II.

THE TRUE FRIEND.

His affections are both united and divided: united, to him he loveth; divided, betwixt another and himself; and his own heart is so parted, that, while he hath some, his friend hath all. His choice is led by virtue, or, by the best of virtues, religion; not by gain, not by pleasure: yet not without respect of equal condition, of disposition not unlike; which, once made, admits of no change; except he, whom he loveth, be changed quite from himself; nor that suddenly, but after long expectation. Extremity doth but fasten him; while he, like a well wrought vault, lies the stronger, by how much more weight he bears. When necessity calls him to it, he can be a servant to his equal, with the same will wherewith he can command his inferior; and, though he rise to honour, forgets not his familiarity, nor suffers inequality of state to work strangeness of countenance; on the other side, he lifts up his friend to advancement, with a willing hand ; without envy, without dissimulation. When his mate is dead, he accounts himself but half alive: then his love, not dissolved by death, derives itself to those orphans, which never knew the price of their father: they become the heirs of his affection, and the burden of his cares. He embraces a free community of all things; save those, which either honesty reserves proper, or nature and hates to enjoy that which would do his friend more good. His charity serves to cloak noted infirmities; not by untruth, not by flattery; but by discreet secrecy neither is he more favourable in concealment than round in his private reprehensions; and, when another's simple fidelity shews itself in his reproof, he loves his monitor so much the more, by how much more he smarteth. His bosom is his friend's closet, where he may safely lay up his complaints, his doubts, his cares; and look, how he leaves, so he finds them; save for some addition of seasonable counsel for redress. If some unhappy suggestion

shall either disjoint his affection or break it, it soon knits again; and grows the stronger, by that stress. He is so sensible of another's injuries, that, when his friend is stricken, he cries out and equally smarteth untouched; as one affected, not with sympathy, but with a real feeling of pain; and, in what mischief may be prevented, he interposeth his aid; and offers to redeem his friend, with himself: no hour can be unseasonable, no business difficult, nor pain grievous, in condition of his ease; and what either he doth or suffereth, he neither cares nor desires to have known, lest he should seem to look for thanks. If he can, therefore, steal the performance of a good office unseen, the conscience of his faithfulness herein is so much sweeter, as it is more secret. In favours done, his memory is frail; in benefits received, eternal; he scorneth either to regard recompence, or not to offer it. He is the comfort of miseries; the guide of difficulties; the joy of life; the treasure of earth; and no other, than a good angel clothed in flesh.

Characterisms, book i.

III.

THE BUSY-BODY.

His estate is too narrow for his mind: and, therefore, he is fain to make himself room in others' affairs; yet ever, in pretence of love. No news can stir but by his door, neither can he know that which he must not tell. What every man ventures in Guiana voyage, and what they gained, he knows to a hair. Whether Holland will have peace, he knows; and on what conditions, and with what success, is familiar to him, ere it be concluded. No post can pass him without a question; and, rather than he will lose the news, he rides back with him to appose1 him of tidings: and then to the next man he meets, he supplies the wants of his hasty intelligence, and makes up a perfect tale; wherewith he so

1 Examine.

haunteth the patient auditor, that, after many excuses, he is fain to endure rather the censure of his manners in running away, than the tediousness of his impertinent discourse. His speech is oft broken off, with a succession of long parentheses; which he ever vows to fill up ere the conclusion: and perhaps would effect it, if the other's ear were as unweariable as his tongue. If he see but two men talk and read a letter in the street, he runs to them, and asks if he may not be partner of that secret relation; and if they deny it, he offers to tell, since he may not hear, wonders; and then falls upon the report of the Scottish mine, or of the great fish taken up at Lynn, or of the freezing of the Thames; and after many thanks and dismissions, is hardly entreated silence. He undertakes as much as he performs little.

*

So then, he labours, without thanks: talks, without credit; lives, without love; dies, without tears, without pity; save that some say "It was pity he died no sooner.” Characterisms, book ii.

IV.

I can wonder at nothing more, than how a man can be idle; but, of all other, a scholar; in so many improvements of reason, in such variety of studies, in such importunity of thoughts.

Other artisans do but practise; we, still learn: others run still in the same gyre, to weariness, to satiety; our choice is infinite other labours require recreations: our very labour recreates our sports: we can never want, either somewhat to do, or somewhat that we should do.

How numberless are those volumes, which men have written, of arts, of tongues! how endless is that volume, which God hath written of the world! wherein every creature is a letter, every day a new page: who can be weary

of either of these? To find wit, in poetry; in philosophy, profoundness; in mathematics, acuteness; in history, wonder of events; in oratory, sweet eloquence; in divinity, supernatural light and holy devotion; as so many rich. metals in their proper mines, whom would it not ravish with delight? After all these let us but open our eyes, we cannot look beside a lesson, in this universal Book of our Maker, worth our study, worth taking out. What creature hath not his miracle? what event doth not challenge his observation ? and if, weary of foreign employment, we list to look home into ourselves, there we find a more private world of thoughts, which set us on work anew, more busily, not less profitably now our silence is vocal, our solitariness popular; and we are shut up to do good unto many. And if once we be cloyed with our own company, the door of conference is open : here, interchange of discourse, besides pleasure, benefits us: and he is a weak companion, from whom we return not wiser.

*

*

*

*

*

Go now, ye worldlings, and insult over our paleness, our neediness, our neglect. Ye could not be so jocund, if you were not ignorant: if you did not want knowledge, you could not overlook him that hath it. For me, I am so far from emulating you, that I profess, I would as lief be a brute beast, as an ignorant rich man. How is it then, that those gallants, which have privilege of blood and birth and better education, do so scornfully turn off these most manly, reasonable, noble exercises of scholarship? A hawk becomes their fist, better than a book : no dog, but is a better companion : anything, or nothing, rather than what we ought. O minds brutishly sensual! Do they think that God made them for disport; who even in his Paradise would not allow pleasure without work? and if for business either of body or mind, those of the body are commonly servile, like itself: the mind, therefore, the mind only, that honourable and divine part, is fittest to be employed of those, which would

:

reach to the highest perfection of men, and would be more than the most. And what work is there of the mind, but the trade of a scholar, study? Let me therefore fasten this problem on our school-gates, and challenge all comers in the defence of it that no scholar cannot be truly noble and, if I make it not good, let me never be admitted further, than to the subject of our question. Thus we do well to congratulate to ourselves our own happiness. If others will come to us, it shall be our comfort; but more theirs if not, it is enough, that we can joy in ourselves; and in Him, in whom we are that we are.

Epistles, iv. 3.

SIR T. BROWNE.

1605-1682.

SECONDLY, men that adore times past, consider not that those times were once present; that is, as our own are at this instant; and we ourselves unto those to come, as they unto us at present: as we rely on them, even so will those on us, and magnify us hereafter, who at present condemn ourselves. Which very absurdity is daily committed amongst us, even in the esteem and censure of our own times. And to speak impartially, old men, from whom we should expect the greatest example of wisdom, do most exceed in this point of folly; commending the days of their youth, which they scarce remember, at least well understood not; extolling those times their younger years have heard their fathers condemn, and condemning those times the grey heads of their posterity shall commend. And thus is it the humour of many heads, to extol the days of their forefathers, and declaim against the wickedness of times present. Which notwithstanding they cannot handsomely do, without the borrowed help and satyrs of times past; condemning the vices of their own times, by the expressions of vices in times