HISTORY AND DEVELOPMENT OF PROSE STYLE
Part 5: Later Seventeenth Century
Book 1, Ch. 5: The sixth [cause of absurd conclusions, I ascribe]
to the use of metaphors, tropes, and other rhetorical figures,
instead of words proper. For though it be lawful to say, for
example, in common speech, the way goeth, or leadeth hither, or
thither; the proverb says this or that, whereas ways cannot go,
nor proverbs speak; yet in reckoning, and seeking of truth, such
speeches are not to be admitted. . . . Metaphors and senseless
and ambiguous words, are like ignes fatui; and reasoning upon
them is wandering amongst innumerable absurdities; and their end,
contention and sedition, or contempt. ["Ignes fatui" are "false
fires," will-of-the-wisps.] [Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]
Sept 11, 1653. God forgive me, I was as near laughing yesterday
where I should not. Would you believe that I had the grace to go
hear a sermon upon a week day? In earnest, 'tis true; and Mr.
Marshall was the man that preached, but never anybody was so
defeated. He is so famed that I expected rare things of him, and
seriously I listened to him at first with as much reverence and
attention as if he had been St. Paul; and what do you think he
told us? Why, that if there were no kings, no queens, no lords,
no ladies, nor gentlemen, nor gentlewomen, in the world, 'twould
be no loss to God Almighty. This we had over some forty times,
which made me remember it whether I would nor not. The rest
was much at this rate, interlarded with the prettiest odd
phrases, that I had the most ado to look soberly enough for the
place I was in that ever I had in my life. He does not preach so
always, sure? If he does, I cannot believe his sermons will do
much towards the bringing anybody to heaven more than by
exercising their patience. Yet, I'll say that for him, he stood
stoutly for tithes, though, in my opinion, few deserved them less
than he; and it may be he would be better without them.
[Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]
First Century: 28: Your Enjoyment of the World is never right,
till every Morning you awake in Heaven: see your self in your
fathers Palace: and look upon the Skies and the Earth and the
Air, as Celestial Joys: having such a Reverend Esteem of all, as
if you were among the Angels. The Bride of a Monarch, in her
Husbands Chamber, hath no such Causes of Delight as you.
29: You never Enjoy the World aright, till the Sea it self
floweth in your veins, till you are Clothed with the Heavens, and
Crowned with the Stars: and perceiv your self to be the Sole Heir
of the whole World: and more then so, becaus Men are in it who
are evry one Sole Heirs, as well as you. Till you can Sing and
Rejoyce and Delight in GOD, as Misers do in gold, and Kings in
Scepters, you never Enjoy the World.
30: Till your Spirit filleth the whole World, and the Stars are
your Jewels, till you are as Familiar with the Ways of God in all
Ages as with your Walk and Table: till you are intimatly
Acquainted with that Shady Nothing out of which the World was
made: till you lov Men so as to Desire their Happiness, with a
Thirst equal to the zeal of your own: till you Delight in GOD for
being Good to all: you never Enjoy the World. Till you more feel
it then your Privat Estate, and are more present in the
Hemisphere, Considering the Glories and the Beauties there, then
in your own House. Till you remember how lately you were made,
and how wonderfull it was when you came into it: and more rejoyce
in the Palace of your Glory, then if it had been made but to Day
Morning. [Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]
Now if any shall desire to be more particularly satisfied,
what that exact righteousness is, which in matter of contracts
ought to be observed betwixt man and man? I must confess this is
a difficult question, and to be handled very modestly by such as
acknowledge themselves unacquainted with the affairs of the
world, and the necessities of things, and the particular and
hidden reasons of some kind of dealings; for he who is ignorant
of these may easily give rules which will not comply with the
affairs of the world. He may complain of that which cannot be
otherwise, and blame some kind of dealings which are justifiable
from particular reasons, not obvious to any man, who is unseen in
the way of trade. Besides, there are many cases fall under this
question, which are very nice, but of great consequence; and the
greater caution and tenderness ought to be used in the resolution
of them, because they are matters of constant practice, and the
greatest part of mankind are concerned in them. Now it is a
dangerous thing to mistake in those things, in which many persons
are interested, especially if they be things of such a vast
difference, as good and evil, right and wrong are: for if that be
determined to be lawful, which is unlawful, men are led into sin;
if that be determined to be unlawful, which is lawful, men are
led into a snare: for if this determination has to be the
prejudice of men in their callings, it is a hundred to one but
common example and private interest will make many continue in
that practice; and then the mischief is this--though men do that
which is lawful and right, yet they are staggered by the
authority and confidence of him, who hath determined it unlawful;
and so have some reluctance in their consciences in the doing of
it; and this, by accident, becomes a great sin to them. And when
upon a sick-bed, or any other occasion, they come to be touched
with the sense of sin, this will be matter of greater horror and
affrightment to them than a real sin, which they committed
ignorantly, and were afterwards convinced of. Upon all these
considerations, I ought to proceed with great wariness in the
answering of this question. Therefore I shall content myself with
speaking those things which are clear and evident, though they be
general, rather than venture out of my depth, by descending into
particulars, and such things as are out of my notice.
[Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]
1. Ladies, gentlewomen, and other inferior women, but not less
worthy: I have been industrious to assemble you together, and
wish I were so fortunate as to persuade you to make frequent
assemblies, associations, and combinations amongst our sex, that
we may unite in prudent counsels, to make ourselves as free,
happy, and famous as men; whereas now we live and die as if we
were produced from beasts, rather than from men; for men are
happy, and we women are miserable; they possess all the ease,
rest, pleasure, wealth, power, and fame; whereas women are
restless with labour, easeless with pain, melancholy for want of
pleasures, helpless for want of power, and die in oblivion, for
want of fame. Nevertheless, men are so unconscionable and cruel
against us that they endeavour to bar us of all sorts of liberty,
and will not suffer us freely to associate amongst our own sex;
but would fain bury us in their houses or beds, as in a grave.
The truth is, we live like bats or owls, labour like beasts, and
die like worms. [Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]
from Sept 2 (Lord's Day), 1665: Some of our maids sitting up late
last night to get things ready against our feast to-day, Jane
called us up about three in the morning, to tell us of a great
fire they saw in the City. So I rose, and slipped on my night-
gown, and went to her window; and thought it to be on the back-
side of Market-Lane at the farthest; but, being unused to such
fires as followed, I thought it far enough off; and so went to
bed again, and to sleep. About seven rose again to dress myself,
and there looked out at the window, and saw the fire not so much
as it was, and further off. So to my closet to set things to
rights, after yesterday's cleaning. By and by Jane comes and
tells me that she hears that above 300 houses have been burned
down to-night by the fire we saw, and that it is now burning down
all Fish Street, by London Bridge. So I made myself ready
presently, and walked to the Tower; and there got up upon one of
the high places, Sir J. Robinson's little son going up with me;
and there I did see the houses at that end of the bridge all on
fire, and an infinite great fire on this and the other side the
end of the bridge; which, among other people, did trouble me for
poor little Michell and our Sarah on the bridge. So down, with my
heart full of trouble, to the Lieutenant of the Tower, who tells
me that it begun this morning in the King's baker's house in
Pudding-lane, and that it hath burned down St. Magnus's Church
and most part of Fish Street already. So I down to the water-
side, and there got a boat, and through bridge, and there saw a
lamentable fire. Poor Michell's house, as far as the Old Swan,
already burned that way, and the fire running further, that, in a
very little time, it got as far as the Steele-yard, while I was
there. Every body endeavouring to remove their goods, and
flinging into the river, or bringing them into lighters that lay
off; poor people staying in their houses as long as till the very
fire touched them and then running into boats, or clambering from
one pair of stairs, by the waterside, to another. And, among
other things, the poor pigeons, I perceive, were loth to leave
their houses, but hovered about the windows and balconys, till
they burned their wings, and fell down. Having staid, and in an
hour's time seen the fire rage every way; and nobody, to my
sight, endeavouring to quench it, but to remove their goods, and
leave all to the fire; and, having seen it get as far as the
Steele-yard, and the wind mighty high, and driving it into the
City; and everything, after so long a drought, proving
combustible, even the very stones of churches; and, among other
things, the poor steeple by which pretty Mrs. --- lives, and
whereof my old schoolfellow Elborough is parson, taken fire in
the very top, and there burned till it fell down; I to White
Hall, with a gentleman with me, who desired to go off from the
Tower, to see the fire, in my boat; and there up to the King's
closet in the Chapel, where people came about me, and I did give
them an account dismayed them all, and word was carried in to the
King.
[Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]
Sept 7, 1665: I went this morning on foote from White hall as far
as London bridge, thro the Late fleete streete, Ludgate hill, by
St. Paules, Cheape side, Exchange, Bishopsgate, Aldersgate, and
out to Moorfields, thence thro Cornehill, etc: with extraordinay
difficulty, clambring over mountains of yet smoking rubbish, and
frequently mistaking where I was, the ground under my feete so
hott, as made me not onely Sweate, but even burnt the soles of my
shoes, and put me all over in Sweate: In the meane time his
Majestie got to the Tower by Water, to demolish the houses about
the Graft, which being built intirely about it, had they taken
fire, and attaq'd the white Tower, where the Magazines of Powder
lay, would undoubtedly have not onely beaten down and destroyed
all the bridge, but sunke and torne all the vessels in the river,
and rendred the demolition beyond all expression for severall
miles even about the Country at many miles distance: At my
returne I was infinitly concern'd to find that goodly Church St
Paules now a sad ruine, and that beautiful Portico (for structure
comparable to any in Europ, as not long before repaird by the
late King) now rent in pieces, flakes of vast Stone Split in
sunder, and nothing remaining intire but the Inscription in the
Architrave which shewing by whom it was built, had not one letter
of it defac'd: which I could not but take notice of: It was
astonishing to see what immense stones the heate had in a manner
Calcin'd, so as all the ornaments, Columns, freezes, Capitels,
and projectures of massie Portland stones flew off, even to the
very roofe, where a Sheete of Leade covering no lesse than 6
akers by measure, being totaly mealted, the ruines of the Vaulted
roofs, falling brake into St. Faithes, which being filled with
the magazines of the bookes, belonging to the Stationers, and
carried thither for safty, they were all consumed burning for a
weeke following: It is also observable, that the lead over the
Altar at the East end was untouch'd; and among the divers
monuments, the body of one Bishop, remaind intire. Thus lay in
ashes that most venerable Church, one of the most ancient Pieces
of early Piety in the Christian World, beside neer 100 more; The
lead, yronworke, bells, plate etc mealted; the exquisitely
wrought Mercers Chapell, the Sumptuous Exchange, the august
farbicque of Christ church, all the rest of the Companies Halls,
sumptuous buildings, Arches, Enteries, all in dust. The fountains
all dried up and ruind, whilst the very waters remained boiling;
the Voragos of subterranean Cellars Wells and Dungeons, formerly
Warehouses, still burning in stench and dark clowds of smoke like
hell, so as in five or six miles traversing about, I did not see
one loade of timber uncomsum'd, nor many stones but what were
calcin'd white as snow, so as the people who now walked about the
ruines appeard like men in some dismal desart, or rather in some
great City, lay'd wast by an impetuous and cruel Enemy, to which
was added the stench that came from some poore Creaturs bodys,
beds, and other combustible goods. . . . [Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]
There is nothing of all the works of Nature, so
inconsiderable, so remote, or so fully known; but, by being made
to reflect on other things, it will at once enlighten them, and
shew it self the clearer. Such is the dependance amongst all the
orders of creatures; the inanimate, the sensitive, the rational,
the natural, the artificial: that the apprehension of one of
them, is a good step toward the understanding of the rest: And
this is the highest pitch of humane reason; to follow all the
links of this chain, till all their secrets are open to our
minds; and their works advanc'd, or imitated by our hands. This
is truly to command the world; to rank all the varieties, and
degrees of things, so orderly one upon another; that standing on
the top of them, we may perfectly behold all that are below, and
make them all serviceable to the quiet, and peace, and plenty of
Man's life. And to this happiness, there can be nothing else
added: but that we make a good second advantage of this rising
ground, thereby to look the nearer into heaven: An ambition,
which though it was punish'd in the old World, by an universal
Confusion; when it was manag'd with impiety, and insolence: yet,
when it was carried on by that humility and innocence, which can
never be separated from true knowledg; when it was design'd, not
to brave the Creator of all things, but to admire him the more:
it must needs be the utmost perfection of humane Nature.
Thus they have directed, judg'd, conjectur'd upon, and
improved Experiments. But lastly, in these, and all other
business, that have come under their care; there is one thing
more, about which the Society has been most sollicitous; and that
is, the manner of their Discourse: which, unless they had been
very watchful to keep in due temper, the whole spirit and vigour
of their Design, had been soon eaten out, by the luxury and
redundance of Speech. The ill effects of this superfluity of
talking, have already overwhel'd most other Arts and Professions;
insomuch, that when I consider the means of happy living, and the
causes of their corruption, I can hardly forbear recanting what I
said before; and concluding, that eloquence ought to be banish'd
out of all civil societies, as a thing fatal to Peace and good
Manners. To this opinion I should wholly incline; if I did not
find, that it is a Weapon, whic may be as easily procur'd by bad
men, as good: and that, if these should onely cast it away, and
those retain it; the naked Innocence of vertue, would be upon all
occasions expos'd to the armed Malice of the wicked. This is the
chief reason, that should now keep up the Ornaments of speaking,
in any request; since they are so much degenerated from their
original usefulness. They were at first, no doubt, an admirable
Instrument in the hands of Wise Men: when they were onely
employ'd to describe Goodness, Honesty, Obedience; in larger,
fairer, and more moving Images: to represent Truth, cloth'd with
Bodies; and to bring Knowledge back again to our very senses,
from whence it was at first deriv'd to our understandings. But
now they are generally chang'd to worse uses: They make the Fancy
disgust the best things, if they come found, and unadorn'd: they
are in open defiance against Reason; professing, not to hold much
correspondence with that; but with its slaves, the passions: they
give the mind a motion too changeable, and bewitching, to consist
with right practice. Who can behold, without indignation, how
many mists and uncertainties, these specious Tropes and Figures
have brought to our Knowledge? How many rewards, which are due to
more profitable, and difficult arts, have been still snatch'd
away by the easie vanity of fine speaking? For now I am warmed
with this just anger, I cannot withhold my self, from betraying
the shallowness of all these seeming Mysteries; upon which, we
writers, and speakers, look so big. And, in few words, I dare
say; that of all the studies of men, nothing may be sooner
obtained, than this vicious abundance of phrase, this trick of
metaphors, this volubility of tongue, which makes so great a
noise in the world. But I spend words in vain; for the evil is
now so inveterate, that it is hard to know whom to blame, or
where to begin to reform. We all value one another so much, upon
this beautiful deceipt; and labour so long after it, in the years
of our education: that we cannot but ever after think kinder of
it, than it deserves. And indeed, in most other parts of
Learning, I look on it to be a thing almost utterly desperate in
its cure; and I think it may be placed amongst those general
mischiefs; such as the dissention of Christian Princes, the want
of practice in religion, and the like; which have been so long
spoken against, that men are become insensible about them; every
one shifting off the fault from himself to others; and so they
are only made bare common places of complaint. It will suffice my
present purpose to point out, what has been done by the Royal
Society, towards the correcting of its excesses in Natural
Philosophy; to which it is, of all others, a most present enemy.
They have therefore been most rigorous in putting in
execution, the only remedy that can be found for this
extravagance: and that has been, a constant resolution, to reject
all the amplifications, digressions, and swellings of style: to
return back to the primitive purity, and shortness, when men
delivered so many things, almost in an equal number of words.
They have exacted from all their members, a close, naked, natural
way of speaking; positive expressions; clear senses; a native
easiness: bringing all things as near the mathematical plainness,
as they can: and preferring the language of Artizans, Countrymen,
and Merchants, before that, of Wits, or Scholars.
And here, there is one thing, not to be passed by; which
will render this established custom of the Society, well nigh
everlasting; and that is, the general constitution of the minds
of the English. I have already often insisted on some of the
prerogatives of England; whereby it may justly claim, to be the
head of a Philosophical League, above all other countries in
Europe: I have urged its situation, its present genius, and the
disposition of its merchants; and many more such arguments to
incourage us, still remain to be used: But of all others, this,
which I am now alledging, is of the most weighty, and important
consideration. If there can be a true character given of the
universal temper of any nation under Heaven; then certainly this
must be ascribed to our Countrymen: that they have commonly an
unaffected sincerity; that they love to deliver their minds with
a sound simplicity; that they have the middle qualities, between
the reserved subtle southern, and the rough unhewn northern
people: that they are more concerned, what others will think of
the strength, than of the fineness of what they say: and that an
universal modesty possesses them. These qualities are so
conspicuous, and proper to our soil; that we often hear them
objected to us, by some of our neighbour satyrists, in more
disgraceful expressions. For they are wont to revile the English,
with a want of familiarity; with a melancholy dumpishness; with
slowness, silence, and with the unrefined sullenness of their
behaviour. But these are only the reproaches of partiality, or
ignorance: for they ought rather to be commended for an
honourable integrity; for a neglect of circumstances, and
flourishes; for regarding things of greater moment, more than
less; for a scorn to deceive as well as to be deceived: which are
all the best indowments, that can enter into a Philosohical Mind.
So that even the position of our climate, the air, the influence
of the heaven, the composition of the English blood; as well as
the embraces of the ocean, seem to joyn with the labours of the
Royal Society, to render our country, a land of Experimental
knowledge. And it is a good sign, that Nature will reveal more of
its secrets to the English, than to others; because it has
already furnished them with a genius so well proportioned, for
the receiving, and retaining its mysteries.
And now, to come to a close of the second part of the
Narration: the Society has reduced its principal observations,
into one common-stock; and laid them up in publique registers, to
be nakedly transmitted to the next generation of men; and so from
them, to their successors. And as their purpose was, to heap up a
mixt mass of experiments, without digesting them into any perfect
model; so to this end, they confined themselves to no order of
subjects; and whatever they have recorded, they have done it, not
as compleat schemes of opinions, but as bare unfinished
histories.
In the order of their inquisitions, they have been so free;
that they have sometimes committed themselves to be guided,
according to the seasons of the year: sometimes, according to
what any foreiner, or English Artificer, being present, has
suggested: sometimes, according to any extraordinary accident in
the nation, or any other casualty, which has hapned in their way.
By which roving, and unsettled course, there being seldom any
reference of one matter to the next; they have prevented others,
nay even their own hands, from corrupting, or contracting the
work: they have made the raising of rules, and propositions, to
be a far more difficult task, than it would have been, if their
registers had been more methodical. Nor ought this neglect of
consequence, and order, to be only thought to proceed from their
carelesness; but from a mature, and well grounded praemeditation.
For it is certain, that a too sudden striving to reduce the
Sciences, in their beginnings, into Method, and shape, and
beauty; has very much retarded their increase. And it happens to
the invention of arts, as to children in their younger years: in
whose bodies, the same applications, that serve to make them
strait, slender, and comely; are often found very mischievuos, to
their ease, their strength, and their growth.
By their fair, and equal, and submissive way of registering
nothing, but Histories, and Relations; they have left room for
others, that shall succeed, to change, to augment, to approve, to
contradict them, at their discretion. By this, they have given
Posterity a far greater power of judging them; than ever they
took over those, that went before them. By this, they have made a
firm confederacy, between their own present labours, and the
industry of future ages; which how beneficial it will prove
hereafter, we cannot better ghesse, than by recollecting, what
wonders it would in all likelyhood have produced e'ere this; if
it had been begun in the times of the Greeks, or Romans, or
Scholemen; nay even in the very last resurrection of learning.
What depth of nature, could by this time have been hid from our
view? What faculty of the soul would have been in the dark? What
part of human infirmities, not provided against? if our
predecessors, a thousand, nay, even a hundred, years ago, had
begun to add by little, and little to the store: if they would
have indeavoured to be benefactors, and not tyrants over our
reasons; if they would have communicated to us, more of their
works, and less of their wit.
This complaint, which I here take up, will appear the
juster; if we consider, that the first learned times of the
ancients and all those, that followed after them, down to this
day, would have received no prejudice at all; if their
philosophers had chiefly bestowed pains, in making Histories of
Nature, and not in forming of Sciences: perhaps indeed the names
of some particular men, who had the luck to compile those
Systemes and Epitomes which they gave us, would have been less
glorious, than they are. Though that too may be doubted: and (if
we may conclude any thing surely, upon a matter so changeable, as
Fame is) we have reason enough to believe, that these later ages
would have honoured Plato, Aristotle, Zeno, and Epicurus, as
much, if not more, than now they do; if they had only set things
in a way of propagating experiences down to us; and not imposed
their imaginations on us, as the only truths. This may be well
enough supposed; seeing it is common to all mankind, still to
esteem dearer the memories of their friends, than of those that
pretend to be their masters. [Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]
(Printed in Part 2 of Sprat's History of the Royal Society, 1667)
In prosecution of some Inquiries into the Nature of Respiration
in several Animals; A Dog was dissected, and by means of a pair
of bellows, and a certain Pipe thrust into the Wind-pipe of the
Creature, the heart continued beating for a very long while after
the Thorax and Belly had been open'd, nay after the DIAPHRAGME
had been in great part cut away, and the PERICARDIUM remov'd from
the heart. And from several tryals made, it seem'd very probable,
that this motion might have been continued, as long almost as
there was any Blood left within the vessels of the Dog; for the
motion of the Heart seem'd very little chang'd after above an
hours time from the first displaying the THORAX; though we found,
that upon removing the Bellows, the Lungs would presently grow
flaccid, and the Heart begin to have convulsive motions; but upon
removing the motion of the Bellows, the Heart recovered its
former motion, and the convulsions ceased. Though I made a
LIGATURE upon all the great Vessels that went into the lower
parts of its Body, I could not find any alteration in the pulse
of the Heart; the circulation, it seems, being perform'd some
other way. I cou'd not perceive any thing distinctly; whether the
Air did unite and mix with the Blood; nor did in the least
perceive the Heart to swell upon the extension of the Lungs: nor
did the Lungs seem to swell upon the contraction of the Heart.
[Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]
A second property of the ability of speech, conferred by
Christ upon his apostles, was its unaffected plainness and
simplicity; it was to be easy, obvious, and familiar; with
nothing in it strained or far-fetched; no affected scheme, or
airy fancies, above the reach or relish of an ordinary
apprehension. . . . For there is a certain majesty in plainness;
as the proclamation of a prince never frisks it in tropes or
fine conceits, in numerous and well-turned periods, but commands
in sober, natural expressions. . . . In a word, the apostles'
preaching was therefore mighty and successful, because plain,
natural, and familiar, and by no means above the capacity of
their hearers; nothing being more preposterous than for those who
were professedly aiming at men's hearts, to miss the mark by
shooting over their heads. [Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]
It may easily be said, that the freedom of the parliament,
and his own negative voice, being thus barbarously invaded, if
his majesty [Charles I] had, instead of passing that act, come to
the house and dissolved the parliament; or if he had withdrawn
himself from that seditious city, and put himself in the head of
his own army; much of the mischief, which hath since happened,
would have been prevented. But whoever truly considers the state
of affairs at that time; the prevalency of that faction in both
houses; the rage and fury of the people; the use that was made by
the schismatical preachers (by whom all the orthodox were
silenced) of the late protestation in their pulpits; the fears
and jealousies they had infused into the minds of many sober men,
upon the discourse of the late plot; the constitution of the
council-table, that there was not an honest man durst speak his
conscience to the king, for fear of his ruin; and that those,
whom he thought most true to him, betrayed him every hour,
insomuch as his whispers in his bedchamber were instantly
conveyed to those against whom those whispers were; so that he
had very few men to whom he could breathe his conscience and
complaint, that were not suborned against him, or averse to his
opinions; that on the other side, if some expedient were not
speedily found out, to allay that frantic rage and combination in
the people, there was reason enough to believe, their impious
hands would be lifted up against his own person, and (which he
much apprehended) against the person of his royal consort; and
lastly, that (besides the difficulty of getting thither except he
would have gone alone) he had no ground to be very confident of
his own army: I say, whoever contemplates this, will find cause
to confess, the part which the king had to act was not only harder
than any prince, but than any private gentleman, had been
incumbent to; and that it is much easier, upon the accidents and
occurrences which have since happened, to determine what was not
to have been done, than at that time to have foreseen, by what
means to have freed himself from the labyrinth in which he was
involved. [Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]
Sir ISAAC NEWTON. A Letter of Mr Isaac
Newton, Professor of the Mathematics in the University of
Cambridge, containing his New Theory about Light and Colours:
sent by the Author to the Publisher from Cambridge, Febr. 6
1671/72, in order to be communicated to the R. Society.
Sir,
To perform my late promise to you I shall without further
ceremony acquaint you that in the beginning of the year 1666 (at
which time I applyed my self to the grinding of Optick glasses of
other figures than Spherical), I procured me a Triangular
glass Prisme, to try therewith the celebrated Phaenomena of
Colours. And in order thereto having darkened my chamber, and
made a small hole in my window-shuts, to let in a convenient
quantity of the Suns light, I placed my Prisme at his entrance
that it might be thereby refracted to the opposite wall. It was
at first a very pleasing divertisement to view the vivid and
intense colours produced thereby, but after a while applying my
self to consider them more circumspectly I became surprised to
see them in an oblong form, which, according to the received laws
of Refraction, I expected should have been circular.
They were terminated at the sides with streight lines, but
at the ends the decay of light was so gradual that it was
difficult to determine justly what was their figure; yet they
seemed semicircular.
Comparing the length of this coloured spectrum with its
breadth, I found it about five times greater; a disproportion so
extravagant that it excited me to a more than ordinary curiosity
of examining from whence it might proceed. I could scarce think
that the various thickness of the glass, or the termination with
shadow or darkness, could have any Influence on light to produce
such an effect; yet I thought it not amiss first to examine those
circumstances, and so tryed what would happen by transmitting
light through parts of the glass of divers thicknesses, or
through holes in the window of divers bignesses, or by setting
the Prisme without, so that the light might pass through it and
be refracted before it was terminated by the hole. But I found
none of those circumstances material. The fashion of the colours
was in all these cases the same. [Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]
In this plight therefore he went home, and restrained himself as
long as he could, that his wife and children should not perceive
his distress; but he could not be silent long, because that his
trouble increased: wherefore at length he brake his mind to his
wife and children; and thus he began to talk to them: "O my dear
wife," said he, "and you the children of my bowels, I your dear
father am in myself undone, by reason of a burden that lieth hard
upon me: moreover, I am for certain informed that this our city
will be burned with fire from heaven, in which fearful overthrow,
both myself, with thee, my wife, and you my sweet babes, shall
miserably come to ruin; except (the which yet I see not) some way
of escape can be found, whereby we may be delivered." At this his
relations were sore amazed; not for that they believed that what
he said to them was true, but because they thought that some
frenzy distemper had got into his head; therefore, it drawing
towards night, and they hoping that sleep might settle his
brains, with all haste they got him to bed; but the night was as
troublesome to him as the day; wherefore instead of sleeping, he
spent it in sighs and tears. So when the morning was come, they
would know how he did and he told them worse and worse. He also
set to talking to them again, but they began to be hardened; they
also thought to drive away his distemper by harsh and surly
carriages to him: sometimes they would deride, sometimes they
would chide, and sometimes they would quite neglect him:
wherefore he began to retire himself to his chamber to pray for,
and pity them; and also to condole his own misery: he would also
walk solitarily in the fields, sometimes reading, and sometimes
praying: and thus for some days he spent his time.
[Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]
[Life of] John Colet
John Colet, D.D., Deane of St Paule's, London. After the
conflagration (his monument being broken) somebody made a little
hole towards the upper edge of his Coffin, which was closed like
the coffin of a pye and was full of a liquor which conserved the
body. Mr Wyld and Ralph Greatorex tasted it and 'twas of a kind
of insipid tast, something of an Ironish tast. The coffin was of
lead, and layd in the wall about 2 foot 1/2 above the surface of
the floore.
This was a strange rare way of conserving a corps: perhaps
it was a pickle, as for beefe, whose saltness in so many years
the lead might sweeten and render insipid. The body felt, to the
probe of a stick which they thrust into a chinke, like boyld
brawne. [Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]
After the total defeat of Jamoan's army, which all fled, or
were left dead upon the place, they spent some time in the camp;
Oroonoko chusing rather to remain awhile there in his tents, than
to enter into a palace, or live in a court where he had so lately
suffer'd so great a loss. The officers therefore, who saw and
knew his cause of discontent, invented all sorts of diversions
and sports to entertain their prince: so that what with those
amusements abroad, and others at home, that is, within their
tents, with the persuasions, arguments, and care of his friends
and servants that he more peculairly priz's, he wore off in time
a great part of that chagreen, and torture of despair, which the
first effects of Imoinda's death had given him; insomuch as
having received a thousand kind embassies from the king, and
invitation to return to court, he obey'd, tho with no little
reluctancy: and when he did so, there was a visible change in
him, and for a long time he was much more melancholy than before.
But time lessens all extremes, and reduces 'em to mediums, and
unconcern: but no motives of beauty, tho all endeavour'd it,
cou'd engage him in any sort of amour, though he had all the
invitations to it, both from his own youth, and others ambitions
and designs.
[Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]
1. There is no object that we see; no action that we doe; no good
that we injoy; no evill that we feele, or fear, but we may make
some spirituall advantage of all: and he that makes such
improvement is wise, as well as pious.
5. It is reported of the peakcock that, prideing himself in his
gay feathers, he ruffles them up; but, spying his black feet, he
soon lets fall his plumes, so he that glorys in his gifts and
adornings, should look upon his corruptions, and that will damp
his high thoughts.
10. Diverse children have their different natures; some are like
flesh which nothing but salt will keep from putrefaction; some
again like tender fruits that are best preserved with sugar:
those parents are wise that can fit their nurture according to
their Nature.
15. A low man can goe upright under that door, where a taller is
glad to stoop; so a man of weak faith and mean abilities, may
undergo a crosse more patiently then he that excelleth him, both
in gifts and graces.
19. Corne, till it have past through the Mill and been ground to
powder, is not fit for bread. God so deales with his servants; he
grindes them with grief and pain till they turn to dust, and then
are they fit manchet for his Mansion. [manchet: fine white
bread]
23. the skillfull fisher hath his severall baits for severall
fish, but there is a hooke under all; Satan, that great Angler,
hath his sundry baits for sundry tempers of men, which they all
catch gredily at, but few perceives the hook till it be to late.
30. Yellow leaves argue want of sap, and gray haires want of
moisture; so dry and saplesse performances are simptoms of little
spiritall vigor. [Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]
THE EIGHTEENTH REMOVE: We took up our packs and along we went,
but a wearisome day I had of it. As we went along I saw an
Englishman stript naked, and lying dead upon the ground, but knew
not who it was. Then we came to another Indian town, where we
stayed all night. In this town there were four English children,
captives, and one of them my sister's. I went to see how she did,
and she was well, considering her captive-condition. I would have
tarried that night with her, but they that owned her would not
suffer it. Then I went into another wigwam, where they were
boyling corn and beans, which was a lovely sight to see, but I
could not get a taste thereof. Then I went to another wigwam,
where there were two of the English children. The squaw was
boyling horse's feet; then she cut me off a little piece, and
gave one of the English children a piece also. Being very hungry
I had quickly eaten up mine, but the child could not bite it, it
was so tough and sinewy, but lay sucking, gnawing, chewing and
slabbering of it in the mouth and hand. Then I took it of the
child and ate it my self, and savory it was to my taste. Then I
may as Job, Chapter 6:7, "The things that my soul refuseth to
touch, are as my sorrowfull meat." Thus the Lord made that
pleasant and refreshing, which another time would have been an
abomination. Then I went home to my mistress wigwam, and they
told me I disgraced my master with begging, and if I did so any
more, they would knock me in the head. I told them they had as
good knock me in the head as starve me to death.
[Transcription by John F. Tinkler.]