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Title: Microcosmography

Author: John Earle

Release date: August 25, 2008 [eBook #26425]
Most recently updated: January 4, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK
MICROCOSMOGRAPHY ***

MICROCOSMOGRAPHY;
OR,

A Piece of the World discovered;
IN
ESSAYS AND CHARACTERS.

MICROCOSMOGRAPHY;
OR,
A PIECE OF THE WORLD
DISCOVERED;
IN
ESSAYS AND CHARACTERS

By JOHN EARLE, D.D.

A Reprint of Dr. Bliss's Edition of 1811.

WITH A PREFACE AND SUPPLEMENTARY
APPENDIX
By S. T. IRWIN.

Bristol:
PUBLISHED BY W. CROFTON HEMMONS.
London:
Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co., Ltd.

TO THE MEMORY
OF THE REVEREND DAVID WRIGHT,
"THE GRAVE DIVINE" OF THESE PAGES,
WHOSE NAME WILL LIVE IN BRISTOL
AS LONG AS MEN CARE FOR BEAUTY OF CHARACTER,

RICHNESS OF THOUGHT, OR DISTINCTION OF SPEECH,
THIS BRISTOL REPRINT IS INSCRIBED.
"From the contagion of the world's slow stain
He was secure."

PREFACE.
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
one.
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
company."
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 thing.

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 discredited.
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.
S.T.I.
Clifton, May, 1896.

FOOTNOTES:
[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 "vivacity."
[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.

CONTENTS
OF THE

SUPPLEMENTARY APPENDIX.
(1) The Durham MS.
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 Biography."
(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
others.
(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 "Cosmography."
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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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 Club.

MICROCOSMOGRAPHY;
OR

A Piece of the World discovered;

IN
ESSAYS AND CHARACTERS.
BY JOHN EARLE, D.D.
OF CHRIST-CHURCH AND MERTON COLLEGES, OXFORD,
AND BISHOP OF SALISBURY.
A NEW EDITION.
TO WHICH ARE ADDED,
NOTES AND AN APPENDIX,
BY PHILIP BLISS,
FELLOW OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, OXFORD.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR WHITE AND COCHRANE, FLEET-STREET;
AND
JOHN HARDING. ST. JAMES'S-STREET.

1811.

ADVERTISEMENT.
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.

THE PREFACE
[TO THE EDITION OF 1732[AL].]
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
troublesome.
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].

FOOTNOTES:
[AL] London: Printed by E. Say, Anno Domini m.dcc.xxxii.

[AM] A short account of Earle, taken from the Athenæ Oxonienses is here
omitted.

ADVERTISEMENT
[TO THE EDITION OF 1786[AN].]
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."

FOOTNOTES:
[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, London."
[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.

EDITIONS OF "MICROCOSMOGRAPHY."
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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

CONTENTS.
PAGE
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

APPENDIX.
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 Εικων Βασιλικη 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
303
Clarendon, etc.)

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

TO THE READER[AT].
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
Thine,

Ed. Blount[AV].

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

MICROCOSMOGRAPHY;
or,
A piece of the World characterized.

I.
A CHILD

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

II.
A YOUNG RAW PREACHER

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

III.
A GRAVE DIVINE

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]

FOOTNOTES:
[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."

IV.
A MEER DULL PHYSICIAN.

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

[14]

"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.

V.
AN ALDERMAN.

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.

VI.
A DISCONTENTED MAN

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

VII.
AN ANTIQUARY;

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[AW] In the first edition it stands thus:—"and his hat is as antient as the tower
of Babel."

VIII.
A YOUNGER BROTHER.

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[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 parleament."

IX.
A MEER FORMAL MAN

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[19] Minster-walk, 1st edit.

X.
A CHURCH-PAPIST

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]

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

XI.
A SELF-CONCEITED MAN

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.

FOOTNOTES:

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

XII.
A TOO IDLY RESERVED MAN

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 Œdipuses; for his over-acted dissimulation discovers him, and
men do with him as they would with Hebrew letters, spell him backwards
and read him.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

XIII.
A TAVERN

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

XIV.
A SHARK

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[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 nobility.
[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."

XV.
A CARRIER

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

XVI.
A YOUNG MAN;

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[31] Whilst he has not yet got them, enjoys them, First edit.

XVII.
AN OLD COLLEGE BUTLER

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

XVIII.
AN UPSTART COUNTRY KNIGHT

[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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

XIX.
AN IDLE GALLANT

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 country.

XX.
A CONSTABLE

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.

XXI.
A DOWN-RIGHT SCHOLAR

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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 noticed.

XXII.
A PLAIN COUNTRY FELLOW

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.

XXIII.
A PLAYER.

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

XXIV.
A DETRACTOR

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 solœcism, 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 another.

XXV.
A YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF THE UNIVERSITY

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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 tuft-hunter.

XXVI.
A WEAK MAN

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[46] If he could order his intentions, first edit.

XXVII.
A TOBACCO-SELLER

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[47] Minshew calls a tobacconist fumi-vendulus, a smoak-seller.

XXVIII.
A POT-POET

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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 monster.
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

XXIX.
A PLAUSIBLE MAN

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[52] Better, first edit.

XXX.
A BOWL-ALLEY

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.

XXXI.
THE WORLD'S WISE MAN

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[53] Hate, first edit.

XXXII.
A SURGEON

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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 appeared.

"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.

XXXIII.
A CONTEMPLATIVE MAN

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.

XXXIV.
A SHE PRECISE HYPOCRITE

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

XXXV.
A SCEPTICK IN RELIGION

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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 sonaret."
[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.

XXXVI.
AN ATTORNEY.

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

XXXVII.
A PARTIAL MAN

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.

XXXVIII.
A TRUMPETER

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

XXXIX.
A VULGAR-SPIRITED MAN

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.

XL.
A PLODDING STUDENT

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.

XLI.

PAUL'S WALK[64]

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[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.
[66]

——You'd not doe
Like your penurious father, who was wont
To walke his dinner out in Paules.

Mayne's City Match, 1658.

XLII.
A COOK.

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.

FOOTNOTES:

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

XLIII.
A BOLD FORWARD MAN

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
colleges.

FOOTNOTES:
[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 ale."

XLIV.
A BAKER.

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 after.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

XLV.
A PRETENDER TO LEARNING

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[71] Study, first edit.
[72] The first edition reads post, and, I think, preferably.

XLVI.
A HERALD

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.

XLVII.
THE COMMON SINGING-MEN IN CATHEDRAL
CHURCHES

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[73] Keep for attend.

XLVIII.
A SHOP-KEEPER.

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.

XLIX.
A BLUNT MAN

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 disguise.

FOOTNOTES:
[74] Squeazy, niggardly.

L.
A HANDSOME HOSTESS

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.

LI.
A CRITIC

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]

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

LII.
A SERGEANT, OR CATCH-POLE

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[76] And the clubs out of charity knock him down, first edit.

LIII.
AN UNIVERSITY DUN

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[77] That is, runs you up a long score.

LIV.
A STAYED MAN

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.

LV.
A MODEST MAN

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

LVI.
A MEER EMPTY WIT

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.

LVII.
A DRUNKARD

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[79] Rechlesse, negligent. Saxon, rectlerre. Chaucer uses it also as an adjective:

"I may not in this cas be reccheles."

Clerkes Tale, v. 8364.

LVIII.
A PRISON

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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. 1618.

LIX.
A SERVING MAN

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

LX.
AN INSOLENT MAN

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.

LXI.
ACQUAINTANCE

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.

LXII.
A MEER COMPLIMENTAL MAN

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 respect.

FOOTNOTES:
[84]

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.

LXIII.
A POOR FIDDLER

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[85] Probably the name of some difficult tune.

LXIV.
A MEDDLING MAN

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.

LXV.
A GOOD OLD MAN

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.

LXVI.
A FLATTERER

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

LXVII.
A HIGH-SPIRITED MAN

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.

LXVIII.
A MEER GULL CITIZEN

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

LXIX.
A LASCIVIOUS MAN

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.

LXX.
A RASH MAN

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.

LXXI.
AN AFFECTED MAN

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.

LXXI.
A PROFANE MAN

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 themselves.

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

LXXIII.
A COWARD

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.

LXXIV.
A SORDID RICH MAN

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

LXXV.
A MEER GREAT MAN

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
posterity.

FOOTNOTES:
[96] The person who exhibits Westminster abbey.

LXXVI.
A POOR MAN

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.

LXXVII.
AN ORDINARY HONEST MAN

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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

LXXVIII.
A SUSPICIOUS OR JEALOUS MAN

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.
END OF THE CHARACTERS.

APPENDIX.

No. I.

SOME ACCOUNT OF BISHOP EARLE[AX].

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
cause[BE].
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
Inimicum;
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 ΕΙΚΟ'ΝΑ ΒΑΣΙΛΙΚΗ'Ν,
(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 2do Regij Oratorij Clericus,

aliquando Westmonasteriensi, Decanus,
deinde Wigorniensis
Ecclesiæ { tandem Sarisburiensis Angelus.}
et nunc triumphantis
Dōni: 1665to.
Obiit Oxonij Novemb. 17^o. Anno { Ætatis suæ 65to.

Voluitq. in hoc, ubi olim floruerat, Collegio,
Ex Æde Christi hue in Socium ascitus,
Ver magnum, ut reflorescat, expectare."

FOOTNOTES:
[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 Εικων Βασιλικη, 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. 581.
[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.
CHARACTERS OF BISHOP EARLE.

——"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.
LIST OF DR. EARLE'S WORKS.

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. Εικων Βασιλικη, vel Imago Regis Caroli, In illis suis Ærumnis et
Solitudine. Hagæ-Comitis. Typis S. B. &c. 1649. 12mo. See Appendix, No.
VII.[BN]

FOOTNOTES:
[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 courtiers
"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.
LINES ON SIR JOHN BURROUGHS,

KILLED BY A BULLET AT REEZ[BP].
[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.
J. Earles.

FOOTNOTES:
[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. 1627.
[BQ] Sir John Talbot, first earl of Shrewsbury, of whom see Collins' Peerage, iii.
9. Holinshed, Rapin, Carte, &c.

No. V.

ON THE DEATH OF THE EARL OF PEMBROKE[BR].

[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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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, 1630.

No. VI.
ON MR. BEAUMONT.

WRITTEN THIRTY YEARS SINCE, PRESENTLY AFTER HIS DEATH.
[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.
John Earle.

No. VII.
DEDICATION TO THE LATIN TRANSLATION

OF THE
Εικων Βασιλικη.
"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,
Jo. Earles.

No. VIII.

INSCRIPTION ON DR. PETER HEYLIN'S[BS] MONUMENT
IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

[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 fœcundo,
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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.
CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN DR. EARLE AND MR.
BAXTER.

[See Kennet's Register, folio, Lond. 1723, page 713.]
MR. BAXTER TO DR. EARLE.
"REVEREND SIR,
"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,
Sir,
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."

DR EARLE, IN REPLY.
Hampton-Court, June 23.
"Sir,
"I received your letter, which I would have
answered sooner, if the messenger that brought O that they were
it had returned. I must confess I was a little all such.—Note
by Mr. Baxter.
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.
As I remember, then, when you came to me to
the closet, and I told you I would furnish you These words I
heard not, being
with a tippet, you answered me something to in the passage
that purpose as you write, but whether the same from him.—Note
numerical words, or but once, I cannot possibly by Mr. Baxter.
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.
MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION

IN STREGLETHORP CHURCH, NEAR NEWARK-UPON-TRENT, IN
LINCOLNSHIRE.

[From Le Neve's Monumenta Anglicana[BT]. 8vo. Lond. 1718. vol. iii. p.
182.]

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], Barntus.
Obijt decimo tertio die
Augti Anno Dom. 1697.
Ætatis suæ 24.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.
CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF BOOKS OF
CHARACTERS.

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.
M.D.LXUjj.

¶ 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.]

Imprinted
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 him.
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 understood.
"¶ 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.

Bene lyghtmans to thy quarromes in what lipkē hast thou lipped
Man.
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.
J saye by the Salomon J wyll lage it of with a gage of bene bouse
Roge.
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
beneshype.
Se you, yonder is the house, open the doore, and aske for the best.
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.
She hath a cacling chete, a grunting chete, ruff pecke, cassan, and
Roge.
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.
So may we happen on the harmanes and cly the jarke, or to the
Man. quyer ken and skower quyaer cramprings and so to tryning on the
chates.
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.
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
Man. 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.

FOOTNOTES:
[BV] In the epistle to the reader, the author terms it "this second impression."

[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 Flitchmā. 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 Vacabondes.
[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 Welsh-
men.
[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 stocking.

FOOTNOTES:
[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. των ηθων δη φυλαττεσθαι
μαλλον δει ἡ τους ἑχεισ. 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.
ESSAY I.

"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."

FOOTNOTES:
[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 mistake.
[CQ]

"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 WORTHIE PRIUIE COUNCELLER.
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.
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
inuētion 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 FOOL.
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].
"THE CHESSE PLAY."
Very aptly deuised by N. B. Gent.
[From "The Phœnix 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 PAWNES.

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 NATURE OF THE CHESSE MEN.

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.

LENVOY.

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."

FOOTNOTES:
[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 1618.
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."
"CHARACTER OF A PRISONER.
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."

FOOTNOTES:
[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 numbered.]
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, wth 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."
"A GOOD WIFE,
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."

FOOTNOTES:
[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 perficiebam"—
&c.
[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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

"A CORRANTO-COINER—(p. 15.)
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."

FOOTNOTES:
[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,

W.S."

The Original Characters are,
1. The world. 14. A wandering rogue.
2. An old man. 15. A waterman.
3. A woman. 16. A shepheard.
4. A widdow. 17. A jealous man.
5. A true lover. 18. A chamberlaine.
6. A countrey bride. 19. A mayde.
7. A plowman. 20. A bayley.
8. A melancholy man. 21. A countrey fayre.
9. A young heire. 22. A countrey alehouse.
10. A scholler in the university. 23. A horse-race.
11. A lawyer's clarke. 24. A farmer's daughter.
12. A townsman in Oxford. 25. A keeper.
13. An usurer. 26. A gentleman's house in the countrey.
The Additions to the second Edition are,
27. A fine dame. 34. The tearme.
28. A country dame. 35. A mower.
29. A gardiner. 36. A happy man.
30. A captaine. 37. An arrant knave.
31. A poore village. 38. An old waiting gentlewoman.
32. A merry man.
33. A scrivener.

"THE TEARME
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."

FOOTNOTES:
[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."

FOOTNOTES:
[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 well—

——"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.
"THE LONGE PAVIAN,
ij singles, a duble forward; ij singles syde, a duble forward; repīnce 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 1641[DP].
[4to. pp. 10, besides title.]

FOOTNOTES:
[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.
13.
[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 Phœnix
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 500l. 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.

FOOTNOTES:
[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. 15. Time.
2. Rebelion. 16. A newter.
3. An honest subject. 17. A turn-coat.
18. A moderate man.
4. An hypocritical convert of the times.
19. A corrupt committee-man.

5. A souldier of fortune. 20. A sectary.
6. A discontented person. 21. Warre.
7. An ambitious man. 22. Peace.
8. The vulgar. 23. A drunkard.
9. Errour. 24. A novice-preacher.
10. Truth. 25. A scandalous preacher.
11. A selfe-seeker. 26. A grave divine.
12. Pamphlets. 27. A selfe-conceited man.
13. An envious man. 29. Religion.
14. True valour. 30. Death.

"PAMPHLETS
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."

FOOTNOTES:
[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
Characters.

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.
102.]

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, 1659.
(12mo. pp. 500. title, &c. 6 more.)
Written by Owen Feltham, and appended to the several folio editions of his
Resolves.

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 Vices.

—— 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.

FOOTNOTES:

[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]
"CHARACTER OF A VALIANT MAN."—(page 61.)
"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."

FOOTNOTES:
[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. 2098.
[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, 1673.
[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 1675.
of a Towne Miss }
of an honest drunken Curr
of a pilfering Taylor
of an Exchange Wench
of a Sollicitor
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.
1681.
[Folio, pp. 2. Reprinted in the Harleian Miscellany, i. 356.]

xlvi. Character of a certain ugly old P——. London, Printed in the Year
1684.
[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].

FOOTNOTES:
[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.]

FOOTNOTES:
[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.

ADDITIONAL NOTES AND CORRECTIONS.
Page 2, line 18, for ports read sports.
Page 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," &c.
Page 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."
Page 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."
Page 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.
Page 45, line 11, for Gollobelgicus read Gallobelgicus.
Page 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.
Page 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.
Page 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."
Page 63, line 9, "dragon that pursued the woman." Evidently an allusion to
Revelations, xii. 15.
Page 91, note 8, line 15, for Styla read Hyla in both instances.
Page 92, note 10, line 5, for Leiden read Leyden.
Page 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.
Page 182, note 1, for spunge read sponge.
Page 208, line 4, for spera read spero.
ib. line 30, for conjesta read congesta.
ib. line 31, for susuperavit read superavit.
Page 231, line 11, for Jude read Inde: for ferucat read ferueat.
Page 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 Project Gutenberg
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.

INDEX.
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.
Εικων Βασιλικη 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.
Phœnix 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.

THE END.
ERRATUM.
Page li. line 10, for first, read fift.

SUPPLEMENTARY APPENDIX.
VARIOUS READINGS AND VERSIONS FROM THE DURHAM MS.
A CHILDE.
1. "His soul is yet a white page" (paper).
AN ORDINARY PHYSITIAN.
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."
A SELFE-CONCEITED MAN.
10 (11 in Bliss). "A parasite is a stale to him," for "a flatterer is a dunce to
him."
A RESERVED MAN.
26 (12 in Bliss). "Never speaks above the audit of a whisper," for "whispers
you in the ear acts."
A DOUNE-RIGHT SCHOLLER.
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 Allies."
A POTT POET.
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."
A FORWARD, BOLD MAN.

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."
A PLAINE COUNTRIE FELLOWE.
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."
A SERGEANT, (SERIEANT).
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."
A PARTIALL MAN.
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."
A TRUMPETTER.
34 (38 in Bliss). "In short he is a bubble and his life a blast."
A PAULES WALKE.
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."
A DUN.
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 within.")
A PLAUSIBLE MAN.
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."
A BAKER.
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.

AN HERAULD.[DZ]
(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 pedigree."
A YOUNG RAW PREACHER.
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 divinity."
A GRAVE DIVINE.
3. "Arts his way." "He thinks he ought to become learned to learne so high a
mystery, wch 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).
AN ANTIQUARY.
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."
A PLAYER.
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."
A YOUNG GENTLEMAN IN THE UNIVERSITY.
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...."
VICCARS (MS.)
SINGING MEN.
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."
A SHOP-KEEPER.
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."
A BOWL ALLEY.
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."
A SHE PRECISE HYPOCRITE.
(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."
THE WEAK MAN.
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."
A SCEPTICK IN RELIGION.
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 resolved."
[From Bliss's annotated copy of Earle's Microcosmography.]
A GALLANT.
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.

THE 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 solœcismes for peace, and yet for
contention; hee beleeues in Littleton or the present Cheefe-Justice and
against this fayth hee thinkes the Chancery Hœerticall, 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.
TWO LETTERS OF EARLE'S.
[TANNER MS., vol. 48, No. 46.]