Swift - Battle of the Books, and Others
Now whoever will please to take this scheme, and either reduce or adapt
it to an intellectual state or commonwealth of learning, will soon
discover the first ground of disagreement between the two great parties
at this time in arms, and may form just conclusions upon the merits of
either cause. But the issue or events of this war are not so easy to
conjecture at; for the present quarrel is so inflamed by the warm heads
of either faction, and the pretensions somewhere or other so exorbitant,
as not to admit the least overtures of accommodation. This quarrel first
began, as I have heard it affirmed by an old dweller in the
neighbourhood, about a small spot of ground, lying and being upon one of
the two tops of the hill Parnassus; the highest and largest of which had,
it seems, been time out of mind in quiet possession of certain tenants,
called the Ancients; and the other was held by the Moderns. But these
disliking their present station, sent certain ambassadors to the
Ancients, complaining of a great nuisance; how the height of that part of
Parnassus quite spoiled the prospect of theirs, especially towards the
east; and therefore, to avoid a war, offered them the choice of this
alternative, either that the Ancients would please to remove themselves
and their effects down to the lower summit, which the Moderns would
graciously surrender to them, and advance into their place; or else the
said Ancients will give leave to the Moderns to come with shovels and
mattocks, and level the said hill as low as they shall think it
convenient. To which the Ancients made answer, how little they expected
such a message as this from a colony whom they had admitted, out of their
own free grace, to so near a neighbourhood. That, as to their own seat,
they were aborigines of it, and therefore to talk with them of a removal
or surrender was a language they did not understand. That if the height
of the hill on their side shortened the prospect of the Moderns, it was a
disadvantage they could not help; but desired them to consider whether
that injury (if it be any) were not largely recompensed by the shade and
shelter it afforded them. That as to the levelling or digging down, it
was either folly or ignorance to propose it if they did or did not know
how that side of the hill was an entire rock, which would break their
tools and hearts, without any damage to itself. That they would
therefore advise the Moderns rather to raise their own side of the hill
than dream of pulling down that of the Ancients; to the former of which
they would not only give licence, but also largely contribute. All this
was rejected by the Moderns with much indignation, who still insisted
upon one of the two expedients; and so this difference broke out into a
long and obstinate war, maintained on the one part by resolution, and by
the courage of certain leaders and allies; but, on the other, by the
greatness of their number, upon all defeats affording continual recruits.
In this quarrel whole rivulets of ink have been exhausted, and the
virulence of both parties enormously augmented. Now, it must be here
understood, that ink is the great missive weapon in all battles of the
learned, which, conveyed through a sort of engine called a quill,
infinite numbers of these are darted at the enemy by the valiant on each
side, with equal skill and violence, as if it were an engagement of
porcupines. This malignant liquor was compounded, by the engineer who
invented it, of two ingredients, which are, gall and copperas; by its
bitterness and venom to suit, in some degree, as well as to foment, the
genius of the combatants. And as the Grecians, after an engagement, when
they could not agree about the victory, were wont to set up trophies on
both sides, the beaten party being content to be at the same expense, to
keep itself in countenance (a laudable and ancient custom, happily
revived of late in the art of war), so the learned, after a sharp and
bloody dispute, do, on both sides, hang out their trophies too, whichever
comes by the worst. These trophies have largely inscribed on them the
merits of the cause; a full impartial account of such a Battle, and how
the victory fell clearly to the party that set them up. They are known
to the world under several names; as disputes, arguments, rejoinders,
brief considerations, answers, replies, remarks, reflections, objections,
confutations. For a very few days they are fixed up all in public
places, either by themselves or their representatives, for passengers to
gaze at; whence the chiefest and largest are removed to certain magazines
they call libraries, there to remain in a quarter purposely assigned
them, and thenceforth begin to be called books of controversy.
In these books is wonderfully instilled and preserved the spirit of each
warrior while he is alive; and after his death his soul transmigrates
thither to inform them. This, at least, is the more common opinion; but
I believe it is with libraries as with other cemeteries, where some
philosophers affirm that a certain spirit, which they call _brutum
hominis_, hovers over the monument, till the body is corrupted and turns
to dust or to worms, but then vanishes or dissolves; so, we may say, a
restless spirit haunts over every book, till dust or worms have seized
upon it--which to some may happen in a few days, but to others later--and
therefore, books of controversy being, of all others, haunted by the most
disorderly spirits, have always been confined in a separate lodge from
the rest, and for fear of a mutual violence against each other, it was
thought prudent by our ancestors to bind them to the peace with strong
iron chains. Of which invention the original occasion was this: When the
works of Scotus first came out, they were carried to a certain library,
and had lodgings appointed them; but this author was no sooner settled
than he went to visit his master Aristotle, and there both concerted
together to seize Plato by main force, and turn him out from his ancient
station among the divines, where he had peaceably dwelt near eight
hundred years. The attempt succeeded, and the two usurpers have reigned
ever since in his stead; but, to maintain quiet for the future, it was
decreed that all polemics of the larger size should be hold fast with a
chain.
By this expedient, the public peace of libraries might certainly have
been preserved if a new species of controversial books had not arisen of
late years, instinct with a more malignant spirit, from the war above
mentioned between the learned about the higher summit of Parnassus.
When these books were first admitted into the public libraries, I
remember to have said, upon occasion, to several persons concerned, how I
was sure they would create broils wherever they came, unless a world of
care were taken; and therefore I advised that the champions of each side
should be coupled together, or otherwise mixed, that, like the blending
of contrary poisons, their malignity might be employed among themselves.
And it seems I was neither an ill prophet nor an ill counsellor; for it
was nothing else but the neglect of this caution which gave occasion to
the terrible fight that happened on Friday last between the Ancient and
Modern Books in the King's library. Now, because the talk of this battle
is so fresh in everybody's mouth, and the expectation of the town so
great to be informed in the particulars, I, being possessed of all
qualifications requisite in an historian, and retained by neither party,
have resolved to comply with the urgent importunity of my friends, by
writing down a full impartial account thereof.
The guardian of the regal library, a person of great valour, but chiefly
renowned for his humanity, had been a fierce champion for the Moderns,
and, in an engagement upon Parnassus, had vowed with his own hands to
knock down two of the ancient chiefs who guarded a small pass on the
superior rock, but, endeavouring to climb up, was cruelly obstructed by
his own unhappy weight and tendency towards his centre, a quality to
which those of the Modern party are extremely subject; for, being light-
headed, they have, in speculation, a wonderful agility, and conceive
nothing too high for them to mount, but, in reducing to practice,
discover a mighty pressure about their posteriors and their heels. Having
thus failed in his design, the disappointed champion bore a cruel rancour
to the Ancients, which he resolved to gratify by showing all marks of his
favour to the books of their adversaries, and lodging them in the fairest
apartments; when, at the same time, whatever book had the boldness to own
itself for an advocate of the Ancients was buried alive in some obscure
corner, and threatened, upon the least displeasure, to be turned out of
doors. Besides, it so happened that about this time there was a strange
confusion of place among all the books in the library, for which several
reasons were assigned. Some imputed it to a great heap of learned dust,
which a perverse wind blew off from a shelf of Moderns into the keeper's
eyes. Others affirmed he had a humour to pick the worms out of the
schoolmen, and swallow them fresh and fasting, whereof some fell upon his
spleen, and some climbed up into his head, to the great perturbation of
both. And lastly, others maintained that, by walking much in the dark
about the library, he had quite lost the situation of it out of his head;
and therefore, in replacing his books, he was apt to mistake and clap
Descartes next to Aristotle, poor Plato had got between Hobbes and the
Seven Wise Masters, and Virgil was hemmed in with Dryden on one side and
Wither on the other.
Meanwhile, those books that were advocates for the Moderns, chose out one
from among them to make a progress through the whole library, examine the
number and strength of their party, and concert their affairs. This
messenger performed all things very industriously, and brought back with
him a list of their forces, in all, fifty thousand, consisting chiefly of
light-horse, heavy-armed foot, and mercenaries; whereof the foot were in
general but sorrily armed and worse clad; their horses large, but
extremely out of case and heart; however, some few, by trading among the
Ancients, had furnished themselves tolerably enough.
While things were in this ferment, discord grew extremely high; hot words
passed on both sides, and ill blood was plentifully bred. Here a
solitary Ancient, squeezed up among a whole shelf of Moderns, offered
fairly to dispute the case, and to prove by manifest reason that the
priority was due to them from long possession, and in regard of their
prudence, antiquity, and, above all, their great merits toward the
Moderns. But these denied the premises, and seemed very much to wonder
how the Ancients could pretend to insist upon their antiquity, when it
was so plain (if they went to that) that the Moderns were much the more
ancient of the two. As for any obligations they owed to the Ancients,
they renounced them all. "It is true," said they, "we are informed some
few of our party have been so mean as to borrow their subsistence from
you, but the rest, infinitely the greater number (and especially we
French and English), were so far from stooping to so base an example,
that there never passed, till this very hour, six words between us. For
our horses were of our own breeding, our arms of our own forging, and our
clothes of our own cutting out and sewing. " Plato was by chance up on
the next shelf, and observing those that spoke to be in the ragged plight
mentioned a while ago, their jades lean and foundered, their weapons of
rotten wood, their armour rusty, and nothing but rags underneath, he
laughed loud, and in his pleasant way swore, by ---, he believed them.
Now, the Moderns had not proceeded in their late negotiation with secrecy
enough to escape the notice of the enemy. For those advocates who had
begun the quarrel, by setting first on foot the dispute of precedency,
talked so loud of coming to a battle, that Sir William Temple happened to
overhear them, and gave immediate intelligence to the Ancients, who
thereupon drew up their scattered troops together, resolving to act upon
the defensive; upon which, several of the Moderns fled over to their
party, and among the rest Temple himself. This Temple, having been
educated and long conversed among the Ancients, was, of all the Moderns,
their greatest favourite, and became their greatest champion.
Things were at this crisis when a material accident fell out. For upon
the highest corner of a large window, there dwelt a certain spider,
swollen up to the first magnitude by the destruction of infinite numbers
of flies, whose spoils lay scattered before the gates of his palace, like
human bones before the cave of some giant. The avenues to his castle
were guarded with turnpikes and palisadoes, all after the modern way of
fortification. After you had passed several courts you came to the
centre, wherein you might behold the constable himself in his own
lodgings, which had windows fronting to each avenue, and ports to sally
out upon all occasions of prey or defence. In this mansion he had for
some time dwelt in peace and plenty, without danger to his person by
swallows from above, or to his palace by brooms from below; when it was
the pleasure of fortune to conduct thither a wandering bee, to whose
curiosity a broken pane in the glass had discovered itself, and in he
went, where, expatiating a while, he at last happened to alight upon one
of the outward walls of the spider's citadel; which, yielding to the
unequal weight, sunk down to the very foundation. Thrice he endeavoured
to force his passage, and thrice the centre shook. The spider within,
feeling the terrible convulsion, supposed at first that nature was
approaching to her final dissolution, or else that Beelzebub, with all
his legions, was come to revenge the death of many thousands of his
subjects whom his enemy had slain and devoured. However, he at length
valiantly resolved to issue forth and meet his fate. Meanwhile the bee
had acquitted himself of his toils, and, posted securely at some
distance, was employed in cleansing his wings, and disengaging them from
the ragged remnants of the cobweb. By this time the spider was
adventured out, when, beholding the chasms, the ruins, and dilapidations
of his fortress, he was very near at his wit's end; he stormed and swore
like a madman, and swelled till he was ready to burst. At length,
casting his eye upon the bee, and wisely gathering causes from events
(for they know each other by sight), "A plague split you," said he; "is
it you, with a vengeance, that have made this litter here; could not you
look before you, and be d---d? Do you think I have nothing else to do
(in the devil's name) but to mend and repair after you? " "Good words,
friend," said the bee, having now pruned himself, and being disposed to
droll; "I'll give you my hand and word to come near your kennel no more;
I was never in such a confounded pickle since I was born. " "Sirrah,"
replied the spider, "if it were not for breaking an old custom in our
family, never to stir abroad against an enemy, I should come and teach
you better manners. " "I pray have patience," said the bee, "or you'll
spend your substance, and, for aught I see, you may stand in need of it
all, towards the repair of your house. " "Rogue, rogue," replied the
spider, "yet methinks you should have more respect to a person whom all
the world allows to be so much your betters. " "By my troth," said the
bee, "the comparison will amount to a very good jest, and you will do me
a favour to let me know the reasons that all the world is pleased to use
in so hopeful a dispute. " At this the spider, having swelled himself
into the size and posture of a disputant, began his argument in the true
spirit of controversy, with resolution to be heartily scurrilous and
angry, to urge on his own reasons without the least regard to the answers
or objections of his opposite, and fully predetermined in his mind
against all conviction.
"Not to disparage myself," said he, "by the comparison with such a
rascal, what art thou but a vagabond without house or home, without stock
or inheritance? born to no possession of your own, but a pair of wings
and a drone-pipe. Your livelihood is a universal plunder upon nature; a
freebooter over fields and gardens; and, for the sake of stealing, will
rob a nettle as easily as a violet. Whereas I am a domestic animal,
furnished with a native stock within myself. This large castle (to show
my improvements in the mathematics) is all built with my own hands, and
the materials extracted altogether out of my own person. "
"I am glad," answered the bee, "to hear you grant at least that I am come
honestly by my wings and my voice; for then, it seems, I am obliged to
Heaven alone for my flights and my music; and Providence would never have
bestowed on me two such gifts without designing them for the noblest
ends. I visit, indeed, all the flowers and blossoms of the field and
garden, but whatever I collect thence enriches myself without the least
injury to their beauty, their smell, or their taste. Now, for you and
your skill in architecture and other mathematics, I have little to say:
in that building of yours there might, for aught I know, have been labour
and method enough; but, by woeful experience for us both, it is too plain
the materials are naught; and I hope you will henceforth take warning,
and consider duration and matter, as well as method and art. You boast,
indeed, of being obliged to no other creature, but of drawing and
spinning out all from yourself; that is to say, if we may judge of the
liquor in the vessel by what issues out, you possess a good plentiful
store of dirt and poison in your breast; and, though I would by no means
lesson or disparage your genuine stock of either, yet I doubt you are
somewhat obliged, for an increase of both, to a little foreign
assistance. Your inherent portion of dirt does not fall of acquisitions,
by sweepings exhaled from below; and one insect furnishes you with a
share of poison to destroy another. So that, in short, the question
comes all to this: whether is the nobler being of the two, that which, by
a lazy contemplation of four inches round, by an overweening pride,
feeding, and engendering on itself, turns all into excrement and venom,
producing nothing at all but flybane and a cobweb; or that which, by a
universal range, with long search, much study, true judgment, and
distinction of things, brings home honey and wax. "
This dispute was managed with such eagerness, clamour, and warmth, that
the two parties of books, in arms below, stood silent a while, waiting in
suspense what would be the issue; which was not long undetermined: for
the bee, grown impatient at so much loss of time, fled straight away to a
bed of roses, without looking for a reply, and left the spider, like an
orator, collected in himself, and just prepared to burst out.
It happened upon this emergency that AEsop broke silence first. He had
been of late most barbarously treated by a strange effect of the regent's
humanity, who had torn off his title-page, sorely defaced one half of his
leaves, and chained him fast among a shelf of Moderns. Where, soon
discovering how high the quarrel was likely to proceed, he tried all his
arts, and turned himself to a thousand forms. At length, in the borrowed
shape of an ass, the regent mistook him for a Modern; by which means he
had time and opportunity to escape to the Ancients, just when the spider
and the bee were entering into their contest; to which he gave his
attention with a world of pleasure, and, when it was ended, swore in the
loudest key that in all his life he had never known two cases, so
parallel and adapt to each other as that in the window and this upon the
shelves. "The disputants," said he, "have admirably managed the dispute
between them, have taken in the full strength of all that is to be said
on both sides, and exhausted the substance of every argument _pro_ and
_con_. It is but to adjust the reasonings of both to the present
quarrel, then to compare and apply the labours and fruits of each, as the
bee has learnedly deduced them, and we shall find the conclusion fall
plain and close upon the Moderns and us. For pray, gentlemen, was ever
anything so modern as the spider in his air, his turns, and his
paradoxes? he argues in the behalf of you, his brethren, and himself,
with many boastings of his native stock and great genius; that he spins
and spits wholly from himself, and scorns to own any obligation or
assistance from without. Then he displays to you his great skill in
architecture and improvement in the mathematics. To all this the bee, as
an advocate retained by us, the Ancients, thinks fit to answer, that, if
one may judge of the great genius or inventions of the Moderns by what
they have produced, you will hardly have countenance to bear you out in
boasting of either. Erect your schemes with as much method and skill as
you please; yet, if the materials be nothing but dirt, spun out of your
own entrails (the guts of modern brains), the edifice will conclude at
last in a cobweb; the duration of which, like that of other spiders'
webs, may be imputed to their being forgotten, or neglected, or hid in a
corner. For anything else of genuine that the Moderns may pretend to, I
cannot recollect; unless it be a large vein of wrangling and satire, much
of a nature and substance with the spiders' poison; which, however they
pretend to spit wholly out of themselves, is improved by the same arts,
by feeding upon the insects and vermin of the age. As for us, the
Ancients, we are content with the bee, to pretend to nothing of our own
beyond our wings and our voice: that is to say, our flights and our
language. For the rest, whatever we have got has been by infinite labour
and search, and ranging through every corner of nature; the difference
is, that, instead of dirt and poison, we have rather chosen to till our
hives with honey and wax; thus furnishing mankind with the two noblest of
things, which are sweetness and light. "
It is wonderful to conceive the tumult arisen among the books upon the
close of this long descant of AEsop: both parties took the hint, and
heightened their animosities so on a sudden, that they resolved it should
come to a battle. Immediately the two main bodies withdrew, under their
several ensigns, to the farther parts of the library, and there entered
into cabals and consults upon the present emergency. The Moderns were in
very warm debates upon the choice of their leaders; and nothing less than
the fear impending from their enemies could have kept them from mutinies
upon this occasion. The difference was greatest among the horse, where
every private trooper pretended to the chief command, from Tasso and
Milton to Dryden and Wither. The light-horse were commanded by Cowley
and Despreaux. There came the bowmen under their valiant leaders,
Descartes, Gassendi, and Hobbes; whose strength was such that they could
shoot their arrows beyond the atmosphere, never to fall down again, but
turn, like that of Evander, into meteors; or, like the cannon-ball, into
stars. Paracelsus brought a squadron of stinkpot-flingers from the snowy
mountains of Rhaetia. There came a vast body of dragoons, of different
nations, under the leading of Harvey, their great aga: part armed with
scythes, the weapons of death; part with lances and long knives, all
steeped in poison; part shot bullets of a most malignant nature, and used
white powder, which infallibly killed without report. There came several
bodies of heavy-armed foot, all mercenaries, under the ensigns of
Guicciardini, Davila, Polydore Vergil, Buchanan, Mariana, Camden, and
others. The engineers were commanded by Regiomontanus and Wilkins. The
rest was a confused multitude, led by Scotus, Aquinas, and Bellarmine; of
mighty bulk and stature, but without either arms, courage, or discipline.
In the last place came infinite swarms of calones, a disorderly rout led
by L'Estrange; rogues and ragamuffins, that follow the camp for nothing
but the plunder, all without coats to cover them.
The army of the Ancients was much fewer in number; Homer led the horse,
and Pindar the light-horse; Euclid was chief engineer; Plato and
Aristotle commanded the bowmen; Herodotus and Livy the foot; Hippocrates,
the dragoons; the allies, led by Vossius and Temple, brought up the rear.
All things violently tending to a decisive battle, Fame, who much
frequented, and had a large apartment formerly assigned her in the regal
library, fled up straight to Jupiter, to whom she delivered a faithful
account of all that passed between the two parties below; for among the
gods she always tells truth. Jove, in great concern, convokes a council
in the Milky Way. The senate assembled, he declares the occasion of
convening them; a bloody battle just impendent between two mighty armies
of ancient and modern creatures, called books, wherein the celestial
interest was but too deeply concerned. Momus, the patron of the Moderns,
made an excellent speech in their favour, which was answered by Pallas,
the protectress of the Ancients. The assembly was divided in their
affections; when Jupiter commanded the Book of Fate to be laid before
him. Immediately were brought by Mercury three large volumes in folio,
containing memoirs of all things past, present, and to come. The clasps
were of silver double gilt, the covers of celestial turkey leather, and
the paper such as here on earth might pass almost for vellum. Jupiter,
having silently read the decree, would communicate the import to none,
but presently shut up the book.
Without the doors of this assembly there attended a vast number of light,
nimble gods, menial servants to Jupiter: those are his ministering
instruments in all affairs below. They travel in a caravan, more or less
together, and are fastened to each other like a link of galley-slaves, by
a light chain, which passes from them to Jupiter's great toe: and yet, in
receiving or delivering a message, they may never approach above the
lowest step of his throne, where he and they whisper to each other
through a large hollow trunk. These deities are called by mortal men
accidents or events; but the gods call them second causes. Jupiter
having delivered his message to a certain number of these divinities,
they flew immediately down to the pinnacle of the regal library, and
consulting a few minutes, entered unseen, and disposed the parties
according to their orders.
Meanwhile Momus, fearing the worst, and calling to mind an ancient
prophecy which bore no very good face to his children the Moderns, bent
his flight to the region of a malignant deity called Criticism. She
dwelt on the top of a snowy mountain in Nova Zembla; there Momus found
her extended in her den, upon the spoils of numberless volumes, half
devoured. At her right hand sat Ignorance, her father and husband, blind
with age; at her left, Pride, her mother, dressing her up in the scraps
of paper herself had torn. There was Opinion, her sister, light of foot,
hood-winked, and head-strong, yet giddy and perpetually turning. About
her played her children, Noise and Impudence, Dulness and Vanity,
Positiveness, Pedantry, and Ill-manners. The goddess herself had claws
like a cat; her head, and ears, and voice resembled those of an ass; her
teeth fallen out before, her eyes turned inward, as if she looked only
upon herself; her diet was the overflowing of her own gall; her spleen
was so large as to stand prominent, like a dug of the first rate; nor
wanted excrescences in form of teats, at which a crew of ugly monsters
were greedily sucking; and, what is wonderful to conceive, the bulk of
spleen increased faster than the sucking could diminish it. "Goddess,"
said Momus, "can you sit idly here while our devout worshippers, the
Moderns, are this minute entering into a cruel battle, and perhaps now
lying under the swords of their enemies? who then hereafter will ever
sacrifice or build altars to our divinities? Haste, therefore, to the
British Isle, and, if possible, prevent their destruction; while I make
factions among the gods, and gain them over to our party. "
Momus, having thus delivered himself, stayed not for an answer, but left
the goddess to her own resentment. Up she rose in a rage, and, as it is
the form on such occasions, began a soliloquy: "It is I" (said she) "who
give wisdom to infants and idiots; by me children grow wiser than their
parents, by me beaux become politicians, and schoolboys judges of
philosophy; by me sophisters debate and conclude upon the depths of
knowledge; and coffee-house wits, instinct by me, can correct an author's
style, and display his minutest errors, without understanding a syllable
of his matter or his language; by me striplings spend their judgment, as
they do their estate, before it comes into their hands. It is I who have
deposed wit and knowledge from their empire over poetry, and advanced
myself in their stead. And shall a few upstart Ancients dare to oppose
me? But come, my aged parent, and you, my children dear, and thou, my
beauteous sister; let us ascend my chariot, and haste to assist our
devout Moderns, who are now sacrificing to us a hecatomb, as I perceive
by that grateful smell which from thence reaches my nostrils. "
The goddess and her train, having mounted the chariot, which was drawn by
tame geese, flew over infinite regions, shedding her influence in due
places, till at length she arrived at her beloved island of Britain; but
in hovering over its metropolis, what blessings did she not let fall upon
her seminaries of Gresham and Covent-garden! And now she reached the
fatal plain of St. James's library, at what time the two armies were upon
the point to engage; where, entering with all her caravan unseen, and
landing upon a case of shelves, now desert, but once inhabited by a
colony of virtuosos, she stayed awhile to observe the posture of both
armies.
But here the tender cares of a mother began to fill her thoughts and move
in her breast: for at the head of a troup of Modern bowmen she cast her
eyes upon her son Wotton, to whom the fates had assigned a very short
thread. Wotton, a young hero, whom an unknown father of mortal race
begot by stolen embraces with this goddess. He was the darling of his
mother above all her children, and she resolved to go and comfort him.
But first, according to the good old custom of deities, she cast about to
change her shape, for fear the divinity of her countenance might dazzle
his mortal sight and overcharge the rest of his senses. She therefore
gathered up her person into an octavo compass: her body grow white and
arid, and split in pieces with dryness; the thick turned into pasteboard,
and the thin into paper; upon which her parents and children artfully
strewed a black juice, or decoction of gall and soot, in form of letters:
her head, and voice, and spleen, kept their primitive form; and that
which before was a cover of skin did still continue so. In this guise
she marched on towards the Moderns, indistinguishable in shape and dress
from the divine Bentley, Wotton's dearest friend. "Brave Wotton," said
the goddess, "why do our troops stand idle here, to spend their present
vigour and opportunity of the day? away, let us haste to the generals,
and advise to give the onset immediately. " Having spoke thus, she took
the ugliest of her monsters, full glutted from her spleen, and flung it
invisibly into his mouth, which, flying straight up into his head,
squeezed out his eye-balls, gave him a distorted look, and
half-overturned his brain. Then she privately ordered two of her beloved
children, Dulness and Ill-manners, closely to attend his person in all
encounters. Having thus accoutred him, she vanished in a mist, and the
hero perceived it was the goddess his mother.
The destined hour of fate being now arrived, the fight began; whereof,
before I dare adventure to make a particular description, I must, after
the example of other authors, petition for a hundred tongues, and mouths,
and hands, and pens, which would all be too little to perform so immense
a work. Say, goddess, that presidest over history, who it was that first
advanced in the field of battle! Paracelsus, at the head of his
dragoons, observing Galen in the adverse wing, darted his javelin with a
mighty force, which the brave Ancient received upon his shield, the point
breaking in the second fold . . . _Hic pauca_
_. . . . desunt_
They bore the wounded aga on their shields to his
chariot . . .
_Desunt_ . . .
_nonnulla_. . . .
Then Aristotle, observing Bacon advance with a furious mien, drew his bow
to the head, and let fly his arrow, which missed the valiant Modern and
went whizzing over his head; but Descartes it hit; the steel point
quickly found a defect in his head-piece; it pierced the leather and the
pasteboard, and went in at his right eye. The torture of the pain
whirled the valiant bow-man round till death, like a star of superior
influence, drew him into his own vortex _Ingens hiatus_ . . . .
_hic in MS. _ . . . .
. . . . when Homer appeared at the head of the cavalry, mounted on a
furious horse, with difficulty managed by the rider himself, but which no
other mortal durst approach; he rode among the enemy's ranks, and bore
down all before him. Say, goddess, whom he slew first and whom he slew
last! First, Gondibert advanced against him, clad in heavy armour and
mounted on a staid sober gelding, not so famed for his speed as his
docility in kneeling whenever his rider would mount or alight. He had
made a vow to Pallas that he would never leave the field till he had
spoiled Homer of his armour: madman, who had never once seen the wearer,
nor understood his strength! Him Homer overthrew, horse and man, to the
ground, there to be trampled and choked in the dirt. Then with a long
spear he slew Denham, a stout Modern, who from his father's side derived
his lineage from Apollo, but his mother was of mortal race. He fell, and
bit the earth. The celestial part Apollo took, and made it a star; but
the terrestrial lay wallowing upon the ground. Then Homer slew Sam
Wesley with a kick of his horse's heel; he took Perrault by mighty force
out of his saddle, then hurled him at Fontenelle, with the same blow
dashing out both their brains.
On the left wing of the horse Virgil appeared, in shining armour,
completely fitted to his body; he was mounted on a dapple-grey steed, the
slowness of whose pace was an effect of the highest mettle and vigour. He
cast his eye on the adverse wing, with a desire to find an object worthy
of his valour, when behold upon a sorrel gelding of a monstrous size
appeared a foe, issuing from among the thickest of the enemy's squadrons;
but his speed was less than his noise; for his horse, old and lean, spent
the dregs of his strength in a high trot, which, though it made slow
advances, yet caused a loud clashing of his armour, terrible to hear. The
two cavaliers had now approached within the throw of a lance, when the
stranger desired a parley, and, lifting up the visor of his helmet, a
face hardly appeared from within which, after a pause, was known for that
of the renowned Dryden. The brave Ancient suddenly started, as one
possessed with surprise and disappointment together; for the helmet was
nine times too large for the head, which appeared situate far in the
hinder part, even like the lady in a lobster, or like a mouse under a
canopy of state, or like a shrivelled beau from within the penthouse of a
modern periwig; and the voice was suited to the visage, sounding weak and
remote. Dryden, in a long harangue, soothed up the good Ancient; called
him father, and, by a large deduction of genealogies, made it plainly
appear that they were nearly related. Then he humbly proposed an
exchange of armour, as a lasting mark of hospitality between them. Virgil
consented (for the goddess Diffidence came unseen, and cast a mist before
his eyes), though his was of gold and cost a hundred beeves, the other's
but of rusty iron. However, this glittering armour became the Modern yet
worsen than his own. Then they agreed to exchange horses; but, when it
came to the trial, Dryden was afraid and utterly unable to mount. . .
_Alter hiatus_
. . . . _in MS. _
Lucan appeared upon a fiery horse of admirable shape, but headstrong,
bearing the rider where he list over the field; he made a mighty
slaughter among the enemy's horse; which destruction to stop, Blackmore,
a famous Modern (but one of the mercenaries), strenuously opposed
himself, and darted his javelin with a strong hand, which, falling short
of its mark, struck deep in the earth. Then Lucan threw a lance; but
AEsculapius came unseen and turned off the point.
"Brave Modern," said
Lucan, "I perceive some god protects you, for never did my arm so deceive
me before: but what mortal can contend with a god? Therefore, let us
fight no longer, but present gifts to each other. " Lucan then bestowed
on the Modern a pair of spurs, and Blackmore gave Lucan a bridle. . . .
_Pauca desunt_. . . .
. . . .
Creech: but the goddess Dulness took a cloud, formed into the shape of
Horace, armed and mounted, and placed in a flying posture before him.
Glad was the cavalier to begin a combat with a flying foe, and pursued
the image, threatening aloud; till at last it led him to the peaceful
bower of his father, Ogleby, by whom he was disarmed and assigned to his
repose.
Then Pindar slew ---, and --- and Oldham, and ---, and Afra the Amazon,
light of foot; never advancing in a direct line, but wheeling with
incredible agility and force, he made a terrible slaughter among the
enemy's light-horse. Him when Cowley observed, his generous heart burnt
within him, and he advanced against the fierce Ancient, imitating his
address, his pace, and career, as well as the vigour of his horse and his
own skill would allow. When the two cavaliers had approached within the
length of three javelins, first Cowley threw a lance, which missed
Pindar, and, passing into the enemy's ranks, fell ineffectual to the
ground. Then Pindar darted a javelin so large and weighty, that scarce a
dozen Cavaliers, as cavaliers are in our degenerate days, could raise it
from the ground; yet he threw it with ease, and it went, by an unerring
hand, singing through the air; nor could the Modern have avoided present
death if he had not luckily opposed the shield that had been given him by
Venus. And now both heroes drew their swords; but the Modern was so
aghast and disordered that he knew not where he was; his shield dropped
from his hands; thrice he fled, and thrice he could not escape. At last
he turned, and lifting up his hand in the posture of a suppliant,
"Godlike Pindar," said he, "spare my life, and possess my horse, with
these arms, beside the ransom which my friends will give when they hear I
am alive and your prisoner. " "Dog! " said Pindar, "let your ransom stay
with your friends; but your carcase shall be left for the fowls of the
air and the beasts of the field. " With that he raised his sword, and,
with a mighty stroke, cleft the wretched Modern in twain, the sword
pursuing the blow; and one half lay panting on the ground, to be trod in
pieces by the horses' feet; the other half was borne by the frighted
steed through the field. This Venus took, washed it seven times in
ambrosia, then struck it thrice with a sprig of amaranth; upon which the
leather grow round and soft, and the leaves turned into feathers, and,
being gilded before, continued gilded still; so it became a dove, and she
harnessed it to her chariot. . . .
. . . . _Hiatus valde de-_
. . . . _flendus in MS_.
THE EPISODE OF BENTLEY AND WOTTON.
Day being far spent, and the numerous forces of the Moderns half
inclining to a retreat, there issued forth, from a squadron of their
heavy-armed foot, a captain whose name was Bentley, the most deformed of
all the Moderns; tall, but without shape or comeliness; large, but
without strength or proportion. His armour was patched up of a thousand
incoherent pieces, and the sound of it, as he marched, was loud and dry,
like that made by the fall of a sheet of lead, which an Etesian wind
blows suddenly down from the roof of some steeple. His helmet was of old
rusty iron, but the vizor was brass, which, tainted by his breath,
corrupted into copperas, nor wanted gall from the same fountain, so that,
whenever provoked by anger or labour, an atramentous quality, of most
malignant nature, was seen to distil from his lips. In his right hand he
grasped a flail, and (that he might never be unprovided of an offensive
weapon) a vessel full of ordure in his left. Thus completely armed, he
advanced with a slow and heavy pace where the Modern chiefs were holding
a consult upon the sum of things, who, as he came onwards, laughed to
behold his crooked leg and humped shoulder, which his boot and armour,
vainly endeavouring to hide, were forced to comply with and expose. The
generals made use of him for his talent of railing, which, kept within
government, proved frequently of great service to their cause, but, at
other times, did more mischief than good; for, at the least touch of
offence, and often without any at all, he would, like a wounded elephant,
convert it against his leaders. Such, at this juncture, was the
disposition of Bentley, grieved to see the enemy prevail, and
dissatisfied with everybody's conduct but his own. He humbly gave the
Modern generals to understand that he conceived, with great submission,
they were all a pack of rogues, and fools, and confounded logger-heads,
and illiterate whelps, and nonsensical scoundrels; that, if himself had
been constituted general, those presumptuous dogs, the Ancients, would
long before this have been beaten out of the field. "You," said he, "sit
here idle, but when I, or any other valiant Modern kill an enemy, you are
sure to seize the spoil. But I will not march one foot against the foe
till you all swear to me that whomever I take or kill, his arms I shall
quietly possess. " Bentley having spoken thus, Scaliger, bestowing him a
sour look, "Miscreant prater! " said he, "eloquent only in thine own eyes,
thou railest without wit, or truth, or discretion. The malignity of thy
temper perverteth nature; thy learning makes thee more barbarous; thy
study of humanity more inhuman; thy converse among poets more grovelling,
miry, and dull. All arts of civilising others render thee rude and
untractable; courts have taught thee ill manners, and polite conversation
has finished thee a pedant. Besides, a greater coward burdeneth not the
army. But never despond; I pass my word, whatever spoil thou takest
shall certainly be thy own; though I hope that vile carcase will first
become a prey to kites and worms. "
Bentley durst not reply, but, half choked with spleen and rage, withdrew,
in full resolution of performing some great achievement. With him, for
his aid and companion, he took his beloved Wotton, resolving by policy or
surprise to attempt some neglected quarter of the Ancients' army. They
began their march over carcases of their slaughtered friends; then to the
right of their own forces; then wheeled northward, till they came to
Aldrovandus's tomb, which they passed on the side of the declining sun.
And now they arrived, with fear, toward the enemy's out-guards, looking
about, if haply they might spy the quarters of the wounded, or some
straggling sleepers, unarmed and remote from the rest. As when two
mongrel curs, whom native greediness and domestic want provoke and join
in partnership, though fearful, nightly to invade the folds of some rich
grazier, they, with tails depressed and lolling tongues, creep soft and
slow. Meanwhile the conscious moon, now in her zenith, on their guilty
heads darts perpendicular rays; nor dare they bark, though much provoked
at her refulgent visage, whether seen in puddle by reflection or in
sphere direct; but one surveys the region round, while the other scouts
the plain, if haply to discover, at distance from the flock, some carcase
half devoured, the refuse of gorged wolves or ominous ravens. So marched
this lovely, loving pair of friends, nor with less fear and
circumspection, when at a distance they might perceive two shining suits
of armour hanging upon an oak, and the owners not far off in a profound
sleep. The two friends drew lots, and the pursuing of this adventure
fell to Bentley; on he went, and in his van Confusion and Amaze, while
Horror and Affright brought up the rear. As he came near, behold two
heroes of the Ancient army, Phalaris and AEsop, lay fast asleep. Bentley
would fain have despatched them both, and, stealing close, aimed his
flail at Phalaris's breast; but then the goddess Affright, interposing,
caught the Modern in her icy arms, and dragged him from the danger she
foresaw; both the dormant heroes happened to turn at the same instant,
though soundly sleeping, and busy in a dream. For Phalaris was just that
minute dreaming how a most vile poetaster had lampooned him, and how he
had got him roaring in his bull. And AEsop dreamed that as he and the
Ancient were lying on the ground, a wild ass broke loose, ran about,
trampling and kicking in their faces. Bentley, leaving the two heroes
asleep, seized on both their armours, and withdrew in quest of his
darling Wotton.
He, in the meantime, had wandered long in search of some enterprise, till
at length he arrived at a small rivulet that issued from a fountain hard
by, called, in the language of mortal men, Helicon. Here he stopped,
and, parched with thirst, resolved to allay it in this limpid stream.
Thrice with profane hands he essayed to raise the water to his lips, and
thrice it slipped all through his fingers. Then he stopped prone on his
breast, but, ere his mouth had kissed the liquid crystal, Apollo came,
and in the channel held his shield betwixt the Modern and the fountain,
so that he drew up nothing but mud. For, although no fountain on earth
can compare with the clearness of Helicon, yet there lies at bottom a
thick sediment of slime and mud; for so Apollo begged of Jupiter, as a
punishment to those who durst attempt to taste it with unhallowed lips,
and for a lesson to all not to draw too deep or far from the spring.
At the fountain-head Wotton discerned two heroes; the one he could not
distinguish, but the other was soon known for Temple, general of the
allies to the Ancients. His back was turned, and he was employed in
drinking large draughts in his helmet from the fountain, where he had
withdrawn himself to rest from the toils of the war. Wotton, observing
him, with quaking knees and trembling hands, spoke thus to himself: O
that I could kill this destroyer of our army, what renown should I
purchase among the chiefs! but to issue out against him, man against man,
shield against shield, and lance against lance, what Modern of us dare?
for he fights like a god, and Pallas or Apollo are ever at his elbow.
But, O mother! if what Fame reports be true, that I am the son of so
great a goddess, grant me to hit Temple with this lance, that the stroke
may send him to hell, and that I may return in safety and triumph, laden
with his spoils. The first part of this prayer the gods granted at the
intercession of his mother and of Momus; but the rest, by a perverse wind
sent from Fate, was scattered in the air. Then Wotton grasped his lance,
and, brandishing it thrice over his head, darted it with all his might;
the goddess, his mother, at the same time adding strength to his arm.
Away the lance went hizzing, and reached even to the belt of the averted
Ancient, upon which, lightly grazing, it fell to the ground. Temple
neither felt the weapon touch him nor heard it fall: and Wotton might
have escaped to his army, with the honour of having remitted his lance
against so great a leader unrevenged; but Apollo, enraged that a javelin
flung by the assistance of so foul a goddess should pollute his fountain,
put on the shape of ---, and softly came to young Boyle, who then
accompanied Temple: he pointed first to the lance, then to the distant
Modern that flung it, and commanded the young hero to take immediate
revenge. Boyle, clad in a suit of armour which had been given him by all
the gods, immediately advanced against the trembling foe, who now fled
before him. As a young lion in the Libyan plains, or Araby desert, sent
by his aged sire to hunt for prey, or health, or exercise, he scours
along, wishing to meet some tiger from the mountains, or a furious boar;
if chance a wild ass, with brayings importune, affronts his ear, the
generous beast, though loathing to distain his claws with blood so vile,
yet, much provoked at the offensive noise, which Echo, foolish nymph,
like her ill-judging sex, repeats much louder, and with more delight than
Philomela's song, he vindicates the honour of the forest, and hunts the
noisy long-eared animal. So Wotton fled, so Boyle pursued. But Wotton,
heavy-armed, and slow of foot, began to slack his course, when his lover
Bentley appeared, returning laden with the spoils of the two sleeping
Ancients. Boyle observed him well, and soon discovering the helmet and
shield of Phalaris his friend, both which he had lately with his own
hands new polished and gilt, rage sparkled in his eyes, and, leaving his
pursuit after Wotton, he furiously rushed on against this new approacher.
Fain would he be revenged on both; but both now fled different ways: and,
as a woman in a little house that gets a painful livelihood by spinning,
if chance her geese be scattered o'er the common, she courses round the
plain from side to side, compelling here and there the stragglers to the
flock; they cackle loud, and flutter o'er the champaign; so Boyle
pursued, so fled this pair of friends: finding at length their flight was
vain, they bravely joined, and drew themselves in phalanx. First Bentley
threw a spear with all his force, hoping to pierce the enemy's breast;
but Pallas came unseen, and in the air took off the point, and clapped on
one of lead, which, after a dead bang against the enemy's shield, fell
blunted to the ground. Then Boyle, observing well his time, took up a
lance of wondrous length and sharpness; and, as this pair of friends
compacted, stood close side by side, he wheeled him to the right, and,
with unusual force, darted the weapon. Bentley saw his fate approach,
and flanking down his arms close to his ribs, hoping to save his body, in
went the point, passing through arm and side, nor stopped or spent its
force till it had also pierced the valiant Wotton, who, going to sustain
his dying friend, shared his fate. As when a skilful cook has trussed a
brace of woodcocks, he with iron skewer pierces the tender sides of both,
their legs and wings close pinioned to the rib; so was this pair of
friends transfixed, till down they fell, joined in their lives, joined in
their deaths; so closely joined that Charon would mistake them both for
one, and waft them over Styx for half his fare. Farewell, beloved,
loving pair; few equals have you left behind: and happy and immortal
shall you be, if all my wit and eloquence can make you.
And now. . . .
_Desunt coetera_.
A MEDITATION UPON A BROOMSTICK.
_According to the Style and Manner of the Hon. Robert Boyle's
Meditations_.
This single stick, which you now behold ingloriously lying in that
neglected corner, I once knew in a flourishing state in a forest. It was
full of sap, full of leaves, and full of boughs; but now in vain does the
busy art of man pretend to vie with nature, by tying that withered bundle
of twigs to its sapless trunk; it is now at best but the reverse of what
it was, a tree turned upside-down, the branches on the earth, and the
root in the air; it is now handled by every dirty wench, condemned to do
her drudgery, and, by a capricious kind of fate, destined to make other
things clean, and be nasty itself; at length, worn to the stumps in the
service of the maids, it is either thrown out of doors or condemned to
the last use--of kindling a fire. When I behold this I sighed, and said
within myself, "Surely mortal man is a broomstick! " Nature sent him into
the world strong and lusty, in a thriving condition, wearing his own hair
on his head, the proper branches of this reasoning vegetable, till the
axe of intemperance has lopped off his green boughs, and left him a
withered trunk; he then flies to art, and puts on a periwig, valuing
himself upon an unnatural bundle of hairs, all covered with powder, that
never grew on his head; but now should this our broomstick pretend to
enter the scene, proud of those birchen spoils it never bore, and all
covered with dust, through the sweepings of the finest lady's chamber, we
should be apt to ridicule and despise its vanity. Partial judges that we
are of our own excellencies, and other men's defaults!
But a broomstick, perhaps you will say, is an emblem of a tree standing
on its head; and pray what is a man but a topsy-turvy creature, his
animal faculties perpetually mounted on his rational, his head where his
heels should be, grovelling on the earth? And yet, with all his faults,
he sets up to be a universal reformer and corrector of abuses, a remover
of grievances, rakes into every slut's corner of nature, bringing hidden
corruptions to the light, and raises a mighty dust where there was none
before, sharing deeply all the while in the very same pollutions he
pretends to sweep away. His last days are spent in slavery to women, and
generally the least deserving; till, worn to the stumps, like his brother
besom, he is either kicked out of doors, or made use of to kindle flames
for others to warm themselves by.
PREDICTIONS FOR THE YEAR 1708.
WHEREIN THE MONTH, AND DAY OF THE MONTH ARE SET DOWN, THE PERSONS NAMED,
AND THE GREAT ACTIONS AND EVENTS OF NEXT YEAR PARTICULARLY RELATED AS
WILL COME TO PASS.
_Written to prevent the people of England from being farther imposed on
by vulgar Almanack-makers_.
BY ISAAC BICKERSTAFF, ESQ.
I have long considered the gross abuse of astrology in this kingdom, and
upon debating the matter with myself, I could not possibly lay the fault
upon the art, but upon those gross impostors who set up to be the
artists. I know several learned men have contended that the whole is a
cheat; that it is absurd and ridiculous to imagine the stars can have any
influence at all upon human actions, thoughts, or inclinations; and
whoever has not bent his studies that way may be excused for thinking so,
when he sees in how wretched a manner that noble art is treated by a few
mean illiterate traders between us and the stars, who import a yearly
stock of nonsense, lies, folly, and impertinence, which they offer to the
world as genuine from the planets, though they descend from no greater a
height than their own brains.
I intend in a short time to publish a large and rational defence of this
art, and therefore shall say no more in its justification at present than
that it hath been in all ages defended by many learned men, and among the
rest by Socrates himself, whom I look upon as undoubtedly the wisest of
uninspired mortals: to which if we add that those who have condemned this
art, though otherwise learned, having been such as either did not apply
their studies this way, or at least did not succeed in their
applications, their testimony will not be of much weight to its
disadvantage, since they are liable to the common objection of condemning
what they did not understand.
Nor am I at all offended, or think it an injury to the art, when I see
the common dealers in it, the students in astrology, the Philomaths, and
the rest of that tribe, treated by wise men with the utmost scorn and
contempt; but rather wonder, when I observe gentlemen in the country,
rich enough to serve the nation in Parliament, poring in Partridge's
Almanack to find out the events of the year at home and abroad, not
daring to propose a hunting-match till Gadbury or he have fixed the
weather.
I will allow either of the two I have mentioned, or any other of the
fraternity, to be not only astrologers, but conjurers too, if I do not
produce a hundred instances in all their almanacks to convince any
reasonable man that they do not so much as understand common grammar and
syntax; that they are not able to spell any word out of the usual road,
nor even in their prefaces write common sense or intelligible English.
Then for their observations and predictions, they are such as will
equally suit any age or country in the world. "This month a certain
great person will be threatened with death or sickness. " This the
newspapers will tell them; for there we find at the end of the year that
no month passes without the death of some person of note; and it would be
hard if it should be otherwise, when there are at least two thousand
persons of note in this kingdom, many of them old, and the almanack-maker
has the liberty of choosing the sickliest season of the year where he may
fix his prediction. Again, "This month an eminent clergyman will be
preferred;" of which there may be some hundreds, half of them with one
foot in the grave. Then "such a planet in such a house shows great
machinations, plots, and conspiracies, that may in time be brought to
light:" after which, if we hear of any discovery, the astrologer gets the
honour; if not, his prediction still stands good. And at last, "God
preserve King William from all his open and secret enemies, Amen. " When
if the King should happen to have died, the astrologer plainly foretold
it; otherwise it passes but for the pious ejaculation of a loyal subject;
though it unluckily happened in some of their almanacks that poor King
William was prayed for many months after he was dead, because it fell out
that he died about the beginning of the year.
To mention no more of their impertinent predictions: what have we to do
with their advertisements about pills and drink for disease? or their
mutual quarrels in verse and prose of Whig and Tory, wherewith the stars
have little to do?
Having long observed and lamented these, and a hundred other abuses of
this art, too tedious to repeat, I resolved to proceed in a new way,
which I doubt not will be to the general satisfaction of the kingdom. I
can this year produce but a specimen of what I design for the future,
having employed most part of my time in adjusting and correcting the
calculations I made some years past, because I would offer nothing to the
world of which I am not as fully satisfied as that I am now alive. For
these two last years I have not failed in above one or two particulars,
and those of no very great moment. I exactly foretold the miscarriage at
Toulon, with all its particulars, and the loss of Admiral Shovel, though
I was mistaken as to the day, placing that accident about thirty-six
hours sooner than it happened; but upon reviewing my schemes, I quickly
found the cause of that error. I likewise foretold the Battle of Almanza
to the very day and hour, with the lose on both sides, and the
consequences thereof. All which I showed to some friends many months
before they happened--that is, I gave them papers sealed up, to open at
such a time, after which they were at liberty to read them; and there
they found my predictions true in every article, except one or two very
minute.
As for the few following predictions I now offer the world, I forbore to
publish them till I had perused the several almanacks for the year we are
now entered on. I find them all in the usual strain, and I beg the
reader will compare their manner with mine. And here I make bold to tell
the world that I lay the whole credit of my art upon the truth of these
predictions; and I will be content that Partridge, and the rest of his
clan, may hoot me for a cheat and impostor if I fail in any single
particular of moment. I believe any man who reads this paper will look
upon me to be at least a person of as much honesty and understanding as a
common maker of almanacks. I do not lurk in the dark; I am not wholly
unknown in the world; I have set my name at length, to be a mark of
infamy to mankind, if they shall find I deceive them.
In one thing I must desire to be forgiven, that I talk more sparingly of
home affairs. As it will be imprudence to discover secrets of State, so
it would be dangerous to my person; but in smaller matters, and that are
not of public consequence, I shall be very free; and the truth of my
conjectures will as much appear from those as the others. As for the
most signal events abroad, in France, Flanders, Italy, and Spain, I shall
make no scruple to predict them in plain terms. Some of them are of
importance, and I hope I shall seldom mistake the day they will happen;
therefore I think good to inform the reader that I all along make use of
the Old Style observed in England, which I desire he will compare with
that of the newspapers at the time they relate the actions I mention.
I must add one word more. I know it hath been the opinion of several of
the learned, who think well enough of the true art of astrology, that the
stars do only incline, and not force the actions or wills of men, and
therefore, however I may proceed by right rules, yet I cannot in prudence
so confidently assure the events will follow exactly as I predict them.
I hope I have maturely considered this objection, which in some cases is
of no little weight. For example: a man may, by the influence of an over-
ruling planet, be disposed or inclined to lust, rage, or avarice, and yet
by the force of reason overcome that bad influence; and this was the case
of Socrates. But as the great events of the world usually depend upon
numbers of men, it cannot be expected they should all unite to cross
their inclinations from pursuing a general design wherein they
unanimously agree. Besides, the influence of the stars reaches to many
actions and events which are not any way in the power of reason, as
sickness, death, and what we commonly call accidents, with many more,
needless to repeat.
But now it is time to proceed to my predictions, which I have begun to
calculate from the time that the sun enters into Aries. And this I take
to be properly the beginning of the natural year. I pursue them to the
time that he enters Libra, or somewhat more, which is the busy period of
the year. The remainder I have not yet adjusted, upon account of several
impediments needless here to mention. Besides, I must remind the reader
again that this is but a specimen of what I design in succeeding years to
treat more at large, if I may have liberty and encouragement.
My first prediction is but a trifle, yet I will mention it, to show how
ignorant those sottish pretenders to astrology are in their own concerns.
It relates to Partridge, the almanack-maker. I have consulted the stars
of his nativity by my own rules, and find he will infallibly die upon the
29th of March next, about eleven at night, of a raging fever; therefore I
advise him to consider of it, and settle his affairs in time.
The month of _April_ will be observable for the death of many great
persons. On the 4th will die the Cardinal de Noailles, Archbishop of
Paris; on the 11th, the young Prince of Asturias, son to the Duke of
Anjou; on the 14th, a great peer of this realm will die at his country
house; on the 19th, an old layman of great fame for learning, and on the
23rd, an eminent goldsmith in Lombard Street. I could mention others,
both at home and abroad, if I did not consider it is of very little use
or instruction to the reader, or to the world.
As to public affairs: On the 7th of this month there will be an
insurrection in Dauphiny, occasioned by the oppressions of the people,
which will not be quieted in some months.
On the 15th will be a violent storm on the south-east coast of France,
which will destroy many of their ships, and some in the very harbour.
The 11th will be famous for the revolt of a whole province or kingdom,
excepting one city, by which the affairs of a certain prince in the
Alliance will take a better face.
_May_, against common conjectures, will be no very busy month in Europe,
but very signal for the death of the Dauphin, which will happen on the
7th, after a short fit of sickness, and grievous torments with the
strangury. He dies less lamented by the Court than the kingdom.
On the 9th a Marshal of France will break his leg by a fall from his
horse. I have not been able to discover whether he will then die or not.
On the 11th will begin a most important siege, which the eyes of all
Europe will be upon: I cannot be more particular, for in relating affairs
that so nearly concern the Confederates, and consequently this kingdom, I
am forced to confine myself for several reasons very obvious to the
reader.
On the 15th news will arrive of a very surprising event, than which
nothing could be more unexpected.
On the 19th three noble ladies of this kingdom will, against all
expectation, prove with child, to the great joy of their husbands.
On the 23rd a famous buffoon of the playhouse will die a ridiculous
death, suitable to his vocation.
_June_. This month will be distinguished at home by the utter dispersing
of those ridiculous deluded enthusiasts commonly called the Prophets,
occasioned chiefly by seeing the time come that many of their prophecies
should be fulfilled, and then finding themselves deceived by contrary
events. It is indeed to be admired how any deceiver can be so weak to
foretell things near at hand, when a very few months must of necessity
discover the impostor to all the world; in this point less prudent than
common almanack-makers, who are so wise to wonder in generals, and talk
dubiously, and leave to the reader the business of interpreting.
On the 1st of this month a French general will be killed by a random shot
of a cannon-ball.
On the 6th a fire will break out in the suburbs of Paris, which will
destroy above a thousand houses, and seems to be the foreboding of what
will happen, to the surprise of all Europe, about the end of the
following month.
On the 10th a great battle will be fought, which will begin at four of
the clock in the afternoon, and last till nine at night with great
obstinacy, but no very decisive event. I shall not name the place, for
the reasons aforesaid, but the commanders on each left wing will be
killed. I see bonfires and hear the noise of guns for a victory.
On the 14th there will be a false report of the French king's death.
On the 20th Cardinal Portocarero will die of a dysentery, with great
suspicion of poison, but the report of his intention to revolt to King
Charles will prove false.
_July_. The 6th of this month a certain general will, by a glorious
action, recover the reputation he lost by former misfortunes.
On the 12th a great commander will die a prisoner in the hands of his
enemies.
On the 14th a shameful discovery will be made of a French Jesuit giving
poison to a great foreign general; and when he is put to the torture,
will make wonderful discoveries.
In short, this will prove a month of great action, if I might have
liberty to relate the particulars.
At home, the death of an old famous senator will happen on the 15th at
his country house, worn with age and diseases.
But that which will make this month memorable to all posterity is the
death of the French king, Louis the Fourteenth, after a week's sickness
at Marli, which will happen on the 29th, about six o'clock in the
evening. It seems to be an effect of the gout in his stomach, followed
by a flux. And in three days after Monsieur Chamillard will follow his
master, dying suddenly of an apoplexy.
In this month likewise an ambassador will die in London, but I cannot
assign the day.
_August_. The affairs of France will seem to suffer no change for a
while under the Duke of Burgundy's administration; but the genius that
animated the whole machine being gone, will be the cause of mighty turns
and revolutions in the following year. The new king makes yet little
change either in the army or the Ministry, but the libels against his
grandfather, that fly about his very Court, give him uneasiness.
I see an express in mighty haste, with joy and wonder in his looks,
arriving by break of day on the 26th of this month, having travelled in
three days a prodigious journey by land and sea. In the evening I hear
bells and guns, and see the blazing of a thousand bonfires.
A young admiral of noble birth does likewise this month gain immortal
honour by a great achievement.
The affairs of Poland are this month entirely settled; Augustus resigns
his pretensions which he had again taken up for some time: Stanislaus is
peaceably possessed of the throne, and the King of Sweden declares for
the emperor.
I cannot omit one particular accident here at home: that near the end of
this month much mischief will be done at Bartholomew Fair by the fall of
a booth.
_September_.
