Chapter 7

Contentedness in all accidents brings great peace of spirit, and is the great and only instrument of temporal felicity. It removes the sting from the accident, and makes a man not to depend upon chance and the uncertain dispositions of men for his well-being, but only on God and his own spirit. We ourselves make our fortunes good or bad; and when God lets loose a tyrant upon us, or a sickness, or scorn, or a lessened fortune, if we fear to die, or know not to be patient, or are proud or covetous, then the calamity sits heavy on us. But if we know how to manage a noble principle, and fear not death so much as a dishonest action, and think impatience a worse evil than a fever, and pride to be the biggest disgrace, and poverty to be infinitely desirable before the torments of covetousness; then we who now think vice to be so easy, and make it so familiar, and think the cure so impossible, shall quickly be of another mind, and reckon these accidents amongst things eligible.

But no man can be happy that hath great hopes and great fears of things without, and events depending upon other men, or upon the chances of fortune. The rewards of virtue are certain, and our provisions for our natural support are certain; or if we want meat till we die, then we die of that disease--and there are many worse than to die with an atrophy or consumption, or unapt and coarser nourishment. But he that suffers a transporting passion concerning things within the power of others, is free from sorrow and amazement no longer than his enemy shall give him leave; and it is ten to one but he shall be smitten then and there where it shall most trouble him; for so the adder teaches us where to strike, by her curious and fearful defending of her head. The old Stoics, when you told them of a sad story, would still answer, "_What is that to me?_" Yes, for the tyrant hath sentenced you also to prison. Well, what is that? He will put a chain upon my leg; but he cannot bind my soul. No; but he will kill you. Then I will die. If presently, let me go, that I may presently be freer than himself: but if not till anon, or to-morrow, I will dine first, or sleep, or do what reason or nature calls for, as at other times. This, in Gentile philosophy, is the same with the discourse of St. Paul, "I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed, both to be full and to be hungry; both to abound and suffer need."

We are in the world like men playing at tables; the chance is not in our power, but to play it is; and when it is fallen we must manage it as we can: and let nothing trouble us, but when we do a base action, or speak like a fool, or think wickedly,--these things God hath put into our powers; but concerning those things which are wholly in the choice of another, they cannot fall under our deliberation, and therefore neither are they fit for our passions. My fear may make me miserable, but it cannot prevent what another hath in his power and purpose; and prosperities can only be enjoyed by them who fear not at all to lose them; since the amazement and passion concerning the future takes off all the pleasure of the present possession. Therefore, if thou hast lost thy land, do not also lose thy constancy; and if thou must die a little sooner, yet do not die impatiently. For no chance is evil to him that is content: and to a man nothing is miserable unless it be unreasonable. No man can make another man to be his slave unless he hath first enslaved himself to life and death, to pleasure or pain, to hope or fear: command these passions, and you are freer than the Parthian kings.

VII. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS.

RICHARD LOVELACE.--1618-1658.

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such As you, too, shall adore,-- I could not love thee, dear, so much, Lov'd I not honor more.

VIII. ANGLING.

IZAAK WALTON.--1593-1683.

_From_ THE COMPLETE ANGLER.

_Venator._--O my good master, this morning walk has been spent to my great pleasure and wonder; but I pray, when shall I have your direction how to make artificial flies, like to those that the trout loves best, and also how to use them?

_Piscator._--My honest scholar, it is now past five of the clock; we will fish till nine, and then go to breakfast. Go you to yon sycamore-tree, and hide your bottle of drink under the hollow root of it; for about that time, and in that place, we will make a brave breakfast with a piece of powdered beef, and a radish or two, that I have in my fish-bag: we shall, I warrant you, make a good, honest, wholesome, hungry breakfast, and I will then give you direction for the making and using of your flies; and in the meantime, there is your rod and line, and my advice is, that you fish as you see me do, and let's try which can catch the first fish.

_Venator._--I thank you, master; I will observe and practise your direction as far as I am able.

_Piscator._--Look you, scholar, you see I have hold of a good fish: I now see it is a trout. I pray put that net under him, and touch not my line, for if you do, then we break all. Well done, scholar! I thank you.

Now for another. Trust me, I have another bite: come, scholar, come, lay down your rod, and help me to land this as you did the other. So now we shall be sure to have a good dish for supper.

_Venator._--I am glad of that; but I have no fortune: sure, master, yours is a better rod and better tackling.

_Piscator._--Nay, then, take mine; and I will fish with yours. Look you, scholar, I have another. Come, do as you did before. And now I have a bite at another. Oh me! he has broke all: there's half a line and a good hook lost.

_Venator._--Ay, and a good trout too.

_Piscator._--Nay, the trout is not lost; for pray take notice, no man can lose what he never had.

_Venator._--Master, I can neither catch with the first nor second angle: I have no fortune.

_Piscator._--Look you, scholar, I have yet another. And now, having caught two brace of trouts, I will tell you a short tale as we walk towards our breakfast. A scholar, a preacher I should say, that was to preach to procure the approbation of a parish that he might be their lecturer, had got from his fellow-pupil the copy of a sermon that was first preached with great commendation by him that composed it; and though the borrower of it preached it, word for word, as it was at first, yet it was utterly disliked as it was preached by the second to his congregation; which the sermon borrower complained of to the lender of it; and thus was answered: "I lent you, indeed, my fiddle, but not my fiddle-stick; for you are to know, that every one cannot make music with my words, which are fitted to my own mouth." And so, my scholar, you are to know, that as the ill pronunciation or ill accenting of words in a sermon spoils it, so the ill carriage of your line, or not fishing even to a foot in a right place, makes you lose your labor; and you are to know, that though you have my fiddle, that is, my very rod and tacklings with which you see I catch fish, yet you have not my fiddle-stick, that is, you yet have not skill to know how to carry your hand and line, nor how to guide it to a right place; and this must be taught you; for you are to remember, I told you angling is an art, either by practice or a long observation, or both. But take this for a rule: when you fish for a trout with a worm, let your line have so much and not more lead than will fit the stream in which you fish; that is to say, more in a great troublesome stream than in a smaller that is quieter; as near as may be, so much as will sink the bait to the bottom, and keep it still in motion, and not more.

But now let's say grace and fall to breakfast. What say you, scholar, to the providence of an old angler? does not this meat taste well? and was not this place well chosen to eat it? for this sycamore-tree will shade us from the sun's heat.

_Venator._--All excellent good, and my stomach excellent good too. And now I remember and find that true which devout Lessius says: "That poor men, and those that fast often, have much more pleasure in eating than rich men and gluttons, that always feed before their stomachs are empty of their last meal, and call for more; for by that means they rob themselves of that pleasure that hunger brings to poor men." And I do seriously approve of that saying of yours, "that you would rather be a civil, well-governed, well-grounded, temperate, poor angler, than a drunken lord." But I hope there is none such: however, I am certain of this, that I have been at many very costly dinners that have not afforded me half the content that this has done, for which I thank God and you.

And now, good master, proceed to your promised direction for making and ordering my artificial fly.

_Piscator_.--My honest scholar, I will do it; for it is a debt due unto you by my promise....

... Look how it begins to rain!--and by the clouds, if I mistake not, we shall presently have a smoking shower, and therefore sit close: this sycamore-tree will shelter us; and I will tell you, as they shall come into my mind, more observations of fly-fishing for a trout....

... And now, scholar, my direction for fly-fishing is ended with this shower, for it has done raining: and now look about you, and see how pleasantly that meadow looks; nay, and the earth smells as sweetly too. Come, let me tell you what holy Mr. Herbert says of such days and flowers as these; and then we will thank God that we enjoy them, and walk to the river and sit down quietly, and try to catch the other brace of trouts.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky: The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave; And thou must die.

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie; Thy music shows ye have your closes; And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives; But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.

_Venator._--I thank you, good master, for your good direction for fly-fishing, and for the sweet enjoyment of the pleasant day, which is so far spent without offence to God or man; and I thank you for the sweet close of your discourse with Mr. Herbert's verses, who, I have heard, loved angling; and I do the rather believe it, because he had a spirit suitable to anglers, and to those primitive Christians that you love and have so much commended.

_Piscator._--Well, my loving scholar, and I am pleased to know that you are so well pleased with my direction and discourse.... And now, I think it will be time to repair to our angle-rods, which we left in the water to fish for themselves: and you shall choose which shall be yours; and it is an even lay, one of them catches.

And, let me tell you, this kind of fishing with a dead rod, and laying night-hooks, are like putting money to use; for they both work for the owners, when they do nothing but sleep, or eat, or rejoice; as you know we have done this last hour, and sat as quietly, and as free from cares under this sycamore, as Virgil's Tityrus and his Meliboeus did, under their broad beech tree. No life, my honest scholar, no life so happy and so pleasant, as the life of a well-governed angler; for when the lawyer is swallowed up with business, and the statesman is preventing or contriving plots, then we sit on cowslip banks, hear the birds sing, and possess ourselves in as much quietness as these silent silver streams, which we now see glide so quietly by us. Indeed, my good scholar, we may say of angling as Dr. Boteler said of strawberries, "Doubtless, God could have made a better berry, but doubtless, God never did;" and so, if I might be judge, "God never did make a more calm, quiet, innocent recreation than angling."

IX. ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY.

(1629).

JOHN MILTON.--1608-1674.

I.

This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

II.

That glorious form, that light unsufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside; and, here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

III.

Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the Infant God? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, To welcome him to this his new abode, Now while the heaven, by the Sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

IV.

See how from far upon the eastern road The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet! O run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the Angel Choir, From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.

* * * * *

THE HYMN.

1.

It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt, in the rude manger lies; Nature, in awe to him, Had doff'd her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her To wanton with the Sun, her lusty paramour.

2.

Only, with speeches fair, She woos the gentle Air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow, And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

3.

But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-ey'd Peace: She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; And, waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

4.

No war, or battle's sound, Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked chariot stood, Unstain'd with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

5.

But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kiss'd, Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

6.

The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

7.

And, though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed; And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame The new-enlighten'd world no more should need; He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear.

8.

The shepherds on the lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they then That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below: Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

9.

When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook, Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The Air, such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

10.

Nature, that heard such sound Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat, the Airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling: She knew such harmony alone Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union.

11.

At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shame-faced Night array'd; The helmed cherubim, And sworded seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, Harping in loud and solemn choir, With unexpressive notes to Heaven's new-born Heir.

12.

Such music (as 'tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the Sons of Morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the welt'ring waves their oozy channel keep.

13.

Ring out, ye crystal spheres! Once bless our human ears, (If ye have power to touch our senses so,) And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow; And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.

14.

For, if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the Age of Gold; And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die; And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

15.

Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between, Thron'd in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissu'd clouds down steering; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.

16.

But wisest Fate says, No, This must not yet be so; The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep.

17.

With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang, While the red fire and smould'ring clouds out brake: The aged Earth, aghast, With terror of that blast, Shall from the surface to the centre shake; When, at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.

18.

And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day The Old Dragon under ground, In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

19.

The Oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-ey'd priest from the prophetic cell.

20.

The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale Edg'd with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

21.

In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, The Lars, and Lemures, moan with midnight plaint; In urns, and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.

22.

Peor, and Baaelim, Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-batter'd God of Palestine; And mooned Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine: The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn; In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

23.

And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread, His burning idol all of blackest hue In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue; The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

24.

Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud; Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest; Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; In vain, with timbrell'd anthems dark, The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark.

25.

He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand; The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.

26.

So, when the sun in bed, Curtain'd with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave; And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-lov'd maze.

27.

But see! the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teemed star, Hath fix'd her polish'd car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.

X. CHARACTER OF LORD FALKLAND.

LORD CLARENDON.--1608-1674.

_From_ HISTORY OF THE REBELLION.

In this unhappy battle [of Newbury] was slain the Lord Viscount Falkland; a person of such prodigious parts of learning and knowledge, of that inimitable sweetness and delight in conversation, of so flowing and obliging a humanity and goodness to mankind, and of that primitive simplicity and integrity of life, that if there were no other brand upon this odious and accursed civil war, than that single loss, it must be most infamous, and execrable to all posterity.