A wanton woman is the figure of imperfection; in nature an ape, in quality a wagtail, in countenance a witch, and in condition a kind of devil. Her beck is a net, her word a charm, her look an illusion, and her company a confusion. Her life is the play of idleness, her diet the excess of dainties, her love the change of vanities, and her exercise the invention of follies. Her pleasures are fancies, her studies fashions, her delight colours, and her wealth her clothes. Her care is to deceive, her comfort her company, her house is vanity, and her bed is ruin. Her discourses are fables, her vows dissimulations, her conceits subtleties, and her contents varieties. She would she knows not what, and spends she cares not what, she spoils she sees not what, and doth she thinks not what. She is youth's plague and age's purgatory, time's abuse and reason's trouble. In sum, she is a spice of madness, a spark of mischief, a touch of poison, and a fear of destruction.
A quiet woman is like a still wind, which neither chills the body nor blows dust in the face. Her patience is a virtue that wins the heart of love, and her wisdom makes her will well worthy regard. She fears God and flieth sin, showeth kindness and loveth peace. Her tongue is tied to discretion, and her heart is the harbour of goodness. She is a comfort of calamity and in prosperity a companion, a physician in sickness and a musician in help. Her ways are the walk toward heaven, and her guide is the grace of the Almighty. She is her husband's down-bed, where his heart lies at rest, and her children's glass in the notes of her grace; her servants' honour in the keeping of her house, and her neighbours' example in the notes of a good nature. She scorns fortune and loves virtue, and out of thrift gathereth charity. She is a turtle in her love, a lamb in her meekness, a saint in her heart, and an angel in her soul. In sum, she is a jewel unprizeable and a joy unspeakable, a comfort in nature incomparable, and a wife in the world unmatchable.
An unquiet woman is the misery of man, whose demeanour is not to be described but in extremities. Her voice is the screeching of an owl, her eye the poison of a cockatrice, her hand the claw of a crocodile, and her heart a cabinet of horror. She is the grief of nature, the wound of wit, the trouble of reason, and the abuse of time. Her pride is unsupportable, her anger unquenchable, her will unsatiable, and her malice unmatchable. She fears no colours, she cares for no counsel, she spares no persons, nor respects any time. Her command ismust, her reasonwill, her resolutionshall, and her satisfactionso. She looks at no law and thinks of no lord, admits no command and keeps no good order. She is a cross but not of Christ, and a word but not of grace; a creature but not of wisdom, and a servant but not of God. In sum, she is the seed of trouble, the fruit of travail, the taste of bitterness, and the digestion of death.
A good wife is a world of wealth, where just cause of content makes a kingdom in conceit. She is the eye of wariness, the tongue of silence, the hand of labour, and the heart of love; a companion of kindness, a mistress of passion, an exercise of patience, and an example of experience. She is the kitchen physician, the chamber comfort, the hall's care, and the parlour's grace. She is the dairy's neatness, the brew-house's wholesomeness, the garner's provision and the garden's plantation. Her voice is music, her countenance meekness, her mind virtuous, and her soul gracious. She is her husband's jewel, her children's joy, her neighbour's love, and her servant's honour. She is poverty's prayer and charity's praise, religion's love and devotion's zeal. She is a care of necessity and a course of thrift, a book of housewifery and a mirror of modesty. In sum, she is God's blessing and man's happiness, earth's honour and heaven's creature.
An effeminate fool is the figure of a baby. He loves nothing but gay, to look in a glass, to keep among wenches, and to play with trifles; to feed on sweetmeats and to be danced in laps, to be embraced in arms, and to be kissed on the cheek; to talk idly, to look demurely, to go nicely, and to laugh continually; to be his mistress' servant, and her maid's master, his father's love and his mother's none-child; to play on a fiddle and sing a love-song; to wear sweet gloves and look on fine things; to make purposes and write verses, devise riddles and tell lies; to follow plays and study dances, to hear news and buy trifles; to sigh for love and weep for kindness, and mourn for company and be sick for fashion; to ride in a coach and gallop a hackney, to watch all night and sleep out the morning; to lie on a bed and take tobacco, and to send his page of an idle message to his mistress; to go upon gigs, to have his ruffs set in print, to pick his teeth, and play with a puppet. In sum, he is a man-child and a woman's man, a gaze of folly, and wisdom's grief.
A parasite is the image of iniquity, who for the gain of dross is devoted to all villainy. He is a kind of thief in committing of burglary, when he breaks into houses with his tongue and picks pockets with his flattery. His face is brazen that he cannot blush, and his hands are limed to catch hold what he can light on. His tongue is a bell (but not of the church, except it be the devil's) to call his parish to his service. He is sometimes a pander to carry messages of ill meetings, and perhaps hath some eloquence to persuade sweetness in sin. He is like a dog at a door while the devils dance in the chamber, or like a spider in the house-top that lives on the poison below. He is the hate of honesty and the abuse of beauty, the spoil of youth and the misery of age. In sum, he is a danger in a court, a cheater in a city, a jester in the country, and a jackanapes in all.
A drunkard is a known adjective, for he cannot stand alone by himself; yet in his greatest weakness a great trier of strength, whether health or sickness will have the upper hand in a surfeit. He is a spectacle of deformity and a shame of humanity, a view of sin and a grief of nature. He is the annoyance of modesty and the trouble of civility, the spoil of wealth and the spite of reason. He is only the brewer's agent and the alehouse benefactor, the beggar's companion and the constable's trouble. He is his wife's woe, his children's sorrow, his neighbours' scoff, and his own shame. In sum, he is a tub of swill, a spirit of sleep, a picture of a beast, and a monster of a man.
A coward is the child of fear. He was begotten in cold blood, when Nature had much ado to make up a creature like a man. His life is a kind of sickness, which breeds a kind of palsy in the joints, and his death the terror of his conscience, with the extreme weakness of his faith. He loves peace as his life, for he fears a sword in his soul. If he cut his finger he looketh presently for the sign, and if his head ache he is ready to make his will. A report of a cannon strikes him flat on his face, and a clap of thunder makes him a strange metamorphosis. Rather than he will fight he will be beaten, and if his legs will help him he will put his arms to no trouble. He makes love commonly with his purse, and brags most of his maidenhead. He will not marry but into a quiet family, and not too fair a wife, to avoid quarrels. If his wife frown upon him he sighs, and if she give him an unkind word he weeps. He loves not the horns of a bull nor the paws of a bear, and if a dog bark he will not come near the house. If he be rich he is afraid of thieves, and if he be poor he will be slave to a beggar. In sum, he is the shame of manhood, the disgrace of nature, the scorn of reason, and the hate of honour.
An honest poor man is the proof of misery, where patience is put to the trial of her strength to endure grief without passion, in starving with concealed necessity, or standing in the adventures of charity. If he be married, want rings in his ears and woe watereth his eyes. If single, he droppeth with the shame of beggary, or dies with the passion of penury. Of the rich he is shunned like infection, and of the poor learns but a heart-breaking profession. His bed is the earth and the heaven is his canopy, the sun is his summer's comfort and the moon is his winter candle. His sighs are the notes of his music, and his song is like the swan before her death. His study, his patience; and his exercise, prayer: his diet the herbs of the earth, and his drink the water of the river. His travel is the walk of the woful and his horse Bayard of ten toes: his apparel but the clothing of nakedness, and his wealth but the hope of heaven. He is a stranger in the world, for no man craves his acquaintance; and his funeral is without ceremony, when there is no mourning for the miss of him: yet may he be in the state of election and in the life of love, and more rich in grace than the greatest of the world. In sum, he is the grief of Nature, the sorrow of reason, the pity of wisdom, and the charge of charity.
A just man is the child of truth, begotten by virtue and kindness; when Nature in the temper of the spirit made even the balance of indifference. His eye is clear from blindness and his hand from bribery, his will from wilfulness and his heart from wickedness; his word and deed are all one; his life shows the nature of his love, his care is the charge of his conscience, and his comfort the assurance of his salvation. In the seat of justice he is the grace of the law, and in the judgment of right the honour of reason. He fears not the power of authority to equal justice with mercy, and joys but in the judgment of grace, to see the execution of justice. His judgment is worthy of honour, and his wisdom is gracious in truth. His honour is famous in virtue, and his virtue is precious in example. In sum, he is a spirit of understanding, a brain of knowledge, a heart of wisdom, and a soul of blessedness.
A repentant sinner is the child of grace, who, being born for service of God, makes no reckoning of the mastership of the world, yet doth he glorify God in the beholding of His creatures, and in giving praise to His holy name in the admiration of His workmanship. He is much of the nature of an angel who, being sent into the world but to do the will of his Master, is ever longing to be at home with his fellows. He desires nothing but that is necessary, and delighteth in nothing that is transitory; but contemplates more than he can conceive, and meditates only upon the word of the Almighty. His senses are the tirers of his spirit, while in the course of nature his soul can find no rest. He shakes off the rags of sin, and is clothed with the robe of virtue. He puts off Adam, and puts on Christ. His heart is the anvil of truth, where the brain of his wisdom beats the thoughts of his mind till they be fit for the service of his Maker. His labour is the travail of love, by the rule of grace to find the highway to heaven. His fear is greater than his love of the world, and his love is greater than his fear of God. In sum, he is in the election of love, in the books of life, an angel incarnate and a blessed creature.
A reprobate is the child of sin who, being born for the service of the devil, cares not what villainy he does in the world. His wit is always in a maze, for his courses are ever out of order; and while his will stands for his wisdom, the best that falls out of him is a fool. He betrays the trust of the simple, and sucks out the blood of the innocent. His breath is the fume of blasphemy, and his tongue the firebrand of hell His desires are the destruction of the virtuous, and his delights are the traps to damnation. He bathes in the blood of murder, and sups up the broth of iniquity. He frighteth the eyes of the godly, and disturbeth the hearts of the religious. He marreth the wits of the wise, and is hateful to the souls of the gracious. In sum, he is an inhuman creature, a fearful companion, a man-monster, and a devil incarnate.
An old man is the declaration of time in the defect of Nature, and the imperfection of sense in the use of reason. He is in the observation of Time, a calendar of experience; but in the power of action, he is a blank among lots. He is the subject of weakness, the agent of sickness, the displeasure of life, and the forerunner of death. He is twice a child and half a man, a living picture, and a dying creature. He is a blown bladder that is only stuffed with wind, and a withered tree that hath lost the sap of the root, or an old lute with strings all broken, or a ruined castle that is ready to fall. He is the eyesore of youth and the jest of love, and in the fulness of infirmity the mirror of misery. Yet in the honour of wisdom he may be gracious in gravity, and in the government of justice deserve the honour of reverence. Yea, his word may be notes for the use of reason, and his actions examples for the imitation of discretion. In sum, in whatsoever estate he is but as the snuff of a candle, that pink it ever so long it will out at last.
A young man is the spring of time, when nature in her pride shows her beauty to the world. He is the delight of the eye and the study of the mind, the labour of instruction and the pupil of reason. His wit is in making or marring, his wealth in gaining or losing, his honour in advancing or declining, and his life in abridging or increasing. He is a bloom that either is blasted in the bud or grows to a good fruit, or a bird that dies in the nest or lives to make use of her wings. He is a colt that must have a bridle ere he be well managed, and a falcon that must be well maned or he will never be reclaimed. He is the darling of nature and the charge of reason, the exercise of patience and the hope of charity. His exercise is either study or action, and his study either knowledge or pleasure. His disposition gives a great note of his generation, and yet his breeding may either better or worse him, though to wish a blackamoor white be the loss of labour, and what is bred in the bone will never out of the flesh. In sum, till experience have seasoned his understanding, he is rather a child than a man, a prey of flattery or a praise of providence, in the way of grace to prove a saint, or in the way of sin to grow a devil.
A holy man is the chiefest creature in the workmanship of the world. He is the highest in the election of love, and the nearest to the image of the human nature of his Maker. He is served of all the creatures in the earth, and created but for the service of his Creator. He is capable of the course of nature, and by the rule of observation finds the art of reason. His senses are but servants to his spirit, which is guided by a power above himself. His time is only known to the eye of the Almighty, and what he is in his most greatness is as nothing but in His mercy. He makes law by the direction of life, and lives but in the mercy of love. He treads upon the face of the earth till in the same substance he be trod upon, though his soul that gave life to his senses live in heaven till the resurrection of his flesh. He hath an eye to look upward towards grace, while labour is only the punishment of sin. His faith is the hand of his soul, which layeth hold on the promise of mercy. His patience is the tenure of the possession of his soul, his charity the rule of his life, and his hope the anchor of his salvation. His study is the state of obedience, and his exercise the continuance of prayer; his life but a passage to a better, and his death the rest of his labours. His heart is a watch to his eye, his wit a door to his mouth, his soul a guard to his spirit, and his limbs are but labourers for his body. In sum, he is ravished with divine love, hateful to the nature of sin, troubled with the vanities of the world, and longing for his joy but in heaven.
After "The Good and the Bad" published in 1616, came, in 1618, "Essays and Characters of a Prison and Prisoners, by G. M. of Grayes Inn, Gent." G.M. signed his name in full--Geffray Minshul--after the Dedication to his uncle, Mr. Matthew Mainwaring of Nantwich, Cheshire, and he dates from the King's Bench Prison. Philip Bliss found record in a History of Nantwich of a monument there in St. Mary's Church, erected by Geoffrey Minshull of Stoke, Esq., to the memory of his ancestors. He quotes also from Geoffrey Minshull's Characters the folloiuing passage from the Dedication, and the Character of a Prisoner.
"Since my coming into this prison, what with the strangeness of the place and strictness of my liberty, I am so transported that I could not follow that study wherein I took great delight and chief pleasure, and to spend my time idly would but add more discontentments to my troubled breast, and being in this chaos of discontentments, fantasies must arise, which will bring forth the fruits of an idle brain, fore malis minimum. It is far better to give some account of time, though to little purpose, than none at all. To which end I gathered a handful of essays, and few characters of such things as by my own experience I could sayProbatum est:not that thereby I should either please the reader, or show exquisiteness of invention, or curious style; seeing what I write of is but the child of sorrow, bred by discontentments and nourished up with misfortunes, to whose help melancholy Saturn gave his judgment, the night-bird her invention, and the ominous raven brought a quill taken from his own wing, dipped in the ink of misery, as chief aiders in this architect of sorrow."
A prisoner is an impatient patient, lingering under the rough hands of a cruel physician: his creditor having cast his water knows his disease, and hath power to cure him, but takes more pleasure to kill him. He is like Tantalus, who hath freedom running by his door, yet cannot enjoy the least benefit thereof. His greatest grief is that his credit was so good and now no better. His land is drawn within the compass of a sheep's skin, and his own hand the fornication that bars him of entrance: he is fortune's tossing-ball, an object that would make mirth melancholy: to his friends an abject, and a subject of nine days' wonder in every barber's shop, and a mouthful of pity (that he had no better fortune) to midwives and talkative gossips; and all the content that this transitory life can give him seems but to flout him, in respect the restraint of liberty bars the true use. To his familiars he is like a plague, whom they dare scarce come nigh for fear of infection; he is a monument ruined by those which raised him, he spends the day with ahei mihi! væ miserum!and the night with anullis est medicabilis herbis.
In 1626--year of the death of Francis Bacon--appeared "Cures for the Itch; Characters, Epigrams, Epitaphs by H. P." with the motto "Scalpat qui Tangitur." H. P. was read by Philip Bliss into Henry Parrot, who published a collection of epigrams in 1613, as "Laquei Ridiculosi, or Springes for Woodcocks." The Characters in this little volume are of a Ballad Maker, a Tapster, a Drunkard, a Rectified Young Man, a Young Novice's New Younger Wife, a Common Fiddler, a Broker, a Jovial Good Fellow, a Humourist, a Malapert Young Upstart, a Scold, a Good Wife, and a Self-Conceited Parcel-Witted Old Dotard.
Is a much more heard of, than least desired to be seen or known, she-kind of serpent; the venomed sting of whose poisonous tongue, worse than the biting of a scorpion, proves more infectious far than can be cured. She's of all other creatures most untameablest, and covets more the last word in scolding than doth a combater the last stroke for victory. She loudest lifts it standing at her door, bidding, with exclamation, flat defiance to any one says black's her eye. She dares appear before any justice, nor is least daunted with the sight of constable, nor at worst threatenings of a cucking-stool. There's nothing mads or moves her more to outrage than but the very naming of a wisp, or if you sing or whistle when she is scolding. If any in the interim chance to come within her reach, twenty to one she scratcheth him by the face; or do but offer to hold her hands, she'll presently begin to cry out murder. There's nothing pacifies her but a cup of sack, which taking in full measure of digestion, she presently forgets all wrongs that's done her, and thereupon falls straight a-weeping. Do but entreat her with fair words, or flatter her, she then confesseth all her imperfections, and lays the guilt upon her maid. Her manner is to talk much in her sleep, what wrongs she hath endured of that rogue her husband, whose hap may be in time to die a martyr; and so I leave them.
Is a world of happiness, that brings with it a kingdom in conceit, and makes a perfect adjunct in society; she's such a comfort as exceeds content, and proves so precious as cannot be paralleled, yea more inestimable than may be valued. She's any good man's better second self, the very mirror of true constant modesty, the careful housewife of frugality, and dearest object of man's heart's felicity. She commands with mildness, rules with discretion, lives in repute, and ordereth all things that are good or necessary. She's her husband's solace, her house's ornament, her children's succour, and her servant's comfort. She's (to be brief) the eye of wariness, the tongue of silence, the hand of labour, and the heart of love. Her voice is music, her countenance meekness, her mind virtuous, and her soul gracious. She's a blessing given from God to man, a sweet companion in his affliction, and joint-copartner upon all occasions. She's (to conclude) earth's chiefest paragon, and will be, when she dies, heaven's dearest creature.
In1629appeared sixteen pieces in fifty-six pages entitled "Micrologia, Characters or Essayes, of Persons, Trades, and Places, offered to the City and Country, by R. M." There was an "R. M." who wrote from the coast of Guiana in November 1817 "Newes of Sir W. Raleigh. With the true Description of Guiana: as also relation of the excellent Government, and much hope of the prosperity of the Voyage. Sent from a gentleman of his Fleet (R. M.) to a most especiall Friend of his in London. From the River of Caliana on the Coast of Guiana, Novemb.17, 1617,"published in 1618. The Characters of Persons and Trades in "Micrologia" are: a Fantastic Tailor, a Player, a Shoemaker, a Ropemaker, a Smith, a Tobacconist, a Cunning Woman, a Cobbler, a Tooth-drawer, a Tinker, a Fiddler, a Cunning Horse-Courser; and of Places, Bethlem, Ludgate, Bridewell, Newgate.This is R. M.'s character of a Player--
Is a volume of various conceits or epitome of time, who by his representation and appearance makes things long past seem present. He is much like the counters in arithmetic, and may stand one while for a king, another while a beggar, many times as a mute or cipher. Sometimes he represents that which in his life he scarce practises--to be an honest man. To the point, he oft personates a rover, and therein conies nearest to himself. If his action prefigure passion, he raves, rages, and protests much by his painted heavens, and seems in the height of this fit ready to pull Jove out of the garret where perchance he lies leaning on his elbows, or is employed to make squibs and crackers to grace the play. His audience are oftentimes judicious, but his chief admirers are commonly young wanton chambermaids, who are so taken with his posture and gay clothes, they never come to be their own women after. He exasperates men's enormities in public view, and tells them their faults on the stage, not as being sorry for them, but rather wishes still he might find more occasions to work on. He is the general corrupter of spirits yet untainted, inducing them by gradation to much lascivious depravity. He is a perspicuity of vanity in variety, and suggests youth to perpetrate such vices as otherwise they had haply ne'er heard of. He is (for the most part) a notable hypocrite, seeming what he is not, and is indeed what he seems not. And if he lose one of his fellow strolls, in the summer he turns king of the gipsies; if not, some great man's protection is a sufficient warrant for his peregrination, and a means to procure him the town-hall, where he may long exercise his qualities with clown-claps of great admiration, in a tone suitable to the large ears of his illiterate auditory. He is one seldom takes care for old age, because ill diet and disorder, together with a consumption or some worse disease taken up in his full career, have only chalked out his catastrophe but to a colon; and he scarcely survives to his natural period of days.
In1631"Whimzies, or, A new Cast of Characters" inscribed to Sir Alexander Radcliffe by one who signed his dedication Clitus Alexandrinus, gave twenty-four Characters, of which this of the maker of a Courant or news sheet is one:--
Is a state newsmonger; and his own genius is his intelligencer. His mint goes weekly, and he coins money by it. Howsoever, the more intelligent merchants do jeer him, the vulgar do admire him, holding his novels oracular; and these are usually sent for tokens or intermissive courtesies betwixt city and country. He holds most constantly one form or method of discourse. He retains some military words of art, which he shoots at random; no matter where they hit, they cannot wound any. He ever leaves some passages doubtful, as if they were some more intimate secrecies of state, closing his sentence abruptly with--hereafter you shall hear more.Which words, I conceive, he only useth as baits, to make the appetite of the reader more eager in his next week's pursuit fora more satisfying labour. Some general-erring relations he picks up, as crumbs or fragments, from a frequented ordinary; of which shreds he shapes a coat to fit any credulous fool that will wear it. You shall never observe him make any reply in places of public concourse; he ingenuously acknowledges himself to be more bounden to the happiness of a retentive memory, than either ability of tongue or pregnancy of conceit. He carries his table-book still about with him, but dares not pull it out publicly. Yet no sooner is the table drawn than he turns notary, by which means he recovers the charge of his ordinary. Paul's is his walk in winter, Moorfields in summer, where the whole discipline, designs, projects, and exploits of the States, Netherlands, Poland, Switzer, Crimchan and all, are within the compass of one quadrangle walk most judiciously and punctually discovered. But long he must not walk, lest he make his news-press stand. Thanks to his good invention, he can collect much out of a very little; no matter though more experienced judgments disprove him, he is anonymous, and that will secure him. To make his reports more credible or (which he and his stationer only aims at) more vendible, in the relation of every occurrence he renders you the day of the month; and to approve himself a scholar, he annexeth these Latin parcels, or parcel-gilt sentences,veteri stylo, novo stylo. Palisados, parapets, counter-scarps, forts, fortresses, rampiers, bulwarks, are his usual dialect. He writes as if he would do some mischief, yet the charge of his shot is but paper. He will sometimes start in his sleep, as one affrighted with visions, which I can impute to no other cause but to the terrible skirmishes which he discoursed of in the daytime. He has now tied himself apprentice to the trade of minting, and must weekly perform his task, or (beside the loss which accrues to himself) he disappoints a number of no small fools, whose discourse, discipline, and discretion is drilled from his state-service. These you shall know by their Monday's mornings question, a little before exchange time: Stationer, have you any news? Which they no sooner purchase than peruse; and, early by next morning (lest their country friend should be deprived of the benefit of so rich a prize), they freely vent the substance of it, with some illustrations, if their understanding can furnish them that way. He would make you believe that he were known to some foreign intelligence, but I hold him the wisest man that hath the least faith to believe him. For his relations he stands resolute, whether they become approved or evinced for untruths; which if they be, he has contracted with his face never to blush for the matter. He holds especial concurrence with two philosophical sects, though he be ignorant of the tenets of either: in the collection of his observations he is peripatetical, for he walks circularly; in the digestion of his relations he is stoical, and sits regularly. He has an alphabetical table of all the chief commanders, generals, leaders, provincial towns, rivers, ports, creeks, with other fitting materials to furnish his imaginary building. Whisperings, mutterings, and bare suppositions are sufficient grounds for the authority of his relations. It is strange to see with what greediness this airy chameleon, being all lungs and wind, will swallow a receipt of news, as if it were physical; yea, with what frontless insinuation he will screw himself into the acquaintance of some knowing intelligencers, who, trying the cask by his hollow sound, do familiarly gull him. I am of opinion, were all his voluminous centuries of fabulous relations compiled, they would vie in number with the Iliads of many fore-running ages. You shall many times find in his gazettas, pasquils, and corrantos miserable distractions: here a city taken by force long before it be besieged; there a country laid waste before ever the enemy entered. He many times tortures his readers with impertinencies, yet are these the tolerablest passages throughout all his discourse. He is the very landscape of our age. He is all air; his ear always open to all reports, which, how incredible soever, must pass for current and find vent, purposely to get him current money and delude the vulgar. Yet our best comfort is, his chimeras live not long; a week is the longest in the city, and after their arrival, little longer in the country, which past they melt like butter, or match a pipe, and so burn. But indeed, most commonly it is the height of their ambition to aspire to the employment of stopping mustard-pots, or wrapping up pepper, powder, staves-aker, &c., which done, they expire. Now for his habit, Wapping and Long Lane will give him his character. He honours nothing with a more endeared observance, nor hugs ought with more intimacy, than antiquity, which he expresseth even in his clothes. I have known some love fish best that smelled of the pannier; and the like humour reigns in him, for he loves that apparel best that has a taste of the broker. Some have held him for a scholar, but trust me such are in a palpable error, for he never yet understood so much Latin as to construeGallo-Belgicus. For his library (his own continuations excepted), it consists of very few or no books. He holds himself highly engaged to his invention if it can purchase him victuals; for authors, he never converseth with them, unless they walk in Paul's. For his discourse it is ordinary, yet he will make you a terrible repetition of desperate commanders, unheard-of exploits, intermixing withal his own personal service. But this is not in all companies, for his experience hath sufficiently informed him in this principle--that as nothing works more on the simple than things strange and incredibly rare, so nothing discovers his weakness more among the knowing and judicious than to insist, by way of discourse, on reports above conceit. Amongst these, therefore, he is as mute as a fish. But now imagine his lamp (if he be worth one) to be nearly burnt out, his inventing genius wearied and footsore with ranging over so many unknown regions, and himself wasted with the fruitless expense of much paper, resigning his place of weekly collections to another, whom, in hope of some little share, he has to his stationer recommended, while he lives either poorly respected or dies miserably suspended. The rest I end with his own close:--Next week you shall hear more.
The other characters in "Whimzies" were an Almanac-maker, a Ballad-monger, a Decoy, an Exchange-man, a Forester, a Gamester, an Hospital-man, a Jailer, a Keeper, a Launderer, a Metal-man, a Neater, an Ostler, a Postmaster, a Quest-man, a Ruffian, a Sailor, a Traveller, an Under-Sheriff, a Wine-Soaker, a Xantippean, a Jealous Neighbour, a Zealous Brother. The collection was enlarged by addition under separate title-page of "A Cater-Character, thrown out of a box by an Experienced Gamester"-which gave Characters of an Apparitor, a Painter, a Pedlar, and a Piper. The author added also some lines "upon the Birthday of his sonne Iohn," beginning--
"God blesse thee, Iohn,And make thee such an oneThat I may joyIn calling thee my son.Thou art my ninth,And by it I divineThat thou shalt liveTo love the Muses Nine."
when he was at college, ventured down among the Character-writers in his two pieces on the University Carrier. Thomas Hobson had been for sixty years carrier between Cambridge and the Bull Inn, Bishopsgate Street, London. He was a very well-known Cambridge character. Steele, in No. 509 of the "Spectator" ascribed to him the origin of the proverbial phrase, Hobson's Choice. "Being a man of great ability and invention, and one that saw where there might good profit arise, though the duller men overlooked it, this ingenious man was the first in this island who let out hackney-horses.'" [That is a mistake, but never mind.] "He lived in Cambridge; and, observing that the scholars rid hard, his manner was to keep a large stable of horses, with boots, bridles, and whips, to furnish the gentlemen at once, without going from college to college to borrow. I say, Mr. Hobson kept a stable of forty good cattle, always ready and fit for travelling; but, when a man came for a horse, he was led into the stable, where there was great choice; but he obliged him to take the horse which stood next the stable door; so that every customer was alike well served according to his chance, and every horse ridden with the same justice--from whence it became a proverb, when what ought to be your election was forced upon you, to say 'Hobson's Choice!'"In the spring of 1630 the Plague in Cambridge caused colleges to be closed, and among other precautions against spread of infection, Hobson the Carrier was forbidden to go to and fro between Cambridge and London. At the end of the year, after six or seven, months of forced inaction, Hobson sickened; and he died on the first of January, at the age of eighty-six, leaving his family amply provided for, and money for the maintenance of the town conduit. At the Bull Inn in London there used to be a portrait of him with a money-bag under his arm.Character-writing being in fashion many a character of the University Carrier was written, no doubt, by Cambridge men after Hobson's death at the beginning of the year1631(new style). And these were Milton's. Their unlikeness to other work of his lies in their likeness to a form of literature which was but fashion of the day, and having travelled out of sight of its old starting-point and forgotten where its true goal lay, had gone astray, and often by idolatry of wit sinned against wisdom.
Who sickened in the time of his Vacancy, being forbid to go to London by reason of the Plague.
Here lies old Hobson. Death hath broke his girt,And here, alas, hath laid him in the dirt;Or else, the ways being foul, twenty to oneHe's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown.'Twas such a shifter that, if truth were known,Death was half glad when he had got him down;For he had any time this ten years fullDodged with him betwixt Cambridge andThe Bull,And surely Death could never have prevailedHad not his weekly course of carriage failed:But lately, finding him so long at home,And thinking now his journey's end was come,And that he had ta'en up his latest inn,In the kind office of a chamberlinShowed him his room where he must lodge that night,Pulled off his boots, and took away the light.If any ask for him, it shall be said,"Hobson has supped, and's newly gone to bed."
Here lieth one that did most truly proveThat he could never die while he could move;So hung his destiny, never to rotWhile he might still jog on and keep his trot;Made of sphere-metal, never to decayUntil his revolution was at stay.Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime'Gainst old truth) motion numbered out his time;And, like an engine moved with wheel and weight,His principles being ceased, he ended straight.Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death,And too much breathing put him out of breath;Nor were it contradiction to affirmToo long vacation hastened on his term.Merely to drive the time away he sickened,Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quickened."Nay," quoth he, on his swooning-bed outstretched,"If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetched,But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers,For one carrier put down to make six bearers."Ease was his chief disease; and, to judge right,He died for heaviness that his cart went light.His leisure told him that his time was come,And lack of load made his life burdensome,That even to his last breath (there be that say't)As he were pressed to death, he cried. "More weight!"But, had his doings lasted as they were,He had been an immortal carrier.Obedient to the moon he spent his dateIn course reciprocal, and had his fateLinked to the mutual flowing of the seas;Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase.His letters are delivered all and gone,Only remains the superscription.
How very sure we should all be that Milton did not write these pieces, if he had not given them a place among his published works! Returning to the crowd of Character-writers we find in 1631, the year of Milton's writing upon Hobson,
author of "Pictures Loquentes, or Pictures drawn forth in Characters. With a Poeme of a Maid" The poem of a Maid was, of course, suggested by the fact that Sir Thomas Overbury's Characters had joined to them the poem of a Wife. There was a second edition in 1635. Saltonstall's Characters were the World, an Old Man, a Woman, a Widow, a True Lover, a Country Bride, a Ploughman, a Melancholy Man, a Young Heir, a Scholar in the University, a Lawyers Clerk, a Townsman in Oxford, an Usurer, a Wandering Rogue, a Waterman, a Shepherd, a Jealous Man, a Chamberlain, a Maid, a Bailey, a Country Fair, a Country Ale-house, a Horse Race, a Farmer's Daughter, a Keeper, a Gentleman's House in the Country; to which he added in the second edition, a Fine Dame, a Country Dame, a Gardener, a Captain, a Poor Village, a Merry Man, a Scrivener, the Term, a Mower, a Happy Man, an Arrant Knave, and an Old Waiting Gentlewoman. This is one of his Characters as quoted by Philip Bliss in the Appendix to his edition of Earle--
Is a time when Justice keeps open court for all comers, while her sister Equity strives to mitigate the rigour of her positive sentence. It is called the term, because it does end and terminate business, or else because it is theTerminus ad quem, that is, the end of the countryman's journey, who comes up to the term, and with his hobnail shoes grinds the faces of the poor stones, and so returns again. It is the soul of the year, and makes it quick, which before was dead. Innkeepers gape for it as earnestly as shell-fish do for salt water after a low ebb. It sends forth new books into the world, and replenishes Paul's Walk with fresh company, whereQuid novi? is their first salutation, and the weekly news their chief discourse. The taverns are painted against the term, and many a cause is argued there and tried at that bar, where you are adjudged to pay the costs and charges, and so dismissed with "welcome, gentlemen." Now the city puts her best side outward, and a new play at the Blackfriars is attended on with coaches. It keeps watermen from sinking, and helps them with many a fare voyage to Westminster. Tour choice beauties come up to it only to see and be seen, and to learn the newest fashion, and for some other recreations. Now many that have been long sick and crazy begins to stir and walk abroad, especially if some young prodigals come to town, who bring more money than wit. Lastly, the term is the joy of the city, a dear friend to countrymen, and is never more welcome than after a long vacation.
We have also, in 1632, "London and Country Carbonadoed and Quartered into Several Characters" by Donald Lupton; in 1633, the "Character of a Gentleman" appended to Brathwaif's "English Gentleman;" in 1634, "A strange Metamorphosis of Man, transformed into a Wilderness, Deciphered in Characters" of which this is a specimen:--