agreeable reveries of the old poets had done much hurt by being taken
too seriously. Were HORACE and VIRGIL, think you, as much in earnest
as you appear to be, when they were crying out perpetually on their
favourite theme of _otium_ and _secessus_, “they, who lived and died in
a court?”
I believe, said he, they were, and that the short accounts we have of
their lives shew it, though a perfect dismission from the court was
what they could not obtain, or had not the resolution to insist upon.
But pray, upon your principles, that all this is but the enchantment of
_example_ or _fashion_, how came it to pass, that the first seducers of
the family, the old poets themselves, had fallen into these notions?
They were surely no pretenders. They could only write from the heart.
And methinks it were more candid, as well as more reasonable, to
account for this passion, which hath so constantly shewn itself in
their successors, from the same reason. It is likely indeed, and so
much I can readily allow, that the early reading of the poets might
contribute something to confirm and strengthen my natural bias[36].
But let the matter rest for the present. I would now go on with the
detail of my own life and experience, so proper, as I think, to
convince you that what I am pleading for is the result of nature.
I was saying how agreeably my youth passed in these reveries, if you
will have it so, and especially _inter sylvas academi_:
Dura sed emovere loco me tempora grato,
Civilisque rudem belli tulit æstus in arma.
You know the consequence. This civil turmoil drove me from the shelter
of retirement into the heat and bustle of life; from those studies
which, as you say, had enchanted my youth, into business and action
of all sorts. I lived in the world: I conversed familiarly with the
great. A change like this, one would suppose, were enough to undo the
prejudices of education. But the very reverse happened. The further
I engaged, and the longer I continued in this scene, the greater my
impatience was of retiring from it.
But you will say, my old vice was nourished in me by living in the
neighbourhood of books and letters[37]. I was yet in the fairy land
of the Muses; and, under these circumstances, it was no wonder that
neither arms nor business, nor a court, could prevent the mind from
returning to its old bias. All this may be true. And yet, I think,
if that court had contained many such persons as some I knew in
it, neither the distractions of business on the one hand, nor the
blandishments of the Muse on the other, could have disposed me to leave
it. But there were few LORD FALKLANDS—and unhappily my admiration of
that nobleman’s worth and honour[38] created an invincible aversion to
the rest, who had little resemblance of his virtues.
I would not be thought, said I, to detract from so accomplished a
character as that of the Lord FALKLAND; but surely there was something
in his notions of honour—
Not a word, interrupted he eagerly, that may but seem to throw a shade
on a virtue the brightest and purest that hath done honour to these
later ages.—But I turn from a subject that interests me too much, and
would lead me too far. Whatever attractions there might be in such a
place, and in such _friendships_, the iniquity of the times soon forced
me from them. Yet I had the less reason to complain, as my next removal
was into the family of so beneficent a patron as the Lord JERMYN, and
into the court of so accomplished a princess as the QUEEN MOTHER.
My residence, you know, was now for many years in _France_; a country,
which piques itself on all the refinements of civility. Here the world
was to appear to me in its fairest form, and, it was not doubted, would
put on all its charms to wean me from the love of a studious retired
life. I will not say I was disappointed in this expectation. All that
the elegance of polished manners could contribute to make society
attractive, was to be found in this new scene. My situation, besides,
was such, that I came to have a sort of familiarity with greatness.
Yet shall I confess my inmost sentiments of this splendid life to you?
I found it empty, fallacious, and even disgusting. The outside indeed
was fair. But to me, who had an opportunity of looking it through,
nothing could be more deformed and hateful. All was ambition, intrigue,
and falsehood. Every one intent on his own schemes, frequently wicked,
always base and selfish. Great professions of honour, of friendship,
and of duty; but all ending in low views and sordid practices. No
truth, no sincerity: without which, conversation is but words; and the
polish of manners, the idlest foppery.
Surely, interposed I, this picture must be overcharged. Frailties
and imperfections, no doubt, there will be in all societies of men,
especially where there is room for competition in their pursuits of
honour and interest. But your idea of a court is that of a den of
thieves, only better dressed, and more civilized.
That however, said he, is the idea under which truth obliges me to
represent it. Believe me, I have been long enough acquainted with
that country, to give you a pretty exact account of its inhabitants.
Their sole business is to follow the humour of the prince, or of his
favourite, to speak the current language, to serve the present turn,
and to cozen one another. In short, their virtue is, civility; and
their sense, cunning. You will guess now, continued he, how uneasy I
must be in such company; I, who cannot lie, though it were to make a
friend, or ruin an enemy; who have been taught to bear no respect to
any but true wisdom; and, whether it be nature or education, could
never endure (pardon the foolish boast) that hypocrisy should usurp the
honours, and triumph in the spoils of virtue.
Nay further, my good friend, (for I must tell you all I know of myself,
though it expose me ever so much to the charge of folly or even
vanity) I was not born for courts and general conversation. Besides
the unconquerable aversion I have to knaves and fools (though these
last, but that they are commonly knaves too, I could bring myself
to tolerate); besides this uncourtly humour, I have another of so
odd a kind, that I almost want words to express myself intelligibly
to you. It is a sort of capricious delicacy, which occasions a wide
difference in my estimation of those characters, in which the world
makes no distinction. It is not enough to make me converse with ease
and pleasure with a man, that I see no notorious vices, or even observe
some considerable virtues in him. His good qualities must have a
certain grace, and even his sense must be of a certain turn, to give me
a relish of his conversation.
I see you smile at this talk, and am aware how fantastic this
squeamishness must appear to you. But it is with men and manners,
as with the forms and aspects of natural things. A thousand objects
recal ideas, and excite sensations in my mind, which seem to be not
perceived, or not heeded, by other men. The look of a country, the
very shading of a landskip, shall have a sensible effect on me, which
they, who have as good eyes, appear to make no account of. It is just
the same with the characters of men. I conceive a disgust at some,
and a secret regard for others, whom many, I believe, would estimate
just alike. And what is worse, a long and general conversation hath
not been able to cure me of this foible. I question, said he, turning
himself to me, but, if I was called upon to assign the reasons of that
entire affection, which knits me to my best friend, they would be
resolved at last into a something, which they, who love him perhaps as
well, would have no idea of.
He said this in a way that disarmed me, or I had it in my mind to have
rallied him on his doctrine of _occult qualities_ and _unintelligible_
forms. I therefore contented myself with saying, that I must not hear
him go on at this strange rate; and asked him if it was possible he
could suffer himself to be biassed, in an affair of this moment, by
such whimsies?
Those whimsies, resumed he, had a real effect. But consider further,
the endless impertinencies of conversation; the dissipation, and loss
of time; the diversion of the mind from all that is truly useful or
instructive, from what a reasonable man would or should delight in:
add to these, the vexations of business; the slavery of dependence,
the discourtesies of some, the grosser injuries of others; the danger,
or the scorn, to which virtue is continually subject; in short, the
knavery, or folly, or malevolence, of all around you; and tell me,
if any thing but the unhappy times, and a sense of duty, could have
detained a man of my temper and principles so long in a station of life
so very uneasy and disgusting to me.
Nothing is easier, said I, than to exaggerate the inconveniencies of
any situation. The world and the court have doubtless theirs. But you
seem to forget one particular; that the _unhappy times_ you speak of,
and the state of the court, were an excuse for part of the disagreeable
circumstances you have mentioned. The face of things is now altered.
The storm is over. A calm has succeeded. And why should not you take
the benefit of these halcyon days, in which so many others have found
their ease, and even enjoyment?
These halcyon days, returned he, are not, alas! what unexperienced men
are ready to represent them. The same vices, the same follies, prevail
still, and are even multiplied and enflamed by prosperity. A suffering
court, if any, might be expected to be the seedplot of virtues. But,
to satisfy your scruples, I have even made a trial of these happier
times. All I wished to myself from the happiest, was but such a return
for my past services, as might enable me to retire with decency. Such
a return I seem not to have merited. And I care not at this time of day
to waste more of my precious time in deserving a better treatment.
Your day, said I, is not so far spent, as to require this hasty
determination. Besides, if this be all, the world may be apt to censure
your retreat, as the effect of chagrin and disappointment.
His colour rose, as I said this. The world, resumed he, will censure as
it sees fit. I must have leave at length to judge for myself in what so
essentially concerns my own happiness. Though if ever _chagrin_ may be
pleaded as a reason for retirement, perhaps nobody had ever a better
right than I have to plead it. You know what hath happened of late,
to give me a disgust to courts. You know the view I had in my late
comedy[39] and the grounds I had to expect that it would not be ill
taken. But you know too the issue of that attempt. And should I, after
this experience of courtly gratitude, go about to solicit their favours?
But, to let you see that I am swayed by better motives than those of
_chagrin_, I shall not conceal from you what I am proud enough to think
of my TALENTS, as well as temper.
There are but two sorts of men, pursued he, that should think of living
in a court, however it be that we see animals of all sorts, clean and
unclean, enter into it.
The one is of those strong and active spirits that are formed for
business, whose ambition reconciles them to the bustle of life, and
whose capacity fits them for the discharge of its functions. These,
especially if of noble birth and good fortunes, are destined to fill
the first offices in a state; and if, peradventure, they add virtue to
their other parts and qualities, are the blessings of the age they live
in. Some few such there have been in former times; and the present, it
may be, is not wholly without them.
The OTHER sort, are what one may properly enough call, if the phrase
were not somewhat uncourtly, the MOB OF COURTS; they, who have vanity
or avarice without ambition, or ambition without talents. These, by
assiduity, good luck, and the help of their vices (for they would scorn
to earn advancement, if it were to be had, by any worthy practices),
may in time succeed to the lower posts in a government; and together
make up that showey, servile, selfish crowd, we dignify with the name
of COURT.
Now, though I think too justly of myself to believe I am qualified
to enter into the _former_ of these lists, you may conclude, if you
please, that I am too proud to brigue for an admission into the
_latter_. I pretend not to great abilities of any kind; but let me
presume a little in supposing, that I may have some too good to be
thrown away on such company.
Here, my lord, the unusual freedom, and even indecency, of Mr. COWLEY’S
invective against courts, transported me so far, that I could not
forbear turning upon him with some warmth. Surely, said I, my friend
is much changed from what I always conceived of him. This heat of
language, from one of your candour, surprises me equally with the
injustice of it. It is so far from _calm reasoning_, that it wants
but little, methinks, of downright railing. I believe, continued I,
that I think more highly, that is, more justly, of Mr. COWLEY in every
respect, than he allows himself to do. Yet I see not that either his
time, or his talents, would be misemployed in the services he so much
undervalues. Permit me to say, your resentment hath carried you too
far; and that you do not enough consider the friends you left at court,
or the noble lord that wishes your return thither.
I do, said he hastily, consider both. But, with your leave, since I
am forced to defend myself against an ignominious charge, I must do
myself the right to assume what I think belongs to me. I repeat it; I
have long thought my time lost in the poor amusements and vanities of
the great world, and have felt an impatience to get into a quiet scene,
where, slender as my talents are, I might employ them to better purpose.
And think not, proceeded he, that I am carried to this choice by any
thing so frivolous as the idleness of a poetical fancy. Not but the
Muse, which hath been the darling of my youth, may deserve to be the
companion of my riper age. For I am far from renouncing an art, which,
unprofitable as it hath ever been to me, is always entertaining: and
when employed, as I mean it shall be, in other services than those by
which a voluptuous court seems willing to disgrace it, I see not what
there is in this amusement of poetry, for the severest censor of life
and manners to take offence at. Yet still I intend it for an amusement.
My serious occupations will be very different; such as you, my friend,
cannot disapprove, and should encourage. But I have opened to you my
intentions more than once, and need not give you the trouble at this
time to hear me explain them.
You mean, interposed I, to apply yourself to _natural_ and _religious_
inquiries. Your design is commendable; and I would not dissuade you
from it. But what should hinder your pursuing this design as well in
society as in this solitude?
What, at COURT, returned he, where the only object, that all men are in
quest of, is GAIN; and the only deity they acknowledge, FORTUNE? Or
say that such idolatries did not prevail, there, how shall the mind be
calm enough for so sublime inquiries? or where, but in this scene of
genuine nature, is there an opportunity to indulge in them? Here, if
any where, is the observation of the poet verified, DEUS EST QUODCUNQUE
VIDES. Look round, my friend, on this florid earth, on the various
classes of _animals_ that inhabit, and the countless _vegetable_ tribes
that adorn it. Here is the proper school of wisdom,
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing[40].
Infinite are the uses, continued he, which would result from this
method of applying experiment and observation to _Natural Science_.
I have taken occasion, you know, to offer a slight sketch of them to
the Public very lately[41]. But the principal I would draw from it to
myself should be, to inure the mind to just conceptions of the divine
nature; that so, with the better advantage, I might turn myself to
the awful study of his _Word_. And here, my friend, I am sensible how
much I may expect to be animated by your zeal, and enlightened by your
instruction. In the mean time, I pretend to possess some qualities,
which, if rightly applied, may not be unsuitable to so high an
undertaking. I feel myself impelled by an eager curiosity: I have much
patience, and some skill in making experiments. I may even be allowed
to boast of a readiness in the learned languages; and am not without
a tincture of such other studies, as the successful prosecution of
PHYSICS, and still more of DIVINITY, requires. You may further impute
to me, if you please, an ingenuous love of truth, and an ordinary
degree of judgment to discern it.
These, concluded he, are the TALENTS, of which I spoke to you so
proudly; and with the help of these (especially if you allow me _one_
other, the power of _communicating_ what I may chance to learn of
natural or divine things), I might hope to render a better account of
this solitude, than of any employments I could reasonably aspire to, in
the world of men and of business.
He said this with an air of solemnity, which left me a little at a
loss what to reply to him, when he relieved my perplexity by adding,
“but, though there was nothing of all this in the case, and my zeal for
promoting knowledge in this private way were as lightly to be accounted
of, as _that_, which led me to propose the more extensive scheme I
before mentioned, probably will be, yet what should draw me from this
leisure of a learned retirement? For though I please myself with the
prospect of doing some _public_ service by my studies, yet need I blush
to own, to my learned friend, the fondness I should still have for
them, were they only to end in my own _private_ enjoyment? Yes, let me
open my whole soul to you. I have ever delighted in letters, and have
even found them, what the world is well enough content they should be,
their own reward. I doubt, if this language would be understood in all
companies. And let others speak as they find. But to me the year would
drag heavily, and life itself be no life, if it were not quickened by
these ingenuous pleasures.”
Indeed, were it only for the very quiet and indolence of mind, which
retirement promises, why should I be envied this calm in the decline of
a troubled life? But let the Muse speak for me,
“After long toils and voyages in vain,
This quiet port let my tost vessel gain;
Of heav’nly rest this earnest to me lend,
Let my life sleep, and learn to love her end.”
And what if they, who have not the means of enjoying this rest, submit
to the drudgery of business? Is that a reason for me to continue in it,
who have made my fortune, even to the extent of my wishes? I see you
smile at this boast. But where would you have me stop in my desires; or
what is it you would have me understand by the mysterious language of
_making a fortune_? Is it two hundred a year, or four, or a thousand?
Say, where shall we fix, or what limits will you undertake to prescribe
to the vague and shifting notion of a competency? Or, shall we own
the truth at once, that every thing is a _competency_ which a man is
contented to live upon, and that therefore it varies only, as his
desires are more or less contracted?
To talk at any other rate of a _man’s fortune_, is surely to expose
one’s self to the ridicule, which the philosopher, you know, threw on
the restless humour of king Pyrrhus. ’Tis whim, chimera, madness, or
what you will, except sober reason and common sense. Yet still the
world cries, “What, sit down with a pittance, when the ways of honour
and fortune are open to you? take up with what may barely satisfy, when
you have so fair a chance for affluence, and even superfluity?”
Alas! and will that _affluence_, then, more than satisfy? or can it be
worth the while to labour, for a _superfluity_?
’Tis true the violence of the times, in which it was my fortune to
bear a part, had left me bare and unprovided even of those moderate
accommodations, which my education and breeding might demand, and which
a parent’s piety had indeed bequeathed to me. It was but fitting then
I should strive to repair this loss; and the rather, as my honest
services gave me leave to hope for a speedy reparation. And thus far
I was contented to try my fortune in the court, though at the expence
of much uneasy attendance and solicitation. But, seeing that this
assiduity was without effect, and that the bounty of two excellent
persons[42] hath now set me above the necessity of continuing it, what
madness were it to embark again
“Fluctibus in mediis et tempestatibus urbis!”
So that if you will needs be urging me with the ceaseless exhortation of
“I, bone, quo virtus tua te vocat: I pede fausto,
Grandia laturus meritorum præmia:—”
I must take leave to remind you of the sage reply that was made to
it. It was, you know, by an old soldier, who found himself exactly in
my situation. The purse, which he had lost by one accident, he had
recovered by another. The conclusion was, that he had no mind, in this
different state of affairs, to turn adventurer again, and expose
himself to the same perilous encounters:
“Post hæc ille catus, quantumvis RUSTICUS, ibit,
Ibit eo, quo vis QUI ZONAM PERDIDIT, inquit.”
In one word, my friend, I am happy here, as you see me, in my little
farm, which yet is large enough to answer all my real necessities; and
I am not in the humour of him in the fable[43], to fill my head with
visions, and spend a wretched life in quest of the _flying island_.
And now, added he, you have before you in one view the principal
reasons that have determined me to this retreat. I might have enlarged
on each more copiously; but I know to whom I speak: and perhaps to such
a one I might even have spared a good deal of what I have now been
offering, from the several considerations of my TEMPER, TALENTS, and
SITUATION.
Here he stopped. And now, my lord, it came to my turn to take the
lead in this controversy. There was indeed an ample field before me.
And, if the other side of the question afforded most matter for wit
and declamation, mine had all the advantages of good sense and sound
reason. The superiority was so apparent, and my victory over him, in
point of argument, so sure, that I thought it needless and ungenerous
to press him on every article of his defence, in which he had laid
himself open to me.
Your lordship hath, no doubt, observed, with wonder and with pity, the
strange spirit that runs through every part of it: the confined way of
thinking, which hath crept upon him; the cynical severity, he indulges
against courts; the importance he would sometimes assume to his own
character; the peevish turn of mind, that leads him to take offence at
the lighter follies and almost excusable vices of the great; in short,
the resentment, the pique, the chagrin, which one overlooks in the
hopeless suitor, or hungry poet, but which are very unaccountable in
one of Mr. COWLEY’S condition and situation.
Here then, my lord, was a fair occasion for a willing adversary. But
I spared the infirmities of my friend. I judged it best, too, to
keep him in temper, and avoid that heat of altercation, which must
have arisen from touching these indiscretions, as they deserved. Your
lordship sees the reason I had for confining my reply to such parts
of his apology, as bore the fairest shew of argument, and might be
encountered without offence.
When he had ended, therefore, with so formal a recapitulation of his
discourse, I thought it not amiss to follow him in his own train; and,
dissembling the just exceptions I had to his vindication in other
respects, “You have proceeded, said I, in a very distinct method, and
have said as much, I believe, on the subject, as so bad a cause would
admit. But if this indeed be all you have to allege, for so uncommon
a fancy, you must not think it strange, if I pronounce it, without
scruple, very insufficient for your purpose.