Part 5 (1/2)
Is one that is fled over for his conscience, and left his wife and children upon the parish. For his knowledge he is merely a Horn-book without a Christ-cross before it; and his zeal consists much in hanging his Bible in a Dutch b.u.t.ton. He cozens men in the purity of his clothes; and 'twas his only joy when he was on this side, to be in prison. He cries out, 'tis impossible for any man to be d.a.m.ned that lives in his religion, and his equivocation is true--as long as a man lives in it, he cannot; but if he die in it, there's the question. Of all feasts in the year he accounts St. George's feast the profanest, because of St.
George's cross, yet sometimes he doth sacrifice to his own belly, provided that he put off the wake of his own nativity or wedding till Good Friday. If there be a great feast in the town, though most of the wicked (as he calls them) be there, he will be sure to be a guest, and to out-eat six of the fattest burghers. He thinks, though he may not pray with a Jew, he may eat with a Jew. He winks when he prays, and thinks he knows the way so now to heaven, that he can find it blindfold.
Latin he accounts the language of the beast with seven heads; and when he speaks of his own country, cries, he is fled out of Babel. Lastly, his devotion is obstinacy; the only solace of his heart, contradiction; and his main end, hypocrisy.
A DISTASTER OF THE TIME
Is a winter gra.s.shopper all the year long that looks back upon harvest with a lean pair of cheeks, never sets forward to meet it; his malice sucks up the greatest part of his own venom, and therewith impoisoneth himself: and this sickness rises rather of self-opinion or over-great expedition; so in the conceit of his own over-worthiness, like a coistrel he strives to fill himself with wind, and flies against it. Any man's advancement is the most capital offence that can be to his malice, yet this envy, like Phalaris' bull, makes that a torment first for himself he prepared for others. He is a day-bed for the devil to slumber on. His blood is of a yellowish colour, like those that have been bitten by vipers, and his gall flows as thick in him as oil in a poisoned stomach. He infects all society, as thunder sours wine: war or peace, dearth or plenty, makes him equally discontented. And where he finds no cause to tax the State, he descends to rail against the rate of salt-b.u.t.ter. His wishes are whirlwinds, which breathed forth return into himself, and make him a most giddy and tottering vessel. When he is awake, and goes abroad, he doth but walk in his sleep, for his visitation is directed to none, his business is nothing. He is often dumb-mad, and goes fettered in his own entrails. Religion is commonly his pretence of discontent, though he can be of all religions, therefore truly of none. Thus by naturalising himself some would think him a very dangerous fellow to the State; but he is not greatly to be feared, for this dejection of his is only like a rogue that goes on his knees and elbows in the mire to further his cogging.
A MERE FELLOW OF AN HOUSE
Examines all men's carriage but his own, and is so kind-natured to himself, he finds fault with all men's but his own. He wears his apparel much after the fas.h.i.+on; his means will not suffer him to come too nigh.
They afford him mock-velvet or satinisco, but not without the college's next lease's acquaintance. His inside is of the self-same fas.h.i.+on, not rich; but as it reflects from the gla.s.s of self-liking, there Croesus is Irus to him. He is a pedant in show, though his t.i.tle be tutor, and his pupils in a broader phrase are schoolboys. On these he spends the false gallop of his tongue, and with senseless discourse tows them alone, not out of ignorance. He shows them the rind, conceals the sap; by this means he keeps them the longer, himself the better. He hath learnt to cough and spit and blow his nose at every period, to recover his memory, and studies chiefly to set his eyes and beard to a new form of learning.
His religion lies in wait for the inclination of his patron, neither ebbs nor flows, but just standing water, between Protestant and Puritan.
His dreams are of plurality of benefices and non-residency, and when he rises acts a long grace to his looking-gla.s.s. Against he comes to be some great man's chaplain he hath a habit of boldness, though a very coward. He speaks swords, fights ergos. His peace on foot is a measure, on horseback a gallop, for his legs are his own, though horse and spurs are borrowed. He hath less use than possession of books. He is not so proud but he will call the meanest author by his name; nor so unskilled in the heraldry of a study but he knows each man's place. So ends that fellows.h.i.+p and begins another.
A MERE PETTIFOGGER
Is one of Samson's foxes; he sets men together by the ears, more shamefully than pillories, and in a long vacation his sport is to go a fis.h.i.+ng with the penal statutes. He cannot err before judgment, and then you see it, only writs of error are the tariers that keep his client undoing somewhat the longer. He is a vestryman in his parish, and easily sets his neighbour at variance with the vicar, when his wicked counsel on both sides is like weapons put into men's hands by a fencer, whereby they get blows, he money. His honesty and learning bring him to Under-Shrieves.h.i.+p, which, having thrice run through, he does not fear the Lieutenant of the s.h.i.+re; nay more, he fears not G.o.d. Cowardice holds him a good commonwealth's-man; his pen is the plough and parchment the soil whence he reaps both coin and curses. He is an earthquake that willingly will let no ground lie in quiet. Broken t.i.tles makes him whole; to have half in the country break their bonds were the only liberty of conscience. He would wish, though he be a Brownist, no neighbour of his should pay his t.i.thes duly, if such suits held continual plea at Westminster. He cannot away with the reverend service in our Church, because it ends with the peace of G.o.d. He loves blows extremely, and hath his chirurgeon's bill of rates, from head to foot, incense the fury; he would not give away his yearly beatings for a good piece of money. He makes his will in form of a law-case, full of quiddits, that his friends after his death (if for nothing else, yet) for the vexation of the law, may have cause to remember him. And if he thought the ghost of men did walk again (as they report in the time of Popery), sure he would hide some single money in Westminster Hall that his spirit might haunt there. Only with this I will pitch him over the bar and leave him: that his fingers itch after a bribe ever since his first practising of court-hand.
AN INGROSSER OF CORN.
There is no vermin in the land like him: he slanders both heaven and earth with pretended dearths when there is no cause of scarcity. He h.o.a.rding in a dear year, is like Erysicthon's bowels in Ovid: _Quodque urbibus esset, quodque satis poterat populo, non sufficit uni_. He prays daily for more inclosures, and knows no reason in his religion why we should call our forefathers' days the time of ignorance, but only because they sold wheat for twelve pence a bushel. He wishes that Dantzig were at the Moluccas, and had rather be certain of some foreign invasion than of the setting up of the steelyard. When his barns and garners are full, if it be a time of dearth, he will buy half a bushel in the market to serve his household, and winnows his corn in the night, lest, as the chaff thrown upon the water showed plenty in Egypt, so his carried by the wind should proclaim his abundance. No painting pleases him so well as Pharaoh's dream of the seven lean kine that ate up the fat ones, that he has in his parlour, which he will describe to you like a motion, and his comment ends with a smothered prayer for a like scarcity. He cannot away with tobacco, for he is persuaded (and not much amiss), that 'tis a sparer of bread-corn, which he could find in his heart to transport without license; but, weighing the penalty, he grows mealy-mouthed, and dares not. Sweet smells he cannot abide; wishes that the pure air were generally corrupted; nay, that the spring had lost her fragrancy for ever, or we our superfluous sense of smelling (as he terms it), that his corn might not be found musty. The poor he accounts the Justices' intelligencers, and cannot abide them. He complains of our negligence of discovering new parts of the world, only to rid them from our climate. His son, by a certain kind of instinct, he binds prentice to a tailor, who, all the term of his indenture, hath a dear year in his belly, and ravens bread exceedingly. When he comes to be a freeman, if it be a dearth, he marries him to a baker's daughter.
A DEVILISH USURER
Is sowed as c.u.mmin or hempseed, with curses, and he thinks he thrives the better. He is far better read in the penal statutes than in the Bible, and his evil angel persuades him he shall sooner be saved by them. He can be no man's friend, for all men he hath most interest in he undoes. And a double dealer he is certainly, for by his good will he ever takes the forfeit. He puts his money to the unnatural act of generation, and his scrivener is the supervisor bawd to it. Good deeds he loves none, but sealed and delivered; nor doth he wish anything to thrive in the country but beehives, for they make him wax rich. He hates all but law-Latin, yet thinks he might be drawn to love a scholar, could he reduce the year to a shorter compa.s.s, that his use money might come in the faster. He seems to be the son of a jailor, for all his estate is in most heavy and cruel bonds. He doth not give, but sell, days of payment, and those at the rate of a man's undoing. He doth only fear the Day of Judgment should fall sooner than the payment of some great sum of money due to him. He removes his lodging when a subsidy comes; and if he be found out, and pay it, he grumbles treason: but 'tis in such a deformed silence as witches raise their spirits in. Gravity he pretends in all things but in his private vice, for he will not in a hundred pound take one light sixpence. And it seems he was at Tilbury Camp, for you must not tell him of a Spaniard. He is a man of no conscience, for (like the Jakes-farmer that swooned with going into Bucklersbury) he falls into a cold sweat if he but look into the Chancery; thinks, in his religion, we are in the right for everything, if that were abolished. He hides his money as if he thought to find it again at the last day, and then begin's old trade with it. His clothes plead prescription, and whether they or his body are more rotten is a question. Yet, should he live to be hanged in them, this good they would do him: the very hangman would pity his case. The table he keeps is able to starve twenty tall men. His servants have not their living, but their dying from him, and that's of hunger. A spare diet he commends in all men but himself. He comes to cathedrals only for love of the singing-boys, because they look hungry. He likes our religion best because 'tis best cheap, yet would fain allow of purgatory, cause 'twas of his trade, and brought in so much money. His heart goes with the same snaphance his purse doth: 'tis seldom open to any man. Friends.h.i.+p he accounts but a word without any signification; nay, he loves all the world so little, that an it were possible he would make himself his own executor. For certain, he is made administrator to his own good name while he is in perfect memory, for that dies long before him; but he is so far from being at the charge of a funeral for it, that he lets it stink above-ground. In conclusion, for neighbourhood you were better dwell by a contentious lawyer. And for his death, 'tis either surfeit, the pox, or despair; for seldom such as he die of G.o.d's making, as honest men should do.
A WATERMAN
Is one that hath learnt to speak well of himself, for always he names himself ”the first man.” If he had betaken himself to some richer trade, he could not have choosed but done well; for in this, though a mean one, he is still plying it, and putting himself forward. He is evermore telling strange news, most commonly lies. If he be a sculler, ask him if he be married: he'll equivocate, and swear he's a single man. Little trust is to be given to him, for he thinks that day he does best when he fetches most men over. His daily labour teaches him the art of dissembling, for, like a fellow that rides to the pillory, he goes not that way he looks. He keeps such a bawling at Westminster, that, if the lawyers were not acquainted with it, an order would be taken with him.
When he is upon the water he is fair company; when he comes ash.o.r.e he mutinies, and, contrary to all other trades, is most surly to gentlemen when they tender payment. The playhouses only keep him sober, and, as it doth many other gallants, make him an afternoon's man. London Bridge is the most terrible eyesore to him that can be. And, to conclude, nothing but a great press makes him fly from the river, nor anything but a great frost can teach him any good manners.
A REVEREND JUDGE
Is one that desires to have his greatness only measured by his goodness.
His care is to appear such to the people as he would have them be, and to be himself such as he appears; for virtue cannot seem one thing and be another. He knows that the hill of greatness yields a most delightful prospect; but, withal, that it is most subject to lightning and thunder, and that the people, as in ancient tragedies, sit and censure the actions of those in authority. He squares his own, therefore, that they may far be above their pity. He wishes fewer laws, so they were better observed; and for those are mulctuary, he understands their inst.i.tution not to be like briers or springs, to catch everything they lay hold of, but, like sea-marks on our dangerous Goodwin, to avoid the s.h.i.+pwreck of innocent pa.s.sengers. He hates to wrong any man: neither hope nor despair of preferment can draw him to such an exigent. He thinks himself most honourably seated when he gives mercy the upper hand. He rather strives to purchase good name than land; and of all rich stuffs forbidden by the statute, loathes to have his followers wear their clothes cut out of bribes and extortions. If his Prince call him to higher place, there he delivers his mind plainly and freely, knowing for truth there is no place wherein dissembling ought to have less credit than in a prince's council. Thus honour keeps peace with him to the grave, and doth not (as with many) there forsake him, and go back with the heralds; but fairly sits over him, and broods out of his memory many right excellent commonwealth's-men.