A silenced minister has more mercy on the Government in a secure conventicle than he has on the company that he is in. He shakes a man by the ear, as a dog does a pig, and never loses his hold till he has tired himself as well as his patient. He does not talk to a man, but attacks him, and whomsoever he can get into his hands he lays violent language on. If he can he will run a man up against a wall and hold him at a bay by the b.u.t.tons, which he handles as bad as he does his person or the business he treats upon. When he finds him begin to sink he holds him by the clothes, and feels him as a butcher does a calf before he kills him.

He is a walking pillory, and crucifies more ears than a dozen standing ones. He will hold any argument rather than his tongue, and maintain both sides at his own charge; for he will tell you what you will say, though perhaps he does not intend to give you leave. He lugs men by the ears, as they correct children in Scotland, and will make them tingle while he talks with them, as some say they will do when a man is talked of in his absence. When he talks to a man he comes up close to him, and, like an old soldier, lets fly in his face, or claps the bore of his pistol to his ear and whispers aloud, that he may be sure not to miss his mark. His tongue is always in motion, though very seldom to the purpose, like a barber's scissors, which are always snipping, as well when they do not cut as when they do. His tongue is like a bagpipe-drone, that has no stop, but makes a continual ugly noise, as long as he can squeeze any wind out of himself. He never leaves a man until he has run him down, and then he winds a death over him. A sow-gelder's horn is not so terrible to dogs and cats as he is to all that know him. His way of argument is to talk all and hear no contradiction. First he gives his antagonist the length of his wind, and then, let him make his approaches if he can, he is sure to be beforehand with him. Of all dissolute diseases the running of the tongue is the worst, and the hardest to be cured. If he happen at any time to be at a stand, and any man else begins to speak, he presently drowns him with his noise, as a water-dog makes a duck dive; for when you think he has done he falls on and lets fly again, like a gun that will discharge nine times with one loading. He is a rattlesnake, that with his noise gives men warning to avoid him, otherwise he will make them wish they had. He is, like a bell, good for nothing but to make a noise. He is like common fame, that speaks most and knows least, Lord Brooks, or a wild goose always cackling when he is upon the wing. His tongue is like any kind of carriage, the less weight it bears the faster and easier it goes. He is so full of words that they run over and are thrown away to no purpose, and so empty of things or sense that his dryness has made his leaks so wide whatsoever is put in him runs out immediately. He is so long in delivering himself that those that hear him desire to be delivered too or despatched out of their pain. He makes his discourse the longer with often repeating to be short, and talking much of in fine, never means to come near it.

A RANTER

Is a fanatic Hector that has found out, by a very strange way of new light, how to transform all the devils into angels of light; for he believes all religion consists in looseness, and that sin and vice is the whole duty of man. He puts off the old man, but puts it on again upon the new one, and makes his pagan vices serve to preserve his Christian virtues from wearing out, for if he should use his piety and devotion always it would hold out but a little while. He is loth that iniquity and vice should be thrown away as long as there may be good use for it; for if that which is wickedly gotten may be disposed to pious uses, why should not wickedness itself as well? He believes himself shot-free against all the attempts of the devil, the world, and the flesh, and therefore is not afraid to attack them in their own quarters and encounter them at their own weapons. For as strong bodies may freely venture to do and suffer that, without any hurt to themselves, which would destroy those that are feeble, so a saint that is strong in grace may boldly engage himself in those great sins and iniquities that would easily d.a.m.n a weak brother, and yet come off never the worse. He believes deeds of darkness to be only those sins that are committed in private, not those that are acted openly and owned. He is but a hypocrite turned the wrong side outward; for, as the one wears his vices within and the other without, so when they are counterchanged the ranter becomes a hypocrite, and the hypocrite an able ranter. His church is the devil's chapel, for it agrees exactly both in doctrine and discipline with the best reformed bawdy-houses. He is a monster produced by the madness of this latter age; but if it had been his fate to have been whelped in old Rome he had pa.s.sed for a prodigy, and been received among raining of stones and the speaking of bulls, and would have put a stop to all public affairs until he had been expiated. Nero clothed Christians in the skins of wild beasts, but he wraps wild beasts in the skins of Christians.

AN AMORIST

Is an artificer or maker of love, a sworn servant to all ladies, like an officer in a corporation. Though no one in particular will own any t.i.tle to him, yet he never fails upon all occasions to offer his services, and they as seldom to turn it back again untouched. He commits nothing with them but himself to their good graces; and they recommend him back again to his own, where he finds so kind a reception that he wonders how he does fail of it everywhere else. His pa.s.sion is as easily set on fire as a fart, and as soon out again. He is charged and primed with love-powder like a gun, and the least sparkle of an eye gives fire to him and off he goes, but seldom or never hits the mark. He has commonplaces, and precedents of repartees, and letters for all occasions, and falls as readily into his method of making love as a parson does into his form of matrimony. He converses, as angels are said to do, by intuition, and expresses himself by sighs most significantly. He follows his visits as men do their business, and is very industrious in waiting on the ladies where his affairs lie; among which those of greatest concernment are questions and commands, purposes, and other such received forms of wit and conversation, in which he is so deeply studied that in all questions and doubts that arise he is appealed to, and very learnedly declares which was the most true and primitive way of proceeding in the purest times. For these virtues he never fails of his summons to all b.a.l.l.s, where he manages the country-dances with singular judgment, and is frequently an a.s.sistant at _l'ombre_; and these are all the uses they make of his parts, beside the sport they give themselves in laughing at him, which he takes for singular favours and interprets to his own advantage, though it never goes further; for, all his employments being public, he is never admitted to any private services, and they despise him as not woman's meat; for he applies to too many to be trusted by any one, as b.a.s.t.a.r.ds by having many fathers have none at all. He goes often mounted in a coach as a convoy to guard the ladies, to take the dust in Hyde Park, where by his prudent management of the gla.s.s windows he secures them from beggars, and returns fraught with China-oranges and ballads. Thus he is but a gentleman-usher-general, and his business is to carry one lady's services to another, and bring back the other's in exchange.

AN ASTROLOGER

Is one that expounds upon the planets and teaches to construe the accidents by the due joining of stars in construction. He talks with them by dumb signs, and can tell what they mean by their twinkling and squinting upon one another as well as they themselves. He is a spy upon the stars, and can tell what they are doing by the company they keep and the houses they frequent. They have no power to do anything alone until so many meet as will make a quorum. He is clerk of the committee to them, and draws up all their orders that concern either public or private affairs. He keeps all their accounts for them, and sums them up, not by debtor, but creditor alone--a more compendious way. They do ill to make them have so much authority over the earth, which perhaps has as much as any one of them but the sun, and as much right to sit and vote in their councils as any other. But because there are but seven Electors of the German Empire, they will allow of no more to dispose of all other, and most foolishly and unnaturally dispossess their own parent of its inheritance rather than acknowledge a defect in their own rules.

These rules are all they have to show for their t.i.tle, and yet not one of them can tell whether those they had them from came honestly by them.

Virgil's description of fame, that reaches from earth to the stars, _tam ficti pravique tenax_, to carry lies and knavery, will serve astrologers without any sensible variation. He is a fortune-seller, a retailer of destiny, and petty chapman to the planets. He casts nativities as gamesters do false dice, and by slurring and palming s.e.xtile, quartile, and trine, like _six, quatre, trois_, can throw what chance he pleases.

He sets a figure as cheats do a main at hazard, and gulls throw away their money at it. He fetches the grounds of his art so far off, as well from reason as the stars, that, like a traveller, he is allowed to lie by authority; and as beggars that have no money themselves believe all others have, and beg of those that have as little as themselves, so the ignorant rabble believe in him though he has no more reason for what he professes than they.

A LAWYER

Is a retailer of justice that uses false lights, false weights, and false measures. He measures right and wrong by his retaining fee, and, like a French duellist, engages on that side that first bespeaks him, though it be against his own brother; not because it is right, but merely upon a punctilio of profit, which is better than honour to him, because riches will buy n.o.bility, and n.o.bility nothing, as having no intrinsic value. He sells his opinion, and engages to maintain the t.i.tle against all that claim under him, but no further. He puts it off upon his word, which he believes himself not bound to make good, because when he has parted with his right to it, it is no longer his. He keeps no justice for his own use, as being a commodity of his own growth, which he never buys, but only sells to others; and as no man goes worse shod than the shoemaker, so no man is more out of justice than he that gets his living by it. He draws bills as children do lots at a lottery, and is paid as much for blanks as prizes. He undoes a man with the same privilege as a doctor kills him, and is paid as well for it as if he preserved him, in which he is very impartial, but in nothing else. He believes it no fault in himself to err in judgment, because that part of the law belongs to the judge and not to him. His best opinions and his worst are all of a price, like good wine and bad in a tavern, in which he does not deal so fairly as those who, if they know what you are willing to bestow, can tell how to fit you accordingly. When his law lies upon his hands he will afford a good pennyworth, and rather pettifog and turn common barreter than be out of employment. His opinion is one thing while it is his own and another when it is paid for; for, the property being altered, the case alters also. When his counsel is not for his client's turn he will never take it back again, though it be never the worse, nor allow him anything for it, yet will sell the same over and over again to as many as come to him for it. His pride increases with his practice, and the fuller of business he is, like a sack, the bigger he looks. He crowds to the Bar like a pig through a hedge, and his gown is fortified with flankers about the shoulders to guard his ears from being galled with elbows. He draws his bills more extravagant and unconscionable than a tailor; for if you cut off two-thirds in the beginning, middle, or end, that which is left will be more reasonable and nearer to sense than the whole, and yet he is paid for all; for when he draws up a business, like a captain that makes false musters, he produces as many loose and idle words as he can possibly come by until he has received for them, and then turns them off and retains only those that are to the purpose. This he calls drawing of breviates. All that appears of his studies is, in short, time converted into waste-paper, tailor's measures, and heads for children's drums. He appears very violent against the other side, and rails to please his client as they do children, "Give me a blow and I'll strike him, ah, naughty!" &c. This makes him seem very zealous for the good of his client, and though the cause go against him he loses no credit by it, especially if he fall foul on the counsel of the other side, which goes for no more among them than it does with those virtuous persons that quarrel and fight in the streets to pick the pockets of those that look on. He hangs men's estates and fortunes on the slightest curiosities and feeblest niceties imaginable, and undoes them like the story of breaking a horse's back with a feather or sinking a ship with a single drop of water, as if right and wrong were only notional and had no relation at all to practice (which always requires more solid foundations), or reason and truth did wholly consist in the right spelling of letters, whenas the subtler things are the nearer they are to nothing, so the subtler words and notions are the nearer they are to nonsense. He overruns Latin and French with greater barbarism than the Goths did Italy and France, and makes as mad a confusion of language by mixing both with English. Nor does he use English much better, for he clogs it so with words that the sense becomes as thick as puddle, and is utterly lost to those that have not the trick of skipping over where it is impertinent. He has but one termination for all Latin words, and that's a dash. He is very just to the first syllables of words, but always bobtails the last, in which the sense most of all consists, like a cheat that does a man all right at the first that he may put a trick upon him in the end. He is an apprentice to the law without a master, is his own pupil, and has no tutor but himself, that is a fool. He will screw and wrest law as unmercifully as a tumbler does his body to lick up money with his tongue. He is a Swiss that professes mercenary arms, will fight for him that gives him best pay, and, like an Italian bravo, will fall foul on any man's reputation that he receives a retaining fee against.

If he could but maintain his opinions as well as they do him, he were a very just and righteous man; but when he has made his most of it, he leaves it, like his client, to shift for itself. He fetches money out of his throat like a juggler; and as the rabble in the country value gentlemen by their housekeeping and their eating, so is he supposed to have so much law as he has kept commons, and the abler to deal with clients by how much the more he has devoured of Inns-of-Court mutton; and it matters not whether he keep his study so he has but kept commons.

He never ends a suit, but prunes it that it may grow the faster and yield a greater increase of strife. The wisdom of the law is to admit of all the petty, mean, real injustices in the world, to avoid imaginary possible great ones that may perhaps fall out. His client finds the Scripture fulfilled in him, that it is better to part with a coat too than go to law for a cloak; for, as the best laws are made of the worst manners, even so are the best lawyers of the worst men. He hums about Westminster Hall, and returns home with his pockets like a bee with his thighs laden; and that which Horace says of an ant, _Ore trahit quodcunque potest, atque addit acervo_, is true of him, for he gathers all his heap with the labour of his mouth rather than his brain and hands. He values himself, as a carman does his horse, by the money he gets, and looks down upon all that gain less as scoundrels. The law is like that double-formed, ill-begotten monster that was kept in an intricate labyrinth and fed with men's flesh, for it devours all that come within the mazes of it and have not a clue to find the way out again. He has as little kindness for the Statute Law as Catholics have for the Scripture, but adores the Common Law as they do tradition, and both for the very same reason; for the Statute Law being certain, written and designed to reform and prevent corruptions and abuses in the affairs of the world (as the Scriptures are in matters of religion), he finds it many times a great obstruction to the advantage and profit of his practice; whereas the Common Law, being unwritten, or written in an unknown language which very few understand but himself, is the more pliable and easy to serve all his purposes, being utterly exposed to what interpretation and construction his interest and occasions shall at any time incline him to give it; and differs only from arbitrary power in this, that the one gives no account of itself at all, and the other such a one as is perhaps worse than none, that is implicit and not to be understood, or subject to what constructions he pleases to put upon it:--

Great critics in a _noverint universi_ Know all men by these presents how to curse ye; Pedants of said and foresaid, and both Frenches, Pedlars, and pokie, may those rev'rend benches Y' aspire to be the stocks, and may ye be No more call'd to the Bar, but pillory; Thither in triumph may ye backward ride To have your ears most justly crucified, And cut so close until there be not leather Enough to stick a pen in left of either; Then will your consciences, your ears, and wit Be like indentures tripart.i.te cut fit.

May your horns multiply and grow as great As that which does blow grace before your meat; May varlets be your barbers now, and do The same to you they have been done unto; That's law and gospel too; may it prove true, Then they shall do pump-justice upon you; And when y' are shaved and powder'd you shall fall, Thrown o'er the Bar, as they did o'er the wall, Never to rise again, unless it be To hold your hands up for your roguery; And when you do so may they be no less Sear'd by the hangman than your consciences.

May your gowns swarm until you can determine The strife no more between yourselves and vermin Than you have done between your clients' purses; Now kneel and take the last and worst of curses-- May you be honest when it is too late; That is, undone the only way you hate.

AN EPIGRAMMATIST

Is a poet of small wares, whose Muse is short-winded and quickly out of breath. She flies like a goose, that is no sooner upon the wing but down again. He was originally one of those authors that used to write upon white walls, from whence his works, being collected and put together, pa.s.s in the world like single money among those that deal in small matters. His wit is like fire in a flint, that is nothing while it is in, and nothing again as soon as it is out. He treats of all things and persons that come in his way, but like one that draws in little, much less than the life:--

His bus'ness is t' inveigh and flatter, Like parcel parasite and satyr.

He is a kind of vagabond writer, that is never out of his way, for nothing is beside the purpose with him that proposes none at all. His works are like a running banquet, that have much variety but little of a sort, for he deals in nothing but sc.r.a.ps and parcels, like a tailor's broker. He does not write, but set his mark upon things, and gives no account in words at length, but only in figures. All his wit reaches but to four lines or six at the most; and if he ever venture farther it tires immediately, like a post-horse, that will go no farther than his wonted stages. Nothing agrees so naturally with his fancy as bawdry, which he dispenses in small pittances to continue his reader still in an appet.i.te for more.

A FANATIC.

St. Paul was thought by Festus to be mad with too much learning, but the fanatics of our times are mad with too little. He chooses himself one of the elect, and packs a committee of his own party to judge the twelve tribes of Israel. The apostles in the primitive Church worked miracles to confirm and propagate their doctrine, but he thinks to confirm his by working at his trade. He a.s.sumes a privilege to impress what text of Scripture he pleases for his own use, and leaves those that make against him for the use of the wicked. His religion, that tends only to faction and sedition, is neither fit for peace nor war, but times of a condition between both, like the sails of a ship that will not endure a storm and are of no use at all in a calm. He believes it has enough of the primitive Christian if it be but persecuted as that was, no matter for the piety or doctrine of it, as if there were nothing required to prove the truth of a religion but the punishment of the professors of it, like the old mathematicians that were never believed to be profoundly knowing in their profession until they had run through all punishments and just escaped the fork. He is all for suffering for religion, but nothing for acting; for he accounts good works no better than encroachments upon the merits of free believing, and a good life the most troublesome and unthrifty way to heaven. He canonises himself a saint in his own lifetime, as the more sure and certain way, and less troublesome to others. He outgrows ordinances, as an apprentice that has served out his time does his indentures, and being a freeman, supposes himself at liberty to set up what religion he pleases. He calls his own supposed abilities gifts, and disposes of himself like a foundation designed to pious uses, although, like others of the same kind, they are always diverted to other purposes. He owes all his gifts to his ignorance, as beggars do the alms they receive to their poverty. They are such as the fairies are said to drop in men's shoes, and when they are discovered to give them over and confer no more; for when his gifts are discovered they vanish and come to nothing. He is but a puppet saint that moves he knows not how, and his ignorance is the dull, leaden weight that puts all his parts in motion. His outward man is a saint and his inward man a reprobate, for he carries his vices in his heart and his religion in his face.

A PROSELYTE.

A priest stole him out of the cradle, like the fairies, and left a fool and changeling in his place. He new dyes his religion, and commonly into a sadder and darker colour than it was before. He gives his opinion the somersault and turns the wrong side of it outwards. He does not mend his manners, but botch them with patches of another stuff and colour. Change of religion, being for the most part used by those who understand not why one religion is better than another, is like changing of money two sixpences for a shilling; both are of equal value, but the change is for convenience or humour. There is nothing more difficult than a change of religion for the better, for as all alterations in judgment are derived from a precedent confessed error, that error is more probably like to produce another than anything of so different a nature as truth. He imposes upon himself in believing the infirmity of his nature to be the strength of his judgment, and thinks he changes his religion when he changes himself, and turns as naturally from one thing to another as a maggot does to a fly. He is a kind of freebooty and plunder, or one head of cattle driven by the priests of one religion out of the quarters of another, and they value him above two of their own; for, beside the glory of the exploit, they have a better t.i.tle to him (as he that is conquered is more in the power of him that subdued him than he that was born his subject), and they expect a freer submission from one that takes quarter than from those that were under command before. His weakness or ignorance, or both, are commonly the chief causes of his conversion; for if he be a man of a profession that has no hopes to thrive upon the account of mere merit, he has no way so easy and certain as to betake himself to some forbidden church, where, for the common cause's sake, he finds so much brotherly love and kindness, that they will rather employ him than one of another persuasion though more skilful, and he gains by turning and winding his religion as tradesmen do by their stocks. The priest has commonly the very same design upon him, for he that is not able to go to the charges of his conversion may live free enough from being attacked by any side. He was troubled with a vertigo in his conscience, and nothing but change of religion, like change of air, could cure him. He is like a sick man that can neither lie still in his bed nor turn himself but as he is helped by others. He is like a revolter in an army; and as men of honour and commanders seldom prove such, but common soldiers, men of mean condition, frequently to mend their fortunes, so in religion clergymen who are commanders seldom prevail upon one another, and when they do, the proselyte is usually one who had no reputation among his own party before, and after a little trial finds as little among those to whom he revolts.

A CLOWN

Is a centaur, a mixture of man and beast, like a monster engendered by unnatural copulation, a crab engrafted on an apple. He was neither made by art nor nature, but in spite of both, by evil custom.. His perpetual conversation with beasts has rendered him one of them, and he is among men but a naturalised brute. He appears by his language, genius, and behaviour to be an alien to mankind, a foreigner to humanity, and of so opposite a genius that 'tis easier to make a Spaniard a Frenchman than to reduce him to civility. He disdains every man that he does not fear, and only respects him that has done him hurt or can do it. He is like Nebuchadnezzar after he had been a month at gra.s.s, but will never return to be a man again as he did, if he might, for he despises all manner of lives but his own, unless it be his horse's, to whom he is but _valet de chambre_. He never shows himself humane or kind in anything but when he pimps to his cow or makes a match for his mare; in all things else he is surly and rugged, and does not love to be pleased himself, which makes him hate those that do him any good. He is a stoic to all pa.s.sions but fear, envy, and malice, and hates to do any good though it cost him nothing. He abhors a gentleman because he is most unlike himself, and repines as much at his manner of living as if he maintained him. He murmurs at him as the saints do at the wicked, as if he kept his right from him, for he makes his clownery a sect and d.a.m.ns all that are not of his Church. He manures the earth like a dunghill, but lets himself lie fallow, for no improvement will do good upon him. Cain was the first of his family, and he does his endeavour not to degenerate from the original churlishness of his ancestor. He that was fetched from the plough to be made dictator had not half his pride and insolence, nor Caligula's horse that was made consul. All the worst names that are given to men are borrowed from him, as villain, deboise, peasant, &c. He wears his clothes like a hide, and shifts them no oftener than a beast does his hair. He is a beast that Gesner never thought of.

A WOOER

Stands candidate for cuckold, and if he miss of it, it is none of his fault, for his merit is sufficiently known. He is commonly no lover, but able to pa.s.s for a most desperate one where he finds it is like to prove of considerable advantage to him, and therefore has pa.s.sions lying by him of all sizes proportionable to all women's fortunes, and can be indifferent, melancholy, or stark-mad according as their estates give him occasion; and when he finds it is to no purpose, can presently come to himself again and try another. He prosecutes his suit against his mistress as clients do a suit in law, and does nothing without the advice of his learned counsel, omits no advantage for want of soliciting, and, when he gets her consent, overthrows her. He endeavours to match his estate, rather than himself, to the best advantage, and if his mistress's fortune and his do but come to an agreement, their persons are easily satisfied, the match is soon made up, and a cross marriage between all four is presently concluded. He is not much concerned in his lady's virtues, for if the opinion of the Stoics be true, that the virtuous are always rich, there is no doubt but she that is rich must be virtuous. He never goes without a list in his pocket of all the widows and virgins about the town, with particulars of their jointures, portions, and inheritances, that if one miss he may not be without a reserve; for he esteems Cupid very improvident if he has not more than two strings to his bow. When he wants a better introduction he begins his addresses to the chambermaid, like one that sues the tenant to eject the landlord, and according as he thrives there makes his approaches to the mistress. He can tell readily what the difference is between jointure with tuition of infant, land, and money of any value, and what the odds is to a penny between them all, either to take or leave. He does not so much go a-wooing as put in his claim, as if all men of fortune had a fair t.i.tle to all women of the same quality, and therefore are said to demand them in marriage. But if he be a wooer of fortune, that designs to raise himself by it, he makes wooing his vocation, deals with all matchmakers, that are his setters, is very painful in his calling, and if his business succeed, steals her away and commits matrimony with a felonious intent. He has a great desire to beget money on the body of a woman, and as for other issue is very indifferent, and cares not how old she be so she be not past money-bearing.

AN IMPUDENT MAN

Is one whose want of money and want of wit have engaged him beyond his abilities. The little knowledge he has of himself, being suitable to the little he has in his profession, has made him believe himself fit for it. This double ignorance has made him set a value upon himself, as he that wants a great deal appears in a better condition than he that wants a little. This renders him confident and fit for any undertaking, and sometimes (such is the concurrent ignorance of the world) he prospers in it, but oftener miscarries and becomes ridiculous; yet this advantage he has, that as nothing can make him see his error, so nothing can discourage him that way, for he is fortified with his ignorance, as barren and rocky places are by their situation, and he will rather believe that all men want judgment than himself. For, as no man is pleased that has an ill opinion of himself, Nature, that finds out remedies herself, and his own ease, render him insensible of his defects. From hence he grows impudent; for, as men judge by comparison, he knows as little what it is to be defective as what it is to be excellent. Nothing renders men modest but a just knowledge how to compare themselves with others; and where that is wanting impudence supplies the place of it, for there is no vacuum in the minds of men, and commonly, like other things in Nature, they swell more with rarefaction than condensation. The more men know of the world, the worse opinion they have of it; and the more they understand of truth, they are better acquainted with the difficulties of it, and consequently are the less confident in their a.s.sertions, especially in matters of probability, which commonly is squint-eyed and looks nine ways at once.

It is the office of a just judge to hear both parties, and he that considers but the one side of things can never make a just judgment, though he may by chance a true one. Impudence is the b.a.s.t.a.r.d of ignorance, not only unlawfully but incestuously begotten by a man upon his own understanding, and laid by himself at his own door, a monster of unnatural production; for shame is as much the propriety of human nature, though overseen by the philosophers, and perhaps more than reason, laughing, or looking asquint, by which they distinguish man from beasts; and the less men have of it the nearer they approach to the nature of brutes. Modesty is but a n.o.ble jealousy of honour, and impudence the prost.i.tution of it; for he whose face is proof against infamy must be as little sensible of glory. His forehead, like a voluntary cuckold's, is by his horns made proof against a blush. Nature made man barefaced, and civil custom has preserved him so; but he that's impudent does wear a vizard more ugly and deformed than highway thieves disguise themselves with. Shame is the tender moral conscience of good men. When there is a crack in the skull, Nature herself, with a tough h.o.r.n.y callous repairs the breach; so a flawed intellect is with a brawny callous face supplied. The face is the dial of the mind; and where they do not go together, 'tis a sign that one or both are out of order. He that is impudent is like a merchant that trades upon his credit without a stock, and if his debts were known would break immediately. The inside of his head is like the outside, and his peruke as naturally of his own growth as his wit. He pa.s.ses in the world like a piece of counterfeit coin, looks well enough until he is rubbed and worn with use, and then his copper complexion begins to appear, and n.o.body will take him but by owl-light.

AN IMITATOR

Is a counterfeit stone, and the larger and fairer he appears the more apt he is to be discovered; whilst small ones, that pretend to no great value, pa.s.s unsuspected. He is made like a man in arras-hangings, after some great master's design, though far short of the original. He is like a spectrum or walking spirit, that a.s.sumes the shape of some particular person and appears in the likeness of something that he is not because he has no shape of his own to put on. He has a kind of monkey and baboon wit, that takes after some man's way whom he endeavours to imitate, but does it worse than those things that are naturally his own; for he does not learn, but take his pattern out, as a girl does her sampler. His whole life is nothing but a kind of education, and he is always learning to be something that he is not nor ever will be. For Nature is free, and will not be forced out of her way, nor compelled to do anything against her own will and inclination. He is but a retainer to wit and a follower of his master, whose badge he wears everywhere, and therefore his way is called servile imitation. His fancy is like the innocent lady's, who, by looking on the picture of a Moor that hung in her chamber, conceived a child of the same complexion; for all his conceptions are produced by the pictures of other men's imaginations, and by their features betray whose b.a.s.t.a.r.ds they are. His Muse is not inspired, but infected with another man's fancy; and he catches his wit, like the itch, of somebody else that had it before, and when he writes he does but scratch himself.

His head is, like his hat, fashioned upon a block and wrought in a shape of another man's invention. He melts down his wit and casts it in a mould; and as metals melted and cast are not so firm and solid as those that are wrought with the hammer, so those compositions that are founded and run in other men's moulds are always more brittle and loose than those that are forged in a man's own brain. He binds himself apprentice to a trade which he has no stock to set up with, if he should serve out his time and live to be made free. He runs a-whoring after another man's inventions, for he has none of his own to tempt him to an incontinent thought, and begets a kind of mongrel breed that never comes to good.

A SOT

Has found out a way to renew not only his youth, but his childhood, by being stewed, like old Aeson, in liquor; much better than the virtuoso's way of making old dogs young again, for he is a child again at second hand, never the worse for the wearing, but as purely fresh, simple, and weak as he was at first. He has stupefied his senses by living in a moist climate, according to the poet, _Boeotum in cra.s.so jurares aere natum_. He measures his time by gla.s.ses of wine, as the ancients did by water-gla.s.ses; and as Hermes Trismegistus is said to have kept the first account of hours by the p.i.s.sing of a beast dedicated to Serapis, he revives that custom in his own practice, and observes it punctually in pa.s.sing his time. He is like a statue placed in a moist air; all the lineaments of humanity are mouldered away, and there is nothing left of him but a rude lump of the shape of a man, and no one part entire. He has drowned himself in a b.u.t.t of wine, as the Duke of Clarence was served by his brother. He has washed down his soul and p.i.s.sed it out, and lives now only by the spirit of wine or brandy, or by an extract drawn off his stomach. He has swallowed his humanity and drunk himself into a beast, as if he had pledged Madam Circe and done her right. He is drowned in a gla.s.s like a fly, beyond the cure of crumbs of bread or the sunbeams. He is like a springtide; when he is drunk to his high-water-mark he swells and looks big, runs against the stream, and overflows everything that stands in his way; but when the drink within him is at an ebb, he shrinks within his banks and falls so low and shallow that cattle may pa.s.s over him. He governs all his actions by the drink within him, as a Quaker does by the light within him; has a different humour for every nick his drink rises to, like the degrees of the weather-gla.s.s; and proceeds from ribaldry and bawdry to politics, religion, and quarrelling, until it is at the top, and then it is the dog-days with him; from whence he falls down again until his liquor is at the bottom, and then he lies quiet and is frozen up.

A JUGGLER

Is an artificial magician, that with his fingers casts a mist before the eyes of the rabble and makes his b.a.l.l.s walk invisible which way he pleases. He does his feats behind a table, like a Presbyterian in a conventicle, but with much more dexterity and cleanliness, and therefore all sorts of people are better pleased with him. Most professions and mysteries derive the practice of all their faculties from him, but use them with less ingenuity and candour; for the more he deceives those he has to do with the better he deals with them; while those that imitate him in a lawful calling are far more dishonest, for the more they impose the more they abuse. All his cheats are primitive, and therefore more innocent and of greater purity than those that are by tradition from hand to hand derived to them; for he conveys money out of one man's pocket into another's with much more sincerity and ingenuity than those that do it in a legal way, and for a less considerable, though more conscientious, reward. He will fetch money out of his own throat with a great deal more of delight and satisfaction to those that pay him for it than any haranguer whatsoever, and make it chuck in his throat better than a lawyer that has talked himself hoa.r.s.e, and swallowed so many fees that he is almost choked. He will spit fire and blow smoke out of his mouth with less harm and inconvenience to the Government than a seditious holder-forth, and yet all these disown and scorn him, even as men that are grown great and rich despise the meanness of their originals. He calls upon "Pres...o...b..gone," and the Babylonian's tooth, to amuse and divert the rabble from looking too narrowly into his tricks; while a zealous hypocrite, that calls heaven and earth to witness his, turns up the eye and shakes the head at his idolatry and profanation. He goes the circuit to all country fairs, where he meets with good strolling practice, and comes up to Bartholomew Fair as his Michaelmas term; after which he removes to some great thoroughfare, where he hangs out himself in effigy, like a Dutch malefactor, that all those that pa.s.s by may for their money have a trial of his skill. He endeavours to plant himself as near as he can to some puppet-play, monster, or mountebank, as the most convenient situation; and when trading grows scant they join all their forces together and make up one grand show, and admit the cutpurse and balladsinger to trade under them, as orange-women do at a playhouse.

A ROMANCE-WRITER