Works of Joseph Hall, Character 12 – Character 15
CHARACTER OF THE HYPOCRITE.
AN Hypocrite is the worſt kinde of Plaier, by ſo much as he acts the better part; which hath alwaies two faces, oft times two hearts: That can compoſe his forehead to ſadneſſe and grauitie, while he bids his heart bee wanton and careleſſe within, and (in the meane time) laughs within himſelfe, to thinke how ſmoothly he hath coozened the beholder. In whoſe ſilent face are written the characters of Religion, which his tongue and geſtures pronounce, but his hands recant. That hath a cleane face and garment, with a foule ſoule: whoſe mouth belies his heart, and his fingers belie his mouth. Walking early vp into the Citie, he turnes into the great Church, and ſalutes one of the pillars on one knee, worſhipping that God which at home he cares not for; while his eie is fixed on ſome window, on ſome paſſenger, and his heart knowes not whither his lips goe. Hee riſes, and looking about with admiration, complaines on our frozen charitie, commends the ancient. At Church he will euer ſit where he may be ſeene beſt, and in the middeſt of the Sermon puls out his Tables in haſte, as if he feared to leeſe that note; when he writes either his forgotten errand, or nothing: then he turnes his Bible with a noyſe, to ſeeke an omitted quotation; and folds the leafe, as if he had found it; and askes aloud the name of the Preacher, and repeats it, whom hee publikely ſalutes, thankes, praiſes, inuites, entertaines with tedious good counſell, with good diſcourſe, if it had come from an honeſter mouth. He can command teares when he ſpeakes of his youth; indeed becauſe it is paſt, not becauſe it was ſinfull: himſelfe is now better, but the times are worſe. All other ſinnes he reckons vp with deteſtation, while he loues and hides his darling in his boſome. All his ſpeech returnes to himſelfe, and eueryevery occurrent drawes in a ſtorie to his owne praiſe. When he ſhould giuegive, he lookes about him, and ſaies, Who ſees me? No almes, no praiers fall from him without a witneſſe; belike leſt God ſhould denie that he hath receiued them: and when he hath done (leſt the world ſhould not know it) his owne mouth is his Trumpet to proclaime it. With the ſuperfluitie of his vſurie he builds an Hoſpitall, and harbours them whom his extortion hath ſpoiled; ſo while he makes many beggers, he keepes ſome. He turneth all Gnats into Camels, and cares not to vndoe the world for a circumſtance. Fleſh on a Friday is more abomination to him than his neighbours bed: He abhorres more not to vncouer at the name of Ieſus, than to ſweare by the name of God. When a Rimer reads his Poeme to him, he begs a Copie, and perſwades the Preſſe; there is nothing that hee diſlikes in preſence, that in abſence hee cenſures not. Hee comes to the ſicke bed of his ſtepmother, and weepes, when hee ſecretly feares her recouerie. Hee greets his friend in the ſtreet with ſo cleere a countenance, ſo faſt a cloſure, that the other thinkes hee reads his heart in his face; and ſhakes hands with an indefinite inuitation of When will you come? and when his backe is turned, ioyes that he is ſo well rid of a gueſt: yet if that gueſt viſit him vnfeared, he counterfets a ſmiling welcome, and excuſes his cheare, when cloſely he frownes on his wife for too much. Hee ſhewes well, and ſaies well; and himſelfe is the worſt thing he hath. In briefe, he is the ſtrangers Saint, the neighbours diſeaſe, the blot of goodneſſe; a rotten ſticke in a darke night, a Poppie in a corne field, an ill tempered candle with a great ſnuffe, that in going out ſmells ill; and an Angell abroad, a Deuill at home; and worſe when an Angell, than when a Deuill.
Of the Buſie-body.
HIs eſtate is too narrow for his minde, and therefore hee is faine to make himſelfe roome in others affaires; yet euer in pretence of louelove. No newes can ſtir but by his doore; neither can hee know that, which hee muſt not tell. What eueryevery man ventures in Guiana voyage, and what they gained, hee knowes to a haire. Whether Holland will hauehave peace, he knowes, and on what conditions, and with what ſucceſſe, is familiar to him ere it be concluded. No Poſt can paſſe him without a queſtion, and rather than he will leeſe the newes, hee rides backe with him to appoſe him of tidings; and then to the next man he meets, he ſupplies the wants of his haſtie intelligence, and makes vp a perfect tale; wherewith he ſo haunteth the patient auditor, that after many excuſes, he is faine to endure rather the cenſure of his manners in running away, than the tediouſneſſe of an impertinent diſcourſe. His ſpeech is oft broken off with a ſucceſſion of long parentheſis, which he euer vowes to fill vp ere the concluſion, and perhaps would effect it, if the others eare were as vnweariable as his tongue. If he ſee but two men talke and reade a letter in the ſtreet, he runnes to them, and askes if he may not be partner of that ſecret relation; and if they denie it, hee offers to tell, ſince he may not heare, wonders: and then falls vponupon the report of the Scottiſh Mine, or of the great Fiſh taken vp at Linne, or of the freezing of the Thames; and after many thankes and diſmiſſions, is hardly intreated ſilence. He vndertakes as much as he performes little: this man will thruſt himſelfe forward to bee the guide of the way hee knowes not; and calls at his neighbours window, and askes why his ſeruants are not at worke. The Market hath no commoditie which hee prizeth not, and which the next table ſhall not heare recited. His tongue, like the taile of Samſons Foxes, carries firebrands, and is enough to ſet the whole field of the world on a flame. Himſelfe begins table-talke of his neighbour at anothers boord; to whom he beares the firſt newes, and adiures him to conceale the reporter: whoſe cholericke anſwer he returnes to his firſt Oaſt, inlarged with a ſecond edition; ſo, as it vſes to be done in the fight of vnwilling Maſtiues, hee claps each on the ſide apart, and prouokes them to an eager conflict. There can no Act paſſe without his Comment, which is euer farre-fetcht, raſh, ſuſpicious, delatorie. His eares are long, and his eies quicke, but moſt of all to imperfections; which as he eaſily ſees, ſo hee increaſes with intermedling. He harbours another mans ſeruant, and amids his entertainment askes what fare is vſuall at home, what houres are kept, what talke paſſeth their meales, what his maſters diſpoſition is, what his gouernment, what his gueſts? and when hee hath by curious inquiries extracted all the iuice and ſpirit of hoped intelligence, turnes him off whence he came, and workes on a new. He hates conſtancie as an earthen dulneſſe, vnfit for men of ſpirit: and loues to change his worke and his place; neither yet can he be ſo ſoone wearie of any place, as eueryevery place is wearie of him; for as he ſets himſelfe on worke, ſo others pay him with hatred, and looke how many maſters he hath, ſo many enemies: neither is it poſſible that any ſhould not hate him, but who know him not. So then hee labours without thanks, talkes without credit, liues without louelove, dies without teares, without pittie; ſaue that ſome ſay it was pittie he died no ſooner.
Of the Superſtitious.
SVperſtition is godleſſe Religion, deuout impietie. The ſuperſtitious is fond in obſeruation, ſeruile in feare, he worſhips God but as he liſts: he giues God what he askes not, more than he askes; and all but what he ſhould giuegive; and makes more ſinne than the Ten Commandements. This man dares not ſtirre forth till his breſt be croſſed, and his face ſprinkled: if but an Hare croſſe him the way, he returnes; or if his iourney began vnawares on the diſmall day; or if he ſtumble at the threſhold. If he ſee a Snake vnkilled, he feares a miſchiefe; if the ſalt fall towards him, hee lookes pale and red, and is not quiet till one of the waiters hauehave powred wine on his lappe; and when he neezeth, thinkes them not his friends that vncouer not. In the morning hee liſtens whether the Crow crieth euen or odde, and by that token preſages of the weather. If he heare but a Rauen croke from the next roofe, he makes his will, or if a Bittour flie ouer his head by night: but if his troubled fancie ſhall ſecond his thoughts with the dreame of a faire garden, or greene ruſhes, or the ſalutation of a dead friend, he takes leaue of the world, and ſaies he cannot liue. He will neuer ſet to ſea but on a Sunday; neither euer goes without an Erra Pater in his pocket. Saint Paules day and Saint Swithunes with the Twelue, are his Oracles; which hee dares beleeue againſt the Almanacke. When he lies ſicke on his death-bed, no ſinne troubles him ſo much, as that he did once eat fleſh on a Friday, no repentance can expiate that; the reſt need none. There is no dreame of his without an interpretation, without a prediction; and if the euent anſwer not his expoſition, hee expounds it according to the euent. EueryEvery darke groue and pictured wall ſtrikes him with an awfull, but carnall deuotion. Old wiues and Starres are his counſellers; his night ſpell is his guard, and charmes his Phyſitian. He weares Paracelſian Characters for the tooth-ach, and a little hollowed wax is his Antidote for all euils. This man is ſtrangely credulous, and calls impoſſible things, miraculous: If he heare that ſome ſacred blocke ſpeakes, moues, weepes, ſmiles, his bare feet carry him thither with an offering: and if a danger miſſe him in the way, his Saint hath the thankes. Some way he will not goe, and ſome he dares not; either there are bugges, or he faineth them; eueryevery lanterne is a ghoſt, and eueryevery noiſe is of chaines. He knowes not why, but his cuſtome is to goe a little about, and to leaue the Croſſe ſtill on the right hand. One euent is enough to make a rule; out of theſe hee concludes faſhions proper to himſelfe, and nothing can turne him out of his owne courſe. If hee hauehave done his taske, hee is ſafe, it matters not with what affection. Finally, if God will let him be the caruer of his owne obedience, he could not hauehave a better ſubiect, as he is, he cannot hauehave a worſe.
Of the Profane.
THe Superſtitious hath too many gods: the Profane man hath none at all, vnleſſe perhaps himſelfe be his owne deitie, and the world his heauen. To matter of Religion, his heart is a piece of dead fleſh, without feeling of louelove, of feare, of care, or of paine from the deafe ſtrokes of a reuenging conſcience. Cuſtome of ſinne hath wrought this ſenſleſneſſe, which now hath beene ſo long entertained, that it pleads preſcription, and knowes not to be altered. This is no ſudden euill: we are borne ſinfull, but hauehave made our ſelues profane; through many degrees wee climbe to this height of impietie. At firſt he ſinned, and cared not; now he ſinneth and knoweth not. Appetite is his Lord, and Reaſon his ſeruant, and Religion his drudge. Senſe is the rule of his beleefe; and if Pietie may be an aduantage, he can at once counterfeit and deride it. When ought ſucceedeth to him, he ſacrifices to his nets, and thankes either his fortune, or his wit; and will rather make a falſe God, than acknowledge the true: if contrary, he cries out of deſtinie, and blames him to whom he will not bee beholden. His conſcience would faine ſpeake with him, but he will not heare it; ſets the day, but hee diſappoints it; and when it cries loud for audience, hee drownes the noiſe with good fellowſhip. He neuer names God, but in his oathes; neuer thinkes of him, but in extremitie; and then he knowes not how to thinke of him, becauſe hee begins but then. He quarrels for the hard conditions of his pleaſure, for his future damnation; and from himſelfe laies all the fault vponupon his Maker; and from his decree fetcheth excuſes of his wickedneſſe. The ineuitable neceſſitie of Gods counſell makes him deſperately careleſſe: ſo with good food he poyſons himſelfe. Goodneſſe is his Minſtrell; neither is any mirth ſo cordiall to him, as his ſport with Gods fooles. EueryEvery vertue hath his ſlander, and his ieſt to laugh it out of faſhion: eueryevery vice his colour. His vſualleſt theame is the boaſt of his young ſinnes, which he can ſtill ioy in, though he cannot commit; and (if it may be) his ſpeech makes him worſe than he is. He cannot thinke of death with patience, without terrour, which hee therefore feares worſe than hell, becauſe this hee is ſure of, the other he but doubts of. He comes to Church as to the Theater, ſauing that not ſo willingly; for company, for cuſtome, for recreation, perhaps for ſleepe, or to feed his eies or his eares: as for his foule, he cares no more than if he had none. He loues none but himſelfe, and that not enough to ſeeke his true good; neither cares hee on whom hee treads, that he may riſe. His life is full of licence, and his practice of outrage. Hee is hated of God, as much as he hateth goodneſſe, and differs little from a Deuill, but that he hath a body.