'Tis the custom of some to cast them overboard, and there's an end of them: for the dumb fishes will tell no tales. But the murderer is not so soon drowned as the man. What, is a brother of false blood no kin? a savage hath God to his father by creation, though not the church to his mother, and God will revenge his innocent blood. But our captain counts the image of God, nevertheless his image cut in ebony as if done in ivory.1 In dividing the gains, he wrongs no one who took pains to get them: not shifting off his poor mariners with nothing. In time of peace he quietly returns home. His voyages are not only for profit, but some for honor and knowledge. He daily sees, and duly considers God's wonders in the deep. ON TRAVELLING. Travel not early before thy judgment be risen; lest thou observest rather shows than substance. Get the language (in part), without which key thou shalt unlock. little of moment. Know most of the rooms of thy native country before thou goest over the threshold thereof. Travel not beyond the Alps. Mr. Roger Ascham did thank God that he was but nine days in Italy, wherein he saw in one city (Venice) more liberty to sin than in London he ever heard of in nine years. Be wise in choosing objects, diligent in marking, careful in remembering of them. Yet herein men much follow their own humors. One asked a barber who never before had been at the court, what he saw there? "O," said he, "the king was excellently well trimmed!" Labor to distil and unite into thyself the scattered perfections of several nations. Many weed foreign countries, bringing home Dutch drunkenness, Spanish pride, French wantonness, and Italian atheism; as for the good herbs, Dutch industry, Spanish loyalty, French courtesy, and Italian frugality, these they leave behind them; others bring home just nothing; and, because they singled not themselves from their countrymen, though some years beyond sea, were never out of England. 1 "Is not this one of the earliest intercessions on behalf of the poor slaves ?"-Basil Montagu. No; for a higher than all human authority proclaimed, fifteen hundred years before, "All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them;" which, if obeyed, would break every bond of oppression throughout the world. Light and darkness, virtue and vice, heaven and earth, present no greater contrast than the code of Christian ethics and the slave code. This is common to all professions: "I hold," says Lord Bacon, "that every man is a debtor to his profession, from the which, as men do of course seek to receive countenance and profit, so ought they of duty to endeavor themselves, by way of amends, to be a help and ornament thereunto." OF MEMORY. It is the treasure-house of the mind, wherein the monuments thereof are kept and preserved. Plato makes it the mother of the Muses. Aristotle sets it in one degree further, making experience the mother of arts, memory the parent of experience. Philosophers place it in the rear of the head; and it seems the mine of memory lies there, because there men naturally dig for it, scratching it when they are at a loss. This again is two-fold; one, the simple retention of things; the other, a regaining them when forgotten. Artificial memory is rather a trick than an art, and more for the gain of the teacher than profit of the learners. Like the tossing of a pike, which is no part of the postures and motions thereof, and is rather for ostentation than use, to show the strength and nimbleness of the arm, and is often used by wandering soldiers, as an introduction to beg. Understand it of the artificial rules which at this day are delivered by memory mountebanks; for sure an art thereof may be made, (wherein as yet the world is defective,) and that no more destructive to natural memory than spectacles are to eyes, which girls in Holland wear from twelve years of age. But till this be found out, let us observe these plain rules. First, soundly infix in thy mind what thou desirest to remember. What wonder is it if agitation of business jog that out of thy head which was there rather tacked than fastened? It is best knocking in the nail over night, and clinching it the next morning. Overburden not thy memory to make so faithful a servant a slave. Remember, Atlas was weary. Have as much reason as a camel, to rise when thou hast thy full load. Memory, like a purse, if it be over full that it cannot shut, all will drop out of it; take heed of a gluttonous curiosity to feed on many things, lest the greediness of the appetite of thy memory spoil the digestion thereof. Marshal thy notions into a handsome method. One will carry twice more weight trussed and packed up in bundles, than when it lies untoward, flapping and hanging about his shoulders. Things orderly fardled up under heads are most portable. Adventure not all thy learning in one bottom, but divide it betwixt thy memory and thy note-books. He that with Bias carries all his learning about him in his head, will utterly be beggared and bankrupt, if a violent disease, a merciless thief, should rob and strip him. I know some have a common-place against commonplace-books, and yet perchance will privately make use of what they publicly declaim against. A common-place-book contains many notions in garrison, whence the owner may draw out an army into the field on competent warning. RORERT HERRICK. 1591-1662. ONE of the most exquisite of the early English lyric poets, was Robert Herrick. But little is known of his life. His father was a goldsmith of London, and he was born in that city in 1591. He studied at Cambridge, and took orders in the established church, and obtained a place to preach in, in Devonshire, which he lost at the commencement of the civil wars. At the Restoration he was re-appointed to his vicarage, but died soon afterwards, in 1662. Abating some of the impurities of Herrick, we can fully join with an able critic in the Retrospective Review in pronouncing him one of the best of English lyric poets. "He is the most joyous and gladsome of bards; singing like the grasshopper, as if he would never grow old. He is as fresh as the Spring, as blithe as the Summer, and as ripe as the Autumn. ... His poems resemble a luxuriant meadow, full of king-cups and wild flowers, or a July firmament, sparkling with a myriad of stars. His fancy fed upon all the fair and sweet things of nature: it is redolent of roses and jessamine; it is as light and airy as the thistle down, or the bubbles which laughing boys blow into the air, where they float in a waving line of beauty." TO DAFFODILS. Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon: Until the hastening day But to the even-song; We have short time to stay, as you; As quick a growth to meet decay, We die, As your hours do; and dry Away Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning dew, TO PRIMROSES, FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teem'd her refreshing dew? Alas! you have not known that shower 1 Vol. v. page 156. Read also, remarks in "Drake's Literary Hours." Nor felt th' unkind Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speak, whimpering younglings; and make known Ye droop, and weep. Is it for want of sleep; Or, that ye have not seen as yet Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? Would have this lecture read, "That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth." TO BLOSSOMS. Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Your date is not so past, What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, But you are lovely leaves, where we HOW THE HEART'S-EASE FIRST CAME. Frolic virgins once these were, Over-loving, living here; Being here their ends denied, Ran for sweethearts mad, and died. Love, in pity of their tears, And their loss of blooming years, For their restless here-spent hours, Gave them heart's-ease turn'd to flowers. THE CAPTIVE BEE, OR THE LITTLE FILCHER. As Julia once a slumbering lay, It chanced a bee did fly that way, For some rich flower he took the lip But when he felt he suck'd from thence He drank so much he scarce could stir; And thus surprised, as filchers use, THE NIGHT PIECE.-TO JULIA. Whose little eyes glow Like sparks of fire, befriend thee! No will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee, Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee! Let not the dark thee cumber; What though the moon does slumber, The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear without number! Then Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me: Thy silvery feet My soul I'll pour into thee! |