XXVII.

A TOBACCO-SELLER

Is the only man that finds good in it which others brag of but do not; for it is meat, drink, and clothes to him. No man opens his ware with greater seriousness, or challenges your judgment more in the approbation. His shop is the rendezvous of spitting, where men dialogue with their noses, and their communication is smoak.[47] It is the place only where Spain is commended and preferred before England itself. He should be well experienced in the world, for he has daily trial of men's nostrils, and none is better acquainted with humours. He is the piecing commonly of some other trade, which is bawd to his tobacco, and that to his wife, which is the flame that follows this smoak.

FOOTNOTES:

[47] Minshew calls a tobacconist _fumi-vendulus_, a _smoak-seller_.

XXVIII.

A POT-POET

Is the dregs of wit, yet mingled with good drink may have some relish. His inspirations are more real than others, for they do but feign a G.o.d, but he has his by him. His verse runs like the tap, and his invention as the barrel, ebbs and flows at the mercy of the spiggot. In thin drink he aspires not above a ballad, but a cup of sack inflames him, and sets his muse and nose a-fire together. The press is his mint, and stamps him now and then a six-pence or two in reward of the baser coin his pamphlet. His works would scarce sell for three half-pence, though they are given oft for three shillings, but for the pretty t.i.tle that allures the country gentleman; for which the printer maintains him in ale a fortnight. His verses are like his clothes miserable centoes[48] and patches, yet their pace is not altogether so hobbling as an almanack's. The death of a great man or the _burning_[49] of a house furnish him with an argument, and the nine muses are out strait in mourning gowns, and Melpomene cries fire!

fire! [His other poems are but briefs in rhime, and like the poor Greeks collections to redeem from captivity.] He is a man now much employed in commendations of our navy, and a bitter inveigher against the Spaniard.

His frequentest works go out in single sheets, and are chanted from market to market to a vile tune and a worse throat; whilst the poor country wench melts like her b.u.t.ter to hear them. And these are the stories of some men of Tyburn, or a strange monster out of Germany;[50]

or, sitting in a bawdy-house, he writes G.o.d's judgments. He drops away at last in some obscure painted cloth, to which himself made the verses,[51]

and his life, like a cann too full, spills upon the bench. He leaves twenty shillings on the score, which my hostess loses.

FOOTNOTES:

[48] _Cento_, a composition formed by joining sc.r.a.ps from other authors.

_Johnson._ Camden, in his _Remains_, uses it in the same sense. "It is quilted, as it were, out of shreds of divers poets, such as scholars call a _cento_."

[49] _Firing_, first edit.

[50] In the hope of discovering some account of the _strange monster_ alluded to, I have looked through one of the largest and most curious collections of tracts, relating to the marvellous, perhaps in existence.

That bequeathed to the Bodleian, by Robert Burton, the author of the _Anatomy of Melancholy_. Hitherto my researches have been unattended with success, as I have found only two tracts of this description relating to Germany, both of which are in prose, and neither giving any account of a monster.

1. _A most true Relation of a very dreadfull Earthquake, with the lamentable Effectes thereof, which began upon the 8. of December 1612. and yet continueth most fearefull in Munster in Germanie. Reade and Tremble.

Translated out of Dutch, by Charles Demetrius, Publike Notarie in London, and printed at Rotterdame, in Holland, at the Signe of the White Gray-hound._ (Date cut off. Twenty-six pages, 4to. with a woodcut.)

2. _Miraculous Newes from the Cittie of Holt, in the Lordship of Munster, in Germany, the twentieth of September last past, 1616. where there were plainly beheld three dead bodyes rise out of their Graues admonishing the people of Iudgements to come. Faithfully translated (&c. &c.) London, Printed for Iohn Barnes, dwelling in Hosie Lane neere Smithfield, 1616._ (4to. twenty pages, wood-cut.)

[51] It was customary to work or paint proverbs, moral sentences, or sc.r.a.ps of verse on old tapestry hangings, which were called _painted cloths_. Several allusions to this practice may be found in the works of our early English dramatists. See Reed's _Shakspeare_, viii. 103

XXIX.

A PLAUSIBLE MAN

Is one that would fain run an even path in the world, and jut against no man. His endeavour is not to offend, and his aim the general opinion. His conversation is a kind of continued compliment, and his life a practice of manners. The relation he bears to others, a kind of fashionable respect, not friendship but friendliness, which is equal to all and general, and his kindnesses seldom exceed courtesies. He loves not deeper mutualities, because he would not take sides, nor hazard himself on displeasures, which he princ.i.p.ally avoids. At your first acquaintance with him he is exceeding kind and friendly, and at your twentieth meeting after but friendly still.

He has an excellent command over his patience and tongue, especially the last, which he accommodates always to the times and persons, and speaks seldom what is sincere, but what is civil. He is one that uses all companies, drinks all healths, and is reasonable cool in all religions.

[He considers who are friends to the company, and speaks well where he is sure to hear of it again.] He can listen to a foolish discourse with an applausive attention, and conceal his laughter at nonsense. Silly men much honour and esteem him, because by his fair reasoning with them as with men of understanding, he puts them into an erroneous opinion of themselves, and makes them forwarder hereafter to their own discovery. He is one _rather well_[52] thought on than beloved, and that love he has is more of whole companies together than any one in particular. Men gratify him notwithstanding with a good report, and whatever vices he has besides, yet having no enemies, he is sure to be an honest fellow.

FOOTNOTES:

[52] _Better_, first edit.

x.x.x.

A BOWL-ALLEY

Is the place where there are three things thrown away beside bowls, to wit, time, money, and curses, and the last ten for one. The best sport in it is the gamesters, and he enjoys it that looks on and bets not. It is the school of wrangling, and worse than the schools, for men will cavil here for a hair's breadth, and make a stir where a straw would end the controversy. No antick screws men's bodies into such strange flexures, and you would think them here senseless, to speak sense to their bowl, and put their trust in intreaties for a good cast. The betters are the factious noise of the alley, or the gamesters beadsmen that pray for them. They are somewhat like those that are cheated by great men, for they lose their money and must say nothing. It is the best discovery of humours, especially in the losers, where you have fine variety of impatience, whilst some fret, some rail, some swear, and others more ridiculously comfort themselves with philosophy. To give you the moral of it; it is the emblem of the world, or the world's ambition: where most are short, or over, or wide or wrong-bia.s.sed, and some few justle in to the mistress fortune. And it is here as in the court, where the nearest are most spited, and all blows aimed at the toucher.

x.x.xI.

THE WORLD'S WISE MAN

Is an able and sufficient wicked man: It is a proof of his sufficiency that he is not called wicked, but wise. A man wholly determined in himself and his own ends, and his instruments herein any thing that will do it.

His friends are a part of his engines, and as they serve to his works, used or laid by: Indeed he knows not this thing of friend, but if he give you the name, it is a sign he has a plot on you. Never more active in his businesses, than when they are mixed with some harm to others; and it is his best play in this game to strike off and lie in the place: Successful commonly in these undertakings, because he pa.s.ses smoothly those rubs which others stumble at, as conscience and the like; and gratulates himself much in this advantage. Oaths and falshood he counts the nearest way, and loves not by any means to go about. He has many fine quips at this folly of plain dealing, but his "tush!" is greatest at religion; yet he uses this too, and virtue and good words, but is less dangerously a devil than a saint. He ascribes all honesty to an unpractisedness in the world, and conscience a thing merely for children. He scorns all that are so silly to _trust_[53] him, and only not scorns his enemy, especially if as bad as himself: he fears him as a man well armed and provided, but sets boldly on good natures, as the most vanquishable. One that seriously admires those worst princes, as Sforza, Borgia, and Richard the third; and calls matters of deep villany things of difficulty. To whom murders are but resolute acts, and treason a business of great consequence. One whom two or three countries make up to this compleatness, and he has travelled for the purpose. His deepest indearment is a communication of mischief, and then only you have him fast. His conclusion is commonly one of these two, either a great man, or hanged.

FOOTNOTES:

[53] _Hate_, first edit.

x.x.xII.

A SURGEON

Is one that has some business about this building or little house of man, whereof nature is as it were the tiler, and he the plaisterer. It is ofter out of reparations than an old parsonage, and then he is set on work to patch it again. He deals most with broken commodities, as a broken head or a mangled face, and his gains are very ill got, for he lives by the hurts of the commonwealth. He differs from a physician as a sore does from a disease, or the sick from those that are not whole, the one distempers you within, the other blisters you without. He complains of the decay of valour in these days, and sighs for that slashing age of sword and buckler; and thinks the law against duels was made meerly to wound his vocation. He had been long since undone if the charity of the stews had not relieved him, from whom he has his tribute as duly as the pope; or a wind-fall sometimes from a tavern, if a quart pot hit right. The rareness of his custom makes him pitiless when it comes, and he holds a patient longer than our [spiritual] courts a cause. He tells you what danger you had been in if he had staid but a minute longer, and though it be but a p.r.i.c.ked finger, he makes of it much matter. He is a reasonable cleanly man, considering the scabs he has to deal with, and your finest ladies are now and then beholden to him for their best dressings. He curses old gentlewomen and their charity that makes his trade their alms; but his envy is never stirred so much as when gentlemen go over to fight upon Calais sands,[54] whom he wishes drowned e'er they come there, rather than the French shall get his custom.

FOOTNOTES:

[54] _Calais sands_ were chosen by English duellists to decide their quarrels on, as being out of the jurisdiction of the law. This custom is noticed in an Epigram written about the period in which this book first appeared.

"When boasting Bembus challeng'd is to fight, He seemes at first a very Diuell in sight:

Till more aduizde, will not defile [his] hands, Vnlesse you meete him vpon _Callice_ sands."