Chapter 35

Is one that expounds upon the planets and teaches to construe the accidents by the due joining of stars in construction. He talks with them by dumb signs, and can tell what they mean by their twinkling and squinting upon one another as well as they themselves. He is a spy upon the stars, and can tell what they are doing by the company they keep and the houses they frequent. They have no power to do anything alone until so many meet as will make a quorum. He is clerk of the committee to them, and draws up all their orders that concern either public or private affairs. He keeps all their accounts for them, and sums them up, not by debtor, but creditor alone--a more compendious way. They do ill to make them have so much authority over the earth, which perhaps has as much as any one of them but the sun, and as much right to sit and vote in their councils as any other. But because there are but seven Electors of the German Empire, they will allow of no more to dispose of all other, and most foolishly and unnaturally dispossess their own parent of its inheritance rather than acknowledge a defect in their own rules. These rules are all they have to show for their title, and yet not one of them can tell whether those they had them from came honestly by them. Virgil's description of fame, that reaches from earth to the stars, _tam ficti pravique tenax_, to carry lies and knavery, will serve astrologers without any sensible variation. He is a fortune-seller, a retailer of destiny, and petty chapman to the planets. He casts nativities as gamesters do false dice, and by slurring and palming sextile, quartile, and trine, like _six, quatre, trois_, can throw what chance he pleases. He sets a figure as cheats do a main at hazard, and gulls throw away their money at it. He fetches the grounds of his art so far off, as well from reason as the stars, that, like a traveller, he is allowed to lie by authority; and as beggars that have no money themselves believe all others have, and beg of those that have as little as themselves, so the ignorant rabble believe in him though he has no more reason for what he professes than they.

A LAWYER

Is a retailer of justice that uses false lights, false weights, and false measures. He measures right and wrong by his retaining fee, and, like a French duellist, engages on that side that first bespeaks him, though it be against his own brother; not because it is right, but merely upon a punctilio of profit, which is better than honour to him, because riches will buy nobility, and nobility nothing, as having no intrinsic value. He sells his opinion, and engages to maintain the title against all that claim under him, but no further. He puts it off upon his word, which he believes himself not bound to make good, because when he has parted with his right to it, it is no longer his. He keeps no justice for his own use, as being a commodity of his own growth, which he never buys, but only sells to others; and as no man goes worse shod than the shoemaker, so no man is more out of justice than he that gets his living by it. He draws bills as children do lots at a lottery, and is paid as much for blanks as prizes. He undoes a man with the same privilege as a doctor kills him, and is paid as well for it as if he preserved him, in which he is very impartial, but in nothing else. He believes it no fault in himself to err in judgment, because that part of the law belongs to the judge and not to him. His best opinions and his worst are all of a price, like good wine and bad in a tavern, in which he does not deal so fairly as those who, if they know what you are willing to bestow, can tell how to fit you accordingly. When his law lies upon his hands he will afford a good pennyworth, and rather pettifog and turn common barreter than be out of employment. His opinion is one thing while it is his own and another when it is paid for; for, the property being altered, the case alters also. When his counsel is not for his client's turn he will never take it back again, though it be never the worse, nor allow him anything for it, yet will sell the same over and over again to as many as come to him for it. His pride increases with his practice, and the fuller of business he is, like a sack, the bigger he looks. He crowds to the Bar like a pig through a hedge, and his gown is fortified with flankers about the shoulders to guard his ears from being galled with elbows. He draws his bills more extravagant and unconscionable than a tailor; for if you cut off two-thirds in the beginning, middle, or end, that which is left will be more reasonable and nearer to sense than the whole, and yet he is paid for all; for when he draws up a business, like a captain that makes false musters, he produces as many loose and idle words as he can possibly come by until he has received for them, and then turns them off and retains only those that are to the purpose. This he calls drawing of breviates. All that appears of his studies is, in short, time converted into waste-paper, tailor's measures, and heads for children's drums. He appears very violent against the other side, and rails to please his client as they do children, "Give me a blow and I'll strike him, ah, naughty!" &c. This makes him seem very zealous for the good of his client, and though the cause go against him he loses no credit by it, especially if he fall foul on the counsel of the other side, which goes for no more among them than it does with those virtuous persons that quarrel and fight in the streets to pick the pockets of those that look on. He hangs men's estates and fortunes on the slightest curiosities and feeblest niceties imaginable, and undoes them like the story of breaking a horse's back with a feather or sinking a ship with a single drop of water, as if right and wrong were only notional and had no relation at all to practice (which always requires more solid foundations), or reason and truth did wholly consist in the right spelling of letters, whenas the subtler things are the nearer they are to nothing, so the subtler words and notions are the nearer they are to nonsense. He overruns Latin and French with greater barbarism than the Goths did Italy and France, and makes as mad a confusion of language by mixing both with English. Nor does he use English much better, for he clogs it so with words that the sense becomes as thick as puddle, and is utterly lost to those that have not the trick of skipping over where it is impertinent. He has but one termination for all Latin words, and that's a dash. He is very just to the first syllables of words, but always bobtails the last, in which the sense most of all consists, like a cheat that does a man all right at the first that he may put a trick upon him in the end. He is an apprentice to the law without a master, is his own pupil, and has no tutor but himself, that is a fool. He will screw and wrest law as unmercifully as a tumbler does his body to lick up money with his tongue. He is a Swiss that professes mercenary arms, will fight for him that gives him best pay, and, like an Italian bravo, will fall foul on any man's reputation that he receives a retaining fee against. If he could but maintain his opinions as well as they do him, he were a very just and righteous man; but when he has made his most of it, he leaves it, like his client, to shift for itself. He fetches money out of his throat like a juggler; and as the rabble in the country value gentlemen by their housekeeping and their eating, so is he supposed to have so much law as he has kept commons, and the abler to deal with clients by how much the more he has devoured of Inns-of-Court mutton; and it matters not whether he keep his study so he has but kept commons. He never ends a suit, but prunes it that it may grow the faster and yield a greater increase of strife. The wisdom of the law is to admit of all the petty, mean, real injustices in the world, to avoid imaginary possible great ones that may perhaps fall out. His client finds the Scripture fulfilled in him, that it is better to part with a coat too than go to law for a cloak; for, as the best laws are made of the worst manners, even so are the best lawyers of the worst men. He hums about Westminster Hall, and returns home with his pockets like a bee with his thighs laden; and that which Horace says of an ant, _Ore trahit quodcunque potest, atque addit acervo_, is true of him, for he gathers all his heap with the labour of his mouth rather than his brain and hands. He values himself, as a carman does his horse, by the money he gets, and looks down upon all that gain less as scoundrels. The law is like that double-formed, ill-begotten monster that was kept in an intricate labyrinth and fed with men's flesh, for it devours all that come within the mazes of it and have not a clue to find the way out again. He has as little kindness for the Statute Law as Catholics have for the Scripture, but adores the Common Law as they do tradition, and both for the very same reason; for the Statute Law being certain, written and designed to reform and prevent corruptions and abuses in the affairs of the world (as the Scriptures are in matters of religion), he finds it many times a great obstruction to the advantage and profit of his practice; whereas the Common Law, being unwritten, or written in an unknown language which very few understand but himself, is the more pliable and easy to serve all his purposes, being utterly exposed to what interpretation and construction his interest and occasions shall at any time incline him to give it; and differs only from arbitrary power in this, that the one gives no account of itself at all, and the other such a one as is perhaps worse than none, that is implicit and not to be understood, or subject to what constructions he pleases to put upon it:--

Great critics in a _noverint universi_ Know all men by these presents how to curse ye; Pedants of said and foresaid, and both Frenches, Pedlars, and pokie, may those rev'rend benches Y' aspire to be the stocks, and may ye be No more call'd to the Bar, but pillory; Thither in triumph may ye backward ride To have your ears most justly crucified, And cut so close until there be not leather Enough to stick a pen in left of either; Then will your consciences, your ears, and wit Be like indentures tripartite cut fit. May your horns multiply and grow as great As that which does blow grace before your meat; May varlets be your barbers now, and do The same to you they have been done unto; That's law and gospel too; may it prove true, Then they shall do pump-justice upon you; And when y' are shaved and powder'd you shall fall, Thrown o'er the Bar, as they did o'er the wall, Never to rise again, unless it be To hold your hands up for your roguery; And when you do so may they be no less Sear'd by the hangman than your consciences. May your gowns swarm until you can determine The strife no more between yourselves and vermin Than you have done between your clients' purses; Now kneel and take the last and worst of curses-- May you be honest when it is too late; That is, undone the only way you hate.

AN EPIGRAMMATIST

Is a poet of small wares, whose Muse is short-winded and quickly out of breath. She flies like a goose, that is no sooner upon the wing but down again. He was originally one of those authors that used to write upon white walls, from whence his works, being collected and put together, pass in the world like single money among those that deal in small matters. His wit is like fire in a flint, that is nothing while it is in, and nothing again as soon as it is out. He treats of all things and persons that come in his way, but like one that draws in little, much less than the life:--

His bus'ness is t' inveigh and flatter, Like parcel parasite and satyr.

He is a kind of vagabond writer, that is never out of his way, for nothing is beside the purpose with him that proposes none at all. His works are like a running banquet, that have much variety but little of a sort, for he deals in nothing but scraps and parcels, like a tailor's broker. He does not write, but set his mark upon things, and gives no account in words at length, but only in figures. All his wit reaches but to four lines or six at the most; and if he ever venture farther it tires immediately, like a post-horse, that will go no farther than his wonted stages. Nothing agrees so naturally with his fancy as bawdry, which he dispenses in small pittances to continue his reader still in an appetite for more.

A FANATIC.

St. Paul was thought by Festus to be mad with too much learning, but the fanatics of our times are mad with too little. He chooses himself one of the elect, and packs a committee of his own party to judge the twelve tribes of Israel. The apostles in the primitive Church worked miracles to confirm and propagate their doctrine, but he thinks to confirm his by working at his trade. He assumes a privilege to impress what text of Scripture he pleases for his own use, and leaves those that make against him for the use of the wicked. His religion, that tends only to faction and sedition, is neither fit for peace nor war, but times of a condition between both, like the sails of a ship that will not endure a storm and are of no use at all in a calm. He believes it has enough of the primitive Christian if it be but persecuted as that was, no matter for the piety or doctrine of it, as if there were nothing required to prove the truth of a religion but the punishment of the professors of it, like the old mathematicians that were never believed to be profoundly knowing in their profession until they had run through all punishments and just escaped the fork. He is all for suffering for religion, but nothing for acting; for he accounts good works no better than encroachments upon the merits of free believing, and a good life the most troublesome and unthrifty way to heaven. He canonises himself a saint in his own lifetime, as the more sure and certain way, and less troublesome to others. He outgrows ordinances, as an apprentice that has served out his time does his indentures, and being a freeman, supposes himself at liberty to set up what religion he pleases. He calls his own supposed abilities gifts, and disposes of himself like a foundation designed to pious uses, although, like others of the same kind, they are always diverted to other purposes. He owes all his gifts to his ignorance, as beggars do the alms they receive to their poverty. They are such as the fairies are said to drop in men's shoes, and when they are discovered to give them over and confer no more; for when his gifts are discovered they vanish and come to nothing. He is but a puppet saint that moves he knows not how, and his ignorance is the dull, leaden weight that puts all his parts in motion. His outward man is a saint and his inward man a reprobate, for he carries his vices in his heart and his religion in his face.

A PROSELYTE.

A priest stole him out of the cradle, like the fairies, and left a fool and changeling in his place. He new dyes his religion, and commonly into a sadder and darker colour than it was before. He gives his opinion the somersault and turns the wrong side of it outwards. He does not mend his manners, but botch them with patches of another stuff and colour. Change of religion, being for the most part used by those who understand not why one religion is better than another, is like changing of money two sixpences for a shilling; both are of equal value, but the change is for convenience or humour. There is nothing more difficult than a change of religion for the better, for as all alterations in judgment are derived from a precedent confessed error, that error is more probably like to produce another than anything of so different a nature as truth. He imposes upon himself in believing the infirmity of his nature to be the strength of his judgment, and thinks he changes his religion when he changes himself, and turns as naturally from one thing to another as a maggot does to a fly. He is a kind of freebooty and plunder, or one head of cattle driven by the priests of one religion out of the quarters of another, and they value him above two of their own; for, beside the glory of the exploit, they have a better title to him (as he that is conquered is more in the power of him that subdued him than he that was born his subject), and they expect a freer submission from one that takes quarter than from those that were under command before. His weakness or ignorance, or both, are commonly the chief causes of his conversion; for if he be a man of a profession that has no hopes to thrive upon the account of mere merit, he has no way so easy and certain as to betake himself to some forbidden church, where, for the common cause's sake, he finds so much brotherly love and kindness, that they will rather employ him than one of another persuasion though more skilful, and he gains by turning and winding his religion as tradesmen do by their stocks. The priest has commonly the very same design upon him, for he that is not able to go to the charges of his conversion may live free enough from being attacked by any side. He was troubled with a vertigo in his conscience, and nothing but change of religion, like change of air, could cure him. He is like a sick man that can neither lie still in his bed nor turn himself but as he is helped by others. He is like a revolter in an army; and as men of honour and commanders seldom prove such, but common soldiers, men of mean condition, frequently to mend their fortunes, so in religion clergymen who are commanders seldom prevail upon one another, and when they do, the proselyte is usually one who had no reputation among his own party before, and after a little trial finds as little among those to whom he revolts.

A CLOWN

Is a centaur, a mixture of man and beast, like a monster engendered by unnatural copulation, a crab engrafted on an apple. He was neither made by art nor nature, but in spite of both, by evil custom.. His perpetual conversation with beasts has rendered him one of them, and he is among men but a naturalised brute. He appears by his language, genius, and behaviour to be an alien to mankind, a foreigner to humanity, and of so opposite a genius that 'tis easier to make a Spaniard a Frenchman than to reduce him to civility. He disdains every man that he does not fear, and only respects him that has done him hurt or can do it. He is like Nebuchadnezzar after he had been a month at grass, but will never return to be a man again as he did, if he might, for he despises all manner of lives but his own, unless it be his horse's, to whom he is but _valet de chambre_. He never shows himself humane or kind in anything but when he pimps to his cow or makes a match for his mare; in all things else he is surly and rugged, and does not love to be pleased himself, which makes him hate those that do him any good. He is a stoic to all passions but fear, envy, and malice, and hates to do any good though it cost him nothing. He abhors a gentleman because he is most unlike himself, and repines as much at his manner of living as if he maintained him. He murmurs at him as the saints do at the wicked, as if he kept his right from him, for he makes his clownery a sect and damns all that are not of his Church. He manures the earth like a dunghill, but lets himself lie fallow, for no improvement will do good upon him. Cain was the first of his family, and he does his endeavour not to degenerate from the original churlishness of his ancestor. He that was fetched from the plough to be made dictator had not half his pride and insolence, nor Caligula's horse that was made consul. All the worst names that are given to men are borrowed from him, as villain, deboise, peasant, &c. He wears his clothes like a hide, and shifts them no oftener than a beast does his hair. He is a beast that Gesner never thought of.

A WOOER

Stands candidate for cuckold, and if he miss of it, it is none of his fault, for his merit is sufficiently known. He is commonly no lover, but able to pass for a most desperate one where he finds it is like to prove of considerable advantage to him, and therefore has passions lying by him of all sizes proportionable to all women's fortunes, and can be indifferent, melancholy, or stark-mad according as their estates give him occasion; and when he finds it is to no purpose, can presently come to himself again and try another. He prosecutes his suit against his mistress as clients do a suit in law, and does nothing without the advice of his learned counsel, omits no advantage for want of soliciting, and, when he gets her consent, overthrows her. He endeavours to match his estate, rather than himself, to the best advantage, and if his mistress's fortune and his do but come to an agreement, their persons are easily satisfied, the match is soon made up, and a cross marriage between all four is presently concluded. He is not much concerned in his lady's virtues, for if the opinion of the Stoics be true, that the virtuous are always rich, there is no doubt but she that is rich must be virtuous. He never goes without a list in his pocket of all the widows and virgins about the town, with particulars of their jointures, portions, and inheritances, that if one miss he may not be without a reserve; for he esteems Cupid very improvident if he has not more than two strings to his bow. When he wants a better introduction he begins his addresses to the chambermaid, like one that sues the tenant to eject the landlord, and according as he thrives there makes his approaches to the mistress. He can tell readily what the difference is between jointure with tuition of infant, land, and money of any value, and what the odds is to a penny between them all, either to take or leave. He does not so much go a-wooing as put in his claim, as if all men of fortune had a fair title to all women of the same quality, and therefore are said to demand them in marriage. But if he be a wooer of fortune, that designs to raise himself by it, he makes wooing his vocation, deals with all matchmakers, that are his setters, is very painful in his calling, and if his business succeed, steals her away and commits matrimony with a felonious intent. He has a great desire to beget money on the body of a woman, and as for other issue is very indifferent, and cares not how old she be so she be not past money-bearing.

AN IMPUDENT MAN