Part 6

“Fluctibus in mediis et tempestatibus urbis!”

So that if you will needs be urging me with the ceaseless exhortation of

“I, bone, quo virtus tua te vocat: I pede fausto, Grandia laturus meritorum præmia:—”

I must take leave to remind you of the sage reply that was made to it. It was, you know, by an old soldier, who found himself exactly in my situation. The purse, which he had lost by one accident, he had recovered by another. The conclusion was, that he had no mind, in this different state of affairs, to turn adventurer again, and expose himself to the same perilous encounters:

“Post hæc ille catus, quantumvis RUSTICUS, ibit, Ibit eo, quo vis QUI ZONAM PERDIDIT, inquit.”

In one word, my friend, I am happy here, as you see me, in my little farm, which yet is large enough to answer all my real necessities; and I am not in the humour of him in the fable[43], to fill my head with visions, and spend a wretched life in quest of the _flying island_.

And now, added he, you have before you in one view the principal reasons that have determined me to this retreat. I might have enlarged on each more copiously; but I know to whom I speak: and perhaps to such a one I might even have spared a good deal of what I have now been offering, from the several considerations of my TEMPER, TALENTS, and SITUATION.

Here he stopped. And now, my lord, it came to my turn to take the lead in this controversy. There was indeed an ample field before me. And, if the other side of the question afforded most matter for wit and declamation, mine had all the advantages of good sense and sound reason. The superiority was so apparent, and my victory over him, in point of argument, so sure, that I thought it needless and ungenerous to press him on every article of his defence, in which he had laid himself open to me.

Your lordship hath, no doubt, observed, with wonder and with pity, the strange spirit that runs through every part of it: the confined way of thinking, which hath crept upon him; the cynical severity, he indulges against courts; the importance he would sometimes assume to his own character; the peevish turn of mind, that leads him to take offence at the lighter follies and almost excusable vices of the great; in short, the resentment, the pique, the chagrin, which one overlooks in the hopeless suitor, or hungry poet, but which are very unaccountable in one of Mr. COWLEY’S condition and situation.

Here then, my lord, was a fair occasion for a willing adversary. But I spared the infirmities of my friend. I judged it best, too, to keep him in temper, and avoid that heat of altercation, which must have arisen from touching these indiscretions, as they deserved. Your lordship sees the reason I had for confining my reply to such parts of his apology, as bore the fairest shew of argument, and might be encountered without offence.

When he had ended, therefore, with so formal a recapitulation of his discourse, I thought it not amiss to follow him in his own train; and, dissembling the just exceptions I had to his vindication in other respects, “You have proceeded, said I, in a very distinct method, and have said as much, I believe, on the subject, as so bad a cause would admit. But if this indeed be all you have to allege, for so uncommon a fancy, you must not think it strange, if I pronounce it, without scruple, very insufficient for your purpose.

For, to give your several pleas a distinct examination, what is that TEMPER, let me ask, on which you insist so much, but a wayward humour, which your true judgement should correct and controul by the higher and more important regards of _duty_? Every man is born with some prevailing propensity or other, which, if left to itself, and indulged beyond certain bounds, would grow to be very injurious to himself and society. There is something, no doubt, amusing in the notion of _retirement_. The very word implies ease and quiet, and self-enjoyment. And who doubts, that in the throng and bustle of life, most men are fond to image to themselves, and even to wish for a scene of more composure and tranquillity? It is just as natural as that the labourer should long for his repose at night; or that the soldier, amidst the dust and heat of a summer’s march, should wish for the conveniencies of shade and shelter. But what wild work would it make if these so natural desires should be immediately gratified? if the labourer should quit his plow, and the soldier his arms, to throw themselves into the first shade or thicket that offered refreshment? All you have therefore said on this article can really stand for nothing in the eye of sober reason, whatever figure it may make in the dress of your eloquence[44]. The inconveniencies of every station are to be endured from the obligations of duty, and on account of the services one is bound to render to himself and his country.

True, replied he, if it appeared to be one’s duty, or even interest, to continue in that station. But what principle of conscience binds me to a slavish dependence at court? or what interest, public or private, can be an equivalent for wearing these chains, when I have it in my power to throw them off, and redeem myself into a state of liberty?

What _Interest_, do you ask? returned I. Why that great and extensive one, which _society_ hath in an honest and capable man’s continuing to bear a part in public affairs. For as to inducements of another kind, I may find occasion hereafter to press them upon you more seasonably. Consider well with yourself, what would the consequence be, if all men of honour and ability were to act upon your principles? What a world would this be, if knaves and fools only had the management in their hands, and all the virtuous and wise, as it were by common consent, were to withdraw from it? Nay, the issue would even be fatal to themselves; and they would presently find it impossible to taste repose, even in their own sanctuary of retirement.

Small need, replied he, to terrify one’s self with such apprehensions. The virtuous, at least they who pass for such, will generally have ambition enough to keep them in the road of public employments. So long as there are such things as riches and honours, courts will never be unfurnished of suitors, even from among the tribes of lettered and virtuous men. The desperately bad, at least, will never have the field left entirely to themselves. And, after all, the interest of men in office is, in the main, so providentially connected with some regard to the rules of honour and conscience, that there is seldom any danger that matters should come to extremities under the _worst_ administration. And I doubt this is all we are to expect, or at least to reckon upon with assurance, under the very _best_.

But my answer is more direct. It is not for your little friend to think of getting a seat in the cabinet-council, or of conducting the great affairs of the state. He knows himself to be as unfit for those high trusts, as he is incapable of aspiring to them. Besides, he does not allow himself to doubt of their being discharged with perfect ability, by the great persons who now fill them. HE, at least, who occupies the foremost place of authority, is, by the allowance of all, to be paralleled with any that the wisest prince hath ever advanced to that station[45]. And when so consummate a pilot sits at the helm, it seems a matter of little moment by what hands the vessel of the commonwealth is navigated.

I could not agree with him in this concluding remark, and much less in the high-flown encomium which introduced it[46]. But, waving these lesser matters, I contented myself with observing, “That let him put what gloss he would on this humour of declining civil business, it must needs be considered by all unbiassed persons, as highly prejudicial to public order and government; that, if good men would not be employed, the bad must; and that, to say the least, the cause of learning and virtue must suffer exceedingly in the eyes of men, when they see those very qualities, which alone can render us useful to the world, dispose us to fly from it.”

For as to the _plea_, continued I, of employing them to better purpose in the way of _private and solitary_ CONTEMPLATION, I can hold it for little better than enthusiasm. Several persons, I know, would give it a worse name, and say, as TACITUS somewhere does, that it serves only for a specious cover to that love of ease and self-indulgence, which he will have to be at the bottom of such pretences[47]. But even with the best construction the matter was capable of, he could never, I insisted, justify that plea to the understandings of prudent and knowing men. We allow the obscure pedant to talk high of the dignity of his office, and magnify, as much as he pleases, the importance of his speculations. Such an indulgence serves to keep him in humour with himself, and may be a means to convert a low and plodding genius to the only use of which it is capable. But for a man of experience in affairs, and who is qualified to shine in them, to hold this language, is very extraordinary.

I saw with what impatience he heard me, and therefore took care to add, “’Tis true, the studies to which you would devote yourself, are the noblest in the world of science. For _Divinity_, the very name speaks its elogium. And the countenance which his majesty is pleased, in his true wisdom, to give to _natural science_, must be thought to ennoble that branch of learning beyond all others, that are merely of human consideration. Yet still, my friend, what need of taking these studies out of the hands of those, to whom they are properly intrusted? Religion is very safe in the bosom of the national church. And questions of natural science will doubtless be effectually cleared and ventilated in the _New Society_[48], and in the schools of our _Universities_. It could never be his majesty’s intention to thin his court, for the sake of furnishing students in natural philosophy.”

And can you then, interposed he, in your concern for what you very improperly call my interests, allow yourself to speak so coolly of the great interests of natural and divine truth? Is religion a trade to be confined to the craftsmen? Or, are fellows of colleges and of the Royal Society, if such we are to have, the only persons concerned to adore God in the wonders of his creation? Pardon me, my friend: I know you mean nothing less; but the strange indifference of your phrase provokes me to this expostulation.

You warm yourself, resumed I, too hastily. My design was only to suggest, that as there are certain orders of men appointed for the sole purpose of studying divinity, and advancing philosophy, I did not see that a man of business was obliged to desert his proper station for the sake of either.

I suspect, said he, there may be some equivocation wrapped up in that word _obliged_. All I know is, that I shall spend my time more innocently, at least; and, I presume to think, more usefully in those studies, than in that slippery _station_, if it may deserve to be called one, of court-favour and dependence. And if I extended the observation to many others, that are fond to take up their residence in these quarters, I cannot believe I should do them any injustice.

I cannot tell, returned I, against whom this censure is pointed. But I know there are many of the gravest characters, and even lights and fathers of the church, who do not consider it as inconsistent, either with their duty, or the usefulness of their profession, to continue in that station.

O! mistake me not, replied he: I intended no reflection on any of the clergy, and much less on the great prelates of the church, for their attendance in the courts of princes. Theirs is properly an exempt case. They are the authorized guides and patterns of life. Their great abilities indeed qualify them, above all others, for serving the cause of science and religion, by their private studies and meditations. But they very properly consider too, that part of their duty is to enlighten the ignorant of all ranks, by their wise and pious discourse, and to awe and reclaim the wandering of all denominations, by their example. Hence it is, that I cannot enough admire the zeal of so many pastors of the church; who, though the slavish manners and libertinism of a court must be more than ordinarily offensive to men of their characters, continue to discharge their office so painfully, and yet so punctually, in that situation.

Here, my lord, observing my friend for once to deliver himself reasonably, I was encouraged to add, that since he was so just to maintain the commerce of good and wise churchmen in the great world to be, as it truly was, a matter of duty, he should also have the candour to own, that his withdrawing from it was, at least, a work of _Supererogation_.

It might be so, he said; but, though our church gave no encouragement to think we merit by such works, he did not know that it condemned and utterly forbad them.

O! but, returned I, if that be all, and you acknowledge at last that your _retiring_ is no matter of duty, it will be easy to advance another step, and demonstrate to you, that such a project is, in your case, altogether unreasonable[49].

For, notwithstanding all you have said, in the spirit and language of stoicism, of the comforts of your present SITUATION, will you seriously undertake to persuade me that they are in any degree comparable to what you might propose to yourself, by returning to a life of business? Is the littleness, the obscurity, and pardon me if I even say, the meanness of this retreat, to be put in competition with the liberal and even splendid provision, which your friends at court will easily be able to make for you? Is it nothing, my friend, (for let us talk common sense, and not bewilder ourselves with the visions of philosophy) is it nothing to live in a well-furnished house, to keep a good table, to command an equipage, to have many friends and dependants, to be courted by inferiors, to be well received by the great, and to be somebody even in the _presence_?

And what if, in order to compass such things, some little devoirs and assiduities are expected? Is it not the general practice? And what every body submits to, can it be ignominious? Is this any thing more than conforming one’s self to the necessary subordination of society? Or, what if some time passes in these services, which a present humour suggests might be more agreeably spent in other amusements? The recompence cannot be far off; and, in the mean time, the lustre and very agitation of a life of business, hath somewhat in it sprightly and amusing. Besides, yours is not the case of one that is entering, for the first time, on a course of expectation. Your business is half done. The prince is favourable; and there are of his ministers that respect and honour you. Your services are well known; your reputation is fair; your connexions great; and the season inviting. What, with all these advantages, forego the court in a moping mood, or, as angry men use, run to moralize in a cloister!

I was proceeding in the warmth of this remonstrance, when, with a reproachful smile, he turned upon me, and, in a kind of rapture, repeated the following lines of SPENSER:

“Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried, What hell it is in suing long to bide: To lose good days, that might be better spent; To waste long nights in pensive discontent: To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow; To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow; To have thy prince’s grace, yet want his peeres[50]; To have thy askings, yet wait many yeers[51]; To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares; To eat thy heart through comfortless despaires; To faun, to crouche, to wait, to ride, to ronne; To spend, to give, to want, to be undonne.”

This, said he, is my answer once for all to your long string of interrogatories. I learnt it of one that had much experience in courts: and I thought it worth imprinting on my memory, to have it in readiness on such an occasion. Or, if you would rather have my answer in my own words, the Muse shall give it you in a little poem, she dictated very lately[52]. It may shew you perhaps, that, though my nature be somewhat melancholy, I am not _moping_; and that I can moralize, and even _complain_, as I have reason to do, without being _angry_.

The look and tone of voice, with which he said this, a little disconcerted me. But I recovered myself, and was going on to object to his unreasonable warmth, and the fascination of this wicked poetry, when he stopped me with saying, “Come, no more of these remonstrances and upbraidings. I have heard enough of your pleadings in a cause, which no eloquence can carry against my firm and fixed resolutions. I have seen, besides, the force you have done to yourself in this mock combat. Your extreme friendliness hath even tempted you to act a part which your true sense, and the very decorum of your profession, I have observed through all your disguises, has rendered painful to you. I will tell you my whole mind in one word. No inducements of what the world calls INTEREST, no views of HONOUR, no, nor what the poet aptly calls, SANCTISSIMA DIVITIARUM MAJESTAS[53], shall make me recede from the purpose I am bent upon, of consecrating the remainder of a comfortless distracted life, to the sweets of this obscure retirement. Believe me, I have weighed it well, with all its inconveniencies. And I find them such as are nothing to the agonies have long felt in that troubled scene, to which you would recal me. If it hath any ingredients, which I cannot so well relish, they are such as my friends, and, above all, such as you, my best friend, may reconcile to me. Let me but have the pleasure to see the few, I love and esteem, in these shades, and I shall not regret their solitude.

And as for my much honoured friend, whose munificence hath placed me in them, I shall hope to satisfy him in the most effectual manner. Nothing, you will believe, could give me a pain equal to that of being suspected of ingratitude towards my best benefactor. It was indeed with the utmost difficulty, that I constrained myself at last to think of leaving his service. The truth is, he expostulated with me upon it pretty roundly; and though my resolution was taken, I left him with the concern of not being able to give him entire satisfaction. These repeated instances by you are a fresh proof of his goodness, and do me an honour I had little reason to expect from him. But his lordship’s notions of life and mine are very different, as is fitting in persons, whom fortune hath placed in two such different situations. It becomes me to bear the most grateful remembrance of his kind intentions; and, for the rest, I can assure myself, that his equity and nobleness of mind, will permit an old servant to pursue, at length, his own inclinations.

However, to repay his goodness as I can, and to testify all imaginable respect to his judgment, I have purposed to write my own APOLOGY to his lordship; and to represent to him, in a better manner, than I have done in this sudden and unpremeditated conversation, the reasons that have determined me to this resolution. I have even made some progress in the design, and have digested into several _essays_ the substance of such reflections as, at different times, have had most weight with me[54].

Hearing him speak in so determined a manner, I was discouraged from pressing him further with such other considerations, as I had, prepared on this argument. Only I could not help enforcing, in the warmest manner, and in terms your lordship would not allow me to use in this recital, what he himself had owned of your unexampled goodness to him; and the obligation which, I insisted, that must needs create in a generous mind, of paying an unreserved obedience to your lordship’s pleasure. He gave me the hearing very patiently; but contented himself with repeating his design of justifying himself to your lordship in the apology he had before promised.

And now, resumed he with an air of alacrity, since you know my whole mind, and that no remonstrances can move me, confess the whole truth; acknowledge at last that you have dissembled with me all this while, and that, in reality, you approve my resolution. I know you do, my friend, though you struggle hard to conceal it. It cannot be otherwise. Nature, which linked our hearts together, had formed us in one mould. We have the same sense of things; the same love of letters and of virtue. And though I would not solicit one of your years and your profession to follow me into the shade, yet I know you so well[55], that you will preserve in the world that equal frame of mind, that indifference to all earthly things, which I pretend to have carried with me into this solitude.

Go on, my friend, in this track; and be an example to the churchmen of our days, that the highest honours of the gown, which I easily foresee are destined to your abilities, are not incompatible with the strictest purity of life, and the most heroic sentiments of integrity and honour. Go, and adorn the dignities which are reserved for you; and remember only in the heights of prosperity to be what you are, to serve the world with vigour, yet so as to indulge with me

“THE GENEROUS SCORN OF THINGS, FOR WHICH WE WERE NOT BORN[56].”

I began to be a little uneasy at his long sermon, when he broke it off with this couplet. The day by this time was pretty far advanced; and rising from his seat, he proposed to me to walk into his hermitage (so he called his house); where, he said, I should see how a philosopher lived as well as talked. I staid to dine, and spent a good part of the afternoon with him. We discoursed of various matters; but not a word more of what had occasioned this visit. Only he shewed me the _complaining poem_ he had mentioned, and of which, for the pleasure so fine a composition will give you, I here send your lordship a copy. His spirits, he said, were enlivened by the face of an old friend; and indeed I never knew his conversation more easy and chearful[57]; which yet I could not perfectly enjoy for the regret the ill success of my negociation had given me.

I returned to town in the evening, ruminating on what had passed, and resolving to send your lordship an exact account of our conversation. I particularly made a point of suppressing nothing which Mr. COWLEY had to say for himself in this debate, however it may sometimes seem to make against me. The whole hath grown under my pen into a greater length than I expected. But your Lordship wished to know the bottom of our friend’s mind; and I thought you would see it more distinctly and clearly in this way, than in any other. I am, my lord, with the most profound respect,

Your Lordship’s most obedient

and faithful servant,

T. SPRAT.

THE

COMPLAINT[58].

In a deep vision’s intellectual scene Beneath a bower for sorrow made, Th’ uncomfortable shade Of the black yew’s unlucky green, Mixt with the mourning willow’s careful gray, Where reverend CAM cuts out his famous way, The melancholy COWLEY lay: And lo! a Muse appear’d to’s closed sight, (The Muses oft in lands of visions play) Bodied, array’d, and seen by an internal light: A golden harp with silver strings she bore, A wonderous hieroglyphic robe she wore, In which all colours, and all figures were, That nature, or that fancy can create, That art can never imitate; And with loose pride it wanton’d in the air. In such a dress, in such a well-cloath’d dream, She us’d of old, near fair ISMENUS’ stream, PINDAR her THEBAN favourite to meet; A crown was on her head, and wings were on her feet.

II.