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expedition against them, he neuer gained anything but losse and dishonour: as in the yeare 1538 at the citie of DIVM; and in the yeare 1552 at the Island of ARMVz; and after that at MOMBAZA, where foure of the Turkes gallies, with one galliot, which by the fauour of the king of MOMBAZA had thought to haue stayed in those seas, were by the Portugals taken who still haue an especiall regard and care, that the Turkes settle not themselves in those seas; but as soone as they perceine them to prepare any fleet, they forthwith set vpon them, and to that end oftentimes without resistance enter into the red sca. Prester Iohn, of whom although men speak much, yet is he nothing in strength to be compared vnto the Turke, but farre inferiour vnto him both for commaunders and souldiors, as also for weapons and munition: for that great prince hath a great kingdome without fortification, and a multitude of souldiors without armes : as appeared by the ouerthrow of Barnagasso his lieutenant towards the red sea; who hauing lost all that sea coast vnto the Turkes, was brought to that extremitie, that to haue peace with them, he yeelded to pay vnto them a yearely tribute of a thousand ounces of gold. In AFRICKE the Turke hath moe territories than hath the king of MAROCO, otherwise called the Xerife: For he possesseth all that there lyeth betwixt the red sea and the kingdome of FES; but the Xerife hath the better part, the richer, stronger, and more vnited: yet dare neither of them well make warre vpon the other, for the neerenesse of the king of SPAINE, enemie vnto them both. Now then there remaineth the rest of the Christian princes bordering vpon the Turke; and first the king of POLONIA. What these two princes can do the one against the other, hath been seene in some former expeditions, wherein the Polonian had still the worse. Yet it should seeme that of later time the Turke hath not beene greatly desirous to mooue the Polonian too farre: For that being prouoked by diuers occasions (namely, in the reigne of Henry the third, in the wars that Iohn the Vayuod of VALACHIA had with the Turks, many Polonian horsemen serued the said Vayuod, though not indeed sent from the king: and in the time of Sigismund the third, the Polonian Cossackes haue with diuers incursions not a little troubled them: beside the late motions of Iohn Zamoschie the great Chancelor and Generall of the Polonian forces, for the staying of the Tartars by the Turke sent for) he hath beene content to comport the same, and not with his wonted pride sought to be thereof reuenged, as he hath for farre lesse vpon some other princes. And on the other side, the Polonians since the vnfortunate expedition of king Ladislaus, neuer tooke vpon them any warres against the Turks, neither gaue such aid as they should vnto the Valachians their confederats, but suffered to be taken from themselues, whatsoeuer they had towards the Euxine or Blacke sea a thing imputed rather vnto the want of courage in their kings, than in the nobilitie of that kingdome. Sigismund the first being by Pope Leo the tenth inuited to the warres against the Turks, answered him in these few words: Set you the Christian princes at vnitie amongst themselues, and I for my part will not bee wanting. Sigismund the second so abhorred the warres, that he not onely declined the Turks, but prouoked by the Muscouites, neuer sought to reuenge the same. King Stephen (by the commendation of Amurath chosen king of POLONIA) an indifferent esteemer both of his enemies forces and his owne, thought it a most dangerous thing to join battaile with the Turke, and yet in priuate talke with his friends would oftentimes say, That with thirtie thousand foot joyned vnto his Polonian horsemen, he durst well to vndertake an expedition against the Turke: which he was supposed oftentimes to haue thought vpon. The Emperour, with the rest of the princes of the house of AVSTRIA,

are by a longer tract of ground joyned vnto this great Empire of the Turks, than any one other prince of the world, and bestow in fortifications and the maintenance of their garrisons (wherein they haue continually aboue twentie thousand horse and foot) the greatest part of their reuenues euen in the time of peace, much more in these their long warres, and with the Germane forces joyned vnto their owne, are more carefull how to defend that they yet haue left, than how to recouer that they haue already lost, or to enlarge their Empire. The Emperour Ferdinand with greater force than successe vndertooke the vnfortunate expeditions of BVDA and POSSEGA: which so euill fell out, not for that his forces were not sufficient or strong enough; but for that they wanted agilitie and dexteritie. The truth is, those his armies were strong ynough, and sufficiently furnished with all things necessarie, but consisted for the most part of Germanes and Bohemians, slow and heauie people, vnfit to encounter with the Turkes, a more readie and nimble kind of souldiors. The Venetians also confrontier the Turkes by many hundred miles both by sea and land, and defend themselues rather by peaceable policie than by force of armes: notably fortifying their strong holds vpon their frontiers, declining by all means the dangers and charges of warre, by embassages and rich presents; leauing nothing vnattempted (their libertie and State preserued) rather than to fall to warres. To say the truth of them, although they had both coyne and warlike prouision sufficient, yet want they men and victuals answerable to so great a war against so puissant an enemy. There remaineth only the king of SPAINE, of all other the great princes either Christians or Mahometanes (bordering vpon him) the best able to deale with him; his yearely reuenewes so farre exceeding those of the Turkes, as that they are also probably thought to counteruaile the greatest part of his Timariots: and his great dominions in SPAINE, PORTVGALL, Naples, SICILIA, MILLAINE, SARDINIA, and the Low Countries (if they were with him at vnitie) able to affourd vnto him so great and powerfull a strength both by sea and land, as might make him dreadfull euen vnto the Great Turke when he swelleth in his greatest pride: But considering how his forces are distracted for the maintenance of his warres at once in diuers places: as also for the necessarie defence and keeping of his so large and dispersed territories, not all the best of themselues affected to the Spanish gouernment, he is not to be thought of himselfe strong ynough against the vnited forces of the great Turke, whensoeuer they should chance to be imploied vpon him. So that by this we haue alreadio said, is easily to be gathered how much the Turke is too strong for any one the neighbour princes, either Mahometanes or Christians, bordering vpon him, and therefore to be of them the more feared. Yet least some mistaking me, might thinke, What, is then the Turke inuincible? Farre be that thought from me, to thinke any enemie of Christ Iesu (be his arme neuer so strong) to be able to withstand his power, either quite to deuour his little flocke, rage he neuer so much about it. As for the Turke, the most daungerous and professed enemie of the Christian commonweale, be his strength so great, yea and haply greater too than is before declared (the greatnesse of his dominions and empire considered) yet is he not to bee thought therefore either inuincible, or his power indeed so great as it in shew seemeth for to be: his Timariot horsemen (his greatest strength) dispersed ouer his whole empire, being neuer possibly the one halfe of them by him to be gathered into the bodie of one armie: neither if they so were, possible in such a multitude long to be kept together, liuing vpon no pay of his, but vpon such store and prouision onely as they bring with them from their Timari, neuer sufficient long to maintaine them. Besides that, the

policie of his state hardly or neuer suffereth him to draw aboue a third part of his Timariots out of his countries where they dwell, for feare least the rest of the people by them still kept vnder, should in their absence take vp armes against him in defence of themselues and their auntient libertie : whereafter the greatest part of those poore oppressed soules, as well Mahometanes as Christians in euerie prouince of his empire awaiting but the opportunitie, most desirously longeth: so that more than two parts of them being alwayes to be left at home, for the necessarie defence of the spacious border of his so large an empire, as also for the keeping in obedience of so many discontented nations; it is a great matter, if hee euen in his greatest warres draw together of these kind of souldiours the full number of an hundred and fiftie thousand strong, making vp the rest of his huge multitude with his Acanzij, liuing of no pay of his, but vpon the spoile of the enemie onely, the fift part whereof they pay vnto him also. All which put together, what manner of men they be, of and what valour, not onely the small armies of the Christians vnder the leading of their worthie chiefetaines Huniades, Scanderbeg, king Matthias, and others, haue to their immortal glorie in former times made good proofe: but euen in this our age, and that as it were but the other day, the Transyluanian prince with diuers other valiant captaines and commaunders yet living, haue done the like also; as wel witnesseth the late battell of AGRIA, wherein the Christians, in number not halfe so many as the Turkes, by plaine valour draue the great Sultan Mahomet himselfe (with Ibrahim Bassa his lieutenant General) out of the field, and had of him had the most glorious victorie that euer was got against that enemie, had they not by too much carelesnesse and vntimely desire of spoile, themselues shamefully interrupted the same. But thvs to let his horsemen passe, the chiefe strength of his footmen are his Ianizaries, neuer in number exceeding twelue or foureteene thousand, yea seldome times halfe so many, euen in his greatest armies, except he himselfe be there in person present in the middest of them: who beside the small number of them, in the time of these their late voluptuous and effeminate emperours, corrupted with the pleasures of CONSTANTINOPLE, and for want of their woonted discipline, haue together with their auntient obedience and patience, lost also a great part of their former reputation and valour: all the rest of his footmen filling vp the bodie of his populous armie, being his Asapi, rather pioners than souldiours, men of small worth, and so accounted of, both of the Turks and their enemies also. So that all things well considered, his best souldiours being the least part of his greatest armies, and they also farre vnlike their predecessors, the sterne followers of the former Othoman kings and emperours, but men now giuen to pleasure and delight: it is not otherwise to be thought, but that he bringeth into the field far moe men than good souldiours, more brauerie than true valour, more shew than worth, his multitude being his chiefest strength, his supposed greatnesse the terrour of his neighbour princes, and both together the verie majestie of his empire. Which although it be indeed verie strong (for the reasons before alleadged), yet is it by many probably thought to be now vpon the declining hand, their late emperors in their owne persons far degenerating from their warlike progenitors, their souldiours generally giuing themselues to vnwonted pleasures, their auncient discipline of warre neglected, their superstition not with so much zeale as of old regarded, and rebellions in diuers parts of his Empire of late strangely raised, and mightily supported: all the signes of a declining state. Which were they not at all to be seene, as indeed they be very pregnant, yet the great

nesse of this Empire being such, as that it laboureth with nothing more than the weightinesse of it selfe, it must needs (after the manner of worldly things) of it selfe fall, and againe come to nought, no man knowing when or how so great a work shall be brought to passe, but he in whose deepe counsels all these great reuolutions of Empires and Kingdomes are from eternitie shut vp: who at his pleasure shall in due time by such meanes as he seeth best accomplish the same, to the vnspeakable comfort of his poore afflicted flock, in one place or other still in danger to be by this roaring Lyon deuoured. Which worke of so great wonder, he for his sonne our Sauiour Christ his sake, the glorie of his name, and comfort of many thousand oppressed Christians, fed with the bread of carefulnesse amidst the furnace of tribulation, in mercie hasten, that we with them, and they with vs, all as members of one bodie, may continually sing, Vnto him be all honour and praise world without end.

Among the jest-books of the time of James I. and Charles I. is one that is said to have been first compiled by Andrew Boorde, in the days of Henry VIII., the "Merry Tales of the Mad-men of Gottam." An edition of it published in 1630 had on the title-page a wood-cut, here reproduced, showing how the men

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THE GOTHAM Сискоо.

of Gotham hoped to fence in the cuckoo. Gotham is a parish now containing seven or eight hundred inhabitants, about seven miles from Nottingham. Hundreds of places in and out of England have obtained local celebrity of the same kind as that which the old jest-book has caused Gotham to obtain in English Literature. I quote five of the twenty

MERRY TALES OF THE MAD MEN OF GOTHAM.

The Cuckoo.

On a time, the men of Gotham would have pinned in the cuckoo, whereby she should sing all the year, and in the midst of the town they made a hedge round in compass, and they had got a cuckoo, and had put her into it, and said: "Sing here all the year, and thou shalt lack neither meat nor drink." The cuckoo, as soon as she perceived herself encompassed within the hedge, flew away. "A vengeance on her! said they; "we made not our hedge high enough."

Forethought.

When that Good Friday was come, the men of Gotham did cast their heads together what to do with their white herring, their red herring, their sprats, and salt fish. One consulted with the other, and agreed that such fish should be cast into their pond or pool (the which was in the middle of the town), that it might increase against the next year; and every man that had any fish left, did cast them into the pool. The one said: "I have thus many white herrings ;" another said: "I have thus many sprats ;" another said: "I have thus many red herrings ;" and the other said: "I have thus many salt fishes. Let all go together into the pool or pond, and we shall fare like lords the next Lent." At the beginning of the next Lent following, the men did draw the pond to have their fish, and there was nothing but a great eel.

"Ah!" said they all, "a mischief on this eel! for he hath eat up all our fish. What shall we do with him?" said the one to the other. "Kill him," said the one of them. 66 Chop him all to pieces," said another. "Nay, not so," said the other, "let us drown him." "Be it so," said all.

They went to another pool or pond by, and did cast in the eel into the water. "Lie there," said they, "and shift for thyself for no help thou shalt have of us; and there they left the eel to be drowned.

The Lost Man.

On a certain time, there were twelve men of Gotham, that did go a fishing, and some did wade in the water, and some stood upon dry land, and when that they went homeward, one said to the other: "We have ventured wonderful hard this day in wading; I pray God that none of us that did come from home be drowned." " Marry," said the one to the other, "let us see that, for there did twelve of us come out ;" and they told themselves, and every man did tell eleven, and the twelfth man did never tell himself. "Alas," said the one to the other, "there is one of us drowned." They went back to the brook, where that they had been fishing, and sought up and down for him that was drowned, and did make great lamentation. A courtier did come riding by, and he did ask what it was they did seek, and why they were so sorry. "Oh," said they, "this day we went to fish in this brook, and there did come out twelve of us, and one is drowned." "Why," said the courtier, "tell how many be of you." And the one told eleven, and he did not tell himself. "Well," said the courtier, "what will you give me, and I will find out twelve men ?" "Sir," said they, "all the money that we have." "Give me the money," said the courtier: and he began with the first, and did give him a recombendibus over the shoulders that he groaned, and said: "There is one. So he served all, that they groaned on the matter. When he did come to the last, he payed him a good, saying: "Here is the twelfth man." 66 'God's blessing on your heart," said all the company, "that you have found out our neighbour."

The Three Gossips.

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A man's wife of Gotham was brought to bed of a man-child; the father did bid the gossips, the which were children of eight or nine years of age. The eldest child's name that should be godfather was named Gilbert; the second child was named Humphrey; and the godmother's name was Christabel. The friends of them did admonish them, saying, that divers times they must say after the priest. When all were come to the church door, the priest said: "Be you agreed of the name?" "Be you," said Gilbert, "agreed of the name?" "Be you," said Humphrey, "agreed of the name?" you," said Christabel, "agreed of the name?" The priest said: "Wherefore be you come hither?" Gilbert said:

"Be

"Wherefore be you come hither?" Humphrey said: “Wherefore be you come hither?" Christabel said: "Wherefore be you come hither?" The priest, being amazed, could not tell what to say, but whistled and said "Whew." Gilbert whistled and said "Whew;" Humphrey whistled and said "Whew," and so did Christabel. The priest, being angry, said: "Go home, fools, go home." "Go home, fools, go home," said Gilbert. "Go home, fools, go home," said Humphrey. "Go home, fools, go home," said Christabel. The priest then provided new godfathers and godmothers. Here a man may see, that children can do nothing without good instructions. And they be not not wise that will regard children's words.

The Nine Good Wives.

In old time, when these aforesaid jests (as men of the country reported) and such fantastical matters were done at Gotham, which I cannot tell half, the wives were gathered together in an alehouse, and the one said to the other, that they were profitable to their husbands. "Which way, good gossips?" said the Alewife. The first said: "I shall tell you all, good gossips. I can neither bake, brew, nor can I do no work, wherefore I do make every day holiday, and I go to the alehouse, because at all times I cannot go to the church; and in the alehouse I pray to God to speed well my husband, and I do think my prayer shall do him much more good than my labour, if I should work." Then said the second: "I am profitable to my husband in saving of candles in winter: for I do cause my husband and all my household folks to go to bed by daylight, and to rise by daylight." The third wife said: “ And I am profitable to my husband in spending of bread, for I will eat but little for to the drinking of a gallon or two of good ale, I care for no meat." The fourth wife said: "I am loth to spend meat and drink at home in mine own house, wherefore I do go to the wine tavern at Nottingham, and so take wine and such things as God shall send me there." The fifth wife said: "A man shall have ever more company in another man's house than in his own, and most commonly in an alehouse is the best cheer in a town; and for sparing of meat and drink, and other necessaries, I go to the alehouse." The sixth wife said: "My husband hath wool, and flax, and tow; and to spare it, I go to other men's houses to do other men's work." The seventh wife said: "I do spare my husband's wood and coal, and do sit talking all the day by other men's fires." The eighth said: "Beef, and mutton, and pork is dear; wherefore I do spare it, and do take pig, goose, hen, chicken, coney, and capon, the which be of lower price." The ninth said: " And I do spare my husband's soap and lye: for when he should be washed once in a week, I do wash once in a quarter of a year." Then said the Alewife: "And I do keep my husband's ale, that I do brew, from souring: for, whereas I was wont to drink up all, now I do leave never a drop."

The

Character writing was among the forms of ingenuity that came into fashion as our English style passed from the freshness of Elizabethan appetite for wit to the more jaded taste, the wit-hunger dependent upon artificial sauces of the later Euphuism. first good examples of this kind of writing, and still the best, are in Ben Jonson's "Every Man out of his Humour," acted in the year 1599, and first printed in 1600, and in his "Cynthia's Revels," printed in 1601. It is not only "The Character of the Persons" printed before " Every Man out of his Humour," but the play itself in some degree, and "Cynthia's

Revels" throughout, is so written as to sparkle with elaborated little bits of Character writing. Thus, in "The Character of the Persons," prefixed to "Every Man out of his Humour," two are thus sketched :

CHARACTERS BY BEN JONSON:

Carlo Buffone.

A public, scurrilous, and profane jester, that, more swift than Circe, with absurd similes, will transform any person into deformity. A good feast-hound, or banquet-beagle, that will scent you out a supper some three miles off, and swear to his patron, he came in oars, when he was but wafted over in a sculler. A slave that hath an extraordinary gift in pleasing his palate, and will swill up more sack at a sitting than would make all the guard a posset. His religion is railing, and his discourse ribaldry. They stand highest in his respect whom he studies most to reproach.

Fastidious Brisk.

A neat, spruce, affecting courtier; one that wears clothes well and in fashion; practises by his glass how to salute; speaks good remnants, notwithstanding his base viol and tobacco; swears tersely, and with variety; cares not what lady's favour he belies, or great man's familiarity: a good property to perfume the boot of a coach. He will borrow another man's horse to praise, and back him as his own. Or, for a need, on foot, can post himself into credit with his merchant only with the jingle of his spur and the jerk of his wand.

From Ben Jonson's play of "Cynthia's Revels" these are two characters :—

A Traveller.

Amorphus, a traveller, one so made out of the mixture of shreds of forms, that himself is truly deformed. He walks most commonly with a clove or pick-tooth in his mouth, he is the very mint of compliment, all his behaviours are printed, his face is another volume of essays, and his beard is an Aristarchus. He speaks all cream skimmed, and more affected than a dozen waiting women. He is his own promoter in every place. The wife of the ordinary gives him his diet to maintain her table in discourse, which, indeed, is a mere tyranny over her other guests, for he will usurp all the talk; ten constables are not so tedious. He is no great shifter; once a year his apparel is ready to revolt. He doth use much to arbitrate quarrels, and fights himself, exceedingly well, out at a window. He will lie cheaper than any beggar, and louder than most clocks, for which he is right properly accommodated to the Whetstone, his page.

Crites: a Man of Sound Judgment.

A creature of a most perfect and divine temper; one in whom the humours and elements are peaceably met, without emulation of precedency; he is neither too fantastically melancholy, too slowly phlegmatic, too lightly sanguine, or too rashly choleric; but is all so composed and ordered, as it is clear Nature went about some full work-she did more than make a man when she made him. His discourse is like his behaviour, uncommon, but not unpleasing; he is prodigal of neither. He strives rather to be that which men call judicious, than to be thought so; and is so truly learned that he affects not to show it. He will think and speak his thoughts both freely, but as distant from depraving another man's merit as proclaiming his own. For his valour, 'tis such that he dares as little offer an injury as receive one. In

sum, he hath a most ingenuous and sweet spirit, a sharp and seasoned wit, a straight judgment, and a strong mind. Fortune could never break him, nor make him less. He counts it his pleasure to despise pleasures, and is more delighted with good deeds than goods. It is a competency to him that he can be virtuous. He doth neither covet nor fear he hath too much reason to do either-and that commends all things to him.

The fashion thus set at the close of Elizabeth's reign, spread in the reigns of James I. and Charles I. Joseph Hall,' who became a bishop under Charles I., published in 1608, when he was vicar of Waltham Holy Cross, "Characters of Virtues and Vices," in two books, each with a proeme, one of eleven Virtues, and the other of fifteen Vices. Here is one of each :

CHARACTERS BY JOSEPH HALL

An Honest Man.

He looks not to what he might do, but what he should. Justice is his first guide, the second law of his actions is expedience. He had rather complain than offend, and hates sin more for the indignity of it than the danger. His simple uprightness works in him that confidence which ofttimes wrongs him and gives advantage to the subtle, when he rather pities their faithlessness than repents of his credulity. He hath but one heart, and that lies open to sight: and were it not for discretion he never thinks aught whereof he would avoid a witness. His word is his parchment, and his 66 yea" his oath, which he will not violate for fear or for loss. The mishaps of following events may cause him to blame his providence, can never cause him to eat his promise; neither saith he, "This I saw not; "2 but, "This I said." When he is made his friend's executor, he defrays debts, pays legacies, and scorneth to gain by orphans or to ransack graves, and therefore will be true to a dead friend because he sees him not. All his dealings are square, and above the board; he bewrays the fault of what he sells, and restores the overseen gain of a false reckoning. He esteems a bribe venomous, though it come gilded over with the colour of gratuity. His cheeks are never stained with the blushes of recantation; neither doth his tongue falter to make good a lie with the secret glosses of double or reserved senses; and when his name is traduced his innocence bears him out with courage; then, lo! he goes on the plain way of truth, and will either triumph in his integrity or suffer with it. His conscience overrules his providence, so as in all things, good or ill, he respects the nature of the actions, not the sequel. If he see what he must do, let God see what shall follow. He never loadeth himself with burdens above his strength, beyond his will; and once bound, what he can he will do, neither doth he will but what he can do. His ear is the sanctuary of his absent friend's name, of his present friend's secret; neither of them can miscarry in his trust. He remembers the wrongs of his youth, and repays them with that usury which he himself would not take. He would rather want than borrow, and beg than not to pay. His fair conditions are above dissembling, and he loves

1 See "Shorter English Poems," pp. 256, 257; "Illustrations of English Religion," pp. 281-285.

2 i.e., did not foresee; making change of conditions an excuse for promise-breaking.

3 Bewrays, discloses; applied to a fault; from First-English, "wrégan," to accuse. "Betray" is from Latin "tradere," to deliver up, to give into the hands of an enemy. Bewrayal, therefore, may or may not involve betrayal.

actions above words. Finally, he hates falsehood worse than death; he is a faithful client of Truth; no man's enemy; and it is a question, whether more another man's friend or his own? And if there were no heaven, yet he would be virtuous.

Of the Superstitious.

Superstition is godless religion, devout impiety. The superstitious is fond in observation, fertile in fear, he worships God but as he lists. He gives God what He asks not; more than He asks, and all but what he should give; and makes more sins than the Ten Commandments. This man dares not stir forth till his breast be crossed and his face sprinkled; if but an hare cross him the way he returns; or if his journey began unawares on the dismal day; or if he stumble at the threshold. If he see a snake unkilled, he fears a mischief; if the salt fall towards him, he looks pale and red, and is not quiet till one of the waiters have poured wine on his lap; and when he neezeth, thinks them not his friends that uncover not. In the morning he listens whether the crow crieth even or odd, and by that token presages of the weather. If he hear but a raven croak from the next roof, he makes his will, or if a bittour1 fly over his head by night; but if his troubled fancy shall second his thoughts with the dream of a fair garden, or green rushes, or the salutation of a dead friend, he takes leave of the world, and says he cannot live. He will never set to sea but on a Sunday; neither ever goes without an Erra Pater2 in his pocket. St. Paul's Day, and St. Swithin's with the Twelve, are his oracles, which he dares believe against the almanac. When he lies sick on his death-bed, no sin troubles him so much as that he did once eat flesh on a Friday; no repentance can expiate that, the rest need none. There is no dream of his without an interpretation, without a prediction; and if the event answer not his exposition, he expounds it according to the event. Every dark grove and pictured wall strikes him with an awful but carnal devotion. Old wives and stars are his counsellors; his night-spell is his guard, and charms are his physicians. He wears Paracelsian characters for the toothache, and a little hallowed wax is his antidote for all evils. This man is strangely credulous, and calls impossible things miraculous; if he hear that some sacred block speaks, moves, weeps, smiles, his bare feet carry him thither with an offering; and if a danger miss him in the way, his Saint hath the thanks. Some ways he will not go, and some he dares not; either there are bugs, or he feigneth them; every lantern is a ghost, and every noise is of chains. He knows not why, but his custom is to go a little about, and to leave the cross still on the right hand. One event is enough to make a rule; out of these he concludes fashions proper to himself; and nothing can turn him out of his own course. If he have done his task he is safe, it matters not with what affection. Finally, if God would let him be the carver of his own obedience, He could not have a better subject; as he is, He cannot have a worse.

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The

Oxford, entered the Inner Temple, and then became
a courtier as the friend of Thomas Carr, the favourite
of James I. Overbury was knighted in 1608, and
all went well till he opposed Carr's project of mar-
riage with the divorced Countess of Essex.
king then proposed to get Sir Thomas Overbury out
of the way by sending him on an embassy to Russia;
and, as he refused to go, he was sent to the Tower,
where he was poisoned in September of the same year,
1613, in which Carr became Earl of Somerset, and
his marriage had, at court, a stately celebration.
1616 the Earl and Countess were found guilty of his
murder, but they were pardoned in 1622. Sir
Thomas Overbury, who was murdered at the age of
thirty-two, had written, besides his poem of "The
Wife," which is given in another volume of this
Library, a collection of characters from which I take
the following:-

3

CHARACTERS BY SIR THOMAS OVERBURY:

A Courtier

In

To all men's thinking is a man, and to most men the finest ;
all things else are defined by the understanding, but this by
the senses;
but his surest mark is, that he is to be found only
about princes. He smells, and putteth away much of his
judgment about the situation of his clothes. He knows no
man that is not generally known. His wit, like the marigold,
openeth with the sun, and therefore he riseth not before ten
of the clock. He puts more confidence in his words than
meaning, and more in his pronunciation than his words.
Occasion is his Cupid, and he hath but one receipt of making
love. He follows nothing but inconstancy, admires nothing
but beauty, honours nothing but fortune, loves nothing.
The sustenance of his discourse is news, and his censure like
a shot depends upon the charging. He is not, if he be out
of court, but fish-like breathes destruction if out of his element.
Neither his motion or aspect are regular, but he moves by the
upper spheres, and is the reflection of higher substances.

If you find him not here, you shall in Paul's, with a picktooth in his hat, a capecloak, and a long stocking.

An Ignorant Glory-hunter

Is an insectum animal; for he is the maggot of opinion, his behaviour is another thing from himself, and is glued and but set on. He entertains men with repetitions, and returns them their own words. He is ignorant of nothing, no, not of those things where ignorance is the lesser shame. He gets the names of good wits, and utters them for his companions. He confesseth vices that he is guiltless of, if they be in fashion; and dares not salute a man in old clothes, or out of fashion. There is not a public assembly without him, and he will take any pains for an acquaintance there. In any show he will be one, though he be but a whiffler, or a torch-bearer; and bears down strangers with the story of his actions. He handles nothing that is not rare, and defends his wardrobe, princes, great soldiers, and strange nations. He dares speak diet, and all customs, with entituling their beginnings from more than he understands, and adventures his words without the relief of any seconds. He relates battles and skirmishes, as from an eye-witness, when his eyes thievishly beguiled a ballad of them. In a word, to make sure of admiration, he will not let himself understand himself, but hopes fame and opinion will be the readers of his riddles.

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