Character Writings of the Seventeenth Century Part 5

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 fashion; 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 fashion, 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 fellowship 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 fishing 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-Shrieveship, which, having thrice run through, he does not fear the Lieutenant of the Shire; 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. Friendship 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 shipwreck 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.

A VIRTUOUS WIDOW

Is the palm-tree, that thrives not after the supplanting of her husband.

For her children's sake she first marries; for she married that she might have children; and for their sakes she marries no more. She is like the purest gold, only employed for princes' medals: she never receives but one man's impression. The largest jointure moves her not, t.i.tles of honour cannot sway her. To change her name were (she thinks) to commit a sin should make her ashamed of her husband's calling. She thinks she hath travelled all the world in one man; the rest of her time, therefore, she directs to heaven. Her main superst.i.tion is, she thinks her husband's ghost would walk, should she not perform his will.

She would do it were there no Prerogative Court. She gives much to pious uses, without any hope to merit by them; and as one diamond fashions another, so is she wrought into works of charity, with the dust or ashes of her husband. She lives to see herself full of time; being so necessary for earth, G.o.d calls her not to heaven till she be very aged, and even then, though her natural strength fail her, she stands like an ancient pyramid, which, the less it grows to man's eye, the nearer it reaches to heaven. This latter chast.i.ty of hers is more grave and reverend than that ere she was married, for in it is neither hope, nor longing, nor fear, nor jealousy. She ought to be a mirror for our youngest dames to dress themselves by, when she is fullest of wrinkles.

No calamity can now come near her, for in suffering the loss of her husband she accounts all the rest trifles. She hath laid his dead body in the worthiest monument that can be: she hath buried it in her one heart. To conclude, she is a relic, that, without any superst.i.tion in the world, though she will not be kissed, yet may be reverenced.

AN ORDINARY WIDOW

Is like the herald's hea.r.s.e-cloth; she serves to many funerals, with a very little altering the colour. The end of her husband begins in tears, and the end of her tears begins in a husband. She uses to cunning women to know how many husbands she shall have, and never marries without the consent of six midwives. Her chiefest pride is in the mult.i.tude of her suitors, and by them she gains; for one serves to draw on another, and with one at last she shoots out another, as boys do pellets in eldern guns. She commends to them a single life, as horse-coursers do their jades, to put them away. Her fancy is to one of the biggest of the Guard, but knighthood makes her draw in in a weaker bow. Her servants or kinsfolk are the trumpeters that summon any to his combat. By them she gains much credit, but loseth it again in the old proverb, _Fama est mendax_. If she live to be thrice married, she seldom fails to cozen her second husband's creditors. A churchman she dare not venture upon, for she hath heard widows complain of dilapidations; nor a soldier, though he have candle-rents in the city, for his estate may be subject to fire; very seldom a lawyer, without he shows his exceeding great practice, and can make her case the better; but a knight with the old rent may do much, for a great coming in is all in all with a widow, ever provided that most part of her plate and jewels (before the wedding) be concealed with her scrivener. Thus, like a too-ripe apple, she falls off herself; but he that hath her is lord but of a filthy purchase, for the t.i.tle is cracked. Lastly, while she is a widow, observe her, she is no morning woman; the evening, a good fire and sack may make her listen to a husband, and if ever she be made sure, 'tis upon a full stomach to bedward.

A QUACK-SALVER

Is a mountebank of a larger bill than a tailor: if he can but come by names enough of diseases to stuff it with, 'tis all the skill he studies for. He took his first beginning from a cunning woman, and stole this black art from her, while he made her sea-coal fire. All the diseases ever sin brought upon man doth he pretend to be a curer of, when the truth is, his main cunning is corn-cutting. A great plague makes him, what with railing against such as leave their cures for fear of infection, and in friendly breaking cake-bread with the fishwives at funerals. He utters a most abominable deal of carduus water, and the conduits cry out, All the learned doctors may cast their caps at him. He parts stakes witn some apothecary in the suburbs, at whose house he lies; and though he be never so familiar with his wife, the apothecary dares not (for the richest horn in his shop) displease him. All the midwives in the town are his intelligencers; but nurses and young merchants' wives that would fain conceive with child, these are his idolaters. He is a more unjust bone-setter than a dice-maker. He hath put out more eyes than the small-pox; more deaf than the cataracts of Nilus; lamed more than the gout; shrunk more sinews than one that makes bowstrings, and killed more idly than tobacco. A magistrate that had any-way so n.o.ble a spirit as but to love a good horse well, would not suffer him to be a farrier. His discourse is vomit, and his ignorance the strongest purgation in the world. To one that would be speedily cured, he hath more delays and doubles than a hare or a lawsuit. He seeks to set us at variance with nature, and rather than he shall want diseases, he'll beget them. His especial practice (as I said before) is upon women; labours to make their minds sick, ere their bodies feel it, and then there's work for the dog-leech. He pretends the cure of madmen; and sure he gets most by them, for no man in his perfect wit would meddle with him. Lastly, he is such a juggler with urinals, so dangerously unskilful, that if ever the city will have recourse to him for diseases that need purgation, let them employ him in scouring Moorditch.

A CANTING ROGUE.

'Tis not unlikely but he was begot by some intelligencer under a hedge, for his mind is wholly given to travel. He is not troubled with making of jointures; he can divorce himself without the fee of a proctor, nor fears he the cruelty of overseers of his will. He leaves his children all the world to cant in, and all the people to their fathers. His language is a constant tongue; the northern speech differs from the south, Welsh from the Cornish; but canting is general, nor ever could be altered by conquest of the Saxon, Dane, or Norman. He will not beg out of his limit though he starve, nor break his oath, if he swear by his Solomon, though you hang him; and he pays his custom as truly to his grand rogue as tribute is paid to the great Turk. The March sun breeds agues in others, but he adores it like the Indians, for then begins his progress after a hard winter. Ostlers cannot endure him, for he is of the infantry, and serves best on foot. He offends not the statute against the excess of apparel, for he will go naked, and counts it a voluntary penance. Forty of them lie together in a barn, yet are never sued upon the Statute of Inmates. If he were learned no man could make a better description of England, for he hath travelled it over and over.

Lastly, he brags that his great houses are repaired to his hands when churches go to ruin, and those are prisons.

A FRENCH COOK.

He learnt his trade in a town of garrison near famished, where he practised to make a little go far. Some derive it from more antiquity, and say, Adam, when he picked salads, was of his occupation. He doth not feed the belly, but the palate; and though his command lie in the kitchen, which is but an inferior place, yet shall you find him a very saucy companion. Ever since the wars in Naples, he hath so minced the ancient and bountiful allowance as if his nation should keep a perpetual diet. The serving-men call him the last relic of popery, that makes men fast against their conscience. He can be truly said to be no man's fellow but his master's, for the rest of the servants are starved by him. He is the prime cause why n.o.blemen build their houses so great, for the smallness of their kitchen makes the house the bigger; and the lord calls him his alchemist, that can extract gold out of herbs, mushrooms, or anything. That which he dresses we may rather call a drinking than a meal, yet he is so full of variety that he brags, and truly, that he gives you but a taste of what he can do. He dares not for his life come among the butchers, for sure they would quarter and bake him after the English fashion, he's such an enemy to beef and mutton. To conclude, he were only fit to make, a funeral feast, where men should eat their victuals in mourning.

A s.e.xTON

Is an ill-wilier to human nature. Of all proverbs he cannot endure to hear that which says, We ought to live by the quick, not by the dead. He could willingly all his lifetime be confined to the churchyard; at least, within five foot on't, for at every church stile commonly there's an alehouse, where, let him be found never so idle-pated, he is still a grave drunkard. He breaks his fast heartiest while he is making a grave, and says the opening of the ground makes him hungry. Though one would take him to be a sloven, yet he loves clean linen extremely, and for that reason takes an order that fine Holland sheets be not made worms'-meat. Like a nation called the Cusani, he weeps when any are born and laughs when they die; the reason, he gets by burials not christenings. He will hold an argument in a tavern over sack till the dial and himself be both at a stand; he never observes any time but sermon-time, and there he sleeps by the hour-gla.s.s. The ropemaker pays him a pension, and he pays tribute to the physician; for the physician makes work for the s.e.xton, as the ropemaker for the hangman. Lastly, he wishes the dog-days would last all year long; and a great plague is his year of jubilee.

A JESUIT

Is a larger spoon for a traitor to feed with the devil than any other order; unclasp him, and he's a grey wolf with a golden star in the forehead; so superst.i.tiously he follows the pope that he forsakes Christ in not giving Caesar his due. His vows seem heavenly, but in meddling with state business he seems to mix heaven and earth together. His best elements are confession and penance: by the first he finds out men's inclinations, and by the latter heaps wealth to his seminary. He sprang from Ignatius Loyola, a Spanish soldier; and though he were found out long since the invention of the cannon, 'tis thought he hath not done less mischief. He is a half-key to open princes' cabinets and pry in their councils; and where the pope's excommunication thunders, he holds it no more sin the decrowning of kings than our Puritans do the suppression of bishops. His order is full of irregularity and disobedience, ambitious above all measure; for of late days, in Portugal and the Indies, he rejected the name of Jesuit, and would be called disciple. In Rome and other countries that give him freedom, he wears a mask upon his heart; in England he shifts it, and puts it upon his face.

No place in our climate holds him so securely as a lady's chamber; the modesty of the pursuivant hath only forborne the bed, and so missed him.

There is no disease in Christendom that may so properly be called the King's evil. To conclude, would you know him beyond sea? In his seminary he's a fox, but in the inquisition a lion rampant.