Besides that in sundry other respects I must acknowledge me to profit
by you whenever we meet, you are often to me, and were yesterday
especially, as a good watchman to admonish that the hours of the night
pass on (for so I call my life, as yet obscure and unserviceable to
mankind), and that the day with me is at hand, wherein Christ commands
all to labour, while there is light. Which because I am persuaded you
do to no other purpose than out of a true desire that God should be
honoured in every one, I therefore think myself bound, though unasked,
to give you account, as oft as occasion is, of this my tardy moving,
according to the precept of my conscience, which I firmly trust is not
without God. Yet now I will not strain for any set apology, but only
refer myself to what my mind shall have at any time to declare herself
at her best ease.
But if you think, as you said, that too much love of learning is in
fault, and that I have given up myself to dream away my years in the
arms of studious retirement, like Endymion with the moon, as the tale
of Latmus goes; yet consider that if it were no more but the mere
love of learning--whether it proceed from a principle bad, good,
or natural--it could not have held out thus long against so strong
opposition on the other side of every kind. For, if it be bad, why
should not all the fond hopes that forward youth and vanity are fledge
with, together with gain, pride, and ambition, call me forward more
powerfully than a poor, regardless, and unprofitable sin of curiosity
should be able to withhold me; whereby a man cuts himself off from all
action, and becomes the most helpless, pusillanimous, and unweaponed
creature in the world, the most unfit and unable to do that which
all mortals most aspire to--either to be useful to his friends or to
offend his enemies? Or, if it be to be thought a natural proneness,
there is against that a much more potent inclination inbred, which
about this time of a man's life solicits most--the desire of house and
family of his own; to which nothing is esteemed more helpful than the
early entering into credible employment, and nothing more hindering
than this affected solitariness. And though this were enough, yet
there is to this another act, if not of pure, yet of refined nature,
no less available to dissuade prolonged obscurity--a desire of honour
and repute and immortal fame, seated in the breast of every true
scholar; which all make haste to by the readiest ways of publishing
and divulging conceived merits--as well those that shall, as those
that never shall, obtain it. Nature, therefore, would presently work
the more prevalent way, if there were nothing but this inferior bent
of herself to restrain her. Lastly, the love of learning, as it is the
pursuit of something good, it would sooner follow the more excellent
and supreme good known and presented, and so be quickly diverted from
the empty and fantastic chase of shadows and notions, to the solid
good flowing from due and timely obedience to that command in the
Gospel set out by the terrible seasing of him that hid the talent.
It is more probable, therefore, that not the endless delight of
speculation, but this very consideration of that great commandment,
does not press forward, as soon as many do, to undergo, but keeps
off, with a sacred reverence and religious advisement how _best_ to
undergo--not taking thought of being _late_, so it give advantage
to be more _fit_; for those that were latest lost nothing, when the
master of the vineyard came to give each one his hire. And here I am
come to a stream-head, copious enough to disburden itself, like Nilus,
at seven mouths into an ocean. But then I should also run into a
reciprocal contradiction of ebbing and flowing at once, and do that
which I excuse myself for not doing--'preach and not preach.' Yet,
that you may see that I am something suspicious of myself, and do take
notice of a certain belatedness in me, I am the bolder to send you
some of my nightward thoughts some while since, because they come in
not altogether unfitly, made up in a Petrarchian stanza, which I told
you of:
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arrived so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet be it less, or more, or soon, or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven.
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great taskmaster's eye.
By this I believe you may well repent of having made mention at all of
this matter; for, if I have not all this while won you to this, I
have certainly wearied you of it. This, therefore, alone may be a
sufficient reason for me to keep me as I am, lest having thus tired
you singly, I should deal worse with, a whole congregation, and spoil
all the patience of a parish; for I myself do not only see my own
tediousness, but now grow offended with it, that has hindered me thus
long from coming to the last and best _period_ of my letter, and
that which must now chiefly work my pardon, that I am your true and
unfeigned _friend_.