to the service of the prince and commonwealth, as they look not for
spoil; such are to be honoured and loved. There are others which no
obligation will fasten on; and they are of two sorts. The first are such
as love their own ease; or, out of vice, of nature, or self-direction,
avoid business and care. Yet these the prince may use with safety. The
other remove themselves upon craft and design, as the architects say,
with a premeditated thought, to their own rather than their prince’s
profit. Such let the prince take heed of, and not doubt to reckon in the
list of his open enemies.
_Principum. varia_.—_Firmissima verò omnium basis jus hæreditarium
Principis_.—There is a great variation between him that is raised to the
sovereignty by the favour of his peers and him that comes to it by the
suffrage of the people. The first holds with more difficulty, because he
hath to do with many that think themselves his equals, and raised him for
their own greatness and oppression of the rest. The latter hath no
upbraiders, but was raised by them that sought to be defended from
oppression: whose end is both easier and the honester to satisfy.
Beside, while he hath the people to friend, who are a multitude, he hath
the less fear of the nobility, who are but few. Nor let the common
proverb (of he that builds on the people builds on the dirt) discredit my
opinion: for that hath only place where an ambitious and private person,
for some popular end, trusts in them against the public justice and
magistrate. There they will leave him. But when a prince governs them,
so as they have still need of his administrations (for that is his art),
he shall ever make and hold them faithful.
_Clementia_.—_Machiavell_.—A prince should exercise his cruelty not by
himself but by his ministers; so he may save himself and his dignity with
his people by sacrificing those when he list, saith the great doctor of
state, Machiavell. But I say he puts off man and goes into a beast, that
is cruel. No virtue is a prince’s own, or becomes him more, than this
clemency: and no glory is greater than to be able to save with his power.
Many punishments sometimes, and in some cases, as much discredit a
prince, as many funerals a physician. The state of things is secured by
clemency; severity represseth a few, but irritates more. {74a} The
lopping of trees makes the boughs shoot out thicker; and the taking away
of some kind of enemies increaseth the number. It is then most gracious
in a prince to pardon when many about him would make him cruel; to think
then how much he can save when others tell him how much he can destroy;
not to consider what the impotence of others hath demolished, but what
his own greatness can sustain. These are a prince’s virtues: and they
that give him other counsels are but the hangman’s factors.
_Clementia tutela optima_.—He that is cruel to halves (saith the said St.
Nicholas {74b}) loseth no less the opportunity of his cruelty than of his
benefits: for then to use his cruelty is too late; and to use his favours
will be interpreted fear and necessity, and so he loseth the thanks.
Still the counsel is cruelty. But princes, by hearkening to cruel
counsels, become in time obnoxious to the authors, their flatterers, and
ministers; and are brought to that, that when they would, they dare not
change them; they must go on and defend cruelty with cruelty; they cannot
alter the habit. It is then grown necessary, they must be as ill as
those have made them: and in the end they will grow more hateful to
themselves than to their subjects. Whereas, on the contrary, the
merciful prince is safe in love, not in fear. He needs no emissaries,
spies, intelligencers to entrap true subjects. He fears no libels, no
treasons. His people speak what they think, and talk openly what they do
in secret. They have nothing in their breasts that they need a cypher
for. He is guarded with his own benefits.
_Religio_. _Palladium Homeri_.—_Euripides_.—The strength of empire is in
religion. What else is the Palladium (with Homer) that kept Troy so long
from sacking? Nothing more commends the Sovereign to the subject than
it. For he that is religious must be merciful and just necessarily: and
they are two strong ties upon mankind. Justice the virtue that innocence
rejoiceth in. Yet even that is not always so safe, but it may love to
stand in the sight of mercy. For sometimes misfortune is made a crime,
and then innocence is succoured no less than virtue. Nay, oftentimes
virtue is made capital; and through the condition of the times it may
happen that that may be punished with our praise. Let no man therefore
murmur at the actions of the prince, who is placed so far above him. If
he offend, he hath his discoverer. God hath a height beyond him. But
where the prince is good, Euripides saith, “God is a guest in a human
body.”
_Tyranni_.—_Sejanus_.—There is nothing with some princes sacred above
their majesty, or profane, but what violates their sceptres. But a
prince, with such a council, is like the god Terminus, of stone, his own
landmark, or (as it is in the fable) a crowned lion. It is dangerous
offending such a one, who, being angry, knows not how to forgive; that
cares not to do anything for maintaining or enlarging of empire; kills
not men or subjects, but destroyeth whole countries, armies, mankind,
male and female, guilty or not guilty, holy or profane; yea, some that
have not seen the light. All is under the law of their spoil and
licence. But princes that neglect their proper office thus their fortune
is oftentimes to draw a Sejanus to be near about them, who at last affect
to get above them, and put them in a worthy fear of rooting both them out
and their family. For no men hate an evil prince more than they that
helped to make him such. And none more boastingly weep his ruin than
they that procured and practised it. The same path leads to ruin which
did to rule when men profess a licence in government. A good king is a
public servant.
_Illiteratus princeps_.—A prince without letters is a pilot without eyes.
All his government is groping. In sovereignty it is a most happy thing
not to be compelled; but so it is the most miserable not to be
counselled. And how can he be counselled that cannot see to read the
best counsellors (which are books), for they neither flatter us nor hide
from us? He may hear, you will say; but how shall he always be sure to
hear truth, or be counselled the best things, not the sweetest? They say
princes learn no art truly but the art of horsemanship. The reason is
the brave beast is no flatterer. He will throw a prince as soon as his
groom. Which is an argument that the good counsellors to princes are the
best instruments of a good age. For though the prince himself be of a
most prompt inclination to all virtue, yet the best pilots have needs of
mariners besides sails, anchor, and other tackle.
_Character principis_.—_Alexander magnus_.—If men did know what shining
fetters, gilded miseries, and painted happiness thrones and sceptres were
there would not be so frequent strife about the getting or holding of
them; there would be more principalities than princes; for a prince is
the pastor of the people. He ought to shear, not to flay his sheep; to
take their fleeces, not their the soul of the commonwealth, and ought to
cherish it as his own body. Alexander the Great was wont to say, “He
hated that gardener that plucked his herbs or flowers up by the roots.”
A man may milk a beast till the blood come; churn milk and it yieldeth
butter, but wring the nose and the blood followeth. He is an ill prince
that so pulls his subjects’ feathers as he would not have them grow
again; that makes his exchequer a receipt for the spoils of those he
governs. No, let him keep his own, not affect his subjects’; strive
rather to be called just than powerful. Not, like the Roman tyrants,
affect the surnames that grow by human slaughters; neither to seek war in
peace, nor peace in war, but to observe faith given, though to an enemy.
Study piety toward the subject; show care to defend him. Be slow to
punish in divers cases, but be a sharp and severe revenger of open
crimes. Break no decrees or dissolve no orders to slacken the strength
of laws. Choose neither magistrates, civil or ecclesiastical, by favour
or price; but with long disquisition and report of their worth by all
suffrages. Sell no honours, nor give them hastily, but bestow them with
counsel and for reward; if he do, acknowledge it (though late), and mend
it. For princes are easy to be deceived; and what wisdom can escape
where so many court-arts are studied? But, above all, the prince is to
remember that when the great day of account comes, which neither
magistrate nor prince can shun, there will be required of him a reckoning
for those whom he hath trusted, as for himself, which he must provide.
And if piety be wanting in the priests, equity in the judges, or the
magistrates be found rated at a price, what justice or religion is to be
expected? which are the only two attributes make kings akin to God, and
is the Delphic sword, both to kill sacrifices and to chastise offenders.
_De gratiosis_.—When a virtuous man is raised, it brings gladness to his
friends, grief to his enemies, and glory to his posterity. Nay, his
honours are a great part of the honour of the times; when by this means
he is grown to active men an example, to the slothful a spur, to the
envious a punishment.
_Divites_.—_Heredes ex asse_. He which is sole heir to many rich men,
having (besides his father’s and uncle’s) the estates of divers his
kindred come to him by accession, must needs be richer than father or
grandfather; so they which are left heirs _ex asse_ of all their
ancestors’ vices, and by their good husbandry improve the old and daily
purchase new, must needs be wealthier in vice, and have a greater revenue
or stock of ill to spend on.
_Fures publici_.—The great thieves of a state are lightly the officers of
the crown; they hang the less still, play the pikes in the pond, eat whom
they list. The net was never spread for the hawk or buzzard that hurt
us, but the harmless birds; they are good meat:—
“Dat veniam corvis, vexat censura columbas.” {81a}
“Non rete accipitri tenditur, neque milvio.” {81b}
_Lewis XI_.—But they are not always safe though, especially when they
meet with wise masters. They can take down all the huff and swelling of
their looks, and like dexterous auditors place the counter where he shall
value nothing. Let them but remember Lewis XI., who to a Clerk of the
Exchequer that came to be Lord Treasurer, and had (for his device)
represented himself sitting on fortune’s wheel, told him he might do well
to fasten it with a good strong nail, lest, turning about, it might bring
him where he was again. As indeed it did.
_De bonis et malis_.—_De innocentiâ_.—A good man will avoid the spot of
any sin. The very aspersion is grievous, which makes him choose his way
in his life as he would in his journey. The ill man rides through all
confidently; he is coated and booted for it. The oftener he offends, the
more openly, and the fouler, the fitter in fashion. His modesty, like a
riding-coat, the more it is worn is the less cared for. It is good
enough for the dirt still, and the ways he travels in. An innocent man
needs no eloquence, his innocence is instead of it, else I had never come
off so many times from these precipices, whither men’s malice hath
pursued me. It is true I have been accused to the lords, to the king,
and by great ones, but it happened my accusers had not thought of the
accusation with themselves, and so were driven, for want of crimes, to
use invention, which was found slander, or too late (being entered so
fair) to seek starting-holes for their rashness, which were not given
them. And then they may think what accusation that was like to prove,
when they that were the engineers feared to be the authors. Nor were
they content to feign things against me, but to urge things, feigned by
the ignorant, against my profession, which though, from their hired and
mercenary impudence, I might have passed by as granted to a nation of
barkers that let out their tongues to lick others’ sores; yet I durst not
leave myself undefended, having a pair of ears unskilful to hear lies, or
have those things said of me which I could truly prove of them. They
objected making of verses to me, when I could object to most of them,
their not being able to read them, but as worthy of scorn. Nay, they
would offer to urge mine own writings against me, but by pieces (which
was an excellent way of malice), as if any man’s context might not seem
dangerous and offensive, if that which was knit to what went before were
defrauded of his beginning; or that things by themselves uttered might
not seem subject to calumny, which read entire would appear most free.
At last they upbraided my poverty: I confess she is my domestic; sober of
diet, simple of habit, frugal, painful, a good counseller to me, that
keeps me from cruelty, pride, or other more delicate impertinences, which
are the nurse-children of riches. But let them look over all the great
and monstrous wickednesses, they shall never find those in poor families.
They are the issue of the wealthy giants and the mighty hunters, whereas
no great work, or worthy of praise or memory, but came out of poor
cradles. It was the ancient poverty that founded commonweals, built
cities, invented arts, made wholesome laws, armed men against vices,
rewarded them with their own virtues, and preserved the honour and state
of nations, till they betrayed themselves to riches.
_Amor nummi_.—Money never made any man rich, but his mind. He that can
order himself to the law of Nature is not only without the sense but the
fear of poverty. O! but to strike blind the people with our wealth and
pomp is the thing! What a wretchedness is this, to thrust all our riches
outward, and be beggars within; to contemplate nothing but the little,
vile, and sordid things of the world; not the great, noble, and precious!
We serve our avarice, and, not content with the good of the earth that is
offered us, we search and dig for the evil that is hidden. God offered
us those things, and placed them at hand, and near us, that He knew were
profitable for us, but the hurtful He laid deep and hid. Yet do we seek
only the things whereby we may perish, and bring them forth, when God and
Nature hath buried them. We covet superfluous things, when it were more
honour for us if we would contemn necessary. What need hath Nature of
silver dishes, multitudes of waiters, delicate pages, perfumed napkins?
She requires meat only, and hunger is not ambitious. Can we think no
wealth enough but such a state for which a man may be brought into a
premunire, begged, proscribed, or poisoned? O! if a man could restrain
the fury of his gullet and groin, and think how many fires, how many
kitchens, cooks, pastures, and ploughed lands; what orchards, stews,
ponds and parks, coops and garners, he could spare; what velvets,
tissues, embroideries, laces, he could lack; and then how short and
uncertain his life is; he were in a better way to happiness than to live
the emperor of these delights, and be the dictator of fashions; but we
make ourselves slaves to our pleasures, and we serve fame and ambition,
which is an equal slavery. Have not I seen the pomp of a whole kingdom,
and what a foreign king could bring hither? Also to make himself gazed
and wondered at—laid forth, as it were, to the show—and vanish all away
in a day? And shall that which could not fill the expectation of few
hours, entertain and take up our whole lives, when even it appeared as
superfluous to the possessors as to me that was a spectator? The bravery
was shown, it was not possessed; while it boasted itself it perished. It
is vile, and a poor thing to place our happiness on these desires. Say
we wanted them all. Famine ends famine.
_De mollibus et effœminatis_.—There is nothing valiant or solid to be
hoped for from such as are always kempt and perfumed, and every day smell
of the tailor; the exceedingly curious that are wholly in mending such an
imperfection in the face, in taking away the morphew in the neck, or
bleaching their hands at midnight, gumming and bridling their beards, or
making the waist small, binding it with hoops, while the mind runs at
waste; too much pickedness is not manly. Not from those that will jest
at their own outward imperfections, but hide their ulcers within, their
pride, lust, envy, ill-nature, with all the art and authority they can.
These persons are in danger, for whilst they think to justify their
ignorance by impudence, and their persons by clothes and outward
ornaments, they use but a commission to deceive themselves: where, if we
will look with our understanding, and not our senses, we may behold
virtue and beauty (though covered with rags) in their brightness; and
vice and deformity so much the fouler, in having all the splendour of
riches to gild them, or the false light of honour and power to help them.
Yet this is that wherewith the world is taken, and runs mad to gaze
on—clothes and titles, the birdlime of fools.
_De stultitiâ_.—What petty things they are we wonder at, like children
that esteem every trifle, and prefer a fairing before their fathers!
What difference is between us and them but that we are dearer fools,
coxcombs at a higher rate? They are pleased with cockleshells, whistles,
hobby-horses, and such like; we with statues, marble pillars, pictures,
gilded roofs, where underneath is lath and lime, perhaps loam. Yet we
take pleasure in the lie, and are glad we can cozen ourselves. Nor is it
only in our walls and ceilings, but all that we call happiness is mere
painting and gilt, and all for money. What a thin membrane of honour
that is! and how hath all true reputation fallen, since money began to
have any! Yet the great herd, the multitude, that in all other things
are divided, in this alone conspire and agree—to love money. They wish
for it, they embrace it, they adore it, while yet it is possessed with
greater stir and torment than it is gotten.
_De sibi molestis_.—Some men what losses soever they have they make them
greater, and if they have none, even all that is not gotten is a loss.
Can there be creatures of more wretched condition than these, that
continually labour under their own misery and others’ envy? A man should
study other things, not to covet, not to fear, not to repent him; to make
his base such as no tempest shall shake him; to be secure of all opinion,
and pleasing to himself, even for that wherein he displeaseth others; for
the worst opinion gotten for doing well, should delight us. Wouldst not
thou be just but for fame, thou oughtest to be it with infamy; he that
would have his virtue published is not the servant of virtue, but glory.
_Periculosa melancholia_.—It is a dangerous thing when men’s minds come
to sojourn with their affections, and their diseases eat into their
strength; that when too much desire and greediness of vice hath made the
body unfit, or unprofitable, it is yet gladded with the sight and
spectacle of it in others; and for want of ability to be an actor, is
content to be a witness. It enjoys the pleasure of sinning in beholding
others sin, as in dining, drinking, drabbing, &c. Nay, when it cannot do
all these, it is offended with his own narrowness, that excludes it from
the universal delights of mankind, and oftentimes dies of a melancholy,
that it cannot be vicious enough.
_Falsæ species fugiendæ_.—I am glad when I see any man avoid the infamy
of a vice; but to shun the vice itself were better. Till he do that he
is but like the ’pientice, who, being loth to be spied by his master
coming forth of Black Lucy’s, went in again; to whom his master cried,
“The more thou runnest that way to hide thyself, the more thou art in the
place.” So are those that keep a tavern all day, that they may not be
seen at night. I have known lawyers, divines—yea, great ones—of this
heresy.
_Decipimur specie_.—There is a greater reverence had of things remote or
strange to us than of much better if they be nearer and fall under our
sense. Men, and almost all sorts of creatures, have their reputation by
distance. Rivers, the farther they run, and more from their spring, the
broader they are, and greater. And where our original is known, we are
less the confident; among strangers we trust fortune. Yet a man may live
as renowned at home, in his own country, or a private village, as in the
whole world. For it is virtue that gives glory; that will endenizen a
man everywhere. It is only that can naturalise him. A native, if he be
vicious, deserves to be a stranger, and cast out of the commonwealth as
an alien.
_Dejectio Aulic_.—A dejected countenance and mean clothes beget often a
contempt, but it is with the shallowest creatures; courtiers commonly:
look up even with them in a new suit, you get above them straight.
Nothing is more short-lived than pride; it is but while their clothes
last: stay but while these are worn out, you cannot wish the thing more
wretched or dejected.
_Poesis_, _et pictura_.—_Plutarch_. Poetry and picture are arts of a
like nature, and both are busy about imitation. It was excellently said
of Plutarch, poetry was a speaking picture, and picture a mute poesy.
For they both invent, feign and devise many things, and accommodate all
they invent to the use and service of Nature. Yet of the two, the pen is
more noble than the pencil; for that can speak to the understanding, the
other but to the sense. They both behold pleasure and profit as their
common object; but should abstain from all base pleasures, lest they
should err from their end, and, while they seek to better men’s minds,
destroy their manners. They both are born artificers, not made. Nature
is more powerful in them than study.
_De pictura_.—Whosoever loves not picture is injurious to truth and all
the wisdom of poetry. Picture is the invention of heaven, the most
ancient and most akin to Nature. It is itself a silent work, and always
of one and the same habit; yet it doth so enter and penetrate the inmost
affection (being done by an excellent artificer) as sometimes it
overcomes the power of speech and oratory. There are divers graces in
it, so are there in the artificers. One excels in care, another in
reason, a third in easiness, a fourth in nature and grace. Some have
diligence and comeliness, but they want majesty. They can express a
human form in all the graces, sweetness, and elegancy, but, they miss the
authority. They can hit nothing but smooth cheeks; they cannot express
roughness or gravity. Others aspire to truth so much as they are rather
lovers of likeness than beauty. Zeuxis and Parrhasius are said to be
contemporaries; the first found out the reason of lights and shadows in
picture, the other more subtlely examined the line.
_De stylo_.—_Pliny_.—In picture light is required no less than shadow; so
in style, height as well as humbleness. But beware they be not too
humble, as Pliny pronounced of Regulus’s writings. You would think them
written, not on a child, but by a child. Many, out of their own obscene
apprehensions, refuse proper and fit words—as occupy, Nature, and the
like; so the curious industry in some, of having all alike good, hath
come nearer a vice than a virtue.
_De progres. picturæ_. {93} Picture took her feigning from poetry; from
geometry her rule, compass, lines, proportion, and the whole symmetry.
Parrhasius was the first won reputation by adding symmetry to picture; he
added subtlety to the countenance, elegancy to the hair, love-lines to
the face, and by the public voice of all artificers, deserved honour in
the outer lines. Eupompus gave it splendour by numbers and other
elegancies. From the optics it drew reasons, by which it considered how
things placed at distance and afar off should appear less; how above or
beneath the head should deceive the eye, &c. So from thence it took
shadows, recessor, light, and heightnings. From moral philosophy it took
the soul, the expression of senses, perturbations, manners, when they
would paint an angry person, a proud, an inconstant, an ambitious, a
brave, a magnanimous, a just, a merciful, a compassionate, an humble, a
dejected, a base, and the like; they made all heightnings bright, all
shadows dark, all swellings from a plane, all solids from breaking. See
where he complains of their painting Chimæras {94} (by the vulgar unaptly
called grotesque) saying that men who were born truly to study and
emulate Nature did nothing but make monsters against Nature, which Horace
so laughed at. {95} The art plastic was moulding in clay, or potter’s
earth anciently. This is the parent of statuary, sculpture, graving, and
picture; cutting in brass and marble, all serve under her. Socrates
taught Parrhasius and Clito (two noble statuaries) first to express
manners by their looks in imagery. Polygnotus and Aglaophon were
ancienter. After them Zeuxis, who was the lawgiver to all painters;
after, Parrhasius. They were contemporaries, and lived both about
Philip’s time, the father of Alexander the Great. There lived in this
latter age six famous painters in Italy, who were excellent and emulous
of the ancients—Raphael de Urbino, Michael Angelo Buonarotti, Titian,
Antony of Correggio, Sebastian of Venice, Julio Romano, and Andrea
Sartorio.
_Parasiti ad mensam_.—These are flatterers for their bread, that praise
all my oraculous lord does or says, be it true or false; invent tales
that shall please; make baits for his lordship’s ears; and if they be not
received in what they offer at, they shift a point of the compass, and
turn their tale, presently tack about, deny what they confessed, and
confess what they denied; fit their discourse to the persons and
occasions. What they snatch up and devour at one table, utter at
another; and grow suspected of the master, hated of the servants, while
they inquire, and reprehend, and compound, and dilate business of the
house they have nothing to do with. They praise my lord’s wine and the
sauce he likes; observe the cook and bottle-man; while they stand in my
lord’s favour, speak for a pension for them, but pound them to dust upon
my lord’s least distaste, or change of his palate.
How much better is it to be silent, or at least to speak sparingly! for
it is not enough to speak good, but timely things. If a man be asked a
question, to answer; but to repeat the question before he answer is well,
that he be sure to understand it, to avoid absurdity; for it is less
dishonour to hear imperfectly than to speak imperfectly. The ears are
excused, the understanding is not. And in things unknown to a man, not
to give his opinion, lest by the affectation of knowing too much he lose
the credit he hath, by speaking or knowing the wrong way what he utters.
Nor seek to get his patron’s favour by embarking himself in the factions
of the family, to inquire after domestic simulties, their sports or
affections. They are an odious and vile kind of creatures, that fly
about the house all day, and picking up the filth of the house like pies
or swallows, carry it to their nest (the lord’s ears), and oftentimes
report the lies they have feigned for what they have seen and heard.
_Imò serviles_.—These are called instruments of grace and power with
great persons, but they are indeed the organs of their impotency, and
marks of weakness. For sufficient lords are able to make these
discoveries themselves. Neither will an honourable person inquire who
eats and drinks together, what that man plays, whom this man loves, with
whom such a one walks, what discourse they hold, who sleeps with whom.
They are base and servile natures that busy themselves about these
disquisitions. How often have I seen (and worthily) these censors of the
family undertaken by some honest rustic and cudgelled thriftily! These
are commonly the off-scouring and dregs of men that do these things, or
calumniate others; yet I know not truly which is worse—he that maligns
all, or that praises all. There is as a vice in praising, and as
frequent, as in detracting.
It pleased your lordship of late to ask my opinion touching the education
of your sons, and especially to the advancement of their studies. To
which, though I returned somewhat for the present, which rather
manifested a will in me than gave any just resolution to the thing
propounded, I have upon better cogitation called those aids about me,
both of mind and memory, which shall venture my thoughts clearer, if not
fuller, to your lordship’s demand. I confess, my lord, they will seem
but petty and minute things I shall offer to you, being writ for
children, and of them. But studies have their infancy as well as
creatures. We see in men even the strongest compositions had their
beginnings from milk and the cradle; and the wisest tarried sometimes
about apting their mouths to letters and syllables. In their education,
therefore, the care must be the greater had of their beginnings, to know,
examine, and weigh their natures; which, though they be proner in some
children to some disciplines, yet are they naturally prompt to taste all
by degrees, and with change. For change is a kind of refreshing in
studies, and infuseth knowledge by way of recreation. Thence the school
itself is called a play or game, and all letters are so best taught to
scholars. They should not be affrighted or deterred in their entry, but
drawn on with exercise and emulation. A youth should not be made to hate
study before he know the causes to love it, or taste the bitterness
before the sweet; but called on and allured, entreated and praised—yea,
when he deserves it not. For which cause I wish them sent to the best
school, and a public, which I think the best. Your lordship, I fear,
hardly hears of that, as willing to breed them in your eye and at home,
and doubting their manners may be corrupted abroad. They are in more
danger in your own family, among ill servants (allowing they be safe in
their schoolmaster), than amongst a thousand boys, however immodest.
Would we did not spoil our own children, and overthrow their manners
ourselves by too much indulgence! To breed them at home is to breed them
in a shade, whereas in a school they have the light and heat of the sun.
They are used and accustomed to things and men. When they come forth
into the common-wealth, they find nothing new, or to seek. They have
made their friendships and aids, some to last their age. They hear what
is commanded to others as well as themselves; much approved, much
corrected; all which they bring to their own store and use, and learn as
much as they hear. Eloquence would be but a poor thing if we should only
converse with singulars, speak but man and man together. Therefore I
like no private breeding. I would send them where their industry should
be daily increased by praise, and that kindled by emulation. It is a
good thing to inflame the mind; and though ambition itself be a vice, it
is often the cause of great virtue. Give me that wit whom praise
excites, glory puts on, or disgrace grieves; he is to be nourished with
ambition, pricked forward with honour, checked with reprehension, and
never to be suspected of sloth. Though he be given to play, it is a sign
of spirit and liveliness, so there be a mean had of their sports and
relaxations. And from the rod or ferule I would have them free, as from
the menace of them; for it is both deformed and servile.
_De stylo_, _et optimo scribendi genere_.—For a man to write well, there
are required three necessaries—to read the best authors, observe the best
speakers, and much exercise of his own style; in style to consider what
ought to be written, and after what manner. He must first think and
excogitate his matter, then choose his words, and examine the weight of
either. Then take care, in placing and ranking both matter and words,
that the composition be comely; and to do this with diligence and often.
No matter how slow the style be at first, so it be laboured and accurate;
seek the best, and be not glad of the froward conceits, or first words,
that offer themselves to us; but judge of what we invent, and order what
we approve. Repeat often what we have formerly written; which beside
that it helps the consequence, and makes the juncture better, it quickens
the heat of imagination, that often cools in the time of setting down,
and gives it new strength, as if it grew lustier by the going back; as we
see in the contention of leaping, they jump farthest that fetch their
race largest; or, as in throwing a dart or javelin, we force back our
arms to make our loose the stronger. Yet, if we have a fair gale of
wind, I forbid not the steering out of our sail, so the favour of the
gale deceive us not. For all that we invent doth please us in conception
of birth, else we would never set it down. But the safest is to return
to our judgment, and handle over again those things the easiness of which
might make them justly suspected. So did the best writers in their
beginnings; they imposed upon themselves care and industry; they did
nothing rashly: they obtained first to write well, and then custom made
it easy and a habit. By little and little their matter showed itself to
them more plentifully; their words answered, their composition followed;
and all, as in a well-ordered family, presented itself in the place. So
that the sum of all is, ready writing makes not good writing, but good
writing brings on ready writing yet, when we think we have got the
faculty, it is even then good to resist it, as to give a horse a check
sometimes with a bit, which doth not so much stop his course as stir his
mettle. Again, whether a man’s genius is best able to reach thither, it
should more and more contend, lift and dilate itself, as men of low
stature raise themselves on their toes, and so ofttimes get even, if not
eminent. Besides, as it is fit for grown and able writers to stand of
themselves, and work with their own strength, to trust and endeavour by
their own faculties, so it is fit for the beginner and learner to study
others and the best. For the mind and memory are more sharply exercised
in comprehending another man’s things than our own; and such as accustom
themselves and are familiar with the best authors shall ever and anon
find somewhat of them in themselves, and in the expression of their
minds, even when they feel it not, be able to utter something like
theirs, which hath an authority above their own. Nay, sometimes it is
the reward of a man’s study, the praise of quoting another man fitly; and
though a man be more prone and able for one kind of writing than another,
yet he must exercise all. For as in an instrument, so in style, there
must be a harmony and consent of parts.
_Præcipiendi modi_.—I take this labour in teaching others, that they
should not be always to be taught, and I would bring my precepts into
practice, for rules are ever of less force and value than experiments;
yet with this purpose, rather to show the right way to those that come
after, than to detect any that have slipped before by error, and I hope
it will be more profitable. For men do more willingly listen, and with
more favour, to precept, than reprehension. Among divers opinions of an
art, and most of them contrary in themselves, it is hard to make
election; and, therefore, though a man cannot invent new things after so
many, he may do a welcome work yet to help posterity to judge rightly of
the old. But arts and precepts avail nothing, except Nature be
beneficial and aiding. And therefore these things are no more written to
a dull disposition, than rules of husbandry to a soil. No precepts will
profit a fool, no more than beauty will the blind, or music the deaf. As
we should take care that our style in writing be neither dry nor empty,
we should look again it be not winding, or wanton with far-fetched
descriptions; either is a vice. But that is worse which proceeds out of
want, than that which riots out of plenty. The remedy of fruitfulness is
easy, but no labour will help the contrary; I will like and praise some
things in a young writer which yet, if he continue in, I cannot but
justly hate him for the same. There is a time to be given all things for
maturity, and that even your country husband-man can teach, who to a
young plant will not put the pruning-knife, because it seems to fear the
iron, as not able to admit the scar. No more would I tell a green writer
all his faults, lest I should make him grieve and faint, and at last
despair; for nothing doth more hurt than to make him so afraid of all
things as he can endeavour nothing. Therefore youth ought to be
instructed betimes, and in the best things; for we hold those longest we
take soonest, as the first scent of a vessel lasts, and the tint the wool
first receives; therefore a master should temper his own powers, and
descend to the other’s infirmity. If you pour a glut of water upon a
bottle, it receives little of it; but with a funnel, and by degrees, you
shall fill many of them, and spill little of your own; to their capacity
they will all receive and be full. And as it is fit to read the best
authors to youth first, so let them be of the openest and clearest.
{106a} As Livy before Sallust, Sidney before Donne; and beware of
letting them taste Gower or Chaucer at first, lest, falling too much in
love with antiquity, and not apprehending the weight, they grow rough and
barren in language only. When their judgments are firm, and out of
danger, let them read both the old and the new; but no less take heed
that their new flowers and sweetness do not as much corrupt as the
others’ dryness and squalor, if they choose not carefully. Spenser, in
affecting the ancients, writ no language; yet I would have him read for
his matter, but as Virgil read Ennius. The reading of Homer and Virgil
is counselled by Quintilian as the best way of informing youth and
confirming man. For, besides that the mind is raised with the height and
sublimity of such a verse, it takes spirit from the greatness of the
matter, and is tinctured with the best things. Tragic and lyric poetry
is good, too, and comic with the best, if the manners of the reader be
once in safety. In the Greek poets, as also in Plautus, we shall see the
economy and disposition of poems better observed than in Terence; and the
latter, who thought the sole grace and virtue of their fable the sticking
in of sentences, as ours do the forcing in of jests.
_Fals. querel. fugiend. Platonis peregrinatio in Italiam_.—We should not
protect our sloth with the patronage of difficulty. It is a false
quarrel against Nature, that she helps understanding but in a few, when
the most part of mankind are inclined by her thither, if they would take
the pains; no less than birds to fly, horses to run, &c., which if they
lose, it is through their own sluggishness, and by that means become her
prodigies, not her children. I confess, Nature in children is more
patient of labour in study than in age; for the sense of the pain, the
judgment of the labour is absent; they do not measure what they have
done. And it is the thought and consideration that affects us more than
the weariness itself. Plato was not content with the learning that
Athens could give him, but sailed into Italy, for Pythagoras’ knowledge:
and yet not thinking himself sufficiently informed, went into Egypt, to
the priests, and learned their mysteries. He laboured, so must we. Many
things may be learned together, and performed in one point of time; as
musicians exercise their memory, their voice, their fingers, and
sometimes their head and feet at once. And so a preacher, in the
invention of matter, election of words, composition of gesture, look,
pronunciation, motion, useth all these faculties at once: and if we can
express this variety together, why should not divers studies, at divers
hours, delight, when the variety is able alone to refresh and repair us?
As, when a man is weary of writing, to read; and then again of reading,
to write. Wherein, howsoever we do many things, yet are we (in a sort)
still fresh to what we begin; we are recreated with change, as the
stomach is with meats. But some will say this variety breeds confusion,
and makes, that either we lose all, or hold no more than the last. Why
do we not then persuade husbandmen that they should not till land, help
it with marl, lime, and compost? plant hop-gardens, prune trees, look to
bee-hives, rear sheep, and all other cattle at once? It is easier to do
many things and continue, than to do one thing long.
_Præcept. element_.—It is not the passing through these learnings that
hurts us, but the dwelling and sticking about them. To descend to those
extreme anxieties and foolish cavils of grammarians, is able to break a
wit in pieces, being a work of manifold misery and vainness, to be
_elementarii senes_. Yet even letters are, as it were, the bank of
words, and restore themselves to an author as the pawns of language: but
talking and eloquence are not the same: to speak, and to speak well, are
two things. A fool may talk, but a wise man speaks; and out of the
observation, knowledge, and the use of things, many writers perplex their
readers and hearers with mere nonsense. Their writings need sunshine.
Pure and neat language I love, yet plain and customary. A barbarous
phrase has often made me out of love with a good sense, and doubtful
writing hath wracked me beyond my patience. The reason why a poet is
said that he ought to have all knowledges is, that he should not be
ignorant of the most, especially of those he will handle. And indeed,
when the attaining of them is possible, it were a sluggish and base thing
to despair; for frequent imitation of anything becomes a habit quickly.
If a man should prosecute as much as could be said of everything, his
work would find no end.
_De orationis dignitate_. ’Εγκυκλοπαιδεία.—_Metaphora_. Speech is the
only benefit man hath to express his excellency of mind above other
creatures. It is the instrument of society; therefore Mercury, who is
the president of language, is called _deorum hominumque interpres_.
{110a} In all speech, words and sense are as the body and the soul. The
sense is as the life and soul of language, without which all words are
dead. Sense is wrought out of experience, the knowledge of human life
and actions, or of the liberal arts, which the Greeks called
’Εγκυκλοπαιδείαν. Words are the people’s, yet there is a choice of them
to be made; for _verborum delectus origo est eloquentiæ_. {111a} They
are to be chosen according to the persons we make speak, or the things we
speak of. Some are of the camp, some of the council-board, some of the
shop, some of the sheepcote, some of the pulpit, some of the Bar, &c.
And herein is seen their elegance and propriety, when we use them fitly
and draw them forth to their just strength and nature by way of
translation or metaphor. But in this translation we must only serve
necessity (_nam temerè nihil transfertur à prudenti_) {111b} or
commodity, which is a kind of necessity: that is, when we either
absolutely want a word to express by, and that is necessity; or when we
have not so fit a word, and that is commodity; as when we avoid loss by
it, and escape obsceneness, and gain in the grace and property which
helps significance. Metaphors far-fetched hinder to be understood; and
affected, lose their grace. Or when the person fetcheth his translations
from a wrong place as if a privy councillor should at the table take his
metaphor from a dicing-house, or ordinary, or a vintner’s vault; or a
justice of peace draw his similitudes from the mathematics, or a divine
from a bawdy house, or taverns; or a gentleman of Northamptonshire,
Warwickshire, or the Midland, should fetch all the illustrations to his
country neighbours from shipping, and tell them of the main-sheet and the
bowline. Metaphors are thus many times deformed, as in him that said,
_Castratam morte Africani rempublicam_; and another, _Stercus curiæ
Glauciam_, and _Canâ nive conspuit Alpes_. All attempts that are new in
this kind, are dangerous, and somewhat hard, before they be softened with
use. A man coins not a new word without some peril and less fruit; for
if it happen to be received, the praise is but moderate; if refused, the
scorn is assured. Yet we must adventure; for things at first hard and
rough are by use made tender and gentle. It is an honest error that is
committed, following great chiefs.
_Consuetudo_.—_Perspicuitas_,
_Venustas_.—_Authoritas_.—_Virgil_.—_Lucretius_.—_Chaucerism_.—
_Paronomasia_.—Custom is the most certain mistress of language, as the
public stamp makes the current money. But we must not be too frequent
with the mint, every day coining, nor fetch words from the extreme and
utmost ages; since the chief virtue of a style is perspicuity, and
nothing so vicious in it as to need an interpreter. Words borrowed of
antiquity do lend a kind of majesty to style, and are not without their
delight sometimes; for they have the authority of years, and out of their
intermission do win themselves a kind of grace like newness. But the
eldest of the present, and newness of the past language, is the best.
For what was the ancient language, which some men so dote upon, but the
ancient custom? Yet when I name custom, I understand not the vulgar
custom; for that were a precept no less dangerous to language than life,
if we should speak or live after the manners of the vulgar: but that I
call custom of speech, which is the consent of the learned; as custom of
life, which is the consent of the good. Virgil was most loving of
antiquity; yet how rarely doth he insert _aquai_ and _pictai_! Lucretius
is scabrous and rough in these; he seeks them: as some do Chaucerisms
with us, which were better expunged and banished. Some words are to be
culled out for ornament and colour, as we gather flowers to strew houses
or make garlands; but they are better when they grow to our style; as in
a meadow, where, though the mere grass and greenness delight, yet the
variety of flowers doth heighten and beautify. Marry, we must not play
or riot too much with them, as in Paronomasies; nor use too swelling or
ill-sounding words! _Quæ per salebras_, _altaque saxa cadunt_. {114a}
It is true, there is no sound but shall find some lovers, as the
bitterest confections are grateful to some palates. Our composition must
be more accurate in the beginning and end than in the midst, and in the
end more than in the beginning; for through the midst the stream bears
us. And this is attained by custom, more than care of diligence. We
must express readily and fully, not profusely. There is difference
between a liberal and prodigal hand. As it is a great point of art, when
our matter requires it, to enlarge and veer out all sail, so to take it
in and contract it, is of no less praise, when the argument doth ask it.
Either of them hath their fitness in the place. A good man always
profits by his endeavour, by his help, yea, when he is absent; nay, when
he is dead, by his example and memory. So good authors in their style: a
strict and succinct style is that where you can take away nothing without
loss, and that loss to be manifest.
_De Stylo_.—_Tracitus_.—_The Laconic_.—_Suetonius_.—_Seneca and
Fabianus_.—The brief style is that which expresseth much in little; the
concise style, which expresseth not enough, but leaves somewhat to be
understood; the abrupt style, which hath many breaches, and doth not seem
to end, but fall. The congruent and harmonious fitting of parts in a
sentence hath almost the fastening and force of knitting and connection;
as in stones well squared, which will rise strong a great way without
mortar.
_Periodi_.—_Obscuritas offundit tenebras_.—_Superlatio_.—Periods are
beautiful when they are not too long; for so they have their strength
too, as in a pike or javelin. As we must take the care that our words
and sense be clear, so if the obscurity happen through the hearer’s or
reader’s want of understanding, I am not to answer for them, no more than
for their not listening or marking; I must neither find them ears nor
mind. But a man cannot put a word so in sense but something about it
will illustrate it, if the writer understand himself; for order helps
much to perspicuity, as confusion hurts. (_Rectitudo lucem adfert_;
_obliquitas et circumductio offuscat_. {116a}) We should therefore speak
what we can the nearest way, so as we keep our gait, not leap; for too
short may as well be not let into the memory, as too long not kept in.
Whatsoever loseth the grace and clearness, converts into a riddle; the
obscurity is marked, but not the value. That perisheth, and is passed
by, like the pearl in the fable. Our style should be like a skein of
silk, to be carried and found by the right thread, not ravelled and
perplexed; then all is a knot, a heap. There are words that do as much
raise a style as others can depress it. Superlation and over-muchness
amplifies; it may be above faith, but never above a mean. It was
ridiculous in Cestius, when he said of Alexander:
“Fremit oceanus, quasi indignetur, quòd terras relinquas.” {117a}
But propitiously from Virgil:
“Credas innare revulsas
Cycladas.” {117b}
He doth not say it was so, but seemed to be so. Although it be somewhat
incredible, that is excused before it be spoken. But there are
hyperboles which will become one language, that will by no means admit
another. As _Eos esse_ P. R. _exercitus_, _qui cælum possint
perrumpere_, {118a} who would say with us, but a madman? Therefore we
must consider in every tongue what is used, what received. Quintilian
warns us, that in no kind of translation, or metaphor, or allegory, we
make a turn from what we began; as if we fetch the original of our
metaphor from sea and billows, we end not in flames and ashes: it is a
most foul inconsequence. Neither must we draw out our allegory too long,
lest either we make ourselves obscure, or fall into affectation, which is
childish. But why do men depart at all from the right and natural ways
of speaking? sometimes for necessity, when we are driven, or think it
fitter, to speak that in obscure words, or by circumstance, which uttered
plainly would offend the hearers. Or to avoid obsceneness, or sometimes
for pleasure, and variety, as travellers turn out of the highway, drawn
either by the commodity of a footpath, or the delicacy or freshness of
the fields. And all this is called εσχηματισμενη or figured language.
_Oratio imago animi_.—Language most shows a man: Speak, that I may see
thee. It springs out of the most retired and inmost parts of us, and is
the image of the parent of it, the mind. No glass renders a man’s form
or likeness so true as his speech. Nay, it is likened to a man; and as
we consider feature and composition in a man, so words in language; in
the greatness, aptness, sound structure, and harmony of it.
_Structura et statura_, _sublimis_, _humilis_, _pumila_.—Some men are
tall and big, so some language is high and great. Then the words are
chosen, their sound ample, the composition full, the absolution
plenteous, and poured out, all grave, sinewy, and strong. Some are
little and dwarfs; so of speech, it is humble and low, the words poor and
flat, the members and periods thin and weak, without knitting or number.
_Mediocris plana et placida_.—The middle are of a just stature. There
the language is plain and pleasing; even without stopping, round without
swelling: all well-turned, composed, elegant, and accurate.
_Vitiosa oratio_, _vasta_—_tumens_—_enormis_—_affectata_—_abjecta_.—The
vicious language is vast and gaping, swelling and irregular: when it
contends to be high, full of rock, mountain, and pointedness; as it
affects to be low, it is abject, and creeps, full of bogs and holes. And
according to their subject these styles vary, and lose their names: for
that which is high and lofty, declaring excellent matter, becomes vast
and tumorous, speaking of petty and inferior things; so that which was
even and apt in a mean and plain subject, will appear most poor and
humble in a high argument. Would you not laugh to meet a great
councillor of State in a flat cap, with his trunk hose, and a hobbyhorse
cloak, his gloves under his girdle, and yond haberdasher in a velvet
gown, furred with sables? There is a certain latitude in these things,
by which we find the degrees.
_Figura_.—The next thing to the stature, is the figure and feature in
language—that is, whether it be round and straight, which consists of
short and succinct periods, numerous and polished; or square and firm,
which is to have equal and strong parts everywhere answerable, and
weighed.
_Cutis sive cortex_. _Compositio_.—The third is the skin and coat, which
rests in the well-joining, cementing, and coagmentation of words; whenas
it is smooth, gentle, and sweet, like a table upon which you may run your
finger without rubs, and your nail cannot find a joint; not horrid,
rough, wrinkled, gaping, or chapped: after these, the flesh, blood, and
bones come in question.
_Carnosa_—_adipata_—_redundans_.—We say it is a fleshy style, when there
is much periphrasis, and circuit of words; and when with more than
enough, it grows fat and corpulent: _arvina orationis_, full of suet and
tallow. It hath blood and juice when the words are proper and apt, their
sound sweet, and the phrase neat and picked—_oratio uncta_, _et benè
pasta_. But where there is redundancy, both the blood and juice are
faulty and vicious:—_Redundat sanguine_, _quia multo plus dicit_, _quam
necesse est_. Juice in language is somewhat less than blood; for if the
words be but becoming and signifying, and the sense gentle, there is
juice; but where that wanteth, the language is thin, flagging, poor,
starved, scarce covering the bone, and shows like stones in a sack.
_Jejuna_, _macilenta_, _strigosa_.—_Ossea_, _et nervosa_.—Some men, to
avoid redundancy, run into that; and while they strive to have no ill
blood or juice, they lose their good. There be some styles, again, that
have not less blood, but less flesh and corpulence. These are bony and
sinewy; _Ossa habent_, _et nervos_.
_Notæ domini Sti. Albani de doctrin.
intemper_.—_Dictator_.—_Aristoteles_.—It was well noted by the late Lord
St. Albans, that the study of words is the first distemper of learning;
vain matter the second; and a third distemper is deceit, or the likeness
of truth: imposture held up by credulity. All these are the cobwebs of
learning, and to let them grow in us is either sluttish or foolish.
Nothing is more ridiculous than to make an author a dictator, as the
schools have done Aristotle. The damage is infinite knowledge receives
by it; for to many things a man should owe but a temporary belief, and
suspension of his own judgment, not an absolute resignation of himself,
or a perpetual captivity. Let Aristotle and others have their dues; but
if we can make farther discoveries of truth and fitness than they, why
are we envied? Let us beware, while we strive to add, we do not diminish
or deface; we may improve, but not augment. By discrediting falsehood,
truth grows in request. We must not go about, like men anguished and
perplexed, for vicious affectation of praise, but calmly study the
separation of opinions, find the errors have intervened, awake antiquity,
call former times into question; but make no parties with the present,
nor follow any fierce undertakers, mingle no matter of doubtful credit
with the simplicity of truth, but gently stir the mould about the root of
the question, and avoid all digladiations, facility of credit, or
superstitious simplicity, seek the consonancy and concatenation of truth;
stoop only to point of necessity, and what leads to convenience. Then
make exact animadversion where style hath degenerated, where flourished
and thrived in choiceness of phrase, round and clean composition of
sentence, sweet falling of the clause, varying an illustration by tropes
and figures, weight of matter, worth of subject, soundness of argument,
life of invention, and depth of judgment. This is _monte potiri_, to get
the hill; for no perfect discovery can be made upon a flat or a level.
_De optimo scriptore_.—_Cicero_.—Now that I have informed you in the
knowing of these things, let me lead you by the hand a little farther, in
the direction of the use, and make you an able writer by practice. The
conceits of the mind are pictures of things, and the tongue is the
interpreter of those pictures. The order of God’s creatures in
themselves is not only admirable and glorious, but eloquent: then he who
could apprehend the consequence of things in their truth, and utter his
apprehensions as truly, were the best writer or speaker. Therefore
Cicero said much, when he said, _Dicere recte nemo potest_, _nisi qui
prudenter intelligit_. {124a} The shame of speaking unskilfully were
small if the tongue only thereby were disgraced; but as the image of a
king in his seal ill-represented is not so much a blemish to the wax, or
the signet that sealed it, as to the prince it representeth, so
disordered speech is not so much injury to the lips that give it forth,
as to the disproportion and incoherence of things in themselves, so
negligently expressed. Neither can his mind be thought to be in tune,
whose words do jar; nor his reason in frame, whose sentence is
preposterous; nor his elocution clear and perfect, whose utterance breaks
itself into fragments and uncertainties. Were it not a dishonour to a
mighty prince, to have the majesty of his embassage spoiled by a careless
ambassador? and is it not as great an indignity, that an excellent
conceit and capacity, by the indiligence of an idle tongue, should be
disgraced? Negligent speech doth not only discredit the person of the
speaker, but it discrediteth the opinion of his reason and judgment; it
discrediteth the force and uniformity of the matter and substance. If it
be so then in words, which fly and escape censure, and where one good
phrase begs pardon for many incongruities and faults, how shall he then
be thought wise whose penning is thin and shallow? how shall you look for
wit from him whose leisure and head, assisted with the examination of his
eyes, yield you no life or sharpness in his writing?
_De stylo epistolari_.—_Inventio_.—In writing there is to be regarded the
invention and the fashion. For the invention, that ariseth upon your
business, whereof there can be no rules of more certainty, or precepts of
better direction given, than conjecture can lay down from the several
occasions of men’s particular lives and vocations: but sometimes men make
baseness of kindness: As “I could not satisfy myself till I had
discharged my remembrance, and charged my letters with commendation to
you;” or, “My business is no other than to testify my love to you, and to
put you in mind of my willingness to do you all kind offices;” or, “Sir,
have you leisure to descend to the remembering of that assurance you have
long possessed in your servant, and upon your next opportunity make him
happy with some commands from you?” or the like; that go a-begging for
some meaning, and labour to be delivered of the great burden of nothing.
When you have invented, and that your business be matter, and not bare
form, or mere ceremony, but some earnest, then are you to proceed to the
ordering of it, and digesting the parts, which is had out of two
circumstances. One is the understanding of the persons to whom you are
to write; the other is the coherence of your sentence; for men’s capacity
to weigh what will be apprehended with greatest attention or leisure;
what next regarded and longed for especially, and what last will leave
satisfaction, and (as it were) the sweetest memorial and belief of all
that is passed in his understanding whom you write to. For the
consequence of sentences, you must be sure that every clause do give the
cue one to the other, and be bespoken ere it come. So much for invention
and order.
_Modus_.—1. _Brevitas_.—Now for fashion: it consists in four things,
which are qualities of your style. The first is brevity; for they must
not be treatises or discourses (your letters) except it be to learned
men. And even among them there is a kind of thrift and saving of words.
Therefore you are to examine the clearest passages of your understanding,
and through them to convey the sweetest and most significant words you
can devise, that you may the easier teach them the readiest way to
another man’s apprehension, and open their meaning fully, roundly, and
distinctly, so as the reader may not think a second view cast away upon
your letter. And though respect be a part following this, yet now here,
and still I must remember it, if you write to a man, whose estate and
sense, as senses, you are familiar with, you may the bolder (to set a
task to his brain) venture on a knot. But if to your superior, you are
bound to measure him in three farther points: first, with interest in
him; secondly, his capacity in your letters; thirdly, his leisure to
peruse them. For your interest or favour with him, you are to be the
shorter or longer, more familiar or submiss, as he will afford you time.
For his capacity, you are to be quicker and fuller of those reaches and
glances of wit or learning, as he is able to entertain them. For his
leisure, you are commanded to the greater briefness, as his place is of
greater discharges and cares. But with your betters, you are not to put
riddles of wit, by being too scarce of words; not to cause the trouble of
making breviates by writing too riotous and wastingly. Brevity is
attained in matter by avoiding idle compliments, prefaces, protestations,
parentheses, superfluous circuit of figures and digressions: in the
composition, by omitting conjunctions [_not only_, _but also_; _both the
one and the other_, _whereby it cometh to pass_] and such like idle
particles, that have no great business in a serious letter but breaking
of sentences, as oftentimes a short journey is made long by unnessary
baits.
_Quintilian_.—But, as Quintilian saith, there is a briefness of the parts
sometimes that makes the whole long: “As I came to the stairs, I took a
pair of oars, they launched out, rowed apace, I landed at the court gate,
I paid my fare, went up to the presence, asked for my lord, I was
admitted.” All this is but, “I went to the court and spake with my
lord.” This is the fault of some Latin writers within these last hundred
years of my reading, and perhaps Seneca may be appeached of it; I accuse
him not.
2. _Perspicuitas_.—The next property of epistolary style is perspicuity,
and is oftentimes by affectation of some wit ill angled for, or
ostentation of some hidden terms of art. Few words they darken speech,
and so do too many; as well too much light hurteth the eyes, as too
little; and a long bill of chancery confounds the understanding as much
as the shortest note; therefore, let not your letters be penned like
English statutes, and this is obtained. These vices are eschewed by
pondering your business well and distinctly concerning yourself, which is
much furthered by uttering your thoughts, and letting them as well come
forth to the light and judgment of your own outward senses as to the
censure of other men’s ears; for that is the reason why many good
scholars speak but fumblingly; like a rich man, that for want of
particular note and difference can bring you no certain ware readily out
of his shop. Hence it is that talkative shallow men do often content the
hearers more than the wise. But this may find a speedier redress in
writing, where all comes under the last examination of the eyes. First,
mind it well, then pen it, then examine it, then amend it, and you may be
in the better hope of doing reasonably well. Under this virtue may come
plainness, which is not to be curious in the order as to answer a letter,
as if you were to answer to interrogatories. As to the first, first; and
to the second, secondly, &c. but both in method to use (as ladies do in
their attire) a diligent kind of negligence, and their sportive freedom;
though with some men you are not to jest, or practise tricks; yet the
delivery of the most important things may be carried with such a grace,
as that it may yield a pleasure to the conceit of the reader. There must
be store, though no excess of terms; as if you are to name store,
sometimes you may call it choice, sometimes plenty, sometimes
copiousness, or variety; but ever so, that the word which comes in lieu
have not such difference of meaning as that it may put the sense of the
first in hazard to be mistaken. You are not to cast a ring for the
perfumed terms of the time, as _accommodation_, _complement_, _spirit_
&c., but use them properly in their place, as others.
3. _Vigor_—There followeth life and quickness, which is the strength and
sinews, as it were, of your penning by pretty sayings, similitudes, and
conceits; allusions from known history, or other common-place, such as
are in the _Courtier_, and the second book of Cicero _De Oratore_.
4. _Discretio_.—The last is, respect to discern what fits yourself, him
to whom you write, and that which you handle, which is a quality fit to
conclude the rest, because it doth include all. And that must proceed
from ripeness of judgment, which, as one truly saith, is gotten by four
means, God, nature, diligence, and conversation. Serve the first well,
and the rest will serve you.
_De Poetica_.—We have spoken sufficiently of oratory, let us now make a
diversion to poetry. Poetry, in the primogeniture, had many peccant
humours, and is made to have more now, through the levity and inconstancy
of men’s judgments. Whereas, indeed, it is the most prevailing
eloquence, and of the most exalted caract. Now the discredits and
disgraces are many it hath received through men’s study of depravation or
calumny; their practice being to give it diminution of credit, by
lessening the professor’s estimation, and making the age afraid of their
liberty; and the age is grown so tender of her fame, as she calls all
writings aspersions.
That is the state word, the phrase of court (placentia college), which
some call Parasites place, the Inn of Ignorance.
_D. Hieronymus_.—Whilst I name no persons, but deride follies, why should
any man confess or betray himself why doth not that of S. Hierome come
into their mind, _Ubi generalis est de vitiis disputatio_, _ibi nullius
esse personæ injuriam_? {133a} Is it such an inexpiable crime in poets
to tax vices generally, and no offence in them, who, by their exception
confess they have committed them particularly? Are we fallen into those
times that we must not—
“Auriculas teneras mordaci rodere vero.” {133b}
_Remedii votum semper verius erat_, _quam spes_. {133c}—_Sexus fæmin_.—If
men may by no means write freely, or speak truth, but when it offends
not, why do physicians cure with sharp medicines, or corrosives? is not
the same equally lawful in the cure of the mind that is in the cure of
the body? Some vices, you will say, are so foul that it is better they
should be done than spoken. But they that take offence where no name,
character, or signature doth blazon them seem to me like affected as
women, who if they hear anything ill spoken of the ill of their sex, are
presently moved, as if the contumely respected their particular; and on
the contrary, when they hear good of good women, conclude that it belongs
to them all. If I see anything that toucheth me, shall I come forth a
betrayer of myself presently? No, if I be wise, I’ll dissemble it; if
honest, I’ll avoid it, lest I publish that on my own forehead which I saw
there noted without a title. A man that is on the mending hand will
either ingenuously confess or wisely dissemble his disease. And the wise
and virtuous will never think anything belongs to themselves that is
written, but rejoice that the good are warned not to be such; and the ill
to leave to be such. The person offended hath no reason to be offended
with the writer, but with himself; and so to declare that properly to
belong to him which was so spoken of all men, as it could be no man’s
several, but his that would wilfully and desperately claim it. It
sufficeth I know what kind of persons I displease, men bred in the
declining and decay of virtue, betrothed to their own vices; that have
abandoned or prostituted their good names; hungry and ambitious of
infamy, invested in all deformity, enthralled to ignorance and malice, of
a hidden and concealed malignity, and that hold a concomitancy with all
evil.
_What is a Poet_?
_Poeta_.—A poet is that which by the Greeks is called κατ εξοχην, ο
ποιητής, a maker, or a feigner: his art, an art of imitation or feigning;
expressing the life of man in fit measure, numbers, and harmony,
according to Aristotle; from the word ποιειν, which signifies to make or
feign. Hence he is called a poet, not he which writeth in measure only,
but that feigneth and formeth a fable, and writes things like the truth.
For the fable and fiction is, as it were, the form and soul of any
poetical work or poem.
_What mean_, _you by a Poem_?
_Poema_.—A poem is not alone any work or composition of the poet’s in
many or few verses; but even one verse alone sometimes makes a perfect
poem. As when Æneas hangs up and consecrates the arms of Abas with this
inscription:—
“Æneas hæc de Danais victoribus arma.” {136a}