The works of Richard Hurd, volume 3 (of 8)

by Richard Hurd

MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY—THE REV. MR. SPRAT.

TO THE EARL OF ST. ALBANS[31].

MY LORD,

The duty I owe your Lordship, as well as my friendship for Mr. Cowley, determined me to lose no time in executing the commission you was pleased to charge me with by Mr. D***. I went early the next morning to Barn Elms[32]; intending to pass the whole day with him, and to try if what I might be able to suggest on the occasion, together with the weight of your lordship’s advice, could not divert him from his strange project of Retirement. Your lordship, no doubt, as all his other friends, had observed his bias that way to be very strong; but who, that knew his great sense, could have thought of it its carrying him to so extravagant a resolution? For my own part, I suspected it so little, that, though he would often talk of retiring, and especially since your lordship’s favour to him[33], I considered it only as the usual language of poets, which they take up one after another, and love to indulge in, as what they suppose becomes their family and profession. It could never come into my thoughts, that one, who knew the world so well as Mr. Cowley, and had lived so long in it, who had so fair hopes and so noble a patron, could seriously think of quitting the scene at his years, and all for so fantastic a purpose as that of growing old in the corner of a country village.

These, my lord, were my sentiments, when your friendly message alarmed me with the apprehension of there being more in the matter than I had suspected. Yet still I considered it only as a hasty thought, which a fit of the spleen, or of the muse it may be, had raised; and which the free remonstrance of a friend would easily disperse, or prevent at least from coming to any fixed and settled resolution. But how shall I express to your lordship the surprise I was in, to find that this resolution was not only taken, but rooted so deeply in him, that no arguments, nor even your lordship’s authority, could shake it? I have ever admired Mr. Cowley, as a man of the happiest temper and truest judgment; but, to say the least, there was something so particular, I had almost said perverse, in what he had to allege for himself on this occasion, that I cannot think I acquit myself to your lordship, without laying before you the whole of this extraordinary conversation; and, as far as my recollection will serve, in the very words in which it passed betwixt us.

I went, as I told your lordship, pretty early to Barn Elms; but my friend had gotten the start of me by some hours. He was busying himself with some improvements of his garden, and the fields that lie about his house. The whole circuit of his domain was not so large, but that I presently came up with him. “My dear friend,” said he, embracing me, but with a look of some reserve and disgust, “and is it you then I have the happiness to see, at length, in my new settlement? Though I fled hither from the rest of the world, I had no design to get out of the reach of my friends. And, to be plain with you, I took it a little amiss from one whose entire affection I had reckoned upon, that he should leave me to myself for these two whole months, without discovering an inclination, either from friendship or curiosity, to know how this retirement agreed with me. What could induce my best friend to use me so unkindly?”

Surely, said I, you forget the suddenness of your flight, and the secresy with which the resolution was taken. We supposed you gone only for a few days, to see to the management of your affairs; and could not dream of your rusticating thus long, at a time when the town and court are so busy; when the occasions of your friends and your own interests seemed to require your speedy return to us. However, continued I, it doth not displease me to find you so dissatisfied with this solitude. It looks as if the short experience, you have had of this recluse life, did not recommend it to you in the manner you expected. Retirement is a fine thing in imagination, and is apt to possess you poets with strange visions. But the charm is rarely lasting; and a short trial, I find, hath served to correct these fancies. You feel yourself born for society and the world, and, by your kind complaints of your friend, confess how unnatural it is to deny yourself the proper delights of a man, the delights of conversation.

Not so fast, interrupted he, if you please, in your conclusions about the nature of retirement. I never meant to give up my right in the affections of those few I call my friends. But what has this to do with the general purpose of retreating from the anxieties of business, the intrigues of policy, or the impertinencies of conversation? I have lived but too long in a ceaseless round of these follies. The best part of my time hath been spent sub dio. I have served in all weathers, and in all climates, but chiefly in the torrid zone of politics, where the passions of all men are on fire, and where such as have lived the longest, and are thought the happiest, are scarcely able to reconcile themselves to the sultry air of the place. But this warfare is now happily at an end. I have languished these many years for the shade. Thanks to my Lord St. Albans, and another noble lord you know of, I have now gained it. And it is not a small matter, I assure you, shall force me out of this shelter.

Nothing is easier, said I, than for you men of wit to throw a ridicule upon any thing. It is but applying a quaint figure, or a well-turned sentence, and the business is done. But indeed, my best friend, it gives me pain to find you not so much diverting as deceiving yourself with this unseasonable ingenuity. So long as these sallies of fancy were employed only to enliven conversation, or furnish matter for an ode or an epigram, all was very well. But now that you seem disposed to act upon them, you must excuse me if I take the matter a little more seriously. To deal plainly with you, I come to tell you my whole mind on this subject: and, to give what I have to say the greater consequence with you, I must not conceal from you, that I come commissioned by the excellent lord you honour so much, and have just now mentioned, to expostulate in the freest manner with you upon it.

We had continued walking all this time, and were now ascending a sort of natural terras. It led to a small thicket, in the entrance of which was a seat that commanded a pleasant view of the country and the river. Taking me up to it, “Well,” said he, “my good friend, since your purpose in coming hither is so kind, and my Lord St. Albans himself doth me the honour to think my private concerns deserving his particular notice, it becomes me to receive your message with respect, and to debate the matter, since you press it so home upon me, with all possible calmness. But let us, if you please, sit down here. You will find it the most agreeable spot I have to treat you with; and the shade we have about us will not, I suppose, at this hour, be unwelcome.”

And now, turning himself to me, “Let me hear from you, what there is in my retreat to this place, which a wise man can have reason to censure, or which may deserve the disallowance of a friend. I know you come prepared with every argument which men of the world have at any time employed against retirement; and I know your ability to give to each its full force. But look upon this scene before you, and tell me what inducements I can possibly have to quit it for any thing you can promise me in exchange? Is there in that vast labyrinth, you call the world, where so many thousands lose themselves in endless wanderings and perplexities, any corner where the mind can recollect itself so perfectly, where it can attend to its own business, and pursue its proper interests so conveniently, as in this quiet and sequestered spot? Here the passions subside; or, if they continue to agitate, do not however transport the mind with those feverish and vexatious fervours, which distract us in public life. This is the seat of virtue and of reason; here I can fashion my life by the precepts of duty and conscience; and here I have leisure to make acquaintance, that acquaintance which elsewhere is so rarely made, with the ways and works of God.

Think again, my friend. Doth not the genius of the place seize you? Do you not perceive a certain serenity steal in upon you? Doth not the aspect of things around you, the very stillness of this retreat, infuse a content and satisfaction which the world knows nothing of? Tell me, in a word, is there not something like enchantment about us? Do you not find your desires more composed, your purposes more pure, your thoughts more elevated, and more active, since your entrance into this scene?”

He was proceeding in this strain, with an air of perfect enthusiasm, when I broke in upon him with asking, “Whether this was what he called debating the matter calmly with me. Surely,” said I, “this is poetry, or something still more extravagant. You cannot think I come prepared to encounter you in this way. I own myself no match for you at these weapons: which indeed are too fine for my handling, and very unsuitable to my purpose if they were not. The point is not which of us can say the handsomest things, but the truest, on either side of the question. It is, as you said, plain argument, and not rhetorical flourishes, much less poetical raptures, that must decide the matter in debate. Not but a great deal might be said on my side, and, it may be, with more colour of truth, had I the command of an eloquence proper to set it off.

I might ask, in my turn, “Where is mighty charm that draws you to this inglorious solitude, from the duties of business and conversation, from the proper end and employment of man? How comes it to pass, that this stillness of a country landscape, this uninstructing, though agreeable enough, scene of fields and waters, should have greater beauty in your eye, than flourishing peopled towns, the scenes of industry and art, of public wealth and happiness? Is not the sublime countenance of man, so one of your acquaintance terms it, a more delightful object than any of these humble beauties that lie before us? And are not the human virtues, with all their train of lovely and beneficial effects in society, better worth contemplating, than the products of inanimate nature in the field or wood? Where should we seek for Reason, but in the minds of men tried and polished in the school of civil conversation? And where hath Virtue so much as a being out of the offices of social life? Look well into yourself, I might say: hath not indeed the proper genius of solitude affected you! Doth not I know not what of chagrin and discontent hang about you? Is there not a gloom upon your mind, which darkens your views of human nature, and damps those chearful thoughts and sprightly purposes, which friendship and society inspire?”

You see, Sir, were I but disposed, and as able as you are, to pursue this way of fancy and declamation, I might conjure up as many frightful forms in these retired walks, as you have delightful ones. And the enchantment in good hands would, I am persuaded, have more the appearance of reality. But this is not the way in which I take upon myself to contend with you. I would hear, if you please, what reasons, that deserve to be so called, could determine you to so strange, and, forgive me if at present I am forced to think it, so unreasonable a project, as that of devoting your health and years to this monastic retirement. I would lay before you the arguments, which, I presume, should move you to quit a hasty, perhaps an unweighted, resolution: so improper in itself, so alarming to all your friends, so injurious to your own interest, and, permit me to say, to the public. I would enforce all this with the mild persuasions of a friend; and with the wisdom, the authority of a great person, to whose opinion you owe a deference, and who deserves it too from the entire love and affection he bears you.”

My dearest friend, replied he, with an earnestness that awed, and a goodness that melted me, I am not to learn the affection which either you or my noble friend bear me. I have had too many proofs of it from both, to suffer me to doubt it. But why will you not allow me to judge of what is proper to constitute my own happiness? And why must I be denied the privilege of choosing for myself, in a matter where the different taste or humour of others makes them so unfit to prescribe to me? Yet I submit to these unequal terms; and if I cannot justify the choice I have made, even in the way of serious reason and argument, I promise to yield myself to your advice and authority. You have taken me perhaps a little unprepared and unfurnished for this conflict. I have not marshalled my forces in form, as you seem to have done; and it may be difficult, on the sudden, to methodize my thoughts in the manner you may possibly expect from me. But come, said he, I will do my best in this emergency. You will excuse the rapture which hurried me at setting out, beyond the bounds which your severer temper requires. The subject always fires me; and I find it difficult, in entering on this argument, to restrain those triumphant sallies, which had better have been reserved for the close of it.

Here he paused a little; and recollecting himself, “But first,” resumed he, “you will take notice, that I am not at all concerned in the general question, so much, and, I think, so vainly agitated, ”whether a life of retirement be preferable to one of action?” I am not, I assure you, for unpeopling our cities, and sending their industrious and useful inhabitants into woods and cloisters. I acknowledge and admire the improvements of arts, the conveniencies of society, the policies of government[34]. I have no thought so mad or so silly, as that of wishing to see the tribes of mankind disbanded, their interests and connexions dissolved, and themselves turned loose into a single and solitary existence. I would not even wish to see our courts deserted of their homagers, though I cannot but be of opinion, that an airing now and then at their country houses, and that not with the view of diverting, but recollecting themselves, would prove as useful to their sense and virtue, as to their estates. But all this, as I said, is so far from coming into the scheme of my serious wishes, that it does not so much as enter into my thoughts. Let wealth, and power, and pleasure, be as eagerly sought after, as they ever will be: let thousands or millions assemble in vast towns, for the sake of pursuing their several ends, as it may chance, of profit, vanity, or amusement: All this is nothing to me, who pretend not to determine for other men, but to vindicate my own choice of this retirement.

As much as I have been involved in the engagements of business, I have not lived thus long without looking frequently, and sometimes attentively into myself. I maintain, then, that to a person so moulded as I am; of the temper and turn of mind, which Nature hath given me; of the sort of talents, with which education or genius hath furnished me; and, lastly, of the circumstances, in which fortune hath placed me; I say, to a person so charactered and so situated, RETIREMENT is not only his choice, but his duty; is not only what his inclination leads him to, but his judgement. And upon these grounds, if you will, I venture to undertake my own apology to you.”

Your proposal, said I, is fair, and I can have no objection to close with you upon these terms; only you must take care, my friend, that you do not mistake or misrepresent your own talents or character; a miscarriage, which, allow me to say, is not very rare from the partialities which an indulged humour, too easily taken for nature, is apt to create in us.

Or what, replied he, if this humour, as you call it, be so rooted as to become a second nature? Can it, in the instance before us, be worth the pains of correcting?

I should think so, returned I, in your case. But let me first hear the judgement you form of yourself, before I trouble you with that which I and your other friends make of you.

I cannot but think, resumed he, that my situation at present must appear very ridiculous. I am forced into an apology for my own conduct, in a very nice affair, which it might become another, rather than myself, to make for me. In order to this, I am constrained to reveal to you the very secrets, that is, the foibles and weaknesses, of my own heart. I am to lay myself open and naked before you. This would be an unwelcome task to most men. But your friendship, and the confidence I have in your affection, prevail over all scruples. Hitherto your friend hath used the common privilege of wearing a disguise, of masking himself, as the poet makes his hero, in a cloud, which is of use to keep off the too near and curious inspection both of friends and enemies. But, at your bidding, it falls off, and you are now to see him in his just proportion and true features.

My best friend, proceeded he with an air of earnestness and recollection, it is now above forty years that I have lived in this world: and in all the rational part of that time there hath not, I believe, a single day passed without an ardent longing for such a retreat from it, as you see me at length blessed with. You have heard me repeat some verses, which were made by me so early as the age of thirteen, and in which that inclination is expressed as strongly, as in any thing I have ever said or written on that subject[35]. Hence you may guess the proper turn and bias of my nature; which began so soon, and hath continued thus long, to shew itself in the constant workings of that passion.

Even in my earliest years at school, you will hardly imagine how uneasy constraint of every kind was to me, and with what delight I broke away from the customary sports and pastimes of that age, to saunter the time away by myself, or with a companion, if I could meet with any such, of my own humour. The same inclination pursued me to college; where a private walk, with a book or friend, was beyond any amusement, which, in that sprightly season of life, I had any acquaintance with. It is with a fond indulgence my memory even now returns to these past pleasures. It was in those retired ramblings that a thousand charming perceptions and bright ideas would stream in upon me. The Muse was kindest in those hours: and, I know not how, Philosophy herself would oftner meet me amidst the willows of the Cam, than in the formal schools of science, within the walls of my college, or in my tutor’s chamber.

I understand, said I, the true secret of that matter. You had now contracted an intimacy with the poets, and others of the fanciful tribe. You was even admitted of their company; and it was but fit you should adopt their sentiments, and speak their language. Hence those day-dreams of shade and silence, and I know not what visions, which transport the minds of young men, on their entrance into these regions of Parnassus.

It should seem then, returned he, by your way of expressing it, as if you thought this passion for shade and silence was only pretended to on a principle of fashion; or, at most, was catched by the lovers of poetry from each other, in the way of sympathy, without nature’s having any hand at all in the production of it.

Something like that, I told him, was my real sentiment: and that these agreeable reveries of the old poets had done much hurt by being taken too seriously. Were Horace and Virgil, think you, as much in earnest as you appear to be, when they were crying out perpetually on their favourite theme of otium and secessus, “they, who lived and died in a court?”

I believe, said he, they were, and that the short accounts we have of their lives shew it, though a perfect dismission from the court was what they could not obtain, or had not the resolution to insist upon. But pray, upon your principles, that all this is but the enchantment of example or fashion, how came it to pass, that the first seducers of the family, the old poets themselves, had fallen into these notions? They were surely no pretenders. They could only write from the heart. And methinks it were more candid, as well as more reasonable, to account for this passion, which hath so constantly shewn itself in their successors, from the same reason. It is likely indeed, and so much I can readily allow, that the early reading of the poets might contribute something to confirm and strengthen my natural bias[36].

But let the matter rest for the present. I would now go on with the detail of my own life and experience, so proper, as I think, to convince you that what I am pleading for is the result of nature.

I was saying how agreeably my youth passed in these reveries, if you will have it so, and especially inter sylvas academi:

Dura sed emovere loco me tempora grato,
Civilisque rudem belli tulit æstus in arma.

You know the consequence. This civil turmoil drove me from the shelter of retirement into the heat and bustle of life; from those studies which, as you say, had enchanted my youth, into business and action of all sorts. I lived in the world: I conversed familiarly with the great. A change like this, one would suppose, were enough to undo the prejudices of education. But the very reverse happened. The further I engaged, and the longer I continued in this scene, the greater my impatience was of retiring from it.

But you will say, my old vice was nourished in me by living in the neighbourhood of books and letters[37]. I was yet in the fairy land of the Muses; and, under these circumstances, it was no wonder that neither arms nor business, nor a court, could prevent the mind from returning to its old bias. All this may be true. And yet, I think, if that court had contained many such persons as some I knew in it, neither the distractions of business on the one hand, nor the blandishments of the Muse on the other, could have disposed me to leave it. But there were few Lord Falklands—and unhappily my admiration of that nobleman’s worth and honour[38] created an invincible aversion to the rest, who had little resemblance of his virtues.

I would not be thought, said I, to detract from so accomplished a character as that of the Lord Falkland; but surely there was something in his notions of honour—

Not a word, interrupted he eagerly, that may but seem to throw a shade on a virtue the brightest and purest that hath done honour to these later ages.—But I turn from a subject that interests me too much, and would lead me too far. Whatever attractions there might be in such a place, and in such friendships, the iniquity of the times soon forced me from them. Yet I had the less reason to complain, as my next removal was into the family of so beneficent a patron as the Lord Jermyn, and into the court of so accomplished a princess as the Queen Mother.

My residence, you know, was now for many years in France; a country, which piques itself on all the refinements of civility. Here the world was to appear to me in its fairest form, and, it was not doubted, would put on all its charms to wean me from the love of a studious retired life. I will not say I was disappointed in this expectation. All that the elegance of polished manners could contribute to make society attractive, was to be found in this new scene. My situation, besides, was such, that I came to have a sort of familiarity with greatness. Yet shall I confess my inmost sentiments of this splendid life to you? I found it empty, fallacious, and even disgusting. The outside indeed was fair. But to me, who had an opportunity of looking it through, nothing could be more deformed and hateful. All was ambition, intrigue, and falsehood. Every one intent on his own schemes, frequently wicked, always base and selfish. Great professions of honour, of friendship, and of duty; but all ending in low views and sordid practices. No truth, no sincerity: without which, conversation is but words; and the polish of manners, the idlest foppery.

Surely, interposed I, this picture must be overcharged. Frailties and imperfections, no doubt, there will be in all societies of men, especially where there is room for competition in their pursuits of honour and interest. But your idea of a court is that of a den of thieves, only better dressed, and more civilized.

That however, said he, is the idea under which truth obliges me to represent it. Believe me, I have been long enough acquainted with that country, to give you a pretty exact account of its inhabitants. Their sole business is to follow the humour of the prince, or of his favourite, to speak the current language, to serve the present turn, and to cozen one another. In short, their virtue is, civility; and their sense, cunning. You will guess now, continued he, how uneasy I must be in such company; I, who cannot lie, though it were to make a friend, or ruin an enemy; who have been taught to bear no respect to any but true wisdom; and, whether it be nature or education, could never endure (pardon the foolish boast) that hypocrisy should usurp the honours, and triumph in the spoils of virtue.

Nay further, my good friend, (for I must tell you all I know of myself, though it expose me ever so much to the charge of folly or even vanity) I was not born for courts and general conversation. Besides the unconquerable aversion I have to knaves and fools (though these last, but that they are commonly knaves too, I could bring myself to tolerate); besides this uncourtly humour, I have another of so odd a kind, that I almost want words to express myself intelligibly to you. It is a sort of capricious delicacy, which occasions a wide difference in my estimation of those characters, in which the world makes no distinction. It is not enough to make me converse with ease and pleasure with a man, that I see no notorious vices, or even observe some considerable virtues in him. His good qualities must have a certain grace, and even his sense must be of a certain turn, to give me a relish of his conversation.

I see you smile at this talk, and am aware how fantastic this squeamishness must appear to you. But it is with men and manners, as with the forms and aspects of natural things. A thousand objects recal ideas, and excite sensations in my mind, which seem to be not perceived, or not heeded, by other men. The look of a country, the very shading of a landskip, shall have a sensible effect on me, which they, who have as good eyes, appear to make no account of. It is just the same with the characters of men. I conceive a disgust at some, and a secret regard for others, whom many, I believe, would estimate just alike. And what is worse, a long and general conversation hath not been able to cure me of this foible. I question, said he, turning himself to me, but, if I was called upon to assign the reasons of that entire affection, which knits me to my best friend, they would be resolved at last into a something, which they, who love him perhaps as well, would have no idea of.

He said this in a way that disarmed me, or I had it in my mind to have rallied him on his doctrine of occult qualities and unintelligible forms. I therefore contented myself with saying, that I must not hear him go on at this strange rate; and asked him if it was possible he could suffer himself to be biassed, in an affair of this moment, by such whimsies?

Those whimsies, resumed he, had a real effect. But consider further, the endless impertinencies of conversation; the dissipation, and loss of time; the diversion of the mind from all that is truly useful or instructive, from what a reasonable man would or should delight in: add to these, the vexations of business; the slavery of dependence, the discourtesies of some, the grosser injuries of others; the danger, or the scorn, to which virtue is continually subject; in short, the knavery, or folly, or malevolence, of all around you; and tell me, if any thing but the unhappy times, and a sense of duty, could have detained a man of my temper and principles so long in a station of life so very uneasy and disgusting to me.

Nothing is easier, said I, than to exaggerate the inconveniencies of any situation. The world and the court have doubtless theirs. But you seem to forget one particular; that the unhappy times you speak of, and the state of the court, were an excuse for part of the disagreeable circumstances you have mentioned. The face of things is now altered. The storm is over. A calm has succeeded. And why should not you take the benefit of these halcyon days, in which so many others have found their ease, and even enjoyment?

These halcyon days, returned he, are not, alas! what unexperienced men are ready to represent them. The same vices, the same follies, prevail still, and are even multiplied and enflamed by prosperity. A suffering court, if any, might be expected to be the seedplot of virtues. But, to satisfy your scruples, I have even made a trial of these happier times. All I wished to myself from the happiest, was but such a return for my past services, as might enable me to retire with decency. Such a return I seem not to have merited. And I care not at this time of day to waste more of my precious time in deserving a better treatment.

Your day, said I, is not so far spent, as to require this hasty determination. Besides, if this be all, the world may be apt to censure your retreat, as the effect of chagrin and disappointment.

His colour rose, as I said this. The world, resumed he, will censure as it sees fit. I must have leave at length to judge for myself in what so essentially concerns my own happiness. Though if ever chagrin may be pleaded as a reason for retirement, perhaps nobody had ever a better right than I have to plead it. You know what hath happened of late, to give me a disgust to courts. You know the view I had in my late comedy[39] and the grounds I had to expect that it would not be ill taken. But you know too the issue of that attempt. And should I, after this experience of courtly gratitude, go about to solicit their favours?

But, to let you see that I am swayed by better motives than those of chagrin, I shall not conceal from you what I am proud enough to think of my TALENTS, as well as temper.

There are but two sorts of men, pursued he, that should think of living in a court, however it be that we see animals of all sorts, clean and unclean, enter into it.

The one is of those strong and active spirits that are formed for business, whose ambition reconciles them to the bustle of life, and whose capacity fits them for the discharge of its functions. These, especially if of noble birth and good fortunes, are destined to fill the first offices in a state; and if, peradventure, they add virtue to their other parts and qualities, are the blessings of the age they live in. Some few such there have been in former times; and the present, it may be, is not wholly without them.

The OTHER sort, are what one may properly enough call, if the phrase were not somewhat uncourtly, the MOB OF COURTS; they, who have vanity or avarice without ambition, or ambition without talents. These, by assiduity, good luck, and the help of their vices (for they would scorn to earn advancement, if it were to be had, by any worthy practices), may in time succeed to the lower posts in a government; and together make up that showey, servile, selfish crowd, we dignify with the name of COURT.

Now, though I think too justly of myself to believe I am qualified to enter into the former of these lists, you may conclude, if you please, that I am too proud to brigue for an admission into the latter. I pretend not to great abilities of any kind; but let me presume a little in supposing, that I may have some too good to be thrown away on such company.

Here, my lord, the unusual freedom, and even indecency, of Mr. Cowley’s invective against courts, transported me so far, that I could not forbear turning upon him with some warmth. Surely, said I, my friend is much changed from what I always conceived of him. This heat of language, from one of your candour, surprises me equally with the injustice of it. It is so far from calm reasoning, that it wants but little, methinks, of downright railing. I believe, continued I, that I think more highly, that is, more justly, of Mr. Cowley in every respect, than he allows himself to do. Yet I see not that either his time, or his talents, would be misemployed in the services he so much undervalues. Permit me to say, your resentment hath carried you too far; and that you do not enough consider the friends you left at court, or the noble lord that wishes your return thither.

I do, said he hastily, consider both. But, with your leave, since I am forced to defend myself against an ignominious charge, I must do myself the right to assume what I think belongs to me. I repeat it; I have long thought my time lost in the poor amusements and vanities of the great world, and have felt an impatience to get into a quiet scene, where, slender as my talents are, I might employ them to better purpose.

And think not, proceeded he, that I am carried to this choice by any thing so frivolous as the idleness of a poetical fancy. Not but the Muse, which hath been the darling of my youth, may deserve to be the companion of my riper age. For I am far from renouncing an art, which, unprofitable as it hath ever been to me, is always entertaining: and when employed, as I mean it shall be, in other services than those by which a voluptuous court seems willing to disgrace it, I see not what there is in this amusement of poetry, for the severest censor of life and manners to take offence at. Yet still I intend it for an amusement. My serious occupations will be very different; such as you, my friend, cannot disapprove, and should encourage. But I have opened to you my intentions more than once, and need not give you the trouble at this time to hear me explain them.

You mean, interposed I, to apply yourself to natural and religious inquiries. Your design is commendable; and I would not dissuade you from it. But what should hinder your pursuing this design as well in society as in this solitude?

What, at COURT, returned he, where the only object, that all men are in quest of, is GAIN; and the only deity they acknowledge, FORTUNE? Or say that such idolatries did not prevail, there, how shall the mind be calm enough for so sublime inquiries? or where, but in this scene of genuine nature, is there an opportunity to indulge in them? Here, if any where, is the observation of the poet verified, DEUS EST QUODCUNQUE VIDES. Look round, my friend, on this florid earth, on the various classes of animals that inhabit, and the countless vegetable tribes that adorn it. Here is the proper school of wisdom,

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing[40].

Infinite are the uses, continued he, which would result from this method of applying experiment and observation to Natural Science. I have taken occasion, you know, to offer a slight sketch of them to the Public very lately[41]. But the principal I would draw from it to myself should be, to inure the mind to just conceptions of the divine nature; that so, with the better advantage, I might turn myself to the awful study of his Word. And here, my friend, I am sensible how much I may expect to be animated by your zeal, and enlightened by your instruction. In the mean time, I pretend to possess some qualities, which, if rightly applied, may not be unsuitable to so high an undertaking. I feel myself impelled by an eager curiosity: I have much patience, and some skill in making experiments. I may even be allowed to boast of a readiness in the learned languages; and am not without a tincture of such other studies, as the successful prosecution of PHYSICS, and still more of Divinity, requires. You may further impute to me, if you please, an ingenuous love of truth, and an ordinary degree of judgment to discern it.

These, concluded he, are the TALENTS, of which I spoke to you so proudly; and with the help of these (especially if you allow me one other, the power of communicating what I may chance to learn of natural or divine things), I might hope to render a better account of this solitude, than of any employments I could reasonably aspire to, in the world of men and of business.

He said this with an air of solemnity, which left me a little at a loss what to reply to him, when he relieved my perplexity by adding, “but, though there was nothing of all this in the case, and my zeal for promoting knowledge in this private way were as lightly to be accounted of, as that, which led me to propose the more extensive scheme I before mentioned, probably will be, yet what should draw me from this leisure of a learned retirement? For though I please myself with the prospect of doing some public service by my studies, yet need I blush to own, to my learned friend, the fondness I should still have for them, were they only to end in my own private enjoyment? Yes, let me open my whole soul to you. I have ever delighted in letters, and have even found them, what the world is well enough content they should be, their own reward. I doubt, if this language would be understood in all companies. And let others speak as they find. But to me the year would drag heavily, and life itself be no life, if it were not quickened by these ingenuous pleasures.”

Indeed, were it only for the very quiet and indolence of mind, which retirement promises, why should I be envied this calm in the decline of a troubled life? But let the Muse speak for me,

“After long toils and voyages in vain,
This quiet port let my tost vessel gain;
Of heav’nly rest this earnest to me lend,
Let my life sleep, and learn to love her end.”

And what if they, who have not the means of enjoying this rest, submit to the drudgery of business? Is that a reason for me to continue in it, who have made my fortune, even to the extent of my wishes? I see you smile at this boast. But where would you have me stop in my desires; or what is it you would have me understand by the mysterious language of making a fortune? Is it two hundred a year, or four, or a thousand? Say, where shall we fix, or what limits will you undertake to prescribe to the vague and shifting notion of a competency? Or, shall we own the truth at once, that every thing is a competency which a man is contented to live upon, and that therefore it varies only, as his desires are more or less contracted?

To talk at any other rate of a man’s fortune, is surely to expose one’s self to the ridicule, which the philosopher, you know, threw on the restless humour of king Pyrrhus. ’Tis whim, chimera, madness, or what you will, except sober reason and common sense. Yet still the world cries, “What, sit down with a pittance, when the ways of honour and fortune are open to you? take up with what may barely satisfy, when you have so fair a chance for affluence, and even superfluity?”

Alas! and will that affluence, then, more than satisfy? or can it be worth the while to labour, for a superfluity?

’Tis true the violence of the times, in which it was my fortune to bear a part, had left me bare and unprovided even of those moderate accommodations, which my education and breeding might demand, and which a parent’s piety had indeed bequeathed to me. It was but fitting then I should strive to repair this loss; and the rather, as my honest services gave me leave to hope for a speedy reparation. And thus far I was contented to try my fortune in the court, though at the expence of much uneasy attendance and solicitation. But, seeing that this assiduity was without effect, and that the bounty of two excellent persons[42] hath now set me above the necessity of continuing it, what madness were it to embark again

“Fluctibus in mediis et tempestatibus urbis!”

So that if you will needs be urging me with the ceaseless exhortation of

“I, bone, quo virtus tua te vocat: I pede fausto,
Grandia laturus meritorum præmia:—”

I must take leave to remind you of the sage reply that was made to it. It was, you know, by an old soldier, who found himself exactly in my situation. The purse, which he had lost by one accident, he had recovered by another. The conclusion was, that he had no mind, in this different state of affairs, to turn adventurer again, and expose himself to the same perilous encounters:

“Post hæc ille catus, quantumvis RUSTICUS, ibit,
Ibit eo, quo vis QUI ZONAM PERDIDIT, inquit.”

In one word, my friend, I am happy here, as you see me, in my little farm, which yet is large enough to answer all my real necessities; and I am not in the humour of him in the fable[43], to fill my head with visions, and spend a wretched life in quest of the flying island.

And now, added he, you have before you in one view the principal reasons that have determined me to this retreat. I might have enlarged on each more copiously; but I know to whom I speak: and perhaps to such a one I might even have spared a good deal of what I have now been offering, from the several considerations of my TEMPER, TALENTS, and SITUATION.

Here he stopped. And now, my lord, it came to my turn to take the lead in this controversy. There was indeed an ample field before me. And, if the other side of the question afforded most matter for wit and declamation, mine had all the advantages of good sense and sound reason. The superiority was so apparent, and my victory over him, in point of argument, so sure, that I thought it needless and ungenerous to press him on every article of his defence, in which he had laid himself open to me.

Your lordship hath, no doubt, observed, with wonder and with pity, the strange spirit that runs through every part of it: the confined way of thinking, which hath crept upon him; the cynical severity, he indulges against courts; the importance he would sometimes assume to his own character; the peevish turn of mind, that leads him to take offence at the lighter follies and almost excusable vices of the great; in short, the resentment, the pique, the chagrin, which one overlooks in the hopeless suitor, or hungry poet, but which are very unaccountable in one of Mr. Cowley’s condition and situation.

Here then, my lord, was a fair occasion for a willing adversary. But I spared the infirmities of my friend. I judged it best, too, to keep him in temper, and avoid that heat of altercation, which must have arisen from touching these indiscretions, as they deserved. Your lordship sees the reason I had for confining my reply to such parts of his apology, as bore the fairest shew of argument, and might be encountered without offence.

When he had ended, therefore, with so formal a recapitulation of his discourse, I thought it not amiss to follow him in his own train; and, dissembling the just exceptions I had to his vindication in other respects, “You have proceeded, said I, in a very distinct method, and have said as much, I believe, on the subject, as so bad a cause would admit. But if this indeed be all you have to allege, for so uncommon a fancy, you must not think it strange, if I pronounce it, without scruple, very insufficient for your purpose.

For, to give your several pleas a distinct examination, what is that TEMPER, let me ask, on which you insist so much, but a wayward humour, which your true judgement should correct and controul by the higher and more important regards of duty? Every man is born with some prevailing propensity or other, which, if left to itself, and indulged beyond certain bounds, would grow to be very injurious to himself and society. There is something, no doubt, amusing in the notion of retirement. The very word implies ease and quiet, and self-enjoyment. And who doubts, that in the throng and bustle of life, most men are fond to image to themselves, and even to wish for a scene of more composure and tranquillity? It is just as natural as that the labourer should long for his repose at night; or that the soldier, amidst the dust and heat of a summer’s march, should wish for the conveniencies of shade and shelter. But what wild work would it make if these so natural desires should be immediately gratified? if the labourer should quit his plow, and the soldier his arms, to throw themselves into the first shade or thicket that offered refreshment? All you have therefore said on this article can really stand for nothing in the eye of sober reason, whatever figure it may make in the dress of your eloquence[44]. The inconveniencies of every station are to be endured from the obligations of duty, and on account of the services one is bound to render to himself and his country.

True, replied he, if it appeared to be one’s duty, or even interest, to continue in that station. But what principle of conscience binds me to a slavish dependence at court? or what interest, public or private, can be an equivalent for wearing these chains, when I have it in my power to throw them off, and redeem myself into a state of liberty?

What Interest, do you ask? returned I. Why that great and extensive one, which society hath in an honest and capable man’s continuing to bear a part in public affairs. For as to inducements of another kind, I may find occasion hereafter to press them upon you more seasonably. Consider well with yourself, what would the consequence be, if all men of honour and ability were to act upon your principles? What a world would this be, if knaves and fools only had the management in their hands, and all the virtuous and wise, as it were by common consent, were to withdraw from it? Nay, the issue would even be fatal to themselves; and they would presently find it impossible to taste repose, even in their own sanctuary of retirement.

Small need, replied he, to terrify one’s self with such apprehensions. The virtuous, at least they who pass for such, will generally have ambition enough to keep them in the road of public employments. So long as there are such things as riches and honours, courts will never be unfurnished of suitors, even from among the tribes of lettered and virtuous men. The desperately bad, at least, will never have the field left entirely to themselves. And, after all, the interest of men in office is, in the main, so providentially connected with some regard to the rules of honour and conscience, that there is seldom any danger that matters should come to extremities under the worst administration. And I doubt this is all we are to expect, or at least to reckon upon with assurance, under the very best.

But my answer is more direct. It is not for your little friend to think of getting a seat in the cabinet-council, or of conducting the great affairs of the state. He knows himself to be as unfit for those high trusts, as he is incapable of aspiring to them. Besides, he does not allow himself to doubt of their being discharged with perfect ability, by the great persons who now fill them. He, at least, who occupies the foremost place of authority, is, by the allowance of all, to be paralleled with any that the wisest prince hath ever advanced to that station[45]. And when so consummate a pilot sits at the helm, it seems a matter of little moment by what hands the vessel of the commonwealth is navigated.

I could not agree with him in this concluding remark, and much less in the high-flown encomium which introduced it[46]. But, waving these lesser matters, I contented myself with observing, “That let him put what gloss he would on this humour of declining civil business, it must needs be considered by all unbiassed persons, as highly prejudicial to public order and government; that, if good men would not be employed, the bad must; and that, to say the least, the cause of learning and virtue must suffer exceedingly in the eyes of men, when they see those very qualities, which alone can render us useful to the world, dispose us to fly from it.”

For as to the plea, continued I, of employing them to better purpose in the way of private and solitary CONTEMPLATION, I can hold it for little better than enthusiasm. Several persons, I know, would give it a worse name, and say, as Tacitus somewhere does, that it serves only for a specious cover to that love of ease and self-indulgence, which he will have to be at the bottom of such pretences[47]. But even with the best construction the matter was capable of, he could never, I insisted, justify that plea to the understandings of prudent and knowing men. We allow the obscure pedant to talk high of the dignity of his office, and magnify, as much as he pleases, the importance of his speculations. Such an indulgence serves to keep him in humour with himself, and may be a means to convert a low and plodding genius to the only use of which it is capable. But for a man of experience in affairs, and who is qualified to shine in them, to hold this language, is very extraordinary.

I saw with what impatience he heard me, and therefore took care to add, “’Tis true, the studies to which you would devote yourself, are the noblest in the world of science. For Divinity, the very name speaks its elogium. And the countenance which his majesty is pleased, in his true wisdom, to give to natural science, must be thought to ennoble that branch of learning beyond all others, that are merely of human consideration. Yet still, my friend, what need of taking these studies out of the hands of those, to whom they are properly intrusted? Religion is very safe in the bosom of the national church. And questions of natural science will doubtless be effectually cleared and ventilated in the New Society[48], and in the schools of our Universities. It could never be his majesty’s intention to thin his court, for the sake of furnishing students in natural philosophy.”

And can you then, interposed he, in your concern for what you very improperly call my interests, allow yourself to speak so coolly of the great interests of natural and divine truth? Is religion a trade to be confined to the craftsmen? Or, are fellows of colleges and of the Royal Society, if such we are to have, the only persons concerned to adore God in the wonders of his creation? Pardon me, my friend: I know you mean nothing less; but the strange indifference of your phrase provokes me to this expostulation.

You warm yourself, resumed I, too hastily. My design was only to suggest, that as there are certain orders of men appointed for the sole purpose of studying divinity, and advancing philosophy, I did not see that a man of business was obliged to desert his proper station for the sake of either.

I suspect, said he, there may be some equivocation wrapped up in that word obliged. All I know is, that I shall spend my time more innocently, at least; and, I presume to think, more usefully in those studies, than in that slippery station, if it may deserve to be called one, of court-favour and dependence. And if I extended the observation to many others, that are fond to take up their residence in these quarters, I cannot believe I should do them any injustice.

I cannot tell, returned I, against whom this censure is pointed. But I know there are many of the gravest characters, and even lights and fathers of the church, who do not consider it as inconsistent, either with their duty, or the usefulness of their profession, to continue in that station.

O! mistake me not, replied he: I intended no reflection on any of the clergy, and much less on the great prelates of the church, for their attendance in the courts of princes. Theirs is properly an exempt case. They are the authorized guides and patterns of life. Their great abilities indeed qualify them, above all others, for serving the cause of science and religion, by their private studies and meditations. But they very properly consider too, that part of their duty is to enlighten the ignorant of all ranks, by their wise and pious discourse, and to awe and reclaim the wandering of all denominations, by their example. Hence it is, that I cannot enough admire the zeal of so many pastors of the church; who, though the slavish manners and libertinism of a court must be more than ordinarily offensive to men of their characters, continue to discharge their office so painfully, and yet so punctually, in that situation.

Here, my lord, observing my friend for once to deliver himself reasonably, I was encouraged to add, that since he was so just to maintain the commerce of good and wise churchmen in the great world to be, as it truly was, a matter of duty, he should also have the candour to own, that his withdrawing from it was, at least, a work of Supererogation.

It might be so, he said; but, though our church gave no encouragement to think we merit by such works, he did not know that it condemned and utterly forbad them.

O! but, returned I, if that be all, and you acknowledge at last that your retiring is no matter of duty, it will be easy to advance another step, and demonstrate to you, that such a project is, in your case, altogether unreasonable[49].

For, notwithstanding all you have said, in the spirit and language of stoicism, of the comforts of your present SITUATION, will you seriously undertake to persuade me that they are in any degree comparable to what you might propose to yourself, by returning to a life of business? Is the littleness, the obscurity, and pardon me if I even say, the meanness of this retreat, to be put in competition with the liberal and even splendid provision, which your friends at court will easily be able to make for you? Is it nothing, my friend, (for let us talk common sense, and not bewilder ourselves with the visions of philosophy) is it nothing to live in a well-furnished house, to keep a good table, to command an equipage, to have many friends and dependants, to be courted by inferiors, to be well received by the great, and to be somebody even in the presence?

And what if, in order to compass such things, some little devoirs and assiduities are expected? Is it not the general practice? And what every body submits to, can it be ignominious? Is this any thing more than conforming one’s self to the necessary subordination of society? Or, what if some time passes in these services, which a present humour suggests might be more agreeably spent in other amusements? The recompence cannot be far off; and, in the mean time, the lustre and very agitation of a life of business, hath somewhat in it sprightly and amusing. Besides, yours is not the case of one that is entering, for the first time, on a course of expectation. Your business is half done. The prince is favourable; and there are of his ministers that respect and honour you. Your services are well known; your reputation is fair; your connexions great; and the season inviting. What, with all these advantages, forego the court in a moping mood, or, as angry men use, run to moralize in a cloister!

I was proceeding in the warmth of this remonstrance, when, with a reproachful smile, he turned upon me, and, in a kind of rapture, repeated the following lines of Spenser:

“Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried,
What hell it is in suing long to bide:
To lose good days, that might be better spent;
To waste long nights in pensive discontent:
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;
To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow;
To have thy prince’s grace, yet want his peeres[50];
To have thy askings, yet wait many yeers[51];
To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares;
To eat thy heart through comfortless despaires;
To faun, to crouche, to wait, to ride, to ronne;
To spend, to give, to want, to be undonne.”

This, said he, is my answer once for all to your long string of interrogatories. I learnt it of one that had much experience in courts: and I thought it worth imprinting on my memory, to have it in readiness on such an occasion. Or, if you would rather have my answer in my own words, the Muse shall give it you in a little poem, she dictated very lately[52]. It may shew you perhaps, that, though my nature be somewhat melancholy, I am not moping; and that I can moralize, and even complain, as I have reason to do, without being angry.

The look and tone of voice, with which he said this, a little disconcerted me. But I recovered myself, and was going on to object to his unreasonable warmth, and the fascination of this wicked poetry, when he stopped me with saying, “Come, no more of these remonstrances and upbraidings. I have heard enough of your pleadings in a cause, which no eloquence can carry against my firm and fixed resolutions. I have seen, besides, the force you have done to yourself in this mock combat. Your extreme friendliness hath even tempted you to act a part which your true sense, and the very decorum of your profession, I have observed through all your disguises, has rendered painful to you. I will tell you my whole mind in one word. No inducements of what the world calls INTEREST, no views of HONOUR, no, nor what the poet aptly calls, SANCTISSIMA DIVITIARUM MAJESTAS[53], shall make me recede from the purpose I am bent upon, of consecrating the remainder of a comfortless distracted life, to the sweets of this obscure retirement. Believe me, I have weighed it well, with all its inconveniencies. And I find them such as are nothing to the agonies have long felt in that troubled scene, to which you would recal me. If it hath any ingredients, which I cannot so well relish, they are such as my friends, and, above all, such as you, my best friend, may reconcile to me. Let me but have the pleasure to see the few, I love and esteem, in these shades, and I shall not regret their solitude.

And as for my much honoured friend, whose munificence hath placed me in them, I shall hope to satisfy him in the most effectual manner. Nothing, you will believe, could give me a pain equal to that of being suspected of ingratitude towards my best benefactor. It was indeed with the utmost difficulty, that I constrained myself at last to think of leaving his service. The truth is, he expostulated with me upon it pretty roundly; and though my resolution was taken, I left him with the concern of not being able to give him entire satisfaction. These repeated instances by you are a fresh proof of his goodness, and do me an honour I had little reason to expect from him. But his lordship’s notions of life and mine are very different, as is fitting in persons, whom fortune hath placed in two such different situations. It becomes me to bear the most grateful remembrance of his kind intentions; and, for the rest, I can assure myself, that his equity and nobleness of mind, will permit an old servant to pursue, at length, his own inclinations.

However, to repay his goodness as I can, and to testify all imaginable respect to his judgment, I have purposed to write my own APOLOGY to his lordship; and to represent to him, in a better manner, than I have done in this sudden and unpremeditated conversation, the reasons that have determined me to this resolution. I have even made some progress in the design, and have digested into several essays the substance of such reflections as, at different times, have had most weight with me[54].

Hearing him speak in so determined a manner, I was discouraged from pressing him further with such other considerations, as I had, prepared on this argument. Only I could not help enforcing, in the warmest manner, and in terms your lordship would not allow me to use in this recital, what he himself had owned of your unexampled goodness to him; and the obligation which, I insisted, that must needs create in a generous mind, of paying an unreserved obedience to your lordship’s pleasure. He gave me the hearing very patiently; but contented himself with repeating his design of justifying himself to your lordship in the apology he had before promised.

And now, resumed he with an air of alacrity, since you know my whole mind, and that no remonstrances can move me, confess the whole truth; acknowledge at last that you have dissembled with me all this while, and that, in reality, you approve my resolution. I know you do, my friend, though you struggle hard to conceal it. It cannot be otherwise. Nature, which linked our hearts together, had formed us in one mould. We have the same sense of things; the same love of letters and of virtue. And though I would not solicit one of your years and your profession to follow me into the shade, yet I know you so well[55], that you will preserve in the world that equal frame of mind, that indifference to all earthly things, which I pretend to have carried with me into this solitude.

Go on, my friend, in this track; and be an example to the churchmen of our days, that the highest honours of the gown, which I easily foresee are destined to your abilities, are not incompatible with the strictest purity of life, and the most heroic sentiments of integrity and honour. Go, and adorn the dignities which are reserved for you; and remember only in the heights of prosperity to be what you are, to serve the world with vigour, yet so as to indulge with me

“the generous scorn
Of things, for which we were not born[56].”

I began to be a little uneasy at his long sermon, when he broke it off with this couplet. The day by this time was pretty far advanced; and rising from his seat, he proposed to me to walk into his hermitage (so he called his house); where, he said, I should see how a philosopher lived as well as talked. I staid to dine, and spent a good part of the afternoon with him. We discoursed of various matters; but not a word more of what had occasioned this visit. Only he shewed me the complaining poem he had mentioned, and of which, for the pleasure so fine a composition will give you, I here send your lordship a copy. His spirits, he said, were enlivened by the face of an old friend; and indeed I never knew his conversation more easy and chearful[57]; which yet I could not perfectly enjoy for the regret the ill success of my negociation had given me.

I returned to town in the evening, ruminating on what had passed, and resolving to send your lordship an exact account of our conversation. I particularly made a point of suppressing nothing which Mr. Cowley had to say for himself in this debate, however it may sometimes seem to make against me. The whole hath grown under my pen into a greater length than I expected. But your Lordship wished to know the bottom of our friend’s mind; and I thought you would see it more distinctly and clearly in this way, than in any other. I am, my lord, with the most profound respect,

Your Lordship’s most obedient
and faithful servant,
T. Sprat.

THE
COMPLAINT[58].

In a deep vision’s intellectual scene
Beneath a bower for sorrow made,
Th’ uncomfortable shade
Of the black yew’s unlucky green,
Mixt with the mourning willow’s careful gray,
Where reverend Cam cuts out his famous way,
The melancholy Cowley lay:
And lo! a Muse appear’d to’s closed sight,
(The Muses oft in lands of visions play)
Bodied, array’d, and seen by an internal light:
A golden harp with silver strings she bore,
A wonderous hieroglyphic robe she wore,
In which all colours, and all figures were,
That nature, or that fancy can create,
That art can never imitate;
And with loose pride it wanton’d in the air.
In such a dress, in such a well-cloath’d dream,
She us’d of old, near fair Ismenus’ stream,
Pindar her Theban favourite to meet;
A crown was on her head, and wings were on her feet.