Chapter IV: Part 4

“My good father,” said I, “I am beholding to you for your excellent discourses, for they have delivered me out of the power of a thousand frivolous and vain affections, that had taken possession of me. But who are you, I pray’ee? And what is your business here?” “My poverty and these rags,” quoth he, “are enough to tell ye that I am an honest man, a friend to truth, and one that will not be mealy-mouthed, when he may speak it to purpose. Some call me the plain-dealer; others, the undeceiver-general. You see me all in tatters, wounds, scars, bruises. And what is all this but the requital the world gives me for my good counsel and kind visits? And yet after all this endeavour to get shut of me they call themselves my friends, though they curse me to the pit of hell, as soon as ever I come near them; and had rather be hanged than spend one quarter of an hour in my company. If thou hast a mind to see the world I talk of, come along with me, and I’ll carry thee into a place where thou shalt have a full prospect of it, and without any inconvenience see all that’s in’t, or in the people that dwell in’t, and look it through and through.” “What’s the name of this place?” quoth I. “It is called,” said he, “the Hypocrites’ Walk; and it crosses the world from one Pole to th’ other. It is large, and populous; for I believe there’s not any man alive but has either a house or a chamber in’t. Some live in’t for altogether; others take it only in passage: for there are hypocrites of several sorts; but all mortals have, more or less, a tang of the leaven. That fellow there in the corner came but t’other day from the plow tail, and would now fain be a gentleman. But had not he better pay his debts, and walk alone, than break his promises to keep a lackey? There’s another rascal that would fain be a lord, and would venture a voyage to Venice for the title, but that he’s better at building castles in the air than upon the water. In the meantime he puts on a nobleman’s face and garb; he swears and drinks like a lord, and keeps his hounds and whores, which ’tis feared in the end will devour their master. Mark now that piece of gravity and form; he walks, ye see, as if he moved by clock-work; his words are few and low; he makes all his answers by a shrug or a nod. This is the hypocrite of a Minister of State, who with all his counterfeit of wisdom is one of the veriest noddies in nature.

“Face about now, and mind those decrepit sots there that can scarce lift a leg over a threshold, and yet they must be dyeing their hair, colouring their beards, and playing the young fools again, with a thousand hobby-horse tricks and antique dresses. On the other side, ye have a company of silly boys taking upon them to govern the world, under a visor of wisdom and experience.” “What lord is that,” said I, “in the rich clothes there, and the fine laces?” “That lord,” quoth he, “is a tailor, in his holiday clothes; and if he were now upon his shop-board, his own scissors and needles would hardly know him: and you must understand that hypocrisy is so epidemical a disease that it has laid hold of the trades themselves as well as the masters. The cobbler must be saluted Mr. Translator. The groom names himself gentleman of the horse; the fellow that carries guts to the bears, writes, one of His Majesty’s officers. The hangman calls himself a minister of justice. The mountebank, an able man. A common whore passes for a courtesan. The bawd acts the Puritan. Gaming ordinaries are called academies; and bawdy-houses, places of entertainment. The page styles himself the child of honour; and the foot-boy calls himself my lady’s page. And every pick-thank names himself a courtier. The cuckold-maker passes for a fine gentleman; and the cuckold himself, for the best-natured husband in the world: and a very ass commences master-doctor. Hocus-pocus tricks are called sleight-of-hand; lust, friendship; usury, thrift; cheating is but gallantry; lying wears the name of invention; malice goes for quickness of apprehension; cowardice, meekness of nature; and rashness carries the countenance of valour. In fine, this is all but hypocrisy, and knavery in a disguise, for nothing is called by the right name. Now there are beside these, certain general appellations taken up, which by long usage are almost grown into prescription. Every little whore takes upon her to be a great lady; every gown-man, to be a councillor; every huff to be a _soldat_; every gay thing to be a cavalier; every parish-clerk to be a doctor; and every writing-clerk in the office must be called Mr. Secretary.

“So that the whole world, take it where you will, is but a mere juggle; and you will find that wrath, gluttony, pride, avarice, luxury, murder, and a thousand other heinous sins, have all of them hypocrisy for their source, and thither they’ll return again.” “It would be well,” said I, “if you could prove what you say; but I can hardly see how so great a diversity of waters should proceed from one and the same fountain.” “I do not wonder,” quoth he, “at your distrust, for you are mistaken in very good company; to fancy a contrariety in many things, which are, in effect, so much alike. It is agreed upon, both by philosophers and divines, that all sins are evil; and you must allow, that the will embraces or pursues no evil but under the resemblance of good; nor does the sin lie in the representation, or knowledge of what is evil, but in the consent to it. Which consent itself is sinful, although without any subsequent act: it’s true, the execution serves afterward for an aggravation, and ought to be considered under many differences and distinctions. But in fine, evident it is that the will entertains no ill, but under the shape of some good. What do ye think now of the hypocrite that cuts your throat in his arms, and murders you, under pretence of kindness? ‘What is the hope of an hypocrite?’ says Job. He neither has nor can have any: for he is wicked as he is an hypocrite; and even his best actions are worth nothing, because they are not what they seem to be. So that of all sinners he has the most to answer for. Other offenders sin only against God. But the hypocrite sins with Him, as well as against Him, making use of His holy Name as a cloak and countenance for his wickedness. For which reason, our blessed Saviour, after many affirmative precepts delivered to His disciples for their instruction, gave only this negative: ‘Be not sad as the hypocrites,’ which lays them open in few words; and He might as well have said ‘Be not hypocrites, and ye shall not be wicked.’”

We were now come to the place the old man told me of, where I found all according to my expectation, and took the higher ground, that I might have the better prospect of what passed. The first remarkable thing I saw was a long funeral train of kindred and guests, following the corpse of a deceased lady, in company with the disconsolate widower, who marched with his chin upon his breast, a sad and a heavy pace, muffled up in a mourning hood, enough to have stifled him, with at least ten yards of cloth upon his body, and no less in his train. “Alack, alack!” cried I, “that ever I should live to see so dismal a spectacle! Oh blessed woman! How did this husband love thee in thy lifetime, that follows thee with this infinite faith and affection, even to thy grave! And happy the husband, doubtless, in a wife that deserved this kindness! and in so many tender friends and relations, to take part with him in his sorrows. My good father, let me entreat you to observe this doleful encounter.” With that (shaking his head and smiling) “My son,” quoth he, “thou shalt by and by perceive that all is nothing in the world but vanity, imposture, and constraint; and I will shew thee the difference between things themselves, and their appearances. To see this abundance of torches, with the magnificence of the ceremony and attendance, one would think there should be some mighty matter in the business; but let me assure thee that all this pudder comes to no more than much ado about nothing. The woman was nothing (effectually) even while she lived: the body now in the coffin is somewhat a less nothing: and the funeral honours, which are now paid her come to just nothing too. But the dead it seems must have their vanities, and their holidays as well as the living. Alas! what’s a carcass but the most odious sort of putrefaction? A corrupted earth, fit neither for fruit nor tillage. And then for the sad looks of the mourners: they are only troubled at the invitation; and would not care a pin, if the inviter and body too were both at the devil. And that you might see by their behaviour, and discourses; for when they should have been praying for the dead, they were prating of her pedigree, and her last will and testament. ‘I’m not so near akin,’ says one, ‘but I might have been spared; and I had twenty other things to do.’ Another should have met company at a tavern; a third, at a play. A fourth mutters that he is not placed according to his quality. Another cries out, ‘A pox o’ your meetings where there is nothing stirring but worms’ meat.’ Let me tell ye further, that the widower himself is not grieved as you imagine for the dead wife; but for the damned expense in blacks, and scutcheons, tapers, and mourners; and that she was not fairly laid to rest, without all this ado: for he persuades himself, that she might have found the way to her grave without a candle. And since she was to die, ’tis his opinion, that she should have made quicker work on’t: for a good wife is (like a good Christian) to put her conscience in order betimes, and get her gone; without lingering in the hands of doctors, ’pothecaries, and surgeons, to murder her husband too. Or (to save charges) she might have had the discretion to have died of the plague, which would have staved off company. This is the second wife he has already turned over, and (to give the man his due) he has had the wit to secure himself of a third, while this lay on her deathbed. So that his case is no more than chopping of a cold wife for a warm one, and he’ll recover this affliction, I warrant ye.”

The good man, methought, spoke wonders; and being thoroughly convinced of the danger of trusting to appearances, I took up a resolution, never to conclude upon anything, though never so plausible, without due examination and inquiry. With that, the funeral vanished, leaving us behind; and for a farewell, this sentence: “I am gone before, you are to follow; and in the meantime, to accompany others to their graves, as you have done me; and as I, when time was, have attended many others, with as little care and devotion as yourselves.”

We were taken off from this meditation by a noise we heard in a house behind us, where we had no sooner set foot over the threshold, but we were entertained with a concert of six voices, that were set and tuned to the sighs and groans of a woman newly become a widow. The passion was acted to the life; but the dead little the better for’t. They would be ever and anon clapping and wringing of their hands; groaning and sighing, as if their hearts would break. The hangings, pictures, and furniture were all taken down and removed; the rooms hung with black, and in one of them lay the poor disconsolate upon a couch with her condoling friends about her. It was as dark as pitch, and so much the better, for the parts they had to play; for there was no discovering of the horrid faces and strains they made, to fetch up their artificial tears and lamentations. “Madam,” says one, “tears are but thrown away; and really the grief to see your ladyship in this condition has made me as lost a woman to all thought of comfort as yourself.” “I beseech you, madam, cheer up,” cries another, with almost as many sighs as words, “your husband’s e’en happy that he is out of this miserable world. He was a good man, and now he finds the sweet on’t.” “Patience, patience, dear madam,” cries a third, “’tis the will of Heaven, and there’s no contending.” “Dost talk of patience,” says she, “and no contending? Wretched creature that I am! to outlive that dear man! Oh that dear husband of mine! Oh that I should ever live to see this day!” And then she fell to blubbering, sobbing, and raving a thousand times worse than before. “Alas, alas, who will trouble himself with a poor widow! I have never a friend left to look after me; what shall become of me!”

At this pause came in the chorus with their nose-instruments; and there was such blowing, snobbing, snivelling, and throwing snot about, that there was no enduring the house. And all this, you must know, served them to a double purpose; that is to say, for physic and for complement: for it passed for the condoling office, and purged their heads of ill humours all under one. I could not choose but compassionate the poor widow, a creature forsaken of all the world; and I told my guide as much; and that a charity (as I thought) would be well bestowed upon her. The Holy Writ calls them mutes, according to the import of the Hebrew: in regard that they have nobody to speak for them. And if at any time they take heart to speak for themselves, they had e’en as good hold their tongues, for nobody minds them. Is there anything more frequently given in charge throughout the whole Bible, than to protect the fatherless, and defend the cause of the widow? as the highest and most necessary point of Christian charity: in regard that they have neither power, nor right to defend themselves. Does not Job in the depth of his misery and disgraces make choice to clear himself toward the widow, upon his expostulations with the Almighty? [If I have caused the eyes of the widow to fail] (or consumed the eyes of the widow; after the Hebrew) so that it seems to me, beside the general duty of charity, we are also bound by the laws of honour and generosity to assist them: for the poor souls are fain to plead with their eyes, and beg with their eyes, for want of either hands or tongues to help themselves. “Indeed you must pardon me my good father,” said I, “if I cannot hold any longer from bearing a part in this mournful concert, upon this sad occasion.” “And is this,” quoth the old man, “the fruit of your boasted divinity? to sink into weakness and tears, when you have the greatest need of your resolution and prudence. Have but a little patience, and I’ll unfold you this mystery; though (let me tell ye) ’tis one of the hardest things in nature, to make any man as wise as he should be, that conceits himself wise enough already. If this accident of the widow had not happened, we had had none of the fine things that have been started upon’t: for ’tis occasion that awakens both our virtue and philosophy; and ’tis not enough to know the mine where the treasure lies, unless a man has the skill of drawing it out, and making the best of what he has in his possession. What are you the better for all the advantages of wit and learning, without the faculty of reducing what you know into apt and proper applications?

“Observe me now, and I will show you that this widow that looks as if she had nothing in her mouth but the service for the dead, and only hallelujahs in her soul, that this mortified piece of formality has green thoughts under her black veil, and brisk imaginations about her, in despite of her calamity and misfortune. The chamber you see is dark; and their faces are muffled up in their funeral dresses. And what of all this? when the whole course of their mourning is but a thorough cheat. Their weeping signifies nothing more, than crying, at so much an hour; for their tears are hackneyed out, and when they have wept out their stage, they take up, and are quiet. If you would relieve them, leave them to themselves; and as soon as your back is turned, you shall have them singing and dancing, and as merry as Greeks: for take away the spectators, their hypocrisy is at an end, and the play is done; and now the confidents’ game begins. ‘Come, come, madam, ’faith we must be merry’ cries one, ‘we are to live by the living, and not by the dead. For a bonny young widow as you are, to lie whimpering away your opportunities and lose so many brave matches! There’s, you know who, I dare swear, has a month’s mind to you; by my troth I would you were in bed together, and I’d be hanged, if you did not find one warm bedfellow worth twenty cold ones.’ ‘Really, madam,’ cries a second, ‘she gives you good counsel; and if I were in your place, I’d follow it, and make use of my time. ’Tis but one lost, and ten found. Pray’e tell me, madam, if I may be so bold; what’s your opinion of that cavalier that was here yesterday? Certainly he has a great deal of wit; and methinks he’s a very handsome proper gentleman. Well! if that man has not a strange passion for you, I’ll never believe my eyes again for his sake; and, in good faith, if all parties were agreed, I would you were e’en well in his arms the night before to-morrow. Were it not a burning shame to let such a beauty lie fallow?’ This sets the widow a-pinking, and simpering like a furmety-kettle; at length she makes up the pretty little mouth, and says, ‘’Tis somewhat of the soonest to talk of those affairs; but let it be as Heaven pleases. However, madam, I am much beholden to you for your friendly advice.’ You have here the very bottom of her sorrow: she has taken a second husband into her heart before her first was in his grave. I should have told you that your right widow eats and drinks more the first day of her widowhood than in any other of her whole life: for there appears not a visitant, but presently out comes the groaning cake, a cold baked meat, or some restorative morsel or other, to comfort the afflicted; and the cordial bottle must not be forgotten neither, for sorrow’s dry. So to’t they fall, and at every bit or gulp, the lady relict fetches ye up a heavy sigh, pretends to chew false, and makes protestation that for her part she can taste nothing; she has quite lost her digestion; and has such an oppression in her stomach that she dares not eat any more, for fear of over-charging nature. ‘And in truth,’ says she, ‘how can it be otherwise; since (unhappy creature that I am!) he is gone that gave the relish to all my enjoyments; but there is no recalling him from the grave, and so, no remedy but patience.’ By this time, you see,” quoth the old man, “whether your exclamations were reasonable, or no.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth, when hearing an uproar among the rabble in the street, we looked out to see what was the matter. And there we saw a catchpole, without either hat or band, out of breath, and his face all bloody, crying out, “Help, help, in the king’s name! stop thief, stop thief!” and all the while, running as hard as he could drive, after a thief that made away from him, as if the devil had been at his breech. After him, came an attorney, all dirty, a world of papers in his hand, an inkhorn at his girdle, and a crowd of nasty people about him; and down he sat himself just before us, to write somewhat upon his knee. Bless me (thought I) how a cause prospers in the hand of one of these fellows, for he had filled his paper in a trice. “These catchpoles,” said I, “had need to be well paid, for the hazards they run to secure us in our lives and fortunes; and indeed they deserve it. Look how the poor wretch is torn, bruised, and battered, and all this for the good and benefit of the public.”

“Soft and fair,” quoth the old man; “I think thou wouldst never leave talking, if I did not stop thy mouth sometime. You must know, that he that made the escape and the catchpole are a couple of ancient friends and pot-companions. Now the catchpole quarrels the thief for not giving him a snip in the last booty; and the thief, after a great struggle, and a good lusty rubber at cuffs, has made a shift to save himself. You’ll say the rogue had need of good heels, to outrun this gallows-beagle; for there’s hardly any beast will outstrip a bailiff that runs upon the view of a quarry. So that there’s not the least thought of a public good in the catchpole’s action; but merely a prosecution of his own profit, and a spite to see himself choused. Now if the catchpole, I confess, without any private interest had made this attempt upon the thief, (being his friend) to bring him to justice, it had been well; and yet, take this along with you: it is as natural to let slip a serjeant at a pickpocket as a greyhound at a hare. The whip, the pillory, the axe, and the halter make up the best part of the catchpole’s revenue. These people are of all sorts the most odious to the world; and if men in revenge would resolve to be virtuous, though but for a year or two, they might starve them all. It is in fine an unlucky employment, and catchpoles as well as the devils themselves have the wages of tormentors.”

“I hope,” said I to my guide, “that the attorneys shall have your good word too.” “Yes, yes, ye need not doubt it,” said the old man, “for your attorney and your catchpole always hunt in couples. The attorney draws the information, and has all his forms ready, so that ’tis no more then but to fill up the blanks, and away to the jail with the delinquent; if there be anything to be gotten ’tis not a halfpenny matter, whether the party be guilty or innocent: give but an attorney pen, ink, and paper, and let him alone for witnesses. In case of an examination, he has the grace not to insist too much upon plain and naked truth; but to set down only what makes for his purpose, and then when they come to signing, to read over in the deponent’s sense (for his memory is good) what he has written in his own; and by this means, the cause goes on as he pleases. To prevent this villainy, it were well, if the examiners were as well sworn to write the truth as the witnesses are to speak it. And yet there are some honest men of all sorts but among the attorneys; the very calling does by the honest catchpoles, marshal’s men, and their fellows, as the sea by the dead: it may entertain them for a while, but in a very short space it spews them up again.”

The good man would have proceeded, if he had not been taken off by the rattling of a gilt coach, wherein was a courtier that was blown up as big as pride and vanity could make him. He sat stiff and upright, as if he had swallowed a stake; and made it his glory to show himself in that posture: it would have hurt his eyes, to have exchanged a glance with anything that was vulgar, and therefore he was very sparing of his looks. He had a deep laced ruff on, that was right Spanish, which he wore erect, and stiff starched, that a man would have thought he had carried his head in a paper-lanthorn. He was a great studier of set faces, and much affected with looking politic and big. But, for his arms and body, he had utterly lost or forgotten the use of them: for he could neither bow nor move his hat to any man that saluted him; no, nor so much as turn from one side to the other; but sat as if he had been boxed up, like a Bartlemew-baby. After this magnificent statue, followed a swarm of gaudy butterfly-lackeys: and his lordship’s company in the coach was a buffoon and a parasite. “Oh blessed prince!” said I, “to live at this rate of ease and splendour, and to have the world at will! What a glorious train is that! Beyond all doubt, there never was a great fortune better bestowed.” With that, the old man took me up, and told me that the judgment I had made upon this occasion, from one end to the other, was all dotage and mistake; save only, when I said he had the world at will: “and in that,” says he, “you have reason; for what is the world but labour, vanity, and folly; which is likewise the composition and entertainment of this cavalier.

“As for the train that follows him let it be examined, and my life for yours, you shall find more creditors in’t, than servants: there are bankers, jewellers, scriveners, brokers, mercers, drapers, tailors, vintners; and these are properly the stays and supporters of this animated machine. The money, meat, drink, robes, liveries, wages, all comes out of their pockets; they have this honour for their security; and must content themselves with promises, and fair words for full satisfaction, unless they had rather have a footman with a cudgel for their pay-master. And after all, if this gallant were taken to shrift, or that a man could enter into the secrets of his conscience, I dare undertake, it would appear that he that digs in a mine for his bread lives ten thousand times more at ease than the other, with beating of his brains night and day for new shifts, tricks and projects to keep himself above water.

“Observe his companions now, his fool and his flatterer. They are too hard for him, ye see; and eat, drink, and make merry at his expense. What greater misery or shame in the world, than for a man to make a friendship with such rascals, and to spend his time and estate in so brutal, and insipid a society! It costs him more (beside his credit) to maintain that couple of coxcombs than would have bought him the conversation of a brace of grave and learned philosophers. But will ye now see the bottom of this scandalous and dishonourable kindness? ‘My lord,’ says the buffoon, ‘you were most infallibly wrapt in your mother’s smock; for let me be — if ye have not set all the ladies about the court agog.’ ‘The very truth is,’ cries the parasite, ‘all the rest of the nobility look like corn-cutters to you; and indeed, wherever you come, you have still the eyes of the whole company upon you.’ ‘Go to, go to, gentlemen,’ says my lord, ‘you must not flatter your friends. This is more your courtesy than my desert; and I have an obligation to you for your kindness.’ After this manner these asses knab and curry one another, and play the fools by turns.”

The old man had his words yet between his teeth, when there passed just by us a lady of pleasure, of so excellent a shape and garb, that it was impossible to see her without a passion for her, and no less impossible to look upon anything else, so long as she was to be seen. They that had seen her once were to see her no more, for she turned her face still to new-comers. Her motion was graceful and free. One while she’d stare ye full in the eyes, under colour of opening her hood, to set it in better order. By and by she’d steal a look at ye with one eye, and a side face, from the corner of her visor, like a witch that’s afraid to be known when she comes from a caterwaul. And then out comes the delicate hand, and discovers the more delicious neck, and breasts, to adjust the handkercher or the scarf, or to remove some other grievance that made her ladyship uneasy. Her hair was most artificially disposed into careless rings; and the best red and white in nature was in her cheeks, if that of her lips and teeth did not exceed it. In a word, all she looked upon was her own; and this was the vision for my money, from all the rest. As she was marching off, I could not choose but take up a resolution to follow her. But my old man laid a block in the way, and stopped me at the very starting; which was an affront to a man that was both in love and in haste, that might very well stir his choler. “My officious friend,” said I, “he that does not love a woman sucked a sow. And questionless, he must be either blind or barbarous that’s proof against the charms of so divine a beauty. Nor would any but a sot let slip the blessed opportunity of so fair an encounter. A handsome woman? why, what was she made for, but to be loved? And he that has her, has all that’s lovely or desirable in nature. For my own part, I would renounce the world for the fellow of her, and never desire anything either beyond her, or beside her. What lightning does she carry in her eyes! What charms, and chains in her looks, and motions, for the very souls of her beholders! Was ever anything so clear as her forehead? or so black as her eyebrows? One would swear that her complexion had taken a tincture of vermilion and milk: and that nature had brought her into the world with pearl and rubies in her mouth. To speak all in little, she’s the masterpiece of the creation, worthy of infinite praise, and equal to our largest desires and imaginations.”

Here the old man cut me short, and bade me make an end of my discourse, “for thou art,” said he, “a man of much wonder, and small experience, and delivered over to the spirit of folly and blindness. Thou hast thy eyes in thy head, and yet not brain enough to know either why they were given thee, or how to use them. Understand then that the office of the eye is to see, but ’tis the privilege of the soul to distinguish and choose, whereas you either do the contrary, or else nothing, which is worse. He that trusts his eyes, exposes his mind to a thousand torments and confusions: he shall take clouds for mountains, straight for crooked, one colour for another, by reason of an undue distance, or an indisposed medium. We are not able sometimes to say which way a river runs, till we throw in a twig or straw to find out the current. And what will you say now, if this prodigious beauty, your new mistress, prove as gross a cheat and imposture as any of the rest? She went to bed last night as ugly as a witch; and yet this morning she comes forth in your opinion as glorious as an angel. The truth of it is, she hires all by the day; and if you did but see this puppet taken to pieces, you would find her little else but paint and plaister. To begin her anatomy at the head. You must know that the hair she wears is borrowed of a tire-woman, for her own was blown off by an unlucky wind from the coast of Naples. Or if she has any left, she keeps it private, as a memorial of her antiquity. She is beholden to the pencil for her eyebrows and complexion. And upon the whole matter, she is but an old picture refreshed. But the wonder is, to see a picture, with life and motion; unless perchance she has got the necromancer’s receipt that made himself young again in his glass bottle. For all that you see of her that’s good, comes from distilled waters, essences, powders, and the like; and to see the washing of her face would fright the devil. She abounds in pomanders, sweet waters, Spanish pockets, perfumed drawers; and all little enough to qualify the poisonous whiffs she sends from her toes and arm-pits, which would otherwise out-stink ten thousand pole-cats. She cannot choose but kiss well, for her lips are perpetually bathed in oil and grease. And he that embraces her, shall find the better half of her the tailor’s, and only a stuffing of cotton and canvas, to supply the defects of her body. When she goes to bed, she puts off one half of her person with her shoes. What do ye think of your adored beauty now? or have your eyes betrayed ye? Well, well; confess your error and mend it; and know that (without more descant upon this woman) ’tis the design and glory of most of the sex to lead silly men captive. Nay take the best of them, and what with the trouble of getting them and the difficulty of pleasing them, he that comes off best will find himself a loser at the foot of the account. I could recommend you here to other remedies of love, inseparable from the very sex, but what I have said already, I hope, will be sufficient.”

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THE END OF THE FIFTH VISION

THE SIXTH VISION OF HELL

BEING one autumn at a friend’s house in the country (which was indeed a most delicious retreat) I took a walk one moonlight night into the park, where all my past visions came fresh into my head again, and I was well enough pleased with the meditation. At length the humour took me to leave the path, and go further into the wood: what impulse carried me to this, I know not. Whether I was moved by my good angel, or some higher power, but so it was that in half a quarter of an hour, I found myself a great way from home, and in a place where ’twas no longer night; with the pleasantest prospect round about me that ever I saw since I was born. The air was calm and temperate; and it was no small advantage to the beauty of the place, that it was both innocent and silent. On the one hand, I was entertained with the murmurs of crystal rivulets; on the other, with the whispering of the trees; the birds singing all the while either in emulation, or requital of the other harmonies. And now, to show the instability of our affections and desires, I was grown weary even of tranquillity itself, and in this most agreeable solitude began to long for company.

When in the very instant (to my great wonder) I discovered two paths, issuing from one and the same beginning but dividing themselves forwards, more and more, by degrees, as if they liked not one another’s company. That on the right hand was narrow, almost beyond imagination; and being very little frequented, it was so overgrown with thorns and brambles, and so stony withal, that a man had all the trouble in the world to get into’t. One might see, however, the prints and marks of several passengers that had rubbed through, though with exceeding difficulty; for they had left pieces of heads, arms, legs, feet, and many of them their whole skins behind them. Some we saw yet upon the way, pressing forward, without ever so much as looking back; and these were all of them pale-faced, lean, thin, and miserably mortified. There was no passing for horsemen; and I was told that St. Paul himself left his horse, when he went into’t. And indeed, there was not the footing of any beast to be seen. Neither horse nor mule, nor the track of any coach or chariot. Nor could I learn that any had passed that way in the memory of man. While I was bethinking myself of what I had seen, I spied at length a beggar that was resting himself a little to take breath; and I asked him what inns or lodgings they had upon that road. His answer was that there was no stopping there, till they came to their journey’s end. “For this,” said he, “is the way to paradise, and what should they do with inns or taverns, where there are so few passengers? Do not you know that in the course of nature, to die is to be born, to live is to travel; and the world is but a great inn, after which, it is but one stage either to pain or glory?” And with these words he marched forward, and bade me God-b’w’ye, telling me withal that it was time lost to linger in the way of virtue, and not safe to entertain such dialogues as tend rather to curiosity than instruction. And so he pursued his journey, stumbling, tearing his flesh, and sighing, and groaning at every step; and weeping as if he thought to soften the stones with his tears. This is no way for me, thought I to myself; and no company neither; for they are a sort of beggarly, morose people, and will never agree with my humour. So I drew back and struck off into the left-hand way.

And there I found company enough and room for more. What a world of brave cavaliers! Gilt coaches, rich liveries, and handsome, lively lasses, as glorious as the sun! Some were singing and laughing, others tickling one another and toying; some again, at their cheese-cakes and China oranges, or appointing a set at cards: so that taking all together, I durst have sworn I had been at the park. This minded me of the old saying, “Tell me thy company, and I’ll tell thee thy manners;” and to save the credit of my education, I put myself into the noble mode, and jogged on. And there was I at the first dash up to the ears, in balls, plays, masquerades, collations, dalliances, amours, and as full of joy as my heart could hold.

It was not here, as upon t’other road, where folks went barefoot and naked, for want of shoemakers and tailors, for here were enow, and to spare; beside mercers, drapers, jewellers, bodice-makers, peruke-makers, milliners, and a French ordinary at every other door. You cannot imagine the pleasure I took in my new acquaintance; and yet there was now and then some justling and disorder upon the way, chiefly between the physicians upon their mules, and the infantry of the lawyers, that marched in great bodies before the judges, and contested for place. But the physicians carried it in favour of their charter, which gives them privilege to study, practise, and teach the art of poisoning, and to read lectures of it in the universities. While this point of honour was in dispute, I perceived divers crossing from one way to the other, and changing of parties. Some of them stumbled and recovered; others fell down right. But the pleasantest gambol of all was that of the vintners. A whole litter of them tumbled into a pit together, one over another, but finding they were out of their element, they got up again as fast as they could. Those that were in the right-hand way, which was the way of paradise, or virtue, advanced very heavily, and made us excellent sport. “Prithee look what a Friday-face that fellow makes!” cries one; “Hang him, prick-eared cur,” says another; “Damn me,” cries a third, “if the rogue be not drunk with holy water;” “If the devil had raked hell, he could not have found such a pack of ill-looked rascals,” says another. Some of them stopped their ears, and went on without minding us. Others we put out of countenance, and they came over to us. And a third sort came out of pure love to our company.

After this, I observed a great many people afar off in a by-path: with as much contrition and devotion in their looks and gestures as ever I saw in men. They walked shaking their heads, and lifting up their hands to heaven; and they had most of them large ears, and, to my thinking, Geneva Bibles. These, thought I, are a people of singular integrity, and strictness of life, above their fellows; but coming nearer, we found them to be hypocrites; and that though they’d none of our company upon the road, they would not fail to meet us at our journey’s end. Fasting, repentance, prayer, mortification, and other holy duties, which are the exercise of good Christians, in order to their salvation, are but a kind of probation to these men, to fit them for the devil. They were followed by a number of devotees, and holy sisters, that kissed the skirts of their garments all the way they went, but whether out of zeal, spiritual, or natural, is hard to say; and undoubtedly, some women’s kisses are worse than Judas’s. For though his kiss was treacherous in the intention, it was right yet in the application: but this was one Judas kissing another, which makes me think there was more of the flesh than of the spirit in the case. Some would be drawing a thread now and then out of the holy man’s garment, to make a relic of. Others would cut out large snips, as if they had a mind to see them naked. Some again desired they would remember them in their prayers; which was just as much as if they had commended themselves to the devil by a third person. Some prayed for good matches for their daughters; others begged children for themselves: and sure the husband that allows his wife to ask children abroad will be so civil as to take them home, when they are given him. In fine, these hypocrites may for a while perchance impose upon the world, and delude the multitude; but no mask or disguise is proof against the all-piercing eye of the Almighty. There are I must confess many religious and godly men, for whose persons and prayers I have a great esteem. But these are not of the hypocrites’ humour, to build their hopes and ambition upon popular applause, and with a counterfeit humility, to proclaim their weakness and unworthiness; their failings; yea and their transgressions in the market-place; all which is indeed but a true jest; for they are really what they say, though they would not be thought so.

These went apart, and were looked upon to be neither fish nor flesh nor good red-herring. They wore the name of Christians; but they had neither the wit nor the honesty of pagans. For they content themselves with the pleasures of this life, because they know no better. But the hypocrite, that’s instructed both in the life temporal and eternal, lives without either comfort in the one, or hope in the other; and takes more pains to be damned than a good Christian does to compass his salvation. In short, we went on our way in discourse. The rich followed their wealth, and the poor the rich; begging there what Providence had denied them. The stubborn and obstinate went away by themselves, for they would hear nobody that was wiser than themselves, but ran huddling on, and pressed still to be foremost. The magistrates drew after them all the solicitors and attorneys. Corrupt judges were carried away by passion and avarice. And vain and ambitious princes trailed along with them principalities and commonwealths. There were a world of clergy upon this road too. And I saw one full regiment of soldiers there, which would have been brave fellows indeed, if they had but been half so good at praying and fighting, as they were at swearing. Their whole discourse was of their adventures, how narrowly they came off at such an assault; what wounds they received upon t’other breach; and then what a destruction they made at such a time, of mutton and poultry. But all they said came in at one ear and went out at t’other. “Don’t you remember, sirrah,” says one, “how we clawed it away at such a place!” “Yes, ye damned rogue you,” cries t’other, “when you were so drunk you took your aunt for the bawd.” These and such as these were the only exploits they could truly brag of.

While they were upon these glorious rhodomontades, certain generous spirits from the right-hand way, that knew what they were, by the boxes of passports, testimonials, and recommendations they wore at their girdles, cried out to them, as if it had been to an attack: “Fall on, fall on, my lads, and follow me. This, this is the path of honour, and if you were not poltroons you would not quit it for fear of a hard march, or an ill lodging. Courage comrades; and be assured that this combat well fought makes all your fortunes, and crowns ye for ever. Here, ye shall be sure both of pay and reward, without casting the issue of all your hazards and hopes upon the empty promises of princes. How long will ye pursue this trade of blood and rapine? And accustom your ears and tongues to the tragical outcries of, Burn; No quarter; Kill, or Die. It is not pay, or pillage, but Virtue that’s a brave man’s recompense. Trust to her, and she’ll not deceive ye. If it be the war ye love, come to us; bear arms on the right side, and we’ll find you work. Do not you know that man’s life is a warfare? That the world, the flesh, and the devil, are three vigilant enemies? And that it is as much as his soul is worth, to put himself, but for one minute, out of his guard. Princes tell ye, that your bloods and your lives are theirs, and that to shed the one, and lose the other, in their service, is no obligation, but a duty. You are still however to look to the cause; wherefore turn head, and come along with us, and be happy.” The soldiers heard all this with exceeding patience and attention; but the brand of cowardice had such an effect upon them, that without any more ado, like men of honour, they presently quitted the road; drew; and as bold as lions, charged headlong into a tavern.

After this, we saw a great troop of women, upon the highway to hell, with their bags and their fellows, at their heels, ever and anon hunching and justling one another. On the other side, a number of good people, that were almost at the end of their journey, came over into the wrong road; for the right-hand way growing easier and wider toward the end, and that on the left hand, on the contrary, narrower, they thought they had been out of their way, and so came in to us; as many of ours went over to them, upon the same mistake. Among the rest, I saw a great lady, without either coach, sedan, or any living creature with her, foot it all the way to hell: which was to me so great a wonder, considering how she had lived in the world, that I presently looked about for a public notary to make an entry of it. The woman was in a most miserable pickle; and I did not know what design she might drive on, under that disguise; but finding never a notary, or register at hand, though I missed my particular aim, yet I was well enough pleased with it, for I took it then for granted that I was in my ready way to heaven. But when I came afterward to reflect upon the crosses, afflictions, and mortifications, that lie in the way to paradise; and to consider that there was nothing of that upon this road; but on the contrary, laughing, singing, frollicking, and all manner of jollity: this I must confess gave me a qualm, and made me a little doubtful whither I was going.

But I was quickly delivered of that doubt by a gang of married men, that we overtook with their wives in their hands, in evidence of their mortifications: “My wife’s my witness,” cries one, “that every day since I married her has been a fasting day to me; to pamper her with cock-broth, and jellies. And my wife knows how I have humbled my body by nakedness; for I have hardly allowed myself a rag to my backside; or a shoe to my foot, to maintain her in her coach, pages, gowns, petticoats, and jewels.” So that upon the matter, I perceive an unlucky hit with a wife gives a man as much right to the catalogue of martyrs, as if he had ended his days at the stake.

The misery these poor wretches endured made me think myself in the right again; till I heard a cry behind me, “Make way there; make way for the ’pothecaries.” Bless me, thought I, if they be here, we are certainly going to the devil. And so it proved, for we were just then come to a little door, that was made like a mousetrap, where ’twas easy to get in, but there was no getting out again.

It was a strange thing, that scarce anybody so much as dreamt of hell, all the way we went; and yet everybody knew where they were, as soon as they came there; and cried out with one voice, “Miserable creatures! we are damned, we are damned.” That word made my heart ache; and is it come to that? said I. Then did I begin with tears in my eyes to reflect upon what I had left in the world, as my relations, friends, ladies, mistresses, and in fine, all my old acquaintance: when with a heavy sigh, looking behind me, I saw the greater part of them posting after me. It gave me, methought, some comfort, that I should have so good company; vainly imagining that even hell itself might be capable of some relief.

Going farther on I was gotten into a crowd of tailors, that stood up sneaking in a corner, for fear of the devils. At the first door, there were seven devils, taking the names of those that came in; and they asked me mine, and my quality, and so they let me pass. But, examining the tailors, “These fellows,” cried one of the devils, “come in such shoals, as if hell were made only for tailors.” “How many are they?” says another. Answer was made, “About a hundred.” “About a hundred? They must be more than a hundred,” says t’other, “if they be tailors; for they never come under a thousand, or twelve hundred strong. And we have so many here already, I do not know where we shall ’stow them. Say the word, my masters, shall’s let them in or no?” The poor prick-lice were damnedly startled at that, for fear they should not get in: but in the end, they had the favour to be admitted. “Certainly,” said I, “these folks are but in an ill condition, when ’tis a menace for the devils themselves to refuse to receive them.” Thereupon a huge, overgrown, club-footed, crump-shouldered devil, threw them all into a deep hole. Seeing such a monster of a devil, I asked him how he came to be so deformed. And he told me, he had spoiled his back with carrying of tailors: “for,” said he, “I have been formerly made use of as a sumpter to fetch them; but now of late they save me that labour, and come so fast of themselves, that ’tis one devil’s work to dispose of them.” While the word was yet speaking, there came another glut of them, and I was fain to make way, that the devil might have room to work in, who piled them up, and told me they made the best fuel in hell.