IT is utterly impossible for anything in this world to fix our appetites
and desires; but they are still flitting, and restless like pilgrims;
delighted and nourished with variety: which shows how much we are
mistaken in the value and quality of the things we covet. And hence it
is, that what we pursue with the greatest delight and passion imaginable,
yields us nothing but satiety and repentance in the possession; yet such
is the power of these appetites of ours that when they call and command,
we follow and obey; though we find in the end that what we took for a
beauty, upon the chase proves but a carcass in the quarry; and we are
sick on’t as soon as we have it. Now the world, that knows our palate
and inclination, never fails to feed the humour, and to flatter and
entertain us with all sorts of change and novelty, as the most certain
method of gaining upon our affections.
One would have thought that these considerations might have put sober
thoughts and resolutions in my head, but it was my fate to be taken off,
in the very middle of my morality and speculations, and carried away from
myself by vanity and weakness into the wide world, where I was for a
certain time, not much unsatisfied with my condition. As I passed from
one place to another, several that saw me (I perceived) did but make
sport with me: for the further I went, the more I was at a loss in that
labyrinth of delusions. One while I was in with the sword-men and
bravoes; up to the ears in challenges, and quarrels; and never without an
arm in a scarf, or a broken head. Another fit; I was never well, but at
the Fleece Tavern, or Bear at bridge-foot, stuffing my guts with food and
tipple, till the hoops were ready to burst. Beside twenty other
entertainments that I found, every jot as extravagant as these, which to
my great trouble and admiration left me not so much as one moment of
repose.
As I was in one of my unquiet and pensive moods, somebody called after
me, and plucked me by the cloak, which proved to be a person of a
venerable age; his clothes miserably poor and tattered; and his face,
just as if he had been trampled upon in the streets, which did not yet
hinder but that he had still the air and appearance of one that deserved
much honour and respect. “Good father,” said I to him, “why should you
envy me my enjoyments? Pray’e let me alone, and do not trouble yourself
with me or my doings. You’re past the pleasure of life yourself, and
can’t endure to see other people merry, that have the world before them.
Consider of it; you are now upon the point of leaving the world, and I am
but newly come into’t, but ’tis the trick of all old men to be carping at
the actions of their juniors.” “Son,” said the old man, smiling, “I
shall neither hinder nor envy thy delights, but in pure pity I would fain
reclaim thee. Dost thou know the price of a day an hour or a minute?
Didst ever examine the value of time? If thou hadst, thou wouldst employ
it better; and not cast away so many blessed opportunities upon trifles;
and so easily, and insensibly, part with so inestimable a treasure.
What’s become of thy past hours? have they made thee a promise to come
back again at a call, when thou hast need of them? Or, canst thou show
me which way they went? No, no; they are gone without recovery; and in
their flight, methinks, Time seems to turn his head, and laugh over his
shoulder in derision of those that made no better use of him, when they
had him. Dost thou not know that all the minutes of our life are but as
so many links of a chain that has death at the end on’t? and every moment
brings thee nearer thy expected end, which perchance, while the word is
speaking, may be at thy very door; and doubtless at thy rate of living,
it will be upon thee before thou art aware. How stupid is he that dies
while he lives, for fear of dying! How wicked is he that lives, as if he
should never die; and only fears death when he comes to feel it! which is
too late for comfort, either to body or soul: and he is certainly none of
the wisest that spends all his days in lewdness and debauchery, without
considering that of his whole life any minute might have been his last.”
“My good father,” said I, “I am beholding to you for your excellent
discourses, for they have delivered me out of the power of a thousand
frivolous and vain affections, that had taken possession of me. But who
are you, I pray’ee? And what is your business here?” “My poverty and
these rags,” quoth he, “are enough to tell ye that I am an honest man, a
friend to truth, and one that will not be mealy-mouthed, when he may
speak it to purpose. Some call me the plain-dealer; others, the
undeceiver-general. You see me all in tatters, wounds, scars, bruises.
And what is all this but the requital the world gives me for my good
counsel and kind visits? And yet after all this endeavour to get shut of
me they call themselves my friends, though they curse me to the pit of
hell, as soon as ever I come near them; and had rather be hanged than
spend one quarter of an hour in my company. If thou hast a mind to see
the world I talk of, come along with me, and I’ll carry thee into a place
where thou shalt have a full prospect of it, and without any
inconvenience see all that’s in’t, or in the people that dwell in’t, and
look it through and through.” “What’s the name of this place?” quoth I.
“It is called,” said he, “the Hypocrites’ Walk; and it crosses the world
from one Pole to th’ other. It is large, and populous; for I believe
there’s not any man alive but has either a house or a chamber in’t. Some
live in’t for altogether; others take it only in passage: for there are
hypocrites of several sorts; but all mortals have, more or less, a tang
of the leaven. That fellow there in the corner came but t’other day from
the plow tail, and would now fain be a gentleman. But had not he better
pay his debts, and walk alone, than break his promises to keep a lackey?
There’s another rascal that would fain be a lord, and would venture a
voyage to Venice for the title, but that he’s better at building castles
in the air than upon the water. In the meantime he puts on a nobleman’s
face and garb; he swears and drinks like a lord, and keeps his hounds and
whores, which ’tis feared in the end will devour their master. Mark now
that piece of gravity and form; he walks, ye see, as if he moved by
clock-work; his words are few and low; he makes all his answers by a
shrug or a nod. This is the hypocrite of a Minister of State, who with
all his counterfeit of wisdom is one of the veriest noddies in nature.
“Face about now, and mind those decrepit sots there that can scarce lift
a leg over a threshold, and yet they must be dyeing their hair, colouring
their beards, and playing the young fools again, with a thousand
hobby-horse tricks and antique dresses. On the other side, ye have a
company of silly boys taking upon them to govern the world, under a visor
of wisdom and experience.” “What lord is that,” said I, “in the rich
clothes there, and the fine laces?” “That lord,” quoth he, “is a tailor,
in his holiday clothes; and if he were now upon his shop-board, his own
scissors and needles would hardly know him: and you must understand that
hypocrisy is so epidemical a disease that it has laid hold of the trades
themselves as well as the masters. The cobbler must be saluted Mr.
Translator. The groom names himself gentleman of the horse; the fellow
that carries guts to the bears, writes, one of His Majesty’s officers.
The hangman calls himself a minister of justice. The mountebank, an able
man. A common whore passes for a courtesan. The bawd acts the Puritan.
Gaming ordinaries are called academies; and bawdy-houses, places of
entertainment. The page styles himself the child of honour; and the
foot-boy calls himself my lady’s page. And every pick-thank names
himself a courtier. The cuckold-maker passes for a fine gentleman; and
the cuckold himself, for the best-natured husband in the world: and a
very ass commences master-doctor. Hocus-pocus tricks are called
sleight-of-hand; lust, friendship; usury, thrift; cheating is but
gallantry; lying wears the name of invention; malice goes for quickness
of apprehension; cowardice, meekness of nature; and rashness carries the
countenance of valour. In fine, this is all but hypocrisy, and knavery
in a disguise, for nothing is called by the right name. Now there are
beside these, certain general appellations taken up, which by long usage
are almost grown into prescription. Every little whore takes upon her to
be a great lady; every gown-man, to be a councillor; every huff to be a
_soldat_; every gay thing to be a cavalier; every parish-clerk to be a
doctor; and every writing-clerk in the office must be called Mr.
Secretary.
“So that the whole world, take it where you will, is but a mere juggle;
and you will find that wrath, gluttony, pride, avarice, luxury, murder,
and a thousand other heinous sins, have all of them hypocrisy for their
source, and thither they’ll return again.” “It would be well,” said I,
“if you could prove what you say; but I can hardly see how so great a
diversity of waters should proceed from one and the same fountain.” “I
do not wonder,” quoth he, “at your distrust, for you are mistaken in very
good company; to fancy a contrariety in many things, which are, in
effect, so much alike. It is agreed upon, both by philosophers and
divines, that all sins are evil; and you must allow, that the will
embraces or pursues no evil but under the resemblance of good; nor does
the sin lie in the representation, or knowledge of what is evil, but in
the consent to it. Which consent itself is sinful, although without any
subsequent act: it’s true, the execution serves afterward for an
aggravation, and ought to be considered under many differences and
distinctions. But in fine, evident it is that the will entertains no
ill, but under the shape of some good. What do ye think now of the
hypocrite that cuts your throat in his arms, and murders you, under
pretence of kindness? ‘What is the hope of an hypocrite?’ says Job. He
neither has nor can have any: for he is wicked as he is an hypocrite; and
even his best actions are worth nothing, because they are not what they
seem to be. So that of all sinners he has the most to answer for. Other
offenders sin only against God. But the hypocrite sins with Him, as well
as against Him, making use of His holy Name as a cloak and countenance
for his wickedness. For which reason, our blessed Saviour, after many
affirmative precepts delivered to His disciples for their instruction,
gave only this negative: ‘Be not sad as the hypocrites,’ which lays them
open in few words; and He might as well have said ‘Be not hypocrites, and
ye shall not be wicked.’”
We were now come to the place the old man told me of, where I found all
according to my expectation, and took the higher ground, that I might
have the better prospect of what passed. The first remarkable thing I
saw was a long funeral train of kindred and guests, following the corpse
of a deceased lady, in company with the disconsolate widower, who marched
with his chin upon his breast, a sad and a heavy pace, muffled up in a
mourning hood, enough to have stifled him, with at least ten yards of
cloth upon his body, and no less in his train. “Alack, alack!” cried I,
“that ever I should live to see so dismal a spectacle! Oh blessed woman!
How did this husband love thee in thy lifetime, that follows thee with
this infinite faith and affection, even to thy grave! And happy the
husband, doubtless, in a wife that deserved this kindness! and in so many
tender friends and relations, to take part with him in his sorrows. My
good father, let me entreat you to observe this doleful encounter.” With
that (shaking his head and smiling) “My son,” quoth he, “thou shalt by
and by perceive that all is nothing in the world but vanity, imposture,
and constraint; and I will shew thee the difference between things
themselves, and their appearances. To see this abundance of torches,
with the magnificence of the ceremony and attendance, one would think
there should be some mighty matter in the business; but let me assure
thee that all this pudder comes to no more than much ado about nothing.
The woman was nothing (effectually) even while she lived: the body now in
the coffin is somewhat a less nothing: and the funeral honours, which are
now paid her come to just nothing too. But the dead it seems must have
their vanities, and their holidays as well as the living. Alas! what’s a
carcass but the most odious sort of putrefaction? A corrupted earth, fit
neither for fruit nor tillage. And then for the sad looks of the
mourners: they are only troubled at the invitation; and would not care a
pin, if the inviter and body too were both at the devil. And that you
might see by their behaviour, and discourses; for when they should have
been praying for the dead, they were prating of her pedigree, and her
last will and testament. ‘I’m not so near akin,’ says one, ‘but I might
have been spared; and I had twenty other things to do.’ Another should
have met company at a tavern; a third, at a play. A fourth mutters that
he is not placed according to his quality. Another cries out, ‘A pox o’
your meetings where there is nothing stirring but worms’ meat.’ Let me
tell ye further, that the widower himself is not grieved as you imagine
for the dead wife; but for the damned expense in blacks, and scutcheons,
tapers, and mourners; and that she was not fairly laid to rest, without
all this ado: for he persuades himself, that she might have found the way
to her grave without a candle. And since she was to die, ’tis his
opinion, that she should have made quicker work on’t: for a good wife is
(like a good Christian) to put her conscience in order betimes, and get
her gone; without lingering in the hands of doctors, ’pothecaries, and
surgeons, to murder her husband too. Or (to save charges) she might have
had the discretion to have died of the plague, which would have staved
off company. This is the second wife he has already turned over, and (to
give the man his due) he has had the wit to secure himself of a third,
while this lay on her deathbed. So that his case is no more than
chopping of a cold wife for a warm one, and he’ll recover this
affliction, I warrant ye.”
The good man, methought, spoke wonders; and being thoroughly convinced of
the danger of trusting to appearances, I took up a resolution, never to
conclude upon anything, though never so plausible, without due
examination and inquiry. With that, the funeral vanished, leaving us
behind; and for a farewell, this sentence: “I am gone before, you are to
follow; and in the meantime, to accompany others to their graves, as you
have done me; and as I, when time was, have attended many others, with as
little care and devotion as yourselves.”
We were taken off from this meditation by a noise we heard in a house
behind us, where we had no sooner set foot over the threshold, but we
were entertained with a concert of six voices, that were set and tuned to
the sighs and groans of a woman newly become a widow. The passion was
acted to the life; but the dead little the better for’t. They would be
ever and anon clapping and wringing of their hands; groaning and sighing,
as if their hearts would break. The hangings, pictures, and furniture
were all taken down and removed; the rooms hung with black, and in one of
them lay the poor disconsolate upon a couch with her condoling friends
about her. It was as dark as pitch, and so much the better, for the
parts they had to play; for there was no discovering of the horrid faces
and strains they made, to fetch up their artificial tears and
lamentations. “Madam,” says one, “tears are but thrown away; and really
the grief to see your ladyship in this condition has made me as lost a
woman to all thought of comfort as yourself.” “I beseech you, madam,
cheer up,” cries another, with almost as many sighs as words, “your
husband’s e’en happy that he is out of this miserable world. He was a
good man, and now he finds the sweet on’t.” “Patience, patience, dear
madam,” cries a third, “’tis the will of Heaven, and there’s no
contending.” “Dost talk of patience,” says she, “and no contending?
Wretched creature that I am! to outlive that dear man! Oh that dear
husband of mine! Oh that I should ever live to see this day!” And then
she fell to blubbering, sobbing, and raving a thousand times worse than
before. “Alas, alas, who will trouble himself with a poor widow! I have
never a friend left to look after me; what shall become of me!”
At this pause came in the chorus with their nose-instruments; and there
was such blowing, snobbing, snivelling, and throwing snot about, that
there was no enduring the house. And all this, you must know, served
them to a double purpose; that is to say, for physic and for complement:
for it passed for the condoling office, and purged their heads of ill
humours all under one. I could not choose but compassionate the poor
widow, a creature forsaken of all the world; and I told my guide as much;
and that a charity (as I thought) would be well bestowed upon her. The
Holy Writ calls them mutes, according to the import of the Hebrew: in
regard that they have nobody to speak for them. And if at any time they
take heart to speak for themselves, they had e’en as good hold their
tongues, for nobody minds them. Is there anything more frequently given
in charge throughout the whole Bible, than to protect the fatherless, and
defend the cause of the widow? as the highest and most necessary point of
Christian charity: in regard that they have neither power, nor right to
defend themselves. Does not Job in the depth of his misery and disgraces
make choice to clear himself toward the widow, upon his expostulations
with the Almighty? [If I have caused the eyes of the widow to fail] (or
consumed the eyes of the widow; after the Hebrew) so that it seems to me,
beside the general duty of charity, we are also bound by the laws of
honour and generosity to assist them: for the poor souls are fain to
plead with their eyes, and beg with their eyes, for want of either hands
or tongues to help themselves. “Indeed you must pardon me my good
father,” said I, “if I cannot hold any longer from bearing a part in this
mournful concert, upon this sad occasion.” “And is this,” quoth the old
man, “the fruit of your boasted divinity? to sink into weakness and
tears, when you have the greatest need of your resolution and prudence.
Have but a little patience, and I’ll unfold you this mystery; though (let
me tell ye) ’tis one of the hardest things in nature, to make any man as
wise as he should be, that conceits himself wise enough already. If this
accident of the widow had not happened, we had had none of the fine
things that have been started upon’t: for ’tis occasion that awakens both
our virtue and philosophy; and ’tis not enough to know the mine where the
treasure lies, unless a man has the skill of drawing it out, and making
the best of what he has in his possession. What are you the better for
all the advantages of wit and learning, without the faculty of reducing
what you know into apt and proper applications?
“Observe me now, and I will show you that this widow that looks as if she
had nothing in her mouth but the service for the dead, and only
hallelujahs in her soul, that this mortified piece of formality has green
thoughts under her black veil, and brisk imaginations about her, in
despite of her calamity and misfortune. The chamber you see is dark; and
their faces are muffled up in their funeral dresses. And what of all
this? when the whole course of their mourning is but a thorough cheat.
Their weeping signifies nothing more, than crying, at so much an hour;
for their tears are hackneyed out, and when they have wept out their
stage, they take up, and are quiet. If you would relieve them, leave
them to themselves; and as soon as your back is turned, you shall have
them singing and dancing, and as merry as Greeks: for take away the
spectators, their hypocrisy is at an end, and the play is done; and now
the confidents’ game begins. ‘Come, come, madam, ’faith we must be
merry’ cries one, ‘we are to live by the living, and not by the dead.
For a bonny young widow as you are, to lie whimpering away your
opportunities and lose so many brave matches! There’s, you know who, I
dare swear, has a month’s mind to you; by my troth I would you were in
bed together, and I’d be hanged, if you did not find one warm bedfellow
worth twenty cold ones.’ ‘Really, madam,’ cries a second, ‘she gives you
good counsel; and if I were in your place, I’d follow it, and make use of
my time. ’Tis but one lost, and ten found. Pray’e tell me, madam, if I
may be so bold; what’s your opinion of that cavalier that was here
yesterday? Certainly he has a great deal of wit; and methinks he’s a
very handsome proper gentleman. Well! if that man has not a strange
passion for you, I’ll never believe my eyes again for his sake; and, in
good faith, if all parties were agreed, I would you were e’en well in his
arms the night before to-morrow. Were it not a burning shame to let such
a beauty lie fallow?’ This sets the widow a-pinking, and simpering like
a furmety-kettle; at length she makes up the pretty little mouth, and
says, ‘’Tis somewhat of the soonest to talk of those affairs; but let it
be as Heaven pleases. However, madam, I am much beholden to you for your
friendly advice.’ You have here the very bottom of her sorrow: she has
taken a second husband into her heart before her first was in his grave.
I should have told you that your right widow eats and drinks more the
first day of her widowhood than in any other of her whole life: for there
appears not a visitant, but presently out comes the groaning cake, a cold
baked meat, or some restorative morsel or other, to comfort the
afflicted; and the cordial bottle must not be forgotten neither, for
sorrow’s dry. So to’t they fall, and at every bit or gulp, the lady
relict fetches ye up a heavy sigh, pretends to chew false, and makes
protestation that for her part she can taste nothing; she has quite lost
her digestion; and has such an oppression in her stomach that she dares
not eat any more, for fear of over-charging nature. ‘And in truth,’ says
she, ‘how can it be otherwise; since (unhappy creature that I am!) he is
gone that gave the relish to all my enjoyments; but there is no recalling
him from the grave, and so, no remedy but patience.’ By this time, you
see,” quoth the old man, “whether your exclamations were reasonable, or
no.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth, when hearing an uproar among the
rabble in the street, we looked out to see what was the matter. And
there we saw a catchpole, without either hat or band, out of breath, and
his face all bloody, crying out, “Help, help, in the king’s name! stop
thief, stop thief!” and all the while, running as hard as he could drive,
after a thief that made away from him, as if the devil had been at his
breech. After him, came an attorney, all dirty, a world of papers in his
hand, an inkhorn at his girdle, and a crowd of nasty people about him;
and down he sat himself just before us, to write somewhat upon his knee.
Bless me (thought I) how a cause prospers in the hand of one of these
fellows, for he had filled his paper in a trice. “These catchpoles,”
said I, “had need to be well paid, for the hazards they run to secure us
in our lives and fortunes; and indeed they deserve it. Look how the poor
wretch is torn, bruised, and battered, and all this for the good and
benefit of the public.”
“Soft and fair,” quoth the old man; “I think thou wouldst never leave
talking, if I did not stop thy mouth sometime. You must know, that he
that made the escape and the catchpole are a couple of ancient friends
and pot-companions. Now the catchpole quarrels the thief for not giving
him a snip in the last booty; and the thief, after a great struggle, and
a good lusty rubber at cuffs, has made a shift to save himself. You’ll
say the rogue had need of good heels, to outrun this gallows-beagle; for
there’s hardly any beast will outstrip a bailiff that runs upon the view
of a quarry. So that there’s not the least thought of a public good in
the catchpole’s action; but merely a prosecution of his own profit, and a
spite to see himself choused. Now if the catchpole, I confess, without
any private interest had made this attempt upon the thief, (being his
friend) to bring him to justice, it had been well; and yet, take this
along with you: it is as natural to let slip a serjeant at a pickpocket
as a greyhound at a hare. The whip, the pillory, the axe, and the halter
make up the best part of the catchpole’s revenue. These people are of
all sorts the most odious to the world; and if men in revenge would
resolve to be virtuous, though but for a year or two, they might starve
them all. It is in fine an unlucky employment, and catchpoles as well as
the devils themselves have the wages of tormentors.”
“I hope,” said I to my guide, “that the attorneys shall have your good
word too.” “Yes, yes, ye need not doubt it,” said the old man, “for your
attorney and your catchpole always hunt in couples. The attorney draws
the information, and has all his forms ready, so that ’tis no more then
but to fill up the blanks, and away to the jail with the delinquent; if
there be anything to be gotten ’tis not a halfpenny matter, whether the
party be guilty or innocent: give but an attorney pen, ink, and paper,
and let him alone for witnesses. In case of an examination, he has the
grace not to insist too much upon plain and naked truth; but to set down
only what makes for his purpose, and then when they come to signing, to
read over in the deponent’s sense (for his memory is good) what he has
written in his own; and by this means, the cause goes on as he pleases.
To prevent this villainy, it were well, if the examiners were as well
sworn to write the truth as the witnesses are to speak it. And yet there
are some honest men of all sorts but among the attorneys; the very
calling does by the honest catchpoles, marshal’s men, and their fellows,
as the sea by the dead: it may entertain them for a while, but in a very
short space it spews them up again.”
The good man would have proceeded, if he had not been taken off by the
rattling of a gilt coach, wherein was a courtier that was blown up as big
as pride and vanity could make him. He sat stiff and upright, as if he
had swallowed a stake; and made it his glory to show himself in that
posture: it would have hurt his eyes, to have exchanged a glance with
anything that was vulgar, and therefore he was very sparing of his looks.
He had a deep laced ruff on, that was right Spanish, which he wore erect,
and stiff starched, that a man would have thought he had carried his head
in a paper-lanthorn. He was a great studier of set faces, and much
affected with looking politic and big. But, for his arms and body, he
had utterly lost or forgotten the use of them: for he could neither bow
nor move his hat to any man that saluted him; no, nor so much as turn
from one side to the other; but sat as if he had been boxed up, like a
Bartlemew-baby. After this magnificent statue, followed a swarm of gaudy
butterfly-lackeys: and his lordship’s company in the coach was a buffoon
and a parasite. “Oh blessed prince!” said I, “to live at this rate of
ease and splendour, and to have the world at will! What a glorious train
is that! Beyond all doubt, there never was a great fortune better
bestowed.” With that, the old man took me up, and told me that the
judgment I had made upon this occasion, from one end to the other, was
all dotage and mistake; save only, when I said he had the world at will:
“and in that,” says he, “you have reason; for what is the world but
labour, vanity, and folly; which is likewise the composition and
entertainment of this cavalier.
“As for the train that follows him let it be examined, and my life for
yours, you shall find more creditors in’t, than servants: there are
bankers, jewellers, scriveners, brokers, mercers, drapers, tailors,
vintners; and these are properly the stays and supporters of this
animated machine. The money, meat, drink, robes, liveries, wages, all
comes out of their pockets; they have this honour for their security; and
must content themselves with promises, and fair words for full
satisfaction, unless they had rather have a footman with a cudgel for
their pay-master. And after all, if this gallant were taken to shrift,
or that a man could enter into the secrets of his conscience, I dare
undertake, it would appear that he that digs in a mine for his bread
lives ten thousand times more at ease than the other, with beating of his
brains night and day for new shifts, tricks and projects to keep himself
above water.
“Observe his companions now, his fool and his flatterer. They are too
hard for him, ye see; and eat, drink, and make merry at his expense.
What greater misery or shame in the world, than for a man to make a
friendship with such rascals, and to spend his time and estate in so
brutal, and insipid a society! It costs him more (beside his credit) to
maintain that couple of coxcombs than would have bought him the
conversation of a brace of grave and learned philosophers. But will ye
now see the bottom of this scandalous and dishonourable kindness? ‘My
lord,’ says the buffoon, ‘you were most infallibly wrapt in your mother’s
smock; for let me be — if ye have not set all the ladies about the court
agog.’ ‘The very truth is,’ cries the parasite, ‘all the rest of the
nobility look like corn-cutters to you; and indeed, wherever you come,
you have still the eyes of the whole company upon you.’ ‘Go to, go to,
gentlemen,’ says my lord, ‘you must not flatter your friends. This is
more your courtesy than my desert; and I have an obligation to you for
your kindness.’ After this manner these asses knab and curry one
another, and play the fools by turns.”
The old man had his words yet between his teeth, when there passed just
by us a lady of pleasure, of so excellent a shape and garb, that it was
impossible to see her without a passion for her, and no less impossible
to look upon anything else, so long as she was to be seen. They that had
seen her once were to see her no more, for she turned her face still to
new-comers. Her motion was graceful and free. One while she’d stare ye
full in the eyes, under colour of opening her hood, to set it in better
order. By and by she’d steal a look at ye with one eye, and a side face,
from the corner of her visor, like a witch that’s afraid to be known when
she comes from a caterwaul. And then out comes the delicate hand, and
discovers the more delicious neck, and breasts, to adjust the handkercher
or the scarf, or to remove some other grievance that made her ladyship
uneasy. Her hair was most artificially disposed into careless rings; and
the best red and white in nature was in her cheeks, if that of her lips
and teeth did not exceed it. In a word, all she looked upon was her own;
and this was the vision for my money, from all the rest. As she was
marching off, I could not choose but take up a resolution to follow her.
But my old man laid a block in the way, and stopped me at the very
starting; which was an affront to a man that was both in love and in
haste, that might very well stir his choler. “My officious friend,” said
I, “he that does not love a woman sucked a sow. And questionless, he
must be either blind or barbarous that’s proof against the charms of so
divine a beauty. Nor would any but a sot let slip the blessed
opportunity of so fair an encounter. A handsome woman? why, what was she
made for, but to be loved? And he that has her, has all that’s lovely or
desirable in nature. For my own part, I would renounce the world for the
fellow of her, and never desire anything either beyond her, or beside
her. What lightning does she carry in her eyes! What charms, and chains
in her looks, and motions, for the very souls of her beholders! Was ever
anything so clear as her forehead? or so black as her eyebrows? One
would swear that her complexion had taken a tincture of vermilion and
milk: and that nature had brought her into the world with pearl and
rubies in her mouth. To speak all in little, she’s the masterpiece of
the creation, worthy of infinite praise, and equal to our largest desires
and imaginations.”
Here the old man cut me short, and bade me make an end of my discourse,
“for thou art,” said he, “a man of much wonder, and small experience, and
delivered over to the spirit of folly and blindness. Thou hast thy eyes
in thy head, and yet not brain enough to know either why they were given
thee, or how to use them. Understand then that the office of the eye is
to see, but ’tis the privilege of the soul to distinguish and choose,
whereas you either do the contrary, or else nothing, which is worse. He
that trusts his eyes, exposes his mind to a thousand torments and
confusions: he shall take clouds for mountains, straight for crooked, one
colour for another, by reason of an undue distance, or an indisposed
medium. We are not able sometimes to say which way a river runs, till we
throw in a twig or straw to find out the current. And what will you say
now, if this prodigious beauty, your new mistress, prove as gross a cheat
and imposture as any of the rest? She went to bed last night as ugly as
a witch; and yet this morning she comes forth in your opinion as glorious
as an angel. The truth of it is, she hires all by the day; and if you
did but see this puppet taken to pieces, you would find her little else
but paint and plaister. To begin her anatomy at the head. You must know
that the hair she wears is borrowed of a tire-woman, for her own was
blown off by an unlucky wind from the coast of Naples. Or if she has any
left, she keeps it private, as a memorial of her antiquity. She is
beholden to the pencil for her eyebrows and complexion. And upon the
whole matter, she is but an old picture refreshed. But the wonder is, to
see a picture, with life and motion; unless perchance she has got the
necromancer’s receipt that made himself young again in his glass bottle.
For all that you see of her that’s good, comes from distilled waters,
essences, powders, and the like; and to see the washing of her face would
fright the devil. She abounds in pomanders, sweet waters, Spanish
pockets, perfumed drawers; and all little enough to qualify the poisonous
whiffs she sends from her toes and arm-pits, which would otherwise
out-stink ten thousand pole-cats. She cannot choose but kiss well, for
her lips are perpetually bathed in oil and grease. And he that embraces
her, shall find the better half of her the tailor’s, and only a stuffing
of cotton and canvas, to supply the defects of her body. When she goes
to bed, she puts off one half of her person with her shoes. What do ye
think of your adored beauty now? or have your eyes betrayed ye? Well,
well; confess your error and mend it; and know that (without more descant
upon this woman) ’tis the design and glory of most of the sex to lead
silly men captive. Nay take the best of them, and what with the trouble
of getting them and the difficulty of pleasing them, he that comes off
best will find himself a loser at the foot of the account. I could
recommend you here to other remedies of love, inseparable from the very
sex, but what I have said already, I hope, will be sufficient.”
* * * * *