Chapter 2
I am willing to stick to this similitude in the case of greatness: we enter into the bonds of it, like those of matrimony; we are bewitched with the outward and painted beauty, and take it for better or worse before we know its true nature and interior inconveniences. “A great fortune,” says Seneca, “is a great servitude.” But many are of that opinion which Brutus imputes (I hope untruly) even to that patron of liberty, his friend Cicero. “We fear,” says he to Atticus, “death, and banishment, and poverty, a great deal too much. Cicero, I am afraid, thinks these to be the worst of evils, and if he have but some persons from whom he can obtain what he has a mind to, and others who will flatter and worship him, seems to be well enough contented with an honourable servitude, if anything, indeed, ought to be called honourable in so base and contumelious a condition.” This was spoken as became the bravest man who was ever born in the bravest commonwealth. But with us, generally, no condition passes for servitude that is accompanied with great riches, with honours, and with the service of many inferiors. This is but a deception the sight through a false medium; for if a groom serve a gentleman in his chamber, that gentleman a lord, and that lord a prince, the groom, the gentleman, and the lord are as much servants one as the other. The circumstantial difference of the one getting only his bread and wages, the second a plentiful, and the third a superfluous estate, is no more intrinsical to this matter than the difference between a plain, a rich and gaudy livery. I do not say that he who sells his whole time and his own will for one hundred thousand is not a wiser merchant than he who does it for one hundred pounds; but I will swear they are both merchants, and that he is happier than both who can live contentedly without selling that estate to which he was born. But this dependence upon superiors is but one chain of the lovers of power, _Amatorem trecentæ Pirithoum cohibent catenæ_. Let us begin with him by break of day, for by that time he is besieged by two or three hundred suitors, and the hall and anti-chambers (all the outworks) possessed by the enemy; as soon as his chamber opens, they are ready to break into that, or to corrupt the guards for entrance. This is so essential a part of greatness, that whosoever is without it looks like a fallen favourite, like a person disgraced, and condemned to do what he please all the morning. There are some who, rather than want this, are contented to have their rooms filled up every day with murmuring and cursing creditors, and to charge bravely through a body of them to get to their coach. Now I would fain know which is the worst duty, that of any one particular person who waits to speak with the great man, or the great man’s, who waits every day to speak with all the company. _Aliena negotia centum Per caput et circum saliunt latus_: A hundred businesses of other men (many unjust and most impertinent) fly continually about his head and ears, and strike him in the face like dors. Let us contemplate him a little at another special scene of glory, and that is his table. Here he seems to be the lord of all Nature. The earth affords him her best metals for his dishes, her best vegetables and animals for his food; the air and sea supply him with their choicest birds and fishes; and a great many men who look like masters attend upon him; and yet, when all this is done, even all this is but Table d’Hôte. It is crowded with people for whom he cares not—with many parasites, and some spies, with the most burdensome sort of guests—the endeavourers to be witty.
But everybody pays him great respect, everybody commends his meat—that is, his money; everybody admires the exquisite dressing and ordering of it—that is, his clerk of the kitchen, or his cook; everybody loves his hospitality—that is, his vanity. But I desire to know why the honest innkeeper who provides a public table for his profits should be but of a mean profession, and he who does it for his honour a munificent prince. You’ll say, because one sells and the other gives. Nay, both sell, though for different things—the one for plain money, the other for I know not what jewels, whose value is in custom and in fancy. If, then, his table be made a snare (as the Scripture speaks) to his liberty, where can he hope for freedom? there is always and everywhere some restraint upon him. He is guarded with crowds, and shackled with formalities. The half hat, the whole hat, the half smile, the whole smile, the nod, the embrace, the positive parting with a little bow, the comparative at the middle of the room, the superlative at the door; and if the person be _Pan huper sebastos_, there’s a _Huper superlative_ ceremony then of conducting him to the bottom of the stairs, or to the very gate: as if there were such rules set to these Leviathans as are to the sea, “Hitherto shalt thou go, and no further.” _Perditur hæc inter misero Lux_. Thus wretchedly the precious day is lost.
How many impertinent letters and visits must he receive, and sometimes answer both too as impertinently? He never sets his foot beyond his threshold, unless, like a funeral, he hath a train to follow him, as if, like the dead corpse, he could not stir till the bearers were all ready. “My life,” says Horace, speaking to one of these _magnificos_, “is a great deal more easy and commodious than thine, in that I can go into the market and cheapen what I please without being wondered at; and take my horse and ride as far as Tarentum without being missed.” It is an unpleasant constraint to be always under the sight and observation and censure of others; as there may be vanity in it, so, methinks, there should be vexation too of spirit. And I wonder how princes can endure to have two or three hundred men stand gazing upon them whilst they are at dinner, and taking notice of every bit they eat. Nothing seems greater and more lordly than the multitude of domestic servants, but, even this too, if weighed seriously, is a piece of servitude; unless you will be a servant to them, as many men are, the trouble and care of yours in the government of them all, is much more than that of every one of them in their observation of you. I take the profession of a schoolmaster to be one of the most useful, and which ought to be of the most honourable in a commonwealth, yet certainly all his farces and tyrannical authority over so many boys takes away his own liberty more than theirs.
I do but slightly touch upon all these particulars of the slavery of greatness; I shake but a few of their outward chains; their anger, hatred, jealousy, fear, envy, grief, and all the _et cetera_ of their passions, which are the secret but constant tyrants and torturers of their life. I omit here, because though they be symptoms most frequent and violent in this disease, yet they are common too in some degree to the epidemical disease of life itself. But the ambitious man, though he be so many ways a slave (_O toties servus_!), yet he bears it bravely and heroically; he struts and looks big upon the stage, he thinks himself a real prince in his masking habit, and deceives too all the foolish part of his spectators. He’s a slave in _Saturnalibus_. The covetous man is a downright servant, a draught horse without bells or feathers; _ad metalla damnatus_, a man condemned to work in mines, which is the lowest and hardest condition of servitude; and, to increase his misery, a worker there for he knows not whom. He heapeth up riches and knows not who shall enjoy them; ’tis only that he himself neither shall nor can enjoy them. He is an indigent needy slave, he will hardly allow himself clothes and board wages; _Unciatim vix demenso de suo suum defraudans Genium comparsit niser_. He defrauds not only other men, but his own genius. He cheats himself for money. But the servile and miserable condition of this wretch is so apparent, that I leave it, as evident to every man’s sight, as well as judgment. It seems a more difficult work to prove that the voluptuous man too is but a servant. What can be more the life of a freeman, or, as we say ordinarily, of a gentleman, than to follow nothing but his own pleasures? Why, I’ll tell you who is that true freeman and that true gentleman; not he who blindly follows all his pleasures (the very name of follower is servile), but he who rationally guides them, and is not hindered by outward impediments in the conduct and enjoyment of them. If I want skill or force to restrain the beast that I ride upon, though I bought it, and call it my own, yet in the truth of the matter I am at that time rather his man than he my horse. The voluptuous men (whom we are fallen upon) may be divided, I think, into the lustful and luxurious, who are both servants of the belly; the other whom we spoke of before, the ambitious and the covetous, were κακὰ θηρία, evil wild beasts; these are Γαστέρες ἀργαί, slow bellies, as our translation renders it; but the word Ἀργαί (which is a fantastical word with two directly opposite significations) will bear as well the translation of quick or diligent bellies, and both interpretations may be applied to these men. Metrodorus said, “That he had learnt Ἀληθως γαστρὶ χαρίζεσθαι, to give his belly just thanks for all his pleasures.” This by the calumniators of Epicurus his philosophy was objected as one of the most scandalous of all their sayings, which, according to my charitable understanding, may admit a very virtuous sense, which is, that he thanked his own belly for that moderation in the customary appetites of it, which can only give a man liberty and happiness in this world. Let this suffice at present to be spoken of those great trinmviri of the world; the covetous man, who is a mean villain, like Lepidus; the ambitious, who is a brave one, like Octavius; and the voluptuous, who is a loose and debauched one, like Mark Antony. _Quisnam igitur Liber_? _Sapiens_, _sibi qui Imperiosus_. Not Oenomaus, who commits himself wholly to a charioteer that may break his neck, but the man
Who governs his own course with steady hand, Who does himself with sovereign power command; Whom neither death nor poverty does fright, Who stands not awkwardly in his own light Against the truth: who can, when pleasures knock Loud at his door, keep firm the bolt and lock. Who can, though honour at his gate should stay In all her masking clothes, send her away, And cry, Begone, I have no mind to play.
This I confess is a freeman; but it may be said that many persons are so shackled by their fortune that they are hindered from enjoyment of that manumission which they have obtained from virtue. I do both understand, and in part feel the weight of this objection. All I can answer to it is, “That we must get as much liberty as we can; we must use our utmost endeavours, and when all that is done, be contented with the length of that line which is allowed us.” If you ask me in what condition of life I think the most allowed, I should pitch upon that sort of people whom King James was wont to call the happiest of our nation, the men placed in the country by their fortune above an high constable, and yet beneath the trouble of a justice of the peace, in a moderate plenty, without any just argument for the desire of increasing it by the care of many relations, and with so much knowledge and love of piety and philosophy (that is, of the study of God’s laws and of his creatures) as may afford him matter enough never to be idle though without business, and never to be melancholy though without sin or vanity.
I shall conclude this tedious discourse with a prayer of mine in a copy of Latin verses, of which I remember no other part, and (_pour faire bonne bouche_) with some other verses upon the same subject.
_Magne Deus_, _quod ad has vitæ brevis attinet boras_, _Da mihi_, _da Pancin Libertatemque_, _nec ultrà_ _Sollicitas effundo preces_, _si quid datur ultrà_ _Accipiam gratus_; _si non_, _contentus abibo_.
For the few hours of life allotted me, Give me, great God, but Bread and Liberty, I’ll beg no more; if more thou’rt pleased to give, I’ll thankfully that overplus receive. If beyond this no more be freely sent, I’ll thank for this, and go away content.
MARTIAL. LIB. 2. _Vota tui breviter_, _etc._
WELL then, sir, you shall know how far extend, The prayers and hopes of your poetic friend. He does not palaces nor manors crave, Would be no lord, but less a lord would have. The ground he holds, if he his own can call, He quarrels not with Heaven because ’tis small: Let gay and toilsome greatness others please, He loves of homely littleness the ease. Can any man in gilded rooms attend, And his dear hours in humble visits spend, When in the fresh and beauteous fields he may With various healthful pleasures fill the day? If there be man, ye gods, I ought to hate, Dependence and attendance be his fate. Still let him busy be, and in a crowd, And very much a slave, and very proud: Thus he, perhaps, powerful and rich may grow; No matter, O ye gods! that I’ll allow. But let him peace and freedom never see; Let him not love this life, who loves not me.
MARTIAL. LIB. 2. _Vis fieri Liber_, _etc._
WOULD you be free? ’Tis your chief wish, you say, Come on; I’ll show thee, friend, the certain way. If to no feasts abroad thou lov’st to go, Whilst bounteous God does bread at home bestow; If thou the goodness of thy clothes dost prize By thine own use, and not by others’ eyes; If, only safe from weathers, thou canst dwell In a small house, but a convenient shell; If thou without a sigh, or golden wish, Canst look upon thy beechen bowl and dish; If in thy mind such power and greatness be— The Persian King’s a slave compared with thee.
MARTIAL. L. 2. _Quod to nomine_? _etc._
THAT I do you with humble bows no more, And danger of my naked head, adore; That I, who lord and master cried erewhile, Salute you in a new and different style, By your own name, a scandal to you now; Think not that I forget myself or you: By loss of all things by all others sought This freedom, and the freeman’s hat, is bought. A lord and master no man wants but he Who o’er himself has no authority, Who does for honours and for riches strive, And follies without which lords cannot live. If thou from fortune dost no servant crave, Believe it, thou no master need’st to have.
ODE UPON LIBERTY.
I.
FREEDOM with virtue takes her seat; Her proper place, her only scene, Is in the golden mean, She lives not with the poor, nor with the great: The wings of those, Necessity has clipped, And they’re in Fortune’s Bridewell whipped, To the laborious task of bread; These are by various tyrants captive led. Now wild Ambition with imperious force Rides, reins, and spurs them like th’ unruly horse; And servile Avarice yokes them now Like toilsome oxen to the plough; And sometimes Lust, like the misguiding light, Draws them through all the labyrinths of night. If any few among the great there be From the insulting passions free, Yet we even those too fettered see By custom, business, crowds, and formal decency; And wheresoe’er they stay, and wheresoe’er they go, Impertinences round them flow. These are the small uneasy things Which about greatness still are found, And rather it molest than wound Like gnats which too much heat of summer brings; But cares do swarm there too, and those have stings: As when the honey does too open lie, A thousand wasps about it fly Nor will the master even to share admit; The master stands aloof, and dares not taste of it.
II.
’Tis morning, well, I fain would yet sleep on; You cannot now; you must be gone To Court, or to the noisy hail Besides, the rooms without are crowded all; The steam of business does begin, And a springtide of clients is come in. Ah, cruel guards, which this poor prisoner keep, Will they not suffer him to sleep! Make an escape; out at the postern flee, And get some blessed hours of liberty. With a few friends, and a few dishes dine, And much of mirth and moderate wine; To thy bent mind some relaxation give, And steal one day out of thy life to live. Oh happy man, he cries, to whom kind Heaven Has such a freedom always given Why, mighty madman, what should hinder thee From being every day as free?
III.
In all the freeborn nations of the air, Never did bird a spirit so mean and sordid bear As to exchange his native liberty Of soaring boldly up into the sky, His liberty to sing, to perch, or fly When, and wherever he thought good, And all his innocent pleasures of the wood, For a more plentiful or constant food. Nor ever did ambitious rage Make him into a painted cage Or the false forest of a well-hung room For honour and preferment come. Now, blessings on ye all, ye heroic race, Who keep their primitive powers and rights so well Though men and angels fell. Of all material lives the highest place To you is justly given, And ways and walks the nearest Heaven; Whilst wretched we, yet vain and proud, think fit To boast that we look up to it. Even to the universal tyrant Love You homage pay but once a year; None so degenerous and unbirdly prove, As his perpetual yoke to bear. None but a few unhappy household fowl, Whom human lordship does control; Who from their birth corrupted were By bondage, and by man’s example here.
IV.
He’s no small prince who every day Thus to himself can say, Now will I sleep, now eat, now sit, now walk, Now meditate alone, now with acquaintance talk; This I will do, here I will stay, Or, if my fancy call me away, My man and I will presently go ride (For we before have nothing to provide, Nor after are to render an account) To Dover, Berwick, or the Cornish Mount. If thou but a short journey take, As if thy last thou wert to make, Business must be despatched ere thou canst part. Nor canst thou stir unless there be A hundred horse and men to wait on thee, And many a mule, and many a cart: What an unwieldy man thou art! The Rhodian Colossus so A journey too might go.
V.
Where honour or where conscience does not bind, No other law shall shackle me? Slave to myself I will not be, Nor shall my future actions be confined By my own present mind. Who by resolves and vows engaged does stand For days that yet belong to fate, Does like an unthrift mortgage his estate Before it falls into his hand; The bondman of the cloister so All that he does receive does always owe. And still as time come in it goes away, Not to enjoy, but debts to pay. Unhappy slave, and pupil to a bell Which his hour’s work, as well as hour’s does tell! Unhappy till the last, the kind releasing knell.
VI.
If Life should a well-ordered poem be (In which he only hits the white Who joins true profit with the best delight), The more heroic strain let others take, Mine the Pindaric way I’ll make, The matter shall be grave, the numbers loose and free. It shall not keep one settled pace of time, In the same tune it shall not always chime, Nor shall each day just to his neighbour rhyme. A thousand liberties it shall dispense, And yet shall manage all without offence Or to the sweetness of the sound, or greatness of the sense; Nor shall it never from one subject start, Nor seek transitions to depart, Nor its set way o’er stiles and bridges make, Nor thorough lanes a compass take As if it feared some trespass to commit, When the wide air’s a road for it. So time imperial eagle does not stay Till the whole carcase he devour That’s fallen into its power; As if his generous hunger understood That he can never want plenty of food, He only sucks the tasteful blood, And to fresh game flies cheerfully away; To kites and meaner birds he leaves the mangled prey.
OF SOLITUDE.
“_Nunquam minus solus_, _quam cum solis_,” is now become a very vulgar saying. Every man and almost every boy for these seventeen hundred years has had it in his mouth. But it was at first spoken by the excellent Scipio, who was without question a most worthy, most happy, and the greatest of all mankind. His meaning no doubt was this: that he found more satisfaction to his mind, and more improvement of it by solitude than by company; and to show that he spoke not this loosely or out of vanity, after he had made Rome mistress of almost the whole world, he retired himself from it by a voluntary exile, and at a private house in the middle of a wood near Linternum passed the remainder of his glorious life no less gloriously. This house Seneca went to see so long after with great veneration, and, among other things, describes his bath to have been of so mean a structure, that now, says he, the basest of the people would despise them, and cry out, “Poor Scipio understood not how to live.” What an authority is here for the credit of retreat! and happy had it been for Hannibal if adversity could have taught him as much wisdom as was learnt by Scipio from the highest prosperities. This would be no wonder if it were as truly as it is colourably and wittily said by Monsieur de Montaigne, that ambition itself might teach us to love solitude: there is nothing does so much hate to have companions. It is true, it loves to have its elbows free, it detests to have company on either side, but it delights above all things in a train behind, aye, and ushers, too, before it. But the greater part of men are so far from the opinion of that noble Roman, that if they chance at any time to be without company they are like a becalmed ship; they never move but by the wind of other men’s breath, and have no oars of their own to steer withal. It is very fantastical and contradictory in human nature, that men should love themselves above all the rest of the world, and yet never endure to be with themselves. When they are in love with a mistress, all other persons are importunate and burdensome to them. “_Tecum vivere amem_, _tecum obeam lubens_,” They would live and die with her alone.
_Sic ego secretis possum benè vevere silvis_ _Quà nulla humauo sit via trita pede_, _Tu mihi curarum requies_, _tu nocte vel atrâ_ _Lumen_, _et in solis tu mihi terba locis_.
With thee for ever I in woods could rest, Where never human foot the ground has pressed; Thou from all shades the darkness canst exclude, And from a desert banish solitude.
And yet our dear self is so wearisome to us that we can scarcely support its conversation for an hour together. This is such an odd temper of mind as Catullus expresses towards one of his mistresses, whom we may suppose to have been of a very unsociable humour.
_Odi et Amo_, _qua nam id faciam ratione requiris_? _Nescio_, _sed fieri sentio_, _et excrucior_.
I hate, and yet I love thee too; How can that be? I know not how; Only that so it is I know, And feel with torment that ’tis so.
It is a deplorable condition this, and drives a man sometimes to pitiful shifts in seeking how to avoid himself.