THE END OF THE THIRD VISION
THE FOURTH VISION OF LOVING FOOLS
About four o’clock, in a cold frosty morning, when it was much better being in a warm bed, with a good bedfellow, than upon a bier in the churchyard; as I lay advising with my pillow, tumbling and tossing a thousand love-toys in my head, I passed from one fancy to another, till at last I fell into a slumber; and there appeared the genius of disabuse, laying before me all the follies, and vanities of love, and supporting her opinions with great authorities and reasons. I was carried then (methought I knew not how) into a fair meadow: a meadow, pleasant and agreeable infinitely beyond the very fictions of your half-witted poets, with all their far-fetched gilding, and enamellings (for a paper of verses is worth nothing with them, unless they force nature for’t, and rifle both the Indies). This delicious field was watered with two rivulets, the one bitter, the other sweet; and yet they mingled their streams with a pretty kind of murmur, equal perhaps to the best music in the world. The use of these waters was (as I observed) to temper the darts of love; for while I was upon the prospect of the place, I saw several of Cupid’s little officers, and subjects, dipping of arrows there, for their entertainment and ease. Upon this, I fancied myself in one of the gardens of Cyprus, and that I saw the very hive, where the bee lived that stung my young master, and occasioned that excellent ode which Anacreon has written upon the subject. The next thing I cast my eye upon was a palace in the midst of the meadow; a rare piece, as well for the structure as design. The porches were of the Doric order, excellently wrought; and the pedestals, bases, columns, cornices, capitals, architraves, friezes (and in short the whole front of the fabric) was beautified with imaginary trophies, and triumphs of love, in half relief, which as they were intermixed with other fantastic works and conceits, carried the face of several little histories, and gave a great ornament to the building. Over the porch, there was in golden letters, upon black marble, this inscription:
This is called fools’ paradise,
From the loving fools that dwell in’t,
Where the great fools rule the less,
The rest obey, and all do well in’t.
The finishing and materials were pleasant to admiration. The portal spacious, the doors always open, and the house free to all comers, which were very many; the porter’s place was supplied by a woman; exquisitely handsome, both for face and person; tall, delicately shaped, and set off with great advantages of dress, and jewels. She was made up, in fine, of charms, and her name (as I understood) was Beauty. She would let any man in to see the house for a look; and that was all I paid for my passage. In the first court, I found a many of both sexes, but so altered in habit and countenance, that they could scarce know one another. They were sad, pensive; and their complexions tinted with a yellow paleness (which Ovid calls Cupid’s livery). There was no talk of being true to friends; loyal to superiors; and dutiful to parents: but kindred did the office of procurers; and procurers were called cousins. Wives loved their husbands’ she friends, and husbands did as much for them, in loving their gallants.
While I was upon the contemplation of these encounters of affection, there appeared a strange extravagant figure, but in the likeness of a human creature. It was neither perfectly man nor perfectly woman, but had indeed a resemblance of both. This person I perceived was ever busy, up and down, going and coming; beset all over with eyes and ears, and had one of the craftiest distrustful looks (methought) that ever I saw. And withal, (as I observed) no small authority in the place, which made me inquire after this creature’s name, and office. “My name,” quoth she, for now it proved to be a woman, “is Jealousy, and methinks, you and I should be better acquainted, for how came you here else? However, for your satisfaction, you are to understand that the greater part of the distempered people you see here are of my bringing; and yet I am not their physician, but their tormentor; and serve only to aggravate and embitter their misfortunes. If you would know anything further of the house, never ask me, for ’tis forty to one I shall tell you a lie; I have not told you half the truth even of myself; and to deal plainly with you, I am made up of inventions, artifice, and imposture: but the good old man that walks there, is the Major Domo, and will tell you all, if you will but bear with his slow way of discourse.”
Thereupon I went to the good man, whom I knew presently to be Time, and desired him to let me look into the several quarters and lodgings of the house, for there were some fools of my acquaintance there I’d fain visit; he told me that he was at present so busy about making of caudles, cock-broths, and jellies for his patients, that he could not stir; but yet he directed me where I might find all those I inquired for, and gave me the freedom of the house to walk at pleasure.
I passed out of the first court, into the maids’ quarter, which was the very strongest part of the whole building; and so’t had need; for divers of the young wenches were so extravagant and furious, that no other place would have held them. (The wives and widows were in another room apart.) Here ye should have one, sobbing and raging with jealousy of a rival. There another, stark mad for a husband, and inwardly bleeding because she durst not discover it. A third was writing of letters all riddle and mystery, mending and marring, till at last the paper had more blots than whole words in it. Some were practising in the glass the gracious smile, the roll of the eye, the velvet lip, etc. Others again were in a diet of oatmeal, clay, chalk, coal, hard wax, and the like. Some were conditioning with their servants for a ball, or a serenade, that the whole town might ring of the address. “Yes, yes,” they cried, “you can go to the park with this lady, and to a play with that lady, and to Banstead with t’other lady, and spend whole nights at beste or ombre with my Lady Pen-Tweezel; but by my troth, I think you are ashamed to be seen in my company.” Some I saw upon the very point of sealing and delivering. “I am thine,” cries one, “and thine alone, or let all the devils in hell, etc. But be sure you be constant.” “If I be not,” says he, “let my soul,” etc., and the silly jade believes him. In one corner ye should have them praying for husbands, that they might the better love at random; in another, nothing would please them but to be married men’s wives, and this disease was looked upon as a little desperate. Some again stood ready furnished with love letters and tickets to be cast out at the window, or thrust under the door, and these were looked upon not only as fools but beasts.
I had seen as much already as I desired, for I had learned of old that he that keeps such company seldom comes off without a scratched face; but if he misses a mistress, he gets a wife, and stands condemned to a repentance during life, without redemption, unless one of the two dies. For women in the case are worse than pirates; a galley-slave may compound for his freedom, but there’s no thought of ransom in case of wedlock. I had a good mind to a little chat with some of them, but (thought I) they’ll fancy I’m in love with them. And so I e’en marched off into the married quarter, where there was such ranting, damning, and tearing, as if hell had been broke loose. And what was all this? but a number of women that had been locked up and shackled by their husbands, to keep them in obedience, and had now broken their prisons, and their chains, and were grown ten times madder than before. Some I saw caressing and coaxing their husbands, in the very moment they designed to betray them. Others were picking their husbands’ pockets to pay now and then for a by-blow. Some again were upon a religious point, and all upon the humour (forsooth) of pilgrimages and lectures; when alas! they had no other business with the altars or churches than a sacrifice to Venus, or a love meeting. Divers there were that went to the bath; but bathing was the least part of their errand. Others to confession, that mistook their martyr for their confessor: some to be revenged of jealous husbands were resolving to do the thing they feared, and pay them in their own coin. Others were for making sure aforehand by way of advance; for that’s the revenge, they say, that’s as sweet as muscadine and eggs. One was melancholy for a delay; another for a defeat; a third is preparing to make her market at a play. There was one among the rest was never out of her coach; and asking her the reason, she told me, she loved to be jolted. In this crowd of women, you must know that there were no wives of ambassadors, soldiers, or merchants that were abroad upon commission; for such were considered in effect as single women, and not allowed as members of this commonwealth.
The next quarter was that of the grave and wise, the right reverend widows, women in appearance of marvellous severity and reserve, and yet every one of them had her weak side, and ye might read her folly and distemper through her disguise. One of them I saw crying with one eye for the loss of one husband, and laughing with t’other upon him that was to come next. Another, with the Ephesian matron, was solacing herself with her gallant before her husband was thorough cold in the mouth, considering, that he that died half an hour ago is as dead as William the Conqueror. There were several others passing to and again, quite out of their mourning, that looked so demurely (I warrant ye) as if butter would not have melted in their mouths, and yet apostate widows (as I was told) and there they were kept as strictly, as if they had been in the Spanish Inquisition. Some were laying wagers whose mourning was most à la mode, and best made, or whose peak or veil became her best, and setting themselves off with a thousand tricks of ornament and dress. The widows I observed that were marching off, with the mark out of their mouths, were hugely concerned to be thought young, and still talking of masks, balls, fiddles, treats; chanting and jigging to every tune they heard, and all upon the hoity-toity like mad wenches of fifteen. The younger, on the other side, made use of their time and took pleasure while ’twas to be had. There were too of the religious strain; a people much at their beads, and in private; and these were there in the quality of love heretics, or platonics, and under the penance of perpetual abstinence from the flesh they loved best (which is the most mortifying Lent of all other). Some, that had skill in perspective, were before the glass with their boxes of patch and paint about them; shadowing, drawing out, refreshing, and in short, covering and palliating, all the imperfections of feature and complexion, every one after her own humour. Now these women were absolutely insufferable, for they were most of them old and headstrong, having got the better of their husbands, so that they would be taking upon them to domineer here, as they had done at home; and indeed, they found the master of the college enough to do.
When I had tired myself with this variety of folly and madness, I went to the devotees, where I found a great many women and girls that had cloistered up themselves from the conversation of the world; and yet were not a jot soberer than their fellows. These one would have thought might have been easily cured, but many of them were in for their lives, in despite of either counsel or physic. The room where they were was barricaded with strong bars of iron; and yet when the toy took them, they’d make now and then a sally; for when the fit was upon them, they’d own no superior but love, come what would on’t in the event. The greater part of these good people were writing of tickets and dispatches, which had still the sign of the cross at the top, and Satan at the bottom, concluding with this, or some such postscript: I commend this paper to your discretion. The fools of this province would be twattling night and day; and if it happened that any one of them had talked herself a-weary (which was very rare), she would presently take upon her very gravely to admonish the rest, and read a lecture of silence to the company. There were some that for want of better entertainment fell in love with one another; but these were looked upon as a sort of fops and ninnies, and therefore the more favourably used; but they’d have been of another mind, if they had known the cause of their distemper.
The root of all these several extravagances was idleness, which (according to Petrarch’s observation) never fails to make way for wantonness. There was one among the rest that had more letters of exchange upon the credit of her insatiable desires than a whole regiment of bankers. Some of them were sick of their old visitor, and called for a freshman. Others, by intervals, I perceived, had their wits about them, and contented themselves discreetly with the physician of the house. In short, it e’en pitied my heart to see so many poor people in so sad a condition and without any hope of relief, as I gathered from him that had them in care; for they were still puddering and royling their bodies; and if they got a little ease for the present, they’d be down again as soon as they had taken their medicine.
From thence I went to the single women (such as made profession never to marry) which were the least outrageous and discomposed of all; for they had a thousand ways to lay the devil as well as to raise him. Some of them lived like common highwaymen, by robbing Peter to pay Paul; and stripping honest men to clothe rascals, which is (under favour) but a lewd kind of charity. Others there were, that were absolutely out of their seven senses, and as mad as March hares for this wit and t’other poet, that never failed to pay them again in rhymes and madrigals, with ruby lips, pearly teeth, so that to read their verses, a man would swear the whole woman to be directly petrified.
Of sapphire fair, or crystal clear,
Is the forehead of my dear, etc.
I saw one in consultation with a cunning man to know her fortune; another, dealing with a conjurer for a philter, or drink to make her beloved. A third was daubing and patching up an old ruined face, to make it fresh and young again; but she might as well have been washing of a blackamoor to make him white. In fine, a world there were, that with their borrowed hair, teeth, eyes, eyebrows, looked like fine folks at a distance, but would have been left as ridiculous as Æsop’s crow, if every bird had fetched away his own feather. ’Deliver me (thought I, smiling and shaking my head) if this be woman.
And so I stepped into the men’s quarter, which was but next door, and only a thick wall between. Their great misery was that they were deaf to good advice, obstinately hating and despising both physic and physician; for if they would have either quitted or changed, they might have been cured. But they chose rather to die, and though they saw their error, would not mend it. Which minded me of the old rhyme:
Where love’s in the case,
The doctor’s an ass.
These fools-male were all in the same chamber; and one might perfectly read their humour and distemper in their looks and gestures. Oh! how many a gay lad did I see there in his point band and embroidered vest that had not a whole shirt to his back! How many huffs and highboys that had nothing else in their mouths but the lives and fortunes they’d spend in their sweet ladies’ service! that would yet have run five miles on your errand, to have been treated but at a threepenny ordinary? How many a poor devil that wanted bread, and was yet troubled with the rebellion of the flesh! Some there were that spent much time in setting their perukes, ordering the mustache, and dressing up the very face of Lucifer himself for a beauty: the woman’s privilege, and in truth an encroachment, to their prejudice. There were others that made it their glory to pass for Hectors, sons of Priam, brothers of the blade; and talked of nothing but attacks, combats, reverses, stramazons, stoccados; not considering that a naked weapon is present death to a timorous woman. Some were taking the round of their ladies’ lodgings, at midnight, and went to bed again as wise as they rose. Others fell in love by contagion and merely conversing with the infected. Some again went post from church to chapel, every holy day, to hunt for a mistress; and so turned a day of rest into a day of labour. Ye might see others skipping continually from house to house, like the knight upon a chess-board, without ever catching the (queen or) dame. Some, like crafty beggars, made their case worse than ’twas: and others, though ’twere ne’er so bad, durst not so much as open their mouths. Really it grieved me for the poor mutes, and I wished with all my heart their mistresses had been witches, that they might have known their meaning by their mumping; but they were lost to all counsel, so that there was no advising them. There was another sort of elevated, and conceited lovers; and these forsooth were not to be satisfied without the seven liberal sciences, and the four cardinal virtues, in the shape of a woman; and their case was desperate. The next I observed were a generation of modest fools, that passed under the notion of people diffident of themselves. They were generally men of good understanding, but for the most part younger brothers, of low fortunes, and such as for want of wherewithal to go to the price of higher amours, were fain to take up with ordinary stuff, that brought them nothing in the end, but beggary and repentance. The husbands, I perceived, were horribly furious, although in manacles and shackles. Some of them left their own wives, and fell upon their neighbours’. Others, to keep the good women in awe and obedience, would be taking upon them, and playing the tyrants, but upon the upshot they found their mistake, and that though they came on as fierce as lions, they went off as tame as muttons. Some were making friendships with their wives’ she-cousins, and agreeing upon a cross-gossiping whoever should have the first child.
The widowers, that had bit of the bridle, passed from place to place, where they stayed more or less, according to their entertainment, and so were in effect, as good as married; for as long, or as little a while as themselves pleased. These lived single, and spent their time in visiting, first one friend, then another. Here they fell in love; there they kindled a jealousy, which they contracted themselves in one place, and cured it in another. But the miracle was, that they all knew, and confessed themselves a company of mad fools, and yet continued so. Those that had skill in music, and could either sing or fiddle, made use of their gifts, to put the silly wenches that were but half moped before, directly out of their wits. They that were poetical were perpetually hammering upon the subjects of cruelty and disappointment. One tells his good fortune to another, that requites him with the story of his bad. They that had set their hearts upon girls were beating the streets all day, to find what avenues to a lady’s lodgings at night. Some were tampering and caressing the chamber-maid, as the ready way to the mistress. Others chose rather to put it to the push, and attempt the lady herself. Some were examining their pockets and taking a view of their furniture, which consisted much in love-letters, delicately sealed up with perfumed wax, upon raw silk; and a thousand pretty devices within; all wrapt up in riddle, and cipher. Abundance of hair bracelets, lockets, pomanders, knots of riband, and the like. There were others, that were called the husband’s friends, who were ready upon all occasions to do this, and to do that kindness for the husband. Their purse, credit, coach and horses, were all at his service; and in the meantime, who but they to gallant the wife? To the park, the gardens, a treat, or a comedy, where forty to one, by the greatest good luck in the world, they stumble upon an aunt, an old housekeeper of the family, or some such reverend goer-between that’s a well-willer to the mathematics; she takes the hint, performs the good office, and the work is done.
Now there were two sorts of fools for the widows: the one was beloved, and the other not. The latter were content to be a kind of voluntary slaves, for the compassing their ends; but the other were the happier, for they were ever at perfect liberty to do their pleasure, unless some friend or child of the house perchance came in, in the mischievous nick, and then in case of a little colour more than ordinary, or a tumbled handkercher: ’twas but changing the scene, and struggling for a paper of verses, or some such business to keep all in countenance. Some made their assaults both with love and money, and they seldom failed, for they came doubly armed; and your Spanish pistols are a sort of battery hardly to be resisted.
I came now to reflect upon what I had seen, and as I was walking (in that meditation) toward another lodging, I found myself (ere I was aware) in the first court again; where I entered, and in it I observed new wonders: I saw that the number of the mad fools increased every moment; although time (I perceived) did all that was possible to recover them. There was Jealousy tormenting even those that were most confident of the faith of what they loved. There was Memory rubbing of old sores. There was Understanding, locked up in a dark cellar; and Reason with both her eyes out. I made a little pause, the better to observe these varieties and disguises. And when I had looked myself a-weary, I turned about and spied a door; but so narrow that it was hardly passable; and yet strait as it was, divers there were that ingratitude and infidelity had set at liberty, and made a shift to get through. Upon which opportunity of returning, I made what haste I could to be one of the first at the door, and in that instant, my man drew the curtain of my bed, and told me the morning was far spent. Whereupon I waked, and recollecting myself, found all was but a dream. The very fancy however of having spent so much time in the company of fools and madmen, gave me some disorder, but with this comfort, that both sleeping and waking, I had experimented passionate love to be nothing else than a mere frenzy and folly.
THE END OF THE FOURTH VISION
THE FIFTH VISION OF THE WORLD
It is utterly impossible for anything in this world to fix our appetites and desires; but they are still flitting, and restless like pilgrims; delighted and nourished with variety: which shows how much we are mistaken in the value and quality of the things we covet. And hence it is, that what we pursue with the greatest delight and passion imaginable, yields us nothing but satiety and repentance in the possession; yet such is the power of these appetites of ours that when they call and command, we follow and obey; though we find in the end that what we took for a beauty, upon the chase proves but a carcass in the quarry; and we are sick on’t as soon as we have it. Now the world, that knows our palate and inclination, never fails to feed the humour, and to flatter and entertain us with all sorts of change and novelty, as the most certain method of gaining upon our affections.
One would have thought that these considerations might have put sober thoughts and resolutions in my head, but it was my fate to be taken off, in the very middle of my morality and speculations, and carried away from myself by vanity and weakness into the wide world, where I was for a certain time, not much unsatisfied with my condition. As I passed from one place to another, several that saw me (I perceived) did but make sport with me: for the further I went, the more I was at a loss in that labyrinth of delusions. One while I was in with the sword-men and bravoes; up to the ears in challenges, and quarrels; and never without an arm in a scarf, or a broken head. Another fit; I was never well, but at the Fleece Tavern, or Bear at bridge-foot, stuffing my guts with food and tipple, till the hoops were ready to burst. Beside twenty other entertainments that I found, every jot as extravagant as these, which to my great trouble and admiration left me not so much as one moment of repose.
As I was in one of my unquiet and pensive moods, somebody called after me, and plucked me by the cloak, which proved to be a person of a venerable age; his clothes miserably poor and tattered; and his face, just as if he had been trampled upon in the streets, which did not yet hinder but that he had still the air and appearance of one that deserved much honour and respect. “Good father,” said I to him, “why should you envy me my enjoyments? Pray’e let me alone, and do not trouble yourself with me or my doings. You’re past the pleasure of life yourself, and can’t endure to see other people merry, that have the world before them. Consider of it; you are now upon the point of leaving the world, and I am but newly come into’t, but ’tis the trick of all old men to be carping at the actions of their juniors.” “Son,” said the old man, smiling, “I shall neither hinder nor envy thy delights, but in pure pity I would fain reclaim thee. Dost thou know the price of a day an hour or a minute? Didst ever examine the value of time? If thou hadst, thou wouldst employ it better; and not cast away so many blessed opportunities upon trifles; and so easily, and insensibly, part with so inestimable a treasure. What’s become of thy past hours? have they made thee a promise to come back again at a call, when thou hast need of them? Or, canst thou show me which way they went? No, no; they are gone without recovery; and in their flight, methinks, Time seems to turn his head, and laugh over his shoulder in derision of those that made no better use of him, when they had him. Dost thou not know that all the minutes of our life are but as so many links of a chain that has death at the end on’t? and every moment brings thee nearer thy expected end, which perchance, while the word is speaking, may be at thy very door; and doubtless at thy rate of living, it will be upon thee before thou art aware. How stupid is he that dies while he lives, for fear of dying! How wicked is he that lives, as if he should never die; and only fears death when he comes to feel it! which is too late for comfort, either to body or soul: and he is certainly none of the wisest that spends all his days in lewdness and debauchery, without considering that of his whole life any minute might have been his last.”
“My good father,” said I, “I am beholding to you for your excellent discourses, for they have delivered me out of the power of a thousand frivolous and vain affections, that had taken possession of me. But who are you, I pray’ee? And what is your business here?” “My poverty and these rags,” quoth he, “are enough to tell ye that I am an honest man, a friend to truth, and one that will not be mealy-mouthed, when he may speak it to purpose. Some call me the plain-dealer; others, the undeceiver-general. You see me all in tatters, wounds, scars, bruises. And what is all this but the requital the world gives me for my good counsel and kind visits? And yet after all this endeavour to get shut of me they call themselves my friends, though they curse me to the pit of hell, as soon as ever I come near them; and had rather be hanged than spend one quarter of an hour in my company. If thou hast a mind to see the world I talk of, come along with me, and I’ll carry thee into a place where thou shalt have a full prospect of it, and without any inconvenience see all that’s in’t, or in the people that dwell in’t, and look it through and through.” “What’s the name of this place?” quoth I. “It is called,” said he, “the Hypocrites’ Walk; and it crosses the world from one Pole to th’ other. It is large, and populous; for I believe there’s not any man alive but has either a house or a chamber in’t. Some live in’t for altogether; others take it only in passage: for there are hypocrites of several sorts; but all mortals have, more or less, a tang of the leaven. That fellow there in the corner came but t’other day from the plow tail, and would now fain be a gentleman. But had not he better pay his debts, and walk alone, than break his promises to keep a lackey? There’s another rascal that would fain be a lord, and would venture a voyage to Venice for the title, but that he’s better at building castles in the air than upon the water. In the meantime he puts on a nobleman’s face and garb; he swears and drinks like a lord, and keeps his hounds and whores, which ’tis feared in the end will devour their master. Mark now that piece of gravity and form; he walks, ye see, as if he moved by clock-work; his words are few and low; he makes all his answers by a shrug or a nod. This is the hypocrite of a Minister of State, who with all his counterfeit of wisdom is one of the veriest noddies in nature.
“Face about now, and mind those decrepit sots there that can scarce lift a leg over a threshold, and yet they must be dyeing their hair, colouring their beards, and playing the young fools again, with a thousand hobby-horse tricks and antique dresses. On the other side, ye have a company of silly boys taking upon them to govern the world, under a visor of wisdom and experience.” “What lord is that,” said I, “in the rich clothes there, and the fine laces?” “That lord,” quoth he, “is a tailor, in his holiday clothes; and if he were now upon his shop-board, his own scissors and needles would hardly know him: and you must understand that hypocrisy is so epidemical a disease that it has laid hold of the trades themselves as well as the masters. The cobbler must be saluted Mr. Translator. The groom names himself gentleman of the horse; the fellow that carries guts to the bears, writes, one of His Majesty’s officers. The hangman calls himself a minister of justice. The mountebank, an able man. A common whore passes for a courtesan. The bawd acts the Puritan. Gaming ordinaries are called academies; and bawdy-houses, places of entertainment. The page styles himself the child of honour; and the foot-boy calls himself my lady’s page. And every pick-thank names himself a courtier. The cuckold-maker passes for a fine gentleman; and the cuckold himself, for the best-natured husband in the world: and a very ass commences master-doctor. Hocus-pocus tricks are called sleight-of-hand; lust, friendship; usury, thrift; cheating is but gallantry; lying wears the name of invention; malice goes for quickness of apprehension; cowardice, meekness of nature; and rashness carries the countenance of valour. In fine, this is all but hypocrisy, and knavery in a disguise, for nothing is called by the right name. Now there are beside these, certain general appellations taken up, which by long usage are almost grown into prescription. Every little whore takes upon her to be a great lady; every gown-man, to be a councillor; every huff to be a soldat; every gay thing to be a cavalier; every parish-clerk to be a doctor; and every writing-clerk in the office must be called Mr. Secretary.
“So that the whole world, take it where you will, is but a mere juggle; and you will find that wrath, gluttony, pride, avarice, luxury, murder, and a thousand other heinous sins, have all of them hypocrisy for their source, and thither they’ll return again.” “It would be well,” said I, “if you could prove what you say; but I can hardly see how so great a diversity of waters should proceed from one and the same fountain.” “I do not wonder,” quoth he, “at your distrust, for you are mistaken in very good company; to fancy a contrariety in many things, which are, in effect, so much alike. It is agreed upon, both by philosophers and divines, that all sins are evil; and you must allow, that the will embraces or pursues no evil but under the resemblance of good; nor does the sin lie in the representation, or knowledge of what is evil, but in the consent to it. Which consent itself is sinful, although without any subsequent act: it’s true, the execution serves afterward for an aggravation, and ought to be considered under many differences and distinctions. But in fine, evident it is that the will entertains no ill, but under the shape of some good. What do ye think now of the hypocrite that cuts your throat in his arms, and murders you, under pretence of kindness? ‘What is the hope of an hypocrite?’ says Job. He neither has nor can have any: for he is wicked as he is an hypocrite; and even his best actions are worth nothing, because they are not what they seem to be. So that of all sinners he has the most to answer for. Other offenders sin only against God. But the hypocrite sins with Him, as well as against Him, making use of His holy Name as a cloak and countenance for his wickedness. For which reason, our blessed Saviour, after many affirmative precepts delivered to His disciples for their instruction, gave only this negative: ‘Be not sad as the hypocrites,’ which lays them open in few words; and He might as well have said ‘Be not hypocrites, and ye shall not be wicked.’”
We were now come to the place the old man told me of, where I found all according to my expectation, and took the higher ground, that I might have the better prospect of what passed. The first remarkable thing I saw was a long funeral train of kindred and guests, following the corpse of a deceased lady, in company with the disconsolate widower, who marched with his chin upon his breast, a sad and a heavy pace, muffled up in a mourning hood, enough to have stifled him, with at least ten yards of cloth upon his body, and no less in his train. “Alack, alack!” cried I, “that ever I should live to see so dismal a spectacle! Oh blessed woman! How did this husband love thee in thy lifetime, that follows thee with this infinite faith and affection, even to thy grave! And happy the husband, doubtless, in a wife that deserved this kindness! and in so many tender friends and relations, to take part with him in his sorrows. My good father, let me entreat you to observe this doleful encounter.” With that (shaking his head and smiling) “My son,” quoth he, “thou shalt by and by perceive that all is nothing in the world but vanity, imposture, and constraint; and I will shew thee the difference between things themselves, and their appearances. To see this abundance of torches, with the magnificence of the ceremony and attendance, one would think there should be some mighty matter in the business; but let me assure thee that all this pudder comes to no more than much ado about nothing. The woman was nothing (effectually) even while she lived: the body now in the coffin is somewhat a less nothing: and the funeral honours, which are now paid her come to just nothing too. But the dead it seems must have their vanities, and their holidays as well as the living. Alas! what’s a carcass but the most odious sort of putrefaction? A corrupted earth, fit neither for fruit nor tillage. And then for the sad looks of the mourners: they are only troubled at the invitation; and would not care a pin, if the inviter and body too were both at the devil. And that you might see by their behaviour, and discourses; for when they should have been praying for the dead, they were prating of her pedigree, and her last will and testament. ‘I’m not so near akin,’ says one, ‘but I might have been spared; and I had twenty other things to do.’ Another should have met company at a tavern; a third, at a play. A fourth mutters that he is not placed according to his quality. Another cries out, ‘A pox o’ your meetings where there is nothing stirring but worms’ meat.’ Let me tell ye further, that the widower himself is not grieved as you imagine for the dead wife; but for the damned expense in blacks, and scutcheons, tapers, and mourners; and that she was not fairly laid to rest, without all this ado: for he persuades himself, that she might have found the way to her grave without a candle. And since she was to die, ’tis his opinion, that she should have made quicker work on’t: for a good wife is (like a good Christian) to put her conscience in order betimes, and get her gone; without lingering in the hands of doctors, ’pothecaries, and surgeons, to murder her husband too. Or (to save charges) she might have had the discretion to have died of the plague, which would have staved off company. This is the second wife he has already turned over, and (to give the man his due) he has had the wit to secure himself of a third, while this lay on her deathbed. So that his case is no more than chopping of a cold wife for a warm one, and he’ll recover this affliction, I warrant ye.”
The good man, methought, spoke wonders; and being thoroughly convinced of the danger of trusting to appearances, I took up a resolution, never to conclude upon anything, though never so plausible, without due examination and inquiry. With that, the funeral vanished, leaving us behind; and for a farewell, this sentence: “I am gone before, you are to follow; and in the meantime, to accompany others to their graves, as you have done me; and as I, when time was, have attended many others, with as little care and devotion as yourselves.”
We were taken off from this meditation by a noise we heard in a house behind us, where we had no sooner set foot over the threshold, but we were entertained with a concert of six voices, that were set and tuned to the sighs and groans of a woman newly become a widow. The passion was acted to the life; but the dead little the better for’t. They would be ever and anon clapping and wringing of their hands; groaning and sighing, as if their hearts would break. The hangings, pictures, and furniture were all taken down and removed; the rooms hung with black, and in one of them lay the poor disconsolate upon a couch with her condoling friends about her. It was as dark as pitch, and so much the better, for the parts they had to play; for there was no discovering of the horrid faces and strains they made, to fetch up their artificial tears and lamentations. “Madam,” says one, “tears are but thrown away; and really the grief to see your ladyship in this condition has made me as lost a woman to all thought of comfort as yourself.” “I beseech you, madam, cheer up,” cries another, with almost as many sighs as words, “your husband’s e’en happy that he is out of this miserable world. He was a good man, and now he finds the sweet on’t.” “Patience, patience, dear madam,” cries a third, “’tis the will of Heaven, and there’s no contending.” “Dost talk of patience,” says she, “and no contending? Wretched creature that I am! to outlive that dear man! Oh that dear husband of mine! Oh that I should ever live to see this day!” And then she fell to blubbering, sobbing, and raving a thousand times worse than before. “Alas, alas, who will trouble himself with a poor widow! I have never a friend left to look after me; what shall become of me!”
At this pause came in the chorus with their nose-instruments; and there was such blowing, snobbing, snivelling, and throwing snot about, that there was no enduring the house. And all this, you must know, served them to a double purpose; that is to say, for physic and for complement: for it passed for the condoling office, and purged their heads of ill humours all under one. I could not choose but compassionate the poor widow, a creature forsaken of all the world; and I told my guide as much; and that a charity (as I thought) would be well bestowed upon her. The Holy Writ calls them mutes, according to the import of the Hebrew: in regard that they have nobody to speak for them. And if at any time they take heart to speak for themselves, they had e’en as good hold their tongues, for nobody minds them. Is there anything more frequently given in charge throughout the whole Bible, than to protect the fatherless, and defend the cause of the widow? as the highest and most necessary point of Christian charity: in regard that they have neither power, nor right to defend themselves. Does not Job in the depth of his misery and disgraces make choice to clear himself toward the widow, upon his expostulations with the Almighty? [If I have caused the eyes of the widow to fail] (or consumed the eyes of the widow; after the Hebrew) so that it seems to me, beside the general duty of charity, we are also bound by the laws of honour and generosity to assist them: for the poor souls are fain to plead with their eyes, and beg with their eyes, for want of either hands or tongues to help themselves. “Indeed you must pardon me my good father,” said I, “if I cannot hold any longer from bearing a part in this mournful concert, upon this sad occasion.” “And is this,” quoth the old man, “the fruit of your boasted divinity? to sink into weakness and tears, when you have the greatest need of your resolution and prudence. Have but a little patience, and I’ll unfold you this mystery; though (let me tell ye) ’tis one of the hardest things in nature, to make any man as wise as he should be, that conceits himself wise enough already. If this accident of the widow had not happened, we had had none of the fine things that have been started upon’t: for ’tis occasion that awakens both our virtue and philosophy; and ’tis not enough to know the mine where the treasure lies, unless a man has the skill of drawing it out, and making the best of what he has in his possession. What are you the better for all the advantages of wit and learning, without the faculty of reducing what you know into apt and proper applications?
“Observe me now, and I will show you that this widow that looks as if she had nothing in her mouth but the service for the dead, and only hallelujahs in her soul, that this mortified piece of formality has green thoughts under her black veil, and brisk imaginations about her, in despite of her calamity and misfortune. The chamber you see is dark; and their faces are muffled up in their funeral dresses. And what of all this? when the whole course of their mourning is but a thorough cheat. Their weeping signifies nothing more, than crying, at so much an hour; for their tears are hackneyed out, and when they have wept out their stage, they take up, and are quiet. If you would relieve them, leave them to themselves; and as soon as your back is turned, you shall have them singing and dancing, and as merry as Greeks: for take away the spectators, their hypocrisy is at an end, and the play is done; and now the confidents’ game begins. ‘Come, come, madam, ’faith we must be merry’ cries one, ‘we are to live by the living, and not by the dead. For a bonny young widow as you are, to lie whimpering away your opportunities and lose so many brave matches! There’s, you know who, I dare swear, has a month’s mind to you; by my troth I would you were in bed together, and I’d be hanged, if you did not find one warm bedfellow worth twenty cold ones.’ ‘Really, madam,’ cries a second, ‘she gives you good counsel; and if I were in your place, I’d follow it, and make use of my time. ’Tis but one lost, and ten found. Pray’e tell me, madam, if I may be so bold; what’s your opinion of that cavalier that was here yesterday? Certainly he has a great deal of wit; and methinks he’s a very handsome proper gentleman. Well! if that man has not a strange passion for you, I’ll never believe my eyes again for his sake; and, in good faith, if all parties were agreed, I would you were e’en well in his arms the night before to-morrow. Were it not a burning shame to let such a beauty lie fallow?’ This sets the widow a-pinking, and simpering like a furmety-kettle; at length she makes up the pretty little mouth, and says, ‘’Tis somewhat of the soonest to talk of those affairs; but let it be as Heaven pleases. However, madam, I am much beholden to you for your friendly advice.’ You have here the very bottom of her sorrow: she has taken a second husband into her heart before her first was in his grave. I should have told you that your right widow eats and drinks more the first day of her widowhood than in any other of her whole life: for there appears not a visitant, but presently out comes the groaning cake, a cold baked meat, or some restorative morsel or other, to comfort the afflicted; and the cordial bottle must not be forgotten neither, for sorrow’s dry. So to’t they fall, and at every bit or gulp, the lady relict fetches ye up a heavy sigh, pretends to chew false, and makes protestation that for her part she can taste nothing; she has quite lost her digestion; and has such an oppression in her stomach that she dares not eat any more, for fear of over-charging nature. ‘And in truth,’ says she, ‘how can it be otherwise; since (unhappy creature that I am!) he is gone that gave the relish to all my enjoyments; but there is no recalling him from the grave, and so, no remedy but patience.’ By this time, you see,” quoth the old man, “whether your exclamations were reasonable, or no.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth, when hearing an uproar among the rabble in the street, we looked out to see what was the matter. And there we saw a catchpole, without either hat or band, out of breath, and his face all bloody, crying out, “Help, help, in the king’s name! stop thief, stop thief!” and all the while, running as hard as he could drive, after a thief that made away from him, as if the devil had been at his breech. After him, came an attorney, all dirty, a world of papers in his hand, an inkhorn at his girdle, and a crowd of nasty people about him; and down he sat himself just before us, to write somewhat upon his knee. Bless me (thought I) how a cause prospers in the hand of one of these fellows, for he had filled his paper in a trice. “These catchpoles,” said I, “had need to be well paid, for the hazards they run to secure us in our lives and fortunes; and indeed they deserve it. Look how the poor wretch is torn, bruised, and battered, and all this for the good and benefit of the public.”
“Soft and fair,” quoth the old man; “I think thou wouldst never leave talking, if I did not stop thy mouth sometime. You must know, that he that made the escape and the catchpole are a couple of ancient friends and pot-companions. Now the catchpole quarrels the thief for not giving him a snip in the last booty; and the thief, after a great struggle, and a good lusty rubber at cuffs, has made a shift to save himself. You’ll say the rogue had need of good heels, to outrun this gallows-beagle; for there’s hardly any beast will outstrip a bailiff that runs upon the view of a quarry. So that there’s not the least thought of a public good in the catchpole’s action; but merely a prosecution of his own profit, and a spite to see himself choused. Now if the catchpole, I confess, without any private interest had made this attempt upon the thief, (being his friend) to bring him to justice, it had been well; and yet, take this along with you: it is as natural to let slip a serjeant at a pickpocket as a greyhound at a hare. The whip, the pillory, the axe, and the halter make up the best part of the catchpole’s revenue. These people are of all sorts the most odious to the world; and if men in revenge would resolve to be virtuous, though but for a year or two, they might starve them all. It is in fine an unlucky employment, and catchpoles as well as the devils themselves have the wages of tormentors.”
“I hope,” said I to my guide, “that the attorneys shall have your good word too.” “Yes, yes, ye need not doubt it,” said the old man, “for your attorney and your catchpole always hunt in couples. The attorney draws the information, and has all his forms ready, so that ’tis no more then but to fill up the blanks, and away to the jail with the delinquent; if there be anything to be gotten ’tis not a halfpenny matter, whether the party be guilty or innocent: give but an attorney pen, ink, and paper, and let him alone for witnesses. In case of an examination, he has the grace not to insist too much upon plain and naked truth; but to set down only what makes for his purpose, and then when they come to signing, to read over in the deponent’s sense (for his memory is good) what he has written in his own; and by this means, the cause goes on as he pleases. To prevent this villainy, it were well, if the examiners were as well sworn to write the truth as the witnesses are to speak it. And yet there are some honest men of all sorts but among the attorneys; the very calling does by the honest catchpoles, marshal’s men, and their fellows, as the sea by the dead: it may entertain them for a while, but in a very short space it spews them up again.”
The good man would have proceeded, if he had not been taken off by the rattling of a gilt coach, wherein was a courtier that was blown up as big as pride and vanity could make him. He sat stiff and upright, as if he had swallowed a stake; and made it his glory to show himself in that posture: it would have hurt his eyes, to have exchanged a glance with anything that was vulgar, and therefore he was very sparing of his looks. He had a deep laced ruff on, that was right Spanish, which he wore erect, and stiff starched, that a man would have thought he had carried his head in a paper-lanthorn. He was a great studier of set faces, and much affected with looking politic and big. But, for his arms and body, he had utterly lost or forgotten the use of them: for he could neither bow nor move his hat to any man that saluted him; no, nor so much as turn from one side to the other; but sat as if he had been boxed up, like a Bartlemew-baby. After this magnificent statue, followed a swarm of gaudy butterfly-lackeys: and his lordship’s company in the coach was a buffoon and a parasite. “Oh blessed prince!” said I, “to live at this rate of ease and splendour, and to have the world at will! What a glorious train is that! Beyond all doubt, there never was a great fortune better bestowed.” With that, the old man took me up, and told me that the judgment I had made upon this occasion, from one end to the other, was all dotage and mistake; save only, when I said he had the world at will: “and in that,” says he, “you have reason; for what is the world but labour, vanity, and folly; which is likewise the composition and entertainment of this cavalier.
“As for the train that follows him let it be examined, and my life for yours, you shall find more creditors in’t, than servants: there are bankers, jewellers, scriveners, brokers, mercers, drapers, tailors, vintners; and these are properly the stays and supporters of this animated machine. The money, meat, drink, robes, liveries, wages, all comes out of their pockets; they have this honour for their security; and must content themselves with promises, and fair words for full satisfaction, unless they had rather have a footman with a cudgel for their pay-master. And after all, if this gallant were taken to shrift, or that a man could enter into the secrets of his conscience, I dare undertake, it would appear that he that digs in a mine for his bread lives ten thousand times more at ease than the other, with beating of his brains night and day for new shifts, tricks and projects to keep himself above water.
“Observe his companions now, his fool and his flatterer. They are too hard for him, ye see; and eat, drink, and make merry at his expense. What greater misery or shame in the world, than for a man to make a friendship with such rascals, and to spend his time and estate in so brutal, and insipid a society! It costs him more (beside his credit) to maintain that couple of coxcombs than would have bought him the conversation of a brace of grave and learned philosophers. But will ye now see the bottom of this scandalous and dishonourable kindness? ‘My lord,’ says the buffoon, ‘you were most infallibly wrapt in your mother’s smock; for let me be — if ye have not set all the ladies about the court agog.’ ‘The very truth is,’ cries the parasite, ‘all the rest of the nobility look like corn-cutters to you; and indeed, wherever you come, you have still the eyes of the whole company upon you.’ ‘Go to, go to, gentlemen,’ says my lord, ‘you must not flatter your friends. This is more your courtesy than my desert; and I have an obligation to you for your kindness.’ After this manner these asses knab and curry one another, and play the fools by turns.”
The old man had his words yet between his teeth, when there passed just by us a lady of pleasure, of so excellent a shape and garb, that it was impossible to see her without a passion for her, and no less impossible to look upon anything else, so long as she was to be seen. They that had seen her once were to see her no more, for she turned her face still to new-comers. Her motion was graceful and free. One while she’d stare ye full in the eyes, under colour of opening her hood, to set it in better order. By and by she’d steal a look at ye with one eye, and a side face, from the corner of her visor, like a witch that’s afraid to be known when she comes from a caterwaul. And then out comes the delicate hand, and discovers the more delicious neck, and breasts, to adjust the handkercher or the scarf, or to remove some other grievance that made her ladyship uneasy. Her hair was most artificially disposed into careless rings; and the best red and white in nature was in her cheeks, if that of her lips and teeth did not exceed it. In a word, all she looked upon was her own; and this was the vision for my money, from all the rest. As she was marching off, I could not choose but take up a resolution to follow her. But my old man laid a block in the way, and stopped me at the very starting; which was an affront to a man that was both in love and in haste, that might very well stir his choler. “My officious friend,” said I, “he that does not love a woman sucked a sow. And questionless, he must be either blind or barbarous that’s proof against the charms of so divine a beauty. Nor would any but a sot let slip the blessed opportunity of so fair an encounter. A handsome woman? why, what was she made for, but to be loved? And he that has her, has all that’s lovely or desirable in nature. For my own part, I would renounce the world for the fellow of her, and never desire anything either beyond her, or beside her. What lightning does she carry in her eyes! What charms, and chains in her looks, and motions, for the very souls of her beholders! Was ever anything so clear as her forehead? or so black as her eyebrows? One would swear that her complexion had taken a tincture of vermilion and milk: and that nature had brought her into the world with pearl and rubies in her mouth. To speak all in little, she’s the masterpiece of the creation, worthy of infinite praise, and equal to our largest desires and imaginations.”
Here the old man cut me short, and bade me make an end of my discourse, “for thou art,” said he, “a man of much wonder, and small experience, and delivered over to the spirit of folly and blindness. Thou hast thy eyes in thy head, and yet not brain enough to know either why they were given thee, or how to use them. Understand then that the office of the eye is to see, but ’tis the privilege of the soul to distinguish and choose, whereas you either do the contrary, or else nothing, which is worse. He that trusts his eyes, exposes his mind to a thousand torments and confusions: he shall take clouds for mountains, straight for crooked, one colour for another, by reason of an undue distance, or an indisposed medium. We are not able sometimes to say which way a river runs, till we throw in a twig or straw to find out the current. And what will you say now, if this prodigious beauty, your new mistress, prove as gross a cheat and imposture as any of the rest? She went to bed last night as ugly as a witch; and yet this morning she comes forth in your opinion as glorious as an angel. The truth of it is, she hires all by the day; and if you did but see this puppet taken to pieces, you would find her little else but paint and plaister. To begin her anatomy at the head. You must know that the hair she wears is borrowed of a tire-woman, for her own was blown off by an unlucky wind from the coast of Naples. Or if she has any left, she keeps it private, as a memorial of her antiquity. She is beholden to the pencil for her eyebrows and complexion. And upon the whole matter, she is but an old picture refreshed. But the wonder is, to see a picture, with life and motion; unless perchance she has got the necromancer’s receipt that made himself young again in his glass bottle. For all that you see of her that’s good, comes from distilled waters, essences, powders, and the like; and to see the washing of her face would fright the devil. She abounds in pomanders, sweet waters, Spanish pockets, perfumed drawers; and all little enough to qualify the poisonous whiffs she sends from her toes and arm-pits, which would otherwise out-stink ten thousand pole-cats. She cannot choose but kiss well, for her lips are perpetually bathed in oil and grease. And he that embraces her, shall find the better half of her the tailor’s, and only a stuffing of cotton and canvas, to supply the defects of her body. When she goes to bed, she puts off one half of her person with her shoes. What do ye think of your adored beauty now? or have your eyes betrayed ye? Well, well; confess your error and mend it; and know that (without more descant upon this woman) ’tis the design and glory of most of the sex to lead silly men captive. Nay take the best of them, and what with the trouble of getting them and the difficulty of pleasing them, he that comes off best will find himself a loser at the foot of the account. I could recommend you here to other remedies of love, inseparable from the very sex, but what I have said already, I hope, will be sufficient.”