_EU._ Most welcome _Xantippe_, a good Morning to you.
_Xa._ I wish you the same, my dear _Eulalia_. Methinks you look prettier
than you use to do.
_Eu._ What, do you begin to banter me already?
_Xa._ No, upon my Word, for you seem so to me.
_Eu._ Perhaps then my new Cloaths may set me off to Advantage.
_Xa._ You guess right, it is one of the prettiest Suits I ever beheld in
all my Life. It is _English_ Cloth, I suppose.
_Eu._ It is indeed of _English_ Wool, but it is a _Venetian_ Dye.
_Xa._ It is as soft as Silk, and 'tis a charming Purple. Who gave you
this fine Present?
_Eu._ My Husband. From whom should a virtuous Wife receive Presents but
from him?
_Xa._ Well, you are a happy Woman, that you are, to have such a good
Husband. For my Part, I wish I had been married to a Mushroom when I was
married to my _Nick_.
_Eu._ Why so, pray? What! is it come to an open Rupture between you
already?
_Xa._ There is no Possibility of agreeing with such a one as I have got.
You see what a ragged Condition I am in; so he lets me go like a Dowdy!
May I never stir, if I an't asham'd to go out of Doors any whither, when
I see how fine other Women are, whose Husbands are nothing nigh so rich
as mine is.
_Eu._ The Ornament of a Matron does not consist in fine Cloaths or other
Deckings of the Body, as the Apostle _Peter_ teaches, for I heard that
lately in a Sermon; but in chaste and modest Behaviour, and the
Ornaments of the Mind. Whores are trick'd up to take the Eyes of many
but we are well enough drest, if we do but please our own Husbands.
_Xa._ But mean while this worthy Tool of mine, that is so sparing toward
his Wife, lavishly squanders away the Portion I brought along with me,
which by the Way was not a mean one.
_Eu._ In what?
_Xa._ Why, as the Maggot bites, sometimes at the Tavern, sometimes upon
his Whores, sometimes a gaming.
_Eu._ O fie, you should never say so of your Husband.
_Xa._ But I'm sure 'tis too true; and then when he comes Home, after I
have been waiting for him till I don't know what Time at Night, as drunk
as _David's_ Sow, he does nothing but lye snoring all Night long by my
Side, and sometimes bespues the Bed too, to say nothing more.
_Eu._ Hold your Tongue: You disgrace yourself in disgracing your
Husband.
_Xa._ Let me dye, if I had not rather lye with a Swine than such a
Husband as I have got.
_Eu._ Don't you scold at him then?
_Xa._ Yes, indeed, I use him as he deserves. He finds I have got a
Tongue in my Head.
_Eu._ Well, and what does he say to you again?
_Xa._ At first he used to hector at me lustily, thinking to fright me
with his big Words.
_Eu._ Well, and did your Words never come to downright Blows?
_Xa._ Once, and but once, and then the Quarrel rose to that Height on
both Sides, that we were within an Ace of going to Fisty-Cuffs.
_Eu._ How, Woman! say you so?
_Xa._ He held up his Stick at me, swearing and cursing like a
Foot-Soldier, and threatening me dreadfully.
_Eu._ Were not you afraid then?
_Xa._ Nay, I snatch'd up a three legg'd Stool, and if he had but touch'd
me with his Finger, he should have known he had to do with a Woman of
Spirit.
_Eu._ Ah! my _Xantippe_, that was not becoming.
_Xa._ What becoming? If he does not use me like a Wife, I won't use him
like a Husband.
_Eu._ But St. _Paul_ teaches, that Wives ought to be subject to their
own Husbands with all Reverence. And St. _Peter_ proposes the Example of
_Sarah_ to us, who call'd her Husband _Abraham_ Lord.
_Xa._ I have heard those Things, but the same _Paul_ likewise teaches
that _Men should love their Wives as Christ lov'd his Spouse the
Church_. Let him remember his Duty and I'll remember mine.
_Eu._ But nevertheless when Things are come to that Pass that one must
submit to the other, it is but reasonable that the Wife submit to her
Husband.
_Xa._ Yes indeed, if he deserves the Name of a Husband who uses me like
a Kitchen Wench.
_Eu._ But tell me, _Xantippe_, did he leave off threatening after this?
_Xa._ He did leave off, and it was his Wisdom so to do, or else he would
have been thresh'd.
_Eu._ But did not you leave off Scolding at him?
_Xa._ No, nor never will.
_Eu._ But what does he do in the mean Time?
_Xa._ What! Why sometimes he pretends himself to be fast asleep, and
sometimes does nothing in the World but laugh at me; sometimes he
catches up his Fiddle that has but three Strings, scraping upon it with
all his Might, and drowns the Noise of my Bawling.
_Eu._ And does not that vex you to the Heart?
_Xa._ Ay, so that it is impossible to be express'd, so that sometimes I
can scarce keep my Hands off of him.
_Eu._ Well, my _Xantippe_, give me Leave to talk a little freely with
you.
_Xa._ I do give you Leave.
_Eu._ Nay, you shall use the same Freedom with me. Our Intimacy, which
has been in a Manner from our very Cradles, requires this.
_Xa._ You say true, nor was there any of my Playfellows that I more
dearly lov'd than you.
_Eu._ Let your Husband be as bad as bad can be, think upon this, That
there is no changing. Heretofore, indeed, Divorce was a Remedy for
irreconcilable Disagreements, but now this is entirely taken away: He
must be your Husband and you his Wife to the very last Day of Life.
_Xa._ The Gods did very wrong that depriv'd us of this Privilege.
_Eu._ Have a Care what you say. It was the Will of Christ.
_Xa._ I can scarce believe it.
_Eu._ It is as I tell you. Now you have nothing left to do but to study
to suit your Tempers and Dispositions one to another, and agree
together.
_Xa._ Do you think, I can be able to new-make him?
_Eu._ It does not a little depend upon the Wives, what Men Husbands
shall be.
_Xa._ Do you and your Husband agree very well together?
_Eu._ All is quiet with us now.
_Xa._ Well then, you had some Difference at first.
_Eu._ Never any Thing of a Storm; but yet, as it is common with human
Kind, sometimes a few small Clouds would rise, which might have produc'd
a Storm, if it had not been prevented by Condescention. Every one has
his Humours, and every one their Fancies, and if we would honestly speak
the Truth, every one his Faults, more or less, which if in any State,
certainly in Matrimony we ought to connive at, and not to hate.
_Xa._ You speak very right.
_Eu._ It frequently happens that that mutual Love that ought to be
between the Husband and Wife is cooled before they come to be throughly
acquainted one with another. This is the first Thing that ought to be
provided against; for when a Spirit of Dissention is once sprung up, it
is a difficult Matter to bring them to a Reconciliation, especially if
it ever proceeded so far as to come to reproachful Reflections. Those
Things that are joined together with Glue, are easily pull'd one from
another if they be handled roughly as soon as done, but when once they
have been fast united together, and the Glue is dry, there is nothing
more firm. For this Reason, all the Care possible is to be taken that
good Will between Man and Wife be cultivated and confirmed even in the
Infancy of Matrimony. This is principally effected by Obsequiousness,
and an Agreeableness of Tempers. For that Love that is founded only upon
Beauty, is for the most part but short-liv'd.
_Xa._ But prithee tell me by what Arts you brought your Husband to your
Humour.
_Eu._ I'll tell you for this End, that you may copy after me.
_Xa._ Well, I will, if I can.
_Eu._ It will be very easy to do, if you will; nor is it too late yet;
for he is in the Flower of his Youth, and you are but a Girl; and as I
take it, have not been married this Twelve Months yet.
_Xa._ You are very right.
_Eu._ Then I'll tell you; but upon Condition, that you'll not speak of
it.
_Xa._ Well, I will not.
_Eu._ It was my first Care that I might please my Husband in every
Respect, that nothing might give him Offence. I diligently observed his
Inclinations and Temper, and also observed what were his easiest
Moments, what Things pleas'd him, and what vex'd him, as they use to do
who tame _Elephants_ and _Lions_, or such Sort of Creatures, that can't
be master'd by downright Strength.
_Xa._ And such an Animal have I at Home.
_Eu._ Those that go near Elephants, wear no Garment that is white; nor
those who manage Bulls, red; because it is found by Experience, that
these Creatures are made fierce by these Colours, just as Tygers are
made so raging mad by the Sound of a Drum, that they will tear their own
selves; and Jockies have particular Sounds, and Whistles, and
Stroakings, and other Methods to sooth Horses that are mettlesome: How
much more does it become us to use these Acts towards our Husbands, with
whom, whether we will or no, we must live all our Lives at Bed and
Board?
_Xa._ Well, go on with what you have begun.
_Eu._ Having found out his Humour, I accommodated myself to him, taking
Care that nothing should offend him.
_Xa._ How could you do that?
_Eu._ I was very diligent in the Care of my Family, which is the
peculiar Province of Women, that nothing was neglected, and that every
Thing should be suitable to his Temper, altho' it were in the most
minute Things.
_Xa._ What Things?
_Eu._ Suppose my Husband peculiarly fancied such a Dish of Meat, or
liked it dress'd after such a Manner; or if he lik'd his Bed made after
such or such a Manner.
_Xa._ But how could you humour one who was never at Home, or was drunk?
_Eu._ Have Patience, I was coming to that Point. If at any Time my
Husband seem'd to be melancholy, and did not much care for talking, I
did not laugh, and put on a gay Humour, as some Women are us'd to do;
but I put on a grave demure Countenance, as well as he. For as a
Looking-glass, if it be a true one, represents the Face of the Person
that looks into it, so a Wife ought to frame herself to the Temper of
her Husband, not to be chearful when he is melancholy, nor be merry when
he is in a Passion. And if at any Time he was in a Passion, I either
endeavoured to sooth him with fair Words, or held my Tongue till his
Passion was over; and having had Time to cool, Opportunity offered,
either of clearing myself, or of admonishing him. I took the same
Method, if at any Time he came Home fuddled, and at such a Time never
gave him any Thing but tender Language, that by kind Expressions, I
might get him to go to Bed.
_Xa._ That is indeed a very unhappy Portion for Wives, if they must only
humour their Husbands, when they are in a Passion, and doing every Thing
that they have a Mind to do.
_Eu._ As tho' this Duty were not reciprocal, and that our Husbands are
not forc'd to bear with many of our Humours: However, there is a Time,
when a Wife may take the Freedom in a Matter of some Importance to
advise her Husband; but as for small Faults, it is better to wink at
them.
_Xa._ But what Time is that?
_Eu._ When his Mind is serene; when he's neither in a Passion, nor in
the Hippo, nor in Liquor; then being in private, you may kindly advise
him, but rather intreat him, that he would act more prudently in this or
that Matter, relating either to his Estate, Reputation, or Health. And
this very Advice is to be season'd with witty Jests and Pleasantries.
Sometimes by Way of Preface, I make a Bargain with him before-Hand, that
he shall not be angry with me, if being a foolish Woman, I take upon me
to advise him in any Thing, that might seem to concern his Honour,
Health, or Preservation. When I have said what I had a Mind to say, I
break off that Discourse, and turn it into some other more entertaining
Subject. For, my _Xantippe_, this is the Fault of us Women, that when
once we have begun, we don't know when to make an End.
_Xa._ Why, so they say, indeed.
_Eu._ This chiefly I observed as a Rule, never to chide my Husband
before Company, nor to carry any Complaints out of Doors. What passes
between two People, is more easily made up, than when once it has taken
Air. Now if any Thing of that kind shall happen, that cannot be born
with, and that the Husband can't be cur'd by the Admonition of his Wife,
it is more prudent for the Wife to carry her Complaints to her Husband's
Parents and Kindred, than to her own; and so to soften her Complaint,
that she mayn't seem to hate her Husband, but her Husband's Vices: And
not to blab out all neither, that her Husband may tacitly own and love
his Wife for her Civility.
_Xa._ A Woman must needs be a Philosopher, who can be able to do this.
_Eu._ By this Deportment we invite our Husbands to return the Civility.
_Xa._ But there are some Brutes in the World, whom you cannot amend, by
the utmost good Carriage.
_Eu._ In Truth, I don't think it: But put the Case there are: First,
consider this; a Husband must be born with, let him be as bad as he
will. It is better therefore to bear with him as he is, or made a little
better by our courteous Temper, than by our Outrageousness to make him
grow every Day worse and worse. What if I should give Instances of
Husbands, who by the like civil Treatment have altered their Spouses
much for the better? How much more does it become us to use our Husbands
after this Manner?
_Xa._ You will give an Instance then of a Man, that is as unlike my
Husband, as black is from white.
_Eu._ I have the Honour to be acquainted with a Gentleman of a noble
Family; Learned, and of singular Address and Dexterity; he married a
young Lady, a Virgin of seventeen Years of Age, that had been educated
all along in the Country in her Father's House, as Men of Quality love
to reside in the Country, for the Sake of Hunting and Fowling: He had a
Mind to have a raw unexperienc'd Maid, that he might the more easily
form her Manners to his own Humour. He began to instruct her in
Literature and Musick, and to use her by Degrees to repeat the Heads of
Sermons, which she heard, and to accomplish her with other Things, which
would afterwards be of Use to her. Now these Things being wholly new to
the Girl, which had been brought up at Home, to do nothing but gossip
and play, she soon grew weary of this Life, she absolutely refus'd to
submit to what her Husband requir'd of her; and when her Husband press'd
her about it, she would cry continually, sometimes she would throw
herself flat on the Ground, and beat her Head against the Ground, as
tho' she wish'd for Death. Her Husband finding there was no End of this,
conceal'd his Resentment, gave his Wife an Invitation to go along with
him into the Country to his Father-in-Law's House, for the Sake of a
little Diversion. His Wife very readily obey'd him in this Matter. When
they came there, the Husband left his Wife with her Mother and Sisters,
and went a Hunting with his Father-in-Law; there having taken him aside
privately, he tells his Father-in-law, that whereas he was in good Hopes
to have had an agreeable Companion of his Daughter, he now had one that
was always a crying, and fretting herself; nor could she be cured by any
Admonitions, and intreats him to lend a helping Hand to cure his
Daughter's Disorder. His Father-in-Law made him answer, that he had once
put his Daughter into his Hand, and if she did not obey him, he might
use his Authority, and cudgel her into a due Submission. The Son-in-Law
replies, I know my own Power, but I had much rather she should be
reform'd by your Art or Authority, than to come to these Extremities.
The Father-in-Law promis'd him to take some Care about the Matter: So a
Day or two after, he takes a proper Time and Place, when he was alone
with his Daughter, and looking austerely upon her, begins in telling her
how homely she was, and how disagreeable as to her Disposition, and how
often he had been in Fear that he should never be able to get her a
Husband: But after much Pains, says he, I found you such a one, that the
best Lady of the Land would have been glad of; and yet, you not being
sensible what I have done for you, nor considering that you have such a
Husband, who if he were not the best natur'd Man in the World, would
scarce do you the Honour to take you for one of his Maid Servants, you
are disobedient to him: To make short of my Story, the Father grew so
hot in his Discourse, that he seem'd to be scarce able to keep his Hands
off her; for he was so wonderful cunning a Man, that he would act any
Part, as well as any Comedian. The young Lady, partly for Fear, and
partly convinc'd by the Truth of what was told her, fell down at her
Father's Feet, beseeching him to forget past Faults, and for the Time to
come, she would be mindful of her Duty. Her Father freely forgave her,
and also promised, that he would be to her a very indulgent Father,
provided she perform'd what she promis'd.
_Xa._ Well, what happened after that?
_Eu._ The young Lady going away, after her Fathers Discourse was ended,
went directly into her Chamber, and finding her Husband alone, she fell
down on her Knees, and said, Husband, till this very Moment, I neither
knew you nor myself; but from this Time forward, you shall find me
another Sort of Person; only, I intreat you to forget what is past. The
Husband receiv'd this Speech with a Kiss, and promised to do every Thing
she could desire, if she did but continue in that Resolution.
_Xa._ What! Did she continue in it?
_Eu._ Even to her dying Day; nor was any Thing so mean, but she readily
and chearfully went about it, if her Husband would have it so. So great
a Love grew, and was confirm'd between them. Some Years after, the young
Lady would often congratulate herself, that she had happen'd to marry
such a Husband, which had it not happen'd, said she, I had been the most
wretched Woman alive.
_Xa._ Such Husbands are as scarce now a Days as white Crows.
_Eu._ Now if it will not be tedious to you, I'll tell you a Story, that
lately happen'd in this City, of a Husband that was reclaimed by the
good Management of his Wife.
_Xa._ I have nothing to do at present, and your Conversation is very
diverting.
_Eu._ There is a certain Gentleman of no mean Descent; he, like the rest
of his Quality, used often to go a Hunting: Being in the Country, he
happen'd to see a young Damsel, the Daughter of a poor old Woman, and
began to fall desperately in love with her. He was a Man pretty well in
Years; and for the Sake of this young Maid, he often lay out a Nights,
and his Pretence for it was Hunting. His Wife, a Woman of an admirable
Temper, suspecting something more than ordinary, went in search to find
out her Husband's Intrigues, and having discover'd them, by I can't tell
what Method, she goes to the Country Cottage, and learnt all the
Particulars where he lay, what he drank, and what Manner of
Entertainment he had at Table. There was no Furniture in the House,
nothing but naked Walls. The Gentlewoman goes Home, and quickly after
goes back again, carrying with her a handsome Bed and Furniture, some
Plate and Money, bidding them to treat him with more Respect, if at any
Time he came there again. A few Days after, her Husband steals an
Opportunity to go thither, and sees the Furniture increas'd, and finds
his Entertainment more delicate than it us'd to be; he enquir'd from
whence this unaccustomed Finery came: They said, that a certain honest
Gentlewoman of his Acquaintance, brought these Things; and gave them in
Charge, that he should be treated with more Respect for the future. He
presently suspected that this was done by his Wife. When he came Home,
he ask'd her if she had been there. She did not deny it. Then he ask'd
her for what Reason she had sent thither that household Furniture? My
Dear, says she, you are us'd to a handsomer Way of Living: I found that
you far'd hardly there, I thought it my Duty, since you took a Fancy to
the Place, that your Reception should be more agreeable.
_Xa._ A Wife good even to an Excess. I should sooner have sent him a
Bundle of Nettles and Thorns, than furnish'd him with a fine Bed.
_Eu._ But hear the Conclusion of my Story; the Gentleman was so touch'd,
seeing so much good Nature and Temper in his Wife, that he never after
that violated her Bed, but solaced himself with her at Home. I know you
know _Gilbert_ the _Dutchman_.
_Xa._ I know him.
_Eu._ He, you know, in the prime of his Age, marry'd a Gentlewoman well
stricken in Years, and in a declining Age.
_Xa._ It may be he marry'd the Portion, and not the Woman.
_Eu._ So it was. He having an Aversion to his Wife, was over Head and
Ears in Love with a young Woman, with whom he us'd ever and anon to
divert himself abroad. He very seldom either din'd or supp'd at home.
What would you have done, if this had been your Case, _Xantippe_?
_Xa._ Why I would have torn his beloved Strumpet's Headcloths off, and I
would have wash'd him well with a Chamber-Pot, when he was going to her,
that he might have gone thus perfum'd to his Entertainment.
_Eu._ But how much more prudently did this Gentlewoman behave herself.
She invited his Mistress home to her House, and treated her with all the
Civility imaginable. So she kept her Husband without any magical Charms.
And if at any Time he supp'd abroad with her, she sent them thither some
Nicety or other, desiring them to be merry together.
_Xa._ As for me, I would sooner chuse to lose my Life than to be Bawd to
my own Husband.
_Eu._ But in the mean Time, pray consider the Matter soberly and coolly.
Was not this much better, than if she had by her ill Temper totally
alienated her Husband's Affections from her, and spent her whole Life in
quarrelling and brawling.
_Xa._ I believe, that of two Evils it was the least, but I could never
have submitted to it.
_Eu._ I will add one more, and then I'll have done with Examples. A
next Door Neighbour of ours is a very honest, good Man, but a little too
subject to Passion. One Day he beat his Wife, a Woman of commendable
Prudence. She immediately withdrew into a private Room, and there gave
Vent to her Grief by Tears and Sighs. Soon after upon some Occasion her
Husband came into the Room, and found his Wife all in Tears. What's the
Matter, says he, that you're crying and sobbing like a Child? To which
she prudently reply'd, Why, says she, is it not much better to lament my
Misfortune here, than if I should make a Bawling in the Street, as other
Women do? The Man's Mind was so overcome and mollified by this Answer,
so like a Wife, that giving her his Hand, he made a solemn Promise to
his Wife, he would never lay his Hand upon her after, as long as he
liv'd. Nor did he ever do it.
_Xa._ I have obtain'd as much from my Husband, but by a different
Conduct.
_Eu._ But in the mean Time there are perpetual Wars between you.
_Xa._ What then would you have me to do?
_Eu._ If your Husband offers you any Affront, you must take no Notice of
it, but endeavour to gain his good Will by all good Offices, courteous
Carriage, and Meekness of Spirit, and by these Methods, you will in
Time, either wholly reclaim him, or at least you will live with him much
more easy than now you do.
_Xa._ Ay, but he's too ill-natur'd to be wrought upon by all the kind
Offices in the World.
_Eu._ Hold, don't say so, there is no Beast that is so savage but he may
be tam'd by good Management; therefore don't despair of it as to a Man.
Do but make the Experiment for a few Months, and if you do not find that
this Advice has been of Benefit to you, blame me. And there are also
some Faults that you must wink at; but above all Things, it is my
Opinion, you ought to avoid ever to begin any Quarrel either in the
Bed-Chamber, or in Bed, and to take a special Care that every Thing
there be chearful and pleasant. For if that Place which is consecrated
for the wiping out old Miscarriages and the cementing of Love, comes to
be unhallowed by Contention and Sourness of Temper, all Remedy for the
Reconcilement is taken away. For there are some Women of so morose
Tempers that they will be querulous, and scold even while the Rites of
Love are performing, and will by the Uneasiness of their Tempers render
that Fruition itself disagreeable which is wont to discharge the Minds
of Men from any Heart-burning, that they may have had; and by this Means
they spoil that Cordial, by which Misunderstandings in Matrimony might
be cured.
_Xa._ That has been often my Case.
_Eu._ And tho' it ought always to be the Care of a Wife, not to make her
Husband uneasy in any Thing; yet that ought to be especially her Care to
study, in conjugal Embraces to render herself by all ways possible,
agreeable and delightful to her Husband.
_Xa._ To a Man, indeed! But I have to do with an untractable Beast.
_Eu._ Come, come, leave off Railing. For the most part Husbands are made
bad, by our bad Conduct. But to return to our Argument, those that are
conversant in the antient Fables of the Poets, tell you that _Venus_,
(whom they make a Goddess, that presides over Matrimony) had a Girdle or
_Cestus_ which was made for her by _Vulcan's_ Art, in which were
interwoven all bewitching Ingredients of an amorous Medicament, and that
she put this on whenever she went to bed to her Husband.
_Xa._ I hear a Fable.
_Eu._ It is true: But hear the Moral of it.
_Xa._ Tell it me.
_Eu._ That teaches that a Wife ought to use all the Care imaginable to
be so engaging to her Husband in conjugal Embraces, that matrimonial
Affection may be retain'd and renew'd, and if there has been any
Distaste or Aversion, it may be expell'd the Mind.
_Xa._ But where can a Body get this Girdle?
_Eu._ There is no Need of Witchcrafts and Spells to procure one. There
is no Enchantment so effectual as Virtue, join'd with a Sweetness of
Disposition.
_Xa._ I can't be able to bring myself to humour such a Husband as I have
got.
_Eu._ But this is for your Interest, that he would leave off to be such
a bad Husband. If you could by _Circe_'s Art transform your Husband into
a Swine or a Bear, would you do it?
_Xa._ I can't tell, whether I should or no.
_Eu._ Which had you rather have, a Swine to your Husband, or a Man?
_Xa._ In Truth, I had rather have a Man.
_Eu._ Well, come on. What if you could by _Circe_'s Arts make him a
sober Man of a Drunkard, a frugal Man of a Spendthrift, a diligent Man
of an idle Fellow, would you not do it?
_Xa._ To be sure, I would do it. But how shall I attain the Art?
_Eu._ You have the Art in yourself, if you would but make Use of it.
Whether you will or no he must be your Husband, and the better Man you
make him, the more you consult your own Advantage. You only keep your
Eyes fix'd upon his Faults, and those aggravate your Aversion to him;
and only hold him by this Handle, which is such a one that he cannot be
held by; but rather take Notice of what good Qualities he has, and hold
him by this Handle, which is a Handle he may be held by: Before you
married him, you had Time of considering what his Defects were. A
Husband is not to be chosen by the Eyes only, but by the Ears too. Now
'tis your Time to cure him, and not to find Fault with him.
_Xa._ What Woman ever made Choice of a Husband by her Ears?
_Eu._ She chuses a Husband by her Eyes, which looks at nothing else but
his Person and bare Outside: She chuses him by her Ears, who carefully
observes what Reputation he has in the World.
_Xa._ This is good Advice, but it is too late.
_Eu._ But it is not too late to endeavour to amend your Husband. It will
contribute something to the Matter, if you could have any Children by
him.
_Xa._ I have had one.
_Eu._ When?
_Xa._ A long Time ago.
_Eu._ How many Months?
_Xa._ Why, about Seven.
_Eu._ What do I hear! You put me in Mind of the Joke of the three Months
Lying in.
_Xa._ By no Means.
_Eu._ It must be so, if you reckon from the Day of Marriage.
_Xa._ But I had some private Discourse with him before Marriage.
_Eu._ Are Children got by Talking?
_Xa._ He having by Chance got me into a Room by myself, began to play
with me, tickling me about the Arm-pits and Sides, to make me laugh, and
I not being able to bear being tickled any longer, threw myself flat
upon the Bed, and he lying upon me, kiss'd me, and I don't know what he
did to me besides; but this is certain, within a few Days after, my
Belly began to swell.
_Eu._ Get you gone now, and slight a Husband, who if he can get Children
jesting, what will he do if he sets about it in earnest?
_Xa._ I suspect that I am now with Child by him again.
_Eu._ O brave! to a good Soil, here's a good Ploughman to till it.
_Xa._ As to this Affair, he's better than I wish he was.
_Eu._ Very few Wives have this Complaint to make: But, I suppose, the
Marriage Contract was made between you, before this happened.
_Xa._ It was made.
_Eu._ Then the Sin was so much the less. Is your Child a Boy?
_Xa._ It is.
_Eu._ That will reconcile you both, if you will but qualify yourself a
little for it. What Sort of Character do your Husband's Companions give
him? And what Company does he keep when he is abroad?
_Xa._ They give him the Character of an exceeding good-humour'd,
courteous, generous Man, and a true Friend to his Friend.
_Eu._ These Things give me great Hopes, that he will become such as we
would have him be.
_Xa._ But I am the only Person he is not so to.
_Eu._ Do you but be to him what I have told you, and if he does not
begin to be so to you, instead of _Eulalia_ (a good Speaker), call me
_Pseudolalia_ (a prating Liar); and besides, consider this, that he's
but a young Man yet, I believe not above twenty-four Years of Age, and
does not yet know what it is to be the Master of a Family. You must
never think of a Divorce now.
_Xa._ But I have thought on it a great many Times.
_Eu._ But if ever that Thought comes into your Mind again, first of all
consider with yourself, what an insignificant Figure a Woman makes when
she is parted from her Husband. It is the greatest Glory of a Matron, to
be obedient to her Husband. This Nature dictates, and it is the Will of
God, that the Woman should wholly depend upon her Husband: Only think,
as it really is, he is your Husband, you cannot have another. Then call
to Mind that the little Boy belongs to you both. What would you do with
him? Would you take him away with you? Then will you defraud your
Husband of his own. Will you leave him to him? Then you will deprive
yourself of that, than which nothing is more dear. Last of all, tell me,
is there any Body that wishes you ill?
_Xa._ I have a Step-Mother, and a Mother-in-Law, as like her as may be.
_Eu._ And they wish you ill, do they?
_Xa._ They wish me in my Grave.
_Eu._ Then think of them likewise. What can you be able to do, that
would be more grateful to them, than if they should see you divorc'd
from your Husband; a Widow, nay, to live, a Widow bewitcht, worse than a
Widow? For Widows may marry again.
_Xa._ I approve of your Advice; but can't bear the Thoughts of being
always a Slave.
_Eu._ Recount what Pains you took before you could teach that Parrot to
prattle.
_Xa._ A great Deal indeed.
_Eu._ And yet you think much to bestow a little Pains to mould your
Husband, with whom you may live a pleasant Life all your Days. What a
Deal of Pains do Men take to render a Horse tractable to them: And shall
we think much to take a little Pains to render our Husbands more
agreeable?
_Xa._ What must I do?
_Eu._ I have told you already, take Care that all Things be neat, and in
Order at Home, that there be nothing discomposing, to make him go out of
Doors; behave yourself easy and free to him, always remembring that
Respect which is due from a Wife to a Husband. Let all Melancholy and
ill-tim'd Gaiety be banished out of Doors; be not morose nor
frolicksome. Let your Table be handsomely provided. You know your
Husband's Palate, dress that which he likes best. Behave yourself
courteously and affably to those of his Acquaintance he respects. Invite
them frequently to Dinner; let all Things be pleasant and chearful at
Table. Lastly, if at any Time he happens to come Home a little merry
with Wine, and shall fall to playing on his Fiddle, do you sing, to him,
so you will gradually inure your Husband to keep at Home, and also
lessen his Expences: For he will thus reason with himself; was not I mad
with a Witness, who live abroad with a nasty Harlot, to the apparent
Prejudice of my Estate and Reputation, when I have at Home a Wife much
more entertaining and affectionate to me, with whom I may be entertained
more handsomely and more plentifully?
_Xa._ Do you think I shall succeed, if I try?
_Eu._ Look to me for that. I engage that you will: In the mean Time I'll
talk to your Husband, and put him in Mind of his Duty.
_Xa._ I approve of your Design; but take Care that he mayn't discover
any Thing of what has past between us two, for he would throw the House
out of the Windows.
_Eu._ Don't fear, I'll order my Discourse so by Turnings and Windings,
that he shall tell me himself, what Quarrels have happened between you.
When I have brought this about, I'll treat him after my Way, as
engagingly as can be, and I hope, shall render him to you better
temper'd: I'll likewise take Occasion to tell a Lie or two in your
Favour, how lovingly and respectfully you spoke of him.
_Xa._ Heaven prosper both our Undertakings.
_Eu._ It will, I doubt not, if you are not wanting to yourself.
_The SOLDIER and CARTHUSIAN._
The ARGUMENT.
_This Colloquy sets out to the Life, the Madness of young
Men that run into the Wars, and the Life of a pious
Carthusian, which without the love of Study, can't but be
melancholy and unpleasant. The Manners of Soldiers, the
Manners and Diet of Carthusians. Advice in chusing a Way
of getting a Livelihood. The Conveniency of a single
Life, to be at Leisure for Reading and Meditation. Wicked
Soldiers oftentimes butcher Men for a pitiful Reward. The
daily Danger of a Soldier's Life._
_The_ SOLDIER _and_ CARTHUSIAN.
_Sol._ Good Morrow, my Brother.
_Cart._ Good Morrow to you, dear Cousin.
_Sol._ I scarce knew you.
_Cart._ Am I grown so old in two Years Time?
_Sol._ No; but your bald Crown, and your new Dress, make you look to me
like another Sort of Creature.
_Cart._ It may be you would not know your own Wife, if she should meet
you in a new Gown.
_Sol._ No; not if she was in such a one as yours.
_Cart._ But I know you very well, who are not altered as to your Dress;
but your Face, and the whole Habit of your Body: Why, how many Colours
are you painted with? No Bird had ever such a Variety of Feathers. How
all is cut and slash'd! Nothing according to Nature or Fashion! your cut
Hair, your half-shav'd Beard, and that Wood upon your upper Lip,
entangled and standing out straggling like the Whiskers of a Cat. Nor is
it one single Scar that has disfigured your Face, that you may very well
be taken for one of the _Samian literati_, [q.d. burnt in the Cheek]
concerning whom there is a joking Proverb.
_Sol._ Thus it becomes a Man to come back from the Wars. But, pray, tell
me, was there so great a Scarcity of good Physicians in this Quarter of
the World?
_Cart._ Why do you ask?
_Sol._ Because you did not get the Distemper of your Brain cur'd, before
you plung'd yourself into this Slavery.
_Cart._ Why, do you think I was mad then?
_Sol._ Yes, I do. What Occasion was there for you to be buried here,
before your Time, when you had enough in the World to have lived
handsomely upon?
_Cart._ What, don't you think I live in the World now?
_Sol._ No, by _Jove_.
_Cart._ Tell me why.
_Sol._ Because you can't go where you list. You are confin'd in this
Place as in a Coop. Besides, your bald Pate, and your prodigious strange
Dress, your Lonesomeness, your eating Fish perpetually, so that I admire
you are not turn'd into a Fish.
_Cart._ If Men were turn'd into what they eat, you had long ago been
turn'd into a Hog, for you us'd to be a mighty Lover of Pork.
_Sol._ I don't doubt but you have repented of what you have done, long
enough before now, for I find very few that don't repent of it.
_Cart._ This usually happens to those who plunge themselves headlong
into this Kind of Life, as if they threw themselves into a Well; but I
have enter'd into it warily and considerately, having first made Trial
of myself, and having duly examined the whole Ratio of this Way of
Living, being twenty-eight Years of Age, at which Time, every one may be
suppos'd to know himself. And as for the Place, you are confined in a
small Compass as well as I, if you compare it to the Extent of the
whole World. Nor does it signify any Thing how large the Place is, as
long as it wants nothing of the Conveniences of Life. There are many
that seldom stir out of the City in which they were born, which if they
were prohibited from going out, would be very uneasy, and would be
wonderfully desirous to do it. This is a common Humour, that I am not
troubled with. I fancy this Place to be the whole World to me, and this
Map represents the whole Globe of the Earth, which I can travel over in
Thought with more Delight and Security than he that sails to the
new-found Islands.
_Sol._ What you say as to this, comes pretty near the Truth.
_Cart._ You can't blame me for shaving my Head, who voluntarily have
your own Hair clipp'd, for Conveniency Sake. Shaving, to me, if it does
nothing else, certainly keeps my Head more clean, and perhaps more
healthful too. How many Noblemen at _Venice_ shave their Heads all over?
What has my Garment in it that is monstrous? Does it not cover my Body?
Our Garments are for two Uses, to defend us from the Inclemency of the
Weather, and to cover our Nakedness. Does not this Garment answer both
these Ends? But perhaps the Colour offends you. What Colour is more
becoming Christians than that which was given to all in Baptism? It has
been said also, _Take a white Garment_; so that this Garment puts me in
Mind of what I promised in Baptism, that is, the perpetual Study of
Innocency. And besides, if you call that Solitude which is only a
retiring from the Crowd, we have for this the Example, not only of our
own, but of the ancient Prophets, the _Ethnick_ Philosophers, and all
that had any Regard to the keeping a good Conscience. Nay, Poets,
Astrologers, and Persons devoted to such-like Arts, whensoever they take
in Hand any Thing that's great and beyond the Sphere of the common
People, commonly betake themselves to a Retreat. But why should you call
this Kind of Life Solitude? The Conversation of one single Friend drives
away the Tædium of Solitude. I have here more than sixteen Companions,
fit for all Manner of Conversation. And besides, I have Friends who
come to visit me oftner than I would have them, or is convenient Do I
then, in your Opinion, live melancholy?
_Sol._ But you cannot always have these to talk with.
_Cart._ Nor is it always expedient: For Conversation is the pleasanter,
for being something interrupted.
_Sol._ You don't think amiss; for even to me myself, Flesh relishes much
better after Lent.
_Cart._ And more than that, when I seem to be most alone, I don't want
Companions, which are by far more delightful and entertaining than those
common Jesters.
_Sol._ Where are they?
_Cart._ Look you, here are the four Evangelists. In this Book he that so
pleasantly commun'd with the two Disciples in the Way going to _Emaus_,
and who by his heavenly Discourse caus'd them not to be sensible of the
Fatigue of their Journey, but made their Hearts burn within them with a
divine Ardour of hearing his sweet Words, holds Conversation with me. In
this I converse with _Paul_, with _Isaiah_, and the rest of the
Prophets. Here the most sweet _Chrysostom_ converses with me, and
_Basil_, and _Austin_, and _Jerome_, and _Cyprian_, and the rest of the
Doctors that are both learned and eloquent. Do you know any such
pleasant Companions abroad in the World, that you can have Conversation
with? Do you think I can be weary of Retirement, in such Society as
this? And I am never without it.
_Sol._ But they would speak to me to no Purpose, who do not understand
them.
_Cart._ Now for our Diet, what signifies it with what Food this Body of
ours is fed which is satisfied with very little, if we live according to
Nature? Which of us two is in the best Plight? You who live upon
Partridges, Pheasants and Capons; or I who live upon Fish?
_Sol._ If you had a Wife as I have, you would not be so lusty.
_Cart._ And for that Reason, any Food serves us, let it be never so
little.
_Sol._ But in the mean Time, you live the Life of a _Jew_.
_Cart._ Forbear Reflections: If we cannot come up to Christianity, at
least we follow after it.
_Sol._ You put too much Confidence in Habits, Meats, Forms of Prayer,
and outward Ceremonies, and neglect the Study of Gospel Religion.
_Cart._ It is none of my Business to judge what others do: As to myself,
I place no Confidence in these Things, I attribute nothing to them; but
I put my Confidence in Purity of Mind, and in _Christ_ himself.
_Sol._ Why do you observe these Things then?
_Cart._ That I may be at Peace with my Brethren, and give no Body
Offence. I would give no Offence to any one for the Sake of these
trivial Things, which it is but a very little Trouble to observe. As we
are Men, let us wear what Cloaths we will. Men are so humoursome, the
Agreement or Disagreement in the most minute Matters, either procures or
destroys Concord. The shaving of the Head, or Colour of the Habit does
not indeed, of themselves, recommend me to God: But what would the
People say, if I should let my Hair grow, or put on your Habit? I have
given you my Reasons for my Way of Life; now, pray, in your Turn, give
me your Reasons for yours, and tell me, were there no good Physicians in
your Quarter, when you listed yourself for a Soldier, leaving a young
Wife and Children at Home, and was hired for a pitiful Pay to cut Men's
Throats, and that with the Hazard of your own Life too? For your
Business did not lie among Mushrooms and Poppies, but armed Men. What do
you think is a more unhappy Way of living, for a poor Pay, to murder a
Fellow Christian, who never did you Harm, and to run yourself Body and
Soul into eternal Damnation?
_Sol._ Why, it is lawful to kill an Enemy.
_Cart._ Perhaps it may be so, if he invades your native Country: Nay,
and it is pious too, to fight for your Wife, Children, your Parents and
Friends, your Religion and Liberties, and the publick Peace. But what is
all that to your fighting for Money? If you had been knocked on the
Head, I would not have given a rotten Nut to redeem the very Soul of
you.
_Sol._ No?
_Cart._ No, by Christ, I would not. Now which do you think is the harder
Task, to be obedient to a good Man, which we call Prior, who calls us to
Prayers, and holy Lectures, the Hearing of the saving Doctrine, and to
sing to the Glory of God: Or, to be under the Command of some barbarous
Officer, who often calls you out to fatiguing Marches at Midnight, and
sends you out, and commands you back at his Pleasure, exposes you to the
Shot of great Guns, assigns you a Station where you must either kill or
be killed?
_Sol._ There are more Evils than you have mentioned yet.
_Cart._ If I shall happen to deviate from the Discipline of my Order, my
Punishment is only Admonition, or some such slight Matter: But in War,
if you do any Thing contrary to the General's Orders, you must either be
hang'd for it, or run the Gantlope; for it would be a Favour to have
your Head cut off.
_Sol._ I can't deny what you say to be true.
_Cart._ And now your Habit bespeaks, that you han't brought much Money
Home, after all your brave Adventures.
_Sol._ As for Money, I have not had a Farthing this good While; nay, I
have gotten a good Deal into Debt, and for that Reason I come hither out
of my Way, that you might furnish me with some Money to bear my Charges.
_Cart._ I wish you had come out of your Way hither, when you hurried
yourself into that wicked Life of a Soldier. But how come you so bare?
_Sol._ Do you ask that? Why, whatsoever I got of Pay, Plunder,
Sacrilege, Rapine and Theft, was spent in Wine, Whores and Gaming.
_Cart._ O miserable Creature! And all this While your Wife, for whose
Sake God commanded you to leave Father and Mother, being forsaken by
you, sat grieving at Home with her young Children. And do you think this
is Living, to be involved in so many Miseries, and to wallow in so great
Iniquities?
_Sol._ The having so many Companions of my Wickedness, made me
insensible of my Evil.
_Cart._ But I'm afraid your Wife won't know you again.
_Sol._ Why so?
_Cart._ Because your Scars have made you the Picture of quite another
Man. What a Trench have you got here in your Forehead? It looks as if
you had had a Horn cut out.
_Sol._ Nay, if you did but know the Matter, you would congratulate me
upon this Scar.
_Cart._ Why so?
_Sol._ I was within a Hair's Breadth of losing my Life.
_Cart._ Why, what Mischief was there?
_Sol._ As one was drawing a Steel Cross-bow, it broke, and a Splinter of
it hit me in the Forehead.
_Cart._ You have got a Scar upon your Cheek that is above a Span long.
_Sol._ I got this Wound in a Battel.
_Cart._ In what Battel, in the Field?
_Sol._ No, but in a Quarrel that arose at Dice.
_Cart._ And I see I can't tell what Sort of Rubies on your Chin.
_Sol._ O they are nothing.
_Cart._ I suspect that you have had the Pox.
_Sol._ You guess very right, Brother. It was the third Time I had that
Distemper, and it had like to have cost me my Life.
_Cart._ But how came it, that you walk so stooping, as if you were
ninety Years of Age; or like a Mower, or as if your Back was broke?
_Sol._ The Disease has contracted my Nerves to that Degree.
_Cart._ In Truth you have undergone a wonderful Metamorphosis: Formerly
you were a Horseman, and now of a Centaur, you are become a Kind of
semi-reptile Animal.
_Sol._ This is the Fortune of War.
_Cart._ Nay, 'tis the Madness of your own Mind. But what Spoils will you
carry Home to your Wife and Children? The Leprosy? for that Scab is only
a Species of the Leprosy; and it is only not accounted so, because it
is the Disease in Fashion, and especially among Noblemen: And for this
very Reason, it should be the more carefully avoided. And now you will
infect with it those that ought to be the dearest to you of any in the
World, and you yourself will all your Days carry about a rotten Carcass.
_Sol._ Prithee, Brother, have done chiding me. I have enough upon me
without Chiding.
_Cart._ As to those Calamities, I have hitherto taken Notice of, they
only relate to the Body: But what a Sort of a Soul do you bring back
with you? How putrid and ulcered? With how many Wounds is that sore?
_Sol._ Just as clean as a _Paris_ common Shore in _Maburtus_'s Road, or
a common House of Office.
_Cart._ I am afraid it stinks worse in the Nostrils of God and his
Angels.
_Sol._ Well, but I have had Chiding enough, now speak to the Matter, of
something to bear my Charges.
_Cart._ I have nothing to give you, but I'll go and try what the Prior
will do.
_Sol._ If any Thing was to be given, your Hands would be ready to
receive it; but now there are a great many Difficulties in the Way, when
something is to be paid.
_Cart._ As to what others do, let them look to that, I have no Hands,
either to give or take Money: But we'll talk more of these Matters after
Dinner, for it is now Time to sit down at Table.
_PHILETYMUS and PSEUDOCHEUS._
The ARGUMENT.
_This Colloquy sets forth the Disposition and Nature of a
Liar, who seems to be born to lie for crafty Gain. A Liar
is a Thief. Gain got by Lying, is baser than that which
is got by a Tax upon Urine. An egregious Method of
deceiving is laid open. Cheating Tradesmen live better
than honest ones._
_PHILETYMUS and PSEUDOCHEUS._
_Phil._ From what Fountain does this Flood of Lies flow?
_Pseud._ From whence do Spiders Webs proceed?
_Phil._ Then it is not the _Product_ of Art, but of Nature.
_Pseud._ The Seeds indeed proceed from Nature; but Art and Use have
enlarg'd the Faculty.
_Phil._ Why, are you not asham'd of it?
_Pseud._ No more than a Cuckow is of her Singing.
_Phil._ But you can alter your Note upon every Occasion. The Tongue of
Man was given him to speak the Truth.
_Pseud._ Ay, to speak those Things that tend to his Profit: The Truth is
not to be spoken at all Times.
_Phil._ It is sometimes for a Man's Advantage to have pilfering Hands;
and the old Proverb is a Witness, that that is a Vice that is
Cousin-German to yours of Lying.
_Pseud._ Both these Vices are supported by good Authorities: One has
_Ulysses_, so much commended by _Homer_, and the other has _Mercury_,
that was a God, for its Example, if we believe the Poets.
_Phil._ Why then do People in common curse Liars, and hang Thieves?
_Pseud._ Not because they lie or steal, but because they do it
bunglingly or unnaturally, not rightly understanding the Art.
_Phil._ Is there any Author that teaches the Art of Lying?
_Pseud._ Your Rhetoricians have instructed in the best Part of the Art.
_Phil._ These indeed present us with the Art of well speaking.
_Pseud._ True: and the good Part of speaking well, is to lie cleverly.
_Phil._ What is clever Lying?
_Pseud._ Would you have me define it?
_Phil._ I would have you do it.
_Pseud._ It is to lie so, that you may get Profit by it, and not be
caught in a Lie.
_Phil._ But a great many are caught in lying every Day.
_Pseud._ That's because they are not perfect Masters of the Art.
_Phil._ Are you a perfect Master in it?
_Pseud._ In a Manner.
_Phil._ See, if you can tell me a Lie, so as to deceive me.
_Pseud._ Yes, best of Men, I can deceive you yourself, if I have a Mind
to it.
_Phil._ Well, tell me some Lie or other then.
_Pseud._ Why, I have told one already, and did you not catch me in it?
_Phil._ No.
_Pseud._ Come on, listen attentively; now I'll begin to lie then.
_Phil._ I do listen attentively; tell one.
_Pseud._ Why, I have told another Lie, and you have not caught me.
_Phil._ In Truth, I hear no Lie yet.
_Pseud._ You would have heard some, if you understood the Art.
_Phil._ Do you shew it me then.
_Pseud._ First of all, I call'd you the best of Men, is not that a
swinging Lie, when you are not so much as good? And if you were good,
you could not be said to be the best, there are a thousand others better
than you.
_Phil._ Here, indeed, you have deceiv'd me.
_Pseud._ Well, now try if you can catch me again in another Lie.
_Phil._ I cannot.
_Pseud._ I want to have you shew that Sharpness of Wit, that you do in
other Things.
_Phil._ I confess, I am deficient. Shew me.
_Pseud._ When I said, now I will begin to lie, did I not tell you a
swinging Lie then, when I had been accustomed to lie for so many Years,
and I had also told a Lie, just the Moment before.
_Phil._ An admirable Piece of Witchcraft.
_Pseud._ Well, but now you have been forewarn'd, prick up your Ears,
listen attentively, and see if you can catch me in a Lie.
_Phil._ I do prick them up; say on.
_Pseud._ I have said already, and you have imitated me in lying.
_Phil._ Why, you'll persuade me I have neither Ears nor Eyes by and by.
_Pseud._ When Mens Ears are immoveable, and can neither be prick'd up
nor let down, I told a Lie in bidding you prick up your Ears.
_Phil._ The whole Life of Man is full of such Lies.
_Pseud._ Not only such as these, O good Man, for these are but Jokes:
But there are those that bring Profit.
_Phil._ The Gain that is got by Lying, is more sordid, than that which
is got by laying a Tax on Urine.
_Pseud._ That is true, I own; but then 'tis to those that han't the Art
of lying.
_Phil._ What Art is this that you understand?
_Pseud._ It is not fit I should teach you for nothing; pay me, and you
shall hear it.
_Phil._ I will not pay for bad Arts.
_Pseud._ Then will you give away your Estate?
_Phil._ I am not so mad neither.
_Pseud._ But my Gain by this Art is more certain than yours from your
Estate.
_Phil._ Well, keep your Art to yourself, only give me a Specimen that I
may understand that what you say is not all Pretence.
_Pseud._ Here's a Specimen for you: I concern myself in all Manner of
Business, I buy, I sell, I receive, I borrow, I take Pawns.
_Phil._ Well, what then?
_Pseud._ And in these Affairs I entrap those by whom I cannot easily be
caught.
_Phil._ Who are those?
_Pseud._ The soft-headed, the forgetful, the unthinking, those that live
a great Way off, and those that are dead.
_Phil._ The Dead, to be sure, tell no Tales.
_Pseud._ If I sell any Thing upon Credit, I set it down carefully in my
Book of Accounts.
_Phil._ And what then?
_Pseud._ When the Money is to be paid, I charge the Buyer with more than
he had. If he is unthinking or forgetful, my Gain is certain.
_Phil._ But what if he catches you?
_Pseud._ I produce my Book of Accounts.
_Phil._ What if he informs you, and proves to your Face he has not had
the Goods you charge him with?
_Pseud._ I stand to it stiffly; for Bashfulness is altogether an
unprofitable Qualification in this Art. My last Shift is, I frame some
Excuse or other.
_Phil._ But when you are caught openly?
_Pseud._ Nothing's more easy, I pretend my Servant has made a Mistake,
or I myself have a treacherous Memory: It is a very pretty Way to jumble
the Accounts together, and this is an easy Way to impose on a Person: As
for Example, some are cross'd out, the Money being paid, and others have
not been paid; these I mingle one with another at the latter End of the
Book, nothing being cross'd out. When the Sum is cast up, we contend
about it, and I for the most Part get the better, tho' it be by
forswearing myself. Then besides, I have this Trick, I make up my
Account with a Person when he is just going a Journey, and not prepared
for the Settling it. For as for me, I am always ready. If any Thing be
left with me, I conceal it, and restore it not again. It is a long Time
before he can come to the Knowledge of it, to whom it is sent; and,
after all, if I can't deny the receiving of a Thing, I say it is lost,
or else affirm I have sent that which I have not sent, and charge it
upon the Carrier. And lastly, if I can no Way avoid restoring it, I
restore but Part of it.
_Phil._ A very fine Art.
_Pseud._ Sometimes I receive Money twice over, if I can: First at Home,
afterwards there where I have gone, and I am every where. Sometimes
Length of Time puts Things out of Remembrance: The Accounts are
perplexed, one dies, or goes a long Journey: And if nothing else will
hit, in the mean Time I make Use of other People's Money. I bring some
over to my Interest, by a Shew of Generosity, that they may help me out
in lying; but it is always at other People's Cost; of my own, I would
not give my own Mother a Doit. And tho' the Gain in each Particular may
be but small; but being many put together, makes a good round Sum; for
as I said, I concern myself in a great many Affairs; and besides all,
that I may not be catch'd, as there are many Tricks, this is one of the
chief. I intercept all the Letters I can, open them, and read them. If
any Thing in them makes against me, I destroy them, or keep them a long
Time before I deliver them: And besides all this, I sow Discord between
those that live at a great Distance one from another.
_Phil._ What do you get by that?
_Pseud._ There is a double Advantage in it. First of all, if that is not
performed that I have promised in another Person's Name, or in whose
Name I have received any Present, I lay it to this or that Man's Door,
that it was not performed, and so these Forgeries I make turn to a
considerable Account.
_Phil._ But what if he denies it?
_Pseud._ He's a great Way off, as suppose at _Basil_; and I promise to
give it in _England._ And so it is brought about, that both being
incensed, neither will believe the one the other, if I accuse them of
any Thing. Now you have a Specimen of my Art.
_Phil._ But this Art is what we Dullards call Theft; who call a Fig a
Fig, and a Spade a Spade.
_Pseud._ O Ignoramus in the Law! Can you bring an Action of Theft for
Trover or Conversion, or for one that having borrow'd a Thing forswears
it, that puts a Trick upon one, by some such Artifice?
_Phil._ He ought to be sued for Theft.
_Pseud._ Do but then see the Prudence of Artists. From these Methods
there is more Gain, or at least as much, and less Danger.
_Phil._ A Mischief take you, with your cheating Tricks and Lies, for I
han't a Mind to learn 'em. Good by to ye.
_Pseud._ You may go on, and be plagu'd with your ragged Truth. In the
mean Time, I'll live merrily upon my thieving, lying Tricks, with Slight
of Hand.
_The SHIPWRECK._
The ARGUMENT.
Naufragium _exposes the Dangers of those that go to Sea;
the various and foolish Superstition of Mariners. An
elegant Description of a Storm. They indeed run a Risque
that throw their valuable Commodities into the Sea.
Mariners impiously invoke the Virgin_ Mary, _St._
Christopher, _and the Sea itself. Saints are not to be
pray'd to, but God alone._
ANTONY _and_ ADOLPH.
_Ant._ You tell dreadful Stories: Is this going to Sea? God forbid that
ever any such Thing should come into my Mind.
_Adol._ That which I have related, is but a Diversion, in Comparison to
what you'll hear presently.
_Ant._ I have heard Calamities enough already, my Flesh trembles to hear
you relate them, as if I were in Danger myself.
_Adol._ But Dangers that are past, are pleasant to be thought on. One
thing happen'd that Night, that almost put the Pilot out of all Hopes of
Safety.
_Ant._ Pray what was that?
_Adol._ The Night was something lightish, and one of the Sailors was got
into the Skuttle (so I think they call it) at the Main-Top-Mast, looking
out if he could see any Land; a certain Ball of Fire began to stand by
him, which is the worst Sign in the World to Sailors, if it be single;
but a very good one, if double. The Antients believed these to be
_Castor_ and _Pollux_.
_Ant._ What have they to do with Sailors, one of which was a Horseman,
and the other a Prize-Fighter?
_Adol._ It was the Pleasure of Poets, so to feign. The Steersman who sat
at the Helm, calls to him, Mate, says he, (for so Sailors call one
another) don't you see what a Companion you have by your Side? I do see,
says he, and I pray that he may be a lucky one. By and by this fiery
Ball glides down the Ropes, and rolls itself over and over close to the
Pilot.
_Ant._ And was not he frighted out of his Wits?
_Adol._ Sailors are us'd to terrible Sights. It stopp'd a little there,
then roll'd itself all round the Sides of the Ship; after that, slipping
through the Hatches, it vanished away. About Noon the Storm began to
increase. Did you ever see the _Alps_?
_Ant._ I have seen them.
_Adol._ Those Mountains are Mole Hills, if they be compar'd to the Waves
of the Sea. As oft as we were toss'd up, one might have touch'd the Moon
with his Finger; and as oft as we were let fall down into the Sea, we
seem'd to be going directly down to Hell, the Earth gaping to receive
us.
_Ant._ O mad Folks, that trust themselves to the Sea!
_Adol._ The Mariners striving in Vain with the Storm, at length the
Pilot, all pale as Death comes to us.
_Ant._ That Paleness presages some great Evil.
_Adol._ My Friends, says he, I am no longer Master of my Ship, the Wind
has got the better of me; all that we have now to do is to place our
Hope in God, and every one to prepare himself for Death.
_Ant._ This was cold Comfort.
_Adol._ But in the first Place, says he, we must lighten the Ship;
Necessity requires it, tho' 'tis a hard Portion. It is better to
endeavour to save our Lives with the Loss of our Goods, than to perish
with them. The Truth persuaded, and a great many Casks of rich
Merchandize were thrown over-Board. _Ant._ This was casting away,
according to the Letter.
_Adol._ There was in the Company, a certain _Italian_, that had been
upon an Embassy to the King of _Scotland_. He had a whole Cabinet full
of Plate, Rings, Cloth, and rich wearing Apparel.
_Ant._ And he, I warrant ye, was unwilling to come to a Composition with
the Sea.
_Adol._ No, he would not; he had a Mind either to sink or swim with his
beloved Riches.
_Ant._ What said the Pilot to this?
_Adol._ If you and your Trinkets were to drown by yourselves, says he,
here's no Body would hinder you; but it is not fit that we should run
the Risque of our Lives, for the Sake of your Cabinet: If you won't
consent, we'll throw you and your Cabinet into the Sea together.
_Ant._ Spoken like a Tarpawlin.
_Adol._ So the Italian submitted, and threw his Goods over-Board, with
many a bitter Curse to the Gods both above and below, that he had
committed his Life to so barbarous an Element.
_Ant._ I know the Italian Humour.
_Adol._ The Winds were nothing the less boisterous for our Presents, but
by and by burst our Cordage, and threw down our Sails.
_Ant._ Lamentable!
_Adol._ Then the Pilot comes to us again.
_Ant._ What, with another Preachment?
_Adol._ He gives us a Salute; my Friends, says he, the Time exhorts us
that every one of us should recommend himself to God, and prepare for
Death. Being ask'd by some that were not ignorant in Sea Affairs, how
long he thought the Ship might be kept above Water, he said, he could
promise nothing, but that it could not be done above three Hours.
_Ant._ This was yet a harder Chapter than the former.
_Adol._ When he had said this, he orders to cut the Shrouds and the Mast
down by the Board, and to throw them, Sails and all, into the Sea.
_Ant._ Why was this done?
_Adol._ Because, the Sail either being gone or torn, it would only be a
Burden, but not of Use; all our Hope was in the Helm.
_Ant._ What did the Passengers do in the mean Time?
_Adol._ There you might have seen a wretched Face of Things; the
Mariners, they were singing their _Salve Regina_, imploring the Virgin
Mother, calling her the Star of the Sea, the Queen of Heaven, the Lady
of the World, the Haven of Health, and many other flattering Titles,
which the sacred Scriptures never attributed to her.
_Ant._ What has she to do with the Sea, who, as I believe, never went a
Voyage in her Life?
_Adol._ In ancient Times, _Venus_ took Care of Mariners, because she was
believ'd to be born of the Sea and because she left off to take Care of
them, the Virgin Mother was put in her Place, that was a Mother, but not
a Virgin.
_Ant._ You joke.
_Adol._ Some were lying along upon the Boards, worshipping the Sea,
pouring all they had into it, and flattering it, as if it had been some
incensed Prince.
_Ant._ What did they say?
_Adol._ O most merciful Sea! O most generous Sea! O most rich Sea! O
most beautiful Sea, be pacified, save us; and a Deal of such Stuff they
sung to the deaf Ocean.
_Ant._ Ridiculous Superstition! What did the rest do?
_Adol._ Some did nothing but spew, and some made Vows. There was an
_Englishman_ there, that promis'd golden Mountains to our Lady of
_Walsingham_, so he did but get ashore alive. Others promis'd a great
many Things to the Wood of the Cross, which was in such a Place; others
again, to that which was in such a Place; and the same was done by the
Virgin _Mary_, which reigns in a great many Places, and they think the
Vow is of no Effect, unless the Place be mentioned.
_Ant._ Ridiculous! As if the Saints did not dwell in Heaven.
_Adol._ Some made Promises to become _Carthusians_. There was one who
promised he would go a _Pilgrimage_ to St. _James_ at _Compostella_,
bare Foot and bare Head, cloth'd in a Coat of Mail, and begging his
Bread all the Way.
_Ant._ Did no Body make any Mention of St. _Christopher_?
_Adol._ Yes, I heard one, and I could not forbear laughing, who bawling
out aloud, lest St. _Christopher_ should not hear him, promised him, who
is at the Top of a Church at _Paris_, rather a Mountain than a Statue, a
wax Taper as big as he was himself: When he had bawl'd out this over and
over as loud as he could, an Acquaintance of his jogg'd him on the
Elbow, and caution'd him: Have a Care what you promise, for if you
should sell all you have in the World, you will not be able to pay for
it. He answer'd him softly, lest St. _Christopher_ should hear him, you
Fool, says he, do you think I mean as I speak, if I once got safe to
Shore, I would not give him so much as a tallow Candle.
_Ant._ O Blockhead! I fancy he was a _Hollander_.
_Adol._ No, he was a _Zealander_.
_Ant._ I wonder no Body thought of St. _Paul_, who has been at Sea, and
having suffered Shipwreck, leapt on Shore. For he being not unacquainted
with the Distress, knows how to pity those that are in it.
_Adol._ He was not so much as named.
_Ant._ Were they at their Prayers all the While?
_Adol._ Ay, as if it had been for a Wager. One sung his _Hail Queen_;
another, _I believe in God_. There were some who had certain particular
Prayers not unlike magical Charms against Dangers.
_Ant._ How Affliction makes Men religious! In Prosperity we neither
think of God nor Saint. But what did you do all this While? Did you not
make Vows to some Saints?
_Adol._ No, none at all.
_Ant._ Why so?
_Adol._ I make no Bargains with Saints. For what is this but a Bargain
in Form? I'll give you, if you do so and so; or I will do so and so, if
you do so and so: I'll give you a wax Taper, if I swim out alive; I'll
go to _Rome_, if you save me.
_Ant._ But did you call upon none of the Saints for Help?
_Adol._ No, not so much as that neither.
_Ant._ Why so?
_Adol._ Because Heaven is a large Place, and if I should recommend my
Safety to any Saint, as suppose, to St. _Peter_, who perhaps, would hear
soonest, because he stands at the Door; before he can come to God
Almighty, or before he could tell him my Condition, I may be lost.
_Ant._ What did you do then?
_Adol._ I e'en went the next Way to God the Father, saying, _Our Father
which art in Heaven_. There's none of the Saints hears sooner than he
does, or more readily gives what is ask'd for.
_Ant._ But in the mean Time did not your Conscience check you? Was you
not afraid to call him Father, whom you had offended with so many
Wickednesses?
_Adol._ To speak ingenuously, my Conscience did a little terrify me at
first, but I presently took Heart again, thus reasoning with myself;
There is no Father so angry with his Son, but if he sees him in Danger
of being drowned in a River or Pond, he will take him, tho' it be by the
Hair of the Head, and throw him out upon a Bank. There was no Body among
them all behaved herself more composed than a Woman, who had a Child
sucking at her Breast.
_Ant._ What did she do?
_Adol._ She only neither bawl'd, nor wept, nor made Vows, but hugging
her little Boy, pray'd softly. In the mean Time the Ship dashing ever
and anon against the Ground, the Pilot being afraid she would be beat
all to Pieces, under-girded her with Cables from Head to Stern.
_Ant._ That was a sad Shift!
_Adol._ Upon this, up starts an old Priest about threescore Years of
Age, his Name was _Adam_. He strips himself to his Shirt, throws away
his Boots and Shoes, and bids us all in like Manner to prepare ourselves
for swimming. Then standing in the middle of the Ship, he preach'd a
Sermon to us, upon the five Truths of the Benefit of Confession, and
exhorted every Man to prepare himself, for either Life or Death. There
was a _Dominican_ there too, and they confess'd those that had a Mind to
it.
_Ant._ What did you do?
_Adol._ I seeing that every thing was in a Hurry, confess'd privately to
God, condemning before him my Iniquity, and imploring his Mercy.
_Ant._ And whither should you have gone, do you think, if you had
perished?
_Adol._ I left that to God, who is my Judge; I would not be my own
Judge. But I was not without comfortable Hopes neither. While these
Things were transacting, the Steersman comes to us again all in Tears;
Prepare your selves every one of you, says he, for the Ship will be of
no Service to us for a quarter of an Hour. For now she leak'd in several
Places. Presently after this he brings us Word that he saw a Steeple a
good Way off, and exhorts us to implore the Aid of that Saint, whoever
it was, who had the protection of that Temple. They all fall down and
pray to the unknown Saint.
_Ant._ Perhaps he would have heard ye, if ye had call'd upon him by his
Name.
_Adol._ But that we did not know. In the mean Time the Pilate steers the
Ship, torn and leaking every where, and ready to fall in Pieces, if she
had not been undergirt with Cables, as much as he could toward that
Place.
_Ant._ A miserable Condition.
_Adol._ We were now come so near the Shoar, that the Inhabitants of the
Place could see us in Distress, and ran down in Throngs to the utmost
Edge of the Shoar, and holding up Gowns and Hats upon Spears, invited us
to make towards them, and stretching out their Arms towards Heaven,
signified to us that they pitied our Misfortune.
_Ant._ I long to know what happened.
_Adol._ The Ship was now every where full of Water, that we were no
safer in the Ship than if we had been in the Sea.
_Ant._ Now was your Time to betake yourself to divine Help.
_Adol._ Ay, to a wretched one. The Sailors emptied the Ship's Boat of
Water, and let it down into the Sea. Every Body was for getting into it,
the Mariners cry'd out amain, they'll sink the Boat, it will not hold so
many; that every one should take what he could get, and swim for it.
There was no Time now for long Deliberation. One gets an Oar, another a
Pole, another a Gutter, another a Bucket, another a Plank, and every one
relying upon their Security, they commit themselves to the Billows.
_Ant._ But what became of the Woman that was the only Person that made
no Bawling?
_Adol._ She got to Shoar the first of them all.
_Ant._ How could she do that?
_Adol._ We set her upon a broad Plank, and ty'd her on so fast that she
could not easily fall off, and we gave her a Board in her Hand to make
Use of instead of an Oar, and wishing her good Success, we set her
afloat, thrusting her off from the Ship with Poles, that she might be
clear of it, whence was the greatest Danger. And she held her Child in
her left Hand, and row'd with her right Hand.
_Ant._ O _Virago_!
_Adol._ Now when there was nothing else left, one pull'd up a wooden
Image of the Virgin _Mary_, rotten, and rat-eaten, and embracing it in
his Arms, try'd to swim upon it.
_Ant._ Did the Boat get safe to Land?
_Adol._ None perish'd sooner than they that were in that, and there were
above thirty that had got into it.
_Ant._ By what bad Accident was that brought about?
_Adol._ It was overset by the rolling of the Ship, before they could get
clear of it.
_Ant._ A sad Accident: But how then?
_Adol._ While I was taking Care for others, I had like to have been lost
myself.
_Ant._ How so?
_Adol._ Because there was nothing left that was fit for swimming.
_Ant._ There Corks would have been of good Use.
_Adol._ In that Condition I would rather have had a sorry Cork than a
gold Candlestick. I look'd round about me, at Length I bethought myself
of the Stump of the Mast, and because I could not get it out alone, I
took a Partner; upon this we both plac'd ourselves, and committed
ourselves to the Sea. I held the right End, and my Companion the left
End. While we lay tumbling and tossing, the old preaching Sea-Priest
threw himself upon our Shoulders. He was a huge Fellow. We cry out,
who's that third Person? He'll drown us all. But he very calmly bids us
be easy, for there was Room enough, God will be with us.
_Ant._ How came he to be so late?
_Adol._ He was to have been in the Boat with the _Dominican_. For they
all paid him this Deference. But tho' they had confess'd themselves in
the Ship, yet having forgotten I know not what Circumstances, they
confess'd over again at the Ship-Side, and each lays his Hand upon the
other, and while this was doing the Boat was over-turn'd. This I had
from _Adam_ himself.
_Ant._ What became of the _Dominican_?
_Adol._ As the same Man told me, having implor'd the Help of his Saints,
and stript himself, he threw himself naked into the Sea.
_Ant._ What Saints did he call upon?
_Adol._ St. _Dominick_, St. _Thomas_, St. _Vincent_, and one of the
_Peters_, but I can't tell which: But his chief Reliance was upon
_Catherinea Senensis_.
_Ant._ Did he not remember _Christ_?
_Adol._ Not, as the old Priest told me.
_Ant._ He would have swam better if he had thrown off his sanctified
Coul: But if that had been laid aside, how should _Catherine_ of _Siena_
have known him? But go on and tell me about yourself.
_Adol._ While we were yet tumbling and tossing near the Ship, which
roll'd hither and thither at the Mercy of the Waves, the Thigh of him
that held the left End of the Stump of the Mast was broken by a great
Spike, and so that made him let go his Hold. The old Priest wishing him
everlasting Rest, took his Place, encouraging me to maintain my Post on
the right Hand resolutely, and to strike out my Feet stoutly. In the
mean Time we drank in abundance of salt Water. For _Neptune_ had
provided us not only a salt Bath, but a salt Potion too, altho' the old
Priest prescribed a Remedy for it.
_Ant._ What was that?
_Adol._ Why, as often as a Billow met us, he turn'd his Head and shut
his Mouth.
_Ant._ You tell me of a brave old Fellow.
_Adol._ When we had been some Time swimming at this Rate, and had made
some Way, the old Priest being a very tall Man, cries out, Be of good
Heart, I feel Ground; but I durst not hope for such a Blessing. No, no,
says I, we are too far from Shoar to hope to feel Ground. Nay, says he,
I feel the Ground with my Feet. Said I, perhaps it is some of the Chests
that have been roll'd thither by the Sea. Nay, says he, I am sure I feel
Ground by the Scratching of my Toes. Having floated thus a little
longer, and he had felt the Bottom again, Do you do what you please,
says he, I'll leave you the whole Mast, and wade for it. And so he took
his Opportunity, at the Ebbing of the Billows, he made what Haste he
could on his Feet, and when the Billows came again, he took Hold of his
Knees with his Hands, and bore up against the Billows, hiding himself
under them as Sea Gulls and Ducks do, and at the Ebbing of the Wave, he
would start up and run for it. I seeing that this succeeded so well to
him, followed his Example. There stood upon the Shoar Men, who had long
Pikes handed from one to another, which kept them firm against the Force
of the Waves, strong bodied Men, and accustom'd to the Waves, and he
that was last of them held out a Pike to the Person swimming towards
him. All that came to Shoar, and laying hold of that, were drawn safely
to dry Land. Some were sav'd this Way.
_Ant._ How many?
_Adol._ Seven. But two of these fainted away being brought to the Fire.
_Ant._ How many were in the Ship?
_Adol._ Fifty-eight.
_Ant._ O cruel Sea. At least it might have been content with the Tithes,
which are enough for Priests. Did it restore so few out of so great a
Number?
_Adol._ There we had Experience of the wonderful Humanity of the Nation,
that supply'd us with all Necessaries with exceeding Chearfulness; as
Lodging, Fire, Victuals, Cloaths, and Money to bear our Charges when we
went away.
_Ant._ What Country was it?
_Adol. Holland._
_Ant._ There's no Nation more human, altho' they are encompass'd with
such fierce Nations. I fancy you won't be for going to Sea again.
_Adol._ No, unless God shall please to deprive me of my Reason.
_Ant._ I would rather hear such Stories than feel them.
_DIVERSORIA._
The ARGUMENT.
_This Colloquy shews the various Customs of Nations and
their Civility in treating Strangers. An Inn at_ Leyden
_where are nothing but Women. The Manners of the_ French
_Inns, who are us'd to tell Stories, and break Jests.
The_ Germans, _far more uncivil in treating Travellers,
being rude, and wholly inhospitable: The Guests look
after their own Horses: The Method of receiving them into
the Stove: They provide no Supper, till they know how
many Guests they shall have: All that come that Night,
sit down to Supper together: All pay alike, tho' one
drinks twice as much Wine as another does._
BERTULPH and WILLIAM.
_Bert._ I wonder what is the Fancy of a great many, for staying two or
three Days at _Lyons_? When I have once set out on a Journey, I an't at
Rest till I come to my Journey's End.
_Will._ Nay, I wonder as much, that any Body can get away from thence.
_Bert._ But why so?
_Will._ Because that's a Place the Companions of _Ulysses_ could not
have got away from. There are _Sirens_. No Body is better entertain'd at
his own House, than he is there at an Inn.
_Bert._ What is done there?
_Will._ There's a Woman always waiting at Table, which makes the
Entertainment pleasant with Railleries, and pleasant Jests. And the
Women are very handsome there. First the Mistress of the House came and
bad us Welcome, and to accept kindly what Fare we should have; after
her, comes her Daughter, a very fine Woman, of so handsome a Carriage,
and so pleasant in Discourse, that she would make even _Cato_ himself
merry, were he there: And they don't talk to you as if you were perfect
Strangers, but as those they have been a long Time acquainted with, and
familiar Friends.
_Bert._ O, I know the _French_ Way of Civility very well.
_Will._ And because they can't be always with you, by Reason of the
other Affairs of the House, and the welcoming of other Guests, there
comes a Lass, that supplies the Place of the Daughter, till she is at
Leisure to return again. This Lass is so well instructed in the Knack of
Repartees, that she has a Word ready for every Body, and no Conceit
comes amiss to her. The Mother, you must know, was somewhat in Years.
_Bert._ But what was your Table furnish'd with? For Stories fill no
Bellies.
_Will._ Truly, so splendid, that I was amaz'd that they could afford to
entertain their Guests so, for so small a Price. And then after Dinner,
they entertain a Man with such facetious Discourse, that one cannot be
tired; that I seemed to be at my own House, and not in a strange Place.
_Bert._ And how went Matters in your Chambers?
_Will._ Why, there was every where some pretty Lass or other, giggling
and playing wanton Tricks? They ask'd us if we had any foul Linnen to
wash; which they wash and bring to us again: In a word, we saw nothing
there but young Lasses and Women, except in the Stable, and they would
every now and then run in there too. When you go away, they embrace ye,
and part with you with as much Affection, as if you were their own
Brothers, or near Kinsfolks.
_Bert._ This Mode perhaps may become the _French_, but methinks the Way
of the _Germans_ pleases me better, which is more manly.
_Will._ I never have seen _Germany_; therefore, pray don't think much to
tell how they entertain a Traveller.
_Bert._ I can't tell whether the Method of entertaining be the same
every where; but I'll tell you what I saw there. No Body bids a Guest
welcome, lest he should seem to court his Guests to come to him, for
that they look upon to be sordid and mean, and not becoming the German
Gravity. When you have called a good While at the Gate, at Length one
puts his Head out of the Stove Window (for they commonly live in Stoves
till Midsummer) like a Tortoise from under his Shell: Him you must ask
if you can have any Lodging there; if he does not say no, you may take
it for granted, that there is Room for you. When you ask where the
Stable is, he points to it; there you may curry your Horse as you please
yourself, for there is no Servant will put a Hand to it. If it be a
noted Inn, there is a Servant shews you the Stable, and a Place for your
Horse, but incommodious enough; for they keep the best Places for those
that shall come afterwards; especially for Noblemen. If you find Fault
with any Thing, they tell you presently, if you don't like, look for
another Inn. In their Cities, they allow Hay, but very unwillingly and
sparingly, and that is almost as dear as Oats. When you have taken Care
of your Horse, you come whole into the Stove, Boots, Baggage, Dirt and
all, for that is a common Room for all Comers.
_Will._ In _France_, they appoint you a separate Chamber, where you may
change your Cloaths, clean and warm your self, or take Rest if you have
a Mind to it.
_Bert._ There's nothing of that here. In the Stove, you pull off your
Boots, put on your Shoes, and if you will, change your Shirt, hang up
your wet Cloths near the Stove Iron, and get near it to dry yourself.
There's Water provided for you to wash your Hands, if you will; but as
for the Cleanness of it, it is for the most Part such that you will want
another Water to wash that off.
_Will._ I commend this Sort of People, that have nothing of Effeminacy
in them.
_Bert._ If you come in at four a-Clock in the Afternoon, you must not go
to Supper till nine, and sometimes not till ten.
_Will._ Why so?
_Bert._ They never make any Thing ready till they see all their Company
together, that one Trouble may serve for all.
_Will._ They are for taking the shortest Way.
_Bert._ You are right; so that oftentimes, there come all together into
the same Stove, eighty or ninety Foot-Men, Horse-Men, Merchants,
Marriners, Waggoners, Husband-Men, Children, Women, sick and sound.
_Will._ This is having all Things in common.
_Bert._ There one combs his Head, another wipes off his Sweat, another
cleans his Spatterdashes or Boots, another belches Garlick; and in
short, there is as great a Confusion of Tongues and Persons, as there
was at the Building the Tower of _Babel_. And if they see any Body of
another Country, who by his Habit looks like a Man of Quality, they all
stare at him so wistfully, as if he was a Sort of strange Animal brought
out of _Africa_. And when they are set at Table, and he behind them,
they will be still looking back at him, and be staring him in the Face,
till they have forgot their Suppers.
_Will._ At _Rome_, _Paris_ or _Venice_, there's no Body thinks any Thing
strange.
_Bert._ In the mean Time, 'tis a Crime for you to call for any Thing.
When it is grown pretty late, and they don't expect any more Guests, out
comes an old grey-bearded Servant, with his Hair cut short, and a
crabbed Look, and a slovenly Dress.
_Will._ Such Fellows ought to be Cup-Bearers to the Cardinals at _Rome_.
_Bert._ He having cast his Eyes about, counts to himself, how many there
are in the Stove; the more he sees there, the more Fire he makes in the
Stove although it be at a Time when the very Heat of the Sun would be
troublesome; and this with them, is accounted a principal Part of good
Entertainment, to make them all sweat till they drop again. If any one
who is not used to the Steam, shall presume to open the Window never so
little, that he be not stifled, presently they cry out to shut it again:
If you answer you are not able to bear it, you'll presently hear, get
you another Inn then.
_Will._ But in my Opinion, nothing is more dangerous, than for so many
to draw in the same Vapour; especially when their Bodies are opened with
the Heat; and to eat in the same Place, and to stay there so many Hours,
not to mention the belching of Garlick, the Farting, the stinking
Breaths, for many have secret Distempers, and every Distemper has its
Contagion; and without doubt, many have the _Spanish_, or as it is
call'd, the _French_ Pox, although it is common to all Nations. And it
is my Opinion, there is as much Danger from such Persons, as there is
from those that have the Leprosy. Tell me now, what is this short of a
Pestilence?
_Bert._ They are Persons of a strong Constitution, and laugh at, and
disregard those Niceties.
_Will._ But in the mean Time, they are bold at the Perils of other Men.
_Bert._ What would you do in this Case? 'Tis what they have been used
to, and it is a Part of a constant Mind, not to depart from a Custom.
_Will._ And yet, within these five and twenty Years, nothing was more in
Vogue in _Brabant_, than hot Baths, but now they are every where grown
out of Use; but the new Scabbado has taught us to lay them down.
_Bert._ Well, but hear the rest: By and by, in comes our bearded
_Ganymede_ again, and lays on the Table as many Napkins as there are
Guests: But, good God! not Damask ones, but such as you'd take to have
been made out of old Sails. There are at least eight Guests allotted to
every Table. Now those that know the Way of the Country, take their
Places, every one as he pleases, for there's no Difference between Poor
or Rich, between the Master and Servant.
_Will._ This was that ancient Equality which now the Tyrant Custom has
driven quite out of the World. I suppose Christ liv'd after this Manner
with his Disciples.
_Bert._ After they are all plac'd, out comes the sour-look'd _Ganymede_
again, and counts his Company over again; by and by he comes in again,
and brings every Man a Wooden Dish, and a Spoon of the same Silver, and
then a Glass; and then a little after he brings Bread, which the Guests
may chip every one for themselves at Leisure, while the Porridge is
boiling. For sometimes they sit thus for near an Hour.
_Will._ Do none of the Guests call for Meat in the mean Time?
_Bert._ None who knows the Way of the Country. At last the Wine is set
upon the Table: Good God! how far from being tasteless? So thin and
sharp, that Sophisters ought to drink no other. And if any of the Guests
should privately offer a Piece of Money to get a little better Wine some
where else; at first they'll say nothing to you, but give you a Look, as
if they were going to murder you; and if you press it farther, they
answer you, there have been so many Counts and Marquisses that have
lodg'd here, and none of them ever found fault with this Wine: If you
don't like it, get you another Inn. They account only the Noblemen of
their own Nation to be Men, and where-ever you come, they are shewing
you their Arms. By this time, comes a Morsel to pacify a barking
Stomach: And by and by follow the Dishes in great Pomp; commonly the
first has Sippits of Bread in Flesh Broth, or if it be a Fish Day, in a
Soup of Pulse. After that comes in another Soup, and then a Service of
Butcher's Meat, that has been twice boil'd, or salt Meats warm'd again,
and then Pulse again, and by and by something of more solid Food, until
their Stomachs being pretty well staid, they bring roast Meat or stewed
Fish, which is not to be at all contemn'd; but this they are sparing of,
and take it away again quickly. This is the Manner they order the
Entertainment, as Comedians do, who intermingle Dances among their
Scenes, so do they their Chops and Soups by Turns: But they take Care
that the last Act shall be the best.
_Will._ This is the Part of a good Poet.
_Bert._ And it would be a heinous Offence, if in the mean Time any Body
should say, Take away this Dish, there's no Body eats. You must sit your
Time appointed, which I think they measure by the Hour-Glass. At length,
out comes that bearded Fellow, or the Landlord himself, in a Habit but
little differing from his Servants, and asks how cheer you? And by and
by some better Wine is brought. And they like those best that drink
most, tho' he that drinks most pays no more than he that drinks least.
_Will._ A strange Temper of the Nation!
_Bert._ There are some of them that drink twice as much Wine as they pay
for their Ordinary. But before I leave this Entertainment, it is
wonderful what a Noise and Chattering there is, when once they come to
be warm with Wine. In short, it deafens a Man. They oftentimes bring in
a Mixture of Mimicks, which these People very much delight in, tho' they
are a detestable Sort of Men. There's such a singing, prating, bawling,
jumping, and knocking, that you would think the Stove were falling upon
your Head, and one Man can't hear another speak. And this they think is
a pleasant Way of living, and there you must sit in Spight of your Heart
till near Midnight.
_Will._ Make an End of your Meal now, for I myself am tir'd with such a
tedious one.
_Bert._ Well, I will. At length the Cheese is taken away, which scarcely
pleases them, except it be rotten and full of Maggots. Then the old
bearded Fellow comes again with a Trencher, and a many Circles and
semi-Circles drawn upon it with Chalk, this he lays down upon the Table,
with a grim Countenance, and without speaking. You would say he was some
_Charon_. They that understand the Meaning of this lay down their Money
one after another till the Trencher is fill'd. Having taken Notice of
those who lay down, he reckons it up himself, and if all is paid, he
gives you a Nod.
_Will._ But what if there should be any Thing over and above?
_Bert._ Perhaps he'll give it you again, and they oftentimes do so.
_Will._ Does no Body find fault with the Reckoning?
_Bert._ No Body that is wise. For they will say, what Sort of a Fellow
are you? You pay no more than the rest.
_Will._ This is a frank Sort of Men, you are speaking of.
_Bert._ If any one is weary with his Journey, and desires to go to Bed
as soon as he has supp'd, he is bid to stay till the rest go too.
_Will._ This seems to me to be _Plato_'s City.
_Bert._ Then every one is shew'd to his Chamber, and truly 'tis nothing
else but a Chamber, there is only a Bed there, and nothing else that you
can either make Use of or steal.
_Will._ Are Things very clean there?
_Bert._ As clean as they were at the Table. Sheets wash'd perhaps six
Months ago.
_Will._ What becomes of your Horses all this While?
_Bert._ They are treated after the Manner that the Men are.
_Will._ But is there the same Treatment every where.
_Bert._ It is a little more civil in some Places, and worse in others,
than I have told you; but in general it is thus.
_Will._ What if I should now tell you how they treat their Guests in
that Part of _Italy_ call'd _Lombardy_, and in _Spain_, and in
_England_, and in _Wales_, for the _English_ have the Manners both of
the _French_ and the _Germans_, being a Mixture of those two Nations.
The _Welsh_ boast themselves to be the original _English_.
_Bert._ Pray relate it. I never had the Opportunity of travelling in
them.
_Will._ I have not Leisure now, and the Master of the Ship bid me be on
board by three a Clock, unless I would lose my Passage. Another Time we
shall have an Opportunity of prating our Bellies full.
_The YOUNG MAN and HARLOT._
The ARGUMENT.
_This is certainly a divine Colloquy, that makes even a
Bawdy-House a chaste Place! God can't be deceiv'd, his
Eyes penetrate into the most secret Places. That young
Persons ought in an especial Manner to take Care of their
Chastity. A young Woman, who made herself common to get a
Livelihood, is recovered from that Course of Life, as
wretched as it is scandalous._