the first prdaent of my love 
To Biron, my first husband ; I must blush 
To think I have a second. Biron died 
(Still to mv loss) at Caudy ; there's my hope. 
Oh, do I live to hope that he died there ? 
It must be so ; he's dead, and this ring left, 
By his last breath, to some known faithful Mead, 
To bring me back again ; 
That's nh 1 have to mist to. 

Enter Bibon— <I0A]ixlla looking at him.) 

My fears were woman's— I have viewed him all ; 

And let me let me sav '*' to myself, 

I live again, and rise but from his tomb. 

BiBON. Have you forgot me quite? 

IsA. Forgot you I 

Bib. Then farewell my disguise, and my misfortunes 1 
My Isabella I [£fo poes to her; she shrinks^ and /ainta. 

ISA. Hal 

Bib. Oh I come again ; 
Thy Biron suiomons thee to life and love ; 
Thy once-loved. ever>ioving husband calUh- 
Thy Biron speaks to thee. 
Excess of love and joy, for my return, 
Has overpowered her. I was to Mame 
To take tny sex's softness unprepared ; 
But sinking thus, thus dying m my arms, 
This ecstacy has made my welcome more 
Than words could say. Words may be counteifeifc, 
False coined, and current only from the tongue. 
Without the mind ; but passion 's in the soul. 
And always speaks the heart. 

IsA. Wnere have I been ? Why do you keep lum from me ? 
I know his voice ; my life, upon the wing. 
Hears the soft lure that brings me back again ; 
'TIS he himself, my Bbron. 
Do I hold you fast. 
Never to part asain T 
If I must fall, death 's welcome In these arms. 

Bib. Live ever in these arms. 

IsA. But pardon me : 
Excuse the wild disorder of my soul ; 
The joy, the strange, surprising )oy of seeing you, 
Of seeing you agam, distracted me. 

Bib. Thou everlasting goodness ! 

IsA. Answer me : 
What hand of Providence has brought you back 
To your own home again ? 
Oh, tell me aU, 
For every thought confounds me. 

Bib. My best life ! at leisure all. 

IsA. We thought you dead ; killed at the siege of Candy. 

Bib. There I lell among the dead ; 



/^ 



246 CYCLOPi^I^lA OF [to 17^7. 

But hopes of life reyiving from my wonnds, 
I was preserve^ bat to be made a slave. 
I often writ to m^ hard father, but u^ver had 
An answer ; I wnt to thee too. 

IsA. Whata world of woe 
Had been prevented but in hearing from yon I 

Bib. Alas I thon couldst not hem me. ' 

ISA. Ton do not know how ihuch I could have done ; 
At least, I 'm sore I could have suffered all ; 
I would have sold mjrself to slavery, 
Without redemption ; given up my child, 
The dearest part of me, to basest wants. 

Bib. My little boy I 

IsA. My life, but to have heard 
You were alive. 

Bib. No more, my love ; complaining of the past, 
We lose the present joy. 'Tis over price 
Of all my pams, that thus we meet again I 
I have a thousand things ' - nay to thee. 

IsA. Would I were past —• ^ heaiing. C^«ide. 

Bib. How does my cliild, my boy, my father too? 
I hear he 's living still. 

IsA. Well, boui ; both well ; 
And may he prove a f atitier to your hopes, 
Though we hqive found, him n^ne. 

Bib. Come, up more tears. 

IsA. Seven long vears of sorrow for your loss 
Have mourned with me. 

Bib. And all my days to come 
Shall be employed in a kind recompense 
For thy afflictions. Can't I see my boy ? 

IsA. He 'B gone to bed ; I '11 have him brought to you. 

Bib. To-morrow I shall see him ; I want rest 



Myself, after this weary pilgrimage. 
ISA. Alas I what shall I get for you ? 



Bib. Nothing but rest, my love. To-night I would not 
Be known, if possible, to your family : 
I see my nurse is with you ; her welcome 
Would be tedious at this time; 
To-morrow will do better. 

IsA. X '11 dispose of her, and order everything 
As you would nave it. [JSrit. 

Bib. Qraut me but life, good Heaven, and give the means 
To make this wondrous goodness some amends ; 
And let me then lorweX her, if I can. 
Oh I she deserves of me much more than I 
Can lose for her* though I jagain could venture 
A father and his fortune for her love I 
You wretched fathers, blind as fortune all ! 
Not to perceive that such a woman's worth 
Weighs down the portions you provide your sons. 
What is your trash, what all your heaps of gold. 
Compared to this, ray heartfelt happiness ? 
What has she, in my absence, undergone ? 
I must not think of that ; it drives me baqk 
Upon myself, the fatal cause of alL 

■E'rofer ISARWT.T.A. 

IsA. I have obeyed your pleasure ; 
Eveiything is ready for you. 

BiEi. I can want nothing here ; po»^«!^iivgi^QA, 
All my desires are carried to Uicix aim 



ROWE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 247 

Of happineee ; there's no room for a wish, 

Bnt to continue Btill tliis bleeshiff to me ; 

I know Uie way, my love. I shafi Bleep soond. 

IsA. Shall I attend yon ? 

Bib. By no means ; 
I've been so long a slave to others* pride. 
To learn, at least, to wait upon myself ; 
Youll make haste after 7 

IsA. Ill bnt say my prayers, and follow yon. lExU Biron, 

My prayers I no, I mnst never pray again. 
Prayers have their blessings, to reward oar hopes, 
Bnt I have nothing left to nope for more. 
What Heaven could give I have enjoyed ; but now 
The baneful planet rises on mv fate, 
And what's to come is a long fife of woe ; 
Yet I may shorten it. 
I promised him to follow— him ! 
Is he without a name ? Biron, my husband— 
My husband I Hal What, then, is Villeroy? 

Oh, Biron, hadst thou come but one day sooner I {Weeping, 

What's to be done T for something mnst be done. 
Two husbands I married to both. 
And yet a wife to neither. Hold, my brain— 
Ha! a lucky thought 

Works the right way to rid me of them all * 
All the reproaches. Infamies, and scorns. 
That every tongue and finger will find for me. 
Let the just horror of my apprehensions 
But keep me warm ; no matter what can come. 
'TIS but a blow ; yet I will see him first, 
Have a last look, to heightsn my despair, 
And then to rest forever. 

NICHOLAS BOWE. 

Nicholas Rowe was also bred to the law, and forsook it for the 
trai^c drama. He was bom in 1673 or 1674 of a good family at Lit- 
tle Barford, in Bedfordshire. His father had an estate at Lamerton, 
in Devonshire, and was a seijeant-at-law in the Temple. Nicholas, 
during the earlier years of manhood, lived on a patrimony of £300 a 
year in chambers in the Temple. His first tragedy, * The Ambitious 
Stepmother/ acted in 1700, was performed with great success ; and 
it was followed by * Tamerlane * * The Fair Penitent,' * Ulysses,' ' The 
Royal Convert,' * Jane Shore, and * Lady Jane Grey.' Rowe, on 
rising into fame as an author, was munificently patronized. The 
Duke of Queensberry made him his secretary for public aflfairs. On 
the accession of George I. he was made poet-laureate and a surveyor 
of customs ; the Prince of Wales appointed him clerk of his council ; 
and the Lord Chancellor gave him the office of clerk of the presenta- 
tions. Rowe was a favourite in society. It is stated that his voice 
was uncommonly sweet, his obseiTations lively, and his manners so 
engaging, that his friends, amongst whom were Pope, Swift, and Ad- 
dison, ddighted in his conversation Yet it is also reported by Spence, 
that there was a certain levity and carelessness about him, which 
made Pope, on one occasion, declare "him \o \v«^^TiO \ifta.\V ^^-^'^ 



us CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1727. 

was the first editor of Shakspeare entitled to the name, and the first 
to attempt the collection of a few biographical particulars of the im- 
mortal dramatist. He was twice married, and died in 1718. His 
widow — who afterwards married a Colonel Dean — received a pension 
from the crown, * in consideration/ not of his dramatic genius, but 
* of the translation of Lucan's ** Pharsalia " made by her late hus- 
band I' The widow erected a handsome monument over her husband's 
grave in Westminster Abbey. 

In addition to the dramatic works we have enumerated, Howe was 
the author of two volumes of miscellaneous poetry, which scarcely 
ever rises above dull and respectable mediocrity. His tragedies are 
passionate and tender, with an equable and smooth s^le of versifica- 
tion, not unlike that of Ford. His * Jane Shore ' is still occasionally 
performed, and is effective in the pathetic scenes descriptive of the 
sufferings of the heroine. * The Fair Penitent' was long a popular 
play, and the 'gallant gay Lothario' was the prototype of many 
stage seducers and romance heroes. Richardson elevated the char- 
acter in his Lovelace, ffiving at the same time a purity and sanctity 
to the sorrows of his Clarissa, which leave Bow's Calista immeasura^ 
bly behind. The incidents of Rowe's dramas are well arranged for 
stage effect; they are studied and prepared in the manner of the 
French school, and were adapted to the taste of the age. As the 
study of Shakspeare and the romantic drama has advanced in this 
country, Rowe has proportionally declined, and is now but seldom 
read or acted. His popularity in his own day is best seen in the 
epitaph by Pope — a beautiful and tender effusion of friendship, which, 
however, is perhaps not irreconcilable with the anecdote preserved 
by Spence : 

Thy relics, Rowe, to this sad shrine we trust, 
And near thy Shakspeare place thy honoured hnst ; 
Oh I next him, skilled to draw the tender tear, 
For never heart felt passion more sincere : 
To nobler sentiment td fire the brave. 
For never Britain more disdained a uave. 
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest I 
Blest in thy genins, in thy love, too, blest I 
And blest, that timely from our scene removed, 
Thy soul enjoys the liberty it loved.' 

Penitence and Death of Jane Shore, 

Jaxe Shobe, her Husband, and Belmour, 

Belmoxtb. How fare you, ladvT 
Jane Shore. My heart is thruled with horror. 
Bel. Be of conrage ; 
Tonr hnsband lives! 'tis he, my worthiest friend. 

Jane S. Still art thou there 7 still dost thou hover roimd me T 
Ob, save me. Belmour, from his angry shade I 
Bel. Tis he himself I he Uveal loofe-o^. 
Jane S. I dare not. 
Oh, that my eyes conld shut Ynm. out tot «^«\ 



tows] ENGLISH LITERATURE. JWd 

Shokb. Am I so hateful, then, so deadly to thee. 
To blast thy eyes with horror ? Since I'm grown 
A burden to the world, myself, and thee, 
Woald I had ne'er sarvived to see thee more. 

Janb S. Oh ! thou most injured— dost thou liye, indeed? 
Fall then, ye mountains, on my guilty head I 
Hide me, ye rocks, within your secret caverns ; 
Cast thy black veil upon my shame, O night ! 
And shield me with thy sable wing for ever. 

Shore. Why dost thou turn away ? Why tremble thus? 
Why thus indulge thy fears, and in despair 
Abandon thy distracted soul to horror f 
Cast every black and guilty thought behind thee, 
And let 'em never vex thy quiet more. 
My arms, my heart, are open to receive thee, 
To bring thee back to thy forsaken home. 
With tender joy, with fond, forgiving love. 
Let us haste. 

Now, while occasion seems to smile upon us. 
Forsake this place of shame, and find a shelter. 

Janb S. What shall I say to you? Bat I obey. 

Shobb. Lean on my arm. 

Jane S. Alas 1 I am woundrous faint : 
But that 's pot strange, I have not ate these three dayi» 

Shobe. Oh, merciless I . . . . 

Jane S. Oh I I'm sick at heart I 

Shobe. Thou murderous sorrow I 
Would thou still drink her blood, pursue her still ? 
Must she then die 7 Ob, my poor penitent I 
Speak peace to thy sad heart : she nears me not : 
Giief masters every sense— help me to hold her. 

Enter Catesbt vrUh a Ouard, 

Catesbt. Seize on 'em both, as traitors to the state I 

Bsii. What means this violence ? 

[Ouarda lay hold <m Shan and Bdmour, 

Cates. Have we not found you, 
In scorn of the Protector's strict command 
Assisting this base woman, and abetting 
Her infamy 7 

Shobe. Infamy on thy head I 
Thou tool of power, thou pander to authority I 
I tell thee, knave, thou know'st of none so virtuous. 
And she that bore thee was an Ethiop to her. 

Gates. You '11 answer this at full : away witk 'em. 

Shore. Is charity grown treason to your court ? 
What honest man would live beneath such rulers ? 
I am content that we should die together. 

Gates. Gonvey the man to prison ; but for her— 
Leave her to hunt her fortune as she may. 

Jane S. I will not part with him : for me 1— for me I 
Oh ! must he die for me 7 [Following him as he is carried of—ehefaUe, 

Shobe. Inhuman villains I iBreake/rom the Ouarda, 

Stand off I the agonies of death are on her I 
She pulls, she gripes me hard with her cold hand. 

Jane S. Was this blow wanting to complete my ruin? 
Oh I let me go, ye ministers of terror. 
He shall offend no more, for I will die, 
And yield obedience to your cruel mastec 
Tarry a lltthf bat a little longer, 
And take my laat breath witE you. 



250 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Shore. Oh. mv loye I 
Why have I lived to see this bitter moment— 
This grief by far BurpassiDg all my former ? 
Why dost then fix thy dying eyes npon me 
With such an earnest, snch a piteous look, 
As if thy heart were fall of some sad meaning 
Thou couldst oot speak ? 

Jane 8. Forgive me I but forgive me ! 

Shore. Be mtness for me, ye cdestial host, 
Such mercy and such pardon as my soul 
Accords to thee, and begs of Heaven to shew thee, 
May snch befall me -at my latest hour. 
And make my portion blest or curst for ever I 

Jane S. Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace. 
*Tisvery dark, and I have lost you now : 
Was there not something I would have bequeathed yon? 
But I have nothing left me to bestow, 
Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh I mercy, Heaven I [JWes. 

Calista'8 Pasdonfor Lotha/iio, 

A HoU—Caja&ta and LucnxA. 

Calxsta. Be dumb for ever, silent as the grave, 
Nor let thy fond, oflOicious love disturb 
My solemn sadness with the sound of joy. 
If thou wilt soothe me, tell some dismal tale 
Of pining discontent and black despair ; 
For, oh ! 1 've gone around through all my thoughts, 
But all are indignation, love, or shame. 
And my dearpeace of mind is lost for ever. 

LuciLLA. Why do you follow still that wandering fire, 
That has misled ^onr weary steps, and leaves you 
Benighted in a wilderness of woe, 
That false Lothario ? Turn from the deceiver ; 
Turn, and behold where gentle Altamont 
Sighs at your feet, and woos you to be happy. 

Cal. Away 1 I think not of him. My sad soul 
Has formed a dismal, melancholy scene. 
Such a retreat as I would wish to find ; 
An unfrequented vale, overgrown with trees 
Mossy and old, within whose lonesome shade 
Havens and birds ill-omened only dwell : 
No sound to break the silence, but a brook 
That bubbling winds among the weeds : no mark 
Of any human shape that had been there. 
Unless the skeleton of some poor wretch 
Who had long since, like me, by love undone, 
Sought that sad place out to despair and die In. 

Luc. Alas! for pity. 

CAii. There I fam would hide me. 
From the base world, from malice, and from shame ; 
For 'tis the solemn counsel of my soul 
Never to live with public loss of honour: 
'TIS fixed to die, rather than bear the insolence 
Of each affected she that tells my story, 
And blesses her good stars that sne is virtuous.^ 
To be a tale for fools I Scorned by the women, 
And pitied by the men. Oh I inBTipportOL\>\e\ * 

Luc. Oh I hear me. hear yoxtr eveT-iaiVJata^cwateoaftW 
Bv all the good I wish yon, by aft tYie VSV 
Mjr trembwig heart forebodes, let me cntteftX'jow. 



ULLO.J ENGLISH LITERATURE. 861 

Never to see this faithless man again-' 
Let me forbid his coming. 

Cal. On thy life, 
I charge thee, no ; mv ji^nios driyes me on ; 

I mast, I will behold him once again ; ' 

Perhaps it is the crisis of my fate, 
And thifl one interview shall end my cares. 
My laboarine heart, that swells with indignation. 
Heaves to discharge the burden ; that once done, 
The busy thins shall rest within its cell, 
And never be^ again. 

Lno. Trust not to that : 
Rage is the shortest passion of our sonls ; 
like narrow brooks that rise with sadden showers, 
It swells in haste, and falls again as soon ; 
Still as it ebbs the softer tboaghts flow in. 
And the deceiver. Love,, suppfies its place. 

Cai.. I have been wronged enoagh to arm my temper 
Against the smodh delusion ; bat, alas I — 
Cmde not my weakness, gentle maid, bat pity m&— 
A woman's softness hangs about me still ; 
Then let me blush, and tell thee all my foUy. 
' I swear I could not see the dear betrayer 
E^neel at my feet, and sigh to be forgiven. 
But my relenting heart would pardon all, 

And quite forget 'twas he that had undone me. . {3tU JAteUkL 

Ha I Altamont I Calista, now be wary, 
And guard thy soul's excesses with dissembling: 
Nor let this hostile husband's eyes explore 
The warring passions and tumultuous thoughts 
That rage wiihin thee, and deform thy reason. 

WILLIAM LILLO. 

The experiment of domestic tragedy, founded on sorrows incident 
to real life in the lower and middling ranks, was tried with consider- 
able success by William Lillo (1693-1739), a jeweller in London. 
Lillo carried on business successfully for several years, dying with 
property to a considerable amount, and an estate worth £60 per an- 
num, rossessing a literary taste, this industrious citizen devoted his 
leisure hours to the composition of three dramas, * George Barnwell,' 
* Fatal Curiosity,' and *Arden of Feversham.* A tragedy on the lat- 
ter subject had, it will be recollected, appeared about the time of 
Shakspeare. At this early period of the drama, the style of Lillo 
may be said to have l)een also shadowed forth in the * Yorkshire 
Tragedy,* and one or two other plays founded on domestic occur- 
rences. These, however, were rude and irregular, and were driven 
off the stage by the romantic drama of Shakspeare and his successors. 
Lillo had a competent knowledge of dramatic art, and his style was 
generalljr smooth and easy. To the masters of the drama he stands 
m a position similar to that of Defoe, compared with Cervantes or Sir 
Waltw Scott. His * George Barnwell* describes the career of a Lon- 
don apprentice hurried on to ruin and murder by an infamous woman^ 
who at last delivers him up to justice and ViO Mi\\RQLO\SL\\a!3^^ ^'^•a.Siss.. 
The characters are naturally delineated; a\idy«e \iW6 \tfi ^«sS&x*^ 



IM2 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

was correctly said that * George Barnwell ' drew more tears than the 
rants of 'Alexander the Great.* His * Fatal Curiosity * is a far higher 
work. Driven by destitution, an old man and his wife murder a rich 
stranger who talies shelter in their house, and they discover, but too 
late, that they have murdered their son, returned alter a long absence. 
The harrowing details of this tragedy are powerfully depicted ; and 
the agonies of old Wilmot, the father, constitute one of the most ap- 
palling and affecting incidents in the drama. 

The execution of Lillo's plays is unequal, and some of his charac- 
ters are dull and commonplace ; but he was a forcible painter of the 
dark shades of humble life. His plays have not kept possession of 
the stage. The taste for murders and public executions has declined ; 
and Lillo was deficient in poetical and n mantic feeling. The ques- 
tion, whether the familiar cast of his subject was fitted to constitute 
a more genuine or only a subordinate walk in tragedy, is discussed 
by Campbell in the following eloquent paragraph : 

'Undoubtedly the genuine delineation of the human heart will 
please us, fnmi whatever station or circumstances ot life it is derived. 
In the simple pathos of tragedy, probably very little difference will 
be felt from the dlioice of characters being pitched above or belov 
the line of mediocrity in station. But something more than pathos 
is required in tragedy ; and the very pain that attends our sympathy 
requires a,greeable and romantic associations of the fancy to be 
blended with its poignancy. Whatever attaches ideas of importance, 
publicity, and elevation to the object of pity, forms a brightening and 
alluring medium to the imagination. Athens hersellj with aU her 
simplicity and democracy, delighted on the stage to 

Let gor&;eoii8 Tragedy 
In sceptred pall come Sweeping by. 

Even situations far depressed beneath the familiar mediocrity of life, 
are mbre pictu»*esque and poetical than its ordinary level. It is cer- 
tainly on the virtues of the middling rank of life that the strength 
and comforts of society chiefly depend, in the same manner as we 
look for the harvest, not on cliffs and precipices, but on the easy slope 
and the uniform plain. But the painter does not, in general, fix on 
level countries for the subjects of his noblest landscapes. There is an 
analogy, I conceive, to this in the moral painting of tragedjr. Dis- 
parities of station ^ive it boldness of outline. The commandmg situ- 
ations of life are its mountain scenery — the region where its storm 
and sunshine may be portrayed in their strongest contrast and colour- 
ing.' 

Fatal Curiosity, 

TouNO WiiMOT, anknown, enters the house of his parents and dettren them a 
casket, requesting to retire an hour for rest. 

AoNZB the rnother, oltme, uith, the ccuikel \'a"h«r VkaA. 
AanEa, Who should tbi»«trttn«^T)afet Aaa.XJDfi».>iii^«Mtofc-\ 
He Baya it ia of value, and yet tnasta \t. 



LLO.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 368 

As if a trifle, to a strang^^s hand. 
His confidence amaKes me. Perhaps 
It is not what he says. I'm strongly tempted 
To open it and see. No ; let it rest. 
Why should my cariosity excite me 
To search and pry into the aftairs of others, 
Who have to employ my thoaehts so many cares 
And sorrows of my own ? With how much ease 
The spring gives way I Surprising ! most prodigioofl t 
My eyes are dazzled, and my raviwed heart 

Leap? at the glorious sight. How bright's the lustre, > 

How immense the worth of those fair jewels ! 
Ay, such a treasure would expel for ever 
Base poverty and all its abject train ; 

The mean devices we're reduced to use , 

To keep out famine, and preserve our lives • 

From day to day ; the cold neglect of friends ; 
. The galline scorn, or more provoking pity 
Of an insulting world. Possessed of these. 
Plenty, content, and power, might take their turn. 
And lofty pride bare its aspiring head 
At our approach, and once more bend before us. 
A pleasing dream ! Tis past ; and now I wake 
More wretched by the happiness I've lost ; 
For sure, it was a happiness to think, 
Though but a moment, such a treasure mine. * 
Nay, It was more than thought. I saw and touched 
The bright temptation, and I see it yet. 
Tis here — tis mine— I have it in possession. 

Must I resign it? Must I give it back 7 > 

Am I in love with misery and wanl^ 
To rob myself, and court so vast a loss? 

Retain it then. But how ? There is a way. I 

Why sinks my heart 7 Why does my blood run cold T [ 

Why am I thrilled with horror 7 *Tis not choice, i 

But dire necessity, suggests the thought. ; 

Enter OuaWuMOT, ' 

Old Wilmot. The mind contented, with how little pains \ 

The wandering senses yield to soft repose, < 

And die to gam new life I He 's fallen asleep 
Already— happy man I What dost thou think, 
My Agnes, of our unen)ected guest 7 
He seems to me a voutn of great humanitr : 
Just ere he closed his eyes, mat swam in tears, 
He wrung my band, and pressed it to his lins ; 
And with a look that pierced me to the som. 

Begged me to comfort thee, and Dost thou hear me 7 

What art thou gazing on 7 Fie, 'tis not weU. 
This casket was delivered to vou closed : 
Why have you opened it 7 Should this be known, 
How mean must we appear I 

Agnes. And who shall know it 7 

O. WiL. There is a kind of pride, a decent dignity 
Due to ourselves, which, spite of our misfortunes, 
May be maintained and cherished to the last. 
To live without reproach, and without leave 
To quit the world, shews sovereign comtempt 
And noMe scorn of its releutless malice. 

Aesxs. Shews sovereign madness, axiA. «^ bcoth eft. wsioax 
Farsae no fnrtber this detested theme : i 

I will not die. I will not leave the wotlflL 1 



U^ CYCLOPEDIA OF [XX) 1727. 

For all that yon can nrge, ontil compelled. 

O. WiL. To chase a shadow, when the sitting son 
Is darting his last rays, were just as wise 
As your anxiety for fleeting life, 
Now the last means for its support are failing : 
Were famine not as mortal as the sword. 
This warmth might be excused. But take thy choice: 
Die how you wiU, you shall not die alone. 

AoNBS. Nor live, I hope. 

O. WiL. There is no fear of that. 

AoNES. Then we '11 live both. 

O. Wiii. Strange folly I Where's the means Y 

AoNES. The means are there ; those jewels. 

O. WiL. Ha 1 take heed : 
Perhaps thou dost but try me ; yet take heed 
There 's nought so monstrous but the mind of man 
In some condition may be brought to approve ; 
Theft, sacrilege, treason, and parricide, 
When flattering opportunity enticed. 
And desperation drove, have been committed 
By those who once would start to hear them named. 

AoNES. And add to these detested suicide. 
Which, by a crime much less, we may avoid. 

O. WiL. The inhospitable murder of our guest? 
How couldst thou form a thought so very tempting^ 
So advantageous, so secure, and easy ; 
And yet so cruel, and so full of horror ? 

Agnbs. 'Tis less impiety, less against natoie. 
To take another's life than end our own. 

O. Wiii. It is no matter, whether this or that 
Be, in itself, the less or greater crime : 
Howe'er we may deceive ourselves or others. 
We act from inclination, not by rule. 
Or none could act amiss. And that all err. 
None but the conscious hjrnocrite denies. 
Oh, what is man, his excellence and strength. 
When in an hour of trial and desertion. 
Reason, his noblest power, may be suborned 
.To plead the cause of vile assassination I 

Agnes. You're too severe : reason may jaaOj plead 
For her own preservation. 

O. WiL. Rest contented : 
Whate'er resistance I may seem to mak^ 
I am betrayed withiu : my will *s seduced. 
And my whole soul infected. The desire 
Of life returns, and brings with it a tridn 
Of appetites, that rage to be supplied. 
Whoever stands to parley with temptation 
Does it to be o'ercome. 

AoNES. Then nought remains 
But the swift execution of a deed 
That is not to be thought on or delayed. 
We must despatch him sleei)ing : should he wake, 
'Twere madness to attempt it. 

O. WiL. True, his strength. 
Single, is more, much more than ours united ; 
So may his life, perhaps, as far exceed 
Oars in duration, shomd he 'scape this snare. 
Generons, unhappy man I Oh, vih&t covi^ xasw^ >i«fe 
To pat tby life and fortune in \he hasxiQA 
Of wretches mad with angaishl 
AaNJsa. By whatmeanal 



.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 26S 

By Btabbiug, suffocation, or by strangliDg, 
Shall we enect his death ? 

O. WiL. Why, what a fiend I 
How cruel, how remorselesB, how impatient. 
Have pride and poverty made thee I 

Agnes. Barbarous man ! 
Whose wasteful riots ruined our estate, 
And drove our sou, ere the first down had spread 
His rosy cheekf , spite of ray sad presages, 
Earnest entreaties, agonies, and tears, 
To seek his bread 'uiongst strangers, and to i>erlBh 
In some remote inhospitable land. 
The loveliest youth in person and in mind 
That ever crowned a groaning mother's pains I ^ 
Where was thy pity, where thy patience then ? 
Thou cruel husband ! thou unnatural father 1 
Thou most remorseless, most ungrateful man I 
To waste my fortune, rob me of my son ; 
. To drive me to despair, and then reproach me. 

O. WiL. Dry thy tears: 
I ought not to reproach thee. I confess 
That thou hast suffered much : so have we both. 
But chide no more : I'm wrought up to thy purpose. 

The poor ill-fated unsuspecting victim, . - 

Ere he reclined him on the fatal couch. 
From which he 's ne'er to rise, took off the sash 
And costly dagger that thou saw'st him wear ; 
And thus, unthinking, furnished us with arms 
Against himself. Wnat shall I use ? 

Agnes. The sash. 
If you make use of that, I can assist. 

O. WiL. No. 
'Tis a dreadful office, and I'll spare 
Thy trembling hands the guilt. Steal to the door, 
And bring me word if he De still asleep. [Exit Agnm, 

Or I'm deceived, or he pronounced himself 
The happiest of mankind. Deluded wretch 1 
Thy thoughts are perishing ; thy youthful joys, 
Touched by the icy hand of grisly death. 
Are withering in their bloom. But though extingoishedy 
He '11 never know the loss, nor feel the buter 
Pangs of disappointment. Then I was wrong 
In counting him a wi'etch : to die well pleased 
Is all the happiest of mankind can hope for. 
To be a wretch is to survive the loss 
Of every joy, and even hope itself, 
As I have done. Why do I mourn him then ? 
For, by the anguish of my tortured soul, 
He 's to be envied, if compared with me. 

WILLIAM CONQREVB. 

e comedies of Congreve abound more than any others, periiaps, 
e English language, in witty dialogue and lively incident, but 
licentiousness has banished them from the stage. The life of 
eminent dramatic writer was a happy and prosperous one. He 
3oni at Bardsey, in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and baptised 
uary 10, 1669-70. He was of a good family, and his father held 
ftary employment in Ireland , where t\Ae po^X, ^w^fe^\\Si».\fe^--^«?^^ 
kenny bchool, and then at Tiinily Co\\eftft,\>\3^itoi. ^^^osSSsaiS 



256 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

law in the Middle Temple, but began early to write for the stage. 
His ' Old Bachelor* was produced in January 1692-3, and acted with 
great apphiuse. Lord Halifax conferred appointments on him in the 
customs and other departments of public service, worth £600 per an- 
num. Other plays soon appeared: the 'Double Dealer' in 1G04; 
'Love for Love' in 1695; the * Mourning Bride,' a tragedy, in 169. ; 
and the ' Way of the World ' in 1700. In 1710 he published a col- 
lection of miscellaneous poems, of which one little piece, * Doris,' is 
worthy of his fame; and his good-fortune still following him, he ob- 
tained, on the. accession of George I. the office of secretary for the 
island of Jamaica, which raised his emoluments to about £l20Uper 
annum. Basking in the sunshine of opulence and courtly s(»cieiy, 
Congreve wished to forget that he was an author; and when Voltaire 
waited upon him, he said he would rather be considered a gentleman 
than a poet. ' If you had been merely a gentleman,' said the Avitty 
Frenchman, * I should not have come to visit you.' A complaint iu 
the eyes, which terminated in total blindness, afflicted Congreve in 
his latter days : he died at his house in London on the 19th of Janu- 
aiy 1729-30. 

Dryden complimented Congreve as one whom every muse and 
grace adorned; and Pope dedicated to him his translation of the 
' Iliad.' What higher literary honours could have been paid a poet 
whose laurels were all gained, or at least planted, by tlie age of 
thirty ? One incident in the history of Congreve is too remarkable 
to be omitted. He contracted a close intimacy with the Duchess of 
Marlborough (daughter of the great duke), sat at her table daily, and 
assisted in her household management. On his death, he left the 
bulk of his fortune, amounting to about £10,000, to this eccentric 
lady. The duchess spent seven of the ten thousand pounds iu the 
purchase of a diamond necklace. * How much better would it have 
been to have given it to Mrs. Bracegirdle,' said Young the poet and 
clergyman. Mrs. Bracegirdle was an actress with whom Congreve 
had been very intimate for many years. The duchess honoured the 
poet's remains with a splendid funeral. The corpse lay in state 
under the ancient roof of the Jerusalem chamber, and was interred in 
Westminster Abbey. The pall was borne by the Duke of Bridge- 
water, Lord Cobham, the Earl of Wilmington, who had been 
Speaker, and was afterwards first Lord of the Treasury, and other 
men of high consideration. The Duchess of Marlborough, if report 
is to be believed, further manifested her regard for the deceased poet 
in a manner that spoke more for her devotedness than her taste. It 
is said that she had a statue of him in ivory, which moved by clocl^- 
work, and was plsiiped daily at her table ; that she had a wax-doll 
made in imitation of him, and that the feet of this doll were regularly 
bJJstered and anointed by the doclova, «ia v^ox Go\i^reve's feet had 
been when he Buffered from the gout. Ti\\ftVio\ol^^"iV\o\i^xA\s\fc\^V\i\^ 
-oaa been removed by the just award oi poeXetW.^ ^o\KwV\x^\^^^*R5ii 



iGRBVK.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 267 

once occupied. His plays are generally without poetry or imagiua- 
>n, and his comic genius is inextricably associated with sensuality 
id profaneness. We admire his brilliant dialogue and repartee, and 
is exuberance of dramatic incident and character ; but the total 
bsence of the higher virtues which ennoble life — the beauty and 
,Tacefulness of female virtue, the feeliugs of generosity, truth, hohour, 
iffection, modesty, and tenderness — leaves his pages barren and un- 
productive of any permanent interest or popularity. His glittering 
artificial life possesses but few charms to the lovers of nature or of 
i)oetry, and is not recommended by any moral purpose or sentiment. 
The * Mourning Bride/ Congreve*s only trag^y, possesses higher 
merit than most of the serious plays of that day. It has the stifl&ess 
of the French Scliool, with no small affectation of fine writing, with- 
out passion, yet it possesses poetical scenes and language. The open- 
ing lines have often been quoted : 

Music has charms to soothe a savage breast, 
To soften rocks, or bend a knottea oak. 
I 've read that things inanimate have moved, 
And, as with living souls, hnve been informed 
By magic numbers and persuasive sound. 

Dr. Johnson considered the following extract as forming the most 
poetical paragraph in the whole range of the drama — ^finer than any 
one in Shakspeare 1 

Description of a CathedrcU. 
AufEBiA — Leonora. 

Alxeria. It was a fancied noise, for all is hushed. 

Leonora. It bore the accent of a human voice. 

Aui. It was thy fear, or else some transient wind 
Whistling through hollows of tliis vaulted aisle. 
We 'U listen. 

Leon. Hark I 

Alm. No ; all is hushed and still as death. Tis dreadful 
How reverend is the face of this tali pile, 
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads 
To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof, 
By its own wcig^ht made steadfast and immovable. 
Looking tranquiUity. It strikes an awe 
And terror on my aching sight : the tombs 
And monumental caves of death look cold, 
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. 
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice ; 
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear 
Thy voice— my own affrights me with its echoes. 

Leon. Lit us return ; the horror of this place 
And silence will increase your melancholy. \ 

AxM. It may my fears, but cannot add to tliat. •, 

No, I will on ; shew me Anselmo's tomb, \ 

Lead me o'er boues and skulls and mouldering earth •, 

Of human bodies ; for I '11 mix with them ; 
Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corpse 
Tetgreen in earth, rather than be the bride 
Of Qarcia'B more detested bed : that thought ^ 

— ^MtH. and my preaeiit lQaf% 



268 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

] 

In Congreve*8 comedies there is ^ constant stream of wit and live- 
liness, and quick intercliange of dialogue and incident He was a 
master of dramatic rules and, art. Nothing shews more forcibly the 
taste or inclination of the present day for the poetry of nature and 
passion, instead of the conventional world of our ancestors in the 
drama, than the neglect into which the works of Congreve have fal- 
len, even as literary productions. 

Oa/y Toung Men upon Town. — From the *Old Baehdor.^ 

Belmour— Vainlove. 

BeIjMoub. Vainlove, and abroad bo early I Good-morrow. I thought a contera- 

Elative lover could no more have parted with his bed in a morning, man he could 
ave slept in it. 

Vainlovb. Belraour, gfood-morrow. Why, truth on 't is, these early sallies are 
not usual to me ; but busmess, as you see, sir— [Sheitring letters]— und business must 
be foUowed, or be lost. 

Bel. Business ! And so must time, my friend, be close pursued or lost. Busi- 
ness is the rub of life, perverts our aim, casts off tne bias, and leaves us wide and 
short of the intended mark. 

Vain. Pleasure, I guess you mean. 

Bel. Ay, what else has meaning? 

Vain. Oh, the wise will tell you 

Bel. More than they believe or understand. 

Vain. How ; how, Ned 7 a wise man says more than he understands ? 

Bel. Ay, ay, wisdom is nothing but a pretending to know and believe more than 
we really do. You read of but one wise man, and all that he knew was — ^that he 
knew nothing. Come, come, leave business to idlers, and wisdom to fools ; they 
have need of them. Wit be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation ; and let father 
Time shake his glass. Let low and earthly souls grovel till they have worked them- 
selves six foot deep into a grave. Business is not my element ; I roll in a higher orb, 
and dwell 

Vain, In castles i' tli* air of thy own building— that 's thy element, Ned. 

A Swaggering BvUy and Boaster — From tlie same 
Sir Joseph Wittol — Sharper— Captain Blupf. 

Sir Joseph. Oh, here he comes. Ay, my Hector of Troy ; welcome, my bully, 
my back ; egad, my heart has gone pit-a-pat for thee. 

Bluff. How now, my young knight 7 Not for fear, I hope 7 He that knows me 
must be a stranger to fear. 

Sib Jos. Nay. egad, I hate fear ever since I had like to have died of fright. 

But 

Bluff. But! Look you here, boy; here's your antidote ; here's your Jesuit's 
Powder for a shaking fit. But who hast thou got with ye ; is he of mettle 7 

[Laying his hand on his sward. 
Sir Jos. Ay, bully, a smart fellow ; and will fight like a cock. 
Bluff. Say you so 7 Then I '11 honour him. But has he been abroad ? for Qvery 
cock will fight upon his own dunghill. 
Sir Jos. I don't know ; but I '11 present you. 

Bluff. I '11 recommend myself. Sir, I honour you ; I understand you love 
figating. I reverence a man that loves fighting. Sir, 1 kiss your hilts. 

Sharper. Sir, your servant, but you are mismformed ; for unless it be to serve my 
particular friend, as Sir Joseph here, my country, or my religion, or in some very 
justifiable cause, I am not for it. 

Blvtt. Oh, I beg your pardon, sir ; I find you are not of my palate ; you cant 
reliab a dish of Sghting without some sauce. Now, I think fighting for fighting's 
sake IB BufRcient cause. Fighting to me is rc^gVoiv au^ Vtvft \«<«^\ 

Sis Job, Ab, w^U said, my hero I Was not t\ia.t gcfea.\K, «vin ^1 X^^'Usta.^asaK^., 
ne saya true ; fghting is meat, drink, and cVotXiea Xjo \i\m. 'BuN., a««at^\i»&^\5aatfBBasa. 



COKGREVE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 259 

iB one of the best friends I have in the-world, and saved my life last night. Yoa 
know I told you. 

Bluff. Ay, then I honour him again. Sir, may I crave yonr name ? 

Sharpeb. Ay, sir, my name 's Sharper. 

Sir Jos. Pray, Mr. Sharper, embrace my Back ; very well. By the Lord Harry, 
Mr. Sharper, he Is as brave a fellow as Cannibal ; are you not, BuUy-Back? 

Shabper* Hannibal, I believe you mean, Sir Joseph ? 

Bluff. Undoubtedly he did. sir. Faith, Hannibal was a very pretty fellow ; but. 
Sir Joseph, comparisons are odious. Hannibal was a very pretty fellow in those 
days, it must be granted. But alas, sir, were he alive now, he would be nothing, 
nothing in the ^irth. 

Sharper. How, sfa-? I make a doubt if there be at this day a greater general 
breathing. 

Bluff. Oh, excuse me, sir ; have you served abroad, sir 7 

Sharper. Not I, really, sir. 

Bluff. Oh, I thought so. Why, then, you can know nothing, sir. I am afraid 
you scarce know the history of the late war in Flanders with all its particulars. 

Sharper. Not I, sir ; no more than public panerB or Gazettes teU us. 

Bluff. Gazette ! Why, there again now. Wny, sir, there are not three words of 
truth, the year round, put Into the Gazette. I '11 tell you a strange thins now as to 
that. Ton must know, sir, I was resident in Flanders the last campaign, had a small 
post there ; bat no matter for that. Perhaps, sir, there was scarce anything of mo- 
ment done but a humble servant of yours that shall be nameless was an eye-witness 
of. I won't say had the greatest share in 't— though I might say that too, since 1 
name nobody, you know. Well, Mr. Sharper, wonld you think it ? In all this time, 
as I hope for a truncheon, that rascally Gazette-writer never so much as once men- 
tioned me. Not once, by the wars ! Took no more notice than as if Noll BlufE had 
not been In the land of the living. 

Sharper. Strange! 

Sir Jos. Yet, by the Lord Harry, 'tis true, Mr. Sharper ; for I went every day to 
coffee-hohses to read the Gazette myself. 

Bluff. Ay, ay ; no matter. You see, Mr. Sharper, after all, I am content to re- 
tire — ^live a private person. Scipio and others have done so. 

Sharper. Impudent rogue. [Aside. 

Sir Jos. Av^ this modesty of yours. Egad, if he would put in for % he might be 
made general himself yet. 

Bluff. Oh, fie no. Sir Joseph ; you know I hate this. 

Sir Jos. Let me but tell Mr. Sharper a little, how vou ate fire once out of the 
mouth of a cannon ; egad, he did ; those impenetrable whiskers of his have confronted 
flames. 

Bluff. Death I What do yon mean, Sir Joseph 7 

Sir Jos. Look you now, I tell you he is so modest, he'll own nothing. 

Bluff. Pish ; you have put me out ; I have forgot what I was about. Pray, 
hold your tongue, and give me leave [AngrUy. 

Sir Jos. I am dumb. 

Bluff. This sword I think I was telling you of, Mr. Sharper. This sword 111 
maintain to be the best divine, anatomist, lawyer, or casuist in Europe ; it shall 
decide a controversy, or split a cause. 

Sir Jos. Nay, now, I must speak ; it will split a hair ; by the Lord Harry, I have 
seen It I 

Bluff. Zounds I sir, it is a lie ; you have not seen it, nor shan't see it : sir, I say 
you can't see. What d* ye say to that, now 7 

Sir Jos. I am blind. 

Bluff. Death I had any other man interrupted me. 

Sib Jos. Good Mr. Sharper, sneak to him ; I dare not look that way. 

Sharper. Captain, Sir Joseplrs penitent 

Bluff. Oh, J am calm, sir ; calm as a discharged cuhr^n. But twas IndiBcreet, 
when you Enow what will provoke me. Nay, come. Sir Joseph; yon know m^ 
heat's soon over. 

Sir Jos. Well, I am a fool sometimes, but I'm sorry. 
Blutt. Enough. 
8iM Job. Come, well go take a glass to diQ^m Ki^mo«S^>i«i^ 



260 CYCLOPAEDIA OF 

Scandal and Literature in High Life-^JPh'am *The Double Dealer.^ 

CnrTHiA— LoBD and Labt Fboth— Brisk. 

Laot Fboth. Then yoa think that episode between Susan the dairj-maid and 
onr coachman is not amiss. You know, I may 8uiH>ose the dairy in town as well as 
in the country. 

I^SK. Incomparable, let me perish! But, then, being an heroic poem, had 
not yon better call him a charioteer? Charioteer sounds great. Besides, your 
ladyship's coachmau having a red face, and you comparing him to the son — and yoa 
know the sun is called * hetivens' charioteer.' — 

LyU>T F. Oh I infinitely better ; I am extremely beholden to yoa for the hint 
Stay ; we'll read over those half-a-score lines again. [PuUs out a paper.] Let me 
see here : you know what goes before—the comparison you know. [Beads.} 

For as the sun shines every day. 
So of our coachman I may say. 

Bbibk. I am afraid that simile won't do in wet weather, because yon say the sun 
shines every day. 

Ladt F. No ; for the sun it won't, but it will do for the coachman ; for yoa 
know there's most occasion for a coach in wet weather. 

Bbisk. Right, right ; that saves all. 

Lady F. Then I don't sav the sun shines all the day, but that he i>eepB now and 
then ; yet he does shine all the day, too, you know, though we don't see him. 

Bbisk. Right ; but the vulgar will never comprehend that. 

Lady F. Well, you shall hear. Let me see— 

For as the sun shines every day, 
So of our coachman I may say. 
He shews his drunken flery face 
Just as the sun does, more or less. 

Brisk: That's right ; all's well, all's weU. More or leea. 
Lady F. [Reada.] 

And when at night his labour's done. 
Then, too, like heaven's charioteer, tiie son- 
Ay, charioteer does better— 

Into the dairy he descends. 
And there his whipping and his driving ends ; 
There he's secure from danger of a bilk ; 
His fare is paid him, and he sets in milk. 

For Susan, you know, is Thetis, and so — 

Brisk. Incomparable well and proper, egad ! But I have one exception to make : 
dont you think bilk— I know it's a good rhyme— but don't you think bilk and fare 
too like a hackney coachman 7 

Lady F. I swear and vow I'm afraid so. And yet our Jehu was a hackney 
coachman when my lord took him. 

Brisk. Was he 7 I'm answered, if Jehu was a hackney coachman. Ton may 
pot that in Uie marginal notes though, to prevent criticism ; only mark it with a 
small asterisk, and say, 'Jehu was formerly ahacknej coachman.' 

Lady F. I will : you'd oblige me extremely to v.Tite notes to the whole poem. 

Brisk. With all my heart, and souJ, and proud of the vast honour, let me perish ! 

Lord Froth. Hee, hee, hee ! my dear, have yon done 7 Won't you join with us 7 
We were laughing at my Lady Whister and Mr. Sneer. 

Lady F. Av, my dear, were yon 7 Oh I filthy Mr. Sneer ; he's a nauseous figure, 
a most f ulsamic fop. Foh ! He spent two days 'together in going about Covenf 
Garden to snit the lining of his coach with his complexion. 

XoBD F. O silly I Yet his aont is as fond of him as tf she had brought the ap 
lato the world beneJf, 

, Bmibk, Wbo? my Lady Toothlesa? Ob, «!he'a «^ matNXfc^jVa.^^ spectacle ; she 
-- '- ^hewing the end Jike an old ewe. 



CONcatEVE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 261 

Ladt F. Then she *b always ready to laugh when Sneer offers to speak ; and sitB 
la ezpectatilon of hie no-jest, with her gums oare, and her month open. 

Bbisk. Like an oyster at low ebb, egad 1 Ha, ha, ha ! 

Ctkthia. [Aside.} Well, I find there are no fools so inconsiderable in tbemselyes, 
tsnt they can render other people contemptible by exposing their infirmities. 

Ladt F. Then that t'otner great strapping lady ; I can^ hit of her name ; the old 
:lat fool that paints so exorbitantly. 

Bbisk. I know whom yon mean. But, deuce take me, I can't hit of her name 
either. Paints, d' ye say ? Why, she lays it on with a trowel. Then she has a ^eat 
beard that bristles through it, and makes her look as if she were plastered with lime 
and hair, let me perish ! 

Lady P. Oh f you made a song upon her, Mr. Brisk. 

Bbisk^ Heh ? egad, so I did. my lord can sing it. 

Cynthia. O good, my lord ; let us hear it. 

Bbisk. Tis not a song neither. It 's a sort of epigram, or rather an epigram- 
matic sonnet. I don't know what to call it, but it 's satire. Sing it, my lord. 

LobdF. iSings,} 

Ancient Phyllis has young graces ; 
'TIS a strange thing, but a true one ; 

Shall I ten yon how ? 
She herself makes her own faces, 
And each morning wears a new one ; 

Where's the wonder now ? 

Bbux. Shcnt, but there 's salt in 't. My way of writing, egad ! 

^om ^ Lave for Love,* 

ANfiBuoA— Sib Saxpson Lbgend— Tattle^Mbs. FBAiii— Miss Pbui— Bsn Lb- 

esND and Servant.* 

Ben. Where 's father ? 

Servant. There, sir ; his back 's towards you. 

Sib Sampson. My son, Ben ! Bless thee, my dear boy ; body o' me, thou art 
heartily welcome. 

Ben. Thank yon, father ; and I 'm glad to see you. 

SiB S. Odsbud, and I 'm glad to see thee. Kiss me, boy ; kiss me again and 
again, dear Ben. IKiaaee him.] 

Ben. So, so ; enough, father. Mess, I'd rather kiss these gentlewomen. 

SiB S. And so thou shalt. Mrs. Angelica, my son Ben. 

Ben. Forsooth, if you please. [Sacutee her.] Nay, Mistress, I 'm not for drop- 
ping anchor here ; about ship i' faith. [Kisue Frail.] Nay, and you too, my lit- 
tle cock boat— BO. [Kiesea Mna ] 

Tattle. Sir, you are welcome ashore. 

Ben. Thank you, thank you, friend. 

SiB S. Thou hast been many a weary league, Ben, since I saw thee. 

Ben. Ay, ay, been ! been far enough, an that be all. Well, father, and how do 
yon all at home 7 How does brother I>ick and brother Val ? 

SiB S. Dick ! body o' me, Dick has been dead these two years ; I writ yon word 
when yon were at L^hom. 

Ben. Mess, that 's true ; marry, I had forgot. Dick 's dead, as you say. WeU, 
and how 7 I have a many questions to ask you. Well, you be not married again. 
fftt.Vipi* be von 7 

SiB 8. Ko, I intend you shall marry, Ben ; I would not marry for thy sake. 

Ben. Nay, what does that signify 7— an you marry again, why, then, I'll go to sea 
again ; so there's one for t' other, an that be all. Pray, don't let me be your hinder- 
ance ; e'eh marry a Ood's name, an the wind sit that way. As for my part, may- 
hap I have no mind to marry. 

jiss. Fbail. That would be a pity : such a handsome young gentleman. 

* In th« ^anuster of Ben. Gongreve gave the first humorous and natural representa- 
tloo of the inglieh s^lar, axterwards so fertile and amusing a 6afaa«et of delineatiott with 
fiwoJIati And other noveliBte and dramatists. 



262' CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1727. 

fisN. Handsome I hee, hee, bee : nay, fooreooth, an yon be for joking, 1 11 jok» 
with yoo, for I love my jest an the ship were sinking, as we say at sea. Bnt 1 11 
tell yon why I don't much stand towards matrimony. I love to roam aboat from 
port to bort, and from land to land: I could never abide to beport^bound, as we 
call it. Now, a man that is married has, as it were, d' ye see, his leet in the bilboes, 
and may&ap mayn't get them out again when he would. 

Sib S. Ben 's a wag. 

Ben. a. man that is married, d' yc see, is no more like another man than a galley 
slave is Uke one of us free sailors. He is chained to an oar all his life ; and mayhap 
forced to. tug a leaky vessel into the bargain. 

Sir 8.* A very wag 1 Ben 's a very wag I only a little rough ; he wants a little pol- 
ishing. 

Mrs F. Not at all ; I like his humour mightily ; it 's plain and honest ; I sboold 
Uke such a humour in a husband extremely. 

Ben. Bay'n you so, forsooth ? Marry, and I should like such a handsome gentle- 
woman hugely. How say vou, mistress ! would you like going to sea ? Mess, 
you're a tight vessel, and well ri^ed. But I '11 tell you one thing, an you come to 
sea in a high wind, lady, you mayn't carry so much sail o' your head. Top and top- 
gallant, by the mess. 

Mrs9\. No? why so? 

Ben. Why, an you do, you may run the risk to be overset, and then you 11 carry 
your keels above water ; hee, hee,*hee. 

Angbuca. I swear Mr. Benjamin is the veriest wag in nature — ^an absolute sea- 
wit. 

Sir S. Nay, Ben has parts ; but, as I told you before, they want a little polishing. 
Tou must not take anything ill, madam. 

Ben. No ; I hope the gentlewoman is not angry ; I mean all in good part ; for 
if I give a jest, I take a jest ; and so, forsooth,, yon may be as free with me. 

AnoI I thank you, sir ; I am not at all offended. But methinks. Sir Sampson, 
vou should leave him alone with his mistress. Mr. Tattle, we must not hinder 
lovers. 

Tattle. Well, Miss, I have your promise. [Aside to MiM. 

81B 0. Body o' me, madam, you sav true. Look you, Ben, this is your mistress. 
Come, Hiss, you must not be shame-faced ; we *11 leave you together. 
. Miss Prue. I can't abide to be left alone ; may not my counn stay with me ? 
• €hiyA. No, no ; come, let us away. 

Bn. Look you, father ; mayhap the young woman mayn t take a liking to me. 

Sir 6. I warrant thee, boy ; come, come, we '11 be gone ; 1 11 venture that. 

- . Ben and Miss Prue. 

Ben. Come, mistress, will you please to sit down ? for an von stand astern a 
thafn, we shall never ^apple together. Come, I '11 haul a chair ; there, an you 
please to sit, I 'U sit beside yon. 

Miss Prue. You need not sit so near one ; if you have anything to say, I can 
h'^^^tt farther off ; I an't deaf. 

B^. Why, that 's true, as you say, nor I ain't dumb ; I can be heard as far as 
another'. ' I '11 heave off to please you. [Sits further off.] An we were a league 
asiipder, I 'd undertake to hold discourse with you, an 'twere not a main hi^ vnnd 
inde^ abd full in my teeth. Look you, forsooth, I am as it were bound for the land 
of matrimony ; 'tis a voyage, d' ye see, that was none of my seeking ; I was com- 
manded by father ; and if you like of it, mayhap I may steer into your harbonr. 
How say you, mistress ? The short of the thing is, that if you like me, and I like 
you, we may chance to swine in a hammock together. 

Miss P. 1 don't know wnat to say to you, nor I don't care to speak with you 
ti aH." 

Ben. No ? I 'm sorry for that. But pray, why are you so scornful ? 

M iss P . As long as one must not speak one's mind, one had better not speak at 
mB^ Itbmk; and truly I woni; tell a lie for the matter. 
J^mr: Nay, yon Bay trae in that ; It 's but a toWy Xa Yub \ lot \Xk ^g{te!Bk.<uie things and 
to ttiDk joBt the contnuy way, is, a9 It 'were, to \oo^ one ^ftvs ^^^ ^ ^(^^ vosjOofist. 



CONGRsys.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 263 

Now, for my paxt. d* ye see, I 'm for carrying things above-board ; I 'm not for keep- 
ixig anything nnaer hatches ; so that if yon ben't as willing as I, say so a Oo<rs 
name ; there 's no harm done. Mayhap yon may be shame-faced ; some maidens, 
thof they love a man well enough, yet tney don't care to tell'n so to 's face. If that 's 
the case, why, silence gives consent. 

Miss P. Bot I 'm sore it 's not so, for 1 11 speak sooner than you should believe 
"dont 




you 

there's 

yonr answer for yon, and don't trouble me any more, you ugly thing. 

Ben. Look you, young woman, you may learn to give good words, however. I 
fipoke you fair, d 'ye see. and civil. As for your love or yom* liking;, I don't value it 
Of a rope's end ; and mayhap I like you as little as you do me. What I said was in 
obedience to father : I fear a whipping no more than you do. But I tell yon one 
thing, if you should give such langpage at sea, you'd have a cat-o'-nine-tails laid 
across your shoulders. Flesh ! who are you 7 Yon heard t' other handsome young 
woman speak civilly to me of her own accord. Whatever you think of yourself, I 
don't think you are any more to compare to her than a can of small-beer to a bowl 
of punch. 

Miss P. Well, and there's a handsome gentleman, and a fine gentleman, and a 
sweet gentleman, that was here, that loves me, and I love him ; and if he sees you 
speak to me any more, he'll thrash your jacket for you, he will ; you great sea-calf. 

Ben. What I do you mean that fair-weather spark that was here just now ? Will 
he thrash my jacket ? Let 'n, let 'n, let 'n — but an he comes near me, mayhap I may 
give him a salt-eel for 's supper, for all that. What does father mean, to leave me 
alone, as soon as I come home, with such a dirty dowdy ? Sea-calf 1 I ant calf 
enough to lick your chalked face, you cheese-curd you. Marry thee I oons, I '11 
marry a Lapland witch as soon, and live upon selling contrary winds and wrecked 
vessels. 

From the sparkling, highly wrought love-scenes of Congreve U 
would be perilous to quote. * I have read two or three of Congreve*3 
plays over before speaking of him,' said Mr. Thackeray, in one of his 
admirable lectures ; * and my feelings were rather like those which I 
daresay most of us here have had at Pompeii, looking at Sallust's 
house and the relics of an orgy — a dried wine-jar or two, a charred 
supper-table, the breast of a dancing-girl pressed against the ashes, 
the laughing skull of a jester, a perfect stillness round about, as the 
cicerone twangs his moral, and the blue sky shines calmly over the 
ruin. The Congreve muse is dead, and her song choked in Time's 
ashes. We gaze at the skeleton, and wonder at the life which once 
revelled in its mad veins. We take the skull up, and muse over the 
frolic and daring, the wit, scorn, passion, hope, desire, with which that 
empty bowl once fermented. We think of the glances that allured, 
the tears that melted ; of the briglit eyes that shone in those vacant 
sockets, and of lips whispering love and cheeks dimpling with smiles 
that once covered yon ghastly framework. They used to call those 
teeth pearls once. Seel there's the cup she drank from, the gold 
chain she wore on her neck, the vase which held the rouge for her 
cheeks, her looking-glass, and the harp she used to dance to. Instead 
of a feast we find a grave-stone, and in place of a mistress a few 

bones I'* 

.. — — 

* English Humorists, 



264 CYCLOPiEDIA OF t*0 ^7*7- 

SIB JOHN VANBBUGH. 

Sir John Vanbrugh united what Leigh Hunt calls the * appar- 
ently inoompatible geniuses* of comic writer and architect. His 
Blenheim and Castle Howard have outlived the 'Provolied Wife' or 
the ' Relapse;* yet the latter were highly popular once; and even 
Pope, thougli he admits his want ofgracBy says tliat he never wanted 
^Dit. Vanbrugh was the son of a successful sugar-baker, who rose to 
be an esquire, and comptroller of the Treasury Chamber, besides 
marrying the daughter of Sir Dudley Carlton. It is doubtful 
whether the dramatist was born in the French Bastile, or the parish 
of St. Stephen's, Walbrook. The time of his birth was about the 
year 1666, when Louis XIV. declared war against England. It is 
certain he was in Prance at the age of nineteen, and remained there 
some years. In 1695, he was appointed secretary to the commission 
for endowing Greenwich Hospital ; and two yeara afterwards ap- 
peared his play of the ' Relapse' and the * Provoked Wife,' *^sop,' 
the * False Friend,' the * Confederacy,' and other dramatic pieces fol- 
lowed. Vaubragh was now highly popular. He made his design of 
Castle Howard in 1702, and Lord Carlisle appointed him Clarencieux 
king-at-arms, a heraldic oflOice which gratified Vanbrugh's vanity. In 
1706, he was commissioned by Queen Anne to carry the habit and 
ensigns of the Order of the Garter to tlie Elector of Hanover ; and 
in the same year he commenced his design for the great national 
structure at Blenheim. He built various other mansions, was 
knighted by George I. and appointed comptroller of the royal works. 
He died, aged sixty, in 1726. At the time of his death, Vanbrugh 
was engaged on a comedy, the ' Provoked Husband,' which CoUey 
Cibber finished with equal talent. The architectural designs of Van- 
brugh have been praised by Sir Joshua Reynolds for their display of 
imagination, and their originality of inventicm. Though ridiculed by 
Swift and other wits of the day for heaviness and incongruity of de- 
sign, Castle Howard and Blenheim are noble structures, and do lK)nour 
to the boldness of conception and picturesque taste of Vanbrugh. 

As a dramatist, the first thing in his plavs which strikes the reader 
is the lively ease of his dialog^ue. Congreve had; more wit, but less 
nature, and less genuine unaffected humour awd gaiety. Vanbrugh 
drew more from living originals, and depicted the manners of his 
times — the coarse debauchery of the country knight, the gallantry of 
town-wits and fortune-hunters, and the love of French intrigue and 
French manners in his female characters. Lord Foppington, in the 
'Relapse,' is the original of most of those empty coxcombs who 
abound in modern comedy, intent only on dress and fashion. When 
he loses his mistress, he consoles himself with this reflection : * Now, 
for my part, I think the wisest thing a man can do with an aching 
heart is to put on a serene couulenance •, iox a \^\\^o^c>^\i\RA.V«w: la the 
most becoming thing in the world lo XAie S»f^ oi ^^et^Ti<i1 ^jjjvsi^. 



VANftRUGH.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. S65 

I win therefore bear my disgrace like a great man, and let the people 
see I am above an aflFront. [Aloud.] Dear Tom, since ihings are 
thus fallen out, prithee give me leave to wish thee joy. I do it de 
ban e€Bur — strike me dumb! You have married a ^voman beautiful 
in her person, charming in her airs, prudent in her conduct, constant 
m her inclmations, and of a nice morality— split my windpipe !* 

The young lady thus eulogised, Miss Hoyden, is the lively, ignorant, 
romping country -girl to be met witli in most of the comedies of this 
period. In the * Provoked Wife,' tlie coarse pot-house valour and 
absurdity of Sir Jolm Brute (Garrick's famous pari) is well contrasted 
with the flne-lady airs and affectation of his wife, transported from 
the country to the hot-bed delicacies of London fashion and extrava- 
gance. Such were the scenes that delighted our playgoing ancestors, 
and which may still please us, like old stiff family portraits in their 
grotesque habiliments, as pictures of a departed generation. 

These portraits of Vanbrugh's were exaggerated and heightened 
for dramatic effect ; yet, on the whole, they are characteristic like- 
nesses. The picture is not altogether a pleasing one, for it is dashed 
with the most unblushing licentiousness. A tone of healthful vivacity, 
and the absence of all hypocrisy, form its most genial features. * The 
licence of the times,' as Mr. Leigh Hunt remarks, * allowed Vanbrugh 
to be plain spoken to an extent which was perilous to his animal 
spirits;' but, like Dryden, he repented of these indiscretions; and if 
he had lived, would have united his easy wit and nature to scenes in- 
culcating sentiments of honour and virtue. 

Picture of the Life of a Woman of Fashion. 

Sib John Bbutb, in the ^Provoked Wije,^ disffuised in his lady^a dreaSy joins in a 
drunken midnight frolic, and is taken by the Constable and Watchmen be/ore a Justice 
of the Peace, 

JusTTCE. Pray, madam, what may be your ladyship's common method of life 7 if 
I may preBume so far. 

Sib Jo'hn. Why, sir, that of a woman of qnality. 
.- Justice. Pray, how may you generally pass your time, madam ? Your morning, 
for example 7 . 

Sib Johk. Sir, hke a woman of qnality. I wake about two o'clock in the after- 
noon — I stretch, and make a sign for my chocolate. When I have drunk three cups, 
I slide down again upon my buck, with my arms over my head, while my two maidH 
put on my stockings. Then, hanging upon their sliouldcrs, I 'in trailed to my great 
chair, where I sit and yawn for ray breakfast. If it don't come presently, I lie down 
upon my couch, to say my prayers, while my maid reads me the playbills. 

JrsTicE. Very well, madam. 

SiB John. When the tea is brought in, I drink twelve regular dishes, with eight 
slices of bread and butter ; and half an hour after, I send to tne cook to know if the 
dinnsr is almost ready. 

Justice. So, madam. 

Sib John. By that time my head is half dressed, I hear my husband swearing 
himselt into a state of perdition that the meat 's all cold upon the table ; to amend 
which I come dovm i*- an horn more, and have it sent back to the kitchen, to be all 
dressed over again. 

JvsTicB. Poor man. 
8iB Jamr* When I have dined, and my idle aeT^anxa «xe^T«»aK^\i<:^'QiS^ ^i!RSv.^^^s(rcw' 



266 



CYCLOPEDIA OF 



[to 1727. 



at their ease to do so too, I call for my coach, to go to visitflfty dear friends, of 
whom T hope I never shaJl find one at home while I live. 

Justice. Sol there's the morning and afternoon pretty well disposed of. Praj, 
how, madam, do you pass your evenings ? 

Sib John. Like a woman of spirit, sir ; a great spirit. Give me a box and dice. 
Seven 's the main ! Oons, sir, I set yon a hundred pound ! Why, do yon tiiink, 
women are married now-a-days to sit at home and mend napkins? Oh, the Lord 
help your head ! • 

Justice. Mercv on us, Mr. Constable I What will this age come to ? • 

Constable. What will it come to indeed, if such women as these are not set in 
the stocks ! 

FMe. 



A Band, a Bob^wig, and a Feather, 
Attacked a lady's heart together. 
The Band in a most learned plea, 
Made up of deep philosophy. 
Told her if she would please to wed 
A reverend beard, and take, instead 

Of vigorous youth. 

Old solemn truth. 
With books and morals, into bed, 
How happy she would be I 

The Bob he talked of management. 
What wondrous blessings Heaven sent 
On care, and pains, and industry : 
And truly he must be so free 
To own he thought your airy beaux, 
With powdered wig and dancing shoes. 
Were good for nothing— mend his soul ! 



But prate, and talk, and play the fooL 

He said 'twas wealth gave ]oy and mirth, 

And that to be the dearest wife 

Of one who laboured all his life 

To make a mme of gold his own. 

And not spend sixpence when he*d done. 

Was heaven upon earth. 

When these two blades had done, d'ye 

The Feather— as it might be me— 
Steps, sir, from behind the screen, 
With such an an* and snch a mien- 
Like you, old gentleman — ^in short. 
He quickly spoiled the state^pnaii's eport 

It proved such sunshine weather, 
That you must know, at the first beck 
The lady leaped about his neck. 

And oft they went together I \ , 



OBOROB FARQUHAB. 

Gbobgb Farquhar (1678-1707) was a better artist, in stage effect 
and happy combinations oi incident and adventure, than most of this 
race of comic writers. He had an uncontrollable vivacity and love 
of sport, which still render his comedies attractive both on Uie stage 
and in the closet. Farquhar was an Irishman, born in Londonderry, 
and, after some college irregularity, he took to the stage. HTappening 
accidentally to wound a brother-actor in a fencing-scene, he left tiie 
boards at the age of eighteen, and procured a commission in the army 
from the Earl of Orrery. His first play, * Love and a Bottle,' came 
out at Drury Lane in 1698; the ' Constant Couple ' in 1700 ; the * In- 
constant ' in 1703 ; the * Stage-coach ' m 1704 ; the * Twin Rivals ' in 
1705 ; the ' Recruiting Officer' in 1706 ; and the * Beaux' Stratagem' 
in 1707. Farquhar was early married to a lady who had deceived him 
by pretending to be possessed of a fortune, and he sunk a victim to 
ill health and over-exertion in his thirtieth year. A letter written 
shortly before his death to Wilks the actor, possesses a touching 
brevity of expression : * Dear Bob, I have not anything to leave to 
thee to perpetusite my memory but two helpless girls. Look upon 
them sometimeSf and think oi Min.l\\atVTR«ia\ft\>ki^\'asXTaomeiit of his 
life thine — Qeorqk Fabquhas.' Ouci o^ \iisafc ^WJ^fiaSKK^^NX^^^waa^ 



iRQUHAR.J ENGLISH LITERATURE. 267 

larried a * low tradesman,' and the other became a servant, while 
leir mother died in circumstances of the utmost indigence. 

The ' Beaux* Stratagem* is Farquhar's best comedy. The plot is 
jimlrably managed, and the disguises of Archer and Aimwell form a 
idicrous, yet natural series of incidents. Boniface, the landlord, is 
ill a favourite on the stage. Scrub, the servant, is equally true and 
tnusing, and the female characters, tliough as free-spoken, if not as 
ail as the fine-bred ladies of Congreve and Vanbrugh, are sufficiently 
iscriminated. Sergeant Kite, in the * Recruiting Officer,' is an orig- 
lal picture of low life and humour rarely surpassed. Farquhar has 
ot the ripe wit of Congreve, or of our best comic writers. He was 
16 Smollett, not the Fielding, of the stage. 

* Farquhar,' says Leigh Hunt, * was a good-natured, sensitive, re- 
ecting man, of so high an order of what may be called the town class 
f genius, as to sympathise with mankind at large upon the strength 
f what he saw of them in little, and to extract from a quintessence of 
ood sense an inspiration just short of the romantic and imaginative ; 
lat is to say, he could turn what he had experienced in common life to 
tie befit account, but required in all cases the support of its ordinary 
ssociations, and could not project his spirit beyond them. He felt 
be little world too much, and the universal too little. He saw into all 
ilse pretensions, but not into all true ones ; and if he had had a larger 
phere of nature to fall back upon in his adversity, would probably not 
ave died of it. The wings of his fancy were too common, and grown 

I too artificial an air, to support him in the sudden gulfs and aching 
oids of that new region, and enable him to beat his way to their green 
dands. His genius was so entirely social, that notwithstanding what 
ppeared to the contrary in his personal manners, and what he took 
>r his own superiority to it, compelled him to assume in his writings 

II the airs of the most received town ascendency ; and when it had 
nee warmed itself in this way, it would seem that it had attained the 
ealthiness natural to its best condition, and could have gone on 
)r ever, increasing both in enjoyment and in power, had external cir- 
umstances been favourable. He was becoming gayer and gayer, 
rhen death, in the shape of a sore anxiety, called him away as if from 

pleasant party, and left the house ringing with his jest.' 

Hv/morcms Scene at an Inn. 
Boniface— Aimwell. 

BOKITACB. This way, this way, sir. 

Aimwell. You're my landlora, I suppose? 

Bon. Yes, sir, I^ old Will Boniface ; pretty well known npon this road, as the 
lying is. 

Aim. Oh, Mr. Boniface, yoor servant. 

BoK. Ob, sir, what will yonr servant please to drink, as the sasring is ? 

Aim. I have heard your town of Lichfield moch famed for ale ; l think 111 taste 
lat. 

BoN. Sir. I have now in my cellar ten tun of the best ale in Staffordshire ; 'tis 
xiootb as oJJ^ Bweet as milk, clear as amber, and strong as brandy, and wHl be lost 
mteen ye&n old the Ofth day of next March, old Bts\ft. 



-J 



368 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Aim. Yon*^ very exact, I find, in the age of yonr ale. 

Bon. As punctual, sir, as I am in the age of mjr children : ru shew yon sadiale. 
Here, tapster, broach number 1706, as the saymg is. Sir^ you shall taste my anno 
domini. I have lived m Lichfield, man and boy, about eighlrfmd-fifty years, and I 
believe have not consumed eight-and-fifty ounces of meat. 

Aim. At a meal, you mean, if one may guess by your bulk 7 

Bon ■ Not m my life, sir ; I have fed purely upon ale : I have ate my ale, drank my 
ale, and I always sleep upon my ale. 

JErUer Tapster with a Tankard. 

Now. sir, you shall see Your worship's health. [Drinks.} — ^Hal ddkioas, 

delicious fancy it Burgundy ; only fancy it— and 'tis worth ten shillings a qtiart. 

Aim. [Drinks.] 'Tis confounded strong. 

Bon. Strong ! it must be so, or how would we be strong that drink it? 

Aim. And have you lived so long upon this ale, landlord? 

Bon. Eight-and-fifty years, upon my credit, sir; but it killed my wife, poor 
woman, as the saying is. 

Aim. How came that to pass ? 

BoN I don't know how, sir ; she would not let the ale take its natural ooiir8& 
sir , she was for qualifying it every now and then with a dram, as the saying is : and 
an honest gentleman, that came this way from Ireland, made her a present of a dozen 
bottles of usquebaugh — but the poor woman was never well after ; but, howevw, I 
was obliged to the gentleman, you know. 

Aim. Why, was it the usquebaugh that killed her 7 

BoN. My Lady Bountiful said so. She, good lady, did what could be done; she 
cured her of three tympanies : but the fourth carried, her off : but she's hai^y, and 
I'm contented, as the saying is. 

Aim. Who's that Lady Bountiful you mentioned 7 

Bon. Odds my life, sir, we'll drink her health. [Drinks.} My Lady BountSfol U 
one of the best of women. Her last husband. Sir Charles Bountiful, left her worth 
a thousand pounds a year ; and I believe she lays out one-half ont in charitable toes 
for the good of her neighbors. 

Aim. Has the lady any children ? 

BoK. Yes, sir, she has a daughter by Sir Charles ; the finest woman in all our 
county, and the ^eatest fortune. She has a son, too, by her first ho^and. 'Squire 
Sullen, who married a fine lady from London t'other day; if you pleaae^ sir, we'll 
diink his health. [Drinks.} 

Aim. What sort of a man is he? 

Bon. Why. sir, the man's well enough ; says little, thinks less, and does notiiing 
at all, faith ; but he'B a man of great estate, and values nobody. 

Aim. a sportsman, I suppose ? 

Bon. Yes, he's a man of pleasure ; he plays at whist, and smokes his jApe ei^t- 
and-forty hours together sometimes. 

Aim. a fine sportsman, truly I — and married, you say ? 

BoNi Ay ; and to a curious woman, sir. But he's my landlord, and so a man yoa 

know, womd not Sir, my humble service. [Dririks.} Though I value not a 

farthing what he can do to me ; I pay him his rent at quarter day ; I have a good run- 
ning trade ; I have but one daughter, and I can give her But no matter for that 

Aim. You're very happy, Mr. Boniface. Pray, what other company have you m 
town? 

Bon. a power of fine ladies : and then we have the French ofiicers. 

Aim. Oh, that's right ; you have a good many of those gentlemen. Pray, how do 
you like their company ? 

BoN. So well, as the sayihg is, that I could wish we had as manr more of *em. 
They're full of money, and pay double ior everything they have. They know, sir, 
that we paid good round taxes for the making of 'em ; and so they are wiliisg to rem:- 
burse us a little ; one of 'em lo^^ in my house. [Bell Rings.} 1 beg yonr 'worship's 
pardon ; 111 wait on you in half a minute. 



^'AiQUHAiL] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 8«9 

Prom the *BecruUing Officer.^ 

Scene — 7%« Market-place, 

Drwn heaU the Gtmadiers'' march. Enter Sergeant Kite, followed by Thomas 
AfPUSTBEE, CosTAB Peabmain, and the Mob. 

Kite. [Makivg a speech.} If any gentlemen, soldiers, or others, have a mind to 
Serve his majesty, and pnll down the French King ; if any 'prentices have severe 
inasters, any children have audutiful parents ; if any servants have too little wages. 
Or any hasband a bad wife, let them repair to the noble Sergeant Kite, at the sign of 
the Ristyen, in this good town of Shrewsbury, and they snail receive present relief 
and entertainment. [Drum.] Gentlemen, I don't beat my drums here to ensnare or 
inveigle any man ; for you must know, gentlemen, that I am a man of honour : he- 
sides I dont heat up for common soldiers ; no, I list only grenadiers — ^grenadiers, 
gentlemen. Pray, gentlemen, observe this cap — this is the cap of honour— -it dubs a 
man a gentleman in the drawing of a trigger ; and he that has the good-fortune to be 
'bom six foot high,- was bom to be a great man. Sir, will you give me leave to try 
this cap Bpon your head ? 

CosTAB. Is there no harm in 't 7 Won't the cap list me ? 

Kite. No, no ; no more than I can. Come, let me see how it becomeB you. 

Cost. Are you sure there is no conjuration in it ? — no gunpowder-plot upon me ? 

Kite. No, no, friend ; don't fear, man. 

Cost. My mind misgives me plaguily. Let me see it. [Going to put it on.} It 
smells wonudily of sweat and brimstone. Smell, Tummas. 

Thomas. Ay, wauns does it. 

Cost. Pray, sergeant, what writing is this upon the face of it? 

Kite. The crown, or the bed of honour. 

Cost. Pray, now, what may be that same bed of honour? 

Kite. Oh, a mighty large bed I— bigger by half than the great bed at Ware— ten 
thousand people may lie m it together, and never feel one another. 

Cost. But do folk sleep sound in this same bed of honour ? 

Kite. Sound ! — ay, so sound that they never wake. 

Cost. Wauns I I wish th»t my wife lay there. 

Kite. Say you so? then I find, brother 

Cost. Brother ! hold there, friend ; I am no kindred to you that I know of yet. 
Look ye, sergeant, no coaxing, no wheedling, d'ye see. If I have a mind to list, 
why, so ; If not, why 'tis not so ; therefore take your cap and your brothership back 
again, for I am not disposed at this present writmg. No coaxing, no brothering me, 
faith. 

Kite. I coax I I wheedle I I'm above it, sir ; I have served twenty campaigns ; 




firm and strong he treads ! — he steps like a castle I— but I scorn to wheedle any man I 
Come, honest lad ! will you take share of a pot ? 

Cost. Nay, for that matter, I'll spend my penny with the best he that wears a 
head ; that is, begging your pardon, sir, and in a fair way. 

Kite. Give me your hand then ; and now, gentlemen, I have no more to say but 
this— here's a purse of gold, and there is a tub of humming ale at my auarters ; 'tis 
the king's money and the king's drink ; he's a generous king and loves nis subjects. 
I hope, gentlemen, yon won't refuse the king's health 7 

All Mob. No, no, no. 

Kite. Huzza, then !— huzza for the king and the honour of Shropshire. 

All Mob. Huzza I 

Kite. Beat drum. [Exeunt shmting. Drum heating the Gfrenadiere? March, 

Seene--The Street, 

JBnter Eitb, toith Costab Peabmain in one hand, and Txoxas ApruBTsn <n the 

otheTy drtunk. 

Kite eings. 

Our 'prentice Tom may now refuse 
To wipe his Bcoondrei mftatet^A e^koeit 



270 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

For now he's free to sing and play 
Over the hills and far away. 

Over, &c. [Ttie Mob eing the chorus. 

We shall lead more happy hves 
By getting nd of brats and wives, 
That scold and brawl both night and day — 
Over the hills and far away. 
Over, &c. 

KfTB. Hey, boys I thus we soldiers live ! drink, sing, dance, play ; we live, as 
one should say— we live — 'tis impossible to tell how we live — ^we are all princes ; why, 
why you are a king, you are an emperor, and I'm a prince ; now ant we? 

THO. No, Sergieant , I'll be no emperor. 

Kite. No! 

Tho. I'll be a ]ustice-of-peace. 

Kite. A justice-of peace, man I 

Tho. Ay, wauns will I ; for since this pressing act, they are greater than any 
emperor under the sun. 

Kite. Done ; yon are a ]ustice-of-peace, and you are a king, and I'm a duke, and 
a rum duke, an't I ? 

Cost. I'll be a queen. 

Kite. A queen 1 

Cost. Ay, of England ; that's greater than any king of them all. 
Kite. Bravely saw, faith I Huzza for the queen [Huzza.] But hai^ye, you, Mr. 
Justice, and you, Mr. Queen, did you ever see the king's picture ? 

Both. No, no, no. 

Kite. I wonder at that ; I have two of them set in gold, and as like his majesty; 
God bless the mark I— see here, they are set in gold. 

[Taking two broad pieces out of his pocket ; presents one to each, 

Tho- The wonderful works of nature I [Looking at it.] What's this written 
about? here 's a posy, I believe. Ca-ro-lus ! what's that, sergeant ? 

Kite. Oh, Carolus I why. Carolus is Latin for King George ; that's all. 

Cost. 'Tis a fine thing to be a scoUard. Sergeant, will you part with this ? I'll 
buy it on yon, if it come within the compass of a crown. 

kite, a crown ! never talk of buying ; 'tis the same thing among friends, you 
know. I '11 present them to ye both : you shall give me as good a thing. Put them 
up, and remember your old iriend when I am over the hUls and far away. [Th^ 
svng and put up the rnoney.] 

Enter Plume, the Recruiting Officer, smging, 

Over the hills and over the main. 
To Flanders, Portugal, or Spain ; 
The king commands, and we '11 obey. 
Over the hiUs and far away. 

Come on, my men of miith, away with it ; I'll make one among yon. Who are these 
hearty lads ? 

Kite. Off with your hats ; 'ounds I off with your hats ; this is the captain ; the 
captain. 

Tho. We have seen captains afore now, mun. 

Cost. Ay, and heutenant-captains too. 'Sflesh ! I'll keep on my nab. 

Tho. And I 'se scarcely doff mine for any captain in England. My vether 's a 
freeholder. 

Plume. Who are those jolly lads, sergeant ? 

Kite. A couple of honest brave fellows, that are willing to serve their king ; I 
have entertained them just now as volnnte^^, under your honour's command. 

Plitxb. And good entertainment they shall have : volunteers are the men I want ; 
thoBB are the men fit to make soldiers, captains, generals. 
Cost. WonndB. Tummas, what 's this I are you listed ? 
Tho. FJeah I not I ; are you, Coatar? 
C08T. WouDdB ! not I. 
JSTjrF. W2jat I not listed ? ha, ha, ba\ a N«y 800«l ys*^^ ^»^^>^ 



^ARQUHAR.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 271 

Cost. Come, Tammas, we 11 go home. 

Tho. Ay» ay, come. 

Kits. Home I for shame, gentlemen ; behave yoorselyes better before yonr cap- 
tain. Dear Thomas I honest Costar I 

Tho. No, no ; we '11 be gone. 

Kite. Nay, then, I command you to stay ; I place you both sentinels in this place 
tor two hours, to watch the motion of St. Mary's clock you, and ycu the motion of 
8t. Chad's: and he that dares stir from his post tiU he be relieved, shall have my 
sword in his belly the next minute. 

Plums. What 's the matter, sergeant ? I 'm afraid you are too rough witii these 
gentlemen. 

Kits. I 'm too mild, sir ; they disobey command, sir ; and one of them should be 
shot for an example to the other. They deny their being listed. 

Tho. Nay, sergeant, we don't downright deny it neither; that we dare not do, 
for fear of being shot ; but we humbly conceive, in a civil way, and begging your 
worship's pardon, that we may go.home. 

Plume. That 's easily known. Have either of you received any of the king's 
money? 

Cost. Not a brass farthioff, sir. 

Kite. They have each of them received one-and-twenty shillings, and 'tis now 
in their pockets 

Cost. Wounds I if I have a penny in my pocket but a bent sixpence, 1 11 be con- 
tent to be listed and shot into the bargain. 

Tho. And I : lo©k ye here, sir. 

Cost. Nothing but the king's picture, that the sergeant gave me just now. 

Kite. See there, a guinea ; one-and-twenty shillings ; t'other has the fellow on 't. 

Plumb. The case is plain, gentlemen : the goods are found upon you. Those 
pieces of gold are worth oue-and-twenty shillings each. 

Cost. So, it seems that Carolus is one-and-twenty shillings in Latin ? 

Tho. 'Tis the same thing in Greek, for we are listed. 

Cost. Flesh ; but we an't, Tummas : I desire to be carried before the mayor, 
c<Q)tain. [Captain and Sergeant whisper th£ while. 

Plume. 'Twill never do. Kite ; your tricks will ruin me at last. 1 won't lose the 
fellows though, if I can help it.— Well, gentlemen, there must be some trick in this; 
my sergeant offers to take his oath that you are fdirly listed. 

Tho. Why. captain, we know that you soldiers have more liberty of conscience 
than other folks ; but for me or neighbour Coster here to take such an oath, 'twould 
be downright perjuration. 

Plume. Look ye, rascal, you villain I if I find that you have imposed upon these 
two honest fellows, I '11 trample you to death, you dog I Come, how was it ? 

Tho. Nay, then, we '11 si>eak. Your sergeant, as you say, is a rogue ; an 't like 
your worship, begging your worship's pardon ; and 

Cost. Nay, Tummas, let us speak ; you know I can read. And so, sir, he gave 
us those two pieces of money for pictures of the king, by way of a present. 

Plumb. How ? by way of a present ? the rascal I I '11 teach him to abuse honest 
fellows like you. Scoundrel, rogue, villain 1 [Beats off the Sergeant^ and follows. 

Both. O brave noble cantain I huzza ! A brave captain, faith*! 

Cost. Now, Tummas, Carolus is Latin for a beating. This is the bravest captain 
I ever saw. Wounds ! I've a mouth's mind to go with nim. 

Enter Kite. 

Kite. An't you a couple of pretty fellows, now ? Here you have complained to 
the captain ; I am to be turned out, and one of you will be sergeant. Which of you 
is to have my halberd ? 

Both. I. 

Kite. March, you scoundrels ! [Beats them off. 

COLLET GIBBER — STEELE— PHILIPS — AARON HILL — ^MRS. CENTLIVRE. 

Among the other successful writers for the stage may be instanced 
CoLi/BY Cjbbek (1671-1767), an actor and manager, whose comedy, 
the * Careless Husband/ is still deaetvedVy «b ^'ar?QMYv\&. ^^Xasx ^"^ 



272 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1727. 

a lively amusing writer, and his ' Apology for his Life/ is one of the 
most entertaining autobiographies in the language. — Sm Richard 
Steele was also a dramatist, and obtained from George I. a j^atent, 
appointing him manager and governor of the royal company of 
comedians — The ' Distrest Mother,' translated from Racine, was 
brought out by Ambrose Philips, the friend of Addison, and was 
highly successful. — Aaron Hill adapted the ' Zara ' of Voltaire to 
the English theatre, and wrote some original dramas, which entitled 
him, no less than his poems, to the niche he has obtained in the 
'Dunciad.' — A more legitimate comic writer appeared in Mrs. 
Susanna Cbntlivre (1667-1723), whose life and writings were im- 
moral, but who possessed considerable dramatic skill and talent 
Her comedies, the * Busy Body,' * The Wonder — A Woman keeps a 
Secret,' and 'A Bold Stroke" for a Wife,' are still favourite acting 
plays. Her plots and incidents are admirably arranged for stage 
effect, and her characters well discriminated. Mrs. Centlivre had 
been some time an actress, and her experience had been of service to 
her in writing for the stage. Her plays have recently (1873) been 
collected and published in four volumes. 



PROSE LITERATURE 

ESSAYISTS. 

The literature of France had the delightful essays of Mantaigne, 
and, a century later, the 'Characters' of La Bruy«^re, in which the 
artificial life of the court of Louis XIV. was portrayed with fidelity 
and satirical effect ; but it was not until the reign of Queen Anne 
that any English writer ventured to undertake a periodical work in 
which he should meet the public with a paper on some topic of the 
day, exposing fashionable folly, or insinuating instruction in tlie form 
of tale, allegory, or anecdote. The honour of originating this branch 
of literature is due to Daniel Defoe, wlio on the 19th of February 
1704 commenced a literary and political journal, entitled * The Re- 
view,' which he continued for about nine years, publishing for the 
first year twice a week, and afterwaids thrice— on Tuesday , Thursday 
and Saturday — the days in which the post left London for the ccun- 
tn^. Defoe aimed at being a censor of manners; he lashed the vices 
of the age, wrote also light and pleasant papers, and descanted on 
subjects of trade and commerce. His ' Review ' was highly popular. 
But it was not till Steele and Addison took the field that the essay 
assumed un/versal interest and \mpoTl«i.i[ie^, ^t^^ exercised a great 

and beDcBcial influence on the moTaY\\.y,\\ie \l\eVJ^w»s^s\\si^^ 

^d intelligence of the Britisli pubWc. 



KSSAYISTS.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 278 

SIR BICHARD STEELE — JOSEPH ADDISON. 

The life of Addison we liave already sketched. Steele was of 
English parentage, but born in Dublin. March 12, 1671-2. His 
father held the office of Secretary to tlie Lord- lieu tenant of Ireland, 
the Duke of Ormond; and through Ormond's influence Richard 
Steele was placed in the Charterhouse, London. There he met Ad- 
dison, just the same age as himself, and a close intimacy was formed 
between them, one of the most memorable in literature. Steele always 
regarded Addison with respect approaching to veneration. 

* Through theBchool and through the world,* as Mr. Thackeray has 
said, * whithersoever his strange fortune led this erring, wayward, 
idOfectionate creature, Joseph Addison was always his head-boy.' 
They were together at Oxford, Steele having been entered of Merton 
College in 1692. He remained there three years, but left without 
taking a degree ; and becoming enamoured of the military profession, 
but unable to obtain a commission, he entered as a private in the 
Horse Guards. A rich relation in Ireland threatened to disinherit 
Lim if he took this step, but Steele, 'preferring the slate of his mind to • 
that of his fortune,' enlisted, and w(i8 disinherited. In the army, he 
was f oon a favourite ; he obtained a cornetcy, became secretary to his 
colonel. Lord Cutts, and afterwards was promoted to the rank of cap- 
tain. He then plunged into the fashionable vices and follies of the 
age, at the same time acquiring that knowledge of life and character 
which proved so serviceable to him when he exchanged the sword for 
the pen. As a check on his irregularities — a self-monitor — Steele 
wrote a treatise, called the 'Christian Hero,' which hepublished inl70t. 
His gay associates did not relish this semi- religious work (which 
abounds in fine characteristic passages), and not being himself very 
deeply impressed with his own reasoning and pious examples, he set 
about writing a comedy, * The Funeral, or Grief A la Mode,' which was 
performed at Drury Lane in 1703 with great success. Next year he 
produced another play, the ' Tender Husband,' and in 1704 the * Lying 
Lover,' which proved to be too grave a comedy for the public taste. 
The ill-success of this piece deterred him from attempting tiie stage 
again until 1722, when he achieved his great dramatic triumph by the 
production of the 'Conscious Lovers.' 

Steele was now a popular and fashionable man upon town. The 
Wiiig minister, Ilarley, conferred upon him the office of Gazetteer 
and Gentlemun-Usher to Prince George ; he had married a wife who 
died soon afterwards, leaving him an estate in Barbadoes, and his 
second marriage with * Molly Scurlock ' added to his fortune. But 
Steele lived expensively, and was never free from pecuniary difficul- 
ties. His letters to his wife— of which about 400 have been pre- 
served, forming the most sin.crular correspond ^'nce ever published — 
shew that he was familiar with duns and bailiffs, with misery, folly, 
»nd repentance, Addmon upon one occas\oix\eii\.\ivak SAS5W^^^\sis^ 



274 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

was repaid within a twelvemonth ; but another loan from the same 
friend is said to have been reclaimed by an execution, and Addison 
has been condemned for harshness. To his friend, Benjamin Victor, 
Steele related the case. His bond on some expensive furniture was 
put in force, but from the letter he received with the surplus arising 
from the sale, he knew that Addison only intended a friendly warn- 
iniT against a manner of living altogether too costly, and, taking it as 
he believed it to be meant, he met him afterwards with the same 
gaiety of temper he had always shewn.* The warning was little 
heeded — Steele had a long succession of troubles and embarrassments, 
but nothing could depress the elastic gaiety of his spirits. In 1709, a 
happy project suggested itself. His oflflce of Gazetteer gave him a 
command of early foreign intelligence, and following up Defoe's 
scheme of a thrice-a- week journal on the post-days, combining news 
and literature, he organised the * Tatler,' the first number of which 
appeared on the 12th of April, 1709. Swift had, by his ridicule of 
Partridge the almanac-maker, made the name of Isaac Bickerstaff 
familiar ; Steele adopted it for his new work, and thus, as he said, 
'gained an audience of all who had any taste of wit, while the addi- 
tion of the ordinary occurrences of common journals of news brought 
in a multitude of readers.' 

Addison also came to his aid. He sent him hints from Ireland, 
and after the 80th number, became a regular contributor. * 1 fared,' 
says Steele, * like a distressed prince who calls in a powerful neigh- 
bour to his aid : I was undone by my auxiliary ; when I had once 
called him in, I could not subsist without dependence on him.' Some 
of the most charming of Addison's essays appear in the *Tatler,' but 
Steele stamped its character on the work as a gentle censor of man- 
ners and morals, a corrector of the public taste, and a delightful 
exponent of English society and English feeling. He aimed at high 
objects—* to expose the false arts of life, to pull off the disguises of 
cunning, vanity, and affectation, and to recommend a preneral sim- 
plicity in our .dress, our discourse, and our behaviour.' That the 
careless and jovial *Dick Steele' should set about such a task is only 
another illustration of the contradictions and incongruities. in his 
character. His happy genius, however, carried him over all diffi- 
culties. The ' Tatler ' was continued regularly thrice a week, price 
one penny each number, until the 2d of January 1710-11. By this 
time the Tories were triumphant; Steele lost his appointment of 
Gazetteer ; but his success as an essayist inspired him with ambition, 
and on the 1st of March 1710-11, appeared the first number of the 
' Spectator,' which was to be published daily. The design was car- 
ried out, with unexampled success through 555 numbers, terminating 
on the 6th of December 1712. In 1714, the * Spectator ' was resumed, 
and eighty numbers — forming an e\g\i\Xv ^o\\\.m^---^dded. In its 

• See Forster' b Ewaya— ^Vc 'RicViw^^'Vft^^a* 



STEELE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 275 

Qiost prosperous period, when Bolingbroke thought to curb tlie press 
by imposing a stamp on each sheet, the * Spectator' doubled its price, 
yet ^aintamed its popularity, and paid government on account of 
the lialf-penny stamp a sum of £29 each week. It had also a circu- 
lation of about 10,000 in volumes. Of the excellent effects produce d 
by the essays of iSteele and Addison, we possess the evidence not only 
of the improved state of society and literature which afterwards ju'e- 
Yailed, but likewise the testimony of writers contemporary willi the 
authors themselves. All speak of a decided and marked improvement. 
The ' Spectator* ceased in December 1712, and in the March following 
appeared the * Guardian,' which was also issued daily. It extended to 
175 numbers, or two volumes. Pope, Berkeley, Budgell, and other 
friends, aided Steele in tliis new work, but Addison was again his 
principal assistant. Of the 271 papers in the * Taller,' Steele wrote 188, 
Addison 42, and both conjoined, 86. Of 635 * Spectatoi*s,' Addison 
wrote 274, Sieele, 240; and of 175 * Guardians,' Steele wrote 83, and 
Addison, 63. At various intervals during his busy life Steele attempted 
other periodicals on the same plan — as the *Englishman,' (which was 
chiefly political, and extended to 57 numbers), the * Lover,' the 
'Reader,' the * Plebeian,' tlie * Theatre,' &c. — but these were short- 
lived productions, and had little influence either on his fame or for- 
tune. 

Political controversy now raged. Swift assailed Steele witli witty 
malice and virulence, and the patriotism of Steele prevailed over his 
interest, for he resigned an appointment he had received as commis- 
sioner of stamps, and threw himself into political warfare wiili disin- 
terested but headlong, zeal. He obtained a seat in parliament as 
member for Stockbridge, spoke warmly in support of tlie Protestant 
succession, which he conceived to be in danger, and published a 
pamphlet, entitled the * Crisis,* which contained *8ome seasonable 
remarks on tlie danger of a popish successor.* For these insinuati()n3 
ai^ainst the Protestantism of the government, Steele was expelled the 
House of Commons by a majority of 245 against 152 votes. The 
death of Queen Anne, however, humbled his oppcments ; and in the 
new reign, Steele received a place in the household — Surveyor of the 
Royal Stables, Governor of the Royal Company of Comedians — was 
placed in the commission of the peace for Middlesex, and knighted by 
King George I. Through the influence of the Duke of Newcastle, he 
entered parliament as member for Borouglibridge, and was an active 
politician and debater. In 1717, he visited Edinburgh, as one of the 
commissioners of forfeited estates, and whilst there, he is said on one 
occasion to have given a splendid entertainment to a multitude of 
decayed tradesmen and beggars collected from the streets! In 1718, 
he published an account of a patent scheme he had devised, called 
* The Fishpool,' foi conveying salmon and other fish alive from 
Ireland to the London market In 1719, he opposed the Peerage 
Bill, by which it was sought to ^x ^ercaa.xievi>\^ ^^ jjwssiaKt '^ 



276 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

peers, and prohibit the crown from making any new creations 
except to replace extinct families. On this question he was op- 
posed by Addison, but Steele had the advantage in poiut of 
argument, and the bill was thrown out. lu this controversy, 
Addison is said to have sneered at his friend under the name of 

* Little Dicky.' The allusion, however, has been misunderstood, 
as Lord Macaulay maintams ; tlie matter is doubtful j but the friends 
had parted never to meet again: Addison sunk iuto his premature 
grave before any reconciliation took place. Next year, Steele hon- 
ourably distinguished himself against the JSouth-sea Scheme; he 
again took an active part in theatrical affairs, and wrote his comedy 
of the * Conscious Lovers* (1722) ; but liis pecuniaiy difficulties in- 
creased, and he retired to a seat in Wales, left him by his second 
wife, where he died on the 1st of September 1729. He was almost 
forgotten by his contemporaries ; but posterity has donejustice to his 
talents and virtues — to his overflowing kindness of heart, and the 
spontaneous graces and charm of his writings. 

As an essayist, Steele is remarkable for the vivacity and ease of his 
composition. He tried all subjects ; was a humorist, a satirist, a 
critic, and story-teller. His Inkle and Yurico, and other tales in the 

* Tatler* and * Spectator,' are exquisite for their simple pathos. His pic- 
tures of life and society have the stamp of reality. They are often 
imperfectly finished, and present trival and incongruous details, but 
they abound in inimitable touches. His elevated conception of the 
female character has justly been remarked as distinguishiug him froin 
most writers of his age. His gallantry to women was a pure and 
chivalrous devotion. Of one lady he said that ' to love her was a 
liberal education' — one of the most felicitous compliments ever paid. 
Steele had also great fertility of invention, both as respects incident 
and character. His personages are drawn with dramatic spirit, and 
with a liveliness and airy facility that blind the reader to his defects 
of style. The Spectator Club, with its fine portraits of Sir Roger de 
Coverley, Sir Andrew Freeport, Will Honeycomb, &c., will ever 
renaain a monument of the felicity of his fancy, and his power oi 
seizing upon the shades and peculiarities of character. If Addison 
heightened the humour and interest of the different scenes, to Steele 
belongs the merit of the original design, and the first conception ol 
the actors. 

The following extracts will shew something of Steele's manner, 
though not his versatility : 

Love, Oriefy and Death. 

The first gense of sorrow I ever knew was upon the death of my father, at whicl: 

time I was not quite flye years of age ; but was rather amazed at what all the hooK 

meant, than possessed with a real undetfttaiidKiiS vj\i^ \io\iQ>^^ yiaa willing to plaj 

with me. I remember I went into the room YrYvete \j.\ft\iO^^ \ot , tixA^e:? \s^<5{Casst tA 

weepiag alone by it. I had my battledooi *m xas \\mxQl, wi^ i^v^ ^-^e^^-Caa ^ 

«id caZfiz^'Papa/forlknownot how 1 hadBOiaft ^^X.N^^>aQa'^'^«^^«^>s*S 



STEELE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 277 

Qp there. My mother catched me in her arms, and transported bevond all patience 
of the aiJcnt grief she was before in, she almost smothered mu in her embrace, and 
told me, in a flood of tears, papa could not hear me, and would play with me no 
more, for they were going to put him under ground, whence he would never come to 
ns a^in. She was a very beautiful woman, of a noble spirit, and there was a dig- 
nity in her grief amidst all the wildness of her transport, which methought struck 
me with an mstinct of sorrow, which, before I was sensible what it was to grieve, 
seiz^ my very soul, and has made pity the weakness of my heart ever since. The 
mind in infancy is, mcthinks, like the body in embryo, and receives impressions so 
forcible that they are as hard to be removed by reason as any mark with which a 
chi^ is bom is to be taken away by any future application. 

Agreeable Companions and Flatterers. 

An old acqoaintance who met me this morning seemed overjoyeo to see me, and 
told me I looKed as well as he had known me do these forty years ; but, continued 
he, not quite the man you were when we visited together at Lady Brightly's. Oh I 
Isaac* those days are over. Do you think there are any such fine creatures now liv- 
ing as we then conversed with ? He went on with a thousand incoherent circum- 
stances, which, in liis imagination, must needs please me ; but they had the quite 
contrary effect. The flatterjr with which he began, in telling me how well I wore 
was not disagreeable ; but his indiscreet mention of a set (S acquaintance we had 
oatlived, recalled ten thousand things to my memory, which made me reflect upon 
my present condition with regret. Had he indeed been so kind as, after a long ab- 
sence, to felicitate me upon an indolent and easy old age, and mentioned how much 
he and I had to thank for, who at our time of day could walk firmly, eat heartily, and 
converse cheerfully, he had kept u^ my pleasure in myself. But of all mankind, 
there are none so shocking as these injudicious civil people. They ordinaiily begin 
upon something that they Know must be a satisfaction ; but then, for tsar of the im- 
pntatioii of flattexy, they follow it with the last thing in fhe world of which you would 
be reminded. It is this that perplexes civil persons. The reason that there is such 
a eeneral outcry among us against flatterers, is, that there are so very few good ones. 
It Is the nicest art in this life, and is a part of eloquence which docs not want the 
preparation that is necessary to all other parts of it, that vour audience should be 

Soar well-wishers ; for praise from an enemy is the most pleasing of all commenda- 
ons. 
It is generally to be observed, that the person most agreeable to a man for a con- 
stancy, IB he that has no shining qualities, but is a certain degree above great imper- 
fections, whom ho 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 small consideration, who is a darliDg for his insignificancy. It is a 
great ease to have one in our own shape a 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 sol.tude, 
when one has ncittur a mind to that nor to company. There are of this good-natured 
order who are so kind to divide themselves, and do these good offices to many. Five 
or six of them visit a whole quarter of the town, and exclude the spleen, without 
fees, from the families they frequent. If they do not prescribe physic, they can be 
company when you take it. Very great benefactors to the rich, or those whom they 
call people at their ease, are you persons of no consequence. I have known some of 
them, by the help of a liltle cunning, make delicious flatterers. They know the 
coarse of the town, and the general characters of {>ersons ; 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 were engaged in dif- 
ferent interests, yet he had the greatest respect for your good sense and address. 
When one of these has a little cunning, be passes his time in the utmost satisfaction 
to himself and his friends ; for his position is never to report or speak a displeasing 
iJjJng' to Mb friecdL Aa for Jetting him go on in an. error, he knows advice agidnst 
tbem Js the ofSce of persons of greater taleiits aii^\efta dAatTfeWon.. 

The Latin word tor a flatterer {assentator) impiiea no mOT^ XJossa. ^ V5«Kw^^ssis. 



378 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

barely consents ; and indeed such a one, if a man were able to purchase or maintain 
him, cannot be bought too dear. Such a one never contradicts you, bat grains upon 
you, not by a fuJsome way of commending yon in broad terms, bat liking whatever 
you propose or utter ; at the same time is ready to beg yom' pardon, and eainsay yoa 
if you chance to speak ill of yourself. An old lady is very seldom without such a 
companion as this, who can recite the names of all li«r lovers, 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 flatterei is generally elder than herself, her years serving to recom- 
mend her patroness's age, and to add weight to her complaisance m all otiier 
particulars. 

We gentlemen of small fortunes are extremely necessitous in this particnlar. I 
have indeed one who smokes with me often ; but his parts are so low, that all the 
incense he does me is to All his pipe with me, and to be out at just as many whifEs as 
I take. This is all the 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 inclination to be flattered ; bat if we 
go to the bottom of it, we shah find that the pleasure in it is something iike that of 
receiving money which lay out. Every man thinks he has an estate 01 reputation, 
and Id glad to see one that will bring any of it home to him ; it is no matter nowdir^ 
a bae it is conveyed to him in, or by no w clownish a messenger, 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 ontron the most 
skilful in this art. Their want ot ability is here an advantage, and their blnntnefls, 
as it is the seeming effect of sincerity, is the best cover to airiflce. 

It is, indeed, the greatest of injuries to flatter any but the unhappy, or each as are 
displeased with themselves for some infirmity. In this latter case we have a mem- 
ber of our club, that, when Sir Jeffrey falls aleep, wakens him with snoring. This 
makes Sir Jeffrey hold up for some moments the longer, to sec there are men youQger 
than himself among us, who are more lethargic than he is. 

When flattery is practised upon any other consideration, it is the moet abjeet 
thing in nature ; n^, I cannot think of any character below the flatterer, except he 
that envies him. You meet with teUows prepared to be as mean as possible in flieir 
condescensions and expressions ; but they want persons and talents to rise ap to 
such a baseness. As a coxcomb is a fool of parts, so a flatterer is a knave of parts. 

The best of this order that I know is one who disguises it under a spirit of coO' 
tradiction or reproof. He told an arrant driveller the other day, that he did not care 
for being in company with him, because he heard he turned his absent friends into 
ridicule. And upon Lady Autumn's disputing with him about something that hap- 
pened at the Revolution, he replied with a very angry tone : * Pray, madam, give me 
leave to know more of a thing m which I was actually concerned, than yoa who were 
then in your nurse's arms/ 

Qu4ick Advertisements, 

It gives me much despair in the design of reforming the world Xtv my qpecohk 
tions, when I find there always arise, from one generation to anothw, saocesBtre 
cheats and bubbles, as naturally as beasts of prey and those which are to be their 
food. There is hardly a man in the world, one would think, so ignorant as not to 
know that the ordinary quack-doctors, who publish their abilities in little brown 
billets, distributed to all who pass by, are to a man impostors and murderers ; yet 
such is the credulity of the vulgar, and the impudence of these professors, that tlw 
affair still goes on, and new promises of what was never done before are made every 
day. What aggravates the jest is, that even this promise has been made as long as 
the memory of man can trace it, and yet nothing performed, and yet still prevaite. 

There is something unaccountably taking among the vulgar in those who comtr 

from a great way off. Ignorant people of quality, as many there are of sach, dote ex- 

ceaaively tbia w&y ; many instances of which every man will suggest to himsdf, 

witboat my enomeration of them. The ignotants of lower order, who cannot, Hke 

the upper ones, he profuse of their money to tYvoae tefto\o\SkKQA«A by comine from a 

distance, are no leFF complaisant than the otheia; lot XXxe^ N«nx\»x^ X^^ct^^ciw^^ 

«i© Bame admiration. 



STEELE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 279 

* The doctor is lately come from his travels, and has practised both by sea and 
land, and therefore cures the green-sickness, long sesrvoyages, and campaigns.' 
Both b^ sea and land I I will not answer for the distempers called * sea-yoyages, and 
campaigns,'.bnt I daresay that of green-sickness might be as well taken care of if the 
doctor stayed ashore. Bnt the art of managing mankind is only to make them stare 
a little to keep np their astonishment ; to let nothing be familiar to them, but eyer 
to haye something^ in their sleeye, in which they must think you are deeper than they 
are. There is an ingenious feUow, a barber, of my acquaintance, who, besides his 
broken fiddle and a dried sea-monster, has a twine-cord, strained with two nails at 
each end, oyer his window, and the words "''^ rainy, dry, wet,' and so forth, written to 
denote the weather, according to the rising or falling of the cord. We yery great 
scholars are not apt to wonder at this ; but I obseryed a yery honest fellow, a chance 
customer, who sat in the chair before me to be shayed, fix ms eye upon this miracu- 
lous performance during the operation upon his chin and face. When those and his 
head also were cleared of all incumbrances and excrescences, he looked at the fish, 
then at the fiddle, still grubbing in his pockets, and casting his eye again at the 
twine, and the words wnt on each side ; then altered his mind as to farthings, and 
gave my fnend a silver sixpence. The business, as I said, is to keep up the amaze- 
ment ; and if my friend had only the skeleton and kit, he must have been contented 
with a less payment. There is a doctor in Mouse Alley, near Wapping, who sets up 
for curing cataracts upon the credit of haying, as his bill sets forth, lost an eye in 
the emperor's service. His patients come in upon this, and he shews his muster-roll, 
which confirms that he was m his imperial majesty's troops ; and he puts out their 
eyes with great success. Who would believe that a man should be a doctor for the 
cure of bursten children, by declaring that his father and grandfather were bom 
bnrsten? But Charles Ingoltson, next door to the Harp in Barbican, has made a 
pretty penny by that asseveration. The generality go upon their first conception, 
and think no f urtlier ; all the rest is grant^. They take it that there is something 
uncommon in yoUj and give you credit for the rest. You may be sure it is upon that 
I go, when, sometimes, let it be to the purpose or not, I keep a Latin sentence in my 
front ; and I was not a little pleased when I observed one of my readers say, casting 
bis eye on my twentieth paper, * More Latin still ? What a prodigious scholar is 
this man !' But as I have here taken much liberty with this learned doctor, I must 
make up all I have said by repeating what he seems to be in earnest in, and honestly 
promise to those who will not receive him as a great man, to wit, * That from eight 
to twelve, and from two till six, he attends for the good of the public to bleed for 
threepence.' 

Story-telling, 

I have often thought that a story-teller is bom, as well as a poet. It is, I think, 
certain that some men have such a peculiar cast of mind, that they see things in 
another light than men of grave dispositions. Men of a lively imagination and a 
mirthful temper will represent things to their hearers in the same manner iis they 
themselves were affected with them ; and whereas serious spirits might perhaps have 
been disensted at the sight of some odd occurrences m life, yet the very same occur- 
rences shall please them in a well-told story, where the msagreeable parts of the 
images are concealed, and those only which are pleasing exhibited to the fancy. 
Story-telling is therefore not an art, but what we call a * knack ;' it doth not so much 
subsist upon wit as upon humour ; and I will add, that it is not perfect without 
proper gesticulations of the body, which naturally attend such merry emotions of 
the mind. I know very well that a certain gravity of countenance sets some stories 
off to advantage, where the hearer is to be surprised in the end. But this is by no 
means a general role ; for it is frequently convenient to aid atd assist by cheerful 
looks and whimsical agitations. I will go yet further, and affirm that the success of 
a story very often depends upon the make of the bod^, and the formation of the 
features, of him who relates it. I have been of this opmion ever since I criticised 
upon the chin of Dick Dewlap. I very often had the weakness to repine at the pros- 

geri^ of his conceit*, which made him pass for a wit with the widow at the coffee- 
ouse, and the ordinary mechanics that frequent it ; nor could I mYselt Cocbe&t 
Jaa^bine at them moat heartily, though upon exaiii\ii«Aiou\\\v<v(y^ Tsi^'^^.^VS^stKaw 
rerjr mt and ineipid, I foond, after some time, t^\, XJc» Tskssro, 'aV \ifl^ '^i^^. "w^ 



280 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

fonnded npon the shaking a fat paunch, and the tossing up of a pair of rosy jowls. 
Poor Dick had a fit of sicKness, which robbed him of his fat and his fame at once I 
and it was full three mouths before he regamed his reputation, which roee in iMX>por- 
tiou to his floridity. He is now very jolly and ingenious, and hath a good consotn- 
tion for wit. 

Those who are thus adorned with the gifts of nature, are apt to shew their parte 
with too much ostentation. I would therefore advise all the professors of this art 
never to tell stories but as they seem to grow out of the subject-matter of the con- 
versation, or as they serve to illustrate or enliven it. Stories that are very common 
are generally irksome ; but may be aptly introduced provided they be only hinted at, 
and mentioned by way of allusion. Those that are altogether new, should never be 
ushered in without a short and pertinent character of the chief persons coDoerned, 
because, by that means, you may make the company acquainted with them; audit 
is a certain rule, that slight and trivial accounts of those who are familiar to us, ad- 
minister more mirth than the brightest points of wit in unknown characters. A 
little circumstance in the complexion of dress of the man you are talking of, sets his 
image before the hearer, if it be chosen aptly for the story. Thus, I remember Tom 
Lizard, after having made his sistera merry with an account of a formal old man's 
way of complimenting, owned very frankly that his story would not have been worth 
one farthing, if he had made the hat of him whom he represented one inch narrower. 
Besides the marking distinct characters, and selecting pertinent circnmstances, it is 
likewise necessary to leave off in time, and end smartly ; so that there is a kind of 
drama in the forming of a story ; and the manner of conducting and pointing it is the 
same as in an epigram. It is a miserable thing, after one hath raised the expectation 
of the company by humorous characters and a pretty conceit, to pursue^ the matter 
too far. There is no retreating ; and how poor is it for a story-teller to end his rela- 
tion by saying, * That's all I' 

Story of Unnion and ValentiTie. 

At the siege of Namnr by the Allies, there were in the ranks of the company 
commanded by Captain Piucent., in Colonel Frederick Hamilton's regiment, one 
Unnion, a corporal, and one Valentine, a private sentinel ; there happened between 
these two men a dispute about a matter of love, which, upon some aggravatione 
grew to an irreconcilable hatred. Unnion being the officer of Valentine, took all 
opportunities even to strike his rival, and profess the spite and reven|[e which moved 
him to it. The sentinel bore it without resistance, but frequently said he would die 
to be revenged of that tyrant. They had spent whole months thus, one Injuring, the 
other complaining ; when in the midst of this rage towards each other, they were 
commanded upou~the attack of the castle, where the corporal received a shot in the 
thigh, and fell ; the French pressing on, and he, expecting to be trampled to death, 
called out to his enemy : * Ah, Valentine, can you leave me here ?' Valentine imme- 
diately ran back, and in the midst of a thick fire of the French, took the corporal 
upon his back, and brought him through ail that danger, as far as the abbey of 
Salsiue, where a cannon-ball took off bis head : his body fell under his enemv whom 
he was carrying off. Unnion immediately forgot his wound, rose up, tearing his hair, 
and then threw himself upon the bleeding carcase, crying: *Ah, Valentine, was it for 
me, who have so barbarously used thee, that thou hast died? I will not live after 
thee !' He was not by any means to be forced from the body, but was removed with 
it bleeding in his arms, and attended with tears by all their comiades who knew theur 
enmity. When he was brought to a tent his wounds were dressed by force ; but the 
next day. still calling upon Valentine, and lamenting his cruelties to him, he died in 
the pangs of remorse and despair. 

From the essays of Addison we subjoin some extracts. We have 

already spoken of the prose style of Addison, and Dr. Johnson's 

eulogium on it has almost passed into a proverb in the history of our 

Jjterature. * Whoever wishes,' says the critic and moralist, * to attain 

an JEogliah style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not osten- 

tatfous, must give his days and n\g\Ala Xo VVift ^oXwkv^^ q»^ ^.ddiaon.* 

There he will 3nd a rich but cUaste ^eVu olYiiffsvox wA^«»K5^»-AwaR^ 



ADDISON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE 281 

of morality and religion divested of all austerity ana gloom — criticism 
at once pleasing and ingenious — and pictures of national character 
and manners that must ever charm from their vivacity and truth. 
The mind of Addisoa was so happily constituted, that ii)l its faculties 
appear to htive been in healthy vigour and due proportion, and to 
have been under the control of correct taste and principles. Greater 
energyof character, or a more determined hatred of vice and tyranny, 
would have curtailed liis usefulness as a public censor. lie led the 
nation gently and insensibly lo a love of virtue and constitutional free- 
dom, to a purer taste in morals and literature, and to the importance 
of those everlasting truths wiiich so warmly engaged his heart and 
imagination. The national taste and circumstances have so much 
changed during the last century and a half, that these essays, inim- 
itable as they are, have become antiquated, and are lii tie read. 

Among the otlier prose works of the essayist are * Remarks on Sev- 
eral Parts of Italy in the years 1701, 1702, 1703,* in which he has con-' 
sidered the passages of the ancient poets that have any relation to the 
places and curiosities he saw. The style of this early w«tfk is re- 
markable for its order and simplicity but seldom rises into eloquence. 
He wrote al^o * Dialogues on the Usefulness of Ancient Medals, es- 
pecially in Relation to the Latin and Greek Poets,' a treatise uniting 
patient research and originality of thought and conception. The 
learning of Addison is otherwise displayed in his unfitiished treatise 
on the * Evidences of the Christian Religion,' in which he reviews 
the lieatben piiilosophers and historians who advert to the spread of 
Christianity, and also touches on a part of the subject now more fully 
illustrated— the fulfillment of the Scripture prophecies. The * Whig 
Examiners' of Addison (five in number) are clever, witty, party pro- 
ductions. He ridicules his opponents without bitterness or malice, 
yet with a success that far outstripped c<^mpetition. When we con- 
sider that this great ornament of our literature died at the age of 
forty-seven, and that the greater part of his manhood was spent in 
the discharge of important official duties, we are equally surprised at 
the extent of his information and the variety and richness of his 
genius. 

The Political Upholsterer. 

There lived some years since, within my neighbourhood, a very grave person, an 
upholsterer, who seemed a man of more than ordinary application to business. He 
was a very early riser, and was often abroad two or three hours before any of his 
neighbors. He had a particular carefulness m 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 life and conversation I found 
him to be the greatest newsmonger m our quarter ; that he rose before day to read 
the • Postman ; ' and that he would take two or three turns to the other end of the 
town before his neighbours were up, to see if there were any Dutch mails come in. 
He had a wife and several children ; but was much more inquisitive to know what 
IMUMted in Poland than in his own family, and was in greater pain and auxietyof 
mind for King AaguBtuB's welfare than tbatot \\\ft ueax^i^X t«i\«.\:\vsv«,. '^'^^^'^'^ 
extremely tbin in « de&rth of news, and never enp^ed YiNxasB^ \a. ^ ^*«Msecj nkvss^* 



282 CYCLOPEDIA OF . [to 1727. 

This indefatigable kind of life was the rnin of his shop ; for abont the time that k0 
favourite prince left the crown of Poland, he broke and disappeared. 

This man and his affairs had been long; ont of my mind, till about three days ago,, 
as I was walking in St. James's Park, I heard somebody at a distance hemmmg 
after me ; and who should it be but my old neighbour the upholsterer I I saw he was 
reduced to extreme poverty, by certam 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 garters buckled under the knee. Upon his coining 
up to me, I was going to inquire into his present circumstances, but was prevented 
by his asking mti, with a whisper, whether the last letters brought any accounts that 
one might rely upon from Bender. I told him, none that I hes^ of ; and asked him 
whether he had yet married his eldest daughter. He told me no : * But pray,' says 
me ' tell me sincerely, what are your thoughts of the king of Sweden ?' tor though 
his wife and children were starving, I found his chief concern at present was for tfis 
great monarch. I told liim, that Ilooked 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 there 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 I, * the 
bullet chanced to light there.' 

This extraordinary dialogue was no sooner ended, but he' began to lannch out into 
a'long dissertation upon the affairs of the north ; and after having spent some time on 
them, he told me he was in a great perplexity how to reconcile the * Supplement ' 
with th€( * English Post,' and had been lust examining what the other papers say 
upon the same subject. * The " Daily Courant," ' says he, * has these words : "We 
have advices from very good hands, that a certain prince has some matters of great 
importance under consideration. This is verv mysterious ; but the " Postboy " 
leaves us more in the dark, for he tells us that there are private intimations of 
measures taken by a certain prince, which time will bring to light. Now the " Post- 
man," ' says he, * who used to be very clear, refers to the same news in these words : 
the late conduct of a ceirtain prince affords great matter of speculation. This cer- 
tain piince,' says the upholsterer, * whom they are all so cautious of naming, I 
take to be ' •Upon which, though there was nobody near us, he whispered some- 
thing in my ear, which I did not hear, or think worthy my while to make him re- 
peat.* 

We were now got to the upper end of the Mall, where were three or four very odd 
fellows sitting together upon the bench. These I found were all of them politicians, 
who used to sun themselves in that place every day abont dinner-time. Observing 
them to be curiosities in their kind, 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 Muscovy, it ap- 
peared to him that there was a storm gathering in the Black Sea, which might m 
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 manufacture. He then told us, that he looked upon 
the extraordinary revolutions which had lately happened m those parts of the world, 
to have risen chiefly from two persons who were not much talked of ; and those, says 
he, are Prince Menzikoff and the Duchess of Mirandola. He backed his assertions 
with so many broken hints, and such a showjof 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-born 
Englishmen : 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 right hand, and, as I found, by his discourse, bad been In the 
West Indies, assured us, that it would be a very easy matter for the Protestants to 
beat tbe pope at sea ; and added, that whenever such a war does break out, it must 
turn to the good of the L^ward Islanda. Upon this, one who sat at the end of the 



*' The prince here alluded to so mystetioasly ntw t\v« wiUQl ^».-sn»»\\» 



ADDISON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 283 

bench, and, as I afterwards f onnd, was the geographer of the company, said, that in 
case the Papists shonid drive the Protestants from these parts of Eorope, 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 Musco\y 
stand neuter. 

He further told us for our comfort, that there were vast tracts of lands about the 
pole, mhabited neither hy Protestants nor Papists, and of greater extent than all 
the Roman Catholic dommions in Europe. 

When we had fully discussed this pomt, my friend the upholsterer began to exert 
himself upon the present negotiations of peace, m which he deposed princes, settled 
the bonuas of kingdoms, ana balanced the power of Europe, with great justice and 
impartiality. 

I at len^h took my leave of the company, and was going away ; but had not gone 
thirty yaras, before the upholst-erer hemmed agam after me. Upon his advanciwg 
towards me with a whisper, I expected to hear some secret piece of news, which he 
had not thought fit to communicate to the bench ; but instead of that, he desired nic 
in my ear to lend him a half-crown. In compassion to so needy a statesman, and 
to dissipate the confusion I found he was in. 1 told him, if he pleased, I would give 
him five shillmgs, to receive five potmds of him when the great Turk. was driven out of 
Constantinople ; which he very readily accepted, but not before he had laid down to 
me the impossibihty of such an event, as the affairs of Europe now stand. 

The Vision of Mirza, 

When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up several Oriental mantiscripts, which I 
have stili by me. Among others, I met with one entitled *The Visions of Mirza,' 
wUch I have read over with great pleasure. I intend to give it to the public when I 
have no other entertamment lor them, and shall begin with the first vision, which I 
have translated word for word, as follows r 

On the 5th day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I 
always keep hol^, after having washed myself and offered up my morning devotions, 
I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in medita- 
tion and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell 
into a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life ; and passing from one 
thought to another; * Surely,' said I, *man is but a shadow, and life a dream.' 
Whifit I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was 
not far from me, where I discovered one m the habit of a shepherd, with a little 
musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him, he apphed it to his lips, 
and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceedingly sweet, and wrought 
into a variety of tunes that were mexpressibly melodious, and altogether different 
from anything I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly airs that 
are played to the departed souls of good men upon their first arrival in paradise, to 
wear out the impressions of the last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of 
that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures. 

I had been often told that the rock before me was the hatmt of a genius, and that 
several had been entertained with music who had passed by it, but never heard that 
the musician had before made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by 
those transporting airs which he played, to taste the pleasures of his conversatiou, 
as I looked upon him like one astomshed, he beckoned to me, and by the waving of 
his hand, directed me to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that 
reverence which is due to a superior nature ; and as my heart was entirely subdued 
by the captivating strains I haa heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The genius 
smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability that familiarised him to 
my imaginatioii, and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I 
approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, * Mirza,' 
said he, * I have heard thee in thy soliloquies ; follow me.' 

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on the top of 
it, * Cast thine eyes eastward,' said he, ♦ and tell me what thou seest.' * I see,' said I, 
* a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it.' * The valley'^hat 
thou seest,' said he, ' is the vale of misery, and the tide of water that thou aeeat, ia 
part of the great tide of eternity.' * What \b Ihe lea.aoia.,'' %.«N!^. \, "^ N}o»!v.'<jBR.'<bAs4.^.'«s^ 
rises oat of a thick mist at one end, and aRam \o*ftft VXaaM "01 ^ >0kv<5«w \s^^'!^'^'^ 



284 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

other ?* * What thou Beest,* said he, * is that portion of eternity which is called 
Time, measured out by the sun, and reachuig from the begrinning of the world to its 
consumma.iou. Examine now,' said he, * this sea that is bounded with darkuees at 
'both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.' 'I see a bridge,* said I, * standing 
in the midst of the tide.* ♦ The bridge thou seest,' eaid he, * is Human Life : con- 
sider it attentively.' Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of 
threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken arches, which, added to tho:* 
that were entire, made up the number to about a hundred. As I was counting the 
arches, the genius told me that this biidge consisted at first of a thousand arches, 
but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condi- 
tion I nowljeheld it. ' But tell me further,' said he, * what thou discoverest on it.' 
* I see multitudes of people passing over it,' said I, *and a black cloud hanging on 
each end of it.' As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers 
dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed beneath it ; and upon 
further examination, perceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in 
the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell through them into 
the tide, and immediately disappeared. These bidden pitfalls were bet very thick at 
the entrance of the bridge, so that thronjrs of people no sooner broke through the 
cloud, but many of them fell Into them. They grew thinner toward the middle, but 
multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of tha arches that were entire. 

There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, that con- 
tinued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through one ufter 
another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk. 

I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the 
great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melan- 
choly to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and 
catching at everything that stood by them to save themselves. Some were looking 
np towards the heavens m a thoughtful posture, and, in the inidst of a speculation, 
stumbled, and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of babbles 
that glittered in their eyes and danced before them ; but often wnen they thought 
themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and down they bank. In 
this confusion of objects, I observed some with scimitars in their hands, and others 
who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which 
did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped Iiad they not 
been thus forced upon them. 

The genius seeing me indulge myself on this melancholy prospect, told me I had 
dwelt long enough upon it. * 1 ake thine eyes oS. the bridge,' saia he, * and tell me if 
thou yet seest anything thou dost not comprehend.' Upon looking up, * What mean,' 
said I, * those great flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, 
and settling upon it from time to time 7 I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, 
and, among many other feathered creatures, several little winged boys, that perch m 
great numbers upon the middle arches.' ' These,' said the genius, * are Knvy. Ava- 
rice, Superstition, Despair, Love, vrith. the like cares and passions that infest Human 
Life.' 

1 here fetched a deep sigh. 'Alas,* said I, 'man was made in vain I— how is 
he given away to misery and mortality !— tortured m life, and swallowed up in 
deatlil' The genius being moved with compassion towards me, bade me quit so 
uncomfortable a prospect. *Look no more,' said he, * on man m the first stage of 
his existence, in bis setting out for eternity, but cast ttune eye on that thick 
mist into which the tide bears the several srenerations of mortals that fall into it.* I 
directed my sight as 1 was ordered, and — ^whether or no the g;ood genius strength- 
ened it with any supernatural force, or dissipated part of thendst that was bd[ore too 
thick for the eye to penetrate — I saw the valley oi>eniug at the former end, and 
spreading forth into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running 
through the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested 
on one half of it. insomuch that 1 could discover nothing in it, but the other ap- 
peared to me a vast ocean planted with innumerable islands that were covered with 
zraJts aud flowers, and inter^^'oven with a thousand httle thlning seas tliat ran 
among them. I could see persons drepsed in glorious habits, with garlands upon 
tAeJr beadB, puBswg among the trees, lying (iovm.\i^ Wve %\<ieft of fountains, or rest- 
-to^ on beds 0/ flowers, and could bear a contnaed \ittrTc\0Ti3 ^i %\u^tv^-\Jvx^ tailing 
waters, human voices, and musical inBtnunfeUla, G\»j^\«ie» ^«^ \si \s3ft x^v^x^"^ 



ADDISON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 285 

discovery of bo delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle that I might 
fly away to those happy seat«, bat the genius told me there was no passage to them 
except through the Ga-es of Death that I saw opening every moment upon the 
bridge. * The islands/ said he, * that lie so fresh and green before thee, and with 
which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more 
in number than the sands on the sea-shore ; there are myriads of islands behind 
those which thou here discoverest, reaching further than thine eye, or even thine 
imagination, can extend itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, 
who, according to the degree and kinds of virtue in which thev excelled, are dis- 
tributed among these several islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds 
and degrees, suitable to he relishes and perfections of those who are settled in 
them. Every island is a paradise accommodated to its respective inhabitants. Are 
not these, O Mirza ! habitations worth contending for ? Does life appear miserable, 
that gives thee opportunities of earning such a reward 7 Is death to be feared, that 
will convey thee to so happy an existence? Think not man was made in vain, who 
has such an eternity reserved for him.' 1 gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these 
happy islands. At leugth, said I : • Shew rae now, I beseech thee, the secrets that 
he hid under those dark clouds which cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of 
adamant.' 'I'he genius making me no answer, I turned about to address myself to 
him a second time, but I found that he had left me. I then turned again to the 
vision which I had been so long contemplating, but instead of the rolling tide, the 
arched bridge, and the happy Islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow valley of 
Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon the sides of it. 

Sir Roger de Coverley's Vuit to Westminster Abbey. 

My friend Sir Roger de Coverley told me the other night that he had been reading 
my paper upon Westminster Abbey, * in which,' says he, ' there are a great many 
ingenious fancies ' He told me, at the same time, that he observed I had promised 
another paper upon the tombs, and that he should be glad to go and see them with 
rae, not naving visited them since he had read tiistory. I could not at first imagine 
how this came into the Icnight's head, till I recollected that he had been very busy all 
last summer upon Baker's * Chronicle,' which he has quoted several times in his 
disputes, with Sir Andrew Preeport since his last coining to town. Accordingly. I 
promised to call upon him the next morning, that we might go together to tne 
abbey. 

I found the knight under the butler's hands, who always shaves him. He was 
no sooner dressed, than he called for a glass of the Widow Trueby's water, which he 
told me he always drank before he went abroad. He recommended to me a dram of 
it at the same time, with so much heartiness, that I could not forbear drinking it. 
As soon as I had got it down, I found it very unpalatable ; upon which the knight 
observing that I had made several wry faces, told me that he knew I should not like 
it at first, but that it was the best thing in the world against the stone or ^avel. 

I could iiave wished, indeed, that he had acquainted me with the virtues of it 
sooner ; but it was too late to complain, and I knew what he had done was out of 
good-will. Sir Roger told me further, that he looked upon it to be very good for a 
man whilst he stayed in town, to keep off infection, and that he got together a quan- 
tity of it upon the first news of the sickness being at Dantzic : when of a sudden, 
turning short to one of his servants, who stood behind him, he bade him call a hack- 
ney coach, and take care that it was an elderly man that drove it. 

He then resumed his discourse upon Mrs. Trueby's water, telling me that the 
Widow Trueby was one who did more good than all the doctors and apothecaries m 
the country ; that she distilled every poppy that grew within five miles of her ; that 
she distributed her medicine gratia among all sorts of people ; to which the knight 
added, that she had a very great jointure, and that the whole countrv would fain 
have it a match between him and her ; • and truly,' says Sir Roger, * if I had not been 
engaged, perhaps I could not have done better.' 

His discourse was broken off by his man's telling him he had called a coach. 
Upon our going to it, after having cast bis eye upon the wheels, he asked the coach- 
man if his axle-tree was good. Upon the fellow^s telling him he would warrant it, 
the knight turned to me, told me ne looked like an honbst man, and went in without 
further ceremony. 



286 cyct>op.i]:dta of [to 1727. 

We had not gone far, when Sir Soger, popping oat his heacL called the coachman 
down from his dox, and npon presenting himseli at the window, asked him if he 
smoked. As I was considering what this would end in, he bid him stop by the waj 
at any good tobacconist's, and take in a ro.l of their best Virginia. Nothing material 
happened in the remaining part of oar journey, till we were set down at the west end 
of the abbev« 

As we went up the body of the church, the knight pointed at the trophies upon 
one of the new monuments, and cried out : *A brave man, 1 warrant him V Passing 
afterwards by Sir Cioudesley Shovel, he flung his head that way, and cried : ' Sir 
Cloudesley Shovel I a very gallant man 1 ' As we stood before Busby's tomb, the 
knight uttered himself again after the same manner : * Dr. Busby I a ^reat man ! he 
whipped ray grandfather, a very great man I I should have gone to him myself, if I 
had not been a blockhead ; a very great man I* 

We were immediately conducted in o the little chapel on the right hand. Sir 
Rog3r, plantini; himsulf at our hititoriaii's ell)ow, was veiy attentive to everything he 
said, particularly to the account he gave us of the lord who had cut ofE the king of 
Morocco's head. Among sevend other figures, he was very well pleased to see the 
statesman Cecil upon his knees ; and concluding them all to be great men, was coo- 
ducted to the figure which represents that martyr to good housewifery who died by 
the prick of a needle. Upon our interpreter's telling us that she was a maid of hou- 
our to Queen Elizabeth, the knight was very inquisitive into her name and family; 
and after having regarded her finarer for some time, * I wonder,' says he, *that Sir 
Richard Baker has said nothing of her in his " Ohrouicle." ' 

We were then conveyed to the two coronation chairs, where my old friend. aft« 
having he.ird that the stone uudi^rneath the most ancient of them, which was brou^t 
from Scotland, was called Jacob's pillar, sat himself down in the chair; and lookiuE 
like the figure of an old Gothic kine. asked our interpreter, * what authority they had 
to say that Jacob had ever l>een in Scotland ?' The fellow, instead of returning him 
an answer, told him ' that he hoped his honour would pay his forfeit.' I could ob- 
serve Sir Roger a little ruffl 'd upon being thus trepanned ; but our guide not insisting 
upon his demand, the knight soon recovered his good-hnmour, and whispered in my 
ear, that if Will Wimble were with us, and paw those two chairs, it would go hard, 
but he would gjt a tobacco-stopper out of one or t' other of them. 

Sir Roger, in the next place, laid his hand upon Edward III.'s sword, and leaning 
upon the pummel of it, gave us the whole history of the Black Prince ; concluding, 
that in Sir Richard Baker*s opinion, Edward III. was one of the greatest princes that 
ever sat upon the English throne. 

We were then shewn Edward the Confessor's tomb ; upon which Sir Roser ac- 

?uainted us, that he was the first who touched for the? evil: and afterwards Henry 
V.'s ; npon which he shook his head, and told us there was fine reading in the 
casualties of that reign. 

Our conductor then pointed to that monument where there is a figure of one of our 
English . kings without an head ; and upon giving us to know that the head, which 
was of beaten silver, had been stole away several years since ; * Some Whig, I '11 
warrant you,' says Sir Roger : * you ought to lock up your kings better ; Uhey will 
carnr off the body too, if you do not take care.' 

The glorious names of Henry V. and Queen Elizabeth gave the knight great op- 
portunities of shining;, and of doing justice to Sir Richard Baker, *who,' as our 
knight observed with some surprise, 'had a great many kings in him, whose 
monuments he had not seen in the abbey.' 

For my own part, I could not but be pleased to see the knight shew such an 
honest passion for the glory of his country, and such a respectral gratitude to the 
memory of its princes. 

I must not omit, that the benevolence of my good old friend, which flows out to- 
wards every cue he converses with, made him very kind to our interpreter, whom he 
looked upon as an extraordinary man ; for which reason he shook nim by the hand 
at parting, telling him that he should be very ^lad to «ee him at his lodgings in Nor- 
folk Buildings, and talk over these matters with him more at leisure. 

Oenealogy of Humour, 

,.^^ iB indeed much easier to describe w\\at \ft woX, \\TVUiOTVt,XJwKQ.'si^y»X\a% ^Bsivery 
aimcult to define it otherwise than as CowVc^ Yvvia dou-a m\.,\x^ -ofi^xSctu^ '^^sA 



ADDisoN.J ENGLISH LITERATURE. ' 287 

to give my own notions of it, I would deliver them after Plato's manner, in a k|nd 
of allegory, and by Bupposing Humour to be aperson, deduce to him all his qnalifl- 
cations, according to the following genealogy : Truth was the founder of the family, 
and the father of Good Sense. Good Sense was the father of Wit, who married a 
lady of collateral line called Mirth, by whom he has issue Humour. Humour there- 
fore, being the youngest of the illustrious family, and descended from parents of 
such different dispositions, is very various and unequal in his temper ; sometimes 
you se^ him putting on grave looks and a solemn habit, sometimes airy in his be- 
haviour and fantastic in his dress ; insomuch that at different times he appears as 
serious as a judge and as jocular as a Merry Andrew. But as he has a great deal of 
the mother in his constitution, whatever mood he is in, he never fails to make his 
company laugh. 

Ned Softly. 

Ned Softly is a very pretty poet, and a great admirer of easy lines. Waller is his 
favourite : and as that admirable writer has the best and worst verses of any among 
our great English poets, Ned Softly has ^ot all the bad ones without book, which he 
repeats upon occasion, to shew his reading, and garnish his conversation. Ned is 
indeed a true English reader, incapable of relishing the great and masterly strokes of 
this art ; but wonderfully pleased with the little GK)tblc ornaments of «pigrammatical 
conceits, turns, points, and quibbles, which are so fi'equent in the most admired of 
our English poets, and practised by those who want genius and strength to represent, 
after the manner of the ancients, simplicity in its natural beauty ana perfection. 

Finding tnyself unavoidably engaged in such a conversation, I was resolved to 
turn my pain into a pleasure, and to divert myself as weU as I could with so very odd 
a fellow. ' Yon must understand,' says Ned, * that the sonnet I am going to read to 
you was written upon a lady, who shewed me some verses of her own making, and 
is perhaps the best poet of our age. But you shall hear it.' Upon which he hegan 
to read as follows : 

*To Mira, on her incomparable poems. 

When dressed in laurel wreaths you shine, 

And time your soft melodious notes, 
You seem a sister of the Nine, 

Or Phcebus' self in petticoats. 

I fancy, when your song you sing 

(Your song you sing with so much art). 
Your pen was plucked from Cupid's wing ; 

For ah ! it wounds me like his dart.' 

* Why,' says I, • this is a little nosegay of conceits, a very lump of salt : every 
vtfrse hath something in it that piques ; and then the dart in the last line is certainly 
as pretty a sting in tm; tail of an epigram (for so I think you critics call it), as ever 
entered into the thought of a poet.' 

* Dear Mr. Bickerstaff,' says he, shaking me by the hand, * everybody knows you 
to be a judge of these things : and to tell you trrly, I read over Roscommon's trans- 
lation of Bforace's •* Art of Poetry " three several times, before I sat down to write 
the sonnet which I have shewn you. But you shall hear it again, and pray observe 
every line of it, for not one of them shall pass without your approbation. 

When dressed in laurel wreaths you shine, 

* That is,' says he, ' when you have your garland on ; when you were writing 
verses.' 

To which I replied : * I know your meaning ; a metaphor I ' 
' The same,' said he, and went on : 

'And tune your soft melodious notes. 

* Pray, observe the gliding of that verse ; there is scarce a conaonant in it : I took. 
care to wake it ran upon J qaids. Give me yont op\moii eft. W 

' TraJy, '.aaid J, ' J think it as good as the ionaut; 



i 



288 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

' I am very glad to hear yon say so,' says he ; * but mind the next.* 
You seem a sister of the Nine. 

* That is/ says he, * yon seem a sister of the Mnses ; for if yon look into ancient 
authors, you will find it was their opinion that there were nine of them.' 

' I remember it very well,' said I ; * but pray proceed/ 

' Or Phoebus' self in petticoats.* 

' Phoebus,' says he, * was the god of poetrv. These few instances, Mr. Bickerstaff, 
shew a gentleman's reading. Then to take ofE from the air of learning which PhoebuB 
and the Muses have given to this first stanza, you may observe how it falls all of a 
sudden iuto the familiar in petticoats ? 

* Or Phoebus' self in petticoats.' 

' Let us now,' says I, ' enter upon the second stanza. I find the first line is still a 
continuation of the metaphor.' 

* I fancy, when your song you sing. 

* It is very right,' says he ^ * but pray observ^ the turn of words in those two lineu. 
I was a whole hour in adjusting of them, and have still a doubt upon me, whether iu 
the second line it should be, '* Your song you sing ;" or, " You sing your song." 
You shall hear them both : 

I fancy, when your song you sing 
(Your song you sing with so much art) ; 
• or 

I f ancjr, when your song you sing, 
You smg your song with so much art.' 

' Truly,' said I, * the turn is so natural either way that you have made me almost 
giddy with it.' 

' Dear sir,' said he, grasping me by the hand, * you have a great deal of patience ; 
but pray what do you think of the next verse? 

Your pen was plucked from Cupid's wing.' 

* Think !' says I, * I think you have made Cupid look like a little goose.' 

* That was my meaning,' says he : * I think the ridicule is well enough hit off. But 
we now come to the last, which sums up the whole matter : 

For ah I it wounds me like his dart. 

* Pray how do you like that "Ah 1" Doth it not make a pretty figure in that place ? 
" Ah !" It looks as if I felt the dart, and cried out at being prick^ with it. 

For ah I it wounds me like his dart. 

* My friend Dick Easy,' continued he, * assured me he would rather have written 
that "Ah !" than to have been the author of the "^Eneid." He indeed objected, 
that I made Mira's pen like a quill in one of the lines, and like a dart in the other. 
But as to that ' 

* Oh ! as to that.' says I, * it is but supposing Cupid to be like a porcupine, and his 
quills and darts will be the same thing.' He was goine to embrace nie for the hint ; 
nut half a dozen critics coming into the room, whose faces he did not like, he con- 
veyed the sonnet into his pocket, and whispered me in the ear, he would shew it me 
again as soon as his man iiad written it over fair. 

The Works of Creation. 

I was yesterday about sunset walking in t\\e open fields, until the night insensibly 
feJJ apoD me. I at liTBt amused myself witbi a\\ t^e t\Ci\»Qs«6 «vi^Nwc\fttY of colours 
H^^/ch appeared in the western parts of heaven. In vw^t^OTvftft>Jw5^\a^^^^w 
saa wem oat, several stars and planets appeared one aSX«v «.no\V«t,\)5v\j\\:aa>«fM3» 



ADDISON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. - 289 

firmament was in a glow. The blueness of the ether was exceedingly heightened and 
enlivened by the season of the year, and by the t&jb of all those lanmiaries that 
passed through it. The galaxy appeared in its most beautiful white. To complete 
the scene, the full moon iose 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 sun had before dis- 
covered 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. Da^id himself fell into it in 
that reflection : ' When I consider the heavens the work of thy fingers, the moon and 
the stars which thon hast ordained, what is man that thou art mindful of him, and 
the son of man that thou regardest him V 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 mnumerable sets of planets or worlds which were' 
moving round their respective suns— when I still enlarged the idea, and supposed 
another heaven of suns and worlds rising still above this which we discovered, and 
these still enlightened by a superior firmnmeut 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 all the host of 
planetary worlds that move about him, utterly extinguished and annihilated, they 
would not be missed more than a grain of sand upon the sea-shore. The space they 
possess is so exceedingly 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 from one end of the creation to 
the other ; as it is possible there may be such a sense in ourselves hereafter, or in 
creatures which are at present more t-xalted than ourselves. We see many stars by 
the help of glasses which we do not discover with our naked eyes ; and the finer our 
teltjscopes are, the more still are our discoveries. , Huygenius carries this thought so 
far, that he does not think it impossible 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 iuflnite goodness, with an infinite space to exert itself in, how 
can our imagination set any Dounds to it 7 

To return, therefore, to my first thought ; I could not but look upon myself with 
secret horror as a being that was not worth the smallest regard of one who had so 
great a work under his care and superintendency. I was afraid of being overlooked 
amidst the immensity of nature, and lost among that infinite variety of creatures 
which in all probability swarm through all these immeasurable regions of matter. 

In order to recover myself from this mortifying thought, I considered that it took 
its rise from those narrow conceptions which we are apt to entertain of the divine 
nature. We ourselves cannot attend to many different objects at the same time. If 
we are careful to inspect some things, we must of course neglect others. This im- 
perfection which we observe in ourselves is an imperfection that cleaves in some 
degree to creatures of the highest capacities, as they are creatures ; that is, beings of 
finite and limited natures. The presence of every created being is confined to a cer- 
tain measure of space, and consequently his observation is stinted to a certain num- 
ber of Objects. The sphere in which we move, and act, and understand, is of a 
wider circumference to. one creature than another, according as we rise one above 
another in the scale of existence. But the widest of these our spheres has its cir- 
cumference. When, therefore, we reflect on the divine nature, we are so used and 
accustomed to this imperfect'on in ourselves, that we cannot forbear in some 
measure ascribing it to Him in whom there is no shadow of imperfection. Our rea- 
son indeed assures us that his attributes are infinite ; but the poorness of our cencep- 
tions is such, that it cannot forbear setting bounds to everything it contemplates, 
until our reason comes again to our succour, and throws down all those little preju- 
dices which rise in us unawares, and are natural to the mind of man. 

We shall, therefore, utterly extinguish this melancholy thought of our being over- 
looked by our Maker, in the multlpficily ot Yi\a iwot^ wai^. >Xi«6 *\n&s&toi ^'L \iassftfe ^S^ 



ddo Cyclopedia ov [to 1727. 

jects amone which he seems to be incessantly employed, if we consider, in the fiist 
place, that ne is omnipresent : and, in the second, that he is omniscient. 

If we consider him in his omnipresence, his being passes through, actuates, and 
supports the whole frame of naturfe. His creation, and every part of it, is fnll (rf 
him. There is nothing he has made that, is either so distant, so little, or so incon- 
siderable, which he does not essentially inhabit. His substance is within the sub- 
stance of every being, whether material or immaterial, and as intimately present to 
it as that being is to itself. It would be an imperfection in him were he able to re- 
move out of one place into another, or to withdraw .himself from anything he has 
created, or from any part of that space which is diffused and spread abroad to in- 
finity. In short, to speak of him in the language of the old philosopher, he is a 
being whose centre is everywhere, and his circumference nowhere. 

In the second place, he is omniscient as well as omnipresent. His omniscience, 
Indeed, necessarily and naturally flows from his omnipresence: he cannot but be 
conscious of every motion that arises in the whole material world, which he thus es- 
sentially pervades ; and of every thought that is stirring in the intellectual world, to 
every part of which he is thus intimately united. Several moralists have considered 
the creation as the temple of God, which ho has built with his own hands, and which 
is filled with his presence. Others have considered infinite space as the receptacle, or 
rather the habitation, of the Almighty. But the noblest and most exalted w&j of 
considering this infinite space is that of Sir Isaac Newton, who calls it the aenaorium 
of the Godhead. Brutes and men have their setisoriola, or little sensoriums, by which 
they apprehend the presence and perceive the actions of a few objects that lie con- 
tiguous to them. Their knowledge and observation turn within a very narrow circle. 
But as God Almighty cannot but perceive and know everything in which he resides, 
infinite space gives room to infinite knowledge, and is, as it were, an organ to omnis- 
cience. 

Were the soul separate from the body, and with one glance of thought should 
start beyond the bounds of the creation — should it for millions of jears continue its 
progress through infinite space with the same activity — ^it would still find itself with- 
in the embrace of its Creator, and encompassed round with the immensity of the 
Godhead. While we are in body, he is not less present with us because he is con- 
cealed from us. * Oh that I knew where I might find him ! ' says Job. * Behold I go 
forward, but he is not there ; and backward, but I cannot perceive him : on the left 
hand where he does work, but I cannot behold him : he hiaeth himself on the right 
hand that I cannot see him.' In short, reason as well as revelation assures us that 
he cannot be absent from us, notwithstanding he is undiscovered by us. 

In this consideration of God Almighty's omnipresence and omniscience, every 
uncomfortable thought vanishes. He cannot but regard eveiything that has being, 
especially such of his creatures who fear they are not regarded by him. He is pri\7 
to all their thoughts, and to that anxiety of heart in particular which is apt to trouble 
them on this occasion : for as it is impossible he should overlook any of his crea- 
tures, so we may be confident that he regards with an eye of mercy those who en- 
deavour to recommend themselves to his notice, and in an unfeigned hnmillty of 
heart think themselves unworthy that he should be mindful of them. 

\ 

_ ' EUSTACE BUDGELL. 

Eustace Budgell (1685-1737) was a relation of Addison — hv 
motherbeing Addison's coiisin-german He was educated at Ciiris; 
Church, Oxford. He accompanied Addison to Ireland as clerk, and^ 
afterwards rose to be Under-Secretary of State, and a distinguished 
member of the Irish Parliament. Thirty-seven numbers of the * Spec- 
tator ' are ascribed to Budgell ; and though Dr. Johnson says that 
t/iese were either written by Addison, or so much improved by him 
tliat they were made in a manner li\a o'^n, lliere seems to be no suf- 
£cient authority for the assertion. 1\. \^ \xw^ >3asX Slickft ^\^\^ and 
humour resemble those of Addison ; Xivnt. aa X\i^ \.^^ ^fvXes^a^ ^^\^ 



BUDGELL.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 291 

mnch together, a successful attempt on Budgell's part to imitate the 
productions of his friend, was probable enough. In 1717, Budgell, 
who was a man of extreme vanity and vindictive feeling, had the im- 
prudence to lampoon the Irish viceroy, by whom he had been deeply 
offended; the result of which was his dismissal from ofSce, and 
retuni to England. During the prevalence of the South-sea Scheme, 
he lost a fortune by speculation, and in attempts to gain a seat in the 
House of Commons, and subsequently figured principally as a viru- 
lent party writer and an advocate of infidelity. At length his declin- 
ing reputation suffered a mortal blow by a charge of having* forged a 
testament in his own favour. By the will of Dr. Matthew Tindal, it 
appeared that a legacy of £2000 had been left to Budgell. The will 
was set aside and the unhappy author disgraced. It is to this circum- 
stance that Pope alludes in the couplet : 

, Let Budgell charge low Grub Street on my qnill, 

And write whate^r he please — except my will. 

Some years afterwards, this wretched man, involved in debts and 
difficulties, and dreading an execution in his house, deliberately com- 
mitted suicide, by leaping from a boat while shooting London Bridge. 
This took place in 1737. There was found in his bureau a slip of 
paper on which he had written : 

What Cato did, and Addison approved, 
Cannot be wrong. 

But in this he of course misrepresented Addison, who has put the 
following words into the mouth of the dying Cato : 

Yet methinks a beam of light breaks in 
On my departing soul. Alas I I fear 
I've been too hasty. O ye powers that search 
The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts. 
If I have done amiss, impute it not. 
The best may err, but you are good. 

The contributions of Budgell to the Spectator are distinguished by 

the letter X. 

The Art of Growing Rich. 

The subject of my present paper I intend as an essay on ' The ways to raise a 
man's fortune, or the art of growing rich.' 

The first and most infallible method towards the attaining of this end is thrift ; all 

men are not eqnaliv qualified tor getting money, but it is in the power of every one 

I llike to practise this virtue ; and I believe there are few persons who, if they pJease 

I fo refiect on their past lives, will not find, that had they saved all those little sums 

, wUch they have spent unnecessarilv, thev might at present have been masters of a 

competent fortune. Diligence justly claims the next place to thrift; I find both 

l^fhese ezceUentiy well recommended to common use in the three following Italian 

verbis: 

Never do that by proxy which you can do yourself. 
Never defer that until to-morrow which you can do to-day. 
Never neglect small matters and expenses. 

A tMrd inBtmment in mowing rich is method m "\B\JiiiVti«», 'wX^Oa., *». ^^»^ **» "^'^ 
former, is aleo AitaiixBbl& ^ DerfionB of the meaxievX c»;|A^^3L«K^* 



292 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. . 

The famous De Witt, one of the greatest statesmen of the age in which he liVed, 
beine asked by a friend how he was able to despatch that multitude of afEairs in 
whi(^ he was engaged, replied : * That his whole art consisted in doing one thing at 
once. If/ says he, * I have any necessary despatches to make, I think of notmng 
else until those are finished ; if any domestic affairs require my attention, I give my- 
self up wholly to them until they are set in order.' 

lu shoit, we often see men of dull and phlegmatic tempers arriving to great es- 
tates, by making a regular and orderly disposition of their Dusincss ; and that, with- 
out it, the greatest parts and most lively imaginations rather puzzle their affairs, 
than bring them to a happy issue. 

From what has been said, I think I may lay it dovm as a maxim, that every man of 
good common sense may, if he pleases, in his particular station of life, mo^i^t certainly 
be rich. The reason why we sometimes see tnat men of the greatest capacities are 
not ^o, is either because they despise wealth in comparison of something else, or, at 
least, are not content to be getting an estate unless they may do it their own way, 
and at the same time enjoy all the pleasures and rratifications of life. 

But besides these ordinary forms of growing rich, it must be allowed that there is 
room for genius as well in this as in all other circums ances of life. 

Thougn the ways of getting money were long since very numerous, and though 
so many new ones hav) been found out of late years, there is certainly still remain- 
ing so large a field for invention, that a man of an indifferent head might easily sit 
down and draw up such a plan for the conduct and support of his life, as was never 
yet once thought of. 

We daily see methods put in practice by hungry and ingenious men, which de- 
monstrate the power of invention in this particular. 

It is reported of Scaramouche, the first famous Italian comedian, that being in 
Paris, ana in great want, he bethought himself of constantly plylne near the door of a 
noted perfumer in that city, and when any one came out who had been buying snuff, 
never failed to desire a taste of them ; when he had by this means got together a quan- 
tity made up of several different sorts, he sold it again at a lower rate to the same per- 
fumer, who, finding out the trick, called it Tabac ae mUleflewr8y or, * Snuff of a thous- 
and fiowers.' The story further tells us, that by this means he got a very comfortable 
subsistence, until, making too much haste to grow rich, he one day took such an 
unreasonable pinch out of the box of a Swiss officer, as engaged him in a quarrel, 
and obliged him to quit this ingenious way of life. 

Nor can I in this place omft doing justice to a youth of my own country, who, 
though he is scarce yet twelve years old, has, with great industry and application, 
attained to the art of beating the Grenadiers' March on his chin. I am credibly in- 
formed, that by this means he does not only maintain himself and his mother, but that 
he is laying up money every day, with a design, if the war continues, to purchase a 
drum at least, if not a pair of colours. 

I shall conclude these instances with the device of the famous Rabelais, when he 
was at a great distance from 1: uris, and without money to bear his expenses thither. 
This ingenious author being thus sharp set, got together a convenient quantity of 
brick-dust, and having disposed of it into several papers, writ upon one, * Poison for 
Monsieur ;* upon a second, * Poison for the Dauphin :' and on a third, * Poison for 
the King.' Buiving made this provision for the royal family of France, he laid his 
papers so that his landlord, who was an inquisitive man, and a good subject, might 
get a sight of them. 

The plot succeeded as he desired ; the host gave immediate intelligence to the 
secretary of state. The secretary presently sent down a special messenger, who 
brought up the traitor to court, and provided him at the king's exi)ense with proper 
accommoaations on the road. As soon as he appeared, he was known to be the cele- 
brated Rabelais ; and his powder upon examination being found very innocent, l^c 
jest was only laughed at ; for which a less eminent droll would have been sent to the 
gaVeys. 

Trade and cotamerce mi^t doubtlsss be atiU varied a tijousand ways, out of 

which would arise sach bnmciie& as have not yet \»eatcyasiisA.» T\Nft famous Doily 

js etui freeh in every one's memory, "who xalsea a tottosieXx^ tofi&5^5l,cs«QX.\aaNKi\aia.Vsc 

^ntH. ^^^ ** "^^t at once be cheap and genteeV. l\^a.'^e>^x^VL "^J^^J^i^. 

£2l*f*«<^^ere? this frugal method of ^atttjia^ «>t« ^Tv^e,N?«.%fea^^\v««Q>M«^ 

«^n BO woU able to carry on the laBt wax? 



il\ 



HUGHES.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 293 

I regard trade not only as highly advantageons to the commonwealth in general, 
bat as The most natural and likely method of mak.ng avian's fortune, havmg ob- 
served, since my being a Spectator in the world, greater estates got about 'Change 
than at Whitehall or St. Jaiues'.^. I believe I may also add, that the fli-st acquisitious 
are generally attended with more satisfaction, and as good a conscience. 

Iraust not, however, close this et>say without observing, that what has been said 
is only intended for persons in the common ways of thrivmg, and is not des gued for 
those men who, from low beginnings, push themselves up to the top of states and 
the most considerable figures in lire. My maxim of saving is not designed for such 
as these, since nothing is more usual than for thrift to disappoint the eiids of ambi- 
tion ; it being aTmost Impossible that the mind should be intent upon trifles, while it 
is, at the same time, forming some great design. 

JOHN HUGHES. 

John Hughes (1677-1720) was another frequent contributor to the 
* Spectator.* He wrote two papers and several letters in the * Tatler/ 
eleven papers and thirteen letters in the * Spectator,* and two papers 
in the * Guardian.* The high reputation which he at one time en- 
joyed as a writer of verse, has noW justly declined. In translation, 
however, both in pootry and prose, he made some successful efforts. 
Of several dramatic pieces which he produced,* The Siege of Damas- 
cus* is the best. Addison had a high opinion of the dramatic talent 
of Hughes, and even requested him to write a conclusion to his 
tragedy of *Cato,' wluch had lain long past him in an incomplete 
state. But shortly afterwards Addison ' took fire himself, and went 
through with the fifth act.* The reputation of Hughes was well sus- 
tained by the manner in which he edited the works of Spenser. The 
virtues r»f this estimable person — who died at the age of forty-three — 
were affectionately commemorated by Sir Richard Steele in a publi- 
cation called * The Theatre.' 



THEOLOGIANS AND METAPHYSICIANS. 

BICHABD BENTLET. 

Dr. Richabd Bentlet (1662-1742) was perhaps the greatest clas- 
sical Bchi^lar that England has produced. He was the son of a small 
farmer near Wakefield, in Yorkshire, educated at Cambridge, and 
became chaplain to Stillingfleet, bishop of Worcester. He was after- 
wards appointed preacher of the lecture instituted by Boyle for the 
defence of Christianity, and delivered a series of discourses against 
atheism. In these Bentley introduced the discoveries of Newton as 
illustrations of his argument, and the lectures were highly popular. 
His next public appearance was in the famous controversy with the 
Honourable Charles Boyle, Earl of Orrery, relative to the genuineness 
of the Greek epistles of Phalaris. This controversy we have spoken 
of in the notice of Sir William Temple {mte). Most of the wits and 
scholars of tb&t period joined wixYi Bo^Vft *i®a^si%l B^xi^lfiTj \ \ot1 bLa 
triumphantly established his posVtioxi \.Vi«A, >iQft ^^ybJCSss%» «k. 's^s^siv^scia.. 



294 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

while the poignancy of his wit and sarcasm, and the sagacity evinced 
in his conjectural emendations, were unequalled among his Oxford 
opponents. Bentley was afterwards made master of Trinity College, 
Cambridge; and in 1716 he was also appointed regius professor of 
divinity. He published editions of Horace, Terence, and Ph»drus. 
The talent he had displayed in making emendations on the classics 
tempted him, in an * evil hour,* to edit Milton's * Paradise Lost * in the 
same spirit. He assumed, without the slightest authority, that Mil- 
ton's text had been tampered with, owing to his blindness. The 
critic was then advanced in years, and had lost some portion of his 
critical sagacity and discernment, while it is doubtful if he could ever 
- have entered into the loftier conceptions and sublime flights of the 
English poet. His edition was a decided failure. Some of his emen- 
dations destroy the happiest and choicest expressions of the poet 
The sublime line, 

No light, but rather darkness visible, 

Bentley renders : 

No light, but rather a transpicuous gloom. 

Another fine Miltonic passage : 

Our torments also may in length of time 
Become our elements, 

is reduced into prose as follows : 

Then as 'twas well observed, our torments may 
BecoAie our elements. 

Such a critic could never have possessed poetical sensibility, how- 
ever extensive and minute mi^ht be his verbal knowledge of the clas- 
sics. Bentley died at Cambridge in 1742. He seems to have been 
the impersonation of a combative spirit. His college-life was spent 
in continual war with all who were oflOicially connected with him. 
He is said one day, on finding his son reading a novel, to have re- 
marked : * Why read a book that you cannot quote ? * — a saying 
which affords an amusing illustration of the nature and object of bis 
literary studies. 

Authority of Reason in Religious Matters. 

We confese^ours^ves as much concerned, and as truly as [the deists] themselves 
are, for the use and authority of reason in controversies of faith. We look upon 
right reason as the native lamp of the soul, placed and kindled there by our Creator, 
to conduct us in the whole course of our juagments and actions. True reason, like 
its divine Author, never is itself deceived, nor ever deceives any man. Even revela- 
tion itself is not shy nor unwilling to ascribe its own first credit and fundamental 
authority to the test and testimony of reason. Sound reason is the touchstone to 
distin^sh that pure and genuine gold from baser metals ; revelation truly divine, 
from.imposture and enthusiasm : so that the Christian religioii is so far from ded^- 
ine or fearing the strictest trials of reason* that It everywhere appeals to it ; is 
defended and supported by it ; and indeed cannot continue, in the apostle's (Ipscrip- 
tion (JameBf L 27), 'pure and tmdeflled ' without it. It is the benefit of reason alone. 
under the Providence and Spirit of God, that "we ouweViefe «» «llbi& day a refonn«i 
orthodox church : that we aeparted from the etrotft ot "^^erj,%BDkftL XJoaX. -^^\53tf:«^ 
^o, where to Btop; neither numing into the ex.ti«vag!MM«» w. i«aaJfltfassBCk,T3Lssi ^fiMSr 



ATTERBURY.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 295 

ing into the indifEerency of libertinism. Whatsoever, there/ore, Is iaconsistdnt with . 
natural reason, can never be jtlstly imposed as an article of faith. That the same 
lx)dy is in many places at once, that plain bread is not bread ; such things, though 
they be said with never so much pomp and claim to infallibility, we have still greater 
authority to reject them, as being contrary to common sense and our natural facul- 
ties ; as subverting the foundations of all faith, even the grounds of their own credit, 
and all the principles of civU life. 

So far are we from contending with our adversaries about the dignity and author- 
ity of reason ; but then we differ with them about the exercise of it, and the extent 
' of its province. For the deists there stop, and set bounds to their faith, where rea- 
son, their only guide, does not lead the way further, and walk along before them. 
We, on the contrary, as (Deut. xxxiv,) Moses was shewn by divine power a true 
sight of the promised land, though himself could not pass over to it, so we think 
reason may receive from revelation some further discoveries and new prospects of 
things, and be fully convinced of the reality of them ; though itself cannot pass on, 
nor travel those regions ; cannot penetrate the fund of those truths, nor advance to 
the utmost bounds of them. For there is certainly a wide difference between what 
is contrary to reason, and what is superior to it, and out of its reach. 

DR. FBANCIS ATTERBURY. 

• 

Dr. Francis Atterbury (1662-1732), an Oxford divine and zeal- 
ous high-churchman, was one of the combatants in the critical war- 
fare witli Bentley about the epistles of Phalaris. Originally tutor to 
Lord Orrery, he was, in 1713, rewarded for his Tory zeal by being 
named Bisliop of Rochester. Under the new dynasty and Whig 
government, his zeal carried him into treasonable practices, and in 
1722 he was apprehended on suspicion of being concerned in a plot 
to restore the Pretender, and was committed to the Tower. A bill 
of pains and penalties was preferred against him ; he made an elo- 
quent defence, but was deposed and outlawed. Atterbury now went 
into exile, and resided first at Brussels, and afterwards at Paris, con- 
tinuing to correspond with Pope, Bolingbroke and his other Jacobite 
friends, till his death. The works of this accomplished, but restless 
and aspiring prelate consisted of four volumes of sermons, some visi- 
tation charges, and his epistolaiy correspondence, which was exten- 
sive. His style is easy and elegant, and he was a very impressive 
preacher. The good taste of Atterbury is seen in his admiration of 
Milton, before fashion had sanctioned the applause of the great poet. 
His letters to Pope breathe the utmost aflfection and tenderness. The 
following farewell letter to the poet was sent from the Tower, April 
10, 1723 : 

Deab Sir— I thanlc you for all the instances of your friendship, both before and 
since my misfortunes. A little time will complete them, and separate you and me 
for ever. But in what part of the world soever I am, I will live mindful of your 
sincere kindness to me ; and will please myself with the thought that I still live in 
your esteem and affection as much as ever I did ; and that no "accident of life, no 
distance of time or place, will alter you in that respect. It never can me, who have 
loved and valued you ever since I knew you, and shall not fail to do it when I *am 
not allowed to tell you so, as the case will soon be. Give my faithful services to Dr. 
Arbuthnot, and thanks for what he sent me, which was much to the purpose, if any- 
thing can be said to be to the purpose in a case that is already determined. Let him 
'know my defence will he such, that neither my tT\e\x^«. wee«. \JV\\s^ \<aft ^snr.^ ^'sst ^^^^ 
mj enemies have great occasion to triumph, lYiou^Xi «vaftQ>l >^<&^^:itfsn- ^^S«^^ 



296 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to IW- 

want his advice before I go abroad in many things. But I question whether I shall 
be permitted to see hlni or anybody, bat snch as are absolutety necessary towards 
the disputch of my private affairs. If so, God bless you both ! and may no part of 
the ill-rortuue that attends me ever pursue either of you. I know not but I may call 
upon you at my hearing, to say somewhat about my way of spending my time at the 
deauery, which did not seem calculat<.>d towards mana<rins plots and conspiracies. 
But of that I Hhall consider. You and I have spent many hours together upon much 
pleasanter subjects ; and, that 1 may preserve the old custom, I shall not part with 
you now till I have closed this letter with three lines of Milton, which you will, I 
know, readily, and not without some degree of concern, apply to your ever-afifec- 
tionate, &c. 

* Some natural tears he dropped, but wiped them soon; 

The world was all before him where to chose 

His place of rest, and Providence his guide.* 

AttBrbury, however, was clearly gnilty. He afterwards becaihe, 
like Bolingbroke, the chief counsellor and director of tlie exiled court, 
and strove in vain to infuse some of his own turbuU-nt energy into 
the feeble mind of the Chevalier. He organised a plan for raising 
the Highland clans, and a special envoy was despatched from Rome, 
but tile scheme mi.^arried. Tliougli ready to plunge bis country 
into civil war, Atterbury regarded it with teuderness: 

Thus on the banks of Seine, 
Far from my native home^ I pass my hours, 
Broken with years and pam ; yet my firm heart 
Begords my friends and country e'en in death. 

Usefulneaa of Church- Mum. 

The use of vocal and instrumental harmony in divine worship I shall recommend 
and justify from this consideration ; that they do, when \\isely employed and man- 
aged, contribute extremely to awaken the attention and enliven the devotion of all 
serious and sincere Christians ; and their usefulness to this end will appear on a 
double accouut, as they remove the ordinary biiiderances of devo'ion, and as they 
supply us further with special helps and advantages towards quickening and improv- 
ing it. 

By the melodious harmony of the church, the ordinary hinderances of devotion 
are removed, particularly these three ; that engagement of thought which we often 
bring with us into the church from what we last convei-se with ; those accidental 
distractions that may happen to us during the course of divine service ; and that 
weariness and flatncHS of mind which some weak tempers may labor under, by reason 
even of the length of it. 

When we come ii.to the sanctuary immediately from any worldly affair, as our 
verjr condition of life does, alas I force many of us to do, we come usually with 
divided and alienated minds. The business, the pleasure, or the amusement we left, 
sticks fast to us. and perhaps engrosses that heart for a time, which shon'd then be 
taken up altogether in spiritual addresses. Bnt as soon as the sound of the sacred 
liymns strikes us, all that bnsy swarm of thoughts presently disperses : by a grate- 
ful violence we are forced into the duty that is goine forward, and, as indevout and 
backward as we were before, find oursplves on the sudden seissed with a sacred 
warmth, ready to cry out, with holy David : ♦ My h*-art is fixed. O God, my heart is 
fixed ; I will sing and give pr^is •.' Our misapplication of mind at such times is often 
so great, and we so deeply immersed in it, that there needs ?some very strong and 
powerful charm to rouse n*s from it ; and perhaps nothing is of greater force to this 
purpose than the solemn and awakening airs of church-music. 

For the fame reason, those accidental distractions that may happen to us are also 

beai cnred by It. The strongest mind , and V>est ^ktactised in holy duties, may some- 

tfwes besnrpriBed into a fo'-getfulness of N?\\ftt Wiey wc^ «XiO\v\. Vi^ ^wsv^'^olent oufc- 

waixl Impi esions ; and every slight occas\OT\ vjW\ ««ne X.o caX\ <i5S;Jkv^^2waN5L^^ai^\m 

dees wjJJing though much weaker worablppere. TXioae ^Jtv^x eovaa \» ««» ^aANsiX*^ 



ATTEkBURY.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 207 

seen here, will often gain their point ; will draw and detain for a while the eyes of 
the curious and nnwarv. A j>aBBage in tbie eacred story read, an expression nsed in 
tlae common forms of devotion, snail raise a foreign reflection, perhaps, in musing 
atd speculatlTe minds, and lead them on from thought to thonght, and point to point, 
tin they are bewilderea in their own imaginations. These, and a hundred other avo- 
cations, will arise and prevail ; hut when the instruments of praise hegin to Bound, 
our scattered thoughts presently take the alarm, return to their post and fo their 
dut^. preparing audarming themselves against their spiritual assailants. 

lastly, even the length of the service itself hecomes a hinderanoe sometimes to 
the devotion which it was meant to feed and raise ; for, alas ! we quickly tire in the 
performance of holy duties ; and as eager and unwearied as we are in attending up- 
on secular business and trifling concerns, yet in divine oflices, I fear, the expostula- 
tion of our Saviour is ai>p]icab)e to most of us : * What I can ye not watch with me 
one hour ?' This infirmity is relieved, this hinderance prevented or removed, by the 
sweet harmony that accompanies several parts of the service, aiid returning upon us 
at fit intervals, keeps our attention up to the duties when we begin to flt^g. and makes 
us insensible of the length of it. Happily, therefore, and wisely is it so ordered, that 
the morning devotions of the church, which are much the longest, should share also 
a greater proportion of the ha mouy which is us^eful to enliven them. 

But its use stops not here, at a bare removal of the ordinary impediments to de- 
votion : it supplies us also with special helps and advantages towards furthering and 
improving it. For it adds dignity and solemnity to public worship ; it sweetly mflu- 
ences and raises our passions whilst we assist at it, and makes us do our duty with 
the greatest pleasure and cheerfulness ; all which are very proper and powerful 
means towards crea ing in us that holy attention and erection of mind, the most 
reasonable part of tiiis our reasonable service. 

Such is our naturs, that even the best things, and most worthy of our esteem, do 
not always employ and detain our thoughts in pro{)ortion to their real value, unless 
they be set off and greatened by some outward circumstances, which are fitted to 
raise admiration and surprise iu the breasts of those who hear or behold them. And 
this good effect is wrought in us by the power of sacred music. To it we, in good 
measure, owe the dignity and solemnity of our public worFhip. 

Further, the availableness of harmony to promote a pious disposition of mind 
will appear from the great influence it naturally has on the passions, which, when 
well directed, are the wings and sails of the mind, that speeds its passage to perfec- 
tion, and are of particular and remarkable use in the oflftces of aevotion ; for de- 
votion consists in an ascent of the mind towards God, attended with holy breathings 
of soul, and a divine exerci«'e of all the passions and powers of the mind. These 
passions the melody of sounds serves only to guide and elevate towards their proper 
object; these it first calls forth and encourages, and then gradually raises and in- 
flames. This it does to all of them, as the matter of the hyn)np sung gives an occa- 
sion for the emplovment of them ; but the power of it is chiefly seen in advancing 
that most heavenlv passion of love, which reigns always in pious breapts, and is the 
surest and most inseparable mark of true devotion ; which recommends what we do 
in virtue of it to God, and makes it relishing to ourselves ; and without which all our 
spiritual offeri-gs. our prayers, and our praises, are both insipid and unacceptable. 
At this our religion begins, and at this it ends ; it is the sweetest companion and im- 
provement of it here upon earth, and the very earnest and foretaste of heaven ; of the 
pleasures of which nothing further is revealed to us, than that they consist in the 
pract ce of holy music ana holy love, the joint enjoyment of which, we are told, is 
to be the happy lot of nil pious souls to endless ages. 

Now,' it naturally follows from hence, which was the last advantage from whence 
I proposed to recommend church-music, that it makes oip duty a pleasure, and 
en&hles us, by that means, to perform it with the utmost vigour and cheerfulness. It 
is certain, that the more pleasing an action is to us, the more keenly and eagerly are 
we used to employ ourselves in It ; the less liable are we, while it is going forward, 
to tire, and droop, and be dispirited. So that whatever contributes to make our de- 
votion taking, within such a degree as not at the same time to dissipate and distract 
it, does, for that very reason, contribute to our attention and holy warmth of mind in 
perfofming it. What we take delight in, we no longer look upon as a task, but return 
to always with desire, dwell upon with salisf action, aw^ ^\)l\\, v^\Wv \vw^\^s5v\\&%%. &c&!^ 
tb/alt was which made holy David express h\me«M in %o \)^^i^\«i^<»^>^\s^a555!^«t ^^ssvii.- 



298 CYCLOPEDIA OF t?^) 1727. 

cerning the service of the sanctaaiy : 'As the hart panteth after the water-brooluyn 
panteth my soul after thee, O God. When, oh wheu, shall I come to ^pear befixn 
the presence of God 7' The ancients do sometimes use the metaphor of an unm 
when thev are speaking of the joint devotions pat up to God in the assembly ol Us 
saints. They sa^ we there meet together in troops to do violence to heaveii : we en- 
compass, we besiege the throne of God, and bring such a united force as is not to be 
withstood. And 1 suppose we majr as innocently carry on the met^hor as th^hare 
begun it, and say, that church-music, when decently ordered, may have as great nees 
in this army of supplicants, as the sound of the trumpet has among the host of tiw 
mighty men. It equally rouses the courage, equally gives life, and vigour, andzeso* 
lution, and unanimity to these holy assailants. 

DR. SAMUEL CLABEB. 

Dr. Samuel Clarke, a distiaguished divine, scholar, and meta- 
physician, was born at Norwich — which his lather represented in 
parliament — on the 11th of October 1675. His powers of reflecUon 
and abstraction are said to have been developed when a mere boy. 
His biographer, Whiston, relates that * one of his parents asked him, 
when very young, whether God could do everything. He answered, 
Yes. He was asked again, whether God could tella lie. He answered 
!No. And he understood the question to suppose that this was the 
only thing that God could not do ; nor durst he say, so young was be 
then, that he thought there was anything else which G^ could not 
do — while yet he well remembered that he had even then a clear con- 
viction in his own mind that there was one thing which Qod could 
not do — that he could not annihilate that space which was in the 
room where they were.* This opinion concerning the necessary exist- 
ence of space became a leading feature in the mind of the future phi- 
losopher. At Gains* College, Cambridge, Clarke cultivated natural 
philosophy with such success, that in his twenty -second year he pub- 
lished an excellent translation of Rohault*s * Physics,* with notes, ia 
which he advocated the Newtonian system, although that of Des- 
cartes was taught by Rohault, whose work was at that tune the text- 
book in the university. Four editions of Clarke*s translation were 
required before it ceased to be used in the university ; but at length 
it was superseded by treatises in which the Newtonian philosophy 
was avowedly adopted. 

Having entered the church, Clarke found a patron and friend in 
Dr. Moore, bishop of Norwich, and was appointed his chaplain. Be- 
tween the years 1699 and 1702, he published several theological essajs 
on baptism, repentance, &c., and executed paraphrases of the four 
evangelists, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. These tracts were af- 
terwards publislftd in two volumes. The bishop next gave him a 
living at Norwich; and his reputation stood so high, that in 1704 be 
was appointed to preach the Boyle lecture. His boyish musings on 
eternity and space were now revived. He selected as the subject of 
JiJs drst course of lectures, the * Being and Attributes of God ;' and 
the second ye&r he chose the ^ "EiVideiiGeE of Natural and Bevealed 
Religion. ' Tii e lectures were pw\A\s\\^^\iv V^ o ^cA\v!av^« vcA^l^snctod I 
notice and controversy from their cou\a^sim?>^^axV^^ ^^€w»&sii>ar ^ 



LAKKE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 299 

;iutient a priori for the existence of God, the germ of which is com- 
BMed in a * Scholium' annexed to Newton's * Principia.' According 
o.Sir Isaac and his scholar, as immensity and eternity are not mb- 
Umoes, but attributes, the immense and eternal Being, whose attri- 
fQtes they are, must exist of necessity also. The existence of God, 
berefore, is a truth that follows with demonstrative evidence from 
lose conceptions of space and time which are inseparable from the 
Oman mind. 

Professor Dugald Stewart, though considering that Clarke, in pur- 
ling this lofty argument, soared into regions where he was lost in 
te clouds, admits the grandness of the conception, and its connection 
ith the principles of natural religion. ' For when once we have 
tablished, from the evidences of design everywhere manifested 
ound us, the existence of an intelligent and powerful caicaey we are 
Uivoidably led to apply to this cause our conceptions of immensity 
id etenmUy, and to conceive Him as filling the infinite extent of both 
itii his presence and with his power. Hence we associate with the 
ea of God those awful impressions which are naturally produced by 
le idea of infinite space, and perhaps still more by the idea of end- 
B8 duration. Nor is this all. It is from the immensity of space that 
le notion of infinity is originally derived ; and it is hence that we 
ansfer the expression, by a sort of metaphor, to other subjects. 
Then we speak, therefore, of infinite power, wisdom, and goodness, our 
otions, if not wholly borrowed from space, are at least greatly aided 
Y this analogy ; so that the conceptions of immensity and eternity, 
. they do not of themselves demonstrate the existence of God, yet 
ecessarily enter into tlie ideas we form of his nature and attributes.** 
tow beautifully has Pope clothed this magnificent conception in 
use I — 

All are bat parts of one stapendous whole, 
Whose body nature is, and God the soul ; 
That, changed throngh all, and yet in all the same ; 
Great in the earth as In the ethereal frame ; 
. Warms in the son, refreshes in the breeze, 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees ; 
Lives throngh all life, extends throngh all extent, 
Spreads nnmvided, operates onspent. 

he followers of Spinoza built their pernicious theory upon the same 
gument of endless space ; but Pope has spiritualised the idea by 
acing God as the soul of all, and Clarke's express object was to, 
lew that the subtleties they had advanced against religion, might 
5 better employed in its favour. Yet Whitson only repeated a 
mple and obvious truth when he told Clarke that in the commonest 
eed in his garden were contained better arguments for the being 
id attributes of the Deity than in all his metaphysics, 
^he next subject that engaged the studies of Clarke was a * De- 
nce of the Immateriality and Immortality of the Soul,' in reply to 

* Stewart^ & Dissertation, i^ncycloposdia drttaia'atea. 



800 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Mr. Henry Dodwell and Collins. He also translated Newton's 
'Optics' into Latin, and was rewarded by his guide, philosopher, and 
friend with a present of £500. In 1709, he obtained the rectoiyof 
St James's, Westminster, took his degree of D.D. and was made 
chaplain in ordinary to the queen. lu 1712, he edited a splendid 
edition of Caesar's * Commentaries,' with corrections and emenda- 
tions, and also gave to the world an elaborate treatise on the * Scrip- 
ture Doctrine of the Trinity.' Tlie latter involved him in considerable 
trouble with the church authorities ; for Clarke espoused the Arian 
doctrine, which he also a(slvocated in a series ot sermons. He next 
appeared as a controversialist with Leibnitz, the German philoso- 
pher, who had represented to the Princess of Wales, afterwards the 
queen-consort ot George II that the Newtonian philosophy was not 
only physically false, but injurious to religion. 

Sir Isaac Newton, at the request of the princess, entered the list on 
the mathematical part of the controversy, and left the philosophical 
part of it to Dr. Clarke. The result was triumphant for the English 
system; and Clarke, in 1717, collected and publibbed the papers 
which had passed bet^^een him and Leibnitz. In 1724, he put to 
press a series of sermons, seventeen in number. Many of them are 
excellent, but others are tinctured with his metaphysical predile^ 
tions. He aimed at rendering scriptural principle a precept conform- 
able to what he calls eternal reason and the fitness of thhigs, and 
hence his sermons have failed in becoming popular or useful. * He 
who aspires,' says Robert Hall, * to a reputation that shall smrive 
the vicissitudes of opinion and of time, must aim at some other char- 
acter than that of a metaphysician.' In his practical sermons, how- 
ever, there is much sound and admirable precept In 1727, Dr. 
Clarke was offered, but declined, the appointment of Master of tbe 
Mint, vacant by the death of his illustrious friend, Newton. The sit- 
uation was worth £1500 a year, and the disinterestedness and integ- 
rity of Clarke were strikingly evinced by his declining to accept an 
office of such honour and emoluments, because he could not recon- 
cile himself to a secular employment. His conduct and character 
must have excited the admiration of the queen, for we learn from a 
satirical allusion in Pope's * Moral Epistle on the Use of Riches '—first 
published in 1781— that her majesty had placed & bust of Dr. Clarke 
in her hermitage in the royal grounds. * The doctor duly frequented 
the court,' says Pope in a note ; * but he should have adaed,' rcJuioB 
Warburton, * with the innocence and disinterestedness of a hermit' 
In 1729, Clarke published the first twelve books of Uie ' Iliad,' witli 
a Latin version and copious annotations; and Homer has never had 
a more judicious or acute commentator. Tlie last literarv efforts of 
tl)J8 JndefdtigMe scholar were devoted to drawing up an ' ^poaitioo 
of the Church Oatechism," and pievfkxxxi^ «c^«x«.l volumes of sermoo 
for the press. These were not p\i\iYL%i\ve^ ^^ TiS\&\\!&&^fia&i^^sdi 
took pl&ce on the 17th of M.ay 112,^. T\i^N«cvssvs& \»\«i\a %sA>«flBt 



CLARKE] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 801 

ing of Dr. Clnrke, and hiAeasy cbeerful disposition,' earned for him 
the lil^liest admiration and esteem or bis contemporaries. Asameta' 
pliyaiciUin, he was inferior lo Liocke in comprekiensiveoess and origin- 
ality, but possessed more skill and logical luresiKht, liie natural result 
of Ilia habits of matliemaiical study ; and he lias been justly cele- 
brated for the linldness and ability with which lie placed himself in 
the breacli against the Necessitarians and Fatalists of bis limes. His 
moral doctrine — which supposes virtue to consist in the regulation of 
onr conduct accordingtocertain flineases which we perceive in things, 
or a peculiar CDngruiiy iif certain relations to each other — lieing in- 
consequential unless we have previonslj; distingijisbed tbe ends which 
are morally good from tiiose Cbat are evil, and limited the conformiiy 
to one of those classes, has been condemned by Dr. Tborons Brown 
and Sir James Mackiotosb.* His speculations were over-refined, and 
seem to have been coloured by his fondness for mnthema^cat studies. 

Natural and Eaiimtial Difference hetween Bight amd Wrong. 
tffdD[on of thofie who deDy thfl iiHtaraL find ettruri] difference at gocxl and evlL, Ib tha 

(hevi^ety of opinLons that have obtained 

™,n ,.™-.m,n.«..nj,nnii(.»Ioniif, .n» .^.^...^„,^„ 



ipeciall; In political mattov ; 
.... reagesiud mdlffsrent conn- 

ing each otbor very slowly &nd gradnalty. may, from (tie btghegt intenHTren la 

and the other biina ; and yet Ihe colon™ msy really differ aa ranch as can be, not la 
dagroe only, bnt entirely In kind, as red and blue, or white and blnclt ; bo, thongh it 
may perhaps be very dlKcnlt 111 aome nice and perpleiefl cafea— which yet aro very 
far f rom occnrrlnz treqnenily— to define eiacily tha bounds of riEht and wrong, just 
andnnjn^l — and thcremay be some latitude in the jadgment of diccveat men, add tbe 
laws of divera nadona— yet right and wrong are neverlheleea la themselTes totally 
■oi) esKnttHlly diSirent : cvpn altogethpr as much as whi re and black, light and dark- 
ueea. The Bparlan liw, pcrhapa. which permitted their yonlh lo steBl. may. as ab- 

of any society mav agree to transfer or alter their own propertiea upon what condl- 
tJona they ah^ll think fit. But If It u>uEd be auppased mat a law had been made at 
Sparta, or at KOTne, or tn India, or In any other part of the world, whereby it had 
been eommanded or allowed Ibat every man mieht rob by violence, and mnrJft 

able use of hii reason, whatever 
:r mattere, would have IhoDEht 



.tttbca; Bha'taabaryaDd Hul^eaon, aearialDerrroni tbe moral aense: aad tba generality 
f^dirtDea, asar^AiQEwlelyfmn the will 01 0<id On tbeie three priaciplea. pracU^al 
miliailtyiiaibeinbnillbrlhniediatorenlwrlura. ' ■ Thai haa God beaapleaeed, ' add> 
Wubortos. 'lo ilTa three dilTeronteidlepent- u thepracIieeDr vlnne: that m«s of all 
nnk-E mniHtuttonb. SDil ednM^^aB, mlEht tlnd Iheir ucooat in one arotherof Ihem: 

Lblepruvitionfortheeupport ol virtue hath beea tu some meaKure deteUed bv 
iriadroffltefl, who have a*orilftpounl7imtw\«JAltti\ifcV't'rtftli^^tf«\s'a-'i\«fc^ 
ay wlrJi iheparihn esteemed the •tronttwi.Wv'n laxBA'llnil^Jii^'i'is'*"*'*- 
goldea oiajnUuLi la m uoiie ajid ^"B iVlujii."— lJ«lii*l*Uo*Uiii., wwi-S- 



302 CYCL0P.*:DIA of [to 1727. 

that such a law conld have authorised or excused, much less have justified such ac- 
tions, and have made them become good : because 'tiAplainly not in men's power to 
make falsehood be truth, though they may alter the property of their goods as they 
please. Now if, in flagrant cases, the natural and essential difference between good 
and evil, right and wrong, cannot but be confessed to be plainly and undeniably evi- 
dent, the difference between them must be also essential and unalterable in all. even 
the smallest, and nicest tmd most intricate cases though it be not so easy to be dis- 
cerned and accurately distinguished. For if, from the difliculty of determining ex- 
actly the bounds of right and wrong in many perplexed cases, it could truly be con- 
cluded that just and unjust were not essentially different by nature, but only by 
positive constitution and custom, it would follow equally, that they were not really, 
essentially, and unalterably different, even the most flagrant cases that can be snp- 
posed ; which is an assertion eo very absurd, that Mr. Hobbes himself could hardly 
vent it without blushing, and discovering plainly, by his shifting expre8sionf>, his 
secret self-condemnation. There are therefore certain necessary and eternal differ- 
ences of things, and certain fitnesses or unfitnesses of the application of different 
things, or different relations one to another, or depending on any positive constim- 
tions, but founded unchangeably in the nature and reason of things, and unavoida- 
bly arising from the difference of the things themselves. 

DR. WILLIAM LOWTH. 

Dr. William Lowrn (1661-1732) was distinguished for his classi- 
cal and theological attainments, and the liberality with \vhich he 
communicated his stores to others. He published a * Vindication 
of the Divine Authority and Inspiration of the Old and New Testa- 
ments,* (1692), * Directions for the Profitable Reading of the Holy Scrip- 
tures,' ' Commentaries on the Prophets,* &c. He furnished notes on 
Clemens Alexandrinus for P^ter*s edition of that ^cient author, 
remarks on Josephus for Hudion*s edition, and annotations on the 
ecclesiastical historians for Reading's Cambridge edition of those 
authors. He also assisted Dr. Chandler in his * Defence of Christianity 
from the Proi)hecies ' His learning is said to have been equally ex- 
tensive and profound, and he accompanied all his reading with criti- 
cal and philological remarks. Bom in London, Dr. Lowth took his 
degrees at Oxford, and experiencing the countenance and support d 
the bishop of Winchester, became the chaplain of that prelate, a pre- 
bend of liie cathedral of Winchester, and rector of Buriton. 

DR. BENJAMIN HOADLT. 

Pr. Benjamin Hoadlt, successively bishop of Bangor, Hereford, 

Salisbury, and Winchester, was a prelate of great controversial 

ability, who threw the weight of bis talents and learning into the 

scale of Whig politics, at that time fiercely attacked by the Tory and 

Jacobite parties. Hoadley was bom at Westerham, in Kent, in 

1676. In 1706, while rector of St. Peter's-le-Poor, London, he 

attacked a sermon by Atterbury, and thus incurred the .enmity and 

ridicule of Swift and Pope. He defended the revolution of 1688, an^ 

attacked the doctrines of divine right and passive obedience with 

such rigour and perseverance, that, in 1709, the House of CommonI 

recommended him to the favour of line c^xx^tl. Her majesty does not 

appear to have complied with this Teq\ie%l\ \i\vX\xetwiKS»a8«t^^iww^ 

/. elevated him to the see of Bangor, ^YioiXX^ %S\st \3:\% ^«^\>Sqsrrx M^ 



ST.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 803 

nch, Hoadly published a work against the non-jurors, and a 
I preached before the king at St. James's, on the * Nature of the 
3m or Church of Christ.* The latter excited a long and vehe- 
ispute, known by the name of the Bangorian Controversy, in 
forty or fifty tracts were published. The Lower House of 
nation took up Hoadly's works with warmth, and passed acen- 
them, as calculated to subvert the government and discipline 
church, and to impugn and impeach the regal supremacy in 
3 ecclesiastical. The controversy was conducted with unbe- 
r violence, and several bishops and other grave divines — the 
nt Sherlock among the nuniber — forgot the dignity of their 
and the spirit of Christian charity in the heat of party warfare, 
lludes sarcastically to Hoadly's sermon in the 'Dunciad:' 

Tolaod and Tindal, prompt, at priests to jeer, . 
Yet silent bowed to Christ's no kingdom here. 

1th, however, is, that there was * nothing whatever in Hoadly's 
I injurious to the established endowments and privileges, nor 
discipline and government ot the English Church, even in 
If this had been the case, he might have been reproached 
>me inconsistency in becoming so large a partaker of her hon- 
id emoluments. He even admitted the usefulness of censures 
n immoralities, though denying all church authority to oblige 
e to external communion, or to pass any sentence which should 
ine the condition of men with respect to the favour or dis- 
•e of God. Another great question in this controversy was 
religious liberty as a civil right, which the convocation ex- 
denied. And another related to the much-debated exercise 
ate judgment in religion, which, as one party meant virtually 
away, so the other perhaps unreasonably exaggerated.' * The 
f Hoadly's controversial treatises is strong and logical, but 
t any of the graces of composition, and hence they have fallen 
livion. He was author of several other works, as * Terms of 
ance,' * Reasonableness of Conformity,' * Treatise on the Sac- 
,* &c. A complete edition of his works was published by his 
three folio volumes (1773). There can be no doubt that tlie 
ident and liberal mind ot Hoadly, aided by his station in the 
, tended materially to stem the torrent of slavish submission 
then prevailed in the church of England. He died in 1761. 

The Kingdom of Christ not of this World, 

erefore, the church of Christ be the kingdom of Christ, it is essential to it 
ist himself be the sole lawgiver and sole jadge of his subjects, in all points 
to the favour or displeasure of Almighty God ; and that all his subjects, in 
tion soever they may be, are equally subjects to him ; and that no one of 
y more than another, hath authority either to make new laws for Christ^s 
or to impose a sense upon the old ones, which is the same thing ; or to 

•Hallam'8 Constitutional History of EuQ\aua. 



804 CYCLOP-^DIA OF [to 1727. 

judge, cenBare, or punish the servants of another master, in matters relating poxtkf 
to conscience or salvation. If any person hath any other notion, either through a 
lon^: use of words with inconsistent meanings, or through a negligence of thought, 
let him but ask himself whether the church of Christ be the kiugdom of Chri^ or 
not ; and if it be, whether this notion of it doth not absolutely exclude all other 1^- 
islatois and judges in matters relating to conscience or the favour of God, or whether 
it can be his kingdom if any mortal men have such a power of le&rislation and judg- 
ment in it. This iuqui^ will biiug us back to the first, which is the only true ac- 
count of the church of Christ, or the kingdom of Christ, in the month of a Chn»- 
tian ; tdat it is the number of men, whether small or great, whether dispersed or 
united, who trnly and sincerely are subjects to Jesus Christ alone as their la^ver 
and judge in matters relating to the favour of God and their eternal salyation. 

The next principal p|Oint Is, that, if the church be the kingdom of Christ, and this 
* kingdom be not of this world,' this must ap[>ear from the nature and end of the 
laws of Christ, and of those rewards and punishments which are the sanctions of 
his laws. Now, his laws are declarations relating to the favour of God in another 
state after this. They are declarations of those conditions to be performed in this 
world on our part, without which God will i.ot make us happy in that to come. AiMi 
they are almost all general appeals to the will of that God ; to his nature, known by 
the common reason of mankind, and to the imitation of that nature, which must be 
our perfection. TJie keeping his commandments is declared the way to life, and the 
doing his will the entrance into the kingdom of heaven. The being subjects to 
Christ, is to this very end, that we may the better and more effectually perform the 
will of God. The laws of this kingdom, therefore, as Christ left them, have nothing 
of this world in their view ; no tendency either to the exaltation of some in worldly 
pomp and dignity, or to their absolute dominion over the taith and religious coudiK^ 
of otners of his subjects, or to the erecting of any sort of temporal kmgdom under 
the covert and name of a spiritual one. 

The sanctions of Christ^s law are rewards and pimishments. But of what sort? 
Not the rewards of this world ; not the offices or glories of this state ; not the pains 
of prisons, banishments, fines, or any lesser and more moderate penalties ; nay, ntit 
the much lesser and negative discouragements that belong to human society. He 
was far from thinking that these could be the instruments of such a persuasion as be 
thought acceptable to God. But as tlie great end of his kingdom was to guide man 
to happiness after the short images of it were over here below, so he took his 
motives from that place where his kingdom first began, and \\ here it was at last to 
end ; from those rewards and punishments in a future state, which had no relatiw 
to this world ; and to shew that his * kingdom was not of this world,' all the sanc- 
tions which he thought fit to give to his laws were not of this world at all. 

St. Paul understood this so well, that he gives an account of his own conduct, 
and that of others in the same station, in these words : ' Kno^\ing the terrors of the 
Lord, we persuade men :' whereas, in too many Christian countries since his days, 
if some wno profess to succeed him were to give an account of their own conduct, 
it must be in a quite contrary strain ; ♦ Knowing the terrors of this world, and hav- 
ing them in our power, we do not persuade m .a, but force their outward profession 
against their inward jaersuasion.' 

Now, wherever this is practised, whether in a great degree or a small, in that 
place there is so far a change from a kingdom which is not ot this world, to a king- 
dom which is of this world As soon as ever you hear of anv of the engines of tas 
world, whether of the greater or the lesser sort, you must immediately think that 
then, and so far, the kingdom of this world takes place. For, if the very essence of 
God's worship be spirit and tnith. if religion be virtue and charity, under tbe belief 
of a Supreme Governor and Judge, if true real faith cannot be the effect of force, 
and if there can be no reward where there is no willing choice— then, in all or any of 
these cases, to apply force or flattery, worldly pleasure or pain, is to act contrary to 
the interests of true religion, as it is plainly opposite to the maxims upon wni^ 
Christ founded his kingdom ; who chose the motives which are not of this world, to 
support a kingdom which is not of this world. And indeed it is too visible to be hid, 
that wherever the rewards and punishments are changed from future to present, 
from the world to come to the world novr \nvQ«»eea\«vxA\\«^ ^Js^ft VAagjdom founded 
by our Saviour is, in the nature oi it., so lot e\\att?,e^A^^^^^^'»'^ww»«afe,*\o.^54sa6.v' 
degree, what he professed his kiuK<^om waa uot,— XXiaXNa, Qit\MkaNR«ev^\ KjL>d(&^Hs» 



LESLIE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. * 806 

■mrt with other common earthly kingdoms, in which the rewards are worldly honours, 
posts, offices, pomp, attendance, doaiinion ; and the punishments are prisons, fines, 
Oanishments, galleys and racks, or something less oi the same sort. 

CHARLBS LESLIB. 

Chakles Leslie (1650-1723) author of a work still popular, *A 
Short and Ea>y Method with the Deists,* was a son of a bishop of 
Clogher, who is said to have been of a Scottish family. Educated at 
Trinity College, Dublin, Charles Leslie studied the law in London, 
"but afterwards turned his attention to divinity, and in 1680 look 
orders. As chancellor of the cathedral of Connor, he distinguished 
biuiself by several disputations with Catholic divines, and by the 
iKiIdneES with which he opposed the pro-popish designs of King 
Jumes. Nevertheless, at the Revolution, he adopted a decisive lone 
of Jacobilism, from which he never swerved through life. Removing 
to London, he was chiefly engaged for several years in writing con- 
troversial works against Quakers, Sociniaus, and Deists, of which, 
however, none are now remembered besides the little treatise of 
which the title has been given, and which appeared in 1699. He also 
Wrote many occasional and periodical tracts in behalf of the House 
of Stuart, to whose cause his talents and celebrity certainly lend no 
small lustre. Being for one of these publications obliged to leave 
the country, he repaired, in 1713, to the court of the Chevalier at 
Bar-le-Duc, and was well received. James allowed him to have a 
chapel fitted up for the English service, and was even expected to 
lend a favourable ear to his arguments against popeiy ; but this ex- 
pectation proved vain. It was not possible for an earnest and bitter 
Controversialist like Leslie to remain long at rest in such a situation, 
and we are not therefore surprised to find him return in disgust to 
England in 1721. He soon after died at his house of Glaslough, in 
the county of Monaghan. The works of this remarkable man have 
been collected in seven volumes (Oxford 1832), and it must be 
allowed that they place their author very high in the list of contro- 
versial writers, the ingenuity of the arguments being only equalled 
by the keenness and pertinacity with which they are pursued. 

BISHOP PATRICK — DR. WATERLAND. 

Symon Patrick (1626-1707) successively bishop of Chichester and 
Ely, was author of a series of Paraphrases and Commentaries on the 
historical and poetical portions of Scripture, from Genesis to the Song 
of Solomon, which extended to ten volumes, and were published 
between 1697 and 1710. 

Daniel Waterland (1683-1740) was elected a fellow of Magdalene 
College, Cambridge, in 1699. He was a contrnversial theologian of 
great ability and acuteness, and successfully vindicated the doctrines 
of the Church of England from Arian arid Deistic assailants. His 
Beverfil puhJications on the Trinity conaVWuVe «^ N'AxsaCc^fe ^«^v«. 'c^ 
treatJses, He pubUahed also two volvitaea oi * ^^xmovi^^ "^^CyeesssS^ 



306 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

died archdeacon of Middlesex. A complete edition of his works, with 
a life of the author by Bishop Van Mildert, was published at Oxford, 
in eleven volumes, in 1823. 

William Whiston (1667-1752) was an able but eccentric scholar, 
and so distinguished as a mathematician, that he was made depufy* 
professor of mathematics in the university of Cambridge, and after- 
wards successor to Sir Isaac Newton, of whose principles he was one 
of the most successful expounders. Entering into holy orders, he 
became chaplain to the bishop of Norwich, rector of Lowestoft, &c. 
He was also appointed Boyle lecturer in the university, but was at 
length expelled for promulgating Arian opinions. He then went to 
London, where a subscription was made lor him, and he delivered a 
series of lectures on astronomy. Towards the close of his Ufe, 
Whiston became a Baptist, and believed that the millennium was ap- 
proaching, when the Jews would all be restored. Had he confined 
himself to mathematical studies, he would have earned a high name 
in science ; but his time and attention were dissipated by his theolog- 
ical pursuits, in which he evinced more zeal than judgment. His 
works are numerous. Besides a * Theory of the Earth ' in defence 
of the Mosaic account of the creation, published in 1696, and some 
tracts on the Newtonian system, he wrote an * Essay on the Revela- 
tion of St. John * (1706), ' Sermons on the Scripture Prophecies ' 
(1708), * Primitive Christianity Revived,* five volumes (1712), * Memoirs 
of his Own Life * (1749-50), &c. An extract from the last-mentioned 
work is subjoined : 

Whistonian Controversy. — Anecdote of the Discovery of the Nevstonixm 

Philosophy. 

After I had taken holy orders, I returned to the college, and went on with luy 
own studies there, particularly the mathematics and the Cartesian philosophy, 
which was alone in vogue with us at that time. But it was not long before I. 
with immense pains, but no assistance, set myself with the utmost zeal to the study 
of Sir Isaac Newton*s wonderful discoveries in his * Philosophise Naturalis Prin- 
cipia Mathematica,' one or two of which lectures I had heard him read in the public 
schools, though I understood them not at all at that time — being indeed ^-eatly 
excited thereto by a paper of Dr. Gregory's when he was professor in Scotland, where- 
in he had given the most prodigious commendations to that work, as not only right 
in all things, but in a manner the effect of a plainly divine genius, and had 
already caused several of his scholars to keep acts, as we call them, upon several 
branches of the Newtonian philosophy; while we at Cambridge, poor wretches, 
were ignominiously studying the fictitious hypotheses of the Cartesian, which Sir - 
Isaac Newton had also himself done formerly, as I have heard him say. What the 
occasion of Sir Isaac Newton's leaving the Cartesian philosophy, and of discover- 
ing his amazing theory of gravity was, I have heard him long ago, soon after my 
first acquaintance with him, which was 1694, thus relate, ana of which Dr. Pem- 
berton gives the like account, and somewhat more fully, in the preface to bis 
explication of his philosophy. It was this: an inclination came into Sir Isaac's 
mind to try whether the same power did not keep the moon in her orbit, not- 
witJistandwg her projectile velocity, which he knew always tended to go along a 
straight line the tangent of that or\)\t, vjYAch makes stones and all heavy bomee 
with 08 fall downward, and which we caXi gcwW^ ; VaVAa?, ^Jkv% v»^^\a.tum, which 
Aad been thoneht of before, that 8uc\\ povjw m\^\. ^^ct^ia& ^sl ^ ^cqcj^^kuja. 
proportion of &e distances from the eaittfa eeuVxe. \i^Wi "Sia \s»aK3% ^fl^\.\i«ii. 



TINDAL.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 807 

when he took a deg;ree of a great circle on the earth's sarf ace, whence a degree at 
the distance of the moon was to be determined also,' to he sixty measured miles only, 
according to tbe gross measures then in use, he was in some degree disappointed ; 
and tlie power that restrained the moon in her orbit, measured by the versed sines of 
that orbit-, appeared not to be quite the same that was to be expected had it been the 
I)ower of gravity alone by which the moon was there influenced. Upon this disap- 
pointment, which made Sir Isaac suspect that this power was partly that of gravity 
and partly that of Cartesius's vortices, he threw aside the paper of his calculation, 
and went to other studies. However, some time afterward, when Monsieur Picart 
had much more exactly measured the earth, and found that a degree of a great cir- 
cle was sixty-nine and a half such miles, Sir Isaac, in turning over some of his for- 
mer, papers, lighted upon this old imperfect calculation, and, correcting his former 
error, discovered that this power, at the true correct distance of the moon from the 
earth, not only tended to the earth's centre, as did the common power of gravity 
with us, but was exactly of the right quantity ; and that if a stone was carried up to 
the moon, or to sixty semi-di.imeters of the earth, and let fall downward by its grav- 
ity, and the moon's own menstrual motion was stopped, and she wat* let fall by that 
power which before retained her in her orbit, they would exactly fall towards the 
same point, and with the same velocity ; which was therefore no other power than 
that of gravity. And since that power appeared to extend as far as the moon, at the 
distance of 240,000 miles, it was but natm-al or rather necessary, to suppose it might 
reach twice, thrice, four times,^ &c. the same distance with the same diminution, ac- 
cording to the squares of such distances perpetually : which noble discovery proved 
the happy occasion of the invention of the wonderful Newtonian philosophy. 

DR. WILLIAM NICOLSON — DR. MATTHEW TINDAL — NICHOLAS TINDAL — 

DR. HUMPHRBY PRIDEAUX. 

Dr. William Nicolson (1655-1 727), successively bishop of Car- 
lisle and Londonderry, and, lastly, archbishop of Cashel, was a 
learned antiquary and investigator of our early records. He pub- 
lislied ' Historical Libraries of England, Scotland, and Ireland ' — col- 
lected into one volume, in 1776 — being a detailed catalogue or list of 
books and manuscripts referring to the history of each nation. He 
also wrote 'An Essay on the Border Laws,* *A Treatise on the Laws 
of the Anglo-Saxons,* arfd *A Description of Poland and Denmark.' 
The only professional works of Dr. I^icholson are a preface to Cham- 
berlayne's * Polyglott of the Lord's Prayer,' and some able pamphlets 
on the Bangorian Controversy. 

Dr. Matthew Tindal (1657-1733) was a zealous controversialist, 
in times when controversy was pursued with much keenness by men 
fitted for higher duties. His first attacks were directed against priestly 
power, but he ended in opposing Christianity itself; and Paine and 
other later writers against revelation have drawn some of their 
weapons from the armoury of Tindal. Like Dryden and many others, 
Tindal embraced the Roman Catholic religion when it became fash- 
ionable in the court of James H.; but he abjured it in 1687, and 
afterwards became an advocate under Wiuiam IIL from whom he 
received a pension of £200 per annum. He wrote several political 
and theological tracts, but the work by which he is chiefiy known is 
entitled * Christianity as Old as the Creation, or the Gospel a Repub- 
lication of the Religion of Nature' (1730). The tendency of this 
treatise is to discredit revealed reVigioii*. \\. "sq^^^ ^xi^'^«t^^>s^'^^. 



808 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Waterland; and Tindal replied by reiterating his former statements 
and arguments. He wrote a second volume to this work shortly be- 
fore his dentil, but Dr. Gibson, the bishop of London, interfered, and 
prevented its publication. 

After the death of 'J'indal, it appeared from his will that be. had 
left a sum of £2000 to Budgell — already noticeii as one of the writers 
of the * Spectator ' — but this sum was so disproportioned to the tes- 
tator's means, that Budgell was accused of forging the will, and Tin- 
dal's nephew got it set aside. The disgrace cont^equent on this trans- 
action is supposed to have been the primary cause of Budgell*8 com- 
miting suicide. The nephew, Nicholas Tindal (1687-17 ?4), was a 
Fellow of Trinity College, aud chaplain of Greenwich Hospital. He 
translated some works and was author of a continuation of Rapin's 

• History of England.* 

Anotiier of the sceptical writers of this period was John Tolasd 
(1689-1722), author of * Christianity not Mysterious' (1696), a work 
which occasioned much controversy. Her wrote various treatises on 
theological and historical subjects, and was a learned but pedantic 
student, always in trouble and difficulties. His works werenever 
collected, and are now forgotten. 

Dr. Humphrey Prideaux (1648-1724) was author of a still popu- 
lar and valuable work, the * Connection of the History of the Old 
and New Testament,' the first part of which was published in 1715, 
and the second in 1717. He wrote also a * Life of Mahomet* (1697), 

* Directions to Church-wardens* (1707), aud 'A Treatise on Tithes' 
(1710). Prideaux's 'Connection' is a work of great research, con- 
necting the Old with the New Testament by a luminous historical 
summary. Few books have had a greater circulation, and it is in- 
valuable to all students of divinity. Its author was highly respected 
for his learning and piety. He was archdeacon of Suffolk, and at 
one time Hebrew lecturer at Christ Church, Oxford. His extensive 
library of oriental books has been preserved in Clare Hall, Cambridge, 
to which college it was presented by himself. 

EARL OP SHAFTESBURY. 

Two distinguished philosophical writers adorn this period, Shaftes- 
bury and Berkeley. Both were accomplished and elegant authors, 
and both, in their opinions, influenced other minds. The moral WMt 
of the former was adopted by Hutcheson, and the idealism of Berke- 
ley was reproduced by Hume. 

Anthony Ashley Cooper, the third Earl of Shaftesbury, was bom 

in London in 1671. After a careful private education, he travelled for 

some time, and in 1693 entered the House of Commons. Five years 

afterwards, he repaired to Holland, and* cultivated the society of 

BajrJe and Le Clerc. On his return, he succeeded to the earldom, 

&nd spoke frequently in Ibe Hoxiae o( "Lox^^. ]^\ \v\a parliamentaiy 

^ppe&mnoeswere creditable to\i\a \A\ftTv\a,^ii^\i<i^wa^ic^fc\a\Sai\a^ 



SHAFTESBURY.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 809 

and feelings. His first publication was in 1708, ^ A Letter on Enthu- 
siasm/ prumpted by the extravagance of the French prophets, ^vhose 
aeal had degenerated into intolerance. In 1709, appeared liis * Mor- 
alists, a Philosophical liliapsody,' and * ISeusus Communis,' an essay 
upon the freedom of wit and humour. In this latter production lie 
vindicates the use of ridicule as a test of truth. In 1710, he pub- 
lished another slight work, a * Soliloquy, or Advice to an Author.* 
Soon afterwards, ill health compelled Lord Shaltesbury to seek a 
warmer climate. He fixed on Naples, where he died in February 
1713, at tne early age of forty-two. A complete collection of his 
works was published in 1716, in three volumes, under the general title 
ot * Characteristics of Men, Manners, Opinions, and Times.* 

The style of Shaftesbury i« lofty and musical. He bestowed great 
pains on the construction of his sentences, and the labour is too ap- 
parent. Desirous also of blending the nobleman and man of the 
world witli the author, a tone of assumption and familiarity deforms 
some of his arguments and illustrations. He was an ardent admirer 
of the ancients, and, in his dialogue entitled ' The Moralist,* has 
adopted in a great measure the elevated style of his favorite Plato. 
With those who hold in like estimation the works of that * divine 
philosopher,* and who are willing to exchange c(mtinuity, precision, 
and simplicity, for melody and siateliness of diction, * The Moralists* 
cannot fail to be regarded, as it was by Leibnitz and Monboddo, with 
entliu4astic admiration. 

The religious tendency of Shaftesbury*s writings has been exten- 
sively discussed. That he is a powerful and decided champion 
against the atheists is universally admitted ; but with respect to his 
opinion of Christianity, diflferent views have been entertained. A 
perusal of the * Characteristics * will make it evident that much of 
the controversy which the work has occasioned has arisen from the 
inconsistent opinions expressed in its different parts. Pope informed 
Warburton, that to his knowledge the * Characteristics * had done 
much harm to revealed religion. The poet himself was a diligent 
reader of the work, as appears from his * Essay on Man.* 

As a moralist, Lord Shaftesbury holds the conspicuous place of 
founder of that school of piiilosophers by whom virtue and vice are 
regarded as naturally and fundamentally distinct, and who consider 
man to be endowed with a ' moral sense* bv which these are discrimi- 
nated, and ajt once approved of or condemned, without reference to 
the self-interest of him who judges. In opposition to Hobbes, he 
maintains that the nature of man is such as to lead to the exercise of 
benevolent and disinterested affections in the social state; and he 
earnestly inculcates the doctrine, that virtue is more conducive than 
vice to the temporal happiness of those who practice it. He rpeaks 
of 'conscience, or a natural sense of tlie odiousness of crime and in- 
justice;* and remarks, that as, in the case of objects of the external 
aenaea, *the shapes^ motions, colours, and T^TO^OY\Kfii\i& ^^ \5ftR»fcNsi«ssst 



310 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

being presented to our eye, there necessarily results a beauty or 
deformity, according to tlie different measure, arrangement, and (B»- 
position of their several parts ; so, in behaviour and actions, wbea 
presented to our understanding, there must be found, of necessity, uk 
apparent difference, according to the regularity and irregularity of 
the subjects.' ' The mind,' says he, * feels the soft and harsh, the 
agreeable and disagreeable, in the aflPections ; and finds a foul and fiur, 
a harmonious and a dissonant, as really and truly hete, as in any 
musical numbers, or in the outward forms or representations of sen- 
sible things. Nor can it withhold its admiration and ecstasy, its avw^ 
sion and scorn, any more in what relates to one than to the other of 
these subjects.' ' However false or corrupt it be within itself, it finds 
the difference, as to beauty and comeliness, between one heart and 
another; and accordingly, in all disinterested cases, must approve in 
some measure of what is natural and honest, and disapprove wbatii 
dishonest and corrupt.' This doctrine, which in the pages of Shaftes- 
bury is left in a very imperfect state, has been successively followed 
out by Dr. Hutcheson of Glasgow, and subsequently adopted and 
illustrated by Reid, Stewart, and Brown. 

Platonic Representation of the Scale of Beavty and Love. — Fnm 

The * Moralists.* 

I have now a better idea of that inelaDcholy yon discovered ; and notwlthstandiBg 
the homoroas turn you were pleased to give, I am persuaded it has a Afferent foondft* 
tion from any of those fantastical causes I then assigned to it. Love, doubtIe8B,'il 
at the bottom, bat a nobler love than such as common beauties inspire. 

Here, in my turn, I began to raise my voice, and imitate the solemn way yoa bad 
been teaching me. Knowing as you are (continued I.) well knowing and ezperienoel 
in all the degrees and orders of beauty, in all the mysterious charms of the particalv 
forms, you rise to what is more general ; and with a lamer heart, and mind mon 
comprehensive, you generously seeK that which is highest m the kind. Not captiit' 
ted by the lineaments of a fair face, or the well-drawn proportions of a human Dodf. 
you view the life Itself, and embrace rather the mind which adds the luatre, ua 
renders chiefly amiable. 

Nor is the enjoyment of such a single beauty sufficient to satisfy such an aapiriof 
soul. It seeks how to combine more beauties, and by what coalition of th^e to fona 
a beautiful society. It views communities, friendships, relations, duties ; and con- 
siders by what harmony of particular minds the general harmony is compoeed. imd 
commonweal established. T>ior satisfied even with public good in one commnni^of 
men, it frames itself a nobler object, and with enlarged affection seeks the good of 
mankind. It dwells with pleasure amidst that reason and those orders on which thi^ 
fair correspopdence and goodly interest is established. Laws, constitutions, civil and 
religious rites ; whatever civilises or polishes rude mankind ; the sciences and arts, 
philosophy, morals, virtue ; the flourishing stat« of human affairs, and the pcrfc<^aB 
of human nature : these are its delightful prospects, and this charm of bean^ whidi 
attracts it. 

Still ardent in this pursuit— such is its love of order and perfection— it refits not 

here, nor satisfies itself with the beauty of a part, but extending further its cmn- 

municative bounty, seeks the good of all, and {ufects the interest and prosperity of 

the whole. True to its native world and higher country, *tis here it seeks order lad 

perfection, wishing the best, and hoping still to find a just and wise admhiistratiOD. 

And Bince all hope of this were vain and id\e, \1 no Universal Mind presided ; i^ce, 

witbont BVLch a supreme intelUgence and \>TON\d«nXVsi\. cax^i^NJMi ^<&Nx%kN<»^ xudvene 

must he condemned to suffer iminvte ca\ana\\ft»s^^^^^^^^^^"^^"^'^*'^^s^>^s^^^^*^^ 



SHAFTESBURY.] 5:NGLISH LITERATURE. 311 

to discover that healing cause by which the interest of the "whole is securely estab- 
lishedj the beauty of toiDgs, and the universal order happily sustained. 

This, Palemon, is the mbour of your soul ; and this its melancholy : when unsuc- 
cessfully pursuing the supreme beauty, it meets with darkening clouds which inter- 
cept its sight. Monsters arise, not those from Libyan deserts, out from the heart of 
man more fertile, and with their horrid aspect cast an unseemly reflection upon 
nature. She, helpless as she is thought, and working thus absurdly, is contemned, 
the govern meut of the world arraigned, and Deity made void. Much is alleged in 
inswer, to shew why nature errs ; and when she seems most ignorant or perverse in 
\iet productions, I assert her even then as wise and provident as in her goodliest 
nprks. For 'tis not then that men complain of the world's order, or abhor the face 
yt things, when the^ see various interests mixed and interfering ; natures eubor- 
Unate, of different ^nds, opposed one to another, and in their dmereut operations 
submitted, the higher to the lower. 'Tis, on the contrary, from this order of iufe- 
ciqr aiid superior things that we admire the world's beauty, founded thus on con- 
trarieties ; whilst from such various and disagreeing principles a universal concord 
is established. 

Thus in the several orders of terrestrial forms, a resignation is required— a sacri- 
fice and mutual.yieldiug of natures one to another. The vegetables by their death 
instain the animals, and animal bodies dissolved enrich the earth, and raise again 
the vegetable world. The numerous insects are reduced by the superior kinds of 
birds and beasts ; and these again are checked by man, who in his turn submits to 
other natures, and resigns his form, a sacrifice in common to the rest of things. 
And if in natures so little exalted or pre-eminent above each other, the sacrifice of 
interest can appear so just, how much more reasonably may all inferior natures be 
subjected to the supenor nature of the world I— that world, Palemon, which even 
now transported you, when the sun's fainting light gave way to these bright constel- 
lations, and left you this wide system to contemplate. 

Here are those laws which ought not, nor can submit to anything below. The 
central powers which hold the lasting orbs in their just poise and movement, must 
not be controlled to save a fleeting form, and rescue from the precipice a puny 
animal, whose brittle frame, however protected, must of itself so soon dissolve. The 
ambient air, the inward vapours, the impending meteors, or whatever else nutri- 
mental or preservative of this earth, must operate in a natural course ; and other 
good constatntions must submit to the good habit and constitutions of the aTl-sns- 
»iuing globe. Let us not wonder, therefore, if by earthquake, storms, pestilential 
I>last8, nether or upper fires or floods, the animal kinds are oft afflicted, and whole 
spiecies perhaps involved at once in common ruin. Nor need we wonder if the in- 
:erior form, the sonl and temper, partakes of this occasional deformity, and sympa- 
thises often with its close partner. Who is there that can wonder either at the 
sicknesses of sense or the depravity of minds enclosed in such frail bodies, and 
dependent on such pervertible organs? 

Here, then, is that solution you require, and hence those seeming blemishes cast 
npon nature. Nor is there ought in this beside what is natural and sood. 'Tis good 
nmlch is predominant ; and every corruptible and mortal nature, by its mortality and 
Bormptiont yields only to some better, and all in common to ttiat best and highest 
nature which is incorruptible and immortal.* 

Ood in the Universe. 

It is in vain for us to search the bulky mass of matter ; seeking to know its na^ 
cure ; how great the whole itself, or even how small its parts. 5, knowing only 
Home of the rules of motion, we seek to trace it further, it is in vain we follow it 
Into the bodies it has reached. Our tardy apprehensions fail us, and can reach noth- 
ing beyond the body itself, through which it is diffused. Wonderful being (if we 
may call it so) which bodies never receive, except from others which lose it ; nor 
ever lose, unless by imparting it to others. Even without change of place it has its 
force : and bodies big with motion labour to move, yet stir not ; whilst they express 
an energy beyond our comprehension. 

* This passage receives from Sir James Mackintosh the high praise , ' that there is 
tCMreely ajay composition in out Jangnage more lofty \u\\»moTa.\'i.uaT^'^w^'«>^«vsS>!ss«jQSa»^ 
traon exquisitely elegant and muHical in its dicliun.^ 



313 CYCLOPAEDIA OF , [to 1727. 

Id vain too we pursue that phaDtom Time, too small, and yet too mighty for our 
grasp ; when shilnkiDg to a narrow point, it escapes oar hold, or moclu oar scanty 
thought by sweliing to eternity an object noproportioned to oar capacity, as is thy 
being, O thou ancient Cause I older than Time, yet young with fresh Eternity. 

In vain we tr^ to fathom the abyss of space, the seat of thy extensive being; of 
which DO place is empty, uo void which is uot fall. 

In vaiD we labour to uoderstuDd that priaciple of sense and thoagbt, which seem* 
iDg in us to depend so much on motion, yet diffv^rs so much from it, and from matter 
itself, as not to suffer us to conceive how thought can more resclt from this, tban 
this arise from thought. But thought we own pre-eniiuent, and confess the realkst 
of be.ngs; the only existence of which we are made sure of, by being conscious. 
All else may be only dream and shadow. All which even sense suggests may he <to- 
ceitfiU. The seuse itself remains still ; reason subsists ; and thongnt maintain* its 
eldership of being. Tnus are we in a mauner conscious of that original and exter- 
nally existent thought, whence we derive our own. And thus the assurance we have 
of the existence of beings above our sense, and of Thee (the great exemplar of thy 
works) comes from Thee, the all-true and perfect, who hast thus commanicaAed thy- 
self more immediately to us, so as in some manner to inhabit within onr souls; 
Thou who art original soid, diffusive, v.tal in all, inspiriting the wliole I 

BISHOP BEBEELEY. 

Dr. George Berkeley, to whom Pope assigned * every virtue 
undtT heaven,* whs born at Dysert Castle or Tower, on the hnnlsA of 
the Nore, near Thomastown, county of Kilkenny, March 12, 1684-5. 
He received, like Swift, his early education at Kilkenny School, and 
afterwards was entered of Trinity College, Dublin, where he was dis- 
tinguished for proficiency in mathematical knowledge. He was ad- 
milted a fellow in 1707. Two years afterwards, Berkeley published 
his 'Essay towards a new Theory of Vision.' ' The question of tlie 
Essay,* says Berkeley's latest biographer, * comes to this — Wiiat is 
really meant by our seeing things in ambient space ? Berkeley's 
answer when developed may be put thus — What, before we reflected, 
we had supposed to be a seeing of real things, is not seeing really 
extended things at all, but only seeing something that is constantly 
connected with their extension ; what is vulgarly called seeing 
them is, in fact, reading about them : when we are every dj^y using 
our eyes we are virtually interpreting a book : when by sight we are 
determining for ourselves the actual distances, sizes, shapes, and situ- 
ations of things, we are simply translating the words of the universal 
and divine language of the senses.'* This Essay was followedjn 
1710, by a * Treatiseconcerningthe Principles of Human Knowledge,' 
which is ' a systematic assault upon scholastic abstractions, espicial- 
ly upon abstract or unperceived matter, space, and time. It assumes 
that these are the main cnuse of confusion and difficulty in the 
sciences, and of materialis'ic atheism.' 

Berkeley's theory of physical causation anticipates Hume while it 

consummates Bacon, and opens the way to the true conception of 

phvs/cal induction. In 1711, Berkeley, having in 1709 entered into 

ioJjr orders, published a * Discoxxrae ot Paa&m Obedience,* a defence 

•Z//> ana />fter.9 of Berkeley, by PtofwBOT K.C. Ytospx 3a!fl!L\iw^^V^*«i^Ai6^ 
complete tuid excellent edition of Berkeley' h N?oTVt%, \Ne\». Vi'»Xs»iA^\SSli, 



BB&K£LKY.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 318 

of the Christian duty of cot resisting the supreme civil power. Tliis 
discourse gave rise to the opinion that Berkeley was a Jacohite, but 
he was in reality no party poliiiciun. In 1713, the retired philoso- 
pher visited London and wrote some papers for Steele's * Guardian.* 
The same year he published his * Three Dialogues between Hylas and 
Philonous/ the design of whicb, he said, was plainly to demonstrate 
the reality and perfection of human knowledge, the incorporeal 
nature of the soul, and the immediate providence of a Deity, in op- 
position to sceptics and deists. In this work his ideal system was de- 
veloped in laiiguaa^e singularly animated and imaginative. He now 
became acquaimed with Swift, Hope, Steele, and the other members 
of that brilliant circle, by whom he seems to have been sincerely be- 
loved. He accompanied the Earl of Peterborough, as chaplain and 
secretary, in his embassy to Sicily, and afterwards travelled on the 
continent as tutor to Mr. Ashe, son of the Bishop of Clogher. This 
second excursitm engaged him upwards of four years. While abroad, 
we find him writing thus justly and finely to Pope : 'As merchants, 
antiquaries, men of pleasure, &c. have all difierent views in travel- 
ling, I know not whether it might not be worth a poet's while to 
travel, in order to store his mind with strong images of nature. 
Green fields and groves, flowery meadows, and purling streams, are 
nowhere in such perfection as in England ; but if you would know 
lightsome days, warm suns, and blue skies, you must come to Italy; 
and to enable a man to describe rocks and precipices, it is absolutely 
necessary that he pass the Alps.' 

While at Paris, Berkeley visited the French philosopher Male- 
branche, then in ill health, from a disease of the lungs. A dispute 
ensued as to the ideal system, and Malebranche was so impetuous in 
argument, that he brought on a violent increase of his disorder, 
which carried him off in a few days. This must have been a more 
than iileal dii*putation to the amiable Berkeley, who could not but 
be deeply afflicted by such a tragic result. On his return he pub- 
lished a Latin tract, * De Motu,' and an essay on the fatal South-sea 
Scheme, in 1720 Pope introduced him to the Earl of Burlington, 
and by that nobleman he was recommended to the Duke of Grafton, 
lord-lieutenant of Ireland His grace made Berkeley his chaplain, 
and afterwards appointed him to the deanery of Derry. It was soon 
evident, however, that personal agsjrandisement was never an object 
of interest with this benevolent philosopher. He had long been cher- 
ishing a project, which he announced as *a sciieme for converting 
the savage Americans to Christianity, by a college to be erected in the 
Summer Islands, otherwise called the Isles of Bermuda.' In this col- 
lege he most * exorbitantly proposed,' as Swift humorously remai'ked, 
* a whole hundred pounds a year for himself, forty pounds for a fel- 
low and ten lor a student.' No anticipated difficulties could daunt 
hjin, and he communicated his enlhuslasiw to others. Coadjutors 
were obtained, a royal charter was gxaa\.^Oi,«b^'^''^vt'^^j^^Nr^'^»^^ 



814 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

« 

promised a sum of £20,000 from the goyemment to promote the un- 
dertaking. In January, 1729, Berkeley and his friends sailed for 
Rhode Island, where he had some idea of purchasing land, as an in- 
vestment for Bermuda, and perhaps also of establishing a friendly 
correspondence with influential New Englanders. Newport was 
then a flourishing town, and Berkeley resided there till July or Aa- 
gust, when he removed to the valley in the interior of the island, 
where he had bought a farm (ninety -six acres) and built a house. He 
lived the life of a recluse in Rhode Island, but applied himself to his 
literary and philosophical studies. 

The estate at Bermuda had been purchased and the public money 
was due, but Walpole declined to advance the sum promised, and the 
project was at an end. Berkeley returned to Europe, and was in 
London in February 1732. Next month appeared the largest of his 
works, *Alciphron, or the Minute Philosopher,' a series of moral and 
philosophical dialogues. Fortune again smiled on Berkeley : he be- 
came a favourite with Queen Caroline, and, in 1734, was appointed 
to the bishopric of Cloyne. Lord Chesterfield afterwards oflfered 
him the see of Clogher, which was double the value of that of Cloyne, 
but he declined the preferment. Some useful tracts were afterwards 
published by the bishop, including one on tar-water, which he con- 
sidered to possess high medicinal virtues. Another of his works is 
entitled *The Querist; containing several Queries proposed to the 
Consideration of the Public* In 1752, he removed with his family 
to Oxford, to superintend the education of one of his sons ; and, con- 
scious of the impropriety of residing apart from his diocese, he en- 
deavoured to exchange his bishopric for some canonry or college at 
Oxford. Failing of success, he wrote to resign his bishopric, worth 
£1400 per annum ; but the king declared that he should die a bishop, 
though he gave him liberty to reside where he pleased. This inci- 
dent is honourable to both parties. In 1753 the good prelate died 
suddenly at his residence at Oxford, while sitting on a couch in the 
midst of his family. His remains were interred in Christ Church, 
where a monument was erected to his memory. 

The life of Berkeley presents a striking picture of patient labour 
and romantic enthusiasm, of learning and genius, benevolence and - 
worth. His dislike to the pursuits and troubles of ambition are thus 
expressed by him to a friend in 1747: *In a letter from England, 
which I told you came a week ago, it was said that several of our 
Irish bishops were earnestly contending for the primacy. Pray, who 
are they ? I thought Bishop Stone was only talked of at present. I 
ask this question merely out of curiosity, and not from any interest, 
I assure you. I am no man's rival or competitor in this matter. I 
am not in love with feasts, and crowds, and visits, and late hours, and 
strange /aces, and a hurry of affaVra o^Xftn \m\^xv\to\.\A.. ^or my own 
private satisfaction, I had rather \ie m^^Vev o^ m>3 \:Yca»S^^\3L ^'isffl. ^ 
diadem. I repeat these th'mga U> y o\x, X\i«i.\.\ mvi:^ xi>iX. ^«a^ ^ft ^Mfl^^ 



BERKELEY.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 315 

declined all steps to the primacy out of singularity, of pride, or stu- 
pidity, but from solid motives. As for the argument from the oppor- 
toni^ of doing good, I observe that duty obliges men in high station 
not to decline occasions of doing good ; but duty doth not oblige men 
to solicit such high stations.* He was a poet as well as a mathema- 
tician and philosopher, and had he cultivated the lighter walks of 
literature as diligently as he did his metaphysical and abstract spcc- 
ulationSy he might have shone with lustre in a field on which he but 
rarely entered. When inspired with his transatlantic mission, he 
penned the following fine moral verses, that seem to shadow forth 
the fast accomplishing greatness of the New World : 

Verses on the Prospect of Planting Arts and Lea/ming in America, 

The Muse, diBgusted at an age and clime 

Barren of every glorious tneme, 
In distant lands now waits a better time, 

Ftoducing subjects worthy fame. 

In happy climes, where from the genial sun 

Ana virgin earth, such scenes ensue, 
The force of art by nature seems outdone, 

And fancied beauties by the true : 

In happy climes, the seat of innocence. 

Where nature guides and virtue rules. 
Where men shalTnot impose for truth and sense 

The pedantry of courts and schools : 

There shall be sung another golden age. 

The rise of empire and of arts. 
The good and great inspiring epic rage. 

The wisest heads and noblest hearra. 

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay ; 

Such as she bred when fresh and young. 
When heavenly flame did animate her clay. 

By future poets shall be sung. 

Westward the course of empire takes its way: 

The four first acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with the day; 

Time's noblest offspring is the last. 

The works of Berkeley form an important landmark in metaphysi- 
cal science. At first, his valuable and original * Theory of Vision* 
was considered a philosophical romance, yet his doctrines are now 
incorporated with every system of optics. The chief aim of Berkeley 
was ' to distinguish the immediate and natural objects of sight from 
the seemingly instantaneous conclusions which experience and habit 
teach us to draw from them in our earliest infancy ; or, in the more 
concise metaphysical language of a later period, to draw the line 
between the original and the acquired perceptions of the eye.** The 

•DugaldSle-WMl, 



? 



316 CYCLOPiEDlA OF [to 1727. 

ideal system of Berkeley was written to expose the sophistry of 
materialism, but it is defective and erroneous. lie attempts to prove 
that extension and figure, hardness and softness, and all other sensible 
qualities are mere ideas of the mind, which cannot possibly exist in 
an insentient substance — a theory which, it has been jusily remarked, 
tends to unhinge the whole frame of the human understanding, by 
shaking our ccmfidence in those principles of belief which form an 
essential part of its constitution. Our ideas he * evidently considered 
not as states of the individual mind, but as separate things existing in 
it, and capable of existing in other minds, but in them alone; and it 
is in consequence of these assumptions that his system, if it were 
to be considered as a system of scepticism, is chkfly defective. But 
having, as lie supposed, these ideas, and conceiving that they did not 
perish when they ceased to exist in his mind, since the same ideas 
recurred at intervals, he deduced, from tlie necessity which there seem- 
ed for some omnipresent mind, in whicli they might exist during the 
intervals of recurrence, the necessary existence of the Deity; and if, 
indeed, as he supposed, ideas be something different from the mind 
itself, recurring only at intervals to created minds, and incapable of 
existing but in mind, the demonstration of some infinite omnipresent 
mind, in which they exist during these intervals of recurrence to finite 
minds, must be allowed to be perfect. The whole force of the pious 
demons tmtion, therefore, which Berkeley flattered himself with having 
urged irresistibly, is completely obviated by the simple denial, that 
ideas are anylljiug more than the mind itself affected in a certain 
manner; since, in this case, our ideas exist no longer than our mind 
is affected in that particular manner which constitutes each partic- 
ular idea ; and to say tliat our ideas exist in the divine mind, would 
thus be to say, only, that our mind .itself exists in the divine mind. 
There is not the sensation of colour in addition to the mind, nor the 
sensation of fragrance in addition to the mind; but the sensation of 
colour is the mind existing in a certain state, and the sensation of 
fragrance is the mind existing in a different state.'* The style of 
Berkeley has been generally admired : it is clear and unaffected, with 
the easy grace of the polished philosopher. A love of description 
and of external nature is evinced at times, and possesses something 
ot the freshness of Izaak Walton. 

Industry. — From ^An Essay towards preventing the Ruin of Cheat 
Britain, written soon after tlie affair of the South-sea Schsme.^ 

Industry is the nataral sure wayio wealth ; this is so true, that it is lmi>ossible 
an mdustrious free people should want the necessaries and comforts of life, or an 
idle enjoy them under any form of govornment. Money is so far useful to ,the pub- 
lic as it prouioteth industry, and credit having the same effect, is of the cianae value 
H'j'th mom^jr; !mt niooey or credit circulating through a nation from hand to hand, 
without proancing labour and industry in the vuYvabW.a.TvXs, \s direct gaming. 
It is not impossible for cuuniug men to ma\Le«^yi\i.^\"asv&W^^^s^«niRS^«atQay 

♦ Dr, ThomaaBTO\?Du 



BERKELEY.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 817 

draw those who are less skilful into their own and the piihlic ruin. But snrely there 
is no man of sense and honesty but must see and own, whether he understands the 
game o« not, that it is an evident folly for any people, instead of prosecuting the old 
honest methods of industry and frugality, to sit down to a public gaming-table and 
play off their money one to another. 

The more methods there are in a state for acquiring riches without industry or 
merit, the leas there will be of either in that state : this is as evident as the ruin that 
attends it. Besides, when money is shifted from hand to hand in such a blind for- 
tuitous manner, that some men shall from nothing acquire in an instant vast estates, 
without the least desert ; while others are as suddenly stripped of plentiful fortunes, 
and left on the parish by their own avarice and credulity, what can be hoped for on 
the one hand but abandoned luxury and wantonness, or on the other but extreme 
madness and despair ? 

In short, all projects for growing rich by sudden and extraordinary methods, as 
they operate violently on the passions of men, and encourage them to despise the 
slow moderate gains that are to be made by an honest industry, must be rmuous to 
the public, and even the winners themselves will at length be involved in the public 
ruin. . . . 

God erant the time be not near when men shall say : ' This island was once in- 
habited by a religious, brave, sincere people, of plain uncorrupt manners, respecting 
inbred worth rather than titles and appearances, assertors of liberty, lovers of their 
country, jealous of their own rights, and unwilling to infringe the rights of others ; 
improvers of learning and useful arts, enemies to luxury, tender of other men's 
livus, and prodigal of their own ; inferior in nothing to the old Greeks or Romans, 
and superior to each of those people in the perfections of the other. Such were 
our ancestors duriug their rise and greatness ; but they degenerated, grew servile 
flatterers of men iu power, adopted Epicurean notions, became venal, corrupt, in- 
jurious, which drew upon them the hatred of God and man, and occasioned their 
final ruin.' 

Prejvdicea and Opinions, 

Prejudices are notions or opinions which the mind entertains without knowing 
the grounds and reasons of them, and which are assented to without examination. 
The first notions which take possession of the minds of men, with regard to duties 
social, moral, and civil, may therefore be justly styled prejudices. The mind of a 
young creature cannot remain empty ; if you do not put into it that which is good. 
It will be sure to receive that which is bad. 

Do what you can, there will still be a bias from education ; and if so, is it not 
better this bias should lie towards things laudable and useful to society 7 This bias 
still operate?, although it may not always prevail. The notions first instilled have 
the earliest influence, take the deepest root, and generally are found to give a colour 
and complexion to the subsequent lives of men, inasmuch as they are iu truth the 
great source of human actions. It is not gold, or honour, or power, that moves 
men to act, but the opinions they entertain of those things. Hence it follows, that 
if a magistrate should say : * No matter what notions men embrace, I will take heed 
to their actions,' therein he shews his weakness ; for, such <is are men's notions, 
such will be their deeds. 

For a man to do as he would be done by, to love his neighbour as himself, to 
honour his superiors, to believe that God scans all his actions, and will reward or 
punish them, and to think that he who is guilty of falsehood or injustice hurts him- 
self more than any one else ; are not these such notions and principles as every wise 
governor or legi.slator would covet above all things to have firmly rooted in the mind 
of every iudi\'Klual under his care ? This is allowed even by the enemies of religion, 
who would fain have it thought the offspring of state policy, honouring its useful- 
ness at the same time that they disparage its truth. What, therefore, cannot be 
acquired by every man's reasoning, must be introduced by precept, and riveted by 
custom ; that is to say, the bulk of mankind must, in all civilised societies, have 
tbeir minds, by timely instruction, well-seasoned and furnished with proper notions, 
which, although the grounds or proofs thereof be unknown to them, will neverthe- 
Jesfii JnHueDce timir conduct, and so far rendei tYv<i\si M^vitvii. \sMi\.uUeca of the state. 
But if you trtiip mcu of the^e their notions, ot, \1 .-^ou vfy\\,\»x^-\^^^RR»^>^'!^S^ -^^e®^ 



•i8 CYCLOP^.DIA of' [to 1727. 

to modesty, decency, justice, charity, and the like, yon wDl soon find them'so many 
monsters utteily unfit for human society. 

1 desire it may be considered that most men want leisure, opportunity, or faculties, 
to derive conclusions from their prmciples, and establish morality on a foundation of 
human science. True it is— as St. Paul observes— that the ' invisible things of God, 
from the creation of the world, are clearly seen ;' and from thence the duties of 
natural religion may be discovered. But these things are seen and discovered by 
those alone who open their eyes and look narrowly for them. Now, if you look: 
throughout the world, you shall find but few of these narrow inspectors and in- 
quirers, very few who make it their business to analyse opinions, and pursue them 
to their rational source, to examine whence truths spring, and how they are in- 
ferred. In short, you shall find all men full of opinions, but knowledge only in a few. 

It is impossible, from the nature and circumstances of humankina, that the mul- 
titude should be philosophers, or that they should know things in their causes. We 
see every day that the rules, or conclusions alone, are snflBcient for the shopkeeper to 
state his account, the sailor to navigate his ship, or the carpenter to measure bis 
timber ; none of which understand the theory, that is to say, the grounds and reasons 
either of arithmetic or geometry. Even so in moral, political, and religious mattere, 
it is manifest that the rules and opinions early imbibed at the first dawn of under- 
standing, and without the least glimpse of science, may yet produce excellent effects, 
and be very useful to the world ; and that, in fact, they are so, will be very visible to 
every one who shall observe what passeth round about him. 

It may not be amiss to inculcate, that the difference between prejudices and other 
opinions doth not consist in this, that the former are false, and the latter true ; but in 
this, that the former are taken upon trust, and the latter acquired by reasoning. He 
who hath been taught to believe the immortality of the soul, ma^ be as right m his 
notion, as he who hath reasoned himself into that opinion. It will then by no means 
follow, that because this or that notion is a prejudice, it must be therefore false. The 
not distinguishing between prejudices and errors is a prevailing oversight among our 
modem freethinkers. 

There may be, indeed, certain mere prejudices or opinions which, having no 
reasons either assigned or assignable to support them, are nevertheless entertained 
by the mind, because they are intruded betimes into it. Such may be supposed 
false, not because they were early learned, or leaiiied without their reasons, but be- 
cause there are in truth no reasons to be given for them. 

Certainly if a notion may be concluded false because it was early imbibed, or be- 
cause it is with most men an object of belief rather than of knowledge, one may by 
the same reasoning conclude several propositions of Euclid to be false. A simple 
apprehension of conclusions, as taken in themselves, without the deductions of 
science, is what falls to the share of mankind in general. Religious awe, the pre- 
cepts of parents and masters, the wisdom of legislatures, and the accumulated ex- 
perience of ages, supply the place of proofs and reasonings with the vulgar of all 
ranks ; I would say that discipline, national constitution, and laws human or Divine, 
are so many plain landmarks which guide them into the paths wherein it is presumed 
they ought to tread. 

From ''Maxims concerning Patriotism. 

A man who hath no sense of God or conscience, would you make such a one 
guardian to your child? If not, whv guardian to the state ? 

A fop or man of pleasure makes out a scurvy patriot. 

He who says there is no such thing as an honest man, you may be sure is himself 
a knave. 

The patriot aims at his private good in the public. The knave makes the public 
subservient to his private interest. The former considers himself as part of a whole, 
the latter considers himself as the whole. 

Moral evil is never to be committed ; physical evil maybe incurred either to avoid 
a^eater evil, or to procure a good. 

When the heart is right, there is true patriotism. 

Tbe fawning courtier and the surly 6q\ui^ olXftUKv^va tke same thin g ■ eac h his 
own interest, 

Fermenta of the worst kind succeed to pertec\.Vn&c\aan. 



NORRis.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 819 



THB REV. JOHN NORMS. 

The Rbv. John Norris (1657-1711), an English Platonist and 
* mystic divine,' was one of the earliest opponents of the philosophy 
of Locke. Hallam characterises him as * more thoroughly Platonic 
than Malebranche, to whom, however, he pays great deference, and 
adopts his fundamental hypothesis of seeing all things in God.* His 
first work, 'A Collection of Miscellanies,' 1678, was popular and went 
through several editions. It consists of poems, essays, discourses, 
and letters. In the preface to this work, Norris says : * It may appear 
strange, that in such a refining age as this, wherein all things seem 
ready to receive tlieir last turn and finishing stroke, poetry should be 
the only thing that remains unimproved.' Yet Milton had only been 
dead four years, and Butler and Dryden were alive ! Norris's own 
poetry is quaint and full of conceits, but he has one simile which was 
copied (or stolen) by two poets — Blair, author of * The Grave,* and 
Thoma§ Campbell (' Pleasures of Hope '). 

How fading are the joys we dote upon ! 

Like apparitions seen and gone : 

But those which soonest take their flight, 

Are the most exquisite and strong : 
Like angel visits short and bright ; * 

MortiQity 's too weak to bear them long. 

The Parting, 

In another piece Norris repeats the image : 

Angels, as 'tis but seldom they appear. 
So neither do they make long stay ; 
They do but visit and away. 

We may quote a few more lines containing poetic fancy and ei^pres- 

sion: 

Distance presents the objects fair. 
With charming features and a ^aceful air, 
But when we come to seize th' inviting prey. 
Like a shy ghost, it vanishes away. 

So to th' unthinking boy the distant sky, 
Seems on some mountain's surface to rely : 
He with ambitious haste climbs th' ascent, 
Curious to touch the firmament ; 
But when with an unwearied pace, 
Arrived he is at the long wished-f or place, 
With sighs, the sad event he does deplore — 
His Heaven is still as distant as before. 

The works of Norris are numerous : * The Picture of Love Unveiled,' 
1682 ; *An Idea of Happiness,' 1683 ; * Practical Discourses,' 4 vols 
1687; ^Discourses upon the Beatitudes,* 1691 ^ *A Philosophical Dis- 
course coDcermng the Immortality o? XUe '^o\3\' Vi^'^, 



k 



320 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

• 

On Perfect Happiness, 

Nothing does more constantly, more inseparably, cleave to onr minds, than this 
desire of perfect and coDSummated happiness. This Is the most excellent end of all 
our endeavours, the great prize, the great hope. This is the mark every man shoots 
at ; and though we miss our aim never so often, yet we will not, cannot give C'ver, 
but, like passionate lovers, take resolution from a repulse. The rest 01 our pas- 
sions are much at our own disposal ; yield either to reason or time ; we either 
armie ourselves out of them, or at least outlive them. We are not always in love 
with pomp and grandeur, nor always dazzled with the glittering of riches ; and there 
is a season when pleasure itself— that is, sensible pleasure — shall court in vain. But 
the desire of perfect happiness has no intervals, no vicissitudes. It outlasts the 
motion of the pulse, and survives the ruins of the grave. * Many waters cannot 
quench it, neither can the floods drown it.' And now certainly God would never 
have planted such an ardent, such an importunate appetite in our souls ; and, as it 
were, interwoven it with our very natures, had he not been able to satisfy it. 

I come now to shew wherein this perfect happiness does consist ; concerning 
which, I affirm in the first place, that it is not to be found in anything we can enjoy 
in this life. The greatest fruition we have of God here is imperfect, and consequent- 
ly unsatisfactory. And as for all other objects they are miite, and consequently, 
though never so fully enjoyed, cannot afford us perfect satisfaction. No, *■ man 
knoweth not the price thereof ; neither is it found in the land of the living. The 
depth saith. It is not in me ; and the sea saith, It is not vrith me ' (Job xxviii. 13. H). 
The vanity of the creature has been so copiously discoursed upon, both by j>hiIosd- 
phers and divines, and withal is so obvious to every thinking man's experience, 
that I need not here take an inventory of the creation, nor turn Ecclesiastes after 
Solomon. I shall only add one or two remarks concerning the objects of secular 
happiness. The first is this, that the objects wherein men generally seek for 
happiness here, are not only finite in their nature, but also few in number. Indeed, 
could a man's Jife be so contrived, that he should have a new pleasure still ready at 
hand as soon as he was grown weary of the old, and every day enjoy a virgin de- 
light, he might then, perhaps, like Mr. Hobbes's motion, and for a while thiuk 
himself happy in this continued succession of new acquisitions. But, alas ! nature 
does not treat us with this variety ; the compass of our enjoyments is much shwtcr 
than that of our lives, and there is a periodical circulation of our pleasures, as 
well as of our lives. The enjoyments of our lives run in a perpetual round, like the 
months in the calendar, but with a quicker revolution jwe dance like fairies in a 
circle, and our whole life is but a nauseous tautology. We rise like the sun, and run 
the same course we did the day before ; and to-morrow is but the same over again. 
, . . But there is another grievance which contributes to defeat our endeavours after 
perfect happiness in the enjoyment of this life ; which is, that the objects wherein 
we seek it are not only fiuite and few, but that they commonly prove occasions of 
greater sorrow to us, than ever they afforded us content. This may be made out 
several wtnrs, as from the labour of getting, the care of keeping, the fear of 
losing, and the like topics commonly insisted upon by others. But I waive 
these and fix upon another account less blown upon, and I think more material 
than any of the rest. It is this : that although the object loses that great appearance 
in the fruition which it had in the expectation, yet, after it is gone, it resumes it again. 
Now we, when we lament the loss, do not take our measures from that appeaiance 
which the object had in the enjoyment (as we should do to make our sorrow not 
exceed our happiness), but from that which it has in the reflection : and consequently 
we must needs be more miserable in the loss that we were happy in the enjoyment. 

From these and the like considerations, I think it will evidently appear, that this 
perfect happiness is not to be found in anything we can enjoy in this life. Wherein 
then does it consist? I answer positively in the full and entire fruition of God. He, 
as Plato speaks, is theproper and principal end of man, the centre of our tendency, 
the ark of our rest. He is the object which alone can satisfy the appetite of the 
jnoet capaciona soul, and stand the test of fmition to eternity, and to enjoy him 
faJJy 2B perfect felicitj. 



DEFOE,] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 821 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITERS. 

DAKIBL DEFOE. 

The political contests of this period engaged a host of miscellane- 
ous -writers. Tije most powerful and effective belonged to the Tory 
or Jacobite party ; but the Whigs possessed one iiDflinchiDg aud 
prolific champion— Daniel Foe, or De Foe, as he chose afterwards 
to write his name — the father or founder of the English novel and 
author, it is said, of 254 separate publications I This excellent writer 
was a native of London, the son of a St. Giles butcher, and dissenter. 
Daniel was born in 1661, and was intended to be a Presbyterian min- 
ister, having with this view studied five years at a dissenters' acaiiemy 
at Newington. He acquired a competent knowledge of the Latiif 
and Greek classics, and afterwards added lo these an acquaintance 
with the Spanish, Italian, and French languages. When the Mon- 
mouth insurrection broke out, Defoe followed the Duke's standard 
On the failure of the enterprise, he escaped punishment, and entered 
on business as a wholesale trader in liosiery in Freeman's Court, 
Cornhill. He next became a mercliant-adventurer, and visited Spain 
and Portugal. He failed in business, and compounded with his 
creditors, who accepted a composition on his- single bond. 

*He forced his way,' he says, * through a sea of misfortunes, and 
reduced his debts, exclusive of composition, from £17,000 to less than 
£5000.' He then became secretary lo, and ultimately owner of works 
at Tilbury for the manufacture of bricks and pantiles. This also was 
an unsuccessful undertaking, and Defoe lost by its failure a sum of 
£3000. Before this he had become known to the government of 
William III. as an able writer, and was appointed accountant to the 
Commissioners of the Glass Duty, which oflSce he held from 1695 till 
the duty was suppressed in 1699. As an author, the first undoubted 
work by Defoe, though published anonymously, was a * Letter on His 
Majesty's Declaration for Liberty of Conscience' (1687). Defoe 
justly considered that the dictation of James II. suspending laws 
without the consent of parliament, was a subversion of the whole 
government or constitution of the country. The Revolution coming 
soon after, I)efoe was one of the steadiest supporters of its principles. 
In March 1698, he published a remarkable volume, *An Essay upon 
Projects,' in wliich various schemes and improvements are recom- 
mended, the work evincing great sagacity, knowledge and ingenuity. 
One of his projects was a savings-bank for the poor. In 1701, he 
made a great success. His ' True-born Englishman,' a poetical satire 
on the foreigners, and a defence of King William and the Dutch, had 
an fi]mo8t unexampled sale. Eighty W\o\x?»«i.Tv^ ^vc^X^^ ^^^t^vk^ ^\ "^Jssfc 
poems were sold on tlje streets. Defoe ^aa m \^«X\V^ tlc^ ^q>^\.Ow^V^ 
could reason in veraOy and bad an unVimlVft^ eomxaasiJi oWorsaj^ "WiS^ 



822 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

forcible language. The opening lines of this satire have often been 

quoted : 

Wherever God erects a house of prayer. 
The devil always builds a chapel there ; 
And 'twill be found upon examination, 
The latter has the largest congregation. 

Various political tracts followed from the active pen of our author. 
In 1702, he wrote an ironical treatise against the High-Church party, 
entitled * The Shortest Way with the Dissenters,' which was voted a 
libel by the House of ConinioDs ; and the author being apprehended, 
was fined, pilloried, and imprisoned. He wrote a hymn to the pU- 
lory (1704), which he wittily styled 

A hieroglypic state-machine. 
Condemned to punish fancy in ; 

and Pope alluded to the circumstance, exaggerating the punishment, 
with the spirit of a political partisan, not that of a friend to literature 
or liberty, in his * Dunciad ' — 

Earless on high stood unabashed Defoe. 

The political victim lay nearly two years in Newgate, during which 
he carried on his periodical work, * Tbe Review,' published thrice a 
week. The character of Defoe, notwithstanding his political perse- 
cution, must have stood high ; for he was employed in 1706 by the 
cabinet of Queen Anne on a mission to Scotland to advance the great 
measure of tiie Union, of which he afterwards wrote a history. He 
agam tried his hand at political irony, and issued three significant 
pamphlets — * Reasons against the Succession of the House of Hano- 
ver;' and* What if the Pretender should Come?' and *An Answer 
to a Question that Nobody thinks of— viz : But what if the Queen 
should Die?' These were all published in 1713, and ran througli sev- 
eral editions. But neither Whig nor T#ry could undei-stand Defoe's 
ironical writings. He was taken into custody, and had to find bailj 
himself in £800, and two friends in £400 each, to answer for the 
alleged libels. 

Through the influence of Harley, Lord Oxford, however, Defoe 
obtained a pardon under the Great Seal, confuting the charges brought 
against him, and exempting him from any consequences thereatler 
on account of those publications. These disasters were supposed to 
have made Defoe withdraw altogether from politics; but in 1864 
certain letters were discovered in the State Paper Office in Defoe's 
handwriting, shewing that he was engaged on several political jour- 
nals in 1718. * In considering,' he says, * which way I might be ren- 
dered most useful to the o^overnment, it was proposed by my Lord 
Townshend (Secretary of State) \Yvftt 1 should still appear as if I were 
&9 before, under the displeasure o^ V\\^ ^c^^etNVKv^xiVw^^ separated 
from the Whi^s, and that 1 m\g\\\. \i^ x^o^ «.^\n\<»'8;X3v^ \\v •^v.^KiRsgi.^^ 
disguise, than if I appeared openVy? lu \\i\^Nq«s\i^xai^«evw^Nto 



DEFOE.J ENGLISH LITERATURE. 323 

• 

take the snug out of three or four opposition papers, which by his 
management would be so disabled and enervated as to do no mischief, 
or give any offence to the government.' For this degrading secret 
service, Defoe was no doubt well rewarded, but there is reason to 
believe that it proved unfortunate in the end. His greatest literary 
triumph was yet to come. In 1719, appeared his * Robinson Crusoe.* 
The extraordinaiy success of this work prompted him to, write a 
variety of other fictitious narratives and miscellaneous works — as 

* Captain Singleton,' 1720; * Duncan Campbell,' 1720; 'Moll Flan- 
ders,' 1721; * Colonel Jack,' 1722; * Religious Courtship,' 1722 

* Journal ot the Plague Year,' 1722; * Memoirs of a Cavalier,' 1724; 

* Tour through Great Britain,' 1724-27 ; * Roxana,' 1724 ; ' Political His- 
tory of the Devil,' 1726 ; * System of Magic,' 1727; * History cf Appa- 
ritions,' 1727; 'The Complete English Tradesman,' 1727; * Memoirs 
of Captain Carleton,' 1728; i&c. The life of this active and volumin- 
ous writer was closed in April 1731. 

It seems to have been one of continued struggle with want, dul- 
ness, persecution, misfortune, and disease. But, he adds in his last 
letter, * Be it that the passage is rough and the day stormy, by what 
way soever He please to bring me to the end of it, I desire to finish 
life with this temper of soul in all cases: Te Deum Laudamua.^ 
Posterity has separated the wheat from the chaff of Defoe's writings : 
his political tracts have sunk into oblivion; but his works of fiction 
still charm by their air of truth, and the simple natural beauty of 
their style. As a novelist, he was the father of Richardson, and partly 
of Fielding ; as an essayist, lie suggested the * Tatler ' and * Specta- 

♦ tor ;' and in grave irony he may have given to Swift his first lessons. 
The intensity of feeling characteristic of the dean — his merciless 
scorn and invective, and fierce misanthropy — were unknown to De- 
foe, who must have been of a cheerful and sanguine temperament ; 
but in identifying himself with his personages, whether on sea or 
land, and depicting their adventures, he was not inferior to fciwift. 
His imagination had no visions of surpassing loveliness, nor any rich 
combinations of humour and eccentricity ; yet he is equally at home 
in the plain scenes of English life, in the wars of the cavaliers, in the 
haunts of dissipation and infamy, in the roving adventures of the 
bucaneers, and in the appalling visitations of the Great Plague. The 
account of the plague has often been taken for a genuine and authen- 
tic history, and even Lord Chatham believed the ' Memoirs of a Cava- 
lier ' to be a tiTie narrative. In scenes of diablerie and witchcraft, he 
preserves the same unmoved and truth-like demeanour. The appa- 
rition of Mrs. Veal, at Canterbury, * the eighth of September 1705,' 
seems as true and indubitable a fact as any that ever passed before 
our eyes. 
VnfortuDatelyy the taste or circumatB.Tice& of liefer V^A \si\SL \s5c<aa.tX^ 

Into low life, and his characters are geueiaXVY «^x^^^^^^'«»2osi55i^'€'5^s^- 
patbise with. The whole arcana oi logvxer^ Wi^^^^Mssrj ^fcsss^'va 



324 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727 

have been open to him. His experiences of Newgate were not with- 
out their use to the novelist It might be thought that the good taste 
which led Defoe to write in a style of such pure and unpretending 
English, instead of the inflated manner of vulgar writers, would have 
dictated a more careful selection of his subjects, and kept him from 
wandering so frequently into the low and disgustiug purlieus of vice. 
But this moral and tasteful discrimination seems to have been wholly 
wanting.' He was too good and religious a man to break down the 
distinctions between virtue and crime. He selected the adventures 
of pirates, pickpockets, and other characters of the same worthless 
stamp, because they were likely to sell best, and made the most at- 
tractive narrative ; but he nowhere holds them up lor imitation. He 
evidently felt most at home where he had to descend, not to rise, to 
his subject. The circumstances of Robinson Crusoe, his shipwreck 
and residence in the solitary island, invest that incomparable tale 
with more romance than any of his other works. * Pathos,* says Sir 
Walter Scott, * is not Defoe's general characteristic; lie had too little 
delicacy of mind. When it comes, it comes uncalled, and is created 
by the circumstances, not sought for by the author. The excess, for 
instance, of the natural longing for human society which Crusoe 
manifests while on board of the stranded Spanish vessel, by falling 
into a sort of agony, as he repeated the words : " Oh, that but one 
man had been saved ! — oh, that there had been but one !" is in the 
highest degree pathetic. The agonising reflections of the solitary, 
when he is in danger of being driven to sea, in his rash attempt to 
circumnavigate his island, are also affecting. 

To these striking passages may be added the description of Crusoe's ^ 
sensations on finding the footprint on the sand — an incident con- 
ceived in the spirit of poetry. The character of Friday, though his 
appearance on the scene breaks tlie solitary seal of the romance, is a 
highly interesting and pleasing delineation, that gives a charm to 
savage life. The great success of this novel induced the 'author to 
write a continuation to it, in which Crusoe is again brought among 
the busy haunts of men ; the attempt was hazardous, and it proved a 
failure. The once solitary island, peopled by mariners and traders, 
is disenchanted, and becomes tame, vulgar, and commonplace. The 
relation of adventures, not the delineation of character and passion, 
was the forte of Defoe. His invention of common incidents and 
situations seems to have been unbounded ; and those minute refer- 
ences and descriptions * immediately lead us,' as has been remai'ked 
by Dunlop in his * History of Fiction,' ' to give credit to the whole 
narrativoy since we think they would hardly have been mentioned 
unless they had been true. The same circumstantial detail of facts 
IS remarkable in " Gulliver's TraveVs^ a.ici^'^e «Lre led on by them to 
a partial belief in the most improbaYAe ixwttvXxo^^^ t\i^ ^^-^^t of 
Defoe in feigning reality, or forging fht TiaudiJDTUmg oj u(i*.uTe,,"5ia.*>X 
^as been forcibly termed, may be aeeu m \>\i.ft u-asx^Nlvi^ oH^^^^s^^ 



DEFOE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 825 

apparition. It was prefixed to a religious book, * Drelincourt on 
Death/ and had the effect of drawing attention to an otherwise un- 
saleable au<l neglected work. The imposition was a bold one — per- 
haps the 1< a-tt defensible of all his inventions. 

Defoe is more natural even than Swift ; and his style, though in- 
ferior in directness and energy, is more copious. He was strictly an 
orii(inal writer, with strong clear conceptions ever rising up in his 
mind, which he was able to embody iu language equally perspicuous 
and forcible. He had both read and seen muclj, and treasured up an 
amount of knowledge and observation certainly not equalled by the 
store of any writer of that day. When we consider the misfortunes 
and suflferiDgs of Defoe ; that his spirit had been broken, and his 
means wasted, by persecution ; that his health wtis struck down by 
apoplexy, and upwards of fifty-seven years had passed over him — his 
composition of ' Robinson Crusoe,* and the long train of fictions 
which succeeded it, must appear a remarkable instance of native 
geniu-t, self-reliance, and energy of character. 

We subjoin a short specimen of Def()e*s irony. It was often too 
subtle and obscure for popular apprehension, but the following is at 
once obvious and ingenious. 

What if the Pretender %hovld Come f 

Give us leave, people of Great Britain, to lay before you a little sketch of your 
future felicity, under the auBpicioas reign of such a glorious prince as we all hope 
and believe the Pretender to be. First, you are to aTow, that by such a just and 
righttious shutting up o{ the Exchequer in about seven years' time, he may be sup- 
posed to have received about forty millions sterling from his people, which not being 
to be found in specie in the kiugdom. will, for. the benefit of circulation, enable him 
to treasure up influite funds of wealth in foreign banks, a prodigious mass of for- 
eign bullion, gold, jewels, and plate, to be ready in the Tower or elsewhere, to be 
issued upon future emergency, as occasion may allow. This prodigious wealth will 
necessanly have these happy events, to the infinite satisfaction and advantage of the 
whole nation, and the benefit of which I hopj none will be so unjust or ungrateful 
to deny. 1. It will for evi^r after deliver this nation from the burden, the expense, 
the formality, and tho tyranny of p.u'iaments. No one can perhaps at the first view 
be rightly sensible of the many aavautages of this article, and from how many mia- 
chiets it will deliver this nation. How the country gentlemen wiU be no longer 
h'lrassed to come, at the command of every court occasion, and upon every sum- 
mons by the prince's proclamatiou from their families i nd other occasions, whether 
they can be spared from thdr wives, Ac or no, or whether they can trust their 
wives behind them or no ; nay, whether they can epare money or no for the journey, 
or wh Jther they must come carriage paid or no ; then they will no more be unntces- 
sarily expos d to-long and hazardous journeys in the depth of winter, tvom the remot- 
est corners of the isiand, to come to London, ju.-'t to g ve away the country's money 
and go home again ; all this will be dispensed with by the kind and praci us man- 
agement of the Pretender. \vh'j*a he, God bless us ! shall be our most gracious sov- 
cr-ign. 2. Iu the happy cousjqii ;nce of the demise of parliaments, the country will 
be eased of that intolerable burden of travelling to elections, sometimes in the mid- 
dle of their harvest, whenever the writs of elections arbitrarily summon them. 3. 
And with then* th ". poor gentlemen will be eased of that abominable grievance of the 
nation, viz. the expense of elections, by which s6 many gentlemen of estates have 
D6eu ruined, so many innocent people, of honest principles before, have been de- 
bauched and made mercenary, partial, porjuted, and been olinded with bribes to sell 
Tijeir country and lihertiea txi who bidfe taost. It \ft "w^^^o^rcXvcw ^sSXK^^sA.'^^^iss^ 
m yam, this diatemper has been the conataat couceni ol ^^^f ikSKcassoX. ^<5^ ^o^assi ^^k^gJ^ 



y^ 



326 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727, 

to cure and to provide sufflcient remedies for. Now. if ever, the effectual remedy 
for this is found out, to the inexpressible advantage of the whole nation ^ and this, 
perhaps, is the only cure for it that the nature of the disease will admit of ; what 
terrible havoc has this kind of trade made among the estates of the gen^ and the 
morals of the common people I How has it kept alive the factions and divisions of 
the country people, keeping them in a constant agitation, and in triennial commo- 
tions ? so, that, what with forming new interests and cultivating old, the heats and 
animosities never cease among the people. But once set the Ptetender upon the 
throne, and let the funds he but happily stopped, and paid into his hands, that he 
may be in no more need of a parliament, and all these aistempers will be cured as 
effectually as a fever is cured by cutting off the head, or a halter cures the bleeding 
at the nose. 

TJ16 Great Plague in London. 

Much about the same time I walked out into the fields towards Bow, for I had a 
great mind to see how thinjgs were managed in the river and among the ships ; and 
as I had some concern in shipping, I had a notion that it had been one of me best 
ways of securing one's self from the infection to have retired into a ship ; and mus- 
ing how to satisfy my curiosity in that point, I turned away over the fields, from 
Bow to Bromley, and down to Blackwall, to the stairs that are there for landing or 
taking water. 

Here I s&w a poor man walking on the bank or sea-wall, as they call it, by him- 
self. 1 walked a while also about7 seeing the houses all shut up ; at last I fell into 
some talk at a distance, with this poor man. Fii'st I af)ked him how people did 
thereabouts. *Alas! sir,' says he, 'almost desolate; all dead or sick. Here are 
very few families in this part, or in that village '—pointing at Poplar — * where half of 
them are dead alreadj, and the rest sick.' Then he, pointing to one house ; * There 
they are all dead,' said he, * and the house stands open ; nobody dares go into it. A 
poor thief,* says he, ' ventured in to steal something, but he paid dear for his theft, 
tor he was carried to the churchyard too, last night.' Then he pointed to several 
other houses. ' There,' says he, * they are all dean— the man and his wife and five 
children. There,' says he, ' they are shut up ; you see a watchman at the door ; and 
so of other houses.' 'Why,' says I, • what do you here all alone ?' * Why,' says he, 

* I am a poor desolate man : it hath phased God I am not yet visited, though my 
family is, and one of my children dei^:' * How do you mean then,' said I, * that yon 
are not visited ?' * Why,' says he. ' that is my house '—pointing to a very little low- 
boarded house — * and there my poor wife and two children live,°said he, * if they may 
be said to live ; for my wife and one of the children ai-e visited, but I do not come at 
them.* And with that word I saw the tears run veiy plentifully down his face ; and 
so they did down mine too, I assure you. 

' But,' said J, * why do you not come at them ? How can you abandon your own 
flesh and blood ?' ' O, sir,' says he, * the Lord forbid. I do not abandon them ; I 
work for them as mucV as I am able ; and blessed be the Lord, I keep them from 
want.* And with that I observed he lifted up his eyes to heaven with a countenance 
that presently told me I had happened on a man that was no hypocrite, but a serions 
religious, good man ; and his ejaculation was an expression of thankfulness, that, in 
such a condition as he was in, he should be able to sa^ his family did not want. 

* Well,' savs 1, * honest man, that is a great mercy, as things go now with the poor. 
But how do you live then, and how are you kept ftoixi the dreadful calamity that is 
now upon us aU ?' * Why, sir,' says he, * I am a waterman, and there is my boat,' 

he * ' 




says he, ^ I halloo and call to them till I make them hear, and they come and fetch it' 
' Well, friend,' says I, * but how can you get money as a waterman ? Does aijy- 
hody go by water these times ?' 

' res, sir,' says he, * in the way I am employed, there does. Do yon see there,' 

Bays be, *Ave ships lie at anchor r—polnttai ^o^mi the river a good way below the 

town—* and do you see,' says he, ^ e\g)Q.t oi Uax ft\iVofe "^^ ttX ^"b ^'«&&. there, and at 

^cbor yonder ?'— pointiiig above t\ie to\m. *Aa.mci«fe %\!\^\i.w^^scEs&Ma^\CV«B&, 

of their merchants and owners, and BU.c\iYftLe,'<w\io\!iwfe V^^ ^s«ro»gs!W&\ss4^>B^ 

Jivti on board, close shut in, for tear ot live \DiftcXiOTL\ m^ WksA ^NJBssai.\^ \siq^ 



DEFOE.J ENGLISH LITERATURE. 327 \ 

things for 1116111, carry letters, and do what is absolutely necessary, that they may 
not Be obliged to come on shore ; and every night I fasten my boat on board one of 
the ship's TOats, and there I sleep by myself ; and blessed be God, I am preserved 
hitherto.' 

* Well,' said I, ' friend, but will they let you come on board after you have been 
on shore here, when this has been such a terrible place, and so infected as it is?' 

* Why, as to that,* said he, * I very seldom go up the ship-side, but deliver what I 
bring to their boat, or lie by the side, and they hoist it on board. If I did, I think 
thev are in no danger from me, for I never go into any house on shore, or touch any- 
body, no, not of my own family ; but I fetch provisions for them.' 

*Nay,' says I, * but that may be worse, for you must have those provisions of 
somebody or other ; and since all this part of the town is so infected, it is dangerous 
so much as to speak with anybody ; for the village,' said I, ' is, as it were, the begin- 
ning of liOndon, though it be at some distance from it.' 

*That is true,' added he, ' but you do not understand me right. I do not buy pro- 
visions for them here ; I row up to Greenwich, and buy fresh meat there, and some- 
times I row down the river to Woolwich, and buy there ; then I go to single farm- 
houses on the Kentish side, where I am known, and buy fowls, and eggs, and butter, 
and bring to the ships, as they direct me, sometimes one, sometimes the other. I 
seldom come on shore here ; and I came only now to call my wife, and hear how my 
little family do. and ^ve them a little money which I received last night.' 

* Poor man I' said 1, * and how much hast thou gotten for them ?' 

' I have gotten four shillings,' said he, ' which is a great sum, as things go now 
with poor men : but they have given me a bag of bread too, and a salt fish, and some 
flesh ; so all helps out.' 

* Well,' said I, * and have you given it them yet ?' 

' No.' said he, * but I have called, and my wife has answered that she cannot come 
out yet ; but in half an hour she hopes to come, and I am waiting for her. Poor 
woman !' s^s he, ' she is brought sadly down ; she has had a swelling, and it is 
broke, and I hope she will recover, but I fear the child will die ; but it is the Lord I' 
Here he stopped, and wept very much. 

* Well, honest friend,' said I, * thou hast a sure comforter, if thou hast'brought 
thyself to be resigned to the will of God ; He is dealing with us all in judgment.' 

'O sir,' says he, Mt is infinite mercy if any of us are spared ; and who am I to 
repine I' 

* Say'st thou so,' said I ; ' and how much less is my faith than thine I' And here 
my heart smote me, suggesting how much better this poor man's foundation was, 011 
which he staid in the danger, than mine ; that he had nowhere to fly ; that he had a 
family to bind him to attendance, which I had not ; and mine was mere presumption, 
his a true dependence and a courage resting on God ; and yet, that he used all possi- 
ble caution for his safety. 

I turned a little way from the man while these thoughts engaged me ; for indeed 
I could no more refrain from tears than he. , 

At length, after some further talk, the poor woman opened the door, and cahed 
* Robert, liobert ;' he answered, and bid her stay a few moments and he would come ; 
so he ran down the common stairs to his boat, and fetched up a sack in which was 
the provisions he had brought from the ships ; and when he returned, he hallooed 
again ; then he went to the great stone which he shewed me, and emptied the sack, 
and laid all out, everything by themselves, fnd then retired ; and his wife came with 
a little boy to fetch them away ; and he called, and said, such a captain had sent such 
a thing, and such a captain such a thing ; and at the end adds : ' God has sent it all ; 
give thanks to Him.' When the poor woman had taken up all, she was so weak, she 
could not carry it at once iu, though the weight was not much neither ; so she left 
the biscuit, which was in a little bag, and leu a little boy to watch it till she came 
again. 

* Well, but,' says I to him, * did you leave .her the four shillings too, which you 
said was your week's pay ?' 

*Yes, yes,' says he; -you shall hear her own it.' So he calls again: 'Bachel, 
Rachel ' — wWch it seems was her name — * did you take up the money ?' * Yes,' said 
she. * How much was it ?' said he. ' Four shillings and a groat,' said she. * Well, 
well,' says he, ♦ the Lord keep you all ;' and so he turned to go away. 

Ab I could not refrain contnbuting tears to IMa maii?% ^Xors 1 ^o^^*^^^^"^ CAiaL^l tA- 



328 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

frain m^ charity for his aseistance; so I called him. ' Hark thee, friend/ said I, 
* come hitlier, for I believe thou art in health, that I may venture thee ;' so I pniled 
out my hand, which was in my pocket before. 'Here,' says I, *ffO and call thy 
Rachel once more, and give her a little more comfort from me ; Goa will never for- 
sake a family that trust in him as thou dost :' so I gave him four other shillings, and 
bid him go lay them on the stone, and call his wife. 

I have not words to express the poor man's thankfulness, neither could ho express 
it himself, but by tears running down his face. He called his wife, and told her God 
had moved the heart of a stranger, upon hearing their condition, to give them all that 
money; and a great deal more such as that he said to her. The woman, too, made 
Mgns of the like thankfulness, as well to Heaven as to me, and joyfully picked it op; 
and I parted with no money all that year that I thought better bestowed. 

TI16 Troubles of a Youiig Thief— From the 'Life of Colonel Ja^ck.' 

I have often thought since that, and with some mirth too, how I had really mori' 
wealth than I knew what to do with [five pounds, his share of the plunder] ; for 
lodEjiug I had none, nor any box or drawer to hide my money in, nor had I aoy 
pocket, but such as I say was full of holes ; I knew nobody in the world that I could 
go and desire them to lay it up for me ; for being, a poor, naked, ragged boy. they 
would presently say I had robbed somebody, and perhaps lay hold of me, and my 
money would be my crime, as they say it often is in foreign countries ; and now. »!* 
I was full of wealth, behold I was full of care, for what to do to secure my money -1 
could not t^'U ; and this held me so long, and was so vexatious to me the next day, 
that I truly sat down and cried. 

Nothing could be more perplexing than this money was to me all that night. 1 
carried it m my hand a good while, for it was in gold all but 14«.; and that is to say, 
it was four guineas, and that 14«. was more difficult to carry than the four guineas. 
At last I sat down and pulled off one of my shoes, end put the four guineas into that; 
but after I had gone awhile, my shoe hurt me so I could not go, so 1 was fain to sit 
down again, and take it out of niy shoe, and carry it in my hand ; then I found n 
dirty linen rag m the street, and 1 100k that up, and wrapp^ it a 1 together, and car- 
ried it in that a good way. I have often since heard people say when they havcbeei! 
talking of money that they could could not get in, * I wish I had it in a foul clout:" 
in trum, I had mine in a foul clout ; for it was foul, according to the letter of thai 
saying, but it served mc till I came to a convenient place, and then I sat down and 
washed the cloth in the kennel, and so then put my money in again. 

Well, I carried it home with me to my lodging in the glass-honsc, and when I 
went to go to sleep, I knew not what to do with it; if I had let any of the black crew 
I was with know of it, I should have been smothered in the ashes for it ; so I ^lew 
not what to do, but lay w th it in my hand, and my hand in my bosom ; but then 
Pie p went from my f y s. Oh, the weight of human care I I, a poor beegar-boy, could 
• not sleep, so soon'as I had but a little money to keep, who, before tnat, could have 
sle.)t upon a heap of bri kbat?, stones, or cinders, or anywhere, as sound as a rich man 
dojs ou his down bed. and sounder too. 

Every now and then droppiug asleep, I should dream that my money was lost, and 
start like le frightened ; tnen finding it fast in my hand, try to go to sleep again, 
but could not for a long while ; then drop and start again. At last a fancy came into 
my head, that if I fell asleep, I should dream of the money, and talk of it in my 
sleep, and tell that I had money; which, if I should do, and one of the rogues should 
liear me, th.y would pick It out of my bosom, and of my hand too, without waking 
me ; and after that thought I could not sleep a wink more ; so I passed that night 
over in care and anxiety enough and this, I may safely say, was the first night^s rest 
that I lost by the cares of this life and the dcceitfulness of riches. 

As soon as it was day, I ^ot out of the hole we lay in, and rambled abroad in the 

fields towards Stepney, and there ? mused and considered what I should do with 

this money, and many a time I wished that I had not had it ; for after all my 

ramiDHtiDg upon it, and what course I should take with it, or where 1 should put it, 

/ could Dot h2t upon any one thing, or awy possible method to secure it : and it per- 

plexed me 80, that at last, as 1 said ^txrI now, \ aaX. ^ov;\i wift.m%^\v«a.Ttlly. 

When my cryinff was over, tbe caao vras \.\ve «a.'av^\ \.\^«A.NJaft xasxoss^^S^^A. 
what to do with it f coiUd not teU: at laat \t caxoft Veto m^ ^«*^ ^^"V 5SQS»i&.\^5^ 



\ •■ 



DEFOE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 329 

ont for some hole in a tree, and see to hide it there* till I should have occasion for it. 
Big with this discovery, as I then thought it, I began to look about me for a tree : 
but there were no trees In the fields about Stepney or Mile-end that looked fit for my 
porpose ; and if there were any that I began to look narrowly at, the fields were so 
lull of people that they would see if I went to hide anything there, and I thought the 
people eyed me, as it were, and that two men in particular followed me to see what 
I intended to do. 

This drove me further off, and I crossed the road at Mile-end, and in the middle 
of the town went down a lane that goes away to the Blind Beggar's at Bethnal Green. 
When I got a little way in the lane, I found a footpath over the fields, and in those 
fields several trees for my turn, as I thought ; at last, one tree had a little hole in it, 
pretty hifijh out of mj reach, and I climbed up the ti-ee to get it, and when I came 
there I put my hand in, and found, as I thought, a place very fit ; so I placed my 
^treasure there, and was mighty well satisfied with it : but, behold, putting my hand 
in again, to lay it more commodiously, as I thought, of a sudden it 8lipi>ea away 
from me ; and I found the tree was ho'low, and my little parcel was fallen in out of 
mjr reach, and how far it might go in I knew not ; so that, in a word, my money was 
quite gone, irrecoverably lost ; there could be no room so much as to hope ever to 
see it again, for it was a vast great tree. 

As \ oung as I was, I was now sensible what a fool I was before, that I could not 
think of ways to keep my money, but I must come thus far to throw it into a hole 
where I con d not reach it : well, I thrust my hand quite up to my elbow ; but no 
bottom was to be found, nor any end of the hole or cavity ; I gut a stick of the tree, 
and thrust it in a great way, but all was one ; then I cried, nay, roared out, I was in 
such a passion ; then I got down the tree again, then up again, and thrust in my 
hand again till I scratched my arm and made it bleed, and cried all the while most 
violently ; then I began to think I had not so much as a half-penny of it left for a 
half-penny roll, and I was hungry, and then 1 cried again : then I came away in de- 
spair, crying and roaring like a little boy that had been whi[>ped ; then I went back 
again to the tree, and up the tree again, and thus I did several times. 
. The last time I had gotten up the tree I happened to come down not on the same 
side that I went up and came down before, but on the other side of the tree, and on 
the other side of the bank also ; and, behold, the tree had a great open place in the 
side of it close to the ground, as old hollow trees often have ; and looking in the 
open place, to my inexpressible joy there lay my money and my linen rag, all wrap- 
ped up just as I had put it into the hcle ; for the tree being hollow all the way up, 
there had been some moss or light stuff, which I had not judgment enough to know 
was not firm, that had given way when it came to drop out of my hand, and so it had 
slipped quite down at once. 

I was but a child, and I rejoiced like a child, for I holloaed quite out aloud when 
I saw it ; then I ran to it and snatched it up, hugged and kissed the dirty rag a hun- 
dred times ; then danced and jumped about, ran from one end of the field to the 
other, and, in short, I knew not what, much less do I know now what I did, though 
I shall never forget the thing ; either what a sinking grief it was to my heart when 
I thought I had Tost it, or what a flood of joy overwhelmed me when I had got it 
again. 

While I was in the first transport of my joy, as I have said, I ran about and knew 
not what I did : but when that was over, I sat down, opened the foul clout the 
money was in, looked at it, told it, found it was all there, and then I fell a-crylng as 
violently as I did before, when I thought I had lost it. 

Advice to a Youth of RarMing Disposition, — From ''Robinson GrusoeJ* 

B jing the third son of the family* and not bred to any trade, my head began to be 
filled very early with rambling thoughts. My father, who was very anctent, had 
given me a competent share or learning, as far as house education and a country free 
school generally go, and designed me for the law : but I would be satisfied with noth- 
ing but going to sea ; and my inclination to this led me so strongly again6^t the will — 
nay, the commands — of my father, and against all the entreaties and persuasions of 
my mother and other friends, that there seemed to be something fatal in that pro- 
peiDskm ot nature^ tending directly to the life oi miBerj v^VAcYi vroa \a Vy&l%.VV \ssa, 
Mjr father, a wise and grave man, gave me aeiiouft wi^ ^x<i:sJ^<asX '^sosr^ ^sg^aiax 



830 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

what he foresaw was my design. He called me one morning into his chamber, where 
he was confined by the-gont, and ezpostnlated yery warmly with me npon this eab- 
ject. He asked me what reasons, more than a mere wandering inclination, I had for 
leaving my father's house and my native country, where I might be well introduced, 
and h^ a prospect of raising my fortunes by application and industry, with a life of 
ease and pleasure. He told me it was only men of desperate fortunes on one hand, 
or of aspmng superior fortunes on the other, who went abroad upon adventures, to 
rise by enterprise, and make themselves famous in undertakings of a nature out of 
the common road ; that these things were all either too far above. me, or too far be- 
low me : that mine was the middle state, or what might be called the upper station 
of low life, which he had found, by long exi>erience, was the best state In the woild 
— the most suited to human happiness ; not exposed to the miseries and hardships, 
the labour and sufferings, of the mechanic part of mankind, and not embarrassed 
with the pride, luxury, ambition, and envy, of the upper part of mankind. He told 
me I might judge of the happiness of this state by this one thing, namely, that this 
Nvas the state of life whicn all other people envied; that kings have frequently 
lamented the miserable consequence of being bom to great things, and wished they 
had been placed in the middle of the two extremes, between the mean and the great; 
that the Wise Man gave his testimony to this, as the just standard of true f^icity. 
when he prayed to nave neither poverty nor riches. 

He bade me observe it, and 1 should always find that the calamities of life were 
shared among the upper and lower part of mankind ; but that the middle station 
had the fewest disasters, and was not exposed to so many vicissitudes as the higher 
or lower part of mankind ; nay, they were not subjected to so many distempers and 
uneasinesses, either of body or mind, as those were who, by vicious hying, luxury and 
extravaeances on one hand, or by hard labour, want of neceasaries, and mean or 
insufficient diet on the other hand, bring distempers upon themselves by the nat- 
ural consequences of their way of living ; that the middle station of life was calca- 
lated for all kind of virtues and all kmd of enjoyments ; that peace and plenty 
were the handmaids of a middle fortune ; that temperance, moderation, quietness, 
health, society, all agreeable diversions, and all desirable pleasures, were the bles- 
sings attending the middle station of life ; that this way men went silently and 
smoothly through the world, and comfortably out of it ; not embarrassed with the 
labours of the hands or of the head ; not sold to a life of slavery for daily braid, or 
harassed with perplexed circumstances, which rob the soul of peace and the body of 
rest ; not enraged with the passion of envy, or the secret burning lust of ambition 
for ^at things — ^but in easy circumstances, sliding gently through the wcnrld, and 
sensibly tasting the sweet of living without the bluer ; feeling that they are liappy, 
and learning, by every day's experience, to know it more sensibly. 

After this he pressed me earnestly, and in the most affectionate manner, not to 
plajr the young man, or to precipitate myself into miseries, which nature, and the 
station of life I was bom in, seem to have provided against ; that I was under no 
necessity of seeking my bread ; that he would do weU for me, and endeavour to 
enter me fairly into the station of life which he had been just recommending to me ; 
and that, if I was not very easy and happy in the world, it must be my mere fate, or 
fault, that must hinder it ; and that he should have nothing to answer for, having 
thus discharged his duty, in warning me against measures which he knew would be 
to my hurt. In a word, that as ho would do very kind things for me, if I wookl 
stay and settle at home as he directed, so he would not have so much hand in my 
misfortunes as to give me any encouragement to go away ; and, to dose all, he told 
me I had my elder brother for my example, to whom he had used the same earnest 
persuasions to keep him from going into the Low Country wars, but could not pre- 
vail, his young desires prompting him to ran into the army, where he was killed; and 
though he said he would not cease to pray for me, yet he would venture to sasr'to me, 
that if I did take this foolish step, God would" not bless me — and I would have leis- 
ure hereafter to reflect upon having neglected his counsel, when there might be n(Mie 
to assist in my recovery. 

BERNARD DE MANDEVILLE. 

Bernard db Mandeyills (^VftlO-Vl^^'^, «w ^K^otwi* and graphic 
writer, who squandered upon waeVesa wcid \^"x. ^^^S!,\sN3b»^vsD& ^^^s% 



MANDEViLLE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 331 

that would have fitted him admirably as a novelist or moralist, was a 
native of Dort, in Holland. He studied medicine, and came over to 
l^gland to practise his profession. His first publications were in 
rhyme, but he had nothing of the poefs * vision and faculty divine.* 
Early in life (about 1699) he published a string of sarcastic verses en- 
titled the * Grumbling Hive, or Knaves Turned Honest,* which he 
reprinted in 1714 with the addition of long explanatory notes, and an 

* Inquiry into the Origin of Moral Virtue,* giving to the whole the 
title afterwards so well known, the * Fable of the Bees, or Private 
Vices Public Benefits.* Previous to the latter work he had published 
*Esop Dressed,* * Typhon in Verse,* and the *Planter*s Charity,' all in 
1704. He enlarged his principal work, the * Fable of the Bees ;* and 
in 1729 it was rendered more conspicuous by being presented to the 
grand jury of Middlesex on account of its immoral and pernicious 
tendency. Bishop Berkeley answered the arguments of the * Fable,' 
and Mandeville replied in * Letters to Dion.' He also published 

* Free Thoughts on Religion,* and * An Inquiry into the Origin of 
Honour, and the Usefulness of Christianity in War' (1732), both of 
which, like his * Fable,' were of questionable tendency. 

The satire of Mandeville is general, not individual ;' yet his exam- 
ples are strong and lively pictures. He describes the faults and cor- 
ruptions of different professions and forms of society, and then 
attempts to shew that they are subservient to the grandeur and 
worldly happiness of the whole. If mankind, he says, could be 
cured of the failings they are naturally guilty of, they would cease to 
be capable of forming vast, potent, and polite societies. The fallacy 
of this theory, as Johnson says, is that * he defines neither vices nor 
benefits.* He confounds innocent pleasures and luxuries, which ben- 
efit society, with their vicious excesses, which are destructive of order 
and government. His object was chiefly to divert the reader, being 
conscious that mankind are not easily reasoned out of their follies. 
Another of the paradoxes of Mandeville is, that charity schools, and 
all sorts of education, are injurious to the lower classes. The view 
which he takes of human nature is low and degrading enough to 
have been worthy the adoption of Swift; and manv of his descrip- 
tions are not inferior to those of the dean. Some of his opinions on 
economic questions are admirably expressed. * Let the value of gold 
or silver,' he says, * either rise or fall, the enjoyment of all societies 
will ever depend upon the fruits of the earth and the labour of the 
people ; both which Joined together are more certain, a more inex- 
haustible, and a more real treasure than the gold of Brazil or the 
sHver ofPotosi.' 

IHviaion ofLabottr, 

It we trace the most floorishixig xiAtionB in their origin, we shall find that, in the 
remote be^iinnings of every society, the richest and most considerable men among 
tbem were a great while destitnte of a great many comtoTt*. ^ilYA^^Ocv'BX.^x^^^-^ ^t-^- 
jojred by the meaheet and most hamble wretchea; bo tYi^Xioasii XJocajg^ NR\JvOsi. ^^^t^ 



333 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

once looked upon as themventions of Inzury are now allowed even to those that aie 
so miserably poor as to become the objects of public charity, nay, counted so neces* 
sary that we think no human creature ought to want them. A man wonld be 
laughed at that should discover luxury in the plain dress of a poor creature that 
walks along in a thick parish gown^ aud a coarse shirt underneath it ; and yet what 
a number of people, how many different trades, and what a variety of skill and tools, 
must be employed to have the most ordinary Yorkshire cloth ! What depth ol 
thought and ingenuity, what toil and labour, and what length of time must it have 
cost, nef ore man could leain from a seed to raise and prepare so usefnl a product as 
linen ! 

What a bustle is there to be made in several parts of the world before a fine scar- 
let or crimson cloth can be produced ; what multiplicity of trades and artificers muit 
be employed 1 Not only such as are obvious, as wool-combers, spinners, the weaver, 
the cloth-worker, the scourer, the dyer, the setter, the drawer, and the packer ; but 
others that are more remote, and might seem foreign to it— as the millwright, the 
pewterer, and the chemist, which yet are all necessary, as well as a great number of 
other handicrafts, to have the tools; utensils, and other implements oelonging to the 
trades already named. But all these things are done at home, and may be penormed 
without extraordinary fatigue or danger ; the most frightful prospect is left behind, 
when we reflect on the toil and hazard that are to be undergone abroad, the vast seas 
we are to go over, the different climates we are to endure, aud the several nations we 
must be obliged to for their assistance. Spain alone, it is tine, might furnish us with 
wool to make the finest cloth ; but what skill and pains, what experience and inge- 
nuity, are required to dye it of those beautiful colours I How widely are the drugs 
and other ingredients dispersed through the universe that are to meet in one kettle! 
Alum, indeed, we have of our o\mi ; argot we might have from the Rhine, and vitriol 
from Hungary : all this is in Europe. But then for saltpetre in quantity we are 
forced to go as far as the East Indies. Cochenil, unknown to the ancients, is not 
much nearer to us, though in a quite different part oithe earth ; we buy it, 'tis true, 
from the Spaniards ; but, not being their product, theyare forced to fetch it for ub 
from the remotest comer of »the new world in the West Indies. Whilst so many 
sailors are broiling in the sun and sweltered with heat in the east and west of us, 
another set of them are freezing in the north to fetch potashes from Russia. 

Flattery of the Great, 

If yon ask me where to look for those beautiful shining qualities of ixiine- 
ministers, and the great favourites of princes, that are so finely painted in dedica- 
tions, addresses, epitaphs, funeral-sermons, and inscriptions, I answer, Ther^ and 
nowhcDe else. Where would you look for tbe excellency of a statue but in that part 
which you see of it ? Tis the polished outside only that has the skill and labour of 
the BCiuptor to boast of ; what is out of sight is untouched. Would you break the 
head or cut open the breast to look for the brains or the heart, you would only riiew 
your ignorance, and destroy the workmanship. This has often made me compare 
the viitues of great men to your large china jars : they make a fine show, and are 
ornamental even to a chimney. One would, by the bulk they appear in, -and the 
value that is set upon them, think they might be very useful ; but look into a thous- 
and of them, and yon will find nothing in uem but dust and cobwebs. 

Pomp and Superfluity. 

If the great ones of the clergy, as well as the laity, of any country whatever, had 
no value for earthly pleasures, and did not endeavour to gratify their appetites, why 
are envy and revenge so raging among them, and all the other passions, improved and 
refined upon in courts of prmces more than ansrwhere else ; and why are their re- 
pasts, their recreations, and whole manner of living, always such as are approved of, 
coveted, and imitated by the most sensual people of the same country ? If, despising 
all visible decorations, they were only in love with the embellishments of^e mind, 
"^bysbonld tbey borrow so many of the implements, and make use of Aft most 
^J^^S toye, Gf the luxuriouB ? \Vhy shoxQd a \OTd tceasoxer, or a bishop.^^ 
tne Grand Sigpior, or the Pope of Rome, to be good. Kn^N\tt<QSsv»,«sA«u^<'i.vcvar 
f^guest of fijs p&sBioDB, have occasion for greater Tevcnwe%.t\t\icst ^\\^\\3a3t^. tst\> 
aorenamerouB Attendance aa to personal fiernce,\hMi a.^N«Xfc\aa».^ ^>5iax.NvsX5^^\s8i 



MRS. MANLEY.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 883 

it the exercise of which requires so much pomp and superfluity as nro to bo seen by all 
men in power? A man has as much opportunity to practise temperance that has but 
one dish at a meal, us he that is constantly served with three courses and a dozen dishes 
in each. One may exercise as much patience and be as full of sf If-denial on a few 
flocks, without curtains or tester, as in a velvet bed that is sixteen foot high. The 
virtuous possessions of the mind are neither charge nor burden: a man maybesr 
misfortunes with fortitude in a garret, forgive injunes afoot, and be chaste, tnoupl' 
be has not a shirt to his back ; and therefore I shall never believe but that an indii- 
ferent sculler, if ho was intrusted with it, might carry all the learning Hnd religion 
that one man can contain^as well as a barge with six oars, especially if it was but 
to cross from Lambeth to Westminister; or that huoullty is so ponderous a virtue, 
that it reqnires six horses to draw it. 

MBB. MANLET. 

Db la Riviere Manley, a female novelist, dramatist, and political 
writer, enjoyed some celebrity among ihe wits of the Queen Anne 
period. Neither her life nor writings will bear a close scrutiny, but 
she appears to have been unfortunate in her youth. She was the 
daughter of a brave and accomplished officer, Sir Roger Mnnley, 
governor of Guernsey, and one of the authors of the * Tfiirkish Spy.* 
Sir Roger died while his daughter was young, and she fell to the 
charge of a Mr. Manley, her cousin, who drew lier into a mock.mar- 
riage — he bad a wife living — and in about three years basely deserted 
her. Her life henceforward was that of an author by profcFsion, and 
a woman of intrigue. She wrote three plays, the * Royal Mistress,' 
the * Lost Lover,* and * Lucius' — the last l>eing honoured by a pro- 
logue from the pen of Steele, and an epilogue by Prior. Her most 
famous work was the 'Atalaniis,' a political romance or satire, full of 
court and party scandal, directed against the Whig statesmen and 
public characters connected wilh the Revolution of 1688. This work 
was honoured with a stale prosecution. The printer and publisher 
were seized, and Mrs. Manley, having generously come forward to re- 
lieve them from the responsibility, was committed to custod}'. ' Sho 
was soon liberated and discharged, and a Tory ministry succeeding, 
she was in high favour. Swift, in his * Jf»umal to Stella' (January 
28, 1711-12), draws this portrait of Mrs. Manley : * hhe has very gen- 
erous principles for (me of Tier sortj and a great deal of gor»d sense 
and invention : she is about forty, very homely, and very fat' She 
found favour, however, wilh Swift's friend. Alderman Barber, in 
whose house she lived for many years, and there she died in 1724 When 
Swift relinquished the * Examiner,' Mrs. Manley conducted it for 
some time, the dean supplying hints, and she appears to have been a 
ready and eflf(;clive political writer. All hor works, however, have 
sunk into oblivion. Her novels are worthless, extravagant produc- 
tions, and the *Alalantis* is only remembered from a line in Pope. 
The Baron, in the * Rape of the Lock,' says : 

As long as * Atalantis ' shall be read, 

hh honour, name, and praise shall Vyvc*, \iw\. ^c^\:kft.^*6 V^^^o^^Ssw 
mare durable exlateuce^ 



U84 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

ANDBBW PliBTCHER OP 8ALTOUN. 

Andrew Fletcher, born in 1653, the son of a Scottish knigbt, 
succeeded early to the family estate of Saltoun, and represented the 
shire of Lothian in the Scottish parliament in the reign of Charles 
IL He opposed the arbitrary designs of the Duke of York, afterwards 
flames U. and retired to Holland. His estate was confiscated; but 
he returned to England with the Duke of Monmouth in 1685. Hap- 
pening, in a personal scuffle, to kill the mayor of Lynn, Fletcher 
again went abroad, and traveled in Spain. He returned at the period 
of the Revolution, and took an active part in Scottish affairs. His 
opinions were republican, and he was of a haughty unbending tem- 
per; * brave as the sword he wore,' according: to a contemporary, 
* and bold > as a lion; a sure friend, and an irreconcilable enemy ^ 
would lose his life readily to serve his country, and would not do a 
base thing to save it.* Fletcher opposed the union of Scotland with 
England in 1707, believing, with many zealous but narrow-sighted 
patriots of that day, that it would eclipse the glory of ancient Cale- 
donia. He died in 1716. Fletcher wrote several political discourses. 
One of these, entitled *An Account of a Conversation concerning a 
Right Regulation of Governments for the common Good of Mankind, 
in a Letter to the Marquis of Montrose, the Earls of Rothes, Rox- 
burghe, and Haddington, from London, the First of December/ 1703, 
is forcibly written, and contains some strong appeals in favour of 
Scottish independence, as well as some just and manly sentiments. 
In this letter occurs a saying often quoted, and which has been — by 
Lord Brougham and others — erroneously ascribed to the Earl of 
Chatham : * I knew a very wise man that believed tJuxt if a man were 
permitted to m^ke all the baUads^ Tie need not care wTio shotild m>ake the 
laws of a nation.^ The newspaper may now be said to have sup- 
planSed the ballad ; yet, during the war with France, the naval songs 
of Dibdin fanned the flame of national courage and patriotism. An 
excessive admiration of the Grecian and Roman republics led Fletcher 
to eulogise even the slavery that prevailed in those states. He repre- 
sents their condition as happy and useful ; and, as a contrast to it, he 
paints the state of the lowest class in Scotland in colours, that, if true, 
shew how frightfully disorganised the country was at that period. 
In his ' Second Discouise on the Affairs of Scotland,' 1698, there 
occurs the following sketch : 

State of Scotland in 1698. 

There are at tliis day in Scotland— besides a great many poor families yezy 
meanly provided for by the cbnrch-boxes, with others who, by living on bad food, 
fall into varions diseases— ^loo hundred thouacmd people begging front door to door. 
These are not only noway advantageous, but a very grievous burden to so poor a 
country. And though the number ot tlEiem be oerhaos double tc what it was f or- 
merjy, by reason of this present great 6dBtt«», 3W.\si «^fflas»X!«\«^\i»N^ been about 
one hundred thousand of those vagabonda, -wXiO Yvov^ "^n«^ w^JQassvsX. «ss5 ^cn^gs^ ^ 
BubjectdoD either to the laws of the land, ot e^eiCL ^oea ^?£^^^^^^^.\^ 
mag.Btr&te couJd ever be informed, or diecovet,vj\iic\iv««s asi^Nsi.*.\sQa^^T^^\Si«Ri^ 



MARTIN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 835 

wretches died, or that ever they were baptised. Many murders have been discovered 
among them ; and thev are not only a most UDspeakable oppression to poor tenants — 
who, if they give not bread, or some kind of provision, to perhaps forty such villains 
in one day, are sure to be insulted by them— but they rob many poor people who 
live in houses distant from any neighbourhood. In years of plenty, many thoupands 
of them meet together in the mountains, where they feast and riot for many days ; 
and at country-weddings, markets, burials, and the like public occasions, they are to 
be seen, both men and women, peipetuall;^ drunk, cursing, blaspheming, and fighting 
together. These are such outrageous disorders, that it were better for the nation 
they were sold to the galleys or West Indies, than that they shonld continue any 
k>nger to be a burden and curse upon us. 

M. MARTIN. 

The first account of the Hebrides was published m 1703. It is 
entitled *A Description of the Western Islands of Scotland,* by M. 
Mabtin, Gent. The author was a native of Skye. Dr. Johnson had 
read Martin's book when he was very young, and was particularly 
struck with the St. Kilda man's notion that the High Church of 
Glasgow had been hollowed out of a rock. This * notion ' had pro- 
bably struck Addison also, as in the * Spectator' (No. 60) be makes, 
as Mr, Croker has remarked, the Indian king suppose that St. Paul's 
was carved out of a rock. Martin's work is poorly written, but the 
novelty of the information it contains, and even the credulity of the 
writer, give it a certain interest and value. He gives a long account 
of the second-sight, or taish^ as it is called in Gaelic, in which he was 
a firm believer, though he admitted that it had greatly declined. 

J7ie Second-sigJd. 

The second-sight is a singular faculty of seeing an otherwise invisible object, 
without any previous means used by the person that sees it for that end. The vis- 
ion makes such a lively impression upon the seer, that they neither see nor think of 
anything else except the vision, as long as it continues ; and then they appear pen- 
sive or jovial, according to the object which was represented to them. At the sight 
of a vidon the eyelids of the person are erected, and the eyes continue staring un- 
til the object vanish. • 

If an object is seen early in a morning (which is not frequent), it will be accom- 
plished in a few hours aftenn'ards ; if at noon, it wili commonly be accomplished 
that very day ; if in the evening, i)erhap8 that night ; if aftt^r candles be lighted, it 
will be accomplished that night ; the latter always in accomplishment by weeks, 
months, and sometimes years, according to the time of night the vision is seen. 
When a shroud is perceived about one, it is a sure prognostic of death : the time is 
ju<teed according to the height of it about the person. " 

If a woman is seen standing at a man's left hand, it is a presage that she will be 
his wife, whether they be mamed to others, or unmarried at the time of the appari- 
tion If two or three women are seen at once standing near a man's left hand, she 
that is next him will undoubtedly be his wife first, and so on. To see a seat empty 
at the time of one's sitting in it, is a presage of that person's death quickly after. 

Dress in tJie Western Islands, 

The plaid wore by the men is made of fine wool ; the thread as fine as can be 
made of that kind ; it consists of divers colours, and there is a great deal q^ ingenu- 
ity required in sorting the colours, so as to be agreeable to the nicest fancy. For 
tms reason the women are at great pains, first, to give an exact pattern of the plaid 
upon a piece of wood, having the number of every thread of the stripe on it. The 
length of it iBcommoDly seven double ells; the one end hangs by the middle over the 
left army the other going round the body, hanga "bv VYift «vA aset'CafcX't'&.^xvsv^JiaRk. 



836 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 17^^/ 

The right hand above It is to be at liberty to do anytbiDg upon occasion. Every ide 
differs from each other in their fancy of making plaids as to the stripes in breadth 
and colours. This humour is as diiterent through the mainland of the Highlands, 
in so far that they who have seen those places is able at the first view of a man's 
plaid to guess the place of his residence. 

When they travel on foot, the plaid is tied on the breast with a bodkin of bone or 
wood— just as the sjnrui wore by the Germans, acxx>rding to the description of C. 
Tacitus. The plaid is tied round the middle with a leather belt. It is pleated from 
the belt to the knee very nicely. This dress for foot-men is found macn easier and 
lighter than breeches or trews. 

The plaid (for women) being pleated all round, was tied with a belt below the 
breast ; the belt was of leather, and several pieces of silver intermixed with the 
leather like a chain. The lower end of the belt has a piece of plate about eight 
inches long and three in breadth, curiously engraven ; the end of which was adorned 
with fine stones or pieces of red coral. They wore sleeves of scarlet cloth, closed at 
the end as men's vests, with gold lace round 'em, having plate buttons set with fine 
stones. The head-dress was a fine kerchief of linen strait about the head, hanging 
down the back taper-wise. A large lock of hair hangs down their cheeks attove the 
breast, the lower end tied with a knot of ribands. 

JONATHAN SWIFT. 

The most powerful and original prose writer of this period was the 
celebrated Dean of St Patrick's. We have already noticed his poe- 
try, which formed only a sort of interlude in the strangely mingled 
drama of his life. None of his works were written for mere fame or 
solitary gratification. His restless and insatiate ambition prompted 
him to wield his pen as a means of advancing his interests, or ex- 
pressing his personal feelings, caprices, or resentment In a letter to. 
Bolingbroke, Swift says : 'All my endeavours, from a boy, to distin- 
guish myself, were only for want of a great title and fortune, that I 
might be used like a lord by those who have an opinion of my parts 
— whether right or wrong, it is no great matter ; and so the reputa- 
tion of wit or great learning does the office of a blue ribbon, or of a 
coach and six horses.' This was but a poor and sordid ambition, and 
it is surprising that it bore such fruit. The first work of any import- 
ance by Swift was a political tract, written in 1701, to vindicate the 
Whig patriots, Somers, Halifax, and Portland, who had been im- 
peached by the House of Commons.' 

The author was then of the ripe age of thirty-four ; for Swift, unlike 

his friend Pope, came but slowly to the maturity of his powers. The 

treatise was entitled *A Discourse of the Contests and Dissensions 

between the Nobles and Commons of Athens and Rome.* It is 

plainly written, without irony or eloquence. One sentence — the last 

in the fourth chapter — closes with a fine simile. * Although,' he says, 

* most revolutions of government in Greece and Rome began with 

the tyranny of the people, yet they generally concluded in that of a 

single person: so that an usurping populace is its own dupe; a 

mere tmderworker, and a purchaser in trust for some single tyrant, 

whose state and power they advance to their own ruin, with as blind 

ao instinct as those worms that die w\\]ti N«je%.Y\Tv^ Ttvw^mficent habits 

£or beings of a superior nature to lUeVt own? ^'wX^^t^ksX^q^^wa 

Jiis * Battle of the Books,' written to auppoiV. \iSa^^\xan,^\t^\Sfia5&. 



Sj|iFT.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 337 

Temple, in his dispute as to the relative merits of ancient and modem 
learning. The * Battle of the Books' exhibits all the characteristics 
of SwitVs style, its personal satire, and strong racy humour. These 
qualities were further displayed in his * Tale of a Tub,* written about 
the same lime, and first published in 1704. The object of his power- 
ful satire was here of a higher cast ; it was to ridicule the Roman 
Catiiolics and Presbyterians, with a view of exalting the High Church 
of England party, and to expose what he considered to be the cor- 
ruptions of the Church of Home and the fanaticism of the Dissenters. 
He begins in the old story-telling way : * Once upon a time there was 
a man who hud three sons. Those sons he names Peter (the Church 
of Rome), Martin (the Church of England), and Jack (the Presbyteri- 
ans or Protestant Dissenters generally), who was sometimes called 
Knocking Jack (or John Knox). Their father died while they were 
young, and upon his death-bed, calling the lads, he spoke to them 
thus: ' Sons, because I have purchased no estate nor was born to any, 
I have long considered of some good legacies to leave you, and at last, 
with much care, I have provided each of you with a good coat.* 
Under this homely figure is signified the Christian religion. * With 
good wearing,* he continues, *the coats will last you as long as you 
live, and will grow in the same proportion as your bodies, lengthen- 
ing and widening of themselves, so as to be always fit.* They were 
not to add to or diminish from their coats one thread. After a time, 
however, they got tired of their plainness, and wished to become gay 
and fashionable. The father*s will (the Bible) was misinteri)reted 
and twisted word by word, and letter by letter, to suit their purpose; 
shoulder-knots, lace, and embroidery were added to their coats, and 
the will was at length locked up and utterly disregarded. Peter then 
lorded it over his brothers, claiming: the supremacy, insisting upon 
being called Father Peter and Lord Peter ; a violent rupture ensued, 
and a series of scenes and adventures are related in which Swift alle- 
goHseSy as we may say, the most sacred doctrines and the various 
sects of the Christian religion. It was obvious that this was treading 
on very dangerous ground. The ludicrous ideas and ass-ociations 
called up by such grotesque fancies, striking analogy, and broad satire 
in connection with religion, inevitably tended to lower the respect 
due to revelation, and many persons considered the work to be a co- 
vert attack upon Christianity. This opinion was instilled into the 
mind of Queen Anne. The work established Swift's fame for all 
time coming, but, condemned him to an Irish deanery for life. When- 
ever a mitre came in sight and seemed within his reach, the witty 
buffooneries of Lord Peter and his brothers were projected before the 
queen, And the golden prize was witlidrawn. 

In 1708 appeared Swift's * Sentiments of a Church of England Man 
in Respect to Religicm and Government,* his * Letters on the Sacra- 
mental Test,* * Arguments against the Abolition of Christianitw* and 
' Predictiona for the j'ear 1708,* by Isaac B\ciVLfeX^\»S,^^^« '\\s«»\^>5^ 



338 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to I72)^ 

brochure bad immense popularity. It was a satire on an almanac- 
maker and astrologer named Partridge. Swift's first prediction re- 
lated to Partridge, * I have consulted,' he said, * the star of his nativ- 
ity, and find he will infallibly die upon the 29th of March next, of a 
raging fever.' In a subsequent paper. Swift proposed to give an ac- 
count of the accomplishment of the prediction. Partridge was nat- 
urally very indignant. He advertised his existence : * Blessed be 
God, he, John Partridge, was still living and in health, and all were 
knaves who reported otherwise.* Swift and his friends were ready 
with replies and rejoinders, and the affair amused the town for a sea- 
son. Some political tracts followed, the most conspicuous of which 
are — the ' Conduct of the Allies,' published in 1712 (and which had 
immense influence on public opinion), and the * Public Spirit of the 
Whigs,' in 1714. The latter incensed the Duke of Argyle and other 
peers so much, that a proclamation oflfering a reward of £300 was 
issued for the discovery of the author. In 1713, Swift was rewarded 
with the deanery of St. Patrick's in Dublin ; and the destruction of 
all hopes of further preferment followed soon after, on the accession 
of the House of Hanover to the throne, and the return of the Whigs 
to power. 

Swift withdrew to Ireland, a disappointed man, full of bitterness. 
His feelings partly found veut in several works which he published on 
national subjects, and which rendered him exceedingly popular in 
Ireland — *A Proposal for the Universal Use of Irish Manufactures' 
(1720), and * Letters by M. B. Drapier ' against Wood's patent for sup- 
plying Ireland with a copper coinage (1724). There was a scarcity 
of copper coin in Ireland, and Wood, an English o\yner of mines, 
obtained a patent right to coin farthings and halfpence to the amount 
of £108,000. The grant was made to Wood without consulting the 
Irish government; the disposal of the patent had, in the first instance, 
been given by Lord Sunderland to the Duchess of Kendal, the king's 
mistress, and the duchess, it was said, had sold it to Wood for £13,0(K). 
All this wounded deeply the pride and patriotism of the Irish nation, 
and Swift attacked the scheme with all his might He contended 
that Wood's metal was base: * If a hatter sells a dozen of hats for 5a. 
apiece, which amounts to £3, and receives the payment in Wood's 
coin, he receives only the value of five shillings l' In reality, the 
coinage was excellent, better than the English, and nobody in Ireland 
would have been obliged to take more than fivepence-halfpenny in 
copper ; but the feeling against England was strong, and wrought up 
to a pitch of fury by Swift, who, after heaping every epithet of con- 
tempt and execration upon Wood, touched upon the higher question 
of the royal prerogative. It was unjust to bind the people ol^eland 
by the laws of a parliament in which they were unrepresented * The 
remedy/ he added, *is wboWy in yom* o^\i V^x^d^— by the laws of 
Ood, of nature, of nations, and o? yo\xi cc^\«i\x^ ,^avi ^\«i ^\i^ ^-^^ 
to be as free a people as your \>ie\]liieiiVn.^Ti^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^sKwaKsfc^ 



swiFT.J ENGLISH LITERATURE. 339 

had to bow to the storm. The patent was withdrawn, and Swift was 
as much the idol of the Irish as Mirabeau was afterwards the idol of 
the French. In 1726 appeared * Gulliver*s Travels,' the most original 
and extraordinary of all Swift's productions. 

A few of his friends — Pope, Bolingbroke, Gay, and Arbuthnot — 
were in the secret us to the authorship of this satirical romance ; but 
it puzzled the world in no ordinary degree, and this uncertainty 
tended to increase the interest and attraction of the work.* While 
Courtiers and politicians recognised in the adventures of Gulliver 
many satirical allusions to the court and politics of England — to 
Walpole, Bolingbroke, the Prince of Wales, the two contending 
parties in the state, and various matters of secret history — the great 
mass of ordinary readers saw and felt only th^ wonder and fascina- 
tion of the narrative. The appearance, occupations, wars, and pur- 
suits of the tiny Lilliputians — the gigantic Brobdingnagians — the 
fearful, misanthropic picture of the Yahoos — with the philosophic 
researches at Laputa — all possessed novelty and attraction for the 
mere unlearned reader, who was alternately agitated with emotions 
of surprise, delight, astonishment, pity, and reprobation. All parties 
seem now agreed in the opinion that the interest of the work dimin- 
ishes as it proceeds ; that Lilliput is delightful and picturesque, the 
satire just sufficient to give an exquisite flavour or seasoning to the 
body of the narrative ; that Brobdingnag is wonderful, monstrous, 
but" softened by the character of Glumdalclitch, and abounding in 
excellent political and moral observations ; that the voyage to Laputa 
is ingenious, but somewhat tedious, and absurd as a satire on phil- 
osophers and mathematicians ; and that the voyage to the Houyhn- 
hums is a gross libel on human nature, and disgusting from its phy- 
sical indelicacy. We need not point out the inimitable touches of 
description and satire in * Gulliver' — the High Heels and Low Heels, 
the Big-endians and Little-endians ; the photograph, as we may call 
it, of the emperor of Lilliput, with his Austrian lip and arched nose, 
and who was almost the breadth of one's nail taller than any of his 
court, which struck an aim into his beholders ; and the fine incident of 
Gulliver's watch, which the Lilliputians thought was the god he 
worshipped, for he seldom did anything without consulting it. 

The charm of Swift's style, so simple, pure, and unaffected, and 
the apparent earnestness and sincerity with which he dwells on the 
most improbable circumstances, are displayed in full perfection in 
* Gulliver,' which was the most carefully finished of all his works. 
Some tracts on ecclesiastical questions, and the best of his poetry, 



« 



The negotiation for its publication wa? condncted by Erasmus Lewis, secretary to 
the Earl of Oxiord^ and one of S wilt's most intimate frieuds. Lewis sold the copyright 
to the publisher, tfotte. for JE2tiO. We have seen the original documents, which were 
then in the possession of the Rev. C. Bathurst Woodman, Edgebaston. near Birmingham. 
Sir Walter Scott staros that Swift made a present of the copyright to Pope, but the state* 
ment is unsupported by evidence. In an unpublished letter to Motte, Swift states that he 
derived no advantage irom the Jiisceilanies. published in. ooiii\mfitA.o\i>R\.tb. ?civ%^ k^''&i&i.> 
oottMnd Osy. 



840 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

were afterwards produced. His other prose works were — ^*A History 
of the Four Last Years of Queen Anne ' — not published till long after 
his death ; * Polite Conversation/ ,a happy satire on the frivolities of 
fashionable life ; and * Directions for Servants,' a fragment which also 
appeared after his death, and on which he bestowed considerable 
pains. It exemplifies the habit of minute observation which dis-. 
tinguished Swift, and which sometimes rendered him no very agree- 
able inmate of a house. Two other prose works are better known— 
the * Journal to Stella,' and the * Modest Proposal for preventing the 
Poor in Ireland from being burdensome, and for making them bene- 
ficial.' The former was not intended to be printed. It consists of a 
series of letters written to Esther Johnson during Swift's residence in 
London, from September 1710 until June 1713. All the petty details 
of his daily life are recorded for the gratification of his Stella, or * star 
that dwelt apart.' He tells her where he goes, whom he meets, where 
he dines, what he spends, what satires he writes, &c. His journal is 
his last occupation at night, and often the first in the morning by 
candle-light. * I cannot go to bed without a word to them (Stella and 
Mrs. Dingley) ; I cannot put out my candle till I bid them good- 
night.' He had what he called * the little language,' a sort of cipher 
as to names, but the journal itself is in the ordinary long-hand, and 
is as voluminous as a three-volume novel. It is a strange but fascin- 
ating medley, containing many coarse things — oaths, nasty jests, wild 
sallies of fancy, and brief outbursts of tenderness. The * Modest Pro- 
posal ' shocked many persons. The scheme is, that the children of 
the Irish poor should be sold and eaten as food I * I have been as- 
sured,* he says, * by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in 
London, that a young healthy child, well nursed, is, at a year old, a 
most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, 
roasted, baked, or boiled ; and I make no doubt that it will equally 
serve in a fricassee or a ragout.' 

He goes gravely into calculations on the subject : at a year old, an 
infant would weigh about twenty-eight pounds; it would make two 
dishes at an entertainment for friends, and when the family dined 
alone, the fore or hind quarter would make a reasonable dish, and, 
seasoned with a little pepper or salt, will be very good boiled on the 
fourth day, especially in winter. ' I grant,* he adds, * this food will 
be somewhat dear, and therefore very proper for landlords, who, as 
they have already devoured most of the parents, seem to have the 
best title to the cuildren.' The grave irony of the * Modest Proposal' 
is crowned, as it were, by the closing declaration, that the autlioris 
perfectly disinterested, having no children or expectation by which he 
could get a penny by the scheme I Even in these days of baby- -i 
farming, SwitVs satire is rather too strong for modem taf^te, but it is ;' 
a production of extraordinary power ?iia^ vc\%^w\ivty. Various edi- ji 
tloaa ofSwifCa works have been p\x\A\9\\e^ •, \Xi^\i^\. ^fitAm^Nc ^m- || 
Plete ia that by Sir Walter Scott, ii\iimelft^xiNo\>Mas»^^'^^ '^^^^^ 



SWIFtJ . ENGLISH LITERATURE. 841 

raok as a writer has long since been established. In originality and 
strength, he has no superior, and in wit and irony — the latter of 

which 

He was bom to introduce 
Refined it first, and shewed its use — 

he shines equally pre-eminent. He was deficient in purity of taste 
and loftiness of imagination. The frequency with which he dwells 
on gross'and disgusting images,. betrays a callousness of feeling that 
wholly debarred him from the purer regions of romance. He could 

Laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy-chair ; 

though it was still, as Coleridge has remarked, * the soul of Rabelais 
dwelling in a dry place.' Of the * serious air* of Cervantes, which 
Pope has also bestowed on his friend, the traces are less frequent and 
distinct. We can scarcely conceive him to have ever read the * Faery 
Queen* or * Midsummer Night's Dream.' The palpable and familiar , 
objects of life were the sources of his inspiration ; and in fictitious 
narrative, he excels, like Richardson and Defoe, by painting and 
grouping minute particulars, that impart to his most extravagant 
conceptions an air of sober truth and reality. Always full of thought 
and observation, his clear, perspicuous style never tires in the perusal. 
When exhausted by tlie works of imaginative writers, or the ornate 
periods of statesmen and philosophers, the plain, earnest, manly 
pages of Swift, his strong sense, keen observation, and caustic wit, are 
felt to be a legacy of inestimable value. 
The following are extracts from the * Tale of a Tub :' 

iMdicTouB Image of Fanaticwn. 

It is recorded of Mahomet, that upon a visit he was going to pay in Paradise, he 
had an offer of several vehicles to conduct him upwards ; as fiery chariots, winged 
horses, and celestial sedans ; but he refused them all, and would be borne to heaven 
on nothing but his ass. Now, this inclinatioii of Mahomet, as singular as it seems, 
hath since been taken up by a grii&t number of devout Christians, and doubtless wiih 
good reason. For since that Arabian is known to have borrowed a moiety of his 
religions system from the Christian faith, it is but just he should pay reprisals to 
such as would challenge them ; wherein the good people of England, to do them all 
right, have not been backward. But though there is not any other nation in the 
world so plentifully provided with carriages for that journey, either as to safety or 
ease, yet there are annndance of us who will not be satisfied with any other macnine 
besides this of Mahomet. 

Satire upon Dress and Fashion, 

About this time it happened a sect arose whose tenets obtained and spread very 
far, especially in the grande monde^ and among everybody of good fashion. They 
worshmped a sort of idol, who, as their doctrine delivered, did daily create men by a 
kind of manufactory operation. This idol they placed in the highest part of the 
house, on an altar erected about three foot ; he was shewn in the posture of a Persian 
emperor, sitting on a superficies, with his legs inten^voven under nim. This eod had 
a goose for his ensign : whence it is that some learned men pretend to deduce his 
oi^nal from Jupiter Capitolinus. 

The Vorshippers of this deity had also a system of their belief, which seemed to 
turn opoD the following f nndamentala. They \\c\^ V\v,% TrKw^-wft \a\«i ^Nsss^ -e"!^ ^^ 
dotbea, which investa everything ; that the eaith. \b Vi«e&\«^\ii XJafc ^aa.\ "<!&& ^6is.N». 



342 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Invested by the etars ; and the stars are invested by the primum mobile. Look on 
this Klobe of earth, you will find it to be a venr complete and fashionable dress. 
What is that which some call land bat a fine coat faced with green ? or the sea, but a 
\rai8tcoat of water-tabby ? Proceed to the particular works of the creation, yon will 
find how curious a journeyman Nature has been to trim up the vegetable beaux ; ob- 
perve how sparkish a periwig adorns the head of a beech, and what a fine doublet of 
white satin is worn by the birch. To conclude from all, what is man himself, but a 
luicro-coat, or rather a complete suit of clothes with all its trimmings ? As to his 
body there can be no dispute ; but examine even the acquirements of his mind, you 
will find them all contribute in their order towards furnishing out an exact dress. To 
instance no more, is not reli^on a cloak, honesty a pair of shoes wont oat in tiie 
dirt, self-love a surtout, vanity a shirt, and conscience a pair of breeches easily 
61ipt down? 

Characteristics of Modem Critics. 

I shall conclude with three maxims, which may serve both as charactei^istics to 
distinguish a true modem critic from a pretender, and will be also of admirable use 
to those worthy spirits who engage in so useful and honourable an art< The first is, 
that criticism, contrary to all other faculties of the intellect, is ever held the truest 
and best when it is the very first result of the critic's mind : as fowlers reckon ttie 
first aim for the surest, and seldom fail of missing the mark if they stay not for a 
second. Secondly, the true critics are known by their talent of swarming aboot the 
noblest writers, to which they are carried merely by instinct, as a rat to the best 
cheese, or its a wasp to the furest fruit. So when the king ia on horseback, he is 
sure to be the dirtiest person of the company ; and they that make their court best 
are such as bespatter him most. Lastly, a true critic, in the perusal of a bo^ is Uke 
a dog at a feast, whose thoughts and stomach are wholly set upon what the gneets 
fling away, and consequently is apt to snarl most when there are the fewest bones. 

On Books and Learning. 

The society of writers would quickly be reduced to a very inconsiderable number 
if men were put upon making books with the fatal confinement of delivering nothing 
beyond what is to the purpose. It is acknowledged that were the case the same 
among us as with the Greeks and Romans, when learning was in its cradle, to be 
reared and fed and clothed by invention, it would be an easy task to fill up volumes 
upon particular occasions^ without further expatiating from the subjects than bv 
moderate excursions, helping to advance or clear the main desi^. But with knowI> 
edge it has fared as with a numerous army encamped in a fruitful country, whic^ 
for a few days, maintains itself by the product of the soil it is on; till provisions 
being spent, they are sent to forage many a mile, among friends or enemies it matters 
not. Meanwhile, the neighbouring fields, trampled and beaten down, become barren 
and dry, affording no sustenance but clouds of dust. 

The whole course of things bein^ thus entirely changed between ns and the an- 
cients, and the modems wiselv sensible of it, we of this age have discovered a shorter 
and more prudent method to become scholars and wits, without the fatigue of read- 
ing or of tuinking. The most accomplished way of using books at nreeent is two- 
fold ; either, first, to serve them as some men do lords, learn their titles exactly, and 
then brag of their acquaintance. Or, secondly, which is indeed the choicer, the pro- 
founder, and politer method, to get a thorough insight into the index, by which ttie 
whole book is governed and turned, like fishes by the tail. For to enter the palaoe 
of learning at the great gate requires an expense of time and forms ; therefore men 
of much haste and little ceremony are content to get in by the back door. For the 
arts are all in flying march, and therefore more easily subdued by attacking them in 
the rear. Thus men catch knowledge by throwing their wit into the posteriors of a 
book, as b-^ysdo sparrows with flinging salt upon their tails. Thus hnnum life is 
best understood bv the wise man's rule of regarding the end. Thus are the sciences 
found, like Hercules's oxen, by tracing them backwards. Thus are old sciences un- 
ravelled, like old stockings, by beginning at the foot. Be^^ide ail this, the army of 
the scienccBhaa been of late, with a world of martial discipline, drawn into its close 
order, bo that a view or a muster may be takeii ot It with abundance of expedition. 
^or thiB great blesBing we are wholly mdebted. \» «y«Xeroa wxa. ^i2cw^x«ct8>ui wbidi 
ibe modem fathera oileaming, like prudent TiLsaiet^, «i^iq9(. ^^i&Vt «<««ii)i. V2& ^Qbb«al^ 



SWIFT.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 343 

ot us, their children. For labour is the seed of idleness, and It is the peculiar happi- 
ness of oar noble age to gather the fmit. 

A Meditation upon a Broomstick^ according to the Style and Manner 
of the Hon, Robert Boyle* 8 Meditations* 

This single stick, which you now behold ingloriously lyine in that n^lected cor- 
ner, I once Knew in a flourishing state in a forest ; it was fun of sap, fufl of leaves, 
and full of boughs ; but now in vain docs the busy art of man pretend to vie with 
nature, by tying that withered bundle of twigs to its sapless trunk ; it is now at best 
but the reverse of what it was, a tree turned upside down, the branches on the earth, 
and the root in the air ; it is now handled by every dirty wench, condemned to do 
her drudgery, and, by a capricious kind of fate, destined to make her things clean, 
and be nasty itself ; at length, worn out to the stumps in the service of the maids, it 
is either thrown out of doors, or condemned to the last use of kindling a fire. When 
I beheld this, I sighed, and said within myself : Surely mortal man is a broomstick I 
nature sent him into the world strong and lust^, in a thriving condition, wearing his 
own hair on his head, the proper branches of this reasoning vegetable, until the axe of 
inteinperance has lopped off his ^een bousrhs, and left him a withered trunk ; he 
then mes to art, and puts on a pcnwig, valuing himself upon an unnatural bundle of 
hairs, all covered with powder, that never grew on his head ; but now should this our 
broomstick pretend to enter the scene, proud of those birchen spoils it never bore, 
and all covered with dust, though the sweepings of the finest lady's chamber, we 
should be apt to ridicule and despise its vanity. Partial ^'ndges that we are of our 
own excellences, and other men aefaults I 

But a broomstick, perhaps you will say, aS an emolem of a tree standing on its 
head ; and pray, what is man but a topsv-turvy creature, his animal faculties per- 
petually mounted on his rational, his head where his heels should be — ^grovelling on 
the earth I and yet, with all his faults, he sets up to be a universal reformer and cor- 
rector of abuses, a remover of grievances ; rakes into every slut's comer of nature, 
bringing hidden corruptions to the light, and raises a mighty dust where there was 
none before, sharing deeply all the while in the veiy same pollutions he pretends to 
sweep away. His last days arc spent in slavery to women, and generally the least 
deserving ; till, worn to the stumps, like his brother-besom, he is either kicked out 
of doors, or made use of to kindle flames for others to warm themselves by. 

Inconveniences likely to result from the Abolition of Christianity. 

I am very sensible how much the gentlemen of wit and pleasure are apt to mur^ 
mur and be shocked at the sight of so many dagglo-tail parsons, who happen to fall 
in their way, and offend their eyes ; but at the same time, those wise reformers do 
not consider what an advantage and felicity it is for great wits to be always provided 
. with objects of scorn and contempt, in order to exercise and improve their talents, 
and divert their spleen from falling on each other, or on themselves ; esi>ecial]y 
when all this may oe done without the least imaginable danger to their persons. Ai d 
to urge another argument of a parallel nature ; if Christianity were once abolished, 
)k>w could the freethinkers, the strong reasoners, and the men of profound leumhig, 
be able to find another subject so calculated in all points whereon to display their 
abilities 7 What wonderful productions of wit should we be deprived of from those 
whose genius, by continual oractice, hath been wholly turned upon raillery and in- 
vectives against religion, ana would, therefore, be never able to shine or distintniish 
ttiemselves on any other subject? We are daily complaining of the great declme of 
wit among us, and would we take away the greatebt, perha^ the only topic we have 
left ? Who would ever have suspected Asgul for a wit, or Toland for a philosopher, 

• When chaplain to Lord Berkeley, Swift was accustomed to read to Lady Berkeley 
the BeflecUoDs or MeditatiouK of Boyle. Growing weary ot the taitk, he resolved to gee 
rid of it in a way that might occaHlon some mirth ia the family. Accordingly he inHerted 
the above parody in the volume, and read it to the lady as a genuine production of 
Boyle's. Tne joke was sncceHsrul : the witty chaplain was not asked to proceed any fur- 
ther wiUi the Meditations. When some one «aid to 8tell& th&t t.h« D««xk. m^%t. Vvvk.^<N W««^ 
F«a««Mi very much to write of her so beautifuUy, 6\\e tepW^^, WiaX W.'wvva^^^^^^^'^s 
the Dean could write heantifally on a broomstick. \ 



344 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

if the inczhanstible stock of Christianity had not been at hand to provide them with 
materials ? What other subject through all art or nature could have prodnced Tin- 
dal for a profound author, or f umishea hira with readers ? It is the wise choice of 
the subject that aloue adorneth and distinj^uisheth the writer. For had a hundred 
such pens as these been employed on the side of religion, they woold immediately 
have sunl^ iuto silence and oblivion. 

Nor do I think it wholly groundless, or my fears altogether imaginary, that the 
abolishing of Christianity may perhaps bring the church in danger, or at least put 
the senate to the trouble of another securing vbte. I desire I may not be misonder- 
stood ; I am far from presuming to affirm or think that the church is in danger at 
present, or as things now stand, hut we know not how soon it may be so, when the 
Christian religion is repealed. As plausible as this project seems, there may a dan- 

ferous design lurk under it. Nothing can be more notorious than that the atbekits, 
eists, Socinians, anti-trinitarians, and other subdivisions of freethinkers, are persons 
of little z(^al for the present ecclesiastical establishment. Their declared opmion is 
for repealing the sacramental test ; they are very indifferent with regard to ceremonies ; 
nor do they hold the jtis divinum of episcopacy. Th.-refore this may be intended as 
one politic step towards altering the constitution of the church established, and set- 
ting up presbytery in its stead ; which I leave to be further considered by those at 
the helm. 

And therefore if, notwithstanding all I have said, it shall still be thonght neces- 
sary to have a b'.ll brought in for repealing Cliristianity, I would humbly offer an 
amendment, that, instead of the word Christianityj may be put religion in general ; 
which I conceive will much better answer all the ^ood ends proj>08ed by the pro- 
jectors of it. For as long as we leave in being a God and his Providence, with all 
the necessary consequences which curious and inqc:isit.ve men will be apt to draw 
from such premises, we do not strike at the root of the evil, although we eboald ever 
so eff.'ctually annihilate the present scheme of the Gospel. For of what use is 
freedom of thought, if it will not produce freedom of action, which is the sol© end. 
how remote soever in appearance, of all objections against Christianity? And 
therefore the frcetliinkers consider it a sort of edifice, wherein all the parts have 
such a mutual dependence on each other, that if yon happen to poll oat one single 
nail, the whole fabric must fall to the ground. 

Diversions of t?ie Court of LiUiput. 

The emperor had a mind one day to entertain me with several of the country 
shows, wherein they exceed aU nations I have known, both for dexterity and mag- 
nificence. I was diverted with none so much as that of the rope-dancers, performs 
with a slender white thread ext^inded about two feet, and twelve inches from the 
groimd. Upon which ^ shall desire liberty, with the reader's patience, to oolaiige a 
nttle. 

This diversion is onjy pracnsed t)y those persons who are candidates for great 
employments and high tavour at court. They are trained in this art fronoi their 
youth, and are not always of noble birth or liberal education. When a great office is 
vacant, either by death or disijrace (which often happens), five or six of those can- 
didates petition the emperor "^to entertain his majesty and the court with a dance on 
the rope ; and whoever jumps the highest, without falling, succeeds in the office. 
Very o.ten the chief ministers themselves are commanded to shew their skill, and to 
convince the emperor that they have not lost their faculty. Flimnap, the treasurer,* 
is allowed to cut a caper on the straight rope at least an, inch higher than any other 
lord in the whole empire. I have seen him do the summerset several times together 
upon a trencher fixed on a rope which ^s no thicker than a common packthread in 
England. My friend Reldresal, principal secretary for private affairs, is, in my 
opinion, if I am not partial, the second after the treasurer ; the rest of the great 
officers are much upon a par. 

These diversions are often attended with fatal accidents, whereof great nnmbera 

are on record. I myself have seen t\70 or three candidates break a limb. But the 

danger Is mncb greater when the miniBters themselves are commanded to shew their 

dexterity' for, by contending to exce\ l\ieTnBc\Neft «a^ \\\^\t fellows, they strain so 

j^, that ther e ia hardly one of them w\\o \vaa\\ A. T^<:ft\Ng.^^i^,^>aft.%CTDfeQtt them 

* Poubtiess Sir Robert 'W «Ai»o\ft, \JcieTi^Yvxaa utosJoSKt , 



SWIFT.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 845 

two or three. I was asdnred that, a year or two before my arrival, Flimnap would 
tefallibly have broke bis Deck, if one of the king's cushions that accidentally lay on 
thejCToond, had not weakened the force of his fall.* 

There is likewise another diversion, which is only shewn before the emperor and 
empress and first minister, upon particular occasions. The emp>eror lays on the table 
three fine silken threads, of six inches long ; one is blue, the other red, and the third 
green.* These threads are proposed as pnzes for those persons whom the emperor 
has a mind to distinguish by a peculiar mark of his favour. The ceremony is per- 
formed in his majesty's great chamber of state, where the candidates are to undergo 
a trial of dexterity, very different from the former, and such as I have not observed 
the least resemblance of in any other country of the new or old world. The emperor 
holds a stick in his hands, both ends parallel to the horizon, while the candiaates, 
advancins one by one, sometimes leap over the stick, sometimes creep under it, back- 
ward ana forward, several times, according as the stick is advanced or depressed. 
Sometimes the emperor holds one end of the stick, and his first minister the other ; 
sometimes the minister has it entirely to himself. Whoever performs his part with 
most ability, and holds out the longest in leaping and creeping, is rewardea with the 
blne-coIoured silk ; the red is given to the next, and the green to the third, which 
they all wear girt twice round about the middle, and you see few great persons about 
this court who are not adorned with one of these girdles, t 

Satire on Pretended PhUoaophera and Projectors, 

In the description of his fancied Academy of Lagado in * Gulliver's Travels,' 
Swift ridicules thone quack pretenders to science and knavitfih projectors who were 
so common in his day, and whose schemes sometimes led to ruinous and distressing 
consequences. 

I was received very kindly by the warden, and went for many days to the acade- 
my. Bvery room hath in it one or more projectors, and I believe I could not be in 
fewer than five hundred rooms. 

The first man I saw was of a mea^e aspect, with sooty hands and face, his hair 
and beard long, ragged, and singed m several places. His clothes, shirt, and skin 
were all of the same colour. He had been eight years upon a project for extracting 
sunbeams out of encumbers, which were to be put into phials hermetically setded, 
and let out to warm th? air in raw inclement summers. He told me he did not doubt 
in eight years more that he should be able to supply the governor's gardens with sun- 
shine at a reasonable rate ; but he complained that his stock was low, and entreated 
me to give him something as an encouragement to ingenuity, especially since this 
had been a very dear season for cucumbers. I made him a small present, for my 
lord had furnished me with money on purpose, because he knew their practice of 
begging from all who go to see them. 

I saw another at work to calcine ice into gunpowder, who likewise shewed me a 
treatise he had written concerning the malleability of fire, which he intended to pub- 
lish. 

There was a most ingenious architect, who had contrived a new method for 
building houses, by beginning at the roof, emd working downwards to the founda- 
tion ; wiiich ho justified to me by the like practice of those two prudent insects, the 
bee and the spidcrr. 

There was an astronomer who had undertaken to place a sun-dial upon the great 
weathercock on the town- house, by adjusting the annual and diumaj motions of the 
earth and sun, so as to answer and coincide with all accidental turning of the winds. 

We crossed a walk to the other part of the academy, where, as I have already said, 
the projectors in speculative learning resided. 

The first professor I saw was in a very large room, with forty pupils about him. 
After salutation, observing me to look earnestly upon a frame which took up the 
greatest part of both the length and breadth of the room, he said, perhaps I might 
wonder to see him employed in a project for improving speculative knowledge by 

* This alludes to his dismissal in 1717 through the intrigues of Sunderland and Stan- 
hope. The cuHhion was uo doubt Sir Robert's great interest with the Duchess of Kendal, 
the favourite of George I. 

t Walpole wwB diatingnished by the orders of the Q«>ttAr «AdUie B&th^ both here ridl- 
caJed, 



846 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

practical and mechanical operations. Bat the world would soon be sensible of its 
uscfolnesB, and he flattered nimself that a more noble, exalted thoaglit never sprang 
in any other man's head. Every one knew how laborious the nsaaJ method is m 
attaining to arts and sciences ; whereas by his contrivance, the most ignorant per- 
son, at a reasouai)le charge, and with a little bodily labour, may write books in phi- 
losophy, poetry, politics, law, mathematics, and theology, without the least assist- 
iiuce from gtinius or study. He then led me to the frame, about the sides whereof fUl 
liis pupils stood in ranks. It was twenty feet square, placed in the middle of the 
room. The superficies was composed of several bits of wood, about the bigness of a 
die, but some larger than others. They were all linked together by slender wires. 
These bits of wowi were covered on every square witli paper pasted on them; and 
on these papers were written all the words of their languaj^e in their several moods, 
tenses and aeclensious, but without any order. The professor then desired me to 
observe, for he was going to set his engine at work. The pupils, at his command, 
took each of them hold of an iron hanme, whereof there were forty fixed round the 
edges of the frame, and giving; them a sudden turn, the whole disposition of the 
words was entirely changed. He then commanded six-and-thirty of tne lads to read 
the several lines softly as they appeared upon the frame ; and where they found three 
or four words together that might make part of a sentence, thev dictated to the four 
remaining boys, who were scribes. This work was repeated three or four times, 
and at every turn the engine was so contrived, that the words shifted into new places 
as the square bits of wood moved upside down. Six hours a day the young students 
were employed in this labour ; and the professor shewed me several volumes in large 
folio, already collected, of broken sentences, which he intended to piece toge^er. 
and out of those rich materials to give the world a complete body of all arts and 
sciences. 

We next went to the school of languages, where three professors sat in consulta- 
tion upon improving that of their own country. 

The first project was to shorten discourse by cutting polysyllables into one, and 
leaving out verbs and participles ; because, in reality, all things imaginable are but 
nouns. The other was a scheme for entirely abolishing all words ^atsoever; and 
this was urged as a great advantage in point of health as well as brevity ; for, it ifi 
plain, that every word we speak is in some degree a diminution of our lungs by cor- 
roMou, and consequently contributes to the shortening of our lives. An expedient 
was therefore offered, that siuce words are only names for things, it would be more 
convenient for all men to carry about them such things as were necessary to express 
the particular business they are to discourse on. And this invention would certainly 
have taken place, to the CTeat ease as well as health of the subject, if the women, in 
conjunction with the vulgar and illiterate, had not threatened to raise a rebellion, 
unless they might be allowed the liberty to speak with their tongues, after the man- 
ner of their forefathers ; such constant irreconcUable enemies to science are tibe 
common people. 

Another great advantage proposed by this invention was, that it would serve as a 
universal language to be understood in all civilised nations, whose goods and utensils 
are generally of the same kind, or nearly resembling, so that their uses mi?ht easily 
be comprehended. And thus ambassadors would be qualified to treat with foreign 
princes or ministers of state, to whose tongues they wore utter strangers. 

I was at the mathematical school, where the master taught his pupils after a 
method scarce ima^nable to us in Europe. The proposition and aemonstration 
were fairly written on a thin wafer, with ink composed of a cephalic tincture. This 
the student was to swallow upon a fasting stomach, and for three days following ui 
nothing but bread and wat«r. As the wafer digested, the tincture motmted to his 
brain, bearing the proposition along with it. But the success hath not hitherto been 
answerable, partly by some error in the quantum or composition, and partly by the 
perverseness of lads, to whom this bolus is so nauseous, that they generally steal 
aside, and discharge it upwards before it can operate ; neither have they been ye* 
persuaded to use so long an abstinence as the prescription requires. 

In thu school of political projectors I was out ill entertained, the professors ap- 

pearing in my judgment wholly out of their senses, which is a scene tnat never fans 

to make me melancholy. These \in\iappy v^"?^^ ^^"f^ proposing schemes for pei^ 

saadJDg monarchs to choose favoontea n.\>o\i ^Yift «,«st«i c>1\>ms«: ^^o'cci^caoacitv, 

And virtne ; of teaching mini&teia to conanXX. ^«i \«iXi\\R. ^<iv>^\ oil \vs<«w^\^^^siBs&i> 



SWIFT.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. Ul 

neat abilities, and eminent services ; of instmctine princes to know their true in- 
terest, by placing it on the same foundation with that of their people ; of choosins: 
for emplOTments persons qaalifled to exercise them ; with many other wild impossi- 
ble chimeras, that never entered before into the heart of man to conceive, ana con- 
firmed in me the old observation, that there is nothing so extravagant and irrational 
which some philosophers have not maintained for tmtli. 

But, however, I shall so far do josticc to this part of the academy, as to acknow- 
ledge that all of them were not so visionary. There was a most ingenious doctor, 
who seemed to be perfectly versed in the whole nature and sjp-stem of government. 
This illustrious person had very usefully employed his studies in finding out effectual 
remedies for all diseases and corruptions to which the several kinds of public ad- 
ministration are subject, by the vices or infirmities of those who govern, as well as 
by the licentiousness of those who are to obey. For instance, whereas all writers 
and reasoners have agreed that there is a strict universal rcsemblanca between the 
natural and political body, can there be anything more evident than that the health 
of both must be preserved, and the diseases cured, by the same prescriptions ? . . . 
Upon the meeting of a senate, certain physicians should attend at the three first days 
of their sitting, and at the close of each day's debate feel the pulses of every senator ; 
after which, having maturely considered and consulted upon the nature of the several 
maladies, and the methods of cure, they should on the fourth da^ return to the senate- 
house, attended hj their apothecaries stored with proper medicines ; and, before the 
members sat, administer to each of them lenitives, aperitives, abstersives, corrosives, 
restringents, palliatives, laxatives, ccphalalgics, icterics, apophiegmatics, acoustics, 
as their several cases required ; and, according as these medicines should operate, 
lepe&t, aUteTj or omit them at the next meeting. . . . 

He likewise directed that every senator in the great council of a nation, after he 
had delivered his ophiion, and argued in the defence of it, should be obliged to. give 
his vote directly contrary ; because, if that were done, the result would inf alfibly 
terminate in the good of the public 

When parties m a state are violent, he offered a wonderful contrivance to recon- 
cile them* The method is this : You take a hundred leaders of each party ; you dis- 
pose them into couples of such whose heads are nearest of a size : then let two nice 
S aerators saw off the occiput of each couple at the same time, in such manner that 
e brain may be equally divided. Let the occiputs thus cut off be interchanged, ap- 
plying each to the head of his opposite party-man. It seems indeed to be a work that 
requireth some exactness ; but the professor assured us, that, if it were dexterously 
performed, the cure would be infallible. For he argued thus: that the two half 
brains being left to debate the matter between themselves within the space of one 
skull, would soon come to a good understanding, and produce that moderation, as 
well as regularity of thinking, so much to be wished for in the heads of those who 
imagine they come into the world only to watch and govern its motion ; and as to the 
difference of brains in quantity or quality, among those who are directors in faction, 
the doctor assured us, from his otimi knowledge, that it was a perfect trifle. 

TJioughts on Various Subjects. 

We have just religion enough to make us haie, but not enough to make ns love 
one another. 

When we desire or solicit anything, our minds run wholly on the good side or 
circamstances of it ; when it is obtained, our mind runs only on the bad ones. 

When a true genius appeareth in the world, you may know, him by this infallible 
sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him. 

I am apt to think that, in the day of judgment, there will be small allowance g^ven 
to the wise for their want of morals, or to the ignorant for their want of faith, be- 
cause hoih are without excuse. This renders the advantages equal of ignorance and , 
^owledge. But some scruples in the wise, and some vices in the ignorant, will 
perhaps be forgiven upon the strength of temptation to each. 

It IS pleasant to observe how free the present age is in lajring taxes on the next : 
< Future ages shall talk of this ; this shall be famous to all posterity : ' whereas their 
time and thoughts will be taken up about present things, as ours are now. 

It lain diBputea as in armies, where the vreaket !^<& t^\Xa>2!ci ^ ^s;iAf^'^<^^^»^^«5v^ 



348 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

maketh a great noise, that the enemy may believe them to be more nnmeronB and 
strong than they reaJly are. 

I have known some men X)088e88ed of good qnalities, which were very, servioealde 
to others, bat nseless to themselves ; like a sun-dial on the front of a honse, to inform 
the neighbonrs and passengers, bat not the owner within. 

If a man would register all his opinions upon love, politics, religion, learning, 
&c., beginning from his youth, and so go on to old age, what a bundle of incon- 
sistencies and contradictions would appear at last I 

Tbe stoical scheme of supplying our wants by lopping off our desires, is like 
cutting oif our feet when we want shoes. 

The reason why so few marriages are happy, is because young ladies spend their 
time in making nets, not in making cases. 

Censure is the tax a man payeth to the public for being eminent. 

No wise man ever wished to be younger. 

An idle reason lessens the weight of the good ones you gave before. 

Complaint is the largest tribute Heaven receives, and the sincerest part of our 
devotion. 

The common fluency of speech in many men and most women is owing to a 
scarcity of matter and scarcity of words : for whoever is a master of language, and 
hath a mind f uU of ideas, will be apt, in speaking, to hesitate upon the choice of 
both ; whereas common speakers have only one set of ideas, and one set of wonte to 
clothe them in, and these are always ready at the mouth. So people come faster out 
of a church when it is almost empty, than when a crowd is at the door. 

To be vain is rather a mark 01 humility than pride. Vain men delight in telling 
what honours have been done them, what great company they have kept, and the 
like ; by which they plainly confess that these honours were more than their due, 
and such as their friends would not believe if they had not been told ; whereas a man 
truly proud thinks the greatest honours below his merit, and consequently scorns to 
boast. I therefore deliver it as a maxim, that whoever desires the character of a 
proud man, ought to conceal his vanity. 

Every man desireth to live long, but no man would be old. 

If books and laws continue to increase as they have done for fifty years past, I am 
in some concern for future ages, how any man will be learned, or any man a lawyer. 

A nice man is a man of nasty ideas. [How true of Switt himself.] 

If a man maketh me keep my distance, the comfort is, he keepeth his at the same 
time. 

Very few men, properly speaking, live at present, but are providing to live anotha 
time. 

Princes in their infancy, childhood, and youth, are said to diccover prodigious 
parts and wit, to speak things that surprise and astonish : strange, so many hcmefol 
princes, so many shameful kings I If they happen to die young, they would nave 
Seen prodigies of wisdom and virtue : if they hve, they are often prodigies indeed, 
but 01 another sort. 

Overstrained Politeness, or Vvlpa/r Hospitality. — From tJie ^TaUer^ 

ifo. 20. 

Those inferior dnties of life which the French call les petites morales^ or the 

smaller morals, are with us distinguished by the name of good maimers or breeding. 

Ttiis I look upon, in the general notion of it, to be a sort of artificial good sense, 

adapted to the meanest capacities, and introduced to make mankind easy in their 

commerce with each other. Low and little understandings, without some rales of 

this kind, would be perpetually wandering into a thousand indecencies and irr^^i- 

larities in behaviour ; and in their ordinary conversation, fall into the same boisteroos 

familiarities that one observeth amongst them when a debauch hath quite taken 

. away the use of their reason. In other instances, it is odd to consider, that for want 

* of common discretion, the very end of good oreedine is wholly perverted ; and 

civility, intended to make us easy, is employed in laying chains and tetters apon ns. 

in debarring ub of our wishes, and in croaamg our most reasonable desires and incli- 

nations. TliiB abase reigneth chiefty in lYve cothi^Vty, «& \ twacod to my vexation, 

^ben I was last there, in a visit 1 made to a uev^Xiwa «Jo«iu\. \w^ \£S«j^ tKsavmT 

coaeia, .As soon as I entered the Tiarlonr, lYies \*a\. xcka into >2sv& ^pKaXOMfix^iaX^toA 



POPE,] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 349 

close by a huge fire, and kept me there by force, until I was almost stilled. Then 
a boy came in great hurry to pull ofE my boots, which I in vain opposed, urging that 
I must return soon after dinner. In the meantime, the good lady whispered her 
eldest daughter, and slipped a key into her hand. The girl returned instantly with a 
beer-glass oalf full of aqua mirabilis and syrap of gillyflowers. I took as much as I had 
a mind for ; but madam vowed I should drink it ofE— f or she was sure it would do me 
good, after coming out of the cold air— and I was forced to obey ; which absolutely 
took away my stomach. When dinner came in, I had a mind to sit at a distance 
from the nre ; but they told me it was as much as my life was worth, and set me 
with my back just against it. Although my appetite was quite gone, I resolved to 
force down as much as I could ; and desired the le^ of a pullet. • Indeed, Mr. Bick- 
erstaff,' says the lady, * you must eat a wing to oblige me ;' and so put a couple npon 
my plate. I was persecuted at this rate during the whole meal. As often as I called 
for small beer, the master tipped the wink, and the servant brought me a brimmer 
of October. Some time after dinner, I ordered my cousin's man, who came with 
me, to get ready the horses, but it was resolved I should not stir that night ; and 
when I seemed pretty much bent upon going, they ordered the stable door to be 
locked ; and the ctiildren hid my cloak aud lx>ots. The next question was, what I 
would have for supper. I said I never ate anything at night ; but was at last, in my 
own defence, obliged to name the first thing that came into my head. After three 
hours spent chiefly in apologies for my entertainment, insinuatmgto me, * that this 
was the worst time of the year for provisions ; that they were at a great distance 
from any market ; that they were afraid I should be starved ; and that they knew 
they kept me to my loss,' the lady went and left me to her husband — ^for they took 
special care I should never be alone. As soon as her back was thmed, the little 
misses ran backwards and forwards every moment ; and constantly as they came iu 
or went out, made a courtesy directly at me, which in good manners I was forced to 
return with a bow, and, * Your humble servant, pretty miss.* Exactly at eight the 
mother came up, and discovered by the redness of her face that supper was not far 
off. It was twice as large as the dinner, and my persecution doubled in proportion. 
I desired at my usual hour to go to my repose, and was conducted to my chamber by 
the gentleman, his lady and the whole train of children. They importuned me to 
xlrink something before I went to bed ; and upon my refusing, at last left a bottle of 
stingo^ as they called it, for fear I should wake and be thirsty in the night I was 
forced in the morning to rise and dress myself in the dark, because they would not 
suffer my kinsman's servant to disturb me at the hour I desired to be called. I was 
now resolved to break through all measures to get away ; and after sitting down to a 
monstrous breakfast of cold beef, mutton, neats'-tongues, venison-pasty, and stale 
beer, took leave of the family. But the gentleman would needs see me part of my 
way, aud carry me a phort-cut through his own grounds, which he told me would 
save half a mile's riding. This last piece of civility had like to have cost me dear, 
being once or twice in danger of my neck, by leaping over his ditches, and at last 
forced to alight in the dirt ; when my horse, having slipped his bridle, ran away, and 
took us up more than an hour to recover him again. It is evident that none of the 
absurdities I met with in this visit proceeded from an ill intention, but from a wrong 
judgment of complidsance, and a misapplication in the rules of it. 

ALEXANDER POPE. 

In 1737, Pope published, by subscription, a volume of letters be- 
tween himself and his literary friends. Part of the collection had 
been previously issued by Curll, a notorious publisher of that day, to 
whom Pope had, by the agency of other parties, conveyed an edition 
privately printed. Having, in his assumed character of purveyor of 
the letters, induced Curll to advertise the collection as containing let- 
ters of certain noblemen, the publisher was summoned to the House 
of Lords for breach of privilege. The volume, however, being ex- 
amined, it was found that there was not a single letter from any 
nobleman in the collection, and Curll was dismissed. Pope had thus 



860 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

secured publicity to the publication, and as the letters, be said, bad 
not only been surreptitiously printed — stolen from private reposito- 
ries — but altered and interpolated, be appeared justlticd in issuing a 
prospectus for a genuine edition. In reality, there was little or no 
difference between the editions, Pope having prepared both, and 
neither can be regarded as containing actual correspondence. Swift, 
however, had retained the letters addressed to himself; the original 
letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu also existed, and the early 
correspondence of Pope with Henry Cromwell had previously come 
into the possession of Curll, and was published. Additions were 
afterwards made to the collection from other sources, and thus we 
have a large body of the actual letters written by the wits of the 
Anne and first Gef)rgian periods. The experiment was new to the 
public. ' Pope's epistolary excellence,* says Johnson, * bad an open 
field ; he had no English rival, living or dead.' 

The letters of Lord Bacon, 8traffjrd, and other statesmen, had been 
published, but they descended little into the details of familiar life. 
Spratt suppressed the correspondence of Cowley, under the impres- 
sion, finely expressed by an old writer, that private letters are com- 
m(mly of too tendera composition to thrive out of the bosom in which 
they were first planted ; and the correspondence of Pope was the 
first attempt to interest the public in the sentiments and opinions of 
literary men, and the expression of private friendship. As literature 
was the business of Pope's life, and composition his first and favour- 
ite pursuit, he wrote always with a view to admiration and fame. He 
knew that if his letters to his friends did not come before the public in a 
printed shape, they would be privately circulated, and might affect 
his reputation wiib those he was ambitious of pleasing. Hence 
he seems always to have written with care. His letters are generally 
too elaborate and artificial to have been the spontaneous effusions of 
private confidence. Many of them are beautiful in thought and im- 
agery, and evince a taste for picturesque scenery and description thai 
it is to be regretted the poet did not oftener indulge. Others, as the 
exquisite one describing a journey to Oxford, in company with Ber- 
nard Lintot, possess a fine vein of comic humour and obseiTation. 
Swift was inferior to Pope as a letter- writer, but he discloses more 
of his real character. He lOved Pope as much as he could any man, 
and the picture of their friendship, disclosed in their correspondence, 
is honourable to both. They had both risen to eminence by their 
own talents; they had mingled with the great and illustrious; had 
exchanged with each other in private their conunon feelings and sen- 
timents; had partaken of the vicissitudes of public affairs ; seen their 
friends decav and die off; and in their old age, mourned over the 
evils and afflictions incident to the decline of life. Pope's affection 
soothed the jealous irritabUvty and misanthropy of Swift, and sur- 
rlvedthe melancholv calamily \^\i\c\i xeti^ict^vi \\y^ ^\saaji one of the 
oiost pitiable and affecting objecX^ aTo^oiiw m^Tk)B\\A. 



POPK.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 351 

On Sickness and Death, 

To Sir Riohabd Stbelb.— JwZy 15, 1712. 

Ton formerly observed to me that nothing made a more ridicnlous flgnre In a 
man's life than the disparity we often And in him sick and well ; thus, one of an un- 
fortunate constitution is perpetualijr exhibiting a miserable example of the weakness 
of his mind, and of his body, in their tarns. I have had frequent opportunities of 
late to consider myself in these different views, and, I hope, have receiv^ some ad- 
vantage by it, if what Waller says be true, that 

The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed. 

Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made. 

Then sxnrely sickness, contributing no less than old age to the shaking down this 
scaffolding of the body, may discover the inward structure more plainly. Sickness is 
a sort of early old age: it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly etate, and inspires us 
with the thoughts of a future, bettor than a thousand volumes of philosophers and 
diviues. It tjives so warning a concussion to those props of our vanity, our strength 
and youth, that we think of fortifying ourselves within, when there is so little 
dependence upon our outworks. Youth at the very best is but a betrayer of 
human life in a gentler and smoother manner than age : it is like a sti'e»m that 
nourishes a plant upon a bank, and causes it to flourish and blosfom to the sight, 
but at the same time is undermining it at the root in secret. My youth has dealt 
more fairly and openly with me ; it has afforded several prospects of my danger, and 
given me an advantage not very common to young men, that the attractions of the 
world have not dsjzzled me very much ; and I begin, where most pc ople end, with a 
full conviction of the emptiness of all ports of anibition, and the uusatisfjictory 
nature of all human pleasures. Wlien a smart fit of sickness tells me this scurvy 
tenement of my booy will fall in a little time, I am even as unconcerned as was 
that honest Hibernian, who. being in bed in the great storm tome years ago, und 
told the hou3e would tumble over his head, made nnswer: *What care I for the 
housi'. ? I am onlv a lodger.' I fancv it is the best time to die when one is in the 
best humour ; and so excessively weak as I now am, I may say with conscience, that 
I am not at all uneasy at the thouEfht that many men, whom I never had any esteem 
for, are likely to enjoy this world after me. when I reflect what an inconsiderable 
little atom every single man is, with respect to the whole creation, methinks it is a 
shame to be concenicd at the removal of such a trivial animal as I am. Ihe 
morning aft«r my exit, the sun will rise as bright as ever, the flowers smell as SMeet, 
the plants sprinir as green, the world will proceed in its old course, people 
will faugh as heartily, and marry as fast as they were used to do.* The memory of 
man— as it is elegantly expressed in the Book of Wisdom— passeth away as the re- 
membrance of a guest that tarrieth but one day. There are reasons enough, in the 
fourth chapter of the same book, to make any young man contented with the pros- 
pect of death. • For honourable age is not that which standeth in length of time, or 
IS measured by number of years. But wisdom is the gray hair to man, and an un- 
spotted life is old age. He was taken away speedily, lest wickedness should alter his 
understatidiug, or deceit beguile his soul,' &c.— I am your, &5. 

Pope in Oxford, 
To Mrs. Martha Blount.— 1716.— A genuine letter slightly altered.t 
Nothing could have more of that melancholy which once used to please me, than 

* It is important to romeinhftr that Pope. wh»»u he wrote in this manner, was only twenty- 
four— that id, if wo assume the letter t)havo been actually seut to Steele, which we very 
much doubt. I tseom ■« to b > merel y a literary essay— part ot' the fabricated correspondence. 

t Martha B.ouiit was the Siellaor Pope. Her elder sister Teresa, was liis first favour- 
ite, but Martha gjiinod the asceadoncy. and retained it tii 1 the death of the poet. They 
wereot hi old Catholic family, the B'oiintsof Mapledurhara. near Keadiug. Gay has 
described tho sisters as 'the lair-haired Martha, ao a Teresa brown;' and a picture m the 
lami'y luansion. by .Torvas. represenus them as feathering flowers. Pope's father died at 
Chiswickiii 1717. and the poot wrote to Martha: 'My poor father died last night. Be- 
lieve. Hnce I don't forget vju at this moment, I never shall-' And he never did. He 
took the warmoi't interest in all her affairs, and left her the bulk of his fortune. Martha, 
(who wa8 two yeara yoonger than her illutttrioxiR ^'AeuA.'^ v.ux'^V^^^MAV^xjik.-^ ^iL..V>S8». 



353 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

my last day's journey ; for, after having passed through my favourite woods in the 
forest, with a thousand reveries of past pleasures, I rid over hanging hills, whose 
tops were edged with groves, and whose feet watered with winding rivers, list-ening 
to the falls of cataracts below, and the murmuring of the winds above ^ the gloomv 
verdure of Stonor succeeded to these, and then the shades of the evening overtook 
me. The moon rose in the clearest sky I ever saw, by whose solemn light I paced on 
slowly, without company, or any interruption to the range of my thoughts. About 
a mile before I reached Oxford, all the bells tolled in different notes ; the clocks of 
every college answered one another, and sounded forth — some in a deeper, some a 
softer tone — that it was eleven at night. All this was no ill preparation to the life I 
have led since among those old walls, venerable galleries, stone porticos, studious 
walks, and solitary scenes of the university. I wanted nothing but a black gown and 
a salary, to be as mere a book-worm as any there. I conformed myself to the col- 
lege-hours, was rolled up in books, lay in one of the most ancient, dusky parts of 
the university, and was as dead to the world as any hermit of the desert. If any- 
thing was alive or awake in me, it was a little vanity, such as even those good men 
usea to entertain, when the monks of their ovm order extolled their piety and ab- 
straction For I fonnd myself received with a sort of respect, which this idle part 
of mankilld, the learned, pay to their own species ; who are as considerable here, as 
the busy, the gay, and the ambitious are in your world. 

Death of Two Lowers by Lightning. 

To Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.— -Steptemfter 1 [1717] . 

I have a mind to fill the rest of this paper with an accident that happened just 
under my eyes, and has made a ^eat impression upon me. I have just passed part 
of this summer at an old romantic seat of my Lord Harcourt's, which he lent me.* 
It overlooks a common field, where, under the shade of a haycock, sat two lovers, as 
constant as ever were found in romance, beneath a spreading beech. The name of 
the one — ^let it sound as it will — was John Hewet ; of the other, Sarah Drew. John 
was a well-set man about flve-and-twenty ; Sarah, a brown woman of eighteen. John 
had for several months borne the labour of the day in the same field with Sarah ; 
when she milked, it was his morning and evening charge to bring the cows to her 
pail. Their love was the talk, but not the scandal, of the whole neighbourhood ; for 
all they aimed at was the blameless possession of each other in marriage. It was 
but this very morning that he had obtained her parents' consent and it was but till 
the next week that they were to wait to bo happy. Perhaps this very day, in the 
intervals of their work, they were talking of their weddine-clothes ; and John was 
now matching several kinds of poppies and field-flowers to ncr complexion, to make 
her a present of knots for the day. While they were thus employed — ^it was on the 
last of July — a terrible storm of thunder and lightning arose, that drove the labourers 
to what shelter the trees or hedges afforded. Sarah, frightened and out of breath, 
sunk on a haycock, and John — who never separated from her — sat by her side, hav- 
ing raked two or three heaps together to secure her. Immediately there was heard" 
BO loud a crack as if heaven had burst asunder. The labourers, all solicitous for 
each other's safety, called to one another ; those that were nearest our lovers, hear- 
ing no answer, stepped to the place where they lay : they first saw a little smoke, 
and after, this faithful pair, — John with one arm about his Sarah's neck, and the 
other held over her face, as if to screen her from the lightning. They were struck 
dead, and already grown stiff and cold in this tender posture. There was no mark 
or discolouring on their bodies, only that Sarah's eyebrow was a little singed, and a 
small spot between her breasts. They were buried the next day in one grave, where 
my Lord Harcourt, at my request, has erected a monument over them. Of the fol- 
lowing epitaphs which I made, the critics have chosen the godly one : I like neither, 
but wish you had been in England to have done this office better : I think it was 
what you could not have refused me on so moving an occasion. 

* The bouse of Stanton Harcourt, in OxlotdaYAt^. 'SLot^ "^cs^ tcQiTLBlated part of the 
y^taa. He describea the house (thoush. wiili mauv l«LUc\S.u\.«A^\\.Sa\is>^\ft. 'C(w^%\&s»Ac\!aLftDt 
^^tter, in a, style which recalls the grave iLxa&oxuc ol ^'i<iaa«a-, wA V:a%^^«2r«'ik ^'k 



jSzz^'^'^^. * «^J« which recalls the gra.^ 
■^acebrtdge Ballot Waahington Irving. 



POPE.J ENGLISH LITERATURE. 863 

When Eaetem lovers feed the funeral fire, 
On the same pile the f aithf al pair expire ; 
Here pityine neaven that virtne matnal found. 
And blastea both that it might neither woond. 
Hearts so sincere the Almighty saw well pleased. 
Sent his oym lightning, and the yictims seized. 

Think not, by rigoroas judgment seized, 

A pair so f aittuul could expire ; 
Victims so pure Heaven saw well pleased, 

And snatched them in celestial nre. 

live well and fear no sudden fate : 

When Qod calls virtue to the grave, 
Alike 'tis justice, soon or late, 

Mercy alik« to kill or save. 
Virtue unmoved can hear the call. 
And face the flash that melts the ball. 

Upon the whole, I cannot think these people unhappy. The greatest happmess, 
next to living as they would have done, was to die as they did. The greatest honour 
people of this low degree could hai^ was to be rememl>ered on a little monument ; 
unless you will give them another — that of being honoured with a tear from the 
finest eyes in the world. I know you have tenderness ; you must have it ; it is the 
very emanation of good sense and virtue : the finest mmds, like the finest metals, 
dissolve the easiest. 

Description of an Ancient English Country-seat. 
To Ladt Maby Wobtlkt Montagu. 

Dear Madam — 'Tis not possible to express the least part of the joy your return 
gives me ; time only and experience will convince you how very sincere it is. I ex- 
cessively long to meet you, to say so much, so very much to you, that I believe I shall 
say nothing. I have given orders to be sent for the first minute of your arrival — 
which I beg you will let them know at Mr. Jervas's. I am fourscore miles from 
London, a snort journey compared to that I so often thought at least of undertaking, 
rather than die without seeing you again. Though the place I am in is such as I 
would not quit for the town, if I did not value you more than any, nay everybody 
else there ; and you will be convinced how little the town has engaged my affections 
in your absence from it, when you know what a place this is which I prefer to it; I 
shall therefore describe it to you at large, as the true picture of a genuine ancient 
country-seat. 

You must expect nothing regular in my description of a house that seems to be 
built before rules were in fashion : the whole is so disjointed, and the parts so de- 
tached from each other, and yet so joining again, one cannot tell how. that — ^in a 
poetical fit— you would imagmeit had been a village in Amphion's time, where 
twenty cottages had taken a dance together, were all out, and stood still in amaze- 
ment ever since. A stranger would be erievously disappointed who should ever think 
to get into this house the right way. One would expect, after entering through the 
porch, to be let into the hall; alas I nothing less, you find yourself in a brew-house. 
From the parlour you think to step into the drawing-room ; but, upon opening the 
iron-nailed door, you are convinced, by a flight of birds about your ears, and a cloud 
of dust in your eyes, that it is the pigeon-house. On each side our porch are two 
chinmeys, that wear their greens on the outside, which would do as well within, for 
whenever we make a fire, we let the smoke out of the windows. Over the parlour 
"window hangs a sloping balcony, which time has turned to a very convenient pent- 
house. The top is crowned with a very venerable tower, so like that of the church 
just by, that the jackdaws build in it as if it were the true steeple. 

The great hall is high and spacious, flanked with long tables, images of ancient 
hospitality ; ornamented with monstrous horns, about twenty broken pikes, and a 
matchlock musket or two, which they say were used in the civil wars. Here is one 
ra8t arched window, beautif ally darkened -vdlli ^Vvew wcoXRJaaovA ^\ \s&s&«^ ^^^'^ 
There seems to be great propriety in this o\d majmet ol\i\aaamu"^^sjys«v^^>»>^assS«^ 



9U CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

fomilies being like ancient windows, in the coarse of generations seldom free from 
cracks. One shining pane bears date 1286. The yoathfol face of Dame Elinor owes 
more to this single piece than to all the glasses she ever consulted in her life. 
Who can say after this that glass is frail, when it is not half so perishable as human 
beauty or glory ? For in another pane ^ou see the memory of a knight preserved, 
whose marble nose is mouldered from his monument in the church a^oinmg. And 
yet, must not one sigh to reflect, that the most authentic record of so aucif nt a family 
should lie at the mercy of every boy that throws a stone ? In this hall, in former 
days, have dined gartered knights and courtly dames, with ushers, sewers, and 
seneschals ; and yet it was but the other night that an owl flew in hither, and mistook 
it for a bam. 

This hall lets you up (and down) over a very high threshold, into the parlour. It 
is furnished with historical tapestry, whose marginal fringes do confess the mois- 
ture of the air. The other contents of this room are a oroken-bellicd virginal, a 
conple of crippled velvet chairs, with two or three mildewed pictures of mouldy an- 
cestors, who look as dismally as if they came fresh from hell with all their brimstone 
about 'em. These are caret ulty set at the farther comer : for the windows being 
everywhere broken, make it so convenient a place to dry poppies and mustard seed 



in, that the room is appropriated to that use.' 

Next this parlour lies, as I said before, the pi 
runs an entry that leads, on one hand and t'oth#. Into a bed-chamber, a buttery, and 



before, the pigeon-houFe, by the side of wMch 
id and t'oth#. into a bed-chamber, a buttery, and 
a small hole called the chap ain's study. Then folow a brew- house, a little green 
and gilt parlour, and the great stairs, under which is the dairy. A little further on 
the right, the servants' ha.l ; and bv the side of it, up six steps, the old lady's closet, 
which has a lattice iuto the said hall, that, while she said her prayers, she mighi cast 
an eye on the men and maids. There are upon this ground uoor in all twenty-four 
apartments, hard to *be distinguished by particular names ; among which 1 must 
not forget a chamber that has in it a large antiquity of timber, which seems to have 
been either a bedstead or a cider-press. 

Our best room above is veiy long and low, of the exact proportion of a bandbox; 
it has hangings of the finest work in the world ; those, I mean, which Arachne spins 
out of her own bowels : indeed, the roof is so decayed, that after a favourable shower 
of rain we may, with God's blessing, expect a crop of mushrooms between the 
cliinkd of the floors. 

All this upper story has for many years had no other inhabitants than certain rats, 
whose very uge renders them worthy of this venerable mansion, tor the very rats of 
this-ancieut seat are gray. Since these have not quitted it, we hope at least this 
liouse may stand during the small remainder of days these poor animals have to liv& 
who are now too infirm to remove to another : they have si.Il a small subsistence left 
them in the few remaining books of the library. 

I had never seen half what I have desci-ibed, but for an old starched erey-beaded 
steward, who is as much au antiquity as any in the place, and looks Tike an old 
family picture walked out of its frame. He failed not, as wo passed from room to 
room, to relate several memoirs of the family ; bnt his observations were particu- 
larly curious in the cellar : he shewed where stood the triple rows of buits of sack, 
and where were ranged the bottles of tent for toasts in the morning : he pointoi 
to the stands that supported the iron-hooped hogsheads of strong beer ; then step- 
ping to a corner, he lu^^ed out the tattered fragment of an unframed picture : * This,' 
savs he, with tears in his eyes, ' was poor Sir Thomas, once master of all the drink I 
told you of : he had two sons (poor young masters !) that never arrived to the age of 
his beer; they both fell ill in this very cellar, and never went out upon their own 
legs.' He could not pass by a brokeu bottle without taking^ it up to shew us the . 
arms of the family on it. He then led me up the tower, hy dark winding stone 
steps, which landed us into several little rooms, one above another ; one of these 
was nailed -up, and my guide whispered to me the occasion of it. It seems the 
coarse of this noble blood was a little interrupted about two centuries ago by a freak 
of the Lady Frances, who was here taken with a neighhoriflg prior: ever rince 
which the room has been made up, and btaudviA. vjWVx the name of the adolterv- 
cbamber. The ghost of Lady Frances \a auppoaftd Xio y^aJ^Vwi '. ^»\ftft\jt^tke maids 
of the family formerly reported that thev aavJ aXud^ \\i «,i«x^\v^«\<i>ioKwiJ^^afc>isg\- 
™e; but this matter waThuahed up, and t\ie aeTVWEi\aioTm\c>\siJi>t cjJl'^. 

Imuat needs have tired vou with thia \on% \e\.X«f, >DraX >n\^\. «^^?cg.^^^Na.'^ 



POPE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 856 

deecription was a generoas priadple to preserve the memory of a thing that most itself 
soon xall to rain ; nay, perhaps, some part of it hefore this reaches your hands : in- 
deed, I owe thJB old house the same sort of gratitude that we do to an old friend that 
harbours us in his declining condition, nay, even in his last extremities. I have 
found this an excellent place for retirement and study, where no one who passes by 
can dream there is an inhabitant, and even anybody that would visit me dares not 
venture under my roof. You will not wonder I have translated a great deal of Homer 
in this retreat ; any one that sees it will own I could not have chosen a fitter or more 
likely place to converse with the dead. Aii soon as I return to the living, it shall be 
to converse with the best of them. I hope, therefore, very speedily to tell you in 
person how sincerely and unalterably I am, madam, your most faithrul, obliged, and 
obedient servant. 

I beg Mr. Wortley to believe me his most humble servant. 

Pope to Bishop Atterbury, in the Tower, 

May 17, 1788. 

Once more I write to you, as I promised, and this once, I fear, will be the last I 
The curtain will soon be drawn between my ^end and me, and nothing left but to 
wish you a long good-uight.* Mav you enjoy a state of repose in this lite not unlike 
that sleep of the soul which some have believed is to succeed it, where we lie utterly 
f orgetfulof that world from which we ai'e gone, and ripening for that to which we 
are to go. If you retain any memory of the past, let it only image to you what has 
pleased you best ; sometimes present a dream of an absent triend, or bring you back 
an agreeable conversation. But, upon the whole, 1 hope you will think Jess of the 
time past than of the future, as the former has been less kmu to you than the latter 
mfalhibly will be. Do not envy the world your studies ; they will tend to the benefit 
of men against whom you can have uo complaint ; I mean of all posterity : and, per- 
haps, at your time of life, nothing else is worth your care. What is every year of a 
wise man's life but a censure or a critic on the past? Those whose date is the 
shortest, live long enough to laugh ai one halt of it ; the boy despises the infant ; the 
man, the boy ; the philosopher, both ; and the Christian, all. You may now begin to 
thiuk your manhood was too much a puerility, and you will never suffer your age to 
be but a second infancy. The toys and baubles of your childhood are hardly now 
more below you. than those toys of onr riper and our dechning years, the drums and 
rattles of ambition, and the dirt and bubbles of avarice. At this time, when you are 
cut off from a little society, and made a citizen of the world at large, you should 
bend your talents, not to serve a party or a few, but all mankind. Your genius 
should mount above that mist in which its participation and neighboniiiood with 
earth long involved it; to shine abroad, and to heaven, ought to be the business and 
the glory of your present stuation. Remember it was at such a time that the 
greatest lights of antiquity dazzled and blazed the most, in their retreat, in their 
exile, or in their death. But why do I talk of dazzling or blazing?— it was then that 
they did good, that they gave light, and that they became guides to mankind. 

Those aims alone are won by of spirits truly great, and such I therefore hope will 
be yours. Resentment, indeed, may remain, perhaps cannot be quite extinguished 
m the noblest minds ; but revenge never will harbour there. Higher principles than 
those of the first, and better principles than those of the latter, will infalliDly influ- 
ence men whose thoughts and whose hearts are enlarged, and cause them to prefer 
the whole to any part of mankind, especially tc so small a part as one's single self. 

Believe me, my lord, I look upon you as a spirit entered into another life, as one 
just upon the edge of immortality, where the passions and affections must be much 
more exalted, and where you ought to despise all little views and all mean retro- 
spects. Nothing is worth your looking back; and, therefore, look forwiiird, and 
make, as you can, the world look after you. But take care that it be not wil^ pity, 
but with esteem and admiration. 

I anu with the gQpfttest sincerity and passion f6r your fame as well as happiness, 
jroiuB, wc. 

Pope was one of the authors of the ' Memoirs of Martinus Scrib- 
leruB,' where he has lavished mucYi 'yiVl on «ci^i\w!X'^'^\^s3«i.^ssfcTsss^ 



* The bishop went Into ezjae x^« tQ\\srii\xi%ifinni(^ 



356 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

mostly of little interest. He has ridiculed Burnett's * History of his 
Own Times' with infinite humour in * Memoirs of P. P^ Clerk of 
this Parish ;' and he contributed seyeral papers to the * Guardian.* 
His prose works contain also a collection of * Thoughts on Various 
Subjects/ a few of which are here subjoined : 

Thete never was any party, faction, sect, or cabal whatsoever, in which the most 
ignorant were not the most violent ; for a bee is not a busier animal than a block- 
head. However, such instruments are necessary to politicians ; aad perhaps it may 
be with stetes as with clocks, which must have some dead-weiarht Iianging at them, 
to help and regulate the motion of the finer and more useful parts. 

When men grow virtuous in their old age, they only make a sacrifice to Grod of 
the devil's leavings. 

He who tells a lie is not sensible how great a task he undertakes ; for he must be 
forced to invent twenty more to maintain one. 

Get your enemies to read your works, in order to mend them : for your friend is 
so much your second self, that he will judge too like you. 

There is nothing wanting to make all rational and disinterested people in the 
world of one religion, but that they should talk together every day. 

A short and certain way to obtain the character of a reasonable and wise man is, 
whenever any one tells you his opinion, to comply with him. 

The character of covetonsness is what a man generally acquires more through 
some niggardliness or ill grace in little and inconsiderable things, than in expenses of 
any consequence. A very few i)oundB a year would ease that man of the scandal of 
aiiarice. 

A Recipe to make an Epic Poem. — From the ^Oua/rdiajt,^ 

It is no small pleasure to me, who am zealous in the interests of learning, to think 
I may have the honour of leading the town into a very new and uncommon road of 
criticism. As that kind of literature is at present carried on, it consists only in a 
knowledge of mechanic rules which contribute to the structure of different sorts of 
poetry ; as the receipts of good housewives do to the making puddines of flour, 
oranges, plums, or any other ingredients. It would, mcthinks, make these my in- 
structions more easily intelligible to ordinary readers, if I discoursed of these mat- 
ters in the style in which ladies, learned in economics, dictate to their pupils for the 
Improvement of the kitchen and larder. 

I shall begin ^vith Epic Poetry, because the critics agree it is the greatest work 
human nature is capable of. 

For the Fable.— ^ Take out of any old poem, history-book, romance, or legend— for 
instance, Geoffrey of Monmouth, or Don Belianis of Greece — those parts of story 
which afford most scope for long descriptions : put these pieces together, and throw aU 
the adventures you fancy into one tale. Then take a hero whom you may choose for 
the sound of his name, and put him into the midst of these adventures ; tiiere let him 
work for twelve hours ; at the end of which you may take him out ready prepared to . 
conquer or to marry ; it being necessary that the conclusion of an Epic Poem be 
fortunate.* 

To make an Episode. — * Take any remaining adventure of our former collection, 
in which you could no way involve your hero ; or any unfortunate accident that was 
too good to be thrown away ; and it will be of use. applied to any other person who- - 
maylbe lost and evaporate in the course of the work, \nthout the least dama^.to the- ■ 
composition.' 

For ike Moral and Allegory.—* These you may extract out of the Fable afterwards ^ • 
at jroar Msure. Be sure you strain them adfilciently.' ^ 

^or the Jfannera.—^ For those of the hero, take aU the bestialities yoaean ^txA .. - 
in all the celebrate heroes of aptiquity ; \itti«Y vnSkTjGX\»teduced:ta a coostetency • 
My them all oh a heap upon Mm. But "\Be euietaie^ wft ^^ittiaiJii"ft%'«\!jMti^'^'« ^tron 
wouW be thought to have ; and to pxeveiit aiiv ToaBX;aiiift ytwgsx ^Caa-wpeA. \saB^ \fc 
^hfP^ to, seiectfrom the alphabet t£oTOcai^tA\\e\,\fet%tW^\sv^K»ft\v\%ji.^^ 

^^"i -^ the head of a deScatton betote 7U .do^ ^^r^Sj^^^w^t^^ 
Pftererve the eacact quantity of these yirtue*, Vt uoX\>ftV^i%^^^^^fi^ax^^\l^^^ ^xtw^'' 



ARBUTHNOT.J ENGLISH LITERATURE. 357 

be necepsary for the her* of a poem to be an honest man.— For the under characters, 
gather them from Homer and Virgil, and change the name as occasion serves.' 
. Fiyr the Machines, — * Take of deities, male and female, as many as yon can nse ; 
separate them into two equal ports, and keep Jupiter in the middle. Let Juno put 
him in a ferment, and Venus mollify him. Kemember on all occasions to make use 
of volatile Mercury. If yon have need of devils, draw them out of Milton's * Para- 
dise,' and extract your spirits from Tasso. The use of these machines is evident ; 
for since no Epic Poem can possibly subsist' without them, the wisest way is to 
reserve them for your greatest necessities. When you cannot extricate your hero 
by any human means, or youi'se!f by your own wits, seek relief from Heaven, and 
the gods will do your business very readily. This is according to the direct pre- 
■cri]^on of Horace in his *Art of Poetry :' 

Nee deus intersit, nisi dignus vlndioe nodus 
Inciderit— 

Never presume to make a god appear, 
But for a business worthy of a god. 

Roscommon. 

That is to say, a poet should never caH upon the gods for their assistance, bnt when 
he is in great perplexity.' 

For the Deseriptiona.—For a Tempest — * Take Eurus, Zephyr, Auster, and Boreas, 
and cast them together into one verse : add to these, of rain, lightning, and of thun- 
der (the loudest you can), quanliim suffi/sit. Mix your clouds and billows well 
together until they foam, and thicken your description here and there with a quick- 
sand. Brew your tempest well in your head before you set it a-blowing.' 

For a Battle. — * Pick a large quantity of images and descriptions m)m Homer's 
* Iliads,' with a spice or two of Virgil ; and if there remain any overplus, you may 
lay them by for a skirmish. Season it well with similes, and it wUI make an excet- 
Icnt battle.' 

For Burning a Town. — * If such a description be necessary, because it is certain 
there is one in Virgil, Old Troy is ready burnt to your hands. But if you fear that 
would be thought borrowed, a chapter or two of the * Theory of the Conflagration,' 
well circumstanced, and done into verse, will be a good succedaneum.' 

As for Similes and Metaphors, they may be found all over the creation ; the most 
ignorant may gather them ; but the danger is in applying them. For IMs, advise 
with your bookseller. 

For the Language. — (I mean the diction.) * Here it will do well to be an imitator 
of MiltoD, for you will find it easier to imitate him in this than anything else. He- 
braisms aud Greciems are to be found in him, without the trouble of teaming the 
lanj^uages. I knew a painter, who, like our poet, had no genius, make his daubings 
to be thought originals by setting them In the smoke. You may, in the same man- 
ner, give the venerable air of antiquity to your piece, by darkening it up and down 
with Old English. With this you may be easily furnished upon any occasion by the 
dictionary commonly printed at the end of Chaucer.' 

I must not conclude without cautioning all writers without genius in one material 
point ; which is, never to be afraid of having too much fire in their works. I should 
advise rather to take their warmest thoughts, and spread them abroad upon paper, 
for they are observed to cool before they aie read. 

DR. JOHN ARBUTHNOT. 

Dr. John Arbuthnot, the friend of Pope, Swift, Gay, and Prior, 
was associated with his brother-wits in some of the humorous pro- 
ductions of the day, called forth chiefly by political events. Tjiey 
were all Tories, and keenly interested in the success of their party. 
Arbuthnot was bom in 1667 at a place of th^ same name in Kincar- 
dJDesbire, son of a nonjuring cVetgyniWi. '^'ft ^^^a* ^^»sia^fc^^X'<is^ 
university of Aberdeen; auQ baving aWv^v^^ m^^\^^^>^^'^'^'^ 



358 CYCLOPAEDIA OF Fto 1727. 

London, where he became known as an author and a wit . He wrote 
an * Examination of Dr. Woodward's Account of the Deluge/ and 
an * Essay on the Useililness of Mathematical Learning' (1700). 
Happening to be at Epsom when Prince George was taken ill there, 
Arbuthnot was called upon to prescribe, and treated the case so suc- 
cessfully that he was made the prince's regular physician. In 1709, 
he was appointed physician in ordinary to the queen. 

The satirical * Memoirs of the Extraordinary Life, Works, and 
Discoveries of Martinus Scriblerus,' published in Pope's works, was 
chiefly, if not wholly, written by Arbuthnot. The design of this 
work, as stated by Pope, is to ridicule all the false tastes in learning, 
under the character of a man of capacity, who had dipped into every 
art and science, but injudiciously in each. Cervantes was the model 
of the witty authors ; but though they may have copied his grave 
irony with success, the fine humanity and imagination of the Spanish 
novelist are wholly wanting in Bcriblerus. It is highly probable, 
however, that the character of Cornelius Scriblerus suggested to 
titerne the idea of Walter Shandy. His oddities and absurdities about 
the education of his son — in describing which Arbuthnot evinces his 
extensive and curious learning — are fully equal to Sterne. Useful 
hints are thrown out amidst the ridicule and pedantry of Scriblerus ; 
and what are now termed object-lessons in some schools, may have 
been derived from such ludicrous passages as the following: 'The 
old gentleman so contrived it, to make everything contribute to the 
improvement of his knowledge, even to his veiy dress. He invented 
for him a geographical suit of clothes, which might give him some 
hints of that science, and likewise some knowledge of the commerce 
of different nations. He had a French hat with an African feather, 
Holland shirts and Flanders lace, English cloth lined with Indian 
silk ; his gloves were Italian, and his shoes were Spanish. He was 
made to observe this, and daily catechised thereupon, which his 
father was wont to call " travelling at home." He never ga/oe him a 
fig or am, orange^ but Jie obliged him to give an aeeount from whai 
country it came.* 

A more complete and durable monument of the wit and humour 

of Arbuthnot is his * History of John Bull,' published in 1712, and 

designed to ridicule the Duke of Marlborough, and render the nation 

discontented with the French war. The allegory in this piece is 

well sustained, and the satirical allusions poignant and happy, 

though the political disputes of that time have lost their interest Of 

the same ironical description is Arbuthnot's * Treatise concerning the 

Altercation or Scolding of the Ancients,' and his *Art of Political 

Lying.' His wit is always pointed, and rich in classical allasion, 

wftbout being acrimonious or personally offensive. Of the serious 

performaDces of Arbuthnot, the most N«\\iL«X^'eiS&^ %es\fia of disserta- 

tJons on ancient coins, weighta^ oftd txvea&wxe^. '^^ V^^"^^^ ^^^ 

^me medical works. After tU^ d^\3t^ oi ^vxwjx kK»a» ^\5afc ^Nko^- 



ARBUTHNOT.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 359 

ants of the court were changed, and Arbuthnot removed from St. 
James's to Dover Street. Swift said he knew his arty but not his 
trade ; and on another occasion the dean said of him : * He has more 
wit than we all have, and more humanity than wit.' Arbuthnot, 
however, thougli displaced, applied himself closely to his profession, 
and continued his unaffected cheerfulness and good-nature. In his 
latter years he suffered much from ill-health : he died in 1735. The 
most severe and dignified of the occasional productions of Dr. 
Arbuthnot, is his epitaph on Colonel Chartres, a notorious gambler 
and money-lender of the day, tried and condemned for an assault on 
his female servant : 

Here continueth to rot the body of Francis Chartres, who, with an inflexible 
constancy, and inimitable uniformity of life, persisted, in spite of age and infirmi- 
ties, in the practice of every human vice, excepting prodigality and liypocrisy ; his 
insatiable avarice exempted him from the first, his matchless impudence from the 
second. Nor was he more singular in the undeviating pravity of nis manners than 
successful in accumulating wealth ; for, without trade or profession, without trust 
of public money, and without bribe-worthy service, he acquired, or more properly 
created, a ministerial estate. He was the only person of his time who could cheat 
with the mask ot honesty, retain his primev^ meanness when possessed of ten 
thousand a year, and having daily deserved the gibbet for what he did, was at last 
condemned to it tor what he could not do. Oh, Indignant reader I think not his life 
nselers to mankind. Providence connived at his execrable designs, to give to after 
ages a conspicuous proof and example of how small estimation is exorbitant wealth 
in the sight of God, by his bestowing it on the most unworthy of all mortals. 

CTiaract&ra of John JBull {the English), Nic. Frog {the Dutch\ and Hocus 

{the Duke of Ma/rlborough). 

Bull, in the main, was an honest plain-dealing fellow, choleric, bold, and of a very 
tmconstaut temper ; he dreaded not old Lewis eu;her at backsword, single falchion, 
or cudgel-play ; but then he was very apt to quarrel with his best friends, especially 
if they pretended to govern him ; if you flattered him, you might lead him like a 
child. John's temper depended very much upon the air ; his spirits rose and fell 
with the weather-glass. John was ^uick, and understood his business very well ; 
bnt no man alive was more careless in looking into his accompts, or more cheated 
by partners, api>rentices, and servants. This was occasioned by his being a boon- 
companion, loving his bottle and his diversion ; for to ^ay truth, no man kept a 
better house than John, nor spent tils money more generously. By plain and fair 
dealing, John had acquired some plums, and might have kept them, had it not been 
for his unhappy lawsuit. 

Nic. Frog was a cunning sly rogue, <^uite the reverse of John in many particulars ; 
covetous, frugal ; minded domestic affairs ; would pinch his belly to save his pocket; 
never lost a farthing by careless servants or bad debtors. He did not cai'e much for 
any sort of diversions, except tricks of high German artists, and legerdemain ; no 
man exceeded Nic. in these ; yet it must be owned that Nic. was a fair dealer, and in 
that way acquired immeuse nches. 

/ Hocus was an old cunning attorney ; and though this was the first considerable 
suit that ever he was engaged in, he shewed himself superior In address to most of 
his profession ; he kept always good clerks ; he loved money, was smooth-tongued, 
gave good words, and seldom lost his temper ; he was not worse than an infidel, for 
nu provided plentifully for his family ; but he loved himself better than them all : the 
neighbours reported that he was henpecked, which was imi)08slble by such a mild- 
BpiHted woman as his wife was.* 

• The DucheBB of Marlborough was in reality & termagaut. All the Tory wits of that 
day charged the great duke with peculation, as comTOWL0^w-^u-OQ^%l,%.^^"^R>i^^>ai^^^ 
prolonged the war on that account Ther« vraH not «k tWbimauX^t «s\i^«ttRRk\ft w«s«RSsN»^Jask 



360 , CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

CTia/racter of John BuWs Mother (the Church of England). 

John had a mother whom he loved and honoured extremely ; a discreet, grave, 
sober, good-conditioned, cleanly old gentlewoman as ever lived ; she was none of 
vonr cross-grained termagant, scolding jades, that one had as gocnl be hanged as lire 
in the house with, snch as are always censuring the conduct, and telling scandalous 
stories of their neighbours, extolling their own good (Qualities, and undervaluing 
those of others. On the contrary, she was of a meek spirit, and, as she was strictly 
virtuous herself, so she always put the best construction upon the woixls and actions 
of her neighbours, except where they were irreconcilable to the rules of honesty and 
decency. She was neither one of your precise prudes, nor one of your fantastical 
old belies, that dress themselves like girls of fifteen ; as she neither wore a ruff, fore- 
head cloth, nor high-crowned hat, so she had laid aside feathers, flowers, and crimpt 
ribbons in her head-dress, fur-below scarfs, and hooped petticoats. She scorned to 
patch and paint, yet she loved to keep her hands and her face clean. Though she 
wore no flaunting laced ruffles, she would not keep herself in a constant sweat with 

freasy flannel ; though her hair was not stuck with jewels, she was not ashamed of a 
iamond cross : she was not, like some ladies, hung about with toys and trinkets, 
tweezer-cases, pocket-glasses, and essence-bottles ; she used only a gold watch and an 
almanac, to mark the hours and the holidavs. 

Her furniture was neat and genteel, well-fancied, with a hongout. As she affected 
not the grandeur of a f^te with a canopy, she thought there was no offence in an 
elbow-chair ; she had laid aside your carving, gilding, and japan work, as being too 
apt to gather dirt ; but she never could be prevailed upon to part with plain wainscot 
and clean hangings. There are some ladies that affect to smell a stink in evei^- 
thing ; they are always highly perfumedj and continually burning frankincense m 
their rooms ; she was above such affectation, yet she never would lay aside the use 
of brooms and scrubbing-brushes, and scrupled not to lay her linen in fresh lavender. 

She was no less genteel in her behaviour, well-bred, without affectation, in the due 
mean between one of your affected courtesying pieces of formality, and your romps 
that have no regard to the common rules or civility. There are some ladies that 
affect a mighty regard for their relations : we must not eat to-dav for myjuncle Tom, 
or my cousin Betty, died this time ten years ; let's have a ball to-night, it is my 
neighbour such-a-one's birthdav. She looked upon all this as grimace, yet she con- 
stantly observed her husband's l^irthday, her wedding-day, and some few more. 

Though she was a truly good woman, and had a sincere motherly love for her son 
John, yet there wanted not those who endeavoured to create a misunderstanding be- 
tween them, and they had so far prevailed with him once, that he turned her out of 
doors,* to his great sorrow, as he found afterwards, for his affairs went on at sixes 
and sevens. 

She was no less judicious in the turn of her conversation and choice of her studies, 
in which she far exceeded all her sex ; your rakes that hate the company of all sober 
grave gentlewomen would bear hers ; and she would, by her handsome manner of 
proceeding, sooner reclaim them than some that were more sour and reserved. She 
was a zealous preacher up of chastity and conjugal fidelity in wives, and by no means 
a friend to the newfangled doctrine of the indispensable duty of cuckoldom ; though 
she advanced her opinions with a becoming assurance, yet she never ushered them 
in, as some ipositive creatures will do, with dogmatical assertions— this is infallible, I 
cannot be mistaken, none but a rogue can deny it. It has been observed that such 
people are oftener in the wrong than anybody. 

Though she had a thousand good qualities, she was not without her faults, amongst 
which one might perhaps reckon too great lenity to her servants, to whom she sJways 
gave good counsel, but often too gentte correction. 

. Character of John BulVs Sister Peg (the Scottish Na^tion and Church). 

John had a sister, a poor girl that had been starved at nurse ; anybody would 
have guessed miss to have been bred up under the influence of a cruel stepdame, and 

slIegatioB. The Duke of Wellington, it is said, ridiculed the notion, and said that, how- 
.erermacb Marlborough might have loved money, Vvft m\sA\.\iV?^\Qi^^ hla military rspa- 
tatJon more. 
w ^ In the oontidBt betweeu Charlas 1. and the Pw^iaxaftut, 



ARBUTHNOT.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 861 

John to be the fondling of a tender mother. John looked rnddy and plump, with a 
pair of cheeks like a trumpeter j miss looked pale and wan, as if she had the green- 
sickness ; and no wonder, for John was the darliner ; he had all the good bits, was 
crammed with good pullet, chicken, pig, goose, and capon, while miiis had onlj a 
little oatmeal and water, or a dry crust without butter. John had his golden pippms, 

})eache8, and nectarines ; poor miss a crab-apple, sloe, or a blackberry. Master lay 
n the best apartment, with his bed-chamber towards the south sun ; miss lodg(id in 
a garret, exposed to the north wind, which shrivelled her countenance. However, 
this usage tnough it stunted the girl in her growth, gave her a hardy constitution ; 
she had life ana spirit in abundance, and knew when she was ill-used : now and then 
she would seize upon John's commons, snatch a leg of a pullet, or a bit of good beef, 
for which they were sure to go to fisticuffs. Master was indeed too strong for her ; 
but miss would not yield in the least point, but even when master had got her down, 
she would scratch and bite like a tiger ; when he gave her a cuff on the ear, she 
would prick him with her knitting-nec^e. John brought a great chain one day to tie 
her to the bed-post, for which affront miss aimed a penknife at his heart.* In short, 
these quarrols grew up to rooted aversions ; they gave one another nicknames ; she 
called nim Gundy-guta. and he called her Lousey i*c^, though the girl was a tight 
clever wench as any was ; and through her pale looks you might discern spirit and 
vivacity, which made her not, indeed, a perfect beauty, but something that was 
agreeable. It was barbarous in parents not to take notice of these early quarrels, 
and make them live better together, such domestic feuds jjroving after^'ards the 
occasion of misfortunes to them both. Peg had, indeed, some odd humours and 
comical antipathy, for which John would jeer her. * What think you of my sister 
Peg.' says he, * that faints at the sound of an organ, and yet will dance and frisk at 
the noise of a bag-pipe ?' * What's that to you, Gundy-guta ?' quoth Peg ; * every- 
body's to choose their own music' Then Peg had taken a fancy not to say her 
paternoster, which made people imagine strange things of her. Of the three 
brothers that have made such a clutter in the world. Lord Peter, Martin, and Jack, 
Jackt had of late been her inclination : Lord Peter she detested ; nor did Martin 
stand much better in her good graces ; but Jack had found the way to her heart. 

The Celerity and Duration of Lies, and How to Co?Uradict them. 

As to the celerity of their motion, the author says it is almost incredible. He 
gives several instances of lies that have gone faster than a man can ride post. Your 
terrifying lie travels at a prodigious rate, above ten miles an hour. Your whispers 
move in a narrow vortex, but very swiftly. The author says it is Impossible to ex- 
plain several phenomena in relation to the celerity of lies^ without the supposition of 
synchronism and combination. As to the duration of lies, he says they are of all 
sorts, from hours and days to ages ; that there are some which, like insects, die and ' 
revive again in a different form ; that good artists, like people who build npon a 
short lease, will calculate the duration of a lie surely to answer their purpose ; to last 
just as long, and no longer than the turn is served. 

The properest contradiction to a lie is another lie. For example, if it should be 
reiwrted that the I*reteuder was in London, one would not contraaict it by saying he 
never was in England : but you must prove by eye-witnesses that he came no farther 
than Greenwich, and then went back again. Thus, if it be spread about that a great 

Eerson were dying of some disease, you must not say the truth, that they are in 
ealth and nciver had such a disease, but that they are slowly recovering of it. So 
there was not long ago a gentleman who affirmed that the treaty with iPYance, for 
brindng popery and slavery into England, was signed the 15th of September; to 
which another answered very judiciously, not, by opposing truth to his lie, that there 
was no such treaty ; but that, to his certain knowledge, there were many things in 
that treaty not yet adjusted. 

The following extract will senre as a specimen of Dr. Arbuthnot's 
serious composition. It is taken from an essay on the 

* Henry YIII. to unite the two kingdoms under one sovereign, offered his daoghter 
Mary to James V. of Scotland : this offer was rejected, and foLu>w«d by a war: to this 
0rent probably the author alludes. 
t The Pope, LntheT, aad CalYin. 



862 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Usefulness of MatJiematical Leanrning, 

The adrantages which accrae to the mind by mathematical studies consist chiefly 
in these things : Ut, In accostoming it to atUntion. Sd, In giving it a habit of eUm 
and demonatrative reamming, Sd, In freeing it from prejudtcet credulity ^ and suptr- 
stitUm, 

First, the mathematics make the mind attentive to the objects which it considers. 
Tliis they do by entertaining it with a great variety of truths, which are deliehtfol 
and evident, bat not obvious. Truth Is the same thing to the understandmg as 
music to the ear and beautv to the eye. The pursuit of it does really as much gratify 
a natural faculty implanted in us by cur wise Creator, as the pleasiue of oar senses ; 
only in the former case, as the object and faculty are more spiritual, the delight is 
the more pure, free from the regret, turpitude, lassitude, and intemperance that com- 
monly attend sensual pleasures. The most part of other sciences consisting only of 
probable reasonings, the mind has not where to fix, and wanting sufficient principles 
to pursue its searches upon, gives them over as impossible. Again, as m mathe- 
matical investigations, truth may be found, so it is not always obvious. This spurs 
the mind, and makes it diligent and attentive. . . . 

The second advantage which the mind reaps from mathematical knowledge^ is a 
habit of clear, demonstrative, and methodical reasoning. We are contrived by nature 
to learn bv imitation mo-e than by precept ; and I bel^ve in that respect reasoning 
is much like other inferior arts— as dancmg, singing, &c. — acquired by practice. By 
accustoming ourselves to reason closely about quantity, we acquire a habit of doing 
so in other things. Logical precepts are more useful, nay, they are absolutely neces- 
sary, for a rule of formtU arguing in public disputations, and confounding an obsti- 
nate and perverse adversary, and exposing him to the audience or readers. But, in 
the search of truth, an imitation of the method of the geometers will carry a man 
further than all the dialectical rules. Their analysis is the proper model we ou^t to 
form ourselves upon, and imitate in the regular disposition and progress of our in- 
quiries; and even he who is ignorant of the nature of mathematical analysis, uses a 
method somewhat analogous to it. 

Thirdly, mathematical knowledge adds vigour to the mind, frees it from prejudice,, 
credulity, and superstition. This ft does in two ways : 1st, By accustoming us to 
examine, and not to take things upon trust. 2d. By giving us a clear and extensive 
knowledge of the system of the world, which, as it creates in us the most profound 
reverence of the Almighty and wise Creator, so it frees us from the mean and nar- 
row thoughts which ignorance and superstition are apt to bef^t. . . . The mathe- 
matics are friends to religion, inasmucn as they charm the passions, restrain the im- 
petuosity of imagination, and purge the mind from error and prejudice. Vice is 
error, confusion, and false reasoning ; and all truth is more or less opposite to it. 
Besides, mathematical studies may serve for a pleasant entertainment for those 
hours which young men are apt to throw away upon their vices : the delightfulness 
of them being such as to make solitude not only easy, but desirable. 

LORD BOLINOBROKB. 

Henry St. John Viscount Bolingbroke was in his own day the 

most conspicuous and illustrious of that friendly band of Tory wits 

and poets who adorned the reigns of Anne and George I. He is now 

the least popular of the whole. St. John was descended from an 

ancient family, and was born at Battersea, in Surrey, in 1678. He 

was educated at Eton and Oxford. After some years of dissipation, 

he entered parliament, and was successively secretary at war and 

secretary of state. He was elevated to the peerage in 1712. On the 

death of Queen Anne, the seals of office were taken from him, and 

lie was threatened with impeachment fox U\e share he had taken in 

negotiating: the Treaty of UtrecVit. BoVvw^>axo>KA x^Myc^^ \a ^wace, 

and entered into the Pretender's aetVice «C6 ^^ct^Xscr^. ^«t^.»^;iaR»>& 

oecame unpopular, and was accused oi nes\ecX. m^Vassfi^^vs^l^ vS«r 



BOLiNGBROKE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 3«8 

missed from liis second secretaryship, he had recourse to literature, 
and produced bis * Reflections on Exile/ and a letter to Sir William 
Windham, containing a defence of his conduct In 1723, he obtained 
a rail pardon, and returned to England ; his family inheritance was 
restored to him, but he was excluded from the House of Lords. He 
commenced an active opposition to Walpole, and wrote a number of 
political tracts against the Whig ministry. In 1735, he retired again 
to France, and resided there seven years, during which time he pro- 
duced his * Letters on the Study of History,' and a * Letter on the 
True Use of Retirement* The last ten years of his life were spent at 
Battersea. 

In 1749, appeared his * Letters on the Spirit of Patriotism,' and 
* Idea of a Patriot King,* with a preface believed to be by Mallet, but 
in reality written by Bolingbroke, in a strain of coarse invective, and 
which led to a bitter and acrimonious war of pamphlets. Boling- 
broke's treatise had been put into the hands of Pope, that he might 
have a few copies printed for private circulation. After the death of 
Pope, it was found that an impression of 1500 had been printed, and 
this Bolingbroke affected to consider a heinous breach of trust. The 
transaction was the most venial of all the poet's stratagems. The 
anger of Bolingbroke is more justly considered to have been only 
a pretext, the real ground of offense being the poet's preference of 
War burton, to whom he left the valuable property in his prints 
works. Bolingbroke died in 1751, and Mallet — to whom he left all 
his manuscripts— published a complete edition of his works in five 
volumes. A series of essays on religion and philosophy, first pub- 
lished in this collection, disclosed the noble author as an opponent of 
Christianity. Of lolly irregular views and character, vain, ambitious, 
and vindictive, yet eloquent and imaginative, we may admire, but 
cannot love Bolingbroke. fhe friendship of Pope was the brightest 
gem in his coronet ; yet by one ungrateful and unfeeling act he sul- 
lied its lustre, and. 

Like the base JndeaD. threw a pearl away 
Richer than all hia tribe. 

The writings of Bolingbroke are animated by momentary or factious 
feeling, rather than by any fixed principle or philosophical views. 
In expression he is often vivid and felicitous, with a rambling yet 
lively style, more resembling spoken than written eloquence, and 
wiUi a power of moral painting, that presents pictures to the mind. 
In one of his letters to Swift, we find him thus finely moralising : 

The Decline of Life, 

We are. both in the decline of life, my dear dean, and have been some yeaxB.gpbag 

down the hill ; let .as make the paasaffe aa smooth as we can. Let ns fence again^ 

physical evil by care, and the use of those means which experience most have pointed 

oat to na; let as fence s|:ainst moral evil by pbUosio^b.^ . ^^ \s:A.^^\^».^— M 'v^ ''«^ 

follow nature and do not work np Imaginat^OB. sl^VcaX. ^iw ^"ws«^\. ^^s^ai&Rfc-^^ 

Bball, of coarse, grow every year more indifEeieut V>1^'&^ «adL\R> \Jckft«SSa&s^ ^js^<w>a!&to- 



864 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

rests of a system ont of which we are soon to so. This is much better than stnpidity. 
The decay of passion strengthens philosophy, for passion may decay, and stniridi^ 
not muxeed. Pcuisions — says Pope, oar divine, as yon Mrill see one time or •Um'— 
are the galea of life ; let us not complain that they do not blow a storm. What hnrt 
does age do as in subdning what we toil to subdue all our lives ? It is now six in the 
morning ; I recall the time — and am glad it is ovei; — when about this hoar I used to 
be going to bed surfeited with pleasure, or jaded with business ^ my head often fuU 
of schemes, and my heart as often full of anxiety. Is it a misfortune, think you, 
that I rise at this hour refreshed, serene, aiid calm ; that the past and even the 
present affairs of life Stand like objects at a distance from me, where I can keep off 
the disagreeable, so as not to be strongly affected by them, and from whence I can 
draw the others nearer to me ? Passions, in their force, would bring all these, nav, 
even future contingencies, about my ears at once, and reason would ill defend me in 
the scuffle. 

A loftier spirit of philosophy pervades the following eloquent sen- 
tence on the independence of the mind with respect to external cir- 
cumstances and situation. 

The Order of Providence, 

Believe me, the providence of God has established such an order in the world, 
that of all which belongs to as, the least valuable parts can alone fail nnder the will 
of others. Whatever is best is safest, lies most out of the reach of haman power, 
can neither be (riven nor taken away. Such" is this great and beautiful work of 
nature — the world. Such is the mind of man, which contemplates and admires the 
world, where it makes the noblest part. These are inseparably ours ; and as long 
as we remain in one, we shall enjoy the other. Let us march, therefore, intrepidly, 
wherever we are led by tlie course of human accidents. Wherever they lead us, on 
what coast soever we are thrown by them, we shall not find ourselves absolutely 
strangers. We shall meet with men and women, creatures of the same figure, en- 
dowed with the same faculties, and born onder the same laws of nature. vITe shall 
see the same virtues and vices flowing from the same general principles, but varied 
in a thousand different and contrary modes, according to that infinite variety of laws 
and customs which is established for the same universal end— the preservation of 
society. We shall feel the same revolutions of seasons ; and the same son and moon 
will guide the course of our year. The same azure vault, bespangled wiUi stars, will 
be everywhere spread over our heads. There is no part of the world from whence we 
may not admire those planets, which roll, like cui*s, in different orbits round the 
same central sun ; from whence we may not discover an object stiU more stapendoos, 
that army of fixed stars hung up in the immense space of the universe, innumerable 
s^uns, whose beams enlighten and cherish the nuKnown worlds which roll around 
them ; and whilst I am ravished by such contemplations as these, whilst my soul is 
thus raised up to heaven, it imports me little what ground I tread ui)on. 

National Partiality and Prejudice. 

There is scarce any folly or vice more epidemical among the sons of men than 

that ridiculous and hurtful vanity by which the people of each country are apt 

to prefer themselves to those of ever^ other ; and to make their own caatoms. and 

manners, and opinions, the standards of light and wrong, of trae and false. 

The Chinese Mandarins were strangely surpnsed, and almost incredoloas, when 

the Jesuits shewed them how small a figure tneir empire made in the generaj map of 

the world. . . . Now, nothing can contribute more to prevent us from being tainted 

with this vanity, than to accustom ourselves early to contemplate the dff- 

ferent nations of the earth, in that vast map which history spreads before us, in 

tbeir tike and their fall, in their barbarous and civilised states, jn the llkttiess 

and nnlikeneBB ot them all to one axxot\i«T, «ndLQi «aA.Yv to itself. By frequflDtlr m- 

Bewine thia prospect to the nvind, tkie "illBEsafiMi -Mrtftv^s^ <:«^ «ui cka^ ^ tasttiers, 

BacrificiDg a human victim to hiB goA, wWV lioX. wa^g«»x tclw w»^ Vsi ^si «it<i& '^sao^ 

the Spaniard with a hat on his bead, and a. ft^^'^^\:^^^^'lJS^!^v^^^5^^ 
oatiooB to hj8 ambition, his avarice, wid ^Neu ^:sxa ^f»\ao?i^ ^\s» ^ac^sS*:^. > 



BOLiNGBROKE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 365 

might shew, by a mnltitade of other examples, how history prepares ii6 for experi- 
ence, and guides us in it ; and many of these would be both canons and important. 
I mieht likewise bring several other instances^ wherein history serves to purge the 
mind of those national partialities and prejudices that we are apt to contract m our 
education, and that experience for the most part rather confirms than removes ; be- 
cause it is for the most part confined, like our education. But I apprehend growing 
too prolix, and shall therefore conclude this head by observing, that though an early 
and proper application to the study of historywill contribute extremely to keep our 
minas free from a ridiculous partiality in favour of our own country, and a vicious 
prejudice against others, yet the same study will create in us a preference of affec- 
tion to our own country. There is a story told of Abgarus. He brought several 
beasts taken in different places to Rome, they say, and let them loose before Augus- 
tus ; every beast ran immediately to that part of the circus where a parcel of earth 
taken from his native soil had been laid. Credat Jttdonus Apella. This tale might 
pass on Josephus ; for in him, I believe, I read it ; but surely the love of our country 
IS a lesson of reason, not an institution of nature. Education and habit, obligation 
and interest attach us to it, not instinct. It Is, however, so necessary to be culti- 
vated, and the prosperity of all societies, as well as the grandeur of some, depends 
upon it so much, that orators by their eloquence, and poets by their enthusiasm, 
have endeavoured to work up this precept of morality into a principle of passion. 
But the examples which we find in history, improved by the lively descriptions and 
the just applauses or censures of historians, will have a much better and more per- 
manent effect than declamation, or song, or the dry ethics of mere philosophy. 

UnreasonMeness of Complaints of the Shortness of Human Life. 

I think very differently from most men of the time we have to pass, and the bu- 
siness we have to do, in this world. I think we have more of one, and less of the 
other, than is commonly supposed. Our waut of time, and the shortness of human 
life, are some of the principal common-place complaints which we prefer against the 
established order of things ; they are the grumblings of the vulgar, and the pathetic 
lamentations of the philosopher; but they are impertinent and impious in both. 
The man of business despises the mam of pleasure for squandering his time away ; 
the man of pleasure pities or laughs at the man of business for the same thin^ ; and 
yet both concur superciliously and absurdly to find fault with the Supreme Being for 
having given them so little time. The philosopher, who misspends it very often as 
much as the others, joins in the same cry, and authorises this impiety. Theophras- 
tus thought it extremely hard to die at ninety, and to go out of tne world when he 
had just learned how to live in it. His master Aristotw found fault with nature for 
treating man in this respect worse than several other animals ; both very unphilo- 
sophically I and I love Seneca the better for his quarrel with the Stugirite on this 
head.. We see, in So many instances, a just proportion of things, according" to their 
several relations to one another, that philosophy should lead us to conclude this pro- ' 
portion. preserved, even where we cannot discern it; instead of leading us to con- 
clude that it is not preserved where we do not discern it, or where we think that we 
see the contrary. To conclude otherwise is shocking presumption. It is to presume 
that the system of the universe would have been more -wisely contrived, if creatures 
of our low rank among intellectual natures had been called to the councils of the 
Most High ; or that the Creator ought to mend his work by the advice of the creature. 
That life which seems to our self-love so short, when we compare it with the ideas 
we frame of eternity, or even with the duration of some other beings, will appear 
sufficient, upon a less partial view, to all the ends of the creation, and of a just pro- 
portion in the successive course of generations. The term itself is long ; we render 
It short ; and the want wa complam of fiows from our profusion, not from our 
poverty. 

Let us leave the men of pleasure and of business, who are often candid enough to 
own that they throw away nieir time, and therehy to confess that they complam of 
the Supreme Being for no other reason than this, that he has not proportioned his 
bounty to their extravagance. Let us consider the scholar and philosopher, who, far 
from owning that he throws any time away, TepTQrv«& cA)Cket% l<^x QsicQ% ^\ ^2s^ 
solemn mortal who abstains from the p\ea&\ixeA, an^ ^<MiX\M» \Jttfc\swBiaR». ^\ "^ssfc 
world, that be may dedicate his whole tfine IQ t\ie eeaxcXv ol Xm^ ^?i.^^^sB5?Ra'^'*>^ 



36« CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1727. 

meet of knowledge. When such a one complains of the shortnees oi bnman life in 

general, or of bis remfdning share In particniar, might not a man more reasonaUe, 
lOugh Ices solemn, expostulate thns with him: ^Yoar complaint is indeed con- 
sistent with your practice ; but you wou d not possibly renew your complaint if yon 
reviewed your practice. Though reading makes a scholar, yet every scholar is not 
a philosopher, nor every pliilosopher a wise man. It costs yon twenty years to 
devour all the volumes on one side of your library ; yon came out a great critic in 
Latin and Greek, in the orieutal tongues, in history and chronology ; out yon were 
not satisfied. Ton confessed that mese were the HteroR nihil aanantes and yon 
wanted more time to acquire other knowledge. You have had this time \ yon have 
passed twenty years more on the other side of your library, among philosophers, 
rabbis, commentators, schoolmen and whole h gions of modem doctors. You are 
extremely well versed in all that has been vnitten concerning the nature of God, and 
of the soul of man, about matter and form, body and spirit, and space and eternal 
essences, and incorporeal substances, and the rest of those profound speculations. 
You are a master of the controversies that have arisen about nature and grace, 
about predestination and freewill, and all the other abstruse questions that 
have made so much noise in the schools, and done so much hurt in the world. 
You are going on, as fast as the infirmities you have contracted will permit, 
in the same course of study; but you begin to foresee that you shall want 
time, and you make grievous complaints of the shortness of human life. Give 
me leave now to ask you how many thousand years God jnust prolong yonr 
life in order to reconcile you to his wisdom ana goodness ? It is plain, at least 
highly probable, that a life as long as that of the most aged of the patriarchs wonld 
be too short to answer your purposes ; since the researches and disputes in which 
you are engaged have been already for a much longer time the objects of learned 
mquiries, and remain still as imperfect and undetermined as they were at first. Bnt 
let me ask you again, and deceive neither yourself nor me, have you, in the covree 
of these forty years, once examined the first principles and the fundamental facts on 
which all those questions depend, with an absolute indifference of judgment, and 
with a scrupulous exactness ? with the same care that yon have employed in exam- 
ining the various consequences drawn from thorn, and the heterodox opinions about 
them? Have you not taken them for granted in the whole course of your studies? 
Or, if you have looked now and then on the state of the proofs brought to maintain 
them, nave you not done it as a mathematician looks over a demonstration formerlv 
made— to refresh his memory, not to satisfy any donbt ? If you have thus examined, 
it may appear marvellous to some that you have spent so much time in many parts 
of those studies which have reduced you to this hectic condition of so much heat 
and weakness. But if you have not thus examined, it must be evident to all, nay, to 
yourself on the least cool reflection, that you are still, notwithstanding all your 
learning, in a state of ignorance. For knowledge can alone produce knowledge; 
and without such an examination of axioms and facts, yon can have none about 
inferences.* 

In this manner one might expostulate very reasonably with many a great scholar, 
many a profound philosopher, many a dogmatical casuist. And it serves to set the 
complaints about want 01 time, and the shortness of human life, in a very ridiculous 
but a true light. 

Pleasures of a Patriot. 

Neither Montaig^ie In writing his essays, nor Descartes in building new worlds, 
nor Burnet in framing an antemluvian earth, no, nor Newton in discovering and es- 
tablishing the true laws of nature on experiment and a sublimer geometi^, felt more 
intellectual joys, than he feels who is a real patriot, who bends all the force of his 
understanding, and directs all his thoughts and actions, to the good of hds country. 
When such a man forms a political scheme, and adjusts various and seemingly in- 
depeadent jMTtB in it to one great and good design, he is transported by imagination. 
orabsorhedin meditation, as mnch luS -as aereeably as they; and the saoifoction 
that arifiea from the different importance ot Uke»e o\xv&t\.%»^si«^"^J «*«a-of the woilc, 
MS vastly in bis favour. It is here that tbe specnifttwe ^\xCLO*o^\kKe«i\««w3t v&s^^^tMbr 
Btzre end. But be who specnlates in order to acX, g.oe» ou voA «sr^^ ^ ^tasft, 
Juto oxecatioB. His labour contlnuea, it vadea, VtWwe«Jie»\>5ra^. «i5Kw^\S«>^^$«MBs» 



boungbroKeJ ENGLISH LITERATURE. 3«r 

too. The ezecation, indeed, is often traversed, by tinforefieen and untoward cir- 
cmnstances, by ihe perverseness or treachery of friends, and by the power or malite 
of enemies ; bat the flr^t and the last of these animate, and the docuity and fidelity 
of some men make amends for the perverseness and treachery of others. Whilst a 
great event is in suspense, the action warms, and the very suspense, made up of 
hope and fear, maintain no unpleasing agitation in the mina. If the event is decided 
successfully, such a man enjoys pleasure proportionable to the good he has done — a 
pleasure like to that which is attribut-ed to tlie Supreme Being on a survey of his 
works. If the event is decided otherwise, and usuiping courts or overbearing par- 
ties prevail, such a man has still the testimony of hi8 conscience, and a sense of the 
honour he has acquired, to soothe his mind and support his courage. For although 
the course of state af&iirs be to those who meddle in them like a lottery, ^et it is a 
lottery whereiu no good man can be a loser ; he may be reviled, it is true, instead of 
being applauded, and may suffer violence of many kinds. I will not say, like Seneca^ 
that the noblest spectacle which Ood can behold is a virtuous man suffering, and 
struggling with afflictions ; but this I will say, that the second Cato, driven out of 
the romm, and dragged to prison, enjoyed more inward pleasure, and maintained 
more outward dignity, than they who insulted him, and who triumphed in the ruin 
of their country. 

WisBy Dislinguished from Cunning Ministers, 

We may observe much the same difference between wisdom and cunning, both as 
to the objects they propose and to the means they employ, as we observe between 
the visual powers of different men. One sees distinctly the objects that are near to 
him, their immediate relations, and their direct tendencies : and a sight like this serves 
well enough the purpose of those who concern themselves no further. The cunning 
minister is one of tlio?e : he neither sees, nor is concerned to see, any further than 
his personal interests and the support of his administration require. If such a man 
overcomes any actual difficulty, avoids any immediate distress, or, without doing 
either of those effectually, gains a little time by all the low artifice which cunning fe 
ready to suggest and baseness of mind to employ, he triumphs, and is flattered by 
his mercenary tniin on the great event; which amounts often to no more than this, 
that he got into distress by one seriA of faults, and out of it by another. The wise 
minister sees, and is concerned to see further, because government has a further con- 
cern : he sees the objects that are distant as well as thoJ-e that ire near, and all their 
remote relations, and even their indirect tendencies. He thinks of fame as well as 
of applause, and prefers that, which to be enjoyed must be given, to that which may 
be bought. He considers his administration as a single day m the great year of gov- 
ernment ; but as a day that is affected by those which went before, and that must 
affect those which are to follow. He combines, therefore, and compares all these 
objects, relations, and tendencies ; and the judgment he makes on an entire, not a 
partial survey of them, is the rule of his conduct- That scheme of the reaf>on of 
state, which lies open before a wise minister, contains all the great principles of gov- 
ernment, and all the great interests of his country : so that, as he prepares some 
events, he prepares against others, whether they be likely to happen during his ad- 
ministration, or in some future time. 

Parts of Pope's ' Essay on Man * bear a strong resemblance to pas- 
sages iu Bolingbroke's treatises. The poet Iiad tbe priority of publi- 
cation, but tlie peer was tbe preceptor. The principles of Pope on 
religious subjects were loose and unfixed ; Bolingbroke carried him 
further in his metaphysical speculation than he perceived at the time, 
and Pope was oveijoyed wlien Warburton came forward with his 
forced and pedantic commentary, to reconcile the * Essay on Man ' to 
Christian doctrine. * You understand my system,' he said, ' better 
than I do myself The system was the stamina of Bolingbroke's 
philosophy (which the poet didnol fwlv^ eom\)\^V\^^^^^<i<i^sv\fii^isAa^^^ 
as the peer happily expresses it, in adCLVft«&\Ti^ '^Q^^.,\\i. N^^\s. Tge^^^ 



868 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

hours — ' when we saunter alone, or as we have often done, with good . 
Arbuthnot and the jocose Dean of St. Patrick's, among the multiplied 
scenes of your little garden.* 

LADY MAKY WOBTLKY MONTAGU. 

Few persons, and especially ladies, have united so much solid sense 
and learning to wit, fancy, and lively powers of description, as Ladt 
Maby Wortlby Montagu. In epistolary composition she has very 
few equals, and scarcely a superior. Horace Walpole may be more 
witty and sarcastic, and Cowper more unaffectedly natural, pure, and 
delightful ; yet if we consider the variety and novelty of the objects 
described in Lady Mary's letters, the fund of anecdote and observa- 
tion they display, the just reflections that spriug out of them, and tbe 
happy clearness and idiomatic grace of her style, we shall hesitate in 
placing her below any letter-writer that England has yet produced. 
This accomplished lady was the eldest daughter of the Duke of King- 
ston, and was born in 1690. She was educated under the superin- 
tendence of Bishop Burnet, and in youth was a close student and 
indefatigable reader. In 1713 she married Mr. Edward Wortley 
Montagu, and on her husband being appointed a commissioner of the 
treasury, she was introduced to the courtly and polished circles, and 
made the friendship of Addison, Congreve, Pope, and the other distin- 
guished literati of that period. Her personal beauty and the charms of 
her conversation were then unrivalled. In 1716, her husband was ap- 
pointed ambassador to the Porte, and Lady Mary accompanied him to 
Constantinople. During her journey «ild her residence in the Levant, 
she corresponded with her sister, the Countess of Mar, Lady Rich, . 
Pope, &c., delineating European and Turkish scenery and manners 
with accuracy and minuteness. On observing among the villagers 
in Turkey the practice of inoculating for the small-pox, she became 
convinced of its utility and efl3cacv, and applied it to her own son, 
at that time about three years old. By great exertions Lady Mary 
afterwards established the practice of inoculation in England, and 
conferred a lasting benefit on her native country and on mankind. 
In 1718, her husband being recalled from his embassy, she returned 
to England, and, by the advice of Pope, settled at Twickenham. The 
rival wits did not long continue friends. Pope wrote high-flown 
panegyrics and half-concealed love-letters to Lady Mary, and she 
treated them with silence or ridicule. On one occasion, he is said to 
have made a tender deda/ratUm, which threw the lady into an immod- 
erate fit of laughter, and made the sensitive poet ever afterwards her 
implacable enemy. Lady Mary also wrote verses, town eclogues, 
and epigrams, and Pope confessed that she had too much wit for 
him. The cool self-possession of the lady of rank and fashion, joined 
to her sarcastic powers, proved an ov^t\xv«A^ ^ot \X\ft \ealous retired 
author, tremblingly alive to t.\ie a\ia.tV^ ot xK^vsoXft. \a.W%^^\«t 
he&lth hsLYmg declined, Lady "NLaiy \eiiX^\i^wA«si^^«t\>»j&«aQ.\Nfc 



MONTAGU.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 369 

travel and live abroad. She visited Rome, Naples, Ac, and settled 
at Lovere, in the Venetian territory, whence she corresponded freely 
and fully witli her female friends and relatives. 

Mr. Montague died in 1761, and Lady Mary was prevailed upon by 
her daughter, the Countess of Bute, to return to England. J5he ar- 
rived in October, 1761, but died in the following year. Her letters 
were first printed surreptitiously in 1763. A more complete edition 
of her works was published in five volumes in 1803; and another, 
edited by her gieat-grandson, Lord Wharnclifie, with additional let- 
ters and information, in 1837. A later edition (1861), edited by Mr. 
Moy Thomas, is still more complete and correct. The letters from 
Constantinople and France have been printed in various shapes. 
The wit and talent of Lady Mary are visible throughout the whole of 
her correspondence, but there is often a want of feminine softness 
and delicacy. Her desire to convey scandal, or to paint graphically, 
leads her into offensive details, which the more decorous taste of the 
present age can hardly tolerate. She described what she saw and 
heard without being scrupulous ; and her strong masculine under- 
standing, and carelessness as to refinement in habits or expressions, 
render iier sometimes apparently unamiable and unfeeling. As 
models of the epistolary style, easy, familiar, and elegant, no less than 
as pictures of foreign scenery and manners, aud fashionable gossip, 
the letters of Lady Mary must, however, ever maintain a high place 
in our national literature. They are truly letters^ not critical or di- 
dactic essays enlivened by formal compliment and elaborate wit. 
Some rather objectionable letters, published even in Lord Wham- 
cliffe's edition (vol. ii. pp. 104-121), were assuredly not written by 
Lady Mary, but are forgeries by John Cleland, son of Pope*s friend 
Major Cleland, a clever unprincipled litterateur, who lived down to 
the close of the century. 

To E. W. Montagu — On Matrimonial Happiness, 

If we marry, our happiness must consist in loving one another : 'tis principally 
rny concern to think of the most probable method of making thiat love eternal. You 
object against living in London ; I am not fond of it myself, and readily give it up to 
you, though I am assured there needs more art to keep a fondness alive m solitude, 
where it generally preys upon itself. There is one article absolutely necessary — ^to 
be ever behoved, one must be ever agreeable. There is no such thing as being agree- 
able \vithout a thorough good-humour, a natural sweetness of temper, enlivened by 
cheerfulness. Whatever natural fund of gaiety one is bom with, 'tis necessary to be 
entertained with agreeable objects. Anybody capable of tasting pleasure, when they 
confine themselves to one place, should take care 'tis the place in the world tlie most 
agreeable. Whatever you may now think — now, perhaps, you have some fondness 
for me — though vour love should continue in its full force, there are hours when the 
most beloved mistress would be troublesome. People are not forever— nor is it in 
human nature that they should be— disposed to be fond; you would be glad to find 
in me the friend and the companion. To be a^eeably the last, it is necessary to be 
gav and entertaining. A perpetual solitude, in a place where you see nothing to 
raise your spirits, at lengtii wears them out, and conversation insensibly falls into 
dull and insipid. When I have no more to say to you, you will like me no longer. 
Bow dreadful ia that view I You will reflect, for my eake you have abandoned tUe 
conversation of a friend that you liked, and yo\tt aVVwaXiOiVi \a. ^ <y3fQS&s:^ -^^vsssc^ 'sS^ 



870 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 17;^;. 

things would have contributed to make your life pass in (the true volupii) a snMwth 
tranauillity. / shall lose the viyacity which should entertain 70a, and you will haTs 
nothiug to recompense jon for what yon have lost. Very few people that have set- 
tled entirely in the conntrv. bat have grown at length weary of one another. The 
ladv*s conversation generally falls into a thousand Impertinent effects of idleness ; 
and the gentleman falls in love with his dc^ and his horses, and out of love with 
everything else. I am now arguing in favour of the town ; you have answered me 
to that point. In respect of your health, 'tis the ftrst thins to be considered, and I 
shall never ask you to do anything injurious to that. But 'tis my opinion, 'tis neces- 
sary to be happy that we neither of us think any place more agreeable than where 
we are. ... 

To Mr, Pope — Eastern Manners and Language. 

Adrianople, April 1, O. S.. 1717. 

I no long T look np'^n Theocritu«« as a romanti •. writer ; he has onl ■ crivpn a » lain 
ima?e of ihe w y of life i.mongst the pe sants of his • ountry. who, b fore oppres icn 
had reduced them to wan*, were I su pose, all ei. ployed a« the better sort of t <cm 
are now. I (;ou'i doubt, >iad he be n do n a Briton, bu his *Idylliums ' hud been 
filed w'th descri )tiou8 of thrashing and churn. ng, bo h which tire unknown here, 
tht; com b.iug all trodden out by oxen ; the but. er — I speak it with sonow — unheard 
of. 

I read over your Homer here with an infinite pi 'asure. and find severi'l little pa s- 
ages explained that I did not beore entirely comprehend the beauty of; many (f 
the customs and much of the dress then in fashion, being y. t retained. I doD't 
wond T to find more rem'iins here of an age so distant, than is to be tound in any 
other country ; the Turks not taking that pains to mtroduce their own manners, as 
has b -en generally pr ctised by other nations, tnat imagin • themsel.es mor.; polite. 
It would be too red ous to ou to po nt out uU the passages that r -late to pre ent cus- 
toms. Bat I can as.sure you that the prinoesses and great ladies pass their time at 
their looms, em *)roiderlng veils and robes, ^urround«d by their maids, w ich are 
always very numerous^ m t e eame mam er as we find Andromache and Helen de- 
scribe 1. The descnption of the bu'lt of Menelaus exactly resembles those that are 
now worn by the jjreat men, fastened before with 1 road colden clasps, and embroid- 
ered round with nch work. The snowy veil that Helen throws over her fa e .» still 
fashionable ; and I never see half-a-dozen of old bashaws — as I do very of • en— with 
their reverend boards, sitting bask.ng in ihe sun, but I recollect goo<l kin^ Priam and 
his connsell rs. Their manner of dancing i^ crtainly the same that Diana is sung 
to have danced on the banks of Eurotas. The great lady still leads tlie dance, and is 
followed by a troop of young cirla, who imitate her steps, ai d if she sings, ma^e up 
thj chorus. The tuui's are extremely gay and lively, yet with something in them 
wonderfully soft. The steps are varied ace rding to the pleasnre of her that K-ads 
the dance, but always in exact time, and inflni efy more preeable than any of our 
dances, at least in my opinion. I sometim'^s inaUe une in the train, b t am not skil- 
ful ♦'uough to lead ; these are the Grecian dances, the Turkish bei g very different. 

I should have told you. in the first place, that the eastern manners give a grent 
light into many Scripture passages that appear odd to us, their phraser being com- 
monly what we should call Scripture language. The vulgar Turk ir* very difftreiit 
from what is spoken at court, or amongst the people of figure, who always mix so 
much Arabic and Pv-rsian 'n their discourse, that it may very well be called another 
language. And tis as ridiculous to make use of the expressions commonly used 
in speakine to a great man or lady, as it would be to speak broad Yorkshire O' 
Somersetshire in the drawing-room. Besides this distinction they have what the 
call the sublime, that is, a sty'e proper for poetry, and which is the exact Scriptur 
style. I believe you will be pleas^ to see a genuine example of this ; and I am vei 
glad I have it in my power to satisfy your curiosity, by sending you a faithful co[ 
of the verses that Ibrahim Pasha, the reining favourite, has made for the youi 
princess, his contracted wife, whom he is not yet permitted to visit without w 
nestaett, though she is gone home to his house. He is a man of wit and leamic 
sud whether or no he ia capable of writing good verse, you may bo sure that on sr 
«o occasion he wonld not want the assistance oi \Y\ft>oen''pc«ia in the empire. V. 
tbe veneg laajr be looked upon as a aample ot tYieit ^eaX v^Xrj \ »sA\ 4au'^ do 



MONTAGU.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 871 

yon ni be of my mind, that it is most wonderfnlly resemblins: the * Song df Solomon/ 
which was also addressed to a royal bride. 

The nightingale now wanders in the vines : 
Her passion is to seels roses. 

I went down to admire the beauty of the rines : 
The sweetness of your charms has ravished my sooL 

Yonr eyes are black and lovely, 

Bat wild and disdainful as those of a stag.(l) 

The wished possession is delayed from day to day ; 
The cruel sultan Achraet%vill not permit me 
To see those cheeks, more vermilion than roses. 

I dare not snatch one of your kisses; 

The sweetness of your charms has ravished my soul. 

Your eyes are black and lovely, 

But wild and disdainful as those of a stag. 

The wretched Ibraham sighs in these verses : 

One dart from your eyes has pierced through my heart. 

Ah I when will the hour of possession arrive? 

Must I yet wait "a long time ? 

The sweetness of your charms has ravished my soul. 

Ah, sultana ! stag-eyed — an angel amongst angels I 
I desire, and my desire remains unsatisfied. 
Can you take delight to prey upon my heart ? 

My cries pierce the heavens I 

My eyes are without sleep ! 

Turn Lo me, sultana — ^let me gaze on thy beauty. 

Adieu— I go down to the grave. 

If you call me, I return. 

My heart i&— hot as sulphur ; sigh, and it will flame. 

Crown of my life I — ^fair light of my eyes ! 

My sultana ! — ^my princess ! [rave I 

I rub my face against the earth— I am drowned in scalding tears — ^I 
Have you no compassion ? Will you not turn to look upon me ? 

I have taken abundance of pains to get these verses in a literal translation ; and if 
you wen^ acquainted with my interpreters, I might spare myself the trouble of assur- 
ing you that they have received no poetical touches from their hands. 

To Mrs. S. C. [Sarah ChisweU] — InoctUation for tlie Small pox. 

Adbianofle, April 1, O. S. 1717. 

Apropos of distempers, I am going to tell you a thing that will make you wish 
yourself here. The small-pox, so fatal and so general amongst us, is here entirely 
harmless, by the invention of ingrafting, which is the terra they give it. There is a 
set of old women who make it their business to perform the operation every autumn, 
in the mouth of September, when the great heat is abated. People send to one 
another to know if any of their family has a mind to have the small-pox ; they make 
parties for this purpose, and when they are met — commonly fifteen or sixteen together 
— the old woman comes with a nut-shell full of the matter of the best sort of small- 
pox, and asks what veins you please to have opened. She immediately rips open 
that you offer to her with a large needle — which gives you no more pain than a com- 

1 Sir W* Jones, in the preface to his Persian Orammar, objects to this translation. 
The expression is merely analogous to the BoopU of Homer. 



372 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1727. 

mQD scratch— and puts into the yein as mnch matter as can lie upon the head of her 
needle, and after that binds ap the little wound with a hollow bit of shell ; and in 
this manner opens four or five veins. The Grecians have commonly the supersti- 
tion of opening one in the middle of the forehead, one in each arm, and one on the 
breast, to mark the si^ of the cross ; but this has a very ill effect, all these wounds 
leaving little scai-s, and is not done by those that are not superstitions, who choose 
to have them in the legs, or that part of the arm that is concealed. The children or 
young patients play together all the rest of the day, and are in perfect health to the 
eiehth. "j-'hen the fever begins to seize them, and they keep their beds two days, 
venr seldom three. They nave very rarely above twenty or thirty in their faces, 
which never mark ; and in eight days* time, they are as well as before their illness. 
Where they are wounded, there remain running sores during the distemper^ which I 
don't doubt is a great relief to it. Every year thousands nnoergo this operation ; and 
the French ambassador says pleasantly, that they take the small-pox here by way of 
diversion, as they take the waters in other countries. '1 here is no example of any 
one that has died in it ; and you may believe I am well satisfied of the safety of this 
experiment, since I intend to try it on my dear little son, 

I am patriot enough to take pains to bring this useful invention into fashion in 
England ; and I should not fail to write to some of our doctors very particularly 
about it, if I knew any one of them that I thought had virtue enough to destroy 
such a considerable branch of their revenue for the good of mankind. But that dis- 
temper is too beneficial to them, not to expose to all their resentment the hardy 
wight that should undertake to put an end to it. Perhaps, if I live to return, I may, 
however, have courage to war with them. Upon this occasion, admire the heroism 
in the heart of your friend, &c. 

To Lady Rich — France in 1718. 

Paris, Oct. 10, O. S. 1718. 

The air of Paris has already had a good effect upon me ; for I was never in better 
health, though 1 have been extremely 111 all the road from Lyons to this place. You 
may judge how agreeable the journey has been to me, which did not want that addi- 
tion to make me dislike it. I think nothing so terrible as objects of misery, except 
one had the Godlike attribute of being capable to redress them ; and all the counter 
villages of France shew nothing else. While the post-horses are changed, the whole 
town comes out to beg, with such miserable starved faces, and thin tattered clothes, 
the^ need no other eloquence to persuade one of the wretchedness of their condition. 
This is all the French magnificence till you come to Fontainebleau, where you are 
shewed one thousand five hundred rooms in the king's hunting-palace. The apart- 
ments of the royal family are very large, and richly gilt ; but I saw nothing in the 
architecture or painting worth rememl)ering. . . . 

I have seen all the l)eauties, and such (I can't help making use of the coarse 

word) nauseous creatures I so fantastically absurd in their dress ! so monstrously 
unnatural in their paints I their hair cut short, and curled round their faoes, and so 
loaded with powder, that it makes it look like white wool I and on their cheeks to 
their chins, unmercifully laid on a shining red japan, that glistens in a most flaming 
manner, j-o ttiat they seem to have no resemblance to human faces. I am apt vo be- 
lieve ttiat they took the first hint of their dress from a fair sheep newly ruddled, "fls 
with pleasure 1 recollect my dear pretty countrywomen ; and if I was writing to any- 
body else, I should say that these grotesque daubers give me still a higher esteem of 
the natural charms of dear Lady Rich's auburn hair, and the lively colours of her 
nnsullied complexion. 

To the Countess of Bute — On Female Educatio'n. 

LoYEBE, Jan. 28, N. S. 1T53. 

Dear Chii.d — You have given me a great deal of satisfaction by your account of 

your eldest daughter. I am particularly pleased to hear she is a good arithmetician ; 

Jt is the best proof of understanding : the knowledge of numbers is one of the chief 

dJBtinctioDB between os and brutes. If there is anything in blood, you may reason- 

^bJjr expect your children should be endovjed vjwii an. uncommon share of good 

sense. Mr, WorUej^a family and mme \iave \>o>;Ja. v^o4^<sft^ «KyBi<& ^1 the greatest 



MONTAGU.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. , 873 

men that have been bom in England ; I mean Admiral Sandwich, and my grand- 
father, who was distingaished by the name of Wise William. I have heard Lord 
Bate's father mentioned as an extraordinary genius, though he had not many oppor- 
tunities of shewing it ; and his ancle the present Duke of Argyll has one of the best 
heads I ever knew. I will therefore speak to you as supposing Lady Mary not only 
capable, but desirous of learning ; in that case, by all means let her be indulged in it. 
You will tell me I did not make it a part of your education ; your prospect was very 
different from hers. As yoa had much in your circumstances to attract the highest 
offers, it seemed your business to learn how to live in the world, as it is hers to 
know how to be easy out of it. It is the common error of builders and parents to 
follow some plan they think beantiful — and perhaps is so — without considering that 
nothing is beautif ol which is displaced. Hence we see so many edifices raised, that 
the raisers can never inhabit, being too large for their fortunes. Vistas are laid 
open over barren heaths, and apartments contrived for a coolness very agreeable in 
Italy, but killins in the north of Britain ; thus every woman endeavours to breed her 
daughter a fine lady, qualifying her for a station in which she wiU never appear, 
and at the same time incapacitating her for that retirement to which she is 
destined. Learning, if she has a real taste for it, will not only make her cod tented, 
bat happy in it. No entertainment is so cheap as reading, nor any j)leasares 
so lasting. She will not want new fashions, nor regret the loss of exi)ensive diver- 
sions, or variety of company, if she can be amused with an author in her closet. 
To render this amosement complete, she should be permitted to learn the lan- 
guages. I have heard it lamented that boys lose so many years in mere learning 
of words : this is no objection to a girl, whose time is not so precious :^she cannot 
advance herself in any profession, and has therefore more hours to spare ; and as 
you say her memory is good, she will be very agreeably employed this wav. There 
are two cautions to be given on this subjec t : First, not to think herself learned 
when she can read Latin, or even Greek. Languages are more properly to be 
called vehicles of learning than learning itself, as may be observed in many school- 
masters, who, though perhaps critics iu ^ammar, are tne most ignorant fellows upon 
earth. True knowledge consists in knowing things, not words. I would no further wish 
her a lingoist than to enable her to read oooks in their originals, that are often cor- 
rupted, and are always injured, by translations . Two hours' application every morn- 
ing wilt bring this about much sooner than you can imagine, and she will have 
leisure enough besides to ran over the English poetry, which is a more important 
part of a woman's education than it is generally supposed. Many a young damsel 
has been ruined by a fine copy of verses, which she would have laughed at if she had 
but known it had been stolen from Mr. Waller. I remember, when I was a girl, I 
saved one of my companions from destruction, who communicated to me an epistle 
she was quite charmed with. As she had naturally a good taste, she observed the 
lines were not so smooth as Prior's or Pope's, but had more thought and spirit than 
any of theirs. She was wonderfully delighted with such a demonstration of her 
lover's sense and passion, and not a little pleased with her own charms, that had 
force enough to inspire such elegances. In the midst of this triumph, I shewed her 
that they were taken from Randolph's poems, and the unfortunate transcriber was 
dismissed with the scorn he deserved. To say truth, the poor plagiary was very un- 
lucky to fall into ray hands : that author being no longer in fashion, would have 
escaped any one of less universal reading than myself. You should encourage your 
daughter to talk over with you what she reads ; and as you are very capable of dis- 
tinguishing, take care she does not mistake pert folly for wit and humour, or rhyme 
for poetry, which are the common errors of young people, and have a train of ill 
consequences. The second CAUtion to be given her— and which is most absolutely 
necessary — is to conceal whatever learning she attains, with as much solicitude 
as she would hide crookedness or lameness: the parade of it can only serve 
to draw on her the envy, and consequently the most inveterate hatred, of all 
he and she fools, which will certainly be at least three parts in foidr of her 
acquaintance. The use of knowledge in our sex, beside the amusement of soli- 
tude, is to moderate the passions, and learn to be contented with a small 
expense, which are the certain effects of a studious life ; and it may be pre- 
ferable even to that fame which men have engrossed to themselves, and will not suf- 
fer us to share. At the same time I recommend books, I neither exclude work nor 
drawing. I think it is as scandalous for a woman not. to tsk$y« \tf>w \Ki xafc '^\iS«iJi&^ 



874 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727, 

as for a man not to know how to use a sword. I was once extremely fond of my 
pencil, and it was a great mortification to me wheu my father turned off my master, 
naviug made a considerable pnogrcps for the short time I learned. My over-eager- 
ness in the pursnit of it had Drought a weakness iu my eyes, that made it necessary 
to leave off; and all the advantage I got was the improvement of my hand. I see by 
hers that practice will make her a readv writer : she may attain it by serving you 
for a secretary, when your health or adairs make it troublesome to you to write 
yourself ; and custom will make it au agreeable amusemeut to her. She cannot have 
too many for that station of lite which will probably be her fate. The ultimate end 
of your education was to make you a good wif e— cmd I have the comfort to hear that 

?rou are one ; hers ought to be to make her happy in a virgin state. I will not say it 
8 happier, but it is undoubtedly safer than any marriage. In a lottery, where there 
Is — at the lowest computation — ten thousand blanks to a prize, it is the most prudent 
choice not to venture. I have always been so thoroughly persuaded of this truth, 
that, notwithstanding the fiattering views I had for you — as I never intended you a 
sacrifice to my vanity— I thought I owed you the justice to lay before you all the 
hazards attending matrimony : you may recollect I did so in the strongest manner. 
Perhaps you may have more success in the instructing your daughter ; she has so 
much company at home, she will not need seeking it abroad, and will more readily 
take the notions you think fit to give her. As you were alone in my family, it would 
have been thought a great cruelty to suffer you no companions of your own age, es- 
pecially having so many near relations, and I do not wonder their opinions influenced 
yours. I was not sorry to see you not determined on a s ngle life, knowing it was 
not your father's intention ; and contented myself with endeavouring to make your 
home BO easy, that you might not be in haste to leave it. 

I am afraid yon will think this a very long insi^ificant letter. I hope the kind- 
ness of the design will excuse it, being willing to give you every proof m my power 
that I am your most affectionate mother. 

WILLIAM WOTTON. 

William Wotton (1666-1726), a clergyman in Buckinghamshire, 
whom we have mentioned as the author of a reply to Sir William 
Temple, wrote various other works, including remarks on SwifOs 
* Tale of a Tub.' In childhood, his talent for languages was so ex- 
traordinary and precocious, that it is related of him, though the 
statement is highly improbable, that when five years old he was able 
to read Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, almost as well as English ! At 
the age of twelve he took the degree of Bachelor of Arts, previously 
to which he had gained an extensive acquaintance with several ad- 
ditional languages, including Arabic, Syriac, and Chaldee ; as well ai , 
with geography, logic, philosophy, chronology, and mathematics. 
As in many similar cases, however, the expectations held out by his 
early proficiency were not justified by any great achievements in 
after-life. We quote the following passage from his * Reflections upon 
Ancient and Modern Learning * (1694), chiefly because it records the 
change of manners which took place among literary men during the 
seventeenth century: 

Decline of Pedantry in England. 

The last of Sir William Temple's reasons of the great decay of modem learning 

is pedantry : the urging of which is an evident argument that his discourse islevell^ 

against learning, not as it stands now, but as it was fifty or sixty years ago. For the 

new philosophy has int oduced so great a correspondence between men of learning 

and men of onaiDesB ; which has alio been itiweased by other accidents amongst the 

masters of other learned professions ; and that v^dwafcrj v?\AOa.iw\$sftcly was almost - 

anSrersHl is now in agre&t measure disused, eapec\a.\y amo\i^%X.V>cv<i^wajL^\a»sv,^NR\»% 



D'URFEY.J ENGLISH LITERATURE. 375 

are taught in the noiyereities to laagh at that f reqnent citation of scraps of Lat'n in 
common discourse, or upon arguments that do not require it ; and that nauseous o&- 
tcntatiou of reading and scholarship in pubhc companies, which formerly was so 
ma h in fashion. Affecting to write politely in modem languages, especially the 
French and ours, has jilso helped very much to l ssen it, b^use it has enabled 
abuuduuce of men, who wanted academical education, to talk plausibly, and some 
(exactly, upon very many learned subjects. This also has made writers habitu lly 
careful »o avoid those isiipertinences which they iniow would be taken notice of and 
ridiculed ; and it is probable that a careful perusal of the fine new French books, 
which of late years have been greedily sought after by the politer sort of gentlemen 
and scholars, may in this particular have done abundance of good. By tliis means, 
and by the help also of some other concurrent causes, those who were not learned 
themselves bemg able to maintain disputes with those that were, forced them to talk 
more warily, and brought t em, by little and little, to be out of countenance at that 
vain thrusting of their learning into everything, which before had been but too visi- 
ble. 

TOM D*URFEY AND TOM BROWN. 

Very different in character from these grave and erudite authors 
were tlieir contemporaries, Tom D'Ukfey {circa 1630-1723) and Tom 
Brown (1663-1704), who entertained the public with occasional 
whimsical compositions both in prose and veree, which are now 
valued only as conveying some idea of the taste and manners of the 
time. D'Urfcy*s first work was a heroic poem * Archeiy Revived' 
(1676), and he continued to write plays, operas, poems, and songs. 
His comedies possess some farcical humour, but are too coarse and 
licentious for the stage. As a lively and facetious companion, liis so- 
ciety was greatly courted, and he was a distinguished composer of 
jovial and party songs. In the 29th number of the * Guardian,' 
Steele mentions a collection of sonnets published under the title of 
* Laugh and be Fat, or Pills to Purge Melancholy ;' at the same time 
censuring the world for ungratefully neglecting to reward the jocose 
labours of D'Urfey, * who was so large a contributor to this treatise, 
and to whose humorous productions so many rural squires in the re- 
motest part of this island are obliged for tlie dignity and state which 
corpulency gives them.' In the 67th number of the same work, Ad- 
dison humourously solicits the attendance of his readers at a play for 
D'Urfey's benefit. The songs and other pieces of D'Urfey ultimately 
extended to six volumes, and were entitled: * Wit and Mirth, or Pills 
to Purge Melancholy,' &c. (1720). Tom Brown appeared as an au- 
thor about 1688. He was a * merry fellow * and libertine, who, hav- 
ing by his immoral conduct lost the situation of schoolmaster at 
Kingston-upon-Thames, became a professional author and libeller in 
the metropolis. His writings, which consist of dialogues, letter^, 
poems, and other miscellanies, display considerable learning as well 
as shrewdness and humour, but are deformed by obscene and scurril- 
ous buffoonery. 

Letter from Scarron in the Next World to Louis XIV. 

Ail the conversation of this lower world at present mns upon you ; and the devil 
a word we can hear in any of our coffee-houses but what his Gallic majesty is more or 
less concerned in. Tis agreed on by all om \iit.\LO^^, \)Gk».\, ^^<^\^^ ^a^^ ^V^hK^^s^*- 



876 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

tiaD, no prince has been so great a benefactor to hell as yourself ; and as much a 
master 01 eloquence as I wan once thought to be at Paris, I want wor^s to tell you 
how much yon are commended here for so heroically trampling under foot the treaty 
of Ryswick (1697), and opening a new scene of war in your great climacteric, at 
which age most of the princes before ^ou were such recreants as to think of making 
up their scores with Heaven, and leaving their neighbours in peace. But you, they 
say, are above such sordid precedents ; and rather than Pluto should want men to 
people his dominions, are willing to spare him half a million of your own subjectB, 
and that at a juncture, too, when you are not overstocked with them. 

This has gained you a universal applause in these regions; the three Furies 
sing your prtuses in every street ; Belloua swears there 's never a prince in Chris- 
tendom worth hangiog besides yourself ; and Charon bustles for you in all companies. 
He desired me about a week ago to present his most humble respects to you ; adding, 
that if it had not been for your majesty, he, with his wife and children, must long 
ago been quartered upon the parish ; for which reason he duly drinks your healu 
every morning in a cup of cold Styx next his conscience. 

IJast week, as I was sitting with some of m]r acquuintance in a public-house, after 
a great deal of impertinent chat about the affairs of the Milanese and the intended 
seige of Mantua, the whole company fell a-talkiug of your majesty, and what giorions 
exploits you had performed in your time. ' Why, gentlemen,' says an ill-looked ras- 
cal, who proved to be Herostratus, * for Pluto's sake, let not the Grand Monarch run 
away with all your praises. I have done something memorable in my time too: 
'twas I who, out of the gaiete de ccBur^ and to perpetuate my name, flred the famous 
temple of the Ephesian I)iana, and in two hom's consumed that masuificcnt stroctnrc, 
which was two hundred years a-building ; therefore, gentlemen, la\ish not away all 
your praises, I beseech you, upon one man, but allow others their share.' * Why, 
thou diminutive, inconsiderable wretch,' said I in a preat passion to him — ' thou 
worthless idle loggerhead— thou pigmy in sin — thou Tom Thumb in iniquity, how 
dares such a puny msect as thou art have the impudence to enter the lists with Louis 
le Grand ? Thou valuest thyself upon firing a church, but how ? when the mistress 
of the house was gone out to assist Olyrapias. 'Twas plain, thou hadst not the 
courage to do it when the goddess was present, and upon the spot. But what is this 
to what my royal master can boast of, that had destroyed a hundred and a hundred 
such foolish fabrics in his time 7' 

He had no sooner made his exit, but, cries an odd sort of spark, with his hat 
buttoned up before, like a •ountry scraper : ' Under favour, sir, what do you think 
of me ?' ' Why, who are you ?' replied 1 to him. * Who am 1 7' answered he ; * why 
Nero, the sixth emperor of Rome, that murdered my ' ' Come,' said I to him, 

* to stop your prating, I know your history as well as yourself— that murdered your 
mother, kicked your wife downnatairs, despatched two apostles out of the world, 
begun the first persecution against the Christians, and, lastly, put your master Sentca 
to death.' [These actions are made light of, and the sarcastic shade proceeds] — 

* Whereas, his most Christian majesty, whose advocate I am resolved to be against 
all opposers whatever, has bravely and generously starved a million of poor Hugue- 
nots at home, and sent t'other million of them a-grazing into loreign countries, con- 
trary to solemn edicts and rei>eated promises, for no other provocation, that I know 
of, but because they were such coxcombs as to place him upon the throne. In short 
friend Nero, thou mayst pass for a rogue of the third or fourth class ; but be advised 
by a stranger, and never shew thyself such a fool as to dispute the pre-eminence with 
Louis le Grand, who has murdered more men in his reign, let me tell thee, than thou 
hast murdered tunes, for all thou art the vilest thrummer upon catgut the sun ever 
beheld. However, to give the devil his due, I will say it before thy face imd behind 
tlfy back, that if thou hadst reigned as many years as my gracious master has done, 
and hudst had, instead of Ti^lfinus, a Jesuit or two to have governed thy conscience, 
thou mightest, in all probability, have made a much more magnificent figure, and 
been inferior to none but the mighty monarch I have been talking of.* 

An Indian^ 8 Account of a London Gaming-Jwuae. 

The EngliBh pretend that they worshir) "hul one Grod, \iut for my part, I don't be- 
//ere what tbeyeay; for besides several living dmrnXie^A'^^^'^^^'^^'SEka.'? see them 
OAiJj' offer tbeir vowb, they have Beverail othei mamiaaXA ou^*\x) ^Vwa.>CJx«^^^*sM5r 



BROWN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 877 

rifices, as I have observed at one of their pablic meetings, where I' happened once to 
be. 

In this place there is a great altar to be seen, built rpund and cdvered with a 
green toachum, lighted in the midst, and encompassed by several persons in a sitting 
postore, as we do at oar domestic sacrifices. At the very moment I came into the 
room, one of those, who I supposed was the priest, spread npion the altar certain 
leaves which he took oat of a little book that he held in his hand. Upon these leaves 
were represented certain fibres very awkwardly painted ; however, they mast needs 
be the images of some divmities ; for, in proportacm as they were distribated round, 
each one of the assistants made an of^ermg to it, greater or less, according to his 
devotion. I observed that these ofEerings were more considerable than those they 
make in their other temples. 

After the aforesaid ceremony is over, the priest lays his hand in a trembling man- . 
ner, as it were, apon the rest of the book, and contiuaes some time m this postare, 
seized with fear, and without any action at all. All the rest of the company, atten- 
tive to what he does, are in suspense all the while, and the onmovable assistants are 
all of them in their turn possessed by different agitations, according to the spirit 
which happens to seize them. One joins his hands together, and blesses Heaven ; 
another, very earnestly looking upon his image, grinds his teeth ; a third bites his 
fln&rers, and stamps upon the ground with his feet. Every one of them, in shorty 
makes such extraordinary postures and contortions, that they seem to be no ^longer 
rational creatures. But scarce has the priest returned a certain leaf, but he is like- 
wise seized by the same fury with the rest. He tears the book, and devours it in 
his rage, throws down the altar, and curses the sacrifice. Nothing now is to be 
heard out complaints and groans, cries and imprecations. Seeing Ihem so trans- 
ported and so rurious, I judge that the God that they worship is a jealous deity, who, 
to punish them for what they sacrifice to others, sends to each of them an evil demon 
to i)Ossess them. 

LaconicSy or New Maxims of State and Conversation, 

Though a soldier in time of peace is like a chimney in summer, yet what wise 
man would pluck down his chimney because his almanac tells him it is the middle of 
June. 

If your friend is in want, don't carry him to the tavern, where you treat yourself 
as well as him, and entail a thirst and headache upon him next morning. To treat a 

{)Oor wretch with a bottle of Burgundy, or fill his snuff-box, is like givmg a pair of 
ace ruffles to a man that has never a shirt on his back. Put something into his 
pocket. 

What is sauce for a goose is sauce for a gander. When any calamities befell the 
Koman empire, the pagans used to lay it to the charge of the Christians: when 
Christianity became the imperial religion, the Christians returned the same compli- 
ment to the pagans. 

That which i>asses for current doctrine at one juncture and in one climate, won't 
do so in another. The cavaliers, in the beginning of the troubles, used to trump up 
the 12th of the ' Romans ' upon the parliament ; the parliament trumped it upon the 
army, when they would not disband ; the array back again upon the parliament, when 
they disputed their orders. Never was poor chapter so unmercifufiy tossed to and 
fro again. 

Not to flatter ourselves, we English arc none of the most constant and easy peo- 
ple in the world. When the late war pinched us — Oh I when shall we have a peace 
and trade again ? We had no sooner a peace, but — ^Huzza, boys, for a new war! and 
that we shall soon be sick of. 

It may be no scandal for us to imitate one good quality of a neighbouring nation, 
who are like the turf they bum, slow in kindlmg, but, when once thoroughly lighted, 
keep their fire. 

What a fine thing it is to be well-mannered upon occasion I In the reign of King 
Charles II. a certain worthy divine at Whitehall thus addressed himself to the aud£ 
tory at the conclusion of his sermon : * In short, if you don't live up to the precepts 
of the gospel, but abandon yourselves to your irregular appetites, you must expect 
to recewe your reward in a certain place which 'tis not. ^o<yi 72CkasA!sc«> ^jsk^v&ssc^^fstx 
Jianesr' ~ 



878 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1727. 

Some divineB make fhe same tuse of fathers and couicils as our beans do of thdr 
caues, not for support or defence, bat mere ornament or show ; and cover, themselves 
with fine cobweb distinctions, as Homer's gods did with ji cloud. 

Some books, like the city of London, fare the better for being burnt. 

'Twas a merry saying of Rabelais, that a man ought to buy aU the bad boolcs that 
come ojrt, because they will never be printed again. 

A widow and a government are reMly, upon all occasions, to tax the new husband 
and the new prince with the merits of their predecessors, unless the former husband 
was hanged, and the former king sent to grass ; and then they bid them take fair 
warning Dv their destiny. 

For a king to engage his people in war, to carry off every littl^ lU homoor of state, 
is like a physician's oraering his patient a flux for every pimple. 
. The surest way of governing, both in a private family and a kingdom, is for a 
husband and a prince sometimes to drop their prerogative. 

All parties blame persecution when they feel the smart on % and all practise it 
when tney have the rod in their hands. For all his pretended meebiess, Calvin made 
loast-meat of Servetus at Qeneva, for his nnorthodozy. 



SIXTH PERIOD. 



■(iTaa-i780.>- 



GEORGE II. AKD GEORGE III. 



Tkb reign of George 11. was not prolific of original genius. There 
was no rich patronage from the crown or from ministers of state to 
encourage or reward authors. The magnificence of Dorset and Hali- 
fax found no imitators. Sir Robert Walpole, the great minister of 
the period, is said to have spent in ten years — from 1781 to 1742 — 
above £50,000 on public writers ; but his liberality was extended only 
to obscure and unscrupulous partisans, the supporters of his govern- 
ment, whose names would have passed into oblivion but for the satire 
of Pope. And Pope himself, by his ridicule of poor authors and 
their Grub-street productions, helped to accelerate that downfall of 
the literary character which he charged upon the throne and the min- 
istry. The tone of public morality also was low; and authors had 
to contend with the neglect and difficulties incident to a transition 
period between the loss of patronage and the growth of a reading 
public numerous and enlightened enough to appreciate and support 
sound literature. These disadvantages, however, were only partial. 
The novels of Richardson, Fielding, and Smollett render the reign of 
the second Qeorse the brightest epoch in English fiction. Hume and 
Robertson had also commenced as historians. In theology and men- 
tal philosophy, the names of Bishop Butler and Jonathan Edwards 
stand out prominently. Literary periodicals abounded, and monthly 
magazines were then first established. 

In poetry, the name of Pope continued to be the greatest His 
Moral Essays and Imitations of Horace — the happiest of his works — 
were produced in this period. The most distinguished of his con- 
temporaries, however, adopted styles of their own, or at least de- 
parted widely from that of their illustrious master. Thomson — who 
survived Pope only four years — made no attempt to enter the school 
of polished satire and pungent wit. His enthusiastic descriptions of 
nature, and his warm poetical feeling, seemed to revive the spirit of 
the elder muse, and to assert the dignity of genuine inspiration. 
Young in his best performances — his startlmg denunciationg of death 
and judgment, his solemn appeals, his piety, and his e^i@:«s&r— ^^^s^ 
eg uaJiy an original Gray and OollVn^ ^tQ»\ «X ^Ci;^ ^^6a2i^\NS|^]^ss!5»s^c% 



880 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1780. 

and magnificence of lyrical poetry — the direct antipodes of Pope. 
Akenside descanted on the operations of the mind, and the asso- 
ciated charms of taste and genius, in a strain of melodious and 
original blank verse. And the best of the secondary poets, as Shen- 
stone, Dyer, and Mason, had each a distinct and independent poetical 
character. Johnson alone, of all the eminent authors of this period, 
seems to have directly copied the style of Pope and Dryden. It is 
true that few. or none of the poets we have named had much imme- 
diate influence on literature : Gray was ridiculed, and Collins was 
neglected, because both public taste and criticism had been vitiated 
and reduced to a low ebb. The spirit of true poetry, however, was 
not dead ; the seed was sown, and in the next generation Cowper and 
Bums completed what Thomson had begun. The conventional style 
was destined to fall, leaving only that taste for correct language and 
polished versification which was established by the example of Pope, 
and found to be quite compatible with the utmost freedom and origin- 
ality of conception and expression. 

In the early part of the reign of Gteorge III. Johnson was still the 
great literary dictator, and he had yet to produce his best work, the 
* Lives of the Poets.* The exquisite poetry of Goldsmith, and the 
writings of Burke — that * resplendent, far-sighted rhetorician ' — are 
perhaps the most precious products of the period. In fiction, Sterne 
was triumphantly successful, and he found many imitators, the best of 
whom was William Mackenzie. Several female writers — as Miss 
Burney, Mrs. Inchbald, Charlotte Smith, and Mrs. Radcliffe — also 
enjoyed great popularity, though they are now comparatively little 
read. The more solid departments of literature were well supported. 
Hume and Robertson completed their historical works, and a fitting 
rival or associate appeared in Gibbon, the great historian of the 
Roman Empire. In theological literature we have the names of 
Paley, and Campbell, and Blair — the latter highly popular, if not 
profound. In metaphysics or mental philosophy, the writings of 
Reid formed a sort of epoch; and Smith's * Wealth of Nations' first 
explained to the world, fully and systematically, the principles upon 
which the wealth and prosperity of states must ever rest. 

One remarkable peculiarity of the period is, that it comprises the 

two most memorable of literary frauds or forgeries— those of Mac- 

pherson and Chatterton. Macpherson had some foundation for his 

Ossianic poems, though assuredly he discovered no epic in the 

Hebrides; and Chatterton, while yet a boy, possessed the genius of a 

true poet, combined with the taste and acquirements of the antiquary. 

It is some apology for these literary felonies or misdemeanours, that 

the oldest of the culprits was barely of age when he entered on his 

perHoua and discreditable enterprise, and was encouraged and cheered 

on bis coarse by popular applause. kiiA «ja for the younger, his pre- 

mature and tragic death — one ot the aadde«X.^«.%,^*\SiX\XK»s^ history 

—mast ever disarm criticism. 



GREEN.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 881 

POETS. 

MATTHEW GRBEN. 

Matthew Green (1696-1737) was author of apoem, * The Spleen,' 
which received the praises of Pope and Gray. His parents were dis- 
senters, but the poet, it is said, afterwards left their communion, dis- 
gusted with their austerity. He obtained an appointment as clerk in 
the Custom-house. His disposition was cheerful ; but this did not 
save him from occasional attacks of low spirits, or spleen, as the fa- 
vourite phrase was in his time. Having tried all imaginable reme- 
dies for his malady, he conceived himself at length able to treat it in 
a philosophical spirit, and therefore wrote his poem, which adverts to 
all its forms, and their appropriate remedies, in a style of comic verse 
resembling * Hudibras,' but allowed to be eminently original. Green 
terminated a quiet inoflfensive life of celibacy in 1757, at the age of 
forty-one, 

' The Spleen ' was first published by Glover, the author of * Leoni- 
das,* himself a poet of some pretension in his day. Gray thought 
that * even the wood-notes of Green often break out into strains of 
real poetry and music* As * The Spleen ' is almost unknown to 
modern readers, we present a few of its best passages. The first that 
follows contains one line marked by italic, which is certainly one of the 
happiest and wisest things ever said by a British authdt. It seems, 
however, to be imitated from Shakspeare — 

Han bnt a rnBh against Othello's breast. 
And he retires. 

Cures for Melancholy, 

To cnre the mind*s wrong bias, spleen, I dress my face with stndiOQS looks, 

Some recommend the bowling-green ; And shorten tedious hoars with books. 

Some hilly walks ; all exercise ; Bat if doll f oga Invade the head, 

Fling hut a stone^ the giant dies ; That memoryrninds not what is read, 

Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been I sit in window dry as ark. 

Extreme good doctors for the spleen ; And on the drowning world remark : 

And kitten, if the humour hit. Or to some coffee-house I stray 

Has harlequined awav the fit. For news, the manna of a day, 

Since mirth is good in this behalf. And from the hipped discourses gather, 

At pome particulars let us laugh. . . . That politics go by the weather. . . . 

If spUten-fogs rise at break of day, Sometimes I dress, with women sit, 

I clear my evening with a play, And chat away the gloomy fit ; 

Or to some concert take my way. Quit the etiff garb c« serious sense, 

The company, the shine of ll^rhts. And wear a gay impertinence. 

The scenes of humour, music's flights. Nor think nor speak with any pains, 

Adjust and set the soul to rights. But lay on Fancy's neck the rems. . . 

In rainy days keep double guard, I never game, and rarely bet. 

Or 8pleen will surely be too hard ; Am loath to lend or rtm in debt. 

Which, like those fish by sailors met. No Compter-writs me agitate ; . 

Fly highest while their wings are wet. Who moralising pass the gate, 

In sucn dull weather, so unfit And there mine eyes on spendthrifts turn, 

To enterprise a work of wit ; Who vainly o'er their bondage mourn. 

When clouds one yard of azure sky, Wisdom, before beneath their caxe^ 

That 'fl fit for flimiJe, deny, Paja \iet M'^xwkfiiai'^^^^S^'^'SK^ 



882 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF 



[to 1780. 



And forces Folly throngh the grate 
Her panegyric to repeat. 
This view, profusely when inclined. 
Enters a cav<.'at iu the mind : 
Experience, joini'd with common sense, 
To mortals is a providence. 
Reforming schemes are none of mine ; 
To mend the world 's a vast design : 
like theirs, who tng in little boat 
To pull to them th(^ stiip afloat. 
While to defeat their iaboored end. 
At once both wind and stream contend : 
Saccess herein is seldom seen, 



And zeal, when baffled, tarns to spleen. 

Happy the man, who, innocent. 
Grieves i.ot at ills he cau^ prevent ; 
His skiff dof« with the current glide. 
Not puffing pulled Sirainst the tide. 
He, paddling by the scuffling crowd. 
Sees uuconcemed life's wager rowed. 
And waen he can't prevent foul piaj. 
Enjoys the folly of the fray. 
Yet philosophic love of ease 
I suffer noL to prove disease. 
But rise up in tlie virtuous cause 
Of a free press and equal laws. 



Contentment — A Wish. 
Forced by soft violence of prayer. And dreams, beneath the spreading beech. 

The blithesome goddess soothes my care ; Inspire, and docile fancy teach ; 



I feel the deity mspire. 

And thus she models my desire : 

Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid. 

Annuity securely made, 

A farm some twenty miles from town, 

Smull. tight, salubrious, and my own ; 

Two maids that never saw the town, 

A serving-man not quite a clown, 

A boy to help to tread the mow. 



While soft as breezy breath of wind. 
Impulses rustle through the mind : 
Here Dryads, scomini; Phoebus* ray, 
While Pan melodious pipes away, 
In measured motions frisk abou^ 
Till old Silenus puts them out. 
There see the clover, pea, and bean, 
Vie in variety of green ; 
Fre.*»h pastures speckled o'er with sheep. 



And drive, while t' other holds the plough ; Brown fields their fallow Sabbaths keep, 



A chief, of temper formed to please. 
Fit to converse and keep the keys ; 
And hotter to preserve the peace. 
Commissioned 4»y the name of niece ; 
With uudersrandings of a size. 
To think their master very wise. 
May Heaven— it 's all I Nvish for — send 
One genial room to treat a friend, 
Where decent cupboard, little plate. 
Display benevolence, not state. 
Ana may my bumble dwelling stand 
Upon some chosen spot of land : 
A pond before full to the brim, 
Where cows may cool, and geese may 

swim; " 

Behind, a green, like velvet neat. 
Soft to the eye, and to the feet ; 
Where odorous plants in evening fair 
Breathe all around ambrosial air; 
From Eurus, foe to kitchen ground 



Plump Ceres golden treeses wear. 
And poppy top-knots deck her hair. 
And silver streams through meadows 

stray, 
And Naiads on the marfi^n play. 
And lessor nvmphs on side of hills. 
From plaything urns pour down the rills. 
Thus sheltered free from core and strife. 
May I enjoy a calm throngh life ; 
See faction safe in low degree. 
As men at land see (^torms at sea. 
And laugh at miserable elves. 
Not kind, so much as to themsdves. 
Cursed with such souls of base alloy. 
As can possess, but not enjoy ; 
Debarred the pleasure to impart 
By avarice, sphincter of the heart; 
Who wealth, nard -earned by guilty cares. 
Bequeath untouched to thankless heirs ; 
May I, with look unglooraed by gtdle. 



Fenced by a slope with bushes crowned, And wearing virtue's liverv-snille. 



Fit dwelling for the feathered throng. 
Who pay their quit-rents with a song : 
With opening views of hill and dale, 
Which sense and fancv do regale. 
Where the half cirque, which vision 

bounds 
Like amphitheatre surrounds : 
And woods impervious to the breeze. 
Thick phalanx of embodied trees ; 
J^rorn hiUa tbrongh plains in dusk array, 

BxteDded far, repel the day ; „ „ -, ^. 

Here BtiJlneBB, height and Bolemn shade, EaW ofL WVft itvL\t ^town fully ripe, 
^v-jte, and contemplation aid : Q,\A\, a v»OT\i\»\3^^viWws^\,'^«SaL» 

J^^renytjaphg from hollow oaks relate PeT\3AV*Xo^i\Q«««a^««^'^*«^«^ 
^Qe dark decrees and yf^ S^fejfi' 



Prone the distressed to relieve. 
And little trespasses forgive ; 
With income not in Forfune's power. 
And sinil to make a busy honr ; 
With trips to town, life to amnse. 
To purchase books, and hear Vhe news. 
To see old friends, brush off the clown. 
And quicken taste at coming down. 
Unhurt bv sickness' blasting rage, 
* ~d slowly mellowing in age. 

en fate extends its gathering gripe, 



BROWNE.] 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



888 



ISAAC HAWKINS BROWN£. 

A series of six imitatious of living autliors was published in 1736 
by Isaac Hawkins Browne (1706-1760), which obtained great popu- 
larity, and are still unsurpassed. The nearest approach to them are 
the serious parodies in the ' Rejected Addresses.* Browne was an 
amiable, accomplished man. He sat in parliament for some time as 
member for Wenlock in Shropshire. He wrote a Latin poem, 'De 
Animi Immortalitate,* in the style of Lucretius, and an English poem 
on the subject of ' Design and Beauty.* His imitations, however, are 
his happiest work. The subject of the whole is *A Pipe of Tobacco,' 
and the first of the series is 'A New Year's Ode,* an imitation of Ool' 
ley Gibber, beginning thus : 

Becitativo. 

Old battle-array, big with horror, is fled, 
And oliye-robed Peace again lifts up her hea^ . 
Sing, ye Muses, tobacco, the blessing of peace ; 
Was oyer a nation so blessed as this 7 

Air, 

When summer snns grow red with heat» 

Tobacco tempers Pnoebus' ire : 
When wintry storms around ns beat, 

Tobacco cheers with gentle fire. 
Yellow antnmn, youthful spring. 

In thy praises jointly sing. 

Becitativo. 

Like Neptune, Csesar guards Virginian fleets, 
Fraught with tobacco^ balmy sweets ; 
Old Ocean trembles at Britannia's power, 
And Boreas is afraid to roar. 

Gibber's laureate effusions are here very happily travestied. Ambrose 
Philips's namby-pamby is also well hit off: 



Little tube of mighty power, 
Charmer of an ifle hour. 
Object of my warm desire. 
Lip of wax and eye of fire ; 
And thy snowy taper waist 



With my finger gently braced, 
And thy pretty swelling crest, 
With my little stopper pressed, 
And the sweetest bliss of blisses 
Breathing from thy bahny kisses. 



Thomson is the subject of the third imitation : 

O thou, matured by glad Hesperian suns. 

Tobacco, fountain pure of limped truth. 

That looks the very soul ; whence pouring thought, 

Swarms all the mind ; absorpt is yellow care. 

And at each puff imagination bums ; 

Flash on thy bard, anq with exalting fires 

Touch the mysterious lip that chante thy praise. 

In strains to mortal sons of earth unknown. 

Behold an engine, wrought from tawny mines 

Of ductile clay, with plastic virtue formed, 

And glazed magnific o'er, I gt&JB^, 1 ^. 

From Psetotheke with pirageiil pcywere "oettacasft. 

Itaelf one tortoise, all, ^heie tMne^ VovcK^xAk 



4 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1780. 

Bach parent ray ; then rudely rammfid illume. 
With the red touch of zeaJ-enklndling sheet, 
Marked with Gibsoniau lore ; forth irane clouds, 
Thoughtrthrilllng, thirst^inciting clouds around. 
And many-iniuiii^ fires : I all the while, 
Lolling at ease, inhale the breezy balm. 
But ciuef , when Bacchus wont with thee to join 
In genial strife and orthodoxal ale, 
Stream life and joy into the Muse's bowU 
Oh, be thou still my great inspirer, thou 
My Muse : oh, fan me with thy zephyrs boon, 
while I, in clouded tabernacle shrined. 
Burst forth all oracle and mystic song. 

This appears to be one of the happiest of the imitations; but as the 
effect of Thomson's turgid style and diction employed on such a 
theme is highly ludicrous, the good-natured poet was offended with 
Browne, ami indited some angry lines in reply. The fourth imitation 
is in the style of Young's * Satires,' which are less strongly marked by 
any mannerism than his ' Night Thoughts,' not then written. Pope is 
thus imitated : 

Blest leaf I whose aromatic gales dispense 
To templars, modesty, to parsonft, sense ; 
So raptured priests, at famed Dodona's shrine. 
Drank inspiration from the steam divine. 
Poison that cures, a vapour that affords 
Content mori: solid than the smile of lords : 
Rest to the weanr, to the hungry, food, 
The last kind refuge of the wise and good. 
Inspired by thee, dull cits adjust the scale 
Of Europe's peace, when other statesmen falL 
By thee protected, and thy sister beer, 
Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near. 
Nor less the critic owns thv genial aid, 
While supperless he plies the piddling trade. 
What though to love and soft delights a foe, 
By ladies hated, hated by the beau, 
Tet social freedom long to courts unknown, 
Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own. 
Come to thy poet, come with healing wings, 
And let me taste thee unezciscd by kings. 

Swift concludes the series, but though Browne caught the manner 
the dean, he also imitated his grossness. 

SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS. 

As a satirical poet, courtier, and diplomatist, Sir Charles Hanb 
Williams (1709-1759) enjoyed great popularity during the latter i 
of the reign of George ll Lord Hervey. Lord Chesterfield, 
teney, and others, threw off political squibs and light satires ; 
Williams eclipsed them all in liveliness and pungency. He wa? 
traduced into public life by Sir Bobetl "W^ilvole, whom he wa 
supported. ' He had come, on ibe deaXAi o^ \iv& ^v\X\\^x ,>^\ HtiLn) 
jPj^ Parliament in 1788, bavinc taken W\e ii«ASi^ o^ ^ \\\vjs.\\\'^ 
^'^ estate ill Monmouthshire, left to liua \)^ ^ ^ovi'^tcc^vi^ ^ 



wiLLLiAMS.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 385 

no relation. Aft^r his celebrated political poetry in ridicule of Wal- 
pole's antagonists^ having unluckily lampooned Isabella, Duchess of 
Manchester, with her second husband, Mr. Hussey, an Irish gentle- 
man, and his countrymen, he retreated, with too little spirit, from 
the storm that threatened him into Wales, whence he was afterwards 
glad to accept missions to the courts of Dresden, Berlin, and Russia.'* 
One verse of this truculent satire may be quoted : 

But careful Heaven reseryed her Grace 
For one of the Milesian race 

On stronger parts depending : 
Nature, indeed, denies them sense. 
But gives them legs and impudence, 

Tluit beats all understanoing. 

Pulteney, in 1742, succeeded in procuring the defeat and resignation 
of his rival Sir Robert Walpole, and was himself elevated to the 
peerage under the title of Earl of Bath. From this period he sank 
from popular favour into great contempt, and some of the bitterest of. 
Williams's verses were levelled at him. In his poem of the * States- 
man/ he thus characterises the new peer : 

When vou touch on his lordship's high birth. 

Speak I^tin as If you were tipsy ; 
Say we are all but the sons of the earth, ' 

JEt genvs non feeimviM ipsL 

Proclaim him as rich as a Jew, 

Yet attempt not to reckon his bounties, 
Tou may say he is married, tis true, 

Yet speak not a word of the countess. 

Leave a blank here and there in each page. 

To enrol the fair deeds of his youth ; 
When you mention the acts of his age. 

Leave a blank for his honour and truth. 

Say he made a great monarch change hands ; 

He spake — and the minister fell ; 
Say he made a great statesman of Sands — 

Oh, that he had taught him to spell. 

In another attack on the same parties, we have this pointed verse: 

How Sands, in sense and person queer. 
Jumped from a patriot to a peer 

No mortal yet knows why ; 
How Pulten^ trucked the fairest fame 
For a Riffbt Honourable name 

To calTliis vixen by. 

Such pasquinades, it must be confessed, are as personal and virulent as 
any of the subsequent political poetry of the * Rolliad or Anti- Jac- 
obm Review.' The following is a more careful specimen of W illiams's 
character- painting. It is part of a sketch of General Churchill — ^a 
man not unlike Thackeray's Major Pendennis: 

• Croker: Ijot^ Uwf «V m Herofiivr% 



886 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1780. 

None led throngh youth a gayer life than he, 
Cheerful in converse, smart in repartee. 
Bat with old age its vices came along. 
And in narration he 's extremely k>njg, 
^ Exact in circumstance, and nice in d^tee. 

On every subject he his tale relates. 
If you name one of Marlbro's ten campaigns, 
He tells you its whole history for your pains, 
And Blenheim's field becomes by nis reciting 
As lone in telling as he was in fighting ; 
His old desire to please is weU expressed, 
' His hat 's well cocked, his periwig 's well dressed ; 

He rolls his stockinjgs still, white gloves he wears, 
And in the boxes vnth the beaux appears ; 
His eyes through wrinkled comers cast their tajs. 
Still he bows graceful, still suft things he says : 
And, still remembering that he once was young, 
He strains his crippled knees and struts along. 
The room he entered smiling, which be^>oke 
Some worn-out compliment or threadbare joke ; 
For, not perceiving loss of parts, he yet 
Grasps at the shaoe of his departed wit. 

In 1822, the fugitive poetry of Williams was collected and pub- 
lished in three volumes ; but the work is carelessly edited, and many 
gross pieces not written by the satirical poet were admitted. 

JOHN DTBR. 

John Dyer was a native of Wales, being bom at Aberglasslyn, 
Carmarthenshire, in 1698 or 1699. His father was a solicitor, and in- 
tended his son for the same profession. The latter, however, had a 
taste for the fine arts, and rambled over his native country, filling liis 
mind with a love of nature, and his portfolio with sketches of her 
most beautiful and striking objects. The sister art of poetry also 
claimed his regard, and during his excursions he wrote ^Grongar 
Hill * (1726), the production on which his fame rests, and where it 
rests securely. Dyer next made a tour to Italy, to study painting. 
He does not seem to have excelled as an artist, though he was an able 
sketcher. On his return in 1740, he published anonymously another 
poem, * The Ruins of Rome,* in blank veree. One short passage, 
often quoted, is conceived, as Johnson remarks, ' with the mind of a 
poet:' 

The pilgrim oft 

At dead of night, 'nud his orison, hears. 

Aghast, the voice of time, disparting towers. 

Tumbling all precipitate down dashed, 

Battling around, loud thundering to the moon. 

Seeing, probably, that he had little chance of succeeding as an artist, 

I?yer entered the church, and obtained successively the livings of 

Calthrop in X/eicestershire, of Comngaby in Huntingdonshire, and of 

Belcbford and Kirkhy in LincolnaViiYe. U^ v\i\i\\sJafcd in 1767 bis 

-ton^est poetical work, *The Fleece; devoVed\o 

The care of sheep, the \abo\n« ot\heV»m. 



DYER.] 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



387 



The subject was not a happy one. How can a man write poetically^, 
it was remarked by Johnson, of serges and druggets ? Yet Dyer did 
write poetically on his unpromising theme, and ^enside assisted him 
with some finishing touches. One critic asked Dodsley how old the 
author of * The Fleece ' was ; and learning that he was in advanced 
life, * He will/ said the critic, ' be buried in woollen.* The poet did 
not long survive the publication, for he died next year, on the 24th 
of July, 1758. The poetical pictures of Dyer are happy miniatures of 
nature, correctly drawn,%eautifully coloured, and grouped with the 
taste of an artist. Wordsworth has praised him highly for imagina- 
tion and purity of style. His versification is remarkably musical. 
His moral reflections arise naturally out of his subject, and are never 
intrusive. All bear evidence of a kind and gentle heart, and a true 
poetical fancy. 

Grangar Hill, 

Silent nymph, with canons eye, 
Who, the parple evening, lie 
On the mountain's lonely van. 
Beyond the noise of bnsy man : 
Pamtin^ fair the form of things, 
While the yellow linnet sings ; 
Or the tnnef al nightingale 
Charms the fore^ with her tale ; 
Come, with all thy various hues. 
Come, and aid thy sister muse ; 
Now, while Phoebus, riding high, 
Gives lustre to the land and sky I 
Grongar Hill invites my song. 
Draw the landscape bright and strong ; 
Grongar, in whose mossy cells. 
Sweetly musing, Quiet dwells ; 
Grongar, in whose silent shade, 
For the modest Muses made : 
So oft I have, the evening still. 
At the fountain of a rill, 
Sat upon a flowery bed, , 
With my hand beneath my head , 
While strayed my eyes o'er Towy*B flood. 
Over mead, and over wood. 
From house to house, from hill to hill, 
Tili contemplation had her fill. 
About his checkered sides I wind. 
And leave his brooks and meads behind, 
And groves, and ^ottoes where I lay, 
And vistas shooting beams of day : 
Wide and wider spreads the vale, 
As circles on a smooth canal : 
The mountains round, unhappy fate. 
Sooner or later, of all height. 
Withdraw their summltfl from the skieA, 
And lessen as the others rise : 
Still the prospect wider spreads, 
Adds a thousand woods and meads ; 
Siil] it widens, widens still. 
And einks the newly risen hlU. 
Now I gain the moimtain*B brow, 



What a landscape lies below I 
No clouds, no vapours intervene, 
But the gay, the open scene. 
Does the face of nature shew, 
In all the hues of heaven's bow; 
And, swelling to embrace the light, 
Spreads around beneath the si^t. 

Old castles on the cliffs arise. 
Proudly towering in the skies I 
Rushing from the woods, the spires 
Seem from hence ascending fires I 
H^f his beams Apollo sheds 
On the yellow mountain heads I 
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks. 
And glitters on the broken rocks I 

Below me trees unnumbered rise, 
Beautiful in various dyes : 
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue. 
The yellow beech, the sable yew. 
The slender fir that taper grows. 
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs. 
And beyond the purple grove. 
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love 1 
Gaudy as the openmg dawn, 
Lies a long and level lawn, 
On which a dark hill, steep and high. 
Holds and charms the wandering eye I 
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood. 
His sides are clothed with waving wood, 
And ancient towers crown his brow. 
That cast an awful look below ; 
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps. 
And with tier arms from falling keeps : 
So both a safety from the wind 
On mutual dependence find. 
'Tis now the raven's bleak abode ; 
'Tis now the apartment of the toad ; 
And there the fox securelY t&cda^ 



888 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF 



[to 1780. 



Huge heaps of hoary moaldered walls. 

Tet time nas seen, that lifts the low, 

And level lays the lofty brow, 

Has seen this broken pile complete, 

Big with the vanity of state ; 

Bnt transient if> the smile of fate I 

A little rule a little sway, 

A sunbeam in a winter's day, 

Is all the proud and mighty have 

Between the cradle ana the grave. 

And see the rivers, how they run 
Through woods and meads, in shade and 

sun. 
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, 
Wave succeeding wave, they go 
A various journey to the deep, 
Like human life, to endless sleep I 
Thus is nature's vesture wrought. 
To instruct our wandering thought ; 
Thus she dresses green and gay. 
To disperse our cares away. 

Ever charming, ever new. 
When will the landscape tire the view I 
The fountain's fall, the river's flow, 
The woody valleys, warm and low ; 
The windy summit, wild and high. 
Roughly rushing on the sky I 
The pleasant seat, the ruined tower. 
The naked rock, the shady bower; 
The town and village, dome and farm. 
Each give each a double charm. 
As pearls upon an iSthiop's arm. 

See, on the mountain's southern sidt. 
Where the prospect opens wide. 
Where the evening gilds the tide. 
How close and small the hedges 11 " j 
What streaks of meadows cross the eye I 
A step, methinkS: may pass the stream. 
So little distant dangers seem ; 



So we mistake the fatnre's face. 
Eyed through hope's deluding glass ; 
As yon summits soft and /air. 
Clad in colours of the air^ 
Which to those who journey near, 
JBarren, brouniy ana rough appear ; 
Still we tread the same coarse way. 
The present 's still a cloudy day, 

O may 1 with myself agree. 
And never covet what I see ! 
Content n^with an humble shade. 
My passions tamed, my wishes laid ; 
For while our wishes wildly roll. 
We banish quiet from ? he soul ; * 
'TIS thus the busy beat the air. 
And misers gather wealth and care. 

Now, even now, my joys run high. 
As on the mountain turf I lie ; 
While the wanton zephyr singSj 
And in the vale perfumes his wings ; 
While the waters murmur deep. 
While the shepherd charms his sheep, 
While the birds unbounded fly. 
And with music fill the sky, 
Now, even now, my joys run hic;h. 

Be full, ye courts ; be great who will; 
Search for peace with all your skill ; 
Open wide the lofty door. 
Seek her on the marble floor : 
In vain you search, she is not there ; 
In vain you search the domes of care ! 
Grass and flowers Quiet treads. 
On the meads and mountain heads, 
Along with Pleasure close allied. 
Ever oy each other's side : 
And often, by the murmuring rill. 
Hears the thrush, while all is still. 
Within the groves of Grongar HilL 



BDWABD YOUNG. 

Edward Young (1684-1765), author of the ' Night Thoughts,' was 
born at Upham, in Hampshire, where his father—afterwards dean of 
Salisbury — was rector. He was educated at Winchester School, and 
subsequently at All Souls* College, Oxford. In 1712, he commenced 
public life as a courtier and poet, and he continued both characters 
till be was past eighty. One of his patrons was the notorious Duke 
of Wharton, * the scorn and wonder of his days,' whom Young ac- 
companied to Ireland in 1717. He was next tutor to Lord Burleigh, 
and was induced to give up this situation by Wharton, who promised 
to provide for him in a more suitable and ample manner. The duke 
sleo prevailed on Young, as a political supporter, to come forward as 
a candidate for the representatioti of the borough of Cirencester in 
parliament, and he gave him a Yjond iox £^^ \ci ^^^^^ \3\« expenses. 



ZiaJL?^^" iAouffht the lines here prtxited \n YtaAVc* 
-M«o«f a.t the opening of the JPieasurea of Mopt . 



0^« cr^l^n.'al <A Q.veec{M)^ ^^-vtAKstfisj^ 



YOUNG.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 889 

Young was defeated, Wharton died, and the Court of Chancery de- 
cided against the validity of the bond. The poet, beinff now quali- 
fied by experience, published a satire on the * Universal Passion — the 
Love of Fame/ which is at once keen and powerful. When upwards 
of fifty, Young entered the church, wrote a panegyric on the king, 
and was made one of his majesty's chaplains. Swift has said that 
the poet was compelled to 

Torture his invention 
To flatter knaves, or lose lus pension ; 

and it was found by Mr. Peter Cunningham— editor of Johnson's 
* Lives,* 1854 — that Young had a pension of £300 a year from 1735 
till his death. In 1730, Youn^ obtained &om his college the Uving 
of Welwyn, in Hertfordshire, where he was destined to close his 
days. He was eager to obtain further preferment, but having in his 
poetry professed a strong love of retirement^ the ministry seized upon 
tliis as a pretext for keeping him out of a bishopric. The poet made 
a noble alliance with the daughter of the Earl of Lichfield, widow of 
Colonel Lee, which lasted ten years, and proved a happier union 
than conmion report assigns to the titled marriages of Dryden and 
Addison. The lady had two children by her first marriage, to whom 
Young was warmly attached. Both died ; and when th« mother also 
followed, Young composed his * Night Thoughts.' Sixty years had 
stengthened and enriched his genius, and augmented even the bril- 
liancy of his fancy. In 1761, th3 poet was made clerk of the closet 
to the Princess-dowager of Wales, and died four years afterwards at 
the advanced age of eighty-one. 

A life of so much action and ^7orldly anxiety has rarely been 
united to so much literary industry and genius. In his youth, 
Young was gav and dissipated, and all his life he was an indefatiga- 
ble courtier. In his poetry, he 5s a severe moralist and ascetic divine. 
That he felt the emotions he describes, must be true ; but they did 
not permanently influence his conduct. He was not weaned from 
the world till age had incapacitated him for its pursuits ; and the 
epigrammatic point and wit of his ' Night Thoughts,* with the gloomy 
views it presents of life and religion, shew the poetical artist rally as 
much as the humble and penitent Christian. His works are numer- 
ous ; but the best are the ' Night Thoughts,* the * Universal Passion,' 
and the tragedy of * Revenge.* The foundation of his great poem 
was family misiortune, coloured and exaggerated for poetical efiect 

Insatiate archer I could not one suffice 7 

Thy shafts flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slaJn ; 

And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn. 

This rapid succession of bereavements was a poetical license; for in 
one of the cases there was an interval of four years, and in another of 
seven months. The * Night Thoughts' "w«c*'^\b3ckVis^^ t!«Ka^\\*a»Nsi 
1744. The gay Lorenzo is overdra^iL. 1\. w«ca& V^iXfi.^ ^s^^st^ ^aBisa\ 



890 CYCLOPiEDIA OF [to 1780. 

sketch. Like the character of Childe Harold in the hands of Byron, 
it afforded the poet scope for dark and power{al painting, and' was 
made the vehicle for bursts of indignant virtue, sorrow, regret, and 
admonition. This artificial character pervades the whole poem, and 
is essentially a part of its structure. But it still leaves to our admi- 
ration many noble and sublime passages, where the poet speiUks as 
from inspiration — with the voice of one cryinff in the wilderness — of 
life, death, and immortality. The truths of religion are enforced 
with a commanding energy and persuasion. Epigram and repartee 
are then forgotten by the poet ; fancy yields to feeling ; and where 
imagery is employea, it is select, nervous, and suitable. In this sus- 
tained and impressive style. Young seldom remains long at a time ; 
his desire to say witty and smart things, to load his picture with su- 
pernumerary horrors, and conduct his personages to their * sulphur- 
eous or ambrosial seats/ soon converts the great poet into the painter 
and epigrammatist. The ingenuity of his second style is in some 
respects as wonderful as the first, but it is of a vastly inferior order 
of poetry. Southey thinks that when Johnson said (in his * Life of 
Milton ') that * the good and evil of eternity were too ponderous for 
the wings of wit,' he forgot Young. The moral critic could not, how- 
ever, but have condemned even witty thoughts and sparkling meta- 
phors, which dre so incongruous and misplaced. The * Night Thoughts,' 
like * Hndibras,' is too pointed, and too full of compressed refiection 
and illustration, to be read continuously with pleasure. Nothing can 
atone for the want of simplicity and connection in a long poem. In 
Young there is no plot or progressive interest. Each of the nine 
books is independent of the other. The general reader, therefore, 
seeks out favourite passages for perusal, or contents himself with a 
single excursion into his wide and variegated field. But the more 
carefiiUy it is studied, the more extraordinary and magnificent will 
the entire poem appear. The fertility of fancy, the pregnancy of wit 
and knowledge, the striking and felicitious combinations everywhere 
presented, are indeed remarkable. Sound sense is united to poetical 
imagenr; maxims of the highest practical value, and passages of 
great force, tenderness, and everlasting truth, are constantly risine, 
like sunshine, over the quaint and gloomy recesses of the poers 
imagination: 

The glorions fragments of a fire unmortal, 
With mbbish mixed, and guttering in the dost. 

After all his bustling toils and ambition, how finely does Toung 
advert to the quiet retirement of his country-life : 

Blest be that hand divine, which gently laid 

Jfy heart at rest beneath this humble shed I 

The world 'fl a stately bark, on dBm^^Kona seas, 

Witt pleasure seen, but \>ofti^ya& aX oxa ys^\ . 
JETetre, on a single plank, thrown «aie motft^ 
I hear the tomolt of the ^staAt ^tvcon^, 



OUNG.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 891 

As that of seas remote, or dying storma ; 
And meditate on scenes more Buent still; 
Pursue my theme, and fi^ht the fear of death* 
Here, like a shepherd gaamg from his hnt, 
Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff, 
Eager ambition's fiery chase 1 see ; 
I see the circling hunt of noisy men 
Burst law's enclosure, leap the mounds of right, 
Pursuing and pursued, each other's prey ; 
As wolves for rapine ; as the fox for mlea ; 
Till death, that mighty hunter, earths them aU. 
Why all this toil for tnumphs of an hour 7 
What though we wade in wealth, or soar in fame. 
Earth's highest station ends in * nere he lies;* 
And ' dust to dust ' concludes her noUest song. 

Lnd when he argues in favour of the immortality of man from the 
nalogies of nature, with what exquisite taste and melody does he 
haracterise the changes and varied appearances of creation : 

Look nature through, tis revolution all I 

All change, no deatn ; day follows night, and nisht 

The dying day ; stars rise and set, and set and nse ; • 

Earth takes the example See, the Summer gay, 

With her green chaplet and ambrosial flowers, 

Droops into pallid Autumn : Winter gray. 

Horrid with frost and turbulent with storm. 

Blows Autumn and his golden fruits away, 

Then melts into the Spring : soft Spring, with hreaih 

Favonian, from warm chambers of the south, 

Recalls the first. All, to reflourish, fades : 

As in a wheel, all sinks to reascend : 

Emblems of man, who passes, not expires. 

He thus moralises on human life : 

life speeds away 
From point to point, though seeming to stand stUL 
The cunning fugitive is swift l>v stealth, 
Too subtle IS the movement to be seen ; 
Tet soon man's hour is up, and we are gone. 
Warnings point out our danger; gnomons, time; 
As these are useless when the sun is set. 
So those, but when more glorious reason shines. 
Season should judge in all ; in reason's eye 
That sedentary shadow travels hard. 
But such our gravitation to the wrong, 
So prone our hearts to whisper that we wish, 
rRs later with the wise than he 's aware : 
A Wilmington* goes slower than the sun : 
And all mankind mistake their time of day ; 
Even age itself. Fresh hopes are hourly sown 
In furrowed brows. To gentle life's descent 
We shut our eyes, and tmnk it is a plain. 
We take fair days in winter for the spring, 
And turn our blessings into bane, ffince oft 
Han must compute that age he cannot feel. 
He scarce believes he 's older for his years. 
Thus, at life's latest eve, we keep in store 
One disappointment sure, to crown the rest* 
The disappointment of a promised hour. 



« LoidTfWsAnt^* 



892 CYCLOPEDIA OF [to 1780. 

And again in a still nobler strain, where be compares human life 
to the sea : 

Self-flattered, unexperienced, high in hope, 
When yonng, with sanguine cheer and Btreamers gay. 
We cut our cable, launch into the world, 
And fondly dream each wind and Btar our friend; 
All in some darling enterprise embarked : 
But where is he can fathom its event? 
Amid a multitude of artless hands, 
Ruin's sure perquisite, her lawful prize I 
Some steer aright, but the black blast blows hard. 
And pufEs them wide of hope : with hearts of proof 
Full a^inst wind and tide, some win their way. 
And .when strong efEort has deserved the port, 
And tugged it into view, 'tis won I 'tis lost I 
Though strong their o/irs, still stronger is their fate'! 
They strike 1 and while they triumph they expire. 
In stress of weather most, some sink outright : 
O'er them, and o'er their names the billows close ; 
To-morrow knows not thoy were ever bom. 
Others a short memorial leave behind, 
* Uke a flag floating when the bark's ingulfed ; 

It floats a moment, and is seen no more. 
One Csesar lives ; a thousand are forsot. 
How few beneath auspicious planets Dom — 
Darlings of Providence I fond fates elect I — 
With swelling sails make good the promised port» 
With all their wishes freiMted I yet even these. 
Freighted with all their vnshes, soon complain ; 
Free from misfortune, not from nature free. 
They still are men, and when is man secure ? 
As fatal time, as storm I the rush of years 
Beats downs their strength, their numberless escapes 
In ruin end. And now their proud success 
But plants new terrors on the victor's brow ; 
What pain to quit the world, just made their own, 
Their nest so deeply downed, and built so high I 
Too low they build, who bnlld beneath the stars. 

With a such a throng of poetical imagery, bursts of sentiment, and 
rays of fancy, does the poet-divine clothe the trite and simple truths, 
that all is yanity, and that man is born to die I 

These thoughts, O Night I arc thine ; 

From thee they came like lovers' secret si^hs. 

While Others slept So Cynthia, poets feign. 

In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere, 

Her shepherd cheered ; of her enamoured less 

Than I of thee. And art thou still unsung. 

Beneath whose brow, and by whose aid, i singY 

Immortal silence ! where shall I begin ? 

Where end ? or how steal music from the spheres 

To soothe their goddess 7 
O majestic Night I 

Nature's great ancestor I Day's elder bom I 

And fated to survive the transient sun ! 

By mortals and immorta\8 eeen vdtk vhq I 

A starry crown thy raven brow a^oross, 

An azure zone thy waiet ; cloxiAft, \ii\iewctf % who. 

Wrought thnragh yarietlea ot »h«oie ttodi WAAfc^ 



OUNG.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 898 

In ample folds of drapery divine. 

Thy flowing mantle form, and, heaven thronghont, 

VolaminooBly poor thy pompons train : 

Thy gloomy grandenrs— Nature's most angost. 

Inspiring aspect I — claim a grateful verse ; 

And like a sable curtain starred with gold. 

Drawn o'er my labours past, shall dome the scene. 

his magnificent apostrophe to Night has scarcely been equalled in 
iir poetry since the epic strains of Milton. 

On LifCt Deaths and Immortality, 

Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sle^ I 
He, like the world, his ready visit pavs 
Where Fortune smiles ; the wretchea he forsakes; 
Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe. 
And lights on lids unsullied with a tear. 

From short (as usual) and disturbed repose 
I wake : how happy they who wake no more t 
Yet that were vam, if dreams infest the grave. 
I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams 
Tumultuous ; where my wrecked desponding thought 
From wave to wave of fancied misery 
At random drove, her helm of reason lost 
Though now restored, tis only change of pain — 
A bitter change ! — severer for severe : 
The day too snort for my distress ; and night» 
E'en in the zenith of her dark domain. 
Is sunshine to the colour of mv fate. 

Night, sable goddess : from her ebon throne, 
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth 
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. 
Silence how dead ! and darkness how profound I 
Nor eye nor listening ear an object flnds ; 
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse 
Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause ; 
An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. 
And let her prophecy be soon fulfilled : 
Fate I drop the curtain ; I can lose no more. 

Silence and Darkness ! solemn sisters I twins 
From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought 
To reason, and on reason build resolve — 
That column of true majesty in man — 
Assist me : I will thank you in the grave ; 
The grave your kingdom : there this frame shall fafl 
A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. 
But what are ye T 

Thou, who didst put to flight 
Primeval Silence, when the momin? stars 
Eznltine, shouted o'er the rising b^ ; 
O ThouT whose word from solid darkness struck 
That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from my soul ; 
Hy soul, which flies to thee, her trust, her treasure^ 
As misers to their gold, while others rest. 

Through this opaque of nature and of soul. 
This double night, transmit one pitying ray. 
To lighten and^fo cheer. Oh lead my mind — 
A mind that fain would wander from its woe — 
Lead it through various scenes of life and deaths 
And from each sceue the iiob\e«X tro^^ \nsv^s%« 
Not teds inqpiie my condnsXtX^ssuxs^ wsai\ 



9H CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 178Q 

Teach my best reason, reason ; my best yrOi 
Teach rectitude ; and fix my Arm resohre 
Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear : 
Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, poured 
On this devoted head, oe poured in vain. . . • 

How poor, how rich, how abject, how angoflt^ 
How complicate, how wonderful is man ; 
How passing wonder He who made him such I 
Who centred in our make such strange eztremea^ 
From di£Eerent natures marvellously mixed. 
Connection exquisite of distant worlds I 
Distinguished Hnk in beins^s endless chain I 
Midway from notliing to the Deity I 
A beam ethereal, sulued and absorot ! 
Though sullied and dishonoured, still divine I 
Dim miniature of greatness absolute I 
An heir of glory I a frail child of dust : 
Helpless immortal I insect infinite I 
A worm I a god I I tremble at myself, 
And in myself am lost. At home, a stranger. 
Thought wanders up and down^ surprised, aghast. 
And wondering at her own. How reason r^ls t 
Oh what a miracle to man is man I 
Triumphantly distressed I what joy ! what dread I 
Alternately transported and alarmed I 
What can preserve my life? or what destroy? 
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave ; 
Legions of angels can't confine me there. 

'Tis past conjecture : all thines rise in proof : 
While o'er my limbs sleep's son dominion spread, 
What though my soul fantastic measures trod 
O'er fairy l^ds ; or mourned along the gloom 
Of silent woods ; or, down the cragsy steep 
Hurled headlong, swam with pain tne mantled pool : 
Or scaled the elm ; or danced on hollow winds. 
With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain ? 
Her ceaseless night, though devious, speaks her natore 
Of subtler essence than the common dod. . . . 
Even silent night proclaims my soul immortal I . . 

Why, then, meir loss deplore that are not lost 7 
This is the desert, this the solitude : 
How populous, how vital is the grave I 
This is creation's melancholy vault. 
The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom; 
The land of apparitions, empty shades t 
AII4 all on earth, is shadow, all beyond 
Is substance ; the reverse is folly's creed ; 
How solid all, where change shall be no more I 

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, 
The twilight of our day, ^e vestibule ; 
Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, 
Strong death alone can heave the massy bar. 
This gross impediment of clay remove, 
AJid make us embryos of existence free 
From real life ; but little more remote 
Is he, not yet a candidate for light. 
The future embryo, slumbering in his sire. 
EmbryoB we must be tiW we buret the shell, 
ron ambient azure sheW, and &pt\\i%^\\i&^ 
The life of gods, O tranaporll aaad ot inasi. 

Yet man, fool man I here\)\tt\fta «Mk\jift^^«»®» 
Xnten cetastlal hopes ^tkioul oae «&^ 



• • 



YOUNG.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 885 

Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon, 

Here pinions all his wishes ; winged by heayen ' 

To fly at infinite : and reach it there 

Where seraphs gather immortality, 

On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. 

What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow 

In his fall beam, and ripen for the just. 

Where mcnnentary ages are no more I 

Where time, and pain, and chance, and death e]q)irel 

And is it in the flight of threescore years 

To pnsh eternity from hnman thought. 

And smother souls immortal in the dust ? 

A soul immortal, spending all her flres, 

Wasting her strength in sn*ennons idleness. 

Thrown into tommt, raptured or alarmed, 

At aiight this scene can threaten or indalge» 

Resembles ocean into tempest wrought, 

To waft a feather, or to drown a fly. 

ThougMs on Time. 

The bell strikes one. We take no note of time 

But from its loss : to give it then a tongue 

Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, 

I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, 

It is the knell of my departed hours. 

Where are thev 7 With the years beyond the flood. 

It is ib« si^al that demands dispatch : 

How much is. to be done ? Mv hopes and feam 

Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge 

Look down— on what ? A fathomless abyss. 

A dread eternity I how surely mine I 

And can eternity belong to me. 

Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? 

O time I than gold more sacred ; more a load 
Tbtoi lead to fools, and fools reputed wise. 
What moment granted man without account 7 
What years are squandered, wisdom's debt unpaid I 
Our wealth in days all due to that discharge. 
Haste, baste, he lies in wait, he's at the door ; 
Insidious Death ; should his strong hand arrest, 
No composition sets the prisoner &ee. 
Eternity's inexorable chun 
Fast binds, and vengeance claims the full arrear. 

Touth is not rich in time ; it may be poor; 
Part with it as with money, spanng; pay 
No moment, but in purchase of its worth ; 
And what it 's worth, ask death-beds : th^ can telL 
Part with it as with life, reluctant ; big 
With holy hope of nobler time to come : 
Time hignw aimed, still nearer the great mark 
Of men and ai^^ls, virtue more di^dne. 

Ah I how unjust to nature and himself 
Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man I 
like children babbling nonsense in their sports, 
We censure Nature for a span too short ; 
That span t06 short we tax as tedious too; 
Torture ittrention, all expedients tire, 
To lash the lingering momenta m\A v^mAu 
jLnd wtitA ofi CEappy Mdaxkce"^ tram, craxvemi^ 



886 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to I78< 

Time, in advaoce, behind him hides his wingi^ 
And seems to creep, decrepit with liis age. 
Behold him when passed by : what then is seen 
Bnt his broad pinions swifter than the winds ? 
And all mankind, in contradiction strong. 
Rueful, aghast, ciy out on his career. 

We wast^, not use our time ; we breathe, not ttve; 
Time wasted is existence ; used, is life: 
And bare existence man, to live ordained. 
Wrings and oppresses with enormous weight. 
And why ? since time was given for use, not wasts^ 
Enjoined to fly, with tempest, tide, and stars, 
To keep his speed, nor even wait for man. 
Time's use was doomed a pleasure, waste a pain, 
That man might feel his error if unseen. 
And, feeling, fly to labour for his cure ; 
Not blundering, split on idleness for ease. 

We push time from us, and we wish him back ; 

Life we think long and short ; death seek and shniL 

O the dark days of vanity ; while 

Here, how tasteless I and how terrible when gone t 

Gone ? they ne^er go ; when past, they haunf us still: 

The spirit walks of every day deceased. 

And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns. 

Nor death nor life delight us. If time past, 

And time possessed, both pain ns, what can idease T 

That which the Deity to please ordained. 

Time used. The man wno consecrates his honzs 

By vigorous effort, and an honest aim. 
At once he draws the sting of life and death : 
He walks with nature, and her paths are peace. 
'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours. 
And ask them what report they bore to heaven, 
And how they might have borne more welcome newt. 
Their answers form what men experience call ; 
If wisdom's friend her best, if not, worst foe. 

77ie Man whose ITumghts are not of this World, 

Some angel guide my p^cil, while I draw, 

What nothing less than angel can exceed— 

A man on earth devoted to the skies ; 

Like ships in seas, while in, above the world. 
With aspect mild, and elevated eye. 

Behold him seated on a mount serene. 

Above the fogs of sense, and passion's storm; 

All the black cares and tumults of this Ufe, 

Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet, 

Bxoite his pity, not impair his peace. 

Earth's genuine sons, the scepo^d and the slaw^ 

A mineled mob ! a wandering herd I he sees* 

Bewildered In the vale ; in all unlike I 

His full reverse in all I what higher praise 7 

What stronger demonstration of the right 7 
The present a]l their care ; the future his. 

When public welfare ca31s, ot ^prtrote want, 
Thev give to Fame ; his boTinsj \i<& coosMitL 
Their virtues vamlsli "Natoi* *, 'te^^^*^; 
■Mankincl's osteem they co\iit; waA w\s»«w». 
Theirs the wild chase ot talse tc^<^^ifiA\ 



UNG.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 897 

HiB the composed possession of the trae. 
Alike througnont is his consistent peace. 
All of one colour, and an even thread ; 
While party-coloured shreds of happiness, 
With hideous gaps between, patch up for them 
A madman's robe ; each pufE of Foirune blows 
The tatters by, and shews their nakedneaa. 

Procrastinatian. 

Be wise to-day ; 'tis madness to defer : 
Next day the fatal precedent will plead : 
Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of Ufa. 
Procrastination is the thief of time ; 
Tear after year it steals, till all are fled. 
And to the mercies of a moment leaves 
The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 
If not so frequent, would not this be strange? 
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger stilL 

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bean 
The palm, * That all men are about to live,' 
For ever on the brink of bein^ bom : 
All pay themselves the complmient to think 
They one day shall not drivel, and their prid* 
On this reversion takes up ready praise ; 
At least their own their future selves applaud; 
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead 1 
Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's vails; 
That lodged in. Fate's to wisdom they consign ; 
The thing they cant but purpose, they postpone. 
'TIS not m follv not to scorn a fool. 
And scarce in human wisdom to do more 
All promise is poor dilatory mui. 
And that through every stage. When young, indeedt 
In full content we sometimes nobly rest, 
Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish 
As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. 
At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ; 
Knows It at forty, and reforms his plan; 
At fifty, chides his infamous delay. 
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; 
In all the magnaninuty of thought 
Besolves, and re-resofves; then dies the same. 

And why 7 because he thinks himself immortaL 
All men think all men mortal but themselves ; 
Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate 
Strikes through their wounded hearts the sadden draadl; 
But tiieir hearts wounded, like the wounded air, 
Soon close ; where passed the shaft no trace is foond, 
As from the wing no scar the sky retains, 
The parted wave no furrow from the keel. 
So dies in human hearts the thought of dieath : 
E'en with the tender tear which nature sheds 
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. 

The * Night Thoughts ' have eclipsed the other works of Young ; 
it his satires, published from 1725 to 1728 (* Love of Fame, the 
aiversal Passion, in Seven Characteristical Satires'), are poems of 
rb merit, in many passagea pf<Y\>^\\tvf^ ^<b ^Aioa^iii^ '^ci^^^^('ci&!^ 
yseem to haye saggeateS. 



898 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to iji 

« 

From the Love of Fame. 

Not all on books their criticism waste ; 
The genius of a dish some jastlv taste, 
And eat their way to fame I with anxious thought 
The Salmon is refused, the turbot bought. 
Impatient Art rebukes tbe sun's delay, 
And bids December yield the fruits of May. 
Their various cares in one great point combine 
The business of their lives, that is, to dine ; 
Half of their predous day they give the feast. 
And to a kind digestion snare the rest. 
Apicins here^ the taster of the town, 
Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown. 

These worthies of the palate guard with care 
The sacred annals of their bills of fare ; 
Id those choice books their panegyrics read. 
And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed ; 
If man, by feeding well, commences great. 
Much more the worm, to whom that man is meat. 
Brunetta *s wise in actions great and rare. 
But scorns on trifles to bestow her care. 
Thus eve^ hour Brunetta is to blame. 
Because th' occasion is beneath her aim. 
Think nought a trifle, though it small appear ; 
Small sands the mountain, moments make the year. 
And trifles, life. Tour cares to trifles give, 
Or yoo may die before you truly live. 

Belns with solid glory will be crowned ; 

He buys no phanton, no vain empty sound, 

He builds himself a name ; and to be great, 

Sinks in a quarry an immense estate ; 

In cost and grandeur Chandos he HI outdo ; 

And, Burliniton, thy taste is not so true ; 

The pile is finished, everv toil is past, 

And full perfection is arrived at last ; 

When lo I my lord to some small comer runs. 

And leaves state-rooms to strangers and to duns. 

The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, 
Provides a home from which to run away. 
In Britain, what is maxnr a lordly seat. 
But a discharge in full for an estate ? 

Some for renown on scraps of learning dote, 
And think they grow immortal as they quote. 
To patchwork learned quotations are allied ; 
Botn strive to make our poverty our pride. 

Let Ugh birth triumph I what can be more great 7 
Nothing— but merit in a low estate. 
To Virtue's humblest son let none prefer 
Vice, though dec^cended from the Conqueror. 
fifbaJ] men, like figures, pass for high or base, 
Sligbt or Important only by llieix place ? 
Tfues are marks of honeat men, an^'^iAsA; 
The fool or knave that wean tL^li\fi,\Le%. 
Th^ tbat on elorionB aneectora «BUac2^ 
Prociace tbeirdebt Inatead oi tbe^ ^Afibssf^ 



soMERViLE.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 898 

Envious Qrab-Street AtUhors and Critics, — From *EpisUe 1, to Mr. 

Pope,' 

With fame in juBt proportion envy crows ; 
The man that makes a character m&es foes ; 
Slight peevish insects round a genins rise, 
As a bright day awakes the world of flies ; 
With hearty malice, but with feeble wing, 
To shew they live, Uiey flatter and they sting: 
Bat as by depredations wasps proclaim 
The fairest fniit, so these the fairest fame. 
Shall we not censure all the motley train. 
Whether with ale irriguous or champagne 7 
Whether they tread the vale of prose, or climb 
And whet their appetites on cliffs of rhyme; 
The college sloven or embroidered spark, 
The purple prelate or the parish clerk^ 
The quiet cniidnune or demandine prig, 
The plaintiff Tory or defendant wliig ; 
Rich, poor, male, female, young, old, aiy or sad* 
Whether extremely witty or quite mad ; 
Profoundly dull or shallowly polite. 
Men that read well, or men that only write ; 
Whether peers, porters, tailors, tune their reeds, 
And measuring words to measuring shapes succeeds ; 
For bankrupts write, when ruined shops are shnt, 
As maggots crawl from out a perished nut. 
His hammer this, and that his trowel quits. 
And wanting sense for tradesmen, serve fOr wits. 
By thriving men, subsists each other trade ; 
Of every broken craft a writer's made. 
Thus his material, paper, takes its birth 
From tattered rags of all the stuff on earth. 

WILLIAM SOMERYILB. 

The author of * The Chase ' is still included in our list of poets, 
but is now rarely read or consulted. William Sombryilb (1677- 
1742) was, as he tells Allan Ramsay, his brother-poet, 

A squire well bom, and six foot high. 

His patrimonial estate (to which he succeeded in 1704) lay in War- 
wickshire, and was worth £1500 per annum — from which, however, 
had to be deducted a jointure of £600 to his mother. He was gener- 
ous, but extravagant, and died in distressed circumstances. Leaving 
no issue, his estate descended to Lord Somerville. Somervile*s poeti- 
cal works are * Tlie Two Springs, a Fable,' 1736 ; * Occasional Poem,' 
1727 ; and * The Chase,' 1735. * The Chase ' is in blank verse, and 
contains practical instructions and admonitions to sportsmen. The 
following is an animated sketch of a morning in autumn, preparatory 
to * throwing oflP the pack :' 

Now golden Autumn from her open lap 

Her fragrant bounties showers ; the fields are shorn ; 

Inwardly smiling, the proud farmer views 

The rising pvramids that grace his yard. 

And counts his large IncTeaiBe; YA%\>vnA«s^%\KiKA^ 

And giXHming Bta^ea \)eii&\)eiie«.\Xi\X2i&Ns V3»^ 



400 CYCLOPAEDIA OF fTO 1780. 

AH now is free as air, and the gay pack 

In the rough bristly stubbles range nnblamed ; 

No widow's tears overflow, no secret curse 

Swells in the farmer's breast, which his pale lips 

Trembling conceal, by his fierce landlord awed : 

But courteous now he levels every fence. 

Joins in the common cry, and haJloos loud. 

Charmed with the rattling thunder of the field. 

O bear me, some kind power invisible I 

To that extended lawn where the gay court 

View the swift racers, stretching to the goal ;' 

Games more renowned, and a far nobler train, 

Than proud Elean fields could boast of old. 

Oh I were a Theban lyre not wanting here. 

And Pindar's voice, to do their merit right I 

Or to those spacious plains, where the strained eye^ * 

In the wide prospect lost, beholds at last 

Sarum's proud Bpii*e, that o'er the hills ascends, 

And pierces through the clouds. Or to thy downs, 

Fair Cotswold, where the well-breathed beagle climbs, 

With matchless speed, thy green aspirins; brow, 

And leaves the lagging multitude behind. 

Hail, gentle Dawn I mild, blushing goddess, hail 
Rejoiced I see thy purple mantle spread 
O'er half the skies ; gems pave thy radiant way. 
And orientpearls ^m every shrub depend. 
Farewell, Cleora ; here deep sunk in down. 
Slumber secure, with happy dreams amus^ 
Till grateful streams ^hail tempt thee to receive 
Thy early meal, or thy officious maids ; 
The toilet placed shall urge thee to perform 
The important work. Me other ioys invite ; 
The horn sonorous calls, the pack awak^. 
Their matins chant, nor brook they long delay. 
Hy courser hears their voice ; see there with ears 
And tail erect, neighing, he paws the ground ; 
Fierce rapture kindles m his reddening eyes, 
And boils in every vein. As captive boys. 
Cowed by the ruling rod and haughty frowns 
Of pedagogues severe, from their hard tasks 
If once dismissed, no limits can contain 
The tumult raised within their little breasts. 
But give a loose to all their frolic play ; 
So from their kennel rush the joyous pack ; 
A thousand wanton gaieties express 
Their inward ecstasy, their pleasing sport 
Once more indulged, and lil^rty restored. 
The rising sun that o'er the horizon peeps. 
As muiy colours from their glossy skins 
Beaming reflects, as paint the various bow 
When April showers descend. Delightful scene I 
Where all around is gay ; men, horses, dc^; 
And in each smiling countenance appears 
Fresh blooming health, and universal joy. 

SomerrWe wrote a poetical address to Addison, on the latter pnr- 

cbasiDg his estate in Warwickabiie. * In his verses to Addison^' says 

Johnson, ' the couplet which menlioiva 0\\o\&^fv\.\fc\\.^\^ the most 

exquisite delicacy of praise; il exhVb\ta ox^^ ol XJwi^ Xias^^^ ^Vs^v^ 

that are seldom attained.' Addison^ V\. v& ^^^^teoa^^i.^ %^^%^>S^ 



THOMSON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 401 

papers in the * Spectator ' with the letters forming the name of Clio. 
The couplet which gratified Johnson so highly is as follows : 

When pantiog virtne her last efforts madei 
You brought your Clio to the virgin's aid. 

In welcoming Addison to the banks of Avon, Somervile does not 
scruple to place him above SShakspeare as a poet ! 

In heaven he sings ; on earth your muse supplies 
The important loss, and heals our weeping eyes : 
Correctly gi*eat, she melts each flinty heart 
With equ£d genius, but superior art. 

Gross as this misjudgment is, it should be remembered that Voltaire 
also fell into the same. The cold marble of * Cato * was preferred to 
the living and breathing creations of the * myriad-minded ' magician. 

JAMES THOMSON. 

The publication of the ' Seasons ' was an important era in the his- 
tory of English poetry. So true and beautiful are the descriptions in 
the poem, and so entirely do they harmonise with those fresh feelings 
and glowing impulses which all would wish to cherish, that a love 
of nature seems to be synonymous with a love of Thomson. It is 
difficult to conceive a person of education in this country, imbued 
with an admiration of rural or woodland scenery, not entertaining a 
strong affection and regard for that delightful poet, who has painted 
their charms with so much fidelity and enthusiasm. The same fea- 
tures of blaudness and benevolence, of simplicity of design and beauty 
of form and colour, which we recognise as distinguishing traits of the 
natural landscape, are seen in the pages of Thomson, conveyed by 
his artless mind as faithfully as the lights and shades on the face of 
creation. No criticism or change of style has, therefore, affected his 
popularity. We may smile at sometimes meeting with a heavy 
monotonous period, a false ornament, or tumid expression, the result 
of an indolent mind working itself up to a great eflfort, and we may 
wish that the subjects of his description were sometimes more select 
and dignified ; but this drawback does not affect our permanent re- 
gard or general feeling; our first love remains unaltered ; and Thona- 
son is still the poet with whom some of our best and purest associa- 
tions are indissolubly joined. In the * Seasons ' we have a poetical 
subject poetically treated— filled to overflowinc? wiih the richest 
materials of poetry, and the emanations of benevolence. In the 
* Castle of Indolence ' we have the concentration or essence of those 
materials applied to a subject less poetical, but still affording room 
for luxuriant fancy, the most exquisite art, and still greater. melody 
of numbers. 

Jambs Thomson was bom at Ednam, near Kelso, county of Roz- 

hur^b, OD the 11th of September nOO. BNa l^>^«t,^V^ -^'Mfe.s&ssa. 

minister of the parish of Ednam, lemoN^ «.^«« ^^ajssi^&«E^%5^^ *« 



408 CYCLOP-^DIA OF [to 1780. 

that <of Southdean in the same county, » primitive and retired dis- 
trict situated among the lower slopes of the Cheviots. Here the young 
poet spent his boyish years. The gift of poesy came early, and some 
lines written by him at the age of fourteen, shew how soon his man- 
ner was formed : 

Now I surveyed my native faculties. 
And traced my actions to their teeming source ; 
Now I explored the universal frame, 
Gazed nature through, and with interior light 
Conversed with angels and unbodied saints 
That tread the courts of the Eternal Eang 1 
Gladly I would declare in lofty strains 
The power of Godhead to the sons of men, 
But thought is lost in its immensity : 
Imagination wastes its stren^h in vain, 
And fancj tires and turns within itself, 
Struck with the amazing depths of Deity t 
Ah I my Lord God I in vain a tender youth. 
Unskilled in arts of deep philosophy, 
Attempts to search the bulky mass of matter, 
To trace the rules of motion, and pursue 
The phantom Time, too subtle for his grasp : 
Yet may I from thv most apparent worics 
Form some idea of their wondrous Author.* 

In his eighteenth year, Thomson was sent to Edinburgh College. 
His father died in 1720, and the poet proceeded to London to push 
his fortune. Hi§ college friend. Mallet, procured him the situation of 
tutor to the son of Lord Binning, and being shown some of his de- 
scriptions of * Winter,' advised him to connect them into one regular 
poem. This was done, and * Winter * was published in March 1726, 
the poet having received only three guineas for the copyright. A 
second and a third edition appeared the same year. ' Summer ' ap- 
peared in 1727. In 1728 he issued proposals for publishing, by sub- 
scription, the * Four Seasons' ; the number of subscribers, at a guinea 
each copy, was 387 ; but many took more than one, and Pope (to 
whom Thomson had been introduced by Mallet) took three copies. 
The tragedy of * Sophonisba / was next produced ; and in 1731 the 
poet accompanied the son of Sir Charles Talbot, alterwards lord 
chancellor, in the capacity of tutor or travelling-companion, to the 
continent They visited France, Switzerland, and Italy, and lr*fcs 
easy to conceive with what pleasure Thomson must have passed or 
sojourned among scenes which he had often viewed in imagination. 
In November of the same year the poet was at Rome, and no doubt 
indulged the wish expressed in one of his letters, * to see the fields 
where Virgil gathered his immortal honey, and tread the same 
ground where men have thought and acted so greatly.* On his re- 
turn next year he published his poem of * Liberty,* and obtained the 

^^ ' Tbis cariona fngment was first publ\ahedVii\MV,Va «.\\!L«>olT^OTia«ix.\ii'ax. i^^a. 
•f^BuUnsrhJua, pntlxed to an illustrated edit&ou. ot \^i« Seowma. 




THOMSON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 403 

sinecure situation of Secretary of Briefs in the Court of Chancery, 
which he held till the death ot Lord Talbot, the chancellor. 

The succeeding chancellor bestowed the situation on another, 
Thomson not having, it is said, from characteristic indolence, solicited 
a continuance of the office. He again tried the drama, and produced 
'Agamemnon,' which was coldly received. * Edward and Eleonora ' 
followed, and the poet's circumstances were brightened by a pension 
of £100 a year, which he obtained through Lyttelton from the Prince 
of Wales. He further received the appointment of Surveyor-general 
of the Leeward Islands, the duties of which he was allowed to per- 
form by deputy, and which brought him £300 per annum. He was 
now in comparative opulence, and his residence at Kew Lane, near 
Richmond, was the scene of social enjoyment and lettered ease. Re- 
tirement and nature became, he said, more and more his passion 
every day. ' I have enlarged my rural domain,' he writes to a friend : 
' the two fields next to me, from the first of which I have walled — no, 
no — "pdled in, about as much as my garden consisted of before, so that 
the walk runs round the hedge, where you may figure me walkmg 
any time of the day, and sometimes at night.' His house appears to 
have been elegantly furnished : the sale catalogue of his effects, which 
enumerates the contents of every room, prepared after his death, fills 
eight pages of print, and his cellar was stocked with wines and Scotch 
ale. In this snug suburban retreat Thomson now applied himself to 
finish the * Castle of Indolence,' on which he had been long engaged, 
and a tragedy on the subject of Coriolanus. Theii^oem was pub- 
lished in May 1748. In August following, he took a boat at Ham- 
mersmith to convey him to Kew, after having walked from London. 
He caught cold, was thrown into a fever, and, after a short illness, 
died (27th of August 1748). No poet was ever more deeply lamented 
or more sincerely mourned. 

Though born a poet, Thomson seems to have advanced but slowly, 
and by reiterated efforts, to refinement of taste. The natural fervour 
of the man overpowered the rules of the scholar. The first edition 
of the * Seasons ' differs materially from the second, and the second 
still more from the third. Every alteration was an improvement in 
delicacy of thought and language. 

One of the finest and most picturesque similes in the work was 
supplied by Pope, to whom Thomson had given an interleaved copy 
of the edition of 1736. The quotation will not be out of place here, 
as it is honourable to the friendship of the brother-poets, and tends to 
shew the importance of careful revision, without which no excellence 
can be attained in literature or the arts. How deeply must it be re- 
gretted that Pope did not oftener write in blank verse ! In * Autumn/ 
describing Lavinia, the lines of Thomson were : 

Thoughtlees of beauty, she was Beauty's self. 

Recluse amone the woods ; if city damea 

Win deign theur faith : ana t\ma «tve >n€uV ^^otoiQ^^^ 



404 CYCLOPAEDIA OF [to 1780. 

By strong necessity, with as serene 

Aiid pleiSed a look as Patience e'er pnt on, 

To glean Palemon's fields. 

Pope drew his pen through this description, and supplied the follow- 
ing lines, which Thomson must have been too much gratified with 
not to adopt with pride and pleasure — and so they stand in allthe 
subsequent editions : 

Thoughtless of beauty, She was Beauty's self, 
Recluse amid the close^mbowering woods. 
As in the hollow breast of Apennine, 
Beneath the shelter of encircling hills, 
A myrtle rises, far from human eyes, 
And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild; 
So flourished blooming, and unseen by all. 
The sweet Lavinia ; tin at length compelled 
By strong Necessity's supreme command, 
with smiling patience in her looks, she went 
To glean Patemon's fields.* 

That the genius of Thomson was purifying and working off its 
alloys up to the termination of his existence, may be seen from the 
superiority in style and diction of the * Castle of Indolence.* Between 
the period of his composing the * Seasons * and the * Castle of Indo- 
lence,' says Campbell, * he wrote several works which seem hardly to 
accord with the improvement and muturity of his taste exhibited in 
the latter production. To the ' Castle of Indolence' he brought not 
only the full nature, but the perfect art of a poet. The materials of 
that exquisite poem are derived originally from Tasso ; but he was 
more immediately indebted for them to the " Faery Queen :" and in 
meeting with the paternal spirit of Spenser, he seems as if he were 
admitted more intimately to the home of inspiration.' If the critic 
had gone over the alterations in the * Seasons,' which Thomson had 
been more or less engaged upon for about sixteen years, he would 
have seen the gradual improvement of his taste, as well as imagina- 
tion. So far as the art of the poet is concerned, the last corrected 
edition, as compared with the early copies, is a new work. The 
power of Thomson, however, lay not in his art, but in the exuberance 
of his genius, which sometimes required to be disciplined and con- 
trolled. The poetic glow is spread over all. He never slackens in 
his enthusiasm, nor tires of pointing out the phenomena of nature, 
which, indolent as he was, he had surveyed under every aspect, till 
he had become familiar with all. Among the mountains, vales, and 
forests, he seems to realise his own words: 

Man superior walks 
Amid the glad creation, musing praise, 
And looking lively gratitude. 

But he lookB aiso, as Johnson finely observed, * with the eye which na- 

' See MUford*a edition of Gray's -wotto. lkl\ "^wb^I*^ toTtwMkssM^ Ni^ta \A&-^tAdb7 
Thomson. 



THOMSON.] ENGLISH LITERATURE. 406 

ture bestows only on a poet — the eye that distinguishes, in e^yerything 
presented to its yiew, whatever there is on which imagination can de- 
light to be detained, and with a mind that at once comprehends the 
vast, and attends to the minute/ He looks also with a heart that 
feels for all mankind . His sympathies are universal. His touching 
allusions to the condition of the poor and suffering, to the hapless 
state of bird and beast in winter; the description of the peasant 
perishing in the snow, the Siberian exile, or the Arab pilgrims — all are 
marked with that humanity and true feeling which shews that the 
poet's virtues ' formed the magic of his song.' The genuine impulses 
under which he wrote he has expressed in one noble stanza of the 

* Castle of Indolence * : 

I care not, Fortune, what you me deny ; 
Yon cannot rob me of free Nature's grace, 
Yon cannot shut the windows of the sky, 
Through which Aurora shews her brightenhig face ; 
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
The woods and lawns, by liymg stream, at eve : 
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace. 
And I their toys to the great children leave ; 
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave. 

* The love of nature,* says Coleridge, * seems to have led Thomson to 
a cheerful religion ; and a gloomy religion to have led Cowper to a . 
love of nature. The one would carry his fellow-men along with him 
into nature; the other flies to nature from his fellow-men. In chas- 
tity of diction, however, and the harmony of blank verse, Cowper 
leaves Thomson immeasurably below him ; yet, I still feel the latter 
to have been the born poet.' The ardour and fulness of Thomson's 
descriptions distinguish them from those of Cowper, who was 
naturally less enthusiastic, and who was restricted by his religioi^s 
tenets, and by his critical and classically formed taste. The diction 
of the * {Reasons ' is at times pure and musical ; it is too elevated, and 
ambitious, however, for ordinary themes, and where the poet de- 
scends to minute description, or to humorous or satirical scenes — as 
in the account of the chase and the fox-hunters' dinner in * Autumn ' 
— the effect is grotesque and absurd. Campbell has happily said, that 

* as long as Thomson dwells in the pure contemplation of nature, and 
appeals to the universal poetry of the human breast, his redundant 
style comes to us as something venial and adventitious — it is the 
flowing vesture of the Druid ; and perhaps, to the general experience, 
is rather imposing ; but when he returns to the familiar narrations 
or courtesies of life, the same diction ceases to seem the mantle of 
inspiration, and only strikes us by its unwieldy difference from the 
common custom of expression.' Cowper avoided this want of keep- 
ing between his style and his subjects, adapting one to the other with 
inimitable ease, grace, and variety ; yet only rising in one or two in- 
stances to the higher flights of Thomson. 

In 1843, a * Poem to the Memory ol"NLx. CioTi'Btfc^^^\sssRx?sf^>*i^ises- 



\ 



408 CYCLOPiEDIA OF ENGLISH LITERATURE, [to 178a 

A tbonsand shadows at her beck. First this 
She sends on earth ; then that of deeper dye 
Steals soft behind ; and then a deeper still. 
In circle following circle, gathers ronnd* 
To close the face of things. A fresher gale 
Begins to wave the wood, and stir the stream, 
Sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of com : 
While the qnail clamoars for his ronnine mate. 
Wide o'er the thistly lawn, as swells the oreese, 
A whitening shower of vegetable down 
Amnsive floats. The kina impartial care 
Of natore nooght disdains : thonghtf ol to feed 
Her lowest sons, and clothe the comins year, 
From field to field the feathered seeds She wings. 

His folded flock secure, the shepherd home 
Hies merry-hearted ; and by tarns relieves 
The rnddy milkmaid of her brimming pail ; 
The beauty whom perhaps his witless heart- 
Unknowing what tne ]ov-mized anguish meaoB^ 
Sincerelv loves, by that best language shewn 
Of cordial glances, and obliging deeds. 
Onward they pass o*er many a panting height, 
And vailey sunk, and unfrequented ; where 
At fall of eve the fairy people throng, 
In various game and revelry, to pass 
The summer night, as village stories telL 
But far about they wander irom the grave 
Of him whom his ungentle fortune urged 
Against his own sad breast to lift the hand 
Of impious violence. The lonely tower 
Is flJso shunned ; whose mournful chambers hold- 
So night-struck fancy dreams— the yelling ghost. 

Among the crooked lanes, on every he^^ 
The glowworm lights his gem ; and through the daik 
A moving" radiance twinkles. Evening yi^ds 
The world to night : not in her winter robe 
Of massy Stygian woof, but loose arrayed 
In mantle dun. A faint erroneous ray. 
Glanced from the imperfect surfaces of things, 
Flin^ half an im^ge on the straining eye ; 
While wavering woods, and villages, and streams. 
And rocks, and mountain-tope, that lon^ retained 
The ascending gleam, are all one swinmung scene^ 
Uncertain if beheld. Sudden to heaven 
Thence weary vision turns ; where, leading soft 
The silent hours of love, with purest ray 
Sweet Venus shines ; and from her genial rise, 
When daylight sickens till it springs afresh. 
Unrivalled reigns, the fairest lamp of night. 



SND OF VOLUME IIL 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 407 

Their food its ineects, and its moss their nests : 

Others apart, far in the grassy dale 

Or roaghening waste their bumble texture weaTe S 

But most in woodland solitudes delight. 

In unfrequented glooms or shaggy banks, 

Steep, and divided by a babbling brook, 

Whose murmurs soothe them all the livelong day. 

When by kind duty fixed. Among the roots 

Of hazel pendent o'er the plaintive stream, 

They frame the first foundation of their domes. 

Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid. 

And bound with clay together. Now tis naught 

But restless hurry through the busy air. 

Beat bv unnumbered wings. The swallow BweespB 

The slimy pool, to build ms hanging house 

Intent : and often from the careless back 

Of herds and flocks a thousand tugging bills 

Pluck hair and wool ; and oft, when unobserved, 

Steal from the bam a straw ; till soft and warm. 

Clean and complete, their habitation grows. 

As thus the patient dam assiduous sits. 
Not to be tempted from her tender task 
Or by sharp hunger or by smooth delight, 
Though the whole loosened Spring around her blowSy 
Her sympathising lover takes his stand 
High on the opponent bank, and ceaseless rings 
The tedious time away ; or else supplies 
Her place a moment, while she sudden flits 
To pick the scanty meal. The appointed time 
With pious toil fulfilled, the callow young. 
Warmed and expanded into perfect life. 
Their brittle boodage break, and come to light; 
A helpless family, demanding food 
With constant clamour : O what pasfdcms then. 
What melting sentiments of kindlv care. 
On the new parents seize I away they ily 
Affectionate, and, undesirlng, bear 
The most delicious morsel to their young, 
Which equally distributed, again 

The search begins. Even so a gentle pair, • 

By fortune sunk, but formed of generous mould, 
And charmed with cares beyond the vulgar breast, 
In some lone cot amid the distant woods. 
Sustained alone b^ providential heaven. 
Oft as they, weeping, eye their infant train. 
Check their own appetites, and give them aU. 

Summer Boening. 

LoW' walks fbe sun, and broadens by degrees. 
Just o'er the verge of day. The shifting clouds 
Assembled gay, a richly gorgeous train. 
In all their pomp attend his setting throne. 
Air, earth, and ocean smile immense. And now, 
And if his weary chariot sought the bowers 
Of Amphitrite, and her tendmg njrmphs — 
So Grecian fable sung— he dips his orb ; 
Now half immersed ; and now a golden curve 
Gives one bright glance, then total disappears. 

Confessed from yonder slow-extinguisned clouds,' 
All ether softening, sober evening ts&ea 
Her wonted station Vu th^ itA^'Sii'ft «Jtt \ 



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