the worst of success? Who contemns Cato, and other the grave citizens of Rome, for embracing the just but improsperous cause of the commonwealth? A wise man's circumstances may vary and fluctuate like the floods about a rock; but he persists unmovably the same, and his reputation unshaken; for he can always render a good account of his actions, and by reasonable apology elude the assaults of reproach.

2. GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE.-(BARROW'S "SERMONS,"

SERMON XIII.)

From hence, that the use of speech is itself a great ingredient into our practice, and hath a very general influence upon whatever we do, may be inferred, that whoever governeth it well, cannot also but well order his whole life. The extent of speech must needs be vast, since it is nearly commensurate to thought itself, which it ever closely traceth, widely ranging through all the immense variety of objects; so that men almost as often speak incogitantly, as they think silently. Speech is indeed the rudder that steereth human affairs, the spring that setteth the wheels of action on going; the hands work, the feet walk, all the members and all the senses act by its direction and impulse; yea, most thoughts are begotten, and most affections stirred up thereby; it is itself most of our employment, and what we do beside it, is however guided and moved by it. It is the profession and trade of many, it is the practice of all men, to be in a manner continually talking. The chief and most considerable sort of men manage all their concernments merely by words; by them princes rule their subjects, generals command their armies, senators deliberate and debate about the great matters of state; by them advocates plead causes, and judges decide them; divines perform their offices, and minister their instructions; merchants strike up their bargains, and drive on all their traffic. Whatever almost great or small is done in the court or in the hall, in the church or at the exchange, in the school or in the shop, it is the tongue alone that doeth it: it is the force of this little machine that turneth all the human world about. It is indeed the use of this strange organ which rendereth human life, beyond the simple life of other creatures, so exceedingly various and compounded; which creates such a multiplicity of business, and which transacts it; while by it we communicate our secret conceptions, transfusing them into others; while therewith we instruct and advise one another; while we consult about what is to be done; contest about right, dispute about truth; while the whole business of conversation, of commerce, of government, and administration of justice, of learning, and of religion, is managed thereby; yea, while it stoppeth the gaps of time, and filleth up the wide intervals of business, our recreations and divertisements (the which do constitute a great portion of our life) mainly consisting therein, so that, in comparison thereof, the execution of what we determine, and all other action do

take up small room; and even all that usually dependeth upon foregoing speech, which persuadeth, or counselleth, or commandeth it. Whence the province of speech being so very large, it being so universally concerned, either immediately as the matter, or by consequence as the source of our actions, he that constantly governeth it well may justly be esteemed to live very excellently.

To govern the tongue well is a matter of exceeding difficulty, requiring not only hearty goodness, but great judgment and art, together with much vigilance and circumspection: whence the doing it argues a high pitch of virtue. For since the tongue is a very loose and versatile engine, which the least breath of thought doth stir and set on going any way, it cannot but need much attention to keep it either in a steady rest or in a right motion. Since numberless swarms of things roving in the fancy do thence incessantly obtrude themselves upon the tongue, very much application of mind and great judgment are requisite to select out of them those few which are good and fit, rejecting all that is bad and improper to be spoken. Since continually temptations occur provoking or alluring to miscarriage in this kind (for, beside internal propensions and commotions of soul, every object we behold, every company we are engaged in, every accident befalling us, doth suggest somewhat inviting thereto; the condition of our neighbour moving us, if high, to flatter; if low, to insult: our own fortune prompting, if prosperous, to boast; if cross, to murmur: any action drawing from us, if it pleaseth us, fond admiration; if it disliketh, harsh censure: since, I say, we are thus at every turn obnoxious to speak amiss), it must be matter of huge skill and caution, of mighty industry and resolution, to decline it. We, for that purpose, need to imitate that earnest and watchful care of the holy Psalmist, which he thus expresseth :-" I have," saith he, "purposed that my mouth shall not offend; and I said," saith he again, "I will take heed to my ways, that I sin not with my tongue; I will keep my mouth with a bridle while the wicked is before me." And thus to maintain a constant guard over his heart and ways, thus, in consequence thereof, to curb and rule his speech well, must assuredly be the mark of a very good person.

3. CHARITY.—(BARROW'S "SERMONS," SERMONS XXVII., XXVIII.)

It is the property of charity to mourn with those that mourn; not coldly, but passionately (for it is to weep with those that weep), resenting every man's case with an affection suitable thereto, and as he doth himself resent it. Is any man fallen into disgrace? charity doth hold down its head, is abashed, and out of counte

1 Resent is here used in its literal sense, equivalent to "feeling." So, in his "Sermon on the Reward of Honouring God," he speaks of the good man as a "grateful resenter and requiter of courtesies;" where resenter means "a cherisher of grateful feelings." A similar use of the word "resentment" occurs in his "Sermon on the Gunpowder Plot." See some able remarks on the subject in Dean Trench's "Lectures on the Study of Words.'

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nance, partaking of his shame. Is any man disappointed of his hopes or endeavours? charity crieth out alas! as if it were itself defeated. Is any man afflicted with pain or sickness? charity looketh sadly, it sigheth and groaneth, it fainteth and languisheth with him. Is any man pinched with hard want? charity, if it cannot succour, it will condole. Doth ill news arrive? charity doth hear it with an unwilling ear and a sad heart, although not particularly concerned in it. The sight of a wreck at sea, of a field spread with carcasses, of a country desolated, of houses burnt and cities ruined, and of the like calamities incident to mankind, would touch the bowels of any man; but the very report of them would affect the heart of charity. It doth not suffer a man, with comfort or ease, to enjoy the accommodations of his own state while others before him are in distress. It cannot be merry while any man in presence is sorrowful; it cannot seem happy while its neighbour doth appear miserable. It hath a share in all the afflictions which it doth behold or hear of, according to that instance in St Paul of the Philippians, "Ye have done well that ye did communicate with (or partake in) my afflictions;" and according to that precept, "Remember those which are in bonds, as bound with them.”

Charity is the imitation and copy of that immense love which is the fountain of all being and all good; which made all things; which preserveth the world; which sustaineth every creature : nothing advanceth us so near to a resemblance of Him who is essential love and goodness; who freely and purely, without any regard to His own advantage or capacity of finding any beneficial return, doth bear and express the highest good-will, with a liberal hand pouring down showers of bounty and mercy on all His creatures; who daily putteth up numberless indignities and injuries, upholding and maintaining those who provoke Him. Charity rendereth us as angels, or peers to those glorious and blessed creatures, who, without receiving or expecting any requital from us, do heartily desire and delight in our good; are ready to promote it; do willingly serve and labour for it. Nothing is more amiable, more admirable, more venerable, even in the common eye and opinion of men; it hath in it a beauty and a majesty apt to ravish every heart; even a spark of it, in generosity of dealing, breedeth admiration; a glimpse of it in formal courtesy of behaviour procureth much esteem, being deemed to accomplish and adorn a man. How lovely, therefore, and truly gallant is an entire, sincere, constant, and uniform practice thereof, issuing from pure good-will and affection!

Love, indeed, or goodness (for true love is nothing else but goodness exerting itself in direction toward objects capable of its influence), is the only amiable and only honourable thing; power and wit may be admired by some, or have some fond idolaters; but being severed from goodness, or abstracted from their subserviency to it, they cannot obtain real love, they deserve not any esteem; for the worst, the most unhappy, the most odious and contemptible of beings, do partake of them in high measure; the Prince of Dark

ness hath more power, and reigneth with absolute sovereignty over more subjects by many than the Great Turk; one devil may have more wit than all the politic Achitophels and all the profane Hectors in the world; yet, with all his power and all his wit, he is most wretched, most detestable, and most despicable: and such in proportion is every one who partaketh in his accursed dispositions of malice and uncharitableness.

For, on the other side, uncharitableness is a very mean and base thing; it contracteth a man's soul into a narrow compass, or straiteneth it, as it were, into one point,-drawing all his thoughts, his desires, his affections, into himself as to their centre; so that his reason, his will, his activity, have but one pitiful object to exercise themselves about to scrape together a little pelf, to catch a vapour of fame, to prog' for a frivolous semblance of power or dignity; to soothe the humour or pamper the sensuality of one poor worm, is the ignoble subject of his busy care and endeavour.

XIX. SAMUEL PEPYS.

SAMUEL PEPYS was born in 1632. The place of his birth is uncertain, but his education was received in London, whence he afterwards removed to Cambridge. His cousin, Sir Edward Montagu, created Earl of Sandwich by Charles II., kindly patronized him, and appointed him to an office in connection with the navy. He applied himself sedulously to the discharge of his duties, and became intimately acquainted with the naval affairs of the country, into the administration of which he is said to have introduced several important improvements, which are still in practice. He was advanced to a responsible post in the Admiralty, which he held during the reigns of Charles and James, both of whom placed much confidence in his sagacity and knowledge of the state of the navy; but on the accession of William he was deprived of his preferments, and the rest of his life was spent in retirement. He died in 1703. Pepys was a man of sound principle and considerable ability; a member of the Royal Society, and a liberal patron of learned and charitable institutions. Like his kinsman Evelyn, he began early in life to keep a diary, in which he noted all passing events of moment, and from his minuteness, his prying curiosity, his candour, and his knowledge of many of the secret springs of action, his diary is a most important source of historical information. Beyond the interest of its details, and the information which it contains, it has to the literary student no other merit; the work was never intended for public use, and no attention has been paid by the author to the graces of style.

1. DESCRIPTION OF THE FIRE IN LONDON.

September 2d (Lord's-day). Some of our maids sitting up late last night to get things ready against our feast to-day, Jane called 1 To seek by low artifices; the word is only used now-a-days as a sort of slang expression.

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 backside of Mark 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 Church and most part of Fish Street already. So I down to the waterside, 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 Steel Yard while I was there. Everybody 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 water-side to another. And among other things, the poor pigeons, I perceive, were loth to leave their houses, but hovered about the windows and balconies 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 Steel 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, whereof my old schoolfellow, Elborough is parson, taken fire in the very top, and there burned till it fell down; I to Whitehall (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 come about me, and I did give them an account dismayed them all, and word was carried into the King. So I was called for, and did tell the King and Duke of York what I saw, and that unless his Majesty did command houses to be pulled down, nothing could stop the fire. They seemed much troubled, and the King commanded me to go to my Lord Mayor from him, and command him to spare no houses, but to pull down before the fire every way. The Duke of

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