Chapter 7

A field of corn, a fountain, and a wood, Is all the wealth by nature understood. The monarch on whom fertile Nile bestows All which that grateful earth can bear, Deceives himself, if he suppose That more than this falls to his share. Whatever an estate does beyond this afford, Is not a rent paid to the Lord; But is a tax illegal and unjust, Exacted from it by the tyrant lust. Much will always wanting be, To him who much desires. Thrice happy he To whom the wise indulgency of Heaven, With sparing hand but just enough has given.

THE DANGERS OF AN HONEST MAN IN MUCH COMPANY.

IF twenty thousand naked Americans were not able to resist the assaults of but twenty well-armed Spaniards, I see little possibility for one honest man to defend himself against twenty thousand knaves, who are all furnished _cap-à-pie_ with the defensive arms of worldly prudence, and the offensive, too, of craft and malice. He will find no less odds than this against him if he have much to do in human affairs. The only advice, therefore, which I can give him is, to be sure not to venture his person any longer in the open campaign, to retreat and entrench himself, to stop up all avenues, and draw up all bridges against so numerous an enemy. The truth of it is, that a man in much business must either make himself a knave, or else the world will make him a fool: and if the injury went no farther than the being laughed at, a wise man would content himself with the revenge of retaliation: but the case is much worse, for these civil cannibals too, as well as the wild ones, not only dance about such a taken stranger, but at last devour him. A sober man cannot get too soon out of drunken company; though they be never so kind and merry among themselves, it is not unpleasant only, but dangerous to him. Do ye wonder that a virtuous man should love to be alone? It is hard for him to be otherwise; he is so, when he is among ten thousand; neither is the solitude so uncomfortable to be alone without any other creature, as it is to be alone in the midst of wild beasts. Man is to man all kind of beasts—a fawning dog, a roaring lion, a thieving fox, a robbing wolf, a dissembling crocodile, a treacherous decoy, and a rapacious vulture. The civilest, methinks, of all nations, are those whom we account the most barbarous; there is some moderation and good nature in the Toupinambaltians who eat no men but their enemies, whilst we learned and polite and Christian Europeans, like so many pikes and sharks, prey upon everything that we can swallow. It is the great boast of eloquence and philosophy, that they first congregated men dispersed, united them into societies, and built up the houses and the walls of cities. I wish they could unravel all they had woven; that we might have our woods and our innocence again instead of our castles and our policies. They have assembled many thousands of scattered people into one body: it is true, they have done so, they have brought them together into cities to cozen, and into armies to murder one another; they found them hunters and fishers of wild creatures, they have made them hunters and fishers of their brethren; they boast to have reduced them to a state of peace, when the truth is they have only taught them an art of war; they have framed, I must confess, wholesome laws for the restraint of vice, but they raised first that devil which now they conjure and cannot bind; though there were before no punishments for wickedness, yet there was less committed because there were no rewards for it. But the men who praise philosophy from this topic are much deceived; let oratory answer for itself, the tinkling, perhaps, of that may unite a swarm: it never was the work of philosophy to assemble multitudes, but to regulate only, and govern them when they were assembled, to make the best of an evil, and bring them, as much as is possible, to unity again. Avarice and ambition only were the first builders of towns, and founders of empire; they said, “Go to, let us build us a city and a tower whose top may reach unto heaven, and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the earth.” What was the beginning of Rome, the metropolis of all the world? what was it but a concourse of thieves, and a sanctuary of criminals? it was justly named by the augury of no less than twelve vultures, and the founder cemented his walls with the blood of his brother.

Not unlike to this was the beginning even of the first town, too, in the world, and such is the original sin of most cities: their actual increase daily with their age and growth; the more people, the more wicked all of them. Every one brings in his part to inflame the contagion, which becomes at last so universal and so strong, that no precepts can be sufficient preservatives, nor anything secure our safety, but flight from among the infected. We ought, in the choice of a situation, to regard above all things the healthfulness of the place, and the healthfulness of it for the mind rather than for the body. But suppose (which is hardly to be supposed) we had antidote enough against this poison; nay, suppose, further, we were always and at all places armed and provided both against the assaults of hostility and the mines of treachery, it will yet be but an uncomfortable life to be ever in alarms; though we were compassed round with fire to defend ourselves from wild beasts, the lodging would be unpleasant, because we must always be obliged to watch that fire, and to fear no less the defects of our guard than the diligences of our enemy. The sum of this is, that a virtuous man is in danger to be trod upon and destroyed in the crowd of his contraries; nay, which is worse, to be changed and corrupted by them, and that it is impossible to escape both these inconveniences without so much caution as will take away the whole quiet, that is, the happiness of his life. Ye see, then, what he may lose; but, I pray, what can he get there? _Quid Romæ faciam_? _Mentiri nescio_. What should a man of truth and honesty do at Rome? he can neither understand, nor speak the language of the place; a naked man may swim in the sea, but it is not the way to catch fish there; they are likelier to devour him than he them, if he bring no nets and use no deceits. I think, therefore, it was wise and friendly advice which Martial gave to Fabian when he met him newly arrived at Rome.

Honest and poor, faithful in word and thought; What has thee, Fabian, to the city brought? Thou neither the buffoon nor bawd canst play, Nor with false whispers the innocent betray: Nor corrupt wives, nor from rich beldams get A living by thy industry and sweat: Nor with vain promises and projects cheat, Nor bribe or flatter any of the great. But you’re a man of learning, prudent, just: A man of courage, firm, and fit for trust. Why, you may stay, and live unenvied here; But, ’faith! go back, and keep you where you were.

Nay, if nothing of all this were in the case, yet the very sight of uncleanness is loathsome to the cleanly; the sight of folly and impiety vexatious to the wise and pious.

Lucretius, by his favour, though a good poet, was but an ill-natured man, when he said, “It was delightful to see other men in a great storm.” And no less ill-natured should I think Democritus, who laughed at all the world, but that he retired himself so much out of it that we may perceive he took no great pleasure in that kind of mirth. I have been drawn twice or thrice by company to go to Bedlam, and have seen others very much delighted with the fantastical extravagancy of so many various madnesses, which upon me wrought so contrary an effect, that I always returned not only melancholy, but even sick with the sight. My compassion there was perhaps too tender, for I meet a thousand madmen abroad, without any perturbation, though, to weigh the matter justly, the total loss of reason is less deplorable than the total depravation of it. An exact judge of human blessings, of riches, honours, beauty, even of wit itself, should pity the abuse of them more than the want.

Briefly, though a wise man could pass never so securely through the great roads of human life, yet he will meet perpetually with so many objects and occasions of compassion, grief, shame, anger, hatred, indignation, and all passions but envy (for he will find nothing to deserve that) that he had better strike into some private path; nay, go so far, if he could, out of the common way, _ut nec facta audiat Pelopidarum_; that he might not so much as hear of the actions of the sons of Adam. But, whither shall we fly, then? into the deserts, like the ancient hermits?

_Qua terra patet fera regnat Erynnis_. _In facinus jurasse putes_.

One would think that all mankind had bound themselves by an oath to do all the wickedness they can; that they had all, as the Scripture speaks, sold themselves to sin: the difference only is, that some are a little more crafty (and but a little, God knows) in making of the bargain. I thought, when I went first to dwell in the country, that without doubt I should have met there with the simplicity of the old poetical golden age: I thought to have found no inhabitants there, but such as the shepherds of Sir Philip Sidney in Arcadia, or of Monsieur d’Urfé upon the banks of Lignon; and began to consider with myself, which way I might recommend no less to posterity the happiness and innocence of the men of Chertsey: but to confess the truth, I perceived quickly, by infallible demonstrations, that I was still in old England, and not in Arcadia, or La Forrest; that if I could not content myself with anything less than exact fidelity in human conversation, I had almost as good go back and seek for it in the Court, or the Exchange, or Westminster Hall. I ask again, then, whither shall we fly, or what shall we do? The world may so come in a man’s way that he cannot choose but salute it; he must take heed, though, not to go a whoring after it. If by any lawful vocation or just necessity men happen to be married to it, I can only give them St. Paul’s advice: “Brethren, the time is short; it remains that they that have wives be as though they had none. But I would that all men were even as I myself.”

In all cases they must be sure that they do _mundum ducere_, and not _mundo nubere_. They must retain the superiority and headship over it: happy are they who can get out of the sight of this deceitful beauty, that they may not be led so much as into temptation; who have not only quitted the metropolis, but can abstain from ever seeing the next market town of their country.

CLAUDIAN’S OLD MAN OF VERONA.

HAPPY the man who his whole time doth bound Within the enclosure of his little ground. Happy the man whom the same humble place (The hereditary cottage of his race) From his first rising infancy has known, And by degrees sees gently bending down, With natural propension to that earth Which both preserved his life, and gave him birth. Him no false distant lights by fortune set, Could ever into foolish wanderings get. He never dangers either saw, or feared, The dreadful storms at sea he never heard. He never heard the shrill alarms of war, Or the worse noises of the lawyers’ bar. No change of consuls marks to him the year, The change of seasons is his calendar. The cold and heat winter and summer shows, Autumn by fruits, and spring by flowers he knows. He measures time by landmarks, and has found For the whole day the dial of his ground. A neighbouring wood born with himself he sees, And loves his old contemporary trees. Has only heard of near Verona’s name, And knows it, like the Indies, but by fame. Does with a like concernment notice take Of the Red Sea, and of Benacus lake. Thus health and strength he to a third age enjoys, And sees a long posterity of boys. About the spacious world let other roam, The voyage Life is longest made at home.

THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE AND UNCERTAINTY OF RICHES.

IF you should see a man who were to cross from Dover to Calais, run about very busy and solicitous, and trouble himself many weeks before in making provisions for the voyage, would you commend him for a cautious and discreet person, or laugh at him for a timorous and impertinent coxcomb? A man who is excessive in his pains and diligence, and who consumes the greatest part of his time in furnishing the remainder with all conveniences and even superfluities, is to angels and wise men no less ridiculous; he does as little consider the shortness of his passage that he might proportion his cares accordingly. It is, alas, so narrow a strait betwixt the womb and the grave, that it might be called the _Pas de Vie_, as well as the _Pas de Calais_. We are all ἐφήμειροι as _Pindar_ calls us, creatures of a day, and therefore our Saviour bounds our desires to that little space; as if it were very probable that every day should be our last, we are taught to demand even bread for no longer a time. The sun ought not to set upon our covetousness; no more than upon our anger; but as to God Almighty a thousand years are as one day, so, in direct opposition, one day to the covetous man is as a thousand years, _tam brevi fortis jaculatur ævo multa_, so far he shoots beyond his butt. One would think he were of the opinion of the _Millenaries_, and hoped for so long a reign upon earth. The patriarchs before the flood, who enjoyed almost such a life, made, we are sure, less stores for the maintaining of it; they who lived nine hundred years scarcely provided for a few days; we who live but a few days, provide at least for nine hundred years. What a strange alteration is this of human life and manners! and yet we see an imitation of it in every man’s particular experience, for we begin not the cares of life till it be half spent, and still increase them as that decreases. What is there among the actions of beasts so illogical and repugnant to reason? When they do anything which seems to proceed from that which we call reason, we disdain to allow them that perfection, and attribute it only to a natural instinct. If we could but learn to number our days (as we are taught to pray that we might) we should adjust much better our other accounts, but whilst we never consider an end of them, it is no wonder if our cares for them be without end too. Horace advises very wisely, and in excellent good words, _spatio brevi spem longam reseces_; from a short life cut off all hopes that grow too long. They must be pruned away like suckers that choke the mother-plant, and hinder it from bearing fruit. And in another place to the same sense, _Vitæ summa brevis spem nos vetat inchoare longam_, which Seneca does not mend when he says, _Oh quanta dementia est spes longas inchoantium_! but he gives an example there of an acquaintance of his named Senecio, who from a very mean beginning by great industry in turning about of money through all ways of gain, had attained to extraordinary riches, but died on a sudden after having supped merrily, _In ipso actu bené cedentium rerum_, _in ipso procurrentis fortunæ impetu_; in the full course of his good fortune, when she had a high tide and a stiff gale and all her sails on; upon which occasion he cries, out of Virgil:

_Insere nunc Melibæe pyros_, _pone ordine vites_:

Go to, Melibæus, now, Go graff thy orchards and thy vineyards plant; Behold the fruit!

For this Senecio I have no compassion, because he was taken, as we say, in _ipso facto_, still labouring in the work of avarice; but the poor rich man in St. Luke (whose case was not like this) I could pity, methinks, if the Scripture would permit me, for he seems to have been satisfied at last; he confesses he had enough for many years; he bids his soul take its ease; and yet for all that, God says to him, “Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee, and the things thou hast laid up, whom shall they belong to?” Where shall we find the causes of this bitter reproach and terrible judgment; we may find, I think, two, and God perhaps saw more. First, that he did not intend true rest to the soul, but only to change the employments of it from avarice to luxury; his design is to eat and to drink, and to be merry. Secondly, that he went on too long before he thought of resting; the fulness of his old barns had not sufficed him, he would stay till he was forced to build new ones, and God meted out to him in the same measure; since he would have more riches than his life could contain, God destroyed his life and gave the fruits of it to another.

Thus God takes away sometimes the man from his riches, and no less frequently riches from the man: what hope can there be of such a marriage where both parties are so fickle and uncertain; by what bonds can such a couple be kept long together?

I.

Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit, Or, what is worse, be left by it? Why dost thou load thyself, when thou’rt to fly, O man ordained to die?

II.

Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high, Thou who art underground to lie? Thou sow’st and plantest, but no fruit must see; For death, alas? is sowing thee.

III.

Suppose, thou fortune couldst to tameness bring, And clip or pinion her wine; Suppose thou couldst on fate so far prevail As not to cut off thy entail.

IV.

Yet death at all that subtlety will laugh, Death will that foolish gardener mock Who does a slight and annual plant engraff, Upon a lasting stock.

V.

Thou dost thyself wise and industrious deem; A mighty husband thou wouldst seem; Fond man! like a bought slave, thou, all the while Dost but for others sweat and toil.

VI.

Officious fool! that needs must meddling be In business that concerns not thee! For when to future years thou extend’st thy cares, Thou deal’st in other men’s affairs.

VII.

Even aged men, as if they truly were Children again, for age prepare, Pro visions for long travail they design In the last point of their short line.

VIII.

Wisely the ant against poor winter hoards The stock which summer’s wealth affords, In grasshoppers, that must at autumn die, How vain were such an industry.

IX.

Of power and honour the deceitful light Might half excuse our cheated sight, If it of life the whole small time would stay, And be our sunshine all the day.

X.

Like lightning that, begot but in a cloud, Though shining bright, and speaking loud, Whilst it begins, concludes its violent race, And where it gilds, it wounds the place.

XI.

Oh, scene of fortune, which dost fair appear Only to men that stand not near. Proud poverty, that tinsel bravery wears, And like a rainbow, painted tears.

XII.

Be prudent, and the shore in prospect keep, In a weak boat trust not the deep. Placed beneath envy, above envying rise; Pity great men, great things despise.

XIII.

The wise example of the heavenly lark. Thy fellow poet, Cowley, mark, Above the clouds let thy proud music sound, Thy humble nest build on the ground.

THE DANGER OF PROCRASTINATION.

_A letter to Mr_. _S_. _L._

I AM glad that you approve and applaud my design of withdrawing myself from all tumult and business of the world and consecrating the little rest of my time to those studies to which nature had so motherly inclined me, and from which fortune like a step-mother has so long detained me. But nevertheless, you say—which But is ærugo mera, a rust which spoils the good metal it grows upon. But, you say, you would advise me not to precipitate that resolution, but to stay a while longer with patience and complaisance, till I had gotten such an estate as might afford me, according to the saying of that person whom you and I love very much, and would believe as soon as another man, _cum dignitate otium_. This were excellent advice to Joshua, who could bid the sun stay too. But there’s no fooling with life when it is once turned beyond forty. The seeking for a fortune then is but a desperate after game, it is a hundred to one if a man fling two sixes and recover all; especially if his hand be no luckier than mine. There is some help for all the defects of fortune, for if a man cannot attain to the length of his wishes, he may have his remedy by cutting of them shorter. Epicurus writes a letter to Idomeneus, who was then a very powerful, wealthy, and it seems bountiful person, to recommend to him, who had made so many men rich, one Pythocles, a friend of his, whom he desired to be made a rich man too: But I entreat you that you would not do it just the same way as you have done to many less deserving persons, but in the most gentlemanly manner of obliging him, which is not to add anything to his estate, but to take something from his desires. The sum of this is, that for the uncertain hopes of some conveniences we ought not to defer the execution of a work that is necessary, especially when the use of those things which we would stay for may otherwise be supplied, but the loss of time never recovered. Nay, further yet, though we were sure to obtain all that we had a mind to, though we were sure of getting never so much by continuing the game, yet when the light of life is so near going out, and ought to be so precious, _Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle_, the play is not worth the expense of the candle. After having been long tossed in a tempest, if our masts be standing, and we have still sail and tackling enough to carry us to our port, it is no matter for the want of streamers and topgallants; _utere velis totes pande sinus_. A gentleman in our late civil wars, when his quarters were beaten up by the enemy, was taken prisoner and lost his life afterwards, only by staying to put on a band and adjust his periwig. He would escape like a person of quality, or not at all, and died the noble martyr of ceremony and gentility. I think your counsel of _festina lente_ is as ill to a man who is flying from the world, as it would have been to that unfortunate well-bred gentleman, who was so cautious as not to fly undecently from his enemies, and therefore I prefer Horace’s advice before yours.

—_Sapere ande_; _incipe_.

Begin: the getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey. Varro teaches us that Latin proverb, _Portam itineri longissimam esse_. But to return to Horace,

—_Sapere aude_; _Incipe_. _Virendi qui recte prorogat horam_ _Rusticus expectat dum labitur amnis_; _at ille_ _Labitur_, _et labetur is omne volubilis ævum_.

Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise; He who defers the work from day to day, Does on a river’s bank expecting stay, Till the whole stream which stopped him should be gone, That runs, and as it runs, for ever will run on.

Cæsar (the man of expedition above all others) was so far from this folly, that whensoever in a journey he was to cross any river, he never went one foot out of his way for a bridge, or a ford, or a ferry; but flung himself into it immediately, and swam over; and this is the course we ought to imitate if we meet with any stops in our way to happiness. Stay till the waters are low, stay till some boats come by to transport you, stay till a bridge be built for you; you had even as good stay till the river be quite past. Persius (who, you used to say, you do not know whether he be a good poet or no, because you cannot understand him, and whom, therefore, I say, I know to be not a good poet) has an odd expression of these procrastinations, which, methinks, is full of fancy.

_Jam cras hesterum consumpsimus_, _ecce aliud cras egerit hos annos_.