may be, others were more fierce for their having thrown them away: so that a man might think he came into the field chiefly out of curiosity to see the face of danger, and charity to prevent the shedding of blood. From the entrance into this unnatural war, his natural cheerfulness and vivacity grew clouded, and a kind of sadness and dejection of spirits stole upon him which he had never been used to: yet, being one of those who believed that one battle would end all differences, and that there would be so great a victory on one side, that the other would be compelled to submit to any conditions from the victor (which supposition and conclusion generally sunk into the minds of most men, and prevented the looking after many advantages that might then have been laid hold of), he resisted those indispositions. But after the furious resolution of the two Houses not to admit any treaty for peace, those indispositions, which had before touched him, grew into a perfect habit of uncheerfulness; and he, who had been so exactly easy and affable to all men that his face and countenance was always present and vacant to his company, and held any cloudiness, and less pleasantness of the visage, a kind of rudeness or incivility, became, on a sudden, less communicable; and thence, very sad, pale, and exceedingly affected with the spleen. In his clothes and habit, which he had minded before always with more neatness, and industry, and expense, than is usual to so great a soul, he was not now only incurious but too negligent: and in his reception of suitors, and the necessary, or casual addresses to his place, so quick, and sharp, and severe, that there wanted not some men (strangers to his nature and disposition) who believed him proud and imperious; from which no mortal man was ever more free. ... When there was any overture or hope of peace, he would be more erect and vigorous, and exceedingly solicitous to press anything which he thought might promote it; and sitting among his friends, often, after a deep silence and frequent sighs, would, with a shrill and sad accent, ingeminate the word peace, peace; and would passionately profess, 'that the very agony of the war, and the view of the calamities and desolation the kingdom did and must endure, took his sleep from him, and would shortly break his heart.' This made some think, or pretend to think, 'that he was so much enamoured on peace, that he would have been glad the king should have bought it at any price;' which was a most unreasonable calumny. As if a man that was himself the most punctual and precise in every circumstance that might reflect on conscience or honour, could have wished the king to have committed a trespass against either. And yet this senseless scandal made some impression upon him, or at least he used it for an excuse of the daringness of his spirit: for at the leaguer before Gloucester, when his friends passionately reprehended him for exposing his person unnecessarily to danger (for he delighted to visit the trenches, and nearest approaches, and to discover what the enemy did), as being so much beside the duty of his place, that it might be understood rather to be against it, he would say merrily, that his office could not take away the privilege of his age; and that a secretary in war might be present at the greatest secret in danger;' but withal, alleged seriously, 'that it concerned him to be more active in enterprizes of hazard than other men.' History of Rebellion, ii. 526–539. 101. Owen Feltham, d. 1678. (Handbook, par. 327.) Author of Resolves—a very popular book in his lifetime; though the conceits and the want of breadth in the judgments it expresses, have made the attempt to revive it in modern times a failure. Of Truth und Bitterness in Jest. It is not good for man to be too tart in his jests. Bitterness is for serious potions; not for health's merriment, or the jollities of a mirthful feast. An offensive man is the devil's bellows, wherewith he blows up contentions and jars. In wit I find nothing more galling than an offensive truth; for thereby we run into two great errors: one is, we chide that in a loose laughter which should be grave, and savour both of love and pity; the other is, we descend to personality, and by that means draw the whole company to witness the disgrace of him at whose expense the joke is. The soldier is not noble who makes sport with the wounds of his companion. Whosoever will jest should be like him who flourishes at a show; he should not aim more at one than at another. Things like truth, are in this case better than truth itself. Nor is it less improper than unsafe to fling about at random this wormwood of the brain, our wit; for some noses are too tender to endure the smell of it. And though there may be many who, like tiled houses, can admit a falling spark without injury, yet some, again, are covered with such light dry straw, that with the least touch they will kindle and flame about our ears; and when the house is on fire, it is unavailing to wonder from how small a matter it arose. Anger is but a step from rage, and rage is a wild fire which is not to be extinguished. It is true, anger sooner inflames a fool than a man composed in his resolutions. But we are not always sure to meet with discreet ones, nor can we very well hope it while we ourselves are otherwise, in giving the occasion for folly to show itself. Fools are the greater number; wise men are like timber-trees in a wood, here and there one. But when we grow bitter to a wise man, we are then worst; for he sees farther into the offence, and is able to make us feel for it more than the other. Laughter should dimple the cheek, not furrow the brow. A jest should be such that all shall be able to join in the laugh which it occasions, but if it bears hard upon one of the company, like the crack of a string, it makes a stop in the music. Though all have not wit to reject the arrow which is aimed at them, yet most have memory to retain the offence. It is but an unhappy wit which stirs up enemies against the owner of it. A man may spit out his friend from his tongue, or laugh him into an enemy. Gall and mirth is an ill and unnatural mixture, and sometimes truth is bitterness. I would wish every man to be pleasingly merry, but let us beware we bring not truth on the stage like a wanton with an edged weapon. Of reconciling Enemies. It is much safer to reconcile an enemy than to conquer him. Victory deprives him of his power; but reconciliation of his will; and there is less danger in a' will which will not hurt, than in a power which cannot. Besides, an enemy is a perpetual spy upon thy actions, a watch to observe thy falls and thy wanderings. When he is free from thy power, his malice makes him nimbleeyed; apt to mark a fault and publish it; and by a strained construction, to depreciate those things which thy intentions tell thy soul are honest. Like the crocodile, he slimes thy way to make thee fall; and when thou art down, he watches for thy life. Thy ways he strews with serpents and venomous animals. Thy vices he sets like St. Paul's, on high, for the gaze of the world and the wide city; thy virtues, like St. Faith's, he places underground, that none may see them. Certainly, it is a misery to have for one's enemies those who are very powerful or naturally very malicious. If they cannot wound upon proofs, they will do it upon likelihoods: and so, by degrees and sly ways, undermine our reputation;-and they have this advantage, that the multitude will sooner believe them than ourselves; for affirmations are apter to win belief than negatives. It was the saying of Machiavel, that a slander once raised, will scarce ever die or fail of finding some who will allow it both a harbour and trust. The world is of itself desirous to scar the face that is fairer than her own. When Seneca asked the question, what is most hostile to man? he himself answered, another man. But if our enemy be noble-minded, he will scorn to take an advantage of us when it may be in his power. Let his worth persuade thee to a reconciliation. He that can be a worthy enemy will, when reconciled, be a worthier friend. If thy enemy be unworthy, reconcile him too. Though nothing else be gained by it but the stilling of a scandalous tongue, even that will be worth thy labour. Use him as a friend, in outward fairness; but beware of him as an enemy, apt to resume his arms. He who is a base foe will hardly be otherwise than false in friendship. If it may be done with honour, I should think it a work of good discretion to regain a violent adversary. But to do it so as to bring a meanness on one's self, though it be safe, is worse than to be conquered in a manful contest. Friendship is not commendable when it arises from dishonourable treaties. But he that, upon good terms, refuses a reconcilement, may be stubborn, but certainly is neither liberal nor wise. I shall think that endeavour spent to purpose that either makes a friend or unmakes an enemy. In the one, a treasure is won; in the other, a siege is raised. When one said he was a wise king that was kind to his friends and sharp to his enemies: says another, he is wiser that can retain his friends in their love, and make his enemies like them. i.e., like old St. Paul's in London, very conspicuous; St. Faith's is the crypt beneath St. Paul's and therefore is concealed from view. 102. Richard Crashaw,? 1602-1650. (Handbook, pars. 103, 140.) Remarkable, in Pope's opinion, for pretty conceits, fine metaphors, and a neat cast of verse. Besides original pieces, he translated the first book of the Sospetto di Herode of Marino. Speech of Satan. Art thou not Lucifer? he to whom the droves Such and so rich, the flame that from thine eyes Ah, wretch! what boots thee to cast back thy eyes And meet the mischief that upon thee grows. If hell must mourn, heaven sure shall sympathise, Out of about sixty stanzas. From the Sospetto di Herods Lines on a Prayer-Book sent to Mrs. M. R. Lo! here a little volume, but large book, It is no hypocrite,) Much larger in itself than in its look. It is, in one rich handful, heaven and all- A thousand angels in one point can dwell. It is love's great artillery, Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie Close couch'd in your white bosom, and from thence, |