At a time when oriental studies were in their infancy in this country,
SIMON OCKLEY, animated by the illustrious example of Pococke and the
laborious diligence of Prideaux, devoted his life and his fortune to
these novel researches, which necessarily involved both. With that
enthusiasm which the ancient votary experienced, and with that patient
suffering the modern martyr has endured, he pursued, till he
accomplished, the useful object of his labours. He, perhaps, was the
first who exhibited to us other heroes than those of Rome and Greece;
sages as contemplative, and a people more magnificent even than the
iron masters of the world. Among other oriental productions, his most
considerable is "The History of the Saracens." The first volume
appeared in 1708, and the second ten years afterwards. In the preface
to the last volume, the oriental student pathetically counts over his
sorrows, and triumphs over his disappointments; the most remarkable
part is the date of the place from whence this preface was written--he
triumphantly closes his labours in the confinement of Cambridge Castle
for debt!
Ockley, lamenting his small proficiency in the Persian studies,
resolves to attain to them--
"How often have I endeavoured to perfect myself in that language, but
my malignant and envious stars still frustrated my attempts; but they
shall sooner alter their courses than extinguish my resolution of
quenching that thirst which the little I have had of it hath already
excited."
And he states the deficiencies of his history with the most natural
modesty--
"Had I not been forced to snatch everything that I have, as it were,
out of the fire, our Saracen history should have been ushered into the
world after a different manner." He is fearful that something would be
ascribed to his indolence or negligence, that "ought more justly to be
attributed to the influence of inexorable necessity, could I have been
master of my own time and circumstances."
Shame on those pretended patrons who, appointing "a professor of the
oriental languages," counteract the purpose of the professorship by
their utter neglect of the professor, whose stipend cannot keep him on
the spot where only he ought to dwell. And Ockley complains also of
that hypocritical curiosity which pretends to take an interest in
things it cares little about; perpetually inquiring, as soon as a work
is announced, when it is to come out. But these Pharisees of
literature, who can only build sepulchres to ancient prophets, never
believe in a living one. Some of these Ockley met with on the
publication of his first volume: they run it down as the strangest
story they had ever heard; they had never met with such folks as the
Arabians! "A reverend dignitary asked me if, when I wrote that book, I
had not lately been reading the history of Oliver Cromwell?" Such was
the plaudit the oriental student received, and returned to grow pale
over his MSS. But when Petis de la Croix, observes Ockley, was
pursuing the same track of study, in the patronage of Louis XIV., he
found books, leisure, and encouragement; and when the great Colbert
desired him to compose the life of Genkis Chan, he considered a period
of ten years not too much to be allowed the author. And then Ockley
proceeds--
"But my unhappy condition hath always been widely different from
anything that could admit of such an exactness. Fortune seems only to
have given me a taste of it out of spite, on purpose that I might
regret the loss of it."
He describes his two journeys to Oxford, for his first volume; but in
his second, matters fared worse with him--
"Either my domestic affairs were grown much worse, or I less able to
bear them; or what is more probable, both."
Ingenuous confession! fruits of a life devoted in its struggles to
important literature! and we murmur when genius is irritable, and
erudition is morose! But let us proceed with Ockley:--
"I was forced to take the advantage of the slumber of my cares, that
never slept when I was awake; and if they did not incessantly
interrupt my studies, were sure to succeed them with no less constancy
than night doth the day."
This is the cry of agony. He who reads this without sympathy, ought to
reject these volumes as the idlest he ever read, and honour me with
his contempt. The close of Ockley's preface shows a love-like
tenderness for his studies; although he must quit life without
bringing them to perfection, he opens his soul to posterity and tells
them, in the language of prophecy, that if they will bestow
encouragement on our youth, the misfortunes he has described will be
remedied. He, indeed, was aware that these students--
"Will hardly come in upon the prospect of finding leisure, in a
prison, to transcribe those papers for the press which they have
collected with indefatigable labour, and oftentimes at the expense of
their rest, and all the other conveniences of life, for the service of
the public."
Yet the exulting martyr of literature, at the moment he is fast bound
to the stake, does not consider a prison so dreadful a reward for
literary labours--
"I can assure them, from my own experience, that I have enjoyed more
true liberty, more happy leisure, and more solid repose in six months
here, than in thrice the same number of years before. Evil is the
condition of that historian who undertakes to write the lives of
others before he knows how to live himself. Yet I have no just reason
to be angry with the world; I never stood in need of its assistance in
my life, but I found it always very liberal of its advice; for which I
am so much the more beholden to it, by how much the more I did always
in my judgment give the possession of wisdom the preference to that of
riches."[128]
Poor Ockley, always a student, and rarely what is called a man of the
world, once encountered a literary calamity which frequently occurs
when an author finds himself among the vapid triflers and the polished
cynics of the fashionable circle. Something like a patron he found in
Harley, the Earl of Oxford, and once had the unlucky honour of dining
at the table of my Lord Treasurer. It is probable that Ockley, from
retired habits and severe studies, was not at all accomplished in the
_suaviter in modo_, of which greater geniuses than Ockley have so
surlily despaired. How he behaved I cannot narrate: probably he
delivered himself with as great simplicity at the table of the Lord
Treasurer as on the wrong side of Cambridge Castle gate. The
embarrassment this simplicity drew him into is very fully stated in
the following copious apology he addressed to the Earl of Oxford,
which I have transcribed from the original; perhaps it may be a useful
memorial to some men of letters as little polished as the learned
Ockley:--
"_Cambridge, July 15, 1714._
"MY LORD,--I was so struck with horror and amazement two days ago,
that I cannot possibly express it. A friend of mine showed me a
letter, part of the contents of which were, 'That Professor Ockley
had given such extreme offence by some uncourtly answers to some
gentlemen at my Lord Treasurer's table that it would be in vain to
make any further application to him.'
"My Lord, it is impossible for me to recollect, at this distance
of time. All that I can say is this: that, as on the one side for
a man to come to his patron's table with a design to affront
either him or his friends supposes him a perfect natural, a mere
idiot; so on the other side it would be extreme severe, if a
person whose education was far distant from the politeness of a
court, should, upon the account of an unguarded expression, or
some little inadvertency in his behaviour, suffer a capital
sentence.
"Which is my case, if I have forfeited your Lordship's favour;
which God forbid! That man is involved in double ruin that is not
only forsaken by his friend, but, which is the unavoidable
consequence, exposed to the malice and contempt not only of
enemies, but, what is still more grievous, of all sorts of fools.
"It is not the talent of every well-meaning man to converse with
his superiors with due decorum; for, either when he reflects upon
the vast distance of their station above his own, he is struck
dumb and almost insensible; or else their condescension and
courtly behaviour encourages him to be too familiar. To steer
exactly between these two extremes requires not only a good
intention, but presence of mind, and long custom.
"Another article in my friend's letter was, 'That somebody had
informed your Lordship that I was a very sot.' When first I had
the honour to be known to your Lordship, I could easily foresee
that there would be persons enough that would envy me upon that
account, and do what in them lay to traduce me. Let Haman enjoy
never so much himself, it is all nothing, it does him no good,
till poor Mordecai is hanged out of his way.
"But I never feared the being censured upon that account. Here in
the University I converse with none but persons of the most
distinguished reputations both for learning and virtue, and
receive from them daily as great marks of respect and esteem,
which I should not have if that imputation were true. It is most
certain that I do indulge myself the freedom of drinking a
cheerful cup, at proper seasons, among my friends; but no
otherwise than is done by thousands of honest men, who never
forfeit their character by it. And whoever doth no more than so,
deserves no more to be called a sot, than a man that eats a hearty
meal would be willing to be called a glutton.
"As for those detractors, if I have but the least assurance of
your Lordship's favour, I can very easily despise them. They are
_Nati consumere fruges_. They need not trouble themselves about
what other people do; for whatever they eat and drink, it is only
robbing the poor. Resigning myself entirely to your Lordship's
goodness and pardon, I conclude this necessary apology with like
provocation. That _I would be content he should take my character
from any person that had a good one of his own_.
"I am, with all submission, My Lord,
"Your Lordship's most obedient, &c.,
"SIMON OCKLEY."
To the honour of the Earl of Oxford, this unlucky piece of awkwardness
at table, in giving "uncourtly answers," did not interrupt his regard
for the poor oriental student; for several years afterwards the
correspondence of Ockley was still acceptable to the Earl.
If the letters of the widows and children of many of our eminent
authors were collected, they would demonstrate the great fact, that
the man who is a husband or a father ought not to be an author. They
might weary with a monotonous cry, and usually would be dated from the
gaol or the garret. I have seen an original letter from the widow of
Ockley to the Earl of Oxford, in which she lays before him the
deplorable situation of her affairs; the debts of the Professor being
beyond what his effects amounted to, the severity of the creditors
would not even suffer the executor to make the best of his effects;
the widow remained destitute of necessaries, incapable of assisting
her children.[129]
Thus students have devoted their days to studies worthy of a student.
They are public benefactors, yet find no friend in the public, who
cannot yet appreciate their value--Ministers of State know it, though
they have rarely protected them. Ockley, by letters I have seen, was
frequently employed by Bolingbroke to translate letters from the
Sovereign of Morocco to our court; yet all the debts for which he was
imprisoned in Cambridge Castle did not exceed two hundred pounds. The
public interest is concerned in stimulating such enthusiasts; they are
men who cannot be salaried, who cannot be created by letters-patent;
for they are men who infuse their soul into their studies, and breathe
their fondness for them in their last agonies. Yet such are doomed to
feel their life pass away like a painful dream!
Those who know the value of LIGHTFOOT'S Hebraic studies, may be
startled at the impediments which seem to have annihilated them. In
the following effusion he confides his secret agitation to his friend
Buxtorf: "A few years since I prepared a little commentary on the
First Epistle to the Corinthians, in the same style and manner as I
had done that on Matthew. But it laid by me two years or more, nor can
I now publish it, but at my own charges, and to my great damage, which
I felt enough and too much in the edition of my book upon Mark. Some
progress I have made in the gospel of St. Luke, but I can print
nothing but at my own cost: thereupon I wholly give myself to reading,
scarce thinking of writing more; for booksellers and printers have
dulled my edge, who will print no book, especially Latin, unless they
have an assured and considerable gain."
These writings and even the fragments have been justly appreciated by
posterity, and a recent edition of all Lightfoot's works in many
volumes have received honours which their despairing author never
contemplated.