Chapter 8
Our yesterday’s to-morrow now is gone, And still a new to-morrow does come on; We by to-morrows draw up all our store, Till the exhausted well can yield no more.
And now, I think, I am even with you, for your _otium cum dignitate_ and _festina lente_, and three or four other more of your new Latin sentences: if I should draw upon you all my forces out of Seneca and Plutarch upon this subject, I should overwhelm you, but I leave those as _triarii_ for your next charges. I shall only give you now a light skirmish out of an epigrammatist, your special good friend, and so, _vale_.
MART. LIB. 5, EP. 59.
To-morrow you will live, you always cry; In what far country does this morrow lie, That ’tis so mighty long ere it arrive? Beyond the Indies does this morrow live? ’Tis so far-fetched, this morrow, that I fear ’Twill be both very old and very dear. To-morrow I will live, the fool does say; To-day itself’s too late, the wise lived yesterday.
MART. LIB. 2, EP. 90.
Wonder not, sir (you who instruct the town In the true wisdom of the sacred gown), That I make haste to live, and cannot hold Patiently out, till I grow rich and old. Life for delays and doubts no time does give, None ever yet made haste enough to live. Let him defer it, whose preposterous care Omits himself, and reaches to his heir, Who does his father’s bounded stores despise, And whom his own, too, never can suffice: My humble thoughts no glittering roofs require, Or rooms that shine with ought be constant fire. We ill content the avarice of my sight With the fair gildings of reflected light: Pleasures abroad, the sport of Nature yields Her living fountains, and her smiling fields: And then at home, what pleasure is ’t to see A little cleanly, cheerful family? Which if a chaste wife crown, no less in her Than fortune, I the golden mean prefer. Too noble, nor too wise, she should not be, No, nor too rich, too fair, too fond of me. Thus let my life slide silently away, With sleep all night, and quiet all the day.
OF MYSELF.
IT is a hard and nice subject for a man to write of himself; it grates his own heart to say anything of disparagement and the reader’s ears to hear anything of praise for him. There is no danger from me of offending him in this kind; neither my mind, nor my body, nor my fortune allow me any materials for that vanity. It is sufficient for my own contentment that they have preserved me from being scandalous, or remarkable on the defective side. But besides that, I shall here speak of myself only in relation to the subject of these precedent discourses, and shall be likelier thereby to fall into the contempt than rise up to the estimation of most people. As far as my memory can return back into my past life, before I knew or was capable of guessing what the world, or glories, or business of it were, the natural affections of my soul gave me a secret bent of aversion from them, as some plants are said to turn away from others, by an antipathy imperceptible to themselves and inscrutable to man’s understanding. Even when I was a very young boy at school, instead of running about on holidays and playing with my fellows, I was wont to steal from them and walk into the fields, either alone with a book, or with some one companion, if I could find any of the same temper. I was then, too, so much an enemy to all constraint, that my masters could never prevail on me, by any persuasions or encouragements, to learn without book the common rules of grammar, in which they dispensed with me alone, because they found I made a shift to do the usual exercises out of my own reading and observation. That I was then of the same mind as I am now (which I confess I wonder at myself) may appear by the latter end of an ode which I made when I was but thirteen years old, and which was then printed with many other verses. The beginning of it is boyish, but of this part which I here set down, if a very little were corrected, I should hardly now be much ashamed.
IX.
This only grant me, that my means may lie Too low for envy, for contempt too high. Some honour I would have, Not from great deeds, but good alone. The unknown are better than ill known. Rumour can ope the grave; Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends Not on the number, but the choice of friends.
X.
Books should, not business, entertain the light, And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night. My house a cottage, more Than palace, and should fitting be For all my use, no luxury. My garden painted o’er With Nature’s hand, not Art’s; and pleasures yield, Horace might envy in his Sabine field.
XI.
Thus would I double my life’s fading space, For he that runs it well twice runs his race. And in this true delight, These unbought sports, this happy state, I would not fear, nor wish my fate, But boldly say each night, To-morrow let my sun his beams display Or in clouds hide them—I have lived to-day.
You may see by it I was even then acquainted with the poets (for the conclusion is taken out of Horace), and perhaps it was the immature and immoderate love of them which stamped first, or rather engraved, these characters in me. They were like letters cut into the bark of a young tree, which with the tree still grow proportionably. But how this love came to be produced in me so early is a hard question. I believe I can tell the particular little chance that filled my head first with such chimes of verse as have never since left ringing there. For I remember when I begun to read and to take some pleasure in it, there was wont to lie in my mother’s parlour. (I know not by what accident, for she herself never in her life read any book but of devotion), but there was wont to lie Spenser’s works; this I happened to fall upon, and was infinitely delighted with the stories of the knights, and giants, and monsters, and brave houses, which I found everywhere there (though my understanding had little to do with all this); and by degrees with the tinkling of the rhyme and dance of the numbers, so that I think I had read him all over before I was twelve years old, and was thus made a poet as immediately as a child is made an eunuch. With these affections of mind, and my heart wholly set upon letters, I went to the university, but was soon torn from thence by that violent public storm which would suffer nothing to stand where it did, but rooted up every plant, even from the princely cedars to me, the hyssop. Yet I had as good fortune as could have befallen me in such a tempest; for I was cast by it into the family of one of the best persons, and into the court of one of the best princesses of the world. Now though I was here engaged in ways most contrary to the original design of my life, that is, into much company, and no small business, and into a daily sight of greatness, both militant and triumphant, for that was the state then of the English and French Courts; yet all this was so far from altering my opinion, that it only added the confirmation of reason to that which was before but natural inclination. I saw plainly all the paint of that kind of life, the nearer I came to it; and that beauty which I did not fall in love with when, for aught I knew, it was real, was not like to bewitch or entice me when I saw that it was adulterate. I met with several great persons, whom I liked very well, but could not perceive that any part of their greatness was to be liked or desired, no more than I would be glad or content to be in a storm, though I saw many ships which rid safely and bravely in it. A storm would not agree with my stomach, if it did with my courage. Though I was in a crowd of as good company as could be found anywhere, though I was in business of great and honourable trust, though I ate at the best table, and enjoyed the best conveniences for present subsistence that ought to be desired by a man of my condition in banishment and public distresses, yet I could not abstain from renewing my old schoolboy’s wish in a copy of verses to the same effect.
Well then; I now do plainly see, This busy world and I shall ne’er agree, etc.
And I never then proposed to myself another advantage from His Majesty’s happy restoration, but the getting into some moderately convenient retreat in the country, which I thought in that case I might easily have compassed, as well as some others, with no greater probabilities or pretences have arrived to extraordinary fortunes. But I had before written a shrewd prophecy against myself, and I think Apollo inspired me in the truth, though not in the elegance of it.
Thou, neither great at court nor in the war, Nor at th’ exchange shalt be, nor at the wrangling bar; Content thyself with the small barren praise, Which neglected verse does raise, etc.
However, by the failing of the forces which I had expected, I did not quit the design which I had resolved on; I cast myself into it _A corps perdu_, without making capitulations or taking counsel of fortune. But God laughs at a man who says to his soul, “Take thy ease”: I met presently not only with many little encumbrances and impediments, but with so much sickness (a new misfortune to me) as would have spoiled the happiness of an emperor as well as mine. Yet I do neither repent nor alter my course. _Non ego perfidum dixi sacramentum_. Nothing shall separate me from a mistress which I have loved so long, and have now at last married, though she neither has brought me a rich portion, nor lived yet so quietly with me as I hoped from her.
—_Nec vos_, _dulcissima mundi_ _Nomina_, _vos Musæ_, _libertas_, _otia_, _libri_, _Hortique sylvesque anima remanente relinquam_.
Nor by me e’er shall you, You of all names the sweetest, and the best, You Muses, books, and liberty, and rest; You gardens, fields, and woods forsaken be, As long as life itself forsakes not me.
But this is a very petty ejaculation. Because I have concluded all the other chapters with a copy of verses, I will maintain the humour to the last.
MARTIAL, LIB. 10, EP. 47.
_Vitam quæ faciunt beatiorem_, _etc._
SINCE, dearest friend, ’tis your desire to see A true receipt of happiness from me; These are the chief ingredients, if not all: Take an estate neither too great nor small, Which _quantum sufficit_ the doctors call; Let this estate from parents’ care descend: The getting it too much of life does spend. Take such a ground, whose gratitude may be A fair encouragement for industry. Let constant fires the winter’s fury tame, And let thy kitchens be a vestal flame. Thee to the town let never suit at law, And rarely, very rarely, business draw. Thy active mind in equal temper keep, In undisturbèd peace, yet not in sleep. Let exercise a vigorous health maintain, Without which all the composition’s vain. In the same weight prudence and innocence take _Ana_ of each does the just mixture make. But a few friendships wear, and let them be By Nature and by Fortune fit for thee. Instead of art and luxury in food, Let mirth and freedom make thy table good. If any cares into thy daytime creep, At night, without wines, opium, let them sleep. Let rest, which Nature does to darkness wed, And not lust, recommend to thee thy bed, Be satisfied, and pleased with what thou art; Act cheerfully and well the allotted part. Enjoy the present hour, be thankful for the past, And neither fear, nor wish the approaches of the last.
MARTIAL, LIB. 10. EP. 96.
ME, who have lived so long among the great, You wonder to hear talk of a retreat: And a retreat so distant, as may show No thoughts of a return when once I go. Give me a country, how remote so e’er, Where happiness a moderate rate does bear, Where poverty itself in plenty flows And all the solid use of riches knows. The ground about the house maintains it there, The house maintains the ground about it here. Here even hunger’s dear, and a full board Devours the vital substance of the lord. The land itself does there the feast bestow, The land itself must here to market go. Three or four suits one winter here does waste, One suit does there three or four winters last. Here every frugal man must oft be cold, And little lukewarm fires are to you sold. There fire’s an element as cheap and free Almost as any of the other three. Stay you then here, and live among the great, Attend their sports, and at their tables eat. When all the bounties here of men you score: The Place’s bounty there, shall give me more.
EPITAPHIUM VIVI AUCTOIRIS.
_Hic_, _O viator_, _sub Lare parvulo_ _Couleius hic est conditus_, _hic jacet_; _Defunctus humani laboris_ _Sorte_, _supervacuâgue vilâ_.
_Non_ indecora pauperie _nitens_, _Et non_ inerti _nobilis_ otio, _Vanoque dilectis popello_ _Divitiis_ animosus hostis.
_Possis ut illum dicere_ mortuum, _En terra jam nunc_ quantula _sufficit_! _Exempta sit curis_, viator; _Terra sit illa levis_, _precare_.
_Hic sparge_ flores, _sparge breves_ rosas, _Nam vita gaudet mortua floribus_, _Herbisque odoratis corona_ _Vatis adhuc_ cinerem calentem.
EPITAPH OF THE LIVING AUTHOR.
[_Translation_.]
O WAYFARER, beneath his household shrine Here Cowley lies, closed in a little den; A life too empty and his lot combine To give him rest from all the toils of men.
Not shining with unseemly shows of want, Nor noble with the indolence of ease; Fearless of spirit as a combatant With mob-loved wealth and all its devotees.
That you may fairly speak of him as dead, Behold how little earth contents him now! Pray, wayfarer, that all his cares be fled, And that the earth lie lightly on his brow.
Strew flowers here, strew roses soon to perish, For the dead life joys in all flowers that blow; Crown with sweet herbs, bank blossoms high, to cherish The poet’s ashes that are yet aglow.
HENRY MORLEY.
A FEW NOTES.
Page 15. _Fertur equis_, &c. From the close of Virgil’s first Georgic:
said of horses in a chariot race, Nor reins, nor curbs, nor threatening cries they fear, But force along the trembling charioteer.
_Dryden’s translation_.
Page 16. _En Romanos_, &c. Virgil, Æneid I., when Jove says,
The people Romans call, the city Rome, To them no bounds of empire I assign, Nor term of years to their immortal line.
_Dryden’s Virgil_.
Page 18. “Laveer with every wind.” Laveer is an old sea term for working the ship against the wind. Lord Clarendon used its noun, “the schoolmen are the best laveerers in the world, and would have taught a ship to catch the wind that it should have gained half and half, though it had been contrary.”
Page 24. _Amatorem trecentæ Pirithoum cohibent catenæ_. Horace’s Ode, Bk. IV., end of ode 4. Three hundred chains bind the lover, Pirithous:
Wrath waits on sin, three hundred chains Pirithous bind in endless pains.
_Creech’s Translation_.
Page 25. _Aliena negotia_, &c. From Horace’s Satires, sixth of Book II.
Page 25. _Dors_, cockchafers.
Page 26. _Pan huper sebastos_. Lord over All.
Page 27. _Perditur hæc inter misero Lux_. Horace, Satires, II., 6. This whole Satire is in harmony with the spirit of Cowley’s Essays.
Page 29. _A slave in Saturnalibus_. In the Saturnalia, when Roman slaves had licence to disport themselves.
Page 29. _Unciatim_, &c. Terence’s Phormio, Act I., scene 1, in the opening: “All that this poor fellow has, by starving himself, bit by bit, with much ado, scraped together out of his pitiful allowance—(must go at one swoop, people never considering the price it cost him the getting).” _Eachard’s Terence_.
Page 30. _κακὰ θηρία_, &c. Paul to Titus, “The Cretans are always liars, _evil beasts_, _slow bellies_.”
Page 31. _Quisnam igitur_, &c. Horace’s Satires, II., 7. “Who then is free? The wise man, who has absolute rule over himself.”
Page 31. Oenomaus, father of Hippodameia, would give her only to the suitor who could overcome him in a chariot race. Suitors whom he could overtake he killed. He killed himself when outstripped by Pelops, whom a god assisted, or, according to one version, a man who took the nails out of Oenomaus’ chariot wheels, and brought him down with a crash.
Page 41. _Nunquam minus solus quam cum solus_. Never less alone than when alone.
Page 47. _Sic ego_, &c. From Tibullus, IV., 13.
Page 51. _O quis me gelidis_, &c. From the Second Book of Virgil’s Georgics, in a passage expressing the poet’s wish:
Ye sacred Muses, with whose beauty fired, My soul is ravished and my brain inspired; Whose priest I am, whose holy fillets wear, Would you your poet’s first petition hear: Give me the ways of wandering stars to know; The depths of Heaven above, and Earth below; Teach me, &c. . . . . . . But if my heavy blood restrain the flight Of my free soul aspiring to the height Of Nature, and unclouded fields of light: My next desire is, void of care and strife, To lead a soft, secure, inglorious life. A country cottage near a crystal flood, A winding valley and a lofty wood; Some god conduct me to the sacred shades Where bacchanals are sung by Spartan maids, Or lift me high to Hæmus hilly crown, Or in the vales of Tempè lay me down, Or lead me to some solitary place, And cover my retreat from human race.
_Dryden’s translation_.
Page 56. _Nam neque divitibus_. Horace’s Epistles, I., 18.
Page 58. Tankerwoman, “water-bearer, one who carried water from the conduits.”
Page 60. _Bucephalus_, the horse of Alexander. Domitian is said to have given a consulship to his horse _Incitatus_.
Page 60. The glory of Cato and Aristides. See the parallel lives in Plutarch.
Page 64. _O fortunatos nimium_, &c. Men all too happy, and they knew their good.
Page 70. _Hinc atque hinc_. From Virgil’s Æneid, Book I.
Page 75. Mr. Hartlib . . . _if the gentleman be yet alive_. Samuel Hartlib, a public-spirited man of a rich Polish family, came to England in 1640. He interested himself in education and other subjects, as well as agriculture. In 1645 he edited a treatise of Flemish Agriculture that added greatly to the knowledge of English farmers, and thereby to the wealth of England. He spent a large fortune among us for the public good. Cromwell recognised his services by a pension of £300 a year, which ceased at the Restoration, and Hartlib then fell into such obscurity that Cowley could not say whether he were alive or no.
Page 75. _Nescio qua_, &c. Ovid. Epistles from Pontus.
Page 76. _Pariter_, &c. Ovid’s Fasti, Book I. Referring to the happy souls who first looked up to the stars, Ovid suggests that in like manner they must have lifted their heads above the vices and the jests of man. Cowley has here turned “locis” into “jocis.”
Page 80. _Ut nos in Epistolis scribendis adjuvet_. That he might help us in writing letters.
Page 81. _Qui quid sit pulchrum_, &c. Who tells more fully than Chrysippus or Crantor what is fair what is foul, what useful and what not.
Page 92. _Swerd of bacon_, skin of bacon. First English _sweard_. So green sward is green surface covering.
Page 100. The Country Life is a translation from Cowley’s own Latin Poem on Plants.
Page 105. Evelyn had dedicated to Cowley his Kalendarium Hortense.