Chapter 31

Is one that sells the devil the best pennyworth that he meets with anywhere, and, like the Indians that part with gold for glass beads, he damns his soul for the slightest trifles imaginable. He betroths himself oftener to the devil in one day than Mecaenas did in a week to his wife, that he was married a thousand times to. His discourse is inlaid with oaths as the gallows is with nails, to fortify it against the assaults of those whose friends have made it their deathbed. He takes a preposterous course to be believed and persuade you to credit what he says, by saying that which at the best he does not mean; for all the excuse he has for his voluntary damning of himself is, that he means nothing by it. He is as much mistaken in what he does intend really, for that which he takes for the ornament of his language renders it the most odious and abominable. His custom of swearing takes away the sense of his saying. His oaths are but a dissolute formality of speech and the worst kind of affectation. He is a Knight-Baronet of the Post, or gentleman blasphemer, that swears for his pleasure only; a lay-affidavit man, _in voto_ only and not in orders. He learned to swear, as magpies do to speak, by hearing others. He talks nothing but bell, book, and candle, and delivers himself over to Satan oftener than a Presbyterian classis would do. He plays with the devil for sport only, and stakes his soul to nothing. He overcharges his oaths till they break and hurt himself only. He discharges them as fast as a gun that will shoot nine times with one loading. He is the devil's votary, and fails not to commend himself into his tuition upon all occasions. He outswears an exorcist, and outlies the legend. His oaths are of a wider bore and louder report than those of an ordinary perjurer, but yet they do not half the execution. Sometimes he resolves to leave it, but not too suddenly, lest it should prove unwholesome and injurious to his health, but by degrees as he took it up. Swearing should appear to be the greatest of sins, for though the Scripture says, "God sees no sin in His children," it does not say He hears none.

THE LUXURIOUS

Places all enjoyment in spending, as a covetous man does in getting, and both are treated at a witch's feast, where nothing feeds but only the imagination, and like two madmen, that believe themselves to be the same prince, laugh at one another. He values his pleasures as they do honour, by the difficulty and dearness of the purchase, not the worth of the thing; and the more he pays the better he believes he ought to be pleased, as women are fondest of those children which they have groaned most for. His tongue is like a great practiser's in law, for as the one will not stir, so the other will not taste without a great fee. He never reckons what a thing costs by what it is worth, but what it is worth by what it costs. All his senses are like corrupt judges, that will understand nothing until they are thoroughly informed and satisfied with a convincing bribe. He relishes no meat but by the rate, and a high price is like sauce to it, that gives it a high taste and renders it savoury to his palate. He believes there is nothing dear, nor ought to be so, that does not cost much, and that the dearest bought is always the cheapest. He tastes all wines by the smallness of the bottles and the greatness of the price, and when he is over-reckoned takes it as an extraordinary value set upon him, as Dutchmen always reckon by the dignity of the person, not the charge of the entertainment he receives, put his quality and titles into the bill of fare, and make him pay for feeding upon his own honour and right-worship, which he brought along with him. He debauches his gluttony with an unnatural appetite to things never intended for food, like preposterous venery or the unnatural mixtures of beasts of several kinds. He is as curious of his pleasures as an antiquary of his rarities, and cares for none but such as are very choice and difficult to be gotten, disdains anything that is common, unless it be his women, which he esteems a common good, and therefore the more communicative the better. All his vices are, like children that have been nicely bred, a great charge to him, and it costs him dear to maintain them like themselves, according to their birth and breeding; but he, like a tender parent, had rather suffer want himself than they should, for he considers a man's vices are his own flesh and blood, and though they are but by-blows, he is bound to provide for them, out of natural affection, as well as if they were lawfully begotten.

AN UNGRATEFUL MAN

Is like dust in the highway, that flies in the face of those that raise it. He that is ungrateful is all things that are amiss. He is like the devil, that seeks the destruction of those most of all that do him the best service, or an unhealthful sinner that receives pleasure and returns nothing but diseases. He receives obligations from all that he can, but they presently become void and of none effect, for good offices fare with him like death, from which there is no return. His ill-nature is like an ill stomach, that turns its nourishment into bad humours. He should be a man of very great civilities, for he receives all that he can, but never parts with any. He is like a barren soil; plant what you will on him, it will never grow, nor anything but thorns and thistles, that came in with the curse. His mother died in child-bed of him, for he is descended of the generation of vipers in which the dam always eats off the sire's head, and the young ones their way through her belly. He is like a horse in a pasture, that eats up the grass and dungs it in requital. He puts the benefits he receives from others and his own faults together in that end of the sack which he carries behind his back. His ill-nature, like a contagious disease, infects others that are of themselves good, who, observing his ingratitude, become less inclined to do good than otherwise they would be; and as the sweetest wine, if ill-preserved, becomes the sourest vinegar, so the greatest endearments with him turn to the bitterest injuries. He has an admirable art of forgetfulness, and no sooner receives a kindness but he owns it by prescription and claims from time out of mind. All his acknowledgments appear before his ends are served, but never after, and, like Occasion, grow very thick before but bare behind. He is like a river, that runs away from the spring that feeds it and undermines the banks that support it; or like vice and sin, that destroy those that are most addicted to it; or the hangman, that breaks the necks of those whom he gets his living by, and whips those that find him employment, and brands his masters that set him on work. He pleads the Act of Oblivion for all the good deeds that are done him, and pardons himself for the evil returns he makes. He never looks backward (like a right statesman), and things that are past are all one with him as if they had never been; and as witches, they say, hurt those only from whom they can get something and have a hank upon, he no sooner receives a benefit but he converts it to the injury of that person who conferred it on him. It fares with persons as with families, that think better of themselves the farther they are off their first raisers.

A SQUIRE OF DAMES

Deals with his mistress as the devil does with a witch, is content to be her servant for a time, that she may be his slave for ever. He is esquire to a knight-errant, donzel to the damsels, and gentleman usher daily waiter on the ladies, that rubs out his time in making legs and love to them. He is a gamester who throws at all ladies that are set him, but is always out, and never wins but when he throws at the candlestick, that is, for nothing; a general lover, that addresses unto all but never gains any, as universals produce nothing. He never appears so gallant a man as when he is in the head of a body of ladies and leads them up with admirable skill and conduct. He is a eunuch-bashaw, that has charge of the women and governs all their public affairs, because he is not able to do them any considerable private services. One of his prime qualifications is to convey their persons in and out of coaches, as tenderly as a cook sets his custards in an oven and draws them out again, without the least discomposure or offence to their inward or outward woman; that is, their persons and dresses. The greatest care he uses in his conversation with ladies is to order his peruke methodically, and keep off his hat with equal respect both to it and their ladyships, that neither may have cause to take any just offence, but continue him in their good graces. When he squires a lady he takes her by the handle of her person, the elbow, and steers it with all possible caution, lest his own foot should, upon a tack, for want of due circumspection, unhappily fall foul on the long train she carries at her stern. This makes him walk upon his toes and tread as lightly as if he were leading her a dance. He never tries any experiment solitary with her, but always in consort, and then he acts the woman's part and she the man's, talks loud and laughs, while he sits demurely silent, and simpers or bows, and cries, "Anon, Madam, excellently good!" &c. &c. He is a kind of hermaphrodite, for his body is of one sex and his mind of another, which makes him take no delight in the conversation or actions of men, because they do so by his, but apply himself to women, to whom the sympathy and likeness of his own temper and wit naturally inclines him, where he finds an agreeable reception for want of a better; for they, like our Indian planters, value their wealth by the number of their slaves. All his business in the morning is to dress himself, and in the afternoon to show his workmanship to the ladies, who after serious consideration approve or disallow of his judgment and abilities accordingly, and he as freely delivers his opinion of theirs. The glass is the only author he studies, by which his actions and gestures are all put on like his clothes, and by that he practices how to deliver what he has prepared to say to the dames, after he has laid a train to bring it in.

AN HYPOCRITE

Is a saint that goes by clockwork, a machine made by the devil's geometry, which he winds and nicks to go as he pleases. He is the devil's finger-watch, that never goes true, but too fast or too slow as he sets him. His religion goes with wires, and he serves the devil for an idol to seduce the simple to worship and believe in him. He puts down the true saint with his copper-lace devotion, as ladies that use art paint fairer than the life. He is a great bustler in reformation, which is always most proper to his talent, especially if it be tumultuous; for pockets are nowhere so easily and safely picked as in jostling crowds. And as change and alterations are most agreeable to those who are tied to nothing, he appears more zealous and violent for the cause than such as are retarded by conscience or consideration. His religion is a mummery, and his Gospel-walkings nothing but dancing a masquerade. He never wears his own person, but assumes a shape, as his master, the devil, does when he appears. He wears counterfeit hands (as the Italian pickpocket did), which are fastened to his breast as if he held them up to heaven, while his natural fingers are in his neighbour's pocket. The whole scope of all his actions appears to be directed, like an archer's arrow, at heaven, while the clout he aims at sticks in the earth. The devil baits his hook with him when he fishes in troubled waters. He turns up his eyes to heaven like birds that have no upper lid. He is a weathercock upon the steeple of the church, that turns with every wind that blows from any point of the compass. He sets his words and actions like a printer's letters, and he that will understand him must read him backwards. He is much more to be suspected than one that is no professor, as a stone of any colour is easier counterfeited than a diamond that is of none. The inside of him tends quite cross to the outside, like a spring that runs upward within the earth and down without. He is an operator for the soul, and corrects other men's sins with greater of his own, as the Jews were punished for their idolatry by greater idolaters than themselves. He is a spiritual highwayman that robs on the road to heaven. His professions and his actions agree like a sweet voice and a stinking breath.

AN OPINIONATER

Is his own confidant, that maintains more opinions than he is able to support. They are all bastards commonly and unlawfully begotten, but being his own, he had rather, out of natural affection, take any pains, or beg, than they should want a subsistence. The eagerness and violence he uses to defend them argues they are weak, for if they were true they would not need it. How false soever they are to him, he is true to them; and as all extraordinary affections of love or friendship are usually upon the meanest accounts, he is resolved never to forsake them, how ridiculous soever they render themselves and him to the world. He is a kind of a knight-errant that is bound by his order to defend the weak and distressed, and deliver enchanted paradoxes, that are bewitched and held by magicians and conjurers in invisible castles. He affects to have his opinions as unlike other men's as he can, no matter whether better or worse, like those that wear fantastic clothes of their own devising. No force of argument can prevail upon him; for, like a madman, the strength of two men in their wits is not able to hold him down. His obstinacy grows out of his ignorance, for probability has so many ways that whosoever understands them will not be confident of any one. He holds his opinions as men do their lands, and though his tenure be litigious, he will spend all he has to maintain it. He does not so much as know what opinion means, which, always supposing uncertainty, is not capable of confidence. The more implicit his obstinacy is, the more stubborn it renders him; for implicit faith is always more pertinacious than that which can give an account of itself; and as cowards that are well backed will appear boldest, he that believes as the Church believes is more violent, though he knows not what it is, than he that can give a reason for his faith. And as men in the dark endeavour to tread firmer than when they are in the light, the darkness of his understanding makes him careful to stand fast wheresoever he happens, though it be out of his way.

A CHOLERIC MAN

Is one that stands for madman, and has as many voices as another. If he miss he has very hard dealing; for if he can but come to a fair polling of his fits against his intervals, he is sure to carry it. No doubt it would be a singular advantage to him; for, as his present condition stands, he has more full moons in a week than a lunatic has in a year. His passion is like tinder, soon set on fire and as soon out again. The smallest occasion imaginable puts him in his fit, and then he has no respect of persons, strikes up the heels of stools and chairs, tears cards limbmeal without regard of age, sex, or quality, and breaks the bones of dice, and makes them a dreadful example to deter others from daring to take part against him. He is guilty but of misprision of madness, and if the worst come to the worst, can but forfeit estate and suffer perpetual liberty to say what he pleases. 'Tis true he is but a candidate of Bedlam, and is not yet admitted fellow, but has the license of the College to practise, and in time will not fail to come in according to his seniority. He has his grace for madman, and has done his exercises, and nothing but his good manners can put him by his degree. He is, like a foul chimney, easily set on fire, and then he vapours and flashes as if he would burn the house, but is presently put out with a greater huff, and the mere noise of a pistol reduces him to a quiet and peaceable temper. His temper is, like that of a meteor, an imperfect mixture, that sparkles and flashes until it has spent itself. All his parts are irascible, and his gall is too big for his liver. His spleen makes others laugh at him, and as soon as his anger is over with others he begins to be angry with himself and sorry. He is sick of a preposterous ague, and has his hot fit always before his cold. The more violent his passion is the sooner it is out, like a running knot, that strains hardest, but is easiest loosed. He is never very passionate but for trifles, and is always most temperate where he has least cause, like a nettle that stings worst when it is touched with soft and gentle fingers, but when it is bruised with rugged, hardened hands returns no harm at all.

A SUPERSTITIOUS MAN

Is more zealous in his false, mistaken piety than others are in the truth; for he that is in an error has farther to go than one that is in the right way, and therefore is concerned to bestir himself and make the more speed. The practice of his religion is, like the Schoolmen's speculations, full of niceties and tricks, that take up his whole time and do him more hurt than good. His devotions are labours, not exercises, and he breaks the Sabbath in taking too much pains to keep it. He makes a conscience of so many trifles and niceties, that he has not leisure to consider things that are serious and of real weight. His religion is too full of fears and jealousies to be true and faithful, and too solicitous and unquiet to continue in the right, if it were so. And as those that are bunglers and unskilful in any art take more pains to do nothing, because they are in a wrong way, than those that are ready and expert to do the excellentest things, so the errors and mistakes of his religion engage him in perpetual troubles and anxieties, without any possibility of improvement until he unlearn all and begin again upon a new account. He talks much of the justice and merits of his cause, and yet gets so many advocates that it is plain he does not believe himself; but having pleaded not guilty, he is concerned to defend himself as well as he can, while those that confess and put themselves upon the mercy of the Court have no more to do. His religion is too full of curiosities to be sound and useful, and is fitter for a hypocrite than a saint; for curiosities are only for show and of no use at all. His conscience resides more in his stomach than his heart, and howsoever he keeps the commandments, he never fails to keep a very pious diet, and will rather starve than eat erroneously or taste anything that is not perfectly orthodox and apostolical; and if living and eating are inseparable, he is in the right, and lives because he eats according to the truly ancient primitive Catholic faith in the purest times.

A DROLL

Plays his part of wit readily at first sight, and sometimes better than with practice. He is excellent at voluntary and prelude, but has no skill in composition. He will run divisions upon any ground very dexterously, but now and then mistakes a flat for a sharp. He has a great deal of wit, but it is not at his own disposing, nor can he command it when he pleases unless it be in the humour. His fancy is counterchanged between jest and earnest, and the earnest lies always in the jest, and the jest in the earnest. He treats of all matters and persons by way of exercitation, without respect of things, time, place, or occasion, and assumes the liberty of a free-born Englishman, as if he were called to the long robe with long ears. He imposes a hard task upon himself as well as those he converses with, and more than either can bear without a convenient stock of confidence. His whole life is nothing but a merrymaking, and his business the same with a fiddler's, to play to all companies where he comes, and take what they please to give him either of applause or dislike; for he can do little without some applauders, who by showing him ground make him outdo his own expectation many times, and theirs too; for they that laugh on his side and cry him up give credit to his confidence, and sometimes contribute more than half the wit by making it better than he meant. He is impregnable to all assaults but that of a greater impudence, which, being stick-free, puts him, like a rough fencer, out of his play, and after passes upon him at pleasure, for when he is once routed he never rallies again. He takes a view of a man as a skilful commander does of a town he would besiege, to discover the weakest places where he may make his approaches with the least danger and most advantages, and when he finds himself mistaken, draws off his forces with admirable caution and consideration; for his business being only wit, he thinks there is very little of that shown in exposing himself to any inconvenience.

THE OBSTINATE MAN

Does not hold opinions, but they hold him; for when he is once possessed with an error, 'tis, like the devil, not to be cast out but with great difficulty. Whatsoever he lays hold on, like a drowning man, he never loses, though it do but help to sink him the sooner. His ignorance is abrupt and inaccessible, impregnable both by art and nature, and will hold out to the last though it has nothing but rubbish to defend. It is as dark as pitch, and sticks as fast to anything it lays hold on. His skull is so thick that it is proof against any reason, and never cracks but on the wrong side, just opposite to that against which the impression is made, which surgeons say does happen very frequently. The slighter and more inconsistent his opinions are the faster he holds them, otherwise they would fall asunder of themselves; for opinions that are false ought to be held with more strictness and assurance than those that are true, otherwise they will be apt to betray their owners before they are aware. If he takes to religion, he has faith enough to save a hundred wiser men than himself, if it were right; but it is too much to be good; and though he deny supererogation and utterly disclaim any overplus of merits, yet he allows superabundant belief, and if the violence of faith will carry the kingdom of heaven, he stands fair for it. He delights most of all to differ in things indifferent; no matter how frivolous they are, they are weighty enough in proportion to his weak judgment, and he will rather suffer self-martyrdom than part with the least scruple of his freehold, for it is impossible to dye his dark ignorance into a lighter colour. He is resolved to understand no man's reason but his own, because he finds no man can understand his but himself. His wits are like a sack which, the French proverb says, is tied faster before it is full than when it is; and his opinions are like plants that grow upon rocks, that stick fast though they have no rooting. His understanding is hardened like Pharaoh's heart, and is proof against all sorts of judgments whatsoever.

A ZEALOT