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cede Conductis,' hath excellent well described such men's proceedings, in his picture of Opulentia, whom he trigns to dwell on the top of a high mount, much sought after by many suitors. At their first coming, they are generally entertained by Pleasure and Dalliance, and have ali the content that possibly may be giveu, so long as their money lusts; but when their means fil, they are contemptibly thrust out at a back-door headlong, and there left to shaine, reproach, deepair. And he at first that had so many attendants, parasites, and followers, young and lusty, richly arrayed, and all the dainty fare that might be had, with all kind of welcome and good respect, is now upon a sudden stripped of all, pale, naked, old, diseased, and forsaken, cursing his stars, and ready to strangle himself, having no other company but repentance, sorrow, grief, derision, beggary, and contempt, which are his daily attendants to his life's end. As the prodigal son had exquisite music, merry company, dainty fare at first, but a sorrowful reckoning in the end; so have all such vain delights and their followers.
THOMAS DEKKER. There was no want of the lighter kind of prose works during this period. Several of the dramatists and others wrote short occasional pieces, humorous and sarcastic, referring to the topics and manners of the day, many of which have lately been sought after and reprinted. Nash and Greene were prolific writers—authors by profession; Lodge, Whetstone, and others, threw off slight tales and translations; while DEKKER, the dramatist, produced no fewer than fourteen produc. tions of this kind. The best known and most entertaining of these pamphlets is ‘The Gull's Hornbook, 1609, containing descriptions of the manners and customs of the times. This work is largely indebted to a poem, Grobianus and Grobiana,' by Frederick Dedekind (Frankfort, 1581). Dekker had translaied part of this poem, but not liking the subject, he says, he altered the shape, and of a Dutchman fashioned a mere Englishman,' assuming the character of a guide to the fashionable follies of the town, but only on purpose to ridicule them.
The Old World and the New Weighed Together. Good clothes are the embroidered trappings of pride, and good cheer the very eryngo-root of gluttony. Did man, think you, come wrangling into the world about no better matters, than all his lifetime to make privy searches in Birchin Lane for whalebone doublets, or for pies of nightingales' tongues In Heliogabalus's kitchen ? No, no; the first suit of apparel that ever mortal man put on came neither from the mercer's shop nor the merchant's warehouse : Adam's bill would have been taken then, sooner than a knight's bond now; yet was he great in vobody's books for satin and velvets. The silkworms had something else to do in those days, than to set up looms, and be free of the weavers; his breeches were not so much worth as King Stephen's, that cost but a poor poble; for Adam's holiday hose and doublet were of no better stuff than plain fig-leaves, and Eve's best gown of the same piece: there went but a pair of shears between them. An antiquary in this town has yet some of the powder of those leaves dried to shew. Tailors then were none of the twelve companies: their hall, that now is larger than some dorpes (1) among the Netherlands, was then no bigger than a Dutch butcher's shop: they durst poi strike down their customers with large bills : Adam cared not an apple-paring for all their lousy hems. There was then neither the Spanish slop, nor the skipper's galligaskin, the Danish sleeve saggiug down like a Welsh wallet, the Italian's close strosser, nor the French standing collar : your treble-quadruple dædalian ruffs, nor your stiff-necked rabatos, that have more arches (2) for pride to row under, than can stand under five London bridges, durst not then set themselves out in print; for the patent for starch
1 Small villages.
The fluting or puckering.
could by no means be signed. Fashions then was counted a disease, and horses dicd of it: but now, thanks to folly, it is held the only rare physic; and the purest golden asses live upon it.
As for the diet of that Saturnian age, it was like their attire, homely. A salad and a mess of leek-porridge was a dinner for a far greater man than ever the Turk was. Potato-pies and custards stood like the sinful suburbs of cookery, and had not a wall so much as a handful high built round about them. There were no daggers (1) then, nor no chairs. Crooke's ordinary, in those parsimonious days, had not a capou's leg to throw at a dog. O golden world! The suspicious Venetian carved not his meat with a silver pitchfork,(2) neither did the sweet-toothed Englishman shift a dozen of trenchers at one meal; Piers Ploughman laid the cloth, and Simplicity brought in the voider.(3) How wonderfully is the world altered! And no marvel, for it has lain sick almost five thousand years; so that it is no more like the old theatre du monde, than old Paris Garden (4) is like the king's garden at Paris.
How a Gallant should behave himself in Pauls Walks. (5) Being weary with sailing up and down alongst these shores of Barbaria, here let us cast our anchor; and nimbly leap to land in our coasts, whose fresh air shall be so much the more pleasing to us, if the ninnyhammer, whose perfection we labour to set forth, have so much foolish wit left him as to choose the place where to suck in; for that true humorous gallant that desires to pour himself into all fashions, if his ambition be such to excel even compliment itself, must as well practise to diminish his walks, as to be various in his salads, curious in his tobacco, or ingenious in the trussing up of a new Scotch hose ; all which virtues are excellent, and able to maintain him; especially if the old worm-eaten farmer, his father, he dead, and left him five hundred a year: only to keep an Irish hobby, an Irish horseboy, and him self like a gentleman. He, therefore, that would strive to fashion his legs to his silk stockings, and his proud gait to his broad garters, let him whift down these observations.
Your mediterranean isle (6) is then the only gallery, wherein the pictures of all your true fashionate and complemental gulls are and ought to be hung up Into that gallery carry your neat body; but take heed you pick out such an hour when the main shoal of islanders are swimming up and down. And first observe your doors of entrance, and your cxit; not much unlike the players at the theatres: keeping your decorums, even in phantasticality. As for example: if you prove to be a northern gentleman, I would wish you to pass through the north door, more often especially than any of the other; and so, according to your countries, take note of your entrances.
Now for your venturing into the walk. Be circumspect, and wary what pillar you come in at; and take heed in any case, as you love the reputation of your honour, that you avoid the serving-man's log, and approach not within five fathom of that pillar; but bend your course directly in the middle line, that the whole body of the church may appear to be yours; where, in view of all, you may publish your suit in what manner you affect most, either with the slide of your cloak from the one shoulder; and then you must, as 'twere in anger, suddenly snatch at the middle of the inside, if it be taffeta at the least; and so by that means your costly lining is betrayed, or else by the pretty advantage of compliment. But one note by the way do I especially woo you to, the neglect of which makes many of our gallants cheap and
1 Instruments to fix the meat while cutting it.
Then must you learn the use
Ben JONSON'S Volpone.
If the dish be pleasant, either flesh or fish,
Ten hands at once swarm in the dish. 3 The basket in which broken meat was carried from the table. 4 The Bear Garden at Baukside. 5 The old metropolitan church of St. Paul's was a common promenade. 6 The middle aisle of St. Paul's.
ordinary, that by no means you be seen above four turns; but in the fifth make yourself away, either in some of the seamsters' shops, the new tobacco-office, or amongst the booksellers, where, if you cannot read, exercise your smoke, and inquire who has writ against this divine weed, &c. For this withdrawing yourself a little will much benefit your suit, which else, by too long walking, would be stale to the whole spectators; but howsoever, if Paul's jacks be once up with their elbows, and quarrelling to strike eleven, as soon as ever the clock has parted them, and ended the fray with his hammer, let not the Duke's gallery contain you any longer, but pass away apace in open view; in which departure, if by chance you either encounter, or alool off throw your inquisitive eye upon any knight or squire, being your familiar, salute him not by his name of Sir such a one, or so; but call him Ned, or Jack, &c. This will set off your estimation with great men; and, if, though there be a dozen companies between you, 'tis the better, he call aloud to you, for that is most genteel, to know where he shall find you at two o'clock, tell him at such an ordinary, or such; and be sure to name those that are dearest, and whither none but your gallants resort. After dinner you may appear again, having translated yourself out of your English cloth cloak in a light Turkey grogram, if you have that happiness of shifting; and then be seen, for a turn or two, to correct your teeth with some quill or silver instrument, and to cleanse your gums with a wrought handkerchief; it skills not whether you dined or no: that is best known to your stomach ; or in what place you dined; thongh it were with cheese, of your own mother's making, in your chamber, or study.
Now if you chance to be a gallant not much crossed among citizens; that is, a gallant in the mercer's books, exalted for satins and velvets; if you be not so much blessed to be crossed (as I hold it the greatest blessing in the world to be great in no man's books), your Paul's walk is your only refuge: the Duke's tomb * is asanctuary; and will keep you alive from worms, and land-rats, that long to be feeding on your carcass: there you may spent your legs in winter a whole afternoon; converse, plot, laugh, and talk anything; jest at your creditor, even to his face; and in the evening, even by lamp-light, steal out; ånd so cozen a whole covey of abominale catchpoles.
Sleep. For do but consider what an excellent thing sleep is! it is so inestimable a jewel, that, if a tyrant would give his crown for an hour's slumber, it cannot be bought : of so beautiful a shape is it, that, though a man live with an empress, his heart cannet be at quiet till he leaves her embracements to be at rest with the other: yea, so greatly are we indebted to this kinsman of death, that we owe the better tributary half of our life to him; and there is good cause why we should do so; for sleep is that golden chain that ties health and our bodies together. Who complains of want, of wounds, of cares, of great men's oppressions, of captivity, whilst he sleepeth ? Beggars in their beds take as much pleasure askings. Can we therefore surfeit on this delicate ambrosia ? Can we drink too much of that, whereof to taste too little, tumbles us into a churchyard; and to use it but indifferently throws us into Bedlam? No, 110. Look upon Endymion, the moon's minion, who slept threescore and fifteen years; and was not a hair the worse for it!
SIR TIOMAS OVERBURY.
SIR THOMAS OVERBURY was another witty and ingenious describer of characters. He at one time was an intimate associate of Robert Carr, the minion of James I. ; but having opposed the favourite's marriage with the infamous Countess of Essex, he incurred the hatred of the abandoned pair, and through their influence was confined and poisoned in the Tower, on the 15th of September 1613. Overbury was then in the thirty-second year of lais age. The way
* The tomb of Sir John Beauchamp, son of Guy, Earl of Warwick ; it was unaccountably called Duke Humphrey's Tomb,' and the dinnerless persons who lounged here wore said to have dined with Duke Humphrey.
in which this murder was screened from justice leaves a foul blot on the memory of the king and in the history of the age. Overbury wrote two didactic poems, called The Wife' and “The Choice of a Wifi? Some of his prose Characters' or Witty Descriptions of the Properties of Sundry Persons,' are excellent. They abound in conceits, like many other productions of the reign of James, but are full of epigrammatic point and poetical imagery.
The Tinker. A tinker is a movable, for he hath no abiding in one place; by his motion he gathers heat, thence his choleric nature, He seems to be very devout, for his life is a continual pilgrimage; and sometimes in humility goes barefoot, therein making new cessity a virtue. iis house is as ancient as Tubal Cain's, and so is a renegade by antiquity; yet he proves himself a gallant, for he carries all his wealth upon his back; or a philosopher, for he bears all bis substance about him. From his art was music first invented, and therefore is he always furnished with a song, to which his hammer, keeping tune, proves that he was the first founder of the kettle-drum. Note, that where the best ale is, there stands his music most upon crotchets. The companion of his travels is some foul, sunburnt quean, that, since the terrible statute, recanted gipsyism, and is turned pedlaress. So marches he all over England, with his bag and baggage; his conversation is irreprovable, for he is ever mending. He observes truly the statutes, and therefore bad rather steal than beg, in which he is irremovably constant, in spite of whips or imprisonment; and £0 strong an enemy to idleness that, in mending one hole, he had rather make three than want work; and when he hath done, he throws the wallet of his faults behind him. He embraceth naturally ancient customs, conversing in open fields and lowly cottages : if he visits cities or towns, 'tis but to deal upon the imperfections of our weaker vessels. His tongue is very voluble, which, with canting, proves him a linguist. He is entertained in every place, but enters no further than the door, to avoid suspicion. Some would take him to be a coward, but, believe it, he is a lad of mettle ; his valour is commovly three or four yards long, fastened to a pike in the end, for flying off. He is very provident, for he will fight with but one at once, and then also he had rather submit than be counted obstinate. To conclude, if he 'scape Tyburn and Banbury, he dies a beggar.
The Fair and Ilappy Milkmaid Is a country wench that is so far from making herself beautiful by art, that one look of hers is able to put all face-physic out of countenance. She knows a fair look is but a dumb orator to commend virtue, therefore minds it not. All her excellences stand in her so silently, as if they had stolen upon her without her knowledge. The lining of her apparel, which is herself, is far better than outsides of tissue; for though she be not arrayed in the spoil of the silkworm, she is decked in innocence, a far better wearing. She doth not, with lying lovg in bed, spoil both her complexion and conditions : nature hath taught her, too, immoderate sleep is rust to the soul; she rises, therefore, with Chanticleer, her dame's cock, and at night makes the lamb her curfew. In milking a cow, and straining the teats through her fingers, it seems that 80 sweet a milk-press makes the milk whiter or sweeter; for never came almondglore or aromatic ointment on her palm to taint it. The goided cars of corn fall and kiss her feet when she reaps them, as if they wished to be bound and led prisoners by the same hand that felled them. Her breath is her own, which scents, all the year long, of June, like a new-made haycock. She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with pity; and when wiuter evenings fall carly, sitting at her merry wheel, she sings defiance to the giddy wheel of fortune. She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems iguorance will not suffer her to do ill, being her mind is to do well. She bestows her year's wages at next fair, and in choosing her garinents, counts do bravery in the world like decency. The garden and bee-hive are all her physic and surgery, and she lives the longer for it. She dares go alone, and unfold sheep in the night, and fears no manner of ill, because she mcans none; yet, to say truth, she is never alone, but is still accompanied with old songs, honest thoughts, and prayers, but short ones; yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not palled with ensuing idle cogitations. Lastly, her dreams are so chaste, that she dare tell them; only a Friday's dream is all her superstition; that she conceals for fear of anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is, she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding-sheet.
A Franklin, or English Yeoman. His outside is an ancient yeoman of England, though his inside may give arms, with the best gentleman, and never see the herald. There is no truer servant in the house than hiinself. Though he be inaster, he says not to his servants, • Go to field, but, 'Let us go ;' and with his own eye doth both fatt in his flock and set forward all manner of husbandry. He is taught by nature to be contented with a little; his own fold yields him both food and raiment; he is pleased with any nourishment God sends, whilst curious gluttony ransacks, as it were, Noah's ark for food, only to feed the riot of one meal. He is never known to go to law ; understanding to be lawbound among men, is like to be hide-bound among his beasts; they thrive not under it; and that such men sleep as unquietly as if their pillows were stuffed with lawyers' penknives. When he builds, no poor tenant's cottage hinders his prospect; they are, indeed, his alms-houses, though there be painted on them no such superscription. He never sits ap late but when he hunts the badger, the vowed foe of his lambs; nor uses he any cruelty but when he hunts the hare; nor subtlety but when he setteth snares for the snipe, or pitfalls for the blackbird ; nor oppression but when, in the month of July, he goes to the next river and shears his sheep. He allows of honest pastime, and thinks not the bones of the dead anything bruised, or the worse for it, though the country lasses dance in the churchyard after even-song. Rock-Monday, and the wake in summer, shrovings, the wakeful catches on Christmas-eve, the hoky, or seed-cake-these he yearly keeps, yet holds them do relics of popery. He is not so inquisitive after news derived from the privy-closet, when the finding an eyry of hawks in his own ground, or the foaling of a colt come of a good strain, are tidings more pleasant and more profitable. He is lord-paramount within himself, though he hold by never so mean a tenure; and dies the more contentedly, though he leave his heir young, in regard he leaves him not liable to a covetous guardian. Lastly, to end him, he cares not when his end comes; he needs not fear his audit, for his quietus is in heaven.
JOSEPH HALL. JOSEPH HALL, bishop of Norwich, whose poetical satires have already been mentioned, was the author of many controversial tracts in defence of episcopacy; and, like many other churchmen, die suffered for his opinions during the ascendency of the Presbyterians. He published also a variety of sermons, meditations, epistles, paraphrases, and other pieces of a similar cbaracter. This distinguished prelate died in 1656. From the pithy and sententious quality of his style, he has been called the English Seneca;' many parts of his prose writings have the thought, feeling, and melody of the finest poetry. His principal works are: Characters of Virtues and Vices' (1608), “Contemplations on the listorical Passages of the Holy Story' (1612-15), and ‘A Plain and Familiar Explication of all the Hard Texts of Scripture' (1633).
Upon the Sight of a Tree Full-blossomed. Here is a tree overlaid with blossoms: it is not possible that all these should pros per; one of them must needs rob the other of moisture and growth. I do not love to see an infancy over-lopeful ; in these pregnant beginnings one faculty starves another, and at last leaves the mind sapless and barren; as, therefore, we are wont to pull off some of the too frequent blossoms, that the rest may thrive, so it is good