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Lecture the Twenty-Ninth.

PROSE WRITERS.

WILLIAM

DUGDALE

--

BULSTRODE

ISAAK WALTON EDMUND CALAMY - SIR
WHITELOCKE-THOMAS FULLER-EDWARD HYDE, EARL OF CLARENDON-SIR
MATTHEW HALE-JAMES HARRINGTON.

TH

HE productions of the early part of this period, in the department of prose, possess much of the nervous force and originality of the preceding era, and, at the same time, approximate to that elegance in the choice and arrangement of words, which, in English composition, has since been attained. The principal writers in philosophical and political dissertation, besides Milton and Cowley, whom we have already noticed under the department of poetry, are Sidney, Temple, Thomas Burnet, and Locke; in history, Lord Clarendon, and Bishop Burnet; in divinity, Calamy, Baxter, Barrow, Tillotson, South, Stillingfleet, Sherlock, and Barclay; in miscellaneous literature, Walton, Fuller, L'Estrange, and Brown; and in physical science, Boyle, Barrow, Newton, and some others, whose works, however, were chiefly written in Latin. Bunyan, the celebrated author of 'Pilgrim's Progress,' belongs also to this era, but can not be ranged in either of the previous classes.

Toward the close of this period, a much higher polish and greater degree of refinement was attained in prose writing, than had previously been known; but the attainment, it must be confessed, was made at the expense of its energy and strength. A new species of literature also, at this time, originated, which consisted in short essays on men and manners, published periodically, and commenting on the events of private life, and the dispositions of ordinary men. The idea had never before been entertained, either in England or in any other country, of a work in which the writer should undertake to meet the public several times each week with a brief paper, either discussing some feature of society, or relating some lively tale, allegory, or anecdote. The credit of commencing this new branch of literature is due to Sir Richard Steele, a gentleman of English parentage, but born in Ireland, while his father acted as secretary to the Duke of Ormond, lord

lieutenant of that kingdom. Of this we shall have occasion to speak more particularly in its appropriate place. In the following remarks upon the prose writers of the age upon which we are now about to enter, we shall not attempt to observe any other classification than that which the order of time suggests.

IZAAK WALTON, one of the most interesting and popular writers of this age, was an English worthy of the simple antique cast, who retained, in the heart of London, and in the midst of close and successful application to business, an unworldly simplicity of character, and an inextinguishable fondness for country scenes, pastimes, and recreations. He possessed also a power of natural description and lively dialogue, that has rarely been surpassed. The slight tincture of superstitious credulity and innocent eccentricity which pervades his works, gives them a finer zest, and more original flavor, without detracting from their higher power to soothe, instruct, and delight.

Walton was born in the town of Strafford, in the month of August, 1593. Of his family, his early years, and his education, we have no memorials. According to Anthony Wood, he acquired a competency, by following, in London, the occupation of a linen-draper, at first in a shop in Cornhill, seven feet and a half long, and five wide, and afterward in Fleet street, where he had one half of a shop, the other half being occupied by a hosier. He had a more pleasant and spacious study, however, in the fields and rivers in the neighborhood of London, 'in such days and times as he laid aside business, and went a-fishing with honest Nat and R. Roe.'

In 1632, Walton married Anne, the daughter of Thomas Ken, of Farnival's Inn, and sister of Dr. Ken, bishop of Bath and Wells. This respectable connection introduced him to the acquaintance of the eminent men and dignitaries of the church, at whose houses he passed much of his time in his latter years, especially after the death of his wife, 'a woman of remarkable prudence, and of the primitive piety.' Walton retired from business in the fifty-first year of his age, and lived forty years afterwards in uninterrupted leisure. He died at Winchester, on the fifteenth of December, 1683, while residing with his son-in-law, Dr. Hawkins, prebendary of Winchester cathedral.

Walton's first literary production was the Life of Dr. Donne, prefixed to a collection of the doctor's sermons, published in 1640. It was his original design not to write this work, but merely to collect the materials for Sir Henry Wotton, who was to execute the task. But Sir Henry's death intervening, Izaak 'reviewed his forsaken collections, and resolved that the world should see the best plain picture of the author's life that his artless pencil, guided by the hand of truth, could present.' The memoir is circumstantial, and one of the most deeply interesting biographies in the language. He next wrote, with equal felicity, the Life of Sir Henry Wotton. Walton's principal production, The Complete Angler, or Contemplative Man's Recreation, appeared in 1653, and such was its popularity, that four other edi

tions were called for during the author's life, the last of which was published in 1676. This work is a rich storehouse of rural pictures and pastoral poetry, of quaint but wise thoughts, of agreeable and humorous fancies, and of truly apostolic purity and benevolence. It is a production unique in English literature. In writing it the author says he made a recreation of a recreation,' and by mingling innocent mirth and pleasant scenes with the graver parts of his discourse, he designed it as a picture of his own disposition. The work is, indeed, essentially autobiographical, both in spirit and in execution. A hunter and a falconer are introduced as parties in the dialogues, but they serve only as foils to the venerable, and complacent Piscator, in whom the interest of the piece wholly centres.

This remarkable production deserves more than an ordinary notice. The opening scene lets us, at once, into the genial character of the work and its hero. The three interlocutors meet accidentally on Tottenham hill, near London, on a 'fine fresh May morning.' They are open and cheerful as the day itself. Piscator is going toward Ware, Venator to meet a pack of other dogs upon Amwell hill, and Anceps to Theobald's to see a hawk that a friend there mews or moults for him. Piscator willingly joins with the lover of hounds in helping to destroy otters, for he hates them perfectly, because they love fish so well, and destroy so much.' The sportsmen proceed onward together, and they agree each to 'commend his recreation' or favorite pursuit. Piscator alludes to the virtue and contentedness of anglers, but gives the precedence to his companions in discoursing on their different crafts. The lover of hawking is eloquent on the virtues of the air, the element that he treads in, and on its varied winged inhabitants. He describes the falcon 'making her highway over the steepest mountains and deepest rivers, and, in her glorious career, looking with contempt upon those high steeples and magnificent palaces which we adore and wonder at.' The singing birds, 'those little nimble musicians of the air, that warble forth their curious ditties with which nature hath furnished them to the shame of art,' are descanted upon with pure poetical feeling and expression.

At first the lark, when she means to rejoice, to cheer herself and those that hear her, she then quits the earth, and sings as she ascends higher into the air; and having ended her heavenly employment, grows then mute and sad, to think she must descend to the dull earth, which she would not touch but for necessity.

How do the blackbird and throssel (song-thrush) with their melodious voices, bid welcome to the cheerful spring, and in their fixed mouths warble forth such ditties as no art or instrument can reach to!

Nay, the smaller birds also do the like in their particular seasons, as, namely, the laverock (skylark), the titlark, the linnet, and the honest robin, that loves mankind both alive and dead.

But the nightingale, another of my airy creatures, breathes such sweet loud music out of her little instrumental throat, that it might make mankind to think miracles are not ceased. He that at midnight, when the very labourer sleeps securely, should hear, as I have very often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might well be lifted above earth,

and say, 'Lord, what music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou affordest bad men such music on earth!'

The lover of hunting next takes his turn, and comments, though with less force, on the perfection of smell possessed by the hound, and the joyous music made by a pack of dogs in full chase. Piscator then unfolds his longtreasured and highly-prized lore on the virtues of water, sea, river, and brook; and on the antiquity and excellence of fishing and angling. The latter, he says, is somewhat like poetry; men must be born so. He quotes Scripture, and numbers the prophets who allude to fishing. He also remembers, with pride, that four of the twelve apostles were fishermen, and that our Saviour never reproved them for their employment or calling, as he did the scribes and money-changers; for 'He found that the hearts of such men, by nature, were fitted for contemplation and quietness; even of mild and sweet, and peaceable spirits, as, indeed, most anglers are.' The rhetoric and knowledge of Piscator at length fairly overcame Venator, and he agrees to accompany him in his sport, adopts him as his master and guide, and in time becomes initiated into the practice and mysteries of the gentle craft. The angling excursions of the pair give occasion to the practical lessons and descriptions of the book, and elicit what is its greatest charm, the minute and vivid painting of rural objects, the display of character, both in action and conversation, the flow of generous sentiment and feeling, and the associated recollections of picturesque poetry, natural piety, and examples and precepts of morality. Walton's style is sprinkled, but not obscured, by the antiquated idiom and expression of his times, and clear and sparkling as one of his own favorite summer streams. Toward the close of his work, he indulges in the following strain of moral reflection and admonition, and is as philosophically just and wise in his councils, as his language and imagery are chaste, beautiful, and animated :

THANKFULNESS FOR WORLDLY BLESSINGS.

Well, scholar, having now taught you to paint your rod, and we having still a mile to Tottenham High Cross, I will, as we walk toward it in the cool shades of this sweet honey-suckle hedge, mention to you some of the thoughts and joys that have possessed my soul since we met together. And these thoughts shall be told you, that you also may join with me in thankfulness to the Giver of every good and perfect gift for our happiness. And that our present happiness may appear to be the greater, and we the more thankful for it, I will beg you to consider with me how many do, even at this very time, lie under the torment of the stone, the gout, and the toothache; and this we are free from. And every misery that I miss is a new mercy; and, therefore, let us be thankful. There have been, since we met, others that have met disasters of broken limbs; some have been blasted, others thunder-strucken; and we have been freed from these and all those many other miseries that threaten human nature; let us therefore rejoice and be thankful. Nay, which is a far greater mercy, we are free from the insupportable burden of an accusing, tormenting conscience-a misery that none can bear; and therefore let us praise Him for his preventing grace, and say, every misery that I miss is a new mercy. Nay, let me tell you, there be many that have forty times our estates, that would give the greatest part of it to be

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healthful and cheerful like us, who, with the expense of a little money, have eat, and drank, and laughed, and angled, and sung, and slept securely; and rose next day, and cast away care, and sung, and laughed, and angled again, which are blessings rich men can not purchase with all their money. Let me tell you, scholar, I have a rich neighbour that is always so busy that he has no leisure to laugh; the whole business of his life is to get money, and more money that he may still get more and more money; he is still drudging on, and says that Solomon says, 'The hand of the diligent maketh rich ;' and it is true indeed; but he considers not that it is not in the power of riches to make a man happy: for it was wisely said by a man of great observation, That there be as many miseries beyond riches as on this side them.' And yet God deliver us from pinching poverty, and grant that, having a competency, we may be content and thankful! Let us not repine, or so much as think the gifts of God unequally dealt, if we see another abound with riches, when, as God knows, the cares that are the keys that keep those riches, hang often heavily at the rich man's girdle, that they clog him with weary days and restless nights, even when others sleep quietly. We see but the outside of the rich man's happiness; few consider him to be like the silkworm, that when she seems to play, at the same time spinning her own bowels, and consuming herself; and this many rich men do, loading themselves with corroding cares, to keep what they have, probably unconscionably got. Let us therefore be thankful for health and competence, and, above all, for a quiet conscience.

Let me tell you, scholar, that Diogenes walked on a day, with his friend, to see a country fair, where he saw ribbons, and looking-glasses, and nut-crackers, and fiddles, and hobby-horses, and many other gim-cracks; and having observed them, and all the other finnimbruns that make a complete country fair, he said to his friend, 'Lord, how many things are there in this world of which Diogenes hath no need!' A truly it is so, or might be so, with very many who vex and toil themselves to get what they have no need of. Can any man charge God that he hath not given him enough to make his life happy? No, doubtless; for nature is content with a little. And yet you shall hardly meet with a man that complains not of some want, though he, indeed, wants nothing but his will; it may be, nothing but his will of his poor neighbour, for not worshiping or not flattering him; and thus, when we might be happy and quiet, we create trouble to ourselves. I have heard of a man that was angry with himself because he was no taller, and of a woman that broke her looking-glass because it would not show her face to be as young and handsome as her next neighbour's was. And I knew another to whom God had given health and plenty, but a wife that nature had made peevish, and her husband's riches had made purse-proud; and must, because she was rich, and for no other virtue, sit in the highest pew in the church; which being denied her, she engaged her husband into a contention for it, and at last into a law-suit with a dogged neighbour, who was as rich as he, and had a wife as peevish and purse-proud as the other; and this lawsuit begot higher oppositions and actionable words, and more vexations and lawsuits; for you must remember that both were rich, and must therefore have their wills. Well, this willful purse-proud law-suit lasted during the life of the first husband, after which his wife vexed and chid, and chid and vexed, till she also chid and vexed herself into her grave; and so the wealth of these poor rich people was cursed into a punishment, because they wanted meek and thankful hearts, for those only can make us happy. I knew a man that had health, and riches, and several houses, all beautiful and ready-furnished, and would often trouble himself and family to be removing from one house to another; and being asked by a friend why he removed so often from one house to another, replied, 'It was to find content in some one of them.' But his friend, knowing his temper, told him, 'If he would find content in any of his houses, he must leave himself behind them, for content will never dwell but in a meek and quiet soul.' And this may appear, if we read and consider

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