of such prodigious parts of learning and knowledge, of that inimitable
sweetness and delight in conversation, of so flowing and obliging a
humanity and goodness to mankind, and of that primitive simplicity and
integrity of life, that if there were no other brand upon this odious
and accursed civil war than that single loss, it must be most infamous
and execrable to all posterity.
Before this parliament his condition of life was so happy that it was
hardly capable of improvement. Before he came to be twenty years of
age, he was master of a noble fortune, which descended to him by the
gift of a {31} grandfather, without passing through his father or
mother, who were then both alive, and not well enough contented to find
themselves passed by in the descent. His education for some years had
been in Ireland, where his father was Lord Deputy; so that, when he
returned into England to the possession of his fortune, he was
unentangled with any acquaintance or friends, which usually grow up by
the custom of conversation; and therefore was to make a pure election
of his company, which he chose by other rules than were prescribed to
the young nobility of that time. And it cannot be denied, though he
admitted some few to his friendship for the agreeableness of their
natures, and their undoubted affection to him, that his familiarity and
friendship for the most part was with men of the most eminent and
sublime parts, and of untouched reputation in point of integrity; and
such had a title to his bosom.
He was a great cherisher of wit and fancy and good parts in any man,
and, if he found them clouded with poverty or want, a most liberal and
bountiful patron towards them, even above his fortune; of which, in
those administrations, he was such a dispenser, as, if he had been
trusted with it to such uses, and if there had been the least of vice
in his expense, he might have been thought too prodigal. He was
constant and pertinacious in whatsoever he resolved to do, and not to
be wearied by any pains that were necessary to that end. And
therefore, having once resolved not to see London, which he loved above
all places, till he had perfectly learned the Greek tongue, he went to
his own house in the country, and pursued it with that indefatigable
{32} industry, that it will not be believed in how short a time he was
master of it, and accurately read all the Greek historians.
In this time, his house being within little more than ten miles of
Oxford, he contracted familiarity and friendship with the most polite
and accurate men of that university; who found such an immenseness of
wit and such a solidity of judgment in him, so infinite a fancy, bound
in by a most logical ratiocination, such a vast knowledge, that he was
not ignorant in anything, yet such an excessive humility, as if he had
known nothing, that they frequently resorted, and dwelt with him, as in
a college situated in a purer air; so that his house was a university
in less volume; whither they came not so much for repose as study, and
to examine and refine those grosser propositions, which laziness and
consent made current in vulgar conversation. . .
From the entrance into this unnatural war, his natural cheerfulness and
vivacity grew clouded, and a kind of sadness and dejection of spirit
stole upon him, which he had never been used to: yet being one of those
who believed that one battle would end all differences, and that there
would be so great a victory on one side, that the other would be
compelled to submit to any conditions from the victor (which
supposition and conclusion generally sunk into the minds of most men,
and prevented the looking after many advantages that might then have
been laid hold of) he resisted those indispositions. But after the
King's return from Brentford, and the furious resolution of the two
houses not to admit any treaty for peace, those indispositions, which
had before touched {33} him, grew into a perfect habit of
uncheerfulness, and he, who had been so exactly easy and affable to all
men that his face and countenance was always present and vacant to his
company, and held any cloudiness and less pleasantness of the visage a
kind of rudeness or incivility, became on a sudden less communicable,
and thence very sad, pale, and exceedingly affected with the spleen.
In his clothes and habit, which he had minded before always with more
neatness and industry and expense than is usual to so great a soul, he
was not now only incurious, but too negligent; and in his reception of
suitors, and the necessary or casual addresses to his place, so quick
and sharp and severe, that there wanted not some men (strangers to his
nature and disposition) who believed him proud and imperious, from
which no mortal man was ever more free. . .
When there was any overture, or hope of peace, he would be more erect
and vigorous, and exceedingly solicitous to press anything which he
thought might promote it; and sitting among his friends, often, after a
deep silence and frequent sighs, would, with a shrill and sad accent,
ingeminate the word _Peace, peace_; and would passionately profess that
the very agony of the war, and the view of the calamities and
desolation the kingdom did and must endure, took his sleep from him,
and would shortly break his heart. This made some think, or pretend to
think, that he was so much enamoured on peace that he would have been
glad the King should have bought it at any price; which was a most
unreasonable calumny. As if a man that was himself the most punctual
and precise in every circumstance {34} that might reflect upon
conscience or honour, could have wished the King to have committed a
trespass against either. And yet this senseless scandal made some
impression upon him, or at least he used it for an excuse of the
daringness of his spirit; for at the leaguer before Gloucester, when
his friend passionately reprehended him for exposing his person
unnecessarily to danger (for he delighted to visit the trenches and
nearest approaches, and to discover what the enemy did) as being so
much beside the duty of his place that it might be understood rather to
be against it, he would say merrily, that his office could not take
away the privileges of his age, and that a Secretary in war might be
present at the greatest secret of danger; but withal alleged seriously,
that it concerned him to be more active in enterprises of hazard than
other men, that all might see that his impatiency for peace proceeded
not from pusillanimity or fear to adventure his own person.
In the morning before the battle, as always upon action, he was very
cheerful, and put himself into the first rank of Lord Byron's regiment,
then advancing upon the enemy, who had lined the hedges on both sides
with musketeers; from whence he was shot with a musket in the lower
part of the belly, and in the instant falling from his horse, his body
was not found till the next morning; till when, there was some hope he
might have been a prisoner, though his nearest friends, who knew his
temper, received small comfort from that imagination. Thus fell that
incomparable young man, in the four and thirtieth year of his age,
having so much despatched the true business of life, {35} that the
eldest rarely attain to that immense knowledge, and the youngest enter
not into the world with more innocency. Whosoever leads such a life
needs be the less anxious upon how short warning it is taken from him.
(_History of the Rebellion_.)
JOHN BUNYAN 1628-1688
THE END OF THE PILGRIMAGE
After this I beheld until they were come unto the land of Beulah, where
the sun shineth night and day. Here, because they were weary, they
betook themselves a while to rest. And because this country was common
for pilgrims, and because the orchards and vineyards that were here
belonged to the King of the Celestial Country, therefore they were
licensed to make bold with any of his things.
But a little while soon refreshed them here, for the bells did so ring,
and the trumpets continually sound so melodiously, that they could not
sleep; and yet they received as much refreshing as if they had slept
their sleep never so soundly. Here also all the noise of them that
walked the streets was, More pilgrims are come to town. And another
would answer, saying, And so many went over the water, and were let in
at the golden gates to-day. They would cry again, There is now a
legion of shining ones just come to town, by which we know that there
are more pilgrims upon the road; for here {36} they come to wait for
them, and to comfort them after all their sorrow. Then the pilgrims
got up and walked to and fro; but how were their ears now filled with
heavenly noises, and their eyes delighted with celestial visions! In
this land they heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing, smelt nothing,
tasted nothing, that was offensive to their stomach or mind; only when
they tasted of the water of the river, over which they were to go, they
thought that tasted a little bitterish to the palate, but it proved
sweeter when 'twas down.
In this place there was a record kept of the names of them that had
been pilgrims of old, and a history of all the famous acts that they
had done. It was here also much discoursed, how the river to some has
had its flowings, and what ebbings it has had while others have gone
over. It has been in a manner dry for some, while it has overflowed
its banks for others.
In this place, the children of the town would go into the King's
gardens, and gather nosegays for the pilgrims, and bring them to them
with much affection. Here also grew camphor, with spikenard, and
saffron, calamus, and cinnamon, with all its trees of frankincense,
myrrh, and aloes, with all chief spices. With these the pilgrims'
chambers were perfumed while they stayed here; and with these were
their bodies anointed, to prepare them to go over the river when the
time appointed was come.
Now while they lay here and waited for the good hour, there was a noise
in the town that there was a post come from the Celestial City with
matter of great importance to one Christiana, the wife of Christian the
{37} pilgrim. So inquiry was made for her, and the house was found out
where she was, so the post presented her with a letter; the contents
whereof was, Hail, good woman, I bring thee tidings that the Master
calleth for thee, and expecteth that thou should stand in His presence,
in clothes of immortality, within this ten days.
When he had read this letter to her, he gave her therewith a sure token
that he was a true messenger, and was come to bid her make haste to be
gone. The token was an arrow with a point, sharpened with love, let
easily into her heart, which by degrees wrought so effectually with
her, that at the time appointed she must be gone.
When Christiana saw that her time was come, and that she was the first
of this company that was to go over, she called for Mr Great-heart, her
guide, and told him how matters were. So he told her he was heartily
glad of the news, and could a' been glad had the post come for him.
Then she bid that he should give advice how all things should be
prepared for her journey.
So he told her, saying, Thus and thus it must be, and we that survive
will accompany you to the riverside.
Then she called for her children, and gave them her blessing; and told
them that she yet read with comfort the mark that was set in their
foreheads, and was glad to see them with her there, and that they had
kept their garments so white. Lastly, she bequeathed to the poor that
little she had, and commanded her sons and her daughters to be ready
against the messenger should come for them. . . .
{38} Now the day drew on that Christiana must be gone. So the road was
full of people to see her take her journey. But behold, all the banks
beyond the river were full of horses and chariots, which were come down
from above to accompany her to the city-gate. So she came forth, and
entered the river with a beckon of farewell to those that followed her
to the river-side. The last word she was heard to say was, I come,
Lord, to be with thee, and bless thee.
So her children and friends returned to their place, for that those
that waited for Christiana had carried her out of their sight. So she
went and called, and entered in at the gate with all the ceremonies of
joy that her husband Christian had done before her.
At her departure her children wept, but Mr Great-heart and Mr Valiant
played upon the well-tuned cymbal and harp for joy. So all departed to
their respective places. . . .
Then it came to pass, a while after, that there was a post in the town
that inquired for Mr Honest. So he came to his house where he was, and
delivered to his hand these lines: Thou art commanded to be ready
against this day seven-night, to present thyself before thy Lord at His
Father's house. And for a token that my message is true, "all the
daughters of music shall be brought low." Then Mr Honest called for
his friends, and said unto them, I die, but shall make no will. As for
my honesty, it shall go with me; let him that comes after be told of
this. When the day that he was to be gone was come, he addressed
himself to go over the river. Now the river at that time overflowed
the banks {39} in some places. But Mr Honest, in his life-time, had
spoken to one Good-conscience to meet him there, the which he also did,
and lent him his hand, and so helped him over. The last words of Mr
Honest were, Grace reigns. So he left the world.
After this it was noised abroad that Mr Valiant-for-truth was taken
with a summons by the same post as the other; and had this for a token
that the summons was true, that his pitcher was broken at the fountain.
When he understood it, he called for his friends, and told them of it.
Then said he: I am going to my Father's, and though with great
difficulty I am got hither, yet now I do not repent me of all the
trouble I have been at to arrive where I am. My sword I give to him
that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, and my courage and skill to him
that can get it. My marks and scars I carry with me, to be a witness
for me that I have fought His battles who now will be my Rewarder.
When the day that he must go hence was come, many accompanied him to
the river-side; into which as he went he said, Death, where is thy
sting? And as he went down deeper he said, Grave, where is thy
victory? So he passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for him on
the other side. . . .
But glorious it was to see how the open region was filled with horses
and chariots, with trumpeters and pipers, with singers and players on
stringed instruments, to welcome the pilgrims as they went up, and
followed one another in at the beautiful gate of the city.
(_Pilgrim's Progress_.)
{40}
SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE 1628-1699
POETRY AND MUSIC
But to spin off this thread, which is already grown too long; what
honour and request the ancient poetry has lived in, may not only be
observed from the universal reception and use in all nations from China
to Peru, from Scythia to Arabia, but from the esteem of the best and
the greatest men as well as the vulgar. Among the Hebrews, David and
Solomon, the wisest kings, Job and Jeremiah, the holiest men, were the
best poets of their nation and language. Among the Greeks, the two
most renowned sages and lawgivers were Lycurgus and Solon, whereof the
last is known to have excelled in poetry, and the first was so great a
lover of it, that to his care and industry we are said (by some
authors) to owe the collection and preservation of the loose and
scattered pieces, of Homer in the order wherein they have since
appeared. Alexander is reported neither to have travelled nor slept
without those admirable poems always in his company. Phalaris, that
was inexorable to all other enemies, relented at the charms of
Stesichorus his muse. Among the Romans, the last and great Scipio
passed the soft hours of his life in the conversation of Terence, and
was thought to have a part in the composition of his comedies. Caesar
was an excellent poet as well as orator, and composed a poem in his
voyage from Rome to Spain, relieving the tedious difficulties of his
march with the entertainments {41} of his muse. Augustus was not only
a patron, but a friend and companion of Virgil and Horace, and was
himself both an admirer of poetry and a pretender too, as far as his
genius would reach, or his busy scene allow. 'Tis true, since his age
we have few such examples of great Princes favouring or affecting
poetry, and as few perhaps of great poets deserving it. Whether it be
that the fierceness of the Gothic humours, or noise of their perpetual
wars, frighted it away, or that the unequal mixture of the modern
languages would not bear it; certain it is, that the great heights and
excellency both of poetry and music fell with the Roman learning and
empire, and have never since recovered the admiration and applauses
that before attended them. Yet, such as they are amongst us, they must
be confessed to be the softest and sweetest, the most general and most
innocent amusements of common time and life. They still find room in
the courts of Princes and the cottages of shepherds. They serve to
revive and animate the dead calm of poor or idle lives, and to allay or
divert the violent passions and perturbations of the greatest and the
busiest men. And both these effects are of equal use to human life;
for the mind of man is like the sea, which is neither agreeable to the
beholder nor the voyager in a calm or in a storm, but is so to both
when a little agitated by gentle gales; and so the mind, when moved by
soft and easy passions and affections. I know very well that many, who
pretend to be wise by the forms of being grave, are apt to despise both
poetry and music as toys and trifles too light for the use or
entertainment of serious men. But, whoever find {42} themselves wholly
insensible to these charms, would, I think, do well to keep their own
counsel, for fear of reproaching their own temper, and bringing the
goodness of their natures, if not of their understandings, into
question; it may be thought at least an ill sign, if not an ill
constitution, since some of the fathers went so far as to esteem the
love of music a sign of predestination, as a thing divine, and reserved
for the felicities of heaven itself. While this world lasts, I doubt
not but the pleasure and requests of these two entertainments will do
so too: and happy those that content themselves with these, or any
other so easy and so innocent; and do not trouble the world, or other
men, because they cannot be quiet themselves, though nobody hurts them!
When all is done, human life is, at the greatest and the best, but like
a froward child, that must be played with and humoured a little to keep
it quiet till it falls asleep, and then the care is over.
SAMUEL PEPYS 1633-1703
A DAY IN THE COUNTRY
July 14th (Lord's Day), 1667. Up, and my wife, a little before four,
and to make us ready; and by and by Mrs Turner come to us, by
agreement, and she and I staid talking below, while my wife dressed
herself, which vexed me that she was so long about it, keeping us till
past five o'clock before she was ready. She ready; and taking some
bottles of wine, and beer, and some {43} cold fowl with us into the
coach, we took coach and four horses, which I had provided last night,
and so away. A very fine day, and so towards Epsom, talking all the
way pleasantly. The country very fine, only the way very dusty. We
got to Epsom by eight o'clock, to the well; where much company, and
there we 'light, and I drank the water. Here I met with divers of our
town, among others with several of the tradesmen of our office, but did
talk but little with them, it growing hot in the sun, and so we took
coach again and to the town, to the King's Head, where our coachman
carried us, and there had an ill room for us to go into, but the best
in the house that was not taken up. Here we called for drink, and
bespoke dinner. We all lay down after dinner (the day being wonderful
hot) to sleep, and each of us took a good nap, and then rose; and Tom
Wilson come to see me, and sat and talked an hour. By and by he
parted, and we took coach and to take the air, there being a fine
breeze abroad; and I went and carried them to the well, and there
filled some bottles of water to carry home with me. Here W. Hewer's
horse broke loose, and we had the sport to see him taken again. Then I
carried them to see my cousin Pepys's house, and 'light, and walked
round about it, and they like it, as indeed it deserves, very well, and
is a pretty place; and then I walked them to the wood hard by, and
there got them in the thickets till they had lost themselves, and I
could not find the way into any of the walks in the wood, which indeed
are very pleasant, if I could have found them. At last got out of the
wood again; and I, by leaping down the little bank, coming out of {44}
the wood, did sprain my right foot, which brought me great present
pain, but presently, with walking, it went away for the present, and so
the women and W. Hewer and I walked upon the Downs, where a flock of
sheep was; and the most pleasant and innocent sight that ever I saw in
my life--we find a shepherd and his little boy reading, far from any
houses or sight of people, the Bible to him; so I made the boy read to
me, which he did, with the forced tone that children do usually read,
that was mighty pretty, and then I did give him something, and went to
the father, and talked with him; and I find he had been a servant in my
cousin Pepys's house, and told me what was become of their old
servants. He did content himself mightily in my liking his boy's
reading, and did bless God for him, the most like one of the old
patriarchs that ever I saw in my life, and it brought those thoughts of
the old age of the world in my mind for two or three days after. We
took notice of his woollen knit stockings of two colours mixed, and of
his shoes shod with iron shoes, both at the toe and heels, and with
great nails in the soles of his feet, which was mighty pretty: and,
taking notice of them, "Why," says the poor man, "the downs, you see,
are full of stones, and we are fain to shoe ourselves thus; and these,"
says he, "will make the stones fly till they sing before me." I did
give the poor man something, for which he was mighty thankful, and I
tried to cast stones with his horn crook. He values his dog mightily,
that would turn a sheep any way which he would have him, when he goes
to fold them: told me there was about eighteen score sheep in his
flock, and that he hath four shillings {45} a week the year round for
keeping them: so we posted thence with mighty pleasure in the discourse
we had with this poor man, and Mrs Turner, in the common fields here,
did gather one of the prettiest nosegays that ever I saw in my life.
So to our coach, and through Mr Minnes's wood, and looked upon Mr
Evelyn's house; and so over the common, and through Epsom town to our
inn, in the way stopping a poor woman with her milk-pail, and in one of
my gilt tumblers did drink our bellyfulls of milk, better than any
cream: and so to our inn, and there had a dish of cream, but it was
sour, and so had no pleasure in it; and so paid our reckoning, and took
coach, it being about seven at night, and passed and saw the people
walking with their wives and children to take the air, and we set out
for home, the sun by and by going down, and we in the cool of the
evening all the way with much pleasure home, talking and pleasing
ourselves with the pleasure of this day's work, Mrs Turner mightily
pleased with my resolution, which, I tell her, is never to keep a
country-house, but to keep a coach, and with my wife on the Saturday to
go sometimes for a day to this place, and then quit to another place;
and there is more variety and as little charge, and no trouble, as
there is in a country-house. Anon it grew dark, and as it grew dark we
had the pleasure to see several glow-worms, which was mighty pretty,
but my foot begins more and more to pain me, which Mrs Turner, by
keeping her warm hand upon it, did much ease; but so that when we come
home, which was just at eleven at night, I was not able to walk from
the lane's end to my house without being helped, which did trouble {46}
me, and therefore to bed presently, but, thanks be to God, found that I
had not been missed, nor any business happened in my absence. So to
bed, and there had a cere-cloth laid to my foot and leg alone, but in
great pain all night long.