TEMPER, let me ask, on which you insist so much, but a wayward humour,
which your true judgement should correct and controul by the higher
and more important regards of _duty_? Every man is born with some
prevailing propensity or other, which, if left to itself, and indulged
beyond certain bounds, would grow to be very injurious to himself
and society. There is something, no doubt, amusing in the notion of
_retirement_. The very word implies ease and quiet, and self-enjoyment.
And who doubts, that in the throng and bustle of life, most men are
fond to image to themselves, and even to wish for a scene of more
composure and tranquillity? It is just as natural as that the labourer
should long for his repose at night; or that the soldier, amidst the
dust and heat of a summer’s march, should wish for the conveniencies
of shade and shelter. But what wild work would it make if these so
natural desires should be immediately gratified? if the labourer should
quit his plow, and the soldier his arms, to throw themselves into the
first shade or thicket that offered refreshment? All you have therefore
said on this article can really stand for nothing in the eye of sober
reason, whatever figure it may make in the dress of your eloquence[44].
The inconveniencies of every station are to be endured from the
obligations of duty, and on account of the services one is bound to
render to himself and his country.
True, replied he, if it appeared to be one’s duty, or even interest, to
continue in that station. But what principle of conscience binds me to
a slavish dependence at court? or what interest, public or private, can
be an equivalent for wearing these chains, when I have it in my power
to throw them off, and redeem myself into a state of liberty?
What _Interest_, do you ask? returned I. Why that great and extensive
one, which _society_ hath in an honest and capable man’s continuing to
bear a part in public affairs. For as to inducements of another kind,
I may find occasion hereafter to press them upon you more seasonably.
Consider well with yourself, what would the consequence be, if all
men of honour and ability were to act upon your principles? What a
world would this be, if knaves and fools only had the management in
their hands, and all the virtuous and wise, as it were by common
consent, were to withdraw from it? Nay, the issue would even be fatal
to themselves; and they would presently find it impossible to taste
repose, even in their own sanctuary of retirement.
Small need, replied he, to terrify one’s self with such apprehensions.
The virtuous, at least they who pass for such, will generally have
ambition enough to keep them in the road of public employments. So
long as there are such things as riches and honours, courts will never
be unfurnished of suitors, even from among the tribes of lettered
and virtuous men. The desperately bad, at least, will never have the
field left entirely to themselves. And, after all, the interest of
men in office is, in the main, so providentially connected with some
regard to the rules of honour and conscience, that there is seldom
any danger that matters should come to extremities under the _worst_
administration. And I doubt this is all we are to expect, or at least
to reckon upon with assurance, under the very _best_.
But my answer is more direct. It is not for your little friend to think
of getting a seat in the cabinet-council, or of conducting the great
affairs of the state. He knows himself to be as unfit for those high
trusts, as he is incapable of aspiring to them. Besides, he does not
allow himself to doubt of their being discharged with perfect ability,
by the great persons who now fill them. HE, at least, who occupies
the foremost place of authority, is, by the allowance of all, to be
paralleled with any that the wisest prince hath ever advanced to that
station[45]. And when so consummate a pilot sits at the helm, it seems
a matter of little moment by what hands the vessel of the commonwealth
is navigated.
I could not agree with him in this concluding remark, and much less in
the high-flown encomium which introduced it[46]. But, waving these
lesser matters, I contented myself with observing, “That let him put
what gloss he would on this humour of declining civil business, it must
needs be considered by all unbiassed persons, as highly prejudicial to
public order and government; that, if good men would not be employed,
the bad must; and that, to say the least, the cause of learning and
virtue must suffer exceedingly in the eyes of men, when they see those
very qualities, which alone can render us useful to the world, dispose
us to fly from it.”
For as to the _plea_, continued I, of employing them to better purpose
in the way of _private and solitary_ CONTEMPLATION, I can hold it for
little better than enthusiasm. Several persons, I know, would give
it a worse name, and say, as TACITUS somewhere does, that it serves
only for a specious cover to that love of ease and self-indulgence,
which he will have to be at the bottom of such pretences[47]. But even
with the best construction the matter was capable of, he could never,
I insisted, justify that plea to the understandings of prudent and
knowing men. We allow the obscure pedant to talk high of the dignity
of his office, and magnify, as much as he pleases, the importance of
his speculations. Such an indulgence serves to keep him in humour with
himself, and may be a means to convert a low and plodding genius to
the only use of which it is capable. But for a man of experience in
affairs, and who is qualified to shine in them, to hold this language,
is very extraordinary.
I saw with what impatience he heard me, and therefore took care to
add, “’Tis true, the studies to which you would devote yourself, are
the noblest in the world of science. For _Divinity_, the very name
speaks its elogium. And the countenance which his majesty is pleased,
in his true wisdom, to give to _natural science_, must be thought to
ennoble that branch of learning beyond all others, that are merely
of human consideration. Yet still, my friend, what need of taking
these studies out of the hands of those, to whom they are properly
intrusted? Religion is very safe in the bosom of the national church.
And questions of natural science will doubtless be effectually cleared
and ventilated in the _New Society_[48], and in the schools of our
_Universities_. It could never be his majesty’s intention to thin his
court, for the sake of furnishing students in natural philosophy.”
And can you then, interposed he, in your concern for what you very
improperly call my interests, allow yourself to speak so coolly of the
great interests of natural and divine truth? Is religion a trade to
be confined to the craftsmen? Or, are fellows of colleges and of the
Royal Society, if such we are to have, the only persons concerned to
adore God in the wonders of his creation? Pardon me, my friend: I know
you mean nothing less; but the strange indifference of your phrase
provokes me to this expostulation.
You warm yourself, resumed I, too hastily. My design was only to
suggest, that as there are certain orders of men appointed for the sole
purpose of studying divinity, and advancing philosophy, I did not see
that a man of business was obliged to desert his proper station for the
sake of either.
I suspect, said he, there may be some equivocation wrapped up in
that word _obliged_. All I know is, that I shall spend my time more
innocently, at least; and, I presume to think, more usefully in those
studies, than in that slippery _station_, if it may deserve to be
called one, of court-favour and dependence. And if I extended the
observation to many others, that are fond to take up their residence in
these quarters, I cannot believe I should do them any injustice.
I cannot tell, returned I, against whom this censure is pointed. But
I know there are many of the gravest characters, and even lights and
fathers of the church, who do not consider it as inconsistent, either
with their duty, or the usefulness of their profession, to continue in
that station.
O! mistake me not, replied he: I intended no reflection on any of the
clergy, and much less on the great prelates of the church, for their
attendance in the courts of princes. Theirs is properly an exempt
case. They are the authorized guides and patterns of life. Their great
abilities indeed qualify them, above all others, for serving the cause
of science and religion, by their private studies and meditations.
But they very properly consider too, that part of their duty is to
enlighten the ignorant of all ranks, by their wise and pious discourse,
and to awe and reclaim the wandering of all denominations, by their
example. Hence it is, that I cannot enough admire the zeal of so many
pastors of the church; who, though the slavish manners and libertinism
of a court must be more than ordinarily offensive to men of their
characters, continue to discharge their office so painfully, and yet so
punctually, in that situation.
Here, my lord, observing my friend for once to deliver himself
reasonably, I was encouraged to add, that since he was so just to
maintain the commerce of good and wise churchmen in the great world
to be, as it truly was, a matter of duty, he should also have the
candour to own, that his withdrawing from it was, at least, a work of
_Supererogation_.
It might be so, he said; but, though our church gave no encouragement
to think we merit by such works, he did not know that it condemned and
utterly forbad them.
O! but, returned I, if that be all, and you acknowledge at last that
your _retiring_ is no matter of duty, it will be easy to advance
another step, and demonstrate to you, that such a project is, in your
case, altogether unreasonable[49].
For, notwithstanding all you have said, in the spirit and language
of stoicism, of the comforts of your present SITUATION, will you
seriously undertake to persuade me that they are in any degree
comparable to what you might propose to yourself, by returning to a
life of business? Is the littleness, the obscurity, and pardon me if I
even say, the meanness of this retreat, to be put in competition with
the liberal and even splendid provision, which your friends at court
will easily be able to make for you? Is it nothing, my friend, (for
let us talk common sense, and not bewilder ourselves with the visions
of philosophy) is it nothing to live in a well-furnished house, to
keep a good table, to command an equipage, to have many friends and
dependants, to be courted by inferiors, to be well received by the
great, and to be somebody even in the _presence_?
And what if, in order to compass such things, some little devoirs and
assiduities are expected? Is it not the general practice? And what
every body submits to, can it be ignominious? Is this any thing more
than conforming one’s self to the necessary subordination of society?
Or, what if some time passes in these services, which a present humour
suggests might be more agreeably spent in other amusements? The
recompence cannot be far off; and, in the mean time, the lustre and
very agitation of a life of business, hath somewhat in it sprightly
and amusing. Besides, yours is not the case of one that is entering,
for the first time, on a course of expectation. Your business is half
done. The prince is favourable; and there are of his ministers that
respect and honour you. Your services are well known; your reputation
is fair; your connexions great; and the season inviting. What, with all
these advantages, forego the court in a moping mood, or, as angry men
use, run to moralize in a cloister!
I was proceeding in the warmth of this remonstrance, when, with a
reproachful smile, he turned upon me, and, in a kind of rapture,
repeated the following lines of SPENSER:
“Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried,
What hell it is in suing long to bide:
To lose good days, that might be better spent;
To waste long nights in pensive discontent:
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;
To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow;
To have thy prince’s grace, yet want his peeres[50];
To have thy askings, yet wait many yeers[51];
To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares;
To eat thy heart through comfortless despaires;
To faun, to crouche, to wait, to ride, to ronne;
To spend, to give, to want, to be undonne.”
This, said he, is my answer once for all to your long string of
interrogatories. I learnt it of one that had much experience in courts:
and I thought it worth imprinting on my memory, to have it in readiness
on such an occasion. Or, if you would rather have my answer in my
own words, the Muse shall give it you in a little poem, she dictated
very lately[52]. It may shew you perhaps, that, though my nature be
somewhat melancholy, I am not _moping_; and that I can moralize, and
even _complain_, as I have reason to do, without being _angry_.
The look and tone of voice, with which he said this, a little
disconcerted me. But I recovered myself, and was going on to object to
his unreasonable warmth, and the fascination of this wicked poetry,
when he stopped me with saying, “Come, no more of these remonstrances
and upbraidings. I have heard enough of your pleadings in a cause,
which no eloquence can carry against my firm and fixed resolutions.
I have seen, besides, the force you have done to yourself in this
mock combat. Your extreme friendliness hath even tempted you to act a
part which your true sense, and the very decorum of your profession,
I have observed through all your disguises, has rendered painful to
you. I will tell you my whole mind in one word. No inducements of what
the world calls INTEREST, no views of HONOUR, no, nor what the poet
aptly calls, SANCTISSIMA DIVITIARUM MAJESTAS[53], shall make me recede
from the purpose I am bent upon, of consecrating the remainder of a
comfortless distracted life, to the sweets of this obscure retirement.
Believe me, I have weighed it well, with all its inconveniencies.
And I find them such as are nothing to the agonies have long felt
in that troubled scene, to which you would recal me. If it hath any
ingredients, which I cannot so well relish, they are such as my
friends, and, above all, such as you, my best friend, may reconcile to
me. Let me but have the pleasure to see the few, I love and esteem, in
these shades, and I shall not regret their solitude.
And as for my much honoured friend, whose munificence hath placed me
in them, I shall hope to satisfy him in the most effectual manner.
Nothing, you will believe, could give me a pain equal to that of being
suspected of ingratitude towards my best benefactor. It was indeed
with the utmost difficulty, that I constrained myself at last to think
of leaving his service. The truth is, he expostulated with me upon it
pretty roundly; and though my resolution was taken, I left him with
the concern of not being able to give him entire satisfaction. These
repeated instances by you are a fresh proof of his goodness, and do me
an honour I had little reason to expect from him. But his lordship’s
notions of life and mine are very different, as is fitting in persons,
whom fortune hath placed in two such different situations. It becomes
me to bear the most grateful remembrance of his kind intentions; and,
for the rest, I can assure myself, that his equity and nobleness
of mind, will permit an old servant to pursue, at length, his own
inclinations.
However, to repay his goodness as I can, and to testify all imaginable
respect to his judgment, I have purposed to write my own APOLOGY to his
lordship; and to represent to him, in a better manner, than I have done
in this sudden and unpremeditated conversation, the reasons that have
determined me to this resolution. I have even made some progress in the
design, and have digested into several _essays_ the substance of such
reflections as, at different times, have had most weight with me[54].
Hearing him speak in so determined a manner, I was discouraged from
pressing him further with such other considerations, as I had, prepared
on this argument. Only I could not help enforcing, in the warmest
manner, and in terms your lordship would not allow me to use in this
recital, what he himself had owned of your unexampled goodness to
him; and the obligation which, I insisted, that must needs create in
a generous mind, of paying an unreserved obedience to your lordship’s
pleasure. He gave me the hearing very patiently; but contented himself
with repeating his design of justifying himself to your lordship in the
apology he had before promised.
And now, resumed he with an air of alacrity, since you know my whole
mind, and that no remonstrances can move me, confess the whole truth;
acknowledge at last that you have dissembled with me all this while,
and that, in reality, you approve my resolution. I know you do, my
friend, though you struggle hard to conceal it. It cannot be otherwise.
Nature, which linked our hearts together, had formed us in one mould.
We have the same sense of things; the same love of letters and of
virtue. And though I would not solicit one of your years and your
profession to follow me into the shade, yet I know you so well[55],
that you will preserve in the world that equal frame of mind, that
indifference to all earthly things, which I pretend to have carried
with me into this solitude.
Go on, my friend, in this track; and be an example to the churchmen of
our days, that the highest honours of the gown, which I easily foresee
are destined to your abilities, are not incompatible with the strictest
purity of life, and the most heroic sentiments of integrity and honour.
Go, and adorn the dignities which are reserved for you; and remember
only in the heights of prosperity to be what you are, to serve the
world with vigour, yet so as to indulge with me
“THE GENEROUS SCORN
OF THINGS, FOR WHICH WE WERE NOT BORN[56].”
I began to be a little uneasy at his long sermon, when he broke it off
with this couplet. The day by this time was pretty far advanced; and
rising from his seat, he proposed to me to walk into his hermitage (so
he called his house); where, he said, I should see how a philosopher
lived as well as talked. I staid to dine, and spent a good part of
the afternoon with him. We discoursed of various matters; but not a
word more of what had occasioned this visit. Only he shewed me the
_complaining poem_ he had mentioned, and of which, for the pleasure so
fine a composition will give you, I here send your lordship a copy.
His spirits, he said, were enlivened by the face of an old friend; and
indeed I never knew his conversation more easy and chearful[57]; which
yet I could not perfectly enjoy for the regret the ill success of my
negociation had given me.
I returned to town in the evening, ruminating on what had passed, and
resolving to send your lordship an exact account of our conversation.
I particularly made a point of suppressing nothing which Mr. COWLEY
had to say for himself in this debate, however it may sometimes seem
to make against me. The whole hath grown under my pen into a greater
length than I expected. But your Lordship wished to know the bottom of
our friend’s mind; and I thought you would see it more distinctly and
clearly in this way, than in any other. I am, my lord, with the most
profound respect,
Your Lordship’s most obedient
and faithful servant,
T. SPRAT.
THE
COMPLAINT[58].
In a deep vision’s intellectual scene
Beneath a bower for sorrow made,
Th’ uncomfortable shade
Of the black yew’s unlucky green,
Mixt with the mourning willow’s careful gray,
Where reverend CAM cuts out his famous way,
The melancholy COWLEY lay:
And lo! a Muse appear’d to’s closed sight,
(The Muses oft in lands of visions play)
Bodied, array’d, and seen by an internal light:
A golden harp with silver strings she bore,
A wonderous hieroglyphic robe she wore,
In which all colours, and all figures were,
That nature, or that fancy can create,
That art can never imitate;
And with loose pride it wanton’d in the air.
In such a dress, in such a well-cloath’d dream,
She us’d of old, near fair ISMENUS’ stream,
PINDAR her THEBAN favourite to meet;
A crown was on her head, and wings were on her feet.
II.
She touch’d him with her harp, and rais’d him from the ground;
The shaken strings melodiously resound.
Art thou return’d at last, said she,
To this forsaken place and me?
Thou prodigal, who didst so loosely waste
Of all thy youthful years, the good estate?
Art thou return’d here to repent too late;
And gather husks of learning up at last,
Now the rich harvest-time of life is past,
And _Winter_ marches on so fast?
But when I meant t’adopt thee for my son,
And did as learn’d a portion thee assign,
As ever any of the mighty Nine
Had to her dearest children done;
When I resolv’d t’exalt thy anointed name,
Among the spiritual lords of peaceful fame[59];
Thou changeling, thou, bewitch’d with noise and show,
Would’st into courts and cities from me go;
Would’st see the world abroad, and have a share
In all the follies, and the tumults there.
Thou would’st, forsooth, be something in a state,
And business thou would’st find, and would’st create:
Business! the frivolous pretence
Of humane lusts to shake off innocence:
Business! the grave impertinence:
Business! the thing which I of all things hate:
Business! the contradiction of thy fate.
III.
Go, renegado, cast up thy account,
And see to what amount
Thy foolish gains by quitting me:
The sale of knowledge, fame, and liberty,
The fruits of thy unlearn’d apostasy.
Thou thought’st, if once the public storm were past,
All thy remaining life should sun-shine be;
Behold, the public storm is spent at last,
The sovereign is tost at sea no more,
And thou, with all the noble company,
Art got at last to shore.
But whilst thy fellow voyagers, I see,
All march’d up to possess the promis’d land,
Thou still alone (alas!) dost gaping stand
Upon the naked beach, upon the barren sand.
IV.
As a fair morning of the blessed spring,
After a tedious stormy night;
Such was the glorious entry of our king:
Enriching moisture dropp’d on every thing;
Plenty he sow’d below, and cast about him light.
But then (alas!) to thee alone,
One of old GIDEON’S miracles was shown;
For every tree, and every herb around,
With pearly dew was crown’d,
And upon all the quicken’d ground
The fruitful seed of heaven did brooding lye,
And nothing but the Muse’s fleece was dry.
It did all other threats surpass
When God to his own people said,
(The men, whom thro’ long wanderings he had led)
That he would give them ev’n a heaven of brass;
They look’d up to that heaven in vain,
That bounteous heaven, which God did not restrain,
Upon the most unjust to shine and rain.
V.
The RACHAEL, for which twice seven years and more
Thou didst with faith and labour serve,
And didst (if faith and labour can) deserve,
Though she contracted was to thee,
Giv’n to another who had store
Of fairer, and of richer wives before,
And not a _Leah_ left, thy recompence to be.
Go on, twice seven years more thy fortune try,
Twice seven years more, God in his bounty may
Give thee, to fling away
Into the court’s deceitful lottery.
But think how likely ’tis that thou,
With the dull work of thy unwieldy plough,
Should’st in a hard and barren season thrive,
Should even able be to live;
Thou, to whose share so little bread did fall,
In the miraculous year, when MANNA rain’d on all.
VI.
Thus spake the Muse, and spake it with a smile,
That seem’d at once to pity and revile,
And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head,
The melancholy COWLEY said:
Ah, wanton foe, dost thou upbraid
The ills which thou thyself hast made?
When, in the cradle, innocent I lay,
Thou, wicked spirit, stolest me away,
And my abused soul didst bear
Into thy new-found words I know not where,
Thy golden _Indies_ in the air;
And ever since I strive in vain
My ravish’d freedom to regain:
Still I rebel, still thou dost reign,
Lo, still in verse against thee I complain.
There is a sort of stubborn weeds,
Which if the earth but once, it ever breeds;
No wholesome herb can near them thrive,
No useful plant can keep alive;
The foolish sports I did on thee bestow,
Make all my art and labour fruitless now;
Where once such Fairies dance no grass doth ever grow.
VII.