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Title: Microcosmography - or, a Piece of the World Discovered; in Essays and Characters
Author: Earle, John, 1601?-1665
Language: English
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  A Piece of the World discovered;









  _A Reprint of Dr. Bliss's Edition of 1811._

  By S. T. IRWIN.


                  TO THE MEMORY

  "From the contagion of the world's slow stain
  He was secure."


It may be reasonably asked why Dr. Bliss's[A] edition of the
Microcosmography should require a preface, and the answer is that it does
not require one. It would be difficult to have a more scholarly, more
adequate, more self-sufficing edition of a favourite book. Almost
everything that helps the elucidation of the text, almost everything about
Bishop Earle that could heighten our affection for him (there is nothing
known to his disparagement) is to be found here.[B] And affection for the
editor is conciliated by the way. It is not only his standard of
equipment that secures this--a standard that might have satisfied Mark
Pattison[C]--but also the painstaking love revealed in it, which, like
every other true love, whether of men or books, will not give of that
which costs it nothing. And, as a further title to our regard, Dr. Bliss
is amusing at his own expense, and compares himself to Earle's "critic,"
who swells books into folios with his comments. Not that this humorous
self-depreciation is to be pressed; for, unlike that critic, he is no
"troublesome vexer of the dead."

But though there is no need of a preface, I have two excuses for writing

The first is that I was asked to do it by my friend Mr. Frank George, of
Bristol, who wished to see the book reprinted; and the second is the old
_professio pietatis_, which seemed to Tacitus a sufficient defence of the
Agricola, and may perhaps be allowed to serve humbler people as well. What
Earle says of men is no less true of books: "Acquaintance is the first
draught of a friend. Men take a degree in our respect till at last they
wholly possess us;" and the history of this possession must, in every
case, have a sort of interest, as long as it is not carried to the point
of demanding from others the superlatives we permit to ourselves. It is
sufficiently common for people to like the same book for different
reasons; and where an author has a secure place in English literature, his
shade, like the deity of Utopia, may be best pleased with a manifold and
various worship.[D]

The character of Earle, as drawn by Clarendon, is itself a guarantee for
his studies of character; and the fact that Lord Falkland was his chosen
friend is evidence of his possessing something of that sweet
reasonableness of temper for which his host was so remarkable. "He was
very dear" (we are told) "to the Lord Falkland, with whom he spent as much
time as he could make his own." Indeed, "Mr. Earles would frequently
profess that he had got more useful learning by his conversation at Tew
than he had at Oxford." Of Earle's conversation Clarendon says that it was
"so pleasant and delightful, so very innocent and so very facetious, that
no man's company was more desired and more loved." Walton, too, tells us
of his "innocent wisdom and sanctified learning"; and another witness
speaks of his "charitable heart," an epithet which is nobly borne out by
the correspondence between himself and Baxter printed in this volume.

This is no superfluous citation of testimony. Without it we might,
perhaps, have suspected, though not, I think, legitimately, something
almost of a cynical spirit in the severity of the punishment which he
deals out to the various disguises of vice and imposture, and in the
pitiless nakedness in which he leaves them. But there are even stronger
reasons for recalling contemporary verdicts pronounced on Earle as a man.
Hallam, in the "Literature of Europe,"[E] has a short notice of him, and
though it shews some appreciation of his ability, it contains a very
unworthy aspersion on his character. "The chapter on the sceptic," he
says, "is witty, but an insult to the honest searcher after truth, which
could only have come from one that was content to take up his own opinions
for ease or profit." If we accept all that is said of Earle's piety and
devotion, and give its proper weight to the very significant epithet
"innocent," used both by Walton and Clarendon, we shall, I think, be slow
to suspect his motive in attacking the sceptic. The honest doubter, it
must be remembered, was not the familiar--much less the
fashionable--figure he has become since, and it is very certain that Earle
described one type of sceptic both of his day and our own. That his sketch
may have done injustice to other types is likely enough; but that is no
reason for calling in question the sincerity of his opinions, or
attributing an interested orthodoxy to one whom Bunyan might have
christened Mr. Singleheart. The piety of the 17th Century was not disposed
to be gentle to sceptics. Even Bacon's enlightenment allows itself harsher
language on such subjects than any to be found in Earle. "None do refuse
to believe in a God save those for _whom it maketh that there were no
God_." And if Bacon is not thought a satisfactory witness, we have an
unimpeachable one very much nearer to our time. Dr. Johnson's occasional
strictures on sceptics are well-known, but his reputation for honest
thinking has never been impaired by their severity. Earle knew what
charity was, as the Baxter correspondence shows, and he has exposed in one
of his characters "the faith that has no room for it"; and if his own
faith needed further enlargement in the case of a sceptic,[F] some
enlargement of Hallam's charity might also have been looked for in
dealing with the earnestness of a militant piety.

The character-sketch is naturally a thing of limited scope. "Fine
portraiture,"[G] it has been said, "is not possible under such conditions
as it imposes. The traits, common to a class, cannot at the same time be
the accurate and intimate likeness of an individual. For this, a simple
enumeration of actions which such and such a man will do, is not enough. A
novelist takes a long series of connected actions, and even then he has to
interpret, to review from time to time whole stages of development." All
this is, no doubt, true, but the character-writers differ to a remarkable
extent in their individualising power--some of them achieving a high
degree of success, as is subsequently admitted in the case of Thackeray by
the writer just quoted. It may be noticed too, by the way, that great
novelists are not always equally successful in the character-sketch. One
is reminded of Johnson's phrase about Milton's inability "to carve heads
upon cherry stones" when one thinks of "Theophrastus Such" on the one
hand, and the almost unique position of George Eliot as a novelist on the
other. Less successful as she often is in lightness of touch when she has
to pause and interpret her story, she had not prepared us for such a
complete exhaustion of power as her attempt in this branch of literature
(apparently of the same genus, almost of the same species, as the novel)
reveals to her disappointed admirers. It may, at any rate, be said that
her failure is an instructive lesson in the literary division of labour,
and that these studies require a peculiar delicacy of organisation in the
observer, as well as a special gift of exposition.

"Dolus latet in generalibus" is a salutary warning, but the
character-writers, as a whole, have in most instances got creditably out
of the snare, while Earle, I think, has achieved something more. Besides
his humour and acuteness, besides even his profundity, I find in him an
exceptional power of individualizing. "The contemplative man," for
instance, belongs to a small class at all times; but it is only an
individual we have known, and known at rare intervals, of whose
Wordsworthian temper we are able to say that "Nature asks his approbation
as it were of her works and variety." Again, "the grave divine, who is not
yet dean or canon, though his life is our religion's best apology," reads
throughout like a personal experience. I at least so read it, or I should
not have borrowed from Earle for the dedication which stands at the head
of this preface. Yet such identifications are usually reserved for the
great novelist, whose highest art, as Macaulay says, is to "make the
inventions of one man seem like the recollections of another."

Some of Earle's readers appear to be chiefly impressed with his book as
furnishing "a picturesque idea of a period now remote, and as possessing
much of the affected quaintness of its age."[H] The picturesqueness I
find, and a good deal of quaintness; but the total impression is that of a
man who has got beyond words, ancient or modern, in his studies of human
nature--of one who, whether

            "invectively he pierceth through
    The body of the country, city, court;"

or is "anatomizing the wise man's folly," is as instructive a moralist in
the end of the nineteenth century as in the beginning of the seventeenth.
This, in a sense, is true of all great moralists, but the distinction of
Earle, as I understand it, is that his characters are so often really
people of our own day, with idiosyncracies that seem almost more
applicable to our own age than to his.

Society is almost a technical term to-day, susceptible, one would have
said, of refinements of difference infinitely more various than anything
that could have existed more than two hundred years ago; yet one cannot
but feel that this observer would have been fully equal to drawing our
microcosm as well as his own. Earle's is a penetrating observation which
is always fresh--so fresh that no archaism of phrase in him, and no cheery
optimism in ourselves, can disguise the fact that it is our weaknesses he
is probing, our motives he is discovering.

There are still with us "those well-behaved ghosts Æneas met with--friends
to talk with, and men to look on, but if he grasped them but air"--those
shadowy creatures that "wonder at your ill-breeding,[I] that cannot
distinguish between what is spoken and what is meant."

We are no strangers to "the fashionable respect which loves not deeper
mutualities, but though exceeding kind and friendly at your first
acquaintance, is at the twentieth meeting but friendly still"; or to that
similar temper which "nothing so much puts out as to trespass against the
genteel way." And, to go a stage lower, the formal man still survives,
whose "face is in so good a frame because he is not disjointed with other
meditations--who hath staid in the world to fill a number; and when he is
gone there wants one and there's an end."[J] He, to be sure, has no
conversation, and that is his discretion--but others display then as now a
bolder discretion, and in their talk "fly for sanctuary rather to nonsense
which few descry, than to nothing which all."

But literary conversation is not forgotten. It may be a stretch beyond
the power of a latter-day imagination to fancy a visitor proposing to
fascinate his company by some "scatterings of Seneca and Tacitus," or even
to think ourselves back to a time when these "were good for all
occasions." Yet, those who say "Chaucer[K] for our money above all our
English poets because the voice has gone so," (or had we better substitute
Browning?),[L] are still common enough examples of those who desire to
acquire inexpensively the reputation of good taste.

And there is another variety of modern artificiality which is not spared
in this book. For the many forms of busy idleness, the worship of
organisation and system, and all the other hindrances to life properly
so-called, which it has been the cherished labour of this age to
multiply, Earle would have had no reserve of patience. "The dull
physician," we are told, has no leisure _to be idle_, that is, to study.
"The grave divine," who has "studied to make his shoulders sufficient for
his burden, comes not up thrice a week into his pulpit because _he would
not be idle_"; whereas the commendation of the young raw preacher is that
"he speaks without book, and, indeed, he was never used to it."

We may justly boast of the superior humanity of our century; but few would
deny that the elaborate apparatus of modern philanthropy has too often
become an end in itself, and absorption in it a serious detriment to any
worthy preparation for the work of edifying. In the absence of leisure
pulpits will hardly furnish us with that "sincere erudition which can send
us clear and pure away unto a virtuous and happy life."[M] Nor is such a
loss compensated by an endless succession of services or even a whole
street of committee-rooms.

One would not, however, wish to rest in negations or dwell in the last
resort on Earle's critical attitude. One feels that the delightful house
at Tew did not spend all or even its best strength on criticism. Earle may
have there pursued the method of verification and studied his characters
in the flesh. Perhaps he saw there "the staid man," and duly appraised
this specimen of "nature's geometry";[N] while his obvious gifts as a
rational peace-maker, if not much needed in such a company, would not be
overlooked by Lord Falkland. "The good old man," too is a portrait so
strongly individualized that I cannot help thinking some very personal
experience went to the making of it--experience of a sort that was sure to
be revived at Tew, where "so good a relick of the old times" was not
likely to be wanting. It was a house, at any rate, for the "modest man" to
whom, as to the poet Cowper, public appearances were so many penances; for
though the world may not agree with Earle as to the degree in which this
quality sets off a man, there is no question of Lord Falkland's welcome of
the modest man, even if that grave divine "Mr. Earles," did not point out
this diffident guest as one who "had a piece of singularity," and, for all
his modesty, "scorned something."

And, as "the most polite and _accurate_ men of the University of
Oxford"[O] were to be met with at Tew, we may further hope that Earle
there watched the social mellowing of the "downright scholar whose mind
was too much taken up with his mind,"[P] and strove to carry out his own
recommendation, "practising him in men, and brushing him over with good

Symposium is a word that has been much abused and vulgarised of late, but
something like its true Platonic sense must have been realised by the
company at Lord Falkland's, as they "examined and refined those grosser
propositions which laziness and consent made current in vulgar
conversation":[Q] for a more Platonic programme it would be difficult to
conceive. The pattern of the ideal republic is, we know, laid up somewhere
in the heavens; but the republic of letters so far as it was represented,
must have been as near the ideal in that house as it ever was on earth.
And in this ideal one of Earle's characters already mentioned was not only
a natural but a necessary element. "The contemplative man" is solitary, we
are told, in company, but he would not be so in this company. "Outward
show, the stream, the people," were not taken seriously at Lord
Falkland's; and the man who "can spell heaven out of earth" would be the
centre of a rare group--men upon whose fresh and eager appetites
conversation that was "mysterious and inward" could not easily pall.

Bishop Berkeley is one of the very few men who could answer with any
plausibility to this last character of Earle's. But the marvellous
amenity of his social gifts brings him a little closer to the kindly race
of men than Earle thinks is usual with the contemplative student. In every
other point it is an accurate piece of portraiture.[R] Nature might well
ask approbation of her works and variety from a man who was ever feeding
his noble curiosity and never satisfying it. He, too, made a "ladder of
his observations to climb to God." He, too, was "free from vice, because
he had no occasion to employ it." "Such gifts," said the turbulent Bishop
Atterbury of him, "I did not think had been the portion of any but
angels." After this it is no hyperbole to say, as Earle does of the
contemplative man, "He has learnt all can here be taught him, and comes
now to heaven to see more."

Though Clarendon does full justice to Earle's personal charm, he uses the
epithets "sharp and witty" to describe his published "discourses"; and the
piercing severity of his wit is illustrated everywhere in this book. It is
clear, however, from the sympathetic sketches that Earle's was no _nil
admirari_ doctrine, and that while he saw grave need on all hands for men
to clear their mind of cant, and their company of those who live by it, he
had great store of affection for all that is noble or noble in the making.

The "modest man" and the high-spirited man" are opposite types, but there
is in both the worthy pursuit and the high ideal. Moreover, the second of
those characters reveals a power of pathos which Earle might have
developed with more opportunity.[S] "The child" whom "his father has writ
as his own little story" is another indication of the same mood.

These sketches are full of suggestive melancholy--not the melancholy of
the misanthrope, but the true melancholy--the melancholy of
Virgil--_Invalidus etiamque tremens etiam inscius aevi._[T]

There is another character drawn with a most incisive pathos, though less
_Virgilian_[U] in its tone.

The poor man, "with whom even those that are not friends _for ends_ love
not a dearness," and who, "with a great deal of virtue, obtains of himself
not to hate men," is a pathetic figure, but he is something more. He is a
sermon on human weakness, not drawn as some Iago might have drawn it with
exultant mockery, but with the painful unflinching veracity of one who is
ashamed of himself and of his kind. When one thinks how often this
weakness is spoken of as if it were peculiar to the moneyed class or to
the uneducated, and how many people whom one knows act and think as if
poverty were a vice if not a crime, though they shrink from avowing it, so
unqualified an exposure indicates a conscience of no common sensitiveness.

Earle's wit and humour are deadly weapons, and it must be said that the
trades and professions are treated with scant indulgence. He can even
leave a mark like that of Junius when he has a mind. Thus the dull
physician is present at "some desperate recovery, and is slandered with
it, though he be guiltless"; and the attorney does not fear doomsday
because "he hopes he has a trick to reverse judgment!"

But though one would not ask on behalf of impostors or scoundrels for
suspension of sentence, one does wish for more than a single picture of
the young man "who sins to better his understanding." The companionship
of one who by his 34th year "had so much dispatched the business of life
that the oldest rarely attain to that knowledge and the youngest enter not
the world with more innocence,"[V] might have induced Earle to pourtray
more than the weaknesses of immature manhood.

We could not, however, have missed this or the other pictures of
characterless persons whether young or "having attained no proficiency by
their stay in the world." Inexperience may fail to recognise them and
suffer for it; or the gilding of rank and fashion may win for such persons
a name in society above that which they deserve, and the moralist is bound
to unmask them. These studies nevertheless are somewhat sombre;[W] and
there is something much lighter and pleasanter in his presentation of
some not unfamiliar phases of manners. There is the self-complacency that
deals with itself like a "truant reader skipping over the harsh places";
the frank discourtesy that finds something vicious in the conventions and
"circumstance" of good breeding; the patronising insolence[X] that "with
much ado seems to recover your name"; the egoism of discontent that "has
an accustomed tenderness not to be crossed in its fancy"; or lastly, that
affectation of reticence which is as modern as anything in the book,
though its illustrations look so remote. Where we meet with such a temper,
Earle's is still the right method--"we must deal with such a man as we do
with Hebrew letters, spell him backwards and read him!"

Despite all this searching analysis and the biting wit which accompanies
it, I cannot think the epithet cynical, which I have heard ascribed to
Earle, is defensible. There is a vast difference between recognising our
frailty which is a fact, and insisting that our nature is made up of
nothing else, which is not a fact. The severe critic and the cynic differ
chiefly in this: the first reports distressing facts, the second invents
disgraceful fictions; the one distrusts, the other insults our common
nature; and in doing justice to the possibilities of that nature, no one
has gone further than Earle in his "contemplative man."

Something may be said of Earle's style before this introduction is brought
to an end.

I do not think it is uniformly conspicuous[Y] for quaintness, or that
there is much that can be called affectation; though occasionally an
excess of brevity has proved too tempting, or the desire to individualize
runs away with him.

The following passages, taken at random from the Characters, seem to
contain phrases that we should be well content to use to-day if we had
thought of them.

    _He sighs to see what innocence he hath outlived._

    _We look on old age for his sake as a more reverent

    _He has still something to distinguish him from a
    gentleman, though his doublet cost more._

    _It is discourtesy in you to believe him._

    _An extraordinary man in ordinary things._

    _His businesses with his friends are to visit them._

    _The main ambition of his life is not to be

    _He preaches heresy if it comes in his way, though with
    a mind I must needs say very orthodox._

These quotations have no very unfamiliar sound, nor much flavour of
archaism about them. And there are many more, surprisingly free from
conceits or other oddities, if we reflect that the book was written before
Dryden was born, or modern prose with its precision and balance even
thought of.

There is one very distinguishing mark set on Earle's characters, the
profundity of the analysis that accompanies the sketch. He lets us know
not only what the grave divine or the staid man looks like, but why they
are what they are, and all this without turning his sketch into an essay.
This mistake Bishop Hall is inclined to make, and Butler actually makes.
The author of Hudibras, it seems, would have been too fortunate had he
known where his own happiness lay--to wit in that "sting" of verse, which
Cowper says prose neither has nor can have.

When one compares the essay in its beginnings with the essay as we know it
to-day, it is not difficult to understand the change of form in the
character sketch. "The Character of a Trimmer"[Z] is a very powerful piece
of writing, containing some very fine things, but Halifax could not make
of it that finished piece of brevity which it would have become in Earle's
hands. Latin criticism has the right word for his work--"densus."[AA] We
could not pack the thinking closer if we wished. And yet if we do not
care to reason a type out, there are pictures enough unspoilt by
commentary.[AB] Earle has some of that delightful suddenness of
illustration which Selden makes so captivating in his Table-Talk. At once
we are made to see likeness or unlikeness, we hear no comment on it; since
the artist desires no more moral than is to be looked for in his art.

When on the other hand Earle makes more of the reason of the thing, he[AC]
is literally "swift and sententious"--he never takes the opportunity to
draw us into an instructive disquisition, or to assume airs of profundity.
And his passing hint as to the cause of what _we see_ no more injures any
picture he may draw than Coleridge's prose argument at the side of the
page destroys the imaginative spectacle in the Ancient Mariner.

Earle, it has been said, "is not so thoroughly at home with men of all
sorts and conditions as Overbury, who had probably seen far more of the
world."[AD] However relatively true this may be, Earle's book [published
1628] gives evidence of an experience of men as wide as it is intimate--an
experience little short of marvellous in a resident Fellow of
twenty-seven, whose younger years were chiefly distinguished for "oratory,
poetry, and witty fancies."[AE] (Perhaps his youth may account for some of
that excessive severity in handling follies which is occasionally
noticeable.) The article in the "Dictionary of National Biography" gives a
somewhat different impression of Earle as an observer. "The sketches
throw," it says, "_the greatest light_ upon the social condition of the
time." Now this is not possible for anyone to achieve whose vision
requires "the spectacles of books"; though with such help it is doubtless
possible to extend and improve on the observations of others, with human
nature as a constant quantity. But to be at home with one's contemporaries
and to record one's intimacy means to see with the eye as well as the
mind. The slow inductive method of personal contact is indispensable; and
no reasoning from first principles, no assimilating of secondhand
experience, with whatever touches of genius, can be mistaken for it.

It is not likely that the Registrar's house (his father's house) at York
added much to Earle's sketch-book; and we have to fall back on what
Clarendon says of his delightful conversation, and by implication, of his
delight in it. In the society of a University and in the life of a
University town there would be presented to an observer of his exceptional
penetration enough of the fusion or confusion of classes to furnish the
analytical powers with a tolerably wide field.

And Earle does not suffer by comparison with his rivals. "The concise
narrative manner"[AF] of Theophrastus, though in its way as humorously
informing as we find Plautus and Terence, and as we should have found the
New Comedy which they copied, leaves us a little cold from the looseness
or the connexion in the quasi-narrative: we rise a little unsatisfied from
the ingenious banquet of conversational scraps; we desire more. Overbury,
again, says less than Earle, and is more artificial in saying it. Butler
and Bishop Hall too directly suggest _the essay_[AG] and the sermon. In no
one of them is brevity so obviously the soul of wit as it is in Earle; no
one of them is so humorously thoughtful, so lucid in conception, so
striking in phrase.

When one has reckoned up all these gifts, and all that his friends and
contemporaries said of him, and remember also who and what these friends
were, one is not startled by the eulogistic epitaph in Merton College
Chapel; these words are as moving as they are strong:

    Si nomen ejus necdum suboleat, Lector,
      Nomen ejus ut pretiosa unguenta;
        Johannes Earle Eboracensis.

But his own choicer Latin in the epitaph he wrote for the learned Peter
Heylin would serve no less well for himself; and the beautiful brevity of
its closing cadences has so much of the distinction of his English, and
puts so forcibly what Earle deserves to have said of him, that it may
fitly be the last word here:

     Plura ejusmodi meditanti
      mors indixit silentium:
          ut sileatur
        efficere non potest.


Clifton, May, 1896.


[A] It came out in 1811. Forty-four years afterwards he wrote that in his
interleaved copy the list of Seventeenth Century Characters had increased
fourfold--good evidence of his affection for and interest in Earle's
Characters. Yet he despaired of anyone republishing a book so "common and
unimportant" (??). (See Arber's reprint of Earle.) It is to the credit of
Bristol that this pessimism has not been justified.

[B] Since writing this preface I have added a small supplementary
appendix; but there is nothing in it to require much qualification of the
opinion here expressed. It was hardly possible, as I gather, for Bliss to
have known of the Durham MS.

[C] Mr. John Morley has called Pattison's standard "the highest of our
time." Bliss's conception of an editor's duties is well illustrated in the
note on p. 73.

[D] "Varium ac multiplicem expetens cultum deus."--_Mori Utopia Lib. II._

[E] Vol. iii., pp. 153 and 154.

[F] Were the unorthodox opinions of Hobbes known to his friends as early
as 1647? If so, Earle could hardly have been very curious in scenting out
heresy, for Clarendon hopes Earle's intercession may secure for him a book
of Hobbes's. (See letters of Clarendon in Supplementary Appendix.)

[G] Professor Jebb, in his edition of The Characters of Theophrastus. I
rejoice to see that Professor Jebb assigns Earle a place of far more
distinction than is implied in the measured tribute of Hallam. His preface
furnishes lovers of Earle with just those reasoned opinions with which
instinctive attraction desires to justify itself; and I take this
opportunity of acknowledging my great obligations to it.

[H] Hallam. The same tone is taken in the article on Earle in the
"Encyclopædia Britannica."

[I] Mr. Bridges indeed, ("Achilles in Scyros"), finds that this character
has been always with us, and gives it a place in the Heroic Age. The
passage has almost the note of Troilus and Cressida:--

                  "My invitation, Sir,
    Was but my seal of full denial, a challenge
    For honor's eye not to be taken up.
    Your master hath slipped in manners."

[J] We may compare Matthew Arnold's travelling companion ("Essays in
Criticism," 1st Edition, Preface), who was so nervous about railway
murders, and who refused to be consoled by being reminded that though the
worst should happen, there would still be the old crush at the corner of
Fenchurch Street, and that he would not be missed: "the great mundane
movement would still go on!"

[K] Chaucer could hardly have been well-known in 1811, or Dr. Bliss would
scarcely have quoted in full the most familiar character in his Prologue;
but I could not find courage to excise, or lay a profane hand on any of
his notes.

[L] It is, perhaps, superfluous to say that no disrespect is intended to
the Author of the "Ring and the Book"; but it would be difficult to find
another poet who has had so many of the equivocal tributes of fashion.

[M] Sir Thomas Browne, "Christian Morals."

[N] "So infinite a fancy, bound in by a most logical
ratiocination."--_Clarendon (of Lord Falkland)._

[O] Clarendon.

[P] "A great cherisher of good parts ... and if he found men clouded with
poverty, or want, a most liberal and bountiful patron."--_Clarendon, ib._

[Q] Clarendon, _ib._

[R] Between Earle himself and Berkeley there is much resemblance. Of
Berkeley too it would have been said--"a person certainly of the sweetest
and most obliging nature that lived in our age"; and this resemblance
extends beyond their social gifts or their cast of mind, even to their
language. Earle's "vulgar-spirited" man, with whom "to thrive is to do
well," recalls a famous passage in the Siris.

"He that hath not thought much about God, the human soul, and the _summum
bonum_, may indeed be a _thriving_ earth-worm, but he will make a sorry
patriot, and a sorry statesman."

[S] Is this from Pliny's Letters? "Totum patrem mira similitudine
exscripserat."--_Lib._ V. xvi.

[T] One may recall, too, the famous words of the Sophoclean Ajax to his
son in connection with Earle's phrases. "He is not come to his task of
melancholy," "he arrives not at the mischief of being wise," read like a
free translation of Soph. Ajax, II. 554 and 555.

[U] Perhaps the simile in Æn. viii. 408 and one or two other places would
justify us in calling this also Virgilian, as, indeed, one may call most
good things.

[V] Clarendon--his character of Lord Falkland.

[W] There are certain things not at all sombre applicable not only to our
day, but to our _hour_, _e.g._ "the poet (I regret to say he is 'a pot
poet,') now much employed in commendations of our navy"; or this, "His
father sent him to the University, because he heard there were the best
fencing and dancing schools there." If we substitute athletics of some
kind, we have a very modern reason for the existence of such things as
Universities accepted as sound by both parents and children. _cf._ too Dr.
Bliss's note on the serving-man, and its quotation, "An' a man have not
skill in the hawking and hunting languages nowadays, I'll not give a rush
for him!"

[X] _cf._ Falconbridge in "King John":

    "And if his name be George I'll call him Peter,
    For new-made honour doth forget men's names."

It is this character which was the occasion of the most delightful of all
stories of absence of mind, and though, doubtless, familiar to many, I
cannot resist repeating it. The poet Rogers was looking at a new picture
in the National Gallery in company with a friend. Rogers was soon
satisfied, but his friend was still absorbed. "I say," said Rogers, "_that
fellow_ [Earle's insolent man] was at Holland House again last night, and
he came up and asked me if my name was Rogers." "Yes," said the friend,
still intent on the picture, "_and was it_?

[Y] The article in the "Dictionary of National Biography" lays stress on
the freedom from conceits in Earle's few poems at a time when conceits
were universal. The lines on Sir John Burroughs contain a couplet which is
wonderfully close to Wordsworth's "Happy Warrior":

    "His rage was tempered well, no fear could daunt
    _His reason_, his _cold_ blood was valiant."

    _cf._ "Who in the heat of conflict keeps _the law_
    In _calmness_ made."

Earle's standard in poetry was high. "Dr. Earle would not allow Lord
Falkland to be a good poet though a Great Witt," yet many poets praised
his verses. Aubrey, who tells us of Earle's opinion, confirms it. "He
(Lord Falkland) writt not a smooth verse, but a great deal of sense."

[Z] "The Trimmer" is no doubt a political manifesto--but no retreat from
politics could have chastened Halifax's style into a resemblance to
Earle's; when the "Character" became a political weapon, its literary
identity was all but at an end. "The Trimmer" is commended by Macaulay in
his History, where it will be remembered he pays a tribute to its

[AA] Quintilian uses it of Thucydides.

[AB] The "She precise hypocrite" is a striking example--one of Earle's
most humorous pieces.

_cf._ also "The plain country fellow."

[AC] The pictures, with the moral attached, are best seen in places: in
"The Tavern, the best theatre of natures"; in "The Bowl-alley, an emblem
of the world where some few justle in to the mistress fortune"; in Paul's
Walk, "where all inventions are emptied and not a few pockets!"

[AD] Professor Jebb, preface to "The Characters of Theophrastus."

[AE] Anthony Wood.

[AF] Professor Jebb.

[AG] Professor Jebb justly replies to Hallam that if La Bruyère is far
superior to Theophrastus the scope of the two writers makes the comparison
unfair. The difference between them may perhaps be expressed by saying
that an essay was the last thing that the master and the first thing that
the disciple was anxious to produce.





In the Cathedral Library at Durham is a small bound volume which contains
forty-six of Earle's Characters, bearing date 1627[AH],--the date of the
first edition being 1628. I was enabled by the kindness of Dr. Greenwell,
the Librarian, to take it away and examine it at leisure; and the courtesy
of the University Librarian, Dr. Fowler, furnished me with an exact
collation of the MS. versions with the printed text[AI] of these
forty-six Characters, the original of the contributions made by him to
"Notes and Queries," and referred to in the "Dictionary of National

(2) I have printed, besides, some other versions quoted by Bliss from "Dr.
Bright's MS.," and incorporated in his annotated copy of his own book.
These are often the same with those of the Durham MS. I should mention
that though this annotated copy is in the Bodleian Library, the
Sub-Librarian, Mr. Falconer Madan, "knows of no 'Bright MS.,'[AJ] nor
where Bliss's MS. with that name is." The copy in question contains so
much additional matter that I have added a few things from it, but my
space was necessarily limited; there is good evidence in it of Bliss's
statement that he had continued collecting materials for the book for
forty-four years after its publication. Moreover, in the "Bliss Sale
Catalogue" in the Bodleian there are some 530 books of Characters
(including duplicates). I am myself in possession, as I believe, of a copy
of Bliss's edition which belonged to himself, and which is annotated by
himself and Haslewood.[AK] It contains a castrated title-page (originally
Bliss suppressed his name) and a notice of the book in the "Monthly
Review" of 1812.

(3) I have added a few "testimonies" to Earle from Anthony Wood and

(4) I have printed three letters from Clarendon to Earle from the
"Clarendon State Papers," with short extracts from two others; as well as
two letters of Earle's from the Bodleian Library--interesting rather as
personal relics than as containing anything very significant. All that
relates to its author will, I believe, be acceptable to lovers of the

For this additional matter, as well as for other help and counsel, I am
indebted to Mr. Charles Firth, of Balliol College, Oxford, whose learning
is always at the service of his friends, and who stands in no need of the
old injunction--"not to be reserved and caitiff in this part of goodness."

(5) From a notebook of Bliss's (in MS.) in my possession I have added a
few titles of Books of Characters.

I have retained in this Appendix the spelling I found. Bliss's text has,
with a few exceptions (possibly accidental), the modern spelling.


[AH] Dec. 14th, 1627. [At the end, by way of Colophon:] at the top of page
1, in a different hand, "Edw. Blunt Author." This MS. was obviously one of
"the _written copies_, passing severally from hand to hand, which grew at
length to be a pretty number in a little volume." (See Blount's Preface to
the Reader.)

[AI] As it appears in Arber's Reprint.

[AJ] The "Bright MS." was obviously later than that in the Durham
Cathedral Library, since it contained several Characters known to have
been added to the first edition.

[AK] Joseph Haslewood, Antiquary. One of the founders of the Roxburghe



  A Piece of the World discovered;














The present edition of Bishop Earle's Characters was undertaken from an
idea that they were well worthy of republication, and that the present
period, when the productions of our early English writers are sought after
with an avidity hitherto unexampled, would be the most favourable for
their appearance.

The text has been taken from the edition of 1732, collated with the first
impression in 1628. The variations from the latter are thus
distinguished:--those words or passages which have been added since the
first edition are contained between brackets, [and printed in the common
type]; those which have received some alteration, are printed in _italic_,
and the passages, as they stand in the first edition, are always given in
a note.

For the Notes, Appendix, and Index, the editor is entirely answerable, and
although he is fully aware that many superfluities will be censured, many
omissions discovered, and many errors pointed out, he hopes that the
merits of the original author will, in a great measure, compensate for the
false judgment or neglect of his reviver.

_January_ 30, 1811.



This little book had six editions between 1628 and 1633, without any
author's name to recommend it: I have heard of an eighth in 1664. From
that of 33 this present edition is reprinted, without altering any thing
but the plain errors of the press, and the old pointing and spelling in
some places.

The language is generally easy, and proves our English tongue not to be so
very changeable as is commonly supposed; nay, sometimes the phrase seems a
little obscure, more by the mistakes of the printer than the distance of
time. Here and there we meet with a broad expression, and some characters
are far below others; nor is it to be expected that so great a variety of
portraits should all be drawn with equal excellence, though there are
scarce any without some masterly touches. The change of fashions
unavoidably casts a shade upon a few places, yet even those contain an
exact picture of the age wherein they were written, as the rest does of
mankind in general: for reflections founded upon nature will be just in
the main, as long as men are men, though the particular instances of vice
and folly may be diversified. Paul's Walk is now no more, but then good
company adjourn to coffee-houses, and, at the reasonable fine of two or
three pence, throw away as much of their precious time as they find

Perhaps these valuable essays may be as acceptable to the public now as
they were at first; both for the entertainment of those who are already
experienced in the ways of mankind, and for the information of others who
would know the world the best way, that is--without trying it[AM].


[AL] _London: Printed by E. Say, Anno Domini_ M.DCC.XXXII.

[AM] A short account of Earle, taken from the _Athenæ Oxonienses_ is here



As this entertaining little book is become rather scarce, and is replete
with so much good sense and genuine humour, which, though in part adapted
to the times when it first appeared, seems, on the whole, by no means
inapplicable to any æra of mankind, the editor conceives that there needs
little apology for the republication. A farther inducement is, his having,
from very good authority, lately discovered[AO] that these _Characters_
(hitherto known only under the title of _Blount's_[AP]), were actually
drawn by the able pencil of JOHN EARLE, who was formerly bishop of Sarum,
having been translated to that see from Worcester, A.D. 1663, and died at
Oxford, 1665.

Isaac Walton, in his Life of Hooker, delineates the character of the said
venerable prelate.

It appears from Antony Wood's Athen. Oxon. under the Life of Bishop Earle,
that this book was first of all published at London in 1628, under the
name of "_Edward Blount_."


[AN] _"Microcosmography; or, a Piece of the World characterized; in Essays
and Characters. London, printed A.D. 1650. Salisbury, Reprinted and sold
by E. Easton, 1786. Sold also by G. and T. Wilkie, St. Paul's Church-yard,

[AO] I regret extremely that I am unable to put the reader in possession
of this very acute discoverer's name.

[AP] This mistake originated with Langbaine, who, in his account of Lilly,
calls Blount "a gentleman who has made himself known to the world by the
several pieces of his own writing, (as _Horæ Subsecivæ_, his
_Microcosmography_, &c.") _Dramatic Poets_, 8vo, 1691, p. 327.


The first edition (of which the Bodleian possesses a copy, 8vo. P. 154.
Theol.) was printed with the following title: "_Microcosmographie: or, a
Peece of the World discovered; In Essayes and Characters. Newly composed
for the Northerne parts of this Kingdome. At London. Printed by W. S. for
Ed. Blount, 1628_." This contains only fifty-four characters[AQ], which in
the present edition are placed first. I am unable to speak of any
subsequent copy, till one in the following year, (1629), printed for
Robert Allot[AR], and called in the title "_The first edition much
enlarged_." This, as Mr. Henry Ellis kindly informs me, from a copy in the
British Museum, possesses seventy-six characters. The _sixth_ was printed
for Allot, in 1633, (_Bodl. Mar._ 441,) and has seventy-eight, the
additional ones being "a herald," and "a suspicious, or jealous man." The
_seventh_ appeared in 1638, for Andrew Crooke, agreeing precisely with the
sixth; and in 1650 the _eighth_. A copy of the latter is in the curious
library of Mr. Hill, and, as Mr. Park acquaints me, is without any
specific edition numbered in the title. I omit that noticed by the editor
of 1732, as printed in 1664, for if such a volume did exist, which I much
doubt, it was nothing more than a copy of the eighth with a new
title-page. In 1732 appeared the _ninth_, which was a reprint of the
_sixth_, executed with care and judgment. I have endeavoured in vain to
discover to whom we are indebted for this republication of bishop Earle's
curious volume, but it is probable that the person who undertook it, found
so little encouragement in his attempt to revive a taste for the
productions of our early writers, that he suffered his name to remain
unknown. Certain it is that the impression, probably not a large one, did
not sell speedily, as I have seen a copy, bearing date 1740, under the
name of "_The World display'd: or several Essays; consisting of the
various Characters and Passions of its principal Inhabitants_," &c.
London, printed for C. Ward, and R. Chandler. The edition printed at
Salisbury, in 1786, (which has only seventy-four characters,) with that
now offered to the public, close the list.


[AQ] Having never seen or been able to hear of any copy of the second,
third, or fourth editions, I am unable to point out when the additional
characters first appeared.

[AR] Robert Allot, better known as the editor of _England's Parnassus_,
appears to have succeeded Blount in several of his copy-rights, among
others, in that of Shakspeare, as the second edition (1632) was printed
for him.



  _Preface to the Reprint of 1897_                            vii.

  Advertisement to the present edition (1811)                      xlv.

  Preface to the edition of 1732                                 xlvii.

  Advertisement to the edition of 1786                            xlix.

  Editions of _Microcosmography_                               li.

  Blount's Preface to the Reader                                   lix.

  A child                                                                1

  A young raw preacher                                                   4

  A grave divine                                                         8

  A meer dull physician                                                 11

  An alderman                                                           16

  A discontented man                                                    18

  An antiquary                                                          20

  A younger brother                                                     22

  A meer formal man                                                     25

  A church papist                                                       27

  A self-conceited man                                                  29

  A too idly reserved man                                               31

  A tavern                                                              34

  A shark                                                               37

  A carrier                                                             40

  A young man                                                           42

  An old college butler                                                 45

  An upstart country knight                                             48

  An idle gallant                                                       51

  A constable                                                           53

  A downright scholar                                                   54

  A plain country fellow                                                57

  A player                                                              60

  A detractor                                                           63

  A young gentleman of the university                                   65

  A weak man                                                            68

  A tobacco-seller                                                      70

  A pot poet                                                            71

  A plausible man                                                       74

  A bowl-alley                                                          76

  The world's wise man                                                  78

  A surgeon                                                             80

  A contemplative man                                                   82

  A she precise hypocrite                                               84

  A sceptick in religion                                                88

  An attorney                                                           93

  A partial man                                                         95

  A trumpeter                                                           97

  A vulgar spirited man                                                 98

  A plodding student                                                   101

  Paul's walk                                                          103

  A cook                                                               106

  A bold forward man                                                   108

  A baker                                                              111

  A pretender to learning                                              112

  A herald                                                             115

  The common singing-men in cathedral churches                         116

  A shop-keeper                                                        118

  A blunt man                                                          119

  A handsome hostess                                                   122

  A critic                                                             123

  A serjeant, or catch-pole                                            124

  An university dun                                                    126

  A stayed man                                                         128

  [All from this character were added after the first edition.]

  A modest man                                                         131

  A meer empty wit                                                     134

  A drunkard                                                           136

  A prison                                                             138

  A serving-man                                                        140

  An insolent man                                                      142

  Acquaintance                                                         144

  A meer complimental man                                              147

  A poor fiddler                                                       149

  A meddling-man                                                       151

  A good old man                                                       153

  A flatterer                                                          155

  A high spirited man                                                  158

  A meer gull citizen                                                  160

  A lascivious man                                                     165

  A rash man                                                           167

  An affected man                                                      169

  A profane man                                                        171

  A coward                                                             173

  A sordid rich man                                                    174

  A meer great man                                                     177

  A poor man                                                           179

  An ordinary honest man                                               181

  A suspicious, or jealous man                                         183


  Some account of bishop Earle[AS]                                     186

  Characters of bishop Earle                                           194

  List of Dr. Earle's Works                                            197

  Lines on sir John Burroughs                                          199

  Lines on the death of the earl of Pembroke                           201

  Lines on Mr. Beaumont                                                203

  Dedication to the Latin translation of the [Greek: Eikôn Basilikê]   207

  Inscription on Dr. Heylin's monument                                 211

  Correspondence between Dr. Earle and Mr. Bagster                     213

  Inscription in Streglethorp church                                   217

  Chronological List of Books of Characters, from 1567
  to 1700                                                              219

  Corrections and additions                                            279

  A note on bishop Earle's arms, from _Guillim's Heraldry_             282

  _Supplementary Appendix, 1897, (Durham MS., Letters
  of Earle and Clarendon, etc.)_                                       303


[AS] It will be remarked, that Dr. Earle's name is frequently spelled
_Earle_ and _Earles_ in the following pages. Wherever the editor has had
occasion to use the name himself, he has invariably called it _Earle_,
conceiving that to be the proper orthography. Wherever it is found
_Earles_, he has attended strictly to the original, from which the article
or information has been derived.


I have (for once) adventured to play the midwife's part, helping to bring
forth these infants into the world, which the father would have smothered;
who having left them lapt up in loose sheets, as soon as his fancy was
delivered of them, written especially for his private recreation, to pass
away the time in the country, and by the forcible request of friends drawn
from him: yet, passing severally from hand to hand, in written copies,
grew at length to be a pretty number in a little volume: and among so many
sundry dispersed transcripts, some very imperfect and surreptitious had
liked to have passed the press, if the author had not used speedy means of
prevention; when, perceiving the hazard he ran to be wronged, was
unwillingly[AU] willing to let them pass as now they appear to the world.
If any faults have escaped the press (as few books can be printed
without), impose them not on the author, I intreat thee; but rather impute
them to mine and the printer's oversight, who seriously promise, on the
re-impression hereof, by greater care and diligence for this our former
default, to make thee ample satisfaction. In the mean while, I remain





[AT] _Gentile, or Gentle_, 8th edit. 1650.

[AU] Willingly, 8th edit. evidently a typographical error.

[AV] Edward Blount, who lived at the Black Bear, Saint Paul's Church-yard,
appears to have been a bookseller of respectability, and in some respects
a man of letters. Many dedications and prefaces, with as much merit as
compositions of this nature generally possess, bear his name, and there is
every reason to suppose that he translated a work from the Italian, which
is intituled "_The Hospitall of Incurable Fooles_," &c. 4to. 1600. Mr.
Ames has discovered, from the Stationer's Register, that he was the son of
Ralph Blount or Blunt, merchant-taylor of London; that he was apprenticed
to William Ponsonby, in 1578, and made free in 1588. It is no slight
honour to his taste and judgment, that he was one of the partners in the
first edition of Shakspeare.



_A piece of the World characterized_.



Is a man in a small letter, yet the best copy of Adam before he tasted of
Eve or the apple; and he is happy whose small practice in the world can
only write his character. He is nature's fresh picture newly drawn in oil,
which time, and much handling, dims and defaces. His soul is yet a white
paper[1] unscribbled with observations of the world, wherewith, at length,
it becomes a blurred note-book. He is purely happy, because he knows no
evil, nor hath made means by sin to be acquainted with misery. He arrives
not at the mischief of being wise, nor endures evils to come, by
fore-seeing them. He kisses and loves all, and, when the smart of the rod
is past, smiles on his beater. Nature and his parents alike dandle him,
and tice him on with a bait of sugar to a draught of wormwood. He plays
yet, like a young prentice the first day, and is not come to his task of
melancholy. [[2]All the language he speaks yet is tears, and they serve
him well enough to express his necessity.] His hardest labour is his
tongue, as if he were loath to use so deceitful an organ; and he is best
company with it when he can but prattle. We laugh at his foolish ports,

    Shakspeare, of a child, says,
        "---- the hand of time
        Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume."

    _K. John II._ i.

but his game is our earnest; and his drums, rattles, and hobby-horses, but
the emblems and mocking of man's business. His father hath writ him as his
own little story, wherein he reads those days of his life that he cannot
remember, and sighs to see what innocence he hath out-lived. The elder he
grows, he is a stair lower from God; and, like his first father, much
worse in his breeches.[3] He is the Christian's example, and the old man's
relapse; the one imitates his pureness, and the other falls into his
simplicity. Could he put off his body with his little coat, he had got
eternity without a burden, and exchanged but one heaven for another.


[1] So Washbourne, in his _Divine Poems_, 12mo. 1654:

    "---- ere 'tis accustom'd unto sin,
    _The mind white paper_ is, and will admit
    Of any lesson you will write in it."--p. 26.

[2] This, and every other passage throughout the volume, [included between
brackets,] does not appear in the first edition of 1628.

[3] Adam did not, to use the words of the old Geneva Bible, "make himself
breeches," till he knew sin: the meaning of the passage in the text is
merely that, as a child advances in age, he commonly proceeds in the
knowledge and commission of vice and immorality.



Is a bird not yet fledged, that hath hopped out of his nest to be chirping
on a hedge, and will be straggling abroad at what peril soever. His
backwardness in the university hath set him thus forward; for had he not
truanted there, he had not been so hasty a divine. His small standing, and
time, hath made him a proficient only in boldness, out of which, and his
table-book, he is furnished for a preacher. His collections of study are
the notes of sermons, which, taken up at St. Mary's,[4] he utters in the
country: and if he write brachigraphy,[5] his stock is so much the
better. His writing is more than his reading, for he reads only what he
gets without book. Thus accomplished he comes down to his friends, and his
first salutation is grace and peace out of the pulpit. His prayer is
conceited, and no man remembers his college more at large.[6] The pace of
his sermon is a full career, and he runs wildly over hill and dale, till
the clock stop him. The labour of it is chiefly in his lungs; and the only
thing he has made[7] _in_ it himself, is the faces. He takes on against
the pope without mercy, and has a jest still in lavender for Bellarmine:
yet he preaches heresy, if it comes in his way, though with a mind, I must
needs say, very orthodox. His action is all passion, and his speech
interjections. He has an excellent faculty in bemoaning the people, and
spits with a very good grace. [His stile is compounded of twenty several
men's, only his body imitates some one extraordinary.] He will not draw
his handkercher out of his place, nor blow his nose without discretion.
His commendation is, that he never looks upon book; and indeed he was
never used to it. He preaches but once a year, though twice on Sunday; for
the stuff is still the same, only the dressing a little altered: he has
more tricks with a sermon, than a taylor with an old cloak, to turn it,
and piece it, and at last quite disguise it with a new preface. If he have
waded farther in his profession, and would shew reading of his own, his
authors are postils, and his school-divinity a catechism. His fashion and
demure habit gets him in with some town-precisian, and makes him a guest
on Friday nights. You shall know him by his narrow velvet cape, and serge
facing; and his ruff, next his hair, the shortest thing about him. The
companion of his walk is some zealous tradesman, whom he astonishes with
strange points, which they both understand alike. His friends and much
painfulness may prefer him to thirty pounds a year, and this means to a
chambermaid; with whom we leave him now in the bonds of wedlock:--next
Sunday you shall have him again.


[4] St. Mary's church was originally built by king Alfred, and annexed to
the University of Oxford, for the use of the scholars, when St. Giles's
and St. Peter's (which were till then appropriated to them,) had been
mined by the violence of the Danes. It was totally rebuilt during the
reign of Henry VII., who gave forty oaks towards the materials; and is, to
this day, the place of worship in which the public sermons are preached
before the members of the university.

[5] _Brachigraphy_, or short-hand-writing, appears to have been much
studied in our author's time, and was probably esteemed a fashionable
accomplishment. It was first introduced into this country by Peter Bales,
who, in 1590, published _The Writing Schoolmaster_, a treatise consisting
of three parts, the first "of Brachygraphie, that is, to write as fast as
a man speaketh treatably, writing but one letter for a word;" the second,
of Orthography; and the third, of Calligraphy. Imprinted at London, by T.
Orwin, &c. 1590. 4to. A second edition, "with sundry new additions,"
appeared in 1597. 12mo. Imprinted at London, by George Shawe, &c.
Holinshed gives the following description of one of Bale's
performances:--"The tenth of August (1575,) a rare peece of worke, and
almost incredible, was brought to passe by an Englishman borne in the
citie of London, named Peter Bales, who by his industrie and practise of
his pen, contriued and writ within the compasse of a penie, in Latine, the
Lord's praier, the creed, the ten commandements, a praier to God, a praier
for the queene, his posie, his name, the daie of the moneth, the yeare of
our Lord, and the reigne of the queene. And on the seuenteenthe of August
next following, at Hampton court, he presented the same to the queene's
maiestie, in the head of a ring of gold, couered with a christall; and
presented therewith an excellent spectacle by him deuised, for the easier
reading thereof: wherewith hir maiestie read all that was written therein
with great admiration, and commended the same to the lords of the
councell, and the ambassadors, and did weare the same manie times vpon hir
finger." _Holinshed's Chronicle, page 1262, b. edit, folio, Lond. 1587._

[6] It is customary in all sermons delivered before the University, to use
an introductory prayer for the founder of, and principal benefactors to,
the preacher's individual college, as well as for the officers and members
of the university in general. This, however, would appear very ridiculous
when "_he comes down to his friends_" or, in other words, preaches before
a country congregation.

[7] _of_, first edit. 1628.



Is one that knows the burthen of his calling, and hath studied to make his
shoulders sufficient; for which he hath not been hasty to launch forth of
his port, the university, but expected the ballast of learning, and the
wind of opportunity. Divinity is not the beginning but the end of his
studies; to which he takes the ordinary stair, and makes the arts his way.
He counts it not prophaneness to be polished with human reading, or to
smooth his way by Aristotle to school-divinity. He has sounded both
religions, and anchored in the best, and is a protestant out of judgment,
not faction; not because his country, but his reason is on this side. The
ministry is his choice, not refuge, and yet the pulpit not his itch, but
fear. His discourse is substance, not all rhetoric, and he utters more
things than words. His speech is not helped with inforced action, but the
matter acts itself. He shoots all his meditations at one but; and beats
upon his text, not the cushion; making his hearers, not the pulpit groan.
In citing of popish errors, he cuts them with arguments, not cudgels them
with barren invectives; and labours more to shew the truth of his cause
than the spleen. His sermon is limited by the method, not the hour-glass;
and his devotion goes along with him out of the pulpit. He comes not up
thrice a week, because he would not be idle; nor talks three hours
together, because he would not talk nothing: but his tongue preaches at
fit times, and his conversation is the every day's exercise. In matters
of ceremony, he is not ceremonious, but thinks he owes that reverence to
the church to bow his judgement to it, and make more conscience of schism,
than a surplice. He esteems the church hierarchy as the church's glory,
and however we jar with Rome, would not have our confusion distinguish us.
In simoniacal purchases he thinks his soul goes in the bargain, and is
loath to come by promotion so dear; yet his worth at length advances him,
and the price of his own merit buys him a living. He is no base grater of
his tythes, and will not wrangle for the odd egg. The lawyer is the only
man he hinders, by whom he is spited for taking up quarrels. He is a main
pillar of our church, though not yet dean or canon, and his life our
religion's best apology. His death is the last sermon, where, in the
pulpit of his bed, he instructs men to die by his example.[8]


[8] I cannot forbear to close this admirable character with the beautiful
description of a "_poure Persone_," _riche of holy thought and werk_,
given by the father of English poetry:--

    "Benigne he was, and wonder diligent,
    And in adversite ful patient:
    And swiche he was ypreved often sithes.
    Ful loth were him to cursen for his tythes,
    But rather wolde he yeven out of doute,
    Unto his poure parishens aboute,
    Of his offring, and eke of his substance.
    He coude in litel thing have suffisance.
    Wide was his parish, and houses fer asonder,
    But he ne left nought for no rain ne thonder,
    In sikenesse and in mischief to visite
    The ferrest in his parish, moche and lite,
    Upon his fete, and in his hand a staf.

           *       *       *       *       *

    And though he holy were, and vertuous,
    He was to sinful men not dispitous,
    Ne of his speche dangerous ne digne,
    But in his teching discrete and benigne.
    To drawen folk to heven, with fairenesse,
    By good ensample, was his besinesse.

           *       *       *       *       *

    He waited after no pompe ne reverence,
    Ne maked him no spiced conscience,
    But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve,
    He taught, but first he folwed it himselve."

    _Chaucer, Prol. to Cant. Tales, v._ 485.

We may surely conclude with a line from the same poem,

    "A better preest I trowe that nowher non is."



His practice is some business at bedsides, and his speculation an urinal:
he is distinguished from an empiric, by a round velvet cap and doctor's
gown, yet no man takes degrees more superfluously, for he is doctor
howsoever. He is sworn to Galen and Hippocrates, as university men to
their statutes, though they never saw them; and his discourse is all
aphorisms, though his reading be only Alexis of Piedmont,[9] or the
Regiment of Health.[10] The best cure he has done, is upon his own purse,
which from a lean sickliness he hath made lusty, and in flesh. His
learning consists much in reckoning up the hard names of diseases, and the
superscriptions of gally-pots in his apothecary's shop, which are ranked
in his shelves, and the doctor's memory. He is, indeed, only languaged in
diseases, and speaks Greek many times when he knows not. If he have been
but a by-stander at some desperate recovery, he is slandered with it
though he be guiltless; and this breeds his reputation, and that his
practice, for his skill is merely opinion. Of all odours he likes best the
smell of urine, and holds Vespasian's[11] rule, that no gain is unsavory.
If you send this once to him you must resolve to be sick howsoever, for he
will never leave examining your water, till he has shaked it into a
disease:[12] then follows a writ to his drugger in a strange tongue, which
he understands, though he cannot conster. If he see you himself, his
presence is the worst visitation: for if he cannot heal your sickness, he
will be sure to help it. He translates his apothecary's shop into your
chamber, and the very windows and benches must take physic. He tells you
your malady in Greek, though it be but a cold, or headach; which by good
endeavour and diligence he may bring to some moment indeed. His most
unfaithful act is, that he leaves a man gasping, and his pretence is,
death and he have a quarrel and must not meet; but his fear is, lest the
carkass should bleed.[13] Anatomies, and other spectacles of mortality,
have hardened him, and he is no more struck with a funeral than a
grave-maker. Noble-men use him for a director of their stomach, and ladies
for wantonness,[14] especially if he be a proper man.[15] If he be single,
he is in league with his she-apothecary; and because it is the physician,
the husband is patient. If he have leisure to be idle (that is to study,)
he has a smatch at alcumy, and is sick of the philosopher's stone; a
disease uncurable, but by an abundant phlebotomy of the purse. His two
main opposites are a mountebank and a good woman, and he never shews his
learning so much as in an invective against them and their boxes. In
conclusion, he is a sucking consumption, and a very brother to the worms,
for they are both engendered out of man's corruption.


[9] _The secretes of the reverende maister Alexis of Piemount, containyng
excellente remedies against diuers diseases_, &c. appear to have been a
very favourite study either with the physicians, or their patients, about
this period.

They were originally written in Italian, and were translated into English
by William Warde, of which editions were printed at London, in 1558, 1562,
1595, and 1615. In 1603, a _fourth_ edition of a Latin version appeared at
Basil; and from Ward's dedication to "the lorde Russell, erle of Bedford,"
it seems that the French and Dutch were not without so great a treasure in
their own languages. A specimen of the importance of this publication may
be given in the title of the first secret. "The maner and secrete to
conserue a man's youth, and to holde back olde age, to maintaine a man
always in helth and strength, as in the fayrest floure of his yeres."

[10] _The Regiment of Helthe_, by Thomas Paynell, is another volume of the
same description, and was printed by Thomas Berthelette, in 1541. 4to.

[11] _Vespatian_, tenth emperor of Rome, imposed a tax upon urine, and
when his son Titus remonstrated with him on the meanness of the act,
"Pecuniam," says Suetonius, "ex prima pensione admovit ad nares, suscitans
_num odore offenderetur_? et illo negante, atqui, inquit, e lotio est."

[12] "Vpon the market-day he is much haunted with vrinals, where, if he
finde any thing, (though he knowe nothing,) yet hee will say some-what,
which if it hit to some purpose, with a fewe fustian words, hee will seeme
a piece of strange stuffe." Character of an unworthy physician. "_The Good
and the Badde_," by Nicholas Breton. 4to. 1618.

[13] That the murdered body bleeds at the approach of the murderer, was,
in our author's time, a commonly received opinion. Holinshed affirms that
the corps of Henry the Sixth bled as it was carrying for interment; and
Sir Kenelm Digby so firmly believed in the truth of the report, that he
has endeavoured to explain the reason. It is remarked by Mr. Steevens, in
a note to _Shakspeare_, that the opinion seems to be derived from the
ancient Swedes, or Northern nations, from whom we descend; as they
practised this method of trial in all dubious cases.


    "Faith, doctor, it is well, thy study is to please
    The female sex, and how their corp'rall griefes to ease."

Goddard's "_Mastif Whelp_." Satires. 4to. Without date. Sat. 17.

[15] _Proper_ for handsome.



He is venerable in his gown, more in his beard, wherewith he sets not
forth so much his own, as the face of a city. You must look on him as one
of the town gates, and consider him not as a body, but a corporation. His
eminency above others hath made him a man of worship, for he had never
been preferred, but that he was worth thousands. He over-sees the
commonwealth, as his shop, and it is an argument of his policy, that he
has thriven by his craft. He is a rigorous magistrate in his ward; yet his
scale of justice is suspected, lest it be like the balances in his
warehouse. A ponderous man he is, and substantial, for his weight is
commonly extraordinary, and in his preferment nothing rises so much as his
belly. His head is of no great depth, yet well furnished; and when it is
in conjunction with his brethren, may bring forth a city apophthegm, or
some such sage matter. He is one that will not hastily run into error, for
he treads with great deliberation, and his judgment consists much in his
pace. His discourse is commonly the annals of his mayoralty, and what good
government there was in the days of his gold chain, though the door posts
were the only things that suffered reformation. He seems most sincerely
religious, especially on solemn days; for he comes often to church to make
a shew, [and is a part of the quire hangings.] He is the highest stair of
his profession, and an example to his trade, what in time they may come
to. He makes very much of his authority, but more of his sattin doublet,
which, though of good years, bears its age very well, and looks fresh
every Sunday: but his scarlet gown is a monument, and lasts from
generation to generation.



Is one that is fallen out with the world, and will be revenged on himself.
Fortune has denied him in something, and he now takes pet, and will be
miserable in spite. The root of his disease is a self-humouring pride, and
an accustomed tenderness not to be crossed in his fancy; and the occasion
commonly of one of these three, a hard father, a peevish wench, or his
ambition thwarted. He considered not the nature of the world till he felt
it, and all blows fall on him heavier, because they light not first on his
expectation. He has now foregone all but his pride, and is yet
vain-glorious in the ostentation of his melancholy. His composure of
himself is a studied carelessness, with his arms across, and a neglected
hanging of his head and cloak; and he is as great an enemy to an hat-band,
as fortune. He quarrels at the time and up-starts, and sighs at the
neglect of men of parts, that is, such as himself. His life is a perpetual
satyr, and he is still girding[16] the age's vanity, when this very anger
shews he too much esteems it. He is much displeased to see men merry, and
wonders what they can find to laugh at. He never draws his own lips higher
than a smile, and frowns wrinkle him before forty. He at last falls into
that deadly melancholy to be a bitter hater of men, and is the most apt
companion for any mischief. He is the spark that kindles the commonwealth,
and the bellows himself to blow it: and if he turn anything, it is
commonly one of these, either friar, traitor, or mad-man.


[16] To _gird_, is to sneer at, or scorn any one. Falstaff says, "men of
all sorts take a pride to _gird_ at me."--_Henry IV. Part 2._



He is a man strangly thrifty of time past, and an enemy indeed to his maw,
whence he fetches out many things when they are now all rotten and
stinking. He is one that hath that unnatural disease to be enamoured of
old age and wrinkles, and loves all things (as Dutchmen do cheese,) the
better for being mouldy and worm-eaten. He is of our religion, because we
say it is most antient; and yet a broken statue would almost make him an
idolater. A great admirer he is of the rust of old monuments, and reads
only those characters, where time hath eaten out the letters. He will go
you forty miles to see a saint's well or a ruined abbey; and there be but
a cross or stone foot-stool in the way, he'll be considering it so long,
till he forget his journey. His estate consists much in shekels, and Roman
coins; and he hath more pictures of Cæsar, than James or Elizabeth.
Beggars cozen him with musty things which they have raked from dunghills,
and he preserves their rags for precious relicks. He loves no library, but
where there are more spiders volumes than authors, and looks with great
admiration on the antique work of cobwebs. Printed books he contemns, as a
novelty of this latter age, but a manuscript he pores on everlastingly,
especially if the cover be all moth-eaten, and the dust make a parenthesis
between every syllable. He would give all the books in his study (which
are rarities all,) for one of the old Roman binding, or six lines of Tully
in his own hand. His chamber is hung commonly with strange beasts skins,
and is a kind of charnel-house of bones extraordinary; and his discourse
upon them, if you will hear him, shall last longer. His very attire is
that which is the eldest out of fashion, [[AW]_and you may pick a
criticism out of his breeches_.] He never looks upon himself till he is
grey-haired, and then he is pleased with his own antiquity. His grave
does not fright him, for he has been used to sepulchers, and he likes
death the better, because it gathers him to his fathers.


[AW] In the first edition it stands thus:--"_and his hat is as antient as
the tower of Babel_."



His elder brother was the Esau, that came out first and left him like
Jacob at his heels. His father has done with him, as Pharoah to the
children of Israel, that would have them make brick and give them no
straw, so he tasks him to be a gentleman, and leaves him nothing to
maintain it. The pride of his house has undone him, which the elder's
knighthood must sustain, and his beggary that knighthood. His birth and
bringing up will not suffer him to descend to the means to get wealth; but
he stands at the mercy of the world, and which is worse, of his brother.
He is something better than the serving-men; yet they more saucy with him
than he bold with the master, who beholds him with a countenance of stern
awe, and checks him oftener than his liveries. His brother's old suits and
he are much alike in request, and cast off now and then one to the other.
Nature hath furnished him with a little more wit upon compassion, for it
is like to be his best revenue. If his annuity stretch so far, he is sent
to the university, and with great heart-burning takes upon him the
ministry, as a profession he is condemned to by his ill fortune. Others
take a more crooked path yet, the king's high-way; where at length their
vizard is plucked off, and they strike fair for Tyburn: but their
brother's pride, not love, gets them a pardon. His last refuge is the
Low-countries,[17] where rags and lice are no scandal, where he lives a
poor gentleman of a company, and dies without a shirt. The only thing that
may better his fortunes is an art he has to make a gentlewoman, wherewith
he baits now and then some rich widow that is hungry after his blood. He
is commonly discontented and desperate, and the form of his exclamation
is, _that churl my brother_. He loves not his country for this unnatural
custom, and would have long since revolted to the Spaniard, but for
Kent[18] only, which he holds in admiration.


[17] The Low-countries appear to have afforded ample room for ridicule at
all times. In "_A brief Character of the Low-countries under the States,
being Three Weeks Observation of the Vices and Virtues of the
Inhabitants_, written by Owen Felltham, and printed Lond. 1659, 12mo. we
find them epitomized as a general sea-land--the great bog of Europe--an
universal quagmire--in short a green cheese in pickle. The sailors (in
which denomination the author appears to include all the natives,) he
describes as being able to "drink, rail, swear, niggle, steal, and be
_lowsie_ alike. P. 40.

[18] _Gavelkind_, or the practice of dividing lands equally among all the
male children of the deceased, was (according to Spelman,) adopted by the
Saxons, from Germany, and is noticed by Tacitus in his description of that
nation. _Gloss. Archaiol._ folio. Lond. 1664. Harrison, in _The
Description of England_, prefixed to Holinshed's _Chronicle_, (vol. 1.
page 180,) says, "Gauell kind is all the male children equallie to
inherit, and is continued to this daie in _Kent_, where it is onelie to my
knowledge reteined, and no where else in England." And Lambarde, in his
_Customes of Kent_, (_Perambulation_, 4to. 1596, page 538,) thus notices
it:--"The custom of Grauelkynde is generall, and spreadeth itselfe
throughout the whole shyre, into all landes subiect by auncient tenure
vnto the same, such places onely excepted, where it is altered by acte of



Is somewhat more than the shape of a man; for he has his length, breadth,
and colour. When you have seen his outside, you have looked through him,
and need employ your discovery no farther. His reason is merely example,
and his action is not guided by his understanding, but he sees other men
do thus, and he follows them. He is a negative, for we cannot call him a
wise man, but not a fool; nor an honest man, but not a knave; nor a
protestant, but not a papist. The chief burden of his brain is the
carriage of his body and the setting of his face in a good frame; which he
performs the better, because he is not disjointed with other meditations.
His religion is a good quiet subject, and he prays as he swears, in the
phrase of the land. He is a fair guest, and a fair inviter, and can excuse
his good cheer in the accustomed apology. He has some faculty in mangling
of a rabbit, and the distribution of his morsel to a neighbour's trencher.
He apprehends a jest by seeing men smile, and laughs orderly himself, when
it comes to his turn. His businesses with his friends are to visit them,
and whilst the business is no more, he can perform this well enough. His
discourse is the news that he hath gathered in his walk, and for other
matters his discretion is, that he will only what he can, that is, say
nothing. His life is like one that runs to the[19]church-walk, to take a
turn or two, and so passes. He hath staid in the world to fill a number;
and when he is gone, there wants one, and there's an end.


[19] _Minster-walk_, 1st edit.



Is one that parts his religion betwixt his conscience and his purse, and
comes to church not to serve God but the king. The face of the law makes
him wear the mask of the gospel, which he uses not as a means to save his
soul, but charges. He loves Popery well, but is loth to lose by it; and
though he be something scared with the bulls of Rome, yet they are far
off, and he is struck with more terror at the apparitor. Once a month he
presents himself at the church, to keep off the church-warden, and brings
in his body to save his bail. He kneels with the congregation, but prays
by himself, and asks God forgiveness for coming thither. If he be forced
to stay out a sermon, he pulls his hat over his eyes, and frowns out the
hour; and when he comes home, thinks to make amends for this fault by
abusing the preacher. His main policy is to shift off the communion, for
which he is never unfurnished of a quarrel, and will be sure to be out of
charity at Easter; and indeed he lies not, for he has a quarrel to the
sacrament. He would make a bad martyr and good traveller, for his
conscience is so large he could never wander out of it; and in
Constantinople would be circumcised with a reservation. His wife is more
zealous and therefore more costly, and he bates her in tires[20] what she
stands him in religion. But we leave him hatching plots against the state,
and expecting Spinola.[21]


[20] The word _tire_ is probably here used as an abbreviation of the word
_attire_, dress, ornament.

[21] _Ambrose Spinola_ was one of the most celebrated and excellent
commanders that Spain ever possessed: he was born, in 1569, of a noble
family, and distinguished himself through life in being opposed to prince
Maurice of Nassau, the greatest general of his age, by whom he was ever
regarded with admiration and respect. He died in 1630, owing to a
disadvantage sustained by his troops at the siege of Cassel, which was to
be entirely attributed to the imprudent orders he received from Spain, and
which that government compelled him to obey. This disaster broke his
heart; and he died with the exclamation of "_they have robbed me of my
honour_;" an idea he was unable to survive. It is probable that, at the
time this character was composed, many of the disaffected in England were
in expectation of an attack to be made on this country by the Spaniards,
under the command of Spinola.



Is one that knows himself so well, that he does not know himself. Two
excellent well-dones have undone him, and he is guilty of it that first
commended him to madness. He is now become his own book, which he pores on
continually, yet like a truant reader skips over the harsh places, and
surveys only that which is pleasant. In the speculation of his own good
parts, his eyes, like a drunkard's, see all double, and his fancy, like an
old man's spectacles, make a great letter in a small print. He imagines
every place where he comes his theater, and not a look stirring but his
spectator; and conceives men's thoughts to be very idle, that is, [only]
busy about him. His walk is still in the fashion of a march, and like his
opinion unaccompanied, with his eyes most fixed upon his own person, or on
others with reflection to himself. If he have done any thing that has past
with applause, he is always re-acting it alone, and conceits the extasy
his hearers were in at every period. His discourse is all positions and
definitive decrees, with _thus it must be_ and _thus it is_, and he will
not humble his authority to prove it. His tenent is always singular and
aloof from the vulgar as he can, from which you must not hope to wrest
him. He has an excellent humour for an heretick, and in these days made
the first Arminian. He prefers Ramus before Aristotle, and Paracelsus
before Galen,[22] [_and whosoever with most paradox is commended_.] He
much pities the world that has no more insight in his parts, when he is
too well discovered even to this very thought. A flatterer is a dunce to
him, for he can tell him nothing but what he knows before: and yet he
loves him too, because he is like himself. Men are merciful to him, and
let him alone, for if he be once driven from his humour, he is like two
inward friends fallen out: his own bitter enemy and discontent presently
makes a murder. In sum, he is a bladder blown up with wind, which the
least flaw crushes to nothing.


[22] _and Lipsius his hopping stile before either Tully or Quintilian._
First edit.



Is one that is a fool with discretion, or a strange piece of politician,
that manages the state of himself. His actions are his privy-council,
wherein no man must partake beside. He speaks under rule and prescription,
and dare not shew his teeth without Machiavel. He converses with his
neighbours as he would in Spain, and fears an inquisitive man as much as
the inquisition. He suspects all questions for examinations, and thinks
you would pick something out of him, and avoids you. His breast is like a
gentlewoman's closet, which locks up every toy or trifle, or some bragging
mountebank that makes every stinking thing a secret. He delivers you
common matters with great conjuration of silence, and whispers you in the
ear acts of parliament. You may as soon wrest a tooth from him as a paper,
and whatsoever he reads is letters. He dares not talk of great men for
fear of bad comments, and _he knows not how his words may be misapplied_.
Ask his opinion, and he tells you his doubt; and he never hears any thing
more astonishedly than what he knows before. His words are like the cards
at primivist,[23] where 6 is 18, and 7, 21; for they never signify what
they sound; but if he tell you he will do a thing, it is as much as if he
swore he would not. He is one, indeed, that takes all men to be craftier
than they are, and puts himself to a great deal of affliction to hinder
their plots and designs, where they mean freely. He has been long a riddle
himself, but at last finds OEdipuses; for his over-acted dissimulation
discovers him, and men do with him as they would with Hebrew letters,
spell him backwards and read him.


[23] _Primivist_ and primero were, in all probability, the same game,
although Minshew, in his Dictionary, calls them "two games at cardes." The
latter he explains "primum et primum visum, that is, first and first
seene, because hee that can shew such an order of cardes, first winnes the
game." The coincidence between Mr. Strutt's description of the former and
the passage in the text, shews that there could be little or no difference
between the value of the cards in these games, or in the manner of playing
them. "Each player has four cards dealt to him, one by one, the _seven_
was the highest card, in point of number, that he could avail himself of,
_which counted for twenty-one_, the six _counted for sixteen_, the five
for fifteen, and the ace for the same," &c. (_Sports and Pastimes_, 247.)
The honourable Daines Barrington conceived that Primero was introduced by
Philip the Second, or some of his suite, whilst in England. Shakspeare
proves that it was played in the royal circle.

    ----"I left him (Henry VIII.) at _Primero_
    With the duke of Suffolk."----

    _Henry VIII._

So Decker: "Talke of none but lords and such ladies with whom you have
plaid at _Primero_."--_Gul's Hornebooke_, 1609. 37.

Among the marquis of Worcester's celebrated "_Century of Inventions_,"
12mo. 1663, is one "so contrived without suspicion, that playing at
Primero at cards, one may, without clogging his memory, keep reckoning of
all sixes, sevens, and aces, which he hath discarded."--No. 87.



Is a degree, or (if you will,) a pair of stairs above an ale-house, where
men are drunk with more credit and apology. If the vintner's nose[24] be
at door, it is a sign sufficient, but the absence of this is supplied by
the ivy-bush: the rooms are ill breathed like the drinkers that have been
washed well over night, and are smelt-to fasting next morning; not
furnished with beds apt to be defiled, but more necessary implements,
stools, table, and a chamber-pot. It is a broacher of more news than
hogsheads, and more jests than news, which are sucked up here by some
spongy brain, and from thence squeezed into a comedy. Men come here to
make merry, but indeed make a noise, and this musick above is answered
with the clinking below. The drawers are the civilest people in it, men of
good bringing up, and howsoever we esteem of them, none can boast more
justly of their high calling. 'Tis the best theater of natures, where they
are truly acted, not played, and the business as in the rest of the world
up and down, to wit, from the bottom of the cellar to the great chamber. A
melancholy man would find here matter to work upon, to see heads as
brittle as glasses, and often broken; men come hither to quarrel, and come
hither to be made friends: and if Plutarch will lend me his simile, it is
even Telephus's sword that makes wounds and cures them. It is the common
consumption of the afternoon, and the murderer or maker-away of a rainy
day. It is the torrid zone that scorches _the_[25] face, and tobacco the
gun-powder that blows it up. Much harm would be done, if the charitable
vintner had not water ready for these flames. A house of sin you may call
it, but not a house of darkness, for the candles are never out; and it is
like those countries far in the North, where it is as clear at mid-night
as at mid-day. After a long sitting, it becomes like a street in a dashing
shower, where the spouts are flushing above, and the conduits running
below, while the Jordans like swelling rivers overflow their banks. To
give you the total reckoning of it; it is the busy man's recreation, the
idle man's business, the melancholy man's sanctuary, the stranger's
welcome, the inns-of-court man's entertainment, the scholar's kindness,
and the citizen's courtesy. It is the study of sparkling wits, and a cup
of canary[26] their book, whence we leave them.


[24] "Enquire out those tauernes which are best customd, whose maistres
are oftenest drunk, for that confirmes their taste, and that they choose
wholesome wines."--Decker's _Gul's Horne-booke_, 1609.

[25] _his_, First edit.

[26] The editor of the edition in 1732, has altered _canary_ to "_sherry_"
for what reason I am at a loss to discover, and have consequently restored
the reading of the first edition. Venner gives the following description
of this favourite liquor. "Canarie-wine, which beareth the name of the
islands from whence it is brought, is of some termed a sacke, with this
adjunct, sweete; but yet very improperly, for it differeth not only from
sacke in sweetness and pleasantness of taste, but also in colour and
consistence, for it is not so white in colour as sack, nor so thin in
substance; wherefore it is more nutritive than sack, and less
penetrative." _Via recta ad Vitam longum._ 4to. 1622. In Howell's time,
Canary wine was much adulterated. "I think," says he, in one of his
_Letters_, "there is more Canary brought into England than to all the
world besides; I think also, there is a hundred times more drunk under the
name of Canary wine, than there is brought in; for Sherries and Malagas,
well mingled, pass for Canaries in most taverns. When Sacks and Canaries,"
he continues, "were brought in first amongst us, they were used to be
drunk in aqua vitæ measures, and 'twas held fit only for those to drink
who were used to _carry their legs in their hands_, _their eyes upon their
noses_, and an _almanack in their bones_; but now they go down every one's
throat, both young and old, like milk." Howell, _Letter to the lord
Cliff_, dated Oct. 7, 1634.



Is one whom all other means have failed, and he now lives of himself. He
is some needy cashiered fellow, whom the world hath oft flung off, yet
still clasps again, and is like one a drowning, fastens upon anything that
is next at hand. Amongst other of his shipwrecks he has happily lost
shame, and this want supplies him. No man puts his brain to more use than
he, for his life is a daily invention, and each meal a new stratagem. He
has an excellent memory for his acquaintance, though there passed but _how
do you_ betwixt them seven years ago, it shall suffice for an embrace, and
that for money. He offers you a pottle of sack out of joy to see you, and
in requital of his courtesy you can do no less than pay for it. He is
fumbling with his purse-strings, as a school-boy with his points, when he
is going to be whipped, 'till the master, weary with long stay, forgives
him. When the reckoning is paid, he says, It must not be so, yet is strait
pacified, and cries, What remedy? His borrowings are like subsidies, each
man a shilling or two, as he can well dispend; which they lend him, not
with a hope to be repaid, but that he will come no more. He holds a
strange tyrrany over men, for he is their debtor, and they fear him as a
creditor. He is proud of any employment, though it be but to carry
commendations, which he will be sure to deliver at eleven of the
clock.[27] They in courtesy bid him stay, and he in manners cannot deny
them. If he find but a good look to assure his welcome, he becomes their
half-boarder, and haunts the threshold so long 'till he forces good nature
to the necessity of a quarrel. Publick invitations he will not wrong with
his absence, and is the best witness of the sheriff's hospitality.[28] Men
shun him at length as they would do an infection, and he is never crossed
in his way if there be but a lane to escape him. He has done with the age
as his clothes to him, hung on as long as he could, and at last drops off.


[27] We learn from Harrison's _Description of England_, prefixed to
Holinshed, that _eleven o'clock_ was the usual time for dinner during the
reign of Elizabeth. "With vs the nobilitie, gentrie, and students, doo
ordinarilie go to dinner at _eleuen before noone_, and to supper at fiue,
or between fiue and six at afternoon." (vol. i. page 171. edit. 1587.) The
alteration in manners at this time is rather singularly evinced, from a
passage immediately following the above quotation, where we find that
_merchants_ and _husbandmen_ dined and supped at a _later hour than the

[28] Alluding to the public dinners given by the sheriff at particular
seasons of the year. So in _The Widow_, a comedy, 4to. 1652.

    "And as at a _sheriff's table_, O blest custome!
    A poor indebted gentleman may dine,
    Feed well, and without fear, and depart so."



Is his own hackney-man; for he lets himself out to travel as well as his
horses. He is the ordinary embassador between friend and friend, the
father and the son, and brings rich presents to the one, but never returns
any back again. He is no unlettered man, though in shew simple; for
questionless, he has much in his budget, which he can utter too in fit
time and place. He is [like] the vault[29] in Gloster church, that
conveys whispers at a distance, for he takes the sound out of your mouth
at York, and makes it be heard as far as London. He is the young student's
joy and expectation, and the most accepted guest, to whom they lend a
willing hand to discharge him of his burden. His first greeting is
commonly, _Your friends are well_; [_and to prove it_][30] in a piece of
gold delivers their blessing. You would think him a churlish blunt fellow,
but they find in him many tokens of humanity. He is a great afflicter of
the high-ways, and beats them out of measure; which injury is sometimes
revenged by the purse-taker, and then the voyage miscarries. No man
domineers more in his inn, nor calls his host unreverently with more
presumption, and this arrogance proceeds out of the strength of his
horses. He forgets not his load where he takes his ease, for he is drunk
commonly before he goes to bed. He is like the prodigal child, still
packing away and still returning again. But let him pass.


[29] The chapel of the Virgin Mary, in the cathedral church of Gloucester,
was founded by Richard Stanley, abbot, in 1457, and finished by William
Farley, a monk of the monastery, in 1472. Sir Robert Atkyns gives the
following description of the vault here alluded to. "The _whispering
place_ is very remarkable; it is a long alley, from one side of the choir
to the other, built circular, that it might not darken the great east
window of the choir. When a person whispers at one end of the alley, his
voice is heard distinctly at the other end, though the passage be open in
the middle, having large spaces for doors and windows on the east side. It
may be imputed to the close cement of the wall, which makes it as one
entire stone, and so conveys the voice, as a long piece of timber does
convey the least stroak to the other end. Others assign it to the
repercussion of the voice from accidental angles." _Atkyns' Ancient and
Present State of Glostershire. Lond. 1712, folio, page 128._ See also
_Fuller's Worthies, in Gloucestershire, page 351_.

[30] _Then in a piece of gold_, &c. first edit.



He is now out of nature's protection, though not yet able to guide
himself; but left loose to the world and fortune, from which the weakness
of his childhood preserved him; and now his strength exposes him. He is,
indeed, just of age to be miserable, yet in his own conceit first begins
to be happy; and he is happier in this imagination, and his misery not
felt is less. He sees yet but the outside of the world and men, and
conceives them, according to their appearing, glister, and out of this
ignorance believes them. He pursues all vanities for happiness, and
[31][_enjoys them best in this fancy._] His reason serves, not to curb but
understand his appetite, and prosecute the motions thereof with a more
eager earnestness. Himself is his own temptation, and needs not Satan, and
the world will come hereafter. He leaves repentance for grey hairs, and
performs it in being covetous. He is mingled with the vices of the age as
the fashion and custom, with which he longs to be acquainted, and sins to
better his understanding. He conceives his youth as the season of his
lust, and the hour wherein he ought to be bad; and because he would not
lose his time, spends it. He distastes religion as a sad thing, and is six
years elder for a thought of heaven. He scorns and fears, and yet hopes
for old age, but dare not imagine it with wrinkles. He loves and hates
with the same inflammation, and when the heat is over is cool alike to
friends and enemies. His friendship is seldom so stedfast, but that lust,
drink, or anger may overturn it. He offers you his blood to-day in
kindness, and is ready to take yours to-morrow. He does seldom any thing
which he wishes not to do again, and is only wise after a misfortune. He
suffers much for his knowledge, and a great deal of folly it is makes him
a wise man. He is free from many vices, by being not grown to the
performance, and is only more virtuous out of weakness. Every action is
his danger, and every man his ambush. He is a ship without pilot or
tackling, and only good fortune may steer him. If he scape this age, he
has scaped a tempest, and may live to be a man.


[31] _Whilst he has not yet got them, enjoys them_, First edit.



Is none of the worst students in the house, for he keeps the set hours at
his book more duly than any. His authority is great over men's good names,
which he charges many times with shrewd aspersions, which they hardly wipe
off without payment. [His box and counters prove him to be a man of
reckoning, yet] he is stricter in his accounts than a usurer, and delivers
not a farthing without writing. He doubles the pains of Gollobelgicus,[32]
for his books go out once a quarter, and they are much in the same
nature, brief notes and sums of affairs, and are out of request as soon.
His comings in are like a taylor's, from the shreds of bread, [the]
chippings and remnants of a broken crust; excepting his vails from the
barrel, which poor folks buy for their hogs but drink themselves. He
divides an halfpenny loaf with more subtlety than Keckerman,[33] and
sub-divides the _à primo ortum_ so nicely, that a stomach of great
capacity can hardly apprehend it. He is a very sober man, considering his
manifold temptations of drink and strangers; and if he be overseen, 'tis
within his own liberties, and no man ought to take exception. He is never
so well pleased with his place as when a gentleman is beholden to him for
shewing him the buttery, whom he greets with a cup of single beer and
sliced manchet,[34] and tells him it is the fashion of the college. He
domineers over freshmen when they first come to the hatch, and puzzles
them with strange language of cues and cees, and some broken Latin which
he has learnt at his bin. His faculties extraordinary is the warming of a
pair of cards, and telling out a dozen of counters for post and pair, and
no man is more methodical in these businesses. Thus he spends his age till
the tap of it is run out, and then a fresh one is set abroach.


[32] Gallo-Belgicus was erroneously supposed, by the ingenious Mr. Reed,
to be the "first news-paper published in England;" we are, however,
assured by the author of the "Life of Ruddiman," that it has no title to
so honourable a distinction. Gallo-Belgicus appears to have been rather an
_Annual Register_, or _History of its own Times_, than a news-paper. It
was written in Latin, and entitled. "MERCURIJ GALLO-BELGICI: _sive, rerum
in Gallia, et Belgio potissimum: Hispania quoque, Italia, Anglia,
Germania, Polonia. Vicinisque locis ab anno 1588, ad Martium anni 1594,
gestarum_, NUNCIJ." The first volume was printed in 8vo. at Cologne, 1598;
from which year, to about 1605, it was published annually; and from thence
to the time of its conclusion, which is uncertain, it appeared in
_half-yearly_ volumes. Chalmers' _Life of Ruddiman_, 1794. The great
request in which newspapers were held at the publication of the present
work, may be gathered from Burton, who, in his _Anatomy of Melancholy_,
complains that "if any read now-a-days, it is a play-book, or a pamphlet
of newes."

[33] Bartholomew Keckerman was born at Dantzick, in Prussia, 1571, and
educated under Fabricius. Being eminently distinguished for his abilities
and application, he was, in 1597, requested, by the senate of Dantzick, to
take upon him the management of their academy; an honour he then declined,
but accepted, on a second application, in 1601. Here he proposed to
instruct his pupils in the complete science of philosophy in the short
space of three years, and, for that purpose, drew up a great number of
books upon logic, rhetoric, ethics, politics, physics, metaphysics,
geography, astronomy, &c. &c. till, as it is said, literally worn out with
scholastic drudgery, he died at the early age of 38.

[34] Of bread made of wheat we have sundrie sorts dailie brought to the
table, whereof the first and most excellent is the _mainchet_, which we
commonlie call white bread. Harrison, _Description of England_ prefixed to
Holinshed, chap. 6.



[_Is a holiday clown, and differs only in the stuff of his clothes, not
the stuff of himself_,][35] for he bare the king's sword before he had
arms to wield it; yet being once laid o'er the shoulder with a knighthood,
he finds the herald his friend. His father was a man of good stock, though
but a tanner or usurer; he purchased the land, and his son the title. He
has doffed off the name of a [36][_country fellow_,] but the look not so
easy, and his face still bears a relish of churne-milk. He is guarded with
more gold lace than all the gentlemen of the country, yet his body makes
his clothes still out of fashion. His house-keeping is seen much in the
distinct families of dogs, and serving-men attendant on their kennels, and
the deepness of their throats is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he
esteems the true burden of nobility,[37] and is exceeding ambitious to
seem delighted in the sport, and have his fist gloved with his
jesses.[38] A justice of peace he is to domineer in his parish, and do his
neighbour wrong with more right.[39] He will be drunk with his hunters for
company, and stain his gentility with droppings of ale. He is fearful of
being sheriff of the shire by instinct, and dreads the assize-week as much
as the prisoner. In sum, he's but a clod of his own earth, or his land is
the dunghill and he the cock that crows over it: and commonly his race is
quickly run, and his children's children, though they escape hanging,
return to the place from whence they came.


[35] _His honour was somewhat preposterous, for he bare_, &c. first edit.

[36] _Clown_, first edit.

[37] The art of hawking has been so frequently and so fully explained,
that it would be superfluous, if not arrogant, to trace its progress, or
delineate its history, in this place. In the earliest periods it appears
to have been exclusively practised by the nobility; and, indeed, the great
expense at which the amusement was supported, seems to have been a
sufficient reason for deterring persons of more moderate income, and of
inferior rank, from indulging in the pursuit. In the _Sports and Pastimes_
of Mr. Strutt, a variety of instances are given of the importance attached
to the office of falconer, and of the immense value of, and high
estimation the birds themselves were held in from the commencement of the
Norman government, down to the reign of James I. in which sir Thomas
Monson gave _1000l._ for a cast of hawks, which consisted of only _two_.

The great increase of wealth, and the consequent equalization of property
in this country, about the reign of Elizabeth, induced many of inferior
birth to practise the amusements of their superiors, which they did
without regard to expense, or indeed propriety. Sir Thomas Elyot, in his
_Governour_ (1580), complains that the falkons of his day consumed so much
poultry, that, in a few years, he feared there would be a great scarcity
of it. "I speake not this," says he, "in disprayse of the faukons, but of
them which keepeth them lyke cockneyes." A reproof, there can be no doubt,
applicable to the character in the text.

[38] A term in hawking, signifying the short straps of leather which are
fastened to the hawk's legs, by which she is held on the fist, or joined
to the leash. They were sometimes made of silk, as appears from ¶ _The
Boke of hawkynge, huntynge, and fysshynge, with all the propertyes and
medecynes that are necessarye to be kepte_: "Hawkes haue aboute theyr
legges gesses made of lether most comonly, some of sylke, which shuld be
no lenger but that the knottes of them shulde appere in the myddes of the
lefte hande," &c. _Juliana Barnes._ edit. 4to. "_Imprynted at London in
Pouls chyrchyarde by me Hery Tab._" sig. C. ii.

[39] _This authority of his is that club which keeps them under as his
dogs hereafter._ First edit.



Is one that was born and shaped for his cloaths; and, if Adam had not
fallen, had lived to no purpose. He gratulates therefore the first sin,
and fig-leaves that were an occasion of [his] bravery. His first care is
his dress, the next his body, and in the uniting of these two lies his
soul and its faculties. He observes London trulier than the terms, and his
business is the street, the stage, the court, and those places where a
proper man is best shown. If he be qualified in gaming extraordinary, he
is so much the more genteel and compleat, and he learns the best oaths for
the purpose. These are a great part of his discourse, and he is as curious
in their newness as the fashion. His other talk is ladies and such pretty
things, or some jest at a play. His pick-tooth bears a great part in his
discourse, so does his body, the upper parts whereof are as starched as
his linnen, and perchance use the same laundress. He has learned to ruffle
his face from his boot, and takes great delight in his walk to hear his
spurs gingle. Though his life pass somewhat slidingly, yet he seems very
careful of the time, for he is still drawing his watch out of his pocket,
and spends part of his hours in numbering them. He is one never serious
but with his taylor, when he is in conspiracy for the next device. He is
furnished with his jests, as some wanderer with sermons, some three for
all congregations, one especially against the scholar, a man to him much
ridiculous, whom he knows by no other definition, but a silly fellow in
black. He is a kind of walking mercer's shop, and shows you one stuff
to-day and another to-morrow; an ornament to the room he comes in as the
fair bed and hangings be; and it is meerly ratable accordingly, fifty or a
hundred pounds as his suit is. His main ambition is to get a knight-hood,
and then an old lady, which if he be happy in, he fills the stage and a
coach so much longer: Otherwise, himself and his cloaths grow stale
together, and he is buried commonly ere he dies in the gaol, or the



Is a vice-roy in the street, and no man stands more upon't that he is the
king's officer. His jurisdiction extends to the next stocks, where he has
commission for the heels only, and sets the rest of the body at liberty.
He is a scarecrow to that ale-house, where he drinks not his morning
draught, and apprehends a drunkard for not standing in the king's name.
Beggars fear him more than the justice, and as much as the whip-stock,
whom he delivers over to his subordinate magistrates, the bridewell-man,
and the beadle. He is a great stickler in the tumults of double jugs, and
ventures his head by his place, which is broke many times to keep whole
the peace. He is never so much in his majesty as in his night-watch, where
he sits in his chair of state, a shop-stall, and invironed with a guard of
halberts, examines all passengers. He is a very careful man in his office,
but if he stay up after midnight you shall take him napping.



Is one that has much learning in the ore, unwrought and untried, which
time and experience fashions and refines. He is good metal in the inside,
though rough and unscoured without, and therefore hated of the courtier,
that is quite contrary. The time has got a vein of making him ridiculous,
and men laugh at him by tradition, and no unlucky absurdity but is put
upon his profession, and done like a scholar. But his fault is only this,
that his mind is [somewhat] too much taken up with his mind, and his
thoughts not loaden with any carriage besides. He has not put on the
quaint garb of the age, which is now a man's [_Imprimis and all the
Item_.[40]] He has not humbled his meditations to the industry of
complement, nor afflicted his brain in an elaborate leg. His body is not
set upon nice pins, to be turning and flexible for every motion, but his
scrape is homely and his nod worse. He cannot kiss his hand and cry,
madam, nor talk idle enough to bear her company. His smacking of a
gentlewoman is somewhat too savory, and he mistakes her nose for her lips.
A very woodcock would puzzle him in carving, and he wants the logick of a
capon. He has not the glib faculty of sliding over a tale, but his words
come squeamishly out of his mouth, and the laughter commonly before the
jest. He names this word college too often, and his discourse beats too
much on the university. The perplexity of mannerliness will not let him
feed, and he is sharp set at an argument when he should cut his meat. He
is discarded for a gamester at all games but one and thirty,[41] and at
tables he reaches not beyond doublets. His fingers are not long and drawn
out to handle a fiddle, but his fist clunched with the habit of disputing.
He ascends a horse somewhat sinisterly, though not on the left side, and
they both go jogging in grief together. He is exceedingly censured by the
inns-of-court men, for that heinous vice being out of fashion. He cannot
speak to a dog in his own dialect, and understands Greek better than the
language of a falconer. He has been used to a dark room, and dark
cloathes, and his eyes dazzle at a sattin suit. The hermitage of his
study, has made him somewhat uncouth in the world, and men make him worse
by staring on him. Thus is he [silly and] ridiculous, and it continues
with him for some quarter of a year out of the university. But practise
him a little in men, and brush him over with good company, and he shall
out-ballance those glisterers, as far as a solid substance does a feather,
or gold, gold-lace.


[40] _Now become a man's total_, first edit.

[41] Of the game called _one and thirty_, I am unable to find any mention
in Mr. Strutt's _Sports and Pastimes_, nor is it alluded to in any of the
old plays or tracts I have yet met with. A very satisfactory account of
_tables_ may be read in the interesting and valuable publication just



Is one that manures his ground well, but lets himself lye fallow and
untilled. He has reason enough to do his business, and not enough to be
idle or melancholy. He seems to have the punishment of _Nebuchadnezzar_,
for his conversation is among beasts, and his tallons none of the
shortest, only he eats not grass, because he loves not sallets. His hand
guides the plough, and the plough his thoughts, and his ditch and
land-mark is the very mound of his meditations. He expostulates with his
oxen very understandingly, and speaks gee, and ree, better than English.
His mind is not much distracted with objects, but if a good fat cow come
in his way, he stands dumb and astonished, and though his haste be never
so great, will fix here half an hour's contemplation. His habitation is
some poor thatched roof, distinguished from his barn by the loopholes that
let out smoak, which the rain had long since washed through, but for the
double ceiling of bacon on the inside, which has hung there from his
grandsire's time, and is yet to make rashers for posterity. His dinner is
his other work, for he sweats at it as much as at his labour; he is a
terrible fastner on a piece of beef, and you may hope to stave the guard
off sooner. His religion is a part of his copy-hold, which he takes from
his land-lord, and refers it wholly to his discretion: Yet if he give him
leave he is a good Christian to his power, (that is,) comes to church in
his best cloaths, and sits there with his neighbours, where he is capable
only of two prayers, for rain, and fair weather. He apprehends God's
blessings only in a good year, or a fat pasture, and never praises him but
on _good ground_. Sunday he esteems a day to make merry in, and thinks a
bag-pipe as essential to it as evening-prayer, where he walks very
solemnly after service, with his hands coupled behind him, and censures
the dancing of his parish. [His compliment with his neighbour is a good
thump on the back, and his salutation commonly some blunt curse.] He
thinks nothing to be vices, but pride and ill husbandry, from which he
will gravely dissuade the youth, and has some thrifty hob-nail proverbs to
clout his discourse. He is a niggard all the week, except only market-day,
where, if his corn sell well, he thinks he may be drunk with a good
conscience. His feet never stink so unbecomingly as when he trots after a
lawyer in Westminster-hall, and even cleaves the ground with hard scraping
in beseeching his worship to take his money. He is sensible of no calamity
but the burning a stack of corn or the overflowing of a meadow, and
thinks Noah's flood the greatest plague that ever was, not because it
drowned the world, but spoiled the grass. For death he is never troubled,
and if he get in but his harvest before, let it come when it will, he
cares not.



He knows the right use of the world, wherein he comes to play a part and
so away. His life is not idle, for it is all action, and no man need be
more wary in his doings, for the eyes of all men are upon him. His
profession has in it a kind of contradiction, for none is more disliked,
and yet none more applauded; and he has the misfortune of some scholar,
too much wit makes him a fool. He is like our painting gentlewomen, seldom
in his own face, seldomer in his cloaths; and he pleases, the better he
counterfeits, except only when he is disguised with straw for gold lace.
He does not only personate on the stage, but sometimes in the street, for
he is masked still in the habit of a gentleman. His parts find him oaths
and good words, which he keeps for his use and discourse, and makes shew
with them of a fashionable companion. He is tragical on the stage, but
rampant in the tiring-house,[42] and swears oaths there which he never
conned. The waiting women spectators are over-ears in love with him, and
ladies send for him to act in their chambers. Your inns-of-court men were
undone but for him, he is their chief guest and employment, and the sole
business that makes them afternoon's-men. The poet only is his tyrant, and
he is bound to make his friend's friend drunk at his charge.
Shrove-Tuesday he fears as much as the bauds, and Lent[43] is more damage
to him than the butcher. He was never so much discredited as in one act,
and that was of parliament, which gives hostlers priviledge before him,
for which he abhors it more than a corrupt judge. But to give him his due,
one well-furnished actor has enough in him for five common gentlemen, and,
if he have a good body, [for six, and] for resolution he shall challenge
any Cato, for it has been his practice to die bravely.


[42] The room where the performers dress, previous to coming on the stage.

[43] This passage affords a proof of what has been doubted, namely, that
the theatres were not permitted to be open during Lent, in the reign of
James I. The restriction was waved in the next reign, as we find from the
Puritanical Prynne:--"There are none so much addicted to stage-playes, but
when they goe unto places where they cannot have them, or when, as they
are suppressed by publike authority, (as in times of pestilence, and in
_Lent, till now of late_,) can well subsist without them," &c.
_Histrio-Mastix_, 4to. _Lond. 1633. page 384._



Is one of a more cunning and active envy, wherewith he gnaws not foolishly
himself, but throws it abroad and would have it blister others. He is
commonly some weak parted fellow, and worse minded, yet is strangely
ambitious to match others, not by mounting their worth, but bringing them
down with his tongue to his own poorness. He is indeed like the red dragon
that pursued the woman, for when he cannot over-reach another, he opens
his mouth and throws a flood after to drown him. You cannot anger him
worse than to do well, and he hates you more bitterly for this, than if
you had cheated him of his patrimony with your own discredit. He is always
slighting the general opinion, and wondering why such and such men should
be applauded. Commend a good divine, he cries postilling; a philologer,
pedantry; a poet, rhiming; a school-man, dull wrangling; a sharp conceit,
boyishness; an honest man, plausibility. He comes to publick things not to
learn, but to catch, and if there be but one soloecism, that is all he
carries away. He looks on all things with a prepared sowerness, and is
still furnished with a pish beforehand, or some musty proverb that
disrelishes all things whatsoever. If fear of the company make him second
a commendation, it is like a law-writ, always with a clause of exception,
or to smooth his way to some greater scandal. He will grant you something,
and bate more; and this bating shall in conclusion take away all he
granted. His speech concludes still with an Oh! but,--and I could wish one
thing amended; and this one thing shall be enough to deface all his former
commendations. He will be very inward with a man to fish some bad out of
him, and make his slanders hereafter more authentick, when it is said a
friend reported it. He will inveigle you to naughtiness to get your good
name into his clutches; he will be your pandar to have you on the hip for
a whore-master, and make you drunk to shew you reeling. He passes the
more plausibly because all men have a smatch of his humour, and it is
thought freeness which is malice. If he can say nothing of a man, he will
seem to speak riddles, as if he could tell strange stories if he would;
and when he has racked his invention to the utmost, he ends;--but I wish
him well, and therefore must hold my peace. He is always listening and
enquiring after men, and suffers not a cloak to pass by him unexamined. In
brief, he is one that has lost all good himself, and is loth to find it in



Is one that comes there to wear a gown, and to say hereafter, he has been
at the university. His father sent him thither because he heard there
were the best fencing and dancing-schools; from these he has his
education, from his tutor the over-sight. The first element of his
knowledge is to be shewn the colleges, and initiated in a tavern by the
way, which hereafter he will learn of himself. The two marks of his
seniority, is the bare velvet of his gown, and his proficiency at tennis,
where when he can once play a set, he is a fresh man no more. His study
has commonly handsome shelves, his books neat silk strings, which he shews
to his father's man, and is loth to unty[44] or take down for fear of
misplacing. Upon foul days for recreation he retires thither, and looks
over the pretty book his tutor reads to him, which is commonly some short
history, or a piece of Euphormio; for which his tutor gives him money to
spend next day. His main loytering is at the library, where he studies
arms and books of honour, and turns a gentleman critick in pedigrees. Of
all things he endures not to be mistaken for a scholar, and hates a black
suit though it be made of sattin. His companion is ordinarily some stale
fellow, that has been notorious for an ingle to gold hatbands,[45] whom he
admires at first, afterward scorns. If he have spirit or wit he may light
of better company, and may learn some flashes of wit, which may do him
knight's service in the country hereafter. But he is now gone to the
inns-of-court, where he studies to forget what he learned before, his
acquaintance and the fashion.


[44] It may not be known to those who are not accustomed to meet with old
books in their original bindings, or of seeing public libraries of
antiquity, that the volumes were formerly placed on the shelves with the
_leaves_, not the _back_, in front; and that the two sides of the binding
were joined together with _neat silk_ or other strings, and, in some
instances, where the books were of greater value and curiosity than
common, even fastened with gold or silver chains.

[45] A hanger-on to noblemen, who are distinguished at the university by
gold tassels to their caps; or in the language of the present day, a



Is a child at man's estate, one whom nature huddled up in haste, and left
his best part unfinished. The rest of him is grown to be a man, only his
brain stays behind. He is one that has not improved his first rudiments,
nor attained any proficiency by his stay in the world: but we may speak of
him yet as when he was in the bud, a good harmless nature, a well meaning
mind[46] [_and no more_.] It is his misery that he now wants a tutor, and
is too old to have one. He is two steps above a fool, and a great many
more below a wise man; yet the fool is oft given him, and by those whom he
esteems most. Some tokens of him are,--he loves men better upon relation
than experience, for he is exceedingly enamoured of strangers, and none
quicklier a weary of his friend. He charges you at first meeting with all
his secrets, and on better acquaintance grows more reserved. Indeed he is
one that mistakes much his abusers for friends, and his friends for
enemies, and he apprehends your hate in nothing so much as in good
council. One that is flexible with any thing but reason, and then only
perverse. [A servant to every tale and flatterer, and whom the last man
still works over.] A great affecter of wits and such prettinesses; and his
company is costly to him, for he seldom has it but invited. His friendship
commonly is begun in a supper, and lost in lending money. The tavern is a
dangerous place to him, for to drink and be drunk is with him all one, and
his brain is sooner quenched than his thirst. He is drawn into naughtiness
with company, but suffers alone, and the bastard commonly laid to his
charge. One that will be patiently abused, and take exception a month
after when he understands it, and then be abused again into a
reconcilement; and you cannot endear him more than by cozening him, and it
is a temptation to those that would not. One discoverable in all silliness
to all men but himself, and you may take any man's knowledge of him
better than his own. He will promise the same thing to twenty, and rather
than deny one break with all. One that has no power over himself, over his
business, over his friends, but a prey and pity to all; and if his
fortunes once sink, men quickly cry, Alas!--and forget him.


[46] _If he could order his intentions_, first edit.



Is the only man that finds good in it which others brag of but do not; for
it is meat, drink, and clothes to him. No man opens his ware with greater
seriousness, or challenges your judgment more in the approbation. His shop
is the rendezvous of spitting, where men dialogue with their noses, and
their communication is smoak.[47] It is the place only where Spain is
commended and preferred before England itself. He should be well
experienced in the world, for he has daily trial of men's nostrils, and
none is better acquainted with humours. He is the piecing commonly of some
other trade, which is bawd to his tobacco, and that to his wife, which is
the flame that follows this smoak.


[47] Minshew calls a tobacconist _fumi-vendulus_, a _smoak-seller_.



Is the dregs of wit, yet mingled with good drink may have some relish. His
inspirations are more real than others, for they do but feign a God, but
he has his by him. His verse runs like the tap, and his invention as the
barrel, ebbs and flows at the mercy of the spiggot. In thin drink he
aspires not above a ballad, but a cup of sack inflames him, and sets his
muse and nose a-fire together. The press is his mint, and stamps him now
and then a six-pence or two in reward of the baser coin his pamphlet. His
works would scarce sell for three half-pence, though they are given oft
for three shillings, but for the pretty title that allures the country
gentleman; for which the printer maintains him in ale a fortnight. His
verses are like his clothes miserable centoes[48] and patches, yet their
pace is not altogether so hobbling as an almanack's. The death of a great
man or the _burning_[49] of a house furnish him with an argument, and the
nine muses are out strait in mourning gowns, and Melpomene cries fire!
fire! [His other poems are but briefs in rhime, and like the poor Greeks
collections to redeem from captivity.] He is a man now much employed in
commendations of our navy, and a bitter inveigher against the Spaniard.
His frequentest works go out in single sheets, and are chanted from
market to market to a vile tune and a worse throat; whilst the poor
country wench melts like her butter to hear them. And these are the
stories of some men of Tyburn, or a strange monster out of Germany;[50]
or, sitting in a bawdy-house, he writes God's judgments. He drops away at
last in some obscure painted cloth, to which himself made the verses,[51]
and his life, like a cann too full, spills upon the bench. He leaves
twenty shillings on the score, which my hostess loses.


[48] _Cento_, a composition formed by joining scraps from other authors.
_Johnson._ Camden, in his _Remains_, uses it in the same sense. "It is
quilted, as it were, out of shreds of divers poets, such as scholars call
a _cento_."

[49] _Firing_, first edit.

[50] In the hope of discovering some account of the _strange monster_
alluded to, I have looked through one of the largest and most curious
collections of tracts, relating to the marvellous, perhaps in existence.
That bequeathed to the Bodleian, by Robert Burton, the author of the
_Anatomy of Melancholy_. Hitherto my researches have been unattended with
success, as I have found only two tracts of this description relating to
Germany, both of which are in prose, and neither giving any account of a

1. _A most true Relation of a very dreadfull Earthquake, with the
lamentable Effectes thereof, which began upon the 8. of December 1612. and
yet continueth most fearefull in Munster in Germanie. Reade and Tremble.
Translated out of Dutch, by Charles Demetrius, Publike Notarie in London,
and printed at Rotterdame, in Holland, at the Signe of the White
Gray-hound._ (Date cut off. Twenty-six pages, 4to. with a woodcut.)

2. _Miraculous Newes from the Cittie of Holt, in the Lordship of Munster,
in Germany, the twentieth of September last past, 1616. where there were
plainly beheld three dead bodyes rise out of their Graues admonishing the
people of Iudgements to come. Faithfully translated (&c. &c.) London,
Printed for Iohn Barnes, dwelling in Hosie Lane neere Smithfield, 1616._
(4to. twenty pages, wood-cut.)

[51] It was customary to work or paint proverbs, moral sentences, or
scraps of verse on old tapestry hangings, which were called _painted
cloths_. Several allusions to this practice may be found in the works of
our early English dramatists. See Reed's _Shakspeare_, viii. 103



Is one that would fain run an even path in the world, and jut against no
man. His endeavour is not to offend, and his aim the general opinion. His
conversation is a kind of continued compliment, and his life a practice of
manners. The relation he bears to others, a kind of fashionable respect,
not friendship but friendliness, which is equal to all and general, and
his kindnesses seldom exceed courtesies. He loves not deeper mutualities,
because he would not take sides, nor hazard himself on displeasures, which
he principally avoids. At your first acquaintance with him he is exceeding
kind and friendly, and at your twentieth meeting after but friendly still.
He has an excellent command over his patience and tongue, especially the
last, which he accommodates always to the times and persons, and speaks
seldom what is sincere, but what is civil. He is one that uses all
companies, drinks all healths, and is reasonable cool in all religions.
[He considers who are friends to the company, and speaks well where he is
sure to hear of it again.] He can listen to a foolish discourse with an
applausive attention, and conceal his laughter at nonsense. Silly men much
honour and esteem him, because by his fair reasoning with them as with men
of understanding, he puts them into an erroneous opinion of themselves,
and makes them forwarder hereafter to their own discovery. He is one
_rather well_[52] thought on than beloved, and that love he has is more of
whole companies together than any one in particular. Men gratify him
notwithstanding with a good report, and whatever vices he has besides, yet
having no enemies, he is sure to be an honest fellow.


[52] _Better_, first edit.



Is the place where there are three things thrown away beside bowls, to
wit, time, money, and curses, and the last ten for one. The best sport in
it is the gamesters, and he enjoys it that looks on and bets not. It is
the school of wrangling, and worse than the schools, for men will cavil
here for a hair's breadth, and make a stir where a straw would end the
controversy. No antick screws men's bodies into such strange flexures, and
you would think them here senseless, to speak sense to their bowl, and put
their trust in intreaties for a good cast. The betters are the factious
noise of the alley, or the gamesters beadsmen that pray for them. They are
somewhat like those that are cheated by great men, for they lose their
money and must say nothing. It is the best discovery of humours,
especially in the losers, where you have fine variety of impatience,
whilst some fret, some rail, some swear, and others more ridiculously
comfort themselves with philosophy. To give you the moral of it; it is the
emblem of the world, or the world's ambition: where most are short, or
over, or wide or wrong-biassed, and some few justle in to the mistress
fortune. And it is here as in the court, where the nearest are most
spited, and all blows aimed at the toucher.



Is an able and sufficient wicked man: It is a proof of his sufficiency
that he is not called wicked, but wise. A man wholly determined in himself
and his own ends, and his instruments herein any thing that will do it.
His friends are a part of his engines, and as they serve to his works,
used or laid by: Indeed he knows not this thing of friend, but if he give
you the name, it is a sign he has a plot on you. Never more active in his
businesses, than when they are mixed with some harm to others; and it is
his best play in this game to strike off and lie in the place: Successful
commonly in these undertakings, because he passes smoothly those rubs
which others stumble at, as conscience and the like; and gratulates
himself much in this advantage. Oaths and falshood he counts the nearest
way, and loves not by any means to go about. He has many fine quips at
this folly of plain dealing, but his "tush!" is greatest at religion; yet
he uses this too, and virtue and good words, but is less dangerously a
devil than a saint. He ascribes all honesty to an unpractisedness in the
world, and conscience a thing merely for children. He scorns all that are
so silly to _trust_[53] him, and only not scorns his enemy, especially if
as bad as himself: he fears him as a man well armed and provided, but sets
boldly on good natures, as the most vanquishable. One that seriously
admires those worst princes, as Sforza, Borgia, and Richard the third; and
calls matters of deep villany things of difficulty. To whom murders are
but resolute acts, and treason a business of great consequence. One whom
two or three countries make up to this compleatness, and he has travelled
for the purpose. His deepest indearment is a communication of mischief,
and then only you have him fast. His conclusion is commonly one of these
two, either a great man, or hanged.


[53] _Hate_, first edit.



Is one that has some business about this building or little house of man,
whereof nature is as it were the tiler, and he the plaisterer. It is ofter
out of reparations than an old parsonage, and then he is set on work to
patch it again. He deals most with broken commodities, as a broken head or
a mangled face, and his gains are very ill got, for he lives by the hurts
of the commonwealth. He differs from a physician as a sore does from a
disease, or the sick from those that are not whole, the one distempers you
within, the other blisters you without. He complains of the decay of
valour in these days, and sighs for that slashing age of sword and
buckler; and thinks the law against duels was made meerly to wound his
vocation. He had been long since undone if the charity of the stews had
not relieved him, from whom he has his tribute as duly as the pope; or a
wind-fall sometimes from a tavern, if a quart pot hit right. The rareness
of his custom makes him pitiless when it comes, and he holds a patient
longer than our [spiritual] courts a cause. He tells you what danger you
had been in if he had staid but a minute longer, and though it be but a
pricked finger, he makes of it much matter. He is a reasonable cleanly
man, considering the scabs he has to deal with, and your finest ladies are
now and then beholden to him for their best dressings. He curses old
gentlewomen and their charity that makes his trade their alms; but his
envy is never stirred so much as when gentlemen go over to fight upon
Calais sands,[54] whom he wishes drowned e'er they come there, rather than
the French shall get his custom.


[54] _Calais sands_ were chosen by English duellists to decide their
quarrels on, as being out of the jurisdiction of the law. This custom is
noticed in an Epigram written about the period in which this book first

    "When boasting Bembus challeng'd is to fight,
    He seemes at first a very Diuell in sight:

    Till more aduizde, will not defile [his] hands,
    Vnlesse you meete him vpon _Callice_ sands."

_The Mastive or Young Whelpe of the olde Dog. Epigrams and Satyrs._ 4to.
_Lond._ (_Printed, as Warton supposes, about 1600._)

A passage in _The Beau's Duel: or a Soldier for the Ladies_, a comedy, by
Mrs. Centlivre, 4to. 1707, proves, that it existed so late as at that day.
"Your only way is to send him word you'll meet him on _Calais sands_;
duelling is unsafe in England for men of estates," &c. See also other
instances in Dodsley's _Old Plays_, edit. 1780. vii. 218.--xii. 412.



Is a scholar in this great university the world; and the same his book and
study. He cloysters not his meditations in the narrow darkness of a room,
but sends them abroad with his eyes, and his brain travels with his feet.
He looks upon man from a high tower, and sees him trulier at this distance
in his infirmities and poorness. He scorns to mix himself in men's
actions, as he would to act upon a stage; but sits aloft on the scaffold
a censuring spectator. [He will not lose his time by being busy, or make
so poor a use of the world as to hug and embrace it.] Nature admits him as
a partaker of her sports, and asks his approbation as it were of her own
works and variety. He comes not in company, because he would not be
solitary, but finds discourse enough with himself, and his own thoughts
are his excellent playfellows. He looks not upon a thing as a yawning
stranger at novelties, but his search is more mysterious and inward, and
he spells heaven out of earth. He knits his observations together, and
makes a ladder of them all to climb to God. He is free from vice, because
he has no occasion to imploy it, and is above those ends that make man
wicked. He has learnt all can here be taught him, and comes now to heaven
to see more.



Is one in whom good women suffer, and have their truth misinterpreted by
her folly. She is one, she knows not what her self if you ask her, but she
is indeed one that has taken a toy at the fashion of religion, and is
enamoured of the new fangle. She is a nonconformist in a close stomacher
and ruff of Geneva print,[55] and her purity consists much in her linnen.
She has heard of the rag of Rome, and thinks it a very sluttish religion,
and rails at the whore of Babylon for a very naughty woman. She has left
her virginity as a relick of popery, and marries in her tribe without a
ring. Her devotion at the church is much in the turning up of her eye; and
turning down the leaf in her book, when she hears named chapter and verse.
When she comes home, she commends the sermon for the scripture, and two
hours. She loves preaching better then praying, and of preachers,
lecturers; and thinks the week day's exercise far more edifying than the
Sunday's. Her oftest gossipings are sabbath-day's journeys, where, (though
an enemy to superstition,) she will go in pilgrimage five mile to a
silenced minister, when there is a better sermon in her own parish. She
doubts of the virgin Mary's salvation, and dares not saint her, but knows
her own place in heaven as perfectly as the pew she has a key to. She is
so taken up with faith she has no room for charity, and understands no
good works but what are wrought on the sampler. She accounts nothing vices
but superstition and an oath, and thinks adultery a less sin than to swear
_by my truly_. She rails at other women by the names of Jezebel and
Dalilah; and calls her own daughters Rebecca and Abigail, and not Ann but
Hannah. She suffers them not to learn on the virginals,[56] because of
their affinity with organs, but is reconciled to the bells for the chimes
sake, since they were reformed to the tune of a psalm. She overflows so
with the bible, that she spills it upon every occasion, and will not
cudgel her maids without scripture. It is a question whether she is more
troubled with the Devil, or the Devil with her: She is always challenging
and daring him, and her weapon [[57]_is the Practice of Piety_.] Nothing
angers her so much as that women cannot preach, and in this point only
thinks the Brownist erroneous; but what she cannot at the church she does
at the table, where she prattles more than any against sense and
Antichrist, 'till a capon's wing silence her. She expounds the priests of
Baal, reading ministers, and thinks the salvation of that parish as
desperate as the Turks. She is a main derider to her capacity of those
that are not her preachers, and censures all sermons but bad ones. If her
husband be a tradesman, she helps him to customers, howsoever to good
cheer, and they are a most faithful couple at these meetings, for they
never fail. Her conscience is like others lust, never satisfied, and you
might better answer Scotus than her scruples. She is one that thinks she
performs all her duties to God in hearing, and shews the fruits of it in
talking. She is more fiery against the may-pole than her husband, and
thinks she might do a Phineas' act to break the pate of the fidler. She is
an everlasting argument, but I am weary of her.


[55] Strict devotees were, I believe, noted for the smallness and
precision of their _ruffs_, which were termed _in print_ from the
exactness of the folds. So in Mynshul's _Essays_, 4to. 1618. "I vndertooke
a warre when I adventured to speake in _print_, (not in _print as
Puritan's ruffes_ are set.)" The term of _Geneva print_ probably arose
from the minuteness of the type used at Geneva. In the _Merry Devil of
Edmonton_, a comedy, 4to. 1608, is an expression which goes some way to
prove the correctness of this supposition:--"I see by thy eyes thou hast
bin reading _little Geneua print_;"--and, that _small ruffs_ were worn by
the puritanical set, an instance appears in Mayne's _City Match_, a
comedy, 4to. 1658.

                      ----"O miracle!
    Out of your _little ruffe_, Dorcas, and in the fashion!
    Dost thou hope to be saved?"

From these three extracts it is, I think, clear that a _ruff of Geneva
print_ meant a _small, closely-folded ruff_, which was the distinction of
a non-conformist.

[56] A virginal, says Mr. Malone, was strung like a spinnet, and shaped
like a piano-forte: the mode of playing on this instrument was therefore
similar to that of the organ.

[57] _Weapons are spells no less potent than different, as being the sage
sentences of some of her own sectaries._ First edit.



Is one that hangs in the balance with all sorts of opinions, whereof not
one but stirs him and none sways him. A man guiltier of credulity than he
is taken to be; for it is out of his belief of every thing, that he fully
believes nothing. Each religion scares him from its contrary: none
persuades him to itself. He would be wholly a Christian, but that he is
something of an atheist, and wholly an atheist, but that he is partly a
Christian; and a perfect heretic, but that there are so many to distract
him. He finds reason in all opinions, truth in none: indeed the least
reason perplexes him, and the best will not satisfy him. He is at most a
confused and wild Christian, not specialized by any form, but capable of
all. He uses the land's religion, because it is next him, yet he sees not
why he may not take the other, but he chuses this, not as better, but
because there is not a pin to choose. He finds doubts and scruples better
than resolves them, and is always too hard for himself. His learning is
too much for his brain, and his judgment too little for his learning, and
his over-opinion of both, spoils all. Pity it was his mischance of being a
scholar; for it does only distract and irregulate him, and the world by
him. He hammers much in general upon our opinion's uncertainty, and the
possibility of erring makes him not venture on what is true. He is
troubled at this naturalness of religion to countries, that protestantism
should be born so in England and popery abroad, and that fortune and the
stars should so much share in it. He likes not this connection of the
common-weal and divinity, and fears it may be an arch-practice of state.
In our differences with Rome he is strangely unfixed, and a new man every
new day, as his last discourse-book's meditations transport him. He could
like the gray hairs of popery, did not some dotages there stagger him: he
would come to us sooner, but our new name affrights him. He is taken with
their miracles, but doubts an imposture; he conceives of our doctrine
better, but it seems too empty and naked. He cannot drive into his fancy
the circumscription of truth to our corner, and is as hardly persuaded to
think their old legends true. He approves well of our faith, and more of
their works, and is sometimes much affected at the zeal of Amsterdam. His
conscience interposes itself betwixt duellers, and whilst it would part
both, is by both wounded. He will sometimes propend much to us upon the
reading a good writer, and at Bellarmine[58] recoils as far back again;
and the fathers justle him from one side to another. Now Socinus[59] and
Vorstius[60] afresh torture him, and he agrees with none worse than
himself. He puts his foot into heresies tenderly, as a cat in the water,
and pulls it out again, and still something unanswered delays him; yet he
bears away some parcel of each, and you may sooner pick all religions out
of him than one. He cannot think so many wise men should be in error, nor
so many honest men out of the way, and his wonder is double when he sees
these oppose one another. He hates authority as the tyrant of reason, and
you cannot anger him worse than with a father's _dixit_, and yet that many
are not persuaded with reason, shall authorise his doubt. In sum, his
whole life is a question, and his salvation a greater, which death only
concludes, and then he is resolved.


[58] Robert Bellarmin, an Italian Jesuit, was born at Monte Pulciano, a
town in Tuscany, in the year 1542, and in 1560 entered himself among the
Jesuits. In 1599 he was honoured with a cardinal's hat, and in 1602 was
presented with the arch-bishopric of Capua: this, however, he resigned in
1605, when pope Paul V. desired to have him near himself. He was employed
in the affairs of the court of Rome till 1621, when, leaving the Vatican,
he retired to a house belonging to his order, and died September 17, in
the same year.

Bellarmin was one of the best controversial writers of his time; few
authors have done greater honour to their profession or opinions, and
certain it is that none have ever more ably defended the cause of the
Romish church, or contended in favour of the pope with greater advantage.
As a proof of Bellarmin's abilities, there was scarcely a divine of any
eminence among the protestants who did not attack him: Bayle aptly says,
"they made his name resound every where, ut littus Styla, Styla, omne

[59] Faustus Socinus is so well known as the founder of the sect which
goes under his name, that a few words will be sufficient. He was born in
1539, at Sienna, and imbibed his opinions from the instruction of his
uncle, who always had a high opinion of, and confidence in, the abilities
of his nephew, to whom he bequeathed all his papers. After living several
years in the world, principally at the court of Francis de Medicis,
Socinus, in 1577, went into Germany, and began to propagate the principles
of his uncle, to which, it is said, he made great additions and
alterations of his own. In the support of his opinions, he suffered
considerable hardships, and received the greatest insults and
persecutions; to avoid which, he retired to a place near Cracow, in
Poland, where he died in 1504, at the age of sixty-five.

[60] Conrade Vorstius, a learned divine, who was peculiarly detested by
the Calvinists, and who had even the honour to be attacked by king James
the first, of England, was born in 1569. Being compelled, through the
interposition of James's ambassador, to quit Leiden, where he had attained
the divinity-chair, and several other preferments, he retired to Toningen,
where he died in 1622, with the strongest tokens of piety and resignation.



His antient beginning was a blue coat, since a livery, and his hatching
under a lawyer; whence, though but pen-feathered, he hath now nested for
himself, and with his boarded pence purchased an office. Two desks and a
quire of paper set him up, where he now sits in state for all corners. We
can call him no great author, yet he writes very much and with the infamy
of the court is maintained in his libels.[61] He has some smatch of a
scholar, and yet uses Latin very hardly; and lest it should accuse him,
cuts it off in the midst, and will not let it speak out. He is, contrary
to great men, maintained by his followers, that is, his poor country
clients, that worship him more than their landlords, and be they never
such churls, he looks for their courtesy. He first racks them soundly
himself, and then delivers them to the lawyer for execution. His looks are
very solicitous, importing much haste and dispatch, he is never without
his hands full of business, that is--of paper. His skin becomes at last as
dry as his parchment, and his face as intricate as the most winding cause.
He talks statutes as fiercely as if he had mooted[62] seven years in the
inns of court, when all his skill is stuck in his girdle, or in his
office-window. Strife and wrangling have made him rich, and he is thankful
to his benefactor, and nourishes it. If he live in a country village, he
makes all his neighbours good subjects; for there shall be nothing done
but what there is law for. His business gives him not leave to think of
his conscience, and when the time, or term of his life is going out, for
dooms-day he is secure; for he hopes he has a trick to reverse judgment.


[61] _His style is very constant, for it keeps still the former aforesaid;
and yet it seems he is much troubled in it, for he is always humbly
complaining--your poor orator._ First edit.

[62] To _moote_ a terme vsed in the innes of the court; it is the handling
of a case, as in the Vniuersitie their disputations, &c. So _Minshew_, who
supposes it to be derived from the French, _mot, verbum, quasi verba
facere, aut sermonem de aliqua re habere_. _Mootmen_ are those who, having
studied seven or eight years, are qualified to practise, and appear to
answer to our term of barristers.



Is the opposite extreme to a defamer, for the one speaks ill falsely, and
the other well, and both slander the truth. He is one that is still
weighing men in the scale of comparisons, and puts his affections in the
one balance and that sways. His friend always shall do best, and you shall
rarely hear good of his enemy. He considers first the man and then the
thing, and restrains all merit to what they deserve of him. Commendations
he esteems not the debt of worth, but the requital of kindness; and if you
ask his reason, shews his interest, and tells you how much he is beholden
to that man. He is one that ties his judgment to the wheel of fortune, and
they determine giddily both alike. He prefers England before other
countries because he was born there, and Oxford before other universities,
because he was brought up there, and the best scholar there is one of his
own college, and the best scholar there is one of his friends. He is a
great favourer of great persons, and his argument is still that which
should be antecedent; as,--he is in high place, therefore virtuous;--he is
preferred, therefore worthy. Never ask his opinion, for you shall hear but
his faction, and he is indifferent in nothing but conscience. Men esteem
him for this a zealous affectionate, but they mistake him many times, for
he does it but to be esteemed so. Of all men he is worst to write an
history, for he will praise a Sejanus or Tiberius, and for some petty
respect of his all posterity shall be cozened.



Is the elephant with the great trunk, for he eats nothing but what comes
through this way. His profession is not so worthy as to occasion
insolence, and yet no man so much puft up. His face is as brazen as his
trumpet, and (which is worse,) as a fidler's, from whom he differeth only
in this, that his impudence is dearer. The sea of drink and much wind make
a storm perpetually in his cheeks, and his look is like his noise,
blustering and tempestuous. He was whilom the sound of war, but now of
peace; yet as terrible as ever, for wheresoever he comes they are sure to
pay for it. He is the common attendant of glittering folks, whether in the
court or stage, where he is always the prologue's prologue.[63] He is
somewhat in the nature of a hogshead, shrillest when he is empty; when
his belly is full he is quiet enough. No man proves life more to be a
blast, or himself a bubble, and he is like a counterfeit bankrupt, thrives
best when he is blown up.


[63] The prologue to our ancient dramas was ushered in by trumpets.
"Present not yourselfe on the stage (especially at a new play) untill the
quaking prologue hath (by rubbing) got cullor into his cheekes, and is
ready to giue the trumpets their cue that hee's vpon point to enter."
Decker's _Gul's Hornbook_, 1609. p. 30.

"Doe you not know that I am the Prologue? Do you not see this long blacke
veluet cloke vpon my backe? _Haue you not sounded thrice?_" Heywood's
_Foure Prentises of London_. 4to. 1615.



Is one of the herd of the world. One that follows merely the common cry,
and makes it louder by one. A man that loves none but who are publickly
affected, and he will not be wiser than the rest of the town. That never
owns a friend after an ill name, or some general imputation, though he
knows it most unworthy. That opposes to reason, "thus men say;" and "thus
most do;" and "thus the world goes;" and thinks this enough to poise the
other. That worships men in place, and those only; and thinks all a great
man speaks oracles. Much taken with my lord's jest, and repeats you it all
to a syllable. One that justifies nothing out of fashion, nor any opinion
out of the applauded way. That thinks certainly all Spaniards and Jesuits
very villains, and is still cursing the pope and Spinola. One that thinks
the gravest cassock the best scholar; and the best cloaths the finest man.
That is taken only with broad and obscene wit, and hisses any thing too
deep for him. That cries, Chaucer for his money above all our English
poets, because the voice has gone so, and he has read none. That is much
ravished with such a nobleman's courtesy, and would venture his life for
him, because he put off his hat. One that is foremost still to kiss the
king's hand, and cries, "God bless his majesty!" loudest. That rails on
all men condemned and out of favour, and the first that says "away with
the traitors!"--yet struck with much ruth at executions, and for pity to
see a man die, could kill the hangman. That comes to London to see it, and
the pretty things in it, and, the chief cause of his journey, the bears.
That measures the happiness of the kingdom by the cheapness of corn, and
conceives no harm of state, but ill trading. Within this compass too, come
those that are too much wedged into the world, and have no lifting
thoughts above those things; that call to thrive, to do well; and
preferment only the grace of God. That aim all studies at this mark, and
shew you poor scholars as an example to take heed by. That think the
prison and want a judgment for some sin, and never like well hereafter of
a jail-bird. That know no other content but wealth, bravery, and the
town-pleasures; that think all else but idle speculation, and the
philosophers madmen. In short, men that are carried away with all
outwardnesses, shews, appearances, the stream, the people; for there is no
man of worth but has a piece of singularity, and scorns something.



Is a kind of alchymist or persecutor of nature, that would change the dull
lead of his brain into finer metal, with success many times as
unprosperous, or at least not quitting the cost, to wit, of his own oil
and candles. He has a strange forced appetite to learning, and to atchieve
it brings nothing but patience and a body. His study is not great but
continual, and consists much in the sitting up till after midnight in a
rug-gown and a night-cap, to the vanquishing perhaps of some six lines;
yet what he has, he has perfect, for he reads it so long to understand it,
till he gets it without book. He may with much industry make a breach into
logick, and arrive at some ability in an argument; but for politer studies
he dare not skirmish with them, and for poetry accounts it impregnable.
His invention is no more than the finding out of his papers, and his few
gleanings there; and his disposition of them is as just as the
bookbinders, a setting or glewing of them together. He is a great
discomforter of young students, by telling them what travel it has cost
him, and how often his brain turned at philosophy, and makes others fear
studying as a cause of duncery. He is a man much given to apothegms, which
serve him for wit, and seldom breaks any jest but which belongs to some
Lacedemonian or Roman in Lycosthenes. He is like a dull carrier's horse,
that will go a whole week together, but never out of a foot pace; and he
that sets forth on the Saturday shall overtake him.



Is the land's epitome, or you may call it the lesser isle of Great
Britain. It is more than this, the whole world's map, which you may here
discern in its perfectest motion, justling and turning. It is a heap of
stones and men, with a vast confusion of languages; and were the steeple
not sanctified, nothing liker Babel. The noise in it is like that of bees,
a strange humming or buzz mixed of walking tongues and feet: it is a kind
of still roar or loud whisper. It is the great exchange of all discourse,
and no business whatsoever but is here stirring and a-foot. It is the
synod of all pates politick, jointed and laid together in most serious
posture, and they are not half so busy at the parliament. It is the antick
of tails to tails, and backs to backs, and for vizards you need go no
farther than faces. It is the market of young lecturers, whom you may
cheapen here at all rates and sizes. It is the general mint of all famous
lies, which are here like the legends of popery, first coined and stamped
in the church. All inventions are emptied here, and not few pockets. The
best sign of a temple in it is, that it is the thieves sanctuary, which
rob more safely in the crowd than a wilderness, whilst every searcher is a
bush to hide them. It is the other expence of the day, after plays,
tavern, and a bawdy-house; and men have still some oaths left to swear
here. It is the ear's brothel, and satisfies their lust and itch. The
visitants are all men without exceptions, but the principal inhabitants
and possessors are stale knights and captains[65] out of service; men of
long rapiers and breeches, which after all turn merchants here and
traffick for news. Some make it a preface to their dinner, and travel for
a stomach; but thriftier men make it their ordinary, and board here very
cheap.[66] Of all such places it is least haunted with hobgoblins, for if
a ghost would walk more, he could not.


[64] St. Paul's cathedral was, during the reigns of Elizabeth and James, a
sort of exchange and public parade, where business was transacted between
merchants, and where the fashionables of the day exhibited themselves. The
reader will find several allusions to this custom in the _variorum_
edition of Shakspeare, _K. Henry IV._ part 2. Osborne, in his _Traditional
Memoires on the Reigns of Elizabeth and James_, 12mo. 1658, says, "It was
the fashion of those times (James I.) and did so continue till these, (the
interregnum,) for the principal gentry, lords, courtiers, and men of all
professions, not merely mechanicks, to meet in _St. Paul's_ church by
eleven, and walk in the middle isle till twelve, and after dinner from
three to six; during which time some discoursed of business, others of
news." Weever complains of the practice, and says, "it could be wished
that walking in the middle isle of _Paules_ might be forborne in the time
of diuine seruice." _Ancient Funeral Monuments_, 1631, page 373.

[65] In the _Dramatis Personæ_ to Ben Jonson's _Every Man in his Humour_,
Bobadil is styled a _Paul's man_; and Falstaff tells us that he bought
Bardolph in _Paul's_. _King Henry IV._ Part 2.


                  ----You'd not doe
    Like your penurious father, who was wont
    _To walke his dinner out in Paules_.

Mayne's _City Match_, 1658.



The kitchen is his hell, and he the devil in it, where his meat and he fry
together. His revenues are showered down from the fat of the land, and he
interlards his own grease among to help the drippings. Cholerick he is not
by nature so much as his art, and it is a shrewd temptation that the
chopping-knife is so near. His weapons, ofter offensive, are a mess of hot
broth and scalding water, and woe be to him that comes in his way. In the
kitchen he will domineer and rule the roast in spight of his master, and
curses in the very dialect of his calling. His labour is meer blustering
and fury, and his speech like that of sailors in a storm, a thousand
businesses at once; yet, in all this tumult, he does not love combustion,
but will be the first man that shall go and quench it. He is never a good
christian till a hissing pot of ale has slacked him, like water cast on a
firebrand, and for that time he is tame and dispossessed. His cunning is
not small in architecture, for he builds strange fabricks in paste, towers
and castles, which are offered to the assault of valiant teeth, and like
Darius' palace in one banquet demolished. He is a pittiless murderer of
innocents, and he mangles poor fowls with unheard-of tortures; and it is
thought the martyrs persecutions were devised from hence: sure we are, St.
Lawrence's gridiron came out of his kitchen. His best faculty is at the
dresser, where he seems to have great skill in the tacticks, ranging his
dishes in order military, and placing with great discretion in the
fore-front meats more strong and hardy, and the more cold and cowardly in
the rear; as quaking tarts and quivering custards, and such milk-sop
dishes, which scape many times the fury of the encounter. But now the
second course is gone up and he down in the cellar, where he drinks and
sleeps till four o'clock[67] in the afternoon, and then returns again to
his regiment.


[67] The time of supper was about five o'clock. See note at page 39.



Is a lusty fellow in a crowd, that is beholden more to his elbow than his
legs, for he does not go, but thrusts well. He is a good shuffler in the
world, wherein he is so oft putting forth, that at length he puts on. He
can do some things, but dare do much more, and is like a desperate
soldier, who will assault any thing where he is sure not to enter. He is
not so well opinioned of himself, as industrious to make others, and
thinks no vice so prejudicial as blushing. He is still citing for himself,
that a candle should not be hid under a bushel; and for his part he will
be sure not to hide his, though his candle be but a snuff or rush-candle.
Those few good parts he has, he is no niggard in displaying, and is like
some needy flaunting goldsmith, nothing in the inner room, but all on the
cupboard. If he be a scholar, he has commonly stepped into the pulpit
before a degree, yet into that too before he deserved it. He never defers
St. Mary's beyond his regency, and his next sermon is at Paul's cross,[68]
[and that printed.] He loves publick things alive; and for any solemn
entertainment he will find a mouth, find a speech who will. He is greedy
of great acquaintance and many, and thinks it no small advancement to rise
to be known. [He is one that has all the great names at court at his
fingers ends, and their lodgings; and with a saucy, "my lord," will salute
the best of them.] His talk at the table is like Benjamin's mess, five
times to his part, and no argument shuts him out for a quarreller. Of all
disgraces he endures not to be non-plussed, and had rather fly for
sanctuary to nonsense which few descry, than to nothing which all. His
boldness is beholden to other men's modesty, which rescues him many times
from a baffle; yet his face is good armour, and he is dashed out of any
thing sooner than countenance. Grosser conceits are puzzled in him for a
rare man; and wiser men though they know him [yet] take him [in] for their
pleasure, or as they would do a sculler for being next at hand. Thus
preferment at last stumbles on him, because he is still in the way. His
companions that flouted him before, now envy him, when they see him come
ready for scarlet, whilst themselves lye musty in their old clothes and


[68] Paul's cross stood in the church-yard of that cathedral, on the north
side, towards the east end. It was used for the preaching of sermons to
the populace; and Holinshed mentions two instances of public penance being
performed here; in 1534 by some of the adherents of Elizabeth Barton, well
known as _the holy maid of Kent_, and in 1536 by sir Thomas Newman, a
priest, who "_bare a faggot at Paules crosse for singing masse with good



No man verifies the proverb more, that it is an alms-deed to punish him;
for his penalty is a dole,[69] and does the beggars as much good as their
dinner. He abhors, therefore, works of charity, and thinks his bread cast
away when it is given to the poor. He loves not justice neither, for the
weigh-scale's sake, and hates the clerk of the market as his executioner;
yet he finds mercy in his offences, and his basket only is sent to
prison.[70] Marry a pillory is his deadly enemy, and he never hears well


[69] _Dole_ originally signified the portion of alms that was given away
at the door of a nobleman. Steevens, note to _Shakspeare_. Sir John
Hawkins affirms that the benefaction distributed at Lambeth palace gate,
is to this day called the _dole_.

[70] That is, the contents of his basket, if discovered to be of light
weight, are distributed to the needy prisoners.



Is one that would make all others more fools than himself, for though he
know nothing, he would not have the would know so much. He conceits
nothing in learning but the opinion, which he seeks to purchase without
it, though he might with less labour cure his ignorance than hide it. He
is indeed a kind of scholar-mountebank, and his art our delusion. He is
tricked out in all the accoutrements of learning, and at the first
encounter none passes better. He is oftener in his study than at his book,
and you cannot pleasure him better than to deprehend him: yet he hears you
not till the third knock, and then comes out very angry as interrupted.
You find him in his _slippers_[71] and a pen in his ear, in which
formality he was asleep. His table is spread wide with some classick
folio, which is as constant to it as the carpet, and hath laid open in the
same page this half year. His candle is always a longer sitter up than
himself, and the _boast_[72] of his window at midnight. He walks much
alone in the posture of meditation, and has a book still before his face
in the fields. His pocket is seldom without a Greek testament or Hebrew
bible, which he opens only in the church, and that when some stander-by
looks over. He has sentences for company, some scatterings of Seneca and
Tacitus, which are good upon all occasions. If he reads any thing in the
morning, it comes up all at dinner; and as long as that lasts, the
discourse is his. He is a great plagiary of tavern wit, and comes to
sermons only that he may talk of Austin. His parcels are the meer
scrapings from company, yet he complains at parting what time he has lost.
He is wondrously capricious to seem a judgment, and listens with a sower
attention to what he understands not. He talks much of Scaliger, and
Casaubon, and the Jesuits, and prefers some unheard-of Dutch name before
them all. He has verses to bring in upon these and these hints, and it
shall go hard but he will wind in his opportunity. He is critical in a
language he cannot conster, and speaks seldom under Arminius in divinity.
His business and retirement and caller away is his study, and he protests
no delight to it comparable. He is a great nomenclator of authors, which
he has read in general in the catalogue, and in particular in the title,
and goes seldom so far as the dedication. He never talks of any thing but
learning, and learns all from talking. Three encounters with the same men
pump him, and then he only puts in or gravely says nothing. He has taken
pains to be an ass, though not to be a scholar, and is at length
discovered and laughed at.


[71] _Study_, first edit.

[72] The first edition reads _post_, and, I think, preferably.



Is the spawn or indeed but the resultancy of nobility, and to the making
of him went not a generation but a genealogy. His trade is honour, and he
sells it and gives arms himself, though he be no gentleman. His bribes are
like those of a corrupt judge, for they are the prices of blood. He seems
very rich in discourse, for he tells you of whole fields of gold and
silver, or, and argent, worth much in French but in English nothing. He is
a great diver in the streams or issues of gentry, and not a by-channel or
bastard escapes him; yea he does with them like some shameless queen,
fathers more children on them than ever they begot. His traffick is a kind
of pedlary-ware, scutchions, and pennons, and little daggers and lions,
such as children esteem and gentlemen; but his penny-worths are rampant,
for you may buy three whole brawns cheaper than three boar's heads of him
painted. He was sometimes the terrible coat of Mars, but is now for more
merciful battles in the tilt-yard, where whosoever is victorious, the
spoils are his. He is an art in England but in Wales nature, where they
are born with heraldry in their mouths, and each name is a pedigree.



Are a bad society, and yet a company of good fellows, that roar deep in
the quire, deeper in the tavern. They are the eight parts of speech which
go to the syntaxis of service, and are distinguished by their noises much
like bells, for they make not a concert but a peal. Their pastime or
recreation is prayers, their exercise drinking, yet herein so religiously
addicted that they serve God oftest when they are drunk. Their humanity is
a leg to the residencer, their learning a chapter, for they learn it
commonly before they read it; yet the old Hebrew names are little beholden
to them, for they mis-call them worse than one another. Though they never
expound the scripture, they handle it much, and pollute the gospel with
two things, their conversation and their thumbs. Upon worky-days, they
behave themselves at prayers as at their pots, for they swallow them down
in an instant. Their gowns are laced commonly with streamings of ale, the
superfluities of a cup or throat above measure. Their skill in melody
makes them the better companions abroad, and their anthems abler to sing
catches. Long lived for the most part they are not, especially the base,
they overflow their bank so oft to drown the organs. Briefly, if they
escape arresting, they die constantly in God's service; and to take their
death with more patience, they have wine and cakes at their funeral, and
now they keep[73] the church a great deal better, and help to fill it
with their bones as before with their noise.


[73] _Keep_ for attend.



His shop is his well stuft book, and himself the title-page of it, or
index. He utters much to all men, though he sells but to a few, and
intreats for his own necessities, by asking others what they lack. No man
speaks more and no more, for his words are like his wares, twenty of one
sort, and he goes over them alike to all commers. He is an arrogant
commender of his own things; for whatsoever he shews you is the best in
the town, though the worst in his shop. His conscience was a thing that
would have laid upon his hands, and he was forced to put it off, and
makes great use of honesty to profess upon. He tells you lies by rote,
and not minding, as the phrase to sell in, and the language he spent most
of his years to learn. He never speaks so truely as when he says he would
use you as his brother; for he would abuse his brother, and in his shop
thinks it lawful. His religion is much in the nature of his customers, and
indeed the pander to it: and by a mis-interpreted sense of scripture makes
a gain of his godliness. He is your slave while you pay him ready money,
but if he once befriend you, your tyrant, and you had better deserve his
hate than his trust.



Is one whose wit is better pointed than his behaviour, and that coarse and
impolished, not out of ignorance so much as humour. He is a great enemy to
the fine gentleman, and these things of complement, and hates ceremony in
conversation, as the Puritan in religion. He distinguishes not betwixt
fair and double dealing, and suspects all smoothness for the dress of
knavery. He starts at the encounter of a salutation as an assault, and
beseeches you in choler to forbear your courtesy. He loves not any thing
in discourse that comes before the purpose, and is always suspicious of a
preface. Himself falls rudely still on his matter without any
circumstance, except he use an old proverb for an introduction. He swears
old out-of-date innocent oaths, as, by the mass! by our lady! and such
like, and though there be lords present, he cries, my masters! He is
exceedingly in love with his humour, which makes him always profess and
proclaim it, and you must take what he says patiently, because he is a
plain man. His nature is his excuse still, and other men's tyrant; for he
must speak his mind, and that is his worst, and craves your pardon most
injuriously for not pardoning you. His jests best become him, because
they come from him rudely and unaffected; and he has the luck commonly to
have them famous. He is one that will do more than he will speak, and yet
speak more than he will hear; for though he love to touch others, he is
touchy himself, and seldom to his own abuses replies but with his fists.
He is as squeazy[74] of his commendations, as his courtesy, and his good
word is like an eulogy in a satire. He is generally better favoured than
he favours, as being commonly well expounded in his bitterness, and no man
speaks treason more securely. He chides great men with most boldness, and
is counted for it an honest fellow. He is grumbling much in the behalf of
the commonwealth, and is in prison oft for it with credit. He is generally
honest, but more generally thought so, and his downrightness credits him,
as a man not well bended and crookned to the times. In conclusion, he is
not easily bad, in whom this quality is nature, but the counterfeit is
most dangerous, since he is disguised in a humour, that professes not to


[74] _Squeazy_, niggardly.



Is the fairer commendation of an inn, above the fair sign, or fair
lodgings. She is the loadstone that attracts men of iron, gallants and
roarers, where they cleave sometimes long, and are not easily got off. Her
lips are your welcome, and your entertainment her company, which is put
into the reckoning too, and is the dearest parcel in it. No citizen's wife
is demurer than she at the first greeting, nor draws in her mouth with a
chaster simper; but you may be more familiar without distaste, and she
does not startle at bawdry. She is the confusion of a pottle of sack more
than would have been spent elsewhere, and her little jugs are accepted to
have her kiss excuse them. She may be an honest woman, but is not believed
so in her parish, and no man is a greater infidel in it than her husband.



Is one that has spelled over a great many books, and his observation is
the orthography. He is the surgeon of old authors, and heals the wounds of
dust and ignorance. He converses much in fragments and _desunt multa's_,
and if he piece it up with two lines he is more proud of that book than
the author. He runs over all sciences to peruse their syntaxis, and thinks
all learning comprised in writing Latin. He tastes stiles as some
discreeter palates do wine; and tells you which is genuine, which
sophisticate and bastard. His own phrase is a miscellany of old words,
deceased long before the Cæsars, and entombed by Varro, and the modernest
man he follows is Plautus. He writes _omneis_ at length, and _quidquid_,
and his gerund is most inconformable. He is a troublesome vexer of the
dead, which after so long sparing must rise up to the judgment of his
castigations. He is one that makes all books sell dearer, whilst he swells
them into folios with his comments.[75]


[75] On this passage, I fear, the present volume will be a sufficient



Is one of God's judgments; and which our roarers do only conceive
terrible. He is the properest shape wherein they fancy Satan; for he is at
most but an arrester, and hell a dungeon. He is the creditor's hawk,
wherewith they seize upon flying birds, and fetch them again in his
tallons. He is the period of young gentlemen, or their full stop, for when
he meets with them they can go no farther. His ambush is a shop-stall, or
close lane, and his assault is cowardly at your back. He respites you in
no place but a tavern, where he sells his minutes dearer than a
clock-maker. The common way to run from him is through him, which is often
attempted and atchieved,[76] [_and no man is more beaten out of charity_.]
He is one makes the street more dangerous than the highways, and men go
better provided in their walks than their journey. He is the first handsel
of the young rapiers of the templers; and they are as proud of his repulse
as an Hungarian of killing a Turk. He is a moveable prison, and his hands
two manacles hard to be filed off. He is an occasioner of disloyal
thoughts in the commonwealth, for he makes men hate the king's name worse
than the devil's.


[76] _And the clubs out of charity knock him down_, first edit.



Is a gentleman's follower cheaply purchased, for his own money has hired
him. He is an inferior creditor of some ten shillings downwards,
contracted for horse-hire, or perchance for drink, too weak to be put in
suit, and he arrests your modesty. He is now very expensive of his time,
for he will wait upon your stairs a whole afternoon, and dance attendance
with more patience than a gentleman-usher. He is a sore beleaguerer of
chambers, and assaults them sometimes with furious knocks; yet finds
strong resistance commonly, and is kept out. He is a great complainer of
scholar's loytering, for he is sure never to find them within, and yet he
is the chief cause many times that makes them study. He grumbles at the
ingratitude of men that shun him for his kindness, but indeed it is his
own fault, for he is too great an upbraider. No man puts them more to
their brain than he; and by shifting him off they learn to shift in the
world. Some chuse their rooms on purpose to avoid his surprisals, and
think the best commodity in them his prospect. He is like a rejected
acquaintance, hunts those that care not for his company, and he knows it
well enough, and yet will not keep away. The sole place to supple him is
the buttery, where he takes grievous use upon your name,[77] and he is one
much wrought with good beer and rhetorick. He is a man of most unfortunate
voyages, and no gallant walks the streets to less purpose.


[77] That is, _runs you up a long score_.



Is a man: one that has taken order with himself, and sets a rule to those
lawlesnesses within him: whose life is distinct and in method, and his
actions, as it were, cast up before; not loosed into the world's vanities,
but gathered up and contracted in his station: not scattered into many
pieces of businesses, but that one course he takes, goes through with. A
man firm and standing in his purposes, not heaved off with each wind and
passion: that squares his expence to his coffers, and makes the total
first, and then the items. One that thinks what he does, and does what he
says, and foresees what he may do before he purposes. One whose "if I can"
is more than another's assurance; and his doubtful tale before some men's
protestations:--that is confident of nothing in futurity, yet his
conjectures oft true prophecies:--that makes a pause still betwixt his
ear and belief, and is not too hasty to say after others. One whose tongue
is strung up like a clock till the time, and then strikes, and says much
when he talks little:--that can see the truth betwixt two wranglers, and
sees them agree even in that they fall out upon:--that speaks no rebellion
in a bravery, or talks big from the spirit of sack. A man cool and
temperate in his passions, not easily betrayed by his choler:--that vies
not oath with oath, nor heat with heat, but replies calmly to an angry
man, and is too hard for him too:--that can come fairly off from captain's
companies, and neither drink nor quarrel. One whom no ill hunting sends
home discontented, and makes him swear at his dogs and family. One not
hasty to pursue the new fashion, nor yet affectedly true to his old round
breeches; but gravely handsome, and to his place, which suits him better
than his taylor: active in the world without disquiet, and careful without
misery; yet neither ingulphed in his pleasures, nor a seeker of business,
but has his hour for both. A man that seldom laughs violently, but his
mirth is a cheerful look: of a composed and settled countenance, not set,
nor much alterable with sadness or joy. He affects nothing so wholly, that
he must be a miserable man when he loses it; but fore-thinks what will
come hereafter, and spares fortune his thanks and curses. One that loves
his credit, not this word reputation; yet can save both without a duel.
Whose entertainments to greater men are respectful, not complementary; and
to his friends plain, not rude. A good husband, father, master; that is,
without doting, pampering, familiarity. A man well poised in all humours,
in whom nature shewed most geometry, and he has not spoiled the work. A
man of more wisdom than wittiness, and brain than fancy; and abler to any
thing than to make verses.



Is a far finer man than he knows of, one that shews better to all men than
himself, and so much the better to all men, as less to himself;[78] for no
quality sets a man off like this, and commends him more against his will:
and he can put up any injury sooner than this (as he calls it) your irony.
You shall hear him confute his commenders, and giving reasons how much
they are mistaken, and is angry almost if they do not believe him. Nothing
threatens him so much as great expectation, which he thinks more
prejudicial than your under-opinion, because it is easier to make that
false, than this true. He is one that sneaks from a good action, as one
that had pilfered, and dare not justify it; and is more blushingly
reprehended in this, than others in sin: that counts all publick
declarings of himself, but so many penances before the people; and the
more you applaud him, the more you abash him, and he recovers not his face
a month after. One that is easy to like any thing of another man's, and
thinks all he knows not of him better than that he knows. He excuses that
to you, which another would impute; and if you pardon him, is satisfied.
One that stands in no opinion because it is his own, but suspects it
rather, because it is his own, and is confuted and thanks you. He sees
nothing more willingly than his errors, and it is his error sometimes to
be too soon persuaded. He is content to be auditor, where he only can
speak, and content to go away, and think himself instructed. No man is so
weak that he is ashamed to learn of, and is less ashamed to confess it;
and he finds many times even in the dust, what others overlook and lose.
Every man's presence is a kind of bridle to him, to stop the roving of his
tongue and passions: and even impudent men look for this reverence from
him, and distaste that in him, which they suffer in themselves, as one in
whom vice is ill-favoured, and shews more scurvily than another. A bawdy
jest shall shame him more than a bastard another man, and he that got it
shall censure him among the rest. And he is coward to nothing more than an
ill tongue, and whosoever dare lye on him hath power over him; and if you
take him by his look, he is guilty. The main ambition of his life is not
to be discredited; and for other things, his desires are more limited than
his fortunes, which he thinks preferment, though never so mean, and that
he is to do something to deserve this. He is too tender to venture on
great places, and would not hurt a dignity to help himself: If he do, it
was the violence of his friends constrained him, how hardly soever he
obtain it, he was harder persuaded to seek it.


[78] This, as well as many other passages in this work, has been
appropriated by John Dunton, the celebrated bookseller, as his own. See
his character of Mr. Samuel Hool, in _Dunton's Life and Errors_, 8vo.
1705. p. 337.



Is like one that spends on the stock without any revenues coming in, and
will shortly be no wit at all; for learning is the fuel to the fire of
wit, which, if it wants this feeding, eats out it self. A good conceit or
two bates of such a man, and makes a sensible weakening in him; and his
brain recovers it not a year after. The rest of him are bubbles and
flashes, darted out on a sudden, which, if you take them while they are
warm, may be laughed at; if they are cool, are nothing. He speaks best on
the present apprehension, for meditation stupifies him, and the more he is
in travel, the less he brings forth. His things come off then, as in a
nauseateing stomach, where there is nothing to cast up, strains and
convulsions, and some astonishing bombasts, which men only, till they
understand, are scared with. A verse or some such work he may sometimes
get up to, but seldom above the stature of an epigram, and that with some
relief out of Martial, which is the ordinary companion of his pocket, and
he reads him as he were inspired. Such men are commonly the trifling
things of the world, good to make merry the company, and whom only men
have to do withal when they have nothing to do, and none are less their
friends than who are most their company. Here they vent themselves over a
cup some-what more lastingly; all their words go for jests, and all their
jests for nothing. They are nimble in the fancy of some ridiculous thing,
and reasonable good in the expression. Nothing stops a jest when it's
coming, neither friends, nor danger, but it must out howsoever, though
their blood come out after, and then they emphatically rail, and are
emphatically beaten, and commonly are men reasonable familiar to this.
Briefly they are such whose life is but to laugh and be laughed at; and
only wits in jest and fools in earnest.



Is one that will be a man to-morrow morning, but is now what you will make
him, for he is in the power of the next man, and if a friend the better.
One that hath let go himself from the hold and stay of reason, and lies
open to the mercy of all temptations. No lust but finds him disarmed and
fenceless, and with the least assault enters. If any mischief escape him,
it was not his fault, for he was laid as fair for it as he could. Every
man sees him, as Cham saw his father the first of this sin, an uncovered
man, and though his garment be on, uncovered; the secretest parts of his
soul lying in the nakedest manner visible: all his passions come out now,
all his vanities, and those shamefuller humours which discretion clothes.
His body becomes at last like a miry way, where the spirits are beclogged
and cannot pass: all his members are out of office, and his heels do but
trip up one another. He is a blind man with eyes, and a cripple with legs
on. All the use he has of this vessel himself, is to hold thus much; for
his drinking is but a scooping in of so many quarts, which are filled out
into his body, and that filled out again into the room, which is commonly
as drunk as he. Tobacco serves to air him after a washing, and is his only
breath and breathing while. He is the greatest enemy to himself, and the
next to his friend, and then most in the act of his kindness, for his
kindness is but trying a mastery, who shall sink down first: and men come
from him as a battle, wounded and bound up. Nothing takes a man off more
from his credit, and business, and makes him more retchlesly[79] careless
what becomes of all. Indeed he dares not enter on a serious thought, or if
he do, it is such melancholy that it sends him to be drunk again.


[79] Rechlesse, _negligent_. Saxon, rectlerre. Chaucer uses it also as an

    "I may not in this cas be _reccheles_."

_Clerkes Tale_, v. 8364.



Is the grave of the living,[80] where they are shut up from the world and
their friends; and the worms that gnaw upon them their own thoughts and
the jaylor. A house of meagre looks and ill smells, for lice, drink, and
tobacco are the compound. Pluto's court was expressed from this fancy; and
the persons are much about the same parity that is there. You may ask, as
Menippus in Lucian, which is Nireus, which Thersites, which the beggar,
which the knight;--for they are all suited in the same form of a kind of
nasty poverty. Only to be out at elbows is in fashion here, and a great
indecorum not to be thread-bare. Every man shews here like so many wracks
upon the sea, here the ribs of a thousand pound, here the relicks of so
many mannors, a doublet without buttons; and 'tis a spectacle of more pity
than executions are. The company one with the other is but a vying of
complaints, and the causes they have to rail on fortune and fool
themselves, and there is a great deal of good fellowship in this. They are
commonly, next their creditors, most bitter against the lawyers, as men
that have had a great stroke in assisting them hither. Mirth here is
stupidity or hard-heartedness, yet they feign it sometimes to slip
melancholy, and keep off themselves from themselves, and the torment of
thinking what they have been. Men huddle up their life here as a thing of
no use, and wear it out like an old suit, the faster the better; and he
that deceives the time best, best spends it. It is the place where new
comers are most welcomed, and, next them, ill news, as that which extends
their fellowship in misery, and leaves few to insult:--and they breath
their discontents more securely here, and have their tongues at more
liberty than abroad. Men see here much sin and much calamity; and where
the last does not mortify, the other hardens; as those that are worse
here, are desperately worse, and those from whom the horror of sin is
taken off and the punishment familiar: and commonly a hard thought passes
on all that come from this school; which though it teach much wisdom, it
is too late, and with danger: and it is better be a fool than come here to
learn it.


[80] "A prison is a graue to bury men aliue, and a place wherein a man for
halfe a yeares experience may learne more law then he can at Westminster
for an hundred pound." Mynshul's _Essays and Characters of a Prison_. 4to.



Is one of the makings up of a gentleman as well as his clothes, and
somewhat in the same nature, for he is cast behind his master as
fashionably as his sword and cloak are, and he is but _in querpo_[81]
without him. His properness[82] qualifies him, and of that a good leg;
for his head he has little use but to keep it bare. A good dull wit best
suits with him to comprehend common sense and a trencher; for any greater
store of brain it makes him but tumultuous, and seldom thrives with him.
He follows his master's steps, as well in conditions as the street; if he
wench or drink, he comes him in an under kind, and thinks it a part of his
duty to be like him. He is indeed wholly his master's; of his faction,--of
his cut,--of his pleasures:--he is handsome for his credit, and drunk for
his credit, and if he have power in the cellar, commands the parish. He is
one that keeps the best company, and is none of it; for he knows all the
gentlemen his master knows, and picks from thence some hawking and
horse-race terms,[83] which he swaggers with in the ale-house, where he is
only called master. His mirth is bawdy jests with the wenches, and, behind
the door, bawdy earnest. The best work he does is his marrying, for it
makes an honest woman, and if he follows in it his master's direction, it
is commonly the best service he does him.


[81] _In querpo_ is a corruption from the Spanish word _cuérpo_. "_En
cuérpo, a man without a cloak._" Pineda's _Dictionary_, 1740. The present
signification evidently is, that a gentleman without his serving-man, or
attendant, is but half dressed:--he possesses only in part the appearance
of a man of fashion. "_To walk in cuerpo, is to go without a cloak._"
_Glossographia Anglicana Nova_, 8vo. 1719.

[82] _Proper_ was frequently used by old writers for comely, or handsome.
Shakspeare has several instances of it:

    "I do mistake my person all this while:
    Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,
    Myself to be a marvellous _proper_ man."

_K. Richard III._ Act I. Sc. 2. &c.

[83] "Why you know an'a man have not skill in the hawking and hunting
languages now-a-days, I'll not give a rush for him." _Master Stephen._
_Every Man in his Humour._



Is a fellow newly great and newly proud; one that hath put himself into
another face upon his preferment, for his own was not bred to it. One whom
fortune hath shot up to some office or authority, and he shoots up his
neck to his fortune, and will not bate you an inch of either. His very
countenance and gesture bespeak how much he is, and if you understand him
not, he tells you, and concludes every period with his place, which you
must and shall know. He is one that looks on all men as if he were angry,
but especially on those of his acquaintance, whom he beats off with a
surlier distance, as men apt to mistake him, because they have known him;
and for this cause he knows not you 'till you have told him your name,
which he thinks he has heard, but forgot, and with much ado seems to
recover. If you have any thing to use him in, you are his vassal for that
time, and must give him the patience of any injury, which he does only to
shew what he may do. He snaps you up bitterly, because he will be
offended, and tells you, you are sawcy and troublesome, and sometimes
takes your money in this language. His very courtesies are intolerable,
they are done with such an arrogance and imputation; and he is the only
man you may hate after a good turn, and not be ungrateful; and men reckon
it among their calamities to be beholden unto him. No vice draws with it a
more general hostility, and makes men readier to search into his faults,
and of them, his beginning; and no tale so unlikely but is willingly heard
of him and believed. And commonly such men are of no merit at all, but
make out in pride what they want in worth, and fence themselves with a
stately kind of behaviour from that contempt which would pursue them. They
are men whose preferment does us a great deal of wrong, and when they are
down, we may laugh at them without breach of good-nature.



Is the first draught of a friend, whom we must lay down oft thus, as the
foul copy, before we can write him perfect and true: for from hence, as
from a probation, men take a degree in our respect, till at last they
wholly possess us: for acquaintance is the hoard, and friendship the pair
chosen out of it; by which at last we begin to impropriate and inclose to
ourselves what before lay in common with others. And commonly where it
grows not up to this, it falls as low as may be; and no poorer relation
than old acquaintance, of whom we only ask how they do for fashion's sake,
and care not. The ordinary use of acquaintance is but somewhat a more
boldness of society, a sharing of talk, news, drink, mirth together; but
sorrow is the right of a friend, as a thing nearer our heart, and to be
delivered with it. Nothing easier than to create acquaintance, the mere
being in company once does it; whereas friendship, like children, is
ingendered by a more inward mixture, and coupling together; when we are
acquainted not with their virtues only, but their faults, their passions,
their fears, their shame,--and are bold on both sides to make their
discovery. And as it is in the love of the body, which is then at the
height and full when it has power and admittance into the hidden and
worst parts of it; so it is in friendship with the mind, when those
_verenda_ of the soul, and those things which we dare not shew the world,
are bare and detected one to another. Some men are familiar with all, and
those commonly friends to none; for friendship is a sullener thing, is a
contractor and taker up of our affections to some few, and suffers them
not loosely to be scattered on all men. The poorest tie of acquaintance is
that of place and country, which are shifted as the place, and missed but
while the fancy of that continues. These are only then gladdest of other,
when they meet in some foreign region, where the encompassing of strangers
unites them closer, till at last they get new, and throw off one another.
Men of parts and eminency, as their acquaintance is more sought for, so
they are generally more staunch of it, not out of pride only, but fear to
let too many in too near them: for it is with men as with pictures, the
best show better afar off and at distance, and the closer you come to them
the coarser they are. The best judgment of a man is taken from his
acquaintance, for friends and enemies are both partial; whereas these see
him truest because calmest, and are no way so engaged to lie for him. And
men that grow strange after acquaintance, seldom piece together again, as
those that have tasted meat and dislike it, out of a mutual experience
disrelishing one another.



Is one to be held off still at the same distance you are now; for you
shall have him but thus, and if you enter on him farther you lose him.
Methinks Virgil well expresses him in those well-behaved ghosts that Æneas
met with, that were friends to talk with, and men to look on, but if he
grasped them, but air.[84] He is one that lies kindly to you, and for good
fashion's sake, and tis discourtesy in you to believe him. His words are
so many fine phrases set together, which serve equally for all men, and
are equally to no purpose. Each fresh encounter with a man puts him to the
same part again, and he goes over to you what he said to him was last with
him: he kisses your hands as he kissed his before, and is your servant to
be commanded, but you shall intreat of him nothing. His proffers are
universal and general, with exceptions against all particulars. He will do
any thing for you, but if you urge him to this, he cannot, or to that, he
is engaged; but he will do any thing. Promises he accounts but a kind of
mannerly words, and in the expectation of your manners not to exact them:
if you do, he wonders at your ill breeding, that cannot distinguish
betwixt what is spoken and what is meant. No man gives better
satisfaction at the first, and comes off more with the elogy of a kind
gentleman, till you know him better, and then you know him for nothing.
And commonly those most rail at him, that have before most commended him.
The best is, he cozens you in a fair manner, and abuses you with great



    Ter conatus ibi collo dare brachia circum:
    Ter frustra comprensa manus effugit imago,
    Par leuibus ventis, volucrique simillima somno.

_Virgil_ Æn. vi. _v._ 700. edit. Heyne, 1787.



Is a man and a fiddle out of case, and he in worse case than his fiddle.
One that rubs two sticks together (as the Indians strike fire), and rubs a
poor living out of it; partly from this, and partly from your charity,
which is more in the hearing than giving him, for he sells nothing dearer
than to be gone. He is just so many strings above a beggar, though he have
but two; and yet he begs too, only not in the downright 'for God's sake,'
but with a shrugging 'God bless you,' and his face is more pined than the
blind man's. Hunger is the greatest pain he takes, except a broken head
sometimes, and the labouring John Dory.[85] Otherwise his life is so many
fits of mirth, and tis some mirth to see him. A good feast shall draw him
five miles by the nose, and you shall track him again by the scent. His
other pilgrimages are fairs and good houses, where his devotion is great
to the Christmas; and no man loves good times better. He is in league with
the tapsters for the worshipful of the inn, whom, he torments next morning
with his art, and has their names more perfect than their men. A new song
is better to him than a new jacket, especially if bawdy, which he calls
merry; and hates naturally the puritan, as an enemy to this mirth. A
country wedding and Whitson-ale are the two main places he domineers in,
where he goes for a musician, and overlooks the bag-pipe. The rest of him
is drunk, and in the stocks.


[85] Probably the name of some difficult tune.



Is one that has nothing to do with his business, and yet no man busier
than he, and his business is most in his face. He is one thrusts himself
violently into all employments, unsent for, unfeed, and many times
unthanked; and his part in it is only an eager bustling, that rather keeps
ado than does any thing. He will take you aside, and question you of your
affair, and listen with both ears, and look earnestly, and then it is
nothing so much yours as his. He snatches what you are doing out of your
hands, and cries "give it me," and does it worse, and lays an engagement
upon you too, and you must thank him for his pains. He lays you down an
hundred wild plots, all impossible things, which you must be ruled by
perforce, and he delivers them with a serious and counselling forehead;
and there is a great deal more wisdom in this forehead than his head. He
will woo for you, solicit for you, and woo you to suffer him; and scarce
any thing done, wherein his letter, or his journey, or at least himself is
not seen; if he have no task in it else, he will rail yet on some side,
and is often beaten when he need not. Such men never thoroughly weigh any
business, but are forward only to shew their zeal, when many times this
forwardness spoils it, and then they cry they have done what they can,
that is, as much hurt. Wise men still deprecate these men's kindnesses,
and are beholden to them rather to let them alone; as being one trouble
more in all business, and which a man shall be hardest rid of.



Is the best antiquity, and which we may with least vanity admire. One whom
time hath been thus long a working, and like winter fruit, ripened when
others are shaken down. He hath taken out as many lessons of the world as
days, and learnt the best thing in it; the vanity of it. He looks over his
former life as a danger well past, and would not hazard himself to begin
again. His lust was long broken before his body, yet he is glad this
temptation is broke too, and that he is fortified from it by this
weakness. The next door of death sads him not, but he expects it calmly as
his turn in nature; and fears more his recoiling back to childishness than
dust. All men look on him as a common father, and on old age, for his
sake, as a reverent thing. His very presence and face puts vice out of
countenance, and makes it an indecorum in a vicious man. He practises his
experience on youth without the harshness of reproof, and in his counsel
his good company. He has some old stories still of his own seeing to
confirm what he says, and makes them better in the telling; yet is not
troublesome neither with the same tale again, but remembers with them how
oft he has told them. His old sayings and morals seem proper to his beard;
and the poetry of Cato does well out of his mouth, and he speaks it as if
he were the author. He is not apt to put the boy on a younger man, nor the
fool on a boy, but can distinguish gravity from a sour look; and the less
testy he is, the more regarded. You must pardon him if he like his own
times better than these, because those things are follies to him now that
were wisdom then; yet he makes us of that opinion too when we see him, and
conjecture those times by so good a relick. He is a man capable of a
dearness with the youngest men, yet he not youthfuller for them, but they
older for him; and no man credits more his acquaintance. He goes away at
last too soon whensoever, with all men's sorrow but his own; and his
memory is fresh, when it is twice as old.



Is the picture of a friend, and as pictures flatter many times, so he oft
shews fairer than the true substance: his look, conversation, company, and
all the outwardness of friendship more pleasing by odds, for a true friend
dare take the liberty to be sometimes offensive, whereas he is a great
deal more cowardly, and will not let the least hold go, for fear of losing
you. Your meer sour look affrights him, and makes him doubt his
casheering. And this is one sure mark of him, that he is never first
angry, but ready though upon his own wrong to make satisfaction. Therefore
he is never yoked with a poor man, or any that stands on the lower
ground, but whose fortunes may tempt his pains to deceive him. Him he
learns first, and learns well, and grows perfecter in his humours than
himself, and by this door enters upon his soul, of which he is able at
last to take the very print and mark, and fashion his own by it, like a
false key to open all your secrets. All his affections jump[86] even with
your's; he is before-hand with your thoughts, and able to suggest them
unto you. He will commend to you first what he knows you like, and has
always some absurd story or other of your enemy, and then wonders how your
two opinions should jump in that man. He will ask your counsel sometimes
as a man of deep judgment, and has a secret of purpose to disclose to you,
and whatsoever you say, is persuaded. He listens to your words with great
attention, and sometimes will object that you may confute him, and then
protests he never heard so much before. A piece of wit bursts him with an
overflowing laughter, and he remembers it for you to all companies, and
laughs again in the telling. He is one never chides you but for your
vertues, as, _you are too good, too honest, too religious_, when his
chiding may seem but the earnester commendation, and yet would fain chide
you out of them too; for your vice is the thing he has use of, and wherein
you may best use him; and he is never more active than in the worst
diligences. Thus, at last, he possesses you from yourself, and then
expects but his hire to betray you: and it is a happiness not to discover
him; for as long as you are happy, you shall not.


[86] _Jump_ here signifies to coincide. The old play of _Soliman and
Perseda_, 4to. _without date_, uses it in the same sense:

"Wert thou my friend, thy mind would _jump_ with mine." So in _Pierce
Penilesse his Supplication to the Divele_:--"Not two of them jump in one
tale." p. 29.



Is one that looks like a proud man, but is not: you may forgive him his
looks for his worth's sake, for they are only too proud to be base. One
whom no rate can buy off from the least piece of his freedom, and make him
digest an unworthy thought an hour. He cannot crouch to a great man to
possess him, nor fall low to the earth to rebound never so high again. He
stands taller on his own bottom, than others on the advantage ground of
fortune, as having solidly that honour, of which title is but the pomp. He
does homage to no man for his great stile's sake, but is strictly just in
the exaction of respect again, and will not bate you a complement. He is
more sensible of a neglect than an undoing, and scorns no man so much as
his surly threatener. A man quickly fired, and quickly laid down with
satisfaction, but remits any injury sooner than words: only to himself he
is irreconcileable, whom he never forgives a disgrace, but is still
stabbing himself with the thought of it, and no disease that he dies of
sooner. He is one had rather perish than be beholden for his life, and
strives more to be quit with his friend than his enemy. Fortune may kill
him but not deject him, nor make him fall into an humbler key than before,
but he is now loftier than ever in his own defence; you shall hear him
talk still after thousands, and he becomes it better than those that have
it. One that is above the world and its drudgery, and cannot pull down his
thoughts to the pelting businesses of life. He would sooner accept the
gallows than a mean trade, or any thing that might disparage the height of
man in him, and yet thinks no death comparably base to hanging neither.
One that will do nothing upon command, though he would do it otherwise;
and if ever he do evil, it is when he is dared to it. He is one that if
fortune equal his worth puts a luster in all preferment; but if otherwise
he be too much crossed, turns desperately melancholy, and scorns mankind.



Is one much about the same model and pitch of brain that the clown is,
only of somewhat a more polite and finical ignorance, and as sillily
scorns him as he is sillily admired by him. The quality of the city hath
afforded him some better dress of clothes and language, which he uses to
the best advantage, and is so much the more ridiculous. His chief
education is the visits of his shop, where if courtiers and fine ladies
resort, he is infected with so much more eloquence, and if he catch one
word extraordinary, wears it for ever. You shall hear him mince a
complement sometimes that was never made for him; and no man pays dearer
for good words,--for he is oft paid with them. He is suited rather fine
than in the fashion, and has still something to distinguish him from a
gentleman, though his doublet cost more; especially on Sundays,
bridegroom-like, where he carries the state of a very solemn man, and
keeps his pew as his shop; and it is a great part of his devotion to feast
the minister. But his chiefest guest is a customer, which is the greatest
relation he acknowledges, especially if you be an honest gentleman, that
is trust him to cozen you enough. His friendships are a kind of gossipping
friendships, and those commonly within the circle of his trade, wherein he
is careful principally to avoid two things, that is poor men and
suretiships. He is a man will spend his six-pence with a great deal of
imputation,[87] and no man makes more of a pint of wine than he. He is one
bears a pretty kind of foolish love to scholars, and to Cambridge
especially for Sturbridge[88] fair's sake; and of these all are truants
to him that are not preachers, and of these the loudest the best; and he
is much ravished with the noise of a rolling tongue. He loves to hear
discourses out of his element, and the less he understands the better
pleased, which he expresses in a smile and some fond protestation. One
that does nothing without his chuck[89], that is his wife, with whom he is
billing still in conspiracy, and the wantoner she is, the more power she
has over him; and she never stoops so low after him, but is the only woman
goes better of a widow than a maid. In the education of his child no man
fearfuller, and the danger he fears is a harsh school-master, to whom he
is alledging still the weakness of the boy, and pays a fine extraordinary
for his mercy. The first whipping rids him to the university, and from
thence rids him again for fear of starving, and the best he makes of him
is some gull in plush. He is one loves to hear the famous acts of
citizens, whereof the gilding of the cross[90] he counts the glory of this
age, and the four[91] prentices of London above all the nine[92]
worthies. He intitles himself to all the merits of his company, whether
schools, hospitals, or exhibitions, in which he is joint benefactor,
though four hundred years ago, and upbraids them far more than those that
gave them: yet with all this folly he has wit enough to get wealth, and
in that a sufficienter man than he that is wiser.


[87] _Imputation_ here must be used for _consequence_; of which I am,
however, unable to produce any other instance.

[88] _Sturbridge fair_ was the great mart for business, and resort for
pleasure, in bishop Earle's day. It is alluded to in Randolph's _Conceited
Pedlar_, 4to. 1630.

    "I am a pedlar, and I sell my ware
    This braue Saint Barthol. or _Sturbridge faire_."

Edward Ward, the facetious author of _The London Spy_, gives a whimsical
account of a journey to _Sturbridge_, in the second volume of his works.

[89] This silly term of endearment appears to be derived from _chick_, or
_my chicken_. Shakspeare uses it in Macbeth, Act iii. Scene 2.

    "Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest _chuck_."

[90] The great cross in West Cheap, was originally erected in 1290, by
Edward I. in commemoration of the death of queen Ellinor, whose body
rested at that place, on its journey from Herdeby, in Lincolnshire, to
Westminster, for interment. It was rebuilt in 1441, and again in 1484. In
1581, the images and ornaments were destroyed by the populace; and in
1599, the top of the cross was taken down, the timber being rotted within
the lead, and fears being entertained as to its safety. By order of queen
Elizabeth, and her privy council, it was repaired in 1600, when, says
Stow, "a cross of timber was framed, set up, covered with lead, _and
gilded_," &c. Stow's _Survey of London_, by Strype, book iii. p. 35. Edit,
folio, Lond. 1720.

[91] This must allude to the play written by Heywood with the following
title: _The Foure Prentises of London. With the Conquest of Ierusalem. As
it hath bene diuerse times acted at the Red Bull, by the Queene's
Maiesties Seruants._ 4to. Lond. 1615. In this drama, the _four prentises_
are Godfrey, Grey, Charles, and Eustace, sons to the _old Earle of
Bullen_, who, having lost his territories, by assisting William the
Conqueror in his descent upon England, is compelled to live like a private
citizen in London, and binds his sons to a mercer, a goldsmith, a
haberdasher, and a grocer. The _four prentises_, however, prefer the life
of a soldier to that of a tradesman, and, quitting the service of their
masters, follow Robert of Normandy to the holy land, where they perform
the most astonishing feats of valour, and finally accomplish the _conquest
of Ierusalem_. The whole play abounds in bombast and impossibilities, and,
as a composition, is unworthy of notice or remembrance.

[92] _The History of the Nine Worthies of the World; three whereof were
Gentiles: 1. Hector, son of Priamus, king of Troy. 2. Alexander the Great,
king of Macedon, and conqueror of the world. 3. Julius Cæsar, first
emperor of Rome. Three Jews. 4. Joshua, captain general and leader of
Israel into Canaan. 5. David, king of Israel. 6. Judas Maccabeus, a
valiant Jewish commander against the tyranny of Antiochus. Three
Christians. 7. Arthur, king of Britain, who courageously defended his
country against the Saxons. 8. Charles the Great, king of France and
emperor of Germany. 9. Godfrey of Bullen, king of Jerusalem. Being an
account of their glorious lives, worthy actions, renowned victories, and
deaths._ 12mo. No date.



Is the servant he says of many mistresses, but all are but his lust, to
which only he is faithful, and none besides, and spends his best blood and
spirits in the service. His soul is the bawd to his body, and those that
assist him in this nature the nearest to it. No man abuses more the name
of love, or those whom he applies this name to; for his love is like his
stomach to feed on what he loves, and the end of it to surfeit and loath,
till a fresh appetite rekindle him; and it kindles on any sooner than who
deserve best of him. There is a great deal of malignity in this vice, for
it loves still to spoil the best things, and a virgin sometimes rather
than beauty, because the undoing here is greater, and consequently his
glory. No man laughs more at his sin than he, or is so extremely tickled
with the remembrance of it; and he is more violence to a modest ear than
to her he defloured. A bawdy jest enters deep into him, and whatsoever you
speak he will draw to baudry, and his wit is never so good as here. His
unchastest part is his tongue, for that commits always what he must act
seldomer; and that commits with all which he acts with few; for he is his
own worst reporter, and men believe as bad of him, and yet do not believe
him. Nothing harder to his persuasion than a chaste man, no eunuch; and
makes a scoffing miracle at it, if you tell him of a maid. And from this
mistrust it is that such men fear marriage, or at least marry such as are
of bodies to be trusted, to whom only they sell that lust which they buy
of others, and make their wife a revenue to their mistress. They are men
not easily reformed, because they are so little ill-persuaded of their
illness, and have such pleas from man and nature. Besides it is a jeering
and flouting vice, and apt to put jests on the reprover. The pox only
converts them, and that only when it kills them.



Is a man too quick for himself; one whose actions put a leg still before
his judgement, and out-run it. Every hot fancy or passion is the signal
that sets him forward, and his reason comes still in the rear. One that
has brain enough, but not patience to digest a business, and stay the
leisure of a second thought. All deliberation is to him a kind of sloth
and freezing of action, and it shall burn him rather than take cold. He is
always resolved at first thinking, and the ground he goes upon is, _hap
what may_. Thus he enters not, but throws himself violently upon all
things, and for the most part is as violently upon all off again; and as
an obstinate "_I will_" was the preface to his undertaking, so his
conclusion is commonly "_I would I had not_;" for such men seldom do any
thing that they are not forced to take in pieces again, and are so much
farther off from doing it, as they have done already. His friends are with
him as his physician, sought to only in his sickness and extremity, and to
help him out of that mire he has plunged himself into; for in the
suddenness of his passions he would hear nothing, and now his ill success
has allayed him he hears too late. He is a man still swayed with the first
reports, and no man more in the power of a pick-thank than he. He is one
will fight first, and then expostulate, condemn first, and then examine.
He loses his friend in a fit of quarrelling, and in a fit of kindness
undoes himself; and then curses the occasion drew this mischief upon him,
and cries, God mercy! for it, and curses again. His repentance is meerly a
rage against himself, and he does something in itself to be repented
again. He is a man whom fortune must go against much to make him happy,
for had he been suffered his own way, he had been undone.



Is an extraordinary man in ordinary things. One that would go a strain
beyond himself, and is taken in it. A man that overdoes all things with
great solemnity of circumstance; and whereas with more negligence he might
pass better, makes himself with a great deal of endeavour ridiculous. The
fancy of some odd quaintnesses have put him clean beside his nature; he
cannot be that he would, and hath lost what he was. He is one must be
point-blank in every trifle, as if his credit and opinion hung upon it;
the very space of his arms in an embrace studied before and premeditated,
and the figure of his countenance of a fortnight's contriving; he will not
curse you without-book and extempore, but in some choice way, and perhaps
as some great man curses. Every action of his cries,--"_Do ye mark me?_"
and men do mark him how absurd he is: for affectation is the most
betraying humour, and nothing that puzzles a man less to find out than
this. All the actions of his life are like so many things bodged in
without any natural cadence or connection at all. You shall track him all
through like a schoolboy's theme, one piece from one author and this from
another, and join all in this general, that they are none of his own. You
shall observe his mouth not made for that tone, nor his face for that
simper; and it is his luck that his finest things most misbecome him. If
he affect the gentleman as the humour most commonly lies that way, not the
least punctilio of a fine man, but he is strict in to a hair, even to
their very negligences, which he cons as rules. He will not carry a knife
with him to wound reputation, and pay double a reckoning, rather than
ignobly question it: and he is full of this--ignobly--and nobly--and
genteely;--and this meer fear to trespass against the genteel way puts him
out most of all. It is a humour runs through many things besides, but is
an ill-favoured ostentation in all, and thrives not:--and the best use of
such men is, they are good parts in a play.



Is one that denies God as far as the law gives him leave; that is, only
does not say so in downright terms, for so far he may go. A man that does
the greatest sins calmly, and as the ordinary actions of life, and as
calmly discourses of it again. He will tell you his business is to break
such a commandment, and the breaking of the commandment shall tempt him to
it. His words are but so many vomitings cast up to the loathsomeness of
the hearers, only those of his company[93] loath it not. He will take upon
him with oaths to pelt some tenderer man out of his company, and makes
good sport at his conquest over the puritan fool. The scripture supplies
him for jests, and he reads it on purpose to be thus merry: he will prove
you his sin out of the bible, and then ask if you will not take that
authority. He never sees the church but of purpose to sleep in it, or when
some silly man preaches, with whom he means to make sport, and is most
jocund in the church. One that nick-names clergymen with all the terms of
reproach, as "_rat_, _black-coat_" and the like; which he will be sure to
keep up, and never calls them by other: that sings psalms when he is
drunk, and cries "_God mercy_" in mockery, for he must do it. He is one
seems to dare God in all his actions, but indeed would out-dare the
opinion of him, which would else turn him desperate; for atheism is the
refuge of such sinners, whose repentance would be only to hang


[93] Those of the same habits with himself; his associates.



Is the man that is commonly most fierce against the coward, and labouring
to take off this suspicion from himself; for the opinion of valour is a
good protection to those that dare not use it. No man is valianter than he
is in civil company, and where he thinks no danger may come on it, and is
the readiest man to fall upon a drawer and those that must not strike
again: wonderful exceptious and cholerick where he sees men are loth to
give him occasion, and you cannot pacify him better than by quarrelling
with him. The hotter you grow, the more temperate man is he; he protests
he always honoured you, and the more you rail upon him, the more he
honours you, and you threaten him at last into a very honest quiet man.
The sight of a sword wounds him more sensibly than the stroke, for before
that come he is dead already. Every man is his master that dare beat him,
and every man dares that knows him. And he that dare do this is the only
man can do much with him; for his friend he cares not for, as a man that
carries no such terror as his enemy, which for this cause only is more
potent with him of the two: and men fall out with him of purpose to get
courtesies from him, and be bribed again to a reconcilement. A man in whom
no secret can be bound up, for the apprehension of each danger loosens
him, and makes him bewray both the room and it. He is a christian meerly
for fear of hell-fire; and if any religion could fright him more, would be
of that.



Is a beggar of a fair estate, of whose wealth we may say as of other men's
unthriftiness, that it has brought him to this: when he had nothing he
lived in another kind of fashion. He is a man whom men hate in his own
behalf for using himself thus, and yet, being upon himself, it is but
justice, for he deserves it. Every accession of a fresh heap bates him so
much of his allowance, and brings him a degree nearer starving. His body
had been long since desperate, but for the reparation of other men's
tables, where he hoards meats in his belly for a month, to maintain him in
hunger so long. His clothes were never young in our memory; you might make
long epochas from them, and put them into the almanack with the dear
year[94] and the great frost,[95] and he is known by them longer than his
face. He is one never gave alms in his life, and yet is as charitable to
his neighbour as himself. He will redeem a penny with his reputation, and
lose all his friends to boot; and his reason is, he will not be undone. He
never pays any thing but with strictness of law, for fear of which only he
steals not. He loves to pay short a shilling or two in a great sum, and is
glad to gain that when he can no more. He never sees friend but in a
journey to save the charges of an inn, and then only is not sick; and his
friends never see him but to abuse him. He is a fellow indeed of a kind of
frantick thrift, and one of the strangest things that wealth can work.


[94] The _dear year_ here, I believe, alluded to, was in 1574, and is thus
described by that faithful and valuable historian Holinshed:--"This yeare,
about Lammas, wheat was sold at London for three shillings the bushell:
but shortlie after, it was raised to foure shillings, fiue shillings, six
shillings, and, before Christmas, to a noble, and seuen shillings; which
so continued long after. Beefe was sold for twentie pence, and two and
twentie pence the stone; and all other flesh and white meats at an
excessiue price; all kind of salt fish verie deare, as fiue herings two
pence, &c.; yet great plentie of fresh fish, and oft times the same verie
cheape. Pease at foure shillings the bushell; ote-meale at foure shillings
eight pence; baie salt at three shillings the bushell, &c. All this dearth
notwithstanding, (thanks be given to God,) there was no want of anie thing
to them that wanted not monie." Holinshed, _Chronicle_, vol. 3, page 1259,
a. edit. folio, 1587.

[95] On the 21st of December, 1564, began a frost referred to by Fleming,
in his Index to _Holinshed_, as the "_frost called the great frost_,"
which lasted till the 3rd of January, 1565. It was so severe that the
Thames was frozen over, and the passage on it, from London-bridge to
Westminster, as easy as, and more frequented than that on dry land.



Is so much heraldry without honour, himself less real than his title. His
virtue is, that he was his father's son, and all the expectation of him to
beget another. A man that lives meerly to preserve another's memory, and
let us know who died so many years ago. One of just as much use as his
images, only he differs in this, that he can speak himself, and save the
fellow of Westminster[96] a labour: and he remembers nothing better than
what was out of his life. His grandfathers and their acts are his
discourse, and he tells them with more glory than they did them; and it is
well they did enough, or else he had wanted matter. His other studies are
his sports and those vices that are fit for great men. Every vanity of his
has his officer, and is a serious employment for his servants. He talks
loud, and baudily, and scurvily as a part of state, and they hear him
with reverence. All good qualities are below him, and especially learning,
except some parcels of the chronicle and the writing of his name, which he
learns to write not to be read. He is meerly of his servants' faction, and
their instrument for their friends and enemies, and is always least
thanked for his own courtesies. They that fool him most do most with him,
and he little thinks how many laugh at him bare-head. No man is kept in
ignorance more of himself and men, for he hears nought but flattery; and
what is fit to be spoken, truth with so much preface that it loses itself.
Thus he lives till his tomb be made ready, and is then a grave statue to


[96] The person who exhibits Westminster abbey.



Is the most impotent man, though neither blind nor lame, as wanting the
more necessary limbs of life, without which limbs are a burden. A man
unfenced and unsheltered from the gusts of the world, which blow all in
upon him, like an unroofed house; and the bitterest thing he suffers is
his neighbours. All men put on to him a kind of churlisher fashion, and
even more plausible natures are churlish to him, as who are nothing
advantaged by his opinion. Whom men fall out with before-hand to prevent
friendship, and his friends too to prevent engagements, or if they own him
'tis in private and a by-room, and on condition not to know them before
company. All vice put together is not half so scandalous, nor sets off our
acquaintance farther; and even those that are not friends for ends do not
love any dearness with such men. The least courtesies are upbraided to
him, and himself thanked for none, but his best services suspected as
handsome sharking and tricks to get money. And we shall observe it in
knaves themselves, that your beggarliest knaves are the greatest, or
thought so at least, for those that have wit to thrive by it have art not
to seem so. Now a poor man has not vizard enough to mask his vices, nor
ornament enough to set forth his virtues, but both are naked and
unhandsome; and though no man is necessitated to more ill, yet no man's
ill is less excused, but it is thought a kind of impudence in him to be
vicious, and a presumption above his fortune. His good parts lye dead upon
his hands, for want of matter to employ them, and at the best are not
commended but pitied, as virtues ill placed, and we may say of him, "Tis
an honest man, but tis pity;" and yet those that call him so will trust a
knave before him. He is a man that has the truest speculation of the
world, because all men shew to him in their plainest and worst, as a man
they have no plot on, by appearing good to; whereas rich men are
entertained with a more holy-day behaviour, and see only the best we can
dissemble. He is the only he that tries the true strength of wisdom, what
it can do of itself without the help of fortune; that with a great deal of
virtue conquers extremities, and with a great deal more his own
impatience, and obtains of himself not to hate men.



Is one whom it concerns to be called honest, for if he were not this, he
were nothing: and yet he is not this neither, but a good dull vicious
fellow, that complies well with the deboshments[97] of the time, and is
fit for it. One that has no good part in him to offend his company, or
make him to be suspected a proud fellow; but is sociably a dunce, and
sociably a drinker. That does it fair and above-board without legermain,
and neither sharks[98] for a cup or a reckoning: that is kind over his
beer, and protests he loves you, and begins to you again, and loves you
again. One that quarrels with no man, but for not pledging him, but takes
all absurdities and commits as many, and is no tell-tale next morning,
though he remember it. One that will fight for his friend if he hear him
abused, and his friend commonly is he that is most likely, and he lifts up
many a jug in his defence. He rails against none but censurers, against
whom he thinks he rails lawfully, and censurers are all those that are
better than himself. These good properties qualify him for honesty enough,
and raise him high in the ale-house commendation, who, if he had any other
good quality, would be named by that. But now for refuge he is an honest
man, and hereafter a sot: only those that commend him think him not so,
and those that commend him are honest fellows.


[97] Minshew interprets the verb _deboshe_, "to corrupt, make lewde,
vitiate." When the word was first adopted from the French language, (says
Mr. Steevens, in a note to the _Tempest_,) it appears to have been spelt
according to the pronunciation, and therefore wrongly; but ever since it
has been spelt right, it has been uttered with equal impropriety.

[98] The verb _to shark_ is frequently used, by old writers, for to
_pilfer_, and, as in the present instance, to _spunge_.



Is one that watches himself a mischief, and keeps a lear eye still, for
fear it should escape him. A man that sees a great deal more in every
thing than is to be seen, and yet he thinks he sees nothing: his own eye
stands in his light. He is a fellow commonly guilty of some weaknesses,
which he might conceal if he were careless:--now his over-diligence to
hide them makes men pry the more. Howsoever he imagines you have found
him, and it shall go hard but you must abuse him whether you will or no.
Not a word can be spoke, but nips him somewhere; not a jest thrown out,
but he will make it hit him. You shall have him go fretting out of
company, with some twenty quarrels to every man, stung and galled, and no
man knows less the occasion than they that have given it. To laugh before
him is a dangerous matter, for it cannot be at any thing but at him, and
to whisper in his company plain conspiracy. He bids you speak out, and he
will answer you, when you thought not of him. He expostulates with you in
passion, why you should abuse him, and explains to your ignorance wherein,
and gives you very good reason at last to laugh at him hereafter. He is
one still accusing others when they are not guilty, and defending himself
when he is not accused: and no man is undone more with apologies, wherein
he is so elaborately excessive, that none will believe him; and he is
never thought worse of, than when he has given satisfaction. Such men can
never have friends, because they cannot trust so far; and this humour hath
this infection with it, it makes all men to them suspicious. In
conclusion, they are men always in offence and vexation with themselves
and their neighbours, wronging others in thinking they would wrong them,
and themselves most of all in thinking they deserve it.



No. I.


All the biographical writers who have taken notice of JOHN EARLE agree in
stating, that he was born in the city of York, although not one of them
has given the exact date of his birth, or any intelligence relative to his
family, or the rank in life of his parents. It is, however, most
probable, that they were persons of respectability and fortune, as he was
sent, at an early age, to Oxford, and entered as a commoner of
Christ-church college[AY], where his conduct was so exemplary, his
attention to his studies so marked, and his general deportment and manners
so pleasing, that he became a successful candidate at Merton-college, and
was admitted a probationary fellow on that foundation in 1620, being then,
according to Wood[AZ], about nineteen years of age. He took the degree of
Master of Arts, July 10, 1624, and in 1631 served the office of Proctor of
the university, about which time he was also appointed chaplain to Philip
Earl of Pembroke, then Chancellor of Oxford.

During the earlier part of our author's life, he appears to have possessed
considerable reputation as a poet, and to have been as remarkable for the
pleasantry of his conversation, as for his learning, virtues, and piety.
Wood[BA] tells us that "his younger years were adorned with oratory,
poetry, and witty fancies, his elder with quaint preaching and subtile
disputes." The only specimens of his poetry which can be recovered at this
time, are three funeral tributes, which will be found in the Appendix, and
of which two are now printed, I believe, for the first time.

Soon after his appointment to be Lord Pembroke's chaplain, he was
presented by that nobleman to the rectory of Bishopstone, in Wiltshire;
nor was this the only advantage he reaped from the friendship of his
patron, who being at that time Lord Chamberlain of the King's
household[BB], was entitled to a lodging in the court for his chaplain, a
circumstance which in all probability introduced Mr. Earle to the notice
of the King, who promoted him to be chaplain and tutor to Prince Charles,
when Dr. Duppa, who had previously discharged that important trust, was
raised to the bishopric of Salisbury.

In 1642 Earle took his degree of Doctor in Divinity, and in the year
following was actually elected one of the Assembly of Divines appointed by
the parliament to new model the church. This office, although it may be
considered a proof of the high opinion even those of different sentiments
from himself entertained of his character and merit, he refused to accept,
when he saw that there was no probability of assisting the cause of
religion, or of restraining the violence of a misguided faction, by an
interference among those who were "declared and avowed enemies to the
doctrine and discipline of the Church of England; some of them infamous in
their lives and conversations, and most of them of very mean parts in
learning, if not of scandalous ignorance[BC]."

On the 10th of February, 1643, Dr. Earle was elected chancellor of the
cathedral of Salisbury[BD], of which situation, as well as his living of
Bishopstone, he was shortly after deprived by the ill success of the royal

When the defeat of the King's forces at Worcester compelled Charles the
Second to fly his country, Earle attached himself to the fallen fortunes
of his sovereign, and was among the first of those who saluted him upon
his arrival at Rouen in Normandy, where he was made clerk of the closet,
and King's chaplain[BF]. Nor was his affection to the family of the
Stuarts, and his devotion to their cause evinced by personal services
only, as we find by a letter from Lord Clarendon to Dr. Barwick, that he
assisted the King with money in his necessities[BG].

During the time that Charles was in Scotland, Dr. Earle resided in
Antwerp, with his friend Dr. Morley[BH], from whence he was called upon to
attend the Duke of York (afterwards James II.) at Paris[BI], in order that
he might heal some of the breaches which were then existing between
certain members of the duke's household[BJ]; and here it is probable he
remained till the recal of Charles the Second to the throne of England.

Upon the Restoration, Dr. Earle received the reward of his constancy and
loyalty, he was immediately promoted to the deanery of Westminster, a
situation long designed for him by the King[BK]. In 1661 he was appointed
one of the commissioners for a review of the Liturgy[BL], and on November
30, 1662, was consecrated Bishop of Worcester, from which see he was
translated, September 28, 1663, to the dignity of Salisbury[BM].

Little more remains to be added.--Bishop Earle appears to have continued
his residence with the royal family after the acquisition of his
well-deserved honours; and when the court retired to Oxford, during the
plague in 1665, he attended their majesties to the place of his early
education, and died at his apartments in University College, on the 17th
of November. He was buried on the 25th, near the high altar, in Merton
College chapel; and was, according to Wood, "accompanied to his grave,
from the public schools, by an herald at arms, and the principal persons
of the court and university." His monument, which stands at the
north-east corner of the chapel, is still in excellent preservation, and
possesses the following inscription:--

              "Amice, si quis hic sepultus est roges,
    Ille, qui nec meruit, unquá--Nec quod majus est, habuit
          Qui potuit in aulâ vivere, et mundum spernere
              Concionator educatus inter principes,
            Et ipse facile princeps inter concionatores,
      Evangelista indefessus, Episcopus pientissimus;
              Ille qui una cum sacratissimo Rege,
    Cujus & juvenilium studiorum, et animæ Deo charæ
      Curam a beatissimo Patre demandatam gessit,
        Nobile ac Religiosum exilium est passus;
      Ille qui Hookeri ingentis Politiam Ecclesiasticam,
    Ille qui Caroli Martyris [Greek: EIKO'NA BASILIKÊ'N],
          (Volumen quò post Apocalypsin divinius nullum)
                    Legavit Orbi sic Latinè redditas,
                    Ut uterque unius Fidei Defensor,
                  Patriam adhuc retineat majestatem.
            Si nomen ejus necdum tibi suboleat, Lector,
                  Nomen ejus ut unguenta pretiosa:
                  JOHANNES EARLE Eboracensis,
            Serenissimo Carolo 2^{do} Regij Oratorij Clericus,
              {aliquando Westmonasteriensi, Decanus,
    Ecclesiæ {deinde Wigorniensis}
              {tandem Sarisburiensis} Angelus.
              {et nunc triumphantis}
      Obiit Oxonij Novemb. 17^o. Anno {D[=o]ni: 1665^{to}.
                                      {Ætatis suæ 65^{to}.
        Voluitq. in hoc, ubi olim floruerat, Collegio,
          Ex Æde Christi hue in Socium ascitus,
          Ver magnum, ut reflorescat, expectare."


[AX] The following brief memoir pretends to be nothing more than an
enumeration of such particulars relative to the excellent prelate, whose
_Characters_ are here offered to the public, as could be gathered from the
historical and biographical productions of the period in which he
flourished. It is hoped that no material occurrence has been overlooked,
or circumstance mis-stated; but should any errors appear to have escaped
his observation, the editor will feel obliged by the friendly intimation
of such persons as may be possessed of more copious information than he
has been able to obtain, in order that they may be acknowledged and
corrected in another place.

[AY] He took the degree of Bachelor of Arts whilst a member of this
society, July 8, 1619, and appears to have been always attached to it. In
1660 he gave twenty pounds towards repairing the cathedral and college.

_Wood. Hist. et Antiq. Univ. Oxon._ lib. ii. p. 284.

[AZ] _Athenæ Oxon._ ii. 365.

[BA] _Athenæ Oxon._ ii. 365.

[BB] Collins' _Peerage_, iii. 123.

[BC] Clarendon. _History of the Rebellion_, ii. 827. Edit. _Oxford_, 1807.

[BD] Walker. _Sufferings of the Clergy_, fol. 1714, part ii. page 63.

[BE] During the early part of the civil wars, and whilst success was
doubtful on either side, he appears to have lived in retirement, and to
have employed himself in a translation of Hooker's _Ecclesiastical Polity_
into Latin, which, however, was never made public. At the appearance of
Charles the First's [Greek: Eikôn Basilikê], he was desired by the king
(Ch. II.) to execute the same task upon that production, which he
performed with great ability. It was printed for distribution on the
continent in 1649.

[BF] Wood. _Ath. Oxon._ ii. 365.

[BG] _Life of Dr. John Barwick_, 8vo. Lond. 1724. p. 522.

[BH] Dr. George Morley was chaplain to Charles the First, and canon of
Christ Church, Oxford. At the Restoration he was made, first dean of
Christ Church, then bishop of Worcester, and lastly bishop of Winchester,
He died at Farnham-castle, October 29, 1684. See Wood. _Athen. Oxon._ ii.

[BI] Wood. _Athenæ_, ii. 770.

[BJ] Clarendon's _Rebellion_, iii. 659.

[BK] _Life of Barwick_, 452.

[BL] Kennet's _Register_, folio, 1728, page 504.

[BM] Wood. _Athenæ_, ii. 366.

No. II.


----"He was a person very notable for his elegance in the Greek and Latin
tongues; and being fellow of Merton college in Oxford, and having been
proctor of the university, and some very witty and sharp discourses being
published in print without his consent, though known to be his, he grew
suddenly into a very general esteem with all men; being a man of great
piety and devotion; a most eloquent and powerful preacher; and of a
conversation so pleasant and delightful, so very innocent, and so very
facetious, that no man's company was more desired, and more loved. No man
was more negligent in his dress, and habit, and mein; no man more wary and
cultivated in his behaviour and discourse; insomuch as he had the greater
advantage when he was known, by promising so little before he was known.
He was an excellent poet both in Latin, Greek, and English, as appears by
many pieces yet abroad; though he suppressed many more himself, especially
of English, incomparably good, out of an austerity to those sallies of his
youth. He was very dear to the Lord Falkland, with whom he spent as much
time as he could make his own; and as that lord would impute the speedy
progress he made in the Greek tongue to the information and assistance he
had from Mr. Earles, so Mr. Earles would frequently profess that he had
got more useful learning by his conversation at Tew (the Lord Falkland's
house,) than he had at Oxford. In the first settling of the prince his
family, he was made one of his chaplains, and attended on him when he was
forced to leave the kingdom. He was amongst the few excellent men who
never had, nor ever could have, an enemy, but such a one who was an enemy
to all learning and virtue, and therefore would never make himself known."

LORD CLARENDON. _Account of his own Life_, folio, Oxford, 1759, p. 26.

       *       *       *       *       *

----"This is that Dr. Earle, who from his youth (I had almost said from
his childhood,) for his natural and acquired abilities was so very eminent
in the university of Oxon; and after was chosen to be one of the first
chaplains to his Majesty (when Prince of Wales): who knew not how to
desert his master, but with duty and loyalty (suitable to the rest of his
many great virtues, both moral and intellectual,) faithfully attended his
Majesty both at home and abroad, as chaplain, and clerk of his majesty's
closet, and upon his majesty's happy return, was made Dean of Westminster,
and now Lord Bishop of Worcester, (for which, December 7, he did homage to
his Majesty,) having this high and rare felicity by his excellent and
spotless conversation, to have lived so many years in the court of
England, so near his Majesty, and yet not given the least offence to any
man alive; though both in and out of pulpit he used all Christian freedom
against the vanities of this age, being honoured and admired by all who
have either known, heard, or read him."

WHITE KENNETT (Bishop of Peterborough) _Register and Chronicle
Ecclesiastical and Civil_, folio, London, 1728, page 834.

       *       *       *       *       *

----"Dr. Earle, now Lord Bishop of Salisbury, of whom I may justly say,
(and let it not offend him, because it is such a truth as ought not to be
concealed from posterity, or those that now live and yet know him not,)
that, since Mr. Hooker died, none have lived whom God hath blessed with
more innocent wisdom, more sanctified learning, or a more pious,
peaceable, primitive temper: so that this excellent person seems to be
only like himself, and our venerable Richard Hooker."

WALTON. _Life of Mr. Richard Hooker_, 8vo. Oxford, 1805, i. 327.

       *       *       *       *       *

----"This Dr. Earles, lately Lord Bishop of Salisbury.--A person certainly
of the sweetest, most obliging nature that lived in our age."

HUGH CRESSEY. _Epistle Apologetical to a Person of Honour_ (Lord
Clarendon), 8vo. 1674, page 46.

       *       *       *       *       *

----"Dr. Earle, Bishop of Salisbury, was a man that could do good against
evil; forgive much, and of a charitable heart."

PIERCE. _Conformist's Plea for Nonconformity_, 4to. 1681, page 174.

No. III.


1. _Microcosmography, or a Piece of the World discovered, in Essays and
Characters. London._ 1628. &c. &c. 12mo.

2. _Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity_, translated into Latin. This, says
Wood, "is in MS. and not yet printed." In whose possession the MS. was
does not appear, nor have I been able to trace it in the catalogue of any
public or private collection.

3. _Hortus Mertonensis_, a Latin Poem, of which Wood gives the first line
"Hortus deliciæ domus politæ." It is now supposed to be lost.

4. _Lines on the Death of Sir John Burroughs_; now printed for the first
time. See Appendix, No. IV.

5. _Lines on the Death of the Earl of Pembroke_; now printed for the first
time. See Appendix, No. V.

6. _Elegy upon Francis Beaumont_; first printed at the end of _Beaumont's
Poems, London_, 1640. 4to. See Appendix, No. VI.

7. [Greek: Eikôn Basilikê], _vel Imago Regis Caroli_, _In illis suis
Ærumnis et Solitudine. Hagæ-Comitis._ Typis S. B. &c. 1649. 12mo. See
Appendix, No. VII.[BN]


[BN] Besides the pieces above noticed, several smaller poems were
undoubtedly in circulation during Earle's life, the titles of which are
not preserved. Wood supposes (_Ath. Oxon._) our author to have contributed
to "_some of the Figures, of which about ten were published_" but is
ignorant of the exact numbers to be attributed to his pen. In the
Bodleian[BO] is "_The Figvre of Fovre: Wherein are sweet flowers, gathered
out of that fruitfull ground, that I hope will yeeld pleasure and profit
to all sorts of people. The second Part, London, Printed for Iohn Wright,
and are to bee sold at his shop without Newgate, at the signe of the
Bible, 1636._" This, however, was undoubtedly one of Breton's productions,
as his initials are affixed to the preface. It is in 12mo. and consists of
twenty pages, not numbered. The following extracts will be sufficient to
shew the nature of the volume.

"There are foure persons not to be believed: a horse-courser when he
sweares, a whore when shee weepes, a lawyer when he pleads false, and a
traveller when he tels wonders.

"There are foure great cyphers in the world: hee that is lame among
dancers, dumbe among lawyers, dull among schollers and rude amongst

"Foure things grievously empty: a head without braines, a wit without
judgment, a heart without honesty, and a purse without money."

Ant. Wood possessed the _figure of six_, which, however, is now not to be
found among his books left to the university of Oxford, and deposited in
Ashmole's museum. That it once was there, is evident from the MS.
catalogue of that curious collection.

[BO] 8vo. L. 78. Art.

No. IV.



[_From a MS. in the Bodleian_.]--(_Rawl. Poet_. 142.)

    Why did we thus expose thee? what's now all
    That island to requite thy funeral?
    Though thousand French in murder'd heaps do lie,
    It may revenge, it cannot satisfy:
    We must bewail our conquest when we see
    Our price too dear to buy a victory.
    He whose brave fire gave heat to all the rest,
    That dealt his spirit in t' each English breast,
    From whose divided virtues you may take
    So many captains out, and fully make
    Them each accomplish'd with those parts, the which,
    Jointly, did his well-furnish'd soul enrich.
    Not rashly valiant, nor yet fearful wise,
    His flame had counsel, and his fury, eyes.
    Not struck in courage at the drum's proud beat,
    Or made fierce only by the trumpet's heat--
    When e'en pale hearts above their pitch do fly,
    And, for a while do mad it valiantly.
    His rage was tempered well, no fear could daunt
    His reason, his cold blood was valiant.
    Alas! these vulgar praises injure thee;
    Which now a poet would as plenteously
    Give some brag-soldier, one that knew no more
    Than the fine scabbard and the scarf he wore.
    Fathers shall tell their children [this] was he,
    (And they hereafter to posterity,)
    Rank'd with those forces scourged France of old,
    Burrough's and Talbot's[BQ] names together told.



[BP] For an account of the unsuccessful expedition to the Isle of Ré,
under the command of the Duke of Buckingham, see Carte's _History of
England_, vol. iv. page 176, folio, _Lond_. 1755. Sir John Burroughs, a
general of considerable renown, who possessed the chief confidence of the
Duke, fell in an endeavour to reconnoitre the works of the enemy, Aug.

[BQ] Sir John Talbot, first earl of Shrewsbury, of whom see Collins'
_Peerage_, iii. 9. Holinshed, Rapin, Carte, &c.

No. V.


[_From the same MS._]

    Come, Pembroke lives! Oh! do not fright our ears
    With the destroying truth! first raise our fears
    And say he is not well: that will suffice
    To force a river from the public eyes,
    Or, if he must be dead, oh! let the news
    Speak in astonish'd whispers: let it use
    Some phrase without a voice, and be so told,
    As if the labouring sense griev'd to unfold
    Its doubtfull woe. Could not the public zeal
    Conquer the Fates, and save your's? Did the dart
    Of death, without a preface, pierce your heart?
    Welcome, sad weeds--but he that mourns for thee,
    Must bring an eye that can weep elegy.
    A look that would save blacks: whose heavy grace
    Chides mirth, and bears a funeral in his face.
    Whose sighs are with such feeling sorrows blown,
    That all the air he draws returns a groan.
    Thou needst no gilded tomb--thy memory,
    Is marble to itself--the bravery
    Of jem or rich enamel is mis-spent--
    Thy noble corpse is its own monument!

Mr. EARLES, Merton.


[BR] William, third Earl of Pembroke, son of Henry, Earl of Pembroke, and
Mary, sister to Sir Philip Sidney, was the elder brother of Earle's
patron, and Chancellor of Oxford. He died at Baynard's castle, April 10,

No. VI.



[_From "Comedies and Tragedies written by Francis Beaumont and John
Fletcher, Gentlemen" folio. London. 1647._]

    Beaumont lies here: And where now shall we have
    A muse like his to sigh upon his grave?
    Ah! none to weep this with a worthy tear,
    But he that cannot, _Beaumont_ that lies here.
    Who now shall pay thy tomb with such a verse
    As thou that lady's didst, fair _Rutland's_ herse.
    A monument that will then lasting be,
    When all her marble is more dust than she.
    In thee all's lost: a sudden dearth and want
    Hath seiz'd on wit, good epitaphs are scant.
    We dare not write thy elegy, whilst each fears
    He ne'er shall match that copy of thy tears.
    Scarce in an age a poet, and yet he
    Scarce live the third part of his age to see,
    But quickly taken off and only known,
    Is in a minute shut as soon as shown.
    Why should weak Nature tire herself in vain
    In such a piece, to dash it straight again?
    Why should she take such work beyond her skill,
    Which, when she cannot perfect, she must kill?
    Alas! what is't to temper slime and mire?
    But Nature's puzzled when she works in fire.
    Great brains (like brightest glass) crack straight, while those
    Of stone or wood hold out, and fear not blows;
    And we their ancient hoary heads can see
    Whose wit was never their mortality.
    _Beaumont_ dies young, so _Sidney_ did before,
    There was not poetry he could live to more,
    He could not grow up higher, I scarce know
    If th' art itself unto that pitch could grow,
    Were't not in thee that hadst arriv'd the height
    Of all that wit could reach, or nature might.
    O when I read those excellent things of thine,
    Such strength, such sweetness couched in ev'ry line,
    Such life of fancy, such high choice of brain,
    Nought of the vulgar wit or borrow'd strain,
    Such passion, such expressions meet my eye,
    Such wit untainted with obscenity,
    And these so unaffectedly exprest,
    All in a language purely flowing drest,
    And all so born within thyself, thine own,
    So new, so fresh, so nothing trod upon:
    I grieve not now that old _Menander's_ vein
    Is ruin'd to survive in thee again;
    Such, in his time, was he of the same piece,
    The smooth, even, nat'ral wit and love of Greece.
    Those few sententious fragments shew more worth,
    Than all the poets Athens e'er brought forth;
    And I am sorry we have lost those hours
    On them, whose quickness comes far short of ours,
    And dwell not more on thee, whose ev'ry page
    May be a pattern for their scene and stage.
    I will not yield thy works so mean a praise;
    More pure, more chaste, more sainted than are plays:
    Nor with that dull supineness to be read,
    To pass a fire, or laugh an hour in bed.
    How do the Muses suffer every where,
    Taken in such mouth's censure, in such ears,
    That 'twixt a whiff, a line or two rehearse,
    And with their rheume together spaul a verse?
    This all a poem's leisure after play,
    Drink, or tobacco, it may keep the day:
    Whilst ev'n their very idleness they think
    Is lost in these, that lose their time in drink.
    Pity then dull we, we that better know,
    Will a more serious hour on thee bestow.
    Why should not _Beaumont_ in the morning please,
    As well as _Plautus_, _Aristophanes_?
    Who, if my pen may as my thoughts be free,
    Were scurril wits and buffoons both to thee;
    Yet these our learned of severest brow
    Will deign to look on, and to note them too,
    That will defy our own, 'tis English stuff,
    And th' author is not rotten long enough,
    Alas! what phlegm are they compar'd to thee,
    In thy _Philaster_, and _Maid's-Tragedy_?
    Where's such a humour as thy _Bessus_? pray
    Let them put all their _Thrasoes_ in one play,
    He shall out-bid them; their conceit was poor,
    All in a circle of a bawd or whore;
    A coz'ning dance; take the fool away
    And not a good jest extant in a play.
    Yet these are wits, because they'r old, and now
    Being Greek and Latin, they are learning too:
    But those their own times were content t'allow
    A thirsty fame, and thine is lowest now.
    But thou shalt live, and, when thy name is grown
    Six ages older, shall be better known,
    When th' art of _Chaucer's_ standing in the tomb,
    Thou shalt not share, but take up all his room.


No. VII.



[Greek: Eikôn Basilikê].

"Serenissimo et Potentissimo Monarchæ, Carolo Secundo. Dei Gratia Magnæ
Britanniæ, Franciæ et Hiberniæ Regi, Fidei Defensori, &c.

Serenissime Rex,

Prodeat jam sub tuis auspiciis illa patris tui gloriosissimi imago, illa
quâ magis ad Dei similitudinem, quàm quà Rex aut homo accedit. Prodeat
vero eo colore peregrino, quo facta omnibus conspectior fiat publica. Ita
enim tu voluisti, ut sic lingua omnium communi orbi traderem, in qua
utinam feliciorem tibi operam navare licuisset, ut illam nativam
elegantiam, illam vim verborum et lumina, illam admirabilem sermonis
structuram exprimerem. Quod cum fieri (fortasse nec a peritissimis) à me
certè non possit, præstat interim ut cum aliqua venustatis injuria magnam
partem Europæ alloquatur, quam intra paucos suæ gentis clausa apud cæteros
omnes conticescat. Sunt enim hic velut quædam Dei magnalia quæ spargi
expedit humano generi, et in omnium linguis exaudiri: id pro mea facultate
curavi, ut si non sensa tanti authoris ornatè, at perspicuè et fidè
traderem, imo nec ab ipsa dictione et phrasi (quantum Latini idiomatis
ratio permittit) vel minimum recederem. Sacri enim codicis religiosum esse
decet interpretem: et certe proxime ab illo sacro et adorando codice, (qui
in has comparationes non cadit,) spera non me audacem futurum, si dixero
nullum inter cæteros mortalium, vel autore vel argumento illustriorem, vel
in quo viva magis pietas et eximie Christiana spiratur.

Habet vero sanctitas regia nescio quid ex fortunæ suæ majestate sublimius
quiddain et augustius, et quæ imperium magis obtinet in mentes hominum, et
reverentia majore accipitur: quare et his maxime instrumentis usus est
Deus, qui illam partem sacræ paginæ ad solennem Dei cultum pertinentem,
psalmos scilicet, et hymnos: cæteraque ejusmodi perpetuis ecclesiæ usibus
inservitura, transmitterent hominibus, et auctoritatem quandam
conciliarent. Quid quod libentius etiam arripiunt homines sic objectam et
traditam pietatem. Quod et libro huic evenit, et erit magis eventurum, quo
jam multo diffusior plures sui capaces invenerit.

Magnum erat profecto sic meditari, sic scribere; multo majus sic vivere,
sic mori: ut sit hæc pene nimia dictu pietas exemplo illius superata. Scit
hæc illa orbis pars miserrima jam et contaminatissima. Utinam hanc
maturius intellexissent virtutem, quam jam sero laudant, et admirantur
amissam, nec illâ opus fuisset dirâ fornace, quâ tam eximia regis pietas
exploraretur, ex qua nos tantum miseri facti sumus, ille omnium
felicissimus; cujus illa pars vitæ novissima et ærumnosissima et supremus
dies, (in quo hominibus, et angelis spectaculum factus stetit animo
excelso et interrito, summum fidei, constantiæ, patientiæ exemplar,
superior malis suis, et totâ simul conjestâ inferni malitiâ) omnes omnium
triumphos et quicquid est humanæ gloriæ, susuperavit. Nihil egistis O
quot estis, hominum! (sed nolo libro sanctissimo quicquam tetrius præfari,
nec qaos ille inter preces nominat, maledicere) nihil, inquam, egistis hoc
parricidio, nisi quod famam illius et immortalitatem cum æterno vestro
probro et scelere conjunxistis. Nemo unquam ab orbe condito tot veris
omnium lacrymis, tot sinceris laudibus celebratus est. Nulli unquam
principum in secundis agenti illos fictos plausus vel metus dedit, vel
adulatio vendidit, quàm hic verissimos expressere fuga, carcer, theatrum
et illa omnium funestissima securis, qua obstupe, fecit hostes moriens et
cæsus triumphavit.

Tu interim (Rex augustissime) vera et viva patris effigies, (cujus inter
summas erat felicitates humanas, et in adversis solatium te genuisse, in
quo superstite mori non potest) inflammeris maxime hoc mortis illius
exemplo, non tam in vindictæ cupidinem, (in quem alii te extimulent, non
ego) quam in heroicæ virtutis, et constantiæ zelum: hanc vero primum adeas
quam nulla vis tibi invito eripiet, hæreditariam pietatem; et quo es in
tuos omnes affectu maxime philostorgo, hunc librum eodem tecum genitore
satum amplectere; dic sapientiæ, soror mea es, et prudentiam affinem voca;
hanc tu consule, hanc frequens meditare, hanc imbibe penitus, et in animam
tuam transfunde. Vides in te omnium conjectos oculos, in te omnium bonorum
spes sitas, ex te omnium vitas pendere, quas jamdiu multi tædio
projecissent, nisi ut essent quas tibi impenderent. Magnum onus incumbit,
magna urget procella, magna expectatio, major omnium, quam quæ unquam
superius, virtutum necessitas: an sit regnum amplius in Britannia futurum,
an religio, an homines, an Deus, ex tua virtute, tua fortuna dependet:
immo, sola potius ex Deo fortuna; cujus opem quo magis hic necessariam
agnoscis, præsentaneam requiris, eo magis magisque, (quod jam facis) omni
pietatis officio promerearis: et illa quæ in te largè sparsit bonitatis,
prudentiæ, temperantiæ, justitiæ, et omnis regiæ virtutis semina foveas,
augeas, et in fructum matures, ut tibi Deus placatus et propitius, quod
detraxit patri tuo felicitatis humanæ, tibi adjiciat, et omnes illius
ærumnas conduplicatis in te beneficiis compenset, et appelleris ille
restaurator, quem te unicé optant omnes et sperant futurum, et
ardentissimis precibus expetit.

Majestatis tuæ humillimus devotissimusque subditus et sacellanus,




[_Written by Dr. Earle, then Dean of Westminster._]

    Depositum Mortale
    Petri Heylyn, S. Th. D.
    Hujus Ecclesiæ Prebendarii et Subdecani,
    Viri plane memorabilis,
    Egregiis dotibus instructissimi,
    Ingenio acri et foecundo,
    Judicio subacto,
    Memoria ad prodigium tenaci,
    Cui adjunxit incredibilem in studiis patientiam
    Quæ cessantibus oculis non cessarunt.
    Scripsit varia et plurima,
    Quæ jam manibus hominum teruntur;
    Et argumentis non vulgaribus
    Stylo non vulgari suffecit.
    Et Majestatis Regiæ assertor
    Nec florentis magis utriusque
    Quàm afflictæ,
    Idemque perduellium et scismaticæ factionis
    Impugnator acerrimus.
    Contemptor invidiæ
    Et animo infracto
    Plura ejusmodi meditanti
    Mors indixit silentium:
    Ut sileatur
    Efficere non potest.
    Obiit Anno Ætatis 63, et 8 die Maii, A. D. 1662.
    Possuit hoc illi mæstissima conjux.


[BS] Peter Heylin was born at Burford, in Oxfordshire, Nov. 29, 1599 and
received the rudiments of his education at the free school in that place,
from whence he removed to Harthall, and afterwards obtained a fellowship
at Magdalen College, Oxford. By the interposition of Bishop Laud, to whom
he was recommended by Lord Danvers, he was presented first to the rectory
of Hemingford, in Huntingdonshire, then to a prebend of Westminster, and
lastly to the rectory of Houghton in the Spring, in the diocese of Durham,
which latter he exchanged for Alresford, in Hampshire. In 1633 he
proceeded D. D. and in 1638, became rector of South Warnborough,
Hampshire, by exchange with Mr. Atkinson, of St. John's College, for
Islip, in Oxfordshire. In 1640 he was chosen clerk of the convocation for
Westminster, and in 1642 followed the king to Oxford. After the death of
Charles, he lost all his property, and removing with his family from place
to place, subsisted by the exercise of his pen till the Restoration, when
he regained his livings, and was made sub-dean of Westminster. His
constancy and exertions were supposed by many to merit a higher reward,
from a government, in whose defence he had sacrificed every prospect; but
the warmth of his temper, and his violence in dispute, were such as
rendered his promotion to a higher dignity in the church impolitic in the
opinion of the ministers. He died May 8, 1662, and was interred in
Westminster-abbey, under his own stall. A list of his numerous
publications, as well as a character of him, may be found in Wood's
_Athenæ Oxonienses_, ii. 275.

No. IX.


[_See Kennet's Register, folio, Lond. 1723, page 713._]

                   MR. BAXTER TO DR. EARLE.


    "By the great favour of my lord chancellor's
    reprehension, I came to understand how long a time I
    have suffered in my reputation with my superiors by your
    misunderstanding me, and misinforming others; as if when
    I was to preach before the king, I had scornfully
    refused the tippet as a toy; when, as the Searcher and
    Judge of Hearts doth know, that I had no such thought or
    word. I was so ignorant in those matters as to think
    that a tippet had been a proper ensign of a doctor of
    divinity, and I verily thought that you offered it me as
    such: and I had so much pride as to be somewhat ashamed
    when you offered it me, that I must tell you my want of
    such degrees; and therefore gave you no answer to your
    first offer, but to your second was forced to say, "It
    belongeth not to me, Sir." And I said not to you any
    more; nor had any other thought in my heart than with
    some shame to tell you that I had no degrees, imagining
    I should have offended others, and made myself the
    laughter or scorn of many, if I should have used that
    which did not belong to me. For I must profess that I
    had no more scruple to wear a tippet than a gown, or any
    comely garment. Sir, though this be one of the smallest
    of all the mistakes which of late have turned to my
    wrong, and I must confess that my ignorance gave you the
    occasion, and I am far from imputing it to any ill will
    in you, having frequently heard, that in charity, and
    gentleness, and peaceableness of mind you are very
    eminent; yet because I must not contemn my estimation
    with my superiors, I humbly crave that favour and
    justice of you, (which I am confident you will readily
    grant me,) as to acquaint those with the truth of this
    business, whom, upon mistake, you have misinformed,
    whereby in relieving the innocence of your brother, you
    will do a work of charity and justice, and therefore not
    displeasing unto God, and will much oblige,

                               Your humble servant,
                                              RICHARD BAXTER.
  _June 20, 1662._

    _P. S._ I have the more need of your justice in this
    case, because my distance denieth me access to those
    that have received these misreports, and because any
    public vindication of myself, whatever is said of me, is
    taken as an unsufferable crime, and therefore I am
    utterly incapable of vindicating my innocency, or
    remedying their mistakes.

    "To the reverend and much honoured Dr. Earles,
     Dean of Westminster, &c. These."


                               _Hampton-Court, June 23._


    [Sidenote: O that they were all such.--_Note by Mr.

    "I received your letter, which I would have answered
    sooner, if the messenger that brought it had returned. I
    must confess I was a little surprized with the beginning
    of it, as I was with your name; but when I read further
    I ceased to be so. Sir, I should be heartily sorry and
    ashamed to be guilty of any thing like malignity or
    uncharitableness, especially to one of your condition,
    with whom, though I concur not perhaps in point of
    judgment in some particulars, yet I cannot but esteem
    for your personal worth and abilities; and, indeed, your
    expressions in your letter are so civil and ingenuous,
    that I am obliged thereby the more to give you all the
    satisfaction I can.

    [Sidenote: These words I heard not, being in the passage
    from him.--_Note by Mr. Baxter._]

    As I remember, then, when you came to me to the closet,
    and I told you I would furnish you with a tippet, you
    answered me something to that purpose as you write, but
    whether the same numerical words, or but once, I cannot
    possibly say from my own memory, and therefore I believe
    yours. Only this I am sure of, that I said to you at my
    second speaking, that some others of your persuasion had
    not scrupled at it, which might suppose (if you had not
    affirmed the contrary), that you had made me a formal
    refusal; of which giving me then no other reason than
    that "it belonged not to you," I concluded that you were
    more scrupulous than others were. And, perhaps, the
    manner of your refusing it (as it appeared to me) might
    make me think you were not very well pleased with the
    motion. And this it is likely I might say, either to my
    lord chancellor or others; though seriously I do not
    remember that I spake to my lord chancellor at all
    concerning it. But, sir, since you give me now that
    modest reason for it, (which, by the way, is no just
    reason in itself, for a tippet may be worn without a
    degree, though a hood cannot; and it is no shame at all
    to want these formalities for him that wanteth not the
    substance,) but, sir, I say, since you give that reason
    for your refusal, I believe you, and shall correct that
    mistake in myself, and endeavour to rectify it in
    others, if any, upon this occasion, have misunderstood
    you. In the mean time I shall desire your charitable
    opinion of myself, which I shall be willing to deserve
    upon any opportunity that is offered me to do you
    service, being, sir,

                Your very humble servant,

                                              JO. EARLES."

    "To my honoured friend, Mr. Richard Baxter, These."

No. X.



[From Le Neve's _Monumenta Anglicana_[BT]. 8vo. Lond. 1718. vol. iii. p.

    Stay, reader, and observe Death's partial doom,
    A spreading virtue in a narrow tombe;
    A generous mind, mingled with common dust,
    Like burnish'd steel, cover'd, and left to rust.
    Dark in the earth he lyes, in whom did shine
    All the divided merits of his line.
    The lustre of his name seems faded here,
    No fairer star in all that fruitful sphere.
    In piety and parts extreamly bright,
    Clear was his youth, and fill'd with growing light,
    A morn that promis'd much, yet saw no noon;
    None ever rose so fast, and set so soon.
    All lines of worth were centered here in one,
    Yet see, he lies in shades whose life had none.
    But while the mother this sad structure rears,}
    A double dissolution there appears--}
    He into dust dissolves, she into tears.}

  RICHARDUS EARLE[BU], Barn^{tus}.
  Obijt decimo tertio die
  Aug^{ti} Anno Dom. 1697.
  Ætatis suæ 24.


[BT] Two other epitaphs appear in this collection, on the Earles of
Norfolk, with whom I cannot find our author to have had the least
connection. A full account of this family may be seen in Blomefield's
_History of Norfolk_, vol. iii. p. 531.

[BU] The title was created by Charles the First, July 2, 1629, and, I
believe, became extinct at the decease of this person.

No. XI.


No. i.

  _A Caueat
  for commen Cvr
  setors vulgarely called
  Uagabones, set forth by Thomas Harman.
  Esquier. for the vtiliteand proffyt of hys
  naturall Countrey. Newly agmented
  and Jmprinted Anno Domini._

  ¶ _Vewed, examined, and allowed, according vnto the
  Queenes Maiestyes Iniunctions_

  [Roughly-executed wood-cut, of two persons receiving punishment
  at the cart's tail from the hands of a beadle.]

  at London in Fletestret at the signe of the
  Faulcon by Wylliam Gryffith, and are to be
  solde at his shoppe in Saynt Dunstones
  Churche yarde in the West._

[4to. black letter, containing thirty folios, very incorrectly numbered.]

I commence my list of _Characters_, with a volume, which, although earlier
than the period I originally intended to begin from, is of sufficient
curiosity and interest to warrant introduction, and, I trust, to obtain
pardon from the reader for the additional trouble I am thus preparing for

Mr. Warton, in his _History of English Poetry_, (iv. 74.) has given, with
some trifling errors, a transcript of the title, and says he has a faint
remembrance of a Collection of Epigrams, by the author, printed about
1599: these I have never been fortunate enough to meet with, nor do they
appear in the collections of Ames or Herbert, neither of whom had seen a
copy of the present work, although they mention Griffith's licence to
print it as dated in 1566[BV].

It is dedicated to Elizabeth, countess of Shrewsbury; Mr. Warton thinks
"with singular impropriety," although the motive appears at least to
justify the measure, if it does not entitle the author to commendation. He
addresses this noble lady as a person of extreme benevolence, and "as also
aboundantly powrynge out dayly [her] ardent and bountifull charytie vppon
all such as commeth for reliefe."--"I thought it good," he continues,
"necessary, and my bounden dutye, to acquaynte your goodnes with the
abhominable, wycked, and detestable behauor of all these rowsey, ragged
rabblement of rake helles, that vnder the pretence of great misery,
dyseases, and other innumerable calamites whiche they fayne through great
hipocrisye, do wyn and gayne great almes in all places where they wyly
wander."--On this account, therefore, and to preserve the kindness and
liberality of the countess from imposition, Harman dedicates his book to
that lady.

The notorious characters mentioned, are a "ruffler[BW]; a upright man[BX];
a hoker or angglear[BY]; a roge[BZ]; a wylde roge[CA]; a prygger of
prauncers; a pallyarde[CB]; a frater[CC]; a Abraham man[CD]; a fresh water
mariner, or whipiacke; a counterfet cranke[CE]; a dommerar[CF]; a dronken
tinckar[CG]; a swadder or pedler; a jarke man, and a patrico[CH]; a
demaunder for glymmar[CI]; a bawdy basket[CJ]; a antem morte[CK]; a
walking morte; a doxe; a dell; a kynchin morte; and a kynchen co."

From such a list, several instances of the tricks, as well as specimens of
the language of the thieves of the day, might with ease be extracted, did
not the limits of my little volume compel me to refrain from entering at
large into this history of rogues; a restriction I the more regret, from
its containing several passages illustrating the manners of that period,
and which would be found of material use towards explaining many of the
allusions met with in our early English dramas and now but imperfectly

"¶ Prygger of Prauncers. (Sign. C. iii. b.)

"A prigger of Prauncers be horse stealers, for to prigge signifieth in
their language to steale, and a prauncer is a horse, so beinge put
together, the matter is plaine. These go commonly in jerkins of leather or
of white frese, & carry little wandes in their hands, and will walke
through grounds and pasturs, to search and se horses mete for their
purpose. And if thei chaunce to be met and asked by the owners of the
grounde what they make there, they fayne straighte that they have loste
theyr waye, and desyre to be enstructed the beste way to suche a place.
These will also repayre to gentlemens houses, and aske theyr charitye, and
will offer theyr seruice. And if you aske them what they can doe, they wil
saye that they can kepe two or three geldinges, and waite vppon a
gentleman. These haue also theyr women that, walkinge from them in other
places, marke where and what they see abrode, and sheweth these priggars
therof, when they meete, whych is wythin a weeke or two. And loke, where
they steale any thynge, they conuey the same at the leaste three score
miles of, or more. There was a gentleman, a verye friende of myne, rydynge
from London homewarde into Kente, hauinge within three myles of his house
busynesse, alyghted of his horse, and hys man also, in a pretye village,
where diuers houses were, and looked about hym where he myghte haue a
conuenyent person to walke his horse, because he would speak we a farmer
that dwelte on the backe side of the sayde village, little aboue a quarter
of a myle from the place where he lighted, and had his man to waight vpon
hym, as it was mete for his callynge: espieng a priggar there standing,
thinkinge the same to dwel there, charging this prity prigginge person to
walke his horse well, and that they might not stande still for takynge of
colde, and at his returne (which he saide should not be longe,) he would
geue him a peny to drinke, and so wente about his busines. Thys peltynge
priggar, proude of his praye, walketh hys horses vp and downe, till he
sawe the gentleman out of sighte, and leapes him into the saddell, and
awaye be goeth a mayne. This gentleman returning, and findyng not his
horses, sente his man to the one ende of the village, & he went himselfe
vnto the other ende, and enquired as he went for hys horses that were
walked, and began somewhat to suspecte, because neither he nor his man
coulde neyther see nor fynde him. Then this gentleman diligently enquired
of three or foure towne dwellers there whether any such person, declaring
his stature, age, apparel, and so manye linamentes of his body as he
coulde call to remembraunce. And _vna voce_, all sayde that no such man
dwelte in their streate, neither in the parish that they knewe of, but
some did wel remember that suche a one they sawe there lyrkinge and
huggeringe[CL] two houres before the gentleman came thether and a
straunger to them. J had thought, quoth this gentleman, he had here
dwelled, and marched home mannerly in his botes: farre from the place he
dwelt not. J suppose at his comming home he sente such wayes as he
suspected or thought mete to search for this prigger, but hetherto he
neuer harde any tidinges againe of his palfreys. J had the best gelding
stolen out of my pasture that J had amogst others, while this boke was
first a printing."

At the end of the several characters, the author gives a list of the names
of the most notorious thieves of his day, a collection of the cant phrases
used by them, with their significations; and a dialogue between an
_uprighte man_ and a _roge_, which I shall transcribe:--

    "The vpright Cose canteth to the Roger.
    _The vprighte man spaketh to the roge._

_Man._  Bene lyghtmans to thy quarromes in what lipk[=e] hast thou lipped
        in this darkemanes; whether in a lybbege or in the strummell?

        _God morrowe to thy bodye, in what house hast thou lyne in all
        night whether in a bed, or in the strawe?_

_Roge._ J couched a hogeshed in a skypper this darkemans.

        _I laye me down to sleepe in a barne this night._

_Man._ J towre ye strummell tryne vpon thy nabcher & togman.

        _I see the straw hange upon thy cap and coate._

_Roge._ J saye by the Salomon J wyll lage it of with a gage of bene bouse
        then cut to my nose watch.

        _J sweare by the masse J wyll wash it of with a quart of drinke,
        then saye to me what thou wilt._

_Man._  Why, hast thou any lowre in thy bouge to bouse?

       _Why, hast thou any money in thy purse to drinke?_

_Roge._ But a flagge, a wyn, and a make.

        _But a grot, a penny, and a halfe-penny._

_Man._  Why where is the kene that hath the bene bouse?

        _Where is the house that hath the good drinke?_

_Roge._ A bene mort hereby at the signe of the prauncer.

        _A good wyfe here by at the signe of the hors._

_Man._  J cutt it is quyer bouse J bousd a flagge the laste darkemans.

        _J saye it is small and naughtye drynke, J dranke a groate there
        the last night._

_Roge._ But bouse there a bord, and thou shalt haue beneship.

	_But drinke there a shyllinge, and thou shalt haue very good._

        Tower ye, yander is the kene, dup the gygger, and maund that is

        _Se you, yonder is the house, open the doore, and aske for the

_Man._  This bouse is as benshyp as rome bouse.

        _This drinke is as good as wyne._

        Now J tower that bene bouse makes nase nabes.

        _Now J se that good drynke makes a dronken heade._

        Maunde of this morte what bene pecke is in her ken.

        _Aske of this wyfe what good meate shee hath in her house._

_Roge._ She hath a cacling chete, a grunting chete, ruff pecke, cassan,
        and popplarr of yarum.

        _She hath a hen, a pyg, baken, chese and mylke porrage._

_Man._  That is beneshyp to oure watche.

        _That is very good for vs._

        Now we haue well bousd, let vs strike some chete.

        _Nowe we haue well dronke, let vs steale some thinge._

        Yonder dwelleth a quyere cuffen it were beneshype to myll hym.

        _Yonder dwelleth a hoggeshe and choyrlyshe man it weare very well
        donne to robbe him._

_Roge._ Nowe, bynge we a waste to the hygh pad, the ruff-manes is by.

        _Naye, let vs go hence to the hygh waye, the wodes is at hande._

_Man._  So may we happen on the harmanes and cly the jarke, or to the
        quyer ken and skower quyaer cramprings and so to tryning on the

        _So we maye chaunce to set in the stockes, eyther be whypped,
        eyther had to prison-house, and there be shackeled with bolttes and
        fetters, and then to hange on the gallowes._

[_Rogue._] Gerry gan the ruffian clye thee.

        _A corde in thy mouth, the deuyll take thee._

_Man._  What! stowe you bene cofe and cut benar whydds; and byng we to some
        vyle to nyp a bong, so shall we haue lowre for the bousing ken and
        when we byng back to the deuseauye, we wyll fylche some duddes of
        the ruffemans, or myll the ken for a lagge of dudes.

        _What! holde your peace, good fellowe, and speake better wordes;
        and go we to London to cut a purse, then shal we haue money for the
        ale-house, and when we come backe agayne into the countrey, we wyll
        steale some lynnen clothes of one hedges, or robbe some house for a
        bucke of clothes._"

I have been induced, from the curiosity and rarity of this tract, to
extend my account of it farther, perhaps, than many of my readers may
think reasonable, and shall, therefore, only add a specimen of Harman's
poetry, with which the original terminates.

    "--> Thus J conclude my bolde beggar's booke,
    That all estates most playnely maye see;
    As in a glasse well pollyshed to looke,
    Their double demeaner in eche degree;
    Their lyues, their language, their names as they be;
    That with this warning their myndes may be warmed
    To amende their mysdeedes, and so lyue vnharmed."

Another tract of the same description is noticed in Herbert's Ames (p.
885.) as printed so early as in 1565. A copy of the second edition in the
Bodleian Library, possesses the following title:--"_The Fraternitye of
Uacabondes. As wel of ruflyng Vacabondes, as of beggerly, of women as of
men, of gyrles as of boyes, with their proper names and qualities. With a
description of the crafty company of Cousoners and Shifters. Whereunto
also is adioyned the xxv orders of Knaues, otherwyse called a Quartern of
Knaues. Confirmed for euer by Cocke Lorell[CM], &c. Imprinted at London by
Iohn Awdeley, dwellyng in little Britayne streete without Aldersgate.
1575._" This, although much shorter than Harman's, contains nearly the
same characters, and is therefore thus briefly dismissed. An account of
it, drawn up by the editor of the present volume, may be found in Brydges'
_British Bibliographer_, vol. ii. p. 12.

It may not be amiss to notice in this place, that a considerable part of
_The Belman of London, bringing to light the most notorious villanies that
are now practised in the kingdom, &c._ 4to. 1608, is derived from Harman's
_Caveat_. Among the books bequeathed to the Bodleian, by Burton, (4to.
G.8. Art. BS.) is a copy of the _Belman_, with the several passages so
borrowed, marked in the hand-writing of the author of the _Anatomy of
Melancholy_, who has also copied the _canting dialogue_ just given, and
added several notes of his own on the margin.


[BV] In the epistle to the reader, the author terms it "this _second_

[BW] A _ruffler_ seems to have been a bully as well as a beggar, he is
thus described in the _Fraternitye of Vacabondes_; (see p. 228.) "A
ruffeler goeth wyth a weapon to seeke seruice, saying he hath bene a
seruitor in the wars, and beggeth for his reliefe. But his chiefest trade
is to robbe poore way-faring men and market-women." In _New Custome_ a
morality, 1573, Creweltie, one of the characters, is termed a _ruffler_.
See also Decker's _Belman of London_. Sign. C. iv.

[BX] "An _upright man_ is one that goeth wyth the trunchion of a staffe,
which staffe they cal a Flitchm[=a]. This man is of so much authority,
that meeting with any of his profession, he may cal them to accompt, and
comaund a share or snap vnto himselfe of al that they have gained by their
trade in one moneth." _Fraternitye of Vacabondes._

[BY] This worthy character approaches somewhat near to a shop-lifter.
Decker tells us that "their apparele in which they walke is commonly
freize jerkins and gallye slops." _Belman._ Sign. C. iv.

[BZ] A rogue, says Burton, in his MS. notes to Decker's _Belman of
London_, "is not so stoute and [hardy] as the vpright man."

[CA] A person whose parents were rogues.

[CB] "These be called also _clapperdogens_" and "go with patched clokes."
Sign. C. iv.

[CC] A _Frater_ and a _Whipiacke_, are persons who travel with a
counterfeite license, the latter in the dress of a sailor. See
_Fraternitye, Belman_, &c.

[CD] "An _Abraham-man_ is he that walketh bare-armed, and bare-legged, and
fayneth hymselfe mad, and caryeth a packe of wool, or a stycke with baken
on it, or such lyke toy, and nameth himselfe Poore Tom." _Fraternitye of

[CE] A person who asks charity, and feigns sickness and disease.

[CF] One who pretends to be dumb. In Harman's time they were chiefly

[CG] An artificer who mends one hole, and makes twenty.

[CH] A _jarke man_ can read and write, and sometimes understands a little
Latin. A _patrico_ solemnizes their marriages.

[CI] These are commonly women who ask assistance, feigning that they have
lost their property by fire.

[CJ] A woman who cohabits with an _upright man_, and professes to sell
thread, &c.

[CK] "These _antem mortes_ be maried wemen, as there be but a fewe: for
_antem_, in their language is a churche--" &c. _Harman_. Sign. E. iv. A
_walking morte_ is one unmarried: a _doxe_, a _dell_, and a _kynchin
morte_, are all females; and a _kynchen co_ is a young boy not thoroughly
instructed in the art of _canting_ and _prigging_.

[CL] In Florio's _Italian Dictionary_, the word _dinascoso_ is explained
"secretly, hiddenly, in _hugger-mugger_." See also Reed's _Shakspeare_,
xviii. 284. _Old Plays_, 1780. viii. 48.

[CM] Herbert notices _Cock Lorelles Bote_, which he describes to be a
satire in verse, in which the author enumerates all the most common trades
and callings then in being. It was printed, in black letter, Wynken de
Worde, 4to. without date. _History of Printing_ ii. 224, and Percy's
_Reliques_, i. 137, edit. 1794.

ii. _Picture of a Puritane, 8vo._ 1605. [Dr. Farmer's _Sale Catalogue_,
page 153, No. 3709.]

iii. _"A Wife novv the Widdow of Sir Thomas Overbvrye. Being a most
exquisite and singular Poem of the Choice of a Wife. Wherevnto are added
many witty Characters, and conceited Newes, written by himselfe and other
learned Gentlemen his friends.

    Dignum laude virum musa vetat mori,
    Cælo musa beat. Hor. Car. lib. 3.

London Printed for Lawrence Lisle, and are to bee sold at his shop in
Paule's Church-yard, at the signe of the Tiger's head. 1614."_[CN]

[4to. pp. 64, not numbered.]

Of Sir Thomas Overbury's life, and unhappy end, we have so full an account
in the _Biographia_, and the various historical productions, treating of
the period in which he lived, that nothing further will be expected in
this place. His _Wife_ and _Characters_ were printed, says Wood, several
times during his life, and the edition above noticed, was supposed, by the
Oxford biographer, to be the fourth or fifth[CO]. Having never seen a
copy of the early editions, I am unable to fix on any character
undoubtedly the production of Overbury, and the printer confesses some of
them were written by "other learned gentlemen." These were greatly
encreased in subsequent impressions, that of 1614 having only twenty-one
characters, and that in 1622 containing no less than eighty.

A COURTIER,--(_Sign. C. 4. b._)

To all men's thinking is a man, and to most men the finest: all things
else are defined by the understanding, but this by the sences; but his
surest marke is, that hee is to bee found onely about princes. Hee smells;
and putteth away much of his judgement about the scituation of his
clothes. Hee knowes no man that is not generally knowne. His wit, like the
marigold, openeth with the sunne, and therefore he riseth not before ten
of the clocke. Hee puts more confidence in his words than meaning, and
more in his pronuntiation than his words. Occasion is his Cupid, and hee
hath but one receipt of making loue. Hee followes nothing but
inconstancie, admires nothing but beauty, honours nothing but fortune.
Loues nothing. The sustenance of his discourse his newes, and his censure
like a shot depends vpon the charging. Hee is not, if he be out of court,
but, fish-like, breathes destruction, if out of his owne element. Neither
his motion, or aspect are regular, but he mooues by the vpper spheres, and
is the reflexion of higher substances. If you finde him not heere, you
shall in Paules with a pick-tooth in his hat, a cape cloke, and a long


[CN] In 1614 appeared _The Husband_, a _Poeme_, expressed in a compleat
man. See _Censura Literaria_, v. 365. John Davies, of Hereford, wrote _A
Select Second Hvsband for Sir Thomas Overbvries Wife, now a matchlesse
widow_. 8vo. Lond. 1616. And in 1673 was published, _The Illustrious Wife,
viz. That excellent Poem, Sir Thomas Overbvrie's Wife, illustrated by
Giles Oldisworth, Nephew to the same Sir T. O._

[CO] It was most probably the fifth, as Mr. Capel, who has printed the
_Wife_, in his very curious volume, entitled _Prolusions_, 8vo. Lond.
1760, notices two copies in 1614, one in 8vo. which I suppose to be the
third, and one in 4to. stated in the title to be the fourth edition: the
sixth was in the following year, 1615; the seventh, eighth, and ninth were
in 1616, the eleventh in 1622, twelfth in 1627, thirteenth 1628,
fourteenth, 1630, fifteenth, 1632, sixteenth, 1638, and Mr. Brand
possessed a copy, the specific edition of which I am unable to state,
printed in 1655. _Catalogue_, No. 4927.

iv. "_Satyrical Essayes, Characters, and others, or accurate and quick
Descriptions, fitted to the life of their Subiects._ [Greek: tôn êthôn dê
phylattesthai mallon dei hê tous hecheis]. Theophras.

    Aspice et hæc, si forte aliquid decoctius audis,
    Jude vaporata Lector mihi ferucat aure. IUUEN.

_Plagosus minime Plagiarius._

_John Stephens. London, Printed by Nicholas Okes, and are to be sold by
Roger Barnes, at his Shop in St. Dunstane's Church-yard. 1615._"

[8vo. pp. 321. title, preface, &c. 14 more.]

In a subsequent impression of this volume, 8vo. in the same year, and with
a fresh title page, dated 1631[CP], we find the author to be "John
Stephens the younger, of Lincoln's Inn:" no other particulars of him
appear to exist at present, excepting that he was the author of a play
entitled, _Cinthia's Revenge; or, Mænander's Extasie_. Lond. for Barnes,
1613, 4to. "which," says Langbaine, "is one of the longest plays I ever
read, and withal the most tedious." Ben Jonson addressed some lines[CQ]
to the author, whom he calls "his much and worthily esteemed friend," as
did F. C. G. Rogers, and Thomas Danet.

Stephens dedicates his book to Thomas Turner, Esq. For the sake of a
little variety I give one of his "three satyricall Essayes on
Cowardlinesse," which are written in verse.


    "Feare to resist good virtue's common foe,
    And feare to loose some lucre, which doth grow
    By a continued practise; makes our fate
    Banish (with single combates) all the hate,
    Which broad abuses challenge of our spleene.
    For who in Vertue's troope was euer seene,
    That did couragiously with mischiefes fight,
    Without the publicke name of hipocrite?
    Vaine-glorious, malapert, precise, deuout,
    Be tearmes which threaten those that go about
    To stand in opposition of our times
    With true defiance, or satyricke rimes.
    Cowards they be, branded among the worst,
    Who (through contempt of Atheisme), neuer durst
    Crowd neere a great man's elbow to suggest
    Smooth tales with glosse, or Enuy well addrest.
    These be the noted cowards of our age;
    Who be not able to instruct the stage
    With matter of new shamelesse impudence
    Who cannot almost laugh at innocence;
    And purchase high preferment by the waies,
    Which had bene horrible in Nero's dayes.
    They are the shamefull cowards, who contemne
    Vices of state, or cannot flatter them;
    Who can refuse advantage, or deny
    Villanous courses, if they can espye
    Some little purchase to inrich their chest
    Though they become vncomfortably blest.
    We still account those cowards, who forbeare
    (Being possess'd with a religious feare)
    To slip occasion, when they might erect
    Hornes on a tradesman's noddle, or neglect
    The violation of a virgin's bed
    With promise to requite her maiden-head.
    Basely low-minded we esteeme that man
    Who cannot swagger well, or (if he can)
    Who doth not with implacable desire,
    Follow revenge with a consuming fire.
    Extortious rascals, when they are alone,
    Bethinke how closely they have pick'd each bone,
    Nay, with a frolicke humour, they will brag,
    How blancke they left their empty client's bag.
    Which dealings if they did not giue delight,
    Or not refresh their meetings in despight,
    They would accounted be both weake, vnwise,
    And, like a timorous coward, too precise.
    Your handsome-bodied youth (whose comely face
    May challenge all the store of Nature's grace,)
    If, when a lustfull lady doth inuite,
    By some lasciuious trickes his deere delight,
    If then he doth abhorre such wanton ioy;
    Whose is not almost ready to destroy
    Ciuility with curses, when he heares
    The tale recited? blaming much his years,
    Or modest weaknesse, and with cheeks ful-blown
    Each man will wish the case had beene his own.
    Graue holy men, whose habite will imply
    Nothing but honest zeale, or sanctity,
    Nay so vprighteous will their actions seeme,
    As you their thoughts religion will esteeme.
    Yet these all-sacred men, who daily giue
    Such vowes, wold think themselves vnfit to liue,
    If they were artlesse in the flattering vice,
    Euen as it were a daily sacrifice:
    Children deceiue their parents with expence:
    Charity layes aside her conscience,
    And lookes vpon the fraile commodity
    Of monstrous bargaines with a couetous eye:
    And now the name of _generosity_,
    Of _noble cariage_ or _braue dignity_,
    Keepe such a common skirmish in our bloud,
    As we direct the measure of things good,
    By that, which reputation of estate,
    Glory of rumor, or the present rate
    Of sauing pollicy doth best admit.
    We do employ materials of wit,
    Knowledge, occasion, labour, dignity,
    Among our spirits of audacity,
    Nor in our gainefull proiects do we care
    For what is pious, but for what we dare.
    Good humble men, who haue sincerely layd
    Saluation for their hope, we call _afraid_.
    But if you will vouchsafe a patient eare,
    You shall perceiue, men impious haue most feare."

The second edition possesses the following title--"_New Essayes and
Characters, with a new Satyre in defence of the Common Law, and Lawyers:
mixt with reproofe against their Enemy Ignoramus, &c. London, 1631._" It
seems not improbable that some person had attacked Stephens's first
edition, although I am unable to discover the publication alluded to. I
suspect him to be the editor of, or one of the contributors to, the later
copies of Sir Thomas Overbury's _Wife_, &c.: since one of Stephens's
friends, (a Mr. I. Cocke) in a poetical address prefixed to his _New
Essayes_, says "I am heere enforced to claime 3 characters following the
Wife[CR]; viz. the _Tinker_, the _Apparatour_, and _Almanack-maker_, that
I may signify the ridiculous and bold dealing of an vnknowne botcher: but
I neede make no question what he is; for his hackney similitudes discouer
him to be the rayler above-mentioned, whosoeuer that rayler be."


[CP] Coxeter, in his MSS. notes to Gildon's _Lives of the Eng. Dram.
Poets_, in the Bodleian, says that the second edition was in 8vo. 1613,
"_Essays and Characters, Ironical and Instructive_," but this must be a


    "Who takes thy volume to his vertuous hand,
    Must be intended still to vnderstand:
    Who bluntly doth but looke vpon the same,
    May aske, _what author would conceale his name?_
    Who reads may roaue, and call the passage darke,
    Yet may, as blind men, sometimes hit the marke.
    Who reads, who roaues, who hopes to vnderstand,
    May take thy volume to his vertuous hand.
    Who cannot reade, but onely doth desire
    To vnderstand, hee may at length admire.

    B. I."

[CR] These were added to the sixth edition of the _Wife_, in 1615.

v. _Caracters upon Essaies, morall and diuine, written for those good
spirits that will take them in good part, and make use of them to good
purpose. London: Printed by Edw. Griffin for John Guillim, and are to be
sold at his shop in Britaines Burse._ 1615. 12mo.

[Censura Literaria, v. 51. Monthly Mirror, xi. 16.]

vi. _The Good and the Badde, or Descriptions of the Worthies and
Vnworthies of this Age. Where the Best may see their Graces, and the Worst
discerne their Basenesse. London, Printed by George Purslowe for Iohn
Budge, and are to be sold at the great South-dore of Paules, and at
Brittaines Bursse._ 1616.

[4to. containing pp. 40, title, dedication "to Sir Gilbert Houghton,
Knight," and preface six more. A second edition appeared in 1643, under
the title of _England's Selected Characters_, &c.]

The author of these characters[CS] was Nicholas Breton, who dedicates them
to Sir Gilbert Houghton, of Houghton, Knight. Of Breton no particulars
are now known, excepting what may be gained from an epitaph in Norton
church, Northamptonshire[CT], by which we learn that he was the son of
Captain Breton, of Tamworth, in Staffordshire, and served himself in the
Low Countries, under the command of the Earl of Leicester. He married
Anne, daughter of Sir Edward Legh, or Leigh, of Rushell, Staffordshire, by
whom he had five sons and four daughters, and having purchased the manor
of Norton, died there June 22, 1624[CU].

Breton appears to have been a poet of considerable reputation among his
contemporaries, as he is noticed with commendation by Puttenhem and Meres:
Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges declares that his poetical powers were
distinguished by a simplicity, at once easy and elegant. Specimens of his
productions in verse, may be found in Percy's _Reliques_, Ellis's
_Specimens_, Cooper's _Muses' Library, Censura Literaria_; and an
imperfect list of his publications is given by Ritson, in the
_Bibliographia Poetica_, which is augmented by Mr. Park, in the _Cens.
Lit._ ix. 163[CV].


A worthy priuie counceller is the pillar of a realme, in whose wisedome
and care, vnder God and the king, stands the safety of a kingdome; he is
the watch-towre to giue warning of the enemy, and a hand of prouision for
the preseruation of the state: hee is an oracle in the king's eare, and a
sword in the king's hand, an euen weight in the ballance of justice, and a
light of grace in the loue of truth: he is an eye of care in the course of
lawe, a heart of loue in the seruice of his soueraigne, a mind of honour
in the order of his seruice, and a braine of inuention for the good of the
common-wealth; his place is powerful, while his seruice is faithfull, and
his honour due in the desert of his employment. In summe, he is as a fixed
planet mong the starres of the firmament, which through the clouds in the
ayre, shewes the nature of his light.


An vnworthie counceller is the hurt of a king, and the danger of a state,
when the weaknes of judgement may commit an error, or the lacke of care
may give way to vnhappinesse: he is a wicked charme in the king's eare, a
sword of terror in the aduice of tyranny: his power is perillous in the
partiality of will, and his heart full of hollownesse in the protestation
of loue: hypocrisie is the couer of his counterfaite religion, and
traiterous inu[=e]tion is the agent of his ambition: he is the cloud of
darknesse, that threatneth foule weather, and if it growe to a storme, it
is feareful where it falls: hee is an enemy to God in the hate of grace,
and worthie of death in disloyalty to his soueraigne. In summe, he is an
vnfit person for the place of a counceller, and an vnworthy subject to
looke a king in the face.


An effeminate foole is the figure of a baby: he loues nothing but gay, to
look in a glasse, to keepe among wenches, and to play with trifles; to
feed on sweet meats, and to be daunced in laps, to be inbraced in armes,
and to be kissed on the cheeke: to talke idlely, to looke demurely, to goe
nicely, and to laugh continually: to be his mistresse' servant, and her
mayd's master, his father's love, and his mother's none-child: to play on
a fiddle, and sing a loue-song, to weare sweet gloues, and look on fine
things: to make purposes and write verses, deuise riddles, and tell lies:
to follow plaies, and study daunces, to heare newes, and buy trifles: to
sigh for loue, and weepe for kindnesse, and mourne for company, and bee
sicke for fashion: to ride in a coach, and gallop a hackney, to watch all
night, and sleepe out the morning: to lie on a bed, and take tobacco, and
to send his page of an idle message to his mistresse; to go vpon gigges,
to haue his ruffes set in print, to picke his teeth, and play with a
puppet. In summe, hee is a man-childe, and a woman's man, a gaze of
folly, and wisedome's griefe[CW].


Very aptly deuised by N. B. Gent.

[From "_The Phoenix Nest. Built vp with the most rare and refined workes
of Noble men, woorthy Knights, gallant Gentlemen, Masters of Arts, and
braue Schollers," &c. "Set foorth by R. S. of the Inner Temple,
Gentleman." 4to. London, by Iohn Iackson, 1593, page 28._]

    A secret many yeeres vnseene,
    In play at chesse, who knowes the game,
    First of the King, and then the Queene,
    Knight, Bishop, Rooke, and so by name,
        Of euerie Pawne I will descrie,
        The nature with the qualitie.


    The King himselfe is haughtie care,
    Which ouerlooketh all his men,
    And when he seeth how they fare
    He steps among them now and then,
        Whom, when his foe presumes to checke,
        His seruants stand, to giue the necke.


    The Queene is queint, and quicke conceit,
    Which makes hir walke which way she list,
    And rootes them vp, that lie in wait
    To worke hir treason, ere she wist:
        Hir force is such against hir foes
        That whom she meetes, she ouerthrowes.


    The Knight is knowledge how to fight
    Against his prince's enimies,
    He neuer makes his walke outright,
    But leaps and skips, in wilie wise,
        To take by sleight a traitrous foe,
        Might slilie seeke their ouerthrowe.


    The Bishop he is wittie braine,
    That chooseth crossest pathes to pace,
    And euermore he pries with paine,
    To see who seekes him most disgrace:
        Such straglers when he findes astraie
        He takes them vp, and throwes awaie.


    The Rookes are reason on both sides,
    Which keepe the corner houses still,
    And warily stand to watch their tides,
    By secret art to worke their will,
        To take sometime a theefe vnseene,
        Might mischiefe meane to King or Queene.


    The Pawne before the King, is peace,
    Which he desires to keepe at home,
    Practise, the Queene's, which doth not cease
    Amid the world abroad to roame,
        To finde, and fall upon each foe,
        Whereas his mistres meanes to goe.

    Before the Knight, is perill plast,
    Which he, by skipping ouergoes,
    And yet that Pawne can worke a cast,
    To ouerthrow his greatest foes;
        The Bishop's prudence, prieng still
        Which way to worke his master's will.

    The Rooke's poore Pawnes, are sillie swaines,
    Which seeldome serue, except by hap,
    And yet those Pawnes, can lay their traines,
    To catch a great man, in a trap:
        So that I see, sometime a groome
        May not be spared from his roome.


    The King is stately, looking hie;
    The Queene doth beare like maiestie:
    The Knight is hardie, valiant, wise:
    The Bishop prudent and precise.
        The Rookes no raungers out of raie[CX],
        The Pawnes the pages in the plaie.


    Then rule with care, and quicke conceit,
    And fight with knowledge, as with force;
    So beare a braine, to dash deceit,
    And worke with reason and remorse.
        Forgive a fault when young men plaie,
        So giue a mate, and go your way.

    And when you plaie beware of checke,
    Know how to saue and giue a necke:
    And with a checke beware of mate;
    But cheefe, ware had I wist too late:
        Loose not the Queene, for ten to one,
        If she be lost, the game is gone."


[CS] These are a king; a queen; a prince; a privy-counsellor; a noble man;
a bishop; a judge; a knight; a gentleman; a lawyer; a soldier; a
physician; a merchant (their good and bad characters); a good man, and an
atheist or most bad man; a wise man and a fool; an honest man and a knave;
an usurer; a beggar; a virgin and a wanton woman; a quiet woman; an
unquiet woman; a good wife; an effeminate fool; a parasite; a bawd; a
drunkard; a coward; an honest poor man; a just man; a repentant sinner; a
reprobate; an old man; a young man, and a holy man.

[CT] It is by no means certain that this may not be intended to perpetuate
the memory of some other person of the same names, although Mr. Gough, in
a note to the second volume of _Queen Elizabeth's Progresses_, seems to
think it belongs to our author.

[CU] Bridges' _Northamptonshire_, vol. ii. page 78, s. Shaw's
_Staffordshire_, vol. i. page 422.

[CV] To these lists of Breton's productions may be added, 1. _A Solemne
Passion of the Soule's Loue._ 4to. Lond. 1598. 2. _The Mother's Blessing_,
4to. Lond. 1602. 3. _A True Description of vnthankfulnesse; or an enemie
to Ingratitude._ 4to. Lond. 1602. 4. _Breton's Longing_, 4to. title lost
in the Bodleian copy; prefixed are verses by H. T. gent. 5. _A Poste with
a packet of Mad Letters_, 4to. 1633, dedicated by Nicholas Breton to
Maximilian Dallison of Hawlin, Kent. The last tract excepted, all the
above are in a volume bequeathed by Bishop Tanner to the university of
Oxford, which contains many of the pieces noticed by Ritson, and, in
addition, _The Passion of a discontented Minde._ 4to. Lond. 1602, which I
should have no hesitation in placing to Breton. At the end of the volume
are _The Passions of the Spirit_, and _Excellent Vercis worthey imitation
of euery Christian in thier Conuersiation_, both in manuscript, and, if we
may judge from the style, evidently by the author before-mentioned. For
the _Figures_, in the composition of which he had certainly a share, see
page 198.

[CW] I am not aware that the following specimen of his versification,
which is curious, has been reprinted.

[CX] _Raie_, for _array_; order, rank. So Spencer.

    "And all the damzels of that towne in _ray_,
    Came dauncing forth, and ioyous carrols song:"

_Faerie Queene_, book v. canto xi. 34.

vii. _Essayes and Characters of a Prison and Prisoners. Written by G. M.
of Grayes'-Inne, Gent._ (Woodcut of a keeper standing with the hatch of a
prison open, in his left hand a staff, the following lines at the side;

    "Those that keepe mee, I keepe; if can, will still:
    Hee's a true Iaylor strips the Diuell in ill.")

_Printed at London for Mathew Walbancke and are to be solde at his shops
at the new and old Gate of Grayes-Inne._ 1618.

[4to. pp. 48. title, dedication, &c. eight more.]

A second edition appeared in 1638, and, as the title informs us, "with
some new additions:" what these were I am not able to state, as my copy,
although it appears perfect, contains precisely the same with that of

Of Geffray Mynshul, as he signs his name to the dedication, I can learn
no particulars, but I have reason to suppose him descended from an ancient
and highly respectable family, residing at Minshull, in the county of
Chester[CY], during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. By what
mishap he became an inmate of the King's-bench prison, from when he
dates[CZ] his _Essayes_, it is impossible to conjecture, but as he talks
of usury and extortion, as well as of severe creditors; and advises those
who are compelled to borrow, to pay as soon as they can, we may suppose
that imprudence and extravagance assisted in reducing him to the situation
he attempts to describe.

In the dedication to his uncle, "Mr. Matthew Mainwaring[DA], of Namptwich,
in Cheshire," he says:--"Since my comming into this prison, what with the
strangenesse of the place, and strictnesse of my liberty, I am so
transported that I could not follow that study wherein I tooke great
delight and cheife pleasure, and to spend my time idley would but adde
more discontentments to my troubled brest, and being in this chaos of
discontentments, fantasies must arise, which will bring forth the fruits
of an idle braine, for _e malis minimum_. It is farre better to giue some
accompt of time, though to little purpose, than none at all. To which end
I gathered a handfull of essayes, and few characters of such things as by
my owne experience I could say _Probatum est_: not that thereby I should
either please the reader, or shew exquisitenes of inuention, or curious
stile; seeing what I write of is but the child of sorrow, bred by
discontentments, and nourisht vp with misfortunes, to whosc help
melancholly Saturne gaue his iudgement, the night-bird her inuention, and
the ominous rauen brought a quill taken from his owne wing, dipt in the
inke of misery, as chiefe ayders in this architect of sorrow."


A prisoner is an impatient patient, lingring vnder the rough hands of a
cruell phisitian: his creditor hauing cast his water knowes his disease,
and hath power to cure him, but takes more pleasure to kill him. He is
like Tantalus, who hath freedome running by his doore, yet cannot enioy
the least benefit thereof. His greatest griefe is that his credit was so
good and now no better. His land is drawne within the compasse of a
sheepe's skin, and his owne hand the fortification that barres him of
entrance: hee is fortunes tossing-bal, an obiect that would make mirth
melancholy: to his friends an abiect, and a subiect of nine dayes' wonder
in euery barber's shop, and a mouthfull of pitty (that he had no better
fortune) to midwiues and talkatiue gossips; and all the content that this
transitory life can giue him seemes but to flout him, in respect the
restraint of liberty barres the true vse. To his familiars hee is like a
plague, whom they dare scarce come nigh for feare of infection, he is a
monument ruined by those which raysed him, he spends the day with a _hei
mihi! ve miserum_! and the night with a _nullis est medicabilis herbis_."


[CY] In the church of St. Mary, at Nantwich, in that county, is a monument
erected by Geofry Minshull, of Stoke, Esq. to the memory of his ancestors.
_Historical Account of Nantwich_, 8vo. 1774, page 33. King, in his _Vale
Royal of England_, folio, _Lond._ 1656, page 74, speaks of Minshall-hall,
"a very ancient seat, which hath continued the successions of a
worshipfull race in its own name"--&c.

[CZ] This place of residence was omitted in the second edition.

[DA] The Mainwarings were an old family of repute, being mentioned as
residing near Nantwich, by Leland, _Itin._ vol. 7. pt. i. fol. 43. See
also the list of escheators of Cheshire, in Leycester's _Historical
Antiquities_, folio, Lond. 1673, p. 186.

viii. _Cvres for the Itch. Characters. Epigrams. Epitaphs. By H. P.
Scalpat qui tangitur. London, Printed for Thomas Iones, at the signs of
the Blacke Rauen in the Strand._ 1626. [8vo. containing pp. 142, not

I have little doubt but that the initials H. P. may be attributed with
justice to _Henry Parrot_, author of _Laquei ridiculosi: or, Springes for
Woodcocks_, a collection of epigrams, printed at London in 1613[DB], 8vo.
and commended by Mr. Warton, who says, that "many of them are worthy to be
revived in modern collections"[DC]. To the same person I would also give
_The Mastive, or Young Whelpe of the Old Dogge. Epigrams and Satyrs._
Lond. (Date cut off in the Bodleian copy,) 4to.--_The Mouse Trap,
consisting of 100 Epigrams_, 4to. 1606.--_Epigrams by H. P._ 4to.
1608.--and _The More the Merrier: containing three-score and odde
headlesse Epigrams, shot (like the Fooles bolt) amongst you, light where
they will_, 4to. 1608[DD].

It appears from the Preface to _Cvres for the Itch_, that the _Epigrams
and Epitaphs_ were written in 1624, during the author's residence in the
country, at the "_long vacation_," and the _Characters_[DE], which are
"not so fully perfected as was meant," were composed "of later times."
The following afford as fair a specimen of this part of the volume as can
be produced.

"A SCOLD. (B. 5.)

Is a much more heard of, then least desired to bee seene or knowne,
she-kinde of serpent; the venom'd sting of whose poysonous tongue, worse
then the biting of a scorpion, proues more infectious farre then can be
cured. Shee's of all other creatures most vntameablest, and couets more
the last word in scoulding, then doth a Combater the last stroke for
victorie. She lowdest lifts it standing at her door, bidding, w^{th}
exclamation, flat defiance to any one sayes blacke's her eye. She dares
appeare before any iustice, nor is least daunted with the sight of
counstable, nor at worst threatnings of a cucking-stoole. There's nothing
mads or moues her more to outrage, then but the very naming of a wispe, or
if you sing or whistle when she is scoulding. If any in the interim chance
to come within her reach, twenty to one she scratcheth him by the face; or
doe but offer to hold her hands, sheel presently begin to cry out murder.
There's nothing pacifies her but a cup of sacke, which taking in full
measure of digestion, shee presently forgets all wrongs that's done her,
and thereupon falls streight a weeping. Doe but intreat her with faire
words, or flatter her, she then confesseth all her imperfections, and
layes the guilt vpon the whore her mayd. Her manner is to talke much in
her sleepe, what wrongs she hath indured of that rogue her husband whose
hap may be in time to dye a martyr; and so I leaue them."


Is a world of happiness, that brings with it a kingdom in conceit, and
makes a perfect adiunct in societie; shee's such a comfort as exceeds
content, and proues so precious as canot be paralleld, yea more
inestimable then may be valued. Shee's any good man's better second selfe,
the very mirror of true constant modesty, the carefull huswife of
frugalitie, and dearest obiect of man's heart's felicitie. She commands
with mildnesse, rules with discretion, liues in repute, and ordereth all
things that are good or necessarie. Shee's her husband's solace, her
house's ornament, her children's succor, and her seruant's comfort. Shee's
(to be briefe) the eye of warinesse, the tongue of silence, the hand of
labour, and the heart of loue. Her voice is musicke, her countenance
meeknesse; her minde vertuous, and her soule gratious. Shee's a blessing
giuen from God to man, a sweet companion in his affliction, and ioynt
co-partner upon all occasions. Shee's (to conclude) earth's chiefest
paragon, and will bee, when shee dyes, heauen's dearest creature."


[DB] Mr. Steevens quotes an edition in 1606, but the preface expressly
states, that they were composed in 1611.--"_Duo propemodum anni elapsi
sunt, ex quo primum Epigrammata hæc (qualiacunque) raptim et festinanter

[DC] _History of English Poetry_, iv. 73.

[DD] _Censura Literaria_, iii. 387, 388.

[DE] These consist of a ballad-maker; a tapster; a drunkard; a rectified
young man; a young nouice's new yonger wife; a common fidler; a broker; a
iouiall good fellow; a humourist; a malepart yong upstart; a scold; a good
wife, and a selfe-conceited parcell-witty old dotard.

ix. _Characters of Vertves and Vices. In two Bookes. By Ios. Hall.
Imprinted at London, 1627._

The above is copied from a separate title in the collected works of Bishop
Hall, printed in folio, and dedicated to James the First. The book, I
believe, originally appeared in 8vo. 1608[DF]. Of this edition I have in
vain endeavoured to procure some information, although I cannot fancy it
to be of any peculiar rarity.

The volume contains a dedication to Edward Lord Denny, and James Lord Hay,
a premonition of the title and use of characters, the proemes, eleven
virtuous characters, and fifteen of a different discription. As Bishop
Hall's collected works have so lately appeared in a new edition, and as
Mr. Pratt[DG] proposes to add a life of the author in a subsequent volume,
I shall forbear giving any specimen from the works or biographical notices
of this amiable prelate, recommending the perusal of his excellent
productions, to all who admire the combination of sound sense with
unaffected devotion.


[DF] See Brand's _Sale Catalogue_, 8vo. 1807, page 115, No. 3147.

[DG] See the _Gentleman's Magazine_ for October, 1810, LXXXI. 317.

x. _Micrologia. Characters, or Essayes, of Persons, Trades, and Places,
offered to the City and Country. By R. M. Printed at London by T. C. for
Michael Sparke, dwelling at the blue Bible, in Greene Arbor. 1629._

[8vo. containing 56 pages, not numbered.]

The characters in this volume are "A fantasticke taylor; a player; a
shooe-maker; a rope-maker; a smith; a tobacconist; a cunning woman; a
cobler; a tooth-drawer; a tinker; a fidler; a cunning horse-courser;
Bethlem; Ludgate; Bridewell; (and) Newgate."--

"A PLAYER.--(_Sign. B._ iii.)

Is a volume of various conceits or epitome of time, who by his
representation and appearance makes things long past seeme present. He is
much like the compters in arithmeticke, and may stand one while for a
king, another while a begger, many times as a mute or cypher. Sometimes
hee represents that which in his life he scarse practises--to be an honest
man. To the point, hee oft personates a rover, and therein comes neerest
to himselfe. If his action prefigure passion, he raues, rages, and
protests much by his painted heauens, and seemes in the heighth of this
fit ready to pull Ioue out of the garret, where pershance hee lies leaning
on his elbowes, or is imployed to make squips and crackers to grace the
play. His audience are often-times iudicious, but his chiefe admirers are
commonly young wanton chamber-maids, who are so taken with his posture and
gay clothes, they neuer come to be their owne women after. Hee exasperates
men's enormities in publike view, and tels them their faults on the stage,
not as being sorry for them, but rather wishes still hee might finde more
occasions to worke on. He is the generall corrupter of spirits, yet
vntainted, inducing them by gradation to much lasciuious deprauity. He is
a perspicuity of vanity in variety, and suggests youth to perpetrate such
vices, as otherwise they had haply nere heard of. He is (for the most
part) a notable hypocrite, seeming what he is not, and is indeed what hee
seemes not. And if hee lose one of his fellow stroules, in the summer he
turnes king of the gipsies: if not, some great man's protection is a
sufficient warrant for his peregrination, and a meanes to procure him the
town-hall, where hee may long exercise his qualities, with clown-claps of
great admiration, in a tone sutable to the large eares of his illiterate
auditorie. Hee is one seldome takes care for old age, because ill diet and
disorder, together with a consumption, or some worse disease, taken vp in
his full careere, haue onely chalked out his catastrophe but to a colon:
and he scarsely suruiues to his naturall period of dayes."

xi. _Whimzies: Or, A new Cast of Characters. Nova, non nota delectant.
London, Printed by F. K. and are to be sold by Ambrose Rithirdon, at the
signe of the Bull's-head, in Paul's Church-yard. 1631._

[12mo. containing in all, pp. 280.]

The dedication to this volume, which is inscribed to sir _Alexander
Radcliffe_, is signed "_Clitus--Alexandrinus_;" the author's real name I
am unable to discover. It contains twenty-four characters[DH], besides "_A
cater-character, throwne out of a boxe by an experienced gamester_[DI];"
and some lines "vpon the birth-day of his sonne Iohn," of which the
first-will be sufficient to satisfy all curiosity.

    "God blesse thee, Iohn,
      And make thee such an one
    That I may ioy
      in calling thee my son.

    Thou art my ninth,
      and by it I divine
    That thou shalt live
      to love the Muses nine."--&c. &c.


Is a state newes-monger; and his owne genius is his intelligencer. His
mint goes weekely, and he coines monie by it. Howsoeuer, the more
intelligent merchants doe jeere him, the vulgar doe admire him, holding
his novels oracular: and these are usually sent for tokens or intermissiue
curtsies betwixt city and countrey. Hee holds most constantly one forme or
method of discourse. He retaines some militarie words of art, which hee
shootes at randome; no matter where they hitt, they cannot wound any. He
ever leaves some passages doubtfull, as if they were some more intimate
secrecies of state, clozing his sentence abruptly with--_heereafter you
shall heare more_. Which words, I conceive, he onely useth as baites, to
make the appetite of the reader more eager in his next week's pursuit for
a more satisfying labour. Some generall-erring relations he pickes up, as
crummes or fragments, from a frequented ordinarie: of which shreads he
shapes a cote to fit any credulous foole that will weare it. You shall
never observe him make any reply in places of publike concourse; hee
ingenuously acknowledges himselfe to bee more bounden to the happinesse of
a retentive memory, than eyther ability of tongue, or pregnancy of
conceite. He carryes his table-booke still about with him, but dares not
pull it out publikely. Yet no sooner is the table drawne, than he turnes
notarie; by which meanes hee recovers the charge of his ordinarie. Paules
is his walke in winter; Moorfields[DJ] in sommer. Where the whole
discipline, designes, projects, and exploits of the States, Netherlands,
Poland, Switzer, Crimchan and all, are within the compasse of one
quadrangle walke most judiciously and punctually discovered. But long he
must not walke, lest hee make his newes-presse stand. Thanks to his good
invention, he can collect much out of a very little: no matter though more
experienced judgements disprove him; hee is anonymos, and that wil secure
him. To make his reports more credible or, (which he and his stationer
onely aymes at,) more vendible, in the relation of every occurrent he
renders you the day of the moneth; and to approve himselfe a scholler, he
annexeth these Latine parcells, or parcell-gilt sentences, _veteri stylo,
novo stylo_. Palisados, parapets, counterscarfes, forts, fortresses,
rampiers, bulwarks, are his usual dialect. Hee writes as if he would doe
some mischiefe, yet the charge of his shot is but paper. Hee will
sometimes start in his sleepe, as one affrighted with visions, which I can
impute to no other cause but to the terrible skirmishes which he
discoursed of in the day-time. He has now tyed himselfe apprentice to the
trade of minting, and must weekly performe his taske, or (beside the losse
which accrues to himselfe,) he disappoints a number of no small fooles,
whose discourse, discipline, and discretion, is drilled from his
state-service. These you shall know by their Mondai's morning question, a
little before Exchange time; _Stationer, have you any newes?_ Which they
no sooner purchase than peruse; and, early by next morning, (lest their
countrey friend should be deprived of the benefit of so rich a prize,)
they freely vent the substance of it, with some illustrations, if their
understanding can furnish them that way. He would make you beleeve that
hee were knowne to some forraine intelligence, but I hold him the wisest
man that hath the least faith to beleeve him. For his relations he stands
resolute, whether they become approved, or evinced for untruths; which if
they bee, hee has contracted with his face never to blush for the matter.
Hee holds especiall concurrence with two philosophicall sects, though hee
bee ignorant of the tenets of either: in the collection of his
observations, he is _peripateticall_, for hee walkes circularly; in the
digestion of his relations he is _Stoicall_, and sits regularly. Hee has
an alphabeticall table of all the chiefe commanders, generals, leaders,
provinciall townes, rivers, ports, creekes, with other fitting materials
to furnish his imaginary building. Whisperings, muttrings, and bare
suppositions, are sufficient grounds for the authoritie of his relations.
It is strange to see with what greedinesse this ayrie Chameleon, being all
lungs and winde, will swallow a receite of newes, as if it were physicall:
yea, with what frontlesse insinuation he will scrue himselfe into the
acquaintance of some knowing _Intelligencers_, who, trying the cask by his
hollow sound, do familiarly gull him. I am of opinion, were all his
voluminous centuries of fabulous relations compiled, they would vye in
number with the Iliads of many forerunning ages. You shall many times
finde in his Gazettas, pasquils, and corrantos miserable distractions;
here a city taken by force long before it bee besieged; there a countrey
laid waste before ever the enemie entered. He many times tortures his
readers with impertinencies, yet are these the tolerablest passages
throughout all his discourse. He is the very landskip of our age. He is
all ayre; his eare alwayes open to all reports, which, how incredible
soever, must passe for currant, and find vent, purposely to get him
currant money, and delude the vulgar. Yet our best comfort is, his
chymeras live not long; a weeke is the longest in the citie, and after
their arrival, little longer in the countrey; which past, they melt like
_Butter_, or match a pipe, and so _Burne_[DK]. But indeede, most commonly
it is the height of their ambition to aspire to the imployment of stopping
mustard-pots, or wrapping up pepper, pouder, staves-aker, &c. which done,
they expire. Now for his habit, Wapping and Long-lane will give him his
character. Hee honours nothing with a more indeered observance, nor hugges
ought with more intimacie than antiquitie, which he expresseth even in his
cloathes. I have knowne some love fish best that smelled of the panyer;
and the like humour reignes in him, for hee loves that apparele best that
has a taste of the broker. Some have held him for a scholler, but trust
mee such are in a palpable errour, for hee never yet understood so much
Latine as to construe _Gallo-Belgicus_. For his librarie (his owne
continuations excepted,) it consists of very few or no bookes. He holds
himselfe highly engaged to his invention if it can purchase him victuals;
for authors hee never converseth with them, unlesse they walke in Paules.
For his discourse it is ordinarie, yet hee will make you a terrible
repetition of desperate commanders, unheard of exployts; intermixing
withall his owne personall service. But this is not in all companies, for
his experience hath sufficiently informed him in this principle--that as
nothing workes more on the simple than things strange and incredibly rare;
so nothing discovers his weaknesse more among the knowing and judicious
than to insist, by way of discourse, on reports above conceite. Amongst
these, therefore, hee is as mute as a fish. But now imagine his lampe (if
he be worth one,) to be neerely burnt out; his inventing genius wearied
and surfoote with raunging over so many unknowne regions; and himselfe,
wasted with the fruitlesse expence of much paper, resigning his place of
weekly collections to another, whom, in hope of some little share, hee has
to his stationer recommended, while he lives either poorely respected, or
dyes miserably suspended. The rest I end with his owne cloze:--_Next weeke
you shall heare more_."


[DH] An almanack-maker; a ballad-monger; a corranto-coiner; a decoy; an
exchange man; a forrester; a gamester; an hospitall-man; a iayler; a
keeper; a launderer; a metall man; a neuter; an ostler; a post-master: a
quest-man; a ruffian; a sailor; a trauller; an vnder sheriffe; a
wine-soaker; a Xantippean; a yealous neighbour; a zealous brother.

[DI] This _cater-character_, which possesses a separate title page,
contains delineations of an apparator; a painter; a pedler; and a piper.

[DJ] _Moorfields_ were a general promenade for the citizens of London,
during the summer months. The ground was left to the city by Mary and
Catherine, daughters of sir William Fines, a Knight of Rhodes, in the
reign of Edward the Confessor. Richard Johnson, a poetaster of the
sixteenth century, published in 1607, _The Pleasant Walkes of
Moore-fields. Being the Guift of two Sisters, now beautified, to the
continuing fame of this worthy Citty_. 4to. black-letter, of which Mr.
Gough, (_Brit. Topog._) who was ignorant of the above, notices an
impression in 1617.

[DK] This is certainly intended as a pun upon the names of two
news-venders or _corranto-coiners_ of the day. Nathaniel _Butter_, the
publisher of "_The certain Newes of this present Week_," lived at the
_Pyde-Bull_, St. Austin's-gate, and was the proprietor of several of the
_intelligencers_, from 1622 to about 1640. Nicholas _Bourne_ was a joint
partner with _Butter_ in _The Sweedish Intelligencer_, 4to. _Lond._ 1632.

xii. _Picturæ loquentes: or Pictures drawne forth in Characters. With a
Poeme of a Maid. By Wye Saltonstall. Ne sutor ultra crepidam. London:
Printed by T. Coles, &c. 1631. 12mo._

I have copied the above title from an article in the _Censura
Literaria_[DL], communicated by Mr. Park, of whose copious information,
and constant accuracy on every subject connected with English literature,
the public have many specimens before them.

Saltonstall's[DM] _Characters_, &c. reached a second edition in 1635. A
copy of this rare volume is in the possession of Mr. Douce, who, with his
accustomed liberality, permitted my able and excellent friend, Mr. John
James Park, to draw up the following account of it for the present volume.

To "The Epistle dedicatory" of this impression, the initials (or such
like) of dedicatee's name only are given, for, says the dedicator, "I know
no fame can redound unto you by these meane essayes, which were written,
_Ocium magis foventes, quam studentes gloriæ_, as sheapheards play upon
their oaten pipes, to recreate themselves, not to get credit."

"To the Reader.--Since the title is the first leafe that cometh under
censure, some, perhaps, will dislike the name of pictures, and say, I have
no _colour_ for it, which I confesse, for these pictures are not drawne in
colours, but in characters, representing to the eye of the minde divers
severall professions, which, if they appeare more obscure than I coulde
wish, yet I would have you know that it is not the nature of a character,
to be as smooth as a bull-rush, but to have some fast and loose knots,
which the ingenious reader may easily untie. The first picture is the
description of a maide, which young men may read, and from thence learn to
know, that vertue is the truest beauty. The next follow in their order,
being set together in this _little_ book, that in winter you may reade
them _ad ignem_, by the fire-side, and in summer _ad umbram_, under some
shadie tree, and therewith passe away the tedious howres. So hoping of thy
favourable censure, knowing that the least judicious are most ready to
judge, I expose them to thy view, with Apelles motto, _Ne sutor, ultra
crepidam_. Lastly, whether you like them, or leave them, yet the author
bids you welcome.

                                   "Thine as mine,


_The Original Characters are_,

  1. The world.
  2. An old man.
  3. A woman.
  4. A widdow.
  5. A true lover.
  6. A countrey bride.
  7. A plowman.
  8. A melancholy man.
  9. A young heire.
  10. A scholler in the university.
  11. A lawyer's clarke.
  12. A townsman in Oxford.
  13. An usurer.
  14. A wandering rogue.
  15. A waterman.
  16. A shepheard.
  17. A jealous man.
  18. A chamberlaine.
  19. A mayde.
  20. A bayley.
  21. A countrey fayre.
  22. A countrey alehouse.
  23. A horse-race.
  24. A farmer's daughter.
  25. A keeper.
  26. A gentleman's house in the countrey.

_The Additions to the second Edition are_,

  27. A fine dame.
  28. A country dame.
  29. A gardiner.
  30. A captaine.
  31. A poore village.
  32. A merry man.
  33. A scrivener.
  34. The tearme.
  35. A mower.
  36. A happy man.
  37. An arrant knave.
  38. An old waiting gentlewoman.


Is a time when Justice keeps open court for all commers, while her sister
Equity strives to mitigate the rigour of her positive sentence. It is
called the Tearme, because it does end and terminate busines, or else
because it is the _Terminus_ ad quem, that is, the end of the countrey
man's journey, who comes up to the Tearme, and with his hobnayle shooes
grindes the faces of the poore stones, and so returnes againe. It is the
soule of the yeare, and makes it quicke, which before was dead. Inkeepers
gape for it as earnestly as shelfish doe for salt water after a low ebbe.
It sends forth new bookes into the world, and replenishes Paul's walke
with fresh company, where _Quid novi?_ is their first salutation, and the
weekely newes their chiefe discourse. The tavernes are painted against the
tearme, and many a cause is argu'd there and try'd at that barre, where
you are adjudg'd to pay the costs and charges, and so dismist with
'welcome gentlemen.' Now the citty puts her best side outward, and a new
play at the Blackfryers is attended on with coaches. It keepes watermen
from sinking and helpes them with many a fare voyage to Westminster. Your
choyse beauties come up to it onely to see and be seene, and to learne the
newest fashion, and for some other recreations. Now monie that has beene
long sicke and crasie, begins to stirre and walke abroad, especially if
some young prodigalls come to towne, who bring more money than wit.
Lastly, the tearme is the joy of the citty, a deare friend to countrymen,
and is never more welcome than after a long vacation."


[DL] Vol. 5, p. 372. Mr. Park says that the plan of the characters was
undoubtedly derived from that of Overbury, but, he adds, the execution is
greatly superior. Four stanzas from the poem entitled, _A Maid_, are
printed in the same volume.

[DM] An account of the author may be found in the _Athenæ Oxon._ Vol. 1.
col. 640.

xiii. _London and Country corbonadoed and quartered into seuerall
Characters. By Donald Lupton, 8vo. 1632._

[See British Bibliographer, i. 464; and Brand's Sale Catalogue, page 66,
No. 1754.]

xiv. _Character of a Gentleman_, appended to Brathwait's _English
Gentleman_, 4to. _London, by Felix Kyngston, &c. 1633._

xv. "_A strange Metamorphosis of Man, transformed into a Wildernesse.
Deciphered in Characters. London, Printed by Thomas Harper, and are to be
sold by Lawrence Chapman at his shop in Holborne, 1634._"

[12mo. containing pp. 296, not numbered.]

This curious little volume has been noticed by Mr. Haslewood, in the
_Censura Literaria_ (vii. 284.) who says, with justice, that a rich vein
of humour and amusement runs through it, and that it is the apparent
lucubration of a pen able to perform better things. Of the author's name I
have been unable to procure the least intelligence.

"THE HORSE (No. 16.)

Is a creature made, as it were, in waxe. When Nature first framed him, she
took a secret complacence in her worke. He is even her master-peece in
irracionall things, borrowing somewhat of all things to set him forth. For
example, his slicke bay coat hee tooke from the chesnut; his necke from
the rainbow, which perhaps make him rain so wel. His maine belike he took
from _Pegasus_, making him a hobbie to make this a compleat gennet[DN],
which main he weares so curld, much after the women's fashions now adayes;
this I am sure of howsoever, it becomes them, [and] it sets forth our
gennet well. His legges he borrowed of the hart, with his swiftnesse,
which makes him a true courser indeed. The starres in his forehead hee
fetcht from heaven, which will not be much mist, there being so many. The
little head he hath, broad breast, fat buttocke, and thicke tayle are
properly his owne, for he knew not where to get him better. If you tell
him of the hornes he wants to make him most compleat, he scornes the
motion, and sets them at his heele. He is well shod especially in the
upper leather, for as for his soles, they are much at reparation, and
often faine to be removed. Nature seems to have spent an apprentiship of
yeares to make you such a one, for it is full seven yeares ere hee comes
to this perfection, and be fit for the saddle: for then (as we,) it seemes
to come to the yeares of discretion, when he will shew a kinde of
rationall judgement with him, and if you set an expert rider on his backe,
you shall see how sensiblie they will talke together, as master and
scholler. When he shall be no sooner mounted and planted in the seat with
the reins in one hand, a switch in the other, and speaking with his
spurres in the horse's flankes, a language he wel understands, but he
shall prance, curvet, and dance the canaries[DO] halfe an houre together
in compasse of a bushell, and yet still, as he thinkes, get some ground,
shaking the goodly plume on his head with a comely pride. This will our
Bucephalus do in the lists: but when hee comes abroad into the fields, hee
will play the countrey gentleman as truly, as before the knight in
turnament. If the game be up once, and the hounds in chase, you shall see
how he will pricke up his eares streight, and tickle at the sport as much
as his rider shall, and laugh so loud, that if there be many of them, they
will even drowne the rurall harmony of the dogges. When he travels, of all
innes he loves best the signe of the silver bell, because likely there he
fares best, especially if hee come the first, and get the prize. He
carries his eares upright, nor seldome ever lets them fall till they be
cropt off, and after that, as in despight, will never weare them more. His
taile is so essentiall to him, that if he loose it once hee is no longer
an horse, but ever stiled a curtall. To conclude, he is a blade of
Vulcan's forging, made for Mars of the best metall, and the post of Fame
to carrie her tidings through the world, who, if he knew his own strength,
would shrewdly put for the monarchie of our wildernesse."


[DN] Mr. Steevens, in a note to Othello, explains a jennet to be a Spanish
horse; but from the passage just given, I confess it appears to me to mean
somewhat more. Perhaps a jennet was a horse kept solely for pleasure,
whose mane was suffered to grow to a considerable length, and was then
ornamented with platting, &c.--A hobby might answer to what we now term a
_hogged_ poney.

[DO] _The Canaries_ is the name of an old dance, freqnently alluded to in
our early English plays. Shakspeare uses it in _All's well that ends

                             ----"I have seen a medicine,
    That's able to breathe life into a stone;
    Quicken a rock, and make you _dance canary_
    With spritely fire and motion;"

Sir John Hawkins, in his _History of Musick_, iv. 391. says that it occurs
in the opera of _Dioclesian_, set to music by Purcell, and explains it to
be "a very sprightly movement of two reprises, or strains, with eight bars
in each: the time three quarters in a bar, the first pointed." I take this
opportunity of mentioning, that among Dr. Rawlinson's MSS. in the
Bodleian, [_Poet._ 108.] is a volume which contains a variety of figures
of old dances, written, as I conjecture, between the years 1566 and 1580.
Besides several others are the _pavyan_; _my Lord of Essex measures_;
_tyntermell_; _the old allmayne_; _the longe pavian_; _quanto dyspayne_;
_the nyne muses_, &c. As the pavian is mentioned by Shakspeare, in the
_Merry Wives of Windsor_, and as the directions for dancing the figure
have not been before discovered, I shall make no apology for offering them
in the present note.


ij singles, a duble forward; ij singles syde, a duble forward; rep[=i]nce
backe once, ij singles syde, a duble forward, one single backe twyse, ij
singles, a duble forward, ij singles syde, prerince backe once; ij singles
syde, a duble forward, reprince backe twyse."

xvi. _The true Character of an untrue Bishop; with a Recipe at the end how
to recover a Bishop if hee were lost. London, printed in the yeare

[4to. pp. 10, besides title.]


[DP] I have a faint recollection of a single character in a rare volume,
entitled "_A Boulster Lecture_," &c. Lond. 1640.

xvii. _Character of a Projector, by ---- Hogg. 4to. 1642._

xviii. _Character of an Oxford Incendiary. Printed for Robert White in
1643._ 4to.

[Reprinted in the Harleian Miscellany, V. 469. edit. 1744.]

xix. _The Reformado precisely charactered (with a frontispiece.)_

[See the Sale Catalogue of George Steevens, Esq. 8vo. Lond. 1800. page 66.
No. 1110.]

xx. "_A new Anatomie, or Character of a Christian or Round-head.
Expressing his Description, Excellencie, Happiness and Innocencie. Wherein
may appear how far this blind world is mistaken in their unjust Censures
of him. Virtus in Arduis. Proverbs xii. 26; and Jude 10_, quoted.)
_Imprimatur John Downame. London, Printed for Robert Leybourne, and are to
be sold at the Star, under Peter's Church in Corn-hill, 1645._ 8vo. pp.

[In Ashmole's Museum.]

xxi. In Lord North's _Forest of Varieties, London, Printed by Richard
Cotes_, 1645, are several _Characters_, as lord Orford informs us, "in the
manner of sir Thomas Overbury." _Royal and Noble Authors_, iii. 82. Of
this volume a second edition appeared in 1659, neither of these, however,
I have been able to meet with. For some account of the work, with
extracts, see Brydges' _Memoirs of the Peers of England_, 8vo. _London._
1802. page 343.

xxii. _Characters and Elegies[DQ]. By Francis Wortley, Knight and Baronet.
Printed in the yeere 1646._" 4to.

The characters are as follow:

1. The character of his royall majestie; 2. The character of the queene's
majestie; 3. The hopeful prince; 4. A true character of the illustrious
James Duke of York; 5. The character of a noble general; 6. A true English
protestant; 7. An antinomian, or anabaptisticall independent; 8. A
jesuite; 9. The true character of a northerne lady, as she is wife,
mother, and sister; 10. The politique neuter; 11. The citie paragon; 12. A
sharking committee-man; 13. Britanicus his pedigree--a fatall prediction
of his end; 14. The Phoenix of the Court.

_Britanicus his Pedigree--a fatall Prediction of his End._

I dare affirme him a Jew by descent, and of the tribe of Benjamin,
lineally descended from the first King of the Jewes, even Saul, or at best
he ownes him and his tribe, in most we reade of them. First, of our
English tribes, I conceive his father's the lowest, and the meanest of
that tribe, stocke, or generation, and the worst, how bad soever they be;
melancholy he is, as appeares by his sullen and dogged wit; malicious as
Saul to David, as is evident in his writings; he wants but Saul's javelin
to cast at him; he as little spares the king's friends with his pen, as
Saul did Jonathan his sonne in his reproach; and would be as free of his
javelin as his pen, were his power sutable to his will, as Ziba did to
Mephibosheth, so does he by the king, he belies him as much to the world,
as he his master to David, and in the day of adversitie is as free of his
tongue as Shimei was to his soveraigne, and would be as humble as he, and
as forward to meet the king as he was David, should the king returne in
peace. Abithaes there cannot want to cut off the dog's head, but David is
more mercifull then Shimei can be wicked; may he first consult with the
witch of Endor, but not worthy of so noble a death as his own sword, die
the death of Achitophel for feare of David, then may he be hang'd up as
the sonnes of Saul were against the sunne, or rather as the Amelekites who
slew Isbosheth, and brought tidings and the tokens of the treason to
David; may his hands and his feet be as sacrifices cut off, and so pay for
the treasons of his pen and tongue; may all heads that plot treasons, all
tongues that speake them, all pens that write them, be so punisht. If
Sheba paid his head for his tongue's fault, what deserves Britannicus to
pay for his pen and trumpet? Is there never a wise woman in London? we
have Abishaes.

       *       *       *       *       *

Francis Wortley, was the son of Sir Richard Wortley, of Wortley, in
Yorkshire, knight. At the age of seventeen he became a commoner of
Magdalen College, Oxford; in 1610 he was knighted, and on the 29th of June
in the following year, was created a baronet; being then, as Wood says,
esteemed an ingenious gentleman. During the civil wars he assisted the
royal cause, by raising a troop of horse in the king's service; but at
their conclusion he was taken prisoner, and confined in the tower of
London, where it seems he composed the volume just noticed. In the
_Catalogue of Compounders_ his name appears as "of Carleton, Yorkshire,"
and from thence we learn that he paid 500_l._ for his remaining property.
In the _Athenæ Oxonienses_ may be found a list of his works, but I have
been unable to trace the date of his decease. Mr. Granger says that "Anne,
his daughter, married the second son of the first Earl of Sandwich, who
took the name of Wortley," and adds that the late Countess of Bute was
descended from him. _Biographical History_, ii. 310.


[DQ] The Elegies, according to Wood, are upon the loyalists who lost their
lives in the king's service, at the end of which are epitaphs.

xxiii. _The Times anatomiz'd, in severall Characters. By T. F_[ord,
seruant to Mr. Sam. Man[DR].] _Difficile est Satyram non scribere. Juv.
Sat. 1. London, Printed for W. L. Anno 1647._"

[12mo. in the British Museum.]

_The Contents of the severall Characters._

  1. A good king.
  2. Rebelion.
  3. An honest subject.
  4. An hypocritical convert of the times.
  5. A souldier of fortune.
  6. A discontented person.
  7. An ambitious man.
  8. The vulgar.
  9. Errour.
  10. Truth.
  11. A selfe-seeker.
  12. Pamphlets.
  13. An envious man.
  14. True valour.
  15. Time.
  16. A newter.
  17. A turn-coat.
  18. A moderate man.
  19. A corrupt committee-man.
  20. A sectary.
  21. Warre.
  22. Peace.
  23. A drunkard.
  24. A novice-preacher.
  25. A scandalous preacher.
  26. A grave divine.
  27. A selfe-conceited man.
  29. Religion.
  30. Death.


Are the weekly almanacks, shewing what weather is in the state, which,
like the doves of Aleppo, carry news to every part of the kingdom. They
are the silent traytors that affront majesty, and abuse all authority,
under the colour of an _Imprimatur_. Ubiquitary flies that have of late so
blistered the eares of all men, that they cannot endure any solid truth.
The ecchoes, whereby what is done in part of the kingdome, is heard all
over. They are like the mushromes, sprung up in a night, and dead in a
day; and such is the greedinesse of men's natures (in these Athenian
dayes) of new, that they will rather feigne then want it."


[DR] (MS. interlineation in a copy among the King's pamphlets.)

xxiv. _Character of a London Diurnal_, 4to. 1647. [This was written by
Cleveland, and has been printed in the various editions of his poems.]

xxv. _Character of an Agitator. Printed in the Yeare 1647. 4to. pp. 7._

This concludes with the following epitome--"Hee was begotten of Lilburne
(with Overton's helpe) in Newgate, nursed up by Cromwell, at first by the
army, tutored by Mr. Peters, counselled by Mr. Walwin and Musgarve,
patronised by Mr. Martin, (who sometimes sits in counsell with them,
though a member) and is like to dye no where but at Tyburne, and that
speedily, if hee repent not and reforme his erronious judgement, and his
seditious treasonable practises against king, parliament, and martiall
discipline itselfe. Finis."

xxvi. In Mr. Brand's Sale Catalogue, No. 1754, we have _The Surfeit to
A.B.C._ 8vo. Lond. 1656, which is there represented to consist of

xxvii. _Characters of a Temporizer and an Antiquary._ [In "_Naps upon
Parnassus_," 8vo. 1658. See the Censura Literaria, vol. vi. p. 225; vol.
vii. p. 341.]

xxviii. _Satyrical Characters, and handsom Descriptions, in Letters_, 8vo.
1658. [Catalogue of Thomas Britton the Small Coal Man, 4to, p. 19. No.

xxix. _A Character of England, as it was lately presented in a Letter to a
Noble-man of France. With Reflections upon Gallus Castratus. The third
Edition. London. Printed for John Crooke, and are to be sold at the Ship
in St. Paul's Church-Yard, 1659._

(12mo. pp. 66, title and preface 20 more.)

This very severe satire upon the English nation was replied to in the
following publication.

xxx. _A Character of France, to which is added Gallus Castratus, or an
Answer to a late slanderous Pamphlet, called the Character of England. Si
talia nefanda et facinora quis non Democritus? London, Printed for Nath.
Brooke, at the Angel in Cornhill, 1659._

xxxi. _A perfect Description of the People and Country of Scotland.
London. Printed for J. S. 1659._

(12mo. pp. 21. besides the title.)

xxxii. _A brief Character of the Low Countries under the States, being
Three Weeks Observation of the Vices and Vertues of the Inhabitants. Non
seria semper. London, printed for H. S. and are to be sold by H. Lowndes,
at the White Lion in St. Paul's Church Yard, neer the little North Door,

(12mo. pp. 500. title, &c. 6 more.)

Written by Owen Feltham, and appended to the several folio editions of his

xxxiii. _The Character of Italy: Or, The Italian Anatomiz'd by an English
Chirurgion. Difficile est Satyram non scribere. London: Printed for Nath.
Brooke, at the Angel in Cornhil. 1660._

[12mo. pp. 93, title and preface 12 more.]

xxxiv. _The Character of Spain: Or, An Epitome of Their Virtues and

    ---- _Adeo sunt multa, loquacem
    Ut lassare queant Fabium._

_London: Printed for Nath. Brooke, at the Angel in Cornhil. 1660._

[12mo. pp. 93, title, &c. 12 more.]

xxxv. _Essayes and Characters, by L. G._ 8vo. 1661.

[See Brand's _Sale Catalogue_, No. 1754.]

xxxvi. _The Assembly-man. Written in the Year 1647. London: Printed for
Richard Marriot, and are to be sold at his shop under St. Dunstan's
Church, in Fleet-street, 1662-3[DS]._

[4to. pp. 22.]

Sir John Birkenhead was the author of this character, which was printed
again in 1681, and in 1704 with the following title, "_The Assembly-man.
Written in the Year 1647; but proves the true character of (Cerberus) the
observator_, MDCCIV." It was also reprinted in the _Harleian Miscellany_,
v. 93. For an account of the author, see the _Biographia Britannica_,
edit. Kippis, ii. 324.


[DS] With a very curious and rare frontispiece.

xxxvii. _Fifty-five[DT] Enigmatical Characters, all very exactly drawn to
the Life, from several Persons, Humours, Dispositions. Pleasant and full
of Delight. By R. F. Esq.; London: Printed for William Crook, at the sign
of the Three Bibles on Fleet-bridge. 1665[DU]._"

[8vo. pp. 135, title, index, &c. not numbered, 11 more.]

Richard Flecknoe, the author of these characters, is more known from
having his name affixed to one of the severest satires ever written by
Dryden, than from any excellence of his own as a poet or dramatic writer.
Mr. Reed conceives him to have been a Jesuit, and Pope terms him an Irish
priest. Langbaine says, that "his acquaintance with the nobility was more
than with the muses, and he had a greater propensity to rhyming, than a
genius to poetry." As a proof of the former assertion the Duke of
Newcastle prefixed two copies of verses to his characters, in which he
calls Flecknoe "his worthy friend," and says:

    "Flecknoe, thy characters are so full of wit
    And fancy, as each word is throng'd with it.
    Each line's a volume, and who reads would swear
    Whole libraries were in each character.
    Nor arrows in a quiver stuck, nor yet
    Lights in the starry skies are thicker set,
    Nor quills upon the armed porcupine,
    Than wit and fancy in this work of thine.

    W. Newcastle."

To confirm the latter, requires only the perusal of his verses, which were
published in 1653, under the title of _Miscellania_. Besides these, he
wrote five[DV] dramatic pieces, the titles of which may be found in the
_Biographia Dramatica_; a collection of _Epigrams_, 8vo. 1670; _Ten Years
Travels in Europe.--A short Discourse of the English Stage_, affixed to
_Love's Dominion_, 8vo. 1654; _The Idea of his Highness Oliver, late Lord
Protector, &c._ 8vo. 1659. &c. &c.[DW]


"He is onely a man; your coward and rash being but tame and savage beasts.
His courage is still the same, and drink cannot make him more valiant, nor
danger lesse. His valour is enough to leaven whole armies, he is an army
himself worth an army of other men. His sword is not alwayes out like
children's daggers, but he is alwayes last in beginning quarrels, though
first in ending them. He holds honour (though delicate as chrystall) yet
not so slight and brittle to be broak and crackt with every touch;
therefore (though most wary of it,) is not querilous nor punctilious. He
is never troubled with passion, as knowing no degree beyond clear courage,
and is alwayes valiant, but never furious. He is the more gentle i' th'
chamber, more fierce he's in the field, holding boast (the coward's
valour,) and cruelty (the beast's,) unworthy a valiant man. He is only
coward in this, that he dares not do an unhandsome action. In fine, he can
onely be evercome by discourtesie, and has but one deffect--he cannot talk
much--to recompence which he dos the more."


[DT] I omit to particularize these characters, as many of the titles are
extremely long--"of a lady of excellent conversation. Of one that is the
foyle of good conversation." &c. &c.

[DU] Mr. Reed possessed a copy, dated in 1658. See his _Catalogue_, No.

[DV] Langbaine notices a prologue intended for a play, called _The
Physician against his Will_, which he thinks was never published. A MS.
note in my copy of the _Dramatic Poets_, says it was printed in 1712.

[DW] The Bodleian library contains "_The Affections of a pious Soule, unto
our Saviour-Christ. Expressed in a mixed treatise of verse and prose. By
Richard Flecknoe._" 8vo. 1640. This I can scarcely consent to give to
_Mac_ Flecknoe, as in the address "To the Town Reader," the author informs
us that, "ashamed of the many idle hours he has spent, and to avoid the
expence of more, he has retired from the town"--and we are certain that
_Mac_ resided there long after.

xxxviii. _The Character of a Coffee-house, with the symptoms of a
Town-witt. With Allowance. April 11, 1673. London, Printed for Jonathan
Edwin, at the Three Roses in Ludgate-street, 1673._

[Folio, reprinted in the _Harleian Miscellany_, with an answer to it, vol.
vi. 429-433.]

xxxix. _Essays of Love and Marriage: Being Letters written by two
Gentlemen, one dissuading from Love, the other an Answer thereunto. With
some Characters, and other Passages of Wit._

    ---- _Si quando gravabere curis,
    Hæc lege, pro moestæ medicamine mentis habeto._

_London, Printed for H. Brome, at the Gun in St. Paul's Church-yard,

[12mo. pp. 103, title, &c. 4 more.]

xl. _The Character of a Fanatick. By a Person of Quality. London. 1675._

[4to. pp. 8. Reprinted in the _Harleian Miscellany_, vii. 596.]

  xli. _Character of a Towne Gallant  }
  of a Towne Miss                       }
  of an honest drunken Curr             }
  of a pilfering Taylor                 }
  of an Exchange Wench                  }
  of a Sollicitor                       } 1675.
  of a Scold                            }
  of an ill Husband                     }
  of a Dutchman                         }
  of a Pawnbroker                       }
  of a Tally Man_                    }

[4to. See _Sale Catalogue_ of George Steevens, Esq. 8vo. London, 1800,
page 66, No. 1110.]

xlii. _A Whip for a Jockey: or, a Character of an Horse-courser. 1677.
London, Printed for R. H. 1677._

[8vo. pp. 29.]

xliii. _Four for a Penny, or Poor Robin's Character of an unconscionable
Pawnbroker, and Ear-mark of an oppressing Tally-man; with a friendly
Description of a Bum-bailey, and his merciless setting cur, or follower.
With Allowance. London, Printed for L. C. 1678._

[4to. reprinted in the _Harleian Miscellany_, vol. iv. p. 141.]

xliv. _Character of an ugly Woman: or, a Hue and Cry after Beauty_, in
prose, written (by the Duke of Buckingham) in 1678. See Lord Orford's
_Royal and Noble Authors_, by Park, iii. 309.

xlv. _Character of a disbanded Courtier. Ingenium Galbæ male habitat.

[Folio, pp. 2. Reprinted in the _Harleian Miscellany_, i. 356.]

xlvi. _Character of a certain ugly old P----. London, Printed in the Year

[In Oldham's _Works_, 8vo. London, 1684.]

xlvii. _Twelve ingenious Characters: or pleasant Descriptions of the
Properties of sundry Persons and Things, viz._

_An importunate dunn; a serjeant or bailiff; a paunbroker; a prison; a
tavern; a scold; a bad husband; a town-fop; a bawd; a fair and happy
milk-maid; the quack's directory; a young enamourist._

_Licensed, June the 2d, 1681. R. P. London, printed for S. Norris, and are
to be sold by most booksellers, 1686._

[12mo. pp. 48.]

xlviii. _Character of a Trimmer. By Sir William Coventry. 1689._

[4to. See _Bibliotheca Harleiana_, v. 4278.]

This was written long before publication, as is proved by the following.

xlix. _Character of a Tory in 1659, in answer to that of a Trimmer (never
published) both written in King Charles's reign._

[Reprinted in the _Works of George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham_.
4to. Lond. 1721.]

l. _Characters addressed to Ladies of Age._ 8vo. _Lond._ 1689.

[Brand's _Sale Catalogue_, p. 66, No. 1747.]

li. _The Ceremony-monger, his Character, in six Chapters, &c. &c. By E.
Hickeringill, Rector of the Rectory of All-Saints, in Colchester. London,
Printed and are to be sold by George Larkin, at the Two Swans, without
Bishopsgate. 1689._

[4to. pp. 66.]

lii. _Character of a Jacobite. 1690._

[4to. See _Bibl. Harl._ v. No. 4279.]

       *       *       *       *       *

The following are without date, but were probably printed before 1700[DX].


[DX] In Butler's _Remains_, published by Thyer, 2 vols. 8vo. 1759, are
several _Characters_ by the author of _Hudibras_, and consequently written
previously to this date, but as they do not appear to have been printed so
early, they cannot, with propriety, be included in this list.

liii. _Character of an Ill-court-favourite, translated from the French._

[4to. reprinted in the _Harleian Miscellany_, ii. 50.]

liv. _Character of an honest and worthy Parliament-Man._

[Folio, reprinted in the _Harleian Miscellany_, ii. 336.]

lv. _Characterism, or the Modern Age displayed._

[Brand's _Sale Catalogue_, No. 1757.]

_Character of the Presbyterian Pastors and People of Scotland._

[_Bibl. Harleiana_, v. No. 4280.]

vii. _Character of a compleat Physician or Naturalist[DY]._

[_Bibl. Harleiana_, v. No. 4304.]


[DY] In the extracts made from the foregoing series of _Characters_, the
original orthography has been most scrupulously attended to, in order to
assist in shewing the progress and variation of the English language.


    Page 2, line 18, for _ports_ read _sports_.

    4, line 9, "_table-book._" The custom of writing in
    table-books, or, as it was then expressed, "in tables,"
    is noticed, and instances given in Reed's _Shakspeare_,
    vi, 13. xii, 170. xviii, 88. Dr. Farmer adduces a
    passage very applicable to the text, from Hall's
    character of the _hypocrite_. "He will ever sit where he
    may be seene best, and in the midst of the sermon pulles
    out his _tables_ in haste, as if he feared to loose that
    note," &c. Decker, in his _Guls Hornebooke_, page 8,
    speaking to his readers, says, "out with your _tables_,"

    6, note 6.--This is also mentioned in _Whimzies_, 8vo.
    1631, p. 57. "Hee must now betake himself to prayer and
    devotion; _remember the founder, benefactors, head, and
    members of that famous foundation_: all which he
    performes with as much zeale as an actor after the end
    of a play, when hee prayes for his majestie, the lords
    of his most honourable privie councell, and all that
    love the king."

    13, note 10.--From a subsequent edition, obligingly
    pointed out to me by the rev. Mr. arch-deacon Nares, I
    find that this also is a translation: _Regimen Sanitatis
    Salerni. This booke teachyng all people to gouerne the
    in health, is translated out of the Latine tongue into
    Englishe, by Thomas Paynell, whiche booke is amended,
    augmented, and diligently imprinted. 1575._ Colophon. ¶
    _Jmprynted at London, by Wyllyam How, for Abraham
    Ueale._ The preface says, that it was compiled for the
    use "of the moste noble and victorious kynge of England,
    and of Fraunce, by all the doctours in Phisicke of the
    Uniuersitie of Salerne."

    17, line 17, "_door-posts_."--It was usual for public
    officers to have painted or gilded posts at their doors,
    on which proclamations, and other documents of that
    description, were placed, in order to be read by the
    populace. See various allusions to this custom, in
    Reed's _Shakspeare_, v. 267. _Old Plays_, iii. 303. The
    _reformation_ means that they were, in the language of
    our modern churchwardens, "repaired and beautified,"
    during the reign of our alderman.

    45, line 11, for _Gollobelgicus_ read _Gallobelgicus_.

    47, line 15. "_post and pair_" was a game at cards, of
    which I can give no description. The author of the
    _Compleat Gamester_ notices it as "very much played in
    the West of England." See Dodsley's _Old Plays_, 1780.
    vii. 296.

    48, line 12--"_guarded with more gold lace_." The word
    _guarded_ is continually used by the writers of the
    sixteenth century for _fringed_ or _adorned_. See Reed's
    _Shakspeare_, vii. 272. _Old Plays_, iv. 36.

    59, line 15, "_clout_." Shakspeare (Cymbeline, act iv.
    scene 2.) uses the expression of _clouted brogues_,
    which Mr. Steevens explains to be "shoes strengthened
    with _clout_ or _hob-nails_."

    63, line 9, "_dragon that pursued the woman._" Evidently
    an allusion to _Revelations_, xii. 15.

    91, note 8, line 15, for _Styla_ read _Hyla_ in both

    92, note 10, line 5, for _Leiden_ read _Leyden_.

    117, line 3, "Their humanity is a _leg to the
    residencer_." A _leg_ here signifies a _bow_. Decker
    says, "a jewe neuer weares his cap threedbare with
    putting it off; neuer bends i' th' hammes with _casting
    away a leg_, &c." _Guls Hornebooke._ p. 11.

    182, note 1, for _spunge_ read _sponge_.

    208, line 4, for _spera_ read _spero_.

    ib. line 30, for _conjesta_ read _congesta_.

    ib. line 31, for _susuperavit_ read _superavit_.

    231, line 11, for _Jude_ read _Inde_: for _ferucat_ read

    245, line 7, for _whosc_ read _whose_.

Several errors and inaccuracies of less consequence than those here
pointed out, will probably be discovered. These were occasioned by the
editor's distance from the press, and he requests the gentle reader to
pardon and correct them.

[Transcriber's note:
Despite a valiant effort to the contrary some additional transcription
errors may have slipped through during the preparation of this e-text.
We can't blame the distance between the editor and the press.
Please forward any corrections to Doctrine Publishing Corporation errata.]

The _Inscription_, No. x. of the _Appendix_, should have been entirely
omitted. The following extract from Guillim's _Heraldry_, shews that
Bishop Earle could not have been connected with the Streglethorp family,
since, if he had, there would have been no occasion for a new grant of
armorial bearings.

    "He beareth _ermine_, on a chief indented sable, three
    eastern crowns or, by the name of _Earles_. This coat
    was granted by _Sir Edward Walker_, garter, the 1st of
    August, 1660, to the Reverend Dr. _John Earles_, son of
    _Thomas Earles_, gent, sometime Register of the
    Archbishop's Court at York. He was Dean of
    _Westminster_, and Clerk of the Closet to his Majesty
    King _Charles_ the Second; and in the year 1663, made
    Bishop of _Salisbury_."

    Guillim's _Heraldry_, folio. Lond. 1724. p. 282.

It is almost unnecessary to add that I was not aware of this grant, when I
compiled the short account of Earle, at page 186, and spoke of my
inability to give any information relative to his parents.


  Abishaes, 266.

  Abithaes, 266.

  Abraham-man, 221.

  Achitophel, 266.

  Acquaintance, Character of, 144.

  Aeneas, 147.

  Affected man, character of, 169.

  _Affections of a pious Soule_, by Richard Flecknoe, 273.

  Alderman, character of, 16.

  Aleppo, 268.

  Alexis of Piedmont, 12.

  Alfred, king, 4.

  Allmayne, 262.

  _All's well that ends well_, by Shakspeare, 262.

  Allot, Robert, li.

  Almanack in the bones, 37.

  Alresford, Hampshire, 211.

  Ames, Mr. lx, 220, 228.

  Amsterdam, 90.

  _Anatomy of Melancholly_, by Burton, 46, 73, 228.

  Angglear, 221.

  Antem-morte, 222.

  Antiquary, character of, 20.

  Aristophanes, 205.

  Aristotle, 9, 30.

  Arminian, 30.

  Arminius, 114.

  Ashmole's Museum, Oxford, 198, 264.

  Atkinson, Mr. 211.

  Atkyns, Sir Robert, 40.

  _Athenæ Oxonienses_, by Wood, l, 212, 257, 267.

  Attorney, character of, 93.

  Austin, 113.

  Awdeley, John, 228.

  Baal, priests of, 87.

  Babel, tower of, 21, 104.

  Bagster, Richard, 213.

  Baker, character of a, 111.

  Bales, Peter, 5.

  Bardolph, 105.

  Barnes, John, 74.

  Barnes, Juliana, 50.

  Barrington, Daines, 32.

  Barton, Elizabeth, 109.

  Barwick, Dr. 191. _Life of_, 191.

  Bawdy-basket, 222.

  Bayle, 91.

  Beaumont, Francis, 197, 203, 204, 205.

  _Beau's Duel_, by Mrs. Centlivre, 82.

  Bedford, Earl of, 12.

  Bellarmine, Cardinal, 6, 90.

  _Belman of London_, by Decker, 221.
    Copy, with Burton's MS. notes, 228.

  Benar, 227.

  Bene, 225.

  Benjamin, 265.

  Benjamin's mess, 109.

  Bessus, 205.

  Bethlem, 249.

  _Bible_, printed at Geneva, 3.

  _Bibliographia Poetica_, by Ritson, 237.

  _Bibliotheca Harleiana_, 276, 277, 278.

  _Biographia Britannica_, 271.

  _Biographia Dramatica_, 272.

  Birkenhead, Sir John, 271.

  Bishopstone, 188, 190.

  Blackfriar's, play at, 259.

  Blomefield's _History of Norfolk_, 217.

  Blount, Edward, xlix, l, li, lx.

  Blount, Ralph, lx.

  Blunt man, character of, 119.

  Bobadil, 105.

  Bodleian Library, Oxford, 73, 198, 199, 228, 231, 262, 273.

  _Boke of hawkynge, huntynge, and fysshinge_, 50.

  Bold forward man, character of, 108.

  Bong, 227.

  Books, mode of placing them in old libraries, 66.

  Bord, 226.

  Borgia, 79.

  Bouge, 225.

  _Boulster, Lecture_, 263.

  Bourne, Nicholas, 255.

  Bouse, 225, 226.

  Bousing-ken, 227.

  Bowl-alley, character of, 76.

  Brachigraphy, 5.

  Brand, Mr. 230, 260, 269, 271, 277, 278.

  Bread used in England in the sixteenth century, 47.

  Breeches, 3.

  Breton, captain, 237.

  Breton, Nicholas, 14, 198, 236, 237.
    _Life of_, 237

  _Breton's Longing_, 237.

  Bridewell, 249.

  Britannicus, his pedigree, 265.

  _British Bibliographer_, by Brydges, 228, 260.

  British Museum, li, 267.

  _British Topography_, by Gough, an addition to, 253.

  Britton, Thomas, 269.

  Brownist, 87.

  Brydges, Sir Samuel Egerton, 228, 237, 264.

  Bucephalus, 262.

  Bukingham, duke of, 199, 276, 277.

  Bullen, earl of, 163.

  Burford, Oxfordshire, 211.

  Burroughs, Sir John, 197.
    _Lines on_, 199, 200.

  Burton, Robert, 46, 73, 228.

  Butler, Samuel, 277.

  Butter, Nathaniel, 255.

  Buttery, 127.

  Byng, 227.

  C. F. 232.

  Caeling cheat, 226.

  Cæsar, 20.

  Cæsars, the, 124.

  Calais sands, 81, 82.

  Cambridge, 161.

  Camden, 72.

  Canaries, a dance, 262.

  Canary, 36, 37.

  Cant phrases, 221, 222, 225, 226, 227.

  Capel, Mr. 229.

  Carrier, character of a, 40.

  Carte, 199.

  Casaubon, 114.

  Cassan, 226.

  Cassel, siege of, 28.

  _Catalogue of Compounders for their Estates_, 266.

  Cato, 62, 154.

  _Caveat for Commen Cursetors_, 219.

  _Censura Literaria_, 229, 236, 237, 256, 260, 269.

  Centlivre, Mrs. 82.

  Centoes, 72.

  _Century of Inventions_, by the Marquis of Worcester, 33.

  Cerberus, 271.

  Chalmers, Mr. 46.

  Cham, 136.

  Chandler, R. lii.

  _Character of an agitator_, 268.

  _Character of an antiquary_, 269.

  _Character of an assemblyman_, 271.

  _Character of an untrue bishop_, 263.

  _Character of a ceremony-monger_, 277.

  _Character of a coffee-house_, 274.

  _Character of a disbanded courtier_, 276.

  _Character of an ill-court-favourite_, 277.

  _Character of an honest drunken cur_, 275.

  _Character of a Dutchman_, 275.

  _Character of England_, 269.

  _Character of an exchange-wench_, 275.

  _Character of a fanatic_, 274.

  _Character of France_, 269.

  _Character of a town-gallant_, 275.

  _Character of a horse-courser_, 275.

  _Character of an ill husband_, 275.

  _Character of the hypocrite_, 279.

  _Character of a Jacobite_, 277.

  _Character of Italy_, 270.

  _Character of a London diurnal_, 268.

  _Character of the Low Countries_, 270.

  _Character of an Oxford incendiary_, 263.

  _Character of a certain ugly old P----_, 276.

  _Character of an honest and worthy parliament man_, 278.

  _Character of a pawn-broker_, 275.

  _Character of a complete physician, or naturalist_, 278.

  _Character of the Presbyterian pastors and people of Scotland_, 278.

  _Character of a projector_, 263.

  _Character of a scold_, 275.

  _Character of Scotland_, 270.

  _Character of a solicitor_, 275.

  _Character of Spain_, 270.

  _Character of a tally-man_, 275.

  _Character of a pilfering taylor_, 275.

  _Character of a temporizer_, 269.

  _Character of a tory_, 277.

  _Character of a town miss_, 275.

  _Character of a trimmer_, 276.

  _Character of an ugly woman_, 276.

  Characters: List of books containing characters, 219.

  Characters, by Butler, 277.

  _Characters and Elegies_, by Wortley, 265.

  _Characters upon Essaies_, 236.

  _Characters addressed to Ladies_, 277.

  _Characters of virtues and vices, by bishop Hall_, 248.

  _Characterism, or the modern age displayed_, 278.

  _Characters, twelve ingenious; or pleasant descriptions_, 276.

  Charles I. 190, 191, 193, 218, 277.

  Charles II. 190, 191, 193, 207, 282.

  Charles, Prince, 189.

  Chates, 227.

  Chaucer, 12, 99, 137, 206.

  Cheap, cross in, 163.

  Chess-play, verses on, by Breton, 240.

  Chete, 226.

  Child, character of, 1.

  Christ-church, Oxford, 187, 191.

  Christmas, 150.

  Chuck, 162.

  Church-papist, character of, 27.

  _Cinthia's Revenge_, by Stephens, 231.

  Citizen, character of a mere gull, 160.

  _City Match_, by Mayne, 85, 105.

  Clarendon, Lord, 189, 191.
    His character of Earle, 194.

  _Clerke's Tale_, by Chaucer, 137.

  Cleveland, 268.

  Cliff, Lord, 37.

  Clitus-Alexandrinus, 251.

  Clout, 59, 281.

  Clye, 227.

  Cocke, J. 235.

  Cocke Lorell, 228.

  _Cocke Lorelles Bote_, 228.

  Cofe, 225, 227.

  Colchester, 277.

  College butler, character of, 45.

  Comments on books, 124.

  _Compleat gamester_, 280.

  Complimental man, character of, 147.

  Conceited man, character of, 29.

  _Conceited pedlar_, by Randolph, 161.

  Constable, character of, 53.

  Constantinople, 28.

  Contemplative man, character of, 82.

  Cook, character of a, 106.

  Cooper, Mrs. 237.

  Corranto-coiner, character of, 252.

  Couched, 225.

  Coventry, Sir William, 276.

  Councellor, character of a worthy, 238.

  Councellor, character of an unworthy, 238.

  Counterfet cranke, 222.

  Country knight, character of, 48.

  Courtier, character of, 230.

  Coward, character of, 173.

  Cowardliness, essay on, in verse, 232.

  Coxeter, 231.

  Cranke, 222.

  Cressey, Hugh, his character of Earle, 196.

  Cramprings, 227.

  Crimchan, 253.

  Critic, character of, 123.

  Cromwell, 268.

  Crooke, Andrew, lii.

  Cuffen, 226.

  Cupid, 230.

  _Cure for the itch_, by H. P. 246.

  Cut, 225, 227.

  Dallison, Maximilian, 238.

  Dances, old, 262.

  Danet, Thomas, 232.

  Danvers, Lord, 211.

  Darius, 107.

  Darkemans, 225.

  David, 265, 266.

  Davies of Hereford, 229.

  Dear year, 175.

  Deboshments, 181.

  Decker, 33, 34, 98, 221, 279, 281.

  Dele, 222.

  Demaunder for glymmar, 222.

  Demetrius, Charles, 73.

  Denny, Lord Edward, 249.

  _Description of unthankfulnesse_, by Breton, 237.

  Detractor, character of a, 63.

  Deuseauyel, 227.

  Digby, Sir Kenelm, 15.

  Dinascoso, 224.

  Dining in Pauls, 105.

  Dinners given by the sheriff, 39.

  Dioclesian, 262.

  Discontented man, character of, 18.

  _Discourse of the English stage_, by Flecknoe, 273.

  Divine, character of a grave, 8.

  Dole, 111.

  Dommerar, 222.

  Door-posts, 17, 280.

  Douce, Mr. 257.

  Doves of Aleppo, 268.

  Doxe, 222.

  Dragon that pursued the woman, 63.

  _Dramatic Poets_, by Langbaine, xlix.

  Drugger, 14.

  Drunkard, character of, 136.

  Dryden, 272.

  Dudes, 227.

  Dunton, John, 131.

  Duppa, Dr. 189.

  Dutchmen, their love for rotten cheese, 20.

  Earle, Bishop, xlviii, l, lii:
    Life of, 186, &c.
    Characters of, 194, 195, 196, 282:
    list of his works, 197:
    name of Earle, lvii.

  Earle, Sir Richard, 218.

  Earle, Thomas, 282.

  Earthquake in Germany, 73.

  _Ecclesiastical Polity_, by Hooker, 190, 193, 197,
    translated into Latin, 190.

  Edward I. 163.

  Effeminate fool, character of, 239.

  [Greek: Eikôn Basilikê] 190, 193, 197,
    dedication to the Latin translation, 207.

  Eleven of the clock, 39.

  Elizabeth, queen, 20, 39, 103, 163.

  Ellinor, queen, 163.

  Ellis, 237.

  Ellis, Henry, li.

  Empty wit, character of an, 134.

  Endor, witch of, 266.

  England, 96, 116.

  _England's selected characters_, 236.

  _English Gentleman_, by Brathwait, 260.

  _Epigrams_, by Flecknoe, 272.

  _Epigrams_, by H. P. 246.

  Esau, 22.

  _Essayes and Characters_, by L. G. 271.

  _Essays and characters of a prison_, by Mynshul, 138, 243.

  _Essays of Love and Marriage_, 274.

  Essex, Lord, 262,
    "lord of Essex' measures," a dance, 262.

  _Every Man in his Humour_, by Ben Jonson, 105, 142.

  Euphormio, 67.

  _Excellent vercis worthey Imitation_, supposed by Breton, 238.

  Eyes upon noses, 37.

  Elyot, Sir Thomas, 49.

  F. R. 271.

  F. T. 267.

  Fabricius, 46.

  Falcons, 49.

  Falstaff, 19, 105.

  Farley, William, 40.

  Farmer, Dr. 229.

  Feltham, Owen, 270.

  Fiddler, character of a poor, 149.

  _Fifty-five enigmatical characters_, by R. F. 271.

  _Figures_, by Breton, 198, 238.

  _Figure of foure_, by Breton, 198.

  Fines, Catherine, 252.

  Fines, Mary, 252.

  Fines, Sir William, 252.

  Finical, 160.

  Fires, 28.

  _Fishing_, treatise on, 50.

  Flagge, 225.

  Flatterer, character of a, 155.

  Flecknoe, Richard, 271, 272, 273.

  Fleming, 176.

  Fletcher, John, 203.

  Flitchman, 221.

  Florio, 224.

  Ford, T. 267.

  Formal man, character of, 25.

  Four of the clock, 107.

  _Four for a penny; or poor Robin's characters_, 275.

  _Four prentises of London_, by Heywood, 98, 163.

  France, 269.

  Frater, 221.

  _Fraternitye of Vacabondes_, 221, 228.

  Fresh-water Mariner, 221.

  Freze, white, 223.

  Frieze jerkins, 221.

  Frost, great, 175, 176.

  _Funeral Monuments_, by Weever, 103.

  G. L. 271.

  Gage, 225.

  Galen, 12, 30.

  Gallant, character of an idle, 51.

  Gallobelgicus, 255.

  _Gallus Castratus_, 269.

  Gallye slops, 221.

  Gavel-kind, 24.

  Gee and ree, 58.

  Geneva bible, 3.

  Geneva print, 84.

  Gennet, 261.

  Germany, 24, 73.

  Gerry, 227.

  Gigges, 239.

  Gilding of the cross, 163.

  Gildon's _Lives of the English Dramatic poets_, 231.

  Giles's, St. Church, Oxford, 4.

  Girding, 19.

  _Glossographia Anglicana Nova_, 141.

  Gloucester cathedral, 40.

  _Gloucestershire, History of_, by Atkyns, 41.

  Goddard, author of the _Mastif-whelp_, 15.

  God's judgments, 73.

  Gold hat-bands, 67.

  Gold tassels, worn by noblemen at the University, 67.

  _Good and the bad_, by Breton, 14, 236.

  _Governour_, by Sir Thomas Elyot, 49.

  Gough, Mr. 237, 253.

  Gown of an alderman, 18.

  Granger, Mr. 267.

  Great man, character of a meer, 177.

  Greek's collections, 72.

  Grunting chete, 226.

  Gryffith, William, 219.

  Guarded with gold lace, 280.

  Guillim, John, 282.

  Gull in plush, 163.

  _Gul's Hornebooke_, by Decker, 33, 34, 98, 279, 281.

  Gygger, 226.

  Hall, Bishop, 248, 279.

  _Harleian Miscellany_, 271, 274, 275, 276, 277.

  Harman, Thomas, 219.

  Harmanes, 226.

  Harrison, William, 24, 39, 47.

  Hart-hall, Oxford, 211.

  Haslewood, Mr. 260.

  Hawking, 49, 142.

  Hawkins, Sir John, 111, 262.

  Hay, James Lord, 249.

  Hederby, 163.

  Hemingford, Huntingdonshire, 211.

  _Henry the Fourth_, by Shakspeare, 105.

  Henry VI. 15.

  Henry VII. 4.

  Henry VIII. 33.

  Herald, character of an, 115.

  _Heraldry_, Treatise on, by Guillim, 282.

  Herbert, Mr. 220, 228.

  Heylin, Peter, account of, 211
    --inscription on his monument, 211.

  Heyne, 148.

  Heywood, 98, 163.

  Hickeringill, E. 277.

  High-spirited man, character of, 158.

  Hill, Mr. lii.

  Hippocrates, 12.

  _History of England_, by Carte, 199.

  _Histrio-mastix_, by Prynne, 62.

  Hobby, 261.

  Hogeshed, 225.

  Hogg, 263.

  Hogged poney, 261.

  Hoker, 221.

  Holinshed, Raphael, 5, 15, 24, 39, 47, 109, 175, 176.

  Holt, in Germany, 73.

  Honest man, character of an ordinary, 181.

  Hooker, Richard, 190, 193, 196, 197.

  Hool, Samuel, 131.

  _Horæ Subsecivæ_, xlix.

  Horse-race terms, 142.

  _Hortus Mertonensis_, a poem by Earle, 197.

  _Hospitall of Incurable Fooles_, lx.

  Hostess, character of a handsome, 122.

  Houghton, Sir Gilbert, 236.

  Houghton in the Spring, 211.

  Howell, James, 37.

  _Hudibras_, 277.

  Huggeringe, 224.

  Hugger-mugger, 224.

  Hungarian, 125.

  Hunting, 142.

  _Husband_, a poem, 229.

  Hygh-pad, 226.

  Hypocrite, character of a she precise, 84.

  Jacob, 22.

  Jail-bird, 100.

  James I. 20, 62, 92, 103.

  James II. 191.

  Jarke, 227.

  Jarke-man, 222.

  _Idea of his highness Oliver_, by Flecknoe, 273.

  Jealous man, character of, 183.

  Jennet, 261.

  Jerusalem, 164.

  Jesses, 50.

  Jesuits, 99, 114.

  Ignoramus, 235.

  _Illustrious wife_, by Giles Oldisworth, 229.

  Imputation, 143, 161.

  Inquisition, 31.

  Insolent man, character of, 142.

  John Dory, 150.

  John's, St. College, Oxford, 211.

  Johnson, Richard, 252.

  Jonathan, 265.

  Jonson, Ben, 105:
    Lines by, 232.

  Jordans, 36.

  Isbosheth, 266.

  Islip, Oxfordshire, 212.

  Juliana Barnes, or Berners, 50.

  Jump, 156.

  Keckerman, Bartholomew, 46.

  Keep, 118.

  Ken or Kene, 225, 226, 227.

  Kennett, White, 195:
    his character of Earle, 195.

  Kent, 24, 25.

  Kent, maid of, 109.

  King's bench prison, 244.

  Kippis, Dr. 271.

  Knight, character of a country, 48.

  Kynchin-co, 222.

  Kynchin-morte, 222.

  Lage, 225.

  Lagge, 227.

  Lambarde, 25.

  Lambeth-palace, 111.

  Langbaine, xlix, 231, 272.

  _Laquei ridiculosi_, by H. P. 246.

  Lascivious man, character of, 165.

  Laud, Bishop, 211.

  Laurence, St. 107.

  Leg to the residencer, 117, 281.

  Legs in hands, 37.

  Legerdemain, 182.

  Legh, Anne, 237.

  Legh, Sir Edward, 237.

  Leicester, Earl of, 237.

  Leigh, see Legh.

  Le Neve, 217.

  Lent, 61.

  _Letters_, by Howell, 37.

  _Life and Errors of John Dunton_, by himself, 131.

  _Life of Ruddiman_, by Chalmers, 45.

  Lilburne, 268.

  Lilly, xlix.

  Lipken, 225.

  Lipped, 225.

  Lipsius, 30.

  London, 41, 175.

  London-bridge, 176.

  _London and country carbonadoed_, by Lupton, 260.

  _London Spy_, by Ward, 162.

  Long-lane, 255.

  Long pavian, a dance, 262.

  _Love's Dominion_, by Flecknoe, 273.

  Low Countries, 23, 237, 270:
    _Brief Character of_, by _Felltham_, 23.

  Lowre, 225, 227.

  Lucian, 138.

  Ludgate, 249.

  Lupton, Donald, 260.

  Lybbege, 225.

  Lycosthenes, 102.

  Lyghtmans, 225.

  M. G. 243.

  M. R. 249.

  _Macbeth_, by Shakspeare, 162.

  Mac-Flecknoe, 273.

  Machiavel, 31.

  Magdalen College, Oxford, 211, 266.

  _Maid, a Poem of_, by Salstonstall, 256.

  _Maid's Tragedy_, by Beaumont and Fletcher, 205.

  Mainwaring, Matthew, 244:
    family of, ib.

  Make, 225.

  Malaga wine, 37.

  Malone, Mr. 86.

  Man, Samuel, 267.

  Manchet, 47.

  Mars, 263.

  Martial, 135.

  Martin, 268.

  Mary's, St. Church, Oxford, 4, 109.

  _Mastif Whelp_, 15.

  _Mastive or young whelpe of the old dogge_, 246.

  Maund, 226.

  Maurice of Nassau, 28.

  Mayne, 85, 105.

  Meddling-man, character of, 151.

  Medicis, Francis de, 91.

  Melpomene, 72.

  _Memoirs of the Peers of England_, by Brydges, 264.

  Menander, 204.

  Menippus, 138.

  Mephibosheth, 265.

  Meres, 237.

  _Merry Devil of Edmonton_, a Comedy, 84.

  Merton-College, Oxford, 187, 192, 194, 197.

  _Microcosmography_, 197.
    Editions of, li.

  _Micrologia_, by R. M. 249.

  Minshall-hall, 244.

  Minshew, 32, 94, 181.

  _Miraculous Newes from the Cittie of Holt_, 73.

  _Miscellania_, by Flecknoe, 272.

  Modest man, character of, 131.

  Monson, Sir Thomas, 49.

  Monster out of Germany, 73.

  _Monthly Mirror_, 236.

  Monument of Earle, 193.

  _Monumenta Anglicana_, by Le Neve, 217.

  Moorfields, 252.

  Mooted, 94.

  _More the Merrier_, 246.

  Morley, Dr. 191.

  Mort, 225.

  _Mother's Blessing_, by Breton, 237.

  _Mouse-trap_, by H. P. 246.

  Munster, 73.

  Murdered bodies supposed to bleed at the approach of the murderer, 15.

  Musgarve, 268.

  _Musick, history of_, by Sir John Hawkins, 262.

  Myll, 226, 227.

  Mynshul, 84, 138.

  Mynshul, Geffray, 243, 244.

  Nabeker, 225.

  Nabes, 226.

  Namptwich, Cheshire, 244.

  _Naps upon Parnassus_, 269.

  Nares, Mr. 279.

  Nase, 226.

  Navy of England, 72.

  Nero, 233.

  Netherlands, 253.

  _New Anatomie, or character of a Christian or round-head_, 264.

  Newcastle, Duke of, 272:
    lines by, ib.

  _New Custome_, 221.

  _Newes of this present week_, 255.

  Newgate, 249, 268.

  Newman, Sir Thomas, 109.

  Nine Muses, a dance, 262.

  _Nine Worthies_, 164.

  Nireus, 138.

  Noah's flood, 60.

  Nonconformist, 84.

  _Norfolk, History of_, by Blomefield, 217.

  North, Lord, 264.

  Northern nations, 15.

  Norton, Northamptonshire, 237.

  Nose, 225.

  Nyp, 227.

  Oldham, Mr. 276.

  Oldisworth Giles, 229.

  Old man, character of a good, 153.

  One and thirty, 56.

  Orford, Lord, 264, 276.

  Osborne, Francis, 103.

  Overbury, Sir Thomas, 229, 230, 235, 264.

  Overton, 268.

  Oxford, 4, 96, 187, 201, 211, 238, 266.

  P. H. 246.

  Pad, 226.

  Painted cloth, 74.

  Pallyarde, 221.

  Pamphlets, character of, 268.

  Paracelsus, 30.

  Park, Mr. lii. 237, 256, 276.

  Park, Mr. John James, 257.

  Parrot, Henry, 246.

  Parson, character of a poor, from Chaucer, 10.

  Partial man, character of, 95.

  _Passion of a discontented minde_, supposed by Breton, 238.

  _Passions of the Spirit_, supposed by Breton, 238.

  Patrico, 222.

  Pavian, 262.

  Paul V. pope, 91.

  Paul's, St. Church, 103, 231, 252, 255, 259.

  Paul's-cross, 109;
    penance at, 109.

  Paul's man, 105.

  Paul's walk, character of, 103.

  Paul's walk, xlviii:
    time of walking there, 103.

  Paynell, Thomas, 13, 280.

  Pecke, 226.

  Pegasus, 261.

  Pembroke, Henry, earl of, 201.

  Pembroke, Philip, earl of, 187, 188.

  Pembroke, William, earl of, 197:
    lines on, 201.

  Percy, bishop, 237.

  Peters, 268.

  Peter's, St. Church, Oxford, 4.

  Pharoah, 22.

  _Philaster_, by Beaumont and Fletcher, 205.

  Philip II. of Spain, 32.

  _Phoenix Nest_, by R. S. 240.

  _Physician against his will_, by Flecknoe, 272.

  Physician, character of a dull, 11.

  Pick-thank, 168.

  _Picturæ Loquentes_, by Saltonstall, 256.

  Pierce, character of Earle, 196.

  _Pierce Penilesse_, 156.

  Pineda, 140.

  Plausible man, character of, 74.

  Plautus, 124, 205.

  Player, characters of, 60, 249.

  _Pleasant walkes of Moorefields_, 253.

  Plodding student, character of, 101.

  Plutarch, 35.

  Pluto, 138.

  Points, 38.

  Poland, 253.

  Ponsonby, William, lx.

  Poor man, character of, 179.

  Poor Tom, 221.

  Pope, A. 272.

  Popplar of Yarum, 226.

  _Poste_, by Breton, 237.

  Post and pair, 280.

  Pot-poet, character of, 71.

  _Practice of Piety_, 87.

  Pratt, Mr. 249.

  Prauncer, 225.

  Prayer for the college, 279.

  Prayer at the end of a play, 279.

  Prayer used before the university, 6.

  Preacher, character of a young raw, 4.

  Pretender to learning, character of, 112.

  Prigger, see Prygger.

  Primero, 32, 33.

  Primivist, 32.

  Print, set in, 239.

  Prison, character of a, 138.

  Prisoner, character of a, 245.

  Privy councellor, character of a worthy, 238.

  Profane man, character of, 171.

  _Progresses of Queen Elizabeth_, 237.

  Prologue, 97.

  _Prolusions_, by Capel, 229.

  Prygger of prauncers, character of a, 222.

  Prynne, 62.

  Puritan, 120, 150.

  _Puritan, picture of a_, 229.

  Puttenham, 237.

  Quanto Dyspayne, a dance, 262.

  Quarromes, 225.

  Querpo, 140.

  Quintilian, 30.

  Quyer, or quyaer, 225, 227.

  Radcliffe, Sir Alexander, 251.

  Raie, 242.

  Ramus, 30.

  Randolph, Dr. 161.

  Rash man, character of, 167.

  Rat, black-coat, terms of contempt towards the clergy, 172.

  Rawlinson, Dr. 262.

  Rè, isle of, 199:
    expedition to, ib.

  _Rebellion, History of_, by Clarendon, 189.

  Reed, Isaac, 45, 272, 279, 280.

  _Reformado precisely charactered_, 264.

  _Regiment of Health_, 13.

  _Regimen Sanitatis Salerni_, 279.

  _Remains_, Butler's, 277.

  _Remains_, Camden's, 72.

  Reserved man, character of, 31.

  _Resolves_, by Feltham, 270.

  Retchlessly, 137.

  Richard III. 79.

  Rich man, character of a sordid, 174.

  Ritson, Mr. 237.

  Robert of Normandy, 164.

  Roge, 221.

  Roger, 225.

  Rogers, G. 232.

  Rogue, see Roge.

  Rome, 10, 27, 90.

  Rome-bouse, 226.

  Round breeches, 129.

  _Royal and noble Authors_, by Lord Orford, 264.

  _Ruddiman, Life of_, by Chalmers, 45.

  Ruff of Geneva, print, 84.

  Ruffs, 239.

  Ruffian, 227.

  Ruffler, 221.

  Ruffmanes, 226.

  Ruffe-pecke, 226.

  Russell, Earl of Bedford, 12.

  Rutland, Lady, 203.

  S. R. 240.

  Sack, 36, 37, 38, 122.

  Salerne, 280.

  Salisbury, 282.

  Salomon, 225.

  Saltonstall, Wye, 256.

  Sandwich, Earl of, 267.

  _Satyrical characters_, 269.

  _Satyrical Essayes_, by Stephens, 231, 235.

  Saul, 265.

  Saxons, 24.

  Say, E. xlvii.

  Saye, 225.

  Scaliger, 114.

  Sceptick in religion, character of, 88.

  Scholar, character of a, 54.

  Scold, character of a, 247.

  Scotus, 87.

  Sejanus, 96.

  _Select second husband for Sir Thomas Overburie's wife_,
      by Davies of Hereford, 229.

  Seneca, 113.

  Sergeant, or catchpole, character of, 124.

  Serving-man, character of, 140.

  Sforza, 79.

  Shakspeare, lx, 2, 15, 33, 74, 103, 111, 162, 224, 262, 279, 280, 281.

  Shark, character of a, 37.

  Shark to, 182.

  Sharking, 180.

  Sheba, 266.

  Sheriff's hospitality, and table, 39.

  Sherry wine, 36, 37.

  Shimei, 266.

  Ship, 226.

  Shop-keeper, character of, 118.

  Short-hand, 5.

  Shrewsbury, Elizabeth Countess of, 220.

  Shrove Tuesday, 61.

  Sidney, Sir Philip, 201, 204.

  Silk strings to books, 66.

  Singing-men in cathedral churches, character of, 116.

  Skower, 227.

  Skypper, 225.

  Socinus, Faustus, 91.

  _Solemne Passion of the Soule's Love_, by Breton, 237.

  _Soliman and Perseda_, 156.

  Sordid rich man, character of, 174.

  Spaniards, 99.

  _Specimens of early English Poets_, by Ellis, 237.

  Spelman, Sir Henry, 24.

  Spinola, 99.

  _Sports and Pastimes_, by Strutt, 32, 49, 56.

  _Springes for Woodcocks_, by H. P. 246.

  Squeazy, 121.

  Stanley, Richard, 40.

  Stayed-man, character of a, 128.

  Steevens, George, 15, 111, 181, 246, 275, 281.

  Stephen, Master, 142.

  Stephens, John, 231, 235.

  Stews, 80.

  Stowe, 227.

  Stow's _Survey of London_, 163.

  _Strange Metamorphosis of Man_, 260.

  Streglethorp Church, 217:
    family, 282.

  Strike, 226.

  Strummell, 225.

  Strutt, Mr. 32, 49, 56.

  Strype, Mr. 163.

  Sturbridge-fair, 161.

  Suetonius, 13.

  _Sufferings of the Clergy_, by Walker, 190.

  _Surfeit to A. B. C._ 269.

  Surgeon, character of a, 80.

  Suspicious or jealous man, character of, 183.

  Swadder, 222.

  Swedes, 15.

  _Sweedish Intelligencer_, 255.

  Switzer, 253.

  Table-book, 279.

  Tables, 56.

  Tacitus, 113.

  Talbot, Sir John, 200.

  Tamworth, Staffordshire, 237.

  Tanner, Bishop, 238.

  Tantalus, 245.

  Tavern, character of a, 34.

  Telephus, 35.

  _Tempest_, by Shakspeare, 181.

  Tennis, 66.

  _Ten Years' Travel_, by Flecknoe, 272.

  Term, character of the, 259.

  Thersites, 138.

  Thyer, Mr. 277.

  Tiberius, 96.

  _Times anatomized_, 267.

  Tinckar, or tinker, 222.

  Tiring-house, 61.

  Titus, 13.

  Tobacco, 35.

  Tobacco-seller, character of, 70:
    called a smoak-seller, ib.

  Togman, 225.

  Tower, 226.

  Town-precisian, 7.

  _Traditional Memoires_, by Osborne, 103.

  Trumpeter, character of a, 97.

  Tryne, 225.

  Tryning, 227.

  Tuft-hunter, 67.

  Tully (see Cicero), 21, 30.

  Turk, 125.

  Turner, Thomas, 232.

  Tyburn, 23, 73, 268.

  Tyntermell, a dance, 262.

  Valiant man, character of, 273.

  Varro, 124.

  Vault at Gloucester, 40.

  Velvet of a gown, 66.

  Venner, 36.

  Vespatian, 13.

  Villiers, George, Duke of Buckingham, 277.

  Virgil, 147.

  Virginals, 86.

  University College, Oxford, 192.

  University dun, character of a, 126.

  University, character of a young gentleman of the, 65.

  University statutes, 12.

  Vorstius, Conrade, 91.

  Upright man, 221, 225.

  Urinal, 11.

  Urine, custom of examining it by physicians, 14:
    tax on, 13.

  Vulcan, 263.

  Vulgar-spirited man, character of, 98.

  Vyle, 227.

  Wales, 116.

  Walker, Dr. 190.

  Walker, Sir Edward, 282.

  Walton, Isaac, l:
    his character of Earle, 196.

  Walwin, 268.

  Wapping, 255.

  Ward, C. lii.

  Ward, Edward, 162.

  Warde, William, 12.

  Warnborough, South, 211.

  Warton, Thomas, 220, 246.

  Washbourne, R. his _Divine Poems_, 1.

  Waste, 226.

  Watch, 225, 226.

  Weak man, character of, 68.

  Weever, 103.

  Westminster, 138, 163, 177, 211, 259, 282.

  Westminster, the fellow of, 177.

  _Whimzies; or a new cast of Characters_, 251, 279.

  _Whip for a jockey_, 275.

  _Whipjacke_, 221.

  Whitson ale, 150.

  Whydds, 227.

  _Widow_, a comedy, 39.

  Wife, character of a good, 248.

  _Wife, now the Widdow, of Sir Thomas Overbury_, 229, 235,
    editions of, 229.

  William I. 163.

  Wood, Anthony à, l, 187, 188, 191, 197, 212, 229, 266.

  Worcester, Marquis of, 33.

  _World displayed_, lii.

  World's wise man, character of, 78.

  Wortley, Anne, 267.

  Wortley, Sir Francis, 265, 266.

  Wortley, Sir Richard, 266.

  _Writing school-master_, by Bales, 5.

  Wyn, 225.

  Yarum, 226.

  York, 41, 186, 282.

  York, James, Duke of, afterwards James II. 191, 265.

  Young gentleman of the university, character of, 65.

  Young man, character of, 42.

  Younger brother, character of, 22.

  Ziba, 265.



Page li. line 10, for _first_, read _fift_.




1. "His soul is yet a white _page_" (paper).


4. After the words "take Physicke." "He drives away ye time if he cannot
ye maladie, and is furnished with an hundred merrie tales for the purpose.
He is no faithful friend for he leaves a man gasping, and his pretence is,
death and he are enemies."


10 (_11 in Bliss_). "A parasite is a stale to him," for "_a flatterer is a
dunce to him_."


26 (_12 in Bliss_). "Never speaks above the audit of a whisper," for
"_whispers you in the ear acts_."


20 (21 in _Bliss_). After "language of a falconer." "He is frigging up and
doune, and composeth not his body to a settled posture. Gallants mock him
for ushering Gentlewomen and indeed he hath not squired it in their


22 (_28 in Bliss_). After "patches," "yet their footemanshippe is not
altogether shuffling." After "His other poems are but briefs." "At more
leisur'd times he makes disticks on noblemen which are put under their
twopenny pictures that hang in the bookbinders' shops."


30 (_43 in Bliss_). _For_ "like a desperate soldier," read "like our
north-west merchants, will venture where he cannot goe." Also "Saint
_Laurence_" _for_ "St. Maries."


23 (_22 in Bliss_). After "sallets." "He will talk with his oxen very
soberly and expostulates with his hindes, and then in the same language he
guides the plow, and the plough guides his thoughts, and his bounde or
landmarke is the very limitts of his cogitation."


32 (_52 in Bliss_). After "Attempted and atchieved," "clubbes out of
charity knocke him doune; next an hereticke he is the worst man to follow
for he leads by the arme to destruction; his most dangerous place is
Chancery Lane's end where he hansells now and then."


33 (_37 in Bliss_). After "colledge." "The Puritane is most guilty of this
humour, for he takes the opinion of one Dutch commentatour before a legion
of fathers; and, which is worse, his own before them both."


34 (_38 in Bliss_). "In short he is a bubble _and his life a blast_."


43 (_41 in Bliss_). "Properest," for "_perfectest_ motion." After
"a-foot." "It hath its tempests like the sea, and as violent, and men are
ship-wrack't upon pillars like great rocks." And _at the end_ after "could
not"--"ffinally it is used for a church of these two only, sharkes and cut
purses, the one comes thither to fast, the other to prey."


42 (_53 in Bliss_). After "shift in the world," comes "He is like a
frivlous suitor, _haunting_, _haunting_ (sic) those ..." (in place of the
sentence in Bliss beginning "some chuse," which is transposed in MS. with
very slight changes so as to follow the sentence ending with "find them


45 (_29 in Bliss_). "He supples all and discommends none, except where his
commendations might crosse the company, and then he holds his
peace,"--after the words "what is civil."


_16 in MS._ (_44 in Bliss_). "His condition is the same with all other
men, for he lives by bread which from a rude and undigested heape he putts
into lumpe and forme. His kneading tub and his pavin are the two misteries
of his occupation and he is a filcher by his trade, but the miller is
before him. Thrive he cannot much in the world, for his cake is oft dow
bak't and will never be a man of valour he is still so meall-mouth'd, he
is observed for a great lyer for he is seldome true in his tale, though
the score be many times on his pate for better reckoning, one vertue he
hath that he is charitable, for his bread is often given to the poore. A
clarke of the market he abhorres, and a pair of weight scales over-throwes
him, yet he finds mercy in his offences, and his basket only is sent to
prison. Many a pillery is his deadly enemie, and they never meete but they
goe together by the eares."

_The additional matter in the "Bright MS." is found here also._


(_Almost identical with the version in the "Bright MS."_)

_40 in MS._ (_46 in Bliss_). "He gives armes himselfe though he be no
Gentleman, and therefore hath good reason to dispence with other; his
trade and profession is honour, and doth that which few noble can doe,
thrive by the Title. You would think he had the Indian mines, for he tells
of the fesse[EA] of gold and silver, but believe him not for they are but
devises to get money: he seemes only to deale with Gentry, but his
chiefest purchases are on them that are none, whose bounty he conceales
yet blazons: his bribes are like those of a corrupt judge, for they are
the prizes[EB] of blood. His traffiques are like children's gew-gawes,
pendants, and scutchions and little daggars, and his penniworths are
extraordinary deare ffor he holdes three Boares heads higher than three
Brawnes in the market. He was sometime the coate of Mars, but is now for
more mercifull battailes in the tilt yard where whosoever is victorious
the spoyles are his. His is an art in England but nature in Wales, where
they are borne with Herauldry in their mouthes, and each name is a


2. "_Till ye clocke stop him._" "Little instructions shall you have though
great store of doctrines and many uses to small purpose; he putts much
zeale into his booke, and belabours his tongue exceedingly. The only thing
he makes himselfe in his sermons is faces, his action is all passions, and
his speach interiections. He hath an excellent faculty in crying 'ah!' and
spits with a very good grace." "_He will not, etc._" "He cites Pastills
for authors, Perkins for fathers, and some catechisme is his schoole


3. "Arts his way." "He thinks he ought to become learned to learne so high
a mystery, w^{ch} like ye dye of scarlet is not set well upon a raw
cloath, but requires a former tincture."[EC] "_He accounts, etc._" For
"ballast" read "_last blast_" (in the first sentence).


_9 in MS._ (_7 in Bliss_). "His life was in this age, his conversation
long before, and his acquaintance of some thousand yeares before he was
borne. He is a great enemy to the man of time, and fetches many a morsell
againe out of his stomacke, when it is now all rotten and stinking. Old
women should like him very well for he is much enamoured of wrinckles, and
loves all things, as Dutchmen doe cheese, ye better for being mouldy and
worm-eaten." "_He is of our Religion, etc._"


_19 in MS._ (_23 in Bliss_). "_Upon him._" "He hath reason to be
experienced in the world, for he hath passed through more shapes then
Pythagoras his soule, and knows all conditions from y^e King to the
Cobler, he is qualified and hath many good parts, but he is condemned for
one boasting humour, that he will speake them himselfe." "_He hath one,
etc._" "_Never con'd._" "A true man he can hardly be, for he pleaseth the
better he counterfeits, except only when he is disguised with straw for
gold lace. His comings in are tollerable, yet in small money, and like
Halifax great viccaridge most of it in two pences." "_The waisting woman,
etc._" "_Gentlemen_," "and may become the bench in time as well they. He
neadeth not feare death, for killing is but his sport, and his chiefe
practice hath beene to dye bravely."


_18 in MS._ (_25 in Bliss_). "_Spend next day._" "If you speake to him as
a Schooler, he telleth you you mistake him he is a gentleman and loath to
marre his stile with that title. Sometime upon intreaty he vouchsafeth to
be a Batchelour, and thinks he hath done the degree great grace in taking
it." "_His companion, etc._" Above this, and after the word "misplacing."
"He comes often to his bookes but seldome to his study, unless he be taken
with Stepheus or Paris printe, which endeares the booke unto him. Yet
sometimes he will...."


_6 in MS._ (_47 in Bliss_). "_To sing catches._" "In their election of a
brother they are respectfull of his gifts, that is, of his bottles of
sacke, and he that is most liberall to them heere makes them sure. If they
get a church their faces are the richer, and they are men of more
reckoning at the bush or read lattice." "Long lived, etc."


_39 in MS._ (_48 in Bliss_). "He examines the necessity of passengers, and
beggs in the phrase of the giver 'with what do you lacke?'" "... _abuse
his brother_. His prizes are like new playes, very dear at first view, but
after you goe over them they still fall lower, and he is one who of all
men you shoulde not take of his worde." "_He is your slave, etc._"


_38 in MS._ (_30 in Bliss_). "Say nothing." "It is their as it is at
skirmishes the first man doth much, and no victory without a good
leader." "_It is, etc._" After the first sentence comes in MS. "fortune is
never pox't louder nor the Deuill oftener sent about errands; he is the
companion that goes with every bowle, and with him the bowlers."


(The Shee Puritane _in the MS._)

_36 in MS._ (_34 in Bliss_). "Owne Parish." "And if her husband be so
profaine that he will not carrie her on horsebacke to heare another preach
shee will goe as far on foote to heare her selfe pray." "_She doubts,
etc._" "Scruples." "Shee dareth not give a penny to a beggar for feare he
be a reprobate, but shee thinkes usury lawfull upon strangers that be not
her brethren." "_Shee is more fierce, etc._" "Shee is discovered though
shee weare a vaile," after "_Geneva Print_." "Reads that shee hath noted,
and applauds herselfe for a noble woman of Berea," after "_comes home_."
After "_gossippings_," "unlesse to exercises." After "_sampler_," "save
that once a year she workes a black-wrought night-cap for some reverend
good man to weare, because it is against the cannon, and then she thinkes
him a bishop's fellow." After "_weapons_" (weapon), "is the Practice of
Piety, or else shee is armed with the sixt to the Ephesians." For "the
Brownist" read "thinks that Amsterdam is erroneous."


In the Bright MS. there are some important additions and variations in
"_The Weak Man_." After the words "his brain stays behind," it goes on "He
is for wit as your young travellers for languages, as much as will call
for necessities and hardly that. He is not crafty enough to be a knave,
nor wise enough to be honest, but the midway betwixt; a kind of harmless
man. His whole vice is his indiscretion, and yet this makes him seem
guilty of all." After the word "reserved" in Bliss, the MS. goes on: "He
will part with anything in a humour, but in a good cause with nothing, and
you may better entice him than persuade him. He is often perverse, never
resolute and inexorable to nothing so much as reason. He loves wits and
scholars to his cost, for he never has their company but invited. His
friendships commonly are begun in a supper and lost in lending money. The
way to gain his regard is to neglect him, for if he once be in good
estimation, he grows proud upon it and contemns you." After the words
"laid to his charge." "He puts in his verdict at all discourses, and
whatsoever reason you urge, he holds his conclusion." Again, after the
words "breaks forth with all." "His fear is his most violent persuader,
which makes him do more upon the authority of one he hates, than the suit
of his friend. He is one not to live in this world, for each man is his
ambush, and his friend to abuse him. He has been long in contempt, and at
last out of money, and then men cry 'alas!' and forget him."


P. 99. This Character also is so varied from the printed copies in the
Bright MS. that it is given from the latter entire. "He is defined by a
genus without a difference; for he is a Christian at large, and no more.
He uses the land's religion because it is next him; yet he sees not why he
may not take the other yet he chooses this not as better, but because
there is not a pin to choose. He is wondrous loth to hazard his credulity,
and whilst he fears to believe amiss, believes nothing. The opinion of an
over judgment wrongs him, which makes him too wise for the truth. He
finds doubts and scruples better than resolves them, and has always some
argument to nonplus himself. The least religion is enough to perplex him,
and the best will not satisfy him. He hammers too much in general upon our
opinion's incertainty, and the possibility of erring makes him not venture
on what is true. He cannot drive into his fancy the circumscription of
religion into our corner, and yet, the absurdity of Popery staggers him
again. He could like the Protestant better were it not for the puritan,
and the papist but for the Jesuit. He thinks we are more rational, and
likes the life of the other. He thinks so many wise men would not believe
but on good ground, and so many honest men cannot be on the wrong side;
yet he sees not their reason notwithstanding, nor assents to their honesty
without it. He is taken with their miracles yet doubts an imposture; he
conceives of our doctrine better, yet it seems too empty and naked. He
prefers their charity, and commends our zeal, yet suspects that for
blindness, and this but humour. He sees rather what to fly than to follow,
and wishes there were no sides that he might take one. He will sometimes
propend to us upon the reading a good writer, and at Bellarmine recoils as
far back again; and the fathers justle him from one side to another. His
conscience interposes itself betwixt two duellers, and whilst it would
part both, is by both wounded. He hates authority as the tyrant of reason,
and you cannot anger him worse than with a Luther or Calvin's dixit, yet
that wise men are not persuaded with reason, shall authorize his doubt. In
sum, his whole life is a question, and his salvation a greater, wherein he
is so long a disputing, till death make the conclusion, and then he is

[From Bliss's annotated copy of Earle's Microcosmography.]


P. 57. (_In the Bodleian, 2699, E. 21._) [This version is almost identical
with that in the Durham MS. till the last few sentences.] The variations
between the printed copy and Dr. Bright's MS. are so considerable, that
the latter text is here given entire. "A Gallant is a heavy loader of
himself, for he lays more upon his back than it is able to bear, and so at
last breaks it. His first care is his clothes, and the next his body, and
in the uniting of these two lyes his judgment. He is no singular man, for
he is altogether in the fashion, and his very look and beard are squared
to a figure conformable. His face and his boot are ruffled much alike, and
he takes great delight in his walk to hear his spurs gingle. Though his
life pass somewhat slidingly, yet he seems very carefull of the tyme, for
he is always drawing his watch out of his pocket, and spends part of his
hours in numbering them. His chiefest toil is how to spin out the day, and
get a match for cards or the bowl alley, and his worst companion is
himself, for then he is desperate and knows not what to do. The labour of
doing nothing had made him long since weary of his life, if tobacco and
drink did not out of charity employ him. He is furnished with jests, as
some wanderer with sermons, some three for all companies, and when these
are expired, his discourse survives in oaths and laughter. He addresses
himself to ladies with the wagging of his lock, and complements like
Euphues or the knights of the Sun; yet his phrase is the worst apparalled
thing about him, for it is plain fustian.[ED] His thigh is always well
apointed with a rapier, yet peaceable enough, and makes[EE] a wound in
nothing but the scabard, yet[EF] rather than point the field, hee'l pull
it out in the street. He is weaponed rather in the street, than the
highway, for he fears not a thief, but a serjeant. His clothes and himself
grow stale together, and the last act of his life is invisible, for he is
buried commonly before he dies, in the jail or the[EG] country."

The following Character may serve as an illustrative commentary on part of
Earle's character of an Attorney.


P. 211. (_From a MS. in the Bodleian, Sheldon Papers_), circa 1642. An MS.
Notebook of Bliss's in my possession, containing some 50 pages filled with
the titles of books of characters, has this one among them, in 17th
century hand-writing (pasted on to the page). When this was acquired he
does not say. "An Atturney is a Broker at Law for hee sels wordes and
counsell at the second hand, studies but one language that hee may not bee
thought double tonged, and when vpon necessitie hee reades Latin, 'tis
with a quaking hast soe feare fully you wold thinke him a fellon at his
miserere. Hee speakes nothing but reports, statutes and obligations, and
'tis to bee thought wooes soe too; Lady I hold of you in capite and was by
the fates enacted yours in decimo of the Ringe; his prayers are
soloecismes for peace, and yet for contention; hee beleeues in Littleton
or the present Cheefe-Justice and against this fayth hee thinkes the
Chancery Hoeerticall, especially if he speake in a Rocket; his degrees are
to proceed either a Court-keeper or an Under-shrieue and then a Judges nod
qualifies him; hee may hold two or three Clyents the more; to conclude hee
is a very noune adiectiue whom noe man dares trust to stand by himselfe,
but requires a Counsellour to bee ioyned with him."--DEANE.


[TANNER MS., vol. 48, No. 46.]

                                  Saru[(m] Sept. 25. 1662.

    "MY LORD

    "I recyvd your Lordshipp's letter this day from my Lord
    of Sarum and give you my most humble and harty thankes
    for the great favour you intended me, as likewise for
    your good opinion of me! as well as your affection, that
    you thinke me capable of such a place in the Church. But
    my Lord I that understand my self better, though all
    things els worse, then any other frend, find those
    causes within me why I should not accept this offer,
    that I can no way answer, but must absolutely decline
    it. Your Lordshipp may remember when you were pleas'd to
    propose it to me before the last Bishop had it, what I
    said to you then, how unfitted I was for it in many
    respects. The same reasons hold good still and the
    rather, as I am now both elder and infirmer, and I am
    afraid more desperately so, then I beleevd my self to be
    at that time. When I come to London, as I hope to doe
    with in little more then a fortnight, I shall satisfy
    you more particularly, as I conceyve I have done
    already my Lord of Saru[(m], whose judgement as I should
    submitt to assoone as any mans, and sooner then my owne
    if it were different from mine. So I am more confirm'd
    in my owne opinion, when I find it conformable to his,
    being satisfyed with these reasons I had to refuse it.
    Seriously if I thought I could doe that service to the
    Church, which many hundreds could not doe better, I
    would preferre the doing it with trouble before any ease
    or convenience of my owne but in the condition that I
    am, and the many imperfections upon me, I do not speak
    it modestly, I cannot have such a thought. I am hartily
    sorry for the death of that Bishop,[EH] he was a man of
    excellent parts and though there was something to be
    desired in him, yett take him alltogether he was both
    able and likely to good service in that place which I
    pray God may loose nothing by his successor!

    My Lord I beseech your Lordship to present my most
    humble duty and thankes to my gracious Master, the
    thinking me worthy of such a preferment, and that
    frankness and kindness which you speak of in his
    expressing it, was worth to me a great deale more then
    any thing els he could give me. I pray for him daylie,
    and most hartily, as I doe likewise for your Lordship to
    whom I am a moste affectionate servant

                                           My Lord
                                              JO: EARLES."

  [_Addressed_] "For the Right Reverend Father in God
                 Gilbert Lord Bishopp of London these at


[DZ] It is curious to find this Character in the Durham MS. Bliss, in his
account of the editions, speaks of the 6th edition (1633) as having two
_additional_ Characters, one of them being "The Herald." The edition of
1630, also called "the 6th edition augmented," I possess. It contains
seventy-six characters (numbered as seventy-seven by mistake), but neither
of the two "additional ones." Bliss's knowledge of editions, as well as
his acquisition of them was increased largely in the years that followed
the publication of his book. When he had acquired the 1st edition he wrote
pathetically in his annotated copy, "I have been more than fifty years
looking for this book!" By that time too he knew that what he here calls
the _2nd_ edition of 1629 was really the _fifth_. (See _Arber's Reprint_,
where a table of the editions is given.)

[EA] "Fields."--_Bright MS._

[EB] "Prices."--_Bright MS._

[EC] This sentence by itself would make the Durham MS. a treasure.

[ED] "He is of great account with his mercer and in no man's books so
much: who is so sure a friend to him that he will not lose him."--_Durham

[EE] "He is a great derider of schollers and censures their steeple hats
for not being set on so good a blocke as his."--_Durham MS._

[EF] "He will pull it out in the streets."--_Durham MS._

[EG] "Counter."--_Durham MS._

[EH] Bp. Gauden, of Worcester, died in the beg. of Sept., 1662.



    "Well Sir! I will grumble no more, since you have
    vouchsaft to answer me at last, I was afraid you had
    thought you could not be enimy to the Court of Honour
    enough, except you renounc'd all civilitye. I could be
    verie angry with Mr. Vaughan for defrauding me of your
    punctuale letter, by not taking his leave of you, but he
    tells me, he was at your chamber in the Temple every
    day, and not finding you there, knew not where to seek
    you. Well I hope one day you will meet with some trustye
    messenger whose pockett may be capable of the great
    _arcana_[EJ] of your letter. I am not altogether without
    some intelligence how things passe, though by no such
    authenticall men as you are, yet such as G. Morley, who
    though he was not a man of such imployment, yet was one
    of less leasure then you for this fortnight, being to
    make a much longer speech then you, and in as good
    companye, for which I heare he is not thankd, as
    perchance nor you neyther. May you not trust with a
    carier, the telling me how he did, or how my Lord of
    Falkland does, since he is resolved I shall understand
    nothing of him by himselfe. I will not unthriftily spill
    my letters any more there, where they returne me no
    fruit. My father is your servant, for Sir _Cph_[EK]
    Widington, I hope he will compose this quarell without a
    suite. Is T. Triplett at London yett, or have you any
    great occasion to draw him up. These are all safe things
    to be convey'd by a porter to a carier, and by him to
    me, though my Lord Marshalls himself had feed them to
    intercept, or brake open your letters. Well when you are
    most idle, for I must confesse the thinking of me is not
    worth any time, wherein you may doe any thing els, say
    something to me. I that have leasure for us both, (as
    indeed what business here can fill a man's leasure that
    does not hunt nor drinke nor play at cardes) am content
    with so much patience from you as to read me when you
    will not write to

                  Your most humble servant
                                               JO. EARLES."
    [EL] "Bishopston."
    "Bish. Dec. 9."

    "Pray remember my service to Mrs. Hyde and Mr. Harding."

    _An Original endorsed by Mr. Hyde._[EM]

    [Addressed] To my most honor'd frend Mr. Edward Hyde at
    Sir Thomas Aylesburies house in Westminster in the Deans

    [Endorsed by Hyde] Mr. Earles 10ber. 1640.




    "Though I believe you have received two or three letters
    from me since you writ any, yet since your's of your new
    year's eve came to my hands since I writ last, I reckon
    it my turn to write againe; and shall either convert you
    to a more sedulous correspondence, or make you so much
    ashamed (which is a modesty lazy men are very inclinable
    to), that you shall give over writing at all. I always
    send you word of the date of those which I receive from
    you, so that you can only tell whether I have had that
    which you say was pretty long and troublesome; for I
    have not thought any one half long enough, nor
    troublesome; otherwise than (which on my conscience was
    not your sense) under the notion of the vile caracters,
    which is almost cipher without a key: besides that
    commonly the ink and paper do so throughly incorporate,
    that the letters are hardly discernable. It is possible
    the Scots may take their money, if the other will pay
    it; but if upon that consideration they leave the
    Kingdom, or suffer the King to leave them, I will no
    more pretend to divination. Let not those apprehensions
    startle you nor be troubled that they seem sometimes to
    make Propositions which you do not like; it being safe
    and profitable to them to offer anything which they
    foresee must be denied by their jealous brethren. Look
    upon their Covenant, their avowed gloss upon that
    Covenant published to the world, and tell me if any
    contradications in Philosophy be more diametrically
    opposite and impossible to be reconciled to the ends of
    the Independents than those extremes. I wish I were as
    sure that the King would not desert himself and his
    pious and honourable principles (of which, truly I have
    a great confidence) as that the Scots will stick to him,
    when they are fully convinced that he is not to be

    "Must I believe _H. Cressy's_[EN] resolution to be
    peremptory whilst he remains in such company? Truly I am
    exceedingly troubled for it.

    "What scruples or scandals could work this odious
    alteration (for methinks, apostacy is too cholerick a
    word towards a friend) which you could not remove? It is
    a great loss to the Church, but a greater to his
    friends, dead and alive; for the dead suffer where their
    memory and reputation is objected to question and

    "Is it a necessary consequence to the conscience, that
    if a man turn to that Church, he must take orders in it?
    Methinks there is a duty incumbent to the function, that
    might well terrify a man that feels not a very strong
    impulsion, though he were never so well satisfied in the
    religion itself.

    "If we can not keep him a Minister of our Church, I wish
    he would continue a layman in their's, which would
    somewhat lessen the defection, and it may be, preserve a
    _greater proportion of his innocence_.

    "I am very glad (for my own sake) that you have the
    happiness to be known to my Lord Newcastle. I commit the
    managing what concerns me, both in substance and
    circumstance, wholly to your direction and dexterity: I
    told you how far I was advanced by my Lord Withrington.
    I pray remember my service to Mr. Hobbs by the same
    token that Sydney Godolphin hath left to him by his
    Will, a legacy of £200, and desire him for old
    aquaintance sake, and for your intercession, to bestow
    one of his books upon me, which I have never seen since
    it was printed, and therefore know not how much it is
    the same, which I had the favour to read in English. I
    thank you for your wishing your self here. I am sure I
    would purchase you at any price I could pay or promise,
    if it were as fit for the prince, as it would be for me.
    In the mean time I pray God he thinks your company as
    good as they know it to be who cannot get it. But will
    the good Bishop of Salisbury never come to relieve you?
    What does he? Where is he? What do you answer to the
    other thousand questions I have asked you?

    "God send you a good New Year that may yield you a
    decent plenty, till it may give you an honest peace, and
    me meat enough against hunger, and cloathes enough
    against cold.

    "And then if the Stationers do not sue out a commission
    of Bankruptcy against me for their arrears for paper and
    ink, I shall not fear any other creditors, nor the
    exception in the first where I will not give my place
    for the best amongst the compounders, nor the worst
    (that is the greatest) amongst the committee: less the
    title of being.

                                         Sir, yours, etc."
    "Jersey, the 1st of January."
    A Copy of Mr. Edgeman, 1646-1649.


    "Well, admit you do spend three hours every day, that
    you may spend one with the prince, allow two hours to
    your dinner, and two hours in the projecting where to
    get one, you have still a fair time to yourself, and one
    half hour in a week, without question, to tell me that
    you are alive, and that in this dismal time of mutation,
    you are so far from change, that you continue even the
    same to me.

    "I am not willing to tell you, that though you owe me no
    letters, you have three or four of mine unanswered, but
    I must tell you the last packet from Paris brought me
    none from you though I found by some I received, that
    mine thither had not miscarried; so you were not without

    "Indeed you are to blame to trust me so much with myself
    in this terrible conflict; with which most men are so
    unworthily appalled: for truly your advice and
    approbation is of singular comfort and encouragement to
    me. And now I pray tell me what is that '_Charitas
    Patriae_' which all moral and divine authors have so
    much magnified. That I must not concur in the acts of
    impiety and injustice of my country, though never so
    generally practised, or do a thing in itself wicked to
    save or preserve my country from any suffering, is I
    doubt not very clear. But is that Charitas Patriæ
    utterly to be abolished and extinguished, for its
    practise of that impiety and injustice? Should I wish
    their irreligion destroyed by an army of Turks, or their
    licence subdued by a power that would make them slaves?
    Was it well said of Alcibiades, that he is truly a lover
    of his country, not that refuseth to invade the country
    he hath wrongfully lost but desires so much to be in it,
    as by any means he can he will attempt to recover it?
    Was not Jocasta more Christian to her Son Polynices;
    _Petendo patriam perdis; ut fiat tua, vis esse nullam_.

    "I pray, say somewhat to me of this argument; that I may
    really know how far I may comply with passion and
    provocation; and whether as no infirmity or impiety in
    my prince can warrant or excuse my declension of
    allegiance towards him, there be not some candour and
    kindness to remain towards a man's country, though
    infected with the most raging rebellion."

    God preserve you!

    8th of January 1646.
    A rough Draught, corrected, and endorsed by himself.



    "I told you long since that when I came to speak of that
    unhappy battle of Newbury, I would enlarge upon the
    memory of our dear friend that perished there: to which
    I concieve myself obliged, not more by the rights of
    friendship than of history, which ought to transmit the
    virtue of excellent persons to posterity: and therefore
    I am careful to do justice to every man that hath fallen
    in the quarrel, on which side soever, as you will find
    by what I have said of Mr. Hambden himself.

    "I am now past that point, and being quickened by your
    most elegant and ([EO]political) commemoration of him
    and from hints there, thinking it necessary to say
    somewhat for his vindication in such particulars as may
    possibly have made impression in good men, it may be I
    have insisted longer upon the argument than may be
    agreeable to the rules to be observed in such a work,
    though it be not much longer than Livy is in
    recollecting the virtues of one of the Scipio's after
    his death. I wish it were with you that you might read
    it, for if you thought it unproportionable for the place
    where it is I could be willingly diverted to make it a
    piece by itself, and inlarge it into the whole size of
    his life; and that way it would sooner be communicated
    to the world. And you know Tacitus published the life of
    Julius Agricola before either his annals or his history.

    "I am contented you should laugh at me for a fop in
    talking of Livy and Tacitus; when all I can hope for is
    to side Hollingshead, and Stow, or (because he is a poor
    knight too, and worse than either of them) Sir Richard
    Baker. But if I had not hooked them in this way, how
    should I have been able to tell you, that I have this
    year read over Livy and Tacitus; which will never be
    found by the language and less by the Latin. We have had
    no boat out of Normandy these ten days, so that we have
    heard nothing from the Isle of Wight since the Kings
    first message thence. God send us good news that we may
    again (in what condition soever) enjoy one another;
    which will be a very great satisfaction to; your most
    affectionate humble servant."

  "Jersey this 14 Dec. St. vet."

    A Copy, endorsed by himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

There are two very long letters of Feb. 12th and March 16th, 1647--too
long to quote in full--from which I have thought it worth while to make

Concerning the subject of the Charitas Patriæ, "I cannot" he says,
"rejoice at foreign powers being at peace" that there might be "forces
vacant for the reduction of England,"--but he appeals to Earle for "advice
and direction; upon whose judgment, discretion, and conscience I do so
much depend that I do really suspect my own when I find it at all differ
from yours." He speaks too of Earle's company being so comforting to his
fellow-exiles. Jersey Feb. 12th.

In the letter of March 16th, speaking of possible deterioration of
character--of "innocence destroyed," of "wiping out the old loved prints,"
he adds that the "shame of communicating his thoughts" to Earle [in case
of his (the writer's) falling away] will, he hopes, keep him from any
"alteration." In the same letter there is another reference to what Earle
had written about Lord Falkland--no such work I understand survives--"I
would desire you at your leisure to send me that discourse of your own
which you read to me in the end of your _Contemplations upon the Proverbs_
in memory of my Lord Falkland: of whom, in its place, I intend to speak
largely--"so far from being an indecorum (it will be) no less the business
of history than the truth of things."

Anthony Wood's opinion [Bliss's reference to Wood is very brief] of Earle
may be added to Clarendon's testimonies: "This Dr. Earl was a [EP]_very
genteel man_, a contemner of the world, religious, and most worthy of the
office of a Bishop." He is elsewhere styled by him "learned and
godly,"--but the epithet "genteel" gives an extra touch that we should be
loth to lose. In reference to his Latin Translation of Hooker's
Ecclesiastical Polity he adds: "He was only the fit man to make the
learned of all nations happy." Of the Hortus Mertonensis he tells us that
it was one "of several copies of his ingenuity and poetry that were
greedily gathered up" at the University.

I have said in the Preface that nothing is known to Earle's disparagement.
It is true that Ludlow says[EQ]: "Dr. Earle told me that by abolishing
episcopacy we took away all the encouragement to learning; for that men
would not send their sons to the University had they not some hopes that
they would attain preferment." And he is very severe on "this sordid
principle and consideration." That it was not the recommendation of
learning to Earle is abundantly proved by the Microcosmography--but he
might well think the University ought not to lose the advantage of any
material inducements such as might appeal to ordinary men.

Earle, moreover, was a humourist, and may have amused himself with
arguments which seemed good enough for his audience. Lord Macaulay must
not be supposed indifferent to learning because he told his nephew to "get
a good degree at College and become a Fellow--_for then_ he would have
almonds and raisins for the rest of his life for nothing!"

My interleaved copy of Bliss has on the fly-leaf the words "the castrated
title and leaf are preserved, with the addition of a proof title page with
Dr. Bliss's name omitted." The copy is announced in a catalogue slip
pasted in at the end of the book as containing[ER] MS. notes by Joseph
Haslewood and Dr. Bliss. The words above the title--Ex dono _editoris_
(altered to _impressoris_)--have the initials J. H. below them. There are
also three advertisements of Bliss's book, "published this day," two of
them on coloured paper pasted in the beginning; the third is supplemented
by a notice from the Monthly Review, Feb. 1812, which runs as
follows:--"We recommend the perusal of this work to every class of
readers, since it is in truth a store house of wit and wisdom ... The old
fashioned dress in which these acute strictures on human life appear,
while it takes little or nothing from their intelligibility, adds much to
their force and liveliness. The lovers of proverbial wit, for many of
these characters are strings of judicious adages, are therefore greatly
obliged to Mr. Bliss for his pleasing republication of so pregnant a
volume. The notes are instructive without prolixity: the index is
extremely useful, for it is really astonishing[ES] _how large a quantity
of good matter_ is scattered up and down the present _duodecimo_ (the
advt. calls it _octavo_), and the appendix contains an ample store of
black-letter information, and will introduce almost every reader to some
new acquaintances, who have singularity at least, if nothing else to
recommend them. The Life of the Bishop, and the list of his works are
particularly interesting."

All readers of Cowper will remember what a weight of authority the
criticism of the Monthly Review carried with it, and the pathetic appeal
of the Author to the Editor--"but oh!, dear Mr. Griffith, let me pass for
a genius at Olney."[ET]

The notes and illustrations which Dr. Bliss did _not_ make use of in his
edition are as follows.[EU]

Two are on the serving-man, 'In querpo.'

                          "I am borne sweet lady
    To a poore fortune that will keep myself
    And Footman, as you see, to bear my sword
    In Cuerpo after me."

    --_Mayne's City Match, a Comedy, 4to, 1658._

"You shall see him in the morning in the gallery--first, at noon in the
Bullion, in the evening in Quirpo."--Massinger's Fatal Dowry.

"Dr. Johnson explains querpo, which he says is corrupted from cuerpo
(Spanish), as a dress close to the body. Dryden uses it."

On the same character he has a quotation from Religio Regis, 12mo, 1715:
King James in his advice to his son Henry, Prince of Wales, says "hawking
is not to be condemned, but nevertheless, give me leave to say, it is more
uncertain than the others (hunting), and subject to mischances."

On the "She-precise Hypocrite" he has a note--on "Geneva."

    Like a Geneva weaver in black, who left
    The loom and entered into the ministry
    For Conscience Sake.--_Mayne's City Match._

On 'door-posts' in 'The Aldermen' he quotes, "a pair of such brothers were
fitter for posts without dore indeed, to make a shew at a new-chosen
magistrate's gate."--_The Widow_, 4to, 1652.

Of 'Paul's Walk' there is yet one more illustration. "Walk in the middle
Ile in Paul's, and gentlemen's teeth walk not faster at ordinaries than
there a whole day togeather about inquirie after newes."--Theeves falling
out true men come by their good, or the Belman wanted a clapper, _4to,
Lond., 1615._

On the Pot-Poet he has a quotation from _Whimzies, a new cast of
Characters_, 8vo, Lond., 1633, an illustration of the "_strange monster
out of Germany_." "Nor comes his invention farre short of his imagination:
for want of truer relations, for a neede he can find a Sussex dragone,
some sea or Inland monster, drawn out by some Shoe Lane man in a
gorgon-like feature, to enforce more horror in the beholder."

At the end of the Characters there is an extract from a letter of
Clarendon which mentions that the deanery of Westminster "was designed to
a person of very known and confessed merit," (most probably Dr. John
Earle) _written below_. He quotes Anthony Wood on the other side of this
leaf for Earle's friendships, with Henry Cary, first Earle of
Monmouth--with George Morley, afterwards Bishop of Winchester. Morley and
Earle lived together at Antwerp till they were called to attend on the
Duke of York in France. Two passages of Anthony Wood, which he does not
quote, are worth recalling. Morley was sent by Charles II. to "thank
Salmasius for his Apology for his Martyrd father, but not with a purse of
gold as Joh. Milton, the impudent lyer, reported." Henry Cary was "well
skill'd in the modern languages, and a general scholar"; and thus "was
capacitated [by a forced retiredness in the troublesome times of
Rebellion] to exercise himself in studies, while others of the nobility
were fain to truckle to their inferiors for company sake."

I have only given two title-pages of editions in the year of publication.
A table of editions is given on the next page.

[_Title-page of first edition of 1628._]



                    A Peece of
                     The World
                  In Essayes and

  [Here is inserted in MS.--"Written by John Earles
               of Merton Coll."]

       _Newly composed for the Northerne parts
                of this Kingdome._

                      AT LONDON:
             PRINTED BY W. S., FOR ED. BLOUNT.

[_Title-page of 3rd edition of 1628._]



  A Peece of

  The World


  In Essayes and




  [W. H. Allnutt, in a MS. note inserted in the Bodleian
  copy of Arber's Reprint of the Characters, states
  that Arber has mistaken the order of priority of the
  three 1628 edd. Arber places the ed. with the above
  title-page second, and that of which the title is copied
  on p. 330, third. The second ed., called by Arber
  the first, is not in the Bodleian.]

The last written page of the Durham MS. has by way of Colophon


  December     anno Do
  This 14th      mini
     day        1627.

"This little volume in calf binding, about 12mo size, is doubtless one of
those referred to by Ed. Blount in his address to the Reader. The MS. is
written in an exceedingly neat and small hand on the pages of the
previously bound book, with margin lines ruled in red. At the top of the
first page is written in a different hand, 'Edw. Blunt, Author.' The MS.
contains 46 Characters in all, and is free from some evident blunders in
the first printed copies, as if they had been done from dictation."

This MS. in the Durham Cathedral Library is entered in the catalogue (of
the Hunter MSS.) as "Characters by Edward Blunt," and dated "about 1636,"
the date _in the MS._ having been overlooked.

Dr. Fowler in _Notes and Queries_, Nov. 4th, 1871.


                                       |      |          |Bliss|       |
                                       |Bliss,| Bliss,   |Sale,|British|
 EDITION.                              |1811 .| 1812-57. |1858.|Museum |Bodleian
 "W. Stansby for Edward Blount,"[EV]   |      |          |     |       |
   1628(_a_)                           | No   |   Yes    | Yes |  Yes  |  Yes
 "W. Stansby for Robert Allot," 1628   |      |          |     |       |
   (_b_)[EW]                           | No   |   Yes    | Yes |  Yes  |  No
 "W. S. for Ed. Blount," 1628 (_c_)[EX]| Yes  |          | Yes |  Yes  |  Yes
                             4th       | No   |   No     | No  |  No   |  No
                             5th  1629 | Yes  |          | Yes |  Yes  |  Yes
                             6th  1630 | No   |   No     | No  |  Yes  |  No
                            "6th" 1633 | Yes  |          | Yes |  Yes  |  Yes
                             7th  1638 | Yes  |          | Yes |  Yes  |  Yes
 (A reprint of one of the              |      |          |     |       |
   first four)                    1650 | Yes  |          | Yes |  Yes  |  Yes
 (Very doubtful)                  1659 | No   |"Mr.      | No  |  No   |  No
                                       |      |Gilchrist"|     |       |
                                       |      |told him  |     |       |
                                       |      |he possessed a  |       |
                                       |      |copy by the same|       |
                                       |      |printers as in  |       |
                                       |      |1669 but with   |       |
                                       |      |"1659."   |     |       |
                             8th  1664 | No   |   Yes    | Yes |  Yes  |  No
                             9th  1669 | No   |   Yes    | Yes |  Yes  |  No
 (1669 edition, with new title)   1676 | No   |   Yes    | Yes |  No   |  No
 (Reprint of 1633 edition)        1732 | Yes  |          | Yes |  Yes  |  Yes
 (1732 edition, with new title         |      |          |     |       |
   and small changes)             1740 | Yes  |          | Yes |  Yes  |  Yes
 (Reprint of 1650 edition)        1786 | Yes  |          | Yes |  Yes  |  No
 (Bliss's edition)                1811 |      |          | Yes |  Yes  |  Yes
 (Arber's edition)        1868 or 1869 |      |          |     |  Yes  |  Yes

                                         Museum._   _Bodleian._   _Bliss._
 _As to the three 1628 editions_--
   A is regarded as                        1st          2nd         3rd
   B      "      "                         2nd          3rd         2nd
   C      "      "                         3rd          1st         1st

C has "Newly composed for the Northerne parts of this Kingdome."

  F. MADAN, _Sub-Librarian Bodleian Library_,
  _February 11th, 1897._

This table was compiled for me most kindly by Mr. MADAN. It answers the
question, what editions Bliss knew of at _various times_.

The following passage from Evelyn's Diary adds one more testimony to
Earle. _Nov. 30th, 1662._ "Invited by the Deane of Westminster (Dr. Earle)
to his consecration dinner and ceremony on his being made Bishop of
Worcester. Dr. Bolton preached in the Abbey Church--then followed the
consecration.... After this was one of the most plentiful and magnificent
dinners that in my life I ever saw. It cost neere £600.... Here were the
Judges, Nobility, Clergy, and gentlemen innumerable, this Bishop being
universally belov'd for his sweete and gentle disposition. He was author
of those characters which go under the name of Blount. He translated his
late Majesty's Icon into Latine, was Clerk of his Closet, Chaplaine, Deane
of Westminster, and yet a most humble, meeke, but cheerful man, an
_excellent scholar_,[EY] and rare preacher. I had the honour to be loved
by him. He married me at Paris, during his Majesties and the Churches
exile. When I tooke leave of him he brought me to the Cloysters in his
episcopal habit." He elsewhere speaks of "going to St. Germans to desire
of Dr. Earle," then in attendance at the Prince of Wales' Court, that he
would marry him "at the chapel of his Majesty's Resident at the Court of
France," June 10th, 1647. A sermon of Earle's, "my deare friend now Deane
of Westminster" is mentioned on Christmas Day 1660. It was one "condoling
the breache made in the public joy by the lamented death of the Princess
of Orange." My attention was drawn to these passages by a friend who
claims descent from Bishop Earle--Mr. W. B. Alt, of New College, Oxford.

A testimony from another _hand_[EZ] is quoted in Bliss's annotated copy.
"How well he understood the world in his younger days appears by his smart
characters; how little he valued it was seen in the careless indifference
of his holy contemplative life."

In Burnet's History of his own Times we are told that Charles II. "who had
a secret pleasure in finding out anything that lessened a man esteemed
eminent for piety, yet had a value for him (Earle) beyond all the men of
his order." (See Arber's Reprint.) On the other hand the Parliament in
1645 had named him as one to be summoned to the Assembly of Divines, but
he declined to come.[FA]

In 1654 there was printed at the Hague an Elzevir volume--"morum
exemplar," _Latin_ characters by one Louis du Moulin. He aspires he says
in the preface to be the Virgil or Seneca to Earle's Theocritus or

This is his testimony to the characters.

"Et sane salivam primum mihi movit vester Earles cujus characteribus, non
puto quicquam exstare vel severius ubi seria tractat, vel festivius quands
_innoxie_ jocatur: ant pictorem unquam penicillo propius ad nativam
speciem expressisse hominis vultus, quam ille ejus mores patria lingua

It may be of interest to mention in connection with the title of Earle's
book that the phrase of Menenius Agrippa in Coriolanus.--"The _Map_ of my
Microcosm" actually occurs as a title of a book of characters by H.
Broune, 1642, the alternative description being "a morall description of
man newly compiled into Essays.

Bliss's MS. book illustrates what I have said in the preface of the change
in the character-sketch. The essay and the pamphlet gradually usurp the
place of social studies. The great mass of the "characters" of the last
half of the seventeenth century are political or religious. On the other
hand, while the only _prose_ character in Bliss of the sixteenth century
deals with the criminal classes, "a discoverie of ten English leapers
verie noisome and hurtfull to the Church and Commonwealth," quoted in his
MS. notebook, mixes such characters with "the Simoniacke," "the murmurer,"
"the covetous man." The date is 1592. (The Tincker of Torvey (1630) also
exhibits this mixture.)

It may be worth while to add a few titles of books of characters, as
illustrating the range of this class of literature, or as being in
themselves interesting. They are from Bliss's own notes in his own copy of
his book or in the MS. note book before referred to.

1. "The Coffee-House--a character."

                 {When coffee once was vended here,
  Prefatory      {The Alc'ran shortly did appear,
  verses.        {... reformers were such widgeons,
                 {New liquors brought in new religions.

2. Also a character of coffee and coffee-houses. "It was first brought
into England when the palats of the English were as fanaticall as their
brains.... The Englishman will be a la mode de France. With the barbarous
Indian he smooks tobacco: with the Turk he drinks coffee."

3. News from the new Exchange. The commonwealth of ladies. Printed in the
_year of women with out Grace_, 1650.

4. There are many countries characterized--Italy, Spain, Holland,
Scotland. 'Holland' is in verse. It bears out Earle's contemptuous
references to the Dutch. It is here called "The offscouring of the British

    "This indigested vomit of the sea
    Fell to the Dutch by just propriety."

1672. [It will be found among Marvell's satires, but Bliss does not
mention this.]

5. "Scotland characteriz'd: in a letter to a young gentleman to dissuade
him from an intended journey thither, 1701."

6. "The noble cavalier characterized," "& a rebellious caviller
cauterized," 1644 _or_ 5. An answer to Wither's Campo Musæ. A vigorous
preface says--"To begin roundly, soundly, and profoundly, the Cavalier is
a gentleman." By John Taylor.

7. Lucifer's Lacky: the true character of a dissembling Brownist, 1641.

8. "The Tincker of Torvey: a scholler, a cobler, a tincker, a smith; with
Bluster, a seaman, travel from Billingsgate to Gravesend." 1650.

9. "The interpreter," 1622, deals with "three principall terms of state--a
puritan, a Protestant, a papist."

10. "The Joviall Crew; or the Devill turn'd Ranter." 1651.

11. [Greek: ta diapheronta]; or divine characters, in two parts, will have
an interest for Bristol readers; it is "by that late burning and shining
lamp, Master Samuel Crook, B.D., late Pastor of Wrington in Somerset, who
being dead yet speaketh." 1658.

12. "A character of the Religion and manners of Phanatiques in Generall,"
1660, includes in the list "Seekers and Enthusiasts." The last sounds
strange as _a species_.

13. "The character of an Ignoramus Doctor," 1681, recalls The

14. The captive Captain, or the restrained Cavalier," 1665, also, in part,
suggests Earle. "Of a Prison," "The anatomy of a Jayler," "The lean
Prisoner," "The restrained Cavalier and his melancholy."

15. Bliss also mentions "The character of a learned man," and gives some
choice extracts. "Our sottish and idle enthusiasts are to be reproved who
call learning but a _splendidum peccatum_." "Alexander commanded his
soldiers neither to damnify Pindarus, the poet, nor any of his family."

16. "A wandering Jew telling fortunes to Englishmen." 1640.

17. "The spiritual navigators bound for the Holy Land." 1615.

18. "The picture of a modern Whig: a dialogue between Whiglove and Double,
at Tom's Coffee-House." 1715.

19. In 1671 "Le vice ridicule" appeared. A sort of translation of Earle's

20. Pictures of Passions, Fancies, and Affections, poetically deciphered
in variety of characters (no date).

21. Characters of gentlemen that have put in to the Ladies Invention. This
begins--"A little Beau of the city strain."

22. Characters of several ingenious designing gentlewomen, who have lately
put in to the Ladies Invention, which is intended to be drawn as soon as
full. (There is no date to either of these.)

One or two extracts may be added from Anthony Wood.

"Lord Falkland, when he became one of the gentlemen of His Majesty's Privy
Chamber, had frequent retirements to Great Tew and sometimes to Oxon, for
the company of and conversation with learned and witty men. William
Chillingworth (author of the Religion of Protestants), Joh. Earle,[FB]
Charles Gataker (son of Thomas Gataker [the Editor of Marcus Aurelius] and
Anthony Wood thinks Chaplain to Lord Falkland); Thomas Triplet, a very
witty man of Christ Church; Hugh Cressey, and others.[FC] Cressey wrote a
number of theological works, and in one of them occurs the testimony to
Earle given in Bliss."

The saturnine Anthony Wood is amusingly illustrated in two passages from
his notice of Earle. "John Earle received his first being in this vain and
transitory world within the city of York.... His elegy on Beaumont was
printed at the end of the quarto edition of Beaumont's poems--put out with
a poetical epistle before them, subscribed by a _Presbyterian
bookbinder_--afterwards an informer to the Court of Sequestration ... _and
a beggar defunct in prison_"! In the notice of Morley he tells us that
"his banishment was made less tedious to him by the company of Dr. Joh.
Earle, his dearest friend." It is sad to find that the translation of
Hooker which was "to make the learned of all nations happy" was "utterly
destroyed"--the loose papers being taken by the servants after Earle's
death "to light their fires or else to put under their bread and pies."
This translation "was Earle's entertainment during a part of his exile at
Cologne." See the Bodleian letters quoted in Arber's Reprint. To that
Reprint I have been much indebted for help of various kinds.

My warmest thanks are due to Professor Rowley, of University College,
Bristol, whom I have constantly consulted while preparing this issue of
Dr. Bliss's edition. If one may be allowed a slight twist of a
Shakspearian phrase, I would say of such help as his--"Ripeness is all."
It is this quality that makes one at least of Professor Rowley's friends
so grateful and so importunate.

  S. T. I.
  Clifton, April, 1897.


[EI] In a later hand.

[EJ] Arcana in margin.

[EK] Th. in margin, _i.e._, Th[omas].

[EL] In a later hand.

[EM] In the later hand.

[EN] A fellow of Merton with Earle. His testimony to Earle is quoted by
Bliss. Anthony Wood says of him, "that when he lost his most beloved Lord
Falkland, at Newbury Fight, he travelled as a tutor, and upon a freight
that the Church of England would terminate through the endeavours of the
peevish and restless Presbyterians, began to think of settling himself in
the Church of Rome." He recanted his errors publicly at Rome in 1646.

[EO] Poetical?

[EP] This epithet with Clarendon's "wary and cultivated" must be set
against what Clarendon tells us of his "negligence in dress, habit and
mien." Earle can never have been awkward. His courtesy was born with him,
and he can never have needed (like "the downright scholar") "brushing over
with good company."

[EQ] Memoirs, vol. I, p. 81, ed. C. Firth.

[ER] I ought to say that Mr. Madan, who was kind enough to look at my
copy, does not think many of the notes are in Bliss's hand-writing.

[ES] "More care, attention, accuracy and valuable enlargement from an
inexhaustible stock of materials has rarely been witnessed than in the
editorial labours of Dr. Bliss."--Dibdin, speaking of Bliss's edition of
the Athenæ Oxonienses.

[ET] Cowper's Letters, June 12th, 1782.

[EU] Some of the MS. notes in my copy are the same as those in the printed

[EV] To Bliss's notice of {Blount Blunt}; it may be added that "Pericles"
was printed for him in 1609; and the first edition of Marlow's "Hero and
Leander" in 1598 ["printed for Edward Blunt by Adam Islip" (Philemon
Holland's printer)]. Marlow's "First Book of Lucan" (1600) has a humorous
and complimentary dedication to Blunt from another bookseller, Thomas
Thorpe. See "Earlier History of English Bookselling." (Sampson and Low.)

[EW] The second folio Shakespeare (1632) was printed for him.

[EX] The 1613 edition of Hero and Leander was printed by W. Stansby for
Ed. Blunt. He also published some of Ben Jonson's works.

[EY] Sir Henry Savile, Provost of Eton, and editor of the famous
Chrysostom, recognised Earle's scholarship. "When a young scholar was
recommended to him for a good witt,--Out upon him! I'll have nothing to do
with him--he would say, give me the plodding student. If I would look for
witts, I would go to Newgate--There be the witts! and John Earle was the
only scholar that ever he took as recommended for a witt."--_Aubrey._

[EZ] David Lloyd, "Memoirs," 1668, folio.

[FA] "The very Parliament naming him as worthy ... though he thought not
it worthy of him."--_Ib._

[FB] Aubrey calls him "an ingeniose young gent, but no writer."

[FC] "Ben Jonson, Edmund Waller, Esq., Mr. Th. Hobbes, and all the
excellent witts of that peaceable time."--_Aubrey._

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