Ca. What's the Matter, do you take Leave before you salute?

Eu. I did not come hither to see you cry: What's the Matter, that as soon as ever you see me, the Tears stand in your Eyes?

Ca. Why in such Haste? Stay a little; pray stay. I'll put on my better Looks, and we'll be merry together.

Eu. What Sort of Cattle have we got here?

Ca. 'Tis the Patriarch of the College: Don't go away, they have had their Dose of Fuddle: Stay but a little While, and as soon as he is gone, we will discourse as we use to do.

Eu. Well, I'll be so good natur'd as to hearken to you, though you would not to me. Now we are alone, you must tell me the whole Story, I would fain have it from your Mouth.

Ca. Now I have found by Experience, of all my Friends, which I took to be very wise Men too, that no Body gave more wise and grave Advice than you, that are the youngest of 'em all.

Eu. Tell me, how did you get your Parents Consent at last?

Ca. First, by the restless Sollicitations of the Monks and Nuns, and then by my own Importunities and Tears, my Mother was at length brought over; but my Father stood out stiffly still: But at last being ply'd by several Engines, he was prevail'd upon to yield; but yet, rather like one that was forced, than that consented. The Matter was concluded in their Cups, and they preach'd Damnation to him, if he refus'd to let Christ have his Spouse.

Eu. O the Villany of Fools! But what then?

Ca. I was kept close at Home for three Days; but in the mean Time there were always with me some Women of the College that they call Convertites, mightily encouraging me to persist in my holy Resolution, and watching me narrowly, lest any of my Friends or Kindred should come at me, and make me alter my Mind. In the mean While, my Habit was making ready, and the Provision for the Feast.

Eu. How did you find yourself? Did not your Mind misgive you yet?

Ca. No, not at all; and yet I was so horridly frighted, that I had rather die ten Times over, than suffer the same again.

Eu. What was that, pray?

Ca. It is not to be uttered.

Eu. Come, tell me freely, you know I'm your Friend.

Ca. Will you keep Counsel?

Eu. I should do that without promising, and I hope you know me better than to doubt of it.

Ca. I had a most dreadful Apparition.

Eu. Perhaps it was your evil Genius that push'd you on to this.

Ca. I am fully persuaded it was an evil Spirit.

Eu. Tell me what Shape it was in. Was it such as we use to paint with a crooked Beak, long Horns, Harpies Claws, and swinging Tail?

Ca. You make a Game of it, but I had rather sink into the Earth, than see such another.

Eu. And were your Women Sollicitresses with you then?

Ca. No, nor I would not so much as open my Lips of it to them, though they sifted me most particularly about it, when they found me almost dead with the Surprise.

Eu. Shall I tell you what it was?

Ca. Do if you can.

Eu. Those Women had certainly bewitch'd you, or conjur'd your Brain out of your Head rather. But did you persist in your Resolution still, for all this?

Ca. Yes, for they told me, that many were thus troubled upon their first consecrating themselves to Christ; but if they got the better of the Devil that Bout, he'd let them alone for ever after.

Eu. Well, what Pomp were you carried out with?

Ca. They put on all my Finery, let down my Hair, and dress'd me just as if it had been for my Wedding.

Eu. To a fat Monk, perhaps; Hem! a Mischief take this Cough.

Ca. I was carried from my Father's House to the College by broad Day-Light, and a World of People staring at me.

Eu. O these Scaramouches, how they know to wheedle the poor People! How many Days did you continue in that holy College of Virgins, forsooth?

Ca. Till Part of the twelfth Day.

Eu. But what was it that changed your Mind, that had been so resolutely bent upon it?

Ca. I must not tell you what it was, but it was something very considerable. When I had been there six Days, I sent for my Mother; I begged of her, and besought her, as she lov'd my Life, to get me out of the College again. She would not hear on't, but bad me hold to my Resolution. Upon that I sent for my Father, but he chid me too, telling me, that I had made him master his Affections, and that now he'd make me master mine, and not disgrace him, by starting from my Purpose. At last, when I saw that I could do no good with them this Way, I told my Father and Mother both, that to please them, I would submit to die, and that would certainly be my Fate, if they did not take me out, and that very quickly too; and upon this, they took me Home.

Eu. It was very well that you recanted before you had profess'd yourself for good and all: But still, I don't hear what it was changed your Mind so suddenly.

Ca. I never told any Mortal yet, nor shall.

Eu. What if I should guess?

Ca. I'm sure you can't guess it; and if you do, I won't tell you.

Eu. Well, for all that, I guess what it was. But in the mean Time, you have been at a great Charge.

Ca. Above 400 Crowns.

Eu. O these guttling Nuptials! Well, but I am glad though the Money is gone, that you're safe: For the Time to come, hearken to good Counsel when it is given you.

Ca. So I will. The burnt Child dreads the Fire.



The UNEASY WIFE.

The ARGUMENT.

This Colloquy, entitled, The uneasy Wife: Or, Uxor [Greek: Mempsigamos], treats of many Things that relate to the mutual Nourishment of conjugal Affection. Concerning the concealing a Husband's Faults; of not interrupting conjugal Benevolence; of making up Differences; of mending a Husband's Manners; of a Woman's Condescension to her Husband. What is the Beauty of a Woman; she disgraces herself, that disgraces her Husband; that the Wife ought to submit to the Husband; that the Husband ought not to be out of Humour when the Wife is; and on the Contrary; that they ought to study mutual Concord, since there is no Room for Advice; that they ought to conceal one another's Faults, and not expose one another; that it is in the Power of the Wife to mend her Husband; that she ought to carry herself engagingly, learn his Humour, what provokes him or appeases him; that all Things be in Order at Home; that he have what he likes best to eat; that if the Husband be vext, the Wife don't laugh; if he be angry, that she should speak pleasantly to him, or hold her Tongue; that what she blames him for, should be betwixt themselves; the Method of admonishing; that she ought to make her Complaint to no Body but her Husband's Parents; or to some peculiar Friends that have an Influence upon him. The Example of a prudent Man, excellently managing a young morose Wife, by making his Complaint to her Father. Another of a prudent Wife, that by her good Carriage reformed a Husband that frequented leud Company, Another of a Man that had beaten his Wife in his angry Fit; that Husbands are to be overcome, brought into Temper by Mildness, Sweetness, and Kindness; that there should be no Contention in the Chamber or in the Bed; but that Care should be taken, that nothing but Pleasantness and Engagingness be there. The Girdle of Venus is Agreeableness of Manners. Children make a mutual Amity. That a Woman separated from her Husband, is nothing: Let her always be mindful of the Respect that is due to a Husband.

EULALIA, XANTIPPE.

EU. Most welcome Xantippe, a good Morning to you.

Xa. I wish you the same, my dear Eulalia. Methinks you look prettier than you use to do.

Eu. What, do you begin to banter me already?

Xa. No, upon my Word, for you seem so to me.

Eu. Perhaps then my new Cloaths may set me off to Advantage.

Xa. You guess right, it is one of the prettiest Suits I ever beheld in all my Life. It is English Cloth, I suppose.

Eu. It is indeed of English Wool, but it is a Venetian Dye.

Xa. It is as soft as Silk, and 'tis a charming Purple. Who gave you this fine Present?

Eu. My Husband. From whom should a virtuous Wife receive Presents but from him?

Xa. Well, you are a happy Woman, that you are, to have such a good Husband. For my Part, I wish I had been married to a Mushroom when I was married to my Nick.

Eu. Why so, pray? What! is it come to an open Rupture between you already?

Xa. There is no Possibility of agreeing with such a one as I have got. You see what a ragged Condition I am in; so he lets me go like a Dowdy! May I never stir, if I an't asham'd to go out of Doors any whither, when I see how fine other Women are, whose Husbands are nothing nigh so rich as mine is.

Eu. The Ornament of a Matron does not consist in fine Cloaths or other Deckings of the Body, as the Apostle Peter teaches, for I heard that lately in a Sermon; but in chaste and modest Behaviour, and the Ornaments of the Mind. Whores are trick'd up to take the Eyes of many but we are well enough drest, if we do but please our own Husbands.

Xa. But mean while this worthy Tool of mine, that is so sparing toward his Wife, lavishly squanders away the Portion I brought along with me, which by the Way was not a mean one.

Eu. In what?

Xa. Why, as the Maggot bites, sometimes at the Tavern, sometimes upon his Whores, sometimes a gaming.

Eu. O fie, you should never say so of your Husband.

Xa. But I'm sure 'tis too true; and then when he comes Home, after I have been waiting for him till I don't know what Time at Night, as drunk as David's Sow, he does nothing but lye snoring all Night long by my Side, and sometimes bespues the Bed too, to say nothing more.

Eu. Hold your Tongue: You disgrace yourself in disgracing your Husband.

Xa. Let me dye, if I had not rather lye with a Swine than such a Husband as I have got.

Eu. Don't you scold at him then?

Xa. Yes, indeed, I use him as he deserves. He finds I have got a Tongue in my Head.

Eu. Well, and what does he say to you again?

Xa. At first he used to hector at me lustily, thinking to fright me with his big Words.

Eu. Well, and did your Words never come to downright Blows?

Xa. Once, and but once, and then the Quarrel rose to that Height on both Sides, that we were within an Ace of going to Fisty-Cuffs.

Eu. How, Woman! say you so?

Xa. He held up his Stick at me, swearing and cursing like a Foot-Soldier, and threatening me dreadfully.

Eu. Were not you afraid then?

Xa. Nay, I snatch'd up a three legg'd Stool, and if he had but touch'd me with his Finger, he should have known he had to do with a Woman of Spirit.

Eu. Ah! my Xantippe, that was not becoming.

Xa. What becoming? If he does not use me like a Wife, I won't use him like a Husband.

Eu. But St. Paul teaches, that Wives ought to be subject to their own Husbands with all Reverence. And St. Peter proposes the Example of Sarah to us, who call'd her Husband Abraham Lord.

Xa. I have heard those Things, but the same Paul likewise teaches that Men should love their Wives as Christ lov'd his Spouse the Church. Let him remember his Duty and I'll remember mine.

Eu. But nevertheless when Things are come to that Pass that one must submit to the other, it is but reasonable that the Wife submit to her Husband.

Xa. Yes indeed, if he deserves the Name of a Husband who uses me like a Kitchen Wench.

Eu. But tell me, Xantippe, did he leave off threatening after this?

Xa. He did leave off, and it was his Wisdom so to do, or else he would have been thresh'd.

Eu. But did not you leave off Scolding at him?

Xa. No, nor never will.

Eu. But what does he do in the mean Time?

Xa. What! Why sometimes he pretends himself to be fast asleep, and sometimes does nothing in the World but laugh at me; sometimes he catches up his Fiddle that has but three Strings, scraping upon it with all his Might, and drowns the Noise of my Bawling.

Eu. And does not that vex you to the Heart?

Xa. Ay, so that it is impossible to be express'd, so that sometimes I can scarce keep my Hands off of him.

Eu. Well, my Xantippe, give me Leave to talk a little freely with you.

Xa. I do give you Leave.

Eu. Nay, you shall use the same Freedom with me. Our Intimacy, which has been in a Manner from our very Cradles, requires this.

Xa. You say true, nor was there any of my Playfellows that I more dearly lov'd than you.

Eu. Let your Husband be as bad as bad can be, think upon this, That there is no changing. Heretofore, indeed, Divorce was a Remedy for irreconcilable Disagreements, but now this is entirely taken away: He must be your Husband and you his Wife to the very last Day of Life.

Xa. The Gods did very wrong that depriv'd us of this Privilege.

Eu. Have a Care what you say. It was the Will of Christ.

Xa. I can scarce believe it.

Eu. It is as I tell you. Now you have nothing left to do but to study to suit your Tempers and Dispositions one to another, and agree together.

Xa. Do you think, I can be able to new-make him?

Eu. It does not a little depend upon the Wives, what Men Husbands shall be.

Xa. Do you and your Husband agree very well together?

Eu. All is quiet with us now.

Xa. Well then, you had some Difference at first.

Eu. Never any Thing of a Storm; but yet, as it is common with human Kind, sometimes a few small Clouds would rise, which might have produc'd a Storm, if it had not been prevented by Condescention. Every one has his Humours, and every one their Fancies, and if we would honestly speak the Truth, every one his Faults, more or less, which if in any State, certainly in Matrimony we ought to connive at, and not to hate.

Xa. You speak very right.

Eu. It frequently happens that that mutual Love that ought to be between the Husband and Wife is cooled before they come to be throughly acquainted one with another. This is the first Thing that ought to be provided against; for when a Spirit of Dissention is once sprung up, it is a difficult Matter to bring them to a Reconciliation, especially if it ever proceeded so far as to come to reproachful Reflections. Those Things that are joined together with Glue, are easily pull'd one from another if they be handled roughly as soon as done, but when once they have been fast united together, and the Glue is dry, there is nothing more firm. For this Reason, all the Care possible is to be taken that good Will between Man and Wife be cultivated and confirmed even in the Infancy of Matrimony. This is principally effected by Obsequiousness, and an Agreeableness of Tempers. For that Love that is founded only upon Beauty, is for the most part but short-liv'd.

Xa. But prithee tell me by what Arts you brought your Husband to your Humour.

Eu. I'll tell you for this End, that you may copy after me.

Xa. Well, I will, if I can.

Eu. It will be very easy to do, if you will; nor is it too late yet; for he is in the Flower of his Youth, and you are but a Girl; and as I take it, have not been married this Twelve Months yet.

Xa. You are very right.

Eu. Then I'll tell you; but upon Condition, that you'll not speak of it.

Xa. Well, I will not.

Eu. It was my first Care that I might please my Husband in every Respect, that nothing might give him Offence. I diligently observed his Inclinations and Temper, and also observed what were his easiest Moments, what Things pleas'd him, and what vex'd him, as they use to do who tame Elephants and Lions, or such Sort of Creatures, that can't be master'd by downright Strength.

Xa. And such an Animal have I at Home.

Eu. Those that go near Elephants, wear no Garment that is white; nor those who manage Bulls, red; because it is found by Experience, that these Creatures are made fierce by these Colours, just as Tygers are made so raging mad by the Sound of a Drum, that they will tear their own selves; and Jockies have particular Sounds, and Whistles, and Stroakings, and other Methods to sooth Horses that are mettlesome: How much more does it become us to use these Acts towards our Husbands, with whom, whether we will or no, we must live all our Lives at Bed and Board?

Xa. Well, go on with what you have begun.

Eu. Having found out his Humour, I accommodated myself to him, taking Care that nothing should offend him.

Xa. How could you do that?

Eu. I was very diligent in the Care of my Family, which is the peculiar Province of Women, that nothing was neglected, and that every Thing should be suitable to his Temper, altho' it were in the most minute Things.

Xa. What Things?

Eu. Suppose my Husband peculiarly fancied such a Dish of Meat, or liked it dress'd after such a Manner; or if he lik'd his Bed made after such or such a Manner.

Xa. But how could you humour one who was never at Home, or was drunk?

Eu. Have Patience, I was coming to that Point. If at any Time my Husband seem'd to be melancholy, and did not much care for talking, I did not laugh, and put on a gay Humour, as some Women are us'd to do; but I put on a grave demure Countenance, as well as he. For as a Looking-glass, if it be a true one, represents the Face of the Person that looks into it, so a Wife ought to frame herself to the Temper of her Husband, not to be chearful when he is melancholy, nor be merry when he is in a Passion. And if at any Time he was in a Passion, I either endeavoured to sooth him with fair Words, or held my Tongue till his Passion was over; and having had Time to cool, Opportunity offered, either of clearing myself, or of admonishing him. I took the same Method, if at any Time he came Home fuddled, and at such a Time never gave him any Thing but tender Language, that by kind Expressions, I might get him to go to Bed.

Xa. That is indeed a very unhappy Portion for Wives, if they must only humour their Husbands, when they are in a Passion, and doing every Thing that they have a Mind to do.

Eu. As tho' this Duty were not reciprocal, and that our Husbands are not forc'd to bear with many of our Humours: However, there is a Time, when a Wife may take the Freedom in a Matter of some Importance to advise her Husband; but as for small Faults, it is better to wink at them.

Xa. But what Time is that?

Eu. When his Mind is serene; when he's neither in a Passion, nor in the Hippo, nor in Liquor; then being in private, you may kindly advise him, but rather intreat him, that he would act more prudently in this or that Matter, relating either to his Estate, Reputation, or Health. And this very Advice is to be season'd with witty Jests and Pleasantries. Sometimes by Way of Preface, I make a Bargain with him before-Hand, that he shall not be angry with me, if being a foolish Woman, I take upon me to advise him in any Thing, that might seem to concern his Honour, Health, or Preservation. When I have said what I had a Mind to say, I break off that Discourse, and turn it into some other more entertaining Subject. For, my Xantippe, this is the Fault of us Women, that when once we have begun, we don't know when to make an End.

Xa. Why, so they say, indeed.

Eu. This chiefly I observed as a Rule, never to chide my Husband before Company, nor to carry any Complaints out of Doors. What passes between two People, is more easily made up, than when once it has taken Air. Now if any Thing of that kind shall happen, that cannot be born with, and that the Husband can't be cur'd by the Admonition of his Wife, it is more prudent for the Wife to carry her Complaints to her Husband's Parents and Kindred, than to her own; and so to soften her Complaint, that she mayn't seem to hate her Husband, but her Husband's Vices: And not to blab out all neither, that her Husband may tacitly own and love his Wife for her Civility.

Xa. A Woman must needs be a Philosopher, who can be able to do this.

Eu. By this Deportment we invite our Husbands to return the Civility.

Xa. But there are some Brutes in the World, whom you cannot amend, by the utmost good Carriage.

Eu. In Truth, I don't think it: But put the Case there are: First, consider this; a Husband must be born with, let him be as bad as he will. It is better therefore to bear with him as he is, or made a little better by our courteous Temper, than by our Outrageousness to make him grow every Day worse and worse. What if I should give Instances of Husbands, who by the like civil Treatment have altered their Spouses much for the better? How much more does it become us to use our Husbands after this Manner?

Xa. You will give an Instance then of a Man, that is as unlike my Husband, as black is from white.

Eu. I have the Honour to be acquainted with a Gentleman of a noble Family; Learned, and of singular Address and Dexterity; he married a young Lady, a Virgin of seventeen Years of Age, that had been educated all along in the Country in her Father's House, as Men of Quality love to reside in the Country, for the Sake of Hunting and Fowling: He had a Mind to have a raw unexperienc'd Maid, that he might the more easily form her Manners to his own Humour. He began to instruct her in Literature and Musick, and to use her by Degrees to repeat the Heads of Sermons, which she heard, and to accomplish her with other Things, which would afterwards be of Use to her. Now these Things being wholly new to the Girl, which had been brought up at Home, to do nothing but gossip and play, she soon grew weary of this Life, she absolutely refus'd to submit to what her Husband requir'd of her; and when her Husband press'd her about it, she would cry continually, sometimes she would throw herself flat on the Ground, and beat her Head against the Ground, as tho' she wish'd for Death. Her Husband finding there was no End of this, conceal'd his Resentment, gave his Wife an Invitation to go along with him into the Country to his Father-in-Law's House, for the Sake of a little Diversion. His Wife very readily obey'd him in this Matter. When they came there, the Husband left his Wife with her Mother and Sisters, and went a Hunting with his Father-in-Law; there having taken him aside privately, he tells his Father-in-law, that whereas he was in good Hopes to have had an agreeable Companion of his Daughter, he now had one that was always a crying, and fretting herself; nor could she be cured by any Admonitions, and intreats him to lend a helping Hand to cure his Daughter's Disorder. His Father-in-Law made him answer, that he had once put his Daughter into his Hand, and if she did not obey him, he might use his Authority, and cudgel her into a due Submission. The Son-in-Law replies, I know my own Power, but I had much rather she should be reform'd by your Art or Authority, than to come to these Extremities. The Father-in-Law promis'd him to take some Care about the Matter: So a Day or two after, he takes a proper Time and Place, when he was alone with his Daughter, and looking austerely upon her, begins in telling her how homely she was, and how disagreeable as to her Disposition, and how often he had been in Fear that he should never be able to get her a Husband: But after much Pains, says he, I found you such a one, that the best Lady of the Land would have been glad of; and yet, you not being sensible what I have done for you, nor considering that you have such a Husband, who if he were not the best natur'd Man in the World, would scarce do you the Honour to take you for one of his Maid Servants, you are disobedient to him: To make short of my Story, the Father grew so hot in his Discourse, that he seem'd to be scarce able to keep his Hands off her; for he was so wonderful cunning a Man, that he would act any Part, as well as any Comedian. The young Lady, partly for Fear, and partly convinc'd by the Truth of what was told her, fell down at her Father's Feet, beseeching him to forget past Faults, and for the Time to come, she would be mindful of her Duty. Her Father freely forgave her, and also promised, that he would be to her a very indulgent Father, provided she perform'd what she promis'd.

Xa. Well, what happened after that?

Eu. The young Lady going away, after her Fathers Discourse was ended, went directly into her Chamber, and finding her Husband alone, she fell down on her Knees, and said, Husband, till this very Moment, I neither knew you nor myself; but from this Time forward, you shall find me another Sort of Person; only, I intreat you to forget what is past. The Husband receiv'd this Speech with a Kiss, and promised to do every Thing she could desire, if she did but continue in that Resolution.

Xa. What! Did she continue in it?

Eu. Even to her dying Day; nor was any Thing so mean, but she readily and chearfully went about it, if her Husband would have it so. So great a Love grew, and was confirm'd between them. Some Years after, the young Lady would often congratulate herself, that she had happen'd to marry such a Husband, which had it not happen'd, said she, I had been the most wretched Woman alive.

Xa. Such Husbands are as scarce now a Days as white Crows.

Eu. Now if it will not be tedious to you, I'll tell you a Story, that lately happen'd in this City, of a Husband that was reclaimed by the good Management of his Wife.

Xa. I have nothing to do at present, and your Conversation is very diverting.

Eu. There is a certain Gentleman of no mean Descent; he, like the rest of his Quality, used often to go a Hunting: Being in the Country, he happen'd to see a young Damsel, the Daughter of a poor old Woman, and began to fall desperately in love with her. He was a Man pretty well in Years; and for the Sake of this young Maid, he often lay out a Nights, and his Pretence for it was Hunting. His Wife, a Woman of an admirable Temper, suspecting something more than ordinary, went in search to find out her Husband's Intrigues, and having discover'd them, by I can't tell what Method, she goes to the Country Cottage, and learnt all the Particulars where he lay, what he drank, and what Manner of Entertainment he had at Table. There was no Furniture in the House, nothing but naked Walls. The Gentlewoman goes Home, and quickly after goes back again, carrying with her a handsome Bed and Furniture, some Plate and Money, bidding them to treat him with more Respect, if at any Time he came there again. A few Days after, her Husband steals an Opportunity to go thither, and sees the Furniture increas'd, and finds his Entertainment more delicate than it us'd to be; he enquir'd from whence this unaccustomed Finery came: They said, that a certain honest Gentlewoman of his Acquaintance, brought these Things; and gave them in Charge, that he should be treated with more Respect for the future. He presently suspected that this was done by his Wife. When he came Home, he ask'd her if she had been there. She did not deny it. Then he ask'd her for what Reason she had sent thither that household Furniture? My Dear, says she, you are us'd to a handsomer Way of Living: I found that you far'd hardly there, I thought it my Duty, since you took a Fancy to the Place, that your Reception should be more agreeable.

Xa. A Wife good even to an Excess. I should sooner have sent him a Bundle of Nettles and Thorns, than furnish'd him with a fine Bed.

Eu. But hear the Conclusion of my Story; the Gentleman was so touch'd, seeing so much good Nature and Temper in his Wife, that he never after that violated her Bed, but solaced himself with her at Home. I know you know Gilbert the Dutchman.

Xa. I know him.

Eu. He, you know, in the prime of his Age, marry'd a Gentlewoman well stricken in Years, and in a declining Age.

Xa. It may be he marry'd the Portion, and not the Woman.

Eu. So it was. He having an Aversion to his Wife, was over Head and Ears in Love with a young Woman, with whom he us'd ever and anon to divert himself abroad. He very seldom either din'd or supp'd at home. What would you have done, if this had been your Case, Xantippe?

Xa. Why I would have torn his beloved Strumpet's Headcloths off, and I would have wash'd him well with a Chamber-Pot, when he was going to her, that he might have gone thus perfum'd to his Entertainment.

Eu. But how much more prudently did this Gentlewoman behave herself. She invited his Mistress home to her House, and treated her with all the Civility imaginable. So she kept her Husband without any magical Charms. And if at any Time he supp'd abroad with her, she sent them thither some Nicety or other, desiring them to be merry together.

Xa. As for me, I would sooner chuse to lose my Life than to be Bawd to my own Husband.

Eu. But in the mean Time, pray consider the Matter soberly and coolly. Was not this much better, than if she had by her ill Temper totally alienated her Husband's Affections from her, and spent her whole Life in quarrelling and brawling.

Xa. I believe, that of two Evils it was the least, but I could never have submitted to it.

Eu. I will add one more, and then I'll have done with Examples. A next Door Neighbour of ours is a very honest, good Man, but a little too subject to Passion. One Day he beat his Wife, a Woman of commendable Prudence. She immediately withdrew into a private Room, and there gave Vent to her Grief by Tears and Sighs. Soon after upon some Occasion her Husband came into the Room, and found his Wife all in Tears. What's the Matter, says he, that you're crying and sobbing like a Child? To which she prudently reply'd, Why, says she, is it not much better to lament my Misfortune here, than if I should make a Bawling in the Street, as other Women do? The Man's Mind was so overcome and mollified by this Answer, so like a Wife, that giving her his Hand, he made a solemn Promise to his Wife, he would never lay his Hand upon her after, as long as he liv'd. Nor did he ever do it.

Xa. I have obtain'd as much from my Husband, but by a different Conduct.

Eu. But in the mean Time there are perpetual Wars between you.

Xa. What then would you have me to do?

Eu. If your Husband offers you any Affront, you must take no Notice of it, but endeavour to gain his good Will by all good Offices, courteous Carriage, and Meekness of Spirit, and by these Methods, you will in Time, either wholly reclaim him, or at least you will live with him much more easy than now you do.

Xa. Ay, but he's too ill-natur'd to be wrought upon by all the kind Offices in the World.

Eu. Hold, don't say so, there is no Beast that is so savage but he may be tam'd by good Management; therefore don't despair of it as to a Man. Do but make the Experiment for a few Months, and if you do not find that this Advice has been of Benefit to you, blame me. And there are also some Faults that you must wink at; but above all Things, it is my Opinion, you ought to avoid ever to begin any Quarrel either in the Bed-Chamber, or in Bed, and to take a special Care that every Thing there be chearful and pleasant. For if that Place which is consecrated for the wiping out old Miscarriages and the cementing of Love, comes to be unhallowed by Contention and Sourness of Temper, all Remedy for the Reconcilement is taken away. For there are some Women of so morose Tempers that they will be querulous, and scold even while the Rites of Love are performing, and will by the Uneasiness of their Tempers render that Fruition itself disagreeable which is wont to discharge the Minds of Men from any Heart-burning, that they may have had; and by this Means they spoil that Cordial, by which Misunderstandings in Matrimony might be cured.

Xa. That has been often my Case.

Eu. And tho' it ought always to be the Care of a Wife, not to make her Husband uneasy in any Thing; yet that ought to be especially her Care to study, in conjugal Embraces to render herself by all ways possible, agreeable and delightful to her Husband.

Xa. To a Man, indeed! But I have to do with an untractable Beast.

Eu. Come, come, leave off Railing. For the most part Husbands are made bad, by our bad Conduct. But to return to our Argument, those that are conversant in the antient Fables of the Poets, tell you that Venus, (whom they make a Goddess, that presides over Matrimony) had a Girdle or Cestus which was made for her by Vulcan's Art, in which were interwoven all bewitching Ingredients of an amorous Medicament, and that she put this on whenever she went to bed to her Husband.

Xa. I hear a Fable.

Eu. It is true: But hear the Moral of it.

Xa. Tell it me.

Eu. That teaches that a Wife ought to use all the Care imaginable to be so engaging to her Husband in conjugal Embraces, that matrimonial Affection may be retain'd and renew'd, and if there has been any Distaste or Aversion, it may be expell'd the Mind.

Xa. But where can a Body get this Girdle?

Eu. There is no Need of Witchcrafts and Spells to procure one. There is no Enchantment so effectual as Virtue, join'd with a Sweetness of Disposition.

Xa. I can't be able to bring myself to humour such a Husband as I have got.

Eu. But this is for your Interest, that he would leave off to be such a bad Husband. If you could by Circe's Art transform your Husband into a Swine or a Bear, would you do it?

Xa. I can't tell, whether I should or no.

Eu. Which had you rather have, a Swine to your Husband, or a Man?

Xa. In Truth, I had rather have a Man.

Eu. Well, come on. What if you could by Circe's Arts make him a sober Man of a Drunkard, a frugal Man of a Spendthrift, a diligent Man of an idle Fellow, would you not do it?

Xa. To be sure, I would do it. But how shall I attain the Art?

Eu. You have the Art in yourself, if you would but make Use of it. Whether you will or no he must be your Husband, and the better Man you make him, the more you consult your own Advantage. You only keep your Eyes fix'd upon his Faults, and those aggravate your Aversion to him; and only hold him by this Handle, which is such a one that he cannot be held by; but rather take Notice of what good Qualities he has, and hold him by this Handle, which is a Handle he may be held by: Before you married him, you had Time of considering what his Defects were. A Husband is not to be chosen by the Eyes only, but by the Ears too. Now 'tis your Time to cure him, and not to find Fault with him.

Xa. What Woman ever made Choice of a Husband by her Ears?

Eu. She chuses a Husband by her Eyes, which looks at nothing else but his Person and bare Outside: She chuses him by her Ears, who carefully observes what Reputation he has in the World.

Xa. This is good Advice, but it is too late.

Eu. But it is not too late to endeavour to amend your Husband. It will contribute something to the Matter, if you could have any Children by him.

Xa. I have had one.

Eu. When?

Xa. A long Time ago.

Eu. How many Months?

Xa. Why, about Seven.

Eu. What do I hear! You put me in Mind of the Joke of the three Months Lying in.

Xa. By no Means.

Eu. It must be so, if you reckon from the Day of Marriage.

Xa. But I had some private Discourse with him before Marriage.

Eu. Are Children got by Talking?

Xa. He having by Chance got me into a Room by myself, began to play with me, tickling me about the Arm-pits and Sides, to make me laugh, and I not being able to bear being tickled any longer, threw myself flat upon the Bed, and he lying upon me, kiss'd me, and I don't know what he did to me besides; but this is certain, within a few Days after, my Belly began to swell.

Eu. Get you gone now, and slight a Husband, who if he can get Children jesting, what will he do if he sets about it in earnest?

Xa. I suspect that I am now with Child by him again.

Eu. O brave! to a good Soil, here's a good Ploughman to till it.

Xa. As to this Affair, he's better than I wish he was.

Eu. Very few Wives have this Complaint to make: But, I suppose, the Marriage Contract was made between you, before this happened.

Xa. It was made.

Eu. Then the Sin was so much the less. Is your Child a Boy?

Xa. It is.

Eu. That will reconcile you both, if you will but qualify yourself a little for it. What Sort of Character do your Husband's Companions give him? And what Company does he keep when he is abroad?

Xa. They give him the Character of an exceeding good-humour'd, courteous, generous Man, and a true Friend to his Friend.

Eu. These Things give me great Hopes, that he will become such as we would have him be.

Xa. But I am the only Person he is not so to.

Eu. Do you but be to him what I have told you, and if he does not begin to be so to you, instead of Eulalia (a good Speaker), call me Pseudolalia (a prating Liar); and besides, consider this, that he's but a young Man yet, I believe not above twenty-four Years of Age, and does not yet know what it is to be the Master of a Family. You must never think of a Divorce now.

Xa. But I have thought on it a great many Times.

Eu. But if ever that Thought comes into your Mind again, first of all consider with yourself, what an insignificant Figure a Woman makes when she is parted from her Husband. It is the greatest Glory of a Matron, to be obedient to her Husband. This Nature dictates, and it is the Will of God, that the Woman should wholly depend upon her Husband: Only think, as it really is, he is your Husband, you cannot have another. Then call to Mind that the little Boy belongs to you both. What would you do with him? Would you take him away with you? Then will you defraud your Husband of his own. Will you leave him to him? Then you will deprive yourself of that, than which nothing is more dear. Last of all, tell me, is there any Body that wishes you ill?

Xa. I have a Step-Mother, and a Mother-in-Law, as like her as may be.

Eu. And they wish you ill, do they?

Xa. They wish me in my Grave.

Eu. Then think of them likewise. What can you be able to do, that would be more grateful to them, than if they should see you divorc'd from your Husband; a Widow, nay, to live, a Widow bewitcht, worse than a Widow? For Widows may marry again.

Xa. I approve of your Advice; but can't bear the Thoughts of being always a Slave.

Eu. Recount what Pains you took before you could teach that Parrot to prattle.

Xa. A great Deal indeed.

Eu. And yet you think much to bestow a little Pains to mould your Husband, with whom you may live a pleasant Life all your Days. What a Deal of Pains do Men take to render a Horse tractable to them: And shall we think much to take a little Pains to render our Husbands more agreeable?

Xa. What must I do?

Eu. I have told you already, take Care that all Things be neat, and in Order at Home, that there be nothing discomposing, to make him go out of Doors; behave yourself easy and free to him, always remembring that Respect which is due from a Wife to a Husband. Let all Melancholy and ill-tim'd Gaiety be banished out of Doors; be not morose nor frolicksome. Let your Table be handsomely provided. You know your Husband's Palate, dress that which he likes best. Behave yourself courteously and affably to those of his Acquaintance he respects. Invite them frequently to Dinner; let all Things be pleasant and chearful at Table. Lastly, if at any Time he happens to come Home a little merry with Wine, and shall fall to playing on his Fiddle, do you sing, to him, so you will gradually inure your Husband to keep at Home, and also lessen his Expences: For he will thus reason with himself; was not I mad with a Witness, who live abroad with a nasty Harlot, to the apparent Prejudice of my Estate and Reputation, when I have at Home a Wife much more entertaining and affectionate to me, with whom I may be entertained more handsomely and more plentifully?

Xa. Do you think I shall succeed, if I try?

Eu. Look to me for that. I engage that you will: In the mean Time I'll talk to your Husband, and put him in Mind of his Duty.

Xa. I approve of your Design; but take Care that he mayn't discover any Thing of what has past between us two, for he would throw the House out of the Windows.

Eu. Don't fear, I'll order my Discourse so by Turnings and Windings, that he shall tell me himself, what Quarrels have happened between you. When I have brought this about, I'll treat him after my Way, as engagingly as can be, and I hope, shall render him to you better temper'd: I'll likewise take Occasion to tell a Lie or two in your Favour, how lovingly and respectfully you spoke of him.

Xa. Heaven prosper both our Undertakings.

Eu. It will, I doubt not, if you are not wanting to yourself.



The SOLDIER and CARTHUSIAN.

The ARGUMENT.

This Colloquy sets out to the Life, the Madness of young Men that run into the Wars, and the Life of a pious Carthusian, which without the love of Study, can't but be melancholy and unpleasant. The Manners of Soldiers, the Manners and Diet of Carthusians. Advice in chusing a Way of getting a Livelihood. The Conveniency of a single Life, to be at Leisure for Reading and Meditation. Wicked Soldiers oftentimes butcher Men for a pitiful Reward. The daily Danger of a Soldier's Life.

The SOLDIER and CARTHUSIAN.

Sol. Good Morrow, my Brother.

Cart. Good Morrow to you, dear Cousin.

Sol. I scarce knew you.

Cart. Am I grown so old in two Years Time?

Sol. No; but your bald Crown, and your new Dress, make you look to me like another Sort of Creature.

Cart. It may be you would not know your own Wife, if she should meet you in a new Gown.

Sol. No; not if she was in such a one as yours.

Cart. But I know you very well, who are not altered as to your Dress; but your Face, and the whole Habit of your Body: Why, how many Colours are you painted with? No Bird had ever such a Variety of Feathers. How all is cut and slash'd! Nothing according to Nature or Fashion! your cut Hair, your half-shav'd Beard, and that Wood upon your upper Lip, entangled and standing out straggling like the Whiskers of a Cat. Nor is it one single Scar that has disfigured your Face, that you may very well be taken for one of the Samian literati, [q.d. burnt in the Cheek] concerning whom there is a joking Proverb.

Sol. Thus it becomes a Man to come back from the Wars. But, pray, tell me, was there so great a Scarcity of good Physicians in this Quarter of the World?

Cart. Why do you ask?

Sol. Because you did not get the Distemper of your Brain cur'd, before you plung'd yourself into this Slavery.

Cart. Why, do you think I was mad then?

Sol. Yes, I do. What Occasion was there for you to be buried here, before your Time, when you had enough in the World to have lived handsomely upon?

Cart. What, don't you think I live in the World now?

Sol. No, by Jove.

Cart. Tell me why.

Sol. Because you can't go where you list. You are confin'd in this Place as in a Coop. Besides, your bald Pate, and your prodigious strange Dress, your Lonesomeness, your eating Fish perpetually, so that I admire you are not turn'd into a Fish.

Cart. If Men were turn'd into what they eat, you had long ago been turn'd into a Hog, for you us'd to be a mighty Lover of Pork.

Sol. I don't doubt but you have repented of what you have done, long enough before now, for I find very few that don't repent of it.

Cart. This usually happens to those who plunge themselves headlong into this Kind of Life, as if they threw themselves into a Well; but I have enter'd into it warily and considerately, having first made Trial of myself, and having duly examined the whole Ratio of this Way of Living, being twenty-eight Years of Age, at which Time, every one may be suppos'd to know himself. And as for the Place, you are confined in a small Compass as well as I, if you compare it to the Extent of the whole World. Nor does it signify any Thing how large the Place is, as long as it wants nothing of the Conveniences of Life. There are many that seldom stir out of the City in which they were born, which if they were prohibited from going out, would be very uneasy, and would be wonderfully desirous to do it. This is a common Humour, that I am not troubled with. I fancy this Place to be the whole World to me, and this Map represents the whole Globe of the Earth, which I can travel over in Thought with more Delight and Security than he that sails to the new-found Islands.

Sol. What you say as to this, comes pretty near the Truth.

Cart. You can't blame me for shaving my Head, who voluntarily have your own Hair clipp'd, for Conveniency Sake. Shaving, to me, if it does nothing else, certainly keeps my Head more clean, and perhaps more healthful too. How many Noblemen at Venice shave their Heads all over? What has my Garment in it that is monstrous? Does it not cover my Body? Our Garments are for two Uses, to defend us from the Inclemency of the Weather, and to cover our Nakedness. Does not this Garment answer both these Ends? But perhaps the Colour offends you. What Colour is more becoming Christians than that which was given to all in Baptism? It has been said also, Take a white Garment; so that this Garment puts me in Mind of what I promised in Baptism, that is, the perpetual Study of Innocency. And besides, if you call that Solitude which is only a retiring from the Crowd, we have for this the Example, not only of our own, but of the ancient Prophets, the Ethnick Philosophers, and all that had any Regard to the keeping a good Conscience. Nay, Poets, Astrologers, and Persons devoted to such-like Arts, whensoever they take in Hand any Thing that's great and beyond the Sphere of the common People, commonly betake themselves to a Retreat. But why should you call this Kind of Life Solitude? The Conversation of one single Friend drives away the Taedium of Solitude. I have here more than sixteen Companions, fit for all Manner of Conversation. And besides, I have Friends who come to visit me oftner than I would have them, or is convenient Do I then, in your Opinion, live melancholy?

Sol. But you cannot always have these to talk with.

Cart. Nor is it always expedient: For Conversation is the pleasanter, for being something interrupted.

Sol. You don't think amiss; for even to me myself, Flesh relishes much better after Lent.

Cart. And more than that, when I seem to be most alone, I don't want Companions, which are by far more delightful and entertaining than those common Jesters.

Sol. Where are they?

Cart. Look you, here are the four Evangelists. In this Book he that so pleasantly commun'd with the two Disciples in the Way going to Emaus, and who by his heavenly Discourse caus'd them not to be sensible of the Fatigue of their Journey, but made their Hearts burn within them with a divine Ardour of hearing his sweet Words, holds Conversation with me. In this I converse with Paul, with Isaiah, and the rest of the Prophets. Here the most sweet Chrysostom converses with me, and Basil, and Austin, and Jerome, and Cyprian, and the rest of the Doctors that are both learned and eloquent. Do you know any such pleasant Companions abroad in the World, that you can have Conversation with? Do you think I can be weary of Retirement, in such Society as this? And I am never without it.

Sol. But they would speak to me to no Purpose, who do not understand them.

Cart. Now for our Diet, what signifies it with what Food this Body of ours is fed which is satisfied with very little, if we live according to Nature? Which of us two is in the best Plight? You who live upon Partridges, Pheasants and Capons; or I who live upon Fish?

Sol. If you had a Wife as I have, you would not be so lusty.

Cart. And for that Reason, any Food serves us, let it be never so little.

Sol. But in the mean Time, you live the Life of a Jew.

Cart. Forbear Reflections: If we cannot come up to Christianity, at least we follow after it.

Sol. You put too much Confidence in Habits, Meats, Forms of Prayer, and outward Ceremonies, and neglect the Study of Gospel Religion.

Cart. It is none of my Business to judge what others do: As to myself, I place no Confidence in these Things, I attribute nothing to them; but I put my Confidence in Purity of Mind, and in Christ himself.

Sol. Why do you observe these Things then?

Cart. That I may be at Peace with my Brethren, and give no Body Offence. I would give no Offence to any one for the Sake of these trivial Things, which it is but a very little Trouble to observe. As we are Men, let us wear what Cloaths we will. Men are so humoursome, the Agreement or Disagreement in the most minute Matters, either procures or destroys Concord. The shaving of the Head, or Colour of the Habit does not indeed, of themselves, recommend me to God: But what would the People say, if I should let my Hair grow, or put on your Habit? I have given you my Reasons for my Way of Life; now, pray, in your Turn, give me your Reasons for yours, and tell me, were there no good Physicians in your Quarter, when you listed yourself for a Soldier, leaving a young Wife and Children at Home, and was hired for a pitiful Pay to cut Men's Throats, and that with the Hazard of your own Life too? For your Business did not lie among Mushrooms and Poppies, but armed Men. What do you think is a more unhappy Way of living, for a poor Pay, to murder a Fellow Christian, who never did you Harm, and to run yourself Body and Soul into eternal Damnation?

Sol. Why, it is lawful to kill an Enemy.

Cart. Perhaps it may be so, if he invades your native Country: Nay, and it is pious too, to fight for your Wife, Children, your Parents and Friends, your Religion and Liberties, and the publick Peace. But what is all that to your fighting for Money? If you had been knocked on the Head, I would not have given a rotten Nut to redeem the very Soul of you.

Sol. No?

Cart. No, by Christ, I would not. Now which do you think is the harder Task, to be obedient to a good Man, which we call Prior, who calls us to Prayers, and holy Lectures, the Hearing of the saving Doctrine, and to sing to the Glory of God: Or, to be under the Command of some barbarous Officer, who often calls you out to fatiguing Marches at Midnight, and sends you out, and commands you back at his Pleasure, exposes you to the Shot of great Guns, assigns you a Station where you must either kill or be killed?

Sol. There are more Evils than you have mentioned yet.

Cart. If I shall happen to deviate from the Discipline of my Order, my Punishment is only Admonition, or some such slight Matter: But in War, if you do any Thing contrary to the General's Orders, you must either be hang'd for it, or run the Gantlope; for it would be a Favour to have your Head cut off.

Sol. I can't deny what you say to be true.

Cart. And now your Habit bespeaks, that you han't brought much Money Home, after all your brave Adventures.

Sol. As for Money, I have not had a Farthing this good While; nay, I have gotten a good Deal into Debt, and for that Reason I come hither out of my Way, that you might furnish me with some Money to bear my Charges.

Cart. I wish you had come out of your Way hither, when you hurried yourself into that wicked Life of a Soldier. But how come you so bare?

Sol. Do you ask that? Why, whatsoever I got of Pay, Plunder, Sacrilege, Rapine and Theft, was spent in Wine, Whores and Gaming.

Cart. O miserable Creature! And all this While your Wife, for whose Sake God commanded you to leave Father and Mother, being forsaken by you, sat grieving at Home with her young Children. And do you think this is Living, to be involved in so many Miseries, and to wallow in so great Iniquities?

Sol. The having so many Companions of my Wickedness, made me insensible of my Evil.

Cart. But I'm afraid your Wife won't know you again.

Sol. Why so?

Cart. Because your Scars have made you the Picture of quite another Man. What a Trench have you got here in your Forehead? It looks as if you had had a Horn cut out.

Sol. Nay, if you did but know the Matter, you would congratulate me upon this Scar.

Cart. Why so?

Sol. I was within a Hair's Breadth of losing my Life.

Cart. Why, what Mischief was there?

Sol. As one was drawing a Steel Cross-bow, it broke, and a Splinter of it hit me in the Forehead.

Cart. You have got a Scar upon your Cheek that is above a Span long.

Sol. I got this Wound in a Battel.

Cart. In what Battel, in the Field?

Sol. No, but in a Quarrel that arose at Dice.

Cart. And I see I can't tell what Sort of Rubies on your Chin.

Sol. O they are nothing.

Cart. I suspect that you have had the Pox.

Sol. You guess very right, Brother. It was the third Time I had that Distemper, and it had like to have cost me my Life.

Cart. But how came it, that you walk so stooping, as if you were ninety Years of Age; or like a Mower, or as if your Back was broke?

Sol. The Disease has contracted my Nerves to that Degree.

Cart. In Truth you have undergone a wonderful Metamorphosis: Formerly you were a Horseman, and now of a Centaur, you are become a Kind of semi-reptile Animal.

Sol. This is the Fortune of War.

Cart. Nay, 'tis the Madness of your own Mind. But what Spoils will you carry Home to your Wife and Children? The Leprosy? for that Scab is only a Species of the Leprosy; and it is only not accounted so, because it is the Disease in Fashion, and especially among Noblemen: And for this very Reason, it should be the more carefully avoided. And now you will infect with it those that ought to be the dearest to you of any in the World, and you yourself will all your Days carry about a rotten Carcass.

Sol. Prithee, Brother, have done chiding me. I have enough upon me without Chiding.

Cart. As to those Calamities, I have hitherto taken Notice of, they only relate to the Body: But what a Sort of a Soul do you bring back with you? How putrid and ulcered? With how many Wounds is that sore?

Sol. Just as clean as a Paris common Shore in Maburtus's Road, or a common House of Office.

Cart. I am afraid it stinks worse in the Nostrils of God and his Angels.

Sol. Well, but I have had Chiding enough, now speak to the Matter, of something to bear my Charges.

Cart. I have nothing to give you, but I'll go and try what the Prior will do.

Sol. If any Thing was to be given, your Hands would be ready to receive it; but now there are a great many Difficulties in the Way, when something is to be paid.

Cart. As to what others do, let them look to that, I have no Hands, either to give or take Money: But we'll talk more of these Matters after Dinner, for it is now Time to sit down at Table.



PHILETYMUS and PSEUDOCHEUS.

The ARGUMENT.

This Colloquy sets forth the Disposition and Nature of a Liar, who seems to be born to lie for crafty Gain. A Liar is a Thief. Gain got by Lying, is baser than that which is got by a Tax upon Urine. An egregious Method of deceiving is laid open. Cheating Tradesmen live better than honest ones.

PHILETYMUS and PSEUDOCHEUS.

Phil. From what Fountain does this Flood of Lies flow?

Pseud. From whence do Spiders Webs proceed?

Phil. Then it is not the Product of Art, but of Nature.

Pseud. The Seeds indeed proceed from Nature; but Art and Use have enlarg'd the Faculty.

Phil. Why, are you not asham'd of it?

Pseud. No more than a Cuckow is of her Singing.

Phil. But you can alter your Note upon every Occasion. The Tongue of Man was given him to speak the Truth.

Pseud. Ay, to speak those Things that tend to his Profit: The Truth is not to be spoken at all Times.

Phil. It is sometimes for a Man's Advantage to have pilfering Hands; and the old Proverb is a Witness, that that is a Vice that is Cousin-German to yours of Lying.

Pseud. Both these Vices are supported by good Authorities: One has Ulysses, so much commended by Homer, and the other has Mercury, that was a God, for its Example, if we believe the Poets.

Phil. Why then do People in common curse Liars, and hang Thieves?

Pseud. Not because they lie or steal, but because they do it bunglingly or unnaturally, not rightly understanding the Art.

Phil. Is there any Author that teaches the Art of Lying?

Pseud. Your Rhetoricians have instructed in the best Part of the Art.

Phil. These indeed present us with the Art of well speaking.

Pseud. True: and the good Part of speaking well, is to lie cleverly.

Phil. What is clever Lying?

Pseud. Would you have me define it?

Phil. I would have you do it.

Pseud. It is to lie so, that you may get Profit by it, and not be caught in a Lie.

Phil. But a great many are caught in lying every Day.

Pseud. That's because they are not perfect Masters of the Art.

Phil. Are you a perfect Master in it?

Pseud. In a Manner.

Phil. See, if you can tell me a Lie, so as to deceive me.

Pseud. Yes, best of Men, I can deceive you yourself, if I have a Mind to it.

Phil. Well, tell me some Lie or other then.

Pseud. Why, I have told one already, and did you not catch me in it?

Phil. No.

Pseud. Come on, listen attentively; now I'll begin to lie then.

Phil. I do listen attentively; tell one.

Pseud. Why, I have told another Lie, and you have not caught me.

Phil. In Truth, I hear no Lie yet.

Pseud. You would have heard some, if you understood the Art.

Phil. Do you shew it me then.

Pseud. First of all, I call'd you the best of Men, is not that a swinging Lie, when you are not so much as good? And if you were good, you could not be said to be the best, there are a thousand others better than you.

Phil. Here, indeed, you have deceiv'd me.

Pseud. Well, now try if you can catch me again in another Lie.

Phil. I cannot.

Pseud. I want to have you shew that Sharpness of Wit, that you do in other Things.

Phil. I confess, I am deficient. Shew me.

Pseud. When I said, now I will begin to lie, did I not tell you a swinging Lie then, when I had been accustomed to lie for so many Years, and I had also told a Lie, just the Moment before.

Phil. An admirable Piece of Witchcraft.

Pseud. Well, but now you have been forewarn'd, prick up your Ears, listen attentively, and see if you can catch me in a Lie.

Phil. I do prick them up; say on.

Pseud. I have said already, and you have imitated me in lying.

Phil. Why, you'll persuade me I have neither Ears nor Eyes by and by.

Pseud. When Mens Ears are immoveable, and can neither be prick'd up nor let down, I told a Lie in bidding you prick up your Ears.

Phil. The whole Life of Man is full of such Lies.

Pseud. Not only such as these, O good Man, for these are but Jokes: But there are those that bring Profit.

Phil. The Gain that is got by Lying, is more sordid, than that which is got by laying a Tax on Urine.

Pseud. That is true, I own; but then 'tis to those that han't the Art of lying.

Phil. What Art is this that you understand?

Pseud. It is not fit I should teach you for nothing; pay me, and you shall hear it.

Phil. I will not pay for bad Arts.

Pseud. Then will you give away your Estate?

Phil. I am not so mad neither.

Pseud. But my Gain by this Art is more certain than yours from your Estate.

Phil. Well, keep your Art to yourself, only give me a Specimen that I may understand that what you say is not all Pretence.

Pseud. Here's a Specimen for you: I concern myself in all Manner of Business, I buy, I sell, I receive, I borrow, I take Pawns.

Phil. Well, what then?

Pseud. And in these Affairs I entrap those by whom I cannot easily be caught.

Phil. Who are those?

Pseud. The soft-headed, the forgetful, the unthinking, those that live a great Way off, and those that are dead.

Phil. The Dead, to be sure, tell no Tales.

Pseud. If I sell any Thing upon Credit, I set it down carefully in my Book of Accounts.

Phil. And what then?

Pseud. When the Money is to be paid, I charge the Buyer with more than he had. If he is unthinking or forgetful, my Gain is certain.

Phil. But what if he catches you?

Pseud. I produce my Book of Accounts.

Phil. What if he informs you, and proves to your Face he has not had the Goods you charge him with?

Pseud. I stand to it stiffly; for Bashfulness is altogether an unprofitable Qualification in this Art. My last Shift is, I frame some Excuse or other.

Phil. But when you are caught openly?

Pseud. Nothing's more easy, I pretend my Servant has made a Mistake, or I myself have a treacherous Memory: It is a very pretty Way to jumble the Accounts together, and this is an easy Way to impose on a Person: As for Example, some are cross'd out, the Money being paid, and others have not been paid; these I mingle one with another at the latter End of the Book, nothing being cross'd out. When the Sum is cast up, we contend about it, and I for the most Part get the better, tho' it be by forswearing myself. Then besides, I have this Trick, I make up my Account with a Person when he is just going a Journey, and not prepared for the Settling it. For as for me, I am always ready. If any Thing be left with me, I conceal it, and restore it not again. It is a long Time before he can come to the Knowledge of it, to whom it is sent; and, after all, if I can't deny the receiving of a Thing, I say it is lost, or else affirm I have sent that which I have not sent, and charge it upon the Carrier. And lastly, if I can no Way avoid restoring it, I restore but Part of it.

Phil. A very fine Art.

Pseud. Sometimes I receive Money twice over, if I can: First at Home, afterwards there where I have gone, and I am every where. Sometimes Length of Time puts Things out of Remembrance: The Accounts are perplexed, one dies, or goes a long Journey: And if nothing else will hit, in the mean Time I make Use of other People's Money. I bring some over to my Interest, by a Shew of Generosity, that they may help me out in lying; but it is always at other People's Cost; of my own, I would not give my own Mother a Doit. And tho' the Gain in each Particular may be but small; but being many put together, makes a good round Sum; for as I said, I concern myself in a great many Affairs; and besides all, that I may not be catch'd, as there are many Tricks, this is one of the chief. I intercept all the Letters I can, open them, and read them. If any Thing in them makes against me, I destroy them, or keep them a long Time before I deliver them: And besides all this, I sow Discord between those that live at a great Distance one from another.

Phil. What do you get by that?

Pseud. There is a double Advantage in it. First of all, if that is not performed that I have promised in another Person's Name, or in whose Name I have received any Present, I lay it to this or that Man's Door, that it was not performed, and so these Forgeries I make turn to a considerable Account.

Phil. But what if he denies it?

Pseud. He's a great Way off, as suppose at Basil; and I promise to give it in England. And so it is brought about, that both being incensed, neither will believe the one the other, if I accuse them of any Thing. Now you have a Specimen of my Art.

Phil. But this Art is what we Dullards call Theft; who call a Fig a Fig, and a Spade a Spade.

Pseud. O Ignoramus in the Law! Can you bring an Action of Theft for Trover or Conversion, or for one that having borrow'd a Thing forswears it, that puts a Trick upon one, by some such Artifice?

Phil. He ought to be sued for Theft.

Pseud. Do but then see the Prudence of Artists. From these Methods there is more Gain, or at least as much, and less Danger.

Phil. A Mischief take you, with your cheating Tricks and Lies, for I han't a Mind to learn 'em. Good by to ye.

Pseud. You may go on, and be plagu'd with your ragged Truth. In the mean Time, I'll live merrily upon my thieving, lying Tricks, with Slight of Hand.



The SHIPWRECK.

The ARGUMENT.

Naufragium exposes the Dangers of those that go to Sea; the various and foolish Superstition of Mariners. An elegant Description of a Storm. They indeed run a Risque that throw their valuable Commodities into the Sea. Mariners impiously invoke the Virgin Mary, St. Christopher, and the Sea itself. Saints are not to be pray'd to, but God alone.

ANTONY and ADOLPH.

Ant. You tell dreadful Stories: Is this going to Sea? God forbid that ever any such Thing should come into my Mind.

Adol. That which I have related, is but a Diversion, in Comparison to what you'll hear presently.

Ant. I have heard Calamities enough already, my Flesh trembles to hear you relate them, as if I were in Danger myself.

Adol. But Dangers that are past, are pleasant to be thought on. One thing happen'd that Night, that almost put the Pilot out of all Hopes of Safety.

Ant. Pray what was that?

Adol. The Night was something lightish, and one of the Sailors was got into the Skuttle (so I think they call it) at the Main-Top-Mast, looking out if he could see any Land; a certain Ball of Fire began to stand by him, which is the worst Sign in the World to Sailors, if it be single; but a very good one, if double. The Antients believed these to be Castor and Pollux.

Ant. What have they to do with Sailors, one of which was a Horseman, and the other a Prize-Fighter?

Adol. It was the Pleasure of Poets, so to feign. The Steersman who sat at the Helm, calls to him, Mate, says he, (for so Sailors call one another) don't you see what a Companion you have by your Side? I do see, says he, and I pray that he may be a lucky one. By and by this fiery Ball glides down the Ropes, and rolls itself over and over close to the Pilot.

Ant. And was not he frighted out of his Wits?

Adol. Sailors are us'd to terrible Sights. It stopp'd a little there, then roll'd itself all round the Sides of the Ship; after that, slipping through the Hatches, it vanished away. About Noon the Storm began to increase. Did you ever see the Alps?

Ant. I have seen them.

Adol. Those Mountains are Mole Hills, if they be compar'd to the Waves of the Sea. As oft as we were toss'd up, one might have touch'd the Moon with his Finger; and as oft as we were let fall down into the Sea, we seem'd to be going directly down to Hell, the Earth gaping to receive us.

Ant. O mad Folks, that trust themselves to the Sea!

Adol. The Mariners striving in Vain with the Storm, at length the Pilot, all pale as Death comes to us.

Ant. That Paleness presages some great Evil.

Adol. My Friends, says he, I am no longer Master of my Ship, the Wind has got the better of me; all that we have now to do is to place our Hope in God, and every one to prepare himself for Death.

Ant. This was cold Comfort.

Adol. But in the first Place, says he, we must lighten the Ship; Necessity requires it, tho' 'tis a hard Portion. It is better to endeavour to save our Lives with the Loss of our Goods, than to perish with them. The Truth persuaded, and a great many Casks of rich Merchandize were thrown over-Board. Ant. This was casting away, according to the Letter.

Adol. There was in the Company, a certain Italian, that had been upon an Embassy to the King of Scotland. He had a whole Cabinet full of Plate, Rings, Cloth, and rich wearing Apparel.

Ant. And he, I warrant ye, was unwilling to come to a Composition with the Sea.

Adol. No, he would not; he had a Mind either to sink or swim with his beloved Riches.

Ant. What said the Pilot to this?

Adol. If you and your Trinkets were to drown by yourselves, says he, here's no Body would hinder you; but it is not fit that we should run the Risque of our Lives, for the Sake of your Cabinet: If you won't consent, we'll throw you and your Cabinet into the Sea together.

Ant. Spoken like a Tarpawlin.

Adol. So the Italian submitted, and threw his Goods over-Board, with many a bitter Curse to the Gods both above and below, that he had committed his Life to so barbarous an Element.

Ant. I know the Italian Humour.

Adol. The Winds were nothing the less boisterous for our Presents, but by and by burst our Cordage, and threw down our Sails.

Ant. Lamentable!

Adol. Then the Pilot comes to us again.

Ant. What, with another Preachment?

Adol. He gives us a Salute; my Friends, says he, the Time exhorts us that every one of us should recommend himself to God, and prepare for Death. Being ask'd by some that were not ignorant in Sea Affairs, how long he thought the Ship might be kept above Water, he said, he could promise nothing, but that it could not be done above three Hours.

Ant. This was yet a harder Chapter than the former.

Adol. When he had said this, he orders to cut the Shrouds and the Mast down by the Board, and to throw them, Sails and all, into the Sea.

Ant. Why was this done?

Adol. Because, the Sail either being gone or torn, it would only be a Burden, but not of Use; all our Hope was in the Helm.

Ant. What did the Passengers do in the mean Time?

Adol. There you might have seen a wretched Face of Things; the Mariners, they were singing their Salve Regina, imploring the Virgin Mother, calling her the Star of the Sea, the Queen of Heaven, the Lady of the World, the Haven of Health, and many other flattering Titles, which the sacred Scriptures never attributed to her.

Ant. What has she to do with the Sea, who, as I believe, never went a Voyage in her Life?

Adol. In ancient Times, Venus took Care of Mariners, because she was believ'd to be born of the Sea and because she left off to take Care of them, the Virgin Mother was put in her Place, that was a Mother, but not a Virgin.

Ant. You joke.

Adol. Some were lying along upon the Boards, worshipping the Sea, pouring all they had into it, and flattering it, as if it had been some incensed Prince.

Ant. What did they say?

Adol. O most merciful Sea! O most generous Sea! O most rich Sea! O most beautiful Sea, be pacified, save us; and a Deal of such Stuff they sung to the deaf Ocean.

Ant. Ridiculous Superstition! What did the rest do?

Adol. Some did nothing but spew, and some made Vows. There was an Englishman there, that promis'd golden Mountains to our Lady of Walsingham, so he did but get ashore alive. Others promis'd a great many Things to the Wood of the Cross, which was in such a Place; others again, to that which was in such a Place; and the same was done by the Virgin Mary, which reigns in a great many Places, and they think the Vow is of no Effect, unless the Place be mentioned.

Ant. Ridiculous! As if the Saints did not dwell in Heaven.

Adol. Some made Promises to become Carthusians. There was one who promised he would go a Pilgrimage to St. James at Compostella, bare Foot and bare Head, cloth'd in a Coat of Mail, and begging his Bread all the Way.

Ant. Did no Body make any Mention of St. Christopher?

Adol. Yes, I heard one, and I could not forbear laughing, who bawling out aloud, lest St. Christopher should not hear him, promised him, who is at the Top of a Church at Paris, rather a Mountain than a Statue, a wax Taper as big as he was himself: When he had bawl'd out this over and over as loud as he could, an Acquaintance of his jogg'd him on the Elbow, and caution'd him: Have a Care what you promise, for if you should sell all you have in the World, you will not be able to pay for it. He answer'd him softly, lest St. Christopher should hear him, you Fool, says he, do you think I mean as I speak, if I once got safe to Shore, I would not give him so much as a tallow Candle.

Ant. O Blockhead! I fancy he was a Hollander.

Adol. No, he was a Zealander.

Ant. I wonder no Body thought of St. Paul, who has been at Sea, and having suffered Shipwreck, leapt on Shore. For he being not unacquainted with the Distress, knows how to pity those that are in it.

Adol. He was not so much as named.

Ant. Were they at their Prayers all the While?

Adol. Ay, as if it had been for a Wager. One sung his Hail Queen; another, I believe in God. There were some who had certain particular Prayers not unlike magical Charms against Dangers.

Ant. How Affliction makes Men religious! In Prosperity we neither think of God nor Saint. But what did you do all this While? Did you not make Vows to some Saints?

Adol. No, none at all.

Ant. Why so?

Adol. I make no Bargains with Saints. For what is this but a Bargain in Form? I'll give you, if you do so and so; or I will do so and so, if you do so and so: I'll give you a wax Taper, if I swim out alive; I'll go to Rome, if you save me.

Ant. But did you call upon none of the Saints for Help?

Adol. No, not so much as that neither.

Ant. Why so?

Adol. Because Heaven is a large Place, and if I should recommend my Safety to any Saint, as suppose, to St. Peter, who perhaps, would hear soonest, because he stands at the Door; before he can come to God Almighty, or before he could tell him my Condition, I may be lost.

Ant. What did you do then?

Adol. I e'en went the next Way to God the Father, saying, Our Father which art in Heaven. There's none of the Saints hears sooner than he does, or more readily gives what is ask'd for.

Ant. But in the mean Time did not your Conscience check you? Was you not afraid to call him Father, whom you had offended with so many Wickednesses?

Adol. To speak ingenuously, my Conscience did a little terrify me at first, but I presently took Heart again, thus reasoning with myself; There is no Father so angry with his Son, but if he sees him in Danger of being drowned in a River or Pond, he will take him, tho' it be by the Hair of the Head, and throw him out upon a Bank. There was no Body among them all behaved herself more composed than a Woman, who had a Child sucking at her Breast.

Ant. What did she do?

Adol. She only neither bawl'd, nor wept, nor made Vows, but hugging her little Boy, pray'd softly. In the mean Time the Ship dashing ever and anon against the Ground, the Pilot being afraid she would be beat all to Pieces, under-girded her with Cables from Head to Stern.

Ant. That was a sad Shift!

Adol. Upon this, up starts an old Priest about threescore Years of Age, his Name was Adam. He strips himself to his Shirt, throws away his Boots and Shoes, and bids us all in like Manner to prepare ourselves for swimming. Then standing in the middle of the Ship, he preach'd a Sermon to us, upon the five Truths of the Benefit of Confession, and exhorted every Man to prepare himself, for either Life or Death. There was a Dominican there too, and they confess'd those that had a Mind to it.

Ant. What did you do?

Adol. I seeing that every thing was in a Hurry, confess'd privately to God, condemning before him my Iniquity, and imploring his Mercy.

Ant. And whither should you have gone, do you think, if you had perished?

Adol. I left that to God, who is my Judge; I would not be my own Judge. But I was not without comfortable Hopes neither. While these Things were transacting, the Steersman comes to us again all in Tears; Prepare your selves every one of you, says he, for the Ship will be of no Service to us for a quarter of an Hour. For now she leak'd in several Places. Presently after this he brings us Word that he saw a Steeple a good Way off, and exhorts us to implore the Aid of that Saint, whoever it was, who had the protection of that Temple. They all fall down and pray to the unknown Saint.

Ant. Perhaps he would have heard ye, if ye had call'd upon him by his Name.

Adol. But that we did not know. In the mean Time the Pilate steers the Ship, torn and leaking every where, and ready to fall in Pieces, if she had not been undergirt with Cables, as much as he could toward that Place.

Ant. A miserable Condition.

Adol. We were now come so near the Shoar, that the Inhabitants of the Place could see us in Distress, and ran down in Throngs to the utmost Edge of the Shoar, and holding up Gowns and Hats upon Spears, invited us to make towards them, and stretching out their Arms towards Heaven, signified to us that they pitied our Misfortune.

Ant. I long to know what happened.

Adol. The Ship was now every where full of Water, that we were no safer in the Ship than if we had been in the Sea.

Ant. Now was your Time to betake yourself to divine Help.

Adol. Ay, to a wretched one. The Sailors emptied the Ship's Boat of Water, and let it down into the Sea. Every Body was for getting into it, the Mariners cry'd out amain, they'll sink the Boat, it will not hold so many; that every one should take what he could get, and swim for it. There was no Time now for long Deliberation. One gets an Oar, another a Pole, another a Gutter, another a Bucket, another a Plank, and every one relying upon their Security, they commit themselves to the Billows.

Ant. But what became of the Woman that was the only Person that made no Bawling?

Adol. She got to Shoar the first of them all.

Ant. How could she do that?

Adol. We set her upon a broad Plank, and ty'd her on so fast that she could not easily fall off, and we gave her a Board in her Hand to make Use of instead of an Oar, and wishing her good Success, we set her afloat, thrusting her off from the Ship with Poles, that she might be clear of it, whence was the greatest Danger. And she held her Child in her left Hand, and row'd with her right Hand.

Ant. O Virago!

Adol. Now when there was nothing else left, one pull'd up a wooden Image of the Virgin Mary, rotten, and rat-eaten, and embracing it in his Arms, try'd to swim upon it.

Ant. Did the Boat get safe to Land?

Adol. None perish'd sooner than they that were in that, and there were above thirty that had got into it.

Ant. By what bad Accident was that brought about?

Adol. It was overset by the rolling of the Ship, before they could get clear of it.

Ant. A sad Accident: But how then?

Adol. While I was taking Care for others, I had like to have been lost myself.

Ant. How so?

Adol. Because there was nothing left that was fit for swimming.

Ant. There Corks would have been of good Use.

Adol. In that Condition I would rather have had a sorry Cork than a gold Candlestick. I look'd round about me, at Length I bethought myself of the Stump of the Mast, and because I could not get it out alone, I took a Partner; upon this we both plac'd ourselves, and committed ourselves to the Sea. I held the right End, and my Companion the left End. While we lay tumbling and tossing, the old preaching Sea-Priest threw himself upon our Shoulders. He was a huge Fellow. We cry out, who's that third Person? He'll drown us all. But he very calmly bids us be easy, for there was Room enough, God will be with us.

Ant. How came he to be so late?

Adol. He was to have been in the Boat with the Dominican. For they all paid him this Deference. But tho' they had confess'd themselves in the Ship, yet having forgotten I know not what Circumstances, they confess'd over again at the Ship-Side, and each lays his Hand upon the other, and while this was doing the Boat was over-turn'd. This I had from Adam himself.

Ant. What became of the Dominican?

Adol. As the same Man told me, having implor'd the Help of his Saints, and stript himself, he threw himself naked into the Sea.

Ant. What Saints did he call upon?

Adol. St. Dominick, St. Thomas, St. Vincent, and one of the Peters, but I can't tell which: But his chief Reliance was upon Catherinea Senensis.

Ant. Did he not remember Christ?

Adol. Not, as the old Priest told me.

Ant. He would have swam better if he had thrown off his sanctified Coul: But if that had been laid aside, how should Catherine of Siena have known him? But go on and tell me about yourself.

Adol. While we were yet tumbling and tossing near the Ship, which roll'd hither and thither at the Mercy of the Waves, the Thigh of him that held the left End of the Stump of the Mast was broken by a great Spike, and so that made him let go his Hold. The old Priest wishing him everlasting Rest, took his Place, encouraging me to maintain my Post on the right Hand resolutely, and to strike out my Feet stoutly. In the mean Time we drank in abundance of salt Water. For Neptune had provided us not only a salt Bath, but a salt Potion too, altho' the old Priest prescribed a Remedy for it.

Ant. What was that?

Adol. Why, as often as a Billow met us, he turn'd his Head and shut his Mouth.

Ant. You tell me of a brave old Fellow.

Adol. When we had been some Time swimming at this Rate, and had made some Way, the old Priest being a very tall Man, cries out, Be of good Heart, I feel Ground; but I durst not hope for such a Blessing. No, no, says I, we are too far from Shoar to hope to feel Ground. Nay, says he, I feel the Ground with my Feet. Said I, perhaps it is some of the Chests that have been roll'd thither by the Sea. Nay, says he, I am sure I feel Ground by the Scratching of my Toes. Having floated thus a little longer, and he had felt the Bottom again, Do you do what you please, says he, I'll leave you the whole Mast, and wade for it. And so he took his Opportunity, at the Ebbing of the Billows, he made what Haste he could on his Feet, and when the Billows came again, he took Hold of his Knees with his Hands, and bore up against the Billows, hiding himself under them as Sea Gulls and Ducks do, and at the Ebbing of the Wave, he would start up and run for it. I seeing that this succeeded so well to him, followed his Example. There stood upon the Shoar Men, who had long Pikes handed from one to another, which kept them firm against the Force of the Waves, strong bodied Men, and accustom'd to the Waves, and he that was last of them held out a Pike to the Person swimming towards him. All that came to Shoar, and laying hold of that, were drawn safely to dry Land. Some were sav'd this Way.

Ant. How many?

Adol. Seven. But two of these fainted away being brought to the Fire.

Ant. How many were in the Ship?

Adol. Fifty-eight.

Ant. O cruel Sea. At least it might have been content with the Tithes, which are enough for Priests. Did it restore so few out of so great a Number?

Adol. There we had Experience of the wonderful Humanity of the Nation, that supply'd us with all Necessaries with exceeding Chearfulness; as Lodging, Fire, Victuals, Cloaths, and Money to bear our Charges when we went away.

Ant. What Country was it?

Adol. Holland.

Ant. There's no Nation more human, altho' they are encompass'd with such fierce Nations. I fancy you won't be for going to Sea again.

Adol. No, unless God shall please to deprive me of my Reason.

Ant. I would rather hear such Stories than feel them.



DIVERSORIA.

The ARGUMENT.

This Colloquy shews the various Customs of Nations and their Civility in treating Strangers. An Inn at Leyden where are nothing but Women. The Manners of the French Inns, who are us'd to tell Stories, and break Jests. The Germans, far more uncivil in treating Travellers, being rude, and wholly inhospitable: The Guests look after their own Horses: The Method of receiving them into the Stove: They provide no Supper, till they know how many Guests they shall have: All that come that Night, sit down to Supper together: All pay alike, tho' one drinks twice as much Wine as another does.

BERTULPH and WILLIAM.

Bert. I wonder what is the Fancy of a great many, for staying two or three Days at Lyons? When I have once set out on a Journey, I an't at Rest till I come to my Journey's End.

Will. Nay, I wonder as much, that any Body can get away from thence.

Bert. But why so?

Will. Because that's a Place the Companions of Ulysses could not have got away from. There are Sirens. No Body is better entertain'd at his own House, than he is there at an Inn.

Bert. What is done there?

Will. There's a Woman always waiting at Table, which makes the Entertainment pleasant with Railleries, and pleasant Jests. And the Women are very handsome there. First the Mistress of the House came and bad us Welcome, and to accept kindly what Fare we should have; after her, comes her Daughter, a very fine Woman, of so handsome a Carriage, and so pleasant in Discourse, that she would make even Cato himself merry, were he there: And they don't talk to you as if you were perfect Strangers, but as those they have been a long Time acquainted with, and familiar Friends.

Bert. O, I know the French Way of Civility very well.

Will. And because they can't be always with you, by Reason of the other Affairs of the House, and the welcoming of other Guests, there comes a Lass, that supplies the Place of the Daughter, till she is at Leisure to return again. This Lass is so well instructed in the Knack of Repartees, that she has a Word ready for every Body, and no Conceit comes amiss to her. The Mother, you must know, was somewhat in Years.

Bert. But what was your Table furnish'd with? For Stories fill no Bellies.

Will. Truly, so splendid, that I was amaz'd that they could afford to entertain their Guests so, for so small a Price. And then after Dinner, they entertain a Man with such facetious Discourse, that one cannot be tired; that I seemed to be at my own House, and not in a strange Place.

Bert. And how went Matters in your Chambers?

Will. Why, there was every where some pretty Lass or other, giggling and playing wanton Tricks? They ask'd us if we had any foul Linnen to wash; which they wash and bring to us again: In a word, we saw nothing there but young Lasses and Women, except in the Stable, and they would every now and then run in there too. When you go away, they embrace ye, and part with you with as much Affection, as if you were their own Brothers, or near Kinsfolks.

Bert. This Mode perhaps may become the French, but methinks the Way of the Germans pleases me better, which is more manly.

Will. I never have seen Germany; therefore, pray don't think much to tell how they entertain a Traveller.

Bert. I can't tell whether the Method of entertaining be the same every where; but I'll tell you what I saw there. No Body bids a Guest welcome, lest he should seem to court his Guests to come to him, for that they look upon to be sordid and mean, and not becoming the German Gravity. When you have called a good While at the Gate, at Length one puts his Head out of the Stove Window (for they commonly live in Stoves till Midsummer) like a Tortoise from under his Shell: Him you must ask if you can have any Lodging there; if he does not say no, you may take it for granted, that there is Room for you. When you ask where the Stable is, he points to it; there you may curry your Horse as you please yourself, for there is no Servant will put a Hand to it. If it be a noted Inn, there is a Servant shews you the Stable, and a Place for your Horse, but incommodious enough; for they keep the best Places for those that shall come afterwards; especially for Noblemen. If you find Fault with any Thing, they tell you presently, if you don't like, look for another Inn. In their Cities, they allow Hay, but very unwillingly and sparingly, and that is almost as dear as Oats. When you have taken Care of your Horse, you come whole into the Stove, Boots, Baggage, Dirt and all, for that is a common Room for all Comers.

Will. In France, they appoint you a separate Chamber, where you may change your Cloaths, clean and warm your self, or take Rest if you have a Mind to it.

Bert. There's nothing of that here. In the Stove, you pull off your Boots, put on your Shoes, and if you will, change your Shirt, hang up your wet Cloths near the Stove Iron, and get near it to dry yourself. There's Water provided for you to wash your Hands, if you will; but as for the Cleanness of it, it is for the most Part such that you will want another Water to wash that off.

Will. I commend this Sort of People, that have nothing of Effeminacy in them.

Bert. If you come in at four a-Clock in the Afternoon, you must not go to Supper till nine, and sometimes not till ten.

Will. Why so?

Bert. They never make any Thing ready till they see all their Company together, that one Trouble may serve for all.

Will. They are for taking the shortest Way.

Bert. You are right; so that oftentimes, there come all together into the same Stove, eighty or ninety Foot-Men, Horse-Men, Merchants, Marriners, Waggoners, Husband-Men, Children, Women, sick and sound.

Will. This is having all Things in common.

Bert. There one combs his Head, another wipes off his Sweat, another cleans his Spatterdashes or Boots, another belches Garlick; and in short, there is as great a Confusion of Tongues and Persons, as there was at the Building the Tower of Babel. And if they see any Body of another Country, who by his Habit looks like a Man of Quality, they all stare at him so wistfully, as if he was a Sort of strange Animal brought out of Africa. And when they are set at Table, and he behind them, they will be still looking back at him, and be staring him in the Face, till they have forgot their Suppers.

Will. At Rome, Paris or Venice, there's no Body thinks any Thing strange.

Bert. In the mean Time, 'tis a Crime for you to call for any Thing. When it is grown pretty late, and they don't expect any more Guests, out comes an old grey-bearded Servant, with his Hair cut short, and a crabbed Look, and a slovenly Dress.

Will. Such Fellows ought to be Cup-Bearers to the Cardinals at Rome.

Bert. He having cast his Eyes about, counts to himself, how many there are in the Stove; the more he sees there, the more Fire he makes in the Stove although it be at a Time when the very Heat of the Sun would be troublesome; and this with them, is accounted a principal Part of good Entertainment, to make them all sweat till they drop again. If any one who is not used to the Steam, shall presume to open the Window never so little, that he be not stifled, presently they cry out to shut it again: If you answer you are not able to bear it, you'll presently hear, get you another Inn then.

Will. But in my Opinion, nothing is more dangerous, than for so many to draw in the same Vapour; especially when their Bodies are opened with the Heat; and to eat in the same Place, and to stay there so many Hours, not to mention the belching of Garlick, the Farting, the stinking Breaths, for many have secret Distempers, and every Distemper has its Contagion; and without doubt, many have the Spanish, or as it is call'd, the French Pox, although it is common to all Nations. And it is my Opinion, there is as much Danger from such Persons, as there is from those that have the Leprosy. Tell me now, what is this short of a Pestilence?

Bert. They are Persons of a strong Constitution, and laugh at, and disregard those Niceties.

Will. But in the mean Time, they are bold at the Perils of other Men.

Bert. What would you do in this Case? 'Tis what they have been used to, and it is a Part of a constant Mind, not to depart from a Custom.

Will. And yet, within these five and twenty Years, nothing was more in Vogue in Brabant, than hot Baths, but now they are every where grown out of Use; but the new Scabbado has taught us to lay them down.