IF twenty thousand naked Americans were not able to resist the assaults
of but twenty well-armed Spaniards, I see little possibility for one
honest man to defend himself against twenty thousand knaves, who are all
furnished _cap-à-pie_ with the defensive arms of worldly prudence, and
the offensive, too, of craft and malice. He will find no less odds than
this against him if he have much to do in human affairs. The only
advice, therefore, which I can give him is, to be sure not to venture his
person any longer in the open campaign, to retreat and entrench himself,
to stop up all avenues, and draw up all bridges against so numerous an
enemy. The truth of it is, that a man in much business must either make
himself a knave, or else the world will make him a fool: and if the
injury went no farther than the being laughed at, a wise man would
content himself with the revenge of retaliation: but the case is much
worse, for these civil cannibals too, as well as the wild ones, not only
dance about such a taken stranger, but at last devour him. A sober man
cannot get too soon out of drunken company; though they be never so kind
and merry among themselves, it is not unpleasant only, but dangerous to
him. Do ye wonder that a virtuous man should love to be alone? It is
hard for him to be otherwise; he is so, when he is among ten thousand;
neither is the solitude so uncomfortable to be alone without any other
creature, as it is to be alone in the midst of wild beasts. Man is to
man all kind of beasts—a fawning dog, a roaring lion, a thieving fox, a
robbing wolf, a dissembling crocodile, a treacherous decoy, and a
rapacious vulture. The civilest, methinks, of all nations, are those
whom we account the most barbarous; there is some moderation and good
nature in the Toupinambaltians who eat no men but their enemies, whilst
we learned and polite and Christian Europeans, like so many pikes and
sharks, prey upon everything that we can swallow. It is the great boast
of eloquence and philosophy, that they first congregated men dispersed,
united them into societies, and built up the houses and the walls of
cities. I wish they could unravel all they had woven; that we might have
our woods and our innocence again instead of our castles and our
policies. They have assembled many thousands of scattered people into
one body: it is true, they have done so, they have brought them together
into cities to cozen, and into armies to murder one another; they found
them hunters and fishers of wild creatures, they have made them hunters
and fishers of their brethren; they boast to have reduced them to a state
of peace, when the truth is they have only taught them an art of war;
they have framed, I must confess, wholesome laws for the restraint of
vice, but they raised first that devil which now they conjure and cannot
bind; though there were before no punishments for wickedness, yet there
was less committed because there were no rewards for it. But the men who
praise philosophy from this topic are much deceived; let oratory answer
for itself, the tinkling, perhaps, of that may unite a swarm: it never
was the work of philosophy to assemble multitudes, but to regulate only,
and govern them when they were assembled, to make the best of an evil,
and bring them, as much as is possible, to unity again. Avarice and
ambition only were the first builders of towns, and founders of empire;
they said, “Go to, let us build us a city and a tower whose top may reach
unto heaven, and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon
the face of the earth.” What was the beginning of Rome, the metropolis
of all the world? what was it but a concourse of thieves, and a sanctuary
of criminals? it was justly named by the augury of no less than twelve
vultures, and the founder cemented his walls with the blood of his
brother.
Not unlike to this was the beginning even of the first town, too, in the
world, and such is the original sin of most cities: their actual increase
daily with their age and growth; the more people, the more wicked all of
them. Every one brings in his part to inflame the contagion, which
becomes at last so universal and so strong, that no precepts can be
sufficient preservatives, nor anything secure our safety, but flight from
among the infected. We ought, in the choice of a situation, to regard
above all things the healthfulness of the place, and the healthfulness of
it for the mind rather than for the body. But suppose (which is hardly
to be supposed) we had antidote enough against this poison; nay, suppose,
further, we were always and at all places armed and provided both against
the assaults of hostility and the mines of treachery, it will yet be but
an uncomfortable life to be ever in alarms; though we were compassed
round with fire to defend ourselves from wild beasts, the lodging would
be unpleasant, because we must always be obliged to watch that fire, and
to fear no less the defects of our guard than the diligences of our
enemy. The sum of this is, that a virtuous man is in danger to be trod
upon and destroyed in the crowd of his contraries; nay, which is worse,
to be changed and corrupted by them, and that it is impossible to escape
both these inconveniences without so much caution as will take away the
whole quiet, that is, the happiness of his life. Ye see, then, what he
may lose; but, I pray, what can he get there? _Quid Romæ faciam_?
_Mentiri nescio_. What should a man of truth and honesty do at Rome? he
can neither understand, nor speak the language of the place; a naked man
may swim in the sea, but it is not the way to catch fish there; they are
likelier to devour him than he them, if he bring no nets and use no
deceits. I think, therefore, it was wise and friendly advice which
Martial gave to Fabian when he met him newly arrived at Rome.
Honest and poor, faithful in word and thought;
What has thee, Fabian, to the city brought?
Thou neither the buffoon nor bawd canst play,
Nor with false whispers the innocent betray:
Nor corrupt wives, nor from rich beldams get
A living by thy industry and sweat:
Nor with vain promises and projects cheat,
Nor bribe or flatter any of the great.
But you’re a man of learning, prudent, just:
A man of courage, firm, and fit for trust.
Why, you may stay, and live unenvied here;
But, ’faith! go back, and keep you where you were.
Nay, if nothing of all this were in the case, yet the very sight of
uncleanness is loathsome to the cleanly; the sight of folly and impiety
vexatious to the wise and pious.
Lucretius, by his favour, though a good poet, was but an ill-natured man,
when he said, “It was delightful to see other men in a great storm.” And
no less ill-natured should I think Democritus, who laughed at all the
world, but that he retired himself so much out of it that we may perceive
he took no great pleasure in that kind of mirth. I have been drawn twice
or thrice by company to go to Bedlam, and have seen others very much
delighted with the fantastical extravagancy of so many various madnesses,
which upon me wrought so contrary an effect, that I always returned not
only melancholy, but even sick with the sight. My compassion there was
perhaps too tender, for I meet a thousand madmen abroad, without any
perturbation, though, to weigh the matter justly, the total loss of
reason is less deplorable than the total depravation of it. An exact
judge of human blessings, of riches, honours, beauty, even of wit itself,
should pity the abuse of them more than the want.
Briefly, though a wise man could pass never so securely through the great
roads of human life, yet he will meet perpetually with so many objects
and occasions of compassion, grief, shame, anger, hatred, indignation,
and all passions but envy (for he will find nothing to deserve that) that
he had better strike into some private path; nay, go so far, if he could,
out of the common way, _ut nec facta audiat Pelopidarum_; that he might
not so much as hear of the actions of the sons of Adam. But, whither
shall we fly, then? into the deserts, like the ancient hermits?
_Qua terra patet fera regnat Erynnis_.
_In facinus jurasse putes_.
One would think that all mankind had bound themselves by an oath to do
all the wickedness they can; that they had all, as the Scripture speaks,
sold themselves to sin: the difference only is, that some are a little
more crafty (and but a little, God knows) in making of the bargain. I
thought, when I went first to dwell in the country, that without doubt I
should have met there with the simplicity of the old poetical golden age:
I thought to have found no inhabitants there, but such as the shepherds
of Sir Philip Sidney in Arcadia, or of Monsieur d’Urfé upon the banks of
Lignon; and began to consider with myself, which way I might recommend no
less to posterity the happiness and innocence of the men of Chertsey: but
to confess the truth, I perceived quickly, by infallible demonstrations,
that I was still in old England, and not in Arcadia, or La Forrest; that
if I could not content myself with anything less than exact fidelity in
human conversation, I had almost as good go back and seek for it in the
Court, or the Exchange, or Westminster Hall. I ask again, then, whither
shall we fly, or what shall we do? The world may so come in a man’s way
that he cannot choose but salute it; he must take heed, though, not to go
a whoring after it. If by any lawful vocation or just necessity men
happen to be married to it, I can only give them St. Paul’s advice:
“Brethren, the time is short; it remains that they that have wives be as
though they had none. But I would that all men were even as I myself.”
In all cases they must be sure that they do _mundum ducere_, and not
_mundo nubere_. They must retain the superiority and headship over it:
happy are they who can get out of the sight of this deceitful beauty,
that they may not be led so much as into temptation; who have not only
quitted the metropolis, but can abstain from ever seeing the next market
town of their country.