He had the happinesse of a very Honourable, and that very numerous acquaintance, so that he was noway undisciplined in the Arts of Civility; yet he continued semper idem, which constancy made him alwaies acceptable to them. At his Diet he was very sparing and temperate, but yet he allowed himself the repasts and refreshings of two Meals a day: but no lover of Danties, or the Inventions of Cookery: solid meats better fitting his strength of Constitution; but from drink very much abstemious, which questionlesse was the cause of that uninterrupted Health he enjoyed till this his First and Last sicknesse: of which Felicity as he himself was partly the cause of by his exactnesse in eating and drinking, so did he the more dread the sudden infliction of any Disease, or other violence of Nature, fearing this his care might amount to a presumption, in the Eyes of the great Disposer of all things, and so it pleased GOD it should happen.

But his great abstinence of all was from Sleep, and strange it was that one of such a Fleshly and sanguine composition, could overwatch so many heavy propense inclinations to Rest. For this in some sort he was beholden to his care in Diet aforesaid, (the full Vapours of a repletion in the Stomack ascending to the Brain, causing that usual Drowsinesse we see in many) but most especially to his continual custome, use, and practise, which had so subdued his Nature, that it was wholy Governed by his Active and Industrious mind.

And yet this is a further wonder: he did scarcely allow himself, from his First Degree in the University, any Recreation or Easie Exercise, no not so much as walking, but very Rare and Seldome; and that not upon his own choice, but as being compelled by friendly, yet, Forcible Invitations; till such time as the War posted him from place to place, and after that his constant attendance on the Presse in the Edition of his Books: when was a question, which went the fastest, his Head or his Feet: so that in effect he was a very stranger, if not an Enemy to all pleasure.

Riding was the most pleasant, because his necessary convenience; the Doctors occasions, especially his last work, requiring Travel, to which he had so accustomed himself: so that this Diversion, (like Princes Banquets only to be lookt upon by them, not tasted of) was rather made such then enjoyed by him.

So that if there were any Felicity or Delight, which he can be truly said to have had: it was either in his Relations or in his Works. As to his Relations, certainly, no man was more a tender, more indulgent a Husband and a Father: his Conjugal Love in both matches being equally blest with the same Issue, kept a constant Tenour in both Marriages, which he so improved, that the Harmony of his Affections still'd all Discord, and Charmed the noyse of passion.

Towards the Education of his Children, he was exceeding carefull, allowing them any thing conducing to that end, beyond the present measure of his estate; which its well hoped will be returned to the Memory of so good a Father, in their early imitation of him in all those good Qualities and Literature, to which they have now such an Hereditary clayme.

As to his Books, which we usually call the Issue of the Brain, he was more then Fond, totally abandoning and forsaking all things to follow them. And yet if Correction and Severity (so this may be allowed the gravity of the Subject) be also the signes of Love: a stricter and more carefull hand was never used. True it is they did not grow up without some errours, like the Tares: nor can the most refined pieces of any of his Antagonists boast of perfection. He that goes an unknown and beaten Track in a Dubious way, though he may have good directions, yet if in the journey he chance to stray, cannot well be blamed; they have perchance plowed with his Heifer, and been beholden to those Authorities (for their Exceptions) which he first gave light to.

To his Neighbours and Friends he behaved himselfe with that chearfulnesse and plainnesse of Affection and respect, as deservedly gained him their Highest esteeme: from the meanest to the highest he omitted nothing what to him belonged in his station, either in a familiar correspondency, or necessary Visits; never suffering intreaties of that which either was his Duty, or in his power to perform. The quickness of his apprehension helped by a Good Nature, presently suggested unto him (without putting them to the trouble of an innuendo) what their severall Affairs required, in which he would spare no paynes: insomuch that it was a piece of Absolute Prudence to rely upon his Advice and Assistance. In a word, to his Superiours he was Dutifully respectfull without Ceremony or Officiousnesse; to his equalls he was Discreetly respectful, without neglect or unsociableness; and to his Inferiours, (whom indeed he judged Christianly none to be) civilly respectfull without Pride or Disdain.

But all these so eminent vertues, and so sublimed in him, were but as foyles to those excellent gifts wherewith God had endued his intellectuals. He had a Memory of that vast comprehensiveness, that he is deservedly known for the first inventer of that Noble Art, whereof having left behind him no Rules, or directions, save, onely what fell from him in discours, no further account can be given, but a relation of some very rare experiments of it made by him.

He undertook once in passing to and fro from Templebar to the furthest Conduit in Cheapside, at his return again to tell every Signe as they stood in order on both sides of the way, repeating them either backward or forward, as they should chuse, which he exactly did, not missing or misplacing one, to the admiration of those that heard him.

The like also would he doe in words of different Languages, and of hard and difficult prolation, to any number whatsoever: but that which was most strange, and very rare in him, was his way of writing, which something like the Chineses, was from the top of the page to the bottom: the manner thus. He would write near the Margin the first words of every Line down to the Foot of the Paper, then would he begining at the head againe, fill up every one of these Lines, which without any interlineations or spaces but with the full and equal length, would so adjust the sense and matter, and so aptly Connex and Conjoyn the ends and beginnings of the said Lines, that he could not do it better, as he hath said, if he had writ all out in a Continuation.



57.

JOHN MILTON.

Born 1608. Died 1674.

Notes by JOHN AUBREY.

He was of middle stature,[1] he had light abroun[2] hayre, his complexion exceeding[3] faire. he was so faire, that they called him the Lady of Christs college. ovall face. his eie a darke gray.... he was a Spare man.

[Footnote 1: Aubrey wrote first 'He was scarce so tall as I am'; then added above the last six words, 'q[uaere] quot feet I am high'; and then above this 'Resp: of middle stature'.]

[Footnote 2: 'abroun' (i.e. auburn) written above 'browne'.]

[Footnote 3: 'exceeding' above 'very'.]

* * * * *

He was an early riser: Sc: at 4 a clock mane. yea, after he lost his sight: He had a man read to him: The first thing he read was the Hebrew bible, and that was at 4'h. mane 1/2'h.+. Then he contemplated. At 7 his man came to him again & then read to him and wrote till dinner: the writing was as much as the reading. His daughter Deborah 2[1] could read to him Latin, Italian, & French, & Greeke; married in Dublin to one M'r Clarke [sells silke &c[2]] very like her father. The other sister is Mary 1[1], more like her mother. After dinner he usd to walke 3 or 4 houres at a time, he alwayes had a Garden where he lived: went to bed about 9. Temperate, rarely drank between meales. Extreme pleasant in his conversation, & at dinner, supper &c: but Satyricall. He pronounced the letter R very hard. a certaine signe of a Satyricall Witt. from Jo. Dreyden.

[Footnote 1: '2' and '1', marking seniority, above the names.]

[Footnote 2: 'sells silke &c' above 'a Mercer'.]

[Sidenote: Litera Canina.]

He had a delicate tuneable Voice & had good skill: his father instructed him: he had an Organ in his house: he played on that most. His exercise was chiefly walking.

He was visited much by learned[1]: more then he did desire.

[Footnote 1: 'by learned' added above the line.]

He was mightily importuned to goe into France & Italie. Foraigners came much to see him, and much admired him, & offered to him great preferments to come over to them, & the only inducement of severall foreigners that came over into England, was chifly to see O. Protector & M'r J. Milton, and would see the house and chamber wher he was borne: he was much more admired abrode then at home.

* * * * *

His harmonicall, and ingeniose soule did lodge[1] in a beautifull and well proportioned body—In toto nusquam corpore menda fuit. Ovid.

[Footnote 1: 'did lodge' above 'dwelt'.]

He had a very good memory: but I believe that his excellent Method of thinking, & disposing did much helpe his memorie.

* * * * *

Of a very cheerfull humour.

He was very healthy, & free from all diseases, seldome tooke any Physique, only sometimes he tooke Manna[1], and only towards his later end he was visited with the Gowte—Spring & Fall: he would be chearfull even in his Gowte-fitts: & sing.

[Footnote 1: 'seldome ... Manna' added above the line.]

He died of the gowt struck in the 9th or 10th of Novemb 1674, as appeares by his Apothecaryes Booke.

58.

Note by EDWARD PHILLIPS.

There is another very remarkable Passage in the Composure of this Poem [Paradise Lost], which I have a particular occasion to remember; for whereas I had the perusal of it from the very beginning; for some years as I went from time to time to Visit him, in a Parcel of Ten, Twenty, or Thirty Verses at a Time, which being Written by whatever hand came next, might possibly want Correction as to the Orthography and Pointing; having as the Summer came on, not been shewed any for a considerable while, and desiring the reason thereof, was answered, That his Veine never happily flow'd, but from the Autumnal Equinoctial to the Vernal, and that whatever he attempted was never to his satisfaction, though he courted his fancy never so much; so that in all the years he was about this Poem, he may be said to have spent but half his time therein.



59.

Notes by JONATHAN RICHARDSON.

One that had Often seen him, told me he us'd to come to a House where He Liv'd, and he has also Met him in the Street, Led by Millington, the same who was so Famous an Auctioneer of Books about the time of the Revolution, and Since. This Man was then a Seller of Old Books in Little Britain, and Milton lodg'd at his house. This was 3 or 4 Years before he Dy'd. he then wore no Sword that My Informer remembers, though Probably he did, at least 'twas his Custom not long before to wear one with a Small Silver-Hilt, and in Cold Weather a Grey Camblet Coat....

I have heard many Years Since that he Us'd to Sit in a Grey Coarse Cloth Coat at the Door of his House, near Bun-hill Fields Without Moor-gate, in Warm Sunny Weather to Enjoy the Fresh Air, and So, as well as in his Room, receiv'd the Visits of People of Distinguished Parts, as well as Quality, and very Lately I had the Good Fortune to have Another Picture of him from an Ancient Clergyman in Dorsetshire, Dr. Wright; He found him in a Small House, he thinks but One Room on a Floor; in That, up One pair of Stairs, which was hung with a Rusty Green, he found John Milton, Sitting in an Elbow Chair, Black Cloaths, and Neat enough, Pale, but not Cadaverous, his Hands and Fingers Gouty, and with Chalk Stones. among Other Discourse He exprest Himself to This Purpose; that was he Free from the Pain This gave him, his Blindness would be Tolerable.

* * * * *

... besides what Affliction he Must have from his Disappointment on the Change of the Times, and from his Own Private Losses, and probably Cares for Subsistence, and for his Family; he was in Perpetual Terror of being Assassinated, though he had Escap'd the Talons of the Law, he knew he had Made Himself Enemies in Abundance. he was So Dejected he would lie Awake whole Nights. He then kept Himself as Private as he could. This Dr. Tancred Robinson had from a Relation of Milton's, Mr. Walker of the Temple. and This is what is Intimated by Himself, VII. 26.

On Evil Daies though fall'n and Evil Tongues, in Darkness, and with Dangers compast round, and Solitude.

* * * * *

Mr. Bendish has heard the Widow or Daughter or Both say it, that Soon after the Restauration the King Offer'd to Employ this Pardon'd Man as his Latin Secretary, the Post in which he Serv'd Cromwell with So much Integrity and Ability; (that a like Offer was made to Thurlow is not Disputed as ever I heard) Milton Withstood the Offer; the Wife press'd his Compliance. Thou art in the Right (says he) You, as Other Women, would ride in your Coach; for Me, My Aim is to Live and Dye an Honest Man.

* * * * *

Other Stories I have heard concerning the Posture he was Usually in when he Dictated, that he Sat leaning Backward Obliquely in an Easy Chair, with his Leg flung over the Elbow of it. that he frequently Compos'd lying in Bed in a Morning ('twas Winter Sure Then) I have been Well inform'd, that when he could not Sleep, but lay Awake whole Nights, he Try'd; not One Verse could he make; at Other times flow'd Easy his Unpremeditated Verse, with a certain Impetus and AEstro, as Himself seem'd to Believe. Then, at what Hour soever, he rung for his Daughter to Secure what Came. I have been also told he would Dictate many, perhaps 40 Lines as it were in a Breath, and then reduce them to half the Number.



60.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

Born 1618. Died 1667.

Of My self.

It is a hard and nice Subject for a man to write of himself, it grates his own heart to say any thing of disparagement, and the Readers Eares to hear any thing of praise from him. There is no danger from me of offending him in this kind; neither my Mind, nor my Body, nor my Fortune, allow me any materials for that Vanity. It is sufficient, for my own contentment, that they have preserved me from being scandalous, or remarkable on the defective side. But besides that, I shall here speak of myself, only in relation to the subject of these precedent discourses, and shall be likelier thereby to fall into the contempt, then rise up to the estimation of most people. As far as my Memory can return back into my past Life, before I knew, or was capable of guessing what the world, or glories, or business of it were, the natural affections of my soul gave me a secret bent of aversion from them, as some Plants are said to turn away from others, by an Antipathy imperceptible to themselves, and inscrutable to mans understanding. Even when I was a very young Boy at School, instead of running about on Holy-daies and playing with my fellows, I was wont to steal from them, and walk into the fields, either alone with a Book, or with some one Companion, if I could find any of the same temper. I was then too, so much an Enemy to all constraint, that my Masters could never prevail on me, by any perswasions or encouragements, to learn without Book the common rules of Grammar, in which they dispensed with me alone, because they found I made a shift to do the usual exercise out of my own reading and observation. That I was then of the same mind as I am now (which I confess, I wonder at my self) may appear by the latter end of an Ode, which I made when I was but thirteen years old, and which was then printed with many other Verses. The Beginning of it is Boyish, but of this part which I here set down (if a very little were corrected) I should hardly now be much ashamed.

9.

This only grant me, that my means may lye Too low for Envy, for Contempt too high. Some Honor I would have Not from great deeds, but good alone. The unknown are better than ill known. Rumour can ope' the Grave, Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends Not on the number, but the choice of Friends.

10.

Books should, not business, entertain the Light, And sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night. My House a Cottage, more Then Palace, and should fitting be For all my Use, no Luxury. My Garden painted o're With Natures hand, not Arts; and pleasures yeild, Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

11.

Thus would I double my Lifes fading space, For he that runs it well, twice runs his race. And in this true delight, These unbought sports, this happy State, I would not fear nor wish my fate, But boldly say each night, To morrow let my Sun his beams display, Or in clouds hide them; I have liv'd to Day.

You may see by it, I was even then acquainted with the Poets (for the Conclusion is taken out of Horace;) and perhaps it was the immature and immoderate love of them which stampt first, or rather engraved these Characters in me: They were like Letters cut into the Bark of a young Tree, which with the Tree still grow proportionably. But, how this love came to be produced in me so early, is a hard question: I believe I can tell the particular little chance that filled my head first with such Chimes of Verse, as have never since left ringing there: For I remember when I began to read, and to take some pleasure in it, there was wont to lie in my Mothers Parlour (I know not by what accident, for she her self never in her life read any Book but of Devotion) but there was wont to lie Spencers Works; this I happened to fall upon, and was infinitely delighted with the Stories of the Knights, and Giants, and Monsters, and brave Houses, which I found every where there: (Though my understanding had little to do with all this) and by degrees with the tinckling of the Rhyme and Dance of the Numbers, so that I think I had read him all over before I was twelve years old, and was thus made a Poet as immediately [1] as a Child is made an Eunuch. With these affections of mind, and my heart wholly set upon Letters, I went to the University; But was soon torn from thence by that violent Publick storm which would suffer nothing to stand where it did, but rooted up every Plant, even from the Princely Cedars to Me, the Hyssop. Yet I had as good fortune as could have befallen me in such a Tempest; for I was cast by it into the Family of one of the best Persons, and into the Court of one of the best Princesses of the World. Now though I was here engaged in wayes most contrary to the Original design of my life, that is, into much company, and no small business, and into a daily sight of Greatness, both Militant and Triumphant (for that was the state then of the English and French Courts) yet all this was so far from altering my Opinion, that it oncly added the confirmation of Reason to that which was before but Natural Inclination. I saw plainly all the Paint of that kind of Life, the nearer I came to it; and that Beauty which I did not fall in Love with, when, for ought I knew, it was reall, was not like to bewitch, or intice me, when I saw that it was Adulterate. I met with several great Persons, whom I liked very well, but could not perceive that any part of their Greatness was to be liked or desired, no more then I would be glad, or content to be in a Storm, though I saw many Ships which rid safely and bravely in it: A storm would not agree with my stomach, if it did with my Courage. Though I was in a croud of as good company as could be found any where, though I was in business of great and honourable trust, though I eate at the best Table, and enjoyed the best conveniences for present subsistance that ought to be desired by a man of my condition in banishment and publick distresses, yet I could not abstain from renewing my old School-boys Wish in a Copy of Verses to the same effect.

Well then; I now do plainly see This busie World and I shall ne're agree, &c.

And I never then proposed to my self any other advantage from His Majesties Happy Restoration, but the getting into some moderately convenient Retreat in the Country, which I thought in that case I might easily have compassed, as well as some others, who[2] with no greater probabilities or pretences have arrived to extraordinary fortunes: But I had before written a shrewd Prophesie against my self, and I think Apollo inspired me in the Truth, though not in the Elegance of it.

Thou, neither great at Court nor in the War, Nor at th' Exchange shal't be, nor at the wrangling Barr; Content thy self with the small barren praise Which neglected Verse does raise, &c.

However by the failing of the Forces which I had expected, I did not quit the Design which I had resolved on, I cast my self into it A Corps perdu, without making capitulations, or taking counsel of Fortune. But God laughs at a Man, who sayes to his Soul, Take thy ease: I met presently not onely with many little encumbrances and impediments, but with so much sickness (a new misfortune to me) as would have spoiled the happiness of an Emperour as well as Mine: Yet I do neither repent nor alter my course. Non ego perfidum Dixi Sacramentum; Nothing shall separate me from a Mistress, which I have loved so long, and have now at last married; though she neither has brought me a rich Portion, nor lived yet so quietly with me as I hoped from Her.

—Nec vos, dulcissima mundi Nomina, vos Musae, Libertas, Otia, Libri, Hortique Syluaeq; anima remanente relinquam.

Nor by me ere shall you, You of all Names the sweetest, and the best, You Muses, Books, and Liberty and Rest; You Gardens, Fields, and Woods forsaken be, As long as Life it self forsakes not Me.

[Footnote 1: 'irremediably' text 1668, 'immediately' errata 1668.]

[Footnote 2: 'who' omitted 1668, inserted 1669.]



61.

By THOMAS SPRAT.

I think it fit to direct my Speech concerning him, by the same rule by which he was wont to judge of others. In his esteem of other men, he constantly prefer'd the good temper of their minds, and honesty of their Actions, above all the excellencies of their Eloquence or Knowledge. The same course I will take in his praise, which chiefly ought to be fixed on his life. For that he deserves more applause from the most virtuous men, than for his other abilities he ever obtained from the Learned.

He had indeed a perfect natural goodness, which neither the uncertainties of his condition, nor the largeness of his wit could pervert. He had a firmness and strength of mind, that was of proof against the Art of Poetry it self. Nothing vain or fantastical, nothing flattering or insolent appeared in his humour. He had a great integrity, and plainness of Manners; which he preserv'd to the last, though much of his time was spent in a Nation, and way of life, that is not very famous for sincerity. But the truth of his heart was above the corruption of ill examples: And therefore the sight of them rather confirm'd him in the contrary Virtues.

There was nothing affected or singular in his habit, or person, or gesture. He understood the forms of good breeding enough to practise them without burdening himself, or others. He never opprest any mans parts, nor ever put any man out of countenance. He never had any emulation for Fame, or contention for Profit with any man. When he was in business he suffer'd others importunities with much easiness: When he was out of it he was never importunate himself. His modesty and humility were so great, that if he had not had many other equal Virtues, they might have been thought dissimulation.

His Conversation was certainly of the most excellent kind; for it was such as was rather admired by his familiar Friends, than by Strangers at first sight. He surpriz'd no man at first with any extraordinary appearance: he never thrust himself violently into the good opinion of his company. He was content to be known by leisure and by degrees: and so the esteem that was conceiv'd of him, was better grounded and more lasting.

In his Speech, neither the pleasantness excluded gravity, nor was the sobriety of it inconsistent with delight. No man parted willingly from his Discourse: for he so ordered it, that every man was satisfied that he had his share. He govern'd his Passions with great moderation. His Virtues were never troublesome or uneasy to any. Whatever he disliked in others, he only corrected it, by the silent reproof of a better practise.

His Wit was so temper'd, that no man had ever reason to wish it had been less: he prevented other mens severity upon it by his own: he never willingly recited any of his Writings. None but his intimate friends ever discovered he was a great Poet, by his discourse. His Learning was large and profound, well compos'd of all Antient and Modern Knowledge. But it sat exceeding close and handsomly upon him: it was not imbossed on his mind, but enamelled.

He never guided his life by the whispers, or opinions of the World. Yet he had a great reverence for a good reputation. He hearkened to Fame when it was a just Censurer: But not when an extravagant Babler. He was a passionate lover of Liberty and Freedom from restraint both in Actions and Words. But what honesty others receive from the direction of Laws, he had by native Inclination: And he was not beholding to other mens wills, but to his own for his Innocence.



62.

CHARLES II.

Born 1630. Died 1685.

By HALIFAX.

His DISSIMULATION.

One great Objection made to him was the concealing himself, and disguising his Thoughts. In this there ought a Latitude to be given; it is a Defect not to have it at all, and a Fault to have it too much. Human Nature will not allow the Mean: like all other things, as soon as ever Men get to do them well, they cannot easily hold from doing them too much. 'Tis the case even in the least things, as singing, &c.

In France, he was to dissemble Injuries and Neglects, from one reason; in England, he was to dissemble too, though for other Causes; A King upon the Throne hath as great Temptations (though of another kind) to dissemble, as a King in Exile. The King of France might have his Times of Dissembling as much with him, as he could have to do it with the King of France: So he was in a School.

No King can be so little inclined to dissemble but he must needs learn it from his Subjects, who every Day give him such Lessons of it. Dissimulation is like most other Qualities, it hath two Sides; it is necessary, and yet it is dangerous too. To have none at all layeth a Man open to Contempt, to have too much exposeth him to Suspicion, which is only the less dishonourable Inconvenience. If a Man doth not take very great Precautions, he is never so much shewed as when he endeavoureth to hide himself. One Man cannot take more pains to hide himself, than another will do to see into him, especially in the Case of Kings.

It is none of the exalted Faculties of the Mind, since there are Chamber-Maids will do it better than any Prince in Christendom. Men given to dissembling are like Rooks at play, they will cheat for Shillings, they are so used to it. The vulgar Definition of Dissembling is downright Lying; that kind of it which is less ill-bred cometh pretty near it. Only Princes and Persons of Honour must have gentler Words given to their Faults, than the nature of them may in themselves deserve.

Princes dissemble with too many, not to have it discovered; no wonder then that He carried it so far that it was discovered. Men compared Notes, and got Evidence; so that those whose Morality would give them leave, took it for an Excuse for serving him ill. Those who knew his Face, fixed their Eyes there; and thought it of more Importance to see, than to hear what he said. His Face was as little a Blab as most Mens, yet though it could not be called a prattling Face, it would sometimes tell Tales to a good Observer. When he thought fit to be angry, he had a very peevish Memory; there was hardly a Blot that escaped him. At the same time that this shewed the Strength of his Dissimulation, it gave warning too; it fitted his present Purpose, but it made a Discovery that put Men more upon their Guard against him. Only Self-flattery furnisheth perpetual Arguments to trust again: The comfortable Opinion Men have of themselves keepeth up Human Society, which would be more than half destroyed without it.

Of his WIT and CONVERSATION.

His Wit consisted chiefly in the Quickness of his Apprehension. His Apprehension made him find Faults, and that led him to short Sayings upon them, not always equal, but often very good.

By his being abroad, he contracted a Habit of conversing familiarly, which added to his natural Genius, made him very apt to talk; perhaps more than a very nice judgment would approve.

He was apter to make broad Allusions upon any thing that gave the least occasion, than was altogether suitable with the very Good-breeding he shewed in most other things. The Company he kept whilst abroad, had so used him to that sort of Dialect, that he was so far from thinking it a Fault or an Indecency, that he made it a matter of Rallery upon those who could not prevail upon themselves to join in it. As a Man who hath a good Stomach loveth generally to talk of Meat, so in the vigour of his Age, he began that style, which, by degrees grew so natural to him, that after he ceased to do it out of Pleasure, he continued to do it out of Custom. The Hypocrisy of the former Times inclined Men to think they could not shew too great an Aversion to it, and that helped to encourage this unbounded liberty of Talking, without the Restraints of Decency which were before observed. In his more familiar Conversations with the Ladies, even they must be passive, if they would not enter into it. How far Sounds as well as Objects may have their Effects to raise Inclination, might be an Argument to him to use that Style; or whether using Liberty at its full stretch, was not the general Inducement without any particular Motives to it.

The manner of that time of telling Stories, had drawn him into it; being commended at first for the Faculty of telling a Tale well, he might insensibly be betrayed to exercise it too often. Stories are dangerous in this, that the best expose a Man most, by being oftenest repeated. It might pass for an Evidence for the Moderns against the Ancients, that it is now wholly left off by all that have any pretence to be distinguished by their good Sense.

He had the Improvements of Wine, &c. which made him pleasant and easy in Company; where he bore his part, and was acceptable even to those who had no other Design than to be merry with him.

The Thing called Wit, a Prince may taste, but it is dangerous for him to take too much of it; it hath Allurements which by refining his Thoughts, take off from their dignity, in applying them less to the governing part. There is a Charm in Wit, which a Prince must resist: and that to him was no easy matter; it was contesting with Nature upon Terms of Disadvantage.

His Wit was not so ill-natured as to put Men out of countenance. In the case of a King especially, it is more allowable to speak sharply of them, than to them.

His Wit was not acquired by Reading; that which he had above his original Stock by Nature, was from Company, in which he was very capable to observe. He could not so properly be said to have a Wit very much raised, as a plain, gaining, well-bred, recommending kind of Wit.

But of all Men that ever liked those who had Wit, he could the best endure those who had none. This leaneth more towards a Satire than a Compliment, in this respect, that he could not only suffer Impertinence, but at some times seemed to be pleased with it.

He encouraged some to talk a good deal more with him, than one would have expected from a Man of so good a Taste: He should rather have order'd his Attorney-General to prosecute them for a Misdemeanour, in using Common-sense so scurvily in his Presence. However, if this was a Fault, it is arrogant for any of his Subjects to object to it, since it would look like defying such a piece of Indulgence. He must in some degree loosen the Strength of his Wit, by his Condescension to talk with Men so very unequal to him. Wit must be used to some Equality, which may give it Exercise, or else it is apt either to languish, or to grow a little vulgar, by reigning amongst Men of a lower Size, where there is no Awe to keep a Man upon his guard.

It fell out rather by Accident than Choice, that his Mistresses were such as did not care that Wit of the best kind should have the Precedence in their Apartments. Sharp and strong Wit will not always be so held in by Good-manners, as not to be a little troublesome in a Ruelle. But wherever Impertinence hath Wit enough left to be thankful for being well used, it will not only be admitted, but kindly received; such Charms every thing hath that setteth us off by Comparison.

His Affability was a Part, and perhaps not the least, of his Wit.

It is a Quality that must not always spring from the Heart, Mens Pride, as well as their Weakness, maketh them ready to be deceived by it: They are more ready to believe it a Homage paid to their Merit, than a Bait thrown out to deceive them. Princes have a particular Advantage.

There was at first as much of Art as Nature in his Affability, but by Habit it became Natural. It is an Error of the better hand, but the Universality taketh away a good deal of the Force of it. A Man that hath had a kind Look seconded with engaging Words, whilst he is chewing the Pleasure, if another in his Sight should be just received as kindly, that Equality would presently alter the Relish: The Pride of Mankind will have Distinction; till at last it cometh to Smile for Smile, meaning nothing of either Side; without any kind of Effect; mere Drawing-room Compliments; the Bow alone would be better without them. He was under some Disadvantages of this kind, that grew still in proportion as it came by Time to be more known, that there was less Signification in those Things than at first was thought.

The Familiarity of his Wit must needs have the Effect of lessening the Distance fit to be kept to him. The Freedom used to him whilst abroad, was retained by those who used it longer than either they ought to have kept it, or he have suffered it, and others by their Example learned to use the same. A King of Spain that will say nothing but Tiendro cuydado, will, to the generality, preserve more Respect; an Engine that will speak but sometimes, at the same time that it will draw the Raillery of the Few who judge well, it will create Respect in the ill-judging Generality. Formality is sufficiently revenged upon the World for being so unreasonably laughed at; it is destroyed it is true, but it hath the spiteful Satisfaction of seeing every thing destroyed with it.

His fine Gentlemanship did him no Good, encouraged in it by being too much applauded.

His Wit was better suited to his Condition before he was restored than afterwards. The Wit of a Gentleman, and that of a crowned Head, ought to be different things. As there is a Crown Law, there is a Crown Wit too. To use it with Reserve is very good, and very rare. There is a Dignity in doing things seldom, even without any other Circumstance. Where Wit will run continually, the Spring is apt to fail; so that it groweth vulgar, and the more it is practised, the more it is debased.

He was so good at finding out other Mens weak Sides, that it made him less intent to cure his own: That generally happeneth. It may be called a treacherous Talent, for it betrayeth a Man to forget to judge himself, by being so eager to censure others: This doth so misguide Men the first Part of their Lives, that the Habit of it is not easily recovered, when the greater Ripeness of their Judgment inclineth them to look more into themselves than into other Men.

Men love to see themselves in the false Looking-glass of other Mens Failings. It maketh a Man think well of himself at the time, and by sending his Thoughts abroad to get Food for Laughing, they are less at leisure to see Faults at home. Men choose rather to make the War in another Country, than to keep all well at home.

His TALENTS, TEMPER, HABITS, &c.

He had a Mechanical Head, which appeared in his inclination to Shipping and Fortification, &c. This would make one conclude, that his Thoughts would naturally have been more fixed to Business, if his Pleasures had not drawn them away from it.

He had a very good Memory, though he would not always make equal good Use of it. So that if he had accustomed himself to direct his Faculties to his Business, I see no Reason why he might not have been a good deal Master of it. His Chain of Memory was longer than his Chain of Thought; the first could bear any Burden, the other was tired by being carried on too long; it was fit to ride a Heat, but it had not Wind enough for a long Course.

A very great Memory often forgetteth how much Time is lost by repeating things of no Use. It was one Reason of his talking so much; since a great Memory will always have something to say, and will be discharging itself, whether in or out of Season, if a good Judgment doth not go along with it, to make it stop and turn. One might say of his Memory, that it was a Beaute Journaliere; Sometimes he would make shrewd Applications, &c. at others he would bring things out of it, that never deserved to be laid in it. He grew by Age into a pretty exact Distribution of his Hours, both for his Business, Pleasures, and the Exercise for his Health, of which he took as much care as could possibly consist with some Liberties he was resolved to indulge in himself. He walked by his Watch, and when he pulled it out to look upon it, skilful Men would make haste with what they had to say to him.

He was often retained in his personal against his politick Capacity. He would speak upon those Occasions most dexterously against himself; Charles Stuart would be bribed against the King; and in the Distinction, he leaned more to his natural Self, than his Character would allow. He would not suffer himself to be so much fettered by his Character as was convenient; he was still starting out of it, the Power of Nature was too strong for the Dignity of his Calling, which generally yielded as often as there was a contest.

It was not the best use he made of his Back-stairs to admit Men to bribe him against himself, to procure a Defalcation, help a lame Accountant to get off, or side with the Farmers against the Improvement of the Revenue. The King was made the Instrument to defraud the Crown, which is somewhat extraordinary.

That which might tempt him to it probably was, his finding that those about him so often took Money upon those Occasions; so that he thought he might do well at least to be a Partner. He did not take the Money to hoard it; there were those at Court who watched those Times, as the Spaniards do for the coming in of the Plate Fleet. The Beggars of both Sexes helped to empty his Cabinet, and to leave room in them for a new lading upon the next Occasion. These Negotiators played double with him too, when it was for their purpose so to do. He knew it, and went on still; so he gained his present end, at the time, he was less solicitous to enquire into the Consequences.

He could not properly be said to be either covetous or liberal; his desire to get was not with an Intention to be rich; and his spending was rather an Easiness in letting Money go, than any premeditated Thought for the Distribution of it. He would do as much to throw off the burden of a present Importunity, as he would to relieve a want.

When once the Aversion to bear Uneasiness taketh place in a Man's Mind, it doth so check all the Passions, that they are dampt into a kind of Indifference; they grow faint and languishing, and come to be subordinate to that fundamental Maxim, of not purchasing any thing at the price of a Difficulty. This made that he had as little Eagerness to oblige, as he had to hurt Men; the Motive of his giving Bounties was rather to make Men less uneasy to him, than more easy to themselves; and yet no ill-nature all this while. He would slide from an asking Face, and could guess very well. It was throwing a Man off from his Shoulders, that leaned upon them with his whole weight; so that the Party was not glader to receive, than he was to give. It was a kind of implied bargain; though Men seldom kept it, being so apt to forget the advantage they had received, that they would presume the King would as little remember the good he had done them, so as to make it an Argument against their next Request.

This Principle of making the love of Ease exercise an entire Sovereignty in his Thoughts, would have been less censured in a private Man, than might be in a Prince. The Consequence of it to the Publick changeth the Nature of that Quality, or else a Philosopher in his private Capacity might say a great deal to justify it. The truth is, a King is to be such a distinct Creature from a Man, that their Thoughts are to be put in quite a differing Shape, and it is such a disquieting task to reconcile them, that Princes might rather expect to be lamented than to be envied, for being in a Station that exposeth them, if they do not do more to answer Mens Expectations than human Nature will allow.

That Men have the less Ease for their loving it so much, is so far from a wonder, that it is a natural Consequence, especially in the case of a Prince. Ease is seldom got without some pains, but it is yet seldomer kept without them. He thought giving would make Men more easy to him, whereas he might have known it would certainly make them more troublesome.

When Men receive Benefits from Princes, they attribute less to his Generosity than to their own Deserts; so that in their own Opinion, their Merit cannot be bounded; by that mistaken Rule, it can as little be satisfied. They would take it for a diminution to have it circumscribed. Merit hath a Thirst upon it that can never be quenched by golden Showers. It is not only still ready, but greedy to receive more. This King Charles found in as many Instances as any Prince that ever reigned, because the Easiness of Access introducing the good Success of their first Request, they were the more encouraged to repeat those Importunities, which had been more effectually stopt in the Beginning by a short and resolute Denial. But his Nature did not dispose him to that Method, it directed him rather to put off the troublesome Minute for the time, and that being his Inclination, he did not care to struggle with it.

I am of an Opinion, in which I am every Day more confirmed by Observation, that Gratitude is one of those things that cannot be bought. It must be born with Men, or else all the Obligations in the World will not create it. An outward Shew may be made to satisfy Decency, and to prevent Reproach; but a real Sense of a kind thing is a Gift of Nature, and never was, nor can be acquired.

The Love of Ease is an Opiate, it is pleasing for the time, quieteth the Spirits, but it hath its Effects that seldom fail to be most fatal. The immoderate Love of Ease maketh a Man's Mind pay a passive Obedience to any thing that happeneth: It reduceth the Thoughts from having Desire to be content.

It must be allowed he had a little Over-balance on the well-natured Side, not Vigour enough to be earnest to do a kind Thing, much less to do a harsh one; but if a hard thing was done to another Man, he did not eat his Supper the worse for it. It was rather a Deadness than Severity of Nature, whether it proceeded from a Dissipation of Spirits, or by the Habit of Living in which he was engaged.

If a King should be born with more Tenderness than might suit with his Office, he would in time be hardned. The Faults of his Subjects make Severity so necessary, that by the frequent Occasions given to use it, it comes to be habitual, and by degrees the Resistance that Nature made at first groweth fainter, till at last it is in a manner quite extinguished.

In short, this Prince might more properly be said to have Gifts than Virtues, as Affability, Easiness of Living, Inclinations to give, and to forgive: Qualities that flowed from his Nature rather than from his Virtue.

He had not more Application to any thing than the Preservation of his Health; it had an intire Preference to any thing else in his Thoughts, and he might be said without Aggravation to study that, with as little Intermission as any Man in the World. He understood it very well, only in this he failed, that he thought it was more reconcilable with his Pleasures, than it really was. It is natural to have such a Mind to reconcile these, that 'tis the easier for any Man that goeth about it, to be guilty of that Mistake.

This made him overdo in point of Nourishment, the better to furnish to those Entertainments; and then he thought by great Exercise to make Amends, and to prevent the ill Effects of his Blood being too much raised. The Success he had in this Method, whilst he had Youth and Vigour to support him in it, encouraged him to continue it longer than Nature allowed. Age stealeth so insensibly upon us, that we do not think of suiting our way of Reasoning to the several Stages of Life; so insensibly that not being able to pitch upon any precise Time, when we cease to be young, we either flatter ourselves that we always continue to be so, or at least forget how much we are mistaken in it.



63.

By BURNET.

The King was then thirty years of age, and, as might have been supposed, past the levities of youth and the extravagance of pleasure. He had a very good understanding. He knew well the state of affairs both at home and abroad. He had a softness of temper that charmed all who came near him, till they found how little they could depend on good looks, kind words, and fair promises; in which he was liberal to excess, because he intended nothing by them, but to get rid of importunities, and to silence all farther pressing upon him. He seemed to have no sense of religion: Both at prayers and sacrament he, as it were, took care to satisfy people, that he was in no sort concerned in that about which he was employed. So that he was very far from being an hypocrite, unless his assisting at those performances was a sort of hypocrisy, (as no doubt it was:) But he was sure not to encrease that by any the least appearance of religion. He said once to my self, he was no atheist, but he could not think God would make a man miserable only for taking a little pleasure out of the way. He disguised his Popery to the last. But when he talked freely, he could not help letting himself out against the liberty that under the Reformation all men took of enquiring into matters of religion: For from their enquiring into matters of religion they carried the humour farther, to enquire into matters of state. He said often, he thought government was a much safer and easier thing where the authority was believed infallible, and the faith and submission of the people was implicite: About which I had once much discourse with him. He was affable and easy, and loved to be made so by all about him. The great art of keeping him long was, the being easy, and the making every thing easy to him. He had made such observations on the French government, that he thought a King who might be checkt, or have his Ministers called to an account by a Parliament, was but a King in name. He had a great compass of knowledge, tho' he was never capable of much application or study. He understood the Mechanicks and Physick; and was a good Chymist, and much set on several preparations of Mercury, chiefly the fixing it. He understood navigation well: But above all he knew the architecture of ships so perfectly, that in that respect he was exact rather more than became a Prince. His apprehension was quick, and his memory good. He was an everlasting talker. He told his stories with a good grace: But they came in his way too often. He had a very ill opinion both of men and women; and did not think that there was either sincerity or chastity in the world out of principle, but that some had either the one or the other out of humour or vanity. He thought that no body did serve him out of love: And so he was quits with all the world, and loved others as little as he thought they loved him. He hated business, and could not be easily brought to mind any: But when it was necessary, and he was set to it, he would stay as long as his Ministers had work for him. The ruine of his reign, and of all his affairs, was occasioned chiefly by his delivering himself up at his first coming over to a mad range of pleasure.

64.

By BURNET.

Thus lived and died King Charles the second. He was the greatest instance in history of the various revolutions of which any one man seemed capable. He was bred up, the first twelve years of his life, with the splendor that became the heir of so great a Crown. After that he past thro' eighteen years in great inequalities, unhappy in the war, in the loss of his Father, and of the Crown of England. Scotland did not only receive him, tho' upon terms hard of digestion, but made an attempt upon England for him, tho' a feeble one. He lost the battle of Worcester with too much indifference: And then he shewed more care of his person, than became one who had so much at stake. He wandered about England for ten weeks after that, hiding from place to place. But, under all the apprehensions he had then upon him, he shewed a temper so careless, and so much turned to levity, that he was then diverting himself with little houshold sports, in as unconcerned a manner, as if he had made no loss, and had been in no danger at all. He got at last out of England. But he had been obliged to so many, who had been faithful to him, and careful of him, that he seemed afterwards to resolve to make an equal return to them all: And finding it not easy to reward them all as they deserved, he forgot them all alike. Most Princes seem to have this pretty deep in them; and to think that they ought never to remember past services, but that their acceptance of them is a full reward. He, of all in our age, exerted this piece of prerogative in the amplest manner: For he never seemed to charge his memory, or to trouble his thoughts, with the sense of any of the services that had been done him. While he was abroad at Paris, Colen, or Brussells, he never seemed to lay any thing to heart. He pursued all his diversions, and irregular pleasures, in a free carrier; and seemed to be as serene under the loss of a Crown, as the greatest Philosopher could have been. Nor did he willingly hearken to any of those projects, with which he often complained that his Chancellor persecuted him. That in which he seemed most concerned was, to find money for supporting his expence. And it was often said, that, if Cromwell would have compounded the matter, and have given him a good round pension, that he might have been induced to resign his title to him. During his exile he delivered himself so entirely to his pleasures, that he became incapable of application. He spent little of his time in reading or study, and yet less in thinking. And, in the state his affairs were then in, he accustomed himself to say to every person, and upon all occasions, that which he thought would please most: So that words or promises went very easily from him. And he had so ill an opinion of mankind, that he thought the great art of living and governing was, to manage all things and all persons with a depth of craft and dissimulation. And in that few men in the world could put on the appearances of sincerity better than he could: Under which so much artifice was usually hid, that in conclusion he could deceive none, for all were become mistrustful of him. He had great vices, but scarce any vertues to correct them: He had in him some vices that were less hurtful, which corrected his more hurtful ones. He was during the active part of life given up to sloth and lewdness to such a degree, that he hated business, and could not bear the engaging in any thing that gave him much trouble, or put him under any constraint. And, tho' he desired to become absolute, and to overturn both our religion and our laws, yet he would neither run the risque, nor give himself the trouble, which so great a design required. He had an appearance of gentleness in his outward deportment: But he seemed to have no bowels nor tenderness in his nature: And in the end of his life he became cruel. He was apt to forgive all crimes, even blood it self: Yet he never forgave any thing that was done against himself, after his first and general act of indemnity, which was to be reckoned as done rather upon maxims of state than inclinations of mercy. He delivered himself up to a most enormous course of vice, without any sort of restraint, even from the consideration of the nearest relations: The most studied extravagancies that way seemed, to the very last, to be much delighted in, and pursued by him. He had the art of making all people grow fond of him at first, by a softness in his whole way of conversation, as he was certainly the best bred man of the age. But when it appeared how little could be built on his promise, they were cured of the fondness that he was apt to raise in them. When he saw young men of quality, who had something more than ordinary in them, he drew them about him, and set himself to corrupt them both in religion and morality; in which he proved so unhappily successful, that he left England much changed at his death from what he had found it at his Restoration. He loved to talk over all the stories of his life to every new man that came about him. His stay in Scotland, and the share he had in the war of Paris, in carrying messages from the one side to the other, were his common topicks. He went over these in a very graceful manner; but so often, and so copiously, that all those who had been long accustomed to them grew weary of them: And when he entred on those stories they usually withdrew: So that he often began them in a full audience, and before he had done there were not above four or five left about him: Which drew a severe jest from Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. He said, he wondred to see a man have so good a memory as to repeat the same story without losing the least circumstance, and yet not remember that he had told it to the same persons the very day before. This made him fond of strangers; for they hearkned to all his often repeated stories, and went away as in a rapture at such an uncommon condescension in a King.

His person and temper, his vices as well as his fortunes, resemble the character that we have given us of Tiberius so much, that it were easy to draw the parallel between them. Tiberius's banishment, and his coming afterwards to reign, makes the comparison in that respect come pretty near. His hating of business, and his love of pleasures; his raising of favourites, and trusting them entirely; and his pulling them down, and hating them excessively; his art of covering deep designs, particularly of revenge, with an appearance of softness, brings them so near a likeness, that I did not wonder much to observe the resemblance of their face and person. At Rome I saw one of the last statues made for Tiberius, after he had lost his teeth. But, bating the alteration which that made, it was so like King Charles, that Prince Borghese, and Signior Dominica to whom it belonged, did agree with me in thinking that it looked like a statue made for him.



65.

THE EARL OF CLARENDON.

Edward Hyde, knighted 1643, created Baron Hyde 1660, Earl of Clarendon 1661. Lord Chancellor 1658-1667.

Born 1609. Died 1674.

By BURNET.

The Earl of Clarendon was bred to the Law, and was like to grow eminent in his profession when the wars began. He distinguished himself so in the House of Commons, that he became considerable, and was much trusted all the while the King was at Oxford. He stayed beyond sea following the King's fortune till the Restoration; and was now an absolute favourite, and the chief or the only Minister, but with too magisterial a way. He was always pressing the King to mind his affairs, but in vain. He was a good Chancellour, only a little too rough, but very impartial in the administration of justice. He never seemed to understand foreign affairs well: And yet he meddled too much in them. He had too much levity in his wit, and did not always observe the decorum of his post. He was high, and was apt to reject those who addressed themselves to him with too much contempt. He had such a regard to the King, that when places were disposed of, even otherwise than as he advised, yet he would justify what the King did, and disparage the pretensions of others, not without much scorn; which created him many enemies. He was indefatigable in business, tho' the gout did often disable him from waiting on the King: Yet, during his credit, the King came constantly to him when he was laid up by it.



66.

THE EARL OF LAUDERDALE.

John Maitland, second Earl, created Duke 1672, Secretary of State for Scotland 1660-1680.

Born 1616. Died 1682.

By CLARENDON.

The Earle of Latherdale, who had bene very eminent in contrivinge and carryinge on the kings service, when his Majesty was crowned in Scotlande, and therby had wrought himselfe into a very particular esteme with the kinge, had marched with him into Englande, and behaved himselfe well at Worcester, wher he was taken prissoner, had besydes that meritt, the sufferinge an imprysonment from that very tyme, with some circumstances of extreme rigour, beinge a man against whome Crumwell had alwayes professed a more then ordinary animosity, and though the sceane of his imprysonment had bene altred, accordinge to the alterations of the goverments which succeeded, yett he never founde himselfe in compleate liberty, till the kinge was proclaymed by the Parliament, and then he thought it not necessary to repayre into Scotlande for authority or recommendation, but sendinge his advise thither to his frends, he made hast to transporte himselfe with the Parliament Commissyoners to the Hague, where he was very well receaved by the kinge, and left nothinge undone on his parte, that might cultivate these old inclinations, beinge a man of as much addresse, and insinuation, in which that nation excells, as was then amongst them. He applyed himselfe to those who were most trusted by the kinge with a marvellous importunity, and especially to the Chancellour, with whome as often as they had ever bene togither, he had a perpetuall warr. He now magnifyed his constancy with lowde elogiums as well to his face, as behinde his backe, remembred many sharpe exspressions formerly used by the Chancellour which he confessed had then made him mad, though upon recollection afterwards he had founde to be very reasonable. He was very polite in all his discources, called himselfe and his nation a thousand Traytors, and Rebells, and in his discourses frequently sayd, when I was a Traytour, or when I was in rebellion, and seemed not aequally delighted with any argument, as when he skornefully spake of the Covenante, upon which he brake a hundred jests: in summ all his discourses were such, as pleased all the company, who commonly believed all he sayd, and concurred with him. He [renew]ed his old acquaintance and familiarity with Middleton, by all the protestations of frendshipp, assured him of the unanimous desyre of Scotlande, to be [un]der his commaunde, and declared to the kinge, that he could not send any man into Scotlande who would be able to do him so much service in the place of Commissyoner as Middleton, and that it was in his Majestys power to unite that whole kingdome to his service as one m[an:] all which pleased the kinge well, so that by the tyme that the Commissioners appeared at London, upon some old promise in Scotlande, or new inclination upon his longe sufferings, which he magnifyed enough, the kinge gave him the Signett, and declared him to be Secretary of State of that kingdome, and at the same tyme declared that Middleton should be his Commissyoner, the Earle of Glengarne his Chancellour, the Earle of Rothesse, who was likewise one of the Commissyoners, and his person very agreable to the kinge, President of the Councell, and conferred all other inferiour offices, upon men most notable for ther affection to the old goverment of Church and State.



67.

By BURNET.

The Earl of Lauderdale, afterwards made Duke, had been for many years a zealous Covenanter: But in the year forty seven he turned to the King's interests; and had continued a prisoner all the while after Worcester fight, where he was taken. He was kept for some years in the tower of London, in Portland castle, and in other prisons, till he was set at liberty by those who called home the King. So he went over to Holland. And since he continued so long, and contrary to all mens opinions in so high a degree of favour and confidence, it may be expected that I should be a little copious in setting out his character; for I knew him very particularly. He made a very ill appearance: He was very big: His hair red, hanging odly about him: His tongue was too big for his mouth, which made him bedew all that he talked to: And his whole manner was rough and boisterous, and very unfit for a Court. He was very learned, not only in Latin, in which he was a master, but in Greek and Hebrew. He had read a great deal of divinity, and almost all the historians ancient and modern: So that he had great materials. He had with these an extraordinary memory, and a copious but unpolished expression. He was a man, as the Duke of Buckingham called him to me, of a blundering understanding. He was haughty beyond expression, abject to those he saw he must stoop to, but imperious to all others. He had a violence of passion that carried him often to fits like madness, in which he had no temper. If he took a thing wrong, it was a vain thing to study to convince him: That would rather provoke him to swear, he would never be of another mind: He was to be let alone: And perhaps he would have forgot what he had said, and come about of his own accord. He was the coldest friend and the violentest enemy I ever knew: I felt it too much not to know it. He at first seemed to despise wealth: But he delivered himself up afterwards to luxury and sensuality: And by that means he ran into a vast expence, and stuck at nothing that was necessary to support it. In his long imprisonment he had great impressions of religion on his mind: But he wore these out so entirely, that scarce any trace of them was left. His great experience in affairs, his ready compliance with every thing that he thought would please the King, and his bold offering at the most desperate counsels, gained him such an interest in the King, that no attempt against him nor complaint of him could ever shake it, till a decay of strength and understanding forced him to let go his hold. He was in his principles much against Popery and arbitrary government: And yet by a fatal train of passions and interests he made way for the former, and had almost established the latter. And, whereas some by a smooth deportment made the first beginnings of tyranny less discernible and unacceptable, he by the fury of his behaviour heightned the severity of his ministry, which was liker the cruelty of an inquisition than the legality of justice. With all this he was a Presbyterian, and retained his aversion to King Charles I. and his party to his death.



68.

THE EARL OF SHAFTESBURY.

Anthony Ashley Cooper, created Earl of Shaftesbury 1662.

Born 1621. Died 1683.

By BURNET.

The man that was in the greatest credit with the Earl of Southampton was Sir Anthony Ashly Cooper, who had married his niece, and became afterwards so considerable that he was raised to be Earl of Shaftsbury. And since he came to have so great a name, and that I knew him for many years in a very particular manner, I will dwell a little longer on his character; for it was of a very extraordinary composition. He began to make a considerable figure very early. Before he was twenty he came into the House of Commons, and was on the King's side; and undertook to get Wiltshire and Dorsetshire to declare for him: But he was not able to effect it. Yet Prince Maurice breaking articles to a town, that he had got to receive him, furnished him with an excuse to forsake that side, and to turn to the Parliament. He had a wonderful faculty in speaking to a popular assembly, and could mix both the facetious and the serious way of arguing very agreeably. He had a particular talent to make others trust to his judgment, and depend on it: And he brought over so many to a submission to his opinion, that I never knew any man equal to him in the art of governing parties, and of making himself the head of them. He was as to religion a Deist at best: He had the dotage of Astrology in him to a high degree: He told me, that a Dutch doctor had from the stars foretold him the whole series of his life. But that which was before him, when he told me this, proved false, if he told me true: For he said, he was yet to be a greater man than he had been. He fancied, that after death our souls lived in stars. He had a general knowledge of the slighter parts of learning, but understood little to the bottom: So he triumphed in a rambling way of talking, but argued slightly when he was held close to any point. He had a wonderful faculty at opposing, and running things down; but had not the like force in building up. He had such an extravagant vanity in setting himself out, that it was very disagreeable. He pretended that Cromwell offered to make him King. He was indeed of great use to him in withstanding the enthusiasts of that time. He was one of those who press'd him most to accept of the Kingship, because, as he said afterwards, he was sure it would ruin him. His strength lay in the knowledge of England, and of all the considerable men in it. He understood well the size of their understandings, and their tempers: And he knew how to apply himself to them so dextrously, that, tho' by his changing sides so often it was very visible how little he was to be depended on, yet he was to the last much trusted by all the discontented party. He was not ashamed to reckon up the many turns he had made: And he valued himself on the doing it at the properest season, and in the best manner. This he did with so much vanity, and so little discretion, that he lost many by it. And his reputation was at last run so low, that he could not have held much longer, had he not died in good time, either for his family or for his party: The former would have been ruined, if he had not saved it by betraying the latter.



69.

By DRYDEN.

Some by their Friends, more by themselves thought wise, Oppos'd the Pow'r, to which they could not rise. Some had in Courts been Great, and thrown from thence, Like Fiends, were harden'd in Impenitence. Some, by their Monarch's fatal mercy grown, From Pardon'd Rebels, Kinsmen to the Throne, Were raised in Pow'r and publick Office high: Strong Bands, if Bands ungrateful men coud tie. Of these the false Achitophel was first: A Name to all succeeding Ages curst. For close Designs, and crooked Counsels fit; Sagacious, Bold, and Turbulent of wit: Restless, unfixt in Principles and Place; In Pow'r unpleas'd, impatient of Disgrace. A fiery Soul, which working out its way, Fretted the Pigmy-Body to decay: And o'r inform'd the Tenement of Clay, A daring Pilot in extremity; Pleas'd with the Danger, when the Waves went high He sought the Storms; but for a Calm unfit, Would Steer too nigh the Sands, to boast his Wit. Great Wits are sure to Madness near alli'd; And thin Partitions do their Bounds divide: Else, why should he, with Wealth and Honour blest, Refuse his Age the needful hours of Rest? Punish a Body which he coud not please; Bankrupt of Life, yet Prodigal of Ease? And all to leave, what with his Toil he won, To that unfeather'd, two-legg'd thing, a Son: Got, while his Soul did huddled Notions trie; And born a shapeless Lump, like Anarchy. In Friendship false, implacable in Hate: Resolv'd to Ruine or to Rule the State. To Compass this, the Triple Bond he broke; The Pillars of the Publick Safety shook: And fitted Israel for a Foreign Yoke. Then, seiz'd with Fear, yet still affecting Fame, Usurp'd a Patriot's All-attoning Name. So easie still it proves in Factious Times, With publick Zeal to cancel private Crimes: How safe is Treason, and how sacred ill, here none can sin against the Peoples Will: Where Crouds can wink; and no offence be known, Since in anothers guilt they find their own. Yet, Fame deserv'd, no Enemy can grudge; The Statesman we abhor, but praise the Judge. In Israels Courts ne'r sat an Abbetbdin With more discerning Eyes, or Hands more clean: Unbrib'd, unsought, the Wretched to redress; Swift of Dispatch, and easie of Access. Oh, had he been content to serve the Crown, With Vertues onely proper to the Gown; Or, had the rankness of the Soil been freed From Cockle, that opprest the Noble Seed: David, for him his tuneful Harp had strung, And Heav'n had wanted one Immortal Song. But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand; And Fortunes Ice prefers to Vertues Land: Achitophel, grown weary to possess A lawful Fame, and lazie Happiness, Disdain'd the Golden Fruit to gather free, And lent the Croud his Arm to shake the Tree. Now, manifest of Crimes, contriv'd long since, He stood at bold Defiance with his Prince: Held up the Buckler of the Peoples Cause, Against the Crown; and sculk'd behind the Laws, The wish'd occasion of the Plot he takes; Some Circumstances finds, but more he makes. By buzzing Emissaries, fills the ears Of listning Crouds, with Jealousies and Fears Of Arbitrary Counsels brought to light, And proves the King himself a Jebusite. Weak Arguments! which yet he knew full well, Were strong with People easie to Rebel. For, govern'd by the Moon, the giddy Jews Tread the same Track when she the Prime renews: And once in twenty Years, their Scribes Record, By natural Instinct they change their Lord. Achitophel still wants a Chief, and none Was found so fit as Warlike Absalon: Not, that he wish'd his Greatness to create, (For Polititians neither love nor hate:) But, for he knew, his Title not allow'd, Would keep him still depending on the Croud: That Kingly pow'r, thus ebbing out, might be Drawn to the Dregs of a Democracie.



70.

THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

George Villiers, second Duke 1628.

Born 1628. Died 1687.

By BURNET.

The first of these was a man of noble presence. He had a great liveliness of wit, and a peculiar faculty of turning all things into ridicule with bold figures and natural descriptions. He had no sort of literature: Only he was drawn into chymistry: And for some years he thought he was very near the finding the philosopher's stone; which had the effect that attends on all such men as he was, when they are drawn in, to lay out for it. He had no principles of religion, vertue, or friendship. Pleasure, frolick, or extravagant diversion was all that he laid to heart. He was true to nothing, for he was not true to himself. He had no steadiness nor conduct: He could keep no secret, nor execute any design without spoiling it. He could never fix his thoughts, nor govern his estate, tho' then the greatest in England. He was bred about the King: And for many years he had a great ascendent over him: But he spake of him to all persons with that contempt, that at last he drew a lasting disgrace upon himself. And he at length ruined both body and mind, fortune and reputation equally. The madness of vice appeared in his person in very eminent instances; since at last he became contemptible and poor, sickly, and sunk in his parts, as well as in all other respects, so that his conversation was as much avoided as ever it had been courted. He found the King, when he came from his travels in the year 45, newly come to Paris, sent over by his father when his affairs declined: And finding the King enough inclined to receive ill impressions, he, who was then got into all the impieties and vices of the age, set himself to corrupt the King, in which he was too successful, being seconded in that wicked design by the Lord Percy. And to compleat the matter, Hobbs was brought to him, under the pretence of instructing him in mathematicks: And he laid before him his schemes, both with relation to religion and politicks, which made deep and lasting impressions on the King's mind. So that the main blame of the King's ill principles, and bad morals, was owing to the Duke of Buckingham.



71.

By DRYDEN.

Some of their Chiefs were Princes of the Land: In the first Rank of these did Zimri stand: A man so various, that he seem'd to be Not one, but all Mankind's Epitome. Stiff in Opinions, always in the wrong; Was Every thing by starts, and Nothing long: But, in the course of one revolving Moon, Was Chymist, Fidler, States-Man, and Buffoon: Then all for Women, Painting, Rhiming, Drinking; Besides ten thousand Freaks that dy'd in thinking. Blest Madman, who coud every hour employ, With something New to wish, or to enjoy! Railing and praising were his usual Theams; And both (to shew his Judgment) in Extreams: So over Violent, or over Civil, That every Man, with him, was God or Devil. In squandring Wealth was his peculiar Art: Nothing went unrewarded, but Desert. Begger'd by Fools, whom still he found too late: He had his Jest, and they had his Estate. He laugh'd himself from Court; then sought Relief By forming Parties, but could ne'r be Chief: For, spight of him, the weight of Business fell On Absalom and wise Achitophel: Thus, wicked but in Will, of Means bereft, He left not Faction, but of that was left.



72.

THE MARQUIS OF HALIFAX.

George Savile, created Baron Savile and Viscount Halifax 1668, Earl of Halifax 1679, Marquis of Halifax 1682.

Born 1633. Died 1695.

By BURNET.

I name Sir George Saville last, because he deserves a more copious character. He rose afterwards to be Viscount, Earl, and Marquis of Halifax. He was a man of a great and ready wit; full of life, and very pleasant; much turned to satyr. He let his wit run much on matters of religion: So that he passed for a bold and determined Atheist; tho' he often protested to me, he was not one; and said, he believed there was not one in the world: He confessed, he could not swallow down every thing that divines imposed on the world: He was a Christian in submission: He believed as much as he could, and he hoped that God would not lay it to his charge, if he could not disgest iron, as an ostrich did, nor take into his belief things that must burst him: If he had any scruples, they 20 were not sought for, nor cherished by him; for he never read an atheistical book. In a fit of sickness, I knew him very much touched with a sense of religion. I was then often with him. He seemed full of good purposes: But they went off with his sickness. He was always talking of morality and friendship. He was punctual in all payments, and just in all his private dealings. But, with relation to the publick, he went backwards and forwards, and changed sides so often, that in conclusion no side trusted him. He seemed full of Common-wealth notions: Yet he went into the worst part of King Charles's reign. The liveliness of his imagination was always too hard for his judgment. A severe jest was preferred by him to all arguments whatsoever. And he was endless in consultations: For when after much discourse a point was settled, if he could find a new jest, to make even that which was suggested by himself seem ridiculous, he could not hold, but would study to raise the credit of his wit, tho' it made others call his judgment in question. When he talked to me as a philosopher of his contempt of the world, I asked him, what he meant by getting so many new titles, which I call'd the hanging himself about with bells and tinsel. He had no other excuse for it, but this, that, since the world were such fools as to value those matters, a man must be a fool for company: He considered them but as rattles: Yet rattles please children: So these might be of use to his family. His heart was much set on raising his family. But, tho' he made a vast estate for them, he buried two of his sons himself, and almost all his grandchildren. The son that survived was an honest man, but far inferior to him.



73.

SIR EDMUND SAUNDERS.

Lord Chief Justice 1682. Died 1683.

By ROGER NORTH.

The Lord Chief Justice Saunders succeeded in the Room of Pemberton. His Character, and his Beginning, were equally strange. He was at first no better than a poor Beggar Boy, if not a Parish Foundling, without known Parents, or Relations. He had found a way to live by Obsequiousness (in Clement's-Inn, as I remember) and courting the Attornies Clerks for Scraps. The extraordinary Observance and Diligence of the Boy, made the Society willing to do him Good. He appeared very ambitious to learn to write; and one of the Attornies got a Board knocked up at a Window on the Top of a Staircase; and that was his Desk, where he sat and wrote after Copies of Court and other Hands the Clerks gave him. He made himself so expert a Writer that he took in Business, and earned some Pence by Hackney-writing. And thus, by degrees, he pushed his Faculties, and fell to Forms, and, by Books that were lent him, became an exquisite entering Clerk; and, by the same course of Improvement of himself, an able Counsel, first in special Pleading, then, at large. And, after he was called to the Bar, had Practice, in the King's Bench Court, equal with any there. As to his Person, he was very corpulent and beastly; a mere Lump of morbid Flesh. He used to say, by his Troggs, (such an humourous Way of talking he affected) none could say be wanted Issue of his Body, for he had nine in his Back. He was a fetid Mass, that offended his Neighbours at the Bar in the sharpest Degree. Those, whose ill Fortune it was to stard near him, were Confessors, and, in Summer-time, almost Martyrs. This hateful Decay of his Carcase came upon him by continual Sottishness; for, to say nothing of Brandy, he was seldom without a Pot of Ale at his Nose, or near him. That Exercise was all he used; the rest of his Life was sitting at his Desk, or piping at home; and that Home was a Taylor's House in Butcher-Row, called his Lodging, and the Man's Wife was his Nurse, or worse; but, by virtue of his Money, of which he made little Account, though he got a great deal, he soon became Master of the Family; and, being no Changling, he never removed, but was true to his Friends, and they to him, to the last Hour of his Life.

So much for his Person and Education. As for his Parts, none had them more lively than he. Wit and Repartee, in an affected Rusticity, were natural to him. He was ever ready, and never at a Loss; and none came so near as he to be a Match for Serjeant Mainard. His great Dexterity was in the Art of special Pleading, and he would lay Snares that often caught his Superiors who were not aware of his Traps. And he was so fond of Success for his Clients that, rather than fail, he would set the Court hard with a Trick; for which he met sometimes with a Reprimand, which he would wittily ward off, so that no one was much offended with him. But Hales could not bear his Irregularity of Life; and for that, and Suspicion of his Tricks, used to bear hard upon him in the Court. But no ill Usage from the Bench was too hard for his Hold of Business, being such as scarce any could do but himself. With all this, he had a Goodness of Nature and Disposition in so great a Degree that he may be deservedly styled a Philanthrope. He was a very Silenus to the Boys, as, in this Place, I may term the Students of the Law, to make them merry whenever they had a Mind to it. He had nothing of rigid or austere in him. If any, near him at the Bar, grumbled at his Stench, he ever converted the Complaint into Content and Laughing with the Abundance of his Wit. As to his ordinary Dealing, he was as honest as the driven Snow was white; and why not, having no Regard for Money, or Desire to be rich? And, for good Nature and Condescension, there was not his Fellow. I have seen him, for Hours and half Hours together, before the Court sat, stand at the Bar, with an Audience of Students over against him, putting of Cases, and debating so as suited their Capacities, and encouraged their Industry. And so in the Temple, he seldom moved without a Parcel of Youths hanging about him, and he merry and jesting with them.

It will be readily conceived that this Man was never cut out to be a Presbyter, or any Thing that is severe and crabbed. In no Time did he lean to Faction, but did his Business without Offence to any. He put off officious Talk of Government or Politicks, with Jests, and so made his Wit a Catholicon, or Shield, to cover all his weak Places and Infirmities. When the Court fell into a steddy Course of using the Law against all Kinds of Offenders, this Man was taken into the King's Business; and had the Part of drawing, and Perusal of almost all Indictments and Informations that were then to be prosecuted, with the Pleadings thereon if any were special; and he had the settling of the large Pleadings in the Quo Warranto against London. His Lordship had no sort of Conversation with him, but in the Way of Business, and at the Bar; but once, after he was in the King's Business, he dined with his Lordship, and no more. And then he shewed another Qualification he had acquired, and that was to play Jigs upon an Harpsichord; having taught himself with the Opportunity of an old Virginal of his Landlady's; but in such a Manner, not for Defect but Figure, as to see him were a Jest. The King, observing him to be of a free Disposition, Loyal, Friendly, and without Greediness or Guile, thought of him to be the Chief Justice of the King's Bench at that nice Time. And the Ministry could not but approve of it. So great a Weight was then at stake, as could not be trusted to Men of doubtful Principles, or such as any Thing might tempt to desert them. While he sat in the Court of King's Bench, he gave the Rule to the general Satisfaction of the Lawyers. But his Course of Life was so different from what it had been, his Business incessant, and, withal, crabbed; and his Diet and Exercise changed, that the Constitution of his Body, or Head rather, could not sustain it, and he fell into an Apoplexy and Palsy, which numbed his Parts; and he never recovered the Strength of them. He out-lived the Judgment on the Quo Warranto; but was not present otherwise than by sending his Opinion, by one of the Judges, to be for the King, who, at the pronouncing of the Judgment, declared it to the Court accordingly, which is frequently done in like Cases.



74.

TWO GROUPS OF DIVINES.

BENJAMIN WHITCHCOT or WHICHCOTE (1609-83), Provost of King's College, Cambridge, 1645. RALPH CUDWORTH (1617-88), Master of Clare College, Cambridge, 1645, and Christ's College, 1654. JOHN WILKINS (1614-72), Warden of Wadham College, Oxford, 1648; Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, 1659; Bishop of Chester, 1668. HENRY MORE (1614-87), Fellow of Christ's College, Cambridge, 1639. JOHN WORTHINGTON (1618-71), Master of Jesus College, Cambridge, 1650.

JOHN TILLOTSON (1630-94), Archbishop of Canterbury, 1691. EDWARD STILLINGFLEET (1635-99), Bishop of Worcester, 1689. SIMON PATRICK (1626-1707), Bishop of Chichester, 1689; Ely, 1691. WILLIAM LLOYD (1627-1717), Bishop of St. Asaph, 1680; Lichfield, 1692; Worcester, 1700. THOMAS TENISON (1636-1715), Archbishop of Canterbury, 1694.

By BURNET.

With this great accession of wealth there broke in upon the Church a great deal of luxury and high living, on the pretence of hospitality; while others made purchases, and left great estates, most of which we have seen melt away. And with this overset of wealth and pomp, that came on men in the decline of their parts and age, they, who were now growing into old age, became lazy and negligent in all the true concerns of the Church: They left preaching and writing to others, while they gave themselves up to ease and sloth. In all which sad representation some few exceptions are to be made; but so few, that, if a new set of men had not appeared of another stamp, the Church had quite lost her esteem over the Nation.

These were generally of Cambridge, formed under some divines, the chief of whom were Drs. Whitchcot, Cudworth, Wilkins, More, and Worthington. Whitchcot was a man of a rare temper, very mild and obliging. He had great credit with some that had been eminent in the late times; but made all the use he could of it to protect good men of all persuasions. He was much for liberty of conscience: And being disgusted with the dry systematical way of those times, he studied to raise those who conversed with him to a nobler set of thoughts, and to consider religion as a seed of a deiform nature, (to use one of his own phrases.) In order to this, he set young students much on reading the ancient Philosophers, chiefly Plato, Tully, and Plotin, and on considering the Christian religion as a doctrine sent from God, both to elevate and sweeten humane nature, in which he was a great example, as well as a wise and kind instructer. Cudworth carried this on with a great strength of genius, and a vast compass of learning. He was a man of great conduct and prudence: Upon which his enemies did very falsly accuse him of craft and dissimulation. Wilkins was of Oxford, but removed to Cambridge. His first rise was in the Elector Palatine's family, when he was in England. Afterwards he married Cromwell's sister; but made no other use of that alliance, but to do good offices, and to cover the University from the sourness of Owen and Goodwin. At Cambridge he joined with those who studied to propagate better thoughts, to take men off from being in parties, or from narrow notions, from superstitious conceits, and a fierceness about opinions. He was also a great observer and a promoter of experimental philosophy, which was then a new thing, and much looked after. He was naturally ambitious, but was the wisest Clergy-man I ever knew. He was a lover of mankind, and had a delight in doing good. More was an open hearted, and sincere Christian philosopher, who studied to establish men in the great principles of religion against atheism, that was then beginning to gain ground, chiefly by reason of the hypocrisy of some, and the fantastical conceits of the more sincere enthusiasts.

Hobbs, who had long followed the Court, and passed there for a mathematical man, tho' he really knew little that way, being disgusted by the Court, came into England in Cromwell's time, and published a very wicked book, with a very strange title, The Leviathan. His main principles were, that all men acted under an absolute necessity, in which he seemed protected by the then received doctrine of absolute decrees. He seemed to think that the universe was God, and that souls were material, Thought being only subtil and unperceptible motion. He thought interest and fear were the chief principles of society: And he put all morality in the following that which was our own private will or advantage. He thought religion had no other foundation than the laws of the land. And he put all the law in the will of the Prince, or of the people: For he writ his book at first in favour of absolute monarchy, but turned it afterwards to gratify the republican party. These were his true principles, tho' he had disguised them, for deceiving unwary readers. And this set of notions came to spread much. The novelty and boldness of them set many on reading them. The impiety of them was acceptable to men of corrupt minds, which were but too much prepared to receive them by the extravagancies of the late times. So this set of men at Cambridge studied to assert, and examine the principles of religion and morality on clear grounds, and in a philosophical method. In this More led the way to many that came after him. Worihington was a man of eminent piety and great humility, and practised a most sublime way of self-denial and devotion. All these, and those who were formed under them, studied to examine farther into the nature of things than had been done formerly. They declared against superstition on the one hand, and enthusiasm on the other. They loved the constitution of the Church, and the Liturgy, and could well live under them: But they did not think it unlawful to live under another form. They wished that things might have been carried with more moderation. And they continued to keep a good correspondence with those who had differed from them in opinion, and allowed a great freedom both in philosophy and in divinity: From whence they were called men of Latitude. And upon this men of narrower thoughts and fiercer tempers fastened upon them the name of Latitudinarians. They read Episcopius much. And the making out the reasons of things being a main part of their studies, their enemies called them Socinians. They were all very zealous against popery. And so, they becoming soon very considerable, the Papists set themselves against them to decry them as Atheists, Deists, or at best Socinians. And now that the main principle of religion was struck at by Hobbs and his followers, the Papists acted upon this a very strange part. They went in so far even into the argument for Atheism, as to publish many books, in which they affirmed, that there was no certain proofs of the Christian religion, unless we took it from the authority of the Church as infallible. This was such a delivering up of the cause to them, that it raised in all good men a very high indignation at Popery; that party shewing, that they chose to make men, who would not turn Papists, become Atheists, rather than believe Christianity upon any other ground than infallibility.

The most eminent of those, who were formed under those great men I have mention'd, were Tillotson, Stillingfleet, and Patrick. The first of these was a man of a clear head, and a sweet temper. He had the brightest thoughts, and the most correct style of all our divines; and was esteemed the best preacher of the age. He was a very prudent man; and had such a management with it, that I never knew any Clergy-man so universally esteemed and beloved, as he was for above twenty years. He was eminent for his opposition to Popery. He was no friend to persecution, and stood up much against Atheism. Nor did any man contribute more to bring the City to love our worship, than he did. But there was so little superstition, and so much reason and gentleness in his way of explaining things, that malice was long levelled at him, and in conclusion broke out fiercely on him. Stillingfleet was a man of much more learning, but of a more reserved, and a haughtier temper. He in his youth writ an Irenicum for healing our divisions, with so much learning and moderation, that it was esteemed a masterpiece. His notion was, that the Apostles had settled the Church in a constitution of Bishops, Priests, and Deacons, but had made no perpetual law about it, having only taken it in, as they did many other things, from the customs and practice of the synagogue; from which he inferred, that certainly the constitution