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·lows, than stirrers of his zeal; nothing but hunger and hard rocks can convert him, and then but his upper deck neither, for his "hold neither fears nor hopes; his sleeps are but reprievals of his
dangers, and when he awakes 'tis but next stage to dying : his 'wisdom is the coldest part about him, for it ever points to the 'north, and it lies lowest, which makes his valour every tide o’er.flow it. In a storm 'tis disputable, whether the noise be more his or the elements, and which will first leave scolding? on which
side of the ship he may be saved best? whether his faith be star'board faith, or larboard, or the helm at that time not all his hope of heaven? his keel is the emblem of his conscience, till 'it be split he never repents, then no farther than the land allows
him. His language is a new confusion, and all his thoughts new 'nations; his body and his ship are both one burthen, nor is it “known who stows most wine or rowls most, only the ship is guid'ed, he has no stern; a barnacle and he are bred together, both of *one nature and, 'tis feared, one reason ; upon any but a wooden
horse he cannot ride, and if the wind blows against him he dare 'not, he swarms up to his seat as to a sail yard, and cannot sit un'less he bear a flag-staff; if ever he be broken to the saddle, 'tis but 'a voyage still, for he mistakes the bridle for a bowling, and is ever 'turning bis horse tail; he can pray, but 'tis by rote, not faith, and ' when he would he dares not, for his brackish belief hath made that ominous. A rock or a quicksand pluck him before he be ripe, else he is gathered to his friends at Wapping.'
This is the conclusion of "the Soldier," which, like the most of this ingenious work, is too much infected with that love of conceit, so fatal to most of the writers in the reign of the pedantic James.
'In charity he goes beyond the clergy, for he loves bis greatest enemy best, much drinking. He seems a full student, for he is a 'great desirer of controversies : he argues sharply, and carries his
conclusion in his scabbard ; in the first refining of mankind this 'was the gold ; his actions are lis ammel ;a his allay, (for else you 'cannot work him presently) continual duties, heavy and weary
marches, lodgings as full of need as cold diseases, no time to argue .but to execute; line him with these, and link bim to his squadrons, and he appears a most rich chain for princes.'
No good heart can read the following beautiful picture of a "fair and happy milk-maid,” without inwardly moaning over the fate of the gentle and accomplished man that conceived it. We hardly know of any passage in English prose, and that is saying no little, which inspires the mind of the reader with so many pleasing recollections, and which spreads so calm and purifying a delight over the spirit, as it broods over the idea of the innocent girl
a An old word for enamel. Vol. II.
whose image Sir Thomas has here bodied forth :-"It will scept all the year long of June, like a new-made hay-cock.”
A Fair and Happy Milkmaid Is a country wench, that is so far from making herself beauti'ful by art, that one look of hers is able to put all face-physic out of countenance. She knows a fair look is but a dumb orator to 'commend virtue, therefore minds it not. All her excellencies stand in her so silently, as if they had stolen upon her without her * knowledge. The lining of her apparel, which is herself, is far better than outsides of tissue; for though she be not arrayed in
the spoil of the silk-worm, she is decked in innocence, a far better wearing. She doth not, with lying long in bed, spoil both her
complexion and conditions : nature hath taught her too, immode“rate sleep is rust to the soul; she rises therefore with Chanticlere, "her dame's cock, and at night makes the lamb her curfu. In millsing a cow, and straining the teats through her fingers, it seems that so sweet a milk-press makes the milk whiter or sweeter ; for never came almond-glore or aromatic ointment on her palm to taint it. The golded ears of corn fall and kiss her feet when she . reaps them, as if they wished to be bound and led prisoners by sthe same hand that felled them. Her breath is her own, which 'scents all the year long of June, like a new-made hay-cock. She
makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with pity; “and when winter evenings fall early, sitting at her merry wheel,
she sings defiance to the giddy wheel of fortune. She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems ignorance will not sufler • her to do ill, being her mind is to do well. She bestows her
year's wages at next fair, and in chusing her garments, counts no • bravery in the world like decency. The garden and bee-hive « are all her physic and surgery, and she lives the longer for it. She dares go alone, and unfold sheep in the night, and fears no manner of ill, because she means none; yet, to say truth, she is never alone, but is still accompanied with old songs,
honest thoughts and prayers, but short ones; yet
but short ones ; yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not palled with ensuing idle cogitations. Lastly, • her dreams are so chaste, that she dare tell them; only a Friday's • dream is all her superstition; that she conceals for fear of anger. • Thus lives she, and all ber. care is, she may die in the spring time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding-sheet."
The character of “A Serving-Man" is of a different cast from the last, but is very amusing.
A Serving-Man ' Is a creature, which, though he be not drunk, is not his own iman. He tells, without asking, who owns him, by the superscription of his livery; his life is for ease and leisure much about
gentlemanlike. His wealth enough to suffice nature, and sufficient to make him happy, if he were sure of it, for he hath little, “and wants nothing; he values himself higher or lower as his mas'ter is; he hates or loves the men as his master doth the master. • He is commonly proud of his master's horses or his Christmas ; he sleeps when he is sleepy, is of his religion only; the clock of his stomach is set to go an hour after his. He seldom breaks his own cloaths. He never drinks but double, for he must be pledg
ed ; nor commonly without some short sentence nothing to the 'purpose, and seldom abstains till he comes to be a-thirst. His
discretion is to be careful for his master's credit, and his sufficiency to marshal dishes at a table and carve well. His neatness consists much in his hair and outward linnen. His courting language, visible * * * jests, and against bis matter fails, he is always ready furnished with a song. His inheritance is the chamber'maid, but often purchaseth his master's daughter, by reason of 'opportunity, or for want of a better; he always cuckolds himself, and never marries but his own widow; bis master being appeased, he becomes a retainer, and entails himself and his posterity upon his heir males for ever.'
“ The Tinker” is sufficiently amusing, and, to those who class the “ art of punning” high in the scale of mental accomplishments, will be thought valuable.
A Tinker • Is a moveable, for he hath no abiding in one place; by his mo*tion be gathers heat, thence his choleric nature. He seems to be *very devout, for his life is a continual pilgrimage, and sometimes in humility goes barefoot, therein making necessity a virtue. His * house is as ancient as Tubal Cain's, and so is a renegade by anti
quity, yet he proves himself a gallant, for he carries all his wealth upon his back; or a philosopher, for he bears all his substance about him. From his art was music first invented, and therefore
is he always furnished with a song, to which his hammer keeping 'tupe, proves that he was the first founder of the kettle drum. Note, that where the best ale is, there stands his music most upon
crochets. The companion of his travels is some foul sun-burnt • quean; that, since the terrible statute, recanted gypsism, and is 'turned pedlaress. So marches he all over England with his bag and baggage; his conversation is irreproveable, for he is ever mending. He observes truly the statutes, and therefore had rather steal than beg, in which he is irremoveably constant, in
spite of whips or imprisonment, and so strong an enemy to idleness, that in mending one hole, he had rather make three than • want work ; and when he hath done, he throws the wallet of his
'faults behind him.' *** *Some would take him to be a coward, .but believe it he is a lad of mettle.'
Take “the Taylor," which is in the same strain, and which, together with “ the Tinker," will make a pretty pair of mechanical portraits.
A Taylor • Is a creature made up of shreds, that were pared off from · Adam, when he was rough cast; the end of his being differeth • from that of others, and is not to serve God, but to cover sin ; other men's pride is his best patron, and their negligence a main passage to his profit. *
He handleth the Spanish 'pike to the hazard of many poor Egyptian vermin, and in shew of
his valour, scorneth a greater gauntlet than will cover the top of his middle finger; of all weapons he most affecteth the long bill, and * this he will manage to the great prejudice of a customer's estate ; his
spirit, notwithstanding, is not so much as to make you think him 'a man; like a true mongrel, he neither bites nor barks but when your back is towards him. His heart is a lump of congealed snow, Prometheus was asleep while it was making; he differeth altogether from God, for with him the best pieces are still marked out for damnation, and without hope of recovery shall be cast down into hell; he is partly an alchymist, for he extracteth his own apparel out of other men's clothes, and when occasion serv
eth, making a broker's-shop his alembick, can turn your silks into gold, and having furnished his necessities, after a month or two if he be urged unto it, reduce them again to their proper substance. He is in part likewise an arithmetician, cunning enough . in multiplication and addition, but cannot abide subtraction ; sum* ma totalis is the language of his Canaan, and usque ad ultimum
quadrantem, the period of his charity. For any skill in geome• try, I dare not commend him, for lie could never yet find out the dimensions of bis own conscience; notwithstanding he hath many .bottoms, it scemeth this is always bottomless.'
The “ Noble and Retired Housekeeper" is another lofty picture of a high character, in the same style as the “Noble Spirit.' It is pleasant to think that among our nobility we have always had originals for a picture like the following.
A Noble and Retired Housekeeper *Is one whose bounty is limited by reason, not ostentation, and to make it last, he deals it discreetly as we sow the furrow, not by the sack, but by the handful. His word and his meaning never shake hands and part, but always go together. He can survey 'good and love it, and loves to do it himself, for its own sake, not * for thanks. He knows there is no such misery, as to outlive a 'good name, nor no such folly as to put it in practice. His mind
is so secure, that thunder rocks him to sleep, which breaks other 'men's slumbers; nobility lightens in his eyes, and in his face and ges
ture is painted the God of hospitality. His great houses bear in their front more durance than state, unless this add the greater state to them, that they promise to out-last much of our new fan"tastical building. His heart grows old no more than his memory, whether at his book, or on horseback; he passes his time in
such noble exercise ; a man cannot say any time is lost by him, "nor hath he only years to approve he hath lived till he be old, but 'virtues. His thoughts have a high aim, though their dwelling be in the vale of an humble heart, whence, as by an engine, (that raises water to fall, that it may rise higher) he is heightened in his humility. The Adamant serves not for all seas, but his doth, for he hath, as it were, put a gird about the whole world, and
sounded all her quicksands. He hath his hand over fortune, that "her injuries, how violent or sudden soever, do not daunt him ; for whether his time call him to live or die, he can do both nobly; if 'to fall, his descent is breast to breast with virtue, and even then "like the sun, near his set he shows unto the world his clearest countenance.'
Sir Thomas Overbury seems to have had a high regard for the profession of an actor, and, if we mistake not, there are marks in the following portrait of his having taken it from personal observation.—Probably, like many other accomplished men, from the time of Cicero, he sought the society of a set of men whose occupation, to excel in it, requires the cultivation of the most attractive graces, both of mind and body, and is of a nature to cast a romantic and elevated tinge over the character.
An excellent Actor. • Whatsoever is commendable in the grave orator, is most exquisitely perfect in him; for by a full and significant action of .body, he charms our attention ; sit in a full theatre, and you will
think you see so many lines drawn from the circumference of so ‘many ears, while the actor is the center. He doth not strive to 'make nature monstrous, she is often seen in the same scene with him, but neither on stilts nor crutches; and for his voice, 'tis not lower than the prompter, nor louder than the foil and target. By his action he fortifies moral precepts with example, for what we see bim personate, we think truly done before us; a man of a deep 'thought might apprehend the ghosts of our ancient heroes walked
again, and take him (at several times) for many of them. He is 'much affected to painting, and 'tis a question, whether that makes
him an excellent player, or his playing an exquisite painter. He 'adds grace to the poet's labours; for what in the poet is but ditty, in him is both ditty and music. He entertains us in the best