Harold, son

plunder, but to sell them as slaves, or compel them to pay ransom. of Godwin, having been wrecked on the coast of Ponthieu, was imprisoned by the lord, says an historian, according to the custom of that territory. Germany appears to have been, upon the whole, the country where downright robbery was most unscrupulously practised by the great. Their castles, erected on almost inaccessible heights among the woods, became the secure receptacle of predatory bands, who spread terror over the country. From these barbarian lords of the dark ages, as from a living model, the romancers are said to have drawn their giants and other disloyal enemies of true chivalry. Robbery, indeed, is the constant theme both of the capitularies and of the Anglo-Saxon laws; one has more reason to wonder at the intrepid thirst of lucre, which induced a very few merchants to exchange the products of different regions, than to ask why no general spirit of commercial activity prevailed.

278.-THE ASTROLOGER.

BUTLER.

[SAMUEL BUTLER, the author of 'Hudibras,' the son of a farmer at Strensham in Worcestershire, was born about 1612, and was educated at the Free School of Worcester. The records of his life are very meagre. His great poem exhibits his political and religious opinions. He died in London in 1680. The wit of Butler is unrivalled; and the popularity of Hudibras' must have been at one time universal, for some of his axiomatic lines have passed into proverbs, which are still to be found amongst the colloquial pleasantries of the English people.]

He had been long t'ward mathematics,
Optics, philosophy, and statics,
Magic, horoscopy, astrology,
And was old dog at physiology;
But as a dog, that turns the spit,
Bestirs himself and plies his feet
To climb the wheel, but all in vain,
His own weight brings him down again;
And still he 's in the selfsame place
Where at his setting out he was;
So in the circle of the arts
Did he advance his nat'ral parts,
Till falling back still, for retreat,
He fell to juggle, cant, and cheat:
For as those fowls that live in water
Are never wet, he did but smatter;
Whate'er he labour'd to appear,
His understanding still was clear;
Yet none a deeper knowledge boasted,
Since old Hodge Bacon, and Bob Grosted.
He with the moon was more familiar
Than e'er was almanac well-willer;
Her secrets understood so clear,
That some believed he had been there;
Knew when she was in fittest mood
For cutting corns, or letting blood;
When sows and bitches may be spay'd,
And in what sign best cider's made;
Whether the wane be, or increase,
Pto set garlic, or sow pease;

Who first found out the man i' th'

moon,

That to the ancients was unknown;
How many dukes, and earls, and peers,
Are in the planetary spheres,
Their airy empire, and command
Their sev'ral strengths by sea and land;
What factions they've, and what they
drive at

In public vogue, or what in private ;
With what designs and interests
Each party manages contests.
He made an instrument to know
If the moon shine at full or no;
That would, as soon as e'er she shone,
straight

Whether 'twere day or night demonstrate ;
Tell what her d'ameter to an inch is,
And prove that she's not made of green

cheese.

It would demonstrate, that the man in
The moon's a sea Mediterranean;
And that it is no dog nor bitch
That stands behind him at his breech,
But a huge Caspian sea or lake,
With arms, which men for legs mistake;
How large a gulph his tail composes,
And what a goodly bay his nose is;
How many German leagues by th' scale
Cape snout's from promontory tail.

He made a planetary gin,

From this by merited degrees

Which rats would run their own heads in, He'd to more high advancement rise,

And come on purpose to be taken
Without th' expense of cheese or bacon;
With lute-strings he would counterfeit
Maggots, that crawl on dish of meat;
Quote moles and spots on any place
O' th' body, by the index face;
Cure warts and corns, with application
Of medicines to th' imagination;
Fright agues into dogs, and scare,
With rhymes, the tooth-ache and catarrh ;
Chase evil spirits away by dint
Of sickle, horseshoe, hollow flint ;
Spit fire out of a walnut-shell,
Which made the Roman slaves rebel;
And fire a mine in China, here,
With sympathetic gunpowder.
He knew whats'ever's to be known,
But much more than he knew would own.
What med'cine 'twas that Paracelsus
Could make a man with, as he tells us ;
What figur'd slates are best to make
On wat'ry surface duck or drake;
What bowling-stones, in running race
Upon a board, have swiftest pace ;
Whether a pulse beat in the black
List of a dappled louse's back;
If systole or diastole move
Quickest when he's in wrath, or love;
When two of them do run a race,
Whether they gallop, trot, or pace ;
How many scores a flea will jump,
Of his own length, from head to rump,
Which Socrates and Chærephon
In vain assay'd so long agone;
Whether his snout a perfect nose is,
And not an elephant's proboscis ;
How many diff'rent specieses

Of maggots breed in rotten cheeses;
And which are next of kin to those
Engendered in a chandler's nose;
Or those not seen, but understood,
That live in vinegar and wood.

A paltry wretch he had, half-starved,
That him in place of Zany served,
Hight Whackum, bred to dash and draw,
Not wine, but more unwholesome law :
To make 'twixt words and lines huge gaps,
Wide as meridians in maps;
To squander paper, and spare ink,
Or cheat men of their words, some think,

To be an under-conjuror,
Or journeyman astrologer :

His bus'ness was to pump and wheedle,
And men with their own keys unriddle;
To make them to themselves give
answers,

For which they pay the necromancers;
To fetch and carry intelligence
Of whom, and what, and where, and
whence,

And all discoveries disperse

Among th' whole pack of conjurors;
What cut-purses have left with them,
For the right owners to redeem,
And what they dare not vent, find out,
To gain themselves and th' art repute;
Draw figures, schemes, and horoscopes,
Of Newgate, Bridewell, brokers' shops,
Of thieves ascendant in the cart,
And find out all by rules of art :
Which way a serving-man, that's run
With clothes or money away, is gone;
Who pick'd a fob at holding-forth,
And where a watch, for half the worth,
May be redeem'd; or stolen plate
Restored at conscionable rate.
Beside all this, he served his master
In quality of poetaster,

And rhymes appropriate could make
To ev'ry month i' th' almanack;
When terms begin and end, could tell,
With their returns, in doggerel :
When the exchequer opes and shuts,
And sow-gelder with safety cuts;
When men may eat and drink their fill,
And when be temp'rate, if they will;
When use and when abstain from vice,
Figs, grapes, phlebotomy, and spice.
And as in prisons mean rogues beat
Hemp for the service of the great,
So Whackum beat his dirty brains
T' advance his master's fame and gains,
And, like the devil's oracles,
Put into dogg'rel rhymes his spells,
Which over ev'ry month's blank page
I' th' almanack, strange bilks presage.
His sonnets charm'd th' attentive crowd,
By wide mouth'd mortal troll'd aloud,
That, circled with his long-cared guests,
Like Orpheus look'd among the beasts;

A carman's horse could not pass by,
But stood tied up to poetry:
No porter's burden pass'd along,
But served for burden to his song:
Each window like a pill'ry appears,
With heads thrust through nail'd by the

ears;

All trades run in as to the sight
Of monsters, or their dear delight,
The gallows-tree, when cutting purse
Breeds bus'ness for heroic verse,

Which none does hear, but would have
hung

T'have been the theme of such a song.

Those two together long had liv'd,
In mansion, prudently contriv'd,
Where neither tree nor house could bar
The free detection of a star;
And nigh an ancient obelisk

Was raised by him, found out by Fisk,
On which was written, not in words,
But hieroglyphic mute of birds,
Many rare pithy saws, concerning
The worth of astrologic learning:
From top of this there hung a rope,
To which he fasten'd telescope;
The spectacles with which the stars
He reads in smallest characters
It happened, as a boy one night.
Did fly his tassel of a kite,

To th' houses where the planets inn,
It must be supernatural,
Unless it be that cannon-ball
That, shot i' the air, point blank upright,
Was borne to that prodigious height,
That, learn'd philosophers maintain,
It ne'er came backwards down again,
But in the airy regions yet
Hangs, like the body o' Mahomet :
For if it be above the shade,
That by the earth's round bulk is made,
'Tis probable it may from far
Appear no bullet, but a star.

This said, he to his engines flew,
Placed near at hand, in open view,
And raised it, till it levell'd right
Against the glow-worm tail of kite;
Then peeping through, Bless us, quoth he,
It is a planet now I see;

And, if I err not, by his proper
Figure, that's like tobacco-stopper,
It should be Saturn: yes, 'tis clear
'Tis Saturn; but what makes him there?
He's got between the Dragon's tail,
And farther leg behind o' th' Whale;
Pray Heav'n divert the fatal omen,
For 'tis a prodigy not common,
And can no less than the world's end,
Or nature's funeral, portend.
With that, he fell again to pry

The strangest long-wing'd hawk that flies, Through perspective more wistfully,

That, like a bird of Paradise,

Or herald's martlet, has no legs,
Nor hatches young ones, nor lays eggs;
His train was six yards long, milk white,
At th' end of which there hung a light,
Enclosed in lanthorn made of paper,
That far off like a star did appear:
This Sidrophel by chance espied,
And with amazement staring wide:
Bless us, quoth he, what dreadful wonder
Is that appears in heaven yonder?
A comet, and without a beard!
Or star, that ne'er before appear'd!
I'm certain 'tis not in the scrowl
Of all those beasts, and fish and fowl,
With which, like Indian plantations,
The learned stock the constellations;
Nor those that, drawn for signs, have beet

When, by mischance, the fatal string,
That kept the tow'ring fowl on wing,
Breaking, down fell the star. Well shot,
Quoth Whackum, who right wisely thought
He'd levell'd at a star, and hit it;
But Sidrophel, more subtle-witted,
Cried out, What horrible and fearful
Portent is this to see a star fall!
It threatens nature, and the doom
Will not be long before it come!
When stars do fall, 'tis plain enough
The day of judgment's not far off;
As lately 'twas revealed to Sedgwick,
And some of us find out by magic:
Then, since the time we have to live
In this world's shorten'd, let us strive
To make our best advantage of it,
And pay our losses with our profit.

AN ancient poet, unreasonably discontented at the present state of things, which his system of opinions obliged him to represent in its worst form, has observed of the earth, "that its greater part is covered by the uninhabitable ocean; that, of the rest, some is encumbered with naked mountains, and some lost under barren sands; some scorched with unintermitted heat, and some petrified with perpetual frost; so that only a few regions remain for the production of fruits, the pastime of cattle, and the accommodation of man."

The same observation may be transferred to the time allotted us in our present state. When we have deducted all that is absorbed in sleep, all that is inevitably appropriated to the demands of nature, or irresistibly engrossed by the tyranny of custom; all that passes in regulating the superficial decorations of life, or is given up in the reciprocations of civility to the disposal of others; all that is torn from us by the violence of disease, or stolen imperceptibly away by lassitude and languor, we shall find that part of our duration very small of which we can truly call ourselves masters, or which we can spend wholly at our own choice. Many of our hours are lost in a rotation of petty cares, in a constant recurrence of the same employments; many of our provisions for ease and happiness are always exhausted by the present day: and a great part of our existence serves no other purpose than that of enabling us to enjoy the rest.

Of the few moments which are left in our disposal, it may reasonably be expected that we should be so frugal as to let none of them slip from us without some equivalent; and, perhaps, it might be found that as the earth, however straitened by rocks and waters, is capable of producing more than all its inhabitants are able to consume, our lives, though much contracted by incidental distraction, would yet afford us a large space vacant to the exercise of reason and virtue; that we want not time, but diligence, for great performances; and that we squander much of our allowance, even while we think it sparing and insufficient.

This natural and necessary comminution of our lives, perhaps, often makes us insensible of the negligence with which we suffer them to slide away. We never consider ourselves as possessed at once of time sufficient for any great design, and therefore indulge ourselves in fortuitous amusements. We think it unnecessary to take an account of a few supernumerary moments, which, however employed, could have produced little advantage, and which were exposed to a thousand chances of disturbance and interruption.

It is observable that, either by nature or by habit, our faculties are fitted to images of a certain extent, to which we adjust great things by division, and little things by accumulation. Of extensive surfaces we can only take a survey, as the parts succeed one another; and atoms we cannot perceive till they are united into masses. Thus we break the vast periods of time into centuries and years; and thus, if we would know the amount of moments, we must agglomerate them into days and weeks.

The proverbial oracles of our parsimonious ancestors have informed us that the fatal waste of fortune is by small expenses, by the profusion of sums too little singly to alarm our caution, and which we never suffer ourselves to consider together. Of the same kind is the prodigality of life; he that hopes to look back hereafter with satisfaction upon past years, must learn to know the present value of single minutes, and endeavour to let no particle of time fall useless to the ground.

It is usual for those who are advised to the attainment of any new qualification, to look upon themselves as required to change the general course of their conduct,

to dismiss business, and exclude pleasure, and to devote their days and nights to a particular attention. But all common degrees of excellence are attainable at a lower price; he that should steadily and resolutely assign to any science or language those interstitial vacancies which intervene in the most crowded variety of diversion or employment, would find every day new irradiations of knowledge, and discover how much more is to be hoped from frequency and perseverance, than from violent efforts and sudden desires: efforts which are soon remitted when they encounter difficulty, and desires which, if they are indulged too often, will shake off the authority of reason, and range capriciously from one object to another.

The disposition to defer every important design to a time of leisure, and a state of settled uniformity, proceeds generally from a false estimate of the human powers. If we except those gigantic and stupendous intelligences who are said to grasp a system by intuition, and bound forward from one series of conclusions to another, without regular steps through intermediate propositions, the most successful students make their advances in knowledge by short flights, between each of which the mind may lie at rest. For every single act of progression a short time is sufficient; and it is only necessary that, whenever that time is afforded, it be well employed.

Few minds will be long confined to severe and laborious meditation; and when a successful attack on knowledge has been made, the student recreates himself with the contemplation of his conquest, and forbears another incursion till the newacquired truth has become familiar, and his curiosity calls upon him for fresh gratifications. Whether the time of intermission is spent in company, or in solitude, in necessary business, or in voluntary levities, the understanding is equally abstracted from the object of inquiry: but, perhaps if it be detained by occupations less pleasing, it returns again to study with greater alacrity than when it is glutted with ideal pleasures, and surfeited with intemperance of application. He that will not suffer himself to be discouraged by fancied impossibilities, may sometimes find his abilities invigorated by the necessity of exerting them in short intervals, as the force of a current is increased by the contraction of its channel.

From some cause like this it has probably proceeded that among those who have contributed to the advancement of learning, many have risen to eminence in opposition to all the obstacles which external circumstances could place in their way, amidst the tumult of business, the distresses of poverty, or the dissipations of a wandering and unsettled state. A great part of the life of Erasmus was one continual peregrination; ill supplied with the gifts of fortune, and led from city to city, and from kingdom to kingdom, by the hopes of patrons and preferment, hopes which always flattered and always deceived him he yet found means by unshaken constancy, and a vigilant improvement of those hours which, in the midst of the most reckless activity, will remain unengaged, to write more than another in the same condition would have hoped to read. Compelled by want to attendance and solicitation, and so much versed in common life, that he has transmitted to us the most perfect delineation of the manners of his age, he joined to his knowledge of the world such application to books, that he will stand for ever in the first rank of literary heroes. How this proficiency was obtained he sufficiently discovers, by informing us that the PRAISE OF FOLLY, one of his most celebrated performances, was composed by him on the road to Italy: ne totum illud tempus, quo equo fuit incidendum, illiteratis fabulis teretur; "lest the hours which he was obliged to spend on horseback should be baffled away without regard to literature."

An Italian philosopher expressed in his motto, that time was his ESTATE; an estate, indeed, which will produce nothing without cultivation, but will alwaya