beyond himself, and is taken in it. A man that overdoes all things with
great solemnity of circumstance; and whereas with more negligence he might
pass better, makes himself with a great deal of endeavour ridiculous. The
fancy of some odd quaintnesses have put him clean beside his nature; he
cannot be that he would, and hath lost what he was. He is one must be
point-blank in every trifle, as if his credit and opinion hung upon it;
the very space of his arms in an embrace studied before and premeditated,
and the figure of his countenance of a fortnight's contriving; he will not
curse you without-book and extempore, but in some choice way, and perhaps
as some great man curses. Every action of his cries,--"_Do ye mark me?_"
and men do mark him how absurd he is: for affectation is the most
betraying humour, and nothing that puzzles a man less to find out than
this. All the actions of his life are like so many things bodged in
without any natural cadence or connection at all. You shall track him all
through like a schoolboy's theme, one piece from one author and this from
another, and join all in this general, that they are none of his own. You
shall observe his mouth not made for that tone, nor his face for that
simper; and it is his luck that his finest things most misbecome him. If
he affect the gentleman as the humour most commonly lies that way, not the
least punctilio of a fine man, but he is strict in to a hair, even to
their very negligences, which he cons as rules. He will not carry a knife
with him to wound reputation, and pay double a reckoning, rather than
ignobly question it: and he is full of this--ignobly--and nobly--and
genteely;--and this meer fear to trespass against the genteel way puts him
out most of all. It is a humour runs through many things besides, but is
an ill-favoured ostentation in all, and thrives not:--and the best use of
such men is, they are good parts in a play.
LXXI.
A PROFANE MAN
Is one that denies God as far as the law gives him leave; that is, only
does not say so in downright terms, for so far he may go. A man that does
the greatest sins calmly, and as the ordinary actions of life, and as
calmly discourses of it again. He will tell you his business is to break
such a commandment, and the breaking of the commandment shall tempt him to
it. His words are but so many vomitings cast up to the loathsomeness of
the hearers, only those of his company[93] loath it not. He will take upon
him with oaths to pelt some tenderer man out of his company, and makes
good sport at his conquest over the puritan fool. The scripture supplies
him for jests, and he reads it on purpose to be thus merry: he will prove
you his sin out of the bible, and then ask if you will not take that
authority. He never sees the church but of purpose to sleep in it, or when
some silly man preaches, with whom he means to make sport, and is most
jocund in the church. One that nick-names clergymen with all the terms of
reproach, as "_rat_, _black-coat_" and the like; which he will be sure to
keep up, and never calls them by other: that sings psalms when he is
drunk, and cries "_God mercy_" in mockery, for he must do it. He is one
seems to dare God in all his actions, but indeed would out-dare the
opinion of him, which would else turn him desperate; for atheism is the
refuge of such sinners, whose repentance would be only to hang
themselves.
FOOTNOTES:
[93] Those of the same habits with himself; his associates.
LXXIII.
A COWARD
Is the man that is commonly most fierce against the coward, and labouring
to take off this suspicion from himself; for the opinion of valour is a
good protection to those that dare not use it. No man is valianter than he
is in civil company, and where he thinks no danger may come on it, and is
the readiest man to fall upon a drawer and those that must not strike
again: wonderful exceptious and cholerick where he sees men are loth to
give him occasion, and you cannot pacify him better than by quarrelling
with him. The hotter you grow, the more temperate man is he; he protests
he always honoured you, and the more you rail upon him, the more he
honours you, and you threaten him at last into a very honest quiet man.
The sight of a sword wounds him more sensibly than the stroke, for before
that come he is dead already. Every man is his master that dare beat him,
and every man dares that knows him. And he that dare do this is the only
man can do much with him; for his friend he cares not for, as a man that
carries no such terror as his enemy, which for this cause only is more
potent with him of the two: and men fall out with him of purpose to get
courtesies from him, and be bribed again to a reconcilement. A man in whom
no secret can be bound up, for the apprehension of each danger loosens
him, and makes him bewray both the room and it. He is a christian meerly
for fear of hell-fire; and if any religion could fright him more, would be
of that.
LXXIV.
A SORDID RICH MAN
Is a beggar of a fair estate, of whose wealth we may say as of other men's
unthriftiness, that it has brought him to this: when he had nothing he
lived in another kind of fashion. He is a man whom men hate in his own
behalf for using himself thus, and yet, being upon himself, it is but
justice, for he deserves it. Every accession of a fresh heap bates him so
much of his allowance, and brings him a degree nearer starving. His body
had been long since desperate, but for the reparation of other men's
tables, where he hoards meats in his belly for a month, to maintain him in
hunger so long. His clothes were never young in our memory; you might make
long epochas from them, and put them into the almanack with the dear
year[94] and the great frost,[95] and he is known by them longer than his
face. He is one never gave alms in his life, and yet is as charitable to
his neighbour as himself. He will redeem a penny with his reputation, and
lose all his friends to boot; and his reason is, he will not be undone. He
never pays any thing but with strictness of law, for fear of which only he
steals not. He loves to pay short a shilling or two in a great sum, and is
glad to gain that when he can no more. He never sees friend but in a
journey to save the charges of an inn, and then only is not sick; and his
friends never see him but to abuse him. He is a fellow indeed of a kind of
frantick thrift, and one of the strangest things that wealth can work.
FOOTNOTES:
[94] The _dear year_ here, I believe, alluded to, was in 1574, and is thus
described by that faithful and valuable historian Holinshed:--"This yeare,
about Lammas, wheat was sold at London for three shillings the bushell:
but shortlie after, it was raised to foure shillings, fiue shillings, six
shillings, and, before Christmas, to a noble, and seuen shillings; which
so continued long after. Beefe was sold for twentie pence, and two and
twentie pence the stone; and all other flesh and white meats at an
excessiue price; all kind of salt fish verie deare, as fiue herings two
pence, &c.; yet great plentie of fresh fish, and oft times the same verie
cheape. Pease at foure shillings the bushell; ote-meale at foure shillings
eight pence; baie salt at three shillings the bushell, &c. All this dearth
notwithstanding, (thanks be given to God,) there was no want of anie thing
to them that wanted not monie." Holinshed, _Chronicle_, vol. 3, page 1259,
a. edit. folio, 1587.
[95] On the 21st of December, 1564, began a frost referred to by Fleming,
in his Index to _Holinshed_, as the "_frost called the great frost_,"
which lasted till the 3rd of January, 1565. It was so severe that the
Thames was frozen over, and the passage on it, from London-bridge to
Westminster, as easy as, and more frequented than that on dry land.
LXXV.
A MEER GREAT MAN
Is so much heraldry without honour, himself less real than his title. His
virtue is, that he was his father's son, and all the expectation of him to
beget another. A man that lives meerly to preserve another's memory, and
let us know who died so many years ago. One of just as much use as his
images, only he differs in this, that he can speak himself, and save the
fellow of Westminster[96] a labour: and he remembers nothing better than
what was out of his life. His grandfathers and their acts are his
discourse, and he tells them with more glory than they did them; and it is
well they did enough, or else he had wanted matter. His other studies are
his sports and those vices that are fit for great men. Every vanity of his
has his officer, and is a serious employment for his servants. He talks
loud, and baudily, and scurvily as a part of state, and they hear him
with reverence. All good qualities are below him, and especially learning,
except some parcels of the chronicle and the writing of his name, which he
learns to write not to be read. He is meerly of his servants' faction, and
their instrument for their friends and enemies, and is always least
thanked for his own courtesies. They that fool him most do most with him,
and he little thinks how many laugh at him bare-head. No man is kept in
ignorance more of himself and men, for he hears nought but flattery; and
what is fit to be spoken, truth with so much preface that it loses itself.
Thus he lives till his tomb be made ready, and is then a grave statue to
posterity.
FOOTNOTES:
[96] The person who exhibits Westminster abbey.
LXXVI.
A POOR MAN
Is the most impotent man, though neither blind nor lame, as wanting the
more necessary limbs of life, without which limbs are a burden. A man
unfenced and unsheltered from the gusts of the world, which blow all in
upon him, like an unroofed house; and the bitterest thing he suffers is
his neighbours. All men put on to him a kind of churlisher fashion, and
even more plausible natures are churlish to him, as who are nothing
advantaged by his opinion. Whom men fall out with before-hand to prevent
friendship, and his friends too to prevent engagements, or if they own him
'tis in private and a by-room, and on condition not to know them before
company. All vice put together is not half so scandalous, nor sets off our
acquaintance farther; and even those that are not friends for ends do not
love any dearness with such men. The least courtesies are upbraided to
him, and himself thanked for none, but his best services suspected as
handsome sharking and tricks to get money. And we shall observe it in
knaves themselves, that your beggarliest knaves are the greatest, or
thought so at least, for those that have wit to thrive by it have art not
to seem so. Now a poor man has not vizard enough to mask his vices, nor
ornament enough to set forth his virtues, but both are naked and
unhandsome; and though no man is necessitated to more ill, yet no man's
ill is less excused, but it is thought a kind of impudence in him to be
vicious, and a presumption above his fortune. His good parts lye dead upon
his hands, for want of matter to employ them, and at the best are not
commended but pitied, as virtues ill placed, and we may say of him, "Tis
an honest man, but tis pity;" and yet those that call him so will trust a
knave before him. He is a man that has the truest speculation of the
world, because all men shew to him in their plainest and worst, as a man
they have no plot on, by appearing good to; whereas rich men are
entertained with a more holy-day behaviour, and see only the best we can
dissemble. He is the only he that tries the true strength of wisdom, what
it can do of itself without the help of fortune; that with a great deal of
virtue conquers extremities, and with a great deal more his own
impatience, and obtains of himself not to hate men.
LXXVII.
AN ORDINARY HONEST MAN
Is one whom it concerns to be called honest, for if he were not this, he
were nothing: and yet he is not this neither, but a good dull vicious
fellow, that complies well with the deboshments[97] of the time, and is
fit for it. One that has no good part in him to offend his company, or
make him to be suspected a proud fellow; but is sociably a dunce, and
sociably a drinker. That does it fair and above-board without legermain,
and neither sharks[98] for a cup or a reckoning: that is kind over his
beer, and protests he loves you, and begins to you again, and loves you
again. One that quarrels with no man, but for not pledging him, but takes
all absurdities and commits as many, and is no tell-tale next morning,
though he remember it. One that will fight for his friend if he hear him
abused, and his friend commonly is he that is most likely, and he lifts up
many a jug in his defence. He rails against none but censurers, against
whom he thinks he rails lawfully, and censurers are all those that are
better than himself. These good properties qualify him for honesty enough,
and raise him high in the ale-house commendation, who, if he had any other
good quality, would be named by that. But now for refuge he is an honest
man, and hereafter a sot: only those that commend him think him not so,
and those that commend him are honest fellows.
FOOTNOTES:
[97] Minshew interprets the verb _deboshe_, "to corrupt, make lewde,
vitiate." When the word was first adopted from the French language, (says
Mr. Steevens, in a note to the _Tempest_,) it appears to have been spelt
according to the pronunciation, and therefore wrongly; but ever since it
has been spelt right, it has been uttered with equal impropriety.
[98] The verb _to shark_ is frequently used, by old writers, for to
_pilfer_, and, as in the present instance, to _spunge_.
LXXVIII.
A SUSPICIOUS OR JEALOUS MAN
Is one that watches himself a mischief, and keeps a lear eye still, for
fear it should escape him. A man that sees a great deal more in every
thing than is to be seen, and yet he thinks he sees nothing: his own eye
stands in his light. He is a fellow commonly guilty of some weaknesses,
which he might conceal if he were careless:--now his over-diligence to
hide them makes men pry the more. Howsoever he imagines you have found
him, and it shall go hard but you must abuse him whether you will or no.
Not a word can be spoke, but nips him somewhere; not a jest thrown out,
but he will make it hit him. You shall have him go fretting out of
company, with some twenty quarrels to every man, stung and galled, and no
man knows less the occasion than they that have given it. To laugh before
him is a dangerous matter, for it cannot be at any thing but at him, and
to whisper in his company plain conspiracy. He bids you speak out, and he
will answer you, when you thought not of him. He expostulates with you in
passion, why you should abuse him, and explains to your ignorance wherein,
and gives you very good reason at last to laugh at him hereafter. He is
one still accusing others when they are not guilty, and defending himself
when he is not accused: and no man is undone more with apologies, wherein
he is so elaborately excessive, that none will believe him; and he is
never thought worse of, than when he has given satisfaction. Such men can
never have friends, because they cannot trust so far; and this humour hath
this infection with it, it makes all men to them suspicious. In
conclusion, they are men always in offence and vexation with themselves
and their neighbours, wronging others in thinking they would wrong them,
and themselves most of all in thinking they deserve it.
END OF THE CHARACTERS.
APPENDIX.
No. I.
SOME ACCOUNT OF BISHOP EARLE[AX].
All the biographical writers who have taken notice of JOHN EARLE agree in
stating, that he was born in the city of York, although not one of them
has given the exact date of his birth, or any intelligence relative to his
family, or the rank in life of his parents. It is, however, most
probable, that they were persons of respectability and fortune, as he was
sent, at an early age, to Oxford, and entered as a commoner of
Christ-church college[AY], where his conduct was so exemplary, his
attention to his studies so marked, and his general deportment and manners
so pleasing, that he became a successful candidate at Merton-college, and
was admitted a probationary fellow on that foundation in 1620, being then,
according to Wood[AZ], about nineteen years of age. He took the degree of
Master of Arts, July 10, 1624, and in 1631 served the office of Proctor of
the university, about which time he was also appointed chaplain to Philip
Earl of Pembroke, then Chancellor of Oxford.
During the earlier part of our author's life, he appears to have possessed
considerable reputation as a poet, and to have been as remarkable for the
pleasantry of his conversation, as for his learning, virtues, and piety.
Wood[BA] tells us that "his younger years were adorned with oratory,
poetry, and witty fancies, his elder with quaint preaching and subtile
disputes." The only specimens of his poetry which can be recovered at this
time, are three funeral tributes, which will be found in the Appendix, and
of which two are now printed, I believe, for the first time.
Soon after his appointment to be Lord Pembroke's chaplain, he was
presented by that nobleman to the rectory of Bishopstone, in Wiltshire;
nor was this the only advantage he reaped from the friendship of his
patron, who being at that time Lord Chamberlain of the King's
household[BB], was entitled to a lodging in the court for his chaplain, a
circumstance which in all probability introduced Mr. Earle to the notice
of the King, who promoted him to be chaplain and tutor to Prince Charles,
when Dr. Duppa, who had previously discharged that important trust, was
raised to the bishopric of Salisbury.
In 1642 Earle took his degree of Doctor in Divinity, and in the year
following was actually elected one of the Assembly of Divines appointed by
the parliament to new model the church. This office, although it may be
considered a proof of the high opinion even those of different sentiments
from himself entertained of his character and merit, he refused to accept,
when he saw that there was no probability of assisting the cause of
religion, or of restraining the violence of a misguided faction, by an
interference among those who were "declared and avowed enemies to the
doctrine and discipline of the Church of England; some of them infamous in
their lives and conversations, and most of them of very mean parts in
learning, if not of scandalous ignorance[BC]."
On the 10th of February, 1643, Dr. Earle was elected chancellor of the
cathedral of Salisbury[BD], of which situation, as well as his living of
Bishopstone, he was shortly after deprived by the ill success of the royal
cause[BE].
When the defeat of the King's forces at Worcester compelled Charles the
Second to fly his country, Earle attached himself to the fallen fortunes
of his sovereign, and was among the first of those who saluted him upon
his arrival at Rouen in Normandy, where he was made clerk of the closet,
and King's chaplain[BF]. Nor was his affection to the family of the
Stuarts, and his devotion to their cause evinced by personal services
only, as we find by a letter from Lord Clarendon to Dr. Barwick, that he
assisted the King with money in his necessities[BG].
During the time that Charles was in Scotland, Dr. Earle resided in
Antwerp, with his friend Dr. Morley[BH], from whence he was called upon to
attend the Duke of York (afterwards James II.) at Paris[BI], in order that
he might heal some of the breaches which were then existing between
certain members of the duke's household[BJ]; and here it is probable he
remained till the recal of Charles the Second to the throne of England.
Upon the Restoration, Dr. Earle received the reward of his constancy and
loyalty, he was immediately promoted to the deanery of Westminster, a
situation long designed for him by the King[BK]. In 1661 he was appointed
one of the commissioners for a review of the Liturgy[BL], and on November
30, 1662, was consecrated Bishop of Worcester, from which see he was
translated, September 28, 1663, to the dignity of Salisbury[BM].
Little more remains to be added.--Bishop Earle appears to have continued
his residence with the royal family after the acquisition of his
well-deserved honours; and when the court retired to Oxford, during the
plague in 1665, he attended their majesties to the place of his early
education, and died at his apartments in University College, on the 17th
of November. He was buried on the 25th, near the high altar, in Merton
College chapel; and was, according to Wood, "accompanied to his grave,
from the public schools, by an herald at arms, and the principal persons
of the court and university." His monument, which stands at the
north-east corner of the chapel, is still in excellent preservation, and
possesses the following inscription:--
"Amice, si quis hic sepultus est roges,
Ille, qui nec meruit, unqua--Nec quod majus est, habuit
Inimicum;
Qui potuit in aula vivere, et mundum spernere
Concionator educatus inter principes,
Et ipse facile princeps inter concionatores,
Evangelista indefessus, Episcopus pientissimus;
Ille qui una cum sacratissimo Rege,
Cujus & juvenilium studiorum, et animae Deo charae
Curam a beatissimo Patre demandatam gessit,
Nobile ac Religiosum exilium est passus;
Ille qui Hookeri ingentis Politiam Ecclesiasticam,
Ille qui Caroli Martyris [Greek: EIKO'NA BASILIKE'N],
(Volumen quo post Apocalypsin divinius nullum)
Legavit Orbi sic Latine redditas,
Ut uterque unius Fidei Defensor,
Patriam adhuc retineat majestatem.
Si nomen ejus necdum tibi suboleat, Lector,
Nomen ejus ut unguenta pretiosa:
JOHANNES EARLE Eboracensis,
Serenissimo Carolo 2^{do} Regij Oratorij Clericus,
{aliquando Westmonasteriensi, Decanus,
Ecclesiae {deinde Wigorniensis}
{tandem Sarisburiensis} Angelus.
{et nunc triumphantis}
Obiit Oxonij Novemb. 17^o. Anno {D[=o]ni: 1665^{to}.
{AEtatis suae 65^{to}.
Voluitq. in hoc, ubi olim floruerat, Collegio,
Ex AEde Christi hue in Socium ascitus,
Ver magnum, ut reflorescat, expectare."
FOOTNOTES:
[AX] The following brief memoir pretends to be nothing more than an
enumeration of such particulars relative to the excellent prelate, whose
_Characters_ are here offered to the public, as could be gathered from the
historical and biographical productions of the period in which he
flourished. It is hoped that no material occurrence has been overlooked,
or circumstance mis-stated; but should any errors appear to have escaped
his observation, the editor will feel obliged by the friendly intimation
of such persons as may be possessed of more copious information than he
has been able to obtain, in order that they may be acknowledged and
corrected in another place.
[AY] He took the degree of Bachelor of Arts whilst a member of this
society, July 8, 1619, and appears to have been always attached to it. In
1660 he gave twenty pounds towards repairing the cathedral and college.
_Wood. Hist. et Antiq. Univ. Oxon._ lib. ii. p. 284.
[AZ] _Athenae Oxon._ ii. 365.
[BA] _Athenae Oxon._ ii. 365.
[BB] Collins' _Peerage_, iii. 123.
[BC] Clarendon. _History of the Rebellion_, ii. 827. Edit. _Oxford_, 1807.
[BD] Walker. _Sufferings of the Clergy_, fol. 1714, part ii. page 63.
[BE] During the early part of the civil wars, and whilst success was
doubtful on either side, he appears to have lived in retirement, and to
have employed himself in a translation of Hooker's _Ecclesiastical Polity_
into Latin, which, however, was never made public. At the appearance of
Charles the First's [Greek: Eikon Basilike], he was desired by the king
(Ch. II.) to execute the same task upon that production, which he
performed with great ability. It was printed for distribution on the
continent in 1649.
[BF] Wood. _Ath. Oxon._ ii. 365.
[BG] _Life of Dr. John Barwick_, 8vo. Lond. 1724. p. 522.
[BH] Dr. George Morley was chaplain to Charles the First, and canon of
Christ Church, Oxford. At the Restoration he was made, first dean of
Christ Church, then bishop of Worcester, and lastly bishop of Winchester,
He died at Farnham-castle, October 29, 1684. See Wood. _Athen. Oxon._ ii.
581.
[BI] Wood. _Athenae_, ii. 770.
[BJ] Clarendon's _Rebellion_, iii. 659.
[BK] _Life of Barwick_, 452.
[BL] Kennet's _Register_, folio, 1728, page 504.
[BM] Wood. _Athenae_, ii. 366.
No. II.
CHARACTERS OF BISHOP EARLE.