Emotions in Europe 1517–1914, Volume II: Explorations 1603–1714 9780367210953, 9780429265464, 9781032007632, 9781003175506

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EMOTIONS IN EUROPE 1517–1914

EMOTIONS IN EUROPE 1517–1914

Volume II Explorations 1603–1714 Edited by Katie Barclay and François Soyer

First published 2021 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2021 selection and editorial matter, Katie Barclay and François Soyer; individual owners retain copyright in their own material. The right of Katie Barclay and François Soyer to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-0-367-21095-3 (set) eISBN: 978-0-429-26546-4 (set) ISBN: 978-1-032-00763-2 (volume II) eISBN: 978-1-003-17550-6 (volume II) Typeset in Times New Roman by Apex CoVantage, LLC

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements List of figures

xi xii

General introduction

1

Introduction to Volume II

21

PART 1

The Self

27

1 Thomas Browne (1605–1682), Religio Medici

31

2 Miquel Parets (1610–1661), A Journal of the Plague Year: The Diary of the Barcelona Tanner Miquel Parets, 1651

35

3 Samuel Pepys (1633–1703), The Diary of Samuel Pepys

38

4 Elizabeth, Viscountess Mordaunt (1632–1679), The Spiritual Diary of Elizabeth, Viscountess Mordaunt, covering the years 1656–1678

42

5 Selected excerpts of Glückel of Hameln (1646–1724), Memoirs, from The Life of Glückel of Hameln, 1646–1724, written by herself

46

6 Ralph Thoresby (1628–1725), Diary entries on the death of Mr Sharp, 1693

52

v

CONTENTS

7 Jacques Abbadie (1654–1727), The Art of Knowing One-Self, or, An Enquiry into the Sources of Morality written originally in French

57

8 Abraham de Wicquefort (1606–1682), The Embassador and his Functions

69

PART 2

Family and Community

73

9 Complainte et regret d’une jeune fille, laquelle a este executee dans la ville de Aure de Grace, en Normandie pour avoir deffaict son propre enfant. Sur le chant, Demandez l[e] a votre pere pareillement a vostre mere

77

10 Testimony from the trial of Margaret Ramsay for the murder of her own child, 5 March 1662

80

11 John Vernon, The Compleat Scholler; or, A Relation of the Life, and Latter-End especially, of Caleb Vernon who Dyed in the Lord on the 29th of the Ninth Month, 1665. Aged Twelve Years and Six Months. Commending to Youth the Most Excellent Knowledge of Christ Jesus the Lord

83

12 Antoine de Courtin (1622–1685), A Treatise of Jealousie, or, Means to Preserve Peace in Marriage wherein is Treated of I. The Nature and Effects of Jealousie, which for the Most part is the Fatal Cause of Discontents between Man and Wife, II. And because Jealousy is a Passion, it’s therefore Occasionally Discoursed of Passions in General . . . III. The Reciprocal Duties of Man and Wife . . .

92

13 An Account of a Horrid and Barbarous Murder Committed on the Body of a Young Person supposed to be of a Good Quality in the Fields beyond Whitechappel-Church in the Parish of Stepny

106

14 The Tryal of Philip Standsfield, son to Sir James Standsfield of New-Milns for the Murther of his Father, and other Crimes libell’d against him, Feb. 7. 1688

108

vi

CONTENTS

15 Louis Hennepin (1626–1704), A New Discovery of a Vast Country in America extending above Four Thousand Miles between New France and New Mexico, with a description of the Great Lakes, Cataracts, Rivers, Plants and Animals: also the Manners, Customs, and Languages of the Several Native Indians . . .

116

PART 3

Religion

121

16 Jean-François Senault (c. 1599–1672), The Use of Passions written in French by J.F. Senault; and put into English by Henry, Earl of Monmouth

125

17 Thomas Adams (1583–1652), Diseases of the Soule a Discourse Diuine, Morall, and Physicall

131

18 David Papillon (1582–1659), The Vanity of the Lives and Passions of Men

138

19 María de Jesús de Ágreda (1602–1665), Correspondence with King Philip IV of Spain

145

20 James Cranford (1592–1657), The Teares of Ireland wherein is Lively presented as in a Map a List of the Unheard off Cruelties and Perfidious Treacheries of Blood-Thirsty Jesuits and the Popish Faction

151

21 Anonymous engraving, Persecution of the Waldenses in the Piedmont, 1655–1663

158

22 Lancelot Blackburne (1658–1743), The Unreasonableness of Anger a Sermon Preach’d before the Queen at White-hall, July 29, 1694

160

PART 4

Politics and Law

171

23 Petition for Mercy Presented by William Udall to Lord Cecil (1604)

175

vii

CONTENTS

24 Eustache du Refuge (1564–1617), A Treatise of the Court or Instructions for Courtiers Digested into Two Books

178

25 Fernando Manojo de la Corte, Newes from Spaine A Relation of the Death of Don Rodrigo Calderon, Marques of Seven Churches, &c. Faithfully translated according to the Spanish Copy

191

26 Jean Le Clerc (1657–1736), The Life of the Famous Cardinal-Duke de Richlieu, Principal Minister of State to Lewis XIII, King of France and Navarr

199

27 Englands Joy turned to Mourning, for the Loss of that Vertuous Prince, Henry Duke of Glocester, 3d. Son to our late Soveraign King Charles the first: Who Departed this Life the 13 of September, in the Year of our Lord, 1660. Prepare for Death before you Dye, If you would Live Eternally. To the Tune of, Aim not too high

206

28 The Spirit in Heaven of that Illustrious Orange-Martyr, Henry de Fleury, lord of Buat, etc, 1672

210

29 John Gadbury (1627–1704), A True Narrative of the Horrid Hellish Popish-Plot. To the Tune of Packington’s Pound, The First Part [s.l.: s.n., 1682]

212

30 Petition of Roger Silkston, a poor prisoner in Derby gaol at the Derbyshire Quarter Sessions: 1680

220

PART 5

Science and Philosophy

223

31 Robert Burton (1577–1640), The Anatomy of Melancholy vvhat it is. VVith all the Kindes, Causes, Symptomes, Prognostickes, and Seuerall Cures of it

227

32 Jacques Ferrand (c.1575–c.1623), Erōtomania or A Treatise discoursing of the Essence, Causes, Symptomes, Prognosticks, and Cure of Love, or Erotique Melancholy

243

viii

CONTENTS

33 Nicholas Coeffeteau (1574–1623), A Table of Humane Passions with their Causes and Effects

251

34 René Descartes (1596–1650), The Passions of the Soule in Three Books the first, treating of the Passions in Generall, and occasionally of the Whole Nature of Man. The Second, of the Number, and Order of the Passions, and the Explication of the Six Primitive Ones. The Third, of Particular Passions

264

35 Jakob Böhme (1575–1624), A Consolatory Treatise of the Four Complexions, that is, an Instruction in the Time of Temptation for a Sad and Assaulted Heart shewing where-from Sadness Naturally Ariseth, and how the Assaulting Happeneth: hereto are annexed some Consolatory Speeches exceeding Profitable for the Assaulted Hearts & Souls, written . . . March 1621

269

36 Marin Cureau de la Chambre (1594–1669), A Discourse upon the Passions in Two Parts

276

37 Baruch Spinoza (1632–1677), The Ethics

283

38 Théophraste Renaudot (1585–1653), Another Collection of Philosophical Conferences of the French Virtuosi upon Questions of All Sorts for the Improving of Natural Knowledg made in the Assembly of the Beaux Esprits at Paris by the most Ingenious Persons of that nation

297

39 Nicholas Malebranche (1638–1715), Father Malebranche his Treatise concerning the Search after Truth The Whole Work Complete. To which is added the author’s Treatise of Nature and Grace

303

40 William Greenwood, Aπογραφη Στοργης, or, A Description of the Passion of Love demonstrating its Original, Causes, Effects, Signes, and Remedies

318

41 Thomas Willis (1621–1675), Two Discourses concerning the Soul of Brutes which is that of the Vital and Sensitive of Man. The First is Physiological, shewing the Nature, Parts, Powers,

ix

CONTENTS

and Affections of the Same. The Other is Pathological, which Unfolds the Diseases which Affect it and its Primary Seat; to wit, the Brain and Nervous Stock, and Treats of their Cures

334

PART 6

Art and Culture

343

42 Vicente Carducho (1576/78–1638), La Expulsión de los Moriscos

347

43 Carte du Tendre: An Allegorical Map of ‘the Land of Love’

349

44 Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn (1606–1669), Self Portrait in a Cap Laughing, and Laughing Soldier

351

45 Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598–1680), Ecstasy of Saint Teresa

354

46 Pedro de Mena (1628–1688), Virgin of Sorrows

356

47 Gabriel Joseph de Lavergne, vicomte de Guilleragues (1628–1684), Five Love-Letters from a Nun to a Cavalier

358

48 Charles Le Brun (1619–1690), The Conference of Monsieur Le Brun: cheif [sic] painter to the French King, upon Expression, General and Particular

363

x

ACKNOWLEDGEM ENTS

This project was inspired by our time working together at the Adelaide node of the ARC Centre of Excellence in the History of Emotions, and the collegial and intellectual networks gained from that experience. We would like to thank many of our colleagues in the centre and beyond for the research that highlighted the importance of particular sources, for offering us source material for this collection, for checking translations and more. We are particularly grateful to: Susan Broomhall; Kirk Essary; Nina Koefoed; Ina Lindblom; Dolly MacKinnon, Una McIlvenna; Dana Rehn; Yann Rodier; Deborah Simonton; Raisa Toivo; Kaarle Wirta; and Ghil’ad Zuckermann. Thanks also to the various archives and collections that made their materials available for this collection. We also thank our families for their support and patience, particularly during 2020 – a trying year for everyone.

xi

F IGURES

21.1 Anonymous, Persecution of the Waldenses in the Piedmont, 1655–1663, engraving, courtesy of the Rijkmuseum 42.1 Vicente Carducho, La Expulsión de los Moriscos, 1627, Blue wash and pen on paper, Prado Museum, Madrid 43.1 François Chauveau (1613–1676), Carte du Tendre: An Allegorical Map of ‘the Land of Love’, 1654–1661, engraving 44.1 Rembrandt, Self Portrait in a Cap Laughing, 1630, etching on paper, courtesy of the Rijkmuseum, Amsterdam 44.2 Rembrandt, Laughing Soldier, ca. 1630, oil, copper on panel, Mauritshuis, The Hague 45.1 Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, 1651, marble, Church of Santa Maria della Vittoria, Rome 46.1 Pedro de Mena, Virgin of Sorrows, c. 1675, polychromed wood, with glass eyes and tears, The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge 48.1 Charles Le Brun, ‘Scorn and Hatred’, The Conference of Monsieur Le Brun, 1701, etching 48.2 Charles Le Brun, ‘Horror’, The Conference of Monsieur Le Brun, 1701, etching 48.3 Charles Le Brun, ‘Terror’, The Conference of Monsieur Le Brun, 1701, etching 48.4 Charles Le Brun, ‘Terrour’, The Conference of Monsieur Le Brun, 1701, etching 48.5 Charles Le Brun, ‘Sorrow’, The Conference of Monsieur Le Brun, 1701, etching 48.6 Charles Le Brun, ‘Sorrow and Dejection of the Heart’, The Conference of Monsieur Le Brun, 1701, etching 48.7 Charles Le Brun, ‘Laughter’, The Conference of Monsieur Le Brun, 1701, etching

xii

159 348 350 352 353 355 357 366 367 368 369 370 371 372

G E NERAL INTROD UCTI ON Katie Barclay and François Soyer

The history of emotions is a flourishing field that seeks to understand how emotions, and things that resemble them in historic societies, are defined and categorised in different times and places, and what difference that makes to human experience. Scholars working in this area have come from a range of disciplines – history, art history, music, film studies, theatre, philosophy, literary studies, linguistics, anthropology, sociology, and more – producing an array of studies that deploy a wide variety of sources and methodological approaches. As with other historical topics, there is no single type of source useful for uncovering emotions. Rather emotions, or something like them, can be found in most areas of life and so can be found in all sorts of source materials. This four-volume collection of sources for the history of emotions provides a diverse range of sources that survive for Europe and its empires between 1517 and 1914. Given the scope of the topic, it cannot hope to capture every type of source, or indeed represent every group. Rather, the collection collates a range of sources where emotions, passions, affections and similar experiences were explored or used by individuals and groups, with the goal of providing a resource that acts as a starting point for conducting research in the history of emotions. The sources, grouped into thematic sections, are intended to highlight how emotions might be identified in sources of different periods, and the themes and issues to which emotions scholarship offers insight. There are now several resources that provide methodologies and approaches to working with emotions in historical sources and this collection is designed to be used alongside them, for those seeking to expand their skills and knowledge in this area.1 This general introduction to the volumes complements this work by offering a brief overview of what the history of emotions is, the way scholarship has developed in the field (especially in relation to the thematic sections that order the collection), some methodologies and approaches that are helpful when working with sources, and finally some insight into the scope and logic of the four volumes. Each volume, divided by historical period, contains its own separate introduction that places its sources in their specific contexts.

1

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

What is the history of emotions? What is an emotion? The answer may appear simple: emotions are feelings like love, joy, anger or fear but an emotion has been defined by psychological research variously as a feeling in the body, a mental state that results in a specific physiological reaction and behaviour, or a cognitive judgment caused by a stimulus resulting in an emotion. Emotions have been divided into two categories by contemporary science: ‘basic’ emotions associated with facial and gestural displays of emotions such as joy, sadness and anger, for example, and ‘complex’ emotions such as surprise, hate, shame and contempt. Mixed or even seemingly conflicting emotional states have also been identified, for instance fear and awe, or horror and fascination.2 Nevertheless, there still remains much to learn about emotions and scientists continue to seek to understand their origins and how they relate to the body. A comprehensive review of the existing scientific data produced by neuroscientists recently concluded that there exists little concrete evidence proving that emotion categories originate in a particular section or area of the brain, but how they are produced through the body is still a topic of exploration.3 Whilst historians of emotions are interested in emotions as such and how they have been understood at different historical moments, their focus extends further to consider another question: how have emotions shaped individuals, societies and cultures in the past? Compared to other historical methodologies, the history of emotions is a relatively recent development. In the first half of the twentieth century, a number of eminent scholars pointed to the significance of emotions as drivers of historical change. Seeking to account for the rise of Nazism, the French historian Lucien Febvre encouraged his fellow historians to study emotions and the ‘irrational’, what he termed the history of ‘sensibility’ (sensibilité). Febvre passionately argued in 1941 that ‘the emotional life [is] always ready to overflow into the intellectual life . . . [; people might say:] The history of hate, the history of fear, the history of cruelty, the history of love; stop bothering us with this unexciting literature! But that unexciting literature [. . .] will tomorrow have turned the universe into a fetid charnel house’.4 Even before Febvre, Johan Huizinga and Nobert Elias were influenced by Freudian psychoanalysis to assign a major role to emotions in a perceived shift from the medieval to the modern period. Elias, in particular, perceived the change from a Middle Ages characterised by anger and violence to a more genteel modern period as part of a ‘civilising process’ driven by the emotion of shame.5 Whilst such early theories about the role of emotions in historical change are now subject to considerable critique among historians, the history of emotions continues to thrive as a historical methodology. Research monographs, edited collections of chapters and peer-reviewed articles on topics related to the emotions in history are appearing in seemingly ever-increasing numbers.6 Research institutes devoted to the history of emotions have appeared in Europe and Australia. Historians have increasingly engaged in interdisciplinary collaboration with 2

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

neuroscientists and psychologists to further our understanding of emotions or mental states as part of a broader biocultural historicism. Since the 1980s, the historians Peter and Carol Stearns, Barbara Rosenwein and William Reddy have authored influential studies and elaborated concepts that have helped to shape the History of Emotions. The Stearnses coined the term ‘emotionology’ to define ‘the attitudes or standards that a society, or a definable group within society, maintains towards basic emotions, and their appropriate expression; ways that institutions reflect and encourage these attitudes in human conduct’.7 Their published work on the emotionology of anger in the history of the United States has provided scholars with an exemplar and provoked debate about the possible class-bias in that work’s use of primary sources.8 Barbara Rosenwein, on the other hand, has critiqued the emphasis on standards in emotionology and focused instead on the concept of ‘emotional communities’, groups of individuals bound together by ‘systems of feeling’ where emotions are understood and valued, or not, in the same way.9 Such emotional communities, Rosenwein contends, can be identified through a careful analysis of written texts. Finally, Reddy pioneered the concept of ‘emotional regimes’, which he defined as a set of normative emotions as well as the official rituals, practices and emotional expressions that are used to express and inculcate them.10 Historians of emotions are confronted by, and seek to come to grips with, important and challenging questions about the nature of emotions. Are emotions universal mental states, which is to say biological and identical among all humans? Are they socially and culturally constructed, and therefore shaped by an individual’s specific cultural and/or social background? In her work on the emotion of fear, the historian Joanna Bourke has noted the complexity of this issue. Fear is felt, and although the emotion of fear cannot be reduced to the sensation of fear, nevertheless, it is not present without sensation. In noting that the body is not simply a shell through which emotions are expressed, the social contructivists are correct. Discourse shapes bodies. However, bodies also shape discourse: people are ‘weak or pale with fright’, ‘paralysed by fear’ and ‘chilled by terror.’ The feeling of fear may be independent of social construction, a one-sided process. [. . .] Nevertheless, emotions are fundamentally constituted.11 To the thorny issue of nature versus nurture can be added even more questions. Are emotions shaped by time and place? Did a sixteenth-century European experience love, anger or fear differently from a twentieth-century European? Did the words used in past centuries to convey mental states have the same meanings when compared to those used today, even when those words are the same ones? How did the meanings attached to words shape the experience of emotion and vice versa? Finally, to what extent are emotions really drivers of political, religious, cultural and social change?

3

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

To bring answers to these questions, or at least to formulate theories that could help us answer them and challenge many assumptions about emotions in the past, historians of emotions work with a wide variety of source evidence: words (texts/ poetry), pictures (paintings, movies, posters), sound (effect of music on people). They search for, and analyse ‘emotives’ (expressions that produce emotions), ‘emotional habitus’ (the embodied, partly unconscious emotional disposition of a group) and ‘emotional practices’ (the things that we do to produce emotion, involving the self (as body and mind), language, material artefacts, the environment and other people). It is perhaps unsurprising that, given the diverse range of sources used, the history of emotions gathers together historians with a remarkable variety of approaches. Some historians analyse ‘emotion words’ and how they changed.12 Other scholars have explored the history of medicine and ideas for evidence of changes in the way that people understood emotions and body to be related or how people practiced emotions in everyday life in a variety of different contexts (for instance in religious and political rituals, in private writings or in courtrooms). Some historians of the emotions have focused their research on a historical analysis of emotional norms and rules. More recently, the methodological spectrum of the history of emotions has expanded to include performative, constructivist and practice theory approaches.13 Whilst the history of emotions seeks to study the emotions of individuals in the past, it also seeks to foster a better understanding of what can be termed ‘collective emotions’ in history. This is a particularly problematic subject. ‘Mental structuralists’ such as Sigmund Freud (1856–1939) and Carl Jung (1875–1961) accepted the existence of a collective unconscious and they thus contended that collective mental states could influence individuals. For these early psychologists, there existed ‘universals’ and ‘archetypes’ of the human mind that, like instincts, could trigger such collective mental states. Examples of such ‘collective mental states’ were ‘war fever’ or the collective love for the leader that seems to power personality cults.14 More recently, some psychologists have interpreted collective emotional states as a form of mass sociogenic illness: a medical condition similarly affecting numerous individuals within a wider group.15 Yet the concept of a collective mental state is problematic for historians since it is difficult to obtain conclusive primary source evidence supporting the notion that individuals who appear to be involved in a ‘collective mental state’ actually experience the same emotion.16 Even though it is difficult to establish the existence of collective mental states using historical primary source evidence, there can be no doubt that those who exercise power in human societies have believed in their existence and sought to foster or enforce such collective emotional states. Historians of emotions have elaborated upon this concept by examining the role that emotions have played in the formation of communal identities or ‘emotional communities’. In his work on the emotions, the historian and anthropologist Reddy has coined the phrase ‘emotional regimes’ to describe such a situation, in which ‘any enduring political regime must establish as an essential element a normative order for emotions’.17 This is particularly significant for historians studying Europe in the period covered 4

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

by these four volumes, which witnessed the rise of national states and national identities against the context of the Reformation, imperial expansion, Absolutism, the Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution. Between 1517 and 1914, secular and religious authorities invested considerable resources and efforts into attempts to shape the emotions of their subjects to bring about (or alternatively to prevent) social, religious or political change. The centuries covered in the first and second volumes of this sourcebook witnessed the growth of the modern European state system and what historians have described as the process of ‘confessionalisation’.18 Across both Catholic and Protestant Europe, rulers sought to secure the unity and loyalty of their subjects, and therefore their hold on power, by promoting among them a homogeneity of religious belief. By way of illustration, the Jesuit theologian and political theorist Juan de Mariana argued in his 1599 Latin treatise on royal government that a shared faith was the only ‘social bond’ (societatis vinculum) that could maintain social order in a kingdom and that lack of religious unity was a path that would inevitably lead to anarchy.19 Emotions such as love, fear, hatred and disgust were (and are) crucial to defining who belongs within a religious community and who does not, and so played a significant role in how this ‘social bond’ of faith was understood. Moreover, the period covered by the third and fourth volumes saw the rise of national identities and nation-states. In 1983, Benedict Anderson published Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism¸ arguing that the origins of modern nationalism are to be found in mass vernacular literacy, the movement to abolish the ideas of rule by divine right and hereditary monarchy and the emergence of printing press capitalism.20 Historians of emotion will add to this that it is impossible to understand national identities as anything but emotional communities sustained by ritual practices and supposed cultural and/or ethnic affinities. Indeed, what are national communities if not emotional communities? As this example suggests, collective emotions are important, not only because they move emotion from the personal to the social, but because they are therefore central to explaining historical change. In this sense, emotions are not just interesting experiences that provide insight into the intersection between the biological and the cultural but key to a broad range of historical subfields and themes.

Historical emotions A scholarship on the history of emotions is growing rapidly across time and increasingly around the globe. Doing justice to such a diversity of work and the sources they deploy is beyond the scope of a single source compilation, and so this collection settled on Europe and its empire between 1517 and 1914. This in part reflects that this period has now a rich and established secondary literature on the topic, that has in many ways led the field, marked now in a range of general introductions and surveys to this topic.21 This is particularly the case when we turn to the themes used to organise the collection: the self, family and community, 5

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

religion, politics and law, science and philosophy, and art and culture. Viewed through these lenses, the role of emotion in biological and personal experience is significant, but as central is how the study of emotions brings insight into the operations of groups and societies, to the exercise of power, to systems of belief and values, to the production of knowledge and ideas, and to human expression in its diverse forms. Both emotions and the ‘self’ are relatively novel concepts used to explore the human as a sensate and self-reflective creature. Yet if such labels have only emerged in the last few centuries, nonetheless Europeans have attended to what makes the person, including explorations of mind and body, emotions, passions and affections, motivation and will, intention, and many other similar concepts that seek to locate what makes the human. The history of emotions has contributed to a broader conversation about the nature of the self in different historical moments, whilst drawing attention to the important role that emotions have played in shaping concepts like will, motivation, morality, judgements, imagination and the capacity of the body to interpret information.22 Mental health and illness has been significant to discussions here, where ‘disordered’ emotions have not only caused people distressing symptoms but also been used as mechanisms of control and exclusion of those whose emotional world is seen as disruptive or disorderly.23 Over 400 years and the various language groups that distinguish Europe, historians have drawn attention to the various words associated the self and emotion, explaining what they mean in context, and how they have developed over time. Significant here has been a history of passions, affections and later emotions themselves, all concepts with distinct meanings in different times and places, as well as the history of how people experience individual emotions like melancholy, jealousy, love or compassion. As well as exploring ideas about the self, historians have also sought to explore how they were applied in everyday life or in specific contexts, like the practice of the faith, or by people of different genders, races or even ages. Words and ideas change over time, and so has how these knowledges shaped individual behaviours. Emotions are also things that people have sought to manage in various ways, using a range of tools to train the self to feel and so behave in different ways. An interest in emotion management has placed significant attention on the history of prescriptive and self-help literature, a form that existed across this period if changing in style and the nature of advice given.24 However, perhaps the predominant source to which a history of the self and emotion has drawn attention has been what are called ‘narratives of self’, the diaries, letters, oral histories, and other forms of personal testimony where people offered an accounting of the self. If prescriptive literature sees some significant continuities, narratives of self can vary enormously over time. Diaries are rare in the sixteenth century, but expand dramatically in the following centuries. Letters are an ancient form, but survival rates for different groups vary enormously, limiting whose voices are heard, and their uses evolve. Oral histories and similar data are a product of new scientific collecting activities from the late nineteenth century onwards. Such technologies, 6

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

and how they were produced, shape the selves that could be narrated and so a rich vein of scholarship explores how such accounts relate to the embodied experience of emotion by individuals.25 Personal experiences of emotions, as this might suggest, are closely associated with ideas about what emotions are and how they work. Prescriptive literature provided a useful source of information about how such ideas were communicated to ordinary people, as does a history of religious teachings. But to understand how knowledge about emotion was developed and changed over time, historians have tended to turn to a formal body of religious, philosophic and scientific writings. Much of this work was produced in formal ‘academic’ contexts, such as the theological writings of monks, the philosophical texts of academics, or the experiments produced by scientists in laboratories, and so reflects the ideas of those who had access to education, time to write and think, and means of publishing their ideas. When these ideas are compared, however, it is possible to chart a trajectory of changing ideas about the mind, body and emotion, as the emotions moved from the sphere of religious life to a secular philosophy and eventually to the laboratory. Here historians have emphasised both changes from passions and affections to modern categories of emotion, and new ideas of the body as the humoural model declined in favour of vitalities, nerves, senses and so forth.26 For all of the period 1517 to 1914, a focus on formal scholarship gave especial authority to the ideas of men, and typically elite and highly educated men, about emotion, with implications for the knowledge produced. As a number of scholars have shown, ideas about emotion were often used to delimitate women as especially emotional or irrational, and so to limit their role in public life. Increasingly, especially with imperial expansion, similar stereotypical beliefs were applied to other racial groups, where emotional expression was often used to categorise people as ‘civilised’ or otherwise. This picture should not be overstated. In all periods, a small number of elite women or ethnic minorities –a group that grew with every century – tried to intervene in such conversations, not least to counter their own oppression. In some areas, like education and child development, they even became particularly influential.27 Historians seeking to widen this conversation on what emotion is in particular contexts have therefore sought to expand definitions of what counts as formal knowledge about emotion. This has included looking at branches of knowledge that were influential at the time, but later discredited and therefore underplayed in formal histories of science and medicine. An important example here is the nineteenth-century practice of phrenology, a quack science but extremely popular during the period.28 Folk knowledges and practices also offer suggestive potential, although remaining an under-studied area of research for emotions.29 The knowledges and beliefs of minority groups provide insight into subcultures or alternative systems of information. Significantly, such histories often bring a broader range of voices – women, minority groups, different cultures – into sight, not only democratising scholarship but highlighting how ideas that we later, in hindsight, 7

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

recognise as important competed with a rich diversity of others during particular historical periods. As this might suggest, ideas about emotions are produced by groups and societies. This idea has been especially critical for historians of emotion who have understood the experience of emotion to be shaped not only by formal knowledges of how the body works but by socially agreed ideas and norms about how, when and by whom emotion should be expressed, what that looks like on the body, whether such emotion is moral or immoral, ‘negative’ or ‘positive’, how others should respond to such emotional expression, and so forth. The practice or performance of emotion for most historians is understood as socially constituted and so therefore informed by the culture and society in which it is experienced. Emotion is also an experience that mediates the relationship within the group. Family is here perhaps a central unit, which for all of the period of this study in Europe was expected to be a site of emotion. Family members were expected to love one another and show associated emotions that might include loyalty, obedience, trust, compassion and care; family members, ideally at least, should conversely not experience anger or hate towards one another. In practice, as a range of historians show, family was a location where people felt and expressed the full gamut of emotional experience available in any given period, and where the expression and experience of such emotion was informed by cultural ideas about what was appropriate or otherwise, as well as what an emotion – say love – meant.30 Familial emotions were also influenced by changing ideas about the role of family within philosophical and scientific writings, where parental love became a critical emotion that ensured the survival of the species and where child-rearing practices produced the emotionally mature adult.31 A key idea in the scholarship of emotions is that some emotions are especially ‘social’ and so designed to mediate group relationships, through providing an emotional connection between individuals. Significant emotions here include love, especially caritas or neighbourly love, compassion, pity, sympathy and later empathy. Different terms held different resonances at particular historic moments, but they share the quality of allowing, to greater or lesser degree, for people to commiserate with another and so to encourage people to act together to relieve suffering or reduce harm.32 For contemporary scientists, such feeling has biological value in ensuring human survival, but other periods too prized such feeling as especially moral or ethical. If this is the case, emotion could also be anti-social, with selfish and competitive feelings placing people in competition, sometimes encouraging violence or conflict.33 Following the lead of these variously sociable emotions, historians, then, have been especially interested in exploring the role of emotion in different group activities, as well as how these were informed by specific contexts. In many respects, a scholarship on religious emotion and another on law and politics are a subset of these larger questions around group feeling. Emotion has long been significant to religion in Europe, where the experience of the divine, or of moral rectitude, was understood as an embodied experience. As a result, people 8

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engaged in a range of activities to try and produce certain feelings associated with the divine, such as joy or peace, or to avoid those that were associated with sin, like anger or lust. These might include personal devotional practices, including prayer, worship, keeping a spiritual diary, acts of charity, reading and many others. They also included group events and rituals, such as attending religious services, group singing and worship, listening to a sermon, reading or teaching, prayer, religious processions, and engaging in ritual practices.34 Some environments, like churches, were designed to promote religious devotion, through their architecture, but also by including moving paintings of religious scenes designed to direct the emotions of their audiences.35 Religious rituals have often been of special interest to historians because they were designed to shape emotional experience, not simply through imagination or ideas, but through embodied practices, such as moving the body, eating or fasting, mortifications of the flesh, or similar visceral experiences.36 Thus, a history of religious ritual has provided important insight, not only into a key part of the lives of most people during the period 1517 to 1914 and how that changed over time, but also to how people imagined emotions to operate in general. Religious rituals and experiences were also critical to group dynamics. Not only did religious identities fragment and reform repeatedly in the centuries under study here, but they were key to the formation of communities and their boundaries. Thus religious practices were often designed to consolidate the group – inducing feeling as part of a group activity was designed to consolidate affective connections within the community and to reinforce a sense of cohesiveness. In this sense, religious practice often overlapped significantly with political identities, and indeed many states and their monarch co-opted religious rituals to consolidate their own power. For example, a king might hold public baptisms of converts to reinforce his own authority. As this suggests, many rulers during this period were acutely aware of the importance of deploying rituals to produce political and group identities, including that of the nation itself.37 Increasingly these activities were designed to bring together diverse communities, whether that was people of various religions, of different languages and regions, or – and especially as Europeans moved aggressively into the rest of the globe – people of different races and cultures. Yet, these were not the only political tools available. Propaganda, political writings, speeches and other forms of rhetoric were all designed to persuade individuals and groups of the nature of authority and its appropriate seat.38 More broadly, and following Reddy’s lead, the polity itself could be defined by the experience and valuation of emotion, where emotions viewed as wrong or antisocial could be prohibited in law or discouraged through less formal mechanisms, like shunning. Thus a history of emotions has attended to how the management and control of emotion has been used to produce power relationships, and their role in acts of resistance and negotiation.39 The role of emotions in the law is a growing field, not least in Anglophone contexts where the law was seen to be the rational counterpart to feeling.40 Who could experience particular emotions, or indeed control their emotions, has also been explored as a site of contest for social 9

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

groups limited from power due to their supposed emotionality. Thus women used claims to their rationality to gain access to political power, and enslaved peoples highlighted their sensibility to argue for human rights. Emotions have played an important role in the history of rights-making, with social emotions like empathy seen to be deployed to persuade people to expand rights.41 Conversely, such humanitarian emotions have also vested power in some groups, like the middle class or imperial authorities, over those who they are seen to ‘help’ or ‘care for’, like the poor or indigenous communities.42 If emotions are implicated in the production of power and the oppression of individuals and groups, their significance to communication meant they could also be critical to art and culture, where people sought to describe, imagine, reinvent and encourage humanity, including their feelings. In European culture, the efficacy of most formal art forms, not unlike religious belief, has been related to its capacity to move an audience. Some types of art were expressly designed with this purpose, while by the nineteenth century, philosophers were exploring art as emotion itself. Instrumental music was considered a special form of art, situated outside of language; for some eighteenth-century philosophers, music was the original mechanism for communicating before the invention of language – here people used the capacity of music to move people as a form of communication.43 Across the period covered in these volumes, people explored how to effectively represent human emotions in different art forms – whether on the body in paintings or in ways that ‘felt’ real to readers of novels. Art could also provide a pedagogic function, whether in encouraging religious devotion and so godly feeling, or in providing examples of emotional behaviour that people could use to expand their emotional range.44 As a result, art and culture has been used by historians of emotions not only to further our understanding of emotion in the realm of creative life but also for its insights into how communities imagined emotions to work in a range of contexts. Paintings of emotional expression on faces and bodies provide evidence of emotional gestures and expressions; instructions for expressive dance or the stage highlight how people should move or gesture to display emotion; the elaborate scenes described in novels provide insight into how people imagined emotions to work in particular contexts, such as courtship or during a riot. If art and literature requires to be explored sensitively – like fiction today, not all art was meant to reflect ‘real’ life – it nonetheless can provide access to a range of human experiences that often don’t survive elsewhere. Art and culture are an area where significant variations and inventions in genre can be traced over time. Thus, styles in portraiture evolve significantly, sometimes for technical reasons (e.g., new paints are invented) and sometimes because artistic fashions change; expressive writing adapts, with poetry and drama moving aside for an increase in prose works. The expansion of some art forms, like drama or music, reflect that these practices moved outside the field of religious practice into more everyday cultural expressions. Explorations of art and culture therefore raise particularly interesting questions for historians as to the role of genre in shaping the expression of emotion, and where the historian has to ask whether a 10

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

change in a description of emotion reflected changing social practice or simply the evolution of artistic style and its associated emotional expression. Yet, if art and culture perhaps highlight such questions, such issues are pertinent for all sources. Thus, if a wide secondary literature in this field highlights the exciting range of directions that research can take in this field, new historians also want to ensure they approach their sources with appropriate concepts, methods and theories.

Sources and methods As a form of historical research, the history of emotions shares many methodological concerns with the rest of the field, where primary sources – the data that survives from a period which we wish to understand – are the critical building blocks for our debates and arguments. Therefore, like all historians, we attend to the conditions in which a source was produced and survived. This means asking who made it, for what purpose, and why did it survive, and then using these insights to inform our analysis of it as a piece of evidence. Yet, the history of emotions also raises novel issues – what does it mean to look for emotion in historical material, what counts as evidence of emotion, and how do we know when we have found it? Emotion, perhaps especially as something ephemeral, has therefore required the development of a range of concepts, methodologies and approaches to aid source interpretation.45 Perhaps the earliest approaches to the history of emotion focused on what might be called the history of science and medicine – of the development of the modern concept of emotion and its history. Where texts used this language and largely reflected ideas that the modern reader is used to today, this was a relatively straightforward exercise – scholars looked for the words and ideas that we recognised as related to emotion and explored how thinkers developed them. Moving backwards in time to the predecessors of such concepts was more fraught. How does a historian decide what to place in the ‘category’ of ‘emotion’? Passions and affections seem to describe similar concepts to emotions – they are embodied experiences – but they arise from a very different model of biology and contain elements that we would not recognise as part of emotion today. The decision to include passion and affection in the category of emotion was therefore a choice made by scholars today and one that another scholar might dispute or argue about. We might feel comfortable with that choice, but such decisions raise important questions about categorisation, especially across time and culture. At some level, we make connections between ideas or words because we think the overlap is close enough, not because it is perfect. In the history of emotions, this has led to one of our most significant debates – can we truly compare emotions? On the one hand, most historians accept that if we are to be a ‘field’ – a group of people engaged in a conversation on the same topic – then we’re going to have to be happy with a capacious category called emotion. However, we are less happy that it is useful to compare, say, anger with ire or choler. Some historians, rather, emphasise that cultural concepts associated 11

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

with emotion should be interpreted strictly in context and comparisons kept to a minimum. Others, especially those interested in change over time, argue that if we are to create a history of emotion that such comparisons are required, even if we recognise their flexibility.46 For scholars who ultimately believe the body is universal across cultures, they also see such comparisons as helpful at capturing shared experiences across human cultures. One of the first things a historian of emotion has to decide therefore is what they are studying in the past and how that relates to contemporary concepts, and so the study of emotion often begins with defining the categories of research quite closely. Often the first place to begin an exploration of emotion is by identifying emotion words in sources and then building up a ‘corpus’ or body of emotion words. Today, with the availability of academic dictionaries, a scholar starting out has a significant advantage in identifying such words. If the vocabulary might be different from today’s, nonetheless the process of looking for the words would be similar to now. The historian closely reads their material, looking for emotional words, where they appear, why, and their impacts, and from that begins to understand what they mean. Importantly, not all emotion words relate to an emotional concept like love or hate; rather, sometimes emotion words are words that have emotional effects in particular cultures. An example today might be child or terrorist, where the usage of such a term brings with it rich affective connotations that ‘move’ the reader or produce emotion. If these might be less obvious to a new historian, nonetheless the principle of identifying them through a close reading of the material and trying to understand their rhetorical impact remains the same. Such an approach is particularly useful for identifying and understanding particular emotional concepts, like love or hate. But historians might also be interested in why such words are being used in that particular source material and the intended effect of such writing. Here we might ask ourselves why a person was writing and what they wanted to achieve by doing so. Was this a personal spiritual diary designed for them to reflect on their relationship with God and therefore bring themselves closer to the divine? Or was this a political pamphlet designed to persuade a reader to a revolutionary action? Understanding the relationship between emotion words and their uses for particular purposes can help us better understand how emotions are meant to work in a particular culture. For example, if a spiritual diary described grief at personal sin at considerable length, then we might learn about the importance of the emotions of contrition to becoming closer to God. Similarly, if a political pamphlet used the word love repeatedly to persuade people to a cause, we might better understand how people were meant to feel about the revolutionary cause in which they engaged. Sometimes we find unexpected emotions in such places, challenging our own modern ideas about the role of emotions in everyday life, or indeed see how emotions that no longer exist were used in historical context. This sort of exploration can be especially important for historians of emotion who are less interested in tracing meanings and ideas about particular emotions than in understanding what role emotion played in social, economic, political, 12

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

and intimate life. Here the historian might be less interested in the exact emotion being produced than in how emotions are engaged in social action. Thus a historian might read a source with the goal of understanding its intended impact on an audience, and look for the emotional effects of a source. Doing so might mean exploring the place of emotion in texts that contain very few ‘emotion words’ (like love and hate) but still have rhetorical impact. It also opens up a history of source materials that do not contain writing – material goods, buildings, landscapes. Historians may, for example, study a cathedral to explore how its design and features were intended to produce particular feelings in a person; similarly, they might consider how goods were exchanged in courtship or where clothing was worn to mark that a person was grieving. Here the physical and material world might become part of how people ‘do’ emotion and so useful for helping us access such experiences. Not all emotional experiences are immediately apparent in source material, especially when we are looking at societies very different from our own. And so historians have also developed a set of tools or concepts to help us identify emotions in source material. Such tools might be understood as a set of lenses that help us see things we might otherwise not have noticed, or ways of defining emotions that lets us recognise them in very different cultures. As noted above, these include ‘emotional communities’, ‘emotional regimes’ and ‘emotional practices’, alongside others like ‘emotional economies’, ‘affective atmospheres’ and ‘emotional arenas’.47 Each of these concepts has been defined by emotions theorists for use when approaching our sources, and they are helpful because they allow us to see where emotions might be operating between individuals or within groups. For example, ‘affective atmospheres’ describes the way that environments can shape human behaviour and emotion to produce collective feelings or group connectedness. A historian might therefore have a source where people at a pop concert and all become overwhelmed by the experience, and can identify this experience as ‘emotional’ because it is explained by the idea of affective atmospheres. Another historian might find ‘emotional economies’ useful for highlighting how emotions, like hate, stick to people or things, and so inform how they are treated by others. An example here might be hatred towards migrants that ‘sticks’ to them so they are abused or assaulted in the street. A historian seeing a description of such an event might recognise that emotions were in operation in such an experience because the idea of ‘emotional economies’ helps them interpret what they have encountered. There are many such tools available and other resources that explain them and how they might be used with historical sources. Some more traditional historical tools – like the lenses of gender, race and class – might also be helpful in aiding analyses. Were emotions expected to, or indeed did they, vary across social groups? The sources chosen for these volumes have been selected for those coming to the study of emotions with no prior learning. However, it may be that further reading on emotions concepts might enable new or different readings of the sources in this volume, and readers may wish to experiment and explore how applying such ideas enriches understanding of the material. 13

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

Emotions in Europe 1517–1914 The editors have chosen to separate this sourcebook into four volumes. Volume 1 spans the period between 1517 and 1602; Volume 2 between 1603 and 1714; Volume 3 between 1715 and 1789; Volume 4 between 1790 and 1914. Historical periodisation is always subjective and the editors recognise that the choice of dates to divide these volumes might appear to be arbitrary to some readers. It is impossible to pinpoint precise dates in early modern history as marking ‘turning-points’ in the history of emotions. Martin Luther’s publication of his Ninety-Five Theses, in 1517, the establishment of the Dutch East Indies Company (1602), the end of the War of the Spanish Succession (1714), the start of the French Revolution (1789) and the start of the First World War (1914) are all watersheds in European history. These events caused political, religious, social and cultural upheavals and developments in the early modern and modern periods that also affected the way that Europeans thought and wrote about emotions. As such, it is more profitable to consider that these four volumes correspond roughly to the sixteenth, seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In the sixteenth century, the impact of the reclamation of Greco-Roman culture and art as a result of the Renaissance can be seen in the influence of ancient authors on texts written about the emotions. Yet the Protestant Reformation, and the Catholic response to it in the decades that followed it, also had a major influence on the way that emotions were discussed in relation to faith and presented in texts and artworks produced in Europe. Emotions were understood to be central to a heartfelt religious experience. Moreover, the propaganda produced by both sides sought to exploit emotions and emotional reactions through ridiculous caricatures of the beliefs of others, narratives of victimhood and scenes of horrifying violence. Religious and political conflicts continued to plague Europe during the ‘General Crisis’ of the seventeenth century, but it was nonetheless also a century of intellectual exploration and discovery. The works of ‘natural philosophers’ (scientists) led to major breakthroughs in the way that Europeans understood the human body, the universe and the natural world. Some writers challenged ancient theories that linked emotions and the ‘bodily humours’ to contend instead that the ‘passions’ were the direct result of mechanical processes within the brain. Moreover, philosophers like Thomas Hobbes, Baruch Spinoza, René Descartes and many others laid the foundations of the Enlightenment. They examined ‘the human passions’ as types of emotion that are internal to the body and connected to the will as well as seeking to understand their effects on human society. In the eighteenth century, European attitudes towards emotions were increasingly affected by what can be described as a ‘cult’ of emotion, the ‘culture of sensibility’, originating in the idea that the body gained knowledge through the senses. The shift from humoural explanations of emotions in scientific texts, which had begun in the previous century, rapidly gathered pace as writers now increasingly favoured explanations that presented the body as mechanical and sensate. 14

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

Influenced by philosophical and scientific writings, the culture of ‘sensibility’ had a lasting impact among the literary classes as well as across the whole of society. It is probably best known through the way that the culture of sensibility developed an English-language literary movement, especially in the emerging genre of the novel. Finally, in the nineteenth century, the way that Europeans understood emotions was also being changed by new sciences of the body, including evolutionary theories, with particular importance being given to ‘nature’ as a cause of emotional behaviour. At the same time, however, psychologists were also seeking to explain human emotions as the result of cultural influences as well as biological drivers. The rise of nation-states and nationalism led to the search for emotional communities marked by a ‘love’ of the country/nation, anger and hatred directed at other national groups and sorrow and melancholy over real as well as perceived national slights and grievances. Rituals, artworks, songs and symbols – such as national anthems, flags or patriotic songs – were created to support these emerging national emotional communities. The editors hope that the readers – both students and scholars – will come to appreciate how the variety of sources in these volumes illustrate the complex history of emotions in Europe across the four centuries that separate 1517 and 1914. Readers should note that, with the exception of those sources translated into English, the texts contained in these volumes are offered with the original nonstandardised spellings and some abbreviations. Where words and quotations are italicized, bold or underlined in the original documents, these have been carried over here. When we have varied from the original, this has been indicated at the appropriate point in the text. Inevitably, there is both continuity and change: continuity, for example, in terms of how emotions were deployed to incite love and hate, anger and sorrow, but also considerable change in the way that Europeans explained the existence of emotions and sought to understand their significance. Today questions and debates about the nature of emotions continue to be relevant and exercise the minds of neurologists, psychologists, sociologists and historians. The texts contained in these volumes serve as a reminder that we need to consider such questions about emotions within a wider historical context than just the late twentieth or early twenty-first century.

Notes 1 Katie Barclay, A History of Emotions: A Guide to Sources and Methods (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2020); Katie Barclay, Sharon Crozier-De Rosa, and Peter Stearns, eds, Sources for the History of Emotions: A Guide (London: Routledge, 2020); Jan Plamper, The History of Emotions: An Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015); Rob Boddice, The History of Emotions (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2018); Barbara H. Rosenwein and Riccardo Cristiani, What Is the History of Emotions? (London: Wiley, 2017). 2 Bradley Irish, ‘A Strategic Compromise: Universality, Interdisciplinarity, and the Case for Modal Emotions in History of Emotion Research’, Emotions: History, Culture, Society 4, no. 1 (2020): 231–251.

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3 Kristen A. Lindquist, Tor D. Wager, Hedy Kober, Eliza Bliss-Moreau and Lisa Feldman Barrett, ‘The Brain Basis of Emotion: A Meta-analytic Review’, Behavioral and Brain Sciences 35 (2012): 121–202. 4 Lucien Febvre, ‘La sensibilité et l’histoire: Comment reconstituer la vie affective d’autrefois?’, Annales d’histoire sociale 3 (1941): 5–20. 5 Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994). 6 An excellent bibliography for the history of emotions can be found at the ARC Centre of Excellence in the History of Emotions website: www.zotero.org/groups/300219/ che_bibliography_history_of_emotions, accessed 22 November 2020. 7 Peter N. Stearns and Carol Z. Stearns, ‘Emotionology: Clarifying the History of the Emotions and Emotional Standards’, American Historical Review 90, no. 4 (1985): 813–36. 8 Carol Z. Stearns and Peter N. Stearns, Anger: The Struggle for Emotional Control in America’s History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989). 9 Barbara Rosenwein, Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Ages (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2011). 10 William Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling: A Framework for the History of Emotions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001); for discussion, see Anna Green and Kathleen Troup, The House of History. A Critical Reader in History and Theory (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2016), 403–415. 11 Joanna Bourke, Fear: A Cultural History (London: Virago, 2005), 8. 12 Ute Frevert, ‘Defining Emotions: Concepts and Debates Over Three Centuries’, in Emotional Lexicons: Continuity & Change in the Vocabulary of Feeling 1700–2000, ed. Ute Frevert, et al (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 1–31. 13 Monique Scheer, ‘Are Emotions a Kind of Practice (and Is That What Makes Them Have a History)? A Bourdieuian Approach to Understanding Emotion’, History and Theory 51. No. 2 (2012): 190–220; Katie Barclay, Men on Trial: Performing Emotion, Embodiment and Identity in Ireland, 1800–1845 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2019). 14 C. Jung, ‘Wotan’, Neue Schweizer Rundschau, III (Zurich, 1936): 657–669; Sigmund Freud, Massenpsychologie und Ich-Analyse (Leipzig: Internationaler Psychoanalytischer Verlag, 1921). 15 Robert E. Bartholomew and Simon Wessely, ‘Protean Nature of Mass Sociogenic Illness: From Possessed Nuns to Chemical and Biological Terrorism Fears’, The British Journal of Psychiatry 180 (2002): 300–306. 16 Christian von Scheve, ‘Collective Emotions in Rituals: Elicitations, Transmission, and a “Mathew-effect”’, in Emotions in Rituals and Performances, ed. A. Michaels and C. Wulf (London, Routledge, 2011), 55–77. 17 Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling, 124 and 129. 18 See H. Schilling, Konfessionskonflict und Staatsbildung (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, 1981); W. Reinhard, ‘Reformation, Counter-Reformation and the Early Modern State: A Reassessment’, Catholic Historical Review 75 (1989): 385–403; W. Reinnard and H. Schilling, eds, Die Katholische Konfessionalisieung (Gütersloh and Münster: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1995); and R. Po-chia Hsia, Social Discipline in the Reformation: Central Europe 1550–1750 (London: Routledge, 1989). 19 Juan de Mariana, De rege et regis institutione (Toledo: Pedro Rodriguez, 1599), vol. 3, 421–426. 20 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1983). 21 Susan Broomhall, ed., Early Modern Emotions: An Introduction (London: Routledge, 2017); Susan Broomhall, Jane W. Davidson, Andrew Lynch, eds, A Cultural History of Emotions, 6 vols (London: Bloomsbury, 2019); Michael Champion and Juanita Feros

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Reyes, eds, Understanding Emotions in Early Europe (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015); Susan Broomhall and Andrew Lynch, eds, Routledge Companion to Emotions in Europe: 1100–1700 (London: Routledge, 2019). Thomas Dixon, From Passions to Emotions: The Creation of a Secular Psychological Category (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003); Katie Barclay, Caritas: Neighbourly Love and the Early Modern Self (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2021); Clare Langhamer, ‘Love, Selfhood and Authenticity in Post-War Britain’, Cultural and Social History 9, no. 2 (2012): 277–297; Laura Kounine, Imagining the Witch: Emotions, Gender, and Selfhood in Early Modern Germany (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018). Fay Alberti, ed, Medicine, Emotion and Disease, 1700–1950 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006); Allan Ingram et al, Melancholy Experience in Literature of the Long Eighteenth Century: Before Depression, 1660–1800 (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2011); Jeremy Schmidt, Melancholy and the Care of the Soul: Religion, Moral Philosophy and Madness in Early Modern England (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007); Katie Barclay and Bronwyn Reddan, eds, The Feeling Heart in Medieval and Early Modern Europe: Meaning, Embodiment and Making (Berlin: De Gruyter/Medieval Imprint Press, 2019). Ute Frevert, Pascal Eitler, Stephanie Olsen, Uffa Jensen et al, Learning How to Feel: Children’s Literature and Emotional Socialization, 1870–1970 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014); Peter Stearns, ‘Girls, Boys and Emotions: Redefinitions and Historical Change’, Journal of American History 80 (1993): 36–74. Diana G. Barnes, ‘Emotional Debris in Early Modern Letters’, in Feeling Things: Objects and Emotions through History, ed. Stephanie Downes, Sally Holloway and Sarah Randles (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 114–132; Katie Barclay, Love, Intimacy and Power: Marriage and Patriarchy in Scotland, 1650–1850 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2011); Joanna Bornat, ‘Remembering and Reworking Emotions: The Reanalysis of Emotion in an Interview’, Oral History 38, no. 2 (2010): 43–52; Alison Twells, ‘“Went into Raptures”: Reading Emotion in the Ordinary Wartime Diary, 1941–1946’. Women’s History Review 25, no. 1 (2016): 143–160. Dixon, From Passions to Emotions; Robb Boddice, The Science of Sympathy: Morality, Evolution, and Victorian Civilization (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2016); Stephen Pender, ‘Rhetoric, Grief and the Imagination in Early Modern England’, Philosophy and Rhetoric 43, no. 1 (2010): 54–85; Lisa Hill, ‘“The Poor Man’s Son” and the Corruption of Our Moral Sentiments: Commerce, Virtue and Happiness in Adam Smith’, Journal of Scottish Philosophy 15, no. 1 (2017): 9–25; Elizabeth Radcliffe, ‘Love and Benevolence in Hutcheson’s and Hume’s “Theories of the Passions”’, British Journal for the History of Philosophy 12 (2004): 631–653; Kirk Essary, Erasmus and Calvin on the Foolishness of God: Reason and Emotion in the Christian Philosophy (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2017). Matej Blazek, ‘Emotions as Practice: Anna Freud’s Child Psychoanalysis and Thinking – Doing Children’s Emotional Geographies’, Emotion, Space and Society 9 (2013): 24–32. Thomas Dixon, ‘The Psychology of the Emotions in Britain and America in the Nineteenth Century: The Role of Religious and Antireligious Commitments’, Osiris 16 (2001): 288–320. Jeffrey Watt, ‘Love Magic and the Inquisition: A Case from Seventeenth-Century Italy’, Sixteenth Century Journal 41, no. 3 (2010): 675–689. Joanne Bailey [Begiato], Parenting in England, 1760–1830: Emotion, Identity and Generation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012); Susan Broomhall and Jacqueline van Gent, ‘Corresponding Affections: Emotional Exchange Among Siblings in the Nassau Family’, Journal of Family History 34, no. 2 (2009): 143–165; Susan Broomhall, ed., Emotions in the Household, 1200–1900 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008); Joanne McEwan, ‘“At My Mother’s House”: Community and Household Spaces in

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Early Eighteenth-Century Scottish Infanticide Narratives’, in Spaces for Feeling: Emotions and Sociabilities in Britain, 1650–1850, ed. Susan Broomhall (London: Routledge, 2015), 12–34. Katie Barclay, ‘Natural Affection, the Patriarchal Family and the “Strict Settlement” Debate: A Response from the History of Emotions’, Eighteenth Century: Theory and Interpretation 58, no. 3 (2018): 309–320. Katherine Ibbett, Compassion’s Edge: Fellow-Feeling and Its Limits in Early Modern France (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2017); Margrit Pernau, ‘Love and Compassion for the Community: Emotions and Practices among North Indian Muslims, c.1870–1930’, The Indian Economic and Social History Review 54, no. 1 (2017): 21–42; Lynn Hunt, Inventing Human Rights: A History (New York: W. W. Norton, 2008); Jane Lydon, Imperial Emotions: The Politics of Empathy across the British Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019); Richard Ashby Wilson and Richard D. Brown, eds, Humanitarianism and Suffering: The Mobilization of Empathy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). Nicole Eustace, 1812: War and the Passion of Patriotism (University Park: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015); Stephanie Downes, Andrew Lynch and Katrina O’Loughlin, eds, Emotions and War: Medieval to Romantic Literature (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2015); Thomas J. Scheff, Bloody Revenge: Emotions, Nationalism, and War (Boulder: Westview Press, 1994). Yasmin Haskell and Raphaële Garrod, eds, Changing Hearts: Performing Jesuit Emotions Between Europe, Asia and the Americas (Leiden: Brill, 2019); Susan KarantNunn, The Reformation of Feeling: Shaping the Religious Emotions in Early Modern Germany (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). Phyllis Mack, Heart Religion in the British Enlightenment: Gender and Emotion in Early Methodism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 200); Claire Walker, ‘Governing Bodies, Family and Society: the Rhetoric of the Passions in the Sermons of Samuel Wesley’, English Studies 98, no. 7 (2017): 733–746. Sarah Randles, ‘Labours of Love: Gender, Work and Devotion in Medieval Chartres’, Emotions: History, Culture, Society 4 (2020): 374–397; Charles Zika, ‘The Transformation of Sabbath Rituals by Jean Crépy and Laurent Bordelon: Redirecting Emotion through Ridicule’, in Emotion, Ritual and Power in Europe, 1200–1920, ed. Merridee L. Bailey and Katie Barclay (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017), 261–284. Merridee L. Bailey and Katie Barclay, eds, Emotion, Ritual and Power in Europe, 1200–1920 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017); Kiril Petkov, The Kiss of Peace: Ritual, Self and Society in the High and Late Medieval Peace West (Leiden: Brill, 2003). Francois Soyer, ‘The Public Baptism of Muslims in Early Modern Spain and Portugal: Forging Communal Identity through Collective Emotional Display’, Journal of Religious History 39, no. 4 (2015): 506–523; Alejandro Caneque, ‘The Emotions of Power: Love, Anger and Fear, or How to Rule the Spanish Empire’, in Emotions and Daily Life in Colonial Mexico, ed. Javier Villa-Flores and Sonya Lipsett-Rivera (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2014), 89–121. Amy Milka and David Lemmings, ‘Narratives of Feeling and Majesty: Mediated Emotions in the Eighteenth-Century Criminal Courtroom’, Journal of Legal History 38, no. 2 (2017): 155–178; Robert Cockcroft, Rhetorical Affect in Early Modern Writing: Renaissance Passions Reconsidered (Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003); Jonas Liliequist, ‘The Political Rhetoric of Tears in Early Modern Sweden’, in A History of Emotions, 1200–1800, ed. Jonas Liliequist (London: Pickering and Chatto, 2012), 181–205; Wadda C. Ríos-Font, ‘“How Do I Love Thee”: The Rhetoric of Patriotic Love in Early Puerto Rican Political Discourse’, in Engaging the Emotions in Spanish Culture and History, ed. Luisa Elena Delgado, Pura Fernández and Jo Labanyi (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 2016), 39–55.

18

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

39 Mary Fairclough, The Romantic Crowd: Sympathy, Controversy and Print Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013); Deborah Gould, Moving Politics: Emotion and ACT UP’s Fight Against AIDS (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009); Emma Hutchison, Affective Communities in World Politics: Collective Emotions after Trauma (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018). 40 Merridee Bailey and Kimberley-Joy Knight, ‘Writing Histories of Law and Emotion’, Journal of Legal History 38, no. 2 (2017): 117–129; Kathryn Temple, Loving Justice: Legal Emotions in William Blackstone’s England (New York: NYU Press, 2019). 41 Margaret Abruzzo, Polemical Pain: Slavery, Cruelty and the Rise of Humanitarianism (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2011); Christine Levecq, Slavery and Sentiment: The Politics of Feeling in Black Atlantic Antislavery Writing, 1770–1850 (Hanover: University Press of New England, 2008). 42 Lydon, Imperial Emotions. 43 Katie Barclay, ‘Sounds of Sedition: Music and Emotion in Ireland, 1780–1845’, Cultural History 3, no. 1 (2014): 54–80; Jane W. Davidson and Sandra Garrido, eds, Music and Mourning (Abingdon: Routledge, 2016). 44 Katharine Ann Jensen, Writing Love: Letters, Women and the Novel in France, 1605–1776 (Carbondale and Edwardsville: Southern Illinois University Press, 1995); Eleonora Rai, ‘Spotless Mirror, Martyred Heart: The Heart of Mary in Jesuit Devotions (Seventeeth–Eighteenth Centuries)’, in Barclay and Reddan, eds, The Feeling Heart, 184–202; Sarah Blick, Push Me, Pull You: Imaginative, Emotional, Physical, and Spatial Interaction in Late Medieval and Renaissance Art (Leiden: Brill, 2011); Stephanie Dickey and Herman Roodenburg, eds, Passion in the Arts of the Early Modern Netherlands (Leiden: Brill, 2010); Bradley Irish, Emotion in the Tudor Court: Literature, History, and Early Modern Feeling (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2018). 45 For an overview see Barclay, A History of Emotions. For a guide to analysing sources for emotion see Barclay, Crozier-De Rosa, and Stearns, eds, Sources for the History of Emotions. 46 Thomas Dixon, ‘What Is the History of Anger a History Of’, Emotions: History, Culture, Society 4, no. 1 (2020): 1–34. 47 Sara Ahmed, The Cultural Politics of Emotion (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2004); Ben Anderson, ‘Affective Atmospheres’, Emotion, Space and Society 2 (2009): 77–81; Mark Seymour, ‘Emotional Arenas: From Provincial Circus to National Courtroom in Late Nineteenth-Century Italy’, Rethinking History 16, no. 2 (2012): 177–197.

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INT R ODUCTION TO VOLUM E I I : EXP LORATIONS Katie Barclay and François Soyer For many scholars of European history, the seventeenth century was characterised by a ‘General Crisis’, in which political, social, religious and environmental factors conspired to plunge Europe into a maelstrom of wars and revolutions that led to longstanding political change and devastated many parts of the continent. Many early modern Europeans themselves perceived the century as characterised by violence. An Italian writer in the 1640s, Fulvio Testi, noted that ‘this is the century of the soldiers’. Likewise, when the celebrated seventeenth-century English philosopher Thomas Hobbes examined ‘the natural condition of mankind’, he concluded grimly that the natural condition of mankind was war, because ‘during the time men live without a common power to keep them all in awe, they are in that condition which is called war; and such a war as is of every man against every man’.1 While it might be tempting to dismiss such contemporary claims as subjective points of view, quantitative research by scholars has demonstrated that warfare was indeed far more frequent in the seventeenth century than in the preceding (and by no means peaceful) sixteenth century. Spain, France and the Dutch, for example, enjoyed only a very limited number of years in the seventeenth century when they were not at war with another European state. The revolution in the way that warfare was waged in the sixteenth century, especially the mass adoption of firearms and artillery, led to the development of highly professional armies that increased in size during the seventeenth century. Moreover, the construction of new, adapted fortifications (the bastion fort or trace italienne) throughout Europe caused many conflicts to degenerate into protracted and costly sieges. To finance the escalating cost of warfare, ordinary Europeans were subjected to heavy fiscal demands, arousing discontent and laying the groundwork for uprisings.2 The Thirty Years War (1618–1648), a political and religious conflict, devastated many parts of central Europe and involved most European political states. The Spanish monarchy, which had dominated Europe from the middle of the sixteenth century partly due to the mineral resources of the Americas and the huge loans these allowed it to secure, was gradually replaced by the French monarchy as the dominant European power from the 1640s onwards. Beyond the geographical boundaries of Europe, Dutch, English/British and French colonial ambitions 21

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challenged the Spanish and Portuguese empires leading to armed conflicts all over the globe. Faced by the threat of French domination under the bellicose ‘Sun King’, Louis XIV of France, the major European powers fought a series of bitter conflicts culminating in the War of the Spanish Succession, between 1701 and 1714. By the time the conflict ended, in 1714, Britain had established its position as a major military power and, having achieved naval superiority, was in a position to establish a powerful global empire that would endure until the middle of the twentieth century. Alongside these conflicts between states, a remarkable number of popular and aristocratic revolutions and uprisings against governments shook many parts of Europe as well as the rest of the world, fuelled by climate change (leading to failed harvests) and political discontent. The historian Geoffrey Parker has counted just under 50 revolutions (which he defines as violent changes of government) in ‘an unparalleled spate of revolutions and state breakdowns around the world’.3 The power of monarchs was challenged by their subjects and many composite monarchies (i.e., several countries under a single ruler) broke apart. Whilst some European monarchies and political regimes survived political challenges and emerged stronger, such as the Absolutist monarchy of Louis XIV of France, others did not. The Dutch victory against the King of Spain in 1648 and the defeat and execution of Charles I of England, in 1649, by the English Parliament ultimately led to the creation of a federal republic and parliamentary monarchy, respectively (after the restoration of the British monarchy in 1660). Europe remained a deeply divided society on a religious level in the wake of the sixteenth-century Reformation: Catholic and Protestant rulers presided over Protestant, Catholic, Jewish and Muslim minorities. The politics of confessionalisation4 endured, as many governments favoured and promoted religious homogeneity. Many put increasing pressure on minorities to convert and assimilate or actively marginalised them through legal means. Even in those parts of Europe where minorities were grudgingly tolerated – such as the Jewish communities in Amsterdam, Venice, Rome and (after 1655) England – they remained second-class citizens within the state. At its worst, state pressure to assimilate led to decrees of mass expulsion and organised campaigns of elimination. Hundreds of thousands of Moriscos (descendants of Muslims converted to Christianity) were expelled from Spain in 1609, Protestant Waldensian communities were massacred in the Alpine Piedmont during the 1650s and the Protestant Huguenots were similarly forced out of France in 1685. To focus excessively on war and suffering, however, would not provide an adequate insight into the ‘European experience’ during the seventeenth century. It was a century of exploration and discovery. The Scientific Revolution, which began in the previous century, gathered pace. The widespread adoption of the scientific method in the seventeenth century was accompanied by major breakthroughs in the way that Europeans understood the human body, the universe and the natural world, thanks to the widely printed works of luminaries like the astronomer Galileo Galilei, the physician William Harvey and the mathematician 22

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Isaac Newton. Similarly, a ‘Republic of Letters’ emerged and stretched across political boundaries, led by a self-proclaimed community of scholars and literary figures whose debates and exchange of ideas set the scene for the eighteenthcentury Enlightenment. The continued expansion of the number of printed works greatly facilitated this process as well as the frequent translation of many popular works into other European languages, as the numerous seventeenth-century translations of French, German or Spanish works into English featured in this volume bear witness. Philosophers like Baruch Spinoza, René Descartes, John Locke and Nicolas Malebranche oversaw the unification of branches of modern philosophy (epistemology, metaphysics, logic and ethics), the clear separation of philosophy from religion as well as the division of philosophers into rationalists and empiricists. To convey the richness and variety of emotional life in the turbulent seventeenth century is no simple task. Increasing lay literacy in the seventeenth century led to a significant rise in the number of private journals and diaries written by men and women. The number of printed books and pamphlets also augmented markedly, and increasingly sophisticated government and judicial bureaucracies produced more records than ever before. This sourcebook seeks to offer a body of diverse sources: from works of political theory to theological and philosophical treatises; from legal records and private correspondence to artworks and literary texts. This diversity seeks to highlight that emotions were not just discussed in theoretical works but also experienced by people in everyday life, from the monarch of a world empire to more humble men and women. A comparison of some of the documents in this sourcebook offers evidence of similar emotions felt by individuals from very different backgrounds. This is evident in the grief recorded in the journal of a Jewish woman in northern Germany about the death of her husband, the anxieties about the health of children recorded in the journal of an English aristocratic woman or even the disconsolate sadness of a Spanish king about the loss of children and a beloved sister. Attempts to exploit emotional reactions are also much in evidence among the sources in this volume. Sensationalised printed accounts of gruesome murders in England or public executions sought to secure customers and readers by arousing horror, pity and anger. In a period of escalating political and religious conflict, polemical propaganda used images and text to incite hatred of other groups and foster a sense of victimhood. Furthermore, in documents linked to legal affairs or court cases, emotions and emotives are deployed in the hope of securing the sympathy of judges or to mitigate the severity of an offence. Attitudes towards emotions could be complex. Some of the religious authors in this book saw negative emotions, like anger, jealousy, desire and melancholy, as a barrier to religious belief. Nevertheless, as some of the documents in Volume I have already demonstrated, emotions could also perceived as advantageous in a religious context and there is indeed considerable continuity with the sixteenth century in some respects. Religious writers and artists, especially Catholics, perceived emotions as key to a heartfelt religious experience. 23

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It will rapidly become apparent to those who examine the sources included in this volume that seventeenth-century Europeans were greatly interested in understanding the workings of emotions and how to control them. The texts in this volume offer examples of different kinds of advice: from how diplomats and courtiers should exert themselves to restrain their emotional impulses to learned explorations of emotions like love, jealousy and melancholy. The continued influence of Greco-Roman authorities is apparent in many of these texts, and yet some writers and thinkers were starting to question the humoral explanations for the origins of emotions. The English physician and proto-neurologist Thomas Willis, for example, contended that the passions were the direct result of mechanical processes within the brain and nervous system. European philosophers also took a great interest in the ‘passions’ and the role that they played in human interactions. The English philosopher Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679) understood the passions as a type of motion that is internal to the body and connected to the will. In Chapter VI of his famous exploration of civil government (published in 1651 under the title of Leviathan), Hobbes saw the human passions as playing a crucial role in the dissolution of the state during civil strife and as a cause of ‘the natural condition of mankind’ being war.5 At the same time, the French philosopher Descartes argued that while passions are not harmful in and of themselves, a man must learn to recognise them in order to control them and thereby preserve his ability to understand reality. Finally, for Spinoza passions (‘affects’) exercised a form of ‘bondage’ over humans. If uncontrolled, these passions could undermine the harmony of human society. In selecting sources for this volume, we have emphasised those that offer insights into some of the more mainstream ideas about emotional life, and also those where emotions are more easily accessible to the non-expert reader. That has meant choosing sources that use emotion words (love, hate, anger), use persuasive rhetoric, or describe events where the emotional worlds of those involved are more easily identified. For a sourcebook this seemed appropriate, but we would encourage readers to reflect on how this shapes the evidence provided. A focus on emotion words relies on the historian’s capacity to identify them, and so perhaps disguises emotions that are less familiar to the modern reader. It also encourages us to consider emotions as discrete entities (love, hate), rather than complex experiences that involve social practices, behaviours, gestures and mixed feelings. As traces of human investment, most historical sources tell us something of emotion, and readers are encouraged to look for emotions in less obvious places, as well as those that are more familiar. It is important to note that no sourcebook can ever hope to cover every topic, and there is considerable space for more work on marginal cultures and ideas. In hoping to give some geographical range across Europe and its empires, there has been limited opportunity to explore multiple perspectives from within particular cultures or societies, and especially to include the wide range of minorities that lived in Europe and its domains. We have hoped to give some range of voice in offering perspectives across social class, gender and race, and also the life course, 24

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but there is significant scope to extend these perspectives and room for future research. An issue that is common to the four volumes has been the question of translation, not least for emotion words that do not easily transfer across cultures. For many sources, we have used early modern translations with the goal of providing insight not only to the source culture but to how such texts were interpreted by other people during the period. Modern translators may make different choices, but this is part of the history of emotions too. A final note of warning is that the texts in this volume reflect the attitudes and values of the period. This is certainly the case with the prejudices evident in the portrayals of the Catholic Irish in James Cranford’s The Teares of Ireland or Native Americans in the French missionary Hennepin’s account of Amerindian marriage ceremonies.

Notes 1 Quotations from Geoffrey Parker, Global Crisis: War, Climate Change & Catastrophe in the Seventeenth Century (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013), 26–54. 2 Ibid. 3 Quotations from Geoffrey Parker, Global Crisis: War, Climate Change & Catastrophe in the Seventeenth Century (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013), xvii–xix. 4 See the introduction to Volume 1. 5 Hobbes’s famous chapter on human passions in Leviathan has not been included in this sourcebook because it is widely available in modern editions.

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Part 1 THE SELF

Part 1 The Self

The number of personal journals, and other forms of writing that discussed emotions in relation to the self, increased dramatically in the seventeenth century. Personal journals and diaries offer fascinating evidence of individuals’ emotional experiences as they reacted to the loss of loved ones and friends, or in their interactions with other members of their households. Some texts, however, go further and offer evidence of individuals consciously considering the wider significance of emotions on the individual.

1 T HO MAS BROWNE (1 6 0 5 – 1 6 8 2 ) , RELIGIO MED I CI (London: Andrew Cooke, 1643), Second Part, pp. 141–150

Sir Thomas Browne was an English doctor who settled in Norwich, in the east of England, in 1637 and resided there until his death. He is chiefly famous for his spiritual testament and psychological self-examination, entitled Religio Medici (The Religion of a Physician). The work, which contained some unorthodox religious beliefs, was circulated among his friends but an unauthorized edition was printed in 1642 without his permission. An official, revised version was printed in 1643 and the work was so popular that is was frequently reprinted afterwards in England and in the rest of Europe in translation. In the following passage, Browne meditates on love and affection. … There is I thinke no man that apprehends his owne miseries lesse than my selfe, and no man that so neerely apprehends anothers. I could lose an arme without a teare, and with few groans, mee thinkes, be quartered into pieces; yet can I weepe most seriously at a Play, and receive with a true passion, the counterfeit griefes of those knowne and professed impostures. It is a barbarous part of inhumanity to adde unto any afflicted parties misery, or endeavour to multiply in any man, a passion, whose single nature is already above his patience; this was the greatest affliction of Job, and those oblique expostulations of his friends a deeper injury than the downe-right blowes of the Devill. It is not the teares of our owne eyes onely, but of our friends also, that doe exhaust the current of our sorrowes, which falling into many streames, runne more peaceably, and is contented with a narrower channel. It is an act within the power of charity, to translate a passion out of one breast into another, and to divide a sorrow almost out of it selfe; for an affliction like a dimension may be so divided, as if not indivisible, at least to become insensible. Now with my friend I desire not to share or participate, but to engrosse his sorrowes, that by making them mine owne, I may more easily discusse them; for in mine owne reason, and within my selfe I can command that, which I cannot entreate without my selfe, and within the circle of another. I have often thought those Noble paires and examples of friendship not so truely Histories of what had 31

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beene, as fictions of what should be, but I now perceive nothing in them, but possibilities, nor any thing in the Heroick examples of Damon and Pythias, Achilles and Patroclus, which mee thinkes upon some grounds I could not performe within the narrow compasse of my selfe. That a man should lay down his life for his friend, seemes strange to vulgar affections, and such as confine themselves within that worldly principle, Charity beginnes at home. For mine owne part I could never remember the relations that I held unto my selfe, nor the respect that I owe unto mine owne nature, in the cause of God, my Country, and my Friends. Next to these three, I doe embrace my selfe; I confesse that I doe not observe that order that the Schooles ordaine our affections, to love our Parents, Wifes, Children, and then our Friends, for excepting the injunctions of Religion, I doe not find in my selfe such a necessary and indissoluble Sympathy to all those of my bloud. I hope I doe not breake the fifth Commandement, if I conceive I may love my friend before the nearest of my bloud, even those to whom I owe the principles of life; I never yet cast a true affection on a Woman, but I have loved my Friend as I do vertue, my soule, my God. From hence me thinkes I doe conceive how God loves man, what happinesse there is in the love of God. Omitting all other, there are three most mysticall unions; Two natures in one person; three persons in one nature; one soule in two bodies. For though indeed they bee really divided, yet are they so united, as they seeme but one, and make rather a duality then two distinct soules. There are wonders in true affection, it is a body of Ænigmaes,1 mysteries and riddles, wherein two so become one, as they both become two; I love my friend before my selfe, and yet me thinkes I do not love him enough; some few months hence my multiplyed affection will make me beleeve I have not loved him at all, when I am from him, I am dead till I bee with him, when I am with him, I am not satisfied, but would still be nearer him: united soules are not satisfied with embraces, but desire to be truely each other, which being impossible, their desires are infinite, and must proceed without a possibility of satisfaction. Another misery there is in affection, that whom we truely love like our owne, wee forget their lookes, nor can our memory retaine the Idea of their faces; and it is no wonder, for they are our selves, and our affections makes their lookes our owne. This noble affection fals not on vulgar and common constitutions, but on such as are mark’d for vertue; he that can love his friend with this noble ardour, will in a competent degree affect all. Now if wee can bring our affections to looke beyond the body, and cast an eye upon the soule, wee have found out the true object, not onely of friendship but charity; and the greatest happinesse that wee can bequeath the soule, is that wherein we all doe place our last felicity, Salvation, which though it bee not in our power to bestow, it is in our charity, and pious invocations to desire, if not procure, and further. I cannot contentedly frame a Prayer for my selfe in particular, without a catalogue for my friends, nor request a happinesse wherein my sociable disposition doth not desire the fellowship of my neighbour. I never heare the Toll of a passing Bell, though in my mirth, without my prayers and best wishes for the departing spirit; I cannot goe to cure the body of my Patient, but I forget my profession, and call unto God for his soule; I cannot see one say his Prayers, 32

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but in stead of imitating him, I fall into a supplication for him, who perhaps is no more to mee than a common nature: and if God hath vouchsafed an eare to my supplications, there are surely many happy that never saw me, and enjoy the blessing of mine unknowne devotions. To pray for enemies, that is, for their salvation, is no harsh precept, but the practise of our daily and ordinary devotions. I cannot beleeve the story of the Italian,2 our bad wishes and uncharitable desires proceed no further than this life; it is the Devill, and the uncharitable votes of Hell, that desire our misery in the world to come. To doe no injury, nor take none, was a principle, which to my former yeares, and impatient affections, seemed to containe enough of morality, but my more setled yeares and Christian constitution have fallen upon severer resolutions. I can hold there is no such thing as injury, that if there be, there is no such injury as revenge, and no such revenge as the contempt of an injury; that to hate another, is to maligne himselfe, that the truest way to love another, is to despise our selves. I were unjust unto mine owne conscience, if I should say I am at variance with any thing like my selfe, I finde there are many pieces in this one fabricke of man; this frame is raised upon a masse of Antipathies: I am one mee thinkes, but as the world; wherein notwithstanding there are a swarme of distinct essences, and in them another world of contrarieties; wee carry private and domesticke enemies within, publike and more hostile adversaries without. The Devill that did but buffet Saint Paul, playes mee thinkes at sharpe with me: Let mee be nothing if within the compasse of my selfe, I doe not find the battell of Lepanto, passion against reason, reason against faith, faith against the Devill, and my conscience against all. There is another man within mee that’s angry with mee, rebukes, commands, and dastards mee. I have no conscience of Marble to resist the hammer of more heavie offences, nor yet so soft and waxen, as to take the impression of each single peccadillo or scape of infirmity: I am of a strange beliefe, that it is as easie to be forgiven some sinnes, as to commit some others. For my originall sinne, I hold it to be washed away in my Baptisme; for my actuall transgressions, I compute and reckon with God, but from my last repentance, Sacrament or generall absolution: And therefore am not terrified with the sinnes or madnesse of my youth. I thanke the goodnesse of God I have no sinnes that want a name, I am not singular in offences, my transgressions are Epidemicall, and from the common breath of our corruption. For there are certaine tempers of body, which matcht with an humorous depravity of mind, doe hatch and produce viciosities, whose newnesse and monstrosity of nature admits no name; this was the temper of that Lecher that carnald with a Statua,3 and the constitution of Nero in his Spintrian4 recreations. For the heavens are not onely fruitfull in new and unheard of starres, the earth in plants and animals, but mens minds also in villany and vices; now the dulnesse of my reason, and the vulgarity of my disposition, never prompted my invention, nor sollicited my affection unto any of these; yet even those common and quotidian infirmities that so necessarily attend me, and doe seeme to bee my very nature, have so dejected me, so broken the estimation that I should have otherwise of my selfe, that I repute my selfe the most abjectest piece of mortality: Divines prescribe 33

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a fit of sorrow to repentance, there goes indignation, anger, sorrow, hatred, into mine, passions of a contrary nature, which neither seeme to sute with this action, nor my proper constitution. It is no breach of charity to our selves to be at variance with our vices, nor to abhorre that part of us, which is an enemy to the ground of charity, our God; wherein wee doe but imitate our great selves the world, whose divided Antipathies and contrary faces doe yet carry a charitable regard unto the whole by their particular discords, preserving the common harmony, and keeping in fetters those powers, whose rebellions once Masters, might bee the ruine of all.

Notes 1 Enigmas. 2 Browne adds the explanation: ‘It is reported that a certain Italian having met with one that had highly provoked him, put a Ponyard to his breast, and unless he would blaspheme God, told him he would kill him, which the other doing to save his life, the Italian presently kill’d him, to the intent he might be damned, having no time of Repentance’. 3 The Statue of Venus at Knidos made by the sculptor Praxiteles of Athens around the 4th century BCE. A young man became so enamoured that, according to the Roman author Pliny the Elder, he tried to make love to it. 4 Of or pertaining to sex or fornication (especially homosexual) between a group of people. From the Latin spintria (“male prostitute”).

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2 MIQUEL PARETS (16 1 0 – 1 6 6 1 ) , A J O UR NAL OF THE PLA GUE YEAR: THE DIARY OF THE B ARCELONA TA N NER MIQUEL PAR ETS, 1 6 5 1 Trans. and ed. James Amelang (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), pp. 68–71

Miquel Parets was a tanner who lived in the Catalan port city of Barcelona (eastern Spain) during the upheaval of the ‘General Crisis’ of the seventeenth century. The Catalans had rebelled against their Habsburg ruler, the King of Spain, in 1640 and a long war that followed resulted in the ravaging of the Catalan countryside. The war would end with the siege of Barcelona by Spanish royal troops between July 1651 and October 1652 and the surrender of the rebels. War was not the only evil afflicting Catalonia and the region was also beset by the plague. Parets wrote a diary of the epidemic as it struck the city. Although emotions do not feature prominently in the diary, Paret’s anguished account of the death of his wife and three of his four children leaves to doubt of the emotional trauma inflicted by the epidemic. … On May 15, 1651, it was the will of Our Lord that my wife Elisabet Parets y Mans die of the plague. She was buried the same day in Saint Mary’s by the Sea. And the most that could be done for her was to have one mourner and four candles, for it was impossible to find wax at that time and burials cost a great deal. And she told me herself before she died that after her death she wanted the masses of Saint Vincent Ferrer and a service of Our Lady sung for her in Saint Catherine’s Monastery, which I had said for her right after her death. I paid 9 pounds and 12 shillings for the forty-eight masses, and for the service of Our Lady I paid 2 pounds. She did not leave a will, because at that time one could not find any notary willing to take down wills, thanks to the plague. And thus she told me orally that of the 400 pounds that she had brought me as her dowry, 200 pounds should go for the marriage of Anna Maria (mentioned below). She also left 50 pounds to Miquelo and another 50 to Gabrielo, who were still living then. The remaining 100 were for her soul and mine and all others for which she was responsible.

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It was the will of Our Lord that on the day after the death of my wife my oneyear-old daughter Anna Maria died. It was not certain that she died of the plague; she had been given to a young woman to nurse while my wife took care of Gabrielo, who had a plague sore under his left underarm and later got well. And the day on which the boy began quarantine, my wife fell ill with a plague boil on her thigh and another under her loins, from which she died seven days later. And since the little girl either got tired of milk or could not nurse any more, the day before her mother died she fell ill with an intestinal sickness which lasted until she died. No boil or any other plague symptom was found on her. She was buried in the pesthouse of Jesus, since at that time virtually no one was buried anywhere else. The second day of Pentecost, which was May 29, 1651, it was the will of Our Lord that the above-mentioned Miquelo, my son twelve years and two months old, die of plague after getting a swelling in his throat. There was no cure for it, and as soon as the doctor saw it he immediately gave him up for dead. His sickness only lasted a day and a half, and when he died it was as if he suddenly choked. He was the oldest son. He was buried in the pesthouse of Jesus. And on May 1, 1651, [our son] Josep died. He was ten years and eight and a half months old, and died of a disease of a bone in his arm following five years of illness which cost me a great many ducats, and during the last year and a half surgeons came daily to look after him. And he was so dried up when he died that all that was left were bones and nerves. One would never see a human body more dried up. He showed such patience when dying that he seemed to be a martyr. Three days before he died he called me and his mother to the room where he slept to show us Our Lady accompanied by many other virgins and Saint Joseph his patron saint and the Archangel Saint Michael and many other angels. He said that he noted a great smell of roses and other pleasing odors, even though there was nothing in our room. He also said that he heard wonderful music, and asked to be allowed to listen to the wonderful music, which made his mother leave the room. He was fortunate to have seen all this for we didn’t see anything . . . [illegible] . . . he often said that he saw these visions . . . [illegible] . . . buried on the second of the month in Saint Mary’s by the Sea here in Barcelona. May he intercede with God for us. He was a very lovely boy and very comely and the best-tempered of all our children, very wellbehaved and quiet and pacific. Despite all his suffering he always talked and liked to read, and one could tell from looking at him that God was calling him and that he was not long for this earth. God took him at an age when he was very clean and very pure. And despite all that he suffered, when he saw his mother so afflicted and troubled by seeing him suffer so, he himself consoled her, saying that she should not be troubled, and that it was the will of Our Lord that he suffer such pain out of love for Him, and that when he got to heaven he would remember her. This he surely did, for fifteen days after he died he called her to glory, after preparing for her the place and seat in which she would enjoy the presence of God. Of this one can be quite certain, thanks to her exemplary goodness and virtue, which will be vouched for by anyone who knew her well and spoke with her. In particular Brother Thomas Ros of the Dominican order, who was her confessor for many 36

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years, told me the day she died that all of us could envy her her death, because he knew her goodness and virtue and that she was surely in heaven. One could also be sure that she was in glory thanks to this sign on the day of her death: after breakfast, at ten o’clock in the morning she had her clothes changed and put on one of the best shifts she had, and after the bedding was changed she had the nurse taking care of her call me (because during the plague sick persons didn’t have any contact with anyone except the persons nursing them). She had me climb up to the attic of the house next door, as she too was in a bed in a room in our attic, and from there I could see and hear her. She told me to give the woman taking care of her a piece of the candle of Our Lady from the Easter Matins, which I would find in the dresser, and the blessed candle of the Rosary, which I would find near the cot, and the painted wooden crucifix which we had over the bed in our room below, and she spoke so well and so clearly that it seemed that she wasn’t at all sick. She then commended the children to me, saying that I should bring them up to be good and virtuous, and then specially commended to me our little girl, although she said that we would not have to look after her long. She then said good-bye to me with many tears. I never thought that she would die, and I went down and gave everything she asked for to the woman looking after her, and when I went back up there she took the crucifix in her hands and she prepared herself for death, for during the plague priests could not be found to help the sick die properly. Instead, that was left to those who nursed them or the patients themselves. And thus as I say she prepared herself for the end, which greatly surprised the woman taking care of her, and when she knew that it was time for her to die she had the candles lit, and with the candles and crucifix in her hands she died between twelve and one in the afternoon, Saint Isidore’s Day, 1651. May God look after her in heaven. And as I have written above, God took our little girl the day after her mother’s death. She was like an angel, with a doll’s face, comely, cheerful, pacific, and quiet, who made everyone who knew her fall in love with her. And afterwards, within fifteen days, God took our older boy, who already worked and was a good sailor and who was to be my support when I grew older, but this was not up to me but to God who chose to take them all. God knows why He does what He does, He knows what is best for us. His will be done. Thus in less than a month there died my wife, our two older sons, and our little daughter. And I remained with fouryear-old Gabrielo, who of them all had the most difficult character. And after all this was over I went with the boy in the midst of the great flight from the plague to Sarria to the house of my mother-in-law. I kept quarantine there for almost two months, first in a hut and then in the house, and would not have returned so soon had it not been for the siege of Barcelona by the Castilian soldiers, which began in early August 1651, as will be mentioned in the other volume.

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3 SAMUEL P EP YS (163 3 – 1 7 0 3 ) , THE DIARY OF SAMUE L PEPYS Ed. Henry B. Wheatley (London: George Bell and Sons, 1893)

Samuel Pepys (1633–1703) was a member of Parliament in England as well as an administrator of the English royal navy. His famous diary recorded the highs and lows of his life between 1660 and 1669 and it is particularly interesting because of the details about his private life, especially his numerous extramarital sexual liaisons. As a result of these affairs, Pepys and his wife Elizabeth had a very stormy relationship. Moreover, his wife suffered from loneliness. In the following entry. Pepys recounts an altercation with the unhappy Elizabeth that reveals not only the emotional turmoil that existed in the marriage but also Pepys’ acute and selfish anxiety that the unhappy letters of his wife would become public and undermine his public reputation and position. The extract from 1668 shows how Pepys’ liaison with ‘the girle’, a young maid employed by Pepys and named Deborah Willet, put further strain on the marriage and caused the shedding of many tears. … Friday 9 January 1663 Waking in the morning, my wife I found also awake, and begun to speak to me with great trouble and tears, and by degrees from one discourse to another at last it appears that Sarah has told somebody that has told my wife of my meeting her at my brother’s and making her sit down by me while she told me stories of my wife, about her giving her scallop1 to her brother, and other things, which I am much vexed at, for I am sure I never spoke any thing of it, nor could any body tell her but by Sarah’s own words. I endeavoured to excuse my silence herein hitherto by not believing any thing she told me, only that of the scallop which she herself told me of. At last we pretty good friends, and my wife begun to speak again of the necessity of her keeping somebody to bear her company; for her familiarity with her other servants is it that spoils them all, and other company she hath none, which is too true, and called for Jane2 to reach her out of her trunk, giving her the keys to that purpose, a bundle of papers, and pulls out a paper, a copy of

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what, a pretty while since, she had wrote in a discontent to me, which I would not read, but burnt. She now read it, and it was so piquant, and wrote in English, and most of it true, of the retiredness of her life, and how unpleasant it was; that being wrote in English, and so in danger of being met with and read by others, I was vexed at it, and desired her and then commanded her to tear it. When she desired to be excused it, I forced it from her, and tore it, and withal took her other bundle of papers from her, and leapt out of the bed and in my shirt clapped them into the pocket of my breeches, that she might not get them from me, and having got on my stockings and breeches and gown, I pulled them out one by one and tore them all before her face, though it went against my heart to do it, she crying and desiring me not to do it, but such was my passion and trouble to see the letters of my love to her, and my Will wherein I had given her all I have in the world, when I went to sea with my Lord Sandwich, to be joyned with a paper of so much disgrace to me and dishonour, if it should have been found by any body. Having torn them all, saving a bond of my uncle Robert’s, which she hath long had in her hands, and our marriage license, and the first letter that ever I sent her when I was her servant,1 I took up the pieces and carried them into my chamber, and there, after many disputes with myself whether I should burn them or no, and having picked up, the pieces of the paper she read to-day, and of my Will which I tore, I burnt all the rest, and so went out to my office troubled in mind. Hither comes Major Tolhurst, one of my old acquaintance in Cromwell’s time, and sometimes of our clubb, to see me, and I could do no less than carry him to the Mitre, and having sent for Mr. Beane, a merchant, a neighbour of mine, we sat and talked, Tolhurst telling me the manner of their collierys in the north. We broke up, and I home to dinner. And to see my folly, as discontented as I am, when my wife came I could not forbear smiling all dinner till she began to speak bad words again, and then I began to be angry again, and so to my office. Mr. Bland came in the evening to me hither, and sat talking to me about many things of merchandise, and I should be very happy in his discourse, durst I confess my ignorance to him, which is not so fit for me to do. There coming a letter to me from Mr. Pierce, the surgeon, by my desire appointing his and Dr. Clerke’s coming to dine with me next Monday, I went to my wife and agreed upon matters, and at last for my honour am forced to make her presently a new Moyre gown to be seen by Mrs. Clerke, which troubles me to part with so much money, but, however, it sets my wife and I to friends again, though I and she never were so heartily angry in our lives as to-day almost, and I doubt the heartburning will not [be] soon over, and the truth is I am sorry for the tearing of so many poor loving letters of mine from sea and elsewhere to her. So to my office again, and there the Scrivener brought me the end of the manuscript which I am going to get together of things of the Navy, which pleases me much. So home, and mighty friends with my wife again, and so to bed.

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Sunday 25 October 1668 (Lord’s day). Up, and discoursing with my wife about our house and many new things we are doing of, and so to church I, and there find Jack Fenn come, and his wife, a pretty black woman3: I never saw her before, nor took notice of her now. So home and to dinner, and after dinner all the afternoon got my wife and boy4 to read to me, and at night W. Batelier comes and sups with us; and, after supper, to have my head combed by Deb.,5 which occasioned the greatest sorrow to me that ever I knew in this world, for my wife, coming up suddenly, did find me embracing the girl . . . I was at a wonderful loss upon it, and the girle also, and I endeavoured to put it off, but my wife was struck mute and grew angry, and so her voice come to her, grew quite out of order, and I to say little, but to bed, and my wife said little also, but could not sleep all night, but about two in the morning waked me and cried, and fell to tell me as a great secret that she was a Roman Catholique and had received the Holy Sacrament, which troubled me, but I took no notice of it, but she went on from one thing to another till at last it appeared plainly her trouble was at what she saw, but yet I did not know how much she saw, and therefore said nothing to her. But after her much crying and reproaching me with inconstancy and preferring a sorry girl before her, I did give her no provocation, but did promise all fair usage to her and love, and foreswore any hurt that I did with her, till at last she seemed to be at ease again, and so toward morning a little sleep, and so I with some little repose and rest, . . . Wednesday 11 November 1668 Up, and my wife with me as before, and so to the Office, where, by a speciall desire, the new Treasurers come, and there did shew their Patent, and the Great Seal for the suspension of my Lord Anglesey: and here did sit and discourse of the business of the Office: and brought Mr. Hutchinson with them, who, I hear, is to be their Paymaster, in the room of Mr. Waith. For it seems they do turn out every servant that belongs to the present Treasurer: and so for Fenn, do bring in Mr. Littleton, Sir Thomas’s brother, and oust all the rest. But Mr. Hutchinson do already see that his work now will be another kind of thing than before, as to the trouble of it. They gone, and, indeed, they appear, both of them, very intelligent men, I home to dinner, and there with my people dined, and so to my wife, who would not dine with [me] that she might not have the girle come in sight, and there sat and talked a while with her and pretty quiet, I giving no occasion of offence, and so to the office [and then by coach to my cozen Roger Pepys, who did, at my last being with him this day se’nnight, move me as to the supplying him with 500l. this term, and 500l. the next, for two years, upon a mortgage, he having that sum to pay, a debt left him by his father, which I did agree to, trusting to his honesty and ability, and am resolved to do it for him, that I may not have all I have lie in the King’s hands. Having promised him this I returned home again, where to the office], and there having done, I home and to supper and to bed, where, after lying a little while, my wife starts up, and with expressions of affright and madness, as 40

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one frantick, would rise, and I would not let her, but burst out in tears myself, and so continued almost half the night, the moon shining so that it was light, and after much sorrow and reproaches and little ravings (though I am apt to think they were counterfeit from her), and my promise again to discharge the girle myself, all was quiet again, and so to sleep.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5

A lace band. Another maid in Pepys’ household. In this case Pepys was referring to the woman’s hair colour, not her skin colour. Not Pepys’ son but his servant boy Tom Edwards. Deborah Willet, a young maid employed by Pepys.

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4 E LIZABETH, VIS COUNTESS MORDAUNT (1632– 1 6 7 9 ) , THE SP IR IT UAL DIARY OF ELI ZABETH, V ISCOUNTESS MO RDAUNT, COVERING T HE YEARS 1656–167 8 Elizabeth Mordaunt, The Private Diarie, ed. E. Roden and R. Jocelyn (Duncairn: 1856), pp. 59–64; 169–172

Elizabeth Carey, the second daughter of Thomas Carey, married John Mordaunt, created afterwards Viscount Mordaunt, in 1656. Extremely pious, she kept a personal diary in her own handwriting in which she provides a fascinating insight into her feelings. Elizabeth closely examined her emotions in the light of the various events that shaped her life: from joy at the restoration of the English monarchy to relief at the end of a lawsuit that had opposed her husband and his brother and finally the acute anxieties she experienced at the illnesses of her children. … A thanks geuing for ye 29th of May euery yere, it being ye Day of ye King’s Hapy restoration, and a begening to ye Churches Setelment. What praysis cane I render vnto thee my God, worthy thy acseptanc at any time, tho’ in the gretest aflicktions, which still is Lese than my sines doe daly deserue, and therfor requirs my Harty and Hombell thanks for thy goodnes, in not poneshing them, according to thayr merit. O What prases then, cane I now render vpon this day, on ye which, thou hast shored such multetuedes of mercis vpon me, apon me as I partake in ye publeck good, apon me as being a member of thy Church, apon me, in ye pertecoler, and personall comforts, that my deare Hosband and I, haue reseued, by ye King’s most Hapy and miracolos restoration apon this day, a merecol past expectation. For How did they incres that trubeled ye pese and prosperety of this Chorch and nation, and many they wer that rose vpe against ye Just rights of thine aninted, saing thayr 42

SPIRITUAL DIARY OF VISCOUNTESS MORDAUNT

is no Helpe for him in his God, but thou O Lord wert his defender, and the Lifter vpe of his heade, thou didest arise in thy pouer and in thy mercy and smotest all his enemyes, and hast Broken ye bondes of ye vngodly. All prasis belonges vnto ye Lord, for thy Blesing is apon thy peopell. Heare me when I call O God of my Righteousness for thou hast sete vs at Leberty when we wer in trubell, haue mercy apon vs now, and Herkon vnto our prases. For now that ye Lord hathe redemed us we will not be afrade tho tenn thousand of pepull should seet themselues aganst vs, for when we caled apon ye Lord with our voycesis, he Herd us out of his Holy Hill, O Lete vs serue ye Lord in Feare and reioyce befor Him, for thou hast put gladnes in our Harte therfor my voyce shalt thou heare betimes O Lord early in yo morning will I direckt my prases vnto thee, and will Look vp, and Lete all them that put thayr trust in thee reiosyce, and euer be geuing of thanks to thee, becas thou defendest them that Loue thee, and makest them Joyfull in thee, for thou Lord wilt giue thy Blesing vnto y Righteous, and with thy fauerabull kindnes wilt thou defend them as with a sheled, therfor Lete vs pute away from vs all workes of vanety, and wekednes, for ye Lord hathe herd ye voyc of our weping, ye Lord hathe herd our petetion, ye Lord hathe reseued our prayers; for all our enemis, ye enemis of Chorch, and King, and nation, ar confounded, and put to shame suddenly; twas in ye Lord I put my trust, and he hathe saued, and deleuerd us, from them that persecuted vs, I will therfor giue thanks vnto the Lord acording to his righteousnes, and will prase ye name of ye Lord ye most High. O Lord our Governor how exsellent is thy name in all ye worled, thou that hast sett thy Glory aboue the Hevenes-Out of the mouth of very Babes and Sucklings hast thou ordayned strength, becas of thyme enemies, that thou mightest still the enemy and ye Auenger. O Lord ade to thes multetude of Blesings, this great one, that our ingratetued may not turne them all into corsis, O Giue vnto our Princ, and to ye Rulers of this Chorch, and nation, to me, and to my deare Hosband in pertecoler, so true a sence of thy mercis, as that we may not dayre to ofend thee that so Highely hathe blest vs, O perdon our sins past, and Lete this day, as it is a renewing of our prasis, becom an incres of our deuotions, and a menes of our repentanc, and amendment. Lead us O Lorde in thy Ritusnes, becas of our enemyes, make thy way playne befor our face, for if our wekednes contenu, ’tis to be feard thou wilst increse our enemyes, and make vs to flye befor them; but thou O Lord and Sauier who arte full of mercy and goodnes, turne our Hartes from all our weked wase, and so fix them vpon thee, as that we may be accepted by thee, bothe heare, and eternaly heare after. Amen, Amen. My God, to whome I adres my prayers and my voues, in all my aflicktions, I now apeare befor thee to performe a vow mayd for the recouery of Mr. Rumball; whous being restored to perfitt helthe by thy mercy, 43

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bringes me now apon my knees to returne thanks to thee my God, and to performe my promas mayd Vnto thee in his behalfe, which I hombely bege of thee my God to acsept, and to perdun any neglect or misdemenur in the making or performing any promas or vow, adrest to thee my God, Blesed for euer. Amen. ... A thanksgeuing to my God, for the great mercy by him granted, of the reconcilement of my Lord and his Brouther, and the setelment of the estate vpon the ayre male of the famely, agread upon Wensday ye 18: of Nou. 1674. Wensday When hearts and inturest war deuided, None but my great God could haue desided So great a strife, nor could haue geuen A concord, like the gifft of heuen; All blesing we from thy great hand reseue, To whome but thee, should we our prasis giue; I come with joy, this duty for to pay, Let not my thoughts on moment from thee stray, Let them for euer, on thy goodnes dwell, That to the world I may thy wonders tell; O let me serue thee, pray, and prays, and loue, Till throw thy merits, I’m reseu’d aboue. O Let this blesing bring mor blesings on, That endles may be bothe our pras and song, O Let it reache to all my welthe below, My beloued hosband, and my childerne too, O Let us all with hartes united joyne, To giue our hartes to thee, alredy thine. Amen. Jan. y 2: 1674. O Lord, my trust is in thy mercy, and my heart is joyfull in thy Saluation, for thou neuer falest me in time of nead, tho’ greeff indur for a night, yet Joy comethin the morning. O that I were freed, from the carres of this worled, that my harte might be filled with heuenly Joyes, but so erthy is this heart of mine, that it is wayed downe with sin and vanety, filled with the carres of this worled, and led by the vanetis of it, disturbed by euery cros I mete with in this worled, tho’ thos crosis haue often, by thy infenit mercy, bin turned to blesings, my derest Lord giue me a hart so

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holy resined to thy will, that all things may be welcom to me, coming from thy hand; in to thy Almighty hands I commit my selfe, my hosband, my childerne, and famely, all our consernes and inturestes, dispos of vs as it shall seeme fitt in thy sight, if it be thy will pre-serue vs from sin and shame, and let vs and our famely serue the Lord our God. Admit me, my God to thy tabell, and so fill me thayr with thy Joyes, that I may no more haue any roume for the carres and trubels of this world, that I may be constantely prepared for that to Come. Amen. Jan. ye 8: 1673 Lord in thy infenat mercy doe thou take in to thy Almighty protection, my deare childerne, and my poure aflickted famely, thos that at presant ar in helthe, as well as those that ar aflickted with thy heuy hand of sicknes, Lord preserue the on, and support the outher; and giue me pations to submit to thy deuine will in all things, make me worthy (through thy merits) of thy preseruation, and then take me and mine into thy protection, that we may acknoledg all from thy mercy, which has euer been so great to me, that no tung can expres it, derest Lord make my harte sensabell of it. Amen. For the recouery of my dear childerne from the small pox, Jan: 1673. Praise the Lord of heauen, praise him in the height, for his mercy neuer fails them that serue him, how often haue I prouoked him, and yet so abundant is his mercy, that he hathe not refused the request of my Lipes, but hathe herd, and granted the humble desir of his handmade, which I offerd in the behalfe of my pour sick childerne, he hathe preserued them upon thayr beds of wekenes, and hathe restored them to strenthe and helthe again, and this for his owne mercy sake, how cane I sofetientely prase thee my God, I neuer can, but Lord acsept I humbely pray, the offer of my thanks this day, I neuer can enuff admir, I neuer can enuff desir, to be with thee my God, for wilst I’m hear belo, my harte’s so heuy and so slow, so lyttull fitt for to asend, so lyttull capabull to bend, to what it aught, that I myselfe obhor, and wish with thee to bee, that I from sin and uanety ma be as free, as thos blest Sperits aboue, that ar all extecy of Loue. Amen.

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5 SELECTED EXC ERPTS O F GLÜCKEL OF HAM ELN (164 6–1724), MEMO I RS, FROM THE LIFE OF GLÜ CKEL OF H A M ELN, 1646–172 4 , W RI TTEN BY HERSELF Trans. and ed. Beth-Zion Abrahams (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 2010), pp. 39–40, 71 and 106–110

Born in the northern German city of Hamburg, Glückel of Hameln (c. 1646/7– 1724) was a Jewish businesswoman and diarist who wrote a diary in Yiddish over a period of 30 years with the intention that it should serve as an ethical will for her descendants. In this fascinating document, Glückel offers a rare first-hand female account of life in a minority community as well as the emotional ups and downs of her life. From the tears and heartbreak of losing children and a beloved husband to the laughter provoked over a confusion between infant children. … About the time we came to Hamburg I became pregnant, and my mother, long may she live, was in the same condition. Though I was still a child to whom such unaccustomed things came hard, I was happy when the All Highest presented me with a beautiful, healthy baby. My mother expected her child about the same time, but was pleased that I had had mine first and that she could attend me and the child the first few days. Eight days later she also gave birth to a daughter, so there was no envy or reproach between us. We lay in one room, beside each other, and had no peace from the people who came running to see the wonder of mother and daughter lying in childbed together. To lengthen this book a little and while away more time, I shall write of a pretty incident. It was winter time and my mother and I lay together in a small room. My father’s family was large and the room was crowded, but both parents and children suffered the discomfort quite patiently. I left childbed eight days before my mother, and to make the room less crowded returned to my own chamber. As I was 46

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still so young, my mother would not let me take my baby to my room at night. So, the baby was left in her room, where she and also her maid slept. My mother told me not to worry; if the baby cried she would send the maid with it for me to suckle it and later return the babe to its cradle. With this arrangement I was well satisfied. For several nights all went well: usually, as I lay in bed, about midnight, the maid would bring the baby to be fed. One morning, about three o’clock, I awoke with a start and cried to my husband, ‘What can be the matter? the maid has not yet brought the baby!’ He replied, ‘Baby must be still sleeping.’ This did not satisfy me. I ran to my mother’s room to see what had happened to the babe. I went straight to the cradle: it was empty! Though I was very alarmed I was afraid to shout for fear my mother would awake and suffer a fright. I went over to the maid and began to shake her, hoping to rouse her quietly. But she was in a deep sleep. I had to shout before I could rouse her from her torpor. I asked her, ‘Where is my baby?’ The girl answered, speaking out of her sleep, and did not know what she was saying. My mother – long may she live – woke up. She too cried to the maid, ‘Where is Glückel’s baby?’ But she was still so sleepy that she could not give a clear reply. Then I said to my mother, ‘Mumma, perhaps you have my baby in bed with you?’ She answered, ‘No! I have mine in bed with me,’ and held it close to her as though someone was trying to snatch the baby away. I bethought me to go to the other cradle, and there lay her baby, fast asleep! I said, ‘Mumma, give me my baby, yours is in the cradle.’ But she would not believe me, so I had to fetch a light and take her baby to her, so that she could see for herself before she returned my own to me. The whole household had been awakened and alarmed, but soon the consternation turned to laughter, and they said we would really have needed King Solomon soon. Though the arrangement was intended for two years, because it was so crowded at home, we only lived one year with my parents. My husband refused to remain longer and would not take a pfennig of the money offered him in place of the second year’s Kest.1 We found a nice house, 50 reichstalers rent a year, and with mazal tov,2 together with our maid and one manservant, we moved into our own house. If God had not struck us such a severe blow and so soon taken the crown of my head, I do not think that there would have been a more loving couple than we in the whole world. But we must bear all patiently. So, while still very young, we went to live in our own house. Though we were economical, we had everything necessary for the upkeep of a fine house. Abraham Kantor of Hildesheim was our first servant; he looked after our children. He left us after some years and did business on his own. He married a widow who died soon after the wedding. Then he married again, a young girl from Amsterdam, and they settled in Hamburg. We lent him money to go to Copenhagen to do business. In short, people say he is now worth more than 10,000 reichstaler. When my daughter Zipporah was two years old, I was again brought to my bed, with my son Nathan. My husband’s happiness cannot be described; nor the wonderful party to celebrate the Bris Milah.3 May God grant that I live to see such joy of my children, for now my only comfort is in them. Here I end my second book and beg all who read this to be indulgent to my follies, for this is written in sorrow and heartache. Praised 47

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be God who has given me strength to bear adversity. Now with the help of the All Highest I will begin my third book. ... Now, I shall with God’s help begin again from where I left off. My daughter Mattie, peace unto her, was in her third year, and a more beautiful and clever child was nowhere to be seen. Not only did we love her, but everyone who saw her and heard her speak, was delighted with her. But the dear Lord loved her more. When she entered her third year, her hands and feet suddenly swelled. Although we had many· doctors and much medicine it suited Him to take her to Himself after four weeks of great suffering, and left as our portion heartache and suffering. My husband and I mourned indescribably and I feared greatly that I had sinned against the Almighty by mourning too much, not heeding the story of Reb Jochanan, as will follow. I forgot that there were greater punishments, as I was to find out later. We were both so grieved that we were ill for some time. I was pregnant with my daughter Hannah and soon after was brought to bed. Because of my great sorrow over my child of blessed memory, about whom I would not be comforted, I was dangerously ill and the physicians doubted my recovery and wished to resort to the last, most desperate of remedies. Not thinking I could understand what they were saying, they discussed it with my family. I told my husband and mother that I would not take the medicine that had been mentioned. This they told the physicians, and though the latter tried their best to persuade me to take it, it was of no use, and I said to them, ‘You may say what you like; I take nothing more. If God will help me, He can do so without the medicine. If it is another decision of the Great Lord, what can medicine help?’ I begged my husband to dismiss the physicians and pay them off; this he did. And the Blessed Name gave me strength, and five weeks after my confinement I went to the synagogue, although still somewhat weak. Daily I improved, and at length dismissed my nurse and wet-nurse and myself saw to all that was necessary for my household. And at last I had to submit and forget my beloved child, as is the decree of God, I am forgotten as a dead one to the heart.4 ... On the evening of Tebet 19, 5449 [January 11, 1689] your dear father went to the gentile quarter to meet a merchant with whom he had an appointment about some business. & he neared the merchant’s house he fell over a sharp stone and hurt himself so badly that we have need still to weep over it. He came home quite miserable. I happened to be in my mother’s house and was called home. On entering the house, I saw my husband standing near the oven, groaning. I was alarmed and asked what ailed him. He answered, ‘I fell down and fear it is something serious.’ He could not move, and I had to take everything from his pockets, for when he left the house he had put jewellery into all his pockets. We did not then understand the injury. He had been ruptured many years before and stumbling, fell on the ruptured part, and his intestines became twisted. We always had a bed prepared in the room, 48

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but he refused to use it and we had to take him up to his own bed. The weather was then as cold as though heaven and earth were freezing together. We sat up all night with him and did all we could, but did not remain there longer, for it was too cold, and, also, this was dangerous for him. At length he saw that it was not good for him to remain there and we brought him down. It was then past midnight: we did what we could, but there was no sign of improvement. I saw my sad plight before me and begged him for heaven’s sake to let me send for a doctor and call in some people. He said, ‘I would sooner die than reveal this rupture to people.’ I stood before him weeping aloud and asked, ‘What are you saying? Why should people not know? You have not had it from any sin or disgrace.’ But my words had no effect: he had persuaded himself that· this would harm his children in some way and that people would say it was hereditary: he loved his children so deeply. We did our utmost for him all night, trying all sorts of remedies. But he grew visibly worse. When it was day, I said to him, ‘Praise be to God that it is day! I will send for a doctor and a surgeon.’ He would not allow this but asked instead that we should send for Abraham Lopez, who was a Sephardi, a barber-surgeon as well as a· physician. I sent for him immediately. When he saw the injury he said, ‘Do not worry. I will put something on and it will soon improve. I have had several hundred such cases and cured them all.’ This was early Wednesday morning. Lopez applied several things, thinking this would relieve him. But-may God have mercy-about midday Lopez said, ‘I see that my cure will not help him. I will call in a special rupture-cutter.’ The cutter came and applied ointments all day to soften the wound. But the longer it lasted the worse it got. On Thursday I called in another rupture-cutter and two more physicians, one of whom was Dr. Fonesca. When I spoke to him and told him all the facts, he said, ‘This is a special case: his intestines, unfortunately, are all twisted so his bowels cannot act in the ordinary way.’ What should have passed through the lower extremity, he brought up and vomited through his mouth. Nothing we did was of any avail; still he would have no strangers about him and begged us to keep it secret. I understood my misfortune only too well and foresaw the terrible sorrow about to befall me. In great pain and with much fear Thursday, day and night also, passed. On Friday Lopez brought a physician from Berlin, who had been the medical adviser of the Elector for several yean. He gave my husband something to swallow and applied a plaster: they were of no help. On Sabbath morning, my brother-in-law Reb Joseph Segal, with whom he was not on friendly terms, heard of this. He came to the house and begged to be allowed into the room. I went to my husband and said, ‘Joseph is outside and Wishes to come in.’ He said, ‘Let him enter.’ When he entered and saw the condition my husband was in, Joseph knocked his head against the wall, and pulled out handfuls of hair, and with bitter tears streaming down his face, cried out: ‘Woe is me that I should lose such a brother-in-law!’ He threw himself on the bed, and with hot tears begged for pardon. With a full heart my husband answered: ‘My dear brother-in-law, I forgive you and everyone; I ask pardon of you.’ 49

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This quieted Joseph, and he sought to comfort him telling him to be patient, God would help him. And my husband, of blessed memory, said he would be content with all that God did. But to me he did not reveal half the seriousness of his illness. My son Leib, of blessed memory, was a youth of sixteen years at the time, and he remained with him. When I went out of the room, he called him to him and exhorted the youth so that he wept. But as soon as my husband saw me enter the room, he said to him, ‘Be quiet, for God’s sweet mercy. Mother is coming in; do not let her see you crying.’ He was already in his death throes, yet he still thought of me. On Sabbath, after dinner, my mother went to him, and fell on him kissing him, and crying with tears: ‘My son, will you leave us thus? Have you nothing that you desire to ask of us?’ And he answered: ‘My dearest mother-in-law, you know I have loved you as though you were my own mother. I have nothing to ask of you; only comfort my Glückelchen.’ These were his last words to my mother. After this more physicians and surgeons came, but it was all in vain. At the close of Sabbath there was no one but I and Abraham Lopez; he wanted no one else. At midnight the surgeon was again sent for; Lopez thought that the wound was now ready for cutting. But when the surgeon came he saw immediately that there was no hope, and went away again. Then I said to him: ‘My heart, may I make you more comfortable?’ (for it meant touching him, and I was then unclean).5 He answered: ‘God forbid, my child; it won’t be so long now before you will have bathed.’ But he did not live till then. I stood there a while longer talking with Abraham Lopez. He advised me to send for Feibusch Levi, who was able with sick people. I called up the children’s teacher also. It was 2 o’clock, Sunday morning. Feibusch went straight to my husband and asked: ‘Reb Chaim, have you anything to ask?’ He answered: ‘I have nothing to will; my wife knows about everything; let her do as she has done up to now.’ He then asked Feibusch to hand him the learned Rabbi Isaiah Horowitz’s work.6 This he studied for half an hour, then said to the children’s teacher and Feibusch, handing back the book, ‘Do you not see my condition? Take my wife and children out; it is high time.’ We were forcibly pushed out; our parting may be imagined. After this Reb Feibusch wished to talk to him, but he answered him no more, and spoke to himself; only his lips moving. This lasted about half an hour, and then Reb Feibusch said to Abraham Lopez: ‘Lay your ear close to Reb Chaim’s mouth, to try to hear what he says.’ Lopez did so, and heard after a little while: ‘Shema Tisroel Adonai Alohenu Adonai Achad.’7 Then his breath was hushed, and his soul escaped in holiness and purity. From his end it was clear what sort of a man he was. What shall I write, my dear children, of our great loss? To lose such a husband! I who had been held so precious by him, was left with eight orphaned children, of whom my daughter Esther was a bride. May God have mercy and be father to my orphans, for He is the only father of the fatherless. But though I silence my weeping and lamentation, I shall have to mourn my friend all the days of my life. He died on Sunday, Tebeth 24, 5449 [January 16, 1689], and was buried the same day. The whole community mourned and lamented him: the unexpected blow had 50

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fallen so suddenly. Surrounded by my children, I sat the seven days of mourning, a pitiful sight, I and my twelve children thus seated. I immediately ordered men for prayers and Talmud study for the whole year, to study day and night in the house. My children recited Kaddish untiringly. All our friends and acquaintances, men and women, came every day of the week of mourning, to console us. My children, brothers, sisters and friends comforted me as well as they could. But each one went home with a loved one, while I remained in my house in sorrow with my orphans. I was thrown from heaven to earth. I had had my husband thirty years and had enjoyed through him all the good that any woman could wish for. He was always thoughtful for me, even after his death, so that I could remain in a comfortable position and of good repute. But what help is that? My heart-beloved children, our trusty friend died as a saint. He lay ill only four days and was fully conscious until his soul departed. May my end be as was his. May his merits rank for me and his sons and daughters. When his soul fled away, my riches and fortune departed from me. It was his good fortune to depart from this sinful world in riches and honour, and suffer no trials through his children. As the proverb says, because of sinners, the saint dies. But I was left desolate in sorrow and tears, with my married and unmarried children, and toil and troubles increased every day. My friends and relatives stood afar off. What shall I say and to whom shall I cry? Yes; this is because of my sins and I shall always mourn. I shall not forget him all the days of my life. He is engraved in my heart. My dear mother, sisters and brothers comforted me, but their comfort only increased my sorrow and poured more oil on the fire, so that the flames grew ever higher. These talkings and comfortings lasted two or three weeks; after that no one knew me. Those to whom we had shown kindness, repaid us with evil, as is the way of the world. At least, that is how it appeared to me, for the mood of a widow who so suddenly loses such a kingdom is such that she easily imagines that everyone wrongs her. May God forgive me this. My dearly loved children, the day that my beloved comrade lay dead before me was not so depressing as those that followed. Day by day it grew worse and my sorrow heavier. But God Almighty had pity on me and my orphans and taught me, a weak woman, patience. After the first thirty days of mourning, no brother, no sister, no relative came to ask: ‘How are you? and how are things?’ When they had been here before the end of the thirty days their talk was insincere and of little help to me and the children.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5

The ‘Kest’ is a dowry consisting of full board granted to the groom for several years. Good Luck or good fortune in Hebrew. The circumcision. Psalm 31:13. According to Biblical and Talmudic teaching, a woman is considered ritually unclean at certain times until she has taken a ritual bath (mikveh). 6 Rabbi Isaiah Horowitz was a prominent Rabbi and mystic (c. 1555–1630). 7 “Hear, O Israel, the Lord of God, the Lord is one”.

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6 R AL PH THORES BY ( 1 6 2 8 – 1 7 2 5 ) , D IARY ENTRIES ON THE DEATH OF M R. S HARP, 1 6 9 3 In The Diary of Ralph Thoresby, F.R.S. Author of the Topography of Leeds (1677–1724), ed. Joseph Hunter (London: Henry Colburn and Richard Bentley 1830), vol. 1, pp. 235–241

Ralph Thoresby was an antiquarian, merchant and nonconformist Protestant from the north of England who became a fellow of the Royal Society and kept a very detailed personal diary. One of his close friends was Mr. Thomas Sharp, the minister of the dissenting congregation on Mill Hill between 1677 and 1693. The death of Mr Sharp in 1693 deeply affected Thoresby, who wrote a moving record of the event in his diary. … [August] 21. With Mr. Waterhouse and Mr. Whitaker to visit Mr. Sharp; they both prayed excellently; I was much affected, yet betwixt hope and fear. 24. Morning, sent for by the excellent Mr. Sharp (which deferred family prayers till noon) to consult about the disposal of his concerns; being very apprehensive of his danger. Advised with Mr. B. D. also, and acted, at his request, the melancholy part of a clerk, &c. with a sad heart and dejected spirit. All forenoon there. 25. Morning, read Annotations. Directing workmen till past ten. At a meeting, when several prayed well and earnestly for worthy Mr. Sharp’s recovery. Oh! that the Father of mercy, fountain of all goodness, would extend mercy to his afflicted servants, who are much oppressed by this severe threatening. He was afterwards somewhat better, that hopes of his restoration refreshed us abundantly. 26. Morning, read Annotations. Forenoon, with workmen. At noon, sent for again by Mr. Sharp. I hasted thither with all speed, but he told me he feared I was too late; his strength would scarce permit him to arise. I made particular enquiry concerning the estate at . . . . whether liberty to dispose of it to . . . ., which he answered distinctly to, and called for the writings. But, perceiving there was no time to demur, (as we had done upon Thursday in hopes of recovery and for ditto

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scruple’s sake) I entered upon the sad employ, put the Will into form, (the first I ever atteinpted) transcribed it, which he subscribed and declared to be his last Will and Testament, and returned thanks to us by name, for kind assistance and former respects. When others pressing in, he began a most excellent, affecting, astonishing exhortation, which, in vain, I wished some present to take in writing, but all were too much affected: tears would have rendered the paper incapable of impression. I observed especially, that the graces of faith and humility were predominant. He was noted for this latter, by all that knew him, through the whole course of his life, and it increased to the very last. He was nothing in his own eyes; had the most self-debasing expressions that could proceed from any mortal – a poor creature, sinful worm, vile wretch, self-condemned, that had intruded into the high calling of the ministry, and had no gifts, no graces, no abilities, to discharge so great a trust; loathed himself for it; and if the great God should spurn him out of his presence, he could not but justify him. “Oh, woe, woe, woe is me, that I have sinned! I even tremble to appear before the dreadful tribunal of God, who will come with flaming fire to take vengeance upon those that know not God, and obey not the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ. Remember what I preached to you from that text, “I have endeavoured to discharge a good conscience,” though with a multitude, multitude, multitude (thrice repeated) of imperfections, and “have not shunned to declare unto you all the counsel of God;” and then fell into an holy ecstasy of joy, for hopes of salvation through the blessed Mediator. Oh, the infinite riches of free grace !—“And I bless God for the sweet communion I have enjoyed with you in his ordinances, and humbly beseech him to supply the breach that is shortly to be made; and to send you a man of judgment filled with his Spirit, that may better discharge his duty than I have done, who deserve to be made a spectacle of misery to angels and men,” &c. To his wife, who feared he spent too much his faint spirits (for he spoke with hesitancy and pain), he replied, “My conscience is open, and I must speak. Thou hast been a good wife to me, but hast hindered me too much from coming to Leeds to preach: let it be a warning to others, that they dare not to hinder their husbands from preaching. There is no comfort at death like a faithful discharge of duty;” and calling his daughters, gave excellent advice, to improve time, before we launch into the vast ocean of eternity. Oh, eternity! eternity ! eternity! what shallow conceptions have we of it! As to his son (John) who was at Mr. Frankland’s Academy, he prayed that God would incline his heart to the ministry, and desired he might be continued at Mr. Frankland’s, who is an excellent person, and very serviceable to the Church of God. And (when I was hasted down to send for Dr. S.) speaking of good old Mr. Wales, he said he was a humble holy man of God, and himself should think it an honour to be buried near his sepulchre. He spoke much and excellently; but what through the extremity of my sorrow, infirmity of my memory, inability to word them in his most apt expressions, I find myself altogether incapable of doing what I both earnestly exhorted others unto, and fully designed to attempt according to my poor ability myself. To which, in my excuse, I may justly add the hurry of the funeral preparations 53

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which lay much upon me, with almost a constant attendance upon his disconsolate widow while she abode in town, which both his and her requests laid me under an indispensable obligation to. I sat up a sorrowful mourner all night, endeavouring to support her under so pressing an affliction; through mercy was much affected in prayer, (for which her importunity prevailed) broken for those sins that I have cause to fear have had too great a hand in hastening so dismal a calamity. He was very patient even to admiration under the pangs of death; for all night long, he breathed so faintly and with difficulty, that we despaired of his continuance an hour longer. But he spoke little after seven, when he discoursed about his library, &c. The Polyglot Bible, Pools Synopsis, and English Annotations, with Cambridge and Symson’s Concordance, he particularly mentioned as serviceable to his son. Was so distinct in his memory, that he told me the particular shelf where my dear father’s Manuscript Diary, &c. were laid; except some cases of conscience, which were in his studying desk, which he desired to be carefully returned. When once in the night we expressed fear he should catch cold (for he would needs have had all clean linen about him,) he replied, with a generous disdain, “What fear of cold, when so shortly to be dissolved, and, as a cold lump of clay, deposited in the silent grave ?” &c. But continuing till past five in the morning, we thought he might possibly do so till the time he begun; whereupon I hasted home, hoping for an hour or two’s refreshment to prevent drowsiness. But when I awaked about seven, I found little of it; e contra, surprised with a bitter agony of weeping, to that excess as to prevent the putting on the remainder of my apparel for a considerable time, at which instant he died, (having again called his dear wife and two daughters, and taken a solemn leave of them; and, with great faith and cheerfulness, recommended his precious soul into the hands of his dear Redeemer, which last moments my unworthiness prevented my particular presence at,) for as soon as it was in any measure abated, I hasted up, and met our maid at the Bar with the sad tidings of his decease. O Lord! O Lord! what a bitter and heavy burden is sin, that has deprived us of the choicest mercy under heaven; such a minister of Jesus Christ as very few have equalled in this or former centuries-an irreparable loss. Oh black and dismal day! a darkness like that of the Egyptians, which may even be felt, has overspread us. How have my sins found me out! how bitter are the fruits of them! the whole world is nothing – every thing is a burden to me, I even envy the dead! . . . . Attended Mr. Dawson’s ministry both ends of the day, but I fear with little profit. Was extremely dejected in spirit; had many bitter pangs of grief; and when any friend, as brother, and cousin F. came in the interval to condole, we were dumb with sorrow, not able to express our mutual sorrow and overwhelming passion for some time, further than by the silent but expressive language of tears. After latter sermon, went up with some friends to endeavour to support his dejected widow. Read not, much less sung; had father’s assistance in prayer. 28. Morning, hasted up to assist his sorrowful widow, and was there melancholily employed the whole day. 29. Morning, hasted up to the house of mourning, assisting in the disposal of gloves to ministers, &c. at the sad funeral; he was interred betwixt two eminently 54

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holy ministers, Mr. Wales and Mr. Todd, in the New Church, which, upon this occasion, might justly be called Bochim, being full of weepers; his death being as generally lamented as his life was loved and desired. 30. Morning; all day with poor dejected Mrs. Sharp, discharging funeral expenses, securing sermon notes, and other papers of the incomparable Mr. S. with a sad and dejected heart. September 3. Die Dom. Morning read Annotations. Mr. Waterhouse preached well from Genesis xlviii. 21, and concluded with some affectionate expressions relating to the sad providence, &c. Evening, heard the ten orphans (to whom the Lord Wharton’s former year’s Bibles were distributed) their catechism and psalms; most repeated very well, 5. Morning, read Annotations; with workmen most of day; rest, with poor disconsolate Mrs. Sharp, and with good Mr. Heywood, whose assistance we had in family prayer. 6. So this morning; then sent for by ditto sorrowful widow, whom I accompanied to the chapel; which, upon this solemn occasion, was so extremely crowded, that we could scarce get in pretty early, and afterwards, multitudes turned back, that could not get so nigh the walls and windows as to hear; it was the greatest and saddest assembly that ever I beheld. I was even dissolved in tears, and scarce able to bear up under the afflicting dispensation. My cousin Whitaker prayed most affectionately and excellently, and so he preached from Acts xx. last verse; doctrine, that when God takes away his eminent and faithful ministers from this lower world, it is just matter of deep lamentation to the places and people from which they are removed. Mr. Heywood immediately succeeded in this solemn work, praying also affectionately and suitably, as he preached from 1 Kings xiii. 30, “Ah, my brother !” the different significations of the word brother, natural, political, ecclesiastical, and spiritual: doctrine, that Ah, or alas my brother! is the proper elegy of a people, and of all men, in reference to a godly deceased brother, which is a memorial of endearing relation. 1. We that are ministers must say, Alas, my brother! under this Providence especially, wherein the Lord has taken away from us, 1. a brother, trained up in the schools of the prophets, Master of Arts of Clare Hall, under the most excellent Mr. David Clarkson, (whose works praise him in the gates,) and he might have added, upon Mr. Clarkson’s removal, under the famous Dr. Tillotson, the present Archbishop of Canterbury; 2. of capacious natural parts, fit for any learning. 3. orthodox, sound against the errors of the times, Pelagianism, Socinianism, and Arminianism; some manuscripts of his testify his great abilities in defeating them; 4. an excellent preacher, accurate, fit for an academic order; 5. of a peaceable temper, never wrangling either about spiritual or temporal concerns: but that which indeed recommended him beyond any of his brethren, was his humility and selfdenial. God has greatly weakened our strength in the way; let me tell you my sad observation, that since that black Bartholoinew, that silenced all, he was one of the most eminent of fourscore ministers that have been taken away in these thirty-one years. 2. You of his congregation especially, and others that heard him occasionally, have also great cause of lamentation. 55

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Consider, 1. what has sin done? Sin has made all the funerals that have been in the world; 2. alas ! what has my sin done? my sin has worm-eaten the finest flower; 3. his death is a sign of God’s displeasure; a black cloud overspreads this assembly; 4. his place is vacant, and who is able to fill it up? 5. alas, for poor England! did he not stand in the gap to stop the wrath of God? Alas! that a Baxter, Flavel, Steel, and Sharp, should be taken away in so few weeks or months; 6. this seems a presage of more judgments; and . doth not the present state of things aggravate the loss? God takes the better, and leaves the worse, &c. Was afterwards with several ministers, entreating their assistance in officiating weekly for us; enjoyed Mr. Manlove’s company in library; evening had Mr. Heywood’s help in prayer.

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7 JAC QUES ABBADIE ( 1 6 5 4 – 1 7 2 7 ) , TH E ART OF KNOWI NG ONESE LF, OR, AN ENQUIRY I NTO THE SO UR CES OF MORAL ITY W RI TTEN O RIGINALLY IN F RENCH (Oxford: Henry Clements and John Howell, 1695), pp. 138–165

Jacques Abbadie (c. 1654–1727) was a French Protestant minister. Forced to leave his homeland by religious persecution conducted by the Catholic government of King Louis XIV of France, he moved to Prussia and then Britain before becoming dean of Killaloe in Ireland. His work The Art of Knowing One-Self, or, An Enquiry into the Sources of Morality (original French title: L’Art de se connaitre soi-meme ou recherche des sources de la morale) was printed in 1692 and translated into English a few years later. As its title indicates, the work sought to examine the origins of human morality. This led Abbadie to examine self-love (amour propre) and its relationship with human emotions and the love of God. …

CHAP. VII. Where we shew, that Self-love kindles all our Affections, and is the general Principle of our Motions. I Said before, that Self-love is the Principle of all our natural Affections: For all our Desires, Fears and Hopes, are the devoted Servants, and Off-spring of Self-love. I confess, the Affection we have for other Men, sometimes causes us to Desire, Fear and Hope: But what is the Principle of this Affection, but the Love of our selves? Do but throughly consider, and weigh all the Sources of our Friendship, and you’ll find they are reduc’d to Interest, Gratitude, Relation, Sympathy, and a delicate Agreement of that Vertue with Self-love, which makes us think, that we love it for its own sake; whereas indeed, we love it meerly for the sake of our selves, and it wholly terminates in Self-love. ’Tis from hence, that Relation borrows all its Rapture, and Strength, for kindling our Affections. We love our Children, because they are our Children. Were they another Man’s Children, they would be indifferent to us: Therefore we don’t 57

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properly love them, but the Relation which links us to ’em. ’Tis true, Children don’t love their Parents, with the same Degree of Affection, as Parents do their Children; tho’ these two Affections seem to be founded upon the same reason of Relation, but this Difference proceeds from another Cause, Children see themselves Die in the Person of their Parents; and Parents, on the contrary, see themselves Revive in the Person of their Children: Now nature inspires us with the Love of Life, and Hatred of Death. Also Parents behold in their Children, as it were, other selves; but other selves subject, and dependant upon ’em: They think it an Happiness to have brought ’em into the World; they consider ’em with Delight, because they consider ’em as their own Workmanship: They are exceedingly pleas’d, at having sacred, and inviolable Rights over ’em. This is their Magistracy, Royalty, and Empire: But the same Pride, which causes the Parents to love Superiority, makes the Children hate Dependance. Nothing lays so heavy a weight upon us, as a Benefit when ’tis too great; because it depresses us to too great Submission: We look upon it as a delicate, but very strong Chain, which links our Heart, and constrains our Liberty. This is the Mystery of that common Maxim; Blood never rises: But as there is a Relation of Blood, Profession, Religion, Country, &c. the Affections are infinitely diversify’d, according to these various Respects: But woe be to Relation if it be combated by Interest: For Interest will infallibly get the better: That tends to us directly, Relation only by Reflection. Hence Interest is always more strong and prevalent, than Relation; but in this, as in every thing else, particular Circumstances very much alter the general Proposition. What we commonly experience, That no Hatred is more violent, than that which happens between those who were formerly very great Friends; is to be imputed to almost the same reason. ’Tis because these Persons found either Profit or Pleasure in loving one another. This interested their Self-love: but when they come to change their Sentiment, the Motives of Love joyn themselves with the Motives of Hatred; they revolt and rise up in Arms, both by reason of the Idea of the Wrong that’s done ’em, and of the Pleasures of that Friendship which they renounce; and they suffer, not only by the Hatred, which is kindled, but also by the Affection, which is extinguish’d; which excellently confirms our System, and shews, that there’s no Affection kindled in our Heart independently from Self-love. We shall be further convinc’d of the Truth of this Opinion, by considering, not only, that Relation is a Source of Friendship; but also, that our Affections vary and differ, according to the Degree of Relation, that we have to those Persons, who are the Object of ’em. The Quality of Man, which we all bear, makes this general Benevolence, which we term Humanity, Homo sum, humani nihilà me alienum puto. ’Tis certain, that if there were but only Two Men in the World, they would have a tender Affection for each other; but this general Relation being mingled and confounded, with the infinite number of those different Relations, we have one among another, it happens, that this natural Affection, which it first produc’d, is lost in the rabble and throng of the Passions; which so great a Variety of other Objects produce in our Heart. We don’t see in our Neighbour the Quality of Man, whereby he resembles us, whilst we see in him a Rival, an Emulator, and Enemy 58

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of our Welfare and Prosperity (as we are of his;) A proud Man, who esteems nothing but himself; who by the Lustre of his Qualities and Accomplishments, attracts the Esteem and Attention of the World, and puts us in Obscurity and Dis-repute; and who by his Passions is continually buisy’d in circumventing us, and encroaching upon our Properties: But no sooner has Death uncloath’d his Person of these odious Relations, but we find in him that general Relation which made us love him; never thinking him a Man, till he ceas’d to be a Mortal, and then at last, willing to enroll him in the Number of our Friends, when Death has retrench’d him from the Society of the Living. The Relation of Country, usually inspires Men, with a kind of Benevolence, whereof they are insensible whilst they dwell in their own Nation; because this Relation is weakned, and too much divided, by the Number of those that have a Title to it; but becomes very sensible, when two or three Natives of the same Country, happen to meet in a strange Climate: Then Self-love, standing in need of some Supports and Consolations, and finding ’em in the Person of those, whom a parallel Interest, and like Relation ought to inspire with the same Disposition, never fails to make a perpetual Attention to this Relation; unless it be prevented by a more powerful Motive of its own Interest. Relation of Profession, commonly produces more Aversion, than Friendship; by the jealousy it causes Men to have one of another: But that of Conditions, is generally accompany’d with Benevolence and Love. ’Tis no wonder, that Grandees have no great Affection for ordinary People; the reason is, because looking with the Eyes of Self-love, they see them at a great distance off; they look not upon ’em as Neighbours; they are very far from perceiving this Proximity and Nearness, whose Mind and Heart are wholly concern’d about the Distance, that separates and removes ’em from other Men; and who make of this Object the Delights of their Vanity. Yet must it be granted, That Relation of Blood, is usually more prevailing than any other: tho’ it be a common Saying, That a Good Friend is better than many Parents; and this be true in it self, yet ’tis certain, that Men naturally prefer their Parents before their Friends, and especially upon any great and important Occasion: The Reason of it is, because they consider their Parents as necessary Friends, that can by no means be dis-united from ’em; and their Friends as voluntary Parents, whose Affection reaches no farther than their Pleasure. Now tho’ free and unconfin’d Friendship be of greater Obligation than necessary, yet ’tis not regarded as such by the Eyes of Self-love: It may indeed inspire us with a greater degree of Gratitude, but can’t so much touch our Interest. The Barbarous Constancy that appear’d in Brutus, when he caus’d his Children to be Kill’d before his Eyes, is not so Dis-interested as it seems to be: The best of Latin Poets discloses the Motive of it in these Words; Vincet amor Patriae, laudum{que} immensa Cupido. But he has not dis-entangled, and laid open all the Reasons of Interest, which caus’d the apparent Inhumanity of this Roman. Brutus was like other Men: He lov’d himself above all Things in the World; His Children were guilty of a Crime, that tended indeed to Rome‘s Destruction and Ruine, but much more to Brutus‘s. If 59

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Paternal Affection excuses Faults, Self-love aggravates ’em whenever ’tis directly wounded. Rome undoubtedly owes the Honour of Brutus‘s Exploits to the Love of himself; and his Countrey accepted the Sacrifice which he Offer’d to the Idol of his own Affection; and rather Infirmity than true Fortitude was the Motive of his Cruelty. Interest is the Sovereign Empress of Souls, we seek it in the Object of all our Applications; and as there be various Kinds of Interest, so may we distinguish a Variety of Affections, which Interest causes in Society. An Interest of Pleasure, causes Gallant Friendship; an Interest of Ambition, causes Politick Friendship; an Interest of Pride, causes Noble Friendship; an Interest of Avarice, causes Profitable Friendship. Generally speaking, our only Motives of Loving Men are either Pleasure or Profit; but if these different Interests happen to be all united together, to kindle our Affection for a Person, then we are presently his very humble Servants, and stick to him as close as a Burr. The Vulgars, who declaim against interested Friendship, understand not what they say: Their Mistake lies in this, because generally speaking, they know but one sort of Interested Friendship, which is that of Avarice; whereas there are as many Kinds of Interested Affections as there are Objects of Desire. Moreover they find fault with Men for Loving by Interest, and that this is the main Principle and Biass of their Affection and Kindness; not apprehending, that to love by Interest is to love One-self directly; whereas to love by any other Principle is to love One-self only reflexively: They don’t perceive, that Men find fault with interested Friendship in the Heart of another, but never in their own. Lastly, They think it criminal and blamable for a Man to be Interested; not considering, that ’tis Disinterestedness, not Interest, that ruines and destroys us. If Men would offer us Goods that are great enough to satisfy the Desires of our Soul, we should do well to love them with a Love of Interest; and no One ought to blame us for preferring the Motives of this Interest, before those of Relation, and every Thing else. Even Gratitude it self, so highly valu’d in the World, and so much commended in Morality and Religion, cannot claim an Exemption from this Traffick of Selflove: For in the main, what difference is there betwixt Interest and Gratitude? No more but this, That the latter is conversant about a past Good, the former about a Future. Gratitude is nothing but a delicate Return of Self-love, when it finds it self oblig’d: ’Tis in some sort an Elevation and Advancement of Interest. We don’t love our Benefactor, because he’s amiable; Gratitude, at least of it self, goes not so far as that: We love him because he lov’d us. But to explain more particularly this Comparison between Gratitude and Interest, we’ll, that the Affection produc’d by Gratitude is more Noble, and that which is caus’d by Interest is more strong and prevalent: The former respects the Time past, which is no more; whereas Interest hath the Future for its Object, of which it would make its best Advantage. Gratitude loves even without Hope; but Interest hopes and expects. Gratitude loves the Benefit for sake of the Intention; but Interest loves the Intention for sake of the Benefit. Lastly, the Idea’s of Gratitude, having Reference to the Time past, are commonly rang’d among antiquated, abstract Ideas, and such as have no very prevailing Influence upon our Soul; whereas the 60

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Ideas of Interest respecting the present Time, are sensible and lively, and such as more particularly import and concern us. ’Tis also certain, that for this very reason, there is some kind of Opposition betwixt the one and the other; because all Men are as naturally Ungrateful, as they are naturally Interested. Ingratitude is always proportion’d to Interest, because the more the Soul attends to the Idea’s of the present, so much the more it loses of that Application and Attention which it ought to have for what is past: And in this respect the same is to be said of Dis-interestedness as of Gratitude; Namely, that it consists very often in an outward Appearance, and seldom rises in the Heart of Man, unless Interest it self give it Birth, or causes him, as sometimes it falls out, to endeavour to make a Show of it.

CHAP. VIII. Where we continue to shew, that Self-love is the Principle of all our Affections. THe lively and real Perception we have of a Benefit, at that very Instant when ’tis bestow’d upon us, never fails to produce a kind of Gratitude in our Heart, which Mark wears out by little and little with the Memory of the Kindness receiv’d; because ’tis repugnant, and goes against the Grain of the Heart, to think often of those Things which put us in a State of Dependance and Submission; the Case is not the same in respect of those Favours we have bestow’d upun others; as they give us a Title to their Zeal, Friendship and Gratitude: And, in a word, pull ’em down to a kind of Subjection to us; we revolve and think of ’em with Pleasure and Delight. Whence it comes to pass, that we are much more inclinable to love those that are beholding to us, than those to whom we our selves are beholding. They who think to insinuate and creep into great Men’s Favour, by laying Obligations upon ’em, are often frustrated in their Design: For certainly the only way to obtain their Love is for them to oblige others, and not for others to oblige them. Their Pride, which is encreas’d by the Complaisance that Men use to ’em upon the account of their Greatness, applauds it self at the Thoughts of having done you a Benefaction: It considers with delight the Obligations you owe it, and by that means inclines the Heart to have a Kindness for you: But ’tis dangerous to do very great Services, when our whole Design is to insinuate into the Favour of those whom we oblige. I tremble to think of this great Service, said a Courtier to a Noble Man, who told him he should never forget the Obligations he ow’d him; and he was in the right of it: Great Obligations do oftentimes prove great Offences, and at least it always happens so then, when either we cannot or will not acknowledge ’em. Shall I tell thee Araspe? He serv’d me too well, Increasing my Power, he has robb’d me of all. But tho’ the Heart has its reasons to forget Benefits, yet has it others for making as if it remember’d ’em. Gratitude is a Vertue very highly esteem’d; the Appearances of it are fine, and attract Respect; and a Heart accustom’d to traffick in outward 61

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shews of Vertue, to make a Commerce of vain Glory, at the cost of Sincerity, by seeking not what is in it self Estimable, but what is valu’d by Men’s Opinions, is diligent in affecting an Appearance of Gratitude, when it can by this means lay hold of the Estimation of Men. Also Gratitude is very subservient to the Designs of Interest; because ’tis a Means of drawing new Benefits· ’Tis a Pleasure, say they, to oblige such a Man, he has a sense of the Kindness one do him. Gratitude mounts us as it were above the Benefit receiv’d, when ’tis prompt, active and desirous to shew it self; this is a fine and delicate Policy of an enlighten’d Selflove, for avoiding the suspicion of Ingratitude; because this Vice is a Mark of a sordid Baseness, and as it were a forc’d Homage which we do to a Benefactor. Ingratitude tho’ it think of him with great Uneasiness, being oblig’d to confess whether we will or no, that we are under his Dependance, and owe him more than we wish we did. Moreover ’tis very natural to a Man to let People see, by his Carriage towards a Benefactor, that he deserves the Benefit. Lastly, we are very glad to be deliver’d from the Remorse which attends Ingratitude; which Remorse is more biteing, and more natural than that which is consequent upon the Violation of Justice; for tho’ Injustice be repugnant to Reason, as well as Ingratitude, yet certainly ’tis more opposite to the Dictates of Self-love to be Ungrateful, than Unjust; and doubtless that Remorse is greatest which arises not only from Reason, but also the Love of our selves, when its Laws have been transgressed. Sympathy, which we observ’d to be the fourth Source of our Affections, is Twofold: A Bodily Sympathy, and a Sympathy of the Soul. The Cause of the former is to be search’d for in the Temperament, that of the latter is to be sought among the secret Spring, that actuate and move our Heart: And indeed ’tis certain, that what we believe to be a Sympathy of Temperament, proceeds sometimes from the hidden Principles of the Heart: For what reason, pray, do I hate such or such a Man at first sight, tho’ I have no Knowledge of him? ’Tis because he resembles some Person, that has offended me, this Resemblance affects and strikes upon my Soul and excites an Idea of Hatred, tho’ I reflect not upon it. How come I, on the contrary, to love an unknown Person as soon as I see him, without informing my self either of his Merit, or unworthiness? ’Tis because he has some Conformity or Likeness either to my self, my Children, Friends, or in a word, to some One that I have an Affection for, and without my making any distinct Reflection, awakens an Amour which laid dormant in my Heart. You see then how much Self-love is concern’d in these mysterious and hidden Inclinations, which one of our Poets describes in this manner: Some secret Knots, some Sympathies we find, By whose agreeing Tyes Souls are Conjoyn’d. But if after having spoken of Bodily Smypathies, we would make an Induction of Spiritual Sympathies, we should find, that to love Men by Sympathy implies no more, but to cherish their Conformity, and Likeness to us: this is to enjoy the Pleasure of loving our selves in their Person; this charms the Heart, that it can 62

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safely commend it self, without offending against Modesty; this Advantage Men obtain, when they seem to have a great Affection for certain Persons, the Principle of which Love, is because they resemble ’em. We don’t only love those that are naturally like us, but also those that have an artificial Resemblance of us; and make it their Endeavour to be our Imitators. Cato, as Proud and Austere as he was, took it not amiss that Favonius imitated him: and perhaps the most stiff and uncomplaisant Man in the World is so weak and flexible, as not to be quite out of Conceit with this indirect Method of flattering and caressing his Self-love. Not but a Man may indeed hate those who don’t imitate him well: No person cares to be ridiculous; ’tis more Eligible to be odious. Thus we never like those Copies, whose Ridiculousness reflects upon the Original. But if you’d know why one Gallant does not love another, or why one Learned Man is not always just to another; ’tis easy to give you an Answer: The reason is, Because a Motive of Conformity does not countervail a Motive of Interest, and the mutual Hatred of Rivals is proportionable to the Accomplishments which they discover in each ther. The Heart, as I said before, considers the Profit: and not the Light; and ’tis not Reason, but the Love of our selves, that determines us in placing our Affections. Even our Love of a Vertuous Man is not to be excepted from this Rule, who notwithstanding fails not to be belov’d even by those who are not like him, for Vice is forc’d to pay Homage to this Vertue; they esteem and respect him. ... Let Men examine themselves by this Portraiture, and I’m sure they cannot choose but love the Original; and upon what Principles can this Affection be founded, which Men have naturally even for those Persons, whom they are not careful to resemble. I answer, that there be very few, who have bid a final Renunciation and Adieu to Vertue, and who don’t think, but that they shall be Vertuous one time or other, tho’ they are not so at present. I add, that as Vice is essentially Odious, so Vertue is essentially Amiable to Self-love: The reason is, because Vice is a Sacrifice of other Men, which we Offer upon our own Altars; and Vertue is a Sacrifice of some Pleasure, or flattering Profit, which we Offer to the Good of other Men. Moreover ’tis observable, that the Objects which act upon our Soul, have a twofold Relation to Self-love, certain particular Correspondences which vigorously move and biass it: such is the Correspondence of Interest or reciprocal Friendship: For as this reason of loving regards us, and none but us, ’tis I, that find an Advantage in loving this Man, and Me he loves, and not another: No wonder then, if this particular Agreement obliges me to have a particular Adherence and Application to him: But besides this, there are certain general Relations, which an Object may have to our Heart; which happen, either when any One does us a Kindness for the Good of the whole Society, whereof we are Members, or when we find our selves oblig’d by the general Inclination which a Man appears to have towards doing Good, because ’tis possible we may some time or other be the Object of it; or when being accustom’d to love one certain Beneficence, which is profitable to 63

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us in particular, we also come to love Beneficence in general, and all those Persons to whom we apply its Idea: Only ’tis to be observ’d, that as particular Agreements and Relations produce lively and vigorous Affections; general Agreements, as not concerning or interesting our Soul, but at a Distance, and a great way off, excite only a frozen and languishing Friendship, which partakes much more of the purity of Esteem than the Ardour of Affection. All the Vertues, at least in this general manner, favour and countenance Self-love. Your finest Descriptions of Vertue are grounded upon the secret Agreements and Correspondences they have to us: as may be seen from the Example of these fine Expressions, in that Portraiture of Vertue, which we just now observ’d. Cui nec pigra Quies nec iniqua Potentia, Nec spes improba — These Lineaments of Vertue are Amiable, because they flatter and caress Self-love: There be others which are rather productive of our Esteem, than our Love; because they are more Dis-interested: — Qui pectore magno Spem{que} metum{que} domas, vitio sublimior omni. Vertue, when it has not these delicate Agreements with Self-love, is only Estimable: But we render it more Amiable when we represent it as interesting our Heart. How should we choose but be in Love with Clemency; ’tis very ready to pardon our Offences: Liberality, to do us good, Beggar’s it self: Humility never controuls, but submissively yields to our pretensions Temperance respects our Honour, and not our Pleasure: Justice defends our Rights, and renders us our Due: Fortitude protects; Prudence conducts; Moderation spares us; Charity does good to us &c. You’ll say perhaps, what do these Vertues signify to me, they do me no Good? It may be they don’t Benefit you at present, but were you under other Circumstances, they might do you a Kindness: They suppose a Disposition of doing you Good, when an Opportunity is offer’d; have you not experienced, that tho’ you never expect the Succour or Protection of a Rich Man, yet you can’t avoid having a secret Consideration and Respect for him; which proceeds, not from your Mind, for that often despises the personal Qualities of such a Man, but arises from the Love of our selves, which respects in him even the simple Power of doing you a Kindness. But if Self-love makes you have a Veneration and Esteem for a Person, whom you are assur’d you shall never be the better for, meerly by considering in him the bare Power of doing you a good Turn, is it at all to be wonder’d at, that this same Principle causes you to love One, who by his Vertue is dispos’d to be Beneficent to you, tho’ you very well know that he cannot actually exert this Inclination? Say we then, that the Heart has its Abstractions as well as the Mind; and as this knows how to define Good in general, tho’ it can draw more to the Life in our Imagination any particular Good: So the Heart loves these general Conformities 64

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and Agreements of Objects to it self, tho’ particular ones do infinitely more affect and touch it; and it cannot but think well of a Vertuous Man, by reason of these delicate Relations, Vertue has to Self-love. This is beyond all doubt, because your Love of the Vertues increases proportionably to their Relation and Agreement to you. We have naturally a better Opinion of Clemency, than Severity; of Liberality, than Oeconomy and Thriftyness; tho’ they all equally partake of the Nature of Vertue; which can be for no other reason, but because our Affection is not altogether Dis-interested, and we love in it the secret Relations it has to our selves. But the Vicious and Exorbitant are not to be exempted from the Number of those, who are thus enamour’d with the Beauty of Vertue. On the contrary ’tis certain, that upon the very Account of their being Vicious, they are oblig’d to have a greater Affection and Opinion of Vertue. Humility levels, and smooths the Way for Pride; and therefore ’tis lov’d by an haughty Spirit: Liberality is diffusive, and free in Giving; and therefore can’t displease an Interested Person: Temperance does not rob you of your Pleasures, and therefore must needs be agreeable to a Voluptuary, who would not willingly have either Rival or Combatant. Could one think, that the Affection, which Worldlings testify themselves to have for Vertuous Persons, should spring from so filthy a Source; and shall I make bold to advance this Paradox, That our own Vices are often the Causes of our loving other Men’s Vertues: Nay more than that, I dare say, That Self-love bears no small Part in the most pure Sentiments, which Religion and Morality give us of God. Divine Love is commonly distinguish’d into three Species, A Love of Interest, a Love of Gratitude, and a Love of pure Friendship. Love of Interest, according to the Vulgar Acceptation, falls in with Self-love: Love of Gratitude, as we before observ’d, is deriv’d from the same Source with that of Interest; Love of pure Friendship seems to rise independently from all Interest and Self-love; yet if you look narrowly into the Matter, you’ll find, that it has in the Bottom the very same Principle: For first, ’tis observable, that Love of pure Friendship, rises not all at once in the Heart of a Man, whom we instruct in points of Religion. The first step to Sanctification is a Detachment, and unhampering from the World; the Second is, to love God with a Love of Interest, by giving up our selves wholly to Him, because we consider him as the Soveraign Good; the Third is to have a due Acknowledgment and Gratitude for his Benefits; the Last is to love his intrinsick Perfections? ’Tis certain, that the first of these Sentiments disposes and makes way for the Second, the Second for the Third, and the Third for Fourth. We can’t throughly consider, what a great Unhappiness and Misery it is, to abandon and forsake God, without desiring his Communion, by Motives taken from our Interest. We can’t love God as the Principle of our Joy and Felicity, without a grateful Acknowledgment of Benefits receiv’d at his Hands. ’Tis natural, and even necessary, that he who loves God as the Supream Good, and as his great and eternal Benefactour, should attend with Complacency and Delight to the Consideration of his adorable Perfections; that this Meditation should excite in him Joy and Satisfaction, and so bring him to love God in the View of his Excellencies and Vertues. Now all the previous Dispositions to this last Affection, which is the Noblest of all, being taken from Self-love, 65

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it follows, that neither the pure Friendship, which is conversant about God, does rise independently from it. Also Experience teaches us, that among the Vertues of God we particularly love those, which have the nearest Agreement and Affinity to us. We love his Clemency more than his Justice; his Goodness than his Jealousy; his Beneficence, than his Immensity, &c. Of which there can no other reason be given, but that even this pure Friendship, which seems to have for its proper Object the Divine Perfections, derives its principal Force from the Relation of these Perfections to Our Selves. Were there any entirely pure Friendship towards God in our Heart, wholly exempt from the Commerce of Self-love, it would necessarily spring from Known Perfection and Excellency, and not from our own Affections. As Self-love would not produce, so neither could it destroy this Friendship. Yet the Devils know the Perfections of God without loving Him; and Men before their Conversion know the Vertues of God, tho’ it can’t be said that they have for him, in that reprobate State, the Affection which we term pure Friendship; and consequently there must be some other Motives of this Love, besides Known Perfection; if Light be not sufficient to kindle it, it must rise from the Flame of some Affection of our Heart; since Affections and Knowledge are the whole Contents of our Soul. Perhaps you’ll say, that in order to capacitate a Soul for conceiving this Love of pure Friendship, ’tis not requisite that Self-love should directly produce it, but only that it may not oppose and hinder it: But I say, if Pure Friendship arises from Known Perfection, and nothing else be required to produce it, the Opposition of Self-love is insignificant; and as the Love of our selves can’t derobe God of these Perfections, nor hinder our Soul from knowing ’em, so neither can it obstruct the Birth of this pure Affection. Whilst we consider God as a Judge, as a terrible Executioner of Vengeance, and as standing ready with a Thunderbolt in his Hand, we may indeed admire his infinite and adorable Excellencies, but can’t conceive an Affection for Him. And ’tis very certain, that could we but any ways Evade even this Admiration of God, we should be very cautious in applauding him with it, for in this State we regard him as our Enemy, & render to him no more but what we needs must. And whence can this Necessity of admiring God proceed, unless it spontaneously arise from Known Perfection? If then we conceive pure Friendship to have precisely the same Source with Admiration, that is to say, if we conceive it to have no other Origine but Known Perfection, we may safely conclude that pure Friendship will arise in our Soul, beyond all Possibility of any impediment from Self-love, as well as Admiration. Twill be to no purpose to make a wild and indefinite Answer, that ’tis the Corruption of our Heart, which renders us uncapable of loving God purely for his own sake, and his intrinsick Perfections, whilst we suppose him not to love us. This is to run into a Labyrinth of Generalities, for avoiding the distinct Ideas of Things. For our Corruption does not hinder the Admiration of our Soul, it being certain that the Devils, who far exceed us in Wickedness, admire God, tho’ they are at the same time conscious of his being the Object of their Hatred and Aversion; so 66

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neither can this Corruption hinder pure Friendship, if that, as well as Admiration, derives its Birth from Known Perfection. Nothing will better confirm this Truth, than by seeing what’s the Use of Faith in Religion. So long as Men live in a State of Ignorance, which makes ’em imagine that God looks upon ’em with Indifferency and Disregard, they in like manner seem to have but indifferent Sentiments of the Deity, such were the Pagan Philosophers. Whilst Men think they are the Object of God’s Hatred, they detest and abhor the Divinity. The Romans, who had already kindled the Fire of their Sacrifices, to give Thanks to the Gods, at the false Report of the Recovery of Germanicus, run into their Temples with Fury and Rage; when they hear the too true News of his Death, they drag their Images in the Dirt, throw ’em into Tiber, and signalize their Grief by a Specimen of Impiety. All Men seem to have the same inward Disposition which the Romans outwardly shew’d, and the Violence which they us’d to the Images, is an Expression of what Man would be willing to execute upon God, when he thinks him his Antagonist and Enemy. No sooner does the Gospel resound in the World for the Consolation of Men; but, as the Testimoines of the Divine Love to Mankind are every where manifested, so likewise Men’s ardent Love of God becomes universally Conspicuous, Faith, which assures us of this immense Charity of God, is there look’d upon as the Key of our Heart, and the first Degree of our Sanctification; to this the Scripture attributes our Salvation. When Faith has throughly perswaded us that we are the Objects of God’s Love, we are sufficiently dispos’d to affect and love Him. But as our Affections essentially spring from Self-love, our Hatred and Aversions proceed from the same Original. We hate Men by Interest, when they are our Competitors in the Pursuit of Temporal Goods. We hate one that is Intemperate, because he’d rob us of our Pleasures; we can’t endure an Ambitious Man, because he takes the upper-hand of us in Preferment and Honour; nor can we love a Proud Man, because he contemns and tramples us under Feet; nor a Miser, because he hoards up the Riches that might possibly come to us; nor an Unjust Man, because he oppresses us. We don’t only hate those who actually prejudice and injure us, but even those that have an Inclination to hurt us, tho’ they want fit Occasions, or some Impediment hinder ’em from exerting their Malice. Our Hatred reacheth as far as a Man’s Power of doing us an Injury: For which reason Power and Authority are many times the Incentives of Aversation and Ill-will; and as there are few Persons in the World but meet with some who either actually do ’em a Mischief, or would at least, if it laid in their Power, or were it for their Interest; it must be own’d, that secret Motives of Hatred do perpetually enter in our Heart, and that nothing is more dangerous than the Temptations to which we are expos’d on this Account. Indeed we are oftentimes Enemies to one another when we are ignorant of it. We many times both love and hate the same Person, because Self-love considers him under different Respects: And it happens that we really hate those, whom we think to be the Objects of our best Affection: and sometimes those, whom we have all the reason imaginable to love and esteem; which appears from this, That in all their Disgraces and Misfortunes, there’s something that does not wholly displease 67

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us. This unjust and unnatural Sentiment which the Vail of Pride hides from our Eyes, proceeds from these two Principles: Namely, That we Our selves are not the Objects of this Disgrace, (which is a Reflection that Self-love instantly makes) and that we see a Man degraded and pull’d down, who in regard of his being a Man, can’t fail to rival us upon some Account or other; a Sentiment, which is chang’d into Compassion, when either Death, or some irrecoverable Adversity, finally exempts him from the Number of those, who pretend and aim at the Goods, which are the Objects of our own Desire. But Hatred is a turbulent Passion, which puts the whole Body into a violent Commotion, and all whose Effects are so sensible and obvious, that ’tis the most faithful Mirrour for discerning the Degree of Vehemence which attends all our other Affections. If you would know how much you love Vain-Glory, it may be your Heart gives you a false Intimation; do but only consider the Violence of the Hatred, which you conceive at One, that has offended you in point of Honour; this is the just Degree and Measure of it; this Mirrour is your safest Guide for discovering and fathoming the Bottome of your Heart. We hate by Interest, Persons, Things, and Words. If seeing an Abyss under our Feet, we are put into Horrour and Consternation, ’tis the Image of our Destruction appearing before us, that causes this trembling Motion; and Reason is not so strong and prevalent as to correct and allay that Fear, which a too lively Idea of our own Destruction exhibits to our Conceit. Many People can’t forbear swooning when they see the shedding of Man’s Blood: this proceeds not so much from a weakness of Temperament, as an infirmity of the Heart. Whatsoever represents to ’em the Ruines of Humane Nature, threatens their Self-love; and that which imbues the Fancy with Blood, draws a lively Picture of Death in the Soul, and conducts it to that inward Recess by meer dint of Conceit, where Reflection shuts the Doors against it.

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8 AB RAHAM DE WIC QUEFORT (1606–1682), THE EM BAS S ADOR AND HIS FUNCT I ONS Trans. Mr. Digby (London: B. Lintott, 1716), pp. 349–50

Abraham de Wicquefort was born in Holland but moved to Paris as a child and became a diplomat at the court of the King of France, representing the interests of the Prussian Elector of Brandenburg. Involved in a scandal, he was expelled from France and forced to seek refuge in England although he later moved to the Netherlands. He became influential in diplomatic circles and was involved in high-profile diplomacy during the 1670s. Arrested for treason (selling Dutch secrets to the English), he escaped from prison and found refuge in northern Germany. Shortly before his death in 1682, Abraham de Wicquefort decided to write his memoirs and a book of advice for aspiring diplomats entitled L’ambassadeur et ses fonctions (the Ambassador and his Functions), which was popular enough to be reprinted in France and translated into English and German. For Wicquefort, one of the essential qualities for a successful diplomat is a moderate temperament, especially the ability to moderate or restrain one’s emotional outbursts. …

Chapter VIII. Of Moderation. I do not here mean that Moderation, of which Quality by so much the more requisite to the illustrious Author of the Refletions, Sentences, and moral Maxims, gives so excellent a Character, and of which the Wisest have but an Appearance; but of that Phlegm and Coolness, either study’d or natural, which is so necessary to those who enter upon the Management of publick Affairs. I do not pretend to act the Philosopher, and shall content myself with saying, That Moderation, whether it be an Effect or a part of Prudence, is a Quality by so much the more requisite to the Embassador, as he that does not possess himself, gives a mighty Advantage to him with whom he negotiates. Julius Mazarin1 being but twenty Years of Age, had the Address to put the Duke of Feria, Governor of Milan, into a Passion; and to discover by that Mean his true sentiments. Those Minds that are compos’d of 69

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Salt-peter and Sulphur, which the least Spark sets to fire, are very liable to mar Affairs by their Transports, because it is an easy Matter to excite their Anger, and put them in a Rage, during which they know not what they do. I have observ’d in the foregoing Chapter, that Contarini having reproach’d Servien, that it was he particularly who form’d all the Obstacles that retarded the Peace: Servien told him, That it was not the Business of a Mediator to speak with Passion, but he ought to have Moderation.2 What he says of the Mediator ought to be apply’d to all Embassadors without Distinction. Servien was a Man of no mean Talent. There was not any Affair but what he was capable of managing, neither was there any Post that he could not worthily fill: but then he was so stormy in his Humour, that there was no Negotiation that did not risque being embroil’d and spil’d in his Hands by his passionate Transports. In the Year 1647, cardinal Mazarin sent him Orders to go to the Hague, to treat about a Guaranty with the States of the United Provinces, for the Execution of the Peace which was negotiating at Munster3: but he bevah’d himself after so imperious and haughty a manner that instead of endeavouring to gain those Republicans, accustom’d to be treated gently, it seem’d as if he would play the Dictator, and extort from them, by mere Force and Authority, what was purely voluntary; and what he could not hope for, but by making them comprehend the Reason thereof, and their own proper Interest. He spoke to the Deputies of the States, not as to the King his Master’s Allies, but as to his Subjects. His Collegues could not approve of his Procedure; and especially la Tuillerie (who seconded his Negotiation in Holland; and who was not himself either cold or stupid, but a resolute and vigorous Minister) represented to him the Prejudice he did to the King’s Affairs, by irritating a People, whose Alliance had not always been unserviceable to France. ... Those Ministers who are oblig’d to their Temper and Constitution for this Moderation are happy; but they who acquire it but with great Difficulty, and by using Violence to themselves, while they endeavour to conquer their Passion, and keep down the turbulent Vapours of a Choler adust, or parch’d Blood, deserve a great deal more Glory. There is hardly anybody but has heard of Mareschal D’Estrée’s4 Hastiness, and who does not know a Minister of the same Quality, who has negotiated above these forty Years, and is still at this Day at the Head of one of the first Embassies of Europe. It cannot be said that his Brain is troubl’d with Indispositions of this Nature: but yet his Mind is lively, and he is subject to such Emotions of Choler, that his Domesticks have sometimes much adoe to avoid the Effects thereof; yet nevertheless in Conferences and Negotiations he is never puzzl’d nor disordered. He is then so Cool, has such an Evenness of Temper, and so much Moderation, that he neverlashes out, let the Contest he is engag’d in be ever so great: and he is so much Master of himself, that there is not any Object, that can put him out of the Way he has propos’d to himself to obtain his Ends. I am not afraid of giving the same Extent to Moderation which I have heretofore given to Prudence; nay I dare assert, That it is the same Virtue under another Name. 70

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They have both the same Ends and the same Objects. When I say the Embassador ought to be moderate in his Discourse: that he ought not to rally nor offend any body: That he ought to be moderate in his Expenses; and not render himself ridiculous by his Profusions, or by the Vanity and Extravangancy of his Appeal, or by the excessive Number of his Domesticks; do I not say at the same time, that he must be wise and prudent? When I say that violent Transports (which are so opposite to Moderation) are the Rocks that endanger Negotiation, and sink Reputation; do I not say, That Prudence ought to be his Guide throughout his whole Conduct? It is about thirty Years since an Embassador, who had little else to support his Expenses but the Money he got in the Place wher he was employ’d, made such prodigious ones, that after he had squander’d away, in less than six Weeks or two Months, above two hundred and fifty thousand Crowns, was oblig’d to pawn his Plate, and even the Present he had receiv’d after his Audience of Leave. It was well known that the Prince he serv’d was not in a Condition to make him make a Figure: and it was commonly said, That a little Moderation would have done more Honour to the Master and the Minister, who would not then have been necessitated to borrow Money every where to carry himself home.

Notes 1 Cardinal Jules Mazarin, an Italian cardinal, diplomat, and politician who served as the chief minister to the kings of France from 1642 until his death in 1661 2 Alvise Contarini (1597–1651) was a Venetian diplomat; Abel Servien (1593–1659) was a French diplomat who signed the Treaty of Westphalia in 1648 on behalf of France. 3 The treaty of Munster, negotiated in 1648, put an end to the war between the Dutch rebels and the Spanish Habsburgs. 4 François-Annibal d’Estrées, duc d’Estrées (1573–1670), a French diplomat, soldier and Marshal of France who served as ambassador in Rome. This might also be a reference to his descendant François Annibal II d’Estrées (1623–1687) who was also ambassador in Rome but not a marshal of France.

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Part 2 FAMILY AND COMMUNITY

Part 2 Family and Community

The way that individuals experience emotions is shaped by their family and wider communities through cultural norms and rules of behaviour. Social groups, including families, promote norms for feelings and emotional behaviour that are crucial to the formation of an emotional community. The sources in this selection offer evidence of the emotional investments, moral norms and fears of such communities. They include accounts of emotional behaviour that was deemed to be exemplary and of the anxiety provoked by those who did not conform to normative emotional behaviour. As the work on jealousy by Antoine de Courtin demonstrates, seventeenth-century writers were keen to promote the idea that emotional norms were vital to the stability of society, and some of the texts show that society was ready to harshly condemn those whose uncontrolled emotional behaviour was deemed to challenge the natural order.

9 C OMP LAINTE ET REGRET D’ UNE J E U N E FIL LE, LAQUELLE A ES TE E X E CUT EE DANS LA VI LLE DE A U R E DE GRACE, EN NORM ANDI E P O UR AVOIR DEFFA I CT S ON P R O P RE ENFANT. SUR LE CHANT, D E MANDEZ L [ E] A VOTRE PERE PA R E IL LEMENT A VOS TRE M ERE In La Fleur du rozier des chansons nouvelles, Nouvellement Imprimees & recueillies de plusieurs Autheurs (A Lyon, Par Simon Rigaud. 1606)

This song, ‘Lament and regret of a young girl, who was executed in the city of Aure de Grace, in Normandy, for having murdered her own baby. To the tune, Ask it of your father as well as of your mother’, was printed in a collection of songs in 1606 but is potentially older. Like many execution ballads, it is in the firstperson voice of the condemned criminal.1 Here she is a twenty-year-old woman who sings in typical fashion of her good upbringing in a wealthy family, her fall from grace through a sexual relationship with a young lawyer which resulted in her pregnancy, and her decision to murder the child rather than face the shame and social stigma of being an unwedded mother. Infanticide – here, the murder of a newborn – was the subject of increasingly draconian laws through the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries across Europe. Authorities targeted specifically this kind of perpetrator: unmarried women who killed their newborns in order to, in the words of one statute, ‘hide their debauchery’. The brutal punishment mentioned at the end of the song – both hands cut off and both breasts to be torn off with hot pincers – was a specified, gendered punishment that symbolised both the removal of the murder ‘weapon’ and the woman’s unnatural transgression against what was thought to be her maternal instinct. Intriguingly, most songs 77

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about infanticide do not name the woman, as other execution ballads normally do, perhaps because there was a great deal of popular sympathy for vulnerable young women. They do, however, evoke similar emotions to other execution songs: the criminal is full of remorse for their actions, their crimes are depicted as motivated by a diabolical rage, they warn their peers to learn from their example, and they beg for mercy from God at the end. … Now listen I pray you The lament that I will say Of a girl aged twenty years old Who behaved very badly. Cursed Satan all full of rage Made me commit a great outrage Advising me to become debauched And then to kill my own child. Am I not very miserable I was from a very honourable place To have committed this [or?] sin Alas, that has dishonoured me. My father had in abundance Gold, silver, and wealth To marry me off richly To some honest merchant. But Cupid that disgraceful trickster Turned my body and soul into flames I wanted to take my pleasures With a young lawyer. As I had no fear of God When I found out I was pregnant I decided on a betrayal But I now regret the reward I climbed up in the barn [?] end of the child Thinking that no one could see me But the good God never sleeps. Suddenly I took it by the throat Without showing it any mercy With an axe I killed it Then threw it in the privy. 78

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Then along came my mother Who discovered my whole affair All angry and enraged She herself accused me. Then I was arrested and bound And taken to prison Locked up very tightly While awaiting my judgement. The court ordered That I should have my two hands cut off And my breasts torn off [with hot pincers] Because I had well deserved it. Then afterwards to a gallows To be brought for retribution I pray God of paradise That he will show mercy to my soul. Between you other young girls Take example from my folly Govern yourselves wisely Alas, as I did not do in my time. To God, my father, to God, my mother Whom I have disparaged I cry to you all for mercy Pray to God for me my friends.

Note 1 This text was translated and introduced by Una McIlvenna, University of Melbourne, and the editors thank her for work.

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10 T E STIM ONY F ROM THE TRI AL OF M ARGARET RA M SAY FOR T HE M URDER OF HER OW N CHILD, 5 M ARC H 1 6 6 2 National Records of Scotland, Edinburgh, JC1/33

This record was produced as part of the proceedings against Margaret Ramsay for the murder of her illegitimate newborn child in Edinburgh. We know very little about Ramsay, who appears to have been a very poor woman, who had lived unmarried with a man from her neighbourhood. The account records the testimony of witnesses at her trial in front of a fifteen-man jury, or assize; the original indictment that detailed the crime and the accusation does not survive. What survives provides an account of a woman going into labour, and the subsequent disposal of the child’s body by a group of women who offered her support during that time. Keen to distance themselves from culpability, the women either excluded themselves from the scene of childbirth or reported knowing little about it. Nonetheless they provided a woman in pain with a bed, and one of them removed the child’s body. Apart from references to pain, none of the witness statements use overtly emotional language to describe events or to condemn Ramsay. Nonetheless it is a source that speaks to the emotional dynamics of the community, both the desire to provide hospitality to an ailing woman, concern about displaying a respectable ‘front’ to the justices and community, and the moral anxieties manifested in a legal system that condemned women who gave birth to illegitimate children. The prosecution of such a crime also indicates the cultural significance of children to this society, and a concern with the deaths of children born outside of wedlock. Such sources begin to offer us insight into the emotional investments, moralities and anxieties of such communities. … The pursuer produces the witnesses for verification of the endytement. Agnes Bannatyne aged 30 years not married being sworne depones that she being in Janet Grimlaws house there came in a woman to Janet Grimlawes who said she 80

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had a sore heid & cryed her head was open, & depones she saw not her face, end that the pannall1 then said to her she had gotten a fall, & that she to John Honyht she was conceived with child, And depones she knew not of her being with chyld, nor of her bringing forth of the child, and farder that she heard her cry, but the pannell said it was the pain of her head, and that she cryed bitterlie, and that the deponent went forth & came not again til the next day, & that when the child was found, & that she found the pannell in the house when she came again. End depones that she cryed not as ryt women did in travell End that when the child was found the pannell spoke nothing. End depones that she never heard any child cry, End knows no more of this mater. Janet Grimlaw aged 36 year & ane widow being sworne depones that she knew the panel when she was John Gremles woman, but that she knew not she was with child when she came in to her house, by reason she never heard of it, End that the panel came in about 4 oclock afternoon & lay down in a bed & said her head was open & that this deponent desyred her to goe elsewhere, but the panell being unwell she should have gave her a bed, & that the pannall did not take rest in her bed, & that the pannell told her she had continued & desyred her to send for one Mrs Mary Hamilton, End that to have the panell away out of her house she fetched Mary Hamilton, & when this deponent came back the panel said she was better, End farder that Mary Hamilton came in harvest[?] day when she was rot[?], End depones that the panel went not out that night End that she saw no appearance of a bairne, End farder depones that Agnes Bannatyne came in & told her that there was a bastard found & lying at the tron2 & when the panel was going away & went to Bronyton to her mothers sister. End depones that she brought Mary Hamilton & came with her & that the said Mary & the panel spoke privatlie together, bot the deponenet sayd she heard not what they said. End farder she saw no child carried out of the house. Helen Logan aged 50 years & married being sworne depones that she knows not the pannall, and heard that that [sic] most the panel was in Janet Grimlawes, She cryed that her head was sore, End that after the child was found, the pannall was in Janet Grimlawes house, End that she never hea[r]d any thing of her bearing a child. Margaret Ramsay herself declares that she told Janet Grimlaw that she was with child, (& Janet Grimlaw says she told her), End presentlie after she had brought furth the child, Janet Grimlaw & Mary Hamilton came in, and she confessed that she brought furth a child, that was a dead bairne, & that that child which was found in the north loch was hers, and that imediatly after she was brought to bed Mary Hamilton came in End compelled her to put away the child privatelie, bot declares that she knew not what Mary Hamilton did with her child. The Justice admits the confession taken before themselves in judgement to be reported per modo probationis3 bot admitted the depositions before the bailies of Edinburgh of the assize. Mr John Smith being sworne depones that the confession made bie the panel upon the 19 of October before the baillies of Edinburgh is true & of verity & that she was of perfect judgement when she did it. 81

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Roberty Murray being sworne depones conformes to Mr John Smith in everything. The assize all in one voice bie the mouth of James Fer their Chancellor find the pannall Margaret Ramsay to be clean & not guiltie of the murder of hier own child in maner mentioned in her dittay in reason non probation. James Far. Edinburgh 6to die March 1662 The which day Margaret Ramsay being brough furth of prisone to here the verdict of the assize read & pronounced against her whereby she was found clean & innocent of the murder of the child mentioned in her dittay in respect of non-probation, allemarche,4 yet her majesties justices in respect of her own confession that she was with child & conceiled her being therewith & brought furth the said child privatlie without the help of any women, & concealed the casting thereof in the north of Edinburgh Therfore bie the mouth of John Borrowman dempster5 of court decreied & adjudged her to be whipt publicklie bie through the high street of Edinburgh & banished, not to returne with license from from his majesties priore consent.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5

The person accused of the crime (i.e. the defendant) in a criminal trial. At the public weigh-house (civic building) In way of proof (Latin) This appears to be a legal term, but the meaning is unclear. A dempster is a minor judge.

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11 JOH N VERNON, THE COM PLEAT SC HOLL ER; OR, A RELATI ON O F THE LIFE, AND L ATTER- END E SP E CIAL LY, OF CALEB VERNON WH O DYED IN THE L ORD ON THE 29TH OF THE NINT H M ONTH, 1665. AGED T WELVE YEARS AND SIX M ONT HS. COMME NDI NG TO YOU TH T HE MOST E XCELLENT K N OWL EDGE OF CHR I S T J ES US T HE LORD (London: the author, 1666), pp. 55–75

The son of Mr. John Vernon, a Baptist minister, Caleb Vernon was born in Ireland in 1653. His family returned to England, where he was home educated and showed great scholarly promise. From 1660, he was greatly afflicted with ague and in 1665 the twelve-year-old Caleb died. His father, who had kept a vigil at the sick boy’s bedside, wrote a biography of Caleb that was printed the following year. This poignant work presents the boy as an exemplary model of composure in the face of illness and death but it also captures the emotions surrounding the child’s death within his family. … His Father having occasion to write in the room, did not presently entertain discourse with him, but after some time of silence, he said, Father will it not disturb you to talk with me? He said, No Child, I will come to thee. Then he said, Father, I find my self greatly comforted in God; I was once without him, and now see what it was if God should have cut the thread of my life: and now I wish I might warn others, and do good whilest I live. His Father breakfasting with him, he did in a 83

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very lively sort enlarge upon the sure mercies of God to his soul, praising him much for his goodness in enabling him to do his Will, and for his Parents tenderness to him, begging the Lord would not suffer it to go unrewarded; and that if it might please him to spare his life, he might be helped to acknowledge it; and praised God, that he should have a tender Father in Heaven, and tender Parents on Earth too, in such a condition. That day he gave all his toyes to his little Sisters, saying, if he should live he hoped he should never mind such things. His Father told him, the Congregation had condescended to appoint a Church-meeting with him that evening, that he might have the priviledge of the Lord’s Supper, wherein to the eye of Faith Christ would be evidently set forth, crucified before him, for his consolation; which he accepted thankfully, and said he would lye still to preserve his strength thereunto: and when the time came his father spake briefly from Iohn 10. I am the door; by me if any man enter in he shall be saved. He attended with very great diligence, and partook with great reverence, sitting up in his bed to attend, and afterwards humbly desired thanks might be returned to the Congregation for their love and care herein. The next day, being the first day of the week, his Father tarried at home with him, and enlarged upon the latter part of these words, (viz.) And shall go in and out, and find pasture: setting forth in more variety what a soul (entring in by Christ as the door, and going out of himself, the World, &c.) found in God to feed upon, especially upon the new Covenant in Christ’s Blood: and in the end he said, God hath comforted me greatly with what hath been now spoke; And going to rest chearfully, intreated that company might not have recourse to him, saying, he would keep his strength now for the next day, to enjoy the benefit of some Friends who intended Prayer in his Chamber; and he had a good night. On the twentieth he was comfortable in the morning, and brake fast chearfully with his Father and a Friend, returning thanks very graciously, and then reverently attended in Prayer the most of that day, being filled with the sence of the love of God, and saying sometimes to his Mother fervently, God loves me Mother, and sometimes I love the Lord. But in the afternoon the Friends retired into another room, that he might take rest, but his little Sisters remaining in that room, he called to the eldest of them (being seven years old) and said unto her, Mary, come hither, have you got any good by being prayed for to day? observing to her she had been particularly mentioned in prayer. She answered, I hope I have. Said he, Mary, if you should dye now, what do you think would become of you? She said, I do not know. He replyed, it is your great concern to follow God that so you may know, with many other words inforcing it: and it is observable, that from that time she hath been serious so as never before, and pondred his sayings in her heart. At night his Father supped with him upon a small Bird, and afterward he returned thanks; a Physician coming in whilst he was speaking, and looking in at the Beds feet with his hat on, he enlarged his desires, that God would strengthen him his poor creature, that he might never be ashamed to confess him before men, who-ever they were; and desired his Parents might be helped to resign him up to God, and that he might alwayes have refuge for rest unto Christ; being earnest 84

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for Sion, with sence of her low estate, (as he was almost in every prayer:) and that night he rested well. Some Friends had thoughts on the advice Iam. 5. 14. compared with Mark 6. 13. wherewith his Father acquainted him, and he desired time seriously to consider of it; and the next day, being the 21 of the ninth month, he seemed yet more hopeful, and then desired a dayes time longer to weigh it; but being told, a Friend that might be concerned about it, would not be in Town after that day, he then gave his thoughts by way of Query humbly, Whether it should be administred when one was mending before? being careful lest it should reflect on so solemn an Appointment; for he felt himself now mending, and therefore had the less clearness therein, but if he grew worse, he should have further thoughts of it. And after he invited that Friend and his Father to Breakfast, when he prayed and praised God, to the great refreshment of their souls. His Mother being gone down with his Father, and he feeling some weakness, desired then to rest; but noise being made among the little ones, to his disturbance, and his Mother coming up heard, him speak to the Maid and them with some trouble, in these words; The Word of the Lord saith, To him that is in affliction pitty should be shewed by his Friends; but you take the ready way to hurt me: It is well for me I have such a tender Father and Mother, or else it might be worse; and complained a little of them to his Mother, (which he never did before) and said, his strength failed him, but God would never fail him. His Mother reproving the disturbers, left him to rest, which he did; but awakening towards night, exprest much admiration at the goodness of God to such an one as he, and said his bodily strength was little, he was upon the brink of the grave, and his breath almost gone if he spake but a little; but he knew if he should die, he should be received into the Arms of the Lord. And after a little time grew pretty chearful, and desiring to sit up in his bed, called his Cousin and little Sisters about him (who had partly occasioned the noise of his disturbance) and with his own hand cut out some of his Jelly and gave unto them, intending himself to sup with his Father, but he being prevented of coming up to him, he gave some of his small Bird also to them all, and then spake to them (when they had supped) in these words: O the sweetness of the Love of God did you experience it as I do, you would esteem it more than all the pleasures you can enjoy. And with vehemency (to his Mother, Servants, Cousins and Sisters admiration) said further, O my dear Sisters, I long to see you converted! O the damned in Hell! how would they improve it, but it is too late: O therefore whilst you have time, before the evil day comes, take hold of the Righteousness of Iesus Christ, and make sure of the Love of God: What will you do upon a sick bed without it? O my dear Sisters! my bowels yern for you: I hope I am sure of the Love of God; and if I dye this night, I shall go to the Lord, and be with him for ever. O that you knew the sweetness of the Love of God as I do! Christ will make you rare without compare. And now I call to minde some of Mr. Chares Verses, saith he, (whereof having many more in his memory, he repeated to them these) If comliness I want, His Beauty I may have, 85

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I shall be fair beyond compare, Though cripled to my grave. And if above it all To Christ I married be, My living Springs, O King of Kings, Will still run fresh in thee. His Mother then said, And do you remember, Child, what he saith of young Isaacs? Yea, Mother, said he; and then further repeated some of these concerning youth. Young Isaacks who lift up their eyes, And meditate in fields; Young Jacobs who the Blessing prize This Age but seldom yeelds. Few Samuels leaving youthful playes, To Temple-work resign’d; Few do as these, in youthful dayes Their great Creator mind. How precious Obadiahs be! That feared God in youth: How seldom Timothy’s we see, Vers’d in the Word of Truth! Few Babes and Sucklings publish praise, Th’ Avengers rage to bind! O then in these your youthful dayes Your great Creator mind. Few tender-hearted Youths, as was Josiah Iudahs King; Hosannah in the high’st alas How seldom Children sing! Youths rarely ask for Zions ways, Th’had rather pleasure find; But O in these your youthful dayes, Your great Creator mind. What Children Pulse and Water choose Continually to eat, Rather than Conscience should accuse For tasting Royal meat? Should you not bow a King to please, Though tortures were behind? Oh then in these your youthful dayes Your great Creator mind. Much more with affection and fervency he uttered to them, and then (being weary) he lay down to rest, and said, Oh Mother, slighty Convictions are dangerous; 86

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temptations lead to sin, and sin bereaves of all good. And to the Maid (who had kept him from his Cradle, and instructed him till he came to his Latine tongue) HONOUR, I hope God will work a work of Grace in you, and make you that you shall not be ashamed to confess him; and then blessed the Lord for his own mercy in his Parents, with many endeared expressions (especially for their care of his soul:) afterwards said unto them all, The Lord keep you, I desire that the Lord may keep you all. And his Mother staying by him, he said, Mother, I love your company dearly, and so speedily fell asleep, and slept comfortably the greatest part of that night. The two and twentieth day he brakefast with his Father, and (as their manner was of late) one of them began, and the other ended with blessing the Lord; wherein he very thankfully owned his great supports from God, and ardently desired if it pleased the Lord to spare him, it might be to serve him faithfully in his Generation. That day he was perswaded to rise a little in Blankets, whilst his Bed was made, when be said, I feel to my self like a peice of earth, I am as nothing; and admired greatly the power of God keeping him alive. Being laid again in his bed, he said. I feel my self very weak, but I am kept alive by the mighty power of God; saying, Father, God is very good to me indeed: the Lord loves me I am sure. And to his Mother, Oh how am I refreshed, but if God were not my God, what should I do now. His Mother asking him how he had done to day, he said, Indeed Mother I have been supported very much to day; Oh this is a troublesome world, a vain world, nothing the eye beholds can stand us in stead; I can now triumph over death, God hath enabled me; I would not now be without what now I enjoy for all the world. Mentioning that Scripture, Greater love can no man shew, than for a man to lay down his Life for his Friend, &c. And that, blessed are the dead that die in the Lord, they rest from their labours, &c. And expressing his affection to his Parents (which he did often) he asked his Father affectionately; the meaning of that Scripture, But for a good man, one would even dare to die; and so applied to sleep in much peace and joy. The twenty third day he complained of some weakness in his body, but said, He was strong in God, but desired some living creature might stand on the bed by him, to prevent Melancholly thoughts, when he could not rest, being asked, what? He said, a young Lamb, Pigeon, Rabbit or anything; but a Squerril being named, (hoping it might easily be procured) he was earnest for that, having, he said, never seen any but once in the field. Some were immediately imployed to procure one (at any rate) but all failed, and his mind seemed to run so much that day, and the next upon it; that his Father said, why dost thou so much desire it? He said, I find my self inclining to melancholy, and I think such a thing would be pretty company for me, and therein I may see the workmanship of God, but I trust nothing shall evermore take off my heart from God. At breakfast with his Father he had savoury discourse, some of which his Father set down, when he went out from him in his own words, whilst they were in memory (viz.) Oh Father, God greatly supports me, I would not be without the love of God now for all this world; if I die now I hope I shall meet with you in Heaven, which is best of all. His Father said, Dost thou think thou shalt die? He answered, I cannot tell Father, but I expect it, for I have resigned my self to God. His eldest 87

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Sister coming to him, he said, God hath done for us, what man could not do, (with his eyes lifted up with holy admiration) saying also, Oh how said is it with those that have not God. That day being taken up a little, to have his bed made, and finding it troublesome (all his bones being sharp as if they would pierce his skin, having no flesh to interpose in any part) he uttered a word savouring of more weariness and impatience than any before, namely, It is better for me now to dye than to live. His Father said, nay Child, be not weary of the Lords hand, who hath done so great things for you. He accepted the Exhortation, so as to be presently abased for it, and did then (upon occasion of taking refreshment) solemnly pray for pardon of the rash word he had spoken (as he called it) humbly begging more patience that he might be kept from repining; and owning the great goodness of the Lord to him his poor unworthy servant. Being laid in Bed and asked how he did he said, His Bones were sore, and he was weak in his outward man, but strong in God, and indeed he very seldom complained or sighed. And when at any time his Father did remember him what God had done for his soul, he presently forgot his pain, and was refreshed with very sensible acknowledgement of the favour of God; so that sometimes when he would say his Bones were sore, his Father would reply, I Child but your soul is not; to which he would say, No Father, God is very good to me, and dwelt so thereon as to forget pain. And speaking of the Love of God, would say often chearfully, now I experience it: He had a pretty good night. The 24th day in the morning he was pretty chearful, and breakefast with his Father, but eating little, he said, I do not live by bread only. His Mother asking his consent to go abroad, he was very desirous of her stay with him, but when he heard it was for prayer, he did more freely part with her. His Father sitting in the Room, he said, Father, God hath setled my mind greatly this day, and I have nothing now to hinder my joy in Christ Iesus. But Father (said he) Though God hath sweetned death to them that he loves, yet do not you think that death is troublesome? His Father replied, Yes Child, a little to the flesh: to which he answered cheerfully, Yea Father, and was no more solicitous. He was willing in the Evening some Christians might meet in his Room, and (finding himself weak) desired them to pray for him; being asked what, he desired, he said, That he might live in Gods sight. His Father asked him, if he did still freely resign up himself to the Lords dispose for Life or Death? he answered chearfully, Yea Father. His Father further asked him if he had met with any assault against it? he answered, No, he had not: But shortly after he had a faint fit, in which he called to his Father to come quickly to him, and strove under shortness of breath; but as soon as he could utter himself, He admired God as his God, who had dealt wonderfully with him; and said, He would trust in him. Again repeating, Psal. 73. 26. My flesh and m yheart faileth, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion for ever. And being laid to rest by his Mother, he said, Good night Mother, I will go to sleep in Iesus. The twenty fifth, having had little rest in the night, he was weaker, and without appetite to any thing, yet desired to eat something with his Father; and because he liked nothing but flesh, a Partridge was made ready, but when he sate up to eat, was seized with a violent tedious fit of Coughing, which wearied him, and 88

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disposed him to rest, labouring long under shortness of breath, making him sigh (which he used not to do) but being asked often how he did? still answered Weak, or very weak in body, but strong in God. He was averse to taking any thing but his Father desiring him sometimes to take some pectoral refreshing, he would say, Yea, dear Father, I will never be disobedient to you, nor my dear Mother (having indeed delighted to serve and please them before play at any time.) At night he desired to sup with his Father, but finding his stomack fail, he asked, If he might not have a Sillabub; which was speedily made, and he drank of it warm to his relief, and his Father sate up with him late, but having (at twice) too easily obtained some of the cold curd which he hankred after, (when his Father was gone to bed) it fell out that night proved very restless, and worse than any to him before; at which his Father being grieved, next morning (especially with the Maid that gave it) he observed it to his very great grief at himself for taking it; which his Father earnestly endeavoured to asswage, Expressing that it was not any thoughts of his disobedience that troubled him in the least, for he had been a pattern in dutifulness, but he was grieved that any thing should be hurtfully applied to him, so very low before; not (said he) but that others in Consumptions please themselves more in hankering after many things hurtful to them, but that he longed his pretious Tabernacle, redeemed of the Lord, (and so resigned to, and supported by him) might not by any means be exposed (through the indiscretion of any) under his care; but exprest his hope, that if he would try to get rest, it would do him no hurt. At which he seemed to be quieted, and then his Father did, by his free consent (after short prayer with him, and affectionate expression of love to him) goe abroad, and returning sooner then he intended, found the poor Child in his absence had been an hour much lamenting himself, as having been disobedient to his dear Father, disturbing himself greatly, that he should desire and take what he knew his Father (considering the toughness of his flegm, and weakness of his stomach) durst not allow him; and in this molestation of his mind, Satan came to discontent him, and cast in his fiery assault, causing him to say to his Mother, Mother, will God charge the Temptation of the Devil upon me? She answered, No, being not consented unto, they were not his sin, nor would they be charged upon him; and asked him what temptation he had had? He said, To curse God and die; but said he, I have resisted it. But lamented his disobedience, saying, He thought it would grieve him whilst he lived. His Mother sought much to satisfy him, hut he was never so molested before, aggravating it against himself, as it had been against his Father, so careful of him. But when he heard his Father was come so soon again (through violence) unexpectedly, he was very glad, and in haste to see him, at whose coming up he mentioned it again as his sin and trouble; but having further full testimony of his Fathers true freedom from either displeasure to the Maid, or grief more about it, he was very much eased, and fell into chearfull discourses, but often coveted and pleased himself in his Father’s expressions of affection to him; however he had but a weak day, and the next night also very restless and faint, but still acknowledged very sensibly the great goodness and mercy of God, as his God. 89

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On the 27th, in the morning, he was yet more revived, and did eat again with his Father, and then prayed after a holy sort, resigning himself to God, yet desiring with submission, he might live, and warn others to serve him; but however, that he might follow God fully so long as he lived; and was very thankfull for his supports, which he desired humbly might be continued, especially to his soul, to the praise of the Lord. But about three he had another violent and tedious fit of coughing, which even spent him, under which he expressed admirable patience and great satisfaction in the Love of God, saying often (as his cough would admit him) the Lord loveth me, and sometime added, I am sure: but his Cough being over, he applied to slumber, therein groaning much, but in intervals he said affectionately, Father, you be my dear Father. His Father asking him how he did? he said, Very ill, Father, indeed in my body, but well in God. His Father said, Will you have a little Cordial, Child? he said, No, I thank you, Father, God is my Cordial. About eight at night he had a very faint fit, his Mother asked then, how his faith in God was? he answered, Strong, I hope, and desired his Father to pray for him; after which he seemed to get a little strength, but had a very bad night again. The 28th day in the morning he was weak, and not willing to eat as formerly, but desiring to lie still and endeavour sleep, rested a little; and being relieved, he was willing to have his head shaved again, (by which he formerly found benefit) which was done without much trouble to him, to his satisfaction; and then desiring rest, his Father sate by him till it was late, and left him better than in two dayes before: after some slumber (expressing his dear love to his Father) he desired the Maid that lay with him, might be hastned to bed, when he said to her, let us sleep together, but could not rest till about two in the morning, and then slept quietly about an hour, and awakened, as it were refreshed, saying to her chearfully, now we have slept together indeed; but instantly a fit of coughing came on him, whereat he said (which he never had done before) Now I think I shall die: she said, No Child, I hope not yet: he answered, Yes, I am going; upon which he consented his Father might be called up: who coming instantly to him, about three in the morning, he said, Father, God be with you, I am going now. His Father (supposing tough flegm arising almost choaked him, and slipt back) made as if he would be giving something to help; which he perceiving, earnestly said, Oh pray Father, do not give me any thing; for indeed, Father, I cannot take any thing but it will stop my passage. The Maid said, he tryed, and could get nothing down, which he confirmed: his Father being not able to refrain (seeing his alteration in countenance, and violent labour by cough) gushed out into tears, which the Child seeing, cryed out also, and (looking towards him) said earnestly (with weeping) Pray Father do not weep, but pray for me, I long to be with God; and desiring again his Father might pray with him, he applyed to it briefly (in too much trouble;) the Child strove much to refrain coughing, laid himself back a little, looked up, and seemed to joyn fervently; his Mother being also then called, came in quickly, to whom he said, (looking upon her when even spent) Farewel, dear Mother, now I am going; and to a Friend coming in, Farewell, dear Sir: and the flegm (as it was thought) coming up into his mouth, but carried back again through 90

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the length and toughness thereof: his Father (contented with his Mother and the Friend’s talking comfortably unto him) was in great care for him, and (unwilling to give the Oyl of Almonds and Syrups at hand, through his aversness to it) ran down for something inoffensive for his relief, and coming up instantly, saw him thrusting, first, his finger, and then his whole hand into his mouth, to catch the flegm, and (hearing or seeing his Father coming) cryed, quickly (as if he expected to take something) O Father, what shall I do! but immediately (as his Father came to him) lay back, and looking up, said, God, God, endeavouring to have uttered more; but (without groan) his breath failing (as if choaked with flegm) he seemed as by consent, to yeeld up the Spirit, leaving to the last a very living evidence of the most general change and lively turning to God wholly that his Parents have experienced, whereof these fragments (gathered from him at last) are but a taste of the great Grace granted to him in all heavenly wisdom and knowledge, who being dead yet speaketh, to the great reproof of his Parents in their shortness to him (and of him) under so much longer profession, and for more full improvement of him, whose swift race (towards his latter end) is impartially set forth (uprightly) for the sake of Youth, and elder than he, that may not yet meet Death (with his Comfort and Composure) so considerately, hoping one good end of the Lords removing him may be for the more safe setting forth this part of an account of him (through grace) to the provoking of many to turn to the Lord, which was the greatest end of his desiring to live, beseeching all wisely to consider it, and duly ponder Eccles. 9. 10. What soever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave whither thou goest: which was through God of great advantage to him.

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12 ANTOINE DE C OURTI N (1622–1685), A T REATI S E OF JEALOUSIE, OR, M EANS TO P R E SERVE PEACE IN M ARRI AGE WHEREIN IS TREATED OF I . THE NATURE AND EFFECTS OF J E ALOUSIE, WHIC H FOR THE MO ST PART IS T HE FATAL CAUS E O F DISCONTENTS BETW EEN M AN A N D WIFE, II. AND BECAUS E J E AL OUSY IS A PAS S I ON, I T’ S THEREFORE OCCA S I ONALLY D I SCOURSED OF PAS S I ONS IN GENERAL . . . I I I . THE R E CIPROCAL DUTI ES OF M AN AND WIFE . . . (London: W. Freeman, 1684), pp. 69–87 and 140–156

Antoine de Courtin was a French diplomat who served the French Crown in Sweden and England. Although he is best known for his Nouveau traité de la civilité (1671), a manual of politeness, he also wrote a treatise on jealousy and how to preserve the peace between husbands and wives in 1682 (Traité de la jalousie ou moyens d’entretenir la paix dans le mariage). As the title suggests, the main focus of this work is on the impact of jealousy on marital

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relations and how to prevent that emotion from wrecking otherwise happy marriages. …

Chapter V. Of the Jealousie of Husbands, and the Remedies thereof. If you will descend now from these general Truths, to particular Actions, you will then see the Effects of what we have advanced. But who can be capable to play the Painter hereof aright? Who can be able to give a right Idea, in Words, of the Unhappiness of Marriage, when, for Example, the Power of a Husband falls into the Hands of a Man Distracted with this Brutal Jealousie, with that Jealousie so Blind and Enraged, that even the Vertue it self, of the Person Beloved, Irritates and Excites it? Every Day gives the experience of this Surprising Truth. For as there can be nothing that Attracts the Heart so much as Vertue, by how much the Woman indued therewith, possesseth a larger share, and by consequence becoming so much the more Aimable, by so much their Passion makes them more afraid of the loss, and burns with more vehemency So that to undertake the decipherin the inhuman ties of this Brutallity, when it is arrived to the excess of Blindness and Fury, as it often falls out, were to undertake the Description of the Cruelties of a Savage mad Beast, that nothing can Reduce or Tame. But what is yet more deplorable in these Persons then in the very Beasts; these that are most in lightned with Natural understanding do suffer themselves to be transported with this Passion more than any other if they be sensual; For as their Wit is quick and piercing, so it is Suspitious their Distrust arising from that very extent of their Apprehension, whereby they understand, or at least believe they understand the most abstruce and hidden things. So we see that the best Genius’s are the most Subject to these kind of Transports, when their Natural Inclination possesses the Authority that is due to Reason. If you desire Examples, we may take that, which History first supplies us withal, of Mithridates K. of Pontus, whose Vertuous Qualities and Great Power made him thought worthy by the Romans to Employ their Armes upon. This Prince beset with the Passion of this kind of Love we speak of, for Monime his Queen, who was endued with an excellent Beauty, and had yet a greater share of Vertue, as the Author of the History has it, kept her all her life as in a Prison with Eunuchs and Barbarians, and at last being Defeated by the Romans, he sent a Slave to cut her Throat, fearing least She might fall in the hands of his Vanquishers; as even after Death he would be jealous of her. Herod the Great, who surpassed all the Princes of his time in political prudence, would imitate him in that, for he had given orders twice to put his Wife to Death, if Antonius and afterwards Augustus, to whom he was obliged to come and Justify himself in some Affairs of Government, should have taken away his own Life; and moreover at last through Jealousie, upon false Reports, he condemned her to die, although, as as the Historian saith, (a) She was a Princess extreemly Chast and Vertuous. 93

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We should never have done if we should expatiate upon this Subject; but we shall not exaggerate the pernicious effects of this Passion, it being our Duty and Task to suppress them, and is much more Incumbent upon us to heal the Sore if possible, than to reveal its detestible Consequences. But what mean can be used to give Light to one that naturally blind, or how can Counsel be Administred to one that stops his Ears to all Reason? Yet since, as I hope it is true, there is no Christian will suffer himself to be hurried to these extreems of Infidels and Men below the range of Savage Beasts: We shall leave them to themselves, as God has already done, and direct our Discourse to such as have their groundwork yet sound, and whose Minds are onely like the Sun covered and darkned with Clouds, which once scattered, he resumes his former Lustre. Jealous Persons may be divided into two Classes, the first is of these whose Jealousie is rather a weakness of the Mind than an inward resentment of the Passion; the other is of those whose Jealousie is a formal Blindness that quite overthrows Reason. A Husband that is Jealous and in the first Rank (which we may call reasonably Jealous, because Reason is not altogether blinded with Passion in them) ought always to regard two things in the Jealousie he has of his Wife. The first is, if the Fear he has be grounded upon any likelyhood or appearance of truth; and the second, whether it be not grounded onely on bare suspicions; and indeed, since this tends to the taking away of the Honour of the Wife, which is in some cases equal to life it self, and since the Husband is the onely judge therein, it behoovs him to have the same Circumspection and precaution, as if he should go upon her life; otherwise he commits Injustice. Now if any appearance of Truth, or some Dissolute Carriages give occasion to the Husband to fear a real Evil, he ought in this Case to call to mind the Principles that we have Established, and to consider with himself, that not only Jealousie it self, but also even his Duty obliges him on all occasions to watch and observe the Conduct of his wife, and to wean and reform her Inclination from what is not good, by seasonable and apt Counsels, and to let her see the ill Consequences (which perhaps she is not capable to discern her self) of many of her Actions, which yet may some of them be indifferent; all which, and other Instructions necessary, he ought especially, and with more reason endeavour to apply, if he be perswaded that his Wife has not a due attention or regard over her Actions. He must there let her understand with Mildness, and Speeches full of Charity, the Care she ought to take to shun not only the evil but much more (if we may so say) the appearance of evil; for Reputation is unhappy in this, that the bare appearance stains it, equally with the Fact it self. He must also shew her Examples of Vertuous Women, for Examples are of great force over the Minds of those that have not trampled all Modesty underfoot. It may be requisite also for him to use some Artifice or other, as having by observation sounded her bent and Inclinations to Substitute some suitable Object that will take up her Thoughts, and Divert her from any unhappier Engagement her Inclination might make her prone too: for in desperate occasions a lesser evil supplies the place of a real good. But what will be 94

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of great efficacy in this Mallady, is that the Husband order his (a) Conversation so with his Wife, that she may thereby manifestly see her Injustice in having only an indifferency for him: that is to say, that the Husband engage her by his care, even in the least occurrences, by his good humour, his honest carriage, and affectionate entertainment, to forget of her own accord any deluding extravagancy that might otherwise possess her mind. And above all he ought to teach her Continence by his own proper Example, it being unjust in him to require that of her which he does not observe himself, the obligation in that part being equal on both sides. But if his Jealousie have no other ground but bare suspitions, and the disturbed thoughts which he himself raises in his own mind; I mean if it be that sensual Jealousie, which he have painted out so lively before, which he Labours under; he ought to detest it, and oppose Reason and her Arms she is furnished withal by Prudence against it: He ought according to the Rule of our Philosopher, to perswade himself, when he perceives his Blood moved with the Passion, that whatever is represented at that time to the Imagination, tends only to deceive the Soul; and when the Assault of the Passion is very violent, he must abstain for the time from giving any Judgment or Determination, but divert his Mind with other Thoughts, till time and rest have throughly setled the Motion of the Blood. And as when a Man is set upon at unawares by an Enemy. if he be seized with fear, he ought to divert his Thoughts from the thinking of Danger, by proposing to himself the Thoughts of the Honour there is in not Flying; so ought he in the same manner, when this Beast of Jealousie agitates the Soul with Imaginations that are disadvantagious to his Wife, to divert his Thoughts imediatly, and settle them upon the consideration of something that he knows to be Vertuous in his Wife. As for those that are affected with a blinded Jealousie, and transported so far with its violence, that they are no more capable of understanding Reason, it is not properly the Diseased Party that is to be cured; for he is not at all capable of Cure; but the Woman, which causes this Distemper: She must Cure her Self if she intend to Cure her Husband; She must oppose, to all the evil treatments she suffers, a Life that is directly contrary to what is, or may, in any Case seem to be the occasion of this inhumane Passion. And to this end the Woman ought in the first place to shun the Acting evil, as we said just now, and also the very suspition of it. She must shun the Acting of it by Fortifying her Mind with these considerations, that Infidelity to the Nuptial Bed is the mark of a low and servile Spirit, and does of it self Bury both the Husband and all his Family in shame, and though perhaps in the Carear of Youth, in which as in the height of a Feaver, one has no sense of himself, she may not be affected with the reproach thereof, yet she lays up in store for Old Age a wounding and mortal abhorrency, and a shame unsupportable: She ought to consider that this unfaithfulness violates all the Laws both of God, of Man, and of Nature: That it is a Robbery and Enormous in the highest degree, obliging her by the very Law of Nature, to recompence not only her Husband, but also her whose right she assumed to her self in this unlawful Action: And especially, if the natural effects thereof does follow; for which Cause the Jealousie of a Husband may be esteemed 95

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(as a lesser Evil may be esteemed good in respect of a greater) lawfuller than that of the Wife, because her Crime herein involves the whole Family, where his Crime extends no further than to himself. So God made a Law expresly, by which it was permitted to the Husband, to adjure his Wife by the High Priest in the presence of God in the Temple, upon the bare suspition he might have of her Infidelity, which was called the Law of Jealousie, and which had its proper Ceremonies, its Sacrifices and terrible Imprecations; but we find no priviledge like this for the suspitions of the Wife. The Wife ought also to shun the very appearance of Evil: For although her Conscience can testifie for her, that her Husbands Jealousie has no other ground but bare Suspicion, yet she ought not to cease her endeavours to allay that Suspicion by all her Actions, as much as if it had a real Ground. She must shun every thing that may give but so much as a Shadow of her Incontinency. She must avoid the company of Men that are any way suspected, Set Meetings, and Gaddings abroad; but above all, she must shun the Society of Unregulated and Scandalous Women, for they are indeed more dangerous than Disorderly Men themselves, since these sort of Women have some appearance, but False and Simulated, of Vertue: And indeed it is in this that the meaning of that place of Scripture takes place, That the Iniquity of Man is to be preferred before the Vertue of a Woman. But some that are Interested with Self-Love, will Object, Why should the Woman deprive her self of all Pleasure, since a Prison, in such Case, would be equally Comfortable? We do not say, that the Woman must deprive her self of all Recreations that are honest in themselves, but that she must conform her Pleasures to those of her Husband. Yea, granting she should refrain her self from all these Toys which carry the Name of Pleasures, can any thing equalise the Pleasure of Domestick Peace? Is that a Pleasure; for Example, to run to Balls at Nights, when she is sure at her return to find her Husband transported with Anger and Rage at home? Is it a Pleasure to frequent Comedies, especially in suspected Company, when she is sure at her Return to be oppressed with Affronts and Reproofs? And lastly, can it be a Pleasure to live always in fear least her Husband should come to the knowledg of her appointed Meetings, and other Extravagant Courses? To live always in Disguisement and unsetledness? When on the contrary nothing can equal the Pleasure of Peace and Union, both according to the Judgment of Persons that have had the Experience thereof, and of all others that understand themselves, even so far that it is established for an undoubted Maxim, that nothing so advantagious or desirable can accrew to Man, as concord and agreement of desires between Man and Wife in their Family. It is necessary then, that the honest Wife, who would maintain Peace, and heal the Diseased Mind of her Husband, do shun the company of censured Women; and instead thereof do invite honest Women for their Society at home, I mean such as are truly Vertuous, and I say invite them: since to go abroad to seek them might yet perhaps nourish the suspition of their Husbands, and moreover for this Advantage that may accrew thence, that her Husband may see by them Examples of the mildness and confidence of other Husbands. 96

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And withal she must keep at a distance, all these insignificant desires or Fancies, that lead to a Childish baseless; Employing her self in things that are of Moment, and in governing of her House; Practising these Vertues that are most contrary to these kind of Enormities, & applying herself to some kind of work or other thing that may give an apprehension far different from that of the disorder she may be suspected of. But above all things lot her avoid lying; for nothing in the World Contributes so much to rase Suspition in the Husband, and a Bad Esteem of her self in the World as this Vice; which being an infallible token of a double & deceitful Mind, the apprehension there of drives the Husband into distrusts and Jealousies that cannot be retrived. As on the contrary Candour and Ingenuity have so much Power over the Mind of Man, that although it were even almost overcome by some apparent Circumstances and yeilding to suspetions, yet they fortifie it so that it will give its self the lie. Now when I say she must avoid lying. It is to be understood even in things private, and of the smallest Moment, as well as in things of greater Importance, because that a lie in the one as well as in the other, does produce the same Effect in the Mind of him it is related to. We have hereof a Signal Example in History of Eudosia Wife to the Emperour Theodosius, a Present being made to the Emperour of an Apple which for its excessive greatness, was very rare, for which cause he sent it to the Empress; She received it, and a little after, without thinking any harm, gave it to one named Paulinus, a Learned Man, for whom she had a respect, being Learned her self. He not knowing from whence it first came, and thinking it worthy to be presented to the Emperour for its rarity, goes and offers it to him; the Emperour at first admires it, not knowing it to be the same Apple, but at last calling it to Remembrance, he thereupon conceives a Suspition; and departing immediately, goes to the Empress, and presently asks her for the Apple. She not knowing what had passed, through simplicity, and perhaps for Fear he might take it ill that she had given it away; tells him she had eat it, the Emperour asks her a second time, to whom she answers the same thing, and confirms it with an Oath. Whereupon he being straightway in Wrath, shews her the Apple, and convinces her of a lie, which confirming his Jealousie of a Criminal Love, he put Paulinus to Death and Banished the Empress. Behold the consequence of a lie, and which might seem a Trivial thing, yet which in an Instant counterpoised the Ballance of the Opinion of a Husband, of the Merits, Vertue and rare qualities of his Princess; wherewith she was so largely endow’d, that thereby only from being a private Person before, she was advanced to be the Wife of an Emperour. And indeed this Virtue retain’d its Lusture to the last, for being retire’d to Jerusalem, as the History saith, she liv’d and Dyed in Holy Orders. This Example I have produced to shew the dismal Effects of double dealing, let it appear never so Innocent to us. Besides all that we have already said, the Honest Wife will always be careful to express so much Compliance to her Husband, that though she receive never so bad usage from him, yet she will not loose nor lessen the respect she ows him. 97

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There is nothing provokes this Passion so much as Obstinacy and disdain. Which are commonly produced in Women, from the conceipt they have of their Beauty, or other External advantages, and particularly the Passionate Love their Husbands express to them; they look upon these Baits as Chains wherewith they may draw them wheresoever they Please; and the more they perceive in their Husbands the Transports of Vehement Love, the more they become Arrogant and Disdainful. In the mean while, they consider not that this Love, as it is qualified, is a Love sick Passion, which by frequent Provocations they cause to degenerate into a Phrensie or Mortal Hatred. Mariam the Wife of Herod, of whom we spoke before, may be Example and a Lesson for them, she surpassed infinitely, saith the Historian, all the Women of that Age, in Beauty, in Majesty, and in Virtuous Qualities; which endowments were indeed the Cause of her Unhappiness. for seeing the King her Husband so Passionately Enamoured of her, she beleived no Danger of loosing his Affections; and laid a side the respect She ought him. But what followed? The King Changed his Love into Rage, and giving Ear to false Accusations of her Honour, his Jealousie gave way to let this Innocent Princess be Condemned to Death, as we said before. Not much unlike to this, was that of a Roman Hero, who having put away his Wife, all People were Astonished at it, seeing she was so perfectly Beautiful and Lovely: yet he, having secluded her, because of her Arrogancy, and Stubborn Humours, wherewith she wearied him uncessantly, gave no other Return, or Reason, but shewing them her Shoe; said, if you had put this on, you would have felt where it hurt you. An Honest and good Wife, then must not presume upon either her Birth, if perhaps it be above that of her Husbands, or that she had the Fortune of a larger Portion, or in her Beauty, or any other Endowment whatsoever, but must settle her Ambition on these things, that do more intimately engage his Affections: Which are her good conduct, her Mildness, her Compliance, and her Obedience; so that instead of being more and more conceited of her self, and Stubborn, as it is too Ordinary she may be more and more agreeable and Lovely in all her Actions. And that she may succeed herein, as we have said before, she must bear all the Extravagancies of her Husbands Jealousie with Mildness and Humility; recalling to mind that from the very day of their Nuptials, it was imposd upon her for a Law by God, to conform her self to the Humours of her Husband. So it behoves her to bear patiently all his rash and inconsiderate Demeanours; which Patience will reward its self with Peace, wherein she will rejoyce. And indeed there is nothing so capable of disarming his Fury, or to free him from that Evil Spirit possesses his Mind, as Patience and Mildness, whereby an Honest Wife smooths over, and takes in good part the overflowings of this Jealousie, censuring them as Effects of inconsiderateness, and hasty Humour, by this means the Vertue of the VVife resuming as it were a fresh Lustre, the Husband will of his own accord be forc’t to acknowledg it, and submit himself as soon as ever the Storm of his Passion is blown over. But to the End, these Remedies may Operate against the Vehemency of this Passion, for her last Remedy, let her have recourse to God in Prayer, Repentance, 98

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and Tears: for it is by this means that the Devils are dispossest she must utter her Groans before him, and beg Strength of him to support Patiently the Afflictions which he is pleased to lay upon her, and which he sometimes sends to Honour Just Souls with the Glory of Martyrdom. She must recommend her Innocence into his Hands; and most assuredly, as he is the chief and true Espouse of a Godly and Chast Soul, he will take her to his Protection, and will change the Heart of the Husband, or else will Sanctifie her Persecutions to her.

CHAP. VII. That it is True and Reasonable Love that produceth Peace in Marriage. According to the Principles which we have proposed, it is easie to perceive, that the Love which begets Sensual Jealousie, is not at all that that produces Reciprocal Love, and by consequence, Peace in Marriage; since instead of inclining them to do these things that procure Love, on the contrary, it inclines them to do every thing that’s capable to procure them Hatred. We have (I suppose) sufficiently shown, that these Distrusts, these secret Contrivances, these Rebukes, and these Heats of Passion which Jealousie suggest, are so far from being capable to prevent or cure the Evil that’s fear’d, that on the contrary they only stir it up, and bring a scandal upon it over and above. So that we may Establish, for an unquestionable Maxim, that Jealousie returns back upon themselves that are Jealous; and that it serves them to no other use, but to fret their Minds, and to disturb them Day and Night, with Fears and Suspitions, which yet, most times, are no more than Dreams and Chimaeras; and Lastly, to make them undergo the most unparalel’d Torments in the World. It serves, I say, to no other end, but to Toil themselves, and vainly to weary all that Converse with them; much like to Mastiff-Dogs that watch about a House, that Rave whilst Sleeping, Disturb and Torment themselves, and by their Barking and Howling, give the Alarm, and put all that are in the House into a Fright and Trouble. And, in short, it only serves to Disgrace themselves, by discovering those Sordid Passions that Agitate their Souls. For, as every one Contemns a Man, (saith our Philosopher1) that is Jealous of his Riches, because it proceeds from his Avarice; so, in like manner, they disesteem him that’s Jealous of his Wife, because that proceeds from his Sensuality. And indeed, it is an evident Testimony, that he does not Love his Wife as he ought to do, and that he has an ill opinion, either of her, or of himself. For if he had a real Love for her he would have no Inclination to Distrust her. But it is not her directly that he Loves, it is only the Possession of her; and he fears the less thereof, because, either he knows himself to be unworthy of it, or that she is Unfaithful. To all this we may add, That Jealousie is a means, by so much the less capable to produce the effect desired, in that it is a Contagious Evil, which Communicates it self, and Infects with the same Distemper the other Party, which before was altogether free from it; so that thereby, instead of One, there are Two, found Diseased, and instead of some small hopes of Peace, which was before, there arises a continual, and irreconcileable, Warfare, the mildest Remedy whereof must be a Separation. 99

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We may be fully and thorowly convinced of this Truth, if we look upon the infinite number of separations of Marriages, which the Magistrates are obliged to make every Year, for the preventing of disasters, not to be conceiv’d without Horrour, which would otherwise ensue. If we examine the causes of these separations to the bottom, and not rest upon these that appear or are pretended, we shall find under these pretexts that are always specious and plausible, that the Truth is that Jealousie introducing and nourishing between the Married couple, ill Humours, capricious Actions, Suspitions, Scrutinies, Reproaches, and transports of Passion continually and without end, they have made themselves so insupportable the one to the other, that the Law was necessitated to interpose between them, like a Grate between Savage Beasts. The reason of this reciprocal Jealousie, is easily to be found, for the Party that is not Jealous, seeing the other to be so, and knowing that he must be so because he Judges him criminal, and withal knowing that those that think themselves Armed with Justice for Revenge, will do any thing that may contribute to it; he conceives a Suspition himself that the other may Revenge himself by the Infidelity which this other Judges him guilty of, which Ripening by degrees, breaks forth like Lightning at last, and blows the Fire of Domestick Sedition up to a destructive Flame. It cannot be therefore this sensual Love that maintains Peace in Marriage, it is reasonable and real Love, it is this Love that we have represented full of Meekness, which affects the Mind of the Husband with a real Tenderness, which enclines him to Reign over the Heart of his Wife by engaging Actions, and not by the Rigid Exercise of the right he has to Rule, which excuses smaller Faults, and covers greater Misdemeanours with Charity and Compassion, when they cannot be retreived; which takes a greater share of all the Evils that befal her, than she does her self, which makes him ready to die for her sake, as Christ, who is his Example, died for his Church. It is this Love that removes all danger of these sad disasters we have touch’t upon, without the mediation of the Magistrate; whose Authority is so universal, because it is founded upon natural Justice. That those that are the least enlightned with reason are under its Power; and not only so, but are also animated and encouraged thereby, against all dangers whatever, that may any way invade the beloved Object. We have an Example of an Arabian which may be a lesson for us of the real Love and Tenderness; his Name was Raha, and commanded in Affrica in Quality of a General. One day Party belonging to the Neighbouring People, having surprized his Quarters in his abscence, took away great Spoyl, and withal took his Wife Prisoner: And as they were going off with their Booties, the General was at the same time Returning with about Seventy Horse who meeting them loaded with Pillage and not knowing any thing of the Disaster of his Wife, he Charges them on the Reer, thinking to Scatter them; but seeing his Assaults to be in vain, and that he was too weak for them, he commands the Retreat; and just as they were wheeling about, he heard a confused Voyce, in the middle of the Enemies Party, which cryed Raha; he stops a little, and understands it to be the voyce of his Wife, he goes directly back again by himself, and got leave to speak to her from the Commander of the Party, to take his last farewel of her. She at the first sight begins to reprove 100

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him of his Remisness, that he would suffer her to be taken away on such a manner: which words, with the seeing her in such a Condition, did so Enflame his Love, and Provoke his Jealousie, that he run to his Soldiers, and spoke to them, saying, If ever you have been sensible of Love, take Pity of my Dear Wife, and me; help us, I Conjure you by all that is Sacred to Mortals, by the Glory of our Nation, by my own Life, which cannot Subsist long, if they Ravish my Wife from me. Go to, my Dear Friends, Fortune helps the Generous, and Lovers. They went on indeed, Set upon the Body of the Party; Raha Kill’d the Commander with his own Hands, and put the Rest to Flight; he Delivered his Wife, and brought her back in Tryumph, with all the Spoil (a). Now such are the Effects of a Generous and Lawful Jealousie, Animated only by the Motions of Nature. We may easily presume from hence, that Peace does Gloriously Reign in such a Marriage. But to raise our Jealousie to a degree of Perfection, and to guide it according to the Light of Christianity, We need only to Imitate that Excellent Pattern of Marriage, in the Persons of the Mother of our Blessed Saviour, and of Joseph. The Meekness and Moderation of this Just Husband are Admirable. He did not Scandalize his Be trothed Virgin, although he knew he to be with Child; and not yet Instructed, that it was the working of the Holy Spirit. He did not Persecute he with Complaints, with Roughness, with Suspitions, with Passions, or with Violences; but he resolved to put her away quietly, and privately, because saith the Holy Evangelist (b), he was a Just Man, and Fearing God; So that it is Evident, that he Loved her with a Real and Reasonable Love, for her self only, and not for his own Ends, according to the Holy Rules of Amity, and not according to the Unregulated Instinct of Passion, which Besieges and Agitates the Minds of Sensual Persons. Now, it would be unnecessary to Exemplifie further, the Peace that Blessed this Holy Marriage, since it is so easie to infer, from this Peaceable Love already rehearsed, that nothing could intervene between these Divine Lovers, but Calmness, and Admirable Meekness. It is likewise unnecessary to Insist any longer, upon Instructing Jealous Women in the Means to preserve Peace; since we have already Established by Proofs (I suppose) Invincible, that it depends only upon things that are opposed to the Enormities of this Sensual Jealousie; that is to say on Meekness and Submission of the Mind. Neither shall they pretend to say, That we have made it our Pleasure, to make their Condition worse then that of Men: For we have only followed Nature herein, whose Laws are a Law to all the Rest. Now, as a Man would be Rediculous, that would not Eat nor Drink, because he was not Born a Prince, so likewise, that Woman must be of a Capricious Humour, that will not do what she ought to do, because the Law of Nature has Subjected her to her Husband. It is not of this then, that Women must Complain. But rather let them Complain of these Two things, which indeed are the true Causes of the Evils they Suffer themselves and with which they Infect others. First, Let them Complain, that the greatest part of Parents give their Children a Bad Education, and bring them up in a Love of themselves, by their too much Indulgency, which is the Original of Sensuality. 101

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Secondly, Let them Complain, of the little Care they take, or the wrong Ends they propose, in their Marriages, where they will give Ear to nothing but what may Answer their Pride or Temporal Interest. Indeed, it is a great Abuse in the World, to permit a kind of People to make a Publick Trade of Marrying others; and an Indignity insufferable, and Criminal, that these Creatures should Sell the Children of a Family Publickly. These are People that keep Account-Books, and State Methodically in a Twofold Range, all Persons that are to be Married, of either Sex; and particularly, of a great Number that come out of Remote Countreys, many whereof come almost of no other Account, but to Trie their Fortunes herein; and indeed, their Counts are always pretty full of these, and they make the best Returns by them; for having nothing to lose, for the most part, if they Hound them fairly, and they Kill, they are willing to divide the Prey with them. Now these Men-Marchants are wont to Insinuate themselves directly, if they can, into any House where they are in hopes to find any Game; or if they cannot do it directly, they either Corrupt the Servants they can come acquainted with, or else they Subborn Persons of no more worth than themselves, to break the Ice, and there finding the Tender Mothers made up of Ears, for the Name of a Lord, a Knight, an Esquire, or such like, that will Raise their Daughters Quality, though in the end they prove but Cyphers on the Left Hand of the Account, they easily win them over, to Commit their Childrens Fortunes to the Mercy of Persons unknown to them, and who perhaps, know nothing themselves of the great Possessions and Riches pretended, saving Two or Three Guineas, which they spared of that Money they Borrowed, and to bring them up withal. Yet this is not to hinder a Cordial Friend from making Choise, or Recommending a Suitable Match to a Young Person, whose Shame-facedness keeps him or her from Acting themselves: Nor that it is any way forbid, to take Counsel, and hear what may be said, in so Important an Affair, that thereon depends the Happiness or Unhappiness of this Life. But we would be understood to mean, that a Foresight or Design of only Temperal Advantages, must not so far Blind the Understanding of Parents, as to Sacrifice their Children, without knowing the Cause to the bottom; as though they should Sew them up in a Sack with a Dog, an Ape, a Cock and a Serpent b, there to end their Days in Misery. It is necessary to see attentively with the Eyes, both of Parents, and of intimate Friends, endued with Discretion; what kind of a Wife must be chosen for a Young Man, and what sort of a Husband must be chosen for a Young Woman; neither must they be chosen only by the View, but by being also informed of their Reputation, of their Humours, of their Inclinations, and of the Temper of their Spirit c. But to return to our purpose; It is Absolutely necessary, if the Wife would make her self Lovely in the Eyes of her Husband, and by consequence, Live in Peace, and Taste the Sweets of Marriage, that she be Submitting, Good and Humble. For let her have all the good Qualities besides imaginable, yet if she have not Submission and Meekness, she Acquires only Disrespect to her self. Though she have the very Perfection of Beauty, yet if she have not Discretion and Submission, it is 102

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only, as the Scripture says a, A Ring of Gold in a Swines Snout. When on the contrary, though she be Endowed with no Extraordinary Gift, yet if she have Meekness, Modesty, and Submission, there is no Heart but will yield to her; I mean, how hard Hearted or Unaffected soever her Husband be, yet he will be thereby brought to Love her. In short, being endued with Submission, She will look upon her Husband as the Rule and Pattern of the Family, to the which She ought to Conform her self, as natural Reason commands her; since it is against Nature, that that which is a Rule should take its Proportion from the things whereof it is a Rule. So in like manner, the Wife (as we have already said) taking for the Rule of her Conduct, the Manners and Will of her Husband; She shall live in the middle of Peace, of Joy, and of Love: Nothing can trouble this Rest; and there can be no Temporal Disgrace, nor no Danger, which this true Love will not overcome, yea, all the Frowns of Fortune will serve only to Signalize it. We have Examples of Abundance of Women, amongst the Antients, that without any Light besides that of Nature, have exceeded, even according to us, by their Love, their Fidelity, and this generous Jealousie, the outmost Limits of Conjugal Duty. We Read of some that have prefered the following their Husbands in Banishment, and leading their Lives in Poverty; before the Pleasure of Living in Splendour at Court, where they have been desired to remain a. Some have shut themselves up in Caves and Sepulchres, and there Lain and Lived several Years, in an unimaginable Silence and Secrecy, to accompany their Husbands that stole away, and hid themselves, from Persecutions b. We see some that have changed their Habits with their Husbands in Prison, that thereby they might Escape, whilst they themselves remain’d Exposed to the Rage of their Persecutors c. And Lastly, We Read of Heroical Matrons amongst the Romans, which have been the Pattern of Honest Wives of their Age, who, though in all their Actions, they maintain’d the Glory and Majesty of their Royal Progenitors, who had Subdued Nations and Kingdoms; yet, at the same time, had as much Respect, Meekness and Submission, towards their Husbands, as though they had been their Servants or Slaves d. And to come yet nearer our Subject, can there be any Patience and Submission, more Admirable, then that of Octavia, the Sister of Augustus, during the Love between her Husband Anthony, and Cleopatra? Could there ever be a more Glorious Victory of true Love over Sensual Jealousie, than that which was gain’d by a Tartarian Woman? This Woman taking Compassion of a Man, which she saw pass along amongst the Prisoners, which the Tartars had taken in an Incursion into Thracia, Bought him, and in some time after Married him. Her Love was such to him, that for his sake, she would turn Christian; and for that End, would go into some Christian Countrey: But Conceiving with Child in that time that they waited for an opportunity, they were constrain’d to stay till she should be Deliver’d; after which, before they could have a favourable occasion, they staid so long, that she 103

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became with Child a Second Time. During which time, the Tartars made a Second Incursion into Thrace; and as they carried their Prisoners along, in their wonted manner, the Husband of this Tartarian Woman, seeing them pass by, discovered his First Wise amongst them; which so much moved his Compassion, that the Tartar perceiv’d it, and Asked him the Reason of his Passion? Which when she understood, she goes away, without saying any thing, and Buys this Wife, and takes her Home with her to be an Helper to her in her House: They Lived Peaceably altogether; and some while after, the Tartar was Delivered, they take their Journey into a Christian Countrey, and Arrive at last at Constantinople. The Christian Woman finding her self in a place of Protection, goes and complains to the Patriarch, Demanding her Husband again. The matter being Examined to the bottom, and the Case appearing to be singular, no Man durst give his positive Judgment therein; till this Divine, though Tartarian Woman, decided it her self, saying, If my Husband Love his First Wife better than me, let him take her; I will also give him his Ransom. As for this Woman, finding my self not in a Condition to give her the same Liberality, let her Repay me her Ransom, and let her go with her Husband; I my self will wait, with my Two Children, till it shall please God to dispose of me otherwise. Every Man admired at the Discretion of this Woman. So it pleased God to declare himself on her side: For the Thracian Woman being gone into her own Countrey, to procure wherewithal to Pay her Redemption, she Perished there, and was never heard of more; which left the Generous Tartar in Peaceable Possession of her Husband, and in perfect Unity with him, the rest of her Days a. Behold the Effects of True Love; Behold the Effects of Honest and Lawful Jealousie, that Enclines and Inspires such generous Lovers, to deprive themselves of their Dearest Enjoyments and Rights, to please their Husbands; to Employ all their Strength and Power, to Free them from Enemies, from Exiles, from Prisons, from Torments, yea from Death, and Dieing themselves for them. It is on this manner, that Jealousie is an Excess of Love, and especially, if this Jealousie retains it self within the Bounds, which the Religion we Profess prescribes to it, and which these Ancients were Ignorant of. Yea, It is this, Prudent Jealousie that is the Effect of Discreet Love, as this Love is the Effect of Meekness, Willingness, Modesty, Submission and Vertue of the Wife, which works such Wonders and Produces that Peace in Marriage, that cannot be Sufficiently esteem’d. It is this, which the Wise King understands, when he says, Who so findeth a (good) Wife, findeth a good Thing, and Obtaineth Favour of the Lord. So likewise we are Commanded, Not to keep our selves at a distance from, an understanding Woman which one has received in the Fear of the Lord; for the Favour of her Countenance is more Precious than Gold. And likewise it is written, Happy is he, that abideth with an understanding Wife. Happy is the Husband of a good and Vertuous Wife, the Number of his Years shall be doubled. And likewise that, She is an Excellent Lot. That, She is the Lot of them that Fear God. That, She shall be given to them, for their good Works. But of the Vertues of a good Wife, it is Meekness, that is the Joy of her Husband, and Distributes Strength to his Bones; also to speak little, For this is a Testimony of her good Understanding. A Wife of 104

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good Understanding (saith the same Apochrypha) Loveth silence, nothing is comparable to a Soul that is well instructed, or that hath Reservation. In short, Gold cannot stand in comparison with the Price of a good Wife. It is then, Meekness, Civility, Modesty, Silence, Understanding, and Prudence, that renders a VVife Commendable, that renders her Aimable, Dear and Precious beyond all the goods, and all the Treasures of the World, It is by these Vertues that she gains herself Renown, in being Jealous, and not at all by that Jealousie which has only self Love for its Object, and is Grounded upon Sensuality; and which by consequence dishonours Man, by rendering him like to Beasts. But to Conclude, and to Reduce all the Counsells we have given to Husbands as well as Wives, into one maxime which may easily be Imprinted in their Memories, we shall only resume that Rule which an Ancient Father of the Church, has recommended to them in two VVords; in which he Comprehends, in short, both the Mutual Duties of Married People, and the infallible means to entertain Peace in Marriage: Let not the Wife, Saith this Reverend Father a, Pretend an Equal Right in Marriage, since she is under a Head; and let not the Husband despise his Wife, because she is Subject to him, since she is his Body. Let the Woman therefore always look upon her Husband as her Superiour, and let the Husband Love his Wife, as his own Body, and they shall Live in Peace.

Note 1 A reference to René Descartes’s work on the Passions.

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13 A N ACCOUNT OF A HORRI D A ND BARBAROUS M URDER C O M MIT TED ON TH E BODY OF A YOUNG PERSON S UPPOS ED TO BE OF A GOOD QUALI TY IN THE FIEL DS BEYOND WHIT ECHAPPEL -CHURCH I N THE PARISH OF S TEPNY (London: George Croom, 1684)

Early modern Europeans experienced high levels of crime and insecurity. Accounts of particularly horrific murders were recorded and disseminated in pamphlets and newssheets designed for a wide public (and to be read out to those who could not read). Deliberately sensationalistic, such works aim to elicit an emotional reaction from their readers in much the same way that modern news media seek to sensationalize crime stories and exploit public anxiety about violent crimes. The following account of a murder committed in late-seventeenth-century London is a good example of such literature and explicitly seeks ‘to draw tears from the eyes of the most unconcerned, and raise pity in the breast of the worst of men’. … An Account Of a Horrid and Barbarous Murder, Committed On the Body of a Young Person supposed to be of a good Quality in the Fields beyond WhitechappelChurch, in the Parish of Stepny commonly known by the Name of Tom-turds Field where she was found, on Munday the 16th. of March, her Throat Cut, and several wounds upon her Body, which was there left stark Naked in one of the Pits belonging to the Field. Did we not by the too often repeated Instances of this kind behold the Barbarity of Man’s Temper, when left of God Almighty, we should be more Astonish’d at the Bloudy and Savage Cruelty in the following Relation, which is enough to draw Tears from the Eyes of the most Unconcerned, and raise Pity in the Breast of 106

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the worst of Men: But not to detain the Reader with too long Exordiums, I shall proceed to the Story it self: In the Fields beyond White-Chappel Church, commonly called Tom-turds Fields, some Children were on Munday the 16th of this Instant playing near the Pits, and one of them casually striking his Ball thereinto, the Lad endeavouring to reach the same with a Stick lit upon a Foot as he concieved it, and so it proved true, of a Person that had been there Murdered; whereat calling his Companions they came about it, and the Croud increasing, they quickly pull’d the Carkass to the side of the Pit, and by that means perceived it was the Body of a Young Woman strip’d stark Naked, except the Lyning of an old-Gown to Cover her, and on her Right Leg a Mans Stocking and Shoe; she was Bruised all over her Body, and had several Wounds which were seen thereupon; to wit, one in her Right Breast, another upon the side or her Right Eye, and another in her Throat, which was cut half through, with several other Barbarous Gashes in several parts of the Body, The Person is as yet unknown, but by the Conjectures of most Persons that have viewed her, she is supposed to be of some Quality, and the rather for that she hath a very Clear Skin and soft Hand; she seems to have several good Features, and is as supposed not above the Age of 16 or 17 at most: on her little Finger of the Right Hand she had a Cornelion Ring, but how long she hath lain in that Place is not yet known, tho it cannot be very long, for that her Wounds are fresh. And upon the removing her from the Pit where she was first found, to Mileend-Green at the sign of the George, where her Body now lies, she Bled a fresh: The Field where she was, hath been always looked upon as very Dangerous for Passingers, after Night is shut in, and several Persons have been there Robb’d, but the Barbarity of this is hardly to be Parralleled, not only in Relation to her Sex, but also her Youth; And how Malice: it self should be so Trancendently wicked in the perpetration of so Horrid and Abominable a Murder, it can scarce enter into the Breast of Humanity to Imagine: Murder in any degree hath been always lookt upon as the most Crying of all Sins, and seldome is it that the same scapes Unpunnished, the Vengeance of the Almighty pursuing the Criminal generally to hss Punnishment even in this World, much more may we hope that in so Horrid an Instance as this is, where neither Beauty nor Youth could work Compassion on the obdurate and Cruel Hearts of Accursed Perpetrators thereof, that in God’s good time the same will come to a Discovery, and the Criminals to their deserved End: Which that the same may come to pass, is the Prayers of all good People, who cannot but upon sight thereof compassionate the poor Innocent, and look upon the Authors of this Tragedy with more than common Detestation.

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14 THE T RYAL OF PHI LI P STA N DSFIELD, SON TO S I R J AM ES STANDSFIELD OF NEW- M I LNS FOR T HE MURTHER O F HIS FAT HER, AND OTHER C R IMES L IBELL’D AGAI NS T HI M , F E B. 7. 1688. FOR W HI CH HE H A D JUDGMENT, T HAT ON THE [15TH . . . ] BET WIXT THE HOURS O F T WO AND FOUR I N THE A F TERNOON, TO B E CARRI ED TO T HE MERCAT-CROS S OF E D I NBURGH, AND H ANG’ D ON A GIBBET, UNT IL HE BE DEAD; H IS TONGUE TO BE CUT OUT A N D BURNT ON A S CAFFOLD; A N D HIS RIGHT-HAND TO BE CUT O F F, AND AFFIXT O N THE EAS T G ATE OF HEDINGTON, AND HI S B ODY TO BE HUNG I N CHAI NS . WH I CH DOOM AND S ENTENCE WA S ACCORDINGLY PUT TO DUE E X ECUTION UPON THE S AI D PHILIP STANDSFI ELD 108

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(Edinburgh: Andrew Anderson, 1688), pp. 20–22 and 27–30 The murder of James Standsfield by his son Philip resulted in a high-profile trial that captured the Scottish public’s imagination for several centuries. During the trial, it emerged that Philip was the classic prodigal son, who had left home and behaved immorally, before returning chastened to the family home. He had resented his father’s authority however, causing the father significant grief, before – or so it was alleged – finally killing him and covering up the murder. The trial contained both sentimental moments, including descriptions by James’ friends of his anxiety and grief about his son’s behaviour, and the supernatural – the body bled when touched by Philip and he was haunted by a ghost. To modern eyes, some events appear unbelievable but they capture the horror of parricide for seventeenth-century Scots, a crime that disrupted natural hierarchies within the family as well as normative ideals of the parent-child relationship. The excerpts here consist of the witness deposition of Agnes Bruce, a servant of the murdered man, and Humphrey Spurway, an Englishman who knew him. It is taken from the printed report of the trial, which closely mirrored the court documents created as part of the pre-trial fact-finding mission and appears to have been produced as a result of the public interest that the case provoked. In this, the case is also suggestive of social attitudes towards this sort of crime during the period. …

Testimony of Agnes Bruce Agnes Bruce above-designed being Re-examined, Purged and Sworn, Depones, That she did hear the Pannal1 usually vow and swear he would kill any person that offended him; and that the Pannal did haunt much with Janet Johnston, George Thomson and his Wife, and that he went frequently out of his Fathers House after Supper to these persons; and further Depones, that she has heard the Pannal frequently curse his Father, and bid the Devil damn him, and rive him, and swell him; and that she has frequently heard him express his hatred and abhorrence of his Father, and that he could not abide to see his Father: further Depones, that the Munday at Night before Sir James came to Edinburgh, the last time he was in it, being about a Fourthnight before his Death, the Deponent was ordered to call the Pannal to his Mother after he was gone to his Chamber, and that accordingly she did it, and when the Pannal came down, the Deponent left him with his Mother alone, and when she was without the Door, she heard him say to his Mother several times, God damn him if he did it not; and desired his Mother to take a good Heart, for as long as he had, she should not want: Depones, she knows not what 109

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he meaned by these words, but knows there had been a little quarrel betwixt Sir James and his Lady that same Night: Further Depones, that on Tuesday thereafter, when Sir James Standsfield was going in to Edinburgh, she did hear Philip Standsfield the Pannal say in his Mothers Chamber (his Father not being present,) God let him never return, God let him never see his Fathers face again, the Devil go with him, the Devil rive him, and take him away; and that there was no body in the Roum at the time but the Pannal and his Mother, and the Deponent was at the Door: Further Depones, that about a month before, Sir James having reproved the Pannal, upon the occasion of an Accompt given in by William Anderson Brewer, she did hear the Pannal say in his Mothers Chamber (Sir James not being present,) God damn him if he should not do ten times worse, and that he could not endure to see his Fathers face, and that he had hated his Father these six or seven years: Further Depones, that about a Fourth-night or twenty days before Sir James his death, it being said that Philip was to go to Town with his Father, she heard him say, he would be hang’d ere he went with him, let him go, the Devil go with him, and let him never return, and this likewise in his Mothers Chamber, and in her presence: Depones, the Pannal did ordinarly shift occasions of being in his Fathers company: Depones, that the Friday before Sir James his death, she knows the Pannal and Janet Johnstoun were a considerable time together in the Pannal’s Chamber, where the Deponent heard Janet Johnstoun’s tongue, but doth not know if George Thomson and his Wife were with them: Depones, that on the Wednesday before Sir James his death, Philip having cursed some of the Servants, the Deponent said to him, God be thanked, he was not their Master; and that he answered her with an Oath, she knew not how soon he might be their Master: Further Depones, that she thought Sir James not so merry as his ordinar the night before his death, but that he conveyed Mr. Bell to his Chamber, and thereafter came down to his own; and the Deponent having desired to speak with Sir James, his Servant John Robertson told her she could not, because his Chamber-door was shut, and he was gone to Bed; and that she did then see light in his Roum, and when she was going away, found the Hall-door which was without his Chamber-door shut, and that the Hall-door was not usually closed in the night-time except Sir James had done it himself, and which he did but once in two or three Nights: Depones, that on the Saturday’s night when Sir James came home, he did go to his Ladies Chamber, where he stayed not a quarter of an hour, and that his Lady fell a quarreling of him for going to another House before he came there, and that the Deponent came out of the Chamber, and knows not what more past there: Depones, the next morning, when Sir James was mist, the Deponent went in to his Roum to put on a Fire, and found the Bed better spread up than it used to be, and the Curtains more drawen about it, and the Candle which usually was at the Bed-head, she found it standing on a Chair at the Bed-foot. And further Depones, that when the Defunct’s body was bringing up to the House, the Deponent would have had him brought to his own Chamber, but Philip swore that the Body should not enter there, for he had not died like a Man, but like a Beast: Depones, that the Body was then put in the Walk-miln (but knows not if Philip caused do it,) and that the Body from that was 110

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brought to a Cellar within the Closs where there was very little light: Depones, that she did not see any water come out of his mouth, and that when the Deponent lifted up the Linen-sheet, which was over him in the Cellar, some of them caused let it down again, for it was not fit to let the Body be seen. Depones, that Janet Johnstoun was present with the Body in the Cellar with the rest; and though it was known that neither Sir James nor his Lady would look upon her for a good time before, nor was she openly seen about the House, yet that morning she went to the Ladies Chamber, as soon as the Body was taken out, and the Deponent was present and saw her come in, and well enough taken with: Depones, she heard Philip after his Father’s death, Greet and Cry, but saw no Tears: Depones, immediatly after his Fathers body was found, he would have forced his Fathers Chamber-door it being shut, but the Key being gotten, it was opened and he entred in, and first took his Fathers Gold and Money out of his pocket, and then got the Keys, and searched the Cabinet, and that within an hour after his Father was brought from the Water, he got the Buckles of his Father’s shoes, and put them in his: Depones, that on the Munday after Sir James’s death, the Lady and Janet Johnstoun having quarrelled together about some remains of the Holland of the Woonding-sheet, Philip came down out of his own Chamber, and the Deponent heard him say to Janet Johnstoun, hold your peace when I command you, for he would reward her well for the kindness she had done to him at that time: Depones, that when the order came from Edinburgh to raise the Corps again, the Deponent did meet George Thomson the Taylor, and perceived him shaking and trembling, and asked him what troubled him? and that his answer was, he heard the blackest Newes that ever he heard in his life, for Sir James’s body was to be raised again, and said he would sew no more in the House of New-milns for the World, and carried the Mournings to his own House: Depones, she knows nothing of false Keys made use of about the House, only she heard the Lady say, that there were: Depones, Philip had no lockfast place in the House, except a little Coffer, and that it once being opened, the Deponent did see several Keys within it, and that he offered once the Key of one of the Roums to the Deponent, but the Deponent took it not, because she had the ordinar Key of the Roum: Depones, that Philip was in use to ly alone, but that after his Fathers death, he would not ly in a Roum alone at New-milns, and that he declared to the Deponent that he was afraid to be alone in a Roum, either night or day, and that he sleept not the night after his Father died, and that he should not go into the Roum where his Father lay, if once he had the Cabinet out of it: Depones, that a short time before Sir James died, the Lady having fallen in a Swond, and the Deponent having told Philip of it, Philip came to his Mothers Chamber, and that his Mother told him then, that he was like in a short time to lose his Mother; and that he answered in the Deponents hearing, that his Father should be dead first: And depones, that some few days thereafter, in his Mothers Chamber again, and in the Deponents hearing, he renewed the same Words with an Oath: Further depones, that two Nights after Sir James’s Death, the Lady told to the Deponent, that something then came in her Mind which she had heard, to wit, that Philip, before he went to London, when he was in his Pomp, having heard that Sir James 111

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was to give his Estate to his second Son, in the House of James Smith in the Nungate, had vowed to kill his Brother, and the like, or little less to his Father; and that thereafter, when they were coming into Edinburgh, the Lady renewed again to the Deponent, the same Words, and added, what if they should put her Bairn in Prison. And this is the Truth, as she shall answer to God. Depones she cannot write, Sic Subscribitur.2 Linlithgow. Testimony of Humphrey Spurway Follows the Declaration of Umphray Spurway English-man. I Umphray Spurway of New-milns, Clothier, being summoned to appear before the Lords of his Majesties Privy Council in Edinburgh, the 6 of December, 1687. To declare my knowledge of what I had seen, and heard, relating to the death of Sir James Standsfield of New-milns, Did then and there declare before the saids Lords, as hereafter followeth. And after declaring what I had to say, was commanded to commit to writing my said Declaration, under my own hand, which I the aforesaid Umphray Spurway do hereby humbly offer to the abovesaid Lords of his Majesties Council, subscribing the same with my own hand. About six weeks before the death of Sir James Standsfield, after Night I went to pay my respects to Sir James, as I usually did when he was at New-milns, at which time I found him not so free for Discourse, nor so pleasant as at other times: In so much that I used that freedom with him, to Quere the reason why his Honour was so Melancholy? who with a great sigh, wringing his hands together, with tears trickling down his Cheeks; said, Mr. Spurway, I have great cause for it; I have born my own burden, without complaining to others, but I have a very wicked Family, and it’s very sad that a man should be destroyed by his own Bowels; But let me be never so sparing in my expence, both at home and abroad, yet they at home of my Family consume me; condescending on some particulars, of some extravagant sums of money, monethly brought into him, that his Family had expended, besides what he allowed for them, which was very sufficient: But that which grieved him most was, that his youngest Son, whom he had some Comfortable hopes of, and upon whom he had settled his Estate upon; His just Debts being first payed, and that to the knowledge of his Son; But now he was frustrated of his hopes of that his Son too: For his eldest Son had debauched his youngest Son, who had several times of late come in Drunk, as the other; This he declared to me with very great grief of heart: But the Saturday’s night after Sir James, and a Minister, one Mr. Bell, came to New-milns from Edinburgh, I came in at the house of one James Marr, where I saw Sir James, and Mr. Bell sitting by the fire, before he had been at his own house, which I wondred at, having never known the like done by him before; but since, I have had my thoughts, that he had a fear upon him, (good Gentleman) of going to his own house, but having sat some time with him, he desired Mr. Marr to send one of his People at his house, to know, if they had kindled a fire for him; And upon the return the Messenger gave this answer: May it please your Honour, your fire is kindled for you; upon which Sir James, and the 112

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Minister arose, and took their leave of Mr. Marr; And I also accompanyed Sir James and the Minister half the way toward his home, and so took my leave of him, wishing his Honour a good night: But the next morning being Sabbath-day after the light well appeared, one Agnes Bruce came at my Chamber-door, and knocked. I went and opened the door, says she, Sir, Sir James is gone out of his Lodging-roum this morning, and we have sought all the Roums of the house for him, but cannot find him; she goes off, I immediatly followed her, and when I came out of my door, I met with Master Philip Standsfield, and James Dick, Mr. Standsfield declares to me, Lord, Master Spurway, what should be the cause of this man’s discontent, that he should thus leave his Lodgings, and walk out? To which I replyed, Sir, do you wonder the cause of his discontent, who never gave him content, but had been the cause of grieving him, from one to the other of them ever since I knew the Family: But he turned his back upon me, and made no reply at all; however I went at Sir James’s house, but could not procure the keys of neither of the Gardens, and I sent abroad of Sir James’s servants, and of my own, some on horse-back, and some on foot, to inquire after him; At last a servant of mine, one Will. Bowman found him in the River, a little be-west the Town; I went at the place, and saw him lying about two yeards, or eight foot from the Brink of the River, lying upon his Belly, just at the top of the water, as it were floating, only his Coat and Westcoat loose about him, and a shirt on him that I saw. I saw the place at the Brink of the River, where some one had stood all beaten to mash with feet, and the ground very open and mellow, although a very hard frosty morning; So I gave order to some to get a Ladder, and to set the one end into the River, as near the hinder part of Sir James as they could, and the other end of the Ladder to fall at the top of the Brae, which was very steep, and so they might get him out easily; So I came away from the place, and desired Mr. Marr to see the Body landed, Declaring that I would go home, and write to Mr. George Hume merchant in Edinburgh of the sad sight which I had seen, desiring him to communicat the same to my Lord Advocat, with desire to know by the Messenger his Lordship’s pleasure, what of advice or direction he would be pleased to give concerning it, and it should be followed; But the Messenger that I sent, after he had delivered my Letter to Mr. Hume, and Order given by Commissary Dalrymple, how to proceed further with the Body of Sir James, which Order was directed to my self by a Letter, which when I read the Letter, the Contents was: That I should endeavour to procure two or three discreet persons of New milns to my self, and we together view the Body of Sir James; and if we found no grounds to believe that his Person had not been wronged by others, that then with all speed he should be Buried, and that as privatly, and with as little noise as could be; But this Letter, which was the Commissary’s Order to me, was sent by the hand of one James Mitchel, Kinsman to Sir James; For that Horse that the Express rode on to Edinburgh, was taken out of the Stable, where he was set up: And one Mr. Patrick Smith, the Brother-in-Law of Sir James Standsfield, mounted on him to come for New-Milns: So that my Express was thereby disabled, to bring me the answer of my Letter; and the said James Mitchel, who brought my Letter, came home at the place by Nine of the 113

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Clock, that Sabbath day at night, and gave an account of the Letter that he had for me; but they diswaded him from bringing it me, so that I had it not till three hours after Sir James was buried. But upon Monday morning, I arose about three or four of the Clock; and coming out of my House, I saw great Lights at Sir James’s Gate, which occasioned my going down, to see what the matter was; and as I went, I met with one Will. Robison, coming up of home, I asked what the meaning was of these Lights, and of the Horses that I then saw at Sir James’s Gate? who answered me, that Sir James’s Corps were brought out at the Gate, and that they were carrying it at Morum to be buried, having received orders from my Lord Advocate for that purpose: At which I returned to my House, thinking it very strange thus to proceed without having had the Corps viewed by some Person, as I well knew was customary in England, in such cases. The next step to my remembrance, was, that upon the Tuesday night following, after I was in Bed, one Mr. Alexander Campbell in Edinburgh, with one Mr. James Row, and an Gentleman, one Mr. Hamilton, with two Chirurgions, came at my House, and caused me to rise out of my Bed, showing me an order, which they had from my Lord Advocat, for the taking up again the Body of Sir James Standsfield; and commanded me to make ready to go with them, and having seen the Order, readily submitted thereunto, and when coming upon the place at Morum, caused the said Grave to be opened, and the Coffin taken up. It was carried into the Church, and there opened; and as soon as Sir James’s Grave-cloaths were taken off him, and all his upper parts uncovered home to his privy parts, me-thought his Face look’d not as I expected, nor as others had insinuated, that were at the dressing of him at first; for they said that his Body and Face was very fair and fresh; but I found his Face at first view of another Complection, being blackish with some strakes of red-like standing, or rather strangled Blood; and under his left Ear I saw a swelling home to his Throat, of a blackish red Colour: After this I saw the Chirurgions opening his Body, beginning at the top of his Chin, and so down to the Pit of his Stomach, and then cut his Skin on both sides his Throat, towards each Ear, and coming at the place near his left Ear, that I saw swoln, I there saw of corroded, or congeal’d Blood, lying in a lump of a great thickness, and two or three inches long, which proved to me he had been Strangled: And one thing more I observed, that when Mr. Murehead put off his Cap at first from his Head, in slipping it back, Sir James’s Eye-lids opened, and his Eyes appeared, but his Eye-lids much swoln, and very red, which did also prove to me a Symptom of Strangling. This being done, and his breast opened, so that his intrals appeared, and to me seemed in good order, and no appearance of water in his Body; neither then, nor when first he was taken out of the River; the like I think, has not been ever known by any man that cast himself, or that has been cast into a River alive, and not to have his Body full of water; nor that ever a dead man should ly at the top of the water, where no running Stream is, but a still Water, of about 5 foot deep: But to me in this it showes, that as God is a Wonder-working-God, so he has in this showen no less, to convince men, that this worthy Gentleman murdered not himself, but was murdered.

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But my last Observation was of a wonder more, that the Lord did show, when the Chirurgions had caused the Body of Sir James to be by their Servants sewen up again, and his Grave-cloathes put on. A Speech was made to this purpose, It is requisit now, that those of Sir James Standsfield ‘s Relations, and nearest Friends should take him off from the place where now he lyes, and lift him into his Coffin. So I saw Mr. James Row at the left-side of Sir James’s Head and Shoulder, and Mr. Philip Standsfield at the rightside of his Head and Shoulder, and going to lift off the Body, I saw Mr. Philip drop the Head of his Father upon the Furm, and much Blood in his Hand, and himself flying off from the Body, crying, Lord, have mercy upon me, or upon us, wipeing off the Blood on his Cloaths, and so lay himself over a Seat in the Church, some supposing that he would swarff or swoun away, called for a Bottle of Water for him. After this we went for Morum Castle, where Mr. Philip Standsfield, my self, and several others stayed until it was day: In which time I challenged Mr. Philip for his unkindness to me, by his not inviting me to accompany the Corps of his Father, when first buried, knowing the Intimacy that there was betwixt his Father and my self; and that of all the People in or about the Town, his Father delighted in no ones Company, as in mine; and that he did not give me notice of his Burial, that I might do my last Office of Love and Service to him, by accompanying his Body to his Burial place; I took it very ill from him: So then Mr. Philip swore that he had sent two of his Servants to invite me, but if those damn’d Rogues would not do it, what could he help it; and yet did declare, as is proved, and as himself since confest before my Lord Advocat, that he would not invite me, assigning this as his Reason, supposing that my self, and James Marr had been Instruments of setting his Father against him, which was a false suggestion: All which particulars I have before the Lords of His Majesties Honourable Privy Council declared: So by their Command I have in this sheet of Paper written it over with my own Hand, and do hereby subscribe my Name, the sixth of December, 1687. Sic subscribitur, per me, Ʋmphray Spurway. Edinburgh, the 7th of February, 1688. In presence of the Justices and Assisers, Umphray Spurway ownes his Declaration above-written to be Truth in all poynts; As he shal answer to God. Sic subscribitur, Umphray Spurway. Linlithgow.

Notes 1 The person accused of the crime (i.e. the defendant) in a criminal trial. 2 “So it is subscribed”, the Latin words indicating the end of depositions in Scottish legal practice.

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15 LOUIS HENNEPI N ( 1 6 2 6 – 1704), A NEW DISCOVERY OF A VAST COUNT RY I N AM ERI CA E XTENDING ABO VE FOUR THO USAND MIL ES BETW EEN NEW F R A NCE AND NEW M EXI CO, W I TH A DESCRIPTION OF THE GREAT LA KES, CATARACT S , RI VERS , P LANT S AND ANIM ALS : ALS O TH E MANNERS, CUS TOM S , AND LA NGUAGES OF T HE S EVERAL NAT IVE INDIA NS . . . (London: M. Bentley, J. Tonson, H. Bonwick, T. Goodwin and S. Manship, 1698), pp. 68–73

Louis Hennepin was a Belgian Roman Catholic priest and missionary of the Franciscan Recollet Order in North America. His travels in North America brought him into close contact with Native American peoples. He wrote an account of his travels and descriptions of Native American beliefs and customs which is, unsurprisingly, coloured by his European and Christian perspectives and prejudices. To begin with, Hennepin generically refers to Native Americans as ‘barbarians and ‘salvages’ (i.e. savages). In the following chapter, Hennepin described the Native American marriage customs. When discussing the emotions of Native Americans relating to marriage, Hennepin compares and contrasts them to those of Europeans. …

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Chapter XVII. The Manner of the Salvages Marriages in Northern America. Marriage among these People is no more than a Civil Contract. The Husband and Wife never intend to live together all their Lives. They only join themselves for so long a time as they can reasonably Agree, and afterwards they are at Liberty to be disengag’d Whilst they are dissatisfy’d with each other they think it an unreasonable thing to be oblig’d to live together, and therefore without much Ceremony they easily part, and live in the greatest Indifference. These Barbarians sometimes marry their Daughters at Nine or Ten Years of Age; but this, not that they think them fit for Marriage, but because they expect some Advantage from their Son-in-Law, whom they have pitch’d upon for that Purpose. And in effect so it often happens, for returning from Hunting together, the Father-in-Law has always the Disposal of the Skins and Flesh which they have taken in Hunting. Tho’ the Daughter be not yet old enough to live with her Husband, yet she must enter upon her Duty to him immediately, for she is to prepare his Sagamit or boil’d Indian Corn with other Victuals, when ever he has occasion. At the time of their Marriage, they have great Feasting and Joy. Sometimes the whole Village is invited, and every one generally finds wherewithall to be well satisfied. After the Repast is ended, they Sing and Dance, like the Europeans, but always after their own Way. They always marry without Noise: There is only one Word necessary to compleat that Ceremony. The Salvage who is not marry’d, seeks out for a Maiden or Woman who is not marry’d likewise. He cries out to her without Ceremony, Will you come along with me, and you shall be my Wife: To which she answers nothing at first, but stands considering, holding her Head between her two Hands. Whilst she is thus resolving what to do, the Man likewise stands in the same Posture in great Silence. After the Woman or Maid has considered a good while, if she yields, she looks up and cries, Netho, or Nioua, which implies, I am content. When the Man, starting up with Joy, replies, Oné, which signifies, then the Business is done. At Night the Wife takes an Hatchet of Iron, if those of that Nation have any Commerce with the Europeans, or if they have not, a sharp Stone made into the same Form, with which she goes to the Wood, and cuts a good handsome Load, when returning to the Hut of her Husband, she lays down the Wood at the Door, and entring, claps herself down by him, who all this while never offers to embrace her in the least. When they have sat thus a good while without speaking a Word, at length the Husband, in the Iroquoise Tongue, cries Sentaoüy, which signifies, It is time to repose, lye down and go to rest. Some time after the Man lies down by her, and goes to rest likewise in his Turn. You shall rarely meet with Love made there after the European Fashion; as by Laughing, Jesting, Fooling, Wantoning, and the like. They engage in that Passion with the same Indifference that they quit it. They easily part without much ado, when they are thereto dispos’d. They need only say one to the other, I am off from you, and the Business is done. From thence forward, they become as great 117

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Strangers as if they had never seen one another. Sometimes they have a Battle before they part, but that happens rarely. Amongst the Northern Salvages there are some that have two Wives, but that is only for a little while. When the Husband and Wife part, she carries away all her Cloaths and Skins; But sometimes she is permitted only to have her Silk Band, which serves her also for a Wastcoat. Most commonly the Children follow their Mothers, who take care to maintain them, the Sustenance of each Family or Tribe being in common. There are some of these Brats that will go along with their Fathers, but generally these Salvages who are divorc’d from their Wives, cry the Children are not theirs, and they will not be troubled with them, and which I believe they are generally in the right of, for I fancy there are very few of these Salvage Ladies who are Proof against but an ordinary Present. When their Children are begot by an European it is easily discover’d, either by their Countenances, or their Eyes. Those of the Salvages are altogether black, besides they differ very much in their Eye-lids, from those of Europe. Hence it comes to pass that their Sight is stronger and more percing than ours. If Salvage Women could have been brought to be subject to the Contract of Marriage, we cou’d have marry’d as many of ‘em as we pleas’d to the Europeans, but they have no manner of Disposition to the Marriage Bonds: They would run away from their Husbands on the least, or no Occasion. This Experience has throughly convinc’d us of, besides their common Discourse upon this Subject, which has made them sufficiently known. When any Salvage, who has no Wife, passes thro’ any Village, where he likes a Woman, he may hire her for a Night, or two, or longer, if he thinks convenient, whereat her Parents are not at all displeas’d, being glad to see their Daughter get some Cloaths or Skins by the Bargain. There are all sorts of Humours among the Salvages, as among the Europeans. Some love their Wives to Excess, others cannot endure ‘em, and there are some will beat and misuse them most shamefully. There are some likewise that are Jealous, of which I knew one that beat his Wife, because she had danc’d with another Man. Those that are the best Hunters, have all the Choice of the Women, while the others are forc’d to take up with the homely, and haggar’d. When these Barbarians grow old, they seldom forsake their Wives, and when they do it is for great Reasons. There are some among ‘em that have liv’d Twelve, or Fifteen Years with their Wives, who are almost ready to despair, when their Husbands, being good Huntsmen, are forc’d to leave them; and this is the occasion sometimes of poisoning themselves. I knew one who did this, whose Life I sav’d, by making her swallow good Store of Mithridate. When these Barbarians go, about the Spring time, to Hunting of the Beaver, they leave their Wives in the Villages, to sow Indian Wheat and Gourds. They always hire another Woman to go along with them, to whom, at their return, they give one or two Beaver-Skins for Recompence, and so send her packing. Then take up again with their Wives as soberly, as if they had never wrong’d them. Nevertheless if this last pleases him best, he makes no Conscience to put away his 118

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Wife and take her; and these Salvages do not a little wonder at us Europeans who are us’d to the contraray. One Day, whilst I was upon my Mission at Fort Frontenac, among the Iroquois, the Husband of one of our Canada Women, was gon about Twenty or Thirty Leagues off; whereupon the other Salvage Women paid their Visits to this Man’s Wife, and upbraided her with her intended Constancy, after this Manner, Hast thou no Wit? Since thy Husband is absent, take another Man for the present, and when he returns, thou mayst have thy own again. This great Inconstancy, and the continual Changing of Wives among them, are things very opposite to the Gospel, which we endeavour to inspire into these Salvages. Nay it is one of the most considerable Obstacles we meet with in this great Work. It is not the same in the Southern parts of America, and in the Meschasipi, where Polygamy reigns to an excessive Degree. Throughout the whole Country of Loüisiane, you shall meet with Salvages that have Ten or Twelve Wives apiece. They will also marry three or four Sisters together, giving for Reason, that such are more likely to agree with one another, than Strangers. As soon as ever a Man has made his Presents to the Father and Mother of the Daughter which he has a mind to marry, she is immediately his, for his Life, if he thinks fit, without more ado. Sometimes the Parents take their Daughter’s Children, and restore the Presents they had receiv’d from their Son-in-Law; but this happens very rarely. If any of these Women are found to be inconstant, the Husband cuts off her Nose, or her Ear, or else gives her some other frightful Gash in the Face with a stone Knife. If he happens to kill her, he soon stops the Mouths of her Parents, by a small Present. Nay, this is the common practice among them in such Cases. I have known several who have had these Marks, who nevertheless have afterwards had Children by those very Husbands. Those of these hot Countries are generally more jealous of their Women, than those of the North, which may appear, in that they sometimes wound, and oftener kill themselves out of an unaccountable rash Love-fancy. What is surprizing enough, is, that those young Salvages that follow the Wars, never care to lye with their Wives ‘till they are thirty Years old: Because (say they) Women weaken Mens Limbs, and render them unfit either for War or Hunting. Those that do not observe this Rule are never esteem’d fit for either of these Exercises but are generally scoff’d at, and counted effeminate. The Men of the South are most commonly Naked, but the Women are generally cloath’d in some measure, with a Skin, especially in cases of Dancing, or other Ceremonies. Maids wear little Curls, or Padlocks well oyl’d. Women most commonly wear their Hair after the Bohemian manner. Theygrease it with wrapping their Knives up in it, and paint their Faces with various Colours as well as Men.

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Part 3 RELIGION

Part 3 Religion

The ‘passions’ and their impact on the human soul and faith were of particular concern to many seventeenth-century Christian Europeans, resulting in the production of a significant corpus of writings on that theme. Emotions continued to be perceived by many writers as potential roadblocks on the path to heaven (and salvation) and considerable effort was expended on offering advice on how to overcome them. Moreover, although the Reformation had started in 1517, it continued to have a profound impact on seventeenth-century Europeans, and Catholic-Protestant strife endured. Polemical texts, often with images, conveyed news of persecutions and atrocities to their readers, seeking to inspire fear but also anger and hatred of the religious ‘other’.

16 JE AN-F RANÇ OIS S ENAULT (C .1 599–1672), THE US E OF PA SSIONS WRIT TEN I N FRENCH B Y J.F. SENAULT; AND PUT I NTO E NGL ISH BY HENRY, EARL OF MONMOU TH (London: John Sims, 1671), pp. 39–53

A French Augustinian preacher, Jean-François Senault wrote a book on the ‘usage’ of emotions (De l’usage des passions) that was printed in Paris in 1641. Senault approached the subject of the ‘passions’ from a variety of angles: their uses and dangers, how to moderate them and how a prince should use them. In the following chapters, located at the start of his work, Senault considered emotions in a religious context. …

The First Part; Of Passions in General. The First Treatise. Of the Nature of Passions. The FIFTH DISCOURSE. Whether there were any Passions in the state of Innocency, and whether they were of the same nature as are ours? Tis so long since we lost our Innocency, as there remains nothing unto us but a weak Idaea thereof; and did not Divine Justice punish the Fathers fault in the Children, we should likewise have lost the Sorrow for it. Every one describes the felicity of that state according to his Imagination; methinks a man may say that as many as speak thereof, guide themselves according to their inclinations; and that they place there, such pleasures as they are acquainted with, and do most desire. Some say the whole earth was one Paradise; that of the Seasons, whereof our years are composed, there was only Autumn, and the Spring: that all Trees had the property of Orange trees, and that they were at all times loaded with leaves, flowers, 125

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and fruit; others perswade themselves that no wind blew there, but the South-west; and that the ground uncultivated prevented our need, and brought forth all things. I think that without maintaining these Opinions a man may say, that in this happy condition bad was not mingled with good, and that the qualities of the Elements were so well tempered, as that man did thereby receive all contentment; and felt no Displeasure. He had no disorders to reform; no enemies to fight withal, nor mischiefs to eschew; all creatures conspired towards his felicity; the beasts bare respect unto his person; and it may be that even those which remained in the Forrests were not wild; as the Earth bare no Thorns, and all the parts thereof were fruitful and pleasing, so had not the Heavens any malign influences, and that Constellation which dispenseth Life and Death in nature, had no aspect which was not innocent, and favourable. If there be so little certainty touching the state of man, there is no more assurance for what regards his person; we argue according to our understandings, and as in the first ages Idols were made of all particulars; every one shapes out a felicity for Adam, and gives him all the advantages that may be imagined. Amongst so many Opinions or Errors, I see nothing more consonant to reason then that which Saint Augustine writes concerning this; for though he determine nothing in particular, he resolves so well for the general, as there is none that appeals from his Opinion. Though we cannot describe (saith he) neither the beauty of the place, where man made his residence, nor the advantages of his mind and body, we are bound to believe he found in his habitation, whatsoever he could wish; and that he felt nothing in his body which could incommodiate him. His constitution was excellent, his health was unalterable, and if time could weaken it, he prevented that mischief, by making use of the tree of life, which repairing his forces, furnish’d him with new vigor. He was immortal, not by Nature, but by Grace; and he knew that sin could not bereave him of Life, without making him lose his Innocence. His Soul was no less happily constituted than was his Body; for besides that he was infused with all Sciences, that he knew all the Secrets of Nature, and that he was not ignorant of any thing which could contribute to his Felicity; his Memory was happy, his will had alwaies good Inclinations, his Affections were regulated; and though he were not insensible, he was of so equal a temper, as nothing could trouble his repose. The Passions, which by their violence, do anticipate Reason, waited his Directions, and never shewed themselves till they had received Commandment from him. In fine, his Passions were no less natural than are ours, but they were more tractable; and as his Constitution made him capable of all our motions, original Justice exempted him from all our Disorders. I know not whether I fall foul on the opinion of Divines, but forasmuch as a man may see in this darkness, I think I injure not the Truth; for if man as being composed of a Body was Mortal, and as being honoured with original Grace, Immortal, methinks one may consequently infer, that not being a pure Spirit, he had Passions, but that being sanctified in all the faculties of his Soul, all his Passions were innocent. To give all the force that is requisite to this Assertion, we must inlarge its Principle, and prove with Saint 126

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Augustine, that man might die, losing Original Justice; and that Immortality was rather a Grace from Heaven than a property of his Nature; for if he had been truly immortal, he had needed no sustenance, and if death had not been natural unto him, he had needed no priviledge to have secured him from it; since he did eat to preserve Life, it follows he might lose it; and since he was obliged to defend himself against old age, by the means of a miraculous fruit, it follows necessarily, he might die, and that his Life as well as ours needed remedies against Death. I confess that they being better than are ours, he repaired his strength more advantageously, and that by prolonging the course of his Life, they kept the hour of his Death farther off; I affirm likewise that they kept away corruption from his Body, and that they kept him in so perfect a health, as that it could not be altered; but then they must likewise grant me, that if man had not used these remedies, his natural heat had consumed his Humidum Radicale; and that old age succeeding this Disorder, he must inevitably have died. All these Maximes are to serve, as Saint Augustine is obliged to confess, that if the use of the tree of life were permitted unto us in the condition wherein we are, death would no longer domineer in the world, and that man, sinful as he is, would not cease to be immortal. If then Adam were capable of death, because he had a Body, and if he were incapable thereof because he had Grace, methinks by like proportion one may say, he had Passions; since his Soul was ingaged in a material Subject, but that they were tractable, for original Justice did repress their motions, and that in this innocent condition, he had only just fears and rational desires. I verily conceive there may be some Passions, the use whereof were interdicted him, and that though he were capable thereof, he was not therewithal agitated; because they would have troubled his quiet. I am easily perswaded that all evil being banished from off the earth, sadness and despair were likewise exempted from his heart; and that during so high a pitch of felicity, reason was not bound to excite such Passions as only belong unto the miserable; but assuredly I am confident he made use of all others, and that thinking upon the Laws that were imposed upon him by his Soveraign Lord, he was sometimes flattered by hopes, sometimes astonished by fear, and by them both joined together kept within his duty. I doubt not likewise but that in the unhappy conference which our unwise Mother had with the Devil in the shape of a Serpent she was seized upon by as many Passions as usually People are, who consult upon any important affairs; that the Devils promises did stir up her hope, that God Almighties Threats did cause fear in her, and that the loveliness of the forbidden fruit did irritate her desire. I know not whether some other may imagine this Dialogue could pass without some dispute, but I know very well that Saint Augustine (with whom I believe a man cannot be mistaken) doth argue thus upon this subject and that he believes so great a bickering was not made in the earthly Paradise, without the Womans making use of all her Passions either to defend her self, or to suffer her self to be overcome. ’Tis true, this authentical man seems to be of another opinion in his Ninth Chapter of the City of God, but he who shall well examine his Reasons, will find that he endeavours not so much to exclude Passions from out the soul of 127

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Adam, as their disorder, judging aright that their disorder could not accord with original Justice. Therefore I am perswaded that man had our agitations in the state of innocency, and he feared punishment, and hoped for reward; that as he made use of his Senses, inasmuch as they made up a part of his Body, he also used his Passions, inasmuch as they were a part of his Soul, and that in brief they did not differ from ours in nature, but in obedience. The SIXTH DISCOURSE. Whether there were any Passions in our Saviour Christ, and wherein they differ’d from ours? Not to know that the Son of God was pleased to take upon him our nature, with all the weakness thereof; and that, set aside ignorance, and sin; (which could not correspond with the sanctity of his person;) he hath vouchsafed to bear our miseries, conversing with men in the likelihood of a sinner, were to be ignorant of all the principles of Christian Religion. Hence it came that during his term of mortal Life, it behoved him to preserve himself by nourishment; to repair his strength by rest, to suffer his Body to sleep; and to use all means which Providence hath ordained for these natural maladies. He was subject to the injuries of time, to the unseasonableness of seasons. Men have seen him benummed with Cold, during the violence of winter, and bedewed with Sweat, during the heat of Summer: the Elements spared him not, and if they reverenced him as God, they persecuted him as man. The same Creatures which obeyed his Word, warred against his Body; the Waves which grew calm at his awaking, had assaulted the ship wherein he was; Hunger which he had overcome in the Desarts, assailed him in Towns. And upon the Cross he tasted the Terrors of Death, from which he had delivered Lazarus. Then as passions are the most natural Weaknesses of man, he would not exempt himself from them, and he would have them to be as well witnesses of his love unto us, as assurances of the truth of his Incarnation. He mingled his tears with those of Magdalen; though by his power he might have remedied her evils, he would out of compassion resent them. Before the doing of a miracle he would undergo a weakness, and weep over a dead man, whom he went about to revive; He suffered sadness, often to seize upon his heart, and by a strange wonder, he accorded joy with sorrow in his all-blessed soul. In fine, according to the incounters of his life, he made use of Passions. He taught us that there was nothing in man which he contemn’d since he had taken his infirmities upon him, and that he loved well the nature of man, since he did cherish even the defects thereof. For to believe that his resentments were but imaginary, is in my opinion to clash against the mystery of the Incarnation, to give the lye to truth it self, and (to give Iesus Christ a bootless honor) make us doubt all the assurances of his love. Since he had a true body he could have no false Passions; and since he was veritably man, he ought to be veretably afflicted. A man gannot gainsay this truth without weakening our belief. If it be permitted to suffer the tears of the Son of God to pass for illusions, one may make his sorrow pass for Imposturism, and under the pretence of reverency a man may overthrow the ground-work of our souls welfare. 128

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But we must have a care left whilst we establish the love of the Son of God, we commit no outrage upon his Greatness, or Omnipotency, and that whilst we allow him Passions, we free them from their Disorders; for we must not believe that they were unruly, as are ours, nor that they required all those virtues to tame them as are necessary for us. He was their absolute Master, and they in their Birth, Progress and Continuance depended upon his Will. In their Birth, because they never raised themselves, but by order from him, but alwaies waited that Reason might make them serve his Designs. Ours for the most part do surprize us, and are so ready to be moving, that the wisest men cannot keep back their first motions; they are so given to disorder, as the least occasion sets them on fire; their sleep is so unquiet, as the least matter will awaken them; they are so given to war, that upon the least provocation they take up Arms, and make more spoil upon their own Territories, then would an enemies army do. Their disorder proceeds not so much from their Objects as from their humour; and it fares with their storms as it doth with those, who being at the bottom of the Sea, mount up again by their proper motion. But they caused no tempests in Iesus Christ, or if sometimes their waves went high, they were led on by Reason, which alwaies kept the power to appease the trouble she had caused. As their birth depended upon his Will, so made they no Progress or advancement, but by his permission, and their moving proceeded alwaies from some reasonable cause. Men betake themselves to things which merit not their Love, and have oft times strong Passions, for weak and woful Subjects. Imprudency seeks them in Choler; and not weighing the difference of faults, they punish a word as rigorously as they do a Murderer: their ambition is blind, their desires unruly, their sadness ridiculous; and who shall compare all their Passions with the causes which produce them, will find them all to be unjust. A Consul made a slave be eaten by Lampreys for having broken a Glass: A Princes anger caused a Town to be drowned in the bloud of its Inhabitants; and to revenge an injury done to an Image of Brass or Marble made 7000 men, the lively Image of God, lose their lives. Sorrow hath made Idols to comfort her; Fathers not able to raise again their dead Children, have deified them; & through an excess of love and sorrow have built Temples unto them, after they had taken them out of their Graves. In fine, all the motions of our souls are irrational; we cannot measure or bound our joy, nor our displeasures; our hatred exceeds our injuries; our love is more ardent than the subiect which sets it on fire, and we ground firm hopes upon perishable things. But the Passions of the Son of God were so regulated, as in their motions a man might observe the worth of the subject which caused them to arise; he was not angry save only to revenge the injuries done unto his father, or punish the impieties of those who prophaned his Temple; he had no affection save for those that did deserve it; if he saw no perfection in his friends, he loved such as he would place there, and loving them he made them worthy of his love: he never sorrowed save upon great occasion; and though the cross was a sufficient object of grief, I verily believe his soul was more narrowly touched with the horror of our sins, than with the shame or cruelty 129

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of his punishment. Such regulated Passions ceased when he pleased, and their continuance, was no less subject to his Empire, than was their Progress. We are not masters of our Passions; as in their birth they set at nought our advice, they laugh at our Counsels during their course; they never stay till they be weary, and we owe not our quiet so much to their Obedience, as to their Weakness. When they are violent, our care cannot overcome them, and there are some of them so stiffnecked as they will not die, but together with us, therefore we ought to suppress them in their birth, and to advise with Reason, whether it be to any purpose to draw Souldiers into the field, who when they have their Weapons in their hands despise the Authority of their chief Commander. The beginning of War depends oft times upon two Parties, but the end thereof depends alwaies upon the victory; and he is not easily brought to a peace, when he finds his Advantage lies in the continuance of War. All these rules prove false in the Passions of Iesus Christ. He did even exceed therein when the Subject did deserve it, & though they were chafed, they became calm, as soon as he would have them so to be. Their heat as it was reasonable, so was it as soon extinguished as kindled, so as joy did immediately succeed sadness, and one might at the same time see pleasingness take the same place in his countenance, which Choler had possest. It is peradventure for this reason that Saint Ierome could not resolve to call the agitations of the soul of our Saviour Iesus Christ, Passions; believing that to name them as Criminals, was to injure their innocence, and that there was injustice, in giving the same name to things, the conditions whereof were so different. But every one knows that qualities change not nature; and that the Passions of the Son of God were not less natural for being more obedient than are ours. In my opinion it is a new obligation which we have to his goodness, that he hath not despised our weakness; he will eternally reproach us if we desire not his glory, since he coveted our welfare; if we fight not against his enemies, since he hath overcome ours; if we shed not tears for injuries done unto him, since he hath shed his blood for our sins. And he will have just occasion to complain upon our Ingratitude, if our Passions serve not to witness our Love to him, since he hath employed all his to assure us of his Charity.

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17 T H OM AS ADAM S (15 8 3 – 1 6 5 2 ) , DISEASES OF THE S OULE A DISCOURSE DIUINE, M ORALL, AND PHYSICALL (London: Iohn Budge, 1616), pp. 13–21

Thomas Adams was a Puritan preacher, celebrated for this talent as ‘the Shakespeare of the Puritans’. His treatise, Diseases of the Soule, was printed in 1616. It examines the nature, cause, symptoms and cure of nineteen bodily diseases and Adams allegorically uses these to describe the vices that affect the human soul. His aim, set out at the start of the work, is ‘the straitening of our warped Affections, and directing the Soule to heauen’. In the following extract, Adams examines the emotions of anger and envy within this framework. …

Madnesse and Anger. Disease 3. The next disease I would describe, is Phrenzy or Madnesse. Now though Physicians do clearly distinguish betwixt these two, Phrenzy and Madnesse; calling Phrenzy an inflammation of the braine without a Feuer; or an impostumation bred and ingendred in the pellicles of the braine, or pia mater: and Mania or Madnesse, an infection of the former cell of the head, without a Feuer: the one abusing the imagination, the other rauishing the memory; I list not to dispute or determine. That which serues my intention, is to conferre either of these passions, with a Spirituall disease of like nature, Anger. Irafuror breuis. It is a madnesse, I am sure, I am not sure how short. I doe not ask for men passionlesse, this is hominem de homine tollere. Giue them leaue to be men, not mad men. Iraoptimo loco donum Dei: & magna est ars, irasciverbis praemeditatis,& tempore opportuno. Anger in the best sense is the gift of God, and it is no small art, to expresse anger with premeditated termes, and on seasonable occasion. God placed Anger amongst the affections ingraffed in nature, gaue it a seate, fitted it with instruments, ministred it matter whence it might proceed, prouided humours whereby it is nourished. It is to the Soule as a nerue to the body. The Philosopher cals it the Whetstone to

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fortitude, a spurre intended to set forward Vertue. This is simply rather a propassion, then a passion. But there is a vicious, impetuous, franticke anger, earnest for priuate and personall grudges; not like a medicine to cleare the eye, but to put it out. This pernicious disease of the Soule hath degrees. 1. It is inhumane; Tygers deuoure not Tygers, this rageth against kind and kindred. 2. Impious; it rageth often against God; as that Pope vpon a field lost against the Frenchmen: Sic esto nunc Gallicus. So, turne French now, &c. 3. Mad; for it often rageth against vnreasonable creatures, as Balaam striking his Asse; how much is such a man more irrationall and bestiall, then the Beast he malignes? 4. It is more then mad, striking at insensible things: as Xerxes wrote a defying letter to Athos a Thracian mountaine. Mischieuous Athos, lifted vp to heauen, make thy quarries passable to my trauell, or I will cut thee downe, and cast thee into the sea. But his reuenge was neither vnderstood, feared, nor felt. So the Affricans being infested with a North winde, that couered their corne fields with sand from a mountaine, leuied an army of men to fight with that wind; but were all buryed vnder the sand. So Darius, because a Riuer had drowned him a white Horse, vowed to cut it into so many Channels, that a woman with child might go ouer drie-shoo’d. We haue some so madly impatient with a storme, wind &c. which might answere them, as Rabshaceh told the Iewes: Am I come hither without the Lord? it is he that sent mee.1 This anger is imediatly directed against God: the heart speakes Atheisme, only in other words. 5. It is vnnaturall, for it maligneth a mans selfe. It is full of consternation and amazement, and neuer vseth violence, without torment to it selfe. It thinks to offer wrong, and indeed suffers it. Ipsa sibi est hostis vesania, seque furendo-Interimit. As the franticke or drunkard doe that, intoxicate, which sober, they would quake to thinke of; so these irefull, direfull men (or rather beastes) dare in their fits play with Serpents, mingle poysons, act massacres, whereat their awaked soules shudder. The higher the person in whō this phrenzy raigns, the greater the fault. The Master-Bee hath no sting, the rest haue: the greater power, the lesse passion. It is a State tyrannie, in authority to minde nothing but authoritie. Posse & nolle, nobile. It is noble to may and wil not. When a rayling wretch followed a Heathen Prince with obloquies all day, and home to his dores at night, he requited him with commaunding his seruant to light him home to his house with a torch. Damascen makes three degrees of anger; Bilem, Iracundiam, Infensionem: Choler, Wrath, heauy Displeasure. Some haue added a fourth. 1

2

The first hath a beginning and motion, but presently ceaseth; wee call this Choler. Like fire in stubble, soone kindled, and soone out. These are like gunpowder, to which you no sooner giue fire, but they are in your face. They say, these hot men are the best natur’d; but I say then, the best are naught. These are stung with a nettle, and allayd with a docke. The second is not so soone conceiued, but takes deeper holde in the memorie. This fire is neither easily kindled, nor easily put out: like fire in Iron, which 132

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3 4

hardly taking, long abideth. These men are like greene logges, which once set on combustion, continue burning day and night too. The third entertaine this fire sodainly, and retaine it perpetually, not desisting without reuenge. These are like fire, which bewrayeth not it selfe without the ruine and waste of that matter wherin it hath caught: this worst. The fourth is a moderate Anger, not soone incensed, but quickly appeased: and this is the best, because likest to the disposition of God, who is mercifull and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercie,2 ready to forgiue. Causes.

Phrensie is caused by abundant bloud, or choler occupying the braines or the filmes therof: the more adust this choler is, the more pernicious the madnes. The cause of anger, is the giuing to Passion the dominion ouer Reason. Seneca sayes,3 Causa iracundiae opinio iniuriae est: the cause of anger is the conceit of iniurie. Such a man gets vp on the wilde Iade his choler, and spurres him on, hauing no bridle of moderation to hold him backe. His conuersation is so full of cholericke fits, as a booke of tedious parentheses, that they marre the sense of his life. He is like an egge in rosting, hopefull to be good meate, but it growes too hot on a sodaine, and flyes in your face not without a great noyse. Anger is able to turne Dametas4 into Hercules furens, teaching him that is strong to fight, him that is not to talke: whilest the lightning of his rage lasts, hee thunders out a challenge, but after a little calme meditation, sounds a retreat. He menaceth the throtes of his enemies, though they be many, and sweares loud hee will be their Priest, hee meanes Executioner. But if you compare his threatnings and his after-actions, you would say of them, as that wise man sheering his hogges: Here is a great deale of crie, but a little wooll. His enemies are worse feared then hurt, if so they be in personall presence, as he is in sober iudgement a little out of the way. Signes and Symptomes. The Phrensie is easily seene, and needs not to be described by signes. Physicians giue many, I will say no more but this. If the madnesse proceed from bloud, they are perpetually laughing; if of choler, they rage so furiously, that bands only can restraine them from doing violence. The Symptomes of this spirituall madnesse, rash and furious anger, are many, visible and actuall. 1. Swelling of mind so high and so full, that there is no room for any good motion to dwel by it. Iratumor mētis, and makes a man like the Spider-poyson’d toade. In this raging fit, Reason, Modesty, Peace, Humanitie, &c. runne from him, as seruants from their mad master, or Mise from a Barne on fire. 2. Contumely without any distinguishing respect of friend, fōe, aliant, familiar, reuiles any, fratrem{que}, patrem{que}.5 3. Violence of hands, sauage and monstrous behauiour: Like the troubled Sea, when it cannot rest, whose waters cast vp mire and dirt6: fuming and foming, like a muddy channell: a distorted countenance, 133

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sparkling eye, foule language, hasty hands.7 If the angry man, and the drunkard had a glasse presented them, how hardly could they be brought againe to loue their owne faces! Cure. To cure this Bedlam passion, (leauing the other to deeper iudgements in that profession) both nature and Grace haue giuen rules. Naturall reason; that an angry man should not vndertake any action or speech, till hee had recited the Greeke Alphabet; as a pause to coole the heate of choler. That angry men should sing to their passions, as Nurses to their Babes haste not, cry not. Maximum remedium est irae, mora. The best remedy for Anger is delay. What a man doth in anger, hee lightly repents in cold bloud.8 That we should keepe our corrupt nature from prouoking obiects, as a man that hath Gunpowder in his house, keepes it safe from fire. That we should conster all things in the best sense: a good disposition makes a good exposition, where palpablenesse doth not euince the contrary. That suspicion is a payre of bellowes to this madde fire. That Ielousie and selfe-guiltinesse are the angry mans Eues-dropper and Intelligencer. That the Earth suffers vs liuing to plow furrowes on her backe, and dead, opens her bowels to receiue vs: a dead earth conuincing a liuing earths impatience. Scripture. That anger resteth in the bosome of fooles. That the wrath of man doth not accomplish the righteousnesse of God. That vnaduised anger is culpable of iudgement. Let him take some herbe of Grace, an ounce of Patience, as much of Consideration how often he giues God iust cause to be angry with him; and no lesse of meditating how God hath a hand in Shimeies rayling, that Dauid may not bee angry: mixe all these together with faithfull confidence, that God will dispose all wrongs to thy good; hereof be made a pill to purge choler. To conclude, let reason euer be our Iudge, though passion sometimes be our sollicitour. Parit ira furorem; Turpia verba furor, verbis ex turpibus exit Ira, ex hac oritur vulnus de vulnere lethum. Wrath kindles fury, fury sparkes foule words, Those let out wounds and death with flaming swords.

Enuie a consumption. Disease. 4. Enuie fitly succeeds anger, for it is nothing else but inueterate wrath. The other was a franticke fit, and this is a consumption; a languishing disease in the body, the beginning of dissolution, a broching of the vessell, not to be stopped till all the liquor of life is run out: what the other tabe is in the body, I list not to define, by reason that this spiritual sicknesse is a consumption of the flesh also, and a pining away of the spirits: now since they both haue relation to the body, their 134

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comparison would be confusion. Enuie is the consumption I singularly deale withall, which though I cannot cure, I will hopefully minister to. Cause. The cause of Enuie, is others prosperitie; or rather an euil eye shot vpon it. The angry man hath not himself, the enuious must haue no neighbour. Hee battens at the maligneds misery; and if such a man riseth, he fals as if he were Planet-strucke. I know not whether he could indure to be in Paradise with a superiour. He hates to bee happy with any company. Enuie sits in a mans eyes, and wheresoeuer through those windowes it spyes a blessing, it is sicknesse and death vnto it. Inuidus petat a Ioue priuari vno oculo, vt auarus quòd priuetur ambobus. The enuious man would have happily one of his eyes put out, as the couetous should lose both. A Physician beeing asked what was the best helpe to the perspicuity of the eyes, affirmed, Enuy: for that like a perspectiue glasse would make good things appeare great things. Fertilior seges est alienis semper in agris; Uicinum{que} pecus grandius vber habet.9 He is euen quarrelling with God, that his neighbours field beares better corne, and thinkes himselfe poore, if a neere dweller be richer. Hee will dispraise Gods greatest blessings, if they fall besides himselfe: and grow sullen (so farre as he dares) with the Prince, that shal promote a better deseruer. There is no law perfect, if hee was not at the making it. Hee vndertakes a great worke, and when hee cannot accomplish it, hee will giue leaue to none other. No man shall haue that glory, which hee aspired and missed. An Aesops dog in the manger10; because he can eate no hay himselfe, hee will starue the horse. Poyson is life to a Serpent, death to a man: and that which is life to a man, his humidity and spettle, they say is death to a Serpent: the rancorous sustenance which a malicious man liues of, is the misery and mischiefe to a good man; and a good mans prosperous felicity is the malicious mans death. God hath in iustice appointed it to be a plague to it selfe. Among all mischiefes it is furnished with one profitable qualitie; the owner of it takes most hurt. Carpit{que}, & carpitur vna: supplicium{que} suum est.—vt Aetna seipsum, Sic se non alios, inuidus igne coquit. The enuious is a man of the worst diet, and like a strange Cooke, shewes himselfe; nay, and conceates pleasure in pining: so that his body, at last, hath iust cause to sue his soule on an action of dilapidations. He finds fault with all things, that himselfe hath not done. He wakes, whiles his enemie takes rest. Parum est, si ipse sit foelix, nisi alter fuerit infoelix. His affections are like lightning, which commonly scorch the highest places. He creepes like a Canker to the fairest flowers. By putting in a superfluous syllable, he hath corrupted one of the best words, turning amorem into amarorem, loue into bitternesse. A Philosopher seeing a malicious man deiected, asked him, whether some euill had happened to himselfe, or some good to his neighbour. 135

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Signes and Symptomes. The Signes of this disease are giuen by the Poet. —videt intus edentem Vipereas carnes, vitiorum alimenta suorum. Pallor in ore sedet, macies in corpore toto; Nunquam recta acies; liuent rubigine dentes: Pectora felle virent, lingua est suffusa veneno.11 A pale face without bloud, and a leane body without any iuyce in it, squint eyes, black teeth, a heart full of gall, a tong tipp’d with poison. Amazednes makes the face pale, griefe drinkes vp the bloud, looking on mens prosperitie makes the eyes squint, and cursing, the teeth blacke. It were well for him on earth, that he should dwell alone. It is pittie hee should come into heauen; for to see one starre excel another in glory, would put him againe out of his wits. I wonder, when he is in hell, whether hee would not still desire superiority in anguish, & to sit in the chaire, though he receiue the more torments. The enuious man is so crosse to God, that he is sure of punishment: hee hath in present one like to the nature of his offence. For his sinne, whereas GOD brings good out of euill, hee brings euill out of good. For his punishment, whereas euen euill things worke together to the good of the good, euen good things worke together to his euill. All the happinesse lights on him that is enuied; for it goes well with him, with whom the malicious thinkes it goes too well. Cure. His Cure is hard, euen as with a tabe in the body: too much Physicke makes him worse. Crosses are fitly called Gods physicke; whereby if God will cure him, hee must minister them to those hee hates. Strange! that one man should bee healed, by giuing physicke to another. Two simples may do him good, if he could bee wonne to take them: a scruple of content, and a dramme of charity. If these be giuen him, (well stirred) in a potion of repentant teares, he may be brought to wish himselfe well, and others no harme, and so be recouered.

Notes 1 A reference to the words of Rabshakeh in Isaiah 36:10: ‘And am I now come up without the Lord against this land to destroy it? The Lord said unto me, Go up against this land, and destroy it.’ 2 Psalm 103: 8. 3 Seneca, De ira, book 1, chapter 22. 4 Dametas, a character in Sir Philip Sidney’s 1593 pastoral play The Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia. 5 Brother and father. 6 Isaiah 57:20.

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7 8 9 10 11

Seneca, De ira, book 1, chapter 1. Seneca, De ira, book 1, chapter 28. A quotation from Ovid, Ars Amatoria 1.349–50. A reference to a fable by the Greek fabulist and storyteller Aesop (c. 620–564 BCE). Ovid, Metamorphoses Book II.

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18 DAVID PAP ILLON ( 1 5 8 2 – 1 6 5 9 ) , THE VANITY OF T HE LI VES AND PASSIONS OF M EN (London: Robert White, 1651), pp. 81–97

David Papillon (1581–1659) was from a French Protestant (Huguenot) family and moved to England as a child. He became a military engineer and fought on the Parliamentarian side during the English Civil War in the 1640s. Whilst he wrote on the practicalities of siege warfare (his work A Practical Abstract of the Arts of Fortification and Assailing appeared in 1645), he was also a deeply devout man whose reflections on the ‘passions of men’ appeared in his work The Vanity of the Lives and Passions of Men (printed in London, 1651). …

Chapter V. Of the vanity of mens passions in general. The next aggravation of the vanity of the lives of men, after the former description of the vanity of their desires, is the vanity of their passions, with the exorbitant care they take for the cure of their bodily diseases, and their unparallel’d carelesness of the cure of the maladies of their souls; for what greater vanity can there be, then to prefer the health of their body that is momentary and nothing but dust, to the preservation of the welfare and tranquillity of their immortall souls, who are in the esteem of our blessed Saviour, such a precious Jewel that there is nothing under the Sun, that for value may be given in exchange for it: and yet it is daily seen, that if their finger doth but ake, or if they have but a quotidian ague, (that is a wholsom medicine in the Spring) they will presently take their bed, and send for the best Physitians, and will ingenuously declare unto them the symptoms of their disease, that they may the better prescribe fit remedies for the cure of it: but if their souls be sick, by the rageful distempers of their passions, which breed storms of preturbations in their soules, as the impetuous windes do tempests at sea, they make nothing of it, neither will they send for a spiritual Physitian, that can pour in their festered wounds the Balm of Gilead,1 and asswage by their grave Counsels the fury of their passions, but will rather, if any come to visit them, unsent for, disguise their vicious passions, by the names of vertues, for they commonly 138

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call Ambition a desire of Glory, and Avarice a prudent fore-cast; and the furious passion of wrath a generosity of courage, and so of all the rest: and by this concealing and disguishing of their spiritual maladies, make them by custome utterly incurable. This common vanity of men hath induced divers learned Authors, to prescribe in their Writings, divers excellent remedies to cure these concealed maladies of the soul: but before I speak of the remedies, it is fit the Reader should be informed of the essentiall cause of these distempers, for as it is impossible for a Physitian to cure the bodily infirmities of his patient before he be acquainted with the nature of them; even so it is far more impossible for the Reader to pacifie the fury of his passions, before he be informed by these insuing particulars of the cause and nature of them. I will therefore speak in order of these things. • • • • • •

1. Of the two distinct powers of the soul. 2. Of the Concupiscible and Irascible appetite. 3. Of the definition of mens passions. 4. Of their seat, and number. 5. Of their original spring. 6. Of their evil and good essects.

First, the soul is distinguished into two distinct powers, the one is called Rational, the other Sensitive: the Rational is onely peculiar to men, but the Sensitive is common to men and beast. The Rational is a spark of the divine essence, and therefore immaterial, and immortal, but the Sensitive is materiall and earthly, and therefore mortal and corruptible, and from hence the Christian Philosophy, doth infer the resurrection of the body, because it hath such an affinity with one of the powers of the soul; besides, the Rational power doth its operations without the aid of the corporal organs, but the Sensitive cannot execute its functions without the assistance of the organs of the body, and that is the reason, why the operations of it are more carnal, and those of the Rational more divine and celestial; and this made St. Paul cry out, But I see another law in my members warring against the law of my minde, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members. O wretched man that I am, who shall deliver me from the body of this death! I thank God through Iesus Christ our Lord: so then, with the minde I my self serve the Law of God, but with the flesh the law of sin2: Moreover, the Rational power of the soul is the spring of all the intellectual faculties of the minde, but the Sensitive power is the spring of the senses, and of all the affections and passions of men. Secondly, Because this Sensitive power is distinguished into two distinct appetites, viz. the Concupiscible, and the Irascible, which are properly the faculties that the French call Appetitives, which intimates in the English tongue an aptness, an instinct, or natural inclination, inticing men and beast to pursue such objects as seem Good, or to fly from such objects that seem to be Evil; and the truth is, that the propriety of the Concupiscible appetite is to induce men to prosecute the objects that seem simply to be Good, or to draw them back from such that seem simply to be Evil, who have no appearance in them to be difficult to be obtained, 139

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or to be avoided: and the propriety of the Irascible appetite is to intice men to meet the objects presented by the senses unto them after a short result of the imagination that be not onely simply good or evil, but full of difficulties to obtain or to eschew; for the seeming good simply, is the proper object of the Concupiscible appetite, because it is pleasant and useful to men or beast, and may be obtained without difficulty; but the seeming good that is apparently difficult to obtain, and the evil that is hard to avoid, is the proper object of the Irascible appetite: But you are in this place to take notice once for all, That the objects that the senses represent to mens phansies, or imaginations are not always really good, nor really evil, because the judgments of men are oftentimes deluded by the senses, who varnish over the good with evil, and the evil with good; and that is the reason why this phrase of seeming good, or seeming evil, is used so often in these Discourses. Thirdly, Passions argues imperfection in the subject, and a distemper in the sensitive power of the soul: and here is the definition of the general words of Passions: Passion is nothing but a motion of the sensitive appetite proceeding from the apprehension of a reall or seeming good or evil, which begets an alteration in the body against the law of Nature: Mens passions are born with them, and therefore cannot be utterly extinguished, neither by an habit of moral Vertue, nor by Grace; but their sury may be allaid, and their distemper regulated; they never arise but there is an apparent alteration of the body, as it is noted in the definition   above related, and this alteration proceeds after this maner, the objects having been represented to the imagination by the senses; if it conceives them to be good; the concupiscible appetite doth intice men to prosecute these objects, and having obtained their desire, there proceeds from the injoyment of it, a passion of joy and delight, which dilates the blood, with the vital spirits that reside in it to the extreamest part of the body; and the heart being deprived of some of his natural heat, makes an alteration in the body, that is apparently seen in the face, which hath by it a more pleasant aspect, and a more ruddy complexion then ordinary; but if this delight or joy be violent and come unexpectedly, it makes a contrary alteration in the face, for then it becomes pale, and the body falls into a swound, and sometimes deprives the party of life, because the suddain violence of the passion, hath driven all the blood and vital spirits from the heart, and so for want of heat the life is extinguished. Contrarily, if the objects procure a passion of fear, then the blood and the vital spirits resident in it, with-draw from the extream parts of the body, and ascend up to the heart to comfort the same, and stir up the passion of undantedness to oppose this fear, but in the mean time, this irregular motion of the heart, and the running of the blood causeth an apparent alteration in the body, for the face and all the members of the body lose their natural complexion and become pale, the knees, feet, and hands trembling, as if the party had the deadpalsey. Nay, if this passion be violent, and happen unexpectedly, it will deprive the party of life, for it will bring up such a superfluous current of blood and vital spirits about the heart, that it will be smothered by it, as it shall be proved by divers instances in convenient time and place. But some will object, How can the powers of the soul sympathize thus with the accidents that happen to the body? 140

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I answer, that it is by the communication that is between the Sensitive power of the soul, and the organs of the body, as it appears in the passions of Delight and Dolour; for if a man injoy any pleasure, the sensitive power of the soul hath her part of this delight; likewise if his body be racked, the sensitive power of his soul suffers her part of the torments, for the body and the soul is but one individual, the body without a soul being but a lump of clay, the one being the matter, and the other the form; or the body is the Bulk of the ship, and the soul the Helm that guideth the same. Fourthly, the passions of men are seated in the heart, because it is the seat of the Sensitive power from which they are derived: and this is the opinion of Aristotle, and other ancient and modern Authors: yet divers are of another judgment, some would have the seat of them to be in the liver, others in the gall, others in the spleen: but, because the reasons & arguments they use to prove their opinion, have been confuted for erronious, I will not trouble you with them, specially sith our blessed Saviour doth confirm by these words,3 that they are seated in the heart, For from within, out of the heart proceeds evil thoughts, adulteries, fornications, murders, &c. And these are the effects of mens passions, nay, daily experience confirms the point; by the carriage of young children who are addicted to envy, vindication, wrath, and divers other passions, before they be able by their rational power to distinguish the good from the evil, because the rational power that is seated in the Understanding doth increase by age: but the Sensitive power is bred with us; and therefore the heart is the true seat of the passions, affections, and inclinations of men. As for the number of the passions of men, it is uncertain, for they may be multiplied by the limitation of their objects, as the windes have been of late: for at the first they were but four, the East, North, West, and South, and then they were multiplied to eight, and afterwards to sixteen, and then to two and thirty, and of late they have been multiplied to threescore and four: as for the passions, Aristotle was of opinion that there was but one general passion, and that was Love: Others said there were but two, and they were Delight, and Dolour; others said there were but four, and they were Ioy, Sorrow, Hope and Fear; and this opinion was grounded upon reason, for whatsoever men act or undertake, they delight, grieve, fear or hope. But Beau-lieu, and the Bishop of Marseilles maintain there are eleven general passions, but Senault a modern Author hath made them up twelve, to make the passions of the Irascible appetite equall with those of the Concupiscible appetite, and so hath brought in remisness; which in the two former Authors opinions, nor in mine, can be no general passion, because it is mixt or composed of Love and Compassion: and these are the eleven general passions, and the six of the Concupiscible appetite shall have the precedency. First, Love. Secondly Hatred Thirdly, Desire. Fourthly, Flight or Eschewing Fifthly, Ioy. Sixthly, Dolour, or Sorrow: and these are the five of the Irascible appetite: First, Fear. Secondly, Vndauntedness or Boldness. Thirdly, Hope. Fourthly, Despair. Fifthly, Wrath, or Choler. And here followeth their definition according to Beau-Lieu, which I conceive to be the best. First, Love, is a motion, an appetite, an affection, or passion towards a thing which 141

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is lovely, and pleasant unto us, whether it be present or absent. Secondly, Hatred is a passion against some thing that is adverse, or seemeth evil unto us, whether it be present or absent. Thirdly, Desire, called by some Concupiscence, is an affection to possess, and injoy a thing that is absent, which is pleasant unto us. Fourthly, Flight is a Passion inticing us to eschew, or fly from a thing that seemeth evil, or is adverse unto us. Fifthly, Ioy, Delight, or Volupty is the possession, or injoyment of the thing desired, which seemed good and pleasant unto us. Sixthly, Dolour or Sorrow is a passion, proceeding from the anguish of the body, or from some evil accident hapned unto us: These six passions are incident to the Concupiscible appetite; and these five following to the Irascible appetite. First, Fear is an apprehension of an evil that is neer, and hard to be avoided. Secondly, Vndantedness, is an assurance or confidence that we can avoid, or overcome an evil, though it be never so difficult. Thirdly, Hope is an expectation of a good that we desire and long for; in the obtaining of which we see some probability, although it be invironed or compassed about with great difficulties. Fourthly, Despair is a passion that inticeth us to fly back, or retreat from the pursuit of a Good much desired, because we conceive an impossibility to obtain the same. Fifthly, Wrath is a fiery passion, inticing us to vindicate our selves for some injury received, or to chastise such as do evil, or hinder others to do good. These eleven general passions, and all others that derive from them, may be reduced to six heads; three incident to the Concupiscible appetite, and three to the Irascible; the three of the Concupiscible have every one of them their Opposites. First, Love hath for his opposite Hatred. Secondly, the Desire hath for his opposite the Flight. Thirdly, Ioy hath for its opposite Dolour: but the passions of the Irascible have but two opposites, viz. First, Hope hath for his opposite Despair. Secondly, Vndantedness hath for his opposite Fear but Wrath hath no opposite; If you will know the reasons, read Beau-Lieu, in his Body of Philosophy, for I cut them off for brevity sake. These eleven generall passions may be multiplied by the limitation of their objects to be as numerous as a swarm of Bees. Fifthly, The original spring of the passions of men, is the senses, which are: first, the Sight: secondly, the Odour: thirdly, the Hearing: fourthly, the Tast: fifthly, the Feeling; and they arise and spring up after this maner: The Senses having represented the Objects to the Fansies, or imaginations of men, after a short result of the rational part: the Concupiscible appetite doth intice men to prosecute the reall or seeming Good; and the Irascible appetite doth induce them to prosecute the Good, compassed with difficulties, or to fly from the apparent or seeming Evil. Now by this pursuit of the Concupiscible appetite, or by the flight of the Irascible appetite; the heart which is the spring of all the motions of the body, must of necessity be distempered; and from this distemper proceeds the alterations of the body that I have spoken of before, which have been noted to be contrary to the Laws of Nature: for the natural temper of the heart, of such as are in perfect health, and that are free from the motions that arise from their passions, is more equal (as it may appear by the beating of the Pulse, which is the surest evidence men have, of the temper or distemper of the heart) then the ballance of the most excellent 142

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Watch upon earth: and the heart being once brought out of his natural temper, the foresaid alterations are greater or lesse, according to the degree of the distemper of the heart; which are so violent in some passions, that they are visibly seen in the strange postures of the body; the high colour of the face, the inflammation of the eyes, or by the shrilness, and fierceness of the voyce. Besides, these alterations proceeding from the passions, there is a continual contention between the forementioned Concupiscible and Irascible appetites in the will of men, which is the cause of the anxiety and perturbation of the minde, which shall be described in the next Discourse. Sixthly, the evil effects of the passions of men arise from their contentions one with another, and their good effects arise from the assistance they give one to another to fly from evil, for to cleave to the good; The Desire, that is a passion incident to the Concupiscible appetite is a great inticer to sin, and therefore it is called by St. John,4 The lust of the eye, and by St. Paul5 The lust of concupiscence; and by this passion of the lust of the eyes was David inticed to commit the hainous sin of adultery with Bathsheba,6 the wife to Vriah the Hittite; Now had Flight come to his aid as it did to Joseph, when his lewd Mistress did tempt him to lust, it had been an excellent effect of that passion. It is likely that there was then a great contention between the Concupiscible and the Irascible appetite, the first inticing King David to sin by the representation of so beautiful an object, and of the injoyment of such a seeming good; and the second by perswading him to eschue and fly from this apparent evil varnished over with a seeming good; but what became of their great contention, but a great perturbation in the minde of David for a time? yet had the Concupiscible appetite the mastery, for David did injoy his desire, and remained impenitent a whole year7: but when he was awaked from this spiritual lethargie by the Prophet Nathan, he cried, out of a penitent heart, I have sinned against the Lord: this was then an evil effect of this passion of Desire. The passion of fear that did possess Saint Peter when our blessed Saviour was brought into the Hall of the High Priest, caused another evil effect, for it did intice St. Peter8 to deny his Lord and Master three times before the Cock crew; but it was a good effect of the passion of Joseph, above cited, for it made him fly from sin to preserve his continency; and it was a noble effect of the passion of Undantedness that did possess the hearts of Shedrach, Meshach, and Abednego,9 and of the Prophet Daniel,10 to induce the three first to indure the torments of the fire of a burning furnace, heated seven times more then it was ordinarily: and the second, to despise the rage of the Lyons, rather then disobey the Commandment of the Lord. But these are but moral allegories, for it is not in the power of the Concupiscible appetite to make the children of God commit such sins as the Prophet David, and St. Peter did, but it was because God was pleased to give them over to themselves, to make them know that the perseverance in grace is a free gift of his; neither is it in the power of the Irascible appetite to infuse such a continency as was found in Joseph, nor such an unparallel’d undantedness as was in Shadrach, Meshach, Abednigo, and in Daniel; but it was the blessed Spirit of God that did infuse in their hearts that admirable fortitude, &c. 143

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Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Jeremiah 8:22. Romans 7:23, 24, 25. Matthew 7:21. John 2:16. 1 Thessalonians 4:5. 2 Samuel 11:2, 3, 4. 2 Samuel 12:13. Matthew 26:70, 71, 72, 75. Daniel 13:19. Daniel 6:16.

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19 MA R ÍA DE J ES ÚS DE ÁGREDA (1602–1665), CORRESPONDENCE WIT H KING PHILIP IV OF SPAI N In CORRESPONDENCIA CON FELIPE IV. RELIGIÓN Y RAZÓN DE ESTADO, ed. Consolación Baranda (Madrid: Editorial Castalia, 1991), pp. 95–99 and 231–236

María de Jesús de Ágreda became a nun in Spain after experiencing a revelation and became a Franciscan abbess, spiritual reformer and mystic. In addition to her works on spirituality, Maria also served as the confidante and advisor on spiritual and political matters to no less a person than King Philip IV of Spain for more than 22 years. Their surviving correspondence includes over 600 letters written between 1643 and 1665, a period of crisis and decline for the Spanish Empire. Parts of the Empire (Catalonia and Portugal) had risen up against Philip IV, Spain seemed stuck in a seemingly interminable war in northern Europe and the French were moving to take advantage of the Spanish weakness. The letters of Philip and María offer a fascinating insight into the personality of the King and the emotional and spiritual turmoil he felt in the face of adversity and the various personal tragedies that befell the monarch, especially the death of his sister in 1646 and of his son and heir in 1661. The letters of 1661 are particularly interesting as, in the space of what must have been an emotional week, Philip IV lost a son but then gained another as well as a grandson. … From the King, Zaragoza, 17 June 1646. If I did not understand that the travails that Our Lord imposes upon me are His warnings and the way by which He is offering me a chance to ensure my salvation, I would struggle to bear them, especially the loss of my sister, which has greatly moved me.1 We were close friends from childhood and this love had increased as we became adults. Truly, she deserved this love because she was the most perfect creature that I have known. I hold it to be infallible that she is now enjoying 145

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Heaven and has earned her eternal rest, which she deserved thanks to her many virtues. This is the only thing that offers me some comfort in the face of this loss as well as having yet another painful opportunity to offer my life to God and beg that He might confer His grace upon me. Help me, Sor María, to intercede with God for this since my strength is draining away and I fear my weakness. Concerning the rest that you have told me, I am doing what I can and even though it may be difficult to achieve it, I shall not desist. It is so right and due. I trust in the mercy of God, who can remedy some of the many things that need to be remedied. At least, for my part, I shall not fail to seek to do this. There is no news regarding Lérida2; the enemy is quiet and the morale of those within the town is good. Nonetheless, if Our Lord is not disposed to lift the siege just as He was fit to have it conquered [by Spanish troops] then it is likely that it shall be lost although I trust in His mercy that He will not allow this. And I am certain that you will pray for this since our cause is just. Concerning human means, I am doing everything possible to ensure that the outcome will be favourable and I am hoping to achieve this although those of this kingdom are behaving with such phlegm in the parliament that I fear that there will be a delay in agreeing the taxes that I have asked them for their own defence. I am being flexible and dissembling with them, because that is convenient, but cannot hide from you that I have known all these men to place their own interests before the common good. From Sor María, 19 June 1646. My Lord: all the travails that God sends to us are benefits from a Pious Father. He corrects and afflicts those whom He loves so that they should not miss the sign of His affection that is suffering. Great merits and precious rewards are attached to suffering, as Your Majesty knows. Knowing this truth is the greatest of consolations and the voice that speaks to our senses and to the heart in order to awaken us and put us on the path to seeking the truest and greatest good. I am very confident that the Lady Empress and the other signs that Your Majesty has received in Heaven are helping with your plea [to God] for the resolution of so many matters and the horde of setbacks that Your Majesty has experienced. And I know that the Lord in His mercy is, and has been, very liberal with Your Majesty but He is not inflicting miseries on you to make you suffer. Rather, He is accompanying these tribulations with His divine light, help and favours. I beg Your Majesty, my lord, as your most loyal and truest servant, to attend to these matters in order to respond to God with all your heart. It pains me a lot to think about Your Majesty as well as the pressures facing this monarchy, in which there is so much to do and work for so many zealous and careful men. This is why, the less helpful such men are for Your Majesty, the more you should trust in the power of God, to whom all things are easy when we compel Him. This is what most pains me, that all the peoples and kingdoms of this monarchy should open their eyes and realise that the remedy to all their problems lies in this decision. 146

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I must confess to You Majesty, my lord, that I have always paid heed to the affairs of this kingdom, because I do not doubt that the common enemy3 has a great influence over many natives [of Spain], obscuring their reason so that they ignore the danger and disdain the honour and obligations that befall them as vassals of Your Majesty. From the King Madrid, 8 November 1661. Due to the protracted illness of my son and my continued watch by his bedside, it has not been possible for me to respond to your letter of the seventh of the past month.4 Neither has my mourning [for my son] provided me an occasion to do it until now. I confess to you, Sor María, that my mourning has been painful, as you would expect from such a loss. Amid this great suffering, I have offered him up to God and conform to His divine will, truly believing that what His providence disposes is the most important. And I would like to assure you that what fatigues me, much more than the loss [of my son] is to see so clearly that I have angered God and that because of my sins He sends us these punishments. I would only like to know how to amend my ways and accomplish His holy will and avoid offending Him, and I shall do this as much as possible, hoping to lose by life in exchange for achieving it. Help me as a friend through your prayers to appease the just anger of God and to please Our Lord so that, now that He has seen fit to deprive me of my son, He should be pleased to allow the Queen to give birth safely, for we are expecting the birth to happen any moment now. May He give her perfect health and keep safe the newborn child, if that is His will, for I do not want the reverse to occur. The Queen has borne this blow [of the young prince’s death] with great Christian devotion, although she mourns, but I am not mournful because he is now an angel. Oh, Sor María! If only I had agreed to live by your doctrines, perhaps I would not find myself in such a state. Ask Our Lord that He open my eyes because in all things you follow His holy will. We are also awaiting news of my daughter’s confinement; may God make it a felicitous occasion.5 Concerning the affairs of England there is no news. I, thanks to the grace of God, am in good health, which is no small blessing although I assure you that I find myself very tired. It was eleven on Sunday when I reached this point in the letter and, at one o’clock, Our Lord was served to restore the son he taken from me by granting me another,6 which has caused me the joy that such a singular blessing and mercy deserves since I do not wish to be ungrateful [to God]. Help me to prostrate myself at His feet and to beg Him to keep the child safe if that is His wish. I only want His will to be done. The Queen and the child are in good health, which makes me happy and I ask you to commend them to God. From Madrid, 8 November 1661. I the King. 147

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From Sor María, 25 November 1661 My Lord: the true affection with which I love and esteem Your Majesty is well known and I have pondered and reflected upon the travails to which Your Majesty has referred in your latter. And with tears and affection I feel compassion for all that Your Majesty suffers. I beg you, my dearest lord, to take heart and carefully consider that the crown that is your eternal rest will be earned through the blows you have suffered in these tribulations. The Lord states in the Gospels that he corrects and punishes those whom He loves in order to make them worthy of His grace and glory. Your Majesty should not be saddened or worried by the knowledge that you have offended and justly angered the Highest and Eternal God, as you claim [in your letter], or that He is punishing you for your sins. This should encourage Your Majesty to seek out His divine clemency, because He is the father and God of all consolation and mercy, and He forgives us when we repent and He does not despise contrite and humble hearts. My Lord, from the bottom of my soul, there can be no doubt that God is offended by the people [of Spain] because they are committing many vices and sins that offend divine justice. To punish us so that we can amend ourselves is a favour and a kindness of God’s love. I assure Your Majesty that it is true that I have often stated that the punishments suffered by this monarchy in terms of wars, famine, disease and the loss of the heirs to the throne of such a Catholic and great dynasty are the result of my sins and because I am worse than is thought. What can console us in such matters is that the Highest One desires us to make amends and will not deny us all the means that are necessary to achieve this if, for our part, we agree to use these means effectively. The decrees of Heaven come in two types: some are explicit and absolute and others are conditional. The explicit and absolute decrees cannot be stopped by human power. The sky and the earth will end before this can happen. With conditional decrees, these come to an end when their cause ends. The decrees that God sends as punishments for sins are conditional because the punishment will not come into effect if the sins stop. The Holy Scripture states that God ordered Jonas the prophet to preach to the inhabitants of Nineveh and tell them that He would destroy them within forty days; these forty days came to pass and His Divine Majesty did not execute the punishment because they amended their ways and performed acts of penitence. This divine sentence was not definitive but rather cautionary. It was not an explicit or absolute decree but rather a conditional one. The prophet Isaiah told King Hezekiah: “Set you house in order, and make your will, because you shall die because of your sins” and, thanks to prayers by the prophet, he was granted fifteen more years of life.7 Moreover, the same Lord God said via Jeremiah: “if the people whom I have condemned to death perform penance and amend themselves, I shall revoke my sentence”.8 My Lord, if there are amendments and penances in this kingdom, the severe punishments that it is suffering will be converted into mercies, the harshness will be turned into benefits and the lashes into gifts. Since I am desirous of the 148

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repentance and salvation of Your Majesty, I shall give you my opinion on the matter with all the humility of a poor nun not so that you should feel afflicted but rather so that you will put it all into effect with the magnificence of a powerful king and sovereign. May God assist you. Your Majesty should order your ministers punish the wealthy and the powerful for all the ways that they oppress the poor, seizing and usurping their property. May your lesser officials render justice with equality; may they punish filthy vices and all other kinds of sin; and, for the love of God, let the taxes imposed upon the poor be moderated since I have seen than these have plunged some places into poverty. These places are in great distress and they only survive by eating bread made out of barley and grass. Moreover, these officials should not deprive the ecclesiastical estate of its income in order to use it for other purposes. To do this is to touch upon what is sacred. Neither should they touch the income of chantries because this will result in the end of masses being said for the dead and the holy souls in purgatory are the friends of God, suffering and clamouring for help. Rather it is a great act of charity to favour the souls in Purgatory.9 So many changes affecting the currency are very damaging, because anything that affects the wealth of men who earn it with the sweat of their labour will cause them to become very angry and very vocal, which is very dangerous. Your majesty has many clever and selfless subjects who will inform you of these truths (. . .). The equanimity and Christian virtue with which her Majesty the Queen Our Lady has borne the loss of her beautiful son have edified me. I praise the All Powerful for the way that He has comforted Her Majesty by offering her another [son]. What I have heard about the ambassadors has caused me great pain and suffering.10 Could Your Majesty tell me if they have been able to calm themselves and if you have been able to produce some response from the Most Christian King?11 Please forgive the presumptuousness of these questions, for my worries about the hatred that the Devil has for the peace [between Spain and France] makes me fear that similar discord might arise in the future. My Lord, I have been so affected by the loss of our deceased angel12 that I have once more added spiritual exercises and prayers [to my daily routine] asking for the good health of Your Highness and the whole community [of the convent] has done the same. Those of this locality have made great demonstrations of love and loyalty as your vassals, giving thanks to God [for the birth of an heir to the throne]. From the convent of Ágreda, 25 November 1661. Sor María de Jesús.

Notes 1 Maria Anna of Spain (1606–1646) was married to Ferdinand III, Holy Roman Emperor. She died in childbirth just over two months before this letter was written. 2 Lérida was a rebel town conquered by Philip IV’s forces in 1644 and then unsuccessfully besieged by the French and Catalan rebels for six months in 1646. 3 i.e. the Devil.

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4 King Philip is referring here to the illness and death on 1 November 1661 of his young son Philip Prospero, Prince of Asturias (1657–1661). 5 Maria Theresa of Austria, daughter of Philip IV, was married to King Louis XIV of France and gave birth to a son named Louis on 1 November 1661. News of this event had obviously not yet reached Spain on 8 November. 6 The Queen of Spain gave birth to Charles, only surviving son and heir to Philip IV of Spain, on 6 November 1661. 7 A reference to Isaiah, chapter 38. 8 A reference to Jeremiah, 26:19. 9 Chantries were endowments for a priest or priests to celebrate masses for the soul of their founders. 10 This would appear to be a reference to a fracas between the servants of the French and Spanish ambassadors. 11 King Louis XIV of France. 12 i.e. King Philip’s recently deceased son.

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20 JAME S CRANFORD (1 5 9 2 – 1 6 5 7 ) , THE TE ARES OF IRELAND W HEREI N IS LIVELY PRESENT ED AS I N A MA P A L IST OF T HE UNHEARD O F F C RUELTIES AND PERFI DI OUS TR E A C HERIES OF BLO OD- THI RS TY J E SU ITS AND THE POPI S H FACTI ON, A S A WA RNING PIECE TO HER S I S TER N ATIONS TO PREVEN T THE LI KE MISE RIES, AS ARE N OW ACTED ON THE STAGE OF THI S FRES H B LE E DING NATION RE PORTED BY GE N TLEMEN OF GOOD CREDI T LIV IN G THERE, BUT FOR CED TO FLI E F O R THEIR L IVES . . . I LLUS TRATED B Y P IC TURES; FIT TO BE RES ERVED B Y A LL TRUE PROTES TANTS AS A MO N U M ENT OF T HEIR PERPETUALL R E P R OACH AND IGNO M I NY, AND TO ANIMAT E THE SPI RI TS OF P R OTESTANTS AGAI NS T S UCH BL OODY VIL LA I NS (London: Iohn Rothwell, 1642), pp. 1–4 and 20–38 151

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Conquered and colonized by the protestant English monarchy in the sixteenth century, Ireland was a hotbed of animosity between the majority Catholic population and Protestant settlers and landowners. Decades of tensions and discrimination led to the outbreak of a major Catholic uprising in October 1641. The uprising was marked by outbursts of extreme violence against Protestants and was contained by the arrival of forces from England and Scotland in 1642. The rebels formed the Irish Catholic Confederation, which was only crushed by an English Protestant army led by Oliver Cromwell between 1649 and 1652, in a campaign that witnessed the widespread killing of Irish Catholic civilians as a result of atrocities, famine and disease. Unsurprisingly, the Irish rebellion provoked the publication of propaganda in England designed to play on the emotions of Protestant readers. James Cranford (c. 1592–1657) was an English presbyterian clergyman who wrote the preface to The Tears of Ireland though authorships of the whole work is attributed to him. An exaggerated, graphic and lachrymose account of the cruelties inflicted on the Protestants in Ireland at the start of the rebellion, the work includes engravings designed to help horrify the readers. The work demonizes the “Papists” of Ireland and plays upon ethnic stereotypes of the Irish. … A true Relation of the bloudy Massacre and damnable Treason of the cruell Papists intended against Dublin, October 23. 1641. desperatly acted in most parts of the Kingdom of Ireland, tending to the utter ruine and extirpation of all the Protestants there: With a list of the severall tortures, cruelties, outrages, on the bodies of poore Christians, related by persons of good credit, who are fled from those bloudy men, to tell us what they have seen with their eyes and heard with their eares, on examinattions of divers of the Actors in this Tragedy illustrated by Pictures. Behold, as in a Map of bloud, the unwearied plottings, and restlesse contrivements of bloudy men only skilfull to destroy, whose Religion is founded in bloud, whose obedience will not be bounded with oaths, asseverations, nay execrations, as the ensuing Story of cruelty relates, who are true (as steel) to their damned Principles, Nulla fides cum Haereticis whose principles are steept bloud, tolerating Rebellion against King and Kingdome, murdering of Princes, blowing up of Parliament, sowing seeds of division betweene Confederate Kingdomes,1 as those two Handfasted and Troth-plighted Nations in a League of love, indissoluble (blessed be God) can testifie: blowing up coals of Division, hotter then coals of Juniper in the same Kingdome, where they live in too much peace. Witnesse England, who hath had wofull experience of their plottings to breake Union betweene King and people, King and Parliament. But now behold, these bloudy Papists with their Vizard puld off, and now acting their plots like incarnate Devils (as our Saviour cald their brethren the Scribes and Pharisees. For the works of their father they doe) I say now acting their Devillish designe on the State of Ireland our sister Nation, ayming no lower then the death and ruine of the whole Kingdome at one blow. For had their plot on Dublin Castle taken (which they had laid with so much subtilty and secrecie) as in probability 152

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it had, had not the keeper of Israel which slumbers not prevented it, in a most miraculous manner, they had beene by the morning light at work, cutting off man, woman and child, till they had not left one remayning among them that bore the name of a Protestant. Blessed be God their snare was broken, and that poore City designed to destruction, delivered, the relation of which Tragedie now begins: Oh that our eares may tingle! and our bowels yern at the relation of this horrid designe: and at the relations of those cruelties and tortures exceeding all parallel, unheard off among Pagans, Turks, or Barbarians, except you would enter into the confines of Hell it selfe, to see the Devils (those Engineers of cruelty) acting of their parts: I know not where you will find their fellows, making it their sport to torture and to vex those poore distressed Protestants, he that is most cruell merits most of their bloudy Jesuits. Those firebrands of Hell preach to them in their Massings and Conventicles, as is truly related by Gentlemen of Ireland of good worth, who like Jobs Messengers are escaped their mercilesse hands, relating nothing but what they have heard with their eares, upon examination of witnesses, or seen with their eyes, that so men might not be deluded with false and idle Pamphlets, but reade and see the truth of things that all men may behold what bloudy Tigres and Vultures these Popish Spirits are, how perfidious and basely treacherous to those Nations that succour them; never any Kingdom being long at peace where they were tolerated, as this fresh bleeding Nation of Ireland can sadly relate you in this ensuing Narration. Heere followeth a true description or relation of sundrie sad and lamentable collections, taken from the mouthes of verie credible persons, and out of Letters sent from Ireland to this Citie of London, of the perfidious outrages and barbarous cruelties, which the Irish Papists have committed upon the persons of the Protestants, both men, women, and children in that Kingdome. Anno Dom. 1641. The Irish Nation is well knowne to be a people both proud and envious. For the Comonaltie (they are for the most part) ignorant and illiterate, poore, and lazie; and will rather beg or starve, then worke: & therefore fit subjects for the Priests and Jesuits to spur on upon such bloudy actions and murth’rous Designes. Ignorance is their Mother, which is devoid of mercy: God deliver all good Christians from the cruelty of such a Mother and Children. It is too well knowne, (the more is the pitie and to be lamented) that the Irish have murther’d of the Protestant party in the Provinces of Vlster, Lempster, Connaght and Munster, of men, women, and children, the number of fifty thousand, as it is credibly reported by Englishmen, who have beene over all parts of the Kingdome, and doe protest upon their oaths that there are above five thousand Families destroyed. The Kingdome of Ireland hath foure Provinces, wherein there are contained two and thirty Counties, besides Cities and County Townes, in all which places the English are planted up and downe in all parts, where the Irish have most murtherously and trayterously surprized them upon great advantages, and with out respect of persons either of age, youth, or infancy, of yongmen or maids, or of old men or babes, stript all to their skins, naked as ever they were borne into the World, 153

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so they have gone out of the World, many hundreds having beene found starved to death in Ditches for want of food and rayment, where the rebellious Irish have shewed them no more mercy or compassion, no, nor so much as they would doe to their Dogs. Thus much for the generall, now I come to particulars. At one Master Atkins house, seven Papists brake in & beat out his brains, then ripped up his Wife with childe, after they had ravished her, and Nero-like view’d Natures bed of conception, they then took the child, and sacrificed it in the fire. They have flead the skin from the bones of others like Butchers: the principles of whose Religion is bloud. Witnesse our Books of Martyrs those Chronicles of bloud. Witnesse those thousands of butchered Protestants in France, or Germany. They burned others, firing their Houses, Towns, Villages, those sons of the Coale, as if their habitation were in Hell. They have vowed to root out all the English Nation out of this Kingdome. They have turned all the Protestants out of Kilkeny. At Belturbal in the County of Cavan, the Popish Rebels demanded the Town on promise, that if they would surrender they should passe free with bag and baggage, they backt their promise with oaths and execrations, cursing themselves, if they did not let them goe withall. On serious considerations of the inhabitants and, the Governour, they were perswaded to yield it up, which when they had done, and drawing away their goods and moneys, they like treacherous Villains sent about twenty or thirty to guard them, when they had guarded them seven miles from the Town, they with more of that desperate forsworn rabble seized on them, robbed all the Protestants, being betweene five hundred and a thousand persons, men, women, and children; who submitting themselves to their mercy, found no quarter but cruelty: they stript them all naked, and turn’d them out of their houses into the open fields in bitter cold weather, in a most vile and shamefull manner, not affording them one of their lowzy rags to hide those parts which should be covered. Take notice of the faith of a Papist, who for his own advantage, casts off all bonds of fidelity and common honesty. They are remarkable for perfidiousnesse and treachery, as you may behold in that Master of Mis-rule, the Arch-rebell Sir Philem-Oneal, basely pretending to be a Suitor to the old Lady Cawfield being a Widow, and made faire promises of his respects to her, and when hee had his advantage of possession of her house and goods, turned them out of all, and bound them prisoners, and made her whom he intended his neerest Companion to be his lowest Vassall. In the Towne of Lurgon, in the County of Armagh, the Mac-kans skirmishing with the Englishmen, slue divers of our men, whereupon they entred parley demanding the Towne: Sir William Brunlow being Governour of the Castle, on some considerations thought good to yield thereupon they promised and backt it with oaths & great protestations, that they should have faire quarter, and passe without prejudice to their lives: yet behold the perfidiousnesse of these brutish creatures, as men not fearing God or Devill, whose practice they imitate, who was a liar from the beginning. Notwithstanding all these faire pretences they knew no mercy, killed men, spoiled women, nay, in their boundlesse rage, slue and 154

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massacred, and sript helplesse Ministers, whose calling might have pleaded pity. But what speake wee of pity to men, that have no bowels? In London Derry, at the Towne of Belly-hagh belonging to the Londoners. Sir Philem-Oneal, promised under hand and seale to let the poore Protestants to passe with bag and baggage, only to part with their Town, which was a faire goodly place: yet this perfidious Rebell, as if it was not enough to make these poore souls harborless, to lay them open to vvind and vveather, but to adde to all their misery, stript man, vvoman and child, took their clothes for a prey, and sent them out naked, vvithout a shirt or smock to their backs, left them not vvorth a groat, this vvas one of their vvorks of mercy, if they scaped vvith their lives: but how many lives might be lost by this immodest and inhumane act, judge. The tender mercies of the wicked are cruell. Will you behold another mercifull act and record it. Captaine Rory Macquire, the Lord Macquires brother at the beginning of the rebellion for the first fortnight commands his Souldiers to give quarter to women and children, but to massacre all the men to spare none. Woe to him that makes the wife a widow and the children fatherlesse, but after they began to resist, and to gather into Companies: then heare the Charge of this bloudy man, Give no quarter, no not to women, though teares and prayers interpose, yet know no pity: no not to harmlesse babes, though it was death enough to kill their parents, nor spare neither man, woman, or child. It is reported by an eminent Gentleman, that hath long dwelt among the Rebels, but it’s thought fit to forbeare the names of those that give intelligence of the barbarous cruelties of these savage beasts, because they threaten to be the death of them that shall unmaske them. It is reported by this Gentleman that the Handlowans came to Town-regis, divers of them assaulted the Castle, of which Captain Saint John was Commander, hee with his son got away with some difficulty, leaping over the wall, they fearing they might fetch supplies to recover their lost Castle, most inhumanely tooke the Captaines wife, (poore Gentlewoman) and set her on the wall having stript her to her smock, who was big with child (and within an houre of her delivery) that in case the Captain and his son should have assaulted the Towne, his Wife should have beene the white at which hee must have levelled: oh extreame and unheard of cruelty! As for the Protestant Ministers whom they surprize, their cruelty is such towards them, as it would make the hardest heart to melt into teares. Their manner is first to strip them, and after bind them to a tree or some post where they please, and then to ravish their wives and daughters before their faces (in sight of all their mercilesse rabble) with the basest Villains they can pick out, after they hang up their husbands and parents before their faces, and then cut them downe before they be half dead, then quarter them, after dismember them, and stop their mouthes therewith. They basely abused one M. Trafford a Minister in the North of Ireland who was assaulted by these bloudy wolves of Romes brood, that know not God, nor any bowels of mercy. This poore distressed Minister desired but so much time to bethink himselfe before he took his farewell of the World to call upon God: but 155

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these mercilesse wretches would admit no time, but instantly fell on him, hackt and hewed him to pieces. Doctor Tate Minister of Belly-Hayes they stript starke naked, and then wounded him dangerously in the head, and then let him goe towards Dublin, where hee lay long sick. Sir Patrick Dunstons Wife ravished before him, slue his Servants, spurned his Children till they died, bound him with roules of Match to a board, that his eyes burst out, cut off his eares and nose, teared off both his cheeks, after cut off his arms and legs, cut out his tongue, after run a red hot iron into him. Many Gentlewomen have they ravished before their husbands faces, stripping them first naked to the view of their wicked companions, taunting and mocking them (after they have spoiled them) with bitter and reproachfull words, sending them away in such a shamefull, or rather shamelesse manner, that most of them have died with shame and grief, or else have starved with want and cold. Base cruelty unheard of, exceeding the brute beasts, and so much the worse because they are reasonable, which makes them skilfull to destroy. One Master Luttrell dwelling within three miles of the Burrough of Cavan, a Gentleman worth by report, two or three hundred pounds a yeere, with a very great stock of Cattle, was basely betrayed by an Irish Boy that hee had bred up in his house. See the basenesse of the Popish brood, who when hee was at Dinner (being upon the thirtieth day of October last) was surprized by threescore of those Irish unmercifull Villains, with a company of dirty Whoores and Bastards that followed them, which this Boy let in at a back doore, where pulling him and his vertuous Wife from the Table, and foure smal children, the eldest of them being not sixe yeeres of age, and one sucking at her brest without pity or humanity stript them naked, notwithstanding their prayers and teares to have let them kept their clothes, and then thrusting them in a cruell and violent manner out of doores, threatned to kill them if they went not speedily away. Take notice how uncertaine all our outward comforts are. So they departed (for feare) away, being ashamed to bee seene of their servants, some of them running one way, and some another to shift for themselves, but the distressed Gentleman with his Wife and Children, and a little youth, directed their course towards Dublin, hoping to find some of their friends in the way to relieve them, but the farther they came the more miserable they were, meeting their loving Friends robbed (by others) in the same manner, which struck in them such amazement and feare, that their hearts failed them, so that being naked and hungry, helplesse and hopelesse, the poore Infants crying in their eares, which must needs kill their hearts, they went not far but sate downe under a Hedge or Ditch, and there died: being not (at that time above sixe miles from his own house, for this little youth that he had bred up (being an English boy) forsooke not his Master when the rest ran from him, but continued with him till death, the same day, some Horsemen or Troopers riding that way to coast the Country, me this youth, unto whom hee told this sad story, and being not far from the place led them to this lamentable sight, where they beheld the true love of Man and Wife, embracing each other in their death, the three eldest children dead, but 156

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the sucking childe was alive preserved through heat, being between them both, and grabling and gaping for the dead Mothers brest. So the Troopers tooke up the child, carrying it to a Nurse, for they knew the Parents well, and bestowed some clothes upon the English youth, who came to Dublin within few days after, and related the story in my hearing. In the County of Roscommon, neere the Town of Roscommon, there fled into the Parish Church, eleven score of the English, men, women, and children, where they remayned three dayes and nights without any sustenance, till they were almost starved, so that at last (what with the cryes of their children and their own wants) they were forced to commit themselves to the cruelty of the Irish, who according to their usuall manner first stript them naked, after drove them through the Town like so many harmlesse Sheep and Lambs over a Bridge at the Townes end, having before broke down one of the middle arches where a strong water runneth, so that either they must leap in or come back, their intent being there to murther them, as they did. For the poore wretches being sicke, weak and faint for food and sleepe (yet unwilling to hasten their own ends) some returned back whom they kild without mercy, others they thrust into the water who were drowned, some that could, did swim towards the shoare, and there inhumane villanies, brutish furies, ran and met them before they could get to land, and knockt them in the head in the water, some few escaped that did swim to the other side of the River, where the Irish could not come at them, having before broken downe the Bridge themselves, and so escaped to Dublin, to be sad witnesses of this lamentable Tragedy. Master Blandry a Minister they hanged, after puld his flesh from his bones in his Wifes sight. Many Ladies and Gentlewomen (which they have surprized in the province of Vlster) being great with child, they have turned them out of their houses naked into the fields, where they have bin delivered without the helpe of any woman, and so have ended their misery, others that have escaped death in Child-bearing, they have mercilesly carried away upon Carts (lying in lowsie and stinking straw naked,) to places where they and their poore infants have bin destroyed.

Note 1 The kingdoms of England, Scotland and Ireland.

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21 A NONYM OUS EN GRAVI NG, PERSECUTION OF THE WA LDENSES IN T HE PI EDM ONT, 1655–166 3 (Vervolging van de Waldenzen in de Piemonte, 1655–1663; Kort verhael, Van den Elendigen toestant, van de Volckeren in de Valleyen van Piemont, beginnende van den Jaere 1655. tot den Jaere 1663. den 2. September).

The Waldensians were Protestants who lived in the Alpine regions between France and the Dukedom of Savoy in Italy. Between 1655 and 1663, the Duke of Savoy and Catholic authorities waged a campaign of religious repression that resulted in looting and massacres. Protestant propaganda produced in northern Europe was quick to exploit the Waldensian tragedy to foster anti-Catholic sentiment, to warn against the perceived danger represented by the Catholic Church to all Protestants and sought to provoke sympathy for their plight. The following engraving centres on a representation of a woman weeping with a French and Dutch caption explicitly identifying the figure as ‘Religion incessantly weeping for the blood of innocents that is shed without mercy’.1 Below the woman is the Waldensian symbol of a candle burning, surrounded by darkness and the Latin motto: ‘A light shines in the darkness’. Arranged around the allegorical representation of Religion weeping, are vignettes representing the persecutions of the Waldensians with short explanations in Dutch. From an image of the council of the Inquisition planning the campaign of religious repression directly above her to graphic scenes of massacres, sexual abuse and torture, looting and the escape of the desperate Waldensian survivors amidst a snowstorm. The images of violence portray helpless victims (mostly woman and children) and are designed to provoke sorrow among Protestant viewers but also anger against the Catholic Church.

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Figure 21.1 Anonymous, Persecution of the Waldenses in the Piedmont, 1655–1663, engraving, courtesy of the Rijkmuseum

Note 1 This image can be viewed here: www.europeana.eu/en/item/90402/RP_P_OB_81_836A, accessed 30/11/2020.

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22 L ANCELOT BLAC KBURNE (1658–1743), THE U N R EASONABL ENES S OF ANGER A SERMON PREACH ’ D BEFORE TH E QUEEN AT WHI TE- HALL, JULY 29, 1 6 9 4 (London: Thomas Bennet, 1694)

Lancelot Blackburne was an Anglican clergyman who became a canon and then dean of Exeter cathedral in 1691 and 1705 respectively and eventually rose to become archbishop of York in 1724. In July 1694, he preached to the royal count and chose to dedicate his sermon to the danger represented by the emotion of anger. For Blackburne, anger is primarily an ‘unruly passion’ which undermines reason, in complete contrast to meekness, unity, charity and condescension. … A SERMON Preach’d before the QUEEN. Ephes. iv. 31, 32. Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil-speaking, be put away from you, with all malice; and be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you. IN this Epistle to the Ephesians St. Paul seems to propose to himself these Two things. First, The confirming their Faith, by laying open the whole Mystery of their Salvation, and comparing it with the Misery of their former Heathen-state, in the three first Chapters; And then the perswading ’em to express their Gratitude to Almighty God for so great a Deliverance, by the Exercise of all those Christian Vertues, which that most Holy Dispensation was design’d to introduce. This latter part of his Design he enters on in this Chapter, and opens it with an earnest Perswasion to Meekness, Ʋnity, Charity, and Condescension; inforcing it all along with great strength of Reason, from their being Members of one Body, from their being governed by one and the same Holy Spirit, having one Hope of Eternal Life, one Lord Christ, one Faith in him, one Baptism in his Name, one God, one Father of all; from the several Gifts of Christ to his Church, all tending 160

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to preserve and advance this Unity among ’em: and at last, to strike at the very Cause of those Disorders, which hinder’d its Increase, He concludes, Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil-speaking be put away from you, with all malice: and strengthening that Exhortation with the Example of our merciful God, that unexhausted Fountain of infinite Goodness, he adds, And be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you. The drift of the several Expressions in the Text, is to perswade us to Acts of Concord and Charity, and to disswade us from all the Obstacles to it, which that unruly Passion of Anger lays in our way. The general Head of Charity is of too large, and too nice a Nature, to be stated at length, in its several Particulars, within the compass of a Discourse; and therefore, after opening further in a word or two the difficulty of that Task, I shall chuse to fix our Inquiries more particularly on that Vice, or Passion of Anger, which chiefly opposes it. I shall endeavour to shew you the folly and unreasonableness of it in its Rise, its Nature and Effects; with regard to private Men, and publick Communities; and afterwards back these Reasonings with the several Rules and Examples to this Purpose, that are to be met with in the Gospel. I shall, in the Close, point the force of what has been said immediately upon Our Selves; and shew, of what present Ʋse and Advantage the Argument is to us. It is not so hard to perswade Men that Charity is a Duty, as it is to fix the Bounds and Limits of it; not many, I think, who own themselves Christians, will dispute their Obligation to mutual Forbearance and Condescension, though few, if any, can agree in its Measures and Extent. Besides those Prejudices, which an obstinate Bigotry and false Zeal, or Fear and worldly Interest may raise in our Minds, and so pervert our Judgments, in applying this Duty to particular Cases; there is difficulty enough in the nature of the thing. The very different Judgments, even cool and thinking Men frame, of the same Action sufficiently speak it. What by some may be judged but a necessary steadiness, by others is interpreted an obstinate stubborness, a peremptory stifness, and a streightness of bowels: and what appears to one as necessary a tenderness and forbearance, is esteem’d by others a base and treacherous compliance. The Apostles themselves found it no easie task to adjust this Matter. The stiff adherence of the Jewish Converts to the Mosaical Ceremonies, which they thought unchangeable, and their obstinate desire of keeping up the partition-wall between them and the Gentiles, which they would not understand to be broken down, raised no small Trouble and Dissention in the Church at Antioch: and when the Apostles and Elders came together at Jerusalem, to decide the Question, Whether the Gentile Proselytes shou’d be oblig’d to Circumcision, ’twas not till after there had been much disputing, (as we learn from St. Luke) that they came to the Resolution of not laying any new burthen upon them, nor putting a yoke upon the necks of the disciples, which neither their own fathers, nor they themselves were able to bear. And even after this Decision, (which, one would have thought, had setled the Point) St. Peter coming to Antioch did eat with the Gentiles; but when certain came from James, tender of giving scandal to Them, 161

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he withdrew and separated himself, fearing them which were of the Circumcision. This, St. Paul, withstanding him boldly to the face, called dissembling, and walking not uprightly according to the truth of the Gospel; whom St. Peter ’tis plain by his practice judg’d as much too stiff and inflexible to those of the Circumcision. So different have been the Judgments even of the best assisted and most enlighten’d Persons concerning the measures of this Duty, when it came once to be applied to a particular Case. But yet how difficult soever it may be to state this nicely in its full extent, thus much, which is more to our present purpose, both from the Writings of the Apostles, and from their Practice, seems to lie plain before us: That the Unity of the Church, and the Charity we owe to our Neighbour, obliges us not to do or say any thing however innocent in it self (unless ingag’d to it by Duty, or something like Necessity) which by reason of his unhappy Temper, or Prejudices, may put him out of the way to Heaven, or hinder his Advancement in it; much less, how different soever our Opinions may be, or on either hand, how well soever grounded, are we to give way to bitterness, anger, wrath, clamour, evil-speaking, or malice; so as either to employ ’em our selves, or be provok’d by ’em to revenge, when they are us’d against us: but rather ought we to be kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven us. If the violence of Anger were not of it self in perfect Opposition to the Law of Christ, and that Meekness it injoins, yet its mischievous Effects, both on our selves and others, are enough to make it justly be detested; and convince us it can never be well employed but on it self: that It alone calls for all that Bitterness and ill Language it usually breaks out in; and truly merits that most implacable Revenge it generally animates; which is never satisfy’d but in reducing its Object below the power of doing us an Injury. The Disorder it causes in our Minds, our Blood, and our Spirits, deserves indeed all the Resentment it raises; but the Passion is too irregular to be so well directed, and we are too much heated to judge so truly of its Application: we blindly mis-place it on our innocent Neighbour, and lay the weight of that on our Brother, which is only due to our own Pride or ill Nature. For ’tis an Anger, which is Wrath, that is here forbidden, an Anger of Revenge or of Reproach; which owes its Rise either to an over-fond opinion of our selves, or too mean a one of other men. Man is but too apt to be full of himself, to love Dominion and Independance; That Bosom-flatterer, Self-love, enlarges the Prospect of all his good Qualities, and lessens the View proportionably of his Weaknesses or Faults: but turns the Glass to look on those of other Men, and augments or diminishes the Representation, as suits best with the Interests of that Preheminence he would establish for himself. Hence he naturally grows captious and quarrelsome. If others (as well they may) resist this Usurpation: if they not only refuse to submit to it, but look upon the very Pretence to it as unreasonable and ridiculous; and return it with Contempt, or Injury, or the like Attempts in their own Favour; the sense of this diminution goes deep into his heart; he trembles, and looks pale at the danger of those Designs his Revenge suggests to him: or, if the execution of that Revenge 162

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seems out of his power, he breaks out into loud and passionate clamours, into hasty threats, and bitter revilings; confessing his impotence, by the very means he would appear formidable, and defeating the utmost efforts of his malice, by discovering its aims. Now what temper can there be, which is less able to justifie it self, either to Reason, or to the Principles of the Gospel? The Foundation it is built upon is as weak, as the Passion is violent; and the one does not disorder and confound our Reason, more than the other shocks and contradicts it. There is an Equality in Men as such, whereon all the natural Duties are founded, that make us easie or useful to one another; an Infringement of this, is an Usurpation on Mankind; and whoever draws too large a share to himself of a common Right, will be justly look’d upon by others as a general Invader. ’Tis this unjust preference of our selves makes us touchy and captious: we think more due to our selves than others in reason can allow us; and that makes us fret at the Disappointment: if we insist on our Demand, Others have as good a Right to make it upon Us; and if Both continue obstinate, this can end in nothing but continual War and Confusion: before we can possibly treat, we must reduce our selves to this Equality; for when a Superiour dictates, ’tis rather an Imposition than an Agreement. But (to suppose a Case which rarely happens) should we think soberly of our selves, and justly of our Neighbours; should our Anger not have those unequal Grounds of Vanity and Presumption; were We wholly blameless, and They the faulty Aggressours; yet neither in This Case can Anger ever reconcile it self to Reason. For whatever fine things some Philosophers may have said of it to the contrary, how it is a necessary Weapon to defend us from Injuries, and a useful Spur to many Vertues: ’tis a strange sort of Weapon which governs the Man who weilds it, and a very dangerous Spur which drives him down a Precipice. Whoever pretends to govern it by Reason, must either change its Nature, or lose his Aim; it must be subdued and broken, before it can be quiet. ’Tis the proper Character of Anger, not to listen to Reason; impetuous it is and turbulent in all its Motions, rash and violent in all its Resolutions, bitter and revengeful in all its Designs: let our Anger be abated to ever so low a degree, so long as it is Anger, ’twill be a Desire of Revenge, and a Passion that delights it self in the Prospect of the Ruine of the Offender: a Pleasure, that is as much below the Goodness of a Vertuous Man, as ’tis beneath his Wisdom, to give his Enemies the mischievous Pleasure, of thinking, they can offend him. They give us a very wrong notion of Justice, who make Anger its Assistant; and as ill a one of Courage, who derive the force of it from thence. No reasonable Man would desire to have his Cause come before a Judge that is in wrath; it may blind him indeed, and leave him the chance of doing Right, but can never make him discerning and impartial. There’s a coolness of Temper absolutely necessary to Justice, that may allow it the leisure of looking into both sides; and Courage too requires a sight of the Danger: ’Tis a mad Fury that transports a Man, when he rushes on, without Sight or Knowledge of the Danger he casts himself into; his Mind is hurried away in the Storm from all thoughts of his Defence, and he falls on 163

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his Enemy without Sense or Design; like a weighty Ruine, only to break himself, on him, to pieces. ’Tis a noble Generosity and Constancy of Mind, which affords the most substantial defence against Injuries, and gives the manliest Vigour to our Courage. Whoever is above the resentment of an Injury, has plac’d himself out of the reach of its force; and he that is unmov’d at the sight of his Danger, will never shrink in the Conflict with it. He that takes no notice of an Enemy, gives him the libetry of forgetting he is so. Opposition only and a dread of Revenge, keep up in him the memory of the Difference, and make it so very difficult for Him to Forgive an Injury, who has been so hardy as to Do one. In a word, the very first motions of Anger in their own Nature directly tend to the subverting our Reason: Give it ever so little head, it soon becomes irresistible; and, when once intire and absolute Master, can end in nothing but Rage and Madness. When aggressor, partial, and unjust; when defendant, blind, and insufficient; if noysie and clamourous, mean and false to its own ends; if sullen and malicious, full of Displeasure, and inwardly tormenting; if bitter and revengeful, adding weight to Injuries already receiv’d, and provoking yet more, to fill up the measure of its Punishment. There are some sorts of Anger indeed not so mean, or so extravagantly transporting, and less mischievous than others; but there is none which raises not a great Disturbance in the Mind, which does not drive out of it all sweetness and humanity, and rob a Man of the best part of himself: it may have some slight and transient risings indeed in the Breast of a wise Man, but it rests only in the Bosom of Fools. But still these are the Mischiefs of this violent temper only between Man and Man: They are much more extensive, if we consider him as a Member of Society. In That state, they never fall on a particular person, but at the same time they threaten and offend the whole Community. For this reason, all Laws how much soever they connive at and overlook the Excesses of some other Passions, have taken special Care to bridle this, as peculiarly tending to the destruction of Government it self: they have reserv’d the avenging of Injuries to the Magistrate alone, and not abandoned the Security of Men’s Persons and Interests, and all the Conveniences of Life, for the sake of which they enter’d into Society, to the Cruelty and Violence of furious Men, by leaving the Sword of Justice in their hands. The Revenge therefore which Anger suggests to a private Man, is an Outrage to the Laws, and a breach of all those sacred Bonds which unite Men in the several forms of Government; and where those Laws are vigorously executed, ‘twould be as great a Madness and Folly to attempt it, as to think to fight it out with a whole Nation: For the will of the whole centers in that of the Magistrate, His Judgment is the Judgment of the Community, and the Execution of it is attended with their Ʋnited Force. Neither is that Punishment, which Governours inflict for the breach of their Laws, in a strictly-moral sense to be called, a Revenge, though figuratively ’tis often even in Scripture stil’d so; for proper Revenge is a cruel brutish and malicious Motive, to reap our Satisfaction from the Pain and Vexation the Offender suffers: But Laws carry no Passion or ill Nature along with ’em; the Good and 164

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Quiet of the Community, is the whole aim of their Sanction, whether as they are a Rule to the Vertuous, or a Terrour to evil Doers. And if Anger in all its several Degrees and Dresses, whether of Malice or Clamour, Evil-speaking or Revenge, be at such mighty odds with Reason and Society; how much greater then must the Opposition be between That and Christianity, whose Doctrine is the most exalted Reason, and whose State the most perfect Society that Man is capable of ? If Reason forbids it, as contrary to our temporal Interest, and the procuring that Peace which is necessary to our Own Preservation, as the Laws of Society do, with relation to That of the Publick; Christianity adds a much stronger inforcement to the Prohibition, from the regard we owe to our Own, and our Neighbour’s Eternal Salvation, and to the Glory of God in both; which is the ultimate End of Ʋs, and of all our Faculties, and Actions. This last and fullest Revelation of the Will of God to the Sons of Men, as it gives them clearer Views of the Divine Perfections, and thence more distinct and suitable Conceptions of that Honour, and Worship which they justly challenge; so it heightens, and enlarges the Prospect of those Duties which concern our Conversation towards one another; proposes in them nobler Aims, imploys more convincing Motives, and more eminent Examples; assures more excellent Rewards, and more powerful Assistances to attain them, than any other Dispensation could discover, or afford. ’Tis too narrow a Consideration for a Christian, to keep down that Vanity and Presumption, which makes Men touchy and captious; by the Right that is in others to equal Pretensions. Not only the deep sense of his own Meanness and Misery makes him acknowledge before Almighty God, That he is nothing but Darkness in his Ʋnderstanding, Weakness and Inconstancy, if not Perverseness, in his Will; that his Life is a vapour that passeth away: and to cry out to him with the Prophet David, (as the LXX. translate it) My being is nothing before thee: but he is taught also to prefer others before himself. Let nothing, says St. Paul, Phil. 2.3. be done thro’ strife or vain-glory, but in lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than themselves. That Notion of Equality leaves room for insisting on its Rights; and our Hearts may be too partial in adjusting Our proportion: but to esteem each other better than our selves, is the sure way to avoid doing any thing through strife or vain-glory. Christian Charity always gives us a high Opinion of our Neighbour, as the Humility that attends it does a low one of our selves: and Provocation is as inconsistent with Esteem, as Resentment with a sense of our ill-deserving. The Humble Man knows that Weakness or Fault, he is despis’d or reproach’d for, is but one of those many he sees in himself; that God sees yet infinitely more than he does; and that there is no comparison to be made between what he is, and what he justly might be condemn’d for; even when he is injur’d without ground, the Case is still the same with him. He knows indeed, there’s a Mistake in the particular Foundation of that slight, which is thrown upon him; but the Errour is of too much Advantage to him, to move him to Anger: If he, who injures him now, saw the whole 165

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mass of his real Failings; what he suffers wrongfully, would be the least part of the Contempt he must expect to lie under. In a word, Charity suffereth long, and is kind; Charity envieth not, vaunteth not it self, is not puffed up, doth not behave it self unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil, beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Charity is so far from wronging others, that it teaches Forbearance; makes a Man patient, and not revengeful of Injuries: abases all foolish Elation of Mind, Ambition and Ostentation, Pride and Insolence, in overvaluing Our Selves, and despising Others; and permits not a Man to fall into immoderate violent Distempers of Anger, upon whatever Provocation. Charity behaves not it self unseemly, breaks not out into opprobrious Contumelies, and disgraceful ill Language. As Anger, under the Gospel, is interpreted Murther, so there is a Murther of the Tongue, as well as of the Heart or Hand; and both are brought under the breach of the Sixth Commandment, as our Saviour interprets the obligation of it. ’Tis certainly against reason to be transported beyond it, as it is against our Interest to provoke new Injuries by revenging old ones: ’twere more for our advantage to overcome an Enemy by a softer management, than to make him more implacably so, by the bitterness of our Opposition. But these are Motives shallow and temporal, that concern only This Life and the quiet of it: The Gospel considers us with relation to Eternity; looks on us as Members of a Society which is to have no end, and by that means join’d to Christ who is the head of it; as Heirs of the same Hopes and Promises, and united to one another by so many Relations resulting thence, as leave no room for our reflecting on those petty Circumstances wherein we differ, or being exasperated by those trifling short-liv’d Interests, wherein our Passions wou’d concern us, or which our unenlighten’d reason might provoke us to set a value on: all the provocation it allows us, is to love and to good works, and all the Victory it recommends to us, is to overcome evil with good. The desire of revenge is such a Sin as cannot ask to be Pardon’d, nor has our Lord’s own Prayer (though the fullest and most comprehensive) any Petition for forgiveness of our trespasses, but as we forgive them that trespass against us. Indeed the whole scope and aim of the Law of Christ, is to take away all Enmities and the Seeds of ’em out of the World; to reconcile Man to God, to himself, and to all Men: To God, by appeasing His Anger, with the blood of his Son; to Himself, by freeing him from the dominion of his turbulent and unruly Passions; and to Men, by inspiring him with that perfect Charity, which must needs tame and soften the most bitter Spirits. ’Twas easier for the Son of God to dy, then that the Anger of his Father shou’d be unaton’d; and his whole Life was one continu’d Example of Meekness and Patience, and forgiveness of Injuries: Who when he was revil’d, revil’d not again, when he suffer’d he threatn’d not, but committed himself to him that judgeth righteously. And all this he suffer’d for us, leaving us an Example that we shou’d follow his steps. He suffer’d all the contradictions of Sinners; and receiv’d, without disturbance, all the Affronts, and Reproaches, that the Malice, or Rashness, or Folly of Man cou’d throw upon him: and even at his Death put up to his Father such earnest Prayers for his Persecutors, as in a very 166

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small time after brought many thousands of ’em to a State of Salvation; according to that most Excellent Precept of his own. Matt. 5.44. Love your Enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use and persecute you. The Motive, which the Gospel employs even here in the Text, is such, as methinks, no Reason or Humanity is able to resist; Be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you. What can induce us to Forgiveness, if Forgiveness cannot? Are we higher than God, that we should be more implacably offended than He? Is the distance between us Fellow-Creatures comparable to that between GOD and the mightiest of Men, that the Indignity should make the Affront more unpardonable? Is our Brother more under our Power, than We are under that of the Almighty? Or are his Offences more numerous, or less capable of Reparation? Do we owe Ten thousand Talents to our Lord, and can we take our Fellow-Servant by the throat for a Hundred Pence? We must unavoidably own, as well as suffer, the Justice of his Sentence, if he deliver us over to the Tormentors till we pay the utmost farthing: for there’s no denying, but that we ought to have had compassion on our fellowservant, even as our Lord had pity upon us. St. Paul indeed had reason to press this Argument, as being most sensibly under the force of its Conviction. Of all those, whom, out of his great Mercy, God had called to the Knowledge of his Truth, no one was found in such provoking Circumstances: He was a profess’d and bitter Enemy to the Name of Jesus, many of the Saints did he shut up in prison, and when they were put to death, he gave his voice against them; punish’d them oft in every Synagougue, compelled them to blaspheme; and, being exceedingly mad against them, he persecuted them even unto strange Cities. He was taken even in the Fact, breathing out threatning and slaughter against the Disciples of the Lord. In the very height of his Rage against God and his Church, when he was going to Damascus, with Letters from the High Priest, impowering him to bring such as he found professing that Way bound to Jerusalem; God, by an astonishing Voice from Heaven, softens his Heart, pardons his Sins, and calls him to preach that Pardon to the Gentiles; himself being an amazing Instance of it, and a pressing Evidence of their Obligation to forgive one another. Nor could that Exhortation of his in the Process of his Mission have so much force out of any other Mouth. By the Rage he was transported with before his Conversion, we may perceive his natural Temper was none of the meekest; and after it, no Man, according to the Principles of Flesh and Blood, had more Reason to be provoked to Resentment than He had. No Man was more outragiously affronted, or more cruelly and unjustly persecuted; by his own Nation, by false Brethren, even by Them, whose Eternal Salvation he was spending himself to advance; in stripes above measure, in prisons frequent: so that if Advice can have any force from the Disinterestedness of it, surely this hath strength enough for our Conviction; for there is no Man, according to all humane Appearance, could have more Reason to preach the contrary Doctrine, had it been true; to give the reins to his 167

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Anger, in returning those Injuries, or to maintain the Lawfulness of doing so. In this Light his Exhortation needs no additionary Strength. Let me beg leave only, by way of Application, to bring it home to Our Selves. And in the Name of God then, let us consider, to what good end we can imploy these unruly Passions, We, who give our selves up so intitely to their boysterous Conduct, that there’s scarce any thing else we can be said to agree in? ’Tis observ’d by One, of some Note among our Enemies, who very well knew the measures that were taking for our destruction, and proposes the great facility of effecting it from the truth of his observation; That we hate one another, and are in continual division, either about Religion, or about the Government. Since it is Now our Happyness to have those two very great and concerning Interests united, which so long have driven different ways; we have a double tye upon us, to defeat the Hopes of our Adversaries, by laying aside our Animosities about Either, least they prove in the end the ruin of Both. For, as to Religion, there are no greater Enemies in the World to its Life and Force, than the bitter Contentions we have rais’d about it. We have quarrell’d so long and eagerly on the Subject, that the very substance of it is almost lost in the scuffle: and have started such Multitudes of Disputes and Controversies, as have left almost nothing clear or certain, especially to such as wou’d fain not have reason to Believe those Doctrines, which they wou’d fain have no reason to Obey. The fierceness and virulency wherewith these Disputes have been carried on, are no less the Scandal than a Breach of our common Christianity, nay even of Humanity it self. No Reproaches have been too scandalous or impertinent to the Question, no Revilings too severe and contemptuous, no Calumnies too false and spiteful, nor any Language or Arts too foul and unmanly to be imployed in these Religios Conflicts: as if the very Pretence to Religion were a Dispensation from all the Tyes of it; and an impudent Affectation of Concern for its Truths, were a sufficient Excuse for the Breach of its Duties. Even where the strictest Regard to Decency would be expected, where even good Manners to the Lookers on should make Men stanch and reserv’d in the Treatment of an Adversary, that has any Pretence to Learning or Vertue: In the Combats of the Pen, a bitter Malignity reigns without controul, fights the Devil’s Battels under the Banner of our Saviour; and, not content to poison the present Age, with an unexampl’d Barbarity, raises lasting Monuments of Scandal to those which are to come. This sort of Management may make sport enough to the Enemies of all Religion, but I know not how They can be thought any Friends to it, who afford ’em the very unseemly and ill-natur’d Diversion. There will always be different Thoughts of Religion, as long as there are different Apprehensions among Men; and whoever duly considers the great Difficulty of attaining that strength and firmness of Attention, that intire Liberty of the Mind, by which its Assent is suspended, till a clear and certain Evidence shall justly claim it; In a word, that Freedom from Passion, Prejudice, and Interest, which is necessary to ground a certain Conclusion in any thing that is disputed; will see more reason to pity, than be angry at the Errours of other Men: and where they are 168

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of consequence to any of the Fundamentals of the Gospel, in meekness to instruct those that oppose themselves, if God peradventure will give them repentance to the acknowledging the truth. Men are so naturally wedded to their own Opinions, that ’tis generally a shrewd Mortification, to shew them they are mistaken; and there are very few can take any pleasure in the Discovery: if we have a Love for Truth, or the Souls of Men, we ought to soften that Aversion which indisposes them to receive it, by all the artful Gentleness and Condescension, that it’s capable of being propos’d with. A Railer cannot convince, nor an angry Man perswade, neither will Men be jeer’d or hector’d out of their Errours and Mistakes. When we indiscreetly or furiously exasperate their Minds, we shut ’em against the Truth, and their Hearts against, our selves, and so destroy all Charity, which is the Life of Religion. Nor are our Civil Dissentions less scandalous and prejudicial to Government, than our Religious Bickerings to Piety and Vertue; or the means of carrying ’em on, less bitter and malicious. Some are not content to accept of Deliverance, but even quarrel and fall out with their Preservation; and even of those who would be thought to receive it with Acknowledgment enough, there are but too many who seem desirous to lessen the Number. Every Party among us would pretend to engross all the Merit of Obedience to it self, exclusive of all others; and the Disputes on this Head are not more common, than they are eager and provoking. ’Twere well the Pretence were as honest as it would seem, though surely ’tis not much, the wiser for being so confining. But ’tis rather to be fear’d, that particular Interest, and a mutual Oppression are the only real Aims at the bottom of such Distinctions; while the very Name of Party is industriously and very revengefully kept up among us, to the apparent Hazard of reducing us back again to all that Disorder and Confusion, from which we have been so wonderfully rescu’d. In the mean time, the Common Enemies of both our Religious and Civil Rights, are intent more than enough to widen our Differences, and watchful to find their Account in our Divisions. When the Enemy is at the Gate, ’tis time, one wou’d think, to be united; but we have never had the sense to do so, till he was enter’d the City. God grant that we may all know, and do in this our day, the things that belong to our Peace; to the Quiet and Security both of our Religion and Government: That we may be slow to anger, ready to forgive, overcoming evil with good, speaking evil of no man, and, by patient continuance in well-doing, seek for Glory, and Honour and Eternal Life, thro’ the Merits of Jesus Christ our Lord. To whom, with the Father and the Holy Ghost, be ascrib’d, as is most due, all Glory, Honour, Power, Might, Majesty, and Dominion, now and for ever. FINIS.

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Part 4 POLITICS AND LAW

Part 4 Politics and Law

The external and internal conflicts that plagued Europe during the ‘General Crisis’ of the seventeenth century did not prevent the evolution of increasingly sophisticated government and judicial bureaucracies. Emotions such as love, fear, hatred and disgust were crucial to defining who belonged within the emotional community that was the political community. At the same time, in the high-stakes game of European court politics, emotional ‘control’ or, alternatively, well-timed displays of emotions were crucial not just for favourites of kings who sought to stay in power but also to secure a positive posthumous reputation for those who failed to maintain their grip. In law courts, defendants wanting to secure the sympathy of judges or to mitigate their severity continued to deploy emotions.

23 PETITION F OR MERCY PRESENTED BY W I LLI AM U DA LL TO LORD CECI L ( 1 6 0 4 ) . P ET ITIONS IN THE S TATE PA P E RS, 1600–1699, E D. BRODI E WADDELL, WILLIAM UDALL. S P 14/7 F. 20 (1 6 0 4 ) British HistoryOnline, www.british-history. ac.uk/petitions/state-papers/1600s, accessed 20 November 2020.

William Udall appears to have been a government spy in England during the reigns of Elizabeth I and James I, informing his masters about Catholic recusants who were perceived to threaten the Protestant monarchy. In 1601, suspicions about Udall’s loyalty to the crown led to his imprisonment and he then made the mistake of accusing Lord Cecil (Robert Cecil, 1st Earl of Salisbury), the government’s spy master, of plotting against the crown. In this petition, seemingly addressed to Lord Cecil, Udall pleads for mercy and for his life. Deploying emotional language and appealing to the compassion of Cecil, Udall presents himself as a remorseful penitent ‘despayring and out of all hope’. Ultimately, Cecil was willing to pardon Udall and continued to use him as an informer. … My most and ever honourable lord words are but al cyphers to make shewe of the minde being no way being no wayes able to expresse the true conceyts of the same. In true consideration howe I am greved at those wrongs and offences which I have done unto yow I rather feale in the bitter anguishes of my soull then am any wayes able to utter in [circumstance?] of speaches. When I do consider the offence I have made, I remayne despayring and out of all hope finding that to true in me which Cayne untruly spake to the almightye major est iniquitas mea quam ut possit remitti1: what I have done I knowe. What yow may do I may deservedly feare. 175

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But whereas Cayns despe ration was cause of his damnation who yf he had sought might have found mercy where it did abound I in my offences correct Cayns wilfull errors and rather in most submissive manner make my dependance in hope uppon your most honourable disposition then in the grevousnes of my offence to despayre of the nobilitye and bownty of so honourable a person as my fault done to yow is greate so my shame and sorrowe for the same is far greater let my grey heares, not for age but for greffe contestate. To use reasons to move yow to pardon my offences were to make doubt of your assured wysdome and most honourable compassion. I knowe full well that as Tully sayeth to Cesar nihil [prout?] accidere fortunus tuus [ma . . .?] [quam?] ut possis, naturus tuus metius, [quam?] ut velis injurias remittere, prostratis et vemam demisissime orantibus parcere.2 Only this, I will and may alleage yf your honour shall please to deigne me pardon and by your favor to obtayne libertye I shal be able to discover and deliver those who set me in hand with so malitious a worke as an accessary I must ever submitt my self to your honourable pardon but as I am, it remayneth in your honourable dispose to make and take me for principall whylest I am in prison yf I should do as I have done, committ the execution of some matters to trust I should hasard the service and finde that dissimulation in vowes and protestations which I have done experience makes me fearefull to committ that to others which so deeply concerneth your honour, and my self so nearely I have bin ashamed to acknowleg howe hearetofore I have bin dearened in trust when your honour hath had cause to suspect indirect promises I have rather excused matters by circumstances then I wold confesse my simplicitye to be betrayed in trust but nowe right honourable as confession and submission bredeth and beginneth a newnes of lyfe so wold I uppon newe foundations begine a better building I prostrate my self in all humilytye and entire devotion to your honourable consideration protesting that yf yow reserve me in prison for further punishment I have deserved it but yf in the nobilitye of your nature and worthiest disposition yow shall disdayn to take revenge uppon a yelding praye but shall rather comiserate my longe endured misery and unspekable afflictions and shall vowchsafe (far beyonde my desert, and expestation vowchsafe my libertye, as no man under the coope of heaven can be more bound unto yow so no man this day living shall more faythfully and zelously endevour himself towards your honour then pore Udall to make satisfaction for his offences. Thus right honourable wholy committing my self to your most honourable consideration in all submissive manner I take leave from Newgate this fyfth of Aprile. Your honours most humbly and more truly devoted then ever. William Udall

Notes 1 Genesis 4:13. ‘Dixitque Cain ad Dominum: Major est iniquitas mea, quam ut veniam merear’ (And Cain said unto the Lord, My punishment is greater than I can bear) 2 This would appear to be a very garbled Latin quotation from the Roman orator Cicero’s work Pro Ligario. See www.loebclassics.com/view/marcus_tullius_cicero-pro_ligario/1931/

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pb_LCL252.493.xml, accessed 20/10/2020. ‘nihil habet nec fortuna tua maius quam ut possis, nec natura melius quam ut velis servare quam plurimos’ (For in nothing do men more nearly approach divinity than in doing good to their fellow-men; your situation has nothing prouder in it than the power, your character nothing in it more noble than the wish, to preserve all whom you can).

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24 EUS TACHE DU REFUGE (1564–1617), A T REATI S E OF THE C OURT OR INST RUC TI ONS FOR C OURT IERS DIGES TED I NTO TWO BOO KS Trans. John Reynolds (London: Will: Lee, 1622), chapters 13, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 and 23

Eustache de Refuge was a French nobleman, courtier and crown official who was entrusted with numerous administrative positions in France at the end of the sixteenth century and start of the seventeenth century that gave him an in-depth knowledge of the workings of the French royal government and royal court. His work Traicté de la cour, ou instruction des courtisans (Treatise on the Court, or Instruction of Courtiers) was printed in 1616 and follows in the tradition of courtly literature established in the previous century by Machiavelli and Castiglione. Eustache du Refuge sought to provide advice to aspiring courtiers and, as the following chapters indicate, an acquaintance with the nature and effects of the ‘passions’ was a crucial part of this education. … Chapter XIII 1

Of Preocupation according to our Passions, and his effect according to loue and hatred. 2 Ioy. 3 Sorrow. 4 Feare and Choler. 1

As for the preocupation of Passions, it is but too often that they inueagle, and sometimes absolutly blinde our Vnderstandings; as loue that addes beautie to the obiect wee affect; which is neither seene nor knowne to those that are not blinded with this passion; so hatred and Enuy suggest deformitie, and extraordinary horror in the obiect, it hateth. 178

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2 Ioy so much affects the obiect of that which inflames it, as shee cannot be silent, and sometimes becomes so vaine and talkatiue, that it apparantly discouers our Understanding is out of her proper throne or seate, and so make it selfe ridiculous. 3 Contrariwise, sorrow is dumbe and silent, and as it were forsaken and deiected; yea, it so enfeebleth our Wit and Iudgement, as from thence comes the Prouerbe, That from slaues, and miserable people, God hath taken away the one halfe of their Understanding. 4 As for the alterations, that Feare, Choller and other passions ingender in our Vnderstanding, euery man not only discernes, but feeles them in himselfe. Whereof purposing hereafter to entreat, I will at present content my selfe with that which I haue already written to shew the obstacles and hinderances they giue to the functions of Vnderstanding, although very capaple in other matters, as also the differences and alterations they produce not only in our Wils, (as wee will hereafter shew) but also in our Wits and Vnderstandings. Chapter XVI 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Of the order of Passions as they engender one another. The causes of Passions. Of those Passions which haue Goodnesse for their obiect. Of the loue of conformitie, and all that is considerable therein. Of friendship for our owne particular interest. Of the effect of friendship. The causes of Desire, and from whence it is engendred. The causes of Hope. How Experience fortifies Hope. The force and Power of Hope.

1 The order of Passions as they produce, and engender one the other, is thus: Loue, Desire, Hope, Boldnesse, Ioy; and contrariwise, Hatred, flight to Horrour, Feare, Choler, Dispaire, and Sorrow. So Ioy and Sorrow, are the Passions wherein the others end and terminate. Hope, Feare, Choler, and Dispaire, are those wherein reside the most violent motions of the Will, assaulted and shaken, either by loue and desire of Good; or by hatred and horrour of Euill. I will purposely omit to speak of other Passions, because they obserue no order among themselues; but as the one or other of these entermixe and conioine among themselues, so accordingly they either march before, or follow after. 2 Let vs come to the most vsuall causes whereby these Passions may be stirred vp, and we will begin with those who haue Goodnesse for their obiect. 3 Loue, Desire, and Ioy, haue this Good for their common obiect; but hec that loues considereth it particularly, as an obiect that may bee vnited to himselfe. 179

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But a Vnion being not able to proceed, except in the like things, or though, not in all points, at least in some one which is very considerable: as, the similitude or resemblance is of two sorts, so this affection proposeth it selfe now to the one, anon to the other: according to the accedents and euents of matters. For that wherein two persons conioyne and meete, is either actually or effectually in these two persons; as, the like humours & conformitie of Wils, from whence comes true friendship: or else it is in effect, either in the one or other, through Desire, or Inclination; and from thence, likewise is ingendered Loue, or Amitie, for our owne interest, whose principall foundation, is the loue of himselfe: whereon almost all the friendships of the World (yea, those likewise of the Court) are grounded and built. This sort of Amitie or Friendship hath relation to Kinsfolkes, Alliances, Familiarities, Conuersation, Conformities of Manners, Wils, and Professions: if it fall not out that this last bee thwarted by Enuie, or Emulation, which is vsually found in men of the same profession and facultie. The like wee may allcadge of the Friendship of those to whom both Good and Euill is common; or of those who are of the same age or Countrie, to those who are not: (in a word) of all those who resemble in any considerable point, which seperates and distinguisheth them from many others, by reason of this conformitie, resemblance, agreeablenesse, obedience, and all that may tend and serue to erect and build vp this frame of friendship. The other sort of Frindship, hauing for foundation, the loue of our selues; wee cannot stir vp this Affection in the Vnderstanding of any one, vnlesse it be in consideration of his owne priuate and particular interest. With this affection the poore man loues the rich, thereby to inrich himselfe: and the rich the poore, thereby to draw either seruice or honour from him: so in the same sort, we likewise loue those, who either haue or may doe vs a good office: or those also who we cherish or esteeme. Sith then our owne interest is the chiefest cause of this friendship; we must seeke that which hath most power and interest towards the person in whom we would stirre vp this affection: as, to a Couetous man, Profit; to one that is Ambitious, Honour; to a yong man, Uoluptuousnesse and Pleasure; euery one measuring his interest according to his necessity, and his necessitie according to his desire. Which being found out, it will be easie for vs to stirre vp Desire and Ioy: for Desire is deriued from two principall causes; the first, from the knowledge of Good, in the obiect that is proposd vs, which (by way of Retribution) Loue giues vs according as it hath receiued it: and the other from the absence or want of this Good. Neuerthelesse, this will not suffice to stir vp a great motion in some, if they iudge not the obtaining of their desires possible; so that wee must anexe and adde the meanes whereby hope may bee enkindled; which meanes, are of diuers sorts.

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8 For all that can make a man powerfull, as Riches Strength, Authoritie, Reputation, Friends, Kinsfolkes, and the like: or that can steed vs in our designs, may put vs in hope to obtaine our desire, at least, if we know these aduantages to be in vs. 9 Likewise, Experience in that we vndertake, may fortifie our Hope: first, because hauing done, or seene a thing done, we are still more apt and fitter to doe it, then if we had neuer seene it done: secondly, because it makes vs beleeue and assure our selues, it is possible to be performed. From whence it followes, that the Example of the like thing which another hath performed and finished, will serue to reuiue and encourage our owne hope, that we may obtaine what we desire. 10 This Motion is that which helps vs in al our affaires; and saith Lucian, Hope and Feare, are the two Tirants, that is to say, the strongest and most violent motions that rouze and stir vs vp: for conceiuing a matter to be difficult, stirs vp our intention, and the opinion we haue, that it is easie; makes vs not greatly care to see an end thereof. 11 Moreouer, Hope makes the future time seeme as it were present in our Imagination: it ingendereth Ioy in our Vnderstanding, which in this cause is more free and clcere sighted, to deuise and inuent many means how to obtaine our desires, then if we were afflicted either with Sorrow or Anger. For Hope hauing already iudg’d the means possible for vs to obtain our desire; it breeds in vs a confidence to passe on and a resolution to march towards boldnesse. Chapter XVII 1 & 2 The causes of Considence, and how considered. 3 & 4 Her Motion. 5 & 6 From whence it proceeds. 7 The causes of Boldnesse brought forth by two meanes. 8 & 9 The causes of Ioy and how it is conceiu’d and form’d in vs. 10 Of presupposed enioyance, or imaginary presence. 11 Which is the greatest Ioy. 12 How Euill, is still present with vs. 1. 2. For if Confidence should stop, and make a stand at the bare tearmes of assurance, it were rather rest then motion: but we must consider it as a passage from Hope to Boldnesse: and this is it that makes vs iudge the meanes easie to surmount all hinderances and oppositions, to the end we may obtaine our desires. 3 This Motion is chiefly engendered in vs, when we imagine that those things that may warrant and secure vs, are neere, or in our power, and that those which may endommage or offend vs, are far remote from vs, either in respect of place, time, occasiō, or will.

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4 And according to the nature of the matter: for this last wee must ground our selues on the consideration either of our power, or of the innocencie and equitie of our behauiour, or of the sufficiency and inclination of those, whose power we haue reason to feare: if they are honest, respectfull, modest, or friends: if they hope for some benefit from vs; or else, if they feare vs. 5 Confidence comes also, when those things we would doe, are profitable, either to many, or to personages of greater ranke and qualitie, then are those whom they may offend. 6 To haue no proofe of misfortune, and not to know it, may likewise make vs secure and confident. The small repute and esteeme that our Inferiours make of this euill: the hope they haue of assistance from Heauen, and other mens perswasions and requests, may likewise assist and serue to this effect. 7 Confidence being thus form’d and fashioned; we must proceed to giue the last shaking and assault to our Will, that is very boldly to attempt & enterprise what we desire, & this is produced by two means; that is, by those things which may stir vp Hope in vs, as our strength, experience, power, assistance of friends, and other aduantages, (whereof we haue heretofore spoken) and by those things which may banish and exclude feare; which consist, either in the remotenesse of that which may offend vs, or in the hinderance or remedie that may be giuen or applied hereunto. 8 And being by these motions led & conducted to the obtaining of desired Good: Ioy is instantly ingendered in vs, which is not so much a motion, as the end of a motion, hauing regard to the execution, or beginning of a motion, if wee respect the intention thereof. 9 Which to frame and fashion, two things are necessary; the knowledge how to obtaine and purchase a Good, and the enioying thereof: the first, because many possesse those things that are good, whereof being ignorant, they reioice not in enioying the same. 10 As for the enioying thereof, it presupposeth either real, or imaginary presence, such as Desire, Hope and Remembrance, presenteth vnto vs: for albeit Desire, or Hope, haue reference to the future, and Memory to the past: Neuerthelesse, Imagination makes those things seeme present that are absent; from whence it followes, that Ioy, and Sorrow, alwaies accompany Desire, and Hope. 11 And although of all degrees of Ioy, that which a Good really present, produceth in vs, seemes to be the greatest, as being best grounded; Neuerthelesse, through the disesteeme or carelessenesse, which the often taste of a Good giues vs: and contrariwise, representing those things we enioy not, greater in Imagination, then in effect: it comes to passe, that that Ioy which produceth Desire, and Hope, is alwaies the greatest, especially in Hope, which not only compriseth and anticipateth a Good, through apprehension, but also through the possibilitie to obtaine it. 12 As much, wee may likewise say of Euill, that is present with vs, not only when it befals vs, but also when we anticipate it through feare, or being past, that we recall to our remembrance, from whence proceeds Sorrow and Anger. 182

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So then, insteed of Good or Euill really present we may stirre vp and engender these Passions by their Imaginary presence, not only with as much power, but sometimes with more effect. Chapter XVIII 1 Of those who are subiect to the Passions occasioned through the object of Good. 2 The Motions and Passions of the Will, that haue euill for their obiect. 3, 4, 5, 6 & 7 Why wee are more sensible of Euill then of Good. 8 The causes of Hatred, and what it engendereth. 9 As Feare. 10 The things that affright and feare vs. 11 Of those we haue offended, and which of them we must most feare. 12 Of that which we must most feare. 1 Now to know those who are most dispos’d, and aptest to receiue these impressions, although the knowledge of those obiects, that are most pleasing and agreeable to them, may sufficiently teach and informe vs: we must neuerthelesse know that those Natures who are modest, affable, curteous, humble, no ill speakers, or quarellers, are most commonly capable of these Passions; as also, those who loue pleasures, plaies, or pastimes; or to be honoured, respected, or curteously intreated; those also, who are pitifull, charitable, or officious; or who loue not solitarie companies, or that of head-strong, or peruerse people; of desemblers, cousoners, irreconcilable, vndictiue, or presumptuous persons: and yet those who are vaine, in any of these Natures, so they are not tainted with Presumption, by honoring & respecting thē, they will be soon drawn to loue. But particularly, for Hope, Confidence, and Boldnesse, those will be more easily won, who are most couragious, sierce, and actiue: as also those who conceiue and flatter themselues with a good opinion of their own sufficiency, credit, authoritie, strength, meanes, and experience; and likewise, who haue beene still fortunate in their enterprises, will be easily perswaded to it, either because of their facultie, or in respect of their ignorance, and want of experience. And so likewise will yong people, fooles, and those who we tearme hairebraind, in respect of the inconsideration and precipitation that attend and accompany these humors; as also, those who ouer-heat themselues with Wine; the violence of which heat, and the fumes of their spirits and brains, make them as the rest, inconsiderate, and rash: let this suffice for the passions of those whose obiect is Good 2 If by the knowledge of one contrary, it be easie to discry and discerne another: it will then be casie for vs, who know the causes of Loue, Desire, Hope, Confidence, Boldnesse, and Ioy, to finde out likewise those of Hatred, Horror, Feare, Distrust, Dispaire, and Sorrow; it being certaine, that as conformitie, and simpathie of humours, or the consideration of profit, combine and lincke 183

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men together in friendship; so contrarietie of humours; and the consideration of domage, breedes likewise hatred and enmitie betwixt them. Neuerthelesse, there is herein this difference, that those passions whose obiect is Euill, are more powerfull then those whose obiect is Good, not that the motion is stronger, but because Euill being contrary to our Nature, it makes it selfe to be more sensibly felt then the obiect of Goodnesse, which is neere like, and conformable thereunto: the reason of Antipathie being desirous that two contraries striue and contend, whereby they may the more sensibly feele each others oppositions. That which resembleth, is more difficult to discerne in our Understanding then that which is contrary: white vpon white is more difficult to discerne, then blacke vpon white; right so, Good is more difficult to distinguish from Good, then from Euill. In the confusion of many things, those which most resemble, are least knowne the one from the other, but in the commixture of diuers things, either contrary in qualitie or substance, they are instantly distinguished and found out. Wherefore Goodnesse vniting it selfe to our Nature, we esteeme not of it, thinking we haue no more then we ought haue, but if Euill be fall vs, because our Nature is contrarie to it, there remaines still a reluctation, and repining, which is nothing else, then a sensible feeling of Euill. From whence it comes to passe, that we easily forget any good office done vs, but difficultly an ill one. But as from the knowledge of Euill is engendered the hatred wee beare it; so from Hatred comes horrour, which cannot be imagined to bee without the company of Feare no more then can Desire without Hope, although they apprehend the obiect diuersly; wherefore the causes of feare, teacheth vs the causes of flight, or horrour of euill, wherof these are the most vsuall and ordinarie. All things that can hurt or anoy vs, make vs feare them; yea, the very signes and resemblances thereof afflict and distast vs, as that of Death, of a tempest, and other things likewise affright and terrifie vs, because the signe thereof demonstrates that the thing it selfe is not farre from vs. But of all things that terrifie vs, the chiefest and greatest, is the hatred and malice of those who haue any power ouer vs, as those who are powerfull in Ualour, audacitie, wealth, friends, attendants, and to say truth, in authoritie, and reputation; because Will ioyn’d with Power to doe Euill, makes vs beleeue, the Euill it selfe is very neere vs: so Iniuslice seconded and fortisied by authoritie is likewise to be feared for the same reason; as also valour being outraged and offended, conioyn’d with power, makes it fearefull and formidable: for an iniutie receiued drawes on the Will to reuenge, and force and power giues him meanes to effect it: likewise, the feare and distruct of great men, is to be redoubted and feared: for they by all meanes, and waies, desire to warrant and secure themselues. But of those we haue offended, or who distrust vs, or are either iealous or enuious of our Good, those are most to be doubted and feared, who spin the web 184

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of their malice secretly and silently; saying nothing, but only desembling their iniuries and designes: because we shall not discouer when they are on the point to reuenge or preiudice vs. 12 We must also feare, to haue our Liues, Goods, Honours, yea, or our Persons in the power, and discretion of another; from whence it comes, that those who know any Euill by vs, are much to be feared; because of the apprehension we still must haue in being discouered of them, either through Enuie, hatred, ialousie, imbecilitie, future hope, or present profit. Chapter XIX 1 The disposition in the motions and Passions whose obiect is Euill. 2 & 3 What they are who feare no hurt can befall them. 4 A remedy not to feare it. 5 Of those who are much giuen to Feare. 6 & 7 The vse of Feare Considered in two sorts. 1 2

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Aa for the disposition requisite to receiue those Passions, wee may easily iudge those who are dispos’d and addicted to hatred, because we haue already spoken of those who are disposed to loue. But in respect of Feare, it is certaine that those who beleeue no hurt or domage can befall them, are not easily shaken or daunted at this Passion: for Feare cannot be without the Imagination and Expectation of Euill: wherefore, those who haue alwaies beene happie in their actions, and who are powerfull in wealth, friends, reputation, strength, and authoritie; thinking that all should answer their expectations; yea, and stoope to their greatnesse, doe sildome or neuer feare what may befall them. Those likewise who haue lost all hope of Good, and who haue beene still oppressed with afflictions, and crosses, and as it were inured and accustomed to Euill, they no longer feare it. Seneca saith, that Not to hope, is a remedy not to feare: for it must needs be, that in those who feare, there is still remaining some sparke or hope of Good: for which they suffer this affliction and anxitie. From whence it comes, that those who feare, are alwaies ready and willing to heare and receiue counsell: but we vse not to consult, if we haue once lost all hope of what we desire. Of all which formerly spoken, wee may conclude, that those who are subiect to Feare, and thinke they may receiue some Euill; and knowing likewise their owne weaknesse to resist it: as the greatest part of olde men, and the poorer sort of people, who are destitute of all helpe, friends, and meanes; or of those of inferiour condition, and of small reputation, and authoritie; who are despised, hated, enuyed, or suspected, of Uice; or for being heeretofore too valiant, or to haue had too much Credit with the vulgar people: and this onely suspition and distrust hath procured the vtter ruine and downefall of many great personages. 185

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6 The vse of this motion is frequent and common, and may serue vs to draw two profitable vses thereof: the one to make vs lose all Hope of that we desire; and herein we must aggrauate and augment the Euill, and the hinderances that may arise in the successe of that we desire, without discouering the remedy and expedients, that may facilitate and make easie the purchase and enioying thereof. 7 The other is to incite and stir vp our prouidence and fore-sight; and herein it is necessary we obserue a Medium in our feare, and that against the difficulties that may ariue or arise, wee come arm’d with some meanes and deuices, to surmount and ouercome them; wherein Feare in this kinde performes more then Hope: because Hope pre upposeth that this Good may be obtain’d, and Feare beleeues that this Euill will be very hardly auoided: wherefore her in as regarding that which is most difficult, our Wit and Vnderstanding is more bent then in the other. 8 Dissidence followes Feare, and knowing her selfe Incapable to anoide the Euill or enioy the good wee desire (the depriuation of Good being taken by our Will for an Euill) it conuerts it selfe into Dispaire, and this Dispaire into Sorrow, and Anger; which is more or lesse in vs: according to the iudgement our Vnderstanding makes of the importance of the obiect, and this Passion breedes diuers effects in vs. 9 For sometimes shee is the ende of motion, staying at the consideration of Euill, as ioy is the rest and repose of Good: and sometimes it reuiues and stirres vp in vs many other motions, whereof the chiefe and most vsuall, are Choter, Shame, Compassion. Enuie, Iealousie Indignation, and Emulation, which are deriued, partly from Anger, and partly from the affluence of diuers considerations that are obserued in one and the same obiect. Chapter XX 1 Of Choler, and the Passions that concurre therein. 2 Of contrarie obiects in Choler. 3 The causes of Choler. 4 & 5 That Disdaine and Iniurie are the chiefest. 6 Of those who are soonest subiect to Choler. 7 The Passions that dispose vs to Choler. 8 Shame followes Choler, and how it is stirred vp in vs. 9 & 10 The causes of shame. 11 Disposition to Shame. 1 Choler is fram’d, & form’d, in vs by the concurrence and affluence of many Passions: for beginning with Anger, and Sorrow, of a receiued iniury, it is accompanied with Hatred, against him that hath offended vs, as also a desire to be reuenged of him: the which is conioin’d with a certaine hope to effect it, because Desire, and Hope are things possible and feasable, although they

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beare in them a shew of difficultie: for if wee esteeme reuenge impossible, this motion would then reside and dwell, in the tearmes of hatred and sorrow. But Hope presenting Reuenge to our Immagination, wee are instantly possessed with Pleasure, and Content, which Choler findes out to free our selues of Sorrow, as being the only remedie to make vs ioyfull. Euery one still delighting to thinke on that he desireth. Or had we perpetrated our Reuenge, our pleasure and content were then both perfected, & accomplished, because it banisheth all Sorrow, & appeaseth the motion of Choler. So this Passion hath two cōtrary obiects (to wit) Reuenge, and him of whom we would be reuenged. Reuenge is considered, as being Good and desired, and held for such: from whence it followes, that it being performed, wee reioyce, and him of whom wee would bee reuenged, is considered as an Euill, very odious and distastfull to vs. As for the causes of Choler, they are vsually two: the one, the small esteeme made of vs, whether it be through Iniury, Disgrace, or any other degree of Disdaine: the other the hindrance and opposition giuen vs, to doe or obtaine that which wee desire: which others comprehend vnder the name of Contempt, as also, to reioyce at our misfortune, to forget vs, or the like. Iniury is measured according to the oppinion we conceiue and retaine of the Iniustice of contempt and disdaine, so if wee esteeme the Iniustice great; Iniury then will the more prouoke and exasperate vs: So Disdaine, or domage, offered a great man, to whom is due more respect; being more iniust the more stirres him vp to Choler, and Indignation; and also to an honest man, the wrong and Euill that is done him. By this reason we are more chollerike to be disprais’d for that wherein we thinke to excell, then in that it excell not, as still esteeming this degree of disdaine more iniust. From whence it comes, that those who are vaine-glorious, proud, and presumptuous; and briefly, all those who conceiue good opinions of themselues for any imaginary aduantage or perfection in them, doe more easily and quickly grow Cholericke; the iniury being so much the greater in their Imagination, in that they conceiue and hold a better opinion of themselues then they deserue. True it is, we omit not sometimes to be angry to see our selues dispis’d for defects in vs: but it is because the defects themselues ingender in vs weakenesse of Capacitie and So row, whereof the last conducts, and preuokes vs to Choler: from whence it followes, we easily wax cholerick, against those who bring vs bad newes, and that makes vs more apt and vehement to commit iniuries; and hence it comes to passe that a very small matter makes children, women, old, and sicke folkes, Cholericke, as also those that are possest with Loue, Suspition, or Feare, as not hauing the courage to resist this motion; and this Passion continues longer in those Understandings, that are rude and barbarous, then in those that are more polished and ciuilis’d.

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8 Shame is a degree of Feare that depends of Honour: but sometimes Anger, and then Choler steps within it; it hath its birth in vs by actuall presence, or by supposition of shamefull, dishonest, or vndecent actions, as well past, present, as to come, whether they proceede from our selues, or from those who touch vs in affinitie, or those that for some other respect and reason we affect and loue. 9 But flatterie and praises of vs, spoken in our owne presence, before whom, then, and where they ought not haue beene reported, may also make vs blush, and stirre vp in us this affection: likewise, the reproach of a good turne, or office done vs: to be reproued of a fault, to confesse it and craue pardon, not to participate of those things that are common to our inferiours and equals: to serue in any base or seruile manner, and to be fallen from a greater fortune, makes vs likewise ashamed in presence of those who haue seene vs enioy the same. Shame for the most proceeding from the presence of those before whom wee present our selues, as also, before those whom wee respect and admire, or those with whom wee are conioyn’d in Office, or Dignitie; who obserue our actions, and are accustomed to slaunder, and backbite vs: but to those who cannot reproue our actions, as children; or toward those who will not as friends, or dare not, as our Seruants, we are not vsually moned or stirred vp in this manner. 10. We are also shame fac’d before those to whom wee are oblig’d and beholding, without hauing had the meanes to requite it: for then their presence doth as it were reproue, and check, our Ingratitude. 11 Of all which aboue spoken: we conclude that those who are iealous of their Honours, and desire to liue in a good reputation, as also those who haue receiued any iniurie or disgrace, or that are in any contemptible estate, are very subiect to entertaine, and incident to retaine this motion: the which neuerthelesse, as all others changeth and assumes other formes, according to time, place, persons, and other conditions and circumstances, that concuire and meet in humane actions. Chapter XXIII 1 The vse of the knowledge of Passions, and the meanes to moderate them both in our selues and others. 2 The benefit by moderating Passions in our selues, liuing in Court. 3 That they are moderated by faire meanes, and by the power of Courage. 4 By naturall Pleasantnesse. 5 Or by that which we Procure or Purchase. 6 By our Breeding. 7 By Experience. 8 By discoursing of Reason, and how farre it extends. 9 Diuers Considerations hereon. 1

Come we to the meanes to moderate them; wherein I am of opinion, that we must begin by our selues: for to imagin that we shal haue more predominance 188

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ouer other mens wils then our owne, is very vnlikely and contrary to sence and reason. 2 But if we can once command our selues, then there is no doubt, but we are capable to gouern the World, & to become masters of other mens affections, because this moderatiō giues vs leisure to espie out the place, time, occasions, and other necessarie aduantages, to compasse our designes: yea, wee must fawne, bow, and easily deferre, according to occasion, alwaies walking as it were with the bridle in our hand, and if we faile of our purpose, we must not notwithstanding lose courage, and so despaire; but if we finde the doore shut one way, wee must without torment, or affliction, seeke out and open another passage. Briefly, wee shall secure our selues from those sharpe and passionate Motions, which disturbe and hinder the conduction and progression of affaires: yea, that fetter and stop vs, and often times make vs lame: and produce in ourselues precipitation, obstinacy, indiscretion, bitternesse, suspition, and impatiency. 3 But these motions whether in our selues or others, are moderated, either through the agreeablenesse of our conuersation and manners, by force of courage, prouidence or by dehortation. The agreeableuesse of our manners, and force of courage, although they are different in themselues, yet in this respect, they oftentimes produce the same effects; and both the one, and the other, is either naturally, or artificially obtained. 4 As for the naturall, it is most certaine, that we shall sinde some Wils and Inclinations, that are naturally more stayed and moderate one then another; and others againe more lifted vp and eleuated aboue the obiects of that may prouoke and stirre vp those Motions, which is the reason they are not so often remoued and shaken, nor with so much violence or impetuositie. I mean not here stupiditie, insensiblenesse, or Ignorance, which take from vs the feeling of Good, as they doe of Euill: for to be of this humour & inclination, were to participate more of a Beast then a Man: neuerthelesse, because we may preuaile according to the occasions of these sorts of Natures, wee must likewise be acquainted with those who are subiect to these defects of Wisedome and Iudgement; for, in the Court, as well as in a priuate Family, euery one is necessary, and hath his proper vse. But this agreeablenesse of manners, and force of Courage, arising from certaine Complexions; and among others, from the Sanguine, which is farthest distant from excesse, as being betwixt the Fleame that engendereth Stupiditie, and the Gall that produceth Choler: to beare our selues vpright in this cause, we must auoid to fall into the two distempratures of the blood; which are the yellow Gall, and Melancholly: which engender in vs many extraordinary motions: and wee must temper Fleame, for feare least through its coldnesse, it benumme and stupifie our Vnderstanding. Neuerthelesse, I referre it to Phisitions to prescribe that rule of Dyet, that may be sit; not only because I will not vsurpe on their Profession; but likewise, 189

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5 6

7 8 9

because of the difficultie that we sinde to practise that which others haue prescribed and written; as also, for the small benefit and good we can reape, and receiue thereby. As for the meanes to obtaine this agreeablenesse in our manners, and force of courage there are three chiefe and principal, Education, Experience, and Discourse of Reason. To be bred and brought vp among those that are either moderate or resolute, wee vsually follow their steps, and inherit, and participate of their inclinations for frequenting them often, their conuersation destils in vs the same opinions, and manners. Likewise the experience or knowledge of diuers accidents that haue befalne vs, or those of our acquaintance, make vs behaue and beare our selues, either moderatly as they haue formerly done in the like occurrences. But the discourse of Reason, goes further, and embraceth all sorts of considerations, whereof we will here produce the chiefest that may pertinently serue for this matter and purpose. The first is that of the true estimation of things; yea, of those things themselues that may be apprehended of vs, either as Good or Euill. And hereunto all Philosophie aimes, and endeuours to fortifie vs against many thinges, that may either dasell our sences, or astonish vs: but hitherto it hath preuail’d and gain’d but little among Common people, and lesse of Courtiers who spurn at these rules; whereof as I will aduise none to make vse thereof against any one whom he knowes incapable: for feare least he become either importunate or rediculous; so I willingly counsell euery one in his owne particular, that he seeke and procure this moderation (which is the most requisite perfection in a Courtier) and hauing found it to make vse thereof, and neuer to neglect it.

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25 FERNANDO M AN OJ O DE L A CORTE, NEWE S FROM SPA INE A REL ATION OF THE D EAT H OF DON RODRI GO C A LD ERON, MARQUES OF S EVEN C HURCHES, &C. FAI THFULLY TR A NSL ATED ACCORDI NG TO T HE SPANISH COPY (Madrid: widow of Fernando Correa de Montenegro, 1622)

In the first half of the seventeenth century, Spain was the most powerful Europe state. Its kings, however, lacked the charisma and will to exercise personal rule and fell under the influence of powerful and ambitious favourites. King Philip III of Spain (1598–1621) allowed his favourite the Duke of Lerma to rule Spain and its empire on his behalf. One of Lerma’s chief creatures and henchmen was Rodrigo Calderón, Count of Oliva and Marquis of Siete Iglesias (i.e. Seven Churches). When Lerma fell from power in 1621 a change of regime took place and the hated Rodrigo Calderón was arrested and became a scapegoat in order to save the life of Lerma. He was accused of murder and witchcraft, tortured, found guilty and beheaded in the plaza mayor (main square) of Madrid on 21 October 1621. Despite his unpopularity, his exemplary conduct on the scaffold elicited both sympathy and grudging admiration. Exhibiting joy and happiness in the face of death and certain that his genuine repentance as a sinner would earn him the mercy of God, he allegedly gained the emotional sympathy of the crowd that had come to see him die. Even today, those who exhibit inordinate pride in Spain are accused of “having more pride than Don Rodrigo on the gallows” (Tener más orgullo que Don Rodrigo en la horca). News of his sensational death and deportment prior to it circulated across Spain and the rest of Europe in pamphlets. The following is a contemporary English translation of Fernando Manojo de la Corte’s 1621 Relacion de la muerte de D. Rodrigo Calderon, Marques que fue de Sieteyglesias. 191

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…

A Relation of the death of Don Rodrigo Calderon, Marques of seuen Churches, &c. I stand in doubt to write what will seeme strange to many, and my Relation be taxed as too short, by those which saw it acted, and by others, which saw it not, too affectionate: but the synceritie of my intent is grounded on the meane, taken from a particular Confession which discouereth the greatnesse of the Action, and rarenesse of the Case. Don Rodrigo Calderon, late Marques of seuen Churches, Earle of Oliua, Captayne of the German Guard, a Knight of the Order of Saint Iames, and Comendador of Ocana, being imprisoned in his owne house with a strong Guard, hauing but the vse of one onely Chamber with little light; after his Cause had beene in discussing two yeeres and a halfe, had sentence of death giuen against him, by the Lords of the Assembly, Don Francisco de Contreras (now most worthy President of Castile) Luis de Salzedo, and Don Diego del Corral. He had notice thereof by Lazaro de los Rios, a Register of the Processe, the fourteenth of Iuly 1621. To which he made answer, that he heard it. Then turning to a Crucifixe, he said; God be blessed, whose will be in me fulfilled: which was like some other of his actions, both before and after (which, to be short, I let passe in silence) grounded on a vertuous Spirit, wholly exercised in spirituall books of deuotion, and full of Religion and Christian courage. From that time, vntill his death, which was three moneths after, hee neuer was vnclothed, nor came in bed. There was a Pallet by his bed side, with a leather couerlet, on which in the night hee rested a little, spending the most part of it in mentall Prayer, wherein he much profited by reading a Booke of the holy Mother Teresa of IESVS, to which hee was much affected, so that hee could repeate by memorie whole Pages thereof: as also out of a Booke of Prayers, composed by Father Molina; and in spirituall Conferences had with the Religious, he cited to them these Books, or others such like. Hee daily read the liues of Saints in Flos Sanctorum, perswaded therevnto by Mother Teresa and Father Molina, of whom (as he said) he learned it. He made a generall Confession with Humilitie and Contrition, accompanied with many teares of tendernesse, witnessing the good preparation of his mind, for what was to come; but to declare particulars, would make rather a Booke then a briefe Relation. And I heard Friar Gabriel his Confessor say, who is Procurator Generall of the discalced Carmelites (a religious person of venerable fame) that during thirtie yeeres space, wherein he had beene a Physician for Soules, hee neuer experienced the like: for neither when the sentence of death was notified vnto him, or vpon any discomfort did he change countenance, or shed teare; but when he remembred his sinnes, they fell like showres. O force of diuine loue! which doth soften hearts not shaken with aduersitie, from whence proceedeth their Fortitude and Humilitie. Hee had conference with diuers Religious, and particularly with Friar Gregorie de Pedros, a Preacher to his Maiestie, whose great parts of learning and eloquence are alreadie blazond by fame, and need no report of mine. To him and his Confessor 192

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hee vnfolded his Conscience with Securitie and Satisfaction, not regarding Honour, or any other pretext, hauing so resigned vp his will to God, and his obedience to his Confessor. That humane feares wrought litle in him, without resoluing speedily what difficulties they proposed. How excellent hee was in this, his death will beare witnesse. He petitioned an appeale from his Iudgement, according as his Counsell aduised him: but his diligence in procuring his defence, neuer diuerted his minde from the consideration of his death, nor made him omit the exercises of a vertuous life. The Iudges did not admit his Appeale, but insisted on the execution of the sentence: whereof he hauing notice the first of October, answered; I heare it, and turning to a Crucifixe, said: God be blessed, whose will be in me fulfilled. No impatient word was euer heard fall from him, for as his Soule grew daily nearer Heauen, so shewed hee most courage in most discomfort, not being sensible of earthly losses, but falling out of loue with them, the ioy of his Spirit flew a higher pitch, then the discontents of this World did reach vnto, so that on the day of his death (had not his Confessor hindred it) hee would haue proclaymed his sinnes in the street, as hee oft sought to doe in prison, if he had beene permitted. His Appeale being not admitted, and the Iudgement confirmed; on Tuesday at midnight, Friar Pedro de la Concepcion, went to him with this newes, in place of his Confessor, who then was not well, who told him hee was to receiue his Viaticum on Wednesday. Hee found him quiet at his prayers, which hee vsed much, and receiued in them particular fauours from God. He demanded of him wherefore he came: hee answered, to spend the night with you. Falling to discourse of the miseries of this life, and of the happinesse of the other that is without end, hauing fit time, hee said to him: Who would not with a good will, exchange a life temporall for an eternall? To which he answered. Alas, Father, would I had not this one, but a thousand liues to lose for Gods sake: then (replied the Friar) hee will come to you to morrow, and giue you the Pledge of his Grace, to receiue hereafter the Crowne of his Glorie. He then presently conceiuing wherefore he said so; kneeled downe before a Crucifixe, and with great zeale of deuotion, said thrice: Thy will be done, O Lord (vsing this resignation of mind in all his tribulations.) Then rising vp, hee said, I haue something to doe; and going behind the bed, he put on a shirt of haire, and a crosse with sharpe pricks of steele, which he ware about his necke, hauing (for obedience to his Confessor) put them off the day before, to mitigate his continuall penance, making his vertues more secure, by the secrecie wherewith hee practized them. This hee did on dayes of fasting, which was weekly, Wednesday, Friday, and Saterday, and in those of abstinence, not tasting any thing that might please him, yet so warily that those which attended him obserued it not. The rest of the night, he spent in spirituall Exercises. And when the Friar propounded to him, how God rewarded those that take benefit by afflictions, offering them in imitation of his most painefull Passion: hee answered. I pray God, Father, my sinnes cause mee not to lose so great Happinesse; although, I assure you, I feele such comfort now, that if it would not seeme lightnesse in mee, I could laugh. Neither was his feare vnlike his hope; affections which tyed him alike to God; humilitie and acknowledgement of his owne miserie, accompanied the one; and trust in Gods Mercy and 193

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Power, the other. On Wednesday morning, he disposed the affaires of his Soule by direction of his Confessor, and of Friar Gregorie de Pedrosa, whose assistance was of great comfort and profit to him. Then he went into the Chappell, wearing the white mantle of his Order, where his Confessor said Masse, and he Receiued, with great Faith and Loue of God: at which time, with a Spirit full of zeale, he said: O Lord, since thou commest to me to day, let me come to thee to morrow; and comming to those wordes of consolation: In manus tuas Domine commendo Spiritum meum: hee added, Vitam & honorem meum. The Masse being ended where he Rcceiued, hee heard other foure, with such tranquilitie and deuotion, that he neuer sighed nor lamented, being thereat out of modestie ashamed, lest his deuotion should bee therefore accounted rather vaine-glorious, then vertuous: in this hee excelled, as his priuate Almes, giuen in the time of his better fortune, beare witnesse; and the Religious, by whose hands they passed, can affirme. The Chappell, in which lyeth the body of the holy Mother Teresa of IESVS, in the Church of the Discalced Carmelites at Madrid, was part of his Almes, which hee desired to make more sumptuous, if his Order had permitted. Hee also built the Heremitage in the Desert de Batuccas, and caused two Masses to bee daily said in that which is neare to Pestrana. Hee said the Office of our Lady, and for the Soules departed, hauing continued it many yeeres. He was Confessed, and receiued in the Pascall Feasts, our Ladies, and the Apostles, and examined daily his conscience: which he vsed for these foure or fiue yeeres last past, to doe twice a day. Hee had thrice made his generall Confession before this last, which he ended on Saint Matthewes Eue, and Receiued the next day. In the prison he was confessed twice or thrice a weeke, after he might with leaue doe it. Hee passed the euening with his Confessor, and with Friar Gregorie de Pedrosa, in spirituall questions, so high, that it appeared, God was his Tutor, and the Schoole the Prison, as he said. In his Spirituall conference, these words escaped him: I wish I could giue a thousand liues for mine Enemies. His Confessor checked him for calling them Enemies; whereat recalling himselfe, hee humbly demanded how hee should name them? His Confessor told him, hee should make that Recognition for those which sought to hurt him, if any such were. He much esteemed this aduise, and fulfilled it. This night, Father Iohn de la Madre de Dios, companion to his Confessor, brought him a Memoriall of Bequests from the Religious of his Order, which were Prayers and Fastings. Hee was greatly comforted therewith, and humbly answered, that he hoped to see himselfe with God, and to beseech his diuine Maiestie to reward their great charitie. Giuing discreet satisfaction vnto all, and not leauing any thing by his neare approach to death vnperformed, that belonged to curtesie and vrbanitie, or vertuous policy. So that when some came to demand of him debts, no iust cause moouing them: he answered, If his estate were in himselfe, hee could dispose thereof as hee liked; but being now in his Maiestie, he stood obliged to defend it, and make no declaration in preiudice of the true Owner, for those that vniustly sought to haue it. Talking with Father Iohn de la Madre de Dios, he said: My Father, Wife, Children, Estate and Honour, is taken from me, as to morrow shall bee my Life; but that which onely grieueth mee, is, that I haue no more to lose for 194

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Gods sake; the memory of the losse of these things did not trouble him, but the desire that his death might giue example to others so to liue, as to saue their Soules. O generous condition of a zealous Soule! All loue seemed too little, compared with the greatnesse of the Obiect; and light encreasing according to loue, discerned more clearely the vnlimited distance betweene humane power, and diuine Omnipotency. Being late in the night, hee was importuned by the Religious there present, to lye downe on his Pallet, which he did, holding a Crucifixe, and by him the Picture of the holy Mother Teresa of IESVS; there he reposed a while, ouercome rather with contemplation then sleepe. Hee demanded of Friar Pedro de la Concepcion, if hee should receiue Extreame Vnction: who answered, That the Church vsed not to giue it to those that dyed so. Them (said he) since I cannot receiue this Sacrament, doe me the curtesie, to teach mee the Ceremonies thereof, to know them before I dye. The Friar tooke a Manual, and said the Prayers, Letanies, and Ceremonies, omitting the substance of the Sacrament. He gaue eare to all with humble attention and deuotion, not shunning, but seeking earnestly to prepare himselfe to dye, in the well performing whereof, he placed his greatest happinesse. Then hee continued in mentall Prayer, from fiue a clocke vntill sixe in the morning, with admirable recollection, for the which, afterward hee infinitely thanked God. Here let Contemplatiues, practized in prayer, consider the diuine Fauours shewed by this Repose, to a man that had the sword laid to his throat, whose threed of Life was euen spunne, the representation of Death securing the attention of his Spirit, who being vnloaded from the weight of this mortality, was vnited to its euerlasting Beginning: a thing so desired by those that treate with God, and onely effected by Death, and wished of him, as the meane to obtayne so glorious an End. That morning hee put off his haire shirt before his Confessor, modestly preuenting the publique inconuenience which might ensue, by what hee desired to haue secret. Then kneeling downe before diuers graue Religious persons, he read a protestation of Faith, which himselfe had made. In it was contayned, a quintessence of inward zeale, vttered in wordes, so feeling and significant, that it caused both admiration and confusion. Don Pedro Fernandez de Mansilla, an Alcayde of the Court, came to take his leaue of him, whom he met halfe way, with a behauiour and countenance of such serenitie, that it paralleld not with his present estate. Don Pedro desired him to commaund him some seruice, to which hee answered, That since hee gaue him leaue so to doe, hee besought him for a quick dispatch in his Wife and Childrens businesse (which was a suite for Land with his Maiestie, that depended before Don Pedro de Mansilla) to this hee gaue him a courteous answere. Those that then were present, began to shead teares, and sigh, seeing a courage so vndaunted, and a presence so venerable. Hee seeing himselfe to bee the Cause of their woe, comforted them, saying: Sirs, it is no time to lament, but to reioyce, since I am going to doe the Will of God. These wordes gaue cause of comfort to pious minds, by discouering the good estate of his Soule and great Christianitie. Then he went into the Chappell in a Cloke, and vpon it the habite of Saint Iames, where he heard many Masses. He intreated the Carmelite that said it, to put his Soule together with the Host into the Challice. This was to 195

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follow the example of the holy Mother Teresa of IESVS, who on a Palme Sunday said the like. This wrought so good effect, that hee was comforted both in Soule and Body, and incouraged to suffer. He gaue his Rosarie to a religious man of the Order of Saint Hierome, for accounting himselfe as dead, he prepared for his owne Dirge. Thus hee continued, performing many acts of Contrition, in feruent prayer, vntill the time of execution. At eleuen, Friar Gregorie de Pedrosa came vnto him, and said: Sir, now let vs goe, for God calleth vs. He presently answered; Let vs goe. When they put off the Cloke of his Order, there came one and put a Hood ouer his short Coate, from which and from his doublet he had the night before, cut the necke, and the strings from his band, in place whereof he had put a button, to come more ready to his last End, knowing hee was made a sacrifice to God, who disposed the meanes to make his death more easie, which hee receiued rather with Loue then Feare. When hee went out of the Chappell, he told his Confessor, he felt himselfe very weake both in Soule and Body: who answered him; Trust in God, and pray to him for strength, and hee will not deny it you at this time. Comming to the stayres, God gaue him courage, that it now seemed not difficult to him to go in the streets, as it was wont; so other things, which in his imagination appeared vnpossible, comming to act them, by Gods assistance, were become very fezible. Comming downe the stayres, and seeing a Mule ready for him, hee said: What, a Mule? Nay, I ought rather to be dragged in a basket; practizing still more pure Acts of Humilitie and contempt of the World, and desiring the most disgracefull death. He rode on the Mule without feare, squaring all his actions to the rules of Modesty, and necessity without ostentation. Then he toeke a Crucifixe which he imbraced so affectuously, that it made great impression in the beholders. Going on, the people cryed: God pardon, and giue you strength: to whom he answered, Amen; God reward you. Comming to the Market place of Saint Dominick, and hearing the Prayers and Cryes of the people, he lifted vp his eyes, and said: Lord, since they all aske my Pardon, Pardon me, I beseech thee. When he came to the Smiths little street, he said to his Confessor: Father, this is rather a triumph, then a carrying the Crosse of Christ, who was blasphemed, and I am prayed for. Pray, Father, that the ioy I now feele, bee not a reward for that little I haue suffered for his sake. I dare not weigh these wordes in the ballance of my Reason. Let vs leaue something in silence, since his valour and sincerity, will sooner be searched into by a zealous affection, then vttered by an eloquent tongue. He fixed his eyes, with a graue aspect vpon a Crucifixe there present, testifying therby the recollection of his thoughts. In his contemplation he remembered the spirituall incouragement, giuen him by the Religious which accompanied him, diuinely discoursing on the Happinesse to come. Being come to the place of Execution, with a constant Countenance, hee alighted from his Mule, and without any helpe, went vp the Scaffold. He beheld without feare the Sword and Blocke. Set his Hood right, and said to the Religious: Let me rest here awhile. His Confessor, and Friar Gregorie de Pedrosa, sate downe about him, with the rest of the Religious, in number twelue, no person, but what was needfull, being suffered to enter. They kneeled downe to pray for his

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Soule. He read diuers Iaculatory prayers, with such resignation and attention, that his Instructors stood astonished. After a good while he rose, and told his Confessor, he felt himselfe comforted, to see that God wrought in him his will, saying, it was fit to thanke him therefore, and bee confessed before death, and absolued by the Bull of Faith in Baptisme, with a protestation thereof. Hee was confessed, and receiuing absolution, he fell on the ground and kissed the feete of his Confessor. Being commanded to rise, hee went to his Chaire, not to dye, but to triumph, with such courage, humilitie, and magnanimitie, that all were filled with pietie and admiration. A part of his Hood he cast behind the chaire, and prayed whilst the Executioner made all things readie. Then he calld him, imbraced him, and spake to him most louingly. Hee proceeded so farre in acts of pure Loue and Ioy, that when Friar Gregorie de Pedrosa said, Now is the time to shew courage, hee answered: I neuer felt such content. When his feet were tyed, hee said, What doe you? The Religious told him, it was the Order. Then tye mee, said hee. Comming to tye his armes, hee put them out, saying: Hold, tye them. Then he called the Minister of death (let decency excuse me for vsing this terme) and said: Come hither, Brother, let me embrace thee once more, and bowing toward him with his body, his armes being tyed, gaue him the humble kisse of Peace. This Act of heroick humilitie, done with desire of greater demonstration, drew downe many teares, either of ioy or sorrow in the Spectators. When they tyed him in the Chaire, his Confessor told him, That Christ was also tyed; at which time hee remembred the Passion with affections burned in the fire of diuine Loue. His eyes were couered with a blacke taffata, which himselfe had brought for that purpose. He lifted vp his head, ready with ioy to performe what before hee had so often thought of in prison, and said, Take it, O Lord; Take it, O Lord. When the Executioner held the taffata with his left hand, to giue the stroke with his right hand: he forbid him, saying: I will sit still, with a voyce and heart so strong, that were it lawfull, I would say, Naturre had priuiledged him from feare. Then receiued hee the stroke, and repeating the sweet Name of IESVS, gaue vp his Soule. The Lookers on, though bathed in teares, beheld a spectacle, not horrible, but pleasing, caused by a happy death. A death that hath eclipsed the greatest examples, and limited the highest prayses, whose duration will out-last the World. For were he not in Nobilitie so ancient, hee might hereby lay a foundation for a glorious Family; since Nobilitie is but a vertue of the mind, practized either in vndergoing dangers in Warre, or in giuing good examples in peace, both which were seene in him; and if according to the end, the vertue of the mind is to bee measured; here onely was the loue of God, where no respect was had to the World or to Fame, which in the end will become dumbe. This example of his death hath wrought much, being in Madrid, the Court of Don Philip the Fourth, King of Spaine, where is a generall concourse of Strangers, magnifying with respect the Spanish name (beside the deserued credit of their ancient valour) seeing a man paralleld with any whom the Roman cloquence did extoll, for although Sceuola, Regulus, Horatius, and many others, suffered much honour; yet here morally speaking, it was without it. And if any were present at

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this death, either without Religion, or of a contrarie (which God forbid) what inward remorse, vnquietnesse of mind, and accusation of conscience must they needs haue, seeing such strange acts of Faith and Loue to God, wrought with such fortitude, that it onely may teach vs the force of Truth, and Light of Catholique Religion. In this Glasse they may see their errours. Thus farre my loue hath carryed mee, although my Relation bee but as a shaddow of this wonder: which such as saw not, may not hope to know as it was, because those which were present, want capacitie to declare it. As to the substance, I had particular information from those which conuersed with him in prison and abroad; all Persons of Vertue and Religion; and although I heard of much more, yet would I not insert here but what was certayne; for a matter of it selfe so admirable, needeth not borrow ornament or addition elsewhere. His Body lyeth buried in our Ladies Church, of the Discalced Carmelites in Madrid, in the Deane and Chapters Chappell. These Religious, out of loue to him, buried him there, in a Tombe couered with a blacke cloth, and on it the Insigne of his Order. Requiescant in pace. This Epitaph is written vpon his Sepulchre. He who within this Tombe doth lye, Began to liue, when he did dye. Soli Deo honor & gloria.1

Note 1 ‘to God alone be honor and glory’.

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26 JE A N LE CLERC (165 7 – 1 7 3 6 ) , THE LIFE OF THE FAM OUS C A R DINAL-DUKE DE RI CHLI EU, P R IN CIPAL MINISTER OF S TATE TO LE WIS XIII, KING OF FRANCE AND NAVAR R London: M. Gillyflower, W. Freeman, J. Walthoe and R. Parker, 1695), pp. 356–364

Armand Jean du Plessis, better known as the Cardinal de Richelieu, effectively ruled the kingdom of France on behalf of King Louis XIII, whose favour he enjoyed, between 1624 and 1642. Under Richelieu, France rose to become a major European power and challenged Spain for supremacy. Like all favourites who rose to power in seventeenth-century Europe, Richelieu’s position was always precarious and depended on the continued favour of the monarch in the face of rival factions. In November 1630, the Queen Mother Marie de Medici and her supporters decided to take advantage of the King’s serious illness to demand the dismissal of Richelieu. Richelieu, however, was not prepared to meekly surrender power (and quite possibly jeopardize his own life). High politics and emotions collided in an extraordinary scene as Richelieu abruptly interrupted a conversation between the Queen Mother and the King. Faced with Marie de Medici’s undisguised hatred and contempt, a tearful Richelieu pleaded with his master. These tears may well have been a feigned display of emotions or a real sign of the Cardinals’ devotion to his monarch and fear for his life. The Queen Mother and Richelieu’s enemies initially thought that they had managed to persuade King Louis to dismiss his chief minister but, in the end, they were only fooling themselves and the French Monarch stood by Richelieu in what has become known since then as la journée des Dupes (the Day of the Dupes). This excerpt from the 1695 biography of Richelieu by the theologian Jean Le Clerc (1657–1736) conveys the heightened emotions unleashed by the high-stakes involved in securing the King’s favour in seventeenth-century France. … 199

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Thus finished the Campaign of the year 1630 in Italy, where the Spaniard found himself devested of what he had taken in Italy, and by which he had been at vast Charges, without any advantage remaining by it. But as the Spaniards, could not make use either of time or opportunity to make themselves Masters, so is it certain, that the Cardinal had more reason to boast of his own happiness by their ill Conduct, than to brag of the good Success, which the Arms of France had, since Persons of an indifferent Capacity, might many times have taken Casal, with the Forces of Spain, before and after the French had thrown numbers into it. But to return to what passed in France during these things which I have recounted of the affairs of Italy. The King having subjugated all Savoy, except the Fort of Montmeillan, thought of nothing more than returning into France. Savoy no way agreeing with him, he finding no divertisement there, he departed therefore from St. John de Maurienne at the beginning of August, and took the way of Lyons, where he arrived the seventh of the Month, without any inconvenience, though he had passed through places infected with the Plague; but he fell sick at Lyons about the end of September, of an Impostume in the Mesentery, which made his Belly swell, and the Physitians not knowing the cause of his Malady, gave him for lost without retrieve: But this Impostume was broken, and the matter having run out in Stools the King soon recovered his Health, contrary to the opinion of the all the World. Whilst he was Sick the Queens1 left him not Day nor Night; and they made a powerful Cabal against the Cardinal, whom they resolved to destroy as soon as the King was Dead, the two Marillaces, the Keeper of the Seals, and the Mareschal, Vautier first Physitian of the Queen, the Princess of Conti, the Dutchess of Elbeuf, the Countess of Fargis, and others, animated the Queen-Mother agasnst him, and laboured to ruine him. The Cardinal being advertised of it, prayed the Duke of St. Simon, Grand Esquire, who stirred not from the person of the King, to incline his Majesty to take some care of his Prime Minister. The Grand Esquire having spoke to the King, found him perfectly well disposed, and suggested to him the thought of recommending the Cardinal to the Duke of Montmorency, who being Governor of Languedoc, might easily save the Cardinal, by conducting him into his Government. The King approved of the Expedient, and St. Simon having informed the Cardinal of what had passed, that Prelate came to the King’s Bed-side, who told him he was careful of his security. The Cardinal all in tears, and feigning to ail nothing, answered, That he should not be sorry to die, after he experimented so good a Master. In the mean time, the Grand Esquire having on behalf of the King spoken to the Duke of Montmorency, he took upon him with pleasure the Charge committed to him, and engaged to conduct the Cardinal to Brouage, with faithful Troops of which he named all the Companies. The King in the sequel made Montmorency come into his Chamber, and recommended the Cardinal to him with weeping, and in terms very affectionate. The Duke promised the King to bring him in all safety to Brouage, and to protect him against all. It is said, the Cardinal prayed the Mareschal de Bassompiere to assure the Switzers2 to him, in case the King should die; and that the Mareschal refused it, saying nevertheless, 200

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that the Marquis d’ Alincourt, Governor of Lyons, might contribute much to his safety; and that he might be disposed thereunto by the Marquis of Chateauneuf his Cousin-German, and the Cardinal’s Creature. This and the Devotion which Bassompiere had for the Princess of Conti, Enemy to the Cardinal, render’d the Mareschal suspected, and liable to the cruel Revenge of the Cardinal afterwards. The King being recovered, as I have said, quitted Lyons, and was followed by the Queen-Mother and the Cardinal, who Embarked themselves on the Loire, and came to Roanne in the same Boat, and to the Eyes of the Court appeared entirely reconciled. But the Cardinal, who knew what was passed, and to whom the King told whatsoever he heard, had care not to trust it; and if the Queen-Mother endeavoured to destroy him in the mind of the King, he studied no less to provoke her Son against her; He persuaded this jealous and fearful Prince, that this Princess loved the Duke of Orleans better than him; and that she consulted the Astrologers to know when this latter should mount the Throne, because having no Dauphin, the Crown belonged to him. This was not altogether false, and the King being convinced of it, believed that all the Queen did tended that way, and nothing could persuade him to the contrary. All that the Queens could say against the Cardinal had no effects upon him, because it was not only difficult, but also incredible, that this Prelate should enterprize any thing whatsoever against him, when it was easie for the Queen-Mother and Monsieur to do so; and it was to be believed that they had a mind to it, by the disturbances they had lately made. The Court being arrived at Paris, the King went to St. Germains and to Versailles, and the Queen-Mother to her Palace at Luxemberg, and there it was that her hatred to the Cardinal began to break forth, although the King did all he could to make them agree, and came himself to the Palace of Ambassadors to be near the Queen-Mother, and converse often with her. In fine, he drew this promise from her, that she should live quietly with him; and to compleat the Reconciliation, they agreed that the King should on the Eleventh of November at Eleven of the Clock before Noon, bring the Cardinal and his Niece de Combalet,3 into the Queens Chamber, to the end that she might show them that she had no further hatred against them. The Queen would have the Niece come first into her Presence, and as she cast her self at her feet, to render her thanks for the great favour she had done her; the Queen instead of pardoning her, fell upon her with most injurious Language, before the King, and Combalet returned with wet Eyes, for the affront that she had received. The King said all that could come into his mind, to endeavour to appease his Mother, whose transports of Choler made him, as he said, suffer extreamly. But hoping that having discharged her Choler, she would use the Cardinal better, he told her, that he would fetch him in. The Cardinal, who was in an adjacent Chamber, knew by the Countenance of his Niece, whom he saw passing by, that without doubt she had been ill treated, and he was absolutely confirmed in his suspicion, when he entred the Queen’s Cabinet, who had Choler painted in her Visage. When he came a little nearer to her she called him Cheat, Ingrate, Malicious, the most Wicked Man in the Kingdom, and Disturber of the Publick Quiet, and turning her self to the King, she told him 201

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he beheld a Man, that would take the Crown from him to give it to the Count of Soissons (with whom he had been long reconciled) and make him marry Combalet. The King replied hereupon, and answered, that the Cardinal was a good and honest Man, who served him faithfully, and with whom he was well satisfied; That the Queen disobliged him, put him to torture, and that he could not remit the extream displeasure she had done him. He added all he could to sweeten her, but the Queen was inflamed more and more; the King bad the Cardinal to go, and this Prelate withdrew, in a great fear that the King’s Authority would not prevail, and that he should be obliged to leave the Court. The King staid some time with his Mother, and told her he was amazed at this violent manner of procedure, and that she should give her self over so much to her passion. The Queen was not for all this appeased, but drove from her service Combalet, who was her Lady of the turn, and the Marquis of Meillezaye, who was Captain of her Guards, because they were of the Cardinal’s Kindred. In fine, the King out of measure provoked, that his Mother had forfeited her word and her respect, as he believed, went out of her Cabinet, saying, that he had had too much patience. He after demanded of St. Simon, what he could say of what he had lately heard, for he was present; and this favourite answered, that he seemed he was in the other World, but at last the King was Master, Yes I am, replied the King, and will make the World to know it. In effect, he dealt with her more like a Master than a Son; and he was told, that the obligations which he had for the Cardinal were infinitely more considerable, than the natural Duty of Children, towards those who had brought them into the World. St. Simon4 let the Cardinal know that his Affairs went very well, and went with the King to the Ambassador’s Place, where this Prince shut himself up with him, with forbiddance of Entry to any Person whatsoever. Having unbuttoned his Gesticore, he threw himself upon the Bed, and said to Simon that he felt himself inflamed all over, that the Queen by her sensless obstinacy, and by the injurious manner with which she had treated Combalet and the Cardinal in his presence, and contrary to the Parole she had given him, had so far discomposed him that he could find no rest, nor comfort for his grief: That she would have him turn off a Minister, who was to him of the greatest usefulness, and of an extraordinary capacity, to put others in his place, who were unworthy and incapable to serve the Crown: That when she had received Evil Impressions, she was no more capable to hear reason. In the sequel, he demanded of St. Simon, what he thought he ought to do on this occasion, and St. Simon answered, That it behoved his Majesty for his proper Interest to protect the Cardinal against the Cabal of those who envied the post which he held, and that he should banish from the Queen-Mother those People who filled her head with Ill Impressions, and which opposed the good designs of the premier Minister; At last the King resolved to go suddenly to Versailles, and to cause the Cardinal to come thither to take with him such measures, as he should observe in this affair. In the mean time, this Prelate was returned home, for to put up presently all his Writings and his Principal Moveables to retire himself to Brouage, of which he 202

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was Governor, as we said before. The Cardinal de la Valette, who was come to Visit him, did all he could to oblige him to stay, and to give time for Repentance, and hinder’d him from a sudden departure. Whilst they were together, the Gentleman which St. Simon had sent to him, to tell him that things went well, desired to speak with him; and having told him the news he had orders to bring to his Eminence, he determined to stay; a while after he received a second advice like to the first. The Cardinal de la Valette being gone to the King, learned the same thing from St. Simon, and having spoke to the King, that Prince said to him, Monsieur the Cardinal hath a good Master, go tell him I recommend me to him, and let him without delay come to Versailles. In the mean time, the Queen-Mother who believed that the King went to dismiss the Cardinal, out of complaisance to her, thought of nothing but the authority she was about to enjoy, and believed already to dispence all the benefits which the Cardinal had been Arbiter of for some Years. All the world went to make their Court to her, and instead of following the King to Versailles, to hinder him from taking resolutions which might be disadvantageous to her; she amused her self with receiving of applauses for a thing which was no way done. The King was presently advertised of the great concourse of People, which frequented Luxemburgh, to wish happiness to the Queen, for that she had ruined the Cardinal, which encreased the suspicions which many had endeavoured to put into his mind, and which he a long time entertained, that the Queen-Mother sought only to Govern. In this conjuncture, St. Simon advertised the Mareschals de Crequi and de Bassompiere, and the Duke de Montmorency not to fall into the snare, as the other Courtiers did, who believed the Cardinal lost: and afterwards they called that day the day of Sots, because the Enemies of the Cardinal were taken for Sots. The King being arrived at Versailles, the Cardinal with all speed repaired thither, that he might throw himself at the feet of the King, and render him thanks, as the best, the most constant, and most obliging Master that ever the Sun shined upon. The King answered him, That he had in him a very good Servant, of a Capacity so great, and so extraordinary Fidelity, that he thought himself obliged to protect him, so much the more because it was a demonstration of the respect and acknowledgment he ought to have for the Queen his Mother, if he had behaved himself otherwise he had abandoned him; That he would protect him against all those who had made a Cabal to destroy him, in abusing the goodness of the Queen his Mother, that he required him to continue to serve him, and he would maintain him against all who had conspired his ruine. The Cardinal, who wept when he pleased, with his Eyes full of Tears, cast himself a-new at the King’s Feet, and began to say, That he could not accept of the honour of remaining near his Majesty, for fear of being the occasion of a scandalous division between the Son and the Mother, and that he would seek for some solitude where to hide himself and lament the rest of his days, the misfortune he had to be defamed as an ingrateful Person to his Benefactress. After he had said this, he kissed the King’s feet and arose. The King commanded him absolutely to continue in his Service, as formerly, for such was his Will; the Cardinal still declined it for the same reason; and the King told him, 203

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that it was not the Queen, but such and such, which he named, who had made all this disturbance, whom he should remember, and should take heed of them. He added again, That he would protect him against all; that he would be obeyed, and that the world should know the truth of these confusions. After the King having caused all to depart who were present, except St. Simon and the Cardinal de la Valette, he caused Bullion and Bouthillier to be called, and resolved to give the Seals immediately to Chasteauneuf. Orders had been given to Marillac, who had them, to come to Glatigny near Versailles, and he believed it was a sign which the King gave of his confidence in him, until on the morrow he saw la Ville aux Clers on the King’s part demand the Seals, and himself led to Prison to Chasteaudun. Soon after, it was known at Paris what had been done at Versailles, and the Queen-Mother, who the day before saw her self surrounded with Courtiers found her self on the morrow alone at her Palace of Luxemburgh. The Cardinal was perfectly confirmed against all fear, which he had of losing the King’s favour, and now thought of nothing but destroying those who had machinated his ruine. The two Brothers de Marillac were the chief, and the Keeper of the Seals was already in Prison; there remained only the Mareschal who was in Italy: A Courier was dispatched to the Mareschal de Schomberg, to Arrest him, and send him Prisoner into France, which was done the same day as the Courier arrived, without making any Disorder in the Army. The greatest Enemies which the Cardinal had next to the Queen, were the Princess of Conti and the Dutchesses d’Ornano and d’Elbeuf. They were perfectly well united in the hatred which they had against him, and in the care they took to render him odious to the Queen-Mother. There was always one at least of them with that Princess; so that they lost no occasion to exasperate her against the Minister, and easily hinder’d him from a Reconciliation with his first Benefactress. The Dutchess d’Elbeuf was provoked against him, because of the long Persecution, which he had caused to the House of Vendosm, and the other two because of the wrong he did to the House of Guise, from whom he took the charge of Admiral of the Mediterranean, which he had by virtue of his being Governor of Provence. The Cardinal pretended that it belonged of right to him, as Grand Master of the Navigation and Commerce of France; and the Duke offered to change it for any other thing, or to make a present to him of it: but he would not make a cession of it to him, because it belonged to him of right. The Queen-Mother, after the noise she had made on St. Martin’s Day, would not only have the Cardinal to meddle no more in her Private Affairs, but she refused to see him at Council. In the mean time, being pressed by Cardinal Bagni, she consented to see him in the first Council which was held, provided it were at the Queen Regent’s. She also would have that the two Brothers de Marillac should be set at Liberty, and the King should promise her, not to allow Monsieur, without her consent to espouse the Princess of Mantua, and that neither her Servants, nor the Duke of Orleans’s should be any way disturbed. Nevertheless, being pressed extraordinarily, she consented at last to see the Cardinal at her Palace, in presence

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of the King, of Cardinal Bagni, and of Father Suffren, but she received him with very great coldness. Three days after which was St. Stephen’s Day, on which the custom is to exhort Enemies to Reconciliation, the Queen-Mother sent for the Cardinal by Father Suffren. He went to see her; as soon as that Princess beheld him she fell a weeping, and he did the same; she ordered him to sit down, but he refused, saying, That Honour did not belong to a Person in Disgrace; the Queen, speaking about what had passed, said, that it was never her intention that he should be deprived of the Ministry; and the Cardinal, who then acted the humble, replied, that nevertheless she had said, that either she or he must leave the Court. But Father Suffren said, that it was only a movement of anger; and the Cardinal went on, saying, That he would Die rather than do any thing which might be to the prejudice of her Majesty, but he was much troubled, to be concondemned, without being convicted; and if throughout the world that Regard was to be had, much more ought they to convince a person who without Vanity might glorify himself, to have successfully served the State on the most Important occasions: That he was ready to justifie himself, and if it were found that he had been guilty of any disrespect for her, he desired no favour; but if his Innocence appeared, she might do him the honour of acknowledging it. That though he passionately desired to return into her favour, he durst be bold to tell her, that having served her fourteen years, he knew her humour too well, as to hope for it: Notwithstanding, he would never leave off to demonstrate the passion which he had to serve her. The Queen said, that he had not favoured her at all, in the business of Monsieur, and the Cardinal protested, that he had defended her to the King as much as was possible. In fine, the Queen told him after many other things, that she would carry her towards him for the future, as she found he demeaned himself towards her. The Cardinal answered as with respect; That there was no proportion between Servants and Masters, and, as for his part, he would never be wanting in his duty to her, and would forget nothing which might contribute to her satisfaction. After this, the Q. Mother was two or three times at the Council with the Cardinal, but knowing his revengeful humour as she knew the same in her self, she left off coming thither, and refus’d absolutely to see him, for fear of disgusting those who had declared for her against the Minister.

Notes 1 The Queen and the Queen Mother. 2 The Swiss Guard, a personal guard of the King of France composed of Swiss mercenaries. 3 Marie Madeleine de Vignerot du Pont de Courlay, daughter of Richelieu’s sister. She was married to the sieur de Combalet. In 1625 Richelieu pulled strings to ensure she was made a lady-in-waiting to the queen-mother Marie de Medici, a position where she could spy on her mistress for her uncle. 4 Claude de Rouvroy, Duke of Saint-Simon.

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27 E NGL ANDS JOY T URNED TO MO URNING, FOR T HE LOS S OF TH AT VERT UOUS PRI NCE, HENRY D UKE OF GLOCEST ER, 3 D. S ON TO OUR L ATE SOVERAI GN KI NG C HARLES THE FIRS T: W HO DE PARTED T HIS LIF E THE 1 3 OF SE PTEMBER, IN TH E YEAR OF O UR L ORD, 1660. PREPARE FOR D E ATH BEFORE Y OU DYE, I F YOU WO ULD LIVE ET ERNALLY. TO THE TUNE OF, AIM NOT TOO HI GH

Henry Stuart, Duke of Gloucester (1640–1660) was the youngest son of King Charles I of England, who lost the English Civil War against Parliament and his life in 1649. Initially imprisoned by Parliament, the young Henry was allowed to leave for exile in France in 1652. When the English monarchy was restored in 1660, Henry’s older brother became King Charles II and Henry also returned to England with the title of Duke of Gloucester but died prematurely of smallpox that very same year. Henry was a staunch Protestant, unlike his Catholic older brother James Duke of York, who would eventually succeed Charles II to the throne as James II in 1685. When it became clear that Charles II would not produce a legitimate heir with the Queen and that James Duke of York would likely succeed him, England was shaken by the Exclusion Crisis of 1679–1681 during which attempts were made to exclude the Catholic James from the succession. Supporters of a Protestant monarchy in England came to look upon the deceased Henry as a ‘lost leader’ who would, if only fate had been kinder, have been a perfect Protestant king. The following lachrymose song expresses these feelings of loss and turns them into a political and religious statement. 206

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… Dying Tears. OR, Englands Joy turned to mourning, for the loss of that Vertuous Prince, Henry Duke of Glocester, 3d. Son to our late Soveraign King Charles the first: Who departed this life the 13 of September, in the Year of our Lord, 1660. Prepare for death before you dye, If you would live eternally. To the Tune of, Aim not too high. G[Reat] are the wonders that our God hath done, Great are the mercies which to us are shown Yet we forget to say that God is just, Even though he turn the living into dust. Now learn, O England, learn for to lament His death; who from us hath been long absent; And at the last is come on English Shore To lay his Corps; whose death we now deplore. Just in the prime and blooming of His age, Dear Glosters ravished from this mortall Stage: Yet though his body can no more revive, Yet his rare Vertues seem to be alive. Scarce had fair England bidden welcome home This our most vertuous Prince, but death doth come; Scarce had his weary body taken rest, Behold grim death doth come and takes his breath. How can fair England weep enough and mourn, His comely Corps we cant enough adorn: O death, our hopes, our Treasure, in an hour Hast thou dispersd, which makes salt tears to showr O envious death! how darst thou in his Prime, To cut down him, in whom all vertues shine: Therefore weel seek his vertues for to blaze, Upon his Tomb we will set forth his Praise. No sooner in his vertues we did trust, But presently this Prince is turnd to dust: O then what course of lives should Mortalls take, Seeing that Princes cannot death forsake. Great Emperours and Kings lye at the stake, To day they live, to morrow their graves they make 207

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Death is a debt we owe, which we must pay: When death doth call, poor mortalls must obey. The Second Part to the same Tune, O That fond man, would but view ore his days, And seriously consider his own wayes: How that all things below are vanity, Our souls Reedmer tis that lives on high. The God of Love pour forth his mercies great On our Dread Soveraign, even from his mercy seat; O give him grace and wisedome to consider That where his Brothers gone, he must go thither. For Kings and Princes are but a span, When death doth come withs grimly dart in hand To give the stroak: whilst nature bids adieu To all its pleasures, and its Comfort too. O that our God would pour his spirit upon Our King and Prince, that they may both live long; O let them know tis not the arm of flesh Thats able to withstand Deaths powerfull crush. Tis not mans honour nor his powerfull hand, Nor his Riches that are at his command, Neither his friend at all can him deliver From deaths sad stroke, which strikes but once for ever. O learn with blessed David for to prove That Gods thy portion and thy only love; Then death shall not affright thee, nor the grave; But this shall thee rejoyce, thy soul to save. Death is no sting, the grave cannot contain The Righteous soul that makes God his aim, But wicked men when once laid in the Urn, Their souls in torments ever after burn. But this is not our Gloster Case, for he Was the true pattern of Nobility: Saint like he livd, and he the same did dye, As soon as dead to Heaven his soul did fly. When France did harbour this our Noble Pri[nce] His Mother did endeavour to convince Him to turn Papist; but with courage bold He said his true Religion he would hold

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The learned Jesuite could not him deceive, Their damned Doctrine he would not believer Nor all the Learned men that France could yield Could make this Christian prince to quite the field. But now hes dead! alas, where is he gone, His Corps to dust, his soul to Heaven is come: O then Rejoyce, O England, and be glad, That God has carried him, even to good from bad. Concluding, now I end my mournfull Song. Which to all men in England doth belong, Prepare for death before before you dye, If ere you mean to live eternally.

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28 T HE SP IRIT IN HE AVEN OF T HAT ILLUSTRIOUS ORANGEMA RTYR, HENRY DE FLEURY, L ORD OF BUAT, ETC, 1 6 7 2

De Verhemelde Geest Van den Doorluchtigen Oranje-Martelaer Henry de Fleury, heer van Buat, etc. Ritmeester ten dienste de Vereenighde Nederlanden, Aensprekende de Rampsalige Geesten van Mr. Jan de Wit, Gewesen Raed-Pensionaris, en Groot Zegel-Bewaerder van Holland en West-Vriesland, ende Mr. Cornelis de Wit, Ruard van Putten, Oud-Burgermeester der Stadt Dordrecht, beyde varende in Charons Boot naer het Helsche Rijck, op den 20 Augusti 1672 [Translation: The spirit in heaven of that illustrious Orange-martyr, Henry de Fleury, lord of Buat, etc. Calvary captain in the service of the United Netherlands, addressing the miserable spirits of Mr Jan de Wit, who was Grand-Pensionary and Great Seal-Keeper of Holland and West-Frisia, and Mr Cornelis de Wit, Ruwaard [Chief of Police] of Putten, former Burgomaster of the City Dordrecht, both sailing in Charon’s boat to the Kingdom of Hell, on the 20th of August 1672]. This song, which appears on a broadside, is in the voice of Henry de Fleury, Sieur de Buat (?-1666), a nobleman who was executed for his role in a conspiracy (known as the Buat Conspiracy) to overthrow the regime of Grand Pensionary Johan de Witt, de facto leader of the Dutch Republic, in 1666, and install the then sixteen-year-old William of Orange. After a disastrous defeat of the Republic’s forces in the FrancoDutch War in 1672, Johan de Witt and his brother Cornelis, the Burgomaster of Dordrecht, were assassinated, and their bodies were mutilated and allegedly eaten by the mob. The song imagines that the de Witt brothers have followed Buat to Hell, and that Buat watches Charon, the ferryman of the Underworld, row them across the river Styx towards him. As they were responsible for his own execution, he is naturally scathing and jubilant at the fall of these once all-powerful brothers. He notes that parts of their bodies (‘ear, nose, foot, finger, hand’) have been cut off, a reference to the cannibalistic mutilation of their corpses. … Who does Charon have there? His ship seems to be sinking, Indeed a heavy cargo! this one does not drown 210

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So the Kingdom of Hell has a good loot indeed Betrayal and roguishness has a lot to look at Am I dreaming, or am I blind? It’s those false tongues Who once hastily forced the judge to [order]1 my death Who because of my little Boss brought me to the grave Who provided the means with which they severed my head They are tall boors, ey! See them clearly for once Those Hydras have now gotten what they deserved And so when I see them, ear, nose, foot, finger, hand, They are all cut off; would it be for the Fatherland? No for their roguery, that has completely been revealed Because of their intrigue, the have been sentenced Which condemns Caesars’ Law; a sentence of the Court, Providing material for laughter for every Practitioner. I now speak to those two, cursed, cruel Pests Who, under freedom’s illusion, weakened the commonwealth And have fattened themselves so much of the Lion, Befitting Venice, or that region Which sought to smother the Lord Orange in his crib And had chosen the Frenchman as their overlord Perjurers, who together with others, have envied That lineage,2 whose Tree guarded the garden for a long time3 By God’s judgement, then, your hourglass ran out; In an unheard of way you had to pay, That I, an innocent, who knew of nothing, Burned for seven years, only because of your deception. The hellish spawn, who at the time ignited, That you would almost leap all leaps of joy, It was double carnival there: think now what festivities They will have when your soul is due to them. That Ruwaard they will fry into a breakfast, So that he will not betray Hell like he did the Land: And you, disloyal Jan, with Cromwell,4 Bradshaw,5 James, Now I will leave you with an eternally gnawing conscience.

Notes 1 In Dutch, it is implied that the judge signed the order for his death. 2 ‘Stam’ carries more weight in Dutch. It refers only to the core of a fully grown tree, not its branches, and suggests strength and lineage. It is closely related to a family tree (‘stamboom’). 3 The use of ‘stam’ and ‘boom’ in the same sentence is quite poetic as ‘stam’ in a different context can also mean ‘tree’ and ‘boom’ in this context actually means ‘tree.’ 4 Oliver Cromwell, English statesman who overthrew King Charles I of England and reigned as Lord Protector until his death in 1658. 5 John Bradshaw, judge in the trial that sentenced Charles I to death.

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29 JOHN GADBURY (1 6 2 7 – 1 7 0 4 ) , A TRUE NARRAT IVE OF THE H OR RID HEL LISH POPI S H- PLOT. TO THE TUNE OF PA CKI NGTON’ S POUND, T HE FIR S T PART [S .L.: S.N., 16 8 2 ]

Between 1678 and 1681, Protestant Britain was rocked by popular uproar at a fictitious conspiracy conjured up by an English priest named Titus Oates, claiming that there was a Catholic conspiracy to assassinate King Charles II. Printed accounts of the supposed plot spread rapidly and whipped up anti-Catholic sentiment. The ‘popish plot’ was eventually exposed as a hoax but not before over a dozen innocent Catholics were gruesomely executed for treason. Authorship of this song was attributed to John Gadbury, one of those Catholics accused of plotting against the Crown. On the surface, the song appears to be yet another piece of anti-Catholic propaganda designed to spread fear and incite hatred of Catholics, particularly the Pope and Jesuits but this appears to be a literary Trojan Horse. The plot described is so bizarre that the reader is encouraged to laugh at the ridiculous claims of Titus Oates and, through the clever use of humour, the song ultimately seeks to undermine the credibility of the antiCatholic accusations. … True Narrative of the Horrid Hellish Popish-Plot. To the Tune of PACKINGTON’S POUND, The First Part. The Contents of the FIRST PART. How Sir Godfrey is Kill’d, his Body they hide, Which brought out in Chair, a Horse-back do’s ride: How Jesuits disguis’d, our Houses do Fire; How subtly they Plot, and Kings Death Conspire; Of divers Great Lords drawn in, to their Bane; An Army of Irish, and Pilgrims from Spain.

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I. Good People I pray you give ear unto me, A Story so strange you have never been told, How the Jesuit, Devil, and POPE did agree, Our STATE to destroy, and Religion so old. To murder our KING, A most Horrible Thing! But first of Sir Godfrey his Death I must sing; For how e’re they disguise it, we clearly can see, Who Murder’d that Knight no good Christian could be. The truth of my Story if any man doubt, W’ have Witnesses ready to Swear it all out. II. At Somerset-house there is plain to be seen, A Gate which will lead you into the Back-Court, This Place for the Murder most fitting did seem, For thither much People does freely resort: His Body they toss’d, From Pillar to Post, And shifted so often, ’t had like t’ have been lost; To watch with Dark Lanthorn the Jesuits did go, But never mistrusted our Honest Bedloe. The Truth of my Story, etc. III. Least such close Contrivements at length might take Air, When as his dead Body corrupted did grow, They carried him out in Invisible Chair, And set him a Horseback to ride at So-Hoe. His own Sword to the Hilt, To add to their Guilt, They thrust through his Body, but no Bloud was spilt; T’ have it thought he was kill’d by a Thief, they did mean, So they left all his Money, and made his Shooes clean. The truth of my Story, etc. IV. To shew now th’ excess of Jesuitical Rage, They this Loyal City to ruine would bring, ’Cause you Citizens are so Religious and sage,

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And ever much noted for true to your King; T’ your Houses they go, With Fire and with Tow, Then pilfer your Goods, and ’tis well you scape so; Y’ have seen how they once set the Town all in flame; And divers times since have attempted the same. The truth of my Story, etc. V. By Bedlos Narration1 is shewn you most clear, How Jesuits disguis’d into Houses will creep; In a Porter or Carmans Frock they’l appear; Nay they will not disdain to cry Chimney-sweep; Or sell you Small-Cole, Then drop in some hole A Fire Ball, or thrust it up by a long Pole; But I now must relate a more Tragical thing, How these Villains conspir’d to murder our King, The truth of my Story, etc. VI. At the White-horse in April there was a Consult, Where Jesuits a Covenant wickedly frame; The Death of our Sovereign was the Result, To th’ which at least Forty all signed their name, They wou’d not do that, I’ th’ place where they sat, Trusty Oates must convey it, from this man to that; To make sure work, by Poyson the Deed must be done And Stab’d with a Dagger, and Shot with a Gun. The truth of my Story, etc. VII. For fear at St. Omers, their Oates might be miss’d, Th’ agreed with a Devil t’ appear in his place. In a Body of Air, believe’t if you list, Which squeek’d just like Oats, and mov’d with the same grace; cou’d Lie, it cou’d Cant, Turn eyes like a Saint, And of our great Doctor no feature did want. Thus Forty might Swear they saw Oates ev’ry day, But true Oates was here, and the Devil saw they. The truth of my Story, etc. 214

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VIII. From Father Oliva Commissions did come, To raise a great Army much Treasure is spent; Th’ Old Man was resolved to take Post from Rome, To ride at the Head of them was his intent; Lord Bellas was fit, Who can deny it, To Command in his place, When’s Gout wou’d permit; Lord Stafford was fittest to trust with their Pay, Old Ratcliff to range them in Battel Array. The Truth of my Story if any man doubt, W’ have Witnesses ready to Swear it all out, IX. Th’ High-Treasurers place the Lord Powis did please, Men of desp’rate Fortune oft venture too far; Lord Peters wou’d hazard Estate, and his Ease, And Life for the Pope too, in this Holy War; Lord Ar’ndel of Old, So Warlike and bold, Made choice of a Chancellors Gown we are told. All these did Conspire with the Lord Castlemaine, Whose Plot was to catch his old Dutchess again. The truth of my Story if any man doubt, W’ have Witnesses ready to Swear it all out. X. Great store of wild Irish both civil and wise, Designed to joyn with the Pilgrims of Spain, Thirty Thousand being ready there all in good guise, Had vow’d a long Pilgrimage over the Main. To arm well this Host, When ’tWhen’t came on our Cost, Black Bills forty thousand, are sent by the Post, This Army lay privately on the Sea Shore; And no man e’re heard of them since nor before. The truth of my Story if any man doubt, W’ have Witnesses ready to Swear it all out. My Witnesses I bring, and produce the Record, D’ ye think th’ are Perjur’d? ’Tis false and absur’d, Wou’d th’ Godly hang Papists for Interest or Pique? Wou’d a Doctor Swear false for Ten Pound a Week? 215

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The Second Part. The Contents of the Second PART. Of Arms under-ground for Horse and for Foot; The KING almost Kill’d, but Gun wiill not shoot, For which Pick’ring is whipt. All of them swear To be true to the PLOT; yet Oats, not for Fear Nor Revenge, (though turn’d away, and well hang’d) Discovers them all; The Jesuits are Hang’d. I. The PLOT being thus subtly contriv’d as you hear, To God knows how many this Secret th’impart, Some famous for Cheats, yet their Faith they don’t fear; To tye a Knave fast they had found a new Art. They swore on a Book, And Sacrament took; But you’l find, if into their grave Authors you look, Forswearing’s no Sin, (as Recorder well notes) Nor Treason, Rebellion, nor Cutting of Throats. The truth of my Story if any man doubt, W’ have Witnesses ready to Swear it all out. II. Still blinded with Zeal, and inveigl’d by Hope, Store of Arms they provide for Fight and Defence, Three Lords must command, as Vice-Roys of the Pope, And all over England they raise Peter-pence. Their Letters they send By Bedlow their Friend, Or else by the Post, to shew what the intend. Some hundreds Oats saw, which the Jesuits did write, ’Tis a wonder not One of them e’re came to light. The Truth of my Story, &c. III. Pounds Two hundred thousand to Ireland they sent; Fifteen thousand to Wakeman sor Potions and Pills; Forty thousand in Fire-works we guess that they spent; And, Item, Ten thousand to pay for Black-Bills; Fifteen hundred more Grove should have they swore; Four Gentlemen Ruffians deserved Fourscore; Pious Pickering they knew was of Masses more fond, 216

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And for Thirty thousand they gave him a Bond. The truth of my Story, &c. IV. These two, to Kill the King by fair promises won, Had watch’d now some (years in St. James’s Park; And Pick’ring, who never yet shot off a Gun, Was about to take aim, for he had a fair Mark: Just going to begin’t, He missed his Flint, And looking in Pa[. . .], there was no Powder in’t; For which he their Pardon does humbly beseech, Yet had thirty good lashes upon his bare Breech. The truth of my Story, &c. V. But a sadder mischance to their PLOT did befall, For Oa, their main Engine, fail’d when it came to’t; No marval indeed if he cuzen’d ’em all, Who turn’d him a begging, and beat him to boot: He wheeling about, Th’ whole Party did rout, And from lurking holes did so ferret ’em out; Till running himself blind, he none of them knew, And fainting at Council, he cou’d not swear true. The truth of my Story, &c. VI. To comfort our Doctor, brave Bedloe‘s brought in, A more Credible Witness was not above ground; He vows and protests, though a Rogue he had been, He wou’d now not swear false for Five hundred pound: And why shou’d we fear They falsly wou’d swear, To damn their own Souls, and to lose by it here. Poor Oat, who before had no Peny in Purse, Discov’ring the PLOT, was Seven hundred pound worse The truth of my Story, &c. VII. Two witnesses more were let loose from the Jayl, Thogh One ’tis confest did run back from his word; 217

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(In danger of Life a good man may be frail) And th’ Other they slander for Cheating his Lord. T’ every one of these men The Jesuits brought Ten, To disprove ’em in Time and in Place; but what then? One Circumstance lately was sworn most clear By a Man who in hopes has Five hundred a year. The truth of my Story, &c. VIII. And then we are told, We must always suppose, To murder the King a Great PLOT there has been; And who to contrive it so likely as those Who Murder and Treason do hold for no Sin. Things being thus plain, To plead was in vain; The Jury (instructed again and again) Did find them all Guilty, and to shew ’twas well done, The People gave a Shout for Victory won. The Truth of my Story if any man doubt, W’ have Witnesses ready to Swear it all out. IX. Tis strange how these Jesuits, so subtle and wise, Shou’d all by the Pope be so basely trepan’d, To Hang with much comfort when he shall advise, And go to the Devil too at his command. He may give them leave, To Lye and Deceive; But what when the Rope do’s of Life them bereave? Can his Holiness, think you, dispense with that pain, Or by his Indulgences raise them again? The truth of my Story if any man doubt, W’ have Witnesses ready to Swear it all out. X. Yet (like Madmen) of Life a Contempt they express, And of their own happiness careless appear. For Life and for Money not one would confess; Th’ had rather be Damn’d, than be Rich and live here. But surely they rav’d, When God they out-brav’d,

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And thought to renounce him the way to be sav’d; With Lyes in their mouths go to Heaven in a string; So prosper all Traytors, and GOD save the KING. The truth of my Story if any man doubt, W’ have Witnesses ready to Swear it all out. Concordat cum Recordo. Cl. Par. FINIS.

Note 1 William Bedloe (1650–1680) was an informer who denounced many supposed Catholic plotters to the authorities.

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30 PE T ITION OF ROGER SI LKSTON, A POOR PRIS ONER I N DERBY GAOL AT THE DER BYSHI RE Q UARTER SESS IONS: 1 6 8 0 In Petitions to the Derbyshire Quarter Sessions, 1632–1770, Ed. Brodie Waddell, British History Online, www.british-history.ac.uk/petitions/ derbyshire/1680

From the fourteenth to the twentieth centuries, the courts of quarter sessions (or quarter sessions for short) were local courts in the Kingdom of England (and Wales) that were traditionally held four times a year in each county. Individuals seeking legal redress could petition the judges (justices). Some of these petitions reveal the emotional elements in legal proceedings in seventeenth-century England. In this petition to the quarter session, a prisoner named Roger Silkston begs to be released, asking the justices to show compassion for his destitute wife and children. … The petition of Roger Silkston a poore prisoner in Derby Goale to the Right Worsipfull Justices of the peace at the quarter Sessions at Derby the 5 of October 1680 humbly sheweth That wheras I youre poore petitioner have beene sadly tormented in Derby Goale with sad irons upon my leggs for three & forty weekes together, to my gret teror and the reuin of my poore wiffe and five small children; who have nothing at all to live upon, but are allmost distryed for want of both meat and cloathing and the cause of my commitment was never made out in all this time of three and forty weekes nether by oath nor evedence that ever came in against me; Yet am sadly continued heare in torment, & have nothing at all to live upon but the bare allowance of the cuntery; whereof every prisoner hath every day A halpeny in our braid taken from us.

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Therefore Right Worshipfull Gentlemen I humbly beg of you to comiserate my condition & grant me my liberty. Otherwise I humbly intreate youre Worships to consider my poore wiffe and five small children, with somm considerable alowance to keepe them from perishing or starveing: for which I shall humbly pray for youre Worship[s] prossperies whilst I live and am. Roger Silkston All that the parish of Matlacke hath alowed to my wiffe and five small children deureing all the time of my sad confinement here hath beene but bare twelve pence a weeke.

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Part 5 SCIENCE AND PHILOSOPHY

Part 5 Science and Philosophy

The seventeenth century was not just the century of the ‘General Crisis’ but also one characterised by exploration and discovery. The widespread adoption of the scientific method led to major breakthroughs in the way that Europeans understood the human body, the universe and the natural world. Moreover, a Republic of Letters emerged, leading to debates and exchanges of ideas that set the foundations for the eighteenth-century Enlightenment. Seventeenth-century Europeans were greatly interested in understanding the workings of emotions and how to control them. Greco-Roman authorities and theories linking the emotions and ‘humours’ continued to be influential, but some writers and thinkers were starting to question the humoural explanations for the origins of emotions, arguing that the ‘passions’ were the direct result of mechanical processes within the brain and nervous system. European philosophers also took a great interest in the ‘passions’ and the role that they played in human interactions.

31 R OB ERT BURTON (15 7 7 – 1 6 4 0 ) , THE ANATOMY OF ME LANCHOLY VVHAT IT IS. VVITH ALL THE K IN DES, CAUSES, SY M PTOM ES , P R O GNOSTICKES, AND S EUERALL CURES OF I T (Oxford: Henry Cripps, 1621), pp. 119–143

Robert Burton was an English scholar, author and ordained priest within the Protestant Church of England. During his life, Burton suffered from ‘melancholy’, what we would today describe as depression, and wrote a three-part treatise on the subject of melancholy, how to define it, its causes and symptoms and how to treat it. His intention was to ‘to prescribe means how to prevent and cure so universall a malady, an Epidemicall disease, that so often, so much crucifies the body and mind’. The Anatomy of Melancholy is encyclopaedic in character, compiling quotations on the subject from numerous previous authors (going as far back as Ancient Greece) as well as paraphrasing and commenting on their theories. First published in 1621, Burton’s ‘self-help’ book was extremely popular and re-printed and revised numerous times both during his lifetime and afterwards. …

The First Partition. Section 2. Memb. 3 SVBSEC. 1. Passions and perturbations of the Minde, how they cause Melancholy. As that Gymnosophist1 in Plutarch, made answere to Alexander, demanding which spake best, euery one of his fellowes did speake better then the other: may I say of these causes, to him that shall require which is the greatest, euery one is more grieuous then other, and this of passion the greatest of all. A most frequent and ordinary cause of Melancholy, fulmen perturbationum, as Piccolomineus cals it, this thunder and lightning of perturbation, which causeth such violent and speedy 227

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alterations in this our Microcosine, and many times subverts the good estate and temperature of it. For as the Body workes vpon the Mind, by his bad humors, disturbing the Spirits, sending grosse fumes into the Braine; and so per consequens disturbing the Soule, and all the faculties of it, with feare, sorrow &c. which are ordinary symptomes of this Disease: so on the other side, the Minde most effectually workes vpon the Body, producing by his passions and perturbations, miraculous alterations, as Melancholy, Despaire, cruell diseases, and sometimes death it selfe. In so much, that it is most true which Plato saith in his Charmides: omnia corporis mala, ab animâ procedere, that all the mischiefes of the Body, proceede from the Soule; and as Democritus in Plutarch vrgeth, damnatam tri animam à corpore, that if the Body should in this behalfe bring an action against the Soule, surely the Soule would be cast and convicted, that by her supine negligence, had caused such inconveniences, as hauing authority ouer the Body, and vsing the Body as an instrument, as a Smith doth his hammer, saith Cyprian, imputing all those vices and maladies to the Minde. And so doth Philostratus, non coinquinatur corpus, nisi consensu animae, the Body is not corrupted but by the Soule. Lod[ovicus] Vives2 will haue such turbulent commotions proceed from Ignorance, and Indiscretion. All Philosophers impute the miseries of the Body to the Soule, that should haue governed it better, by command of Reason, and hath not done it. The Stoicks are altogether of opinion, (as Lipsius, and Piccolomineus record) that a wise man should be απαθής,3 without all maner of passions and perturbations whatsoeuer, as Seneca reports of Cato, the Greekes of Socrates, and Io. Aubanus of a nation in Aphricke, so free from passion, or rather so stupid, that if they be wounded with a sword, they will onely looke backe. Lactantius 2. instit. will exclude all feare from a wise man: others except some other passions. But let them dispute how they will, set downe in Thesi, giue precepts to the contrary; we find that of Lemnius true by common experience: No mortall man is free from these perturbations; or if he be so, sure he is either a god, or a blocke. They are borne with vs, and bred vp with vs, we haue them from our parents by inheritance, à parentibus habemus malum hunc assem, saith Pelezius, nascitur vná nobiscum, alitur{que}: t’is propagated frō Adam, Cain was melancholy, as Austin hath it, and who is not? Good discipline, education, Philosophy, Divinity (I may not deny) may mitigate and restraine these passions, in some few men at some times, but most part they domineere, and are so violent, that like a torrent, torrens velut aggere rupto, beares downe all before, and ouerflowes his bankes, sternit agros, sternit sata, they ouer-whelme Reason, Iudgment, and pervert the temperature of the Body. Fertur equis auriga, nec audit currus habenas. And such a man saith Austin, that is so led in a wisemans eye, is no better then he that stands vpon his head. It is doubted by some, gravioresne morbi à perturbationibus, an ab humoribus, whether humors, or perturbations, cause the more grievous maladies. But wee finde that of our Saviour Mat. 26.41. most true The Spirit is willing, the Flesh is weake, we cannot resist: And that of Philo Iudaeus, Perturbations most offend the body, and are most frequent causes of melancholy, turning it out of the hinges of his health Vives compares them to VVindes vpon the sea, some onely moue as those 228

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great gales, but some turbulent quite ouerturne the ship. Those which are light and easy, and more seldome, to our thinking doe vs little harme, & are therefore contemned of vs: Yet if they be reiterated, (as the raine (saith Austin) doth a stone, so doe these perturbations penetrate the minde, and as one obserues, produce an habit of Melancholy at the last, and hauing got the mastery in our soules, may well be called Diseases. How these passions produce this effect, Agrippa hath handled at large, occult. Philos. lib. 1. cap. 63. Cardan. lib. 14. subtil. Lemnius lib. 1. cap. 12. de occult. nat. mirac. & lib. 1. cap. 16. Suarez Met. disput. 18. sect. 1. art. 25. T. Bright cap. 12. of his melancholy Treatise. Wright the Iesuit in his booke of the passions of the minde, &c. Thus in briefe. To our imagination commeth by the outward sense or memory, some obiect to be knowne (residing in the former part of the Braine) which he misconceauing or amplifying, presently communicates to the Heart, the Seat of all affections. The purer spirits forthwith flock from the braine to the Heart, by certaine secret channels, and signify what good or bad obiect was presented, of which immediatly bends it selfe to prosecute, or avoid it; and withall draweth with it other humors to helpe it: so in pleasure concurre great store of purer spirits, in sadnes much melancholy blood, in ire, choller. If the Imagination be very apprehensiue, intent, and violent, it sends great store of spirits to or from the Heart, and makes a deeper impression, and greater tumult, as the humours in the body bee likewise prepared, and the temperature it selfe ill or well disposed, the passions are longer and stronger. So that the first steppe and fountaine of all our grieuances in this kinde, is laesa Imagidatio, which misinforming the Heart, causeth all these distemperatures, alteration and confusion of spirits and humors. By meanes of which so disturbed, concoction is hindred, and the principall parts are much debilitated; as D. Navarra well declared, being consulted with Montanus about a melancholy Iew. The spirits so confounded the nourishment must needs be abated, bad humours increased and crudities, thicke spirits ingendred, and melancholy blood. The other parts cānot performe their functions, hauing their spirits drawne from them by vehement passion, but faile in sence and motion; so we looke vpon a thing and see it not, heare & obserue not, which otherwise would much affect vs, had we beene free. I may therefore conclude with Arnoldus, Maxima vis est phantasiae, & huic vni ferè, non autem corporis intemperiei, omnis melancholiae causa est ascribenda: great is the force of Imagination, and much more ought the cause of melancholy to be ascribed to this alone, then to the distemperature of the body. Which Imagination because it hath so great a stroke in producing this malady, and is so powerfull of it selfe, it will not be impertinent to my present discourse, to make a breefe Digression, of the force of it, and how it causeth this alteration. SVBSEC. 2. Of the force of Imagination. What Imagination is, I haue sufficiently declared in my Digression of the Anatomy of the Soule. I will only now point at the wonderfull effects and power of it; which as it is eminent in al, so most especially it rageth in melancholy persons in 229

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keeping the species of obiects so long, mistaking, amplifying them by continuall and strong meditation, vntill at the length it produceth reall effects, and causeth this and many other maladies. And although this Phantasie of ours be a subordinate faculty to reason, and should be ruled by it, yet in many men, through inward or outward distemperatures, defect of organs, which are vnapt or hindred, or otherwise contaminated, it is likewise vnapt, hindred and hurt. This we see verified in sleepers, which by reason of abundance of humors and concurse of vapours troubling the Phantasie, imagine many times absurd and prodigious things, and in such as are troubled with Incubus, or witch ridden, as we call it, if they lie on their backs, they suppose an old woman rides them, and fits so hard vpon them, that they are almost stifled for want of breath; when there is nothing but a concourse of bad humours, which trouble the Phantasie. This is likewise evident in such as walke in the night in their sleep, and doe strange feats: these vapours moue the Phantasie, the Phantasie the Appetite, which mouing the animall spirits, causeth the body to walke vp and downe, as if they were awake. Fracastorius lib. 3. de intellect. referres all Extasies to this force of Imagination, such as lye whole daies together in a Traunce; as that Priest whom Celsus speakes of, that could seperate himselfe from his senses when he lift, & lye like a dead man void of life and sence. Cardan bragges of himselfe that he could doe as much, and that when hee lift. Many times such men when they come to themselues, tell strange things of Heauen and Hell, what visions they haue seene as that Sr Owen in Mathew Paris, that went into St Patricks Purgatory, the Monke of Euesham in the same Author. Those common apparitions in Bede and Gregory, and Sr Bridgets revelations. Wien. lib. 3. de Lamijs cap. 11. &c. 8. reduceth, as I haue formerly said, & all those tales of Witches progresses, dauncing, riding, transformations, operations, &c to the force of Imagination, and the Divels illusions. The like effects, almost are to be seene in such as are awake: How many Chimaeras, Anticks, golden mountaines, and Castles in the ayre doe they build vnto themselues? I appeale to Painters, Mechanicians, Mathematitians. Some ascribe all vices to a false and corrupt Imagination, Anger, Revenge, Lust, Ambition, Covetousnesse, which preferres false before that which is right and good, deluding the soule with false shews and suppositions. pBernardus Penottus, will haue heresie and superstition to proceed from this fountaine, as he falsely imagineth, so he beleeueth, and as hee conceaueth of it, so it must be, and so it shall bee, Contra gentes hee will haue it so. But most especially in passions and affections, it shewes strange and evident effects: what will not a fearefull man conceaue in the darke; what strange formes of Divels, Witches, Goblins? Lauater imputes the greatest cause of spectrums, & the like apparitions to feare, which aboue all other passions, begets the strongest Imaginations, saith Wierus, and so likewise loue, and sorrow, ioye, &c. Some dye suddainly, as shee that saw her sonne come from the battle at Canna, &c. Iacob the Patriarke by force of Imagination made peckled lambs, laying peckled roddes before them. Persina, that Aethiopian Queene in Heliodorus, by seeing the picture of Perseus and Andromeda, insteed of a Blackemoore was brought to bed of a faire white child. And if wee may beleeue 230

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Bale, one of Pope Nicholas the thirds Concubines, by seeing of a Beare was brought to bed of a Monster. If a woman (saith Lemnius) at the time of her conception, thinke of another man present or absent, the child will be like him. Great bellied women whē they long, yeeld vs prodigious examples in this kinde, as Moles, Warts, Scarres, Hare-lips, Monsters, especially caused in their children, by force of a depraued phantasy in them. Ipsam speciem quam animo effigiat, faetui inducit: she imprints that stampe vpon her child which shee conceaues vnto her selfe. And therefore, Lodovicus Vives lib. 2. de Christ faem: giues a speciall caution to great bellied women, That they doe not admit of such absurd conceits and cogitations, but by all meanes avoid such horrible obiects, heard or seene, or filthy spectacles. Some will laugh, weep, sigh, groane, blush, tremble, sweat, at such things as are suggested vnto them by their Imagination. Avicenna speakes of one that could cast himselfe into a palsie when hee list, and some can imitate the tunes of Birds and Beasts, that they can hardly be discerned. Dagobertus and Sr Frances scarres and wounds, like to those of Christs, (if at the least any such were) Agrippa supposeth to haue happened by force of Imagination: that some are turned to Wolues, from Men to Women, and Women againe to Men (which is constantly beleeued) to the same Imagination; or from Men to Asses, Dogges, or any other shapes. Wierus ascribes all those famous transformations to Imagination, that in Hydrophobia they seeme to see the picture of a Dog, still in their water, z that melancholy men, and sicke men conceaue so many phantasticall visions, apparitions to themselues, and haue so many absurd suppositions, as that they are Kings, Lords, Cocks, Beares, Apes, Owles, that they are heavy, light, transparent, great and little, sencelesse and dead (as shall bee shewed more at large in our Sections of Symptomes) can be imputed to naught else but to a corrupt and false Imagination. It works not in sicke and melancholy men only, but even most forcibly sometimes in such as are found, it makes them suddainely sicke, and alters their temperature in an instant. And sometimes a strong apprehension, as Valesius proues, will take away Diseases: in both kindes it will produce reall effects. Men if they see but another man tremble, giddy, or sicke of some fearefull disease, their apprehension and feare is so strong in this kinde, that they will haue the same disease. Or if by some Southsayer, wise-man, fortuneteller, or Physition, they be told they shall haue such a disease they will so seriously apprehend it, that they will instantly labour of it. A thing familiar in China, saith Riccius the Iesuite, If it be told them they shall be sicke on such a day, when that day comes they will surely be sicke, and will be so terribly afflicted, that sometimes they dye vpon it. D. Cotta in his discouery of ignorant practitioners of Physicke cap. 8. hath two strange stories to this purpose, what fancy is able to doe: The one of a Parsons wife in Northamptonshiere, A[nn]o 1607. that comming to a Physition, and told by him that she was troubled with the Sciatica, as he coniectured (a disease shee was free from) the same night after her returne, vpon his words fell into a grieuous fit of the Sciatica. And such another example he hath of another goodwife, that was so troubled with the cramp, after the same maner she came by it, because her Physition did but name it. Sometimes death it 231

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selfe is caused by force of phantasie. I haue heard of one that comming by chance in company of him, that was thought to be sicke of the Plague (which was not so) fell downe suddainely dead. Another was sick of the Plague with conceit. One seeing another let blood, falls downe in a sowne. Another, saith Cardan out of Aristotle, fell downe dead (which is familiar to women at any gastly sight) seeing but a man hanged. A Iew in France, saith eLodovicus Vives, came by chance over a dangerous passage, or plancke, that lay over a Brooke in the darke, without harme, the next day seeing what danger hee was in, fell downe dead. Many will not beleeue such stories to be true, but laugh commonly at them, when they heare of them; but let these men consider with themselues, as Peter Byarus illustrates it, if they were set to walke vp on a plancke on high, they would be giddy, vpon which they dare secure walk vpon the ground. Many, saith Agrippa, strong hearted men otherwise, tremble at such sights, dazell and are sicke if they looke but downe from an high place, and what moues them but conceit? As some are so molested by Phantasie, so some again by Fancy alone, & a good conceit, are as easily recouered. We see commonly the Tooth-ache, Gout, Falling-sicknesse, biting of a mad Dog, and many such maladies, cured by Spells, Words, Characters, and Charmes, and many greene wounds magnetically cured, which Goclenius in a booke of late hath defended. All the world knowes there is no vertue in such Charmes, but a strong conceit and opinion alone, as Pomponatius holds, which forceth a motion of the humors, spirits, and blood, which takes away the cause of the malady from the parts affected. The like we say of all our magicall effects, superstitious cures, and such as are done by Mountebanks & Wisards. An Empiricke many times, and a silly Chirurgeon, doth more strange cures then a rationall Physition. Nymannus giues a reason, because the patient puts his cōfidence in him, which Avicenna preferres before art, precepts, and all Remedies whatsoever. Tis opinion alone, saith Cardan, that makes or marres Physitions, and he doth the best cures according to Hippocrates, in whom most trust. So diversly doth this phantasie of ours affect, turne & winde, so imperiously command our bodies, which as another Proteus or a Camelion can take all shapes; and is of such force, as Ficinus addes, that it can worke vpon others as well as our selues. How can otherwise bleare eyes in one man cause the like affection in another? Why doth one mans yawning make another yawne? One mans pissing provoke a second many times to doe the like? Why doth scraping of trenchers offend a third, or hacking of files, &c. Why doth a carcasse bleed when the murtherer is brought before it, some weekes after the murther hath beene done? Why doe Witches and old women fascinate and bewitch children, but as Wierus, Paracelsus, Cardan, Mizaldus, Valleriola, and many Philosophers thinke, the forcible Imagination of the one party, moues and alters the spirits of the other. I haue thus farre digressed because this Imagination is the medium deferens of passions, by whose meanes they worke and produce many times prodigious effects; and as the phantasie is more or lesse intended or remitted, and their humors disposed, so doe perturbations moue more or lesse, and take deeper impressions. 232

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SVBSEC. 3. Division of Perturbations. Perturbations and passions which trouble the phantasie, though they dwell betweene the confines of sense & reason, yet they rather follow sense then reason, because they are drowned in corporeall organs of sense. They are commonly reduced into two inclinations, Irascibile and Concupiscibile. The Thomists4 subdiuide them into eleuen, six in the Coueting, and fiue in the Invading. Aristotle reduceth all to pleasure & paine; Plato to loue and hatred, Vives to good and bad. If good it is present, and then we absolutely ioy and loue, or to come, and then we desire, and hope for it. If evill we absolutly hate it; if present it is Sorrow, if to come, Feare. These 4. passions Bernard compares to the wheeles of a Chariot, by which we are carried in this world. All other passions are subordinate vnto these foure, or six, as some will? Loue, Ioy, Desire, Hatred, Sorrow, Feare: All the rest, as Anger, Envy, Emulation, Pride, Iealousie, Anxiety, Mercy, Shame, Discontent, Dispaire, Ambition, Avarice, &c. are reducible vnto the first, and if they be immoderate, they consume the spirits, & melancholy is especially caused by them. Some few discreet men there are, that can gouerne themselues, and curb in these inordinate affections, by religion, Philosophy, & such divine precepts, of meeknesse, patience, and the like: but most part for want of gouernment, out of indiscreation, ignorance, they suffer themselues wholy to be led by sense, & are so far from repressing rebellious inclinations, that they giue all encouragement vnto them, leauing the raines, and vsing all provocations to further them: bad by nature, worse by art, discipline, custome, education, and a perverse will of their own, they follow on, wheresoeuer their vnbridled affections will transport them, and doe more out of custome, selfe-will, then out of Reason. Contumax voluntas, as Melanchthon calls it, malum facit, this stubborne will of ours, perverts our iudgements, which sees and knowes what should and ought to be done, and yet will not doe it. Mancipia gulae. Slaues to their severall lusts, and appetite, they precipitate, and plunge thēselues into a labyrinth of cares, blinded with lust, blinded with ambition, They seeke for that at Gods hands, which they may giue vnto themselues, if they could but refraine from those cares and perturbations, wherewith they continually macerate themselues. But giuing way to these violent passions of feare, griefe, shame, revenge, hatred, malice, &c. They are torne in peeces, as Actaeon was with his owne dogges, and crucifie their owne soules. SVBSEC. 4. Sorrowe, a cause of Melancholy. In this Catalogue of Passions, which so much torments the Soule of man, and causeth this malady (for I will breifly speake of them all, and in their order) the first place in this Irascible Appetite, may iustly be challenged by Sorrowe. An inseparable companion, The mother and daughter of Melancholy, her Epitome, Symptome, and chiefe cause: as Hippocrates hath it,5 They beget one another and tread in a ring, for Sorrow is both cause and Symptome of this Disease. How it is a Symptome shall be shewed in his place. That it is a cause all the 233

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world acknowledgeth, Dolor nonnullis insaniae causa fuit, & aliorum morborum insanabilium, saith Plutarch to Apollinus; a cause of madnesse, a cause of many other diseases, a sole cause of this mischiefe, Lemnius calls it. And so doth Rhasis cont. l. 1. Tract. 9. Gulanerius Tract. 15. cap. 5. And if it take root once it ends in despaire, as Faelix Platter obserues, and as in Cebes table may well be coupled with it. Chrysostome in his seauenteenth Epistle to Olimpia, describes it to be, a cruell torture of the Soule, a most inexplicable greefe, a poysoned worme, consuming body and soule, and gnawing the very heart, a perpetuall executioner, continuall night, profound darknesse, a whirelewind, a tempest, an ague not appearing, heating worse then any fire, and a battle that hath no end: It crucifies worse then any Tyrant, no torture, no strappado, no bodily punishment is like vnto it. T’is the Eagle without question which the Poets fained to gnawe Prometheus Heart. And no heavinesse is like vnto the heavinesse of the heart. Ecclus 25.15.16. It dries vp the bones, saith Solomon, cap. 17. Pro. makes them hollow-eyed, pale, and leane, furrow-faces, dead looks, wrinkled browes, riueled cheekes, dry bodies, It hinders concoction, refrigerates the heart, takes away stomacke, colour, & sleep; thickens the blood. Fernelius lib. 1. cap. 18. de morb. causis. Contaminates the spirits. Piso. Overthrowes the naturall heat, and perverts the good estate of body and mind, and makes them weary of their liues, cry out, howle & roare for very anguish of their soules. David confessed as much, Psal. 38.8. I haue roared for the very disquietnesse of mine heart. And Psal. 119.4. part. 4. v. my soule melteth away for very heauinesse, vers. 83. I am like a bottle in the smoake. Antiochus complained that he could not sleep, and that his heart fainted for griefe. Christ himselfe, Vir dolorum,6 out of an apprehension of griefe, did sweat blood, Mark. 14. His soule was heavy to the death, but no sorrow was like vnto his. Crato consil. 21. lib. 2. giues instance in one that was so melancholy by reason of griefe: and Montanus consil. 30. in a noble matron, that had no other cause of this mischiefe. I.S, D.in Hildesheim fully cured a patient of his, that was much troubled with melancholy, and for many yeares, but afterwards by a little occasion of sorrow, he fell into his former fits, and was tormented as before. Examples are common, how it causeth melancholy, desperation, & sometimes death it selfe. Ecclus. 38.15. Of heauinesse comes death. Worldly sorrow causeth death, 2. Cor. 7.10. Psal. 31.10. My life is wasted with heauinesse, and my yeares with mourning. Why was Hecuba saide to be turned to a Dog? Niobe into a stone? But for griefe, she was senselesse and stupid. Seuerus the Emperour died for griefe; and how many myriades besides. Tanta illi est feritas, tanta est insania luctus. Melancthon giues a reason of it, the gathering of much melancholy blood about the Heart; which collection extinguisheth the good spirits, or at least dulleth them, sorrow strikes the heart makes it tremble and pine away, with great paine: And the black blood drawne from the Spleane, and diffused vnder the ribbs, on the left side, makes those perilous hypocondriacall convulsions, which happen to them that are troubled with Sorrow.

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SVBSEC. 5. Feare. Cosen german to Sorrow is Feare, or rather a sister; fidus Achates, and continuall companion, an assistant and a principall agent in procuring of this mischiefe; a cause and symptome as the other. In a word as Virgil said of the Harpies, I may iustly say of them both, Tristius haud illis monstrum, nec saeuior vlla Pestis & ira Deum stygijs sese extulit vndis. A sadder monster, or more cruell plague so fell Or vengeance of the Gods, ne’re came from Styx or Hell. This fowle fiend of Feare was worshipped heretofore for a God amongst the Lacedaemonians,7 & most of those other torturing affections, and so was sorrow amongst the rest, vnder the name of Angerona Dea, they stood in such awe of them. As Austin de Ciuit. Dei lib. 4. cap. 8. notes out of Varro. Feare was commonly adored and painted in their Temples with a Lions head; & as Macrobius records 1. 10. Saturnaliū in the Calends of Ianuary Angerona had her holyday, to whom in the Temple of Volupia, or Goddesse of pleasure, their Augures and Bishops did yearely sacrifice; that being propitious to them, she might expell all caeres, anguish, & vexation of the mind for that yeare following. Many lamentable effects this Feare causeth in men, as to be red, pale, tremble, sweat, it causeth sudden cold and heat to come over all the body, palpitation of the heart, Syncope, &c. It amaseth many men that are to speake, or shew themselues in publike assemblies, or before some great personages, as Tully confesseth of himselfe that he trembled still at the beginning of his speech; and Demosthenes that great Orator of Greece before Philippus; It confounds voice and memory, as Lucian wittely brings in Iupiter Tragoedus, so much afraid of his auditory, when hee was to make a speech to the rest of the Gods, that he could not vtter a ready word, but was compelled to vse Mercuries helpe in prompting. Many men are so amased and astonished with feare, they knowe not where they are, what they say, what they doe, and that which is worst, it tortures them many days before with continuall feare and suspition. It hinders many honorable attempts, and makes their hearts ake, sad and heavy. They that are in feare are never free, resolute, secure, never merry, but in continuall paine, that as Vives truely said, Nulla est miseria maior quam metus, no greater misery, no racke, nor torture like vnto it, ever suspitious, anxious, sollicitous, they are childishly drooping, without reason, without iudgement, especially if some terrible obiect be offered, as Plutarch hath it. It causeth many times suddaine madnesse, and almost all manner of diseases, as I haue sufficiently illustrated in my Digression of the force of Imagination, and shall doe more at large in my Section of Terrors. Feare makes our Imagination conceaue what it list, it invit’s the Divel to come to vs, as Agrippa and Cardan avouch, and tyrannizeth over our phantasy more then all other affections, especially in the darke. We see this verified in most, as Lavater saith, Quae merunt fingunt, what they feare they conceaue

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and faigne vnto themselues, they thinke they see Goblins, Hagges, Divels, and many times become melancholy thereby. Cardan. subtil. lib. 18. hath an example of such a one, so caused to bee melancholy, by sight of a Goblin all his life after. Augustus Caesar durst not sit in the darke, nisi aliquo assidente, saith Suetonius, Nunquam tenebris evigilauit.8 And t’is strange what women and children will conceaue vnto themselues, if they goe over a Church-yard in the night, or lye, or bee alone in a darke roome, how they sweat and tremble on a sudden. Many men are troubled with future events, foreknowledge of their fortunes, destinies, as Severus the Emperour, Adrian and Domitian, Quod sciret vltimum vitae diem, saith Suetonius valde sollicitus, much troubled in mind because he foreknewe his end; with many such, of which I shall speake more opportunely in another place. SVBSEC. 6. Shame and Disgrace, causes. Shame and Disgrace cause most violent passions, and bitter panges, Ob pudorem & dedecus publicum ob errorem cōmissum saepe mouentur generosi animi, Faelix Plater lib. 3. de alienat. mentis. Generous minds are often moued with shame, to dispaire for some publike disgrace. And he, saith Philo lib. de provid. Dei. That subiects himselfe to feare, desire, griefe, ambition, shame, is not happy, but altogether miserable, tortured with continuall labour, care, and misery. And it is as forcible a batterer as any of the rest: Many men contemne the tumults of the world, and care not for glory, and yet they are afraid of infamy, repulse, disgrace, (Tul. offic, lib. 1) they can severely contemne pleasure, beare griefe indifferently, but they are quite battered and broken with reproach & obloquy. And are so deiected many times for some publike iniury, disgrace, as a boxe on the eare by their inferiour, to be ouercome of their aduersary, foiled in the field, to be out in a speech, or some fowle fact, &c that they dare not come abroad all their liues after, but melancholize in corners, and keepe in holes. The most generous spirits are most subiect to it. Spiritus altos frāgit et generosos. Hieronimus. Aristotle because hee could not vnderstand the motion of Euripus for griefe and shame drowned himselfe. Caelius Rhodiginus antiquar. lec. li. 29. cap. 8. Homerus pudore consumptus, was swallowed vp with this passion of shame, because he could not vnfolde that fishermans riddle. Sophocles killed himselfe because a Tragedie of his was hissed of the stage. Valer. Max. lib. 9. cap. 12. Lucretia stabbed her selfe, & so did Cleopatra, when she saw that she was reserued for a triumph, to avoide the infamy. Antonius the Roman, after he was ouercome of his enemy, for three dayes space sate solitary in the forepart of the ship, abstaining from all company, euen of Cleopatra her selfe, and afterwards for very shame, butchered himselfe, Plutarch vita eius. Apollonius Rhodius wilfully banished himselfe, forsaking his country, and all his deare friends, because he was out in reciting his Poems, Plinius lib. 7. cap. 23. In China t’is an ordinary thing for such as are excluded in those famous trials of theirs, or should take degrees, for shame and griefe to loose their wits. Mat. Riccius expedit. ad Sinas lib. 3. cap. 9. Hostratus the Frier, tooke that booke which Reuclin had writ 236

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against him, vnder the name of Epist. obscurorum virorum, so to heart, that for shame and griefe he made away himselfe. Iovius in elogijs. A graue and learned Minister, and an ordinary Preacher at Alcmar in Holland, was one day (as he was walking in the fields for his recreation) suddenly taken with adaske or loosenesse, & therevpon compelled to take the next ditch; but being surprised at vnawares, by some Gentlewomen of his Parish wandring that way; was so abashed, that he did neuer after shew his head in publike, or come into the pulpit, but pined away with melancholy. Pet. Forestus med. obseruat. lib. 10. obser. 12. so shame amongst other passions can play his prize. I know there be many base, impudent, and brasen-faced roagues, that will nullâ pallescere culpâ,9 be mooued with nothing, take no infamy or disgrace to heart, laugh at all: let them be proued, perjured, stigmatized, convict roagues, theeues, traitors, loose their eares, be whipped, branded, carted, pointed at, hissed, reviled, and derided, with Ballio the baud in Plautus, they reioice at it, cantores probos: ba and Bombax what care they: yet a modest man, one that hath grace, a generous spirit, one that is tender of his reputation, will be deeply wounded, and so grievously affected with it, that he had rather giue myriades of crownes, loose his life, then suffer the least diffamation of his honor, or blot in his good name. And if so be that he cannot avoide it, as a Nightingale, quae cantando victa moritur, saith Mizaldus, dies for shame if another bird sing better, he languisheth and pineth away for shame and griefe. SVBSECT. 7. Envy, Malice causes. Envy and Malice are two linkes of this chaine, and both as Guianerius Tract. 15. cap. 2. proues out of Galen, 3. Aphorism. com. 22. cause this malady by themselues, especially if their bodies be otherwise disposed to Melancholy. T’is Valescus de Taranta, & Foelix Platerus observation, that envy so gnawes many mens hearts, that they become altogether melancholy. And therefore belike Salomon, Prov. 14.13, cals it, the rotting of the bone. Cyprian, vulnus occultum. Siculi non invenêre tyranni Maius tormentum the Sicilian tyrants never invented the like torment. It crucifies their soules, and withers their bodies, makes them hollow-ey’d, pale & leane, and gastly to behold. Cyprian ser. 2. de zelo & liuore. As a moth gnawes a garment, so saith Chrysostome doth envy consume a man: to be a liuing Anatomy, a Skeleton, to be a leane and pale carcasse, quickned with a fiend. Hall in Charact. For so often as an envious man, sees another man prosper, to be enriched, to thriue and be fortunate in the world, to get honors, offices, or the like, he repines and grieues. intabescit{que} videndo 237

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Successus hominum,—supplicium{que} suum est: he tortures himselfe if his equall, friend, neighbour be preferred, commended, doe well. If he heare of it, it gaules him a-fresh, and no greater paine can come to him, then to heare of another mans well-doing, t’is a dagger at his heart every such obiect. He lookes at him, as they that fell downe in Lucians rocke of honor with an envious eye, and will damage himselfe to doe the other a mischiefe: As he did in Aesope, loose one eye willingly, that his fellow might loose both. His whole life is Sorrow, and euery word he speakes a Satyre, nothing fattes him but other mens ruines. For to speake in a word, Envy is nothing els but Tristitia de bonis alienis, sorrow for other mens good, be it present, past, or to come: & gaudium de adversis, & ioy at their harmes, opposite to mercy, which grieues at other mens mischances, and misaffects the body in another kinde; so Damascen defines it, lib. 2. de orthod. fid. Thomas 22. quest. 36. art. 1. Aristotle li 2.2. Ret. cap. 4. & 10. Plato Philebo, Tully 3. Tusc. Greg. Nic. lib. de virt. animae cap. 12. Basil. de Invidiâ. Pindarus Od. 1. Ser. 5. & we finde it true. T’is a common disease, and almost naturall to vs, as Tacitus holdes, to envy another mans prosperity: And t’is in most men an incurable disease. I haue read, saith Marcus Aurelius, Greeke, Hebrew, Chaldie authors, I haue consulted with many wise men, for a remedy for envy, I could finde none, but to renounce all happinesse, and to be a wretch and miserable for euer. T’is the beginning of Hell in this life, and a passion not to be excused. Euery other sinne hath some pleasure annexed to it, or will admit of an excuse, envy alone wants both. Other sinnes last but for a while, the gut may be satisfied, anger remittes, hatred hath an end, envy neuer ceaseth. Cardan lib. 2. de sap. Divine and humane examples are very familiar, you may run and read them, as that of Saul and David, Cain and Abel, angebat illum non proprium peccatum, sed fratris prosperitas, saith Theodoret, it was his brothers good fortune gauled him. Rachel envied her sister being barren Gen. 30. Iosephs brethren him Gen. 37. Dauid had a touch of this vice, as he confesseth Psal. 73. and Ieremy, and Habacucke, they repined at others good, but in the end they corrected themselues. Psal. 75. fret not thy selfe &c. Domitian envied Agricola for his worth, that a private man should be so much glorified. Cecinna was envied of his fellow-citizens, because he was more richly adorned. But of all others women are most weake, ob pulchritudinem inuidae sunt faeminae? Musaeus: aut amat, aut odit nihil est tertium. Granatensis. They loue or hate, no medium amongst them. Agrippina like a woman if she see her neighbour, more neat or elegant, richer in tires, Iewels, or apparell, is enraged, & like a lionesse sets vpō her husband, & rails at her, scoffes at her, and cannot abide her: so the Roman Ladies in Tacitus did at Salonina Cecinnas wife, because shee had a better horse, and better furniture, as if she had hurt them with it, they were much offended: And as our Gentlewomen doe at all their meetings, one repines or scoffes at anothers brauery and happinesse. Myrsine an Atticke10 wench, was murthered of her 238

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fellowes, because she did excell the rest in beauty. Constantine Agricult. lib. 11. cap, 7. euery Village will yeeld such examples. SVBSECT. 8. Aemulation, Hatred, Faction, Desire of revenge. OVt of this roote of envy, spring those ferall branches of faction, hatred, livor, emulation, which cause the like grievances, and are, serrae animae, the sawes of the soule: or as Cyprian describes it, a moth of the soule, a consumption, to make another mans happinesse his misery, to torture, crucifie, and execute himselfe, to eat his owne heart. Meat and drinke can doe such men no good, they doe alwayes grieue, sigh and grone, day and night, without all intermission, their brest is torne asunder: and a little after. Whosoeuer he is, whom thou doest emulate and envy, he may avoide thee, but thou canst neither avoide him, nor thy selfe, wheresoeuer thou art, he is with thee, thine enemy is euer in thy brest, thy destruction is within thee, thou art a captiue, bound hand and foot, as long as thou art malitious, and envious, and canst not be comforted. It was the divels ouerthrow: and whensoeuer thou art affected with this passion, it will be thine. And yet no passion so common. Και κεραμολις κεραμει κοτεει και τεκτονι τεκτων, Και πτωλυς πτωχω φθονεει και ύοιδος ύoιδω.11 A Potter emulates a Potter, One Smith envies another: A begger emulates a begger, A Singing man his brother. Every society, corporation, and private family is full of it, it takes hold almost of all sorts of men, from the Prince, to the Plowman, euen amongst Gossips it is to bee seene; scarce three in a company, but there is siding, faction, emulation betwixt two of them, some simultas, jarre, private grudge, hart-burning in the midst of them. Scarce two Gentlemen dwell together in the countrey, but there is emulation betwixt them and their servants, some quarrell or some grudge betwixt their wiues, or children, friends, and followers, some contention about wealth, gentry, precedency, &c. by meanes of which, like that frog in Aesope, that would swell till she was as big as an oxe, but burst her selfe at last: they will stretch beyond their fortunes, callings, & striue so long, that they consume their substance in Law sutes, or otherwise in hospitality, feasting, to get a few bumbast titles &c. to outbraue one another they will tire their bodies, macerate their soules, and begger themselues. Honest emulation in studies, in all callings is not to bee disliked, t’is ingeniorum cos, as one cals it, the whetstone of wits: As Themistocles was roused vp with the glory of Miltiades, Achilles trophyes moued Alexander: but when it is immoderate, it is a plague, and a miserable paine. What a deale of money did Henry the VIII, and Francis the first King of France, spend at that famous interview?12 and how 239

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many vaine courtiers, seeking each to outbraue other, spent themselues, and died beggars. Adrian the Emperour was so galled with it, that he killed all his equals: so did Nero. This passion made Dionysius the tyrant, banish Plato, and Philoxenus the Poët, because they did excell, and eclipse his glory, as he thought. When Richard the first, and Philip of France, were fellow souldiers together, at the siege of Achon in the Holy land, and Richard had approoued himselfe to be the more valiant man, and al mens eyes were vpon him, it so galled Philip, Francum vrebat Regis victoria, saith mine Author,13 tam aegrè ferre Richardi gloriam vt carpere dicta, calumniari facta: that he cavelled at all his proceedings, and fell at length to open defiance, he could containe no longer, but hasting home, invaded his territories, and professed open warre. Hatred stirres vp contention, Prov. 10.12. and they breake out at last into immortall enmity, virulency, and more then Vatinian hate and rage, to persecute one another, their friends and followers, and all their posterity, with bitter taunts, and hostile warres, scurrile invectiues, libels, calumnies, fire and sword, and the like, and will not be reconciled. Witnesse that Guelfe and Gebelline faction in Italy: that of the Adurni and Fregosi in Genoa: that of Cneus Papirius, and Quintus Fabius in Rome: Caesar and Pompey: Orleans and Burgundy in France: Yorke and Lancaster in England. Yea this passion so rageth many times, that it subverts not men only and families, but euen populous cities, & flourishing kingdomes, are brought into a wildernesse by it. This hatred, malice, faction, and desire of revenge, invented first all those racks and wheeles, strappadoes, brasen bulles, severall engins, prisons, Inquisitions, seuere lawes to macerate and torment one another. How happy might we be, and end our time with blessed dayes, and sweet content, if we could containe our selues, and as we ought to do, put vp iniuries, learne humility, meeknesse, patience, forget and forgiue, as in Gods word we are inioyned; compose such small controversies amongst our selues, moderate our passions in this kinde, and thinke better of others, as Paul14 would haue vs, then of our selues: be of like affection one towards another, and not avenge our selues, but haue peace with all men. But being that we are so peevish and perverse, so factious and seditious, so malicious, envious: we doe invicem angariare, maule and vexe one another, and torture, and disquiet our selues, precipitate our selues into that gulfe of woes and cares, and aggravate our misery, and melancholy, and heape vpon vs hell and eternall damnation. SVBSEC. 9. Anger a cause. Anger, a perturbation, which carries the spirits outwards, and prepares the body to melancholy, and manesse it selfe: Ira furor brevis est15: and as Piccolomineus accompts it one of the three most violent passions. Arateus sets it downe for an especiall cause, and so doth Senecae ep. 18. lib. 1. of this malady. Magninus giues the reason, ex frequenti irá supra modum calefiunt, it ouer-heates their bodies, and if it be ouer-frequent, it breakes out into manifest madnesse, saith Ambrose. T’is a knowne saying, furor fit laesâ saepiùs patientia, the most patient spirit that is, if he be often provoked, will be incensed to madnesse, it will make a divell of a Saint. And therefore Basil belike in his Homily de Irâe, cals it tenebras rationis, 240

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morbum animae, & daemonem pessimum: the darkening of our vnderstanding, and a bad angell. Lucian in Abdicato To[me]. 1, will haue this passion to worke this effect of madnesse, especially in old men and women, anger and calumny (saith he) trouble them at first, and after a while breake out into open madnesse: many things cause fury in women, especially if they loue or hate ouermuch, or envy, or be much grieued, or angry, these things by little and little lead them on to this malady. From a disposition, to an habit, for there is no difference betwixt a mad man, and an angry man, in the time of his fit: Anger, as Lactantius describes it lib. de Irâ Dei ad Donatum, cap. 5. is saeua animi tempestas &c. making his eyes sparke fire, and stare, his teeth gnash in his head, his toung stutter, his face pale, or red, and what more filthy imitation can be in a mad man. They are voide of reason, inexorable, blinde, and like beasts and monsters for the time, say and doe they know not what, curse, sweare, raile, fight, and what not? what can a mad man doe more? as he said in the comedy, Iracundiâ non sum apud me.16 If these fits be immoderate, or continue long, or frequēt, without doubt they prouoke madnes. Montanus consil. 21. had a melancholy Iew17 to his patient, he ascribes this for a principall cause, Irascebatur leuibus de causis, he was easily moued to anger. Aiax had no other cause of his madnesse; and Charles the 6. that Lunaticke French King, fell into this misery, out of the extremity of this passion, and desire of revenge and malice, incensed against the Duke of Britaine,18 he could neither eate, drinke, nor sleepe for some dayes together, and in the end about the Calends of Iuly 1392. he ranne mad vpon his horse back, drawing his sword, and striking all came neare him promiscuously, and so continued all his life. Aemil. lib. 10. gall. hist. Aegesippus de excid. vrbis Hieros. lib. 1. cap. 37. hath such a story of Herod, that out of an angry fit, became mad, and leaping out of his bed, killed Iosippus, and plaid many such Bedlam prankes, all the court could not rule him, for a long time after: sometimes he was sorry & repented, much grieved for that he had done, by and by mad againe. In hote cholerick bodies, nothing so soone causeth madnesse, as this passion of Anger, besides many other diseases, as Pelesius obserues cap. 21. lib. 1. de hum. affect. causis. Sanguinem imminuit, fel auget19: and as Valesiu controverts. med. controvers. lib. 5. contro. 8, many times kils them quite out. If this were the worst of this passion, it were more tolerable, but it ruines and subverts whole townes, citties, families, & kingdomes; Nulla pestis humano generi pluris stetit, Seneca de Ira lib. 1. no plague hath done mankinde so much harme. Looke in all our histories, and you shall almost meet with no other subiect, but what a company of hairebraines haue done in their rage. We may doe well therefore, to put this in our precession amongs the rest: from all blindnesse of heart, from pride, vaine-glory, and hypocrisie, from envy, hatred and malice, anger, and all such pestiferous perturbations, good Lord deliuer vs.

Notes 1 A member of an ancient Hindu sect that was given to asceticism and contemplation. This is a reference to a passage in the Greek historian Plutarch’s biography of Alexander.

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2 The Spanish Humanist Luis Vives (see Volume 1). 3 απαθής (apathís), meaning dispassionate, cool, indifferent or impassive. 4 Those who support the views of the Dominican theologian and philosopher Saint Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274). 5 A reference to the Greek physician Hippocrates’s Aphorisms. 6 The Man of Sorrows. 7 The Spartans. 8 ‘He never liked to lie awake in the dark, without somebody to sit by him’. 9 ‘to turn pale at no charge’ (Horace). 10 From the region of Athens. 11 This is part of a didactic poem, Works and Days, written by the ancient Greek poet Hesiod (c. 700 BCE). 12 A reference to the meeting of the monarchs of France and England at the Field of the Cloth of Gold in 1520. 13 Iohannes Heraldus lib. 2. cap. 12. de bello sacro. 14 1 Romans 12. 15 Ira furor brevis est (‘Anger is a short insanity’) is a legal maxim in Latin. 16 A quoatation from the Roman comedian Terence: ‘I am so angry that I am not myself’. 17 Jew. 18 Britanny, a region in France, not to be confused with Britain. 19 ‘When blood diminishes, bile rises’.

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32 J ACQUES F ERR AND (C .15 75-C.1623), ERŌ TOM ANI A O R A TREAT ISE DISCOURS I NG O F THE ESSENCE, CAUS ES , SYMPTOMES, PROGNOS TI CKS , A ND CURE OF LO VE, OR E ROT IQUE MEL AN CHOLY Trans. Edmund Chilmea (Oxford: Edward Forrest, 1640), pp. 217–37

Jacques Ferrand was a French physician famous for his treatise on lovesickness, Traicte de l’essence et guerison de l’amour ou de la melancholie erotique (first published in French in 1610, with a revised edition in 1623 and an English translation in 1640). Ferrand listed two reasons for writing this book. Firstly, he found that his colleagues in the medical profession ‘handled this disease of LoveMelancholy, indifferently, as the other kindes of Melancholies and Madnesses’ and that, as a result, their patients suffered. Secondly, he wanted ‘to confute the erroneous and impious opinion of some Physitians … who although they are Christians, the most of them, doe notwithstanding prescribe for the cure of this disease, Lust, and Fornication’. The work is a psychological exploration of ‘erotic melancholy’ or lovesickness and Ferrand devotes a significant portion of the work to exploring possible ‘cures’ for the emotion. In 1620, it was condemned by the episcopal tribunal of Tours in France as impious and immoral. …

Chapter. XXIX. Of the Prevention of Love, and Erotique Melancholy. For the Prevention of any Disease, it is necessary, saith Galen, in the first place, to remove the Disposition of the Body, which is nothing else but the Internall cause of the Disease: and which cannot be rooted out, except the Externall cause, that 243

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nourishes and preserves it, bee first taken away. He then that undertakes the Cure, or Prevention of Love-Melancholy, must first, saith Hippocrates, have a perfect knowledge of the nature of this Disease, that so he may apply such remedies, as shall bee proper both for the Disease, Nature, and Age of the Patient, and also agree with the Seasons, and Times of the yeare. Otherwise he does but strike at the disease, Andabatarum more,1 Hoodwink’d. And because that Love findes its passage through the Eye, and so seazeth on the Braine: If he intend to cashiere it utterly, he must take heed, that no tempting Objects present themselves unto it: least happily it fall out here, as it did heretofore to Menelaus,2 who (as Galen relates it) when that Troy was now taken, and he had fully resolved with his own hands to punish his Wives Adulteries: he no sooner saw her, but that presently hee let his Sword fall out of his hand, and ran to her and threw himselfe into her Embraces, and so by the power of her Beauty his fury was suddenly changed into as Passionate a Love. Thus Galen: But the Scholiast upon Stesichorus reports the story otherwise, and saies, that it was not Menelaus himselfe, but the Souldiers that hee sent to stone Helen. However it were, we see commonly, that the Falling out of Lovers, kindles anew their Love. Amantium Irae Amoris redintegratio est.3 And as a Candle, that is almost out, recovers its full light againe, if it be but held downward a litle while: in like manner Love, that is almost extinguished, if it bee inclined and bent never so litle to its Object, it takes fire afresh. Quàm facilè Jrati verbo placantur Amantes? Although a Lover rage, & chafe; even now One faire word from his Mistris smooths his brow. And if the party, that is the cause of his Disease, be very beautifull: the Preservatives that are used must then be the stronger. For it is in this case, as in the cleaving of Wood: and the Beauty of the Party be loved, as the Axe the Wood, seemes in like manner, as it were, to cleave asunder the Lovers Heart; and the Sighes are as the Noise that followes the Cleaven stroke. But, as by doubling the force of the blowes, although the Wood is at length cleft, yet by Reaction the Axe also hath his edge turned, and is spilt: In like manner faire Ladies, after that they have perhaps with the force of their Beauty made an entrance into the Hearts of their Lovers, oftimes goe off with a crack in their Honour. Some Authors, of no meane note, considering the admirable Effects that Beauty worketh, have beene of Opinion, that there was a certaine Transmission of Spirits from the body of the person beloved into that of the Lover: which did by this meanes produce a Reciprocall and Mutuall Love. And for this cause the Roman Ladies of old were wont to weare about their Neckes a kinde of Wanton Figure, which they called Fascinum. And perhaps in Imitation of them, the Spanish Ladies doe at this day weare a piece of Corall, or Ieat, made in the forme of a Hand closed together with the Thumbe thrust out betwixt the Forefinger and the Middlefinger,

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which they call Higo per no ser oiadas. The Greekes call all such toies as these, τα βασκανια:4 and they were wont to make use of them, to the end they might be secured from the malice of Envious Persons. The Arabians, speaking of the Cure of Love, doe advise us to take Occasion to discourse of the party that is the cause of this disease, in the hearing of the Patient; and to reckon up all her Imperfections & vices, making them more, & greater then they are; and to set forth her vertues also in the colours and shape of Vices. Et mala sunt vicina bonis: Errore sub illo, Pro vitio, Virtus crimina saepe tulit.

Ill, beares the shape of Good. Thus oft ’tis seene, That Vertue hath for Vice mistakē been.

Quàm potes, in peius dotes deflecte puellae.5 Or else, saies Avicen,6 let the Physitian give this in charge to some Old woman who will be a great deale fitter to disparage and extenuate the good qualities of his Mistresse: alwaies provided, that the Patient himselfe be not Naturally a bad minded Lascivious person: for this will then enflame his desires the more. For every one Naturally loves their Like. But if she be very faire, and that it cannot be denied, without the suspicion of apparant malice: then must they endeavour to lessen her worth, by comparing her with those he himselfe knowes to be fairer. Ʋos quo{que} formosis vestras cōferte Puellas Incipiet Dominae quem{que} pudere suae.7 And they must labour by probable Arguments to prove unto him, that that which he judgeth to be comely and handsome in her, is, in the judgement of those that are more quicksighted, both foule, and deformed. As for example, if she have a handsome nose, of a reasonable size, and some what sharp: let them tell him then she is Scold, Luxurious, Wanton, and a meere limbe of the Divell; and that, according to the judgement of Aristotle. And then commend unto him the litle Nose, with Catullus; or the Hawkes-nose, with the Persians; or the great Nose, with Albertus, for an Argument of a good nature. So likewise, if she have a gray sparkling Eye; say then, that she is a foole, lustfull, inconstant, and prowd: and then commend as much on the other side, with Hestod, Homer, Pindarus, Iuvenall, and Catullus, those that have black Eyes; taking the same course in the rest of her good parts. For the Conditions that are required by the Naturalists in an Absolute Beauty, are so many; as that there cannot be found in the whole world a person so accomplished with all the necessary circumstances of Beauty, but that each part will afford sufficient matter for a Criticall Eye to finde fault with. Which Zeuxis, the famous Painter, knowing right well, and being desired by the Crotonians to represent unto them the beauty of Helen; he would not undertake it, unlesse they would suffer him first to see all the fairest women in the Country naked, that so he might take from each of them, that which he judges to be most excellent.

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Besides, this Iudgement of Beauty, differs according to the variety of Fancie in the beholders. Ovid would have on faire, and litle: Hector made choice of on that was browne, and of a bigger size; for so was Andromache. Turpis Romano, Belgicus, ore, color. The Italian desire to have her thick, well set, and plumpe: the German preferre one that is strong: the Spaniard loves a wench that is leane; and the French, one that is soft, delicate, and tender: but the Indians, a black one. Hippocrates, and after him, Celsus, commend a tall stature, in young people: but dispraise it in old. And for this cause the Ancient Poets fained, that Beauty was the daughter of Iris and Admiration: because that as the Sun, reflecting upon a watry Cloud, deceaves our Eyes, making us beleeve we see diverse various colours, which are not there, but only in Appearance: In like manner is Beauty, nothing else, but a false flash of Raies, which dazle our eyes, when it appeares from among the cloudes of so great variety of Allurements. Whence we may conclude, that the rarest and most excellent Beauties that are, are not such indeed, as they seeme to be; but onely appeare to be so, through the sole defect of the beholders, and through the weaknesse of their Eyes; who commonly judge that woman to be Beautifull, which is of a white complexion, and soft and tender: cleane contrary to the judgement of Galen, who saies, that those are the signes of a False and Counterfeit Beauty; and that true and Native Beauty consists in the just composure, and Symmetry of the Parts of the Body, a due proportion of flesh, & the goodnesse of the Colour. Now he that desires to know whether a body be Proportionable, or no, he must, according to our Anatomists, lay him all along, and cause him to extend his armes and legs equally as farre as he is able: and then taking the Navill for the Center, and measuring him round about, that part that either goes beyond the Circumference of this circle, or else reacheth it not, is to bee accounted Improportionable. Vitruvius saies, that the length of the face from the end of the chinne, to the top of the forehead, is the tenth part of a mans height. If the Body be will set, and strong; it is seven times as long as the Head; & eight or nine times as long, if the body be slender and delicate. The eye-browes joyned together, make up the circle of both the eyes: and so is there a certaine proportion in all the rest of the parts of the Body: as you may read in Equicola, and le sieur de Ʋeyries, in his Genealogy of Love. Yet notwithstanding, the Indians love those that have thicke lips: the Peruvians judge those the most beautifull that have great rolling eyes; and the Mexicans those that have litle fore-heads. If you cannot perswade the Lover, and make him confesse, that his Mistresse wants these Conditions, that are required to an Absolute Beauty: then must you endeavour to deprive her of that Moving beauty, which is called, a Good Grace; and consists in the due Composure of the Members and parts of the whole Body: or else of the beauty of the Mind; without which, according to Plato, Plutarch, and Galen, that of the body is nothing worth. And then you may prove to him both

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by examples, and Authority of good writers, that for the most part, those women that are faire, are also as Common: as likewise those that are unhandsome and deformed, are altogether as troublesome, and not to be endured: according to that of the Comicke Poet. If a man, saith he, marry an ugly deformed woman; she must needs be quickly loathsome unto him: and he cannot take any delight either to be in her Company, or so much as to come into his own house. But if he get himselfe a handsome wife; his neigbours commonly will have as much to doe with her, as himselfe. So that Marriage seemes to bring along with it unavoideably one of these great inconveniences. Rara est concordia Formae, At{que} Pudicitiae. Beauty, and chastity seldome meet in one person. For beauty is as it were a kind of prey, that hath continually a thousand in chase of it. And it is as a silent Letter Commendatory also of itselfe, Formosa facies, muta Commendatio est. Which seduceth, and over-reacheth the judgement of the beholder, leaving a strong impression behind it. But it is withall as a Letter written upon the Sand, soon defaced. Florem decoris singuli carpunt dies. Each day blots out some of it’s beautifull Characters. But for as much as, in the opinion of all Physitians, that have written of the cure of this Malady, it is necessary to represent unto the party affected, the foulenes of his errour, and the greatnes of the offence, if he persist obstinately therein: I would have this great charge left to Divines, who are farre fitter to performe it, then Physitians are. Yet it so fals out oftimes, that these admonitions doe not worke any good at all upon them, but rather incense them, and make them the more headstrong and obstinate in their follies: according to that of the Poet Euripides, as he is cited by Galen. Venus admonita, relaxat nihil. Si namque cogas, amplius intendere appetit. Admonitus autem amor magis premit. Love’s deafe to Counsell. And if you by force Attempt to stop, you rather speed it’s course. But Plautus goes farther yet, and saies that,

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Amor mores hominum moros & morosos efficit. Minus placet, magis quod suadetur: quod disuadetur, placet. Cum inopia, cupias: quando copia est, tum non velis. Ille qui appellit, is compellit: Ille qui consuadet, vetat. Insanum est malum, in hospitium devorti ad Cupidinem. Love is litle better then meere Madnesse: for they that are possest with it, are so humorsome, and Inconstant in their desires, that they know not themselves, what they would have: what they are perswaded to, that they cannot endure to heare of: and what they are disswaded from, that they make choice of. What is denied them, that they earnestly desire: and when ’tis offered them, then they refuse it. &c. And the reason of this distemperature in the Mind of a Lover, is, saith Aristotle, because that he is wholy governed by his Passions, which stop and hinder all passage to his reason, which only is able to set him againe in the right way to Vertue, from which he is now gone astray. He that lives, saith he, according to his Passiōs, wil never hearken to any man that shall reprove him, or disswade him from it: neither indeed if he should hearken to it, would he be able to understand it. So Tibullus sware many times, and promised his friend, that he would never look upon his Mistresse agen: yet for all that he could not forbeare. Iuravi quoties rediturum ad limina nunquam, Cum bene iuraui, pes tamen ipse redit. Oft have I sworne, I’de never see her more. Yet still my feet betray me to her doore. The breaking of their oathes in these matters, they make no account of at all; presuming perhaps upon that false Opinion that the Heathens held, concerning perjury in Lovers, which they believed the Gods easily pardoned in them, as being in that state, like litle foolish children, without the use either of Iudgement or Reason. We must then, as P. Aegineta, and Avicen advise us, watch for a fit oportunity to give them some gentle admonitions. For in time, saith Galen, Passions may weare away: but not alwaies, whensoever a man pleaseth. For it is here, saith Chrysippus, just as it is with those that runne in plaine ground, who can stop themselves in the midst of their course whensoever they please, because that the weight of their own bodies drives them on no farther. But if they take their course downe some Precipice or steep hill; they cannot then stop themselves from falling, when they please, the weight of their owne bodies still forcing them on farther. So in like manner, when as Reason is the cause of the motions of the mind; it is an easy matter to rule and order them as we list: But when either Lust, or Anger, (Passions which are very intractable and unruly, and may therefore be fitly resembled to the heavinesse of the body falling downe a Precipice,) joyne their forces together;

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they cannot so easily be check’t on the suddaine, and at pleasure, but must bee gently dealt withall, and corrected by degrees. We must then watch our opportunity for to fit our selyes with this, and all other remedies. For opportunity is the very soule and perfection of Physique. We must also endeavour, if possibly we can, to convert his Love either into late, or Iealousy, by perswading him that his Mistresse doth not love him so well, as she makes him beleive she does; and that all her entermaintments, favours, kisses, dalliances and embraces, are only Baites, and Enticements, to keep him in continuall slavery: otherwise, she would more easily and willingly yeild to satisfy his desires: for that true Love is, to wish all good to the party beloved that may cause either his contentment or profit, and not their owne only; and so likewise to be greived and troubled at the evills and afflictions of the person they love, more then for their owne. And if the party affected with this Malady, be a woman, we may then adde to this, the Dissembling of men, (which is as frequently found in men, as Inconstancy is in women;) together with the danger they incurre of suffering shipwracke in their honour. And therefore Phidias the Painter, intending to intimate as much unto this sexe, was wont to paint their Goddesse Venus, with her foot upon a Tortoise: not so much to denote their false hood; as some have conceived; as to warr them to have a care of their Honour. For the Shee-Tortoise in receiving the Males dares not turne her selfe upon her backe, because the Male having enjoyed his pleasure, would leave her thus, a prey for the Eagle, by reason that she is not able to recover her Naturall posture agen; thus preferring her life and safety, before her pleasure. In like manner ought women to take notice of the danger wherein Men commonly leave them, when they have once enjoyed them: exposing them, not only to the Eagle, which is the Divell; but also to the Crowes, which are the slanderers, and such as will be prowd to be the Trumpeters of their Infamy and dishonour. And it is reported by Historians, that the Milesian wenches were by this means cured of their Love-Madnesse. For the Senate having forbidden them to murther themselves, and threatning them, that if they did, their naked bodies should be exposed to the open view of all men: they changed their Minds, and by this meanes were deterred from running mad up and owne the streets, or being their owne Executioners. I should likewise advise men in this case, to represent unto themselves the strange disasters and misfortunes that have befallen to most wise, most valiant, and most worthy men, that have bin besotted with these follies of Love. If this is not enough, let them contemplate the imperfection and filth of women. Ille quod obscenas in aperto corpore partes Viderit, in cursu qui fuit, haesit Amor.8 It is reported of Hypatia, the daughter of Theon the Geometrician, that she was so learned, and well accomplished in all points, that she farre surpassed, both for

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vertue and learning, all those of Alexandria; where she also publickly professed Philosophy, in the time of Honorius and Arcadius the Emperours. It so fortuned, that a scholler of hers was so surprized with the beauty both of her body, & mind, that he grew almost mad for love. But at one day this young Inamorato was very earnest in his suit to this faire Damosell, & importuning her to cure him of his disease by satisfying his desires: she (being, as it seemes, not ignorant of the Precepts of Physicke in this case,) Panno menstruos indidem prolato; ecce, inquit, adolescentule quod tantopere adamas, ubi nil nisi Immundicies habetur.9 Which the young man had no sooner seen, but his heat was presently allayed, and himselfe cured of his Love-Melancholy. Gordonius attributes so great power & efficacy to this kind of Remedy, or rather Physicall stratagem; that he conceives that he that cannot be cured of his Malady by this, is to be given over for desperate, and Incurable: And, to use his owne words, si ex his amare non dimiserit; sanè non est homo sed est Diabolus Incarnatus. Fatuitas igitur sua secum sit in perditione. If this cure him not, (faith he) then he is certainly no man, but a Divell Incarnate: and therefore the Divell take him and his folly too. Yet by Gordons leave; although the French have so great an opinion of his authority, that they have a Proverbe, Que le Medecin qui vas ans Gordon, va sans baston; the Physitian that goes without Gordon, goes without his staffe: yet I cannot assent unto him in this. And therefore will we now search out for some other more are remedies, which we shall derive from the three Fountaines of Physicke, namely Dieticall, Chirurgicall, and Pharmaceuticall.

Notes 1 Andabatarum more, Latin for ‘in the fashion of the Andabatæ.’ The Andabatæ were a type of gladiator who, accodering to Roman authors, fought blindfolded. Hence the Lation expression Andabatarum more pugnare (‘to fight like the Andabatæ’). 2 Menelaus, a king of Mycenaean (pre-Dorian) Sparta. 3 The falling out of lovers, is the renewing of love. 4 The evil eye. 5 ‘As much as you can, disparage your girl’s charms’, Ovid, Remedia Amoris (The Cure for Love). 6 Avicenna (Ibn Sina), a famous Persian physician and polymath. 7 Another quotation from Ovid, Remedia Amoris. 8 Another quotation from Ovid, Remedia Amoris: ‘Open wide the windows of her room, and in the broad light of day, observe the blemishes of her body’. 9 ‘She brought out of the place in question a menstrual cloth; “Observe, young man,” she said, “at what you so much desire, in which there is nothing apart from filth.”’

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Nicolas Coeffeteau was a French Dominican theologian and historian who rose to become preacher at the court of the King of France and, briefly before his death, bishop of Marseilles. In 1620 he published a book (tableau des passions humaines, de leurs causes et de leurs effets) that offered its readers a view of the workings of the mind or soul. …

Chapter 1 Of Choler. Of all the passions of the soule, there is not any one that takes such deepe root, or extends her branches farther then Choler; wherof, neither age, condition, people, nor nation, are fully exempt. There are whole Countries which liuing vnder a sharp & rough climate, are not acquainted with pleasures: There are others, who contenting themselues with those benefits which nature presents vnto them, are not enflamed with any ambition. Some there be, to whom misery is familiar, as they fear not any accidents of fortune. But there is not any, ouer whom Choler doth not exercise her power, and shew the excesse of her rage: Yea, she enflames whole kingdomes and Empires; whereas the other passions doe onely trouble and agitate priuate persons. Wee haue neuer seene a whole Nation surprized with the loue of one woman. It was neuer foūd, that a whole City hath beene transported with a desire to heape vp treasure: Ambition doth puffe vp but certaine spirits. But we see Cities, Prouinces, and whole States, enflamed with Choler, and transported by this fury, with a publicke conspiracy of great & small, young and olde, men, and children, Magistrates, and multitude: we see Commonalties, whom this fury hath incensed, runne all to Armes, to reuenge a disgrace, or a wrong, which they pretend hath beene done 251

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them. Wee haue also seene great and powerfull Armies, which haue bene the terror of the world, ruine themselues by this fury, which hath thrust them into mutiny against their Commanders. Wherefore if there be any passion which is pernicious vnto man-kind, it is this, which seemes neither to haue bounds nor limits, nor any shew of reason. It shall bee therefore fit to know the nature, properties, and effects thereof; to the end, wee may finde out some remedy, to diuert the miseries which shee brings into the world. Let vs begin by the Definition, which giues a full light of the Essence of the thing, and makes vs to know perfectly. Choler is an ardent passion, which vpon the apparence there is to be able to reuenge our selues, incites vs to a feeling of a contempt and sensible iniury, which we beleeue hath been vniustly done, either to our selues, or to those we loue. Whereby it appeares first, that Choler is accompanied with a heate, which is framed and ingendred in vs, for that this passion enflames the blood and spirits, which are about the heart, by meanes of the gall, which in this heat exhales it selfe, and ascends vnto the braine, where it troubles our imagination. This heate differs from that which proceedes from loue, for that the heate which is found in loue, tending to the thing beloued to vnite it selfe with it, is mixt with a certaine sweetenesse, so as the Philosophers compare it to the moderate heate of the ayre or blood. Wherefore we say, that sanguine complexions are most capable of loue, & that the bounty of the liuer wheras the blood is framed, induceth to loue. But the heate of Choler is boyling, full of bitternesse, and accompanied with sharpenes, which tends to the destruction of the obiect which it pursues, and is properly like to the heate of a great fire, or to adust choler extraordinarily mooued, which consumes the subiect whereunto it is fixed, and therefore the Philosophers maintaine, that it proceedes from the gall. It appeares also by the Definition of Choler, that she hath alwayes for obiect the particular persons which haue wronged vs. Wherein she differs from hatred, which extends to a multitude of men. As for example, wee detest all murtherers, all theeues, all poysoners, and all slanderers: euen as wee abhorre all serpents, vipers and venemous beasts. And therefore it is not sufficient to satisfie our Choler, that he that hath done vs wrong fall into some disaster, which might suffice to giue satisfaction to our hatred: But moreouer (to giue vs full contentment) hee must know that we haue procured him this crosse, and that wee are the authors of the reuenge and afflictions which he endures. So Vlysses hauing put out the eye of Cyclops, dissembled his name no longer, as he had done before, but would make himselfe knowne vnto him; as if he had not bene sufficiently reuenged of this monster, vnlesse hee had let him know that he was the author of his disaster. We learne also by the same definition, that to incense vs to Choller, it is necessary, that he who is the obiect haue done vs wrōg; or to some one whō we loue, or that belongs vnto vs. As for example, wee are discontented with those that wound our reputation, which attempt against our liues; which crosse our pleasures, or vndertake any thing against our kinsfolkes or friends: But wee cannot bee angry with him which causeth a Iew to be put vnto 252

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the chaine at Constantinople, or a Moore to be whipt at Rome; for that the outrage done vnto these persons doth nothing concerne vs. But if it doe casually happen that one man is angry against another, hauing receiued no cause of distaste from him, only by a certaine antipathy and contrariety of humors; the reason is, for that in this naturall antipathy, he that is angry against the other, conceiues in his imaginatiō that hee is able to do him some wrong, or at the least he hath such a distaste of him as it is troublesome vnto him to looke on him. So as this antipathy supplies the place of an iniury, and workes the same effect that the imagination did to haue receiued some wrong. Wee gather also from the same definitiō, that to excite Choler we must imagine that wee are able to execute the reuenge whereunto we aspire: And therefore wee dare not be angry, or at the least verie lightly, against kings, and great personages that haue wronged vs; for that wee know their authority protects them from our reuenge. Yea there hath bene a father, whose son a great King hauing slaine in the middest of his cups with the shot of an arrow, supprest his griefe in such sort (seeing hee could not reuenge it) as forbearing to complaine of this monstous cruelty, hee commended the Princes dexterity in shooting. But we may say, that this actiō sauored more of flattery then of constancy, For the last obseruation we must remember that the causes which excite Choler are not alwayes true, but many times are such as we frame in our owne imaginations; for this Passion with her other defects hath also that euill, that she is witty to finde out meanes to cloake her violence and fury. As it appeared in that Roman, who transported with this fury, supposed three crimes to put three innocents to death, vnder some colour of Iustice. By that which we haue formerly sayd, it may be gathered that Choler is alwayes accompanied with some kind of pleasure, which proceeds from the hope we haue to reuenge the wrong which hath beene done vs. For there is a content to promise vnto our selues to bee able to attaine vnto that which wee desire passionately; whereas no man wisheth for those things which he thinkes are aboue his power. Wherefore as he that is incensed against any one, pursues a reuenge whereunto hee thinkes hee may attaine, this hope fills his soule with ioy, and giues him a singular content; wherefore Homer makes Achilles to say, that Choler disperseth it selfe in the hearts of generous men, with a sweetnes which exceeds that of hony. But this great content doth not only arise from the hope wee haue to bee able to reuenge our selues; but it also proceeds from the working of our imagination, which thinking continually of the same obiect of reuenge, breeds in vs a pleasure like vnto that which they feele that haue delightful dreams, and which take pleasure in their vaine apparitions. Yet we must remember that Choler is also full of griefe and bitternesse, for that it propounds the iniury receiued, the which shee cannot easily disgest, presupposing that it is accompanied with some notable contempt which tends to the impayring of his honor and reputation. So as the sweetnesse which is found growes from the opinion of reuenge; and the bitternesse proceeds from the conceite of the iniury which we cannot endure. Finally, as our Choler 253

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is inflamed by the contempt and bad opinion which they seeme to haue of vs; as there are diuerse kinds of contempt, so it may grow from diuerse subiects. For many times although the contempt be not accompanied with any iniury, making only a shew that they do not hold vs in such esteeme as we thinke wee are worthy of, this simple contempt prouoketh vs to Choler, holding our selues wronged, for that wee are not honored as we thinke wee haue deserued. As if we should yeeld to a King all the honors of the world, and yet forbeare to giue him the title of a King, this were sufficient to enflame his Choler: At it appeared in Alexander,1 to whom Darius hauing written a letter full of great and large offers, but had forgot to giue him the title of King; this generous spirit bare it so impatiently, as in the end of that which he sent for an answere, hee added for the last conclusion of all their conferences by writing, Finally, when thou writest vnto me, remember that it is not only to a King, but euen to thy King that thou writest. The which hee added for that hee had defeated Darius in battaile. In truth he that yeelds not to any one the honour that is due vnto him, makes shew to contemne him, and that he deserues not the honor which he doth enioy: For that if hee regarded him as hee ought, hee would not seeke to diminish those honors which all the world besides yeeld vnto him. And therefore we may prouoke any one to Choler by our silence, for that it may bee a signe of our contempt. But the wrong wee receiue from those which depraue vs openly, and dishonor vs either in deed or word without any cause, is more hard to disgest. For that he which doth this outrage without any subiect, makes a visible demonstration that he doth not esteeme vs: it being most euident that when as wee hold any good regard of a man, we are careful not to offend him without cause; yea wee endeauor to insinuate our selues into his friendship. There is another kind of contempt which prouokes Choler more then that whereof wee haue spoken; as when any one takes a pleasure to wrong vs and to crosse our dessignes, reaping no profit by the crosses which he giues vs, but the contentment to haue crost vs, and to haue hindred the course of our intentions. For it is an apparent signe of a wonderful contempt, seeing that he wrongs vs in a thing whereof hee reapes no profit but the discontent hee giues vs, & withall he shewes to haue an opinion that wee are not able to hurt him; otherwise he would apprehend to wrong vs vpon so weake a subiect: and that hee attends no kind of goodnesse from vs; for if hee did hope to reape any profit by our friendship, hee would seeke it and cherish it by all good offices, and not take that liberty to discontent vs. So as hauing so many testimonies of contempt, and of the little esteeme hee makes of vs, we thinke wee haue iust cause to bee moued, and to reuenge our selues of him. But when as this contempt proceeds to outrages, and that any one without cause seekes to blemish our reputation by scandalous reports made in companies: Then our Choler hath no bounds, but is inflamed beyond measure, and makes vs burne with desire to reuenge so great an affront. In like manner he, who without prouocation doth vs wrong both by word and deed, and who dissembles not his bad disposition, but doth publish it in all places, makes shew that hee doth wonderfully contemne vs. For as he is not ignorant, that 254

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so sensible an iniury deserues reuēge, seeing that he makes no difficulty to doe it, but in despight defames vs in all companies where he comes; hee shewes plainely how basely he esteemes vs, and that hee thinkes wee are either too faint-hearted to vndertake, or to weake to execute the reuenge, which so sensible an affront deserues. In the meane time we suppose that hee which hath wronged vs in this manner, doth it for his pleasure, hauing not giuen him any apparent subiect of discontent: for if it were to repell a former iniury which hee had receiued from vs, it were no more a contempt or an outrage, but a reuenge which he would take of vs. But you must not wonder at that which we haue said, that there are some people, which take a delight to commit outrages: and the reason is, for that naturally men cannot endure that any one should exceede them in those things wherein they take delight: yea, they desire to excell those whom they thinke are competitors with them in that which they vndertake. Wherefore if they encounter any one that is able to oppose himselfe against thē, they contend with him, and vpon the first occasion doe him some affront, to the end they may shewe how much they exceede him in power. And therefore yong men, and such as are rich and powerfull, doe most commonly fall into this excesse. For young men, and such as haue their blood hot and boyling, are wonderfully ready to commit insolencies: and as if they wanted better imployments, they busie thēselues to doe harme; yea, vnto those which haue not offended them. Whereof wee haue great and notable examples in the life of Alcibiades,2 who scandalized the whole City of Athens, by the insolency of his actions. Rich men in like manner, and such as are powerfull, are full of this vaine ambition to seem great, by the outrages they doe to their inferiours, imagining that this insolency is a marke of their greatnesse. For they presuppose that they are farre aduanced aboue those, whom they dare so visibly wrong. And therefore they take a certaine kinde of content, to do them some affront, which is also the ordinary end that they propound vnto themselues, which take a delight to wrong others. Finally, we must remember, that men are commonly moued to Choler, when as they see themselues contemned in any of those manners which we haue related. And if we shall seeke the cause in the Center, wee shall finde that the reason is, for that men desire passionately to see themselues honoured, and they beleeue, that such as are inferior vnto them, bee it in nobility, power, vertue, or any other eminent quality, are bound to yeeld them all sorts of duty and respect. Rich men also will bee reuerenced and respected by the poorer sort, who are inferior vnto them in the goods of fortune. And hee that is indowed with singular eloquence, desires that such as haue not attained to the like perfection, should acknowledge the aduantage he hath ouer them. In like manner men of authority and command, will haue such as are subiect to their gouernement, honour them with their seruice. And if their inferiours faile to yeeld them the honor which they think is due vnto them, they cannot endure this iniury, but fall into rage; which makes them to seeke all occasions to punish this contempt. 255

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And therefore it was truly said, That the indignation of a King is great and fearefull; for that when as a great king is incensed against any one that is not of his quality, although he temper and moderate his choler for a time, yet hee smothers it in his brest, and is neuer satisfied vntill hee hath made him feele the effects of his power, that durst presume to offend him. Wherefore an Ancient said, that Choler encountering with a great power, was like a thunder-bolt, which breakes in peeces whatsoeuer stands in its way. But not onely Kings, but euery priuate person is impatient to see himselfe contemned by those which are his inferiours. And to speake truth, there is nothing but the wisedome of God, and the Law of Iesus Christ, that can pull out of our soules, this feeling of a contempt, or of an iniurie receiued vnworthily. For a conclusion of this chapter, we will obserue, that Philosophers make three kindes of Choler: and that as among serpents, there are Aspickes, Vipers, and Dragons, whose poyson encreaseth daily; so they hold opinion, that of these diuerse kindes of Choler, some are accompanied with more violence, and shew more fire then the rest. For there is a kinde of Choler, whose motions are sudden and prompt and which enflame vpon the first occasions, and the first obiects which present themselues. Aristotle calls those that are subiect to this passion, sudden, actiue, cholerick, and adust; for that this suddennesse to bee mooued, riseth from the abundance of adust choler, or from the gall. But as it is kindled suddenly, so it is quencht with little paine, like vnto the waues of the Sea, which rise and breake at the same instant There is another kind of Choler, which takes roote, and is fashioned in the soule, by a long continuance of time, during the which, man doth represent vnto himselfe the forme of that party which hath wronged him, and preserues the memory of the iniury he hath receiued. Aristotle tearmes these men sharpe, bitter, and secret: Such was the choler of Achilles, which the death of so many braue Princes slaine at the siege of Troy, during his despight, could hardly mollifie. There is a third kinde (although it differs not much from the second) the which doth wholly transport men, torments them perpetually, and neuer giues them any rest, vntill they haue satisfied their reuenge. Aristotle calls those that are agitated-with this frenzy, violent, outragious, and insupportable. The first is found in the best dispositions, but the two other are signes of bad inclinations. To conclude, there is not any one of them, but we should auoyde and flie from, as a poyson which kills charity, which should shine in all the motions and actions of Christians. And if we are at any time surprized, let vs bee angry, but sinne not; let Nature worke her first effect, but let vs stay her violence, and aboue all, let not the Sunne go downe vpon our wrath.

Chapter 3. Of the Effects and remedies of Choler. Among all the Passions that trouble & transport the soule of man, there is not any accompanied with so great violence, which shewes such brutishnesse, or that produce such fatall and tragicall effects, as Choler; which seemes properly to 256

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be the spring frō whence flowes all the miseries and ruines which happen in the world. For whereas other passiōs, as Loue and Ioy, Desire and Hope, haue certain beams of sweetnesse, which makes them pleasing; Choler is full of bitternes, & hath no sweeter obiects thē punishments, blood and slaughter, which serue to glut her reuenge. These be her delights, these are her ioyes, these are the sweetest and most pleasing spectacles which she can behold. But if you desire to see how shee is the fountaine of all the horrors which are dispersed ouer the world, and make it desolate: reade in histories of the sacking of Townes, of Prouinces ruined and made deserts, obseruing the euersion and ouerthrow of Empires; Diademes troden vnder foote; Princes basely betrayed, and smothered by poyson; Kings murthered; great Commanders in Warre cast into chaines; and seruing as an example of humane miserie. Consider that whole multitudes haue beene put to the sword, or made Gallyslaues; whole Natiōs rooted out; the Temples (wheras Diuinity dwels) prophaned; the Altars beaten down; and whatsoeuer was most holy and most reuerend among men, vnworthily violated, and they shall find that all these tragicall spectacles are the effects of that cruell and inhumane fury. But setting apart the horror of the effects which shee produceth generally, let vs obserue the miseries whereof she is the cause in priuate persons that suffer themselues to bee transported with this Passion. First then if the saying of Physitians be true, that of all the infirmities wherewith we are afflicted, there are none worse nor more dangerous then those which disfigure the face of man, and which make it deformed and vnlike vnto himselfe; we must conclude by the same reason, that of all the Passions of man, there is not any one more pernitious, nor more dreadfull then Choler, which alters the gracefull countenance and the whole constitution of man. For as furious and mad men shew the excesse of their rage, by the violent changes which appeare in their bodies; euen so a man transported with Choler giues great signes of the frenzie that doth afflict him: his eyes full of fire and flame which this Passion doth kindle, seeme fiery & sparckling; his face is wonderfully inflamed as by a certaine refluxe of blood which ascends from the heart: his haire stands vpright and staring with horror, his mouth cannot deliuer his words: his tongue falters, his feete and hands are in perpetuall motion. He vomits out nothing but threats, hee speakes of nothing but blood and vengeance: Finally, his constitution is so altered, and his lookes so terrible, as he seemes hideous and fearefull euen to his dearest friends. What must the soule then be within, whose outward image is so horrible? Wherefor an Ancient sayd, that Choler was a short fury: And another maintained, that all violent Choler turned into madnesse: The which we may confirme by that which is written of Hercules, who growing furious knew not his owne wife and children, vpon whom he exercised his rage, tearing them inhumanely in peeces; euen so they ouer whom Choler hath gotten absolute power, forget all affinity and friendship, and without any respect make their owne kinsfolkes and friends feele the effects of their fury. For it is a Passion which growes bitter against all the world, which springs aswell from loue as from hatred, and is excited aswell in sport as in the most serious actions. 257

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So as it imports not from what cause it proceeds, but with what spirit it incounters: As it imports not how great the fire is, but where it falles; for the most violent cannot fire marble, whereas the smallest sparkles will burne straw. Hereby wee gather, that this Passion domineers principally in hot and fiery constitutions; for that heate is actiue and wilfull, and giues an inclination to these kinds of violence, making vs to grow bitter easily, yea vpon the least subiect that may be. Finally, to returne to our first purpose, Choler doth not only disfigure the body, but many times it ruines it wholy: For some being extraordinarily moued, haue broken their veines, and vomited out their soule with the blood; yea they which haue slaine themselues, owe their misfortune to Choler which hath forced them to this last fury: hauing then left such cruell signes of rage vpon the body, she assailes the mind, shee doth outrage to the soule, and smothers reason in man, and like vnto a thicke cloud, will not suffer it to enlighten him, and by this meanes fills him with disorder and confusion. So as hee begins to shut his eare to all good aduice, he will no more heare speake of that which may helpe to mollifie his courage, which is full of bitternesse and violence; so as taking pleasure in his owne affliction, he abhorres all remedies, and flies the hand of the Physitian which might cure him: yea in this transport hee is offended at any thing, and imitates the sauage beasts, whom the most cheerefull colours thrust into fury: An innocent smile, a shaking of the head which signifies nothing, a glance of the eye without dessigne, is capable to draw him to the field. But how often haue wee seene this inhumaine fury dissolue euen the most sacred friendship vpon very friuolous subiects? hath shee not prouoked dearest friends to duells, and made them serue as spectacles of infamy both to heauen and earth, for quarrells imbraced without any ground? It is then very apparant, that this Passion is not only infamous, but also most wretched, seeing that vnder an weake pretext of reuenge she doth precipitate men into most horrible villanies, & makes them tread all diuine and humaine lawes vnder feete, to satiate her insolency and rage. Wherein doubtles she is more to bee blamed then all the other Passions wherewith the soule of man is afflicted: For that the other Passions haue this property, that euen at the very instant when as they are as it were in the height of their transport, giue way somewhat to reason, and yeeld in some sort vnto her commandements, when as shee presents her self to pacifie them; Whereas Choler doth like vnto Marriners which are amazed or corrupted, and will giue no eare to the voice of their Pilot: Or as mutinous souldiers, which will not heare the aduice of their Leaders: Yea shee despises truth if shee opposeth against her rage; and although she come to know the innocency of the party whom shee persecutes, yet she holds obstinacy more honorable then repentance: So as nothing shalbe able to make her desist from her vniust and violent pursuites. And continuing this Iniustice against himselfe, shee sometimes constraines the most couetous profusely to cast away their most pretious treasure, and to make a heape of their wealth, and then to set fire on it; and many times also shee forceth ambitious men to refuse and reiect the honours which they had passionatly affected before their despight: who doth not then see that this Passion, (more then any other) quencheth the light of reason? 258

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The cause is, for that of all the Passions, whether they haue the good for their obiect, or regard the euill, those cause the greatest perturbations in our soules which are the most violent; there is not any that doth exceed or equall Choler in violence, which doth inflame the whole blood, and all the spirits which flowe about the heart, which is the most powerfull organ of Passions: by reason whereof there followes a wonderfull disorder not onely in the sensible and corporeall powers, but euen in the reason. For although she vse no corporeall organs in her proper functions, yet to produce them forth shee hath need of the powers of the sences, whose actions are crost and disquieted by the trouble which riseth in the heart and the whole body; by reason whereof Choler doth darken, yea hinder the whole light which she striues to cast forth: whereof wee haue two apparant signes, for that the members, wherein the image of the heart doth most shine, as the tong, the eies, & the countenance, feele the most violent force of this fury. It is true that Aristotle sayth, that Choler doth in some sort giue eare to reason: But that must be vnderstood touching the report which she makes of the iniury receiued, wherein shee takes a singular content; but shee giues no care vnto her, but reiects her aduertizements in the measure and moderation which shee ought to hold in the reuenge. So as in truth there must bee some kind of reason to prouoke Choler; for that men which are stupid & dull are not capable of these motions; but when this Passion is fully inflamed, then she doth wholy darken reason. And as the same Philosopher sayth, that they which are full of wine and drinke, are not mooued with any thing for that their reason being drowned in wine, they are not capable to ballance an iniury, or to obserue a contempt: But such as are not fully drunke, are moued to Choler, for that there remaines some weake beames of iudgement to discerne that which hath an apparance of iniury or outrage; but this Passiō riseth in them without subiect and without any great occasion, for that their reason is captiuated by the wine which hath gotten the maistry. Euen so in the beginning of Choler, reason may giue some light to the Irascible power; but whē she hath gotten the absolute cōmand, and is become Mistresse of the senses, Reason is darkened, and is of no vse in a soule thus transported. But we must not conceiue that this mischief is absolutely incurable, but wee must rather imagine, that as Helleborum hath power to cure mad men, so there are remedies against Choler. The most powerful are those which are taken from the Law of God, who teacheth vs nothing but patience, charity, mildenesse, humanity and sufferance. But wee will rest satisfied to set downe the instructions of Philosophy, which may serue to this effect: First of all, Philosophers aduise vs to entreate this passion as they do monsters and serpents, whom they striue to smother as soone as they are disclosed: for they will that man should haue a care to the beginning of Choler, which many times ariseth from so light an occasion, and so poore a subiect, as it is vnworthy a great spirite should bee transported therewith And as it is easie to quench a fire of straw in the beginning, but if we suffer it to take holde of more solid matter, it passeth all our labour and industry, and makes a pittifull ruine: euen so, he that will obserue Choler from the beginning, seeing it beginne to fume and kindle for some light quarrell and small offence; it is easie for him 259

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to suppresse it, and to stay her course. But if shee be once setled and beginnes to swell, and that he himselfe blowes the bellowes; that is to say, if hee stirres it vppe and enflames it, it will bee hard for him afterwards to quench it, whereas he might easily haue done it before by silence, Wherefore as Pilots foreseeing a tempest, doe vsually retire themselues into a road or vnder the Lee of some rock, before the storme come; so he that feeles the first motions of Choler, should haue recourse to reason, and oppose it to the passion, to controule her violence. For the first meanes to vanquish Choler as an vniust tyrant, is not to yeelde any obedience to her, nor to beleeue her in any thing she saith or doth, to inflame vs to reuenge, we finde in other Passions, that the liberty wee giue them, brings some ease. As when young men which are enflamed with Loue, goe in maske, make dances, combates, or feasts, in fauour of the party they loue; all this giues some ease vnto their passion: and when as they suffer those that are afflicted to weep in the midst of their afflictions, the teares they powre forth, carry with them a part of their griefe, But Choler hath nothing of al this, she growes bitter, and is incensed by the liberty wee giue her, and is enflamed the more in that we giue way to her fury. And as they that are subiect vnto the falling sickenesse, hauing any signe or beginning of their fit, retire themselues suddainly, and take all the remedies which may diuert so troublesome an accident, or at least, hide the shame; so they which see themselues transported with Choler, should retaine themselues, and striue to moderate their passion, and diuert the infirmity which seekes to seaze vpon them. Wherevnto they should the more willingly resolue, for that all other passions doe but draw men to euill, but this doth precipitate them; those doe shake them, but this doth ouerthrow them; Those when they haue the vpper hand, suffer themselues to bee curbed, but this beeing mistresse will obey no law; like vnto the thunder-bolt, which being once falne from the cloud wherein it was enclosed, can no more bee stayed. Other Passions stray from reason, but Choler treades it vnder feete, and leads it as it were, in triumph. Wherefore by all these considerations, men should be carefull not to fall into the hands of so furious a mistresse. The second remedy that may be giuen, is to represent the defects of this passion, & the miseries wherewith she is accompanied; the which are such, as it seemes they carry the Palme of vice, and to bee more detestable then all other crimes, wherewith the soule may be polluted. Auarice, in truth, is a shamefull greedinesse of getting, but yet it sometimes gathers together that, which falls into the hands of a good man that succeedes a miser: whereas Choler scatters all. For what expences, what profusiō doth she not to attaine vnto the reuenge which shee doth meditate? How often doth shee make a man ruine his owne fortune? the husband to separate himselfe from his wife; the sonne abandons his father; the people arme against the Magistrate; and he which aspired to honour, checks himselfe, and giues ouer his pursuite. Choler is also worse then voluptuousnesse, for that lusts make men to plunge themselues in particular plesures; whereas Choler makes them of so bad a disposition, as he is delighted in another mans miseries. It is much more wicked then 260

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Enuy: for that if Enuy desires to see any one miserable, it is Choler which procures the misery. But we must not continue our great desires in the reuenges of Choler, for generous spirits are as it were, impenetrable to offences; whereas they that cannot resist, shew their weakenesse; whereby we see that women, children, sicke folkes, and olde men are most subiect to these motions and impressions. The highest and goodliest part of the world, and neerest to the firmament and starres, is neuer couered with clouds; and in whose bosome there is neuer any haile, rain, windes, nor other tempests congealed: there is neuer any thunder nor lightning, although the thunder-bolts fal from thence vpon the earth. In like manner, a spirit truely eleuated, a generous soule, is alwayes quiet, moderate, and graue, neuer suffering it selfe to bee transported with the furious motions of Choler; shee represents vnto her selfe the defects of this passion, shee sees that they which abandon themselues vnto it, disrobe themselues of all shame, and lose all reason: for who is he that in the middest of his despight & wrath, seems not to haue renounc’d all moderation, and modesty? Can hee refraine his tongue, or containe the other parts of his body in their duty? But how many great personages haue we seene expose themselues to bee a scorne of the world by the excesse of their Choler? Witnesse that famous Prince, who wrote letters to a Mountaine, and who caused a Riuer to bee whipped, which had beene an obstacle to his passage. Wherefore as in seeing the shamefull motions of them that are drunke, we conceiue a certaine horror of the excesse of wine: so great spirits seeing the deformity of Choler, endeauour what they can not to bee infected with a vice, which is as it were a reproach to humane Nature. But to preuent it, wee must first flye all affaires that are aboue our reach, lest that finding our selues opprest, as with an insupportable burthen, griefe kindle our waywardnesse and Choler. We must also flye the company of quarrelsome persons, lest by a certaine contagion they poyson vs with their Passions. Drunkards prouoke to drinke, voluptuous men mollifie the most couragious, and auarice poysons those that haunt the couetous. In like māner, cholericke men infuse into vs their troublesome humours, or at the least in frequenting them, wee expose our selues to the dangers of quarrels with them; whereas conuersing with quiet men (besides the good example) we are freed from that danger. Philosophers produce other remedies to cure Choler, aduising them that haue any inclination to this passion, to leaue al great and waighty occupations of the minde, yea, the most serious studies: and they exhort them to imitate those that are weake sighted, who ease themselues in fixing their eyes vpon the most cheerefull colors; aboue all things they coniure them to auoyde the occasions and subiects which are giuen thē, to remember that it is not expedient for man to see all nor to heare all, and that wee must let many things passe which are spoken against vs; for that many times hauing neglected them, it is a kinde of iustification. That which prouokes vs to Choler (say they) is the opinion we haue to haue beene outraged; but we must not so suddenly giue credit to this opinion, nor presently receiue the reports which are made vnto vs, how cleere and euident soeuer the proofes of the 261

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iniury may seeme vnto vs; for there are many things which hauing a shew of truth, are notwithstanding false; so as wee must reserue one eare to heare the reasons of him that is accused, or else shut them both to the reporters, who many times take a delight to sowe discord, and to breed quarrells for their owne pleasures. And doubtles we may many times repent to haue run rashly to reuenge, whereas we haue cause to bee glad to haue deferred it. For the same reason wee must flie suspitions and iealousies, which many times incense vs, as well as the iustest subiects of Choler; for that taking in ill part a looke, a smile, or some other light action, wee conceiue a despight, and runne to field against those that are innocent, and which had no desire to wrong vs. Finally of things that offend vs, some wee haue by report, others wee haue either seene or heard ourselues. As for those which are reported wee must not easily giue credit vnto them, considering the practizes which are vsed at this day to abuse the most credulous: A flatterer will seeke to insinuate himselfe into fauour by accusing an innocent; he wil suggest an outrage & make a bad discourse to perswade that hee hath heard it with griefe of mind; another will seeke an occasion to dissolue the most sacred bonds of friendship: Another full of venome & poyson will desire to haue the sport of a quarrell, and will bee glad to bee spectator of a combate which he hath kindled, so as he be none of the party. It is then a notable lightnesse to condemne a friend suddenly before he be heard, and without an exact knowledge of the matter whereof he is accused; and it is a prodigious iniustice to bee incensed against him before that hee know who accuseth him, or what crime is imposed vpon him. As for those things whereof we our selues are witnesses, we must cōsider the disposition & will of those that haue committed them; if it bee a young man, let vs impute it to his age and beare with his youth. Is it a father? Hauing receiued so many other benefits from him, it is reason wee should endure, and that remembrance of things past should mollifie our present bitternesse; and we must duely consider with our selues whether hee hath not iust cause to entreat vs with that rigor, whereof wee now complaine. If it be a woman, this sexe doth not alwayes follow the motions of reason, and her weakenesse should serue her for an excuse. If they bee persons subiect to a greater power, it may be they haue bene forced, and being solicited by such as they could not disobey, would you then bee angry against necessity? another may offend vs after that he hath bene outraged by vs: and what wonder is it if hee requite vs with the like? If he be a Magistrate or a Iudge from whom wee pretend to haue receiued some iniustice, his sufficiency must bee of more weight then our priuate opinion, and wee should rather accuse our owne crime then suspect him of corruption. If it bee a King or Prince, that punisheth some malefactor, we must beleeue that hee doth it iustly: But if hee oppresse an innocent, we must not complaine, but giue way to the miseries of humane nature, remembring that the weaker are subiect to the lawes of mighty. If it bee a bruite beast or a peece of timber or stone that hurts vs, we must beware that we become not more stupid then sencelesse things, thinking to reuenge our 262

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iniuries of them. If it be a good man, we should not thinke that he had any will to hurt vs, beeing confident of his innocency. If hee bee a wicked man, why are wee amazed if the effects resemble the cause? Moreouer if we thinke that wee are wrongfully opprest, let vs remember that many times wee thinke that vniust, which is not so in effect: This proceeds from too great a loue which wee beare vnto our selues: and in a word, it is ignorance or insolency that thrusts vs into Choler, neuer remembring that humane nature (like vnto a field full of weeds and thornes) brings foorth spirits that are ingrate, trecherous, enuious and wicked. Hee that shall duely consider this, will not easily giue way to Choler. These are parts of the remedies which Philosophers propound against this furious Passion. There are others which were too long to relate; and to say the truth, most of them are rather remedies of Emperickes which palliate the euill, then solide medicines which cure our Passions. The soueraigne remedy is to cast our eyes vpon the examples of patience which the seruants of God and the Saints haue taught vs in this world, and especially to fixe them vpon those which the Sonne of God hath left vs, who being outraged by men did not curse them; being persecuted, hee did not threaten his excutioners; being crucified, hee prayed for his enemies; and who in the end by a Philosophy farre different from that of the world, hath put our saluation in his crosse, our triumphs in his reproches, and our glory in his punishments.

Notes 1 i.e. Alexander the Great, who defeated the Persian king Darius. 2 An Athenian statesman, orator, and general in the fifth century BCE.

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34 R E NÉ DES CARTES ( 1 5 9 6 – 1 6 5 0 ) , TH E PASSIONS OF THE S OULE IN THREE BOOKS THE FI RS T, TR E ATING OF THE PAS S I ONS I N G E N ERAL L, AND OC CAS I ONALLY O F THE WHOLE NAT URE OF M AN. THE SECOND, OF TH E NUM BER, A N D ORDER OF T HE PAS S I ONS , A N D THE EXPLICAT I ON OF THE SIX P RIMITIVE ONES . THE THI RD, O F PART ICULAR PAS S I ONS (London: J. Martin, and J. Ridley, 1650), pp. 45–54

The French philosopher René Descartes is considered to be one of the giants of early modern European philosophy. Completed in 1649, his book The Passions of the Soul was the result of Descartes’ correspondence with Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia. Descartes expounded on the subject of the passions, including happiness. The French philosopher argued that although passions are not innately harmful, one must know them and learn to control them to protect one’s capacity to understand reality. In the following excerpt, Descartes sets out to categorise the passions. …

The Passions of the Soul. The second part. Of the number, and order of the Passions, and explication of the six chief, or Primitive.

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The 51th Article. What are the first causes of the Passions. It is knowne by what hath formerly been said, that the utmost, and neerest cause of the Passions of the Soul, is nothing but the agitation, by which the spirits move the little kernel in the middle of the braine. But this is not sufficient to distinguish them from one another: it is necessary therefore to seek after their originalls, and examine their first causes. Now, although they may sometimes be caused by the Action of the Soul, which determines to conceive such or such objects: as also by the meere temper of the body, or by the impressions accidentally found in the brain as it oft befalls that a man feels himselfe sad, or merry, not knowing upon what occasion: it appears neverthelesse by what hath been said, that the same may bee excited also by the objects which move the senses, and that these objects are their most oridinary, and principall causes: whence it followes, that to find them all out, it is sufficient to consider all the effects of these objects. The 52 Article. What is the use of them, and that they may be numbered. Furthermore, I observe, that the objects which move the senses, excite not divers Passions in us, by reason of so many diversities in them, but meerly because they may severall wayes hurt or profit us, or else, in generall, be important to us; and that the use of all the Passions consists onely in this, that they dispose the Soul to will the things which Nature dictates are profitable to us, and to persist in this will; as also the very agitation of the spirits, accustomed to cause them, dispose the body to the motions that further the execution of those things. Wherefore to calculate them, we are only to examine in order, after how many considerable manners our senses may be moved by their objects. And I will here make a generall muster of all the principall Passions according to order, that so they may be found.

The order, and Numeration of the Passions. The 53 Article. Admiration. When the first encounter of any object surprizeth us, and we judge it to be new, or far different from what we knew before, or from what we supposed it should have been, we admire it, and are astonished at it. And because this may fall out before we know at all whether this object be convenient or no, me thinkes admiration is the first of all the Passions. And it hath no contrary, because if the object presented. Have nothing in it that surprizeth us, we are not a whit moved at it, and we consider it without Passions.

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The 54 Article. Estimation, Contempt, Generosity, or Pride, and Humility, or Dejection. To Admiration is annexed Estimation or contempt according to the greatnesse, or smallnesse of the object we admire. So too, we may either esteem of, or contemne our selves, from whence come first the Passions, afterwards, the habits of Magnanimity, or Pride, and Humility, or Dejection. The 55th Article. Vereration, and Disdaine. But when we esteem or contemn other objects, which we consider as free causes, capable to doe either good or hurt, from Estimation comes Veneration, and from meere contempt Disdain. The 56th Article. Love, and Hatred. Now; all the precedent Passions may be excited in us, and we not any way perceive whether the object that causeth them is good or bad. But when a thing is represented to us as good in relation to us, that is, as being convenient for us, this breedes in us love to that: and when it is represented to us as evill or hurtfull, this excites hatred in us. The 57th Article. Desire. From the same consideration of good, and evill, arise all the Passions, but to ranke them in order, I distinguish of the time, and considering that they encline us more to look after the future, than the present, or part, I begin with desire. For not onely than when a man desires to acquire a good which he yet hath not, or eschew an evill which he conceives may befall him; but when he desires onley the conservation of a good, or the absence of an evil, which is as far as this Passion can extend it self, it is evident that it alwayes reflects upon the future. The 58th Article. Hope, Fear, Jealousie, Security and Despaire. It is sufficient to thinke that the acquisition of a good, or the avoiding an evil is possible, to sbe incited to desire it: but when a man considers further, whether there be much or small probability that he may obtaine what he desires, that which represents much, excites Hope in us, and that which represents small, excites fear: whereof Jealousie is one Sort. And when Hope is extreame it changes its nature, and is called Security or Assurance; as on the contrary, extream fear becomes Despaire. The 59th Article. Irresolution, Courage, Boldnesse, Cowardice, Affright. And we may hope, and fear, though the event we expect depends no wayes on us: but when it is represented to us as depending on us; there may be a staggering 266

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about the election of meanes, or the execution of them. From the first proceeds Irresolution, which disposeth us to debate, and take councell. This last, Courage or Boldnesse opposes, whereof Emulation is one sort. And Cowardice is contrary to Courrage, as Scaring, or Affright to Boldnesse. The 60th Article. Remorse. And if a man were resolved on any Action, before the Irresolution be taken off that breedes Remorse of conscience: which looks not on the time to come, as the other precedent Passions, but the present, or past. The 61 Article. Joy, and Sadnesse. And the consideration of a present good excites Joy in us, that of an evill, sadnesse, when it is a good or an evil, represented as belonging to us. The 62 Article. Derision, Envy, Pitty. But when it is represented to us as belonging to other men, we may either esteem them worthy, or unworthy of them: and we esteeme them worthy, that excites in us no other Passion but joy, seeing it is some good to us that we see things fall out as they should doe. There is only this difference in it; the joy which comes from good is serious: whereas that which proceedes from evil is accompanied with laughing and derision. But if we esteeme them unworthy of it, the good excites Envy, the bad Pitty, which are sorts of Sadnesse. And it is to be noted that the same Passions which relate to goods or evills present, may also oftimes relate to that which are to come, forasmuch as the opinion a man hath, that they will come, represents them as present. The 63th Article. Satisfaction of a mans selfe, and Repentance. We may also consider the cause of good or evill, aswell present as past. And the good which hath been done by us gives us, an inward satisfaction, which is the sweetest of all the Passions: whereas evil excites repentance, which is the bitterest. The 64th Article. Good-will, and Gratitude. But the good which hath beene by others, causeth us to bear Good-will to them, although it were not done to us: and if it be done to us, to Good-will, we adde Gratitude. The 65th Article. Indignation, and Wrath. In the same manner, evil done by others, having no relation to us, breeds only in us Indignation against them: and when it relates to us, it moves wrath also. 267

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The 66th Article. Glory, and Shame. Moreover, the good which is, or hath been in us, in reference to the opinion, other men may have of it, excites glory in us: and the evil, shame. The 67th Article. Distaste, Sorrow, and Lightheartednesse. And sometimes the contiuance of a good causeth wearinesse, or Distaste whereas that of evill allayes Sorrow. Lastly, from good past, proceeds Discontent which is a sort of Sorrow; and from evil past, Lightheartednesse a sort of Joy. The 68th Article. Wherefore this Numeration of the Passions, is different from that, commonly received. This is the order which seemes best to me for reckoning of the Passions. Wherein I know very well, I digresse from the opinion of all who have written before me: but I doe it not without great cause. For they deduce their Numeration thus: they distinguish in the sensitive parts of the soul two appetites, the one they call concupisscible, the other Irascible. And because I understand not any distinction of parts in the Soul, (as I said before) me thinkes it signifies nothing, unlesse that it hath two faculties, one to desire, another to be angry; and because it hath, in the same manner, faculties to admire, love, hope, fear, and also to admit into it every one of the other Passions, or to doe the Actions, whereunto these Passions impell them, I see not what they meant by attributing them all to Desire, or Anger. Besides, their Catalogue comprehends not all the principall Passions, as, I beleeve, this doth. I speak here onely of the principall, because one might yet distinguish many more particular ones; and their number is indefinite.

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35 JA KOB BÖ HM E (1575 – 1 6 2 4 ) , A C O NSOL ATORY TREATI S E OF THE FOUR COMPLEXI ONS , THAT IS, AN INSTRUCTIO N I N THE TIME OF TEMPTAT I ON FOR A SA D AND ASSAULTE D HEART SH E WI NG WHERE-FROM S ADNES S N ATURALLY ARISETH , AND HOW TH E ASSAULTING HAPPENETH: HE R ETO ARE ANNEXED S OM E C ONSOL ATORY SP EECHES E XCEEDING PROFI TABLE F O R THE ASSAULTED HEARTS & SOULS, WRIT TE N . . . MARCH 1621 (London: H. Blunden, 1654)

Jakob Böhme was a German shoemaker, philosopher and Lutheran Protestant theologian. Despite his lack of a formal education, Böhme became a prolific writer and mystic and has been described as one of the first German philosophers. In this work, he seeks to offer his readers an explanation for the origins of the emotion of the sadness that can grip the soul of individuals. The ‘four complexions’ are the old Galenic ‘humours’ – phlegmatic, melancholic, choleric and sanguine. While Boehme’s use of this ancient medical theory to illuminate the human condition is interesting, what is more significant is Boehme’s close observations of vulnerability and weakness in humans. These considerations were based on his

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own previous life experience as well as his observations of fellow men and women over the course of his life. …

Chapter I. Of the causes of fear or sadness: what the astonishment and anguish is. [about spirituall things.] All sadness and fear, where with a man terrifies and amazeth himself, is in his inward man from the soul; for the outward Spirit which hath his original from the Starrs and Elements is not in this sort troubled, because he lives in his Mother which bore him: but the poor soul is with Adam entred into a forein harbour, viz. Into the Spirit of this world, wherewith the beautifull creature is veild and captivated as in a darksome prison. Now the Spirit of this world hath four sorts of lodgings, wherein the pretious jewell is shut up. Of these four, there is but one principally manifest to one man; as ‘tis with the four Elements, which every man hath in himself, and is himself the same being, except his soul, which is not of that Essence, though it lie as a prisoner in it; and of these four lodgings, or Images, one only hath the predominance in his life; the names of them are as followeth; • • • •

1. Cholerick. 2. Sanguine. 3. Phlegm. 4. Melancholy.

1 The first, viz. the Cholerick is of the feavers property, causes a stout courage, hasty anger, swelling pride, self-willedness, mindlesness of others; This image shines after the outward world, in a side-light, labours after the power of the Sun, and will alwayes be a Lord. 2 The second, viz. the Sanguine, is after the nature of Air, subtill, friendly, cheerfull, yet not of a stout courage: it is mutable, and easily moved from one thing to another, receives naturally the Starry properties and knowledge into her essence, its pure and chast, and brings great mystery [of knowledge] into her understanding. 3 The Phlegmatick is after the waters nature and property, fleshly, rude and soft, of a feminine will, of but a reasonable comprehension, yet holds fast what it hath once attained; knowledge must be infused into it by teaching, for she finds it not in her own root. She takes all in good part, troubles not her self with grief, hath a glance of light, is neither extremely sad or merry, but is altogether of a middle and common temper. 4 The Melancholy being of the earths nature and property, is as the earth, cold, frozen, dark, and full of heaviness, hungry after the light, alwayes fearfull of the wrath of God. 270

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For the Earth and Stones are on the outside of the Eternall essentiality (i. e.) are comprehended or captivated in the kindled desire in the Fiat, both according to the property of the anger and love; the good and evill are in them mixt one with another; the Good stands in a perpetual fear of the Evill, which make a perpetual flight and pursuit: as ’tis to be seen in metalls, whose Tincture is good, but the body altogether earthly, evill and of an angry corrosive nature; whereupon the Tincture of the Metalls, as soon as the malignant starry influence toucheth it, would fly from the earthly and uncenter it self from it; hence comes the growth of the Metalls, for their Tincture drives their desire out of it self, and desire to fly away; but receives in the desire such a corporiety as the spirit or desire it self is, hence ariseth the Metallick body. The Melancholy nature is dark and dry, yields little corporiety, consumes and corrodes it self inwardly in its own being, remains constantly in the house of mourning, and even when the Sun shines in her, yet is she in her self sorrowfull, she receives indeed some refreshment from the Suns glance, but in the dark she is alwaies in fear and horror of Gods Judgement. Observe here further, the nature of the sad minde. If this Complexion hath predominance in a man, so that it be his proper complexion, then doth the poor soul as the pretious jewell inhabit this house; and must during the time of the life (if she hath not yet fully attained the light of God in herself) help herself with the glance of the Sun, seeing the Divine Light-eye was in Adam shut up to her in the earthly property into which she entred. The Soul hath in Adam suffered the complexion, as also the Spirit of the great world, the Starrs and Elements, to enter into her; which during the time of this life, dwell intermixedly the one in the other; the Soul in the complexion, and the complexion in the Soul, yet one of them comprehends not the other essentially: the Soul is deeper than the outward Spirit, though in this life they hang upon each other as the inward and outward world, neither of which yet is the other, so likewise the outward Spirit is not the Soul. Know further, that, The Soul is in her substance a Magicall fire-fountain or property out of God the Fathers Nature; a vehement desire after the light, as God the Father from eternity, with a most intense longing, desires his heart, to wit, the Center of light, and in his desiring will, begets him out of the firy property, as the light is now usually born out of the fire. Now, there can be no fire, but there must be also there a root for the firy subsistence, to wit, the Center or image to Nature; this the soul hath also in it self, and burns out of the Image to Nature [or the Naturall complexion] to wit, out of the dark world which in her fountain of desire drives it self till unto the firy property, then desires it the liberty (i. e.) the light, as in the Book of the threefold life is expressed. So then the Soul being a hungry Magicall Spirit-fire, desires spirituall essentiality and power wherewith she may nourish and preserve her fire-life, and still the 271

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thirst of her firy fountain. Now ‘tis well known, how that she hath with Adam in his disobedience entred into the Spirit of this world, and eaten of it. Whereupon Christ became a man in our essence, that he might bring her again thorough the Center, and thorough Gods fire into his light, namely into the world of meekness, which in the person of Christ was actually; but our soul seeing that from the mothers wombe it remains involved in the Spirit of the great world in the Complexions, it eats from the very birth, yea, even in the mothers wombe, of the Spirit of this world. The Soul eats spiritual meat, namely of the Spirit of the image of the complexions, not altogether their essence, but Magically: it is the kindling of their fire. The Complexions in the soules fire become soulish [or of a soular property.] They are as wood and fire to each other: understand by wood, the Complexion; by fire, the Soul. Now the fire must have fewell, viz. Either the outward complexion or a divine essentiality of Gods Nature; of one of these must she eat or dy; but ‘tis not possible for her to perish, seeing she is a desire, and where there is a desiring, there is also a being; the desire makes a being to it self. By this we understand whence ariseth such a difference in the wills and actions of men. For of what the Soul eats, and wheerin her fire-life is kindled, thereafter doth the life of the Soul exercise her Regiment. Goe’s the Soul out of her complexion into Gods Love-fire into the heavenly essentiality (which is Christs corporiety according to the Angelicall light-world) then eats she of Christs heavenly flesh, of his eternal essentiality of the mildness of the Majestick light, in which the fire of God the Father, in the glance [resplendence of the light] makes a Tincture in the same essentiality in the waterfountain of everlasting life whereof Christ speaks, saying, that he would give us such water to drink. Of this water doth the souls fire eat, as of Divine, heavenly, essentiality, which in the Tincture is converted into heavenly and spiritual blood, whence ariseth in the Soul a Godly will, wherewith she compells the body to do that which according to its own inclination and spirit of this world, it would not do; in such souls the Complexion rules not, but remaines only in the lower fleshly nature, exercises the Regiment, as to the outward body onely. The man enquires after Gods Word, and hath alwayes an uncessant longing after God; his desire is ever to discourse of God, would always gladly tast more of Gods sweetness, but is clouded and hindred by the Complexion; in so much that he lives in a continuall combat. The Soul fights againsts the Complexion (for they are here linked together in one band) and the Complexion against the Soul, it would ever gladly enter into the Souls fire, and kindle it self, and obtain a life in it. For when the Soul eats of Gods Word, the complexion according to the outward life becomes powerless, and as it were a captive, though it live in it self. But the soul is so stedfast and faithful before Gods Love, which alone comes to her help [in the combat] that oft when she eats of Gods Love, and essence, she induceth a triumph and a Divine taste into the complexion it self, that the whole body begins to be roused up into a trembling and height of joy, as Paradise were now approaching; but his condition proves not durable; for the soul is shortly 272

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after overshadowed with something of another nature, which is insinuated into the Complexion by the outward imagination from the Spirit of the great world, whereof she makes a looking-glass, and begins to contemplate in it with her outward imagination. Thus goes she out from the Spirit of God, and is oft bemired in the dirt, were it not that the Virgin Wisdom of God should call her again to conversion; which is here set down as a Looking glass for souls. Further of the Complexions. When the Soul imagines into the Complexion, and eats of it, and turns herself from Gods Word and Will, she then doth after the property of the Complexion; she embraces all whatsoever is injected by the Starrs unto the Complexion, all that the Spirit of the great world brings into the complexion by its imagination. She empoysons herself thorough the desire in the complexion in the whole outward Nature, in all that the world doth in words and works. Such matter as this the desire of the complexion brings into the soul-fire, [or its fewell] and the Soul-fire burnes [or feeds it self] therein. Here we see how all evill deeds and works burn in the fire of God the Father (in which the Soul consists) what is not agreeable to Gods Love, that cannot the Love receive. Here find we likewise what and how sin is, how Gods anger is kindled when in the burning or life of the soul such abomination as a man works is brought in to him, which withhold the Soul from Gods Love, and make the Soul-fire stark-blind to Gods Wisdom and Light. For the Spirit of God enters not into the fire burning or life of the abomination, till the Soul again goes out of it, and bathes it self again in the water of the eternal Life, which comes to pass thorough a serious repentance: then is the Soul renewed again in the fire of Gods mildness, as a new born child, and begins again to drink of the same water and lives in God.

Chapter II. Of the foure Complexions in particular, with their properties; what the Soul and the whole man doth, kindles her fire-life meerly from the complexion and influence of the Starrs. Of the Cholerick. Is the Souls-life clothed [encompassed] with the Cholerick Complexion? then is she Firy, Furious, Haughty and Fretting, makes also to it self a body of a temper correspondent, Leane, Malignant, subject to fury and wrath; and if the Soul imagine therein, then doth she yet more vehemently kindle and enflame the complexion, the Soul it self being of a firy Nature. Then become these following dispositions operative in such a man, viz. Anger, Pride, an ambitious desire, with power, and highmindedness to bring all men in subjection under him; he is an insulter over [despiser of] those that are in misery, and a Tyrant over those that are in subjection to him; he cares not though he die in anger, except it come to pass, that the Starrs hinder, which oft joyning themselves with the complexion, lay a bair in the way, and hinder many things. 273

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There is great danger in this complexion, if the soul live according to the outward imagination, and the bond is the harder [stronger,] there being one firy essence linked to another. The fierce Devill hath a powerfull a: proach to this complexion, for the fire’s property is his servant; the Devill is also proud and envious, so is this complexion. O how hardly is the soul freed, if she be once thorough kindled and enflamed in this property; the Devill needs not assault her with temptation, she danceth willingly after his pipe. She is not easily sad, because she hath a firy light in her complexion, and thinks alwayes that ‘tis the Divine light, and her wayes are holy and good; but as long as the soul goes no higher than the complexion; tis a proud, envious, wrathfull, violent, oppressing will or Spirit. She desires in her pomp to make a glorious [show] out of her firy complexion, and in the height of her pride and arrogance will be reputed holy. O thou Devill in an Angells shape, how dark art thou when the firy glance of thy complexion comes to be put out by death?

Chapter III. Of the Sanguine Complexion. THe Sanguine Complexion is milde, lucid and cheerfull, after the Airs property, easy, gentle, and lovely, and resembles much the [inward] life [whence these properties slew into the outward man.] If the soul be clothed with this complexion, and will fix her imagination and life in it, then doth she demean herself friendly, is also subtill, desirous to try many things. It likewise comes to pass: whatsoever the constellation modells forth, she experiments it in her complexion. She is naturally cheerfull, yet soon amased at the terrors of the fires power; but in herself, she is great in her own conceit; without advice. The complexion gives her a sharp understanding according to the outward spirit. She doth not ordinarily transgresse thorough anger. She is seen lifted up into a height of spirit, and as soon again cast down, as the Air easily moveable. She must look well to herself, the Devill is much enraged against her, being not able to get much advantage against her [but] he endevours to perplex her with variety of imaginations, that she may not fix her thoughts upon Gods Kingdom. He represents strange things to her fancy for her to spend her time in, and she herself delights in various studies. The starrs inject their imagination into the Air; and from hence her fancy is filled with many strange wide-wandring thoughts. The man converses humbly, friendly, candidly, and peaceably with all men; yet doth the Devill set on his enemies against him, whence he must suffer much, but glides easily, like the soft Air, thorough all, and seldom is he troubled with much sadness. For he having no firy complexion burning within his heart, the firy terrors cannot much corrode his vitalls; only let him be carefull to preserve himself from unchastity and Idolatry for els by their means the Devill will find an ingress into his complexion.

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Chapter IV. Of the Phlegmatick, or watry Complexion. WHen the soul is clothed with this complexion, and swells up the principle of her life with it, she is of a dull, heavy, swinish and rude temper of life and conversation, most perverse and careless, of a grosse corporature, slight understanding, yet capable, through teaching, of any ordinary skill; If she be not inspirited by the Lunar influence, she prove an arrant blockhead, yet by the same influence becomes mostwhat inclinable to wickedness and injustice. A man may make any thing out of this complexion; the watry spirit takes any Tincture to it self, be it good or bad; this complexion makes likewise a hypocriticall pretense to holiness, & arrogates to it self the repute of an honest righteous life, but tis not without mixture, & in this it resembles the glittering property of the water; the soul in this complexion is not prone to take much notice of Gods wrath, and the dark world that lies hid in her center, but rather bites greedily on the worldly abomination, and hides herself under the waterglance, supposing it to be the resplendence of the divine light. The Devill can introduce all the vilany he exercises in Hell it self into this complexion, and if the starrs hinder not, & the soul will give way to it, he gets as much advantage here as he doth in the fire of the Cholerick complexion; For sin here is little regarded as the waterstream that passes away. He hath power likewise to assault this soul with sadness, whensoever she goes about to oppose him: For he darkens the water-glance with the sinns foulness, which she had brought in, and shuts in the soul in this dark prison that she cannot behold God; but when the soul with a strong resolution storms the prison-gates, she delivers herself, the Devill can subsist here no longer, the complexion is too weak a hold, the fire is his stronger fortress.

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36 M ARIN CUREAU DE LA CHAM BRE (1594 – 1 6 6 9 ) , A DISCOURSE UPON THE PASSIONS IN TW O PARTS (London: Hen. Herringman, 1661), pp. 1–19

Marin Cureau de la Chambre was a French philosopher and medical practitioner who rose to become one of the royal doctors of King Louis XIV, a member of the Académie française in 1634 and the prestigious Académie royale des sciences in 1666. All his life, he demonstrated a keen philosophical interest in the physiognomy and psychology of men and wrote numerous works on the subject of mankind’s passions. …

Chapter I. What the Characters of the PASSIONS are in generall. Nature having destin’d Man for a civil life, thought it not sufficient to have given him a tongue to discover his intentions; but she would also imprint on his forehead, and in his eyes, the images of his thoughts; that if his speech happened to belye his heart, his face should give the lye to his speech. In effect how secret soever the motions of his soul are, what care soever he takes to hide them, they are no sooner formed but they appear in his face; and the disquiet they cause is sometimes so great that they may be truely called tempests, which are more violent at Shore then out at Sea: And that he who advised a man to consult his glass in his anger, had reason to beleeve that the Passions are better known in the eyes, then in the soul it self. But that which is more wonderful, those actions which spring from vertue and vice, discover themselves in the same manner: And although the goodness or malignity they have, seem to have nothing to doe with the body, yet they leave with it, I know not what kind of images: And even the soul not perceiving what it doth, disposeth the parts in such a manner, that by the plight and posture which they take, we may judge whether its actions are good or ill; Neither can the understanding work so secretly but the senses must perceive it: If it elevate its thoughts, if it recollect it self, the looks grow fixed, the car hears not; in fine, there is a general suspension of sense, and motion: And whether it be that at the 276

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same time the soul cannot intend such different functions, or that the inferiour part respects, and wil not divert its Mistris, we know that this is imployed when the other operates not. Its a most certain thing that the body changeth and varies it self, when the soul is moved, and that this performs almost no actions but it imprints the marks thereof, which we may call Characters, since they are the effects of them, and that they bear their image and figure. Now, because the first Rule of Physionomy is grounded on these Characters, and that it maketh use of them to discover inclinations, assuring us, that those who naturally have the same air, and the same countenance which accompanies their moral actions, are inclined to the same actions; The designe which we have undertaken makes us here propose the particular Characters of all the Passions, and after them of Vertues, and Vices: But first we must know wherein these Characters consist and what are the causes of them. The Characters of Passions, and of habits, being the markes of the motions, and designs of the soul, are also its effects, as is already said; but because there are also two sorts of effects, those which are performed in the soul, and those which are effected in the body; there are also two kinds of Characters; the one Moral, the other Corporal. For if you consider a man in anger, Violence appears in all his actions; his words are full of threats and injuries; he crys out, he runs, he strikes; reason and remonstrances offend him, and he knows no friends but those who favour his passion. On the other side, his countenance is inflam’d, his eyes sparkle, he wrinckles his forehead, his words are fierce, his voice is terrible, his lookes are frightful, and his whole behaviour is furious. These then are two kinds of effects, and two sorts of Characters; the one whereof consists in moral actions, and the other in the change and alteration of the body. Now we must see what these actions are, and what this change is; for all moral actions cannot be used for Characters; otherwise, some would be Characters of themselves, since Passions, and Vertues, are moral actions. To take away this difficulty, you must observe that the essence of human actions consists in the inward emotion which the object forms in the appetite; and that all those things which are done in pursuance thereof, are but as rivolets running from the same spring. So anger is nothing but a desire of Vengeance; and in the pursuit of that emotion, the soul produceth exterior actions, which may serve to this purpose; as threatnings, blows, and other violences, which we call Characters because they express and discover the alteration and interior motion of the appetite. But there is also another thing to be here considered; and it is that when we speak of Passions, of Vertues, and of Vices, we are not to conceive them as qualities, or simple actions; but as compleat qualities and actions which are accompanyed by many others, and yet, which all tend to one principal end which the soul proposeth. For although love, (to speake properly) is but a simple emotion of the soul, by which it unites it self to that which is lovely; Yet we doe not therein form its whole Idea; we consider it as a Passion that hath beauty for its object, and which to possesse it, employs desire, hope, delight, &c. In the same manner, Justice is a stedfast will to render to every one what belongs to him. But to effect 277

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it, she makes use of Prudence, which makes her consider the quality of persons, the time, the place, and all other circumstances. She makes use of Temperance, and of strength, to moderate those passions which often traverse her design; and although they are actions which precisely concern her not, yet she forbears not to appropriate them, because they conduce to her principal end. Now all these borrowed, and posterior actions are also a part of moral Characters; because they design the passion, or principal habit, which is the spring, and first cause whence they are derived. Its far more difficult, to say wherein the Corporal Characters consist, and what intention nature hath in forming them. We see, that every passion carries I know not what air on the face; that vertue sheds into its actions a certain grace, and an agreeable aspect, which is not to be found amongst the vitious; but as we have always called it The I know not what, it seems that we are thereby taught, that it could not be said what it was. For I suppose, (as it is true) that the Characters we seek, are nothing but the air of which we have but now spoken. Now this is found in so many different things, that its almost impossible to observe what of common they have whereupon we may establish its essence; for it most commonly happens in the motion of the parts, and some have beleev’d that this air was nothing but that motion. But its certain, there is a sixt and natural air wherein the parts move not, and which is no effect of the souls emotions. So that it would be more likely, that this air were nothing but a certain relation of the parts amongst themselves; which happens from the situation they take when they move, or when they rest: But nether is this sufficient, since the colour which that relation compriseth not, partly gives the air to the face; and that ruddiness is one of the principal Characters of shame, as paleness is of fear; this ever encreaseth the difficulty, since that in defining beauty, we say that its a just proportion of the parts accompanied with a pleasing colour, and with a grace; and that colour and grace are esteem’d as two different things. For grace is nothing but a pleasing air; nay even custome, often applyes it to what it is not, when we say a man hath an ill grace; and in this case, grace is the same with air: That we may know then what this marvelous air is, where the serenity, and the storms of the minde appear, we are first to observe, that the air of persons is discovered in their pictures; that the grace of a fair face is exprest by colours, and that consequently, there must be somewhat of fixt, and which flyes not away, since there are none but stable and permanent things, which painting hath power over; and that of all visible objects, there is only motion, which subjects not it self to the pencil. Now it is impossible to finde any thing stable, common to living things, and their pictures, besides the figure and colour of the parts. So that it seems this air is to be there placed. But because there is yet another thing in the grace, which the art of painting cannot attain to, and that there is a certain vivacity, which can never be fixt on the cloth; we must with reason beleeve that motion serves also to this grace; its that which renders the beauty lively and piercing; without which its sad, dead, and without attraction. We cannot (in effect) doubt but that the motion of the parts gives something to this vivacity, since ‘tis a part of its perfection. But because that after it hath ceased, there is yet I 278

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know not what which remains on the face, and that we see a certain splendor shine in the eyes, which depends neither upon their figure, motion nor colour; we must necessarily add to all this a certain secret influence, which being sent into the eyes disperseth it self over the parts of the face; and without doubt, after having well enquired what it may be, we shall finde it to be the spirits which the soul continually sends into those parts, which leave there the brightness of the natural light they have; and indeed there are faces which neer seem well, and afar off appear very ill coloured, because the spirits animate it not, and that the splendor they give is so weak that the species of it cannot reach far, and so they leave those of the colour more withered. This grace then is in the colour, in the figure, in the motion of the parts, and of the spirits. And yet this doth not say that all these things are this grace: For were they in other subjects then man, they would not please; and green which is the most perfect of all colours, would cause a frightful deformity, were it on a face. It must then be, that as sounds are not pleasing of themselves, but as they are in a certain proportion; so all these things are pleasing to the sight but only because they have a certain relation, and a certain agreement, which pleaseth the eyes, and contents the minde. To know this concordance, you are to understand that there are two sorts of beauties in man; The Intelligible, and the Sensible. The first is but the interiour perfection, the just connexion of all faculties necessary for a man to perform the functions whereto he is designd; and the sensible beauty consists in the disposition which the Organs ought to have to serve these faculties. So that what renders the figure, the colour and the motion agreeable, is the fitness which those things have with the nature of man. For how fair soever the colour be, how perfect soever the figure of the parts are, how regular soever the motions are, if they are not conformable to his nature, they produce neither a beauty nor a grace; on the contrary, they cause a deformity, and render the body unseemly. Now although there be but God alone who knows the principle of this conformity, and why the forms have more inclination for one figure, colour, or some other accident then for another: yet there are in our soul secret seeds of this knowledge, which is the cause she pleaseth herself in these objects without knowing the reason; in the same manner as she findes them displeasing, when that conformity and proportion which they ought to have is wanting. Some will perhaps say, that I here confound grace with beauty, placing grace in the proportion of the parts, and in the colour, which in the ordinary definition of beauty are separated from grace. But I beleeve there is no inconvenience herein, and that its true that all that is fair is pleasing, and that the proportion of parts being fair, must needs please the sight, and that therefore they are graceful. And indeed the ancients who in these things were wiser then we, made not this difference, and always placed the graces where beauty was: For although Aristotle says, that little ones might be call’d pretty and pleasing, but that they were not to be esteem’d fair; ‘tis that he spake of an entire and perfect beauty, which is not to be found in little bodies, for as much as they want that just proportion which belongs to the perfection of man. 279

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Yet there is some ground for the difference which hath been since made between beauty and grace; for as the matter and the form enter into the composition of man, we have placed beauty in the figure and in the colour which belongs to the matter, and grace in the motions which are effects of the soul: not that grace is not in the colour and in the figure; or that beauty is not in the motions; but because she is more excellent in these, by reason that the soul who is the principle thereof, is more perfect then the matter, and that action is the last perfection of things. Beauty which ought to be the most agreeable, hath been call’d by the name of grace, although in effect it ought to be common to all that is fair; and that the colour, figure and motion which have all their beauties, ought also to have every one their particular graces. But to return to our subject; the grace is a kind of air and means; nothing more but that conformity and proportion whereof we have spoken. For when the air is accompanied with this proportion, its pleasing; so that this air in general is in all those things which have a grace, and it may be defin’d, A certain exterior and sensible quality which is bred from the colour, figure, and motion of the parts. And if we add that these things are proportionable, and conformable to the perfection of man, it will be the definition of grace. We are notwithstanding to observe that the air appears more in one of these three things in some encounters then in the rest: For that which is fixt and natural, is chiefly in the figure and situation of the parts. That which accompanies the passions, depends most from the motion and the colour; that of vertuous actions is sometimes in rest, because reason hinders those motions which would not befit the moderation and quiet she seeks: such is the grave and modest Mine, such is the countenance of a man who meditates and thinks on great matters: And it may be that even vices which are in excess, have an active and turbulent air; and those which are in the defect, have quite the contrary: so a hot and precipitate man is always in action, and the lazy is immoveable: besides the air appears sometime more in one part then in another; and although it be more remarkable in the face then in any other place, yet there is one which belongs to walking, another in the carriage of the armes, and another of the whole body. The French hath been more happy to express those differences then any other language, whatsoever. Not content to say l’Air & la Grace, Air and Grace, it adds la Mine, la Contenance, le Maintica, le Geste, & le Port, which as neer as we can render them, are, The Mine, the Presence, the Behaviour, the Carriage, and the Port. The Mine chiefly belongs to the face, the port to the gate, the carriage and the behaviour to the arms; the Air, the Grace, and the Presence to the whole body. And as the Port, and the Gesture, or Carriage, denote motion, so the Mine, the Behaviour, and the Presence apply themselves best to rest: but the air and the grace are common to both of them. However it be, the air which is in Passions, and in moral actions, principally comes from motion; but you must know what the cause of this motion is: For upon this knowledge depends the greatest part of what we are to say; and because it will better appear in the passions, we will therefore by them begin the enquiry. 280

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We have already said, and we shall often be obliged to repeate, that Passions are nothing but the emotions of the appetite, by which the soul moves towards good, and estrangeth it self from evil; and as she hath divers organs which may be used to that end, she also employs them, and moves according to her intention: Now the Spirits without question are the first she makes use of, being the most agil, and which take their birth from the same place where she forms her designs; so that we need not wonder that they are the first to execute them, since they seem to be the first who have the knowledge of them. The soul then sends forth the spirits, and scatters them over all the exterior parts, either to acquire good, or to oppose ill: But when this is too powerful, and she is sensible that she is not strong enough to resist it, she retires them in and brings them back to the heart. Now this flux and reflux brings two great changes, because the humors being drawn along with them, their arrival swels and agitates the parts, and paints them of the same colour of which themselves are: on the contrary, their flight makes them fail, looke pale, and renders them immoveable. Perhaps it would not be unprofitable to examine whether every passion hath a particular motion of the spirits; and whether anger moves them otherwise then shame, love, joy, or the rest which carries them outwardly: Whether Fear retire them inwardly after another manner then Hate, Aversion or Greif. For if this were true, and that we could know these differences, we could with the more facility discover the causes of the alterations they produce. For my part, I beleeve that since in every Passion the appetite hath an emotion and a particular end, the means it useth ought also to be particular; and that the motion of the spirits must be conformable to the intention it hath, and to the agitation it gives it self: and therefore that that is done in one passion, is different from those which are done in others. So that its very likely that in one they cast themselves with impetuosity, and high boyings like torrents: and in another slide as sweetly as rivers, that some make them overflow their banks, others restrain them in their bounds: that now their course is direct, and presently again irregular. Lastly, That we may say love dilates them, desire shoots them forth, Joy sheds them abroad, Hope holds them fast, boldness drives them, and that anger throws them forth in great boyling gulps, and so of the rest, as we shall more particularly see in the discourse of the Passions; although to speak Truth, our spirit is not clear-sighted enough to discern exactly all these differences, and that in this case the window of Momus were very necessary for it. How ever it be, the soul is not content after this manner only to agitate the spirits and the humors in the passions: she also causeth those parts to move which are capable of a voluntary motion, as being those which are the most powerful to seek and imbrace good, and to repel or flye evil; and to speak truth, this motion of the spirits is often a succour very useless to the soul, and which serves rather to shew her precipitation and blindness then to obtain what she proposed to her self; for when they cast themselves into the face, she fancies to her self that it is she her self that runs thither; and when they retire themselves to the heart, its she also who hides her self there, although she be already at the place where she would arrive, and that she abandons not that wheene she thinks to estrang herself; and what 281

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benefit is it to a Creature for the spirits and the blood to goe to the encounter of an agreeable object, since neither the soul nor the body come nearer to it, nor are any more united to it, and that the sences only are they which ought to make this union? we may say the same of the resistance she would make to those ills which present themselves; for what relation is there betwixt the spirits and an injury, and what effect can they make to drive back an ill which most commonly is only in opinion, which sometimes is no more or which even is not yet made? But it is not thus with voluntary motion; for indeed here the hands draw and take what’s useful, the body is carryed towards what is lovely; it truly keeps a distance from whats ill, and flyes or drives away what incommodates it. Its true that there are some of these motions where the soul deceives it self aswel as in that of the spirits: how many lost steps, ridiculous postures and idle words are there in Passions? to what use are these several motions of the head, those different figures which the forehead, the eyes, the nose, and the mouth form? There may be some relation with the design which the soul proposed, since its certain that in shame she casts down the eyes, as if she would hide herself, that she lifts them up in Anger as if that served to repel an injury, and that in scorn she lifts up the nose as if she would drive away what she disdains. But its easie to perceive that herein also she deceives her self, and that the blindness and trouble in which she is, causeth her to use means which benefit her nothing to the obtaining of what she desires. ‘Tis not that she is therefore to be condemned in all these motions; there are many which happen without any design of hers; which although they are not against her intention, yet she is not the cause of them, ‘tis but by a certain necessity that they follow those motions which the soul inwardly excites; for we cannot with reason say, that she proposeth in anger the hinderance of respiration and of speech, the inflammation of the face, and the sparkling of the eyes. But these are effects which follow the agitation of the spirits, which impetuously cast themselves on the exterior parts as we shall say hereafter. By this discourse we may not only perceive what the causes of those motions which the Passions excite are, but also which those are which make moral Characters, and which make the corporal. For those which the soul imploys by a clear and distinct knowledge to obtain the end she pretends in every Passion, make the moral Characters; and those which she useth by a pure instinct, or which happen without any intention of hers, form the corporal Characters. For these latter are of two sorts, the one are by the command of the soul, the other are by necessity, as you will see more particularly in the following discourses.

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Baruch Spinoza was born in the Portuguese Jewish community of Amsterdam in the Protestant Netherlands. Inspired by Descartes, Spinoza became one of the leading rationalist philosophers of the early Enlightenment. His most famous work is his Ethics in which he opposed the dualism between body and mind espoused by Descartes. Spinoza closely studied the emotions (‘affects’) in Part III of Ethics. Spinoza argued and explained how ‘striving’ underpinned human emotions such as love, hate, joy, sadness, etc. In the fourth part, Spinoza analysed human passions and presented these as aspects of the mind that direct the subject to either seek the cause of pleasure or avoid the source of pain. For Spinoza, ‘affects’ exercised a ‘bondage’ over humans and, uncontrolled, these could undermine the harmony of interactions between humans. Although his work is now considered a milestone in Western philosophy, it was condemned by the Catholic Church and he was also expelled by his Jewish community. … Part III. On the Origin and Nature of the Emotions1 Most writers on the emotions and on human conduct seem to be treating rather of matters outside nature than of natural phenomena following nature’s general laws. They appear to conceive man to be situated in nature as a kingdom within a kingdom: for they believe that he disturbs rather than follows nature’s order, that he has absolute control over his actions, and that he is determined solely by himself. They attribute human infirmities and fickleness, not to the power of nature in general, but to some mysterious flaw in the nature of man, which accordingly they bemoan, deride, despise, or, as usually happens, abuse: he, who succeeds in hitting off the weakness of the human mind more eloquently or more acutely than his fellows, is looked upon as a seer. Still there has been no lack of very excellent men (to whose toil and industry I confess myself much indebted), who have written many noteworthy things concerning the right way of life, and have

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given much sage advice to mankind. But no one, so far as I know, has defined the nature and strength of the emotions, and the power of the mind against them for their restraint. I do not forget, that the illustrious Descartes, though he believed, that the mind has absolute power over its actions, strove to explain human emotions by their primary causes, and, at the same time, to point out a way, by which the mind might attain to absolute dominion over them. However, in my opinion, he accomplishes nothing beyond a display of the acuteness of his own great intellect, as I will show in the proper place. For the present I wish to revert to those, who would rather abuse or deride human emotions than understand them. Such persons will, doubtless think it strange that I should attempt to treat of human vice and folly geometrically, and should wish to set forth with rigid reasoning those matters which they cry out against as repugnant to reason, frivolous, absurd, and dreadful. However, such is my plan. Nothing comes to pass in nature, which can be set down to a flaw therein; for nature is always the same, and everywhere one and the same in her efficacy and power of action; that is, nature’s laws and ordinances, whereby all things come to pass and change from one form to another, are everywhere and always the same; so that there should be one and the same method of understanding the nature of all things whatsoever, namely, through nature’s universal laws and rules. Thus the passions of hatred, anger, envy, and so on, considered in themselves, follow from this same necessity and efficacy of nature; they answer to certain definite causes, through which they are understood, and possess certain properties as worthy of being known as the properties of anything else, whereof the contemplation in itself affords us delight. I shall, therefore, treat of the nature and strength of the emotions according to the same method, as I employed heretofore in my investigations concerning God and the mind. I shall consider human actions and desires in exactly the same manner, as though I were concerned with lines, planes, and solids.

DEFINITIONS I By an adequate cause, I mean a cause through which its effect can be clearly and distinctly perceived. By an inadequate or partial cause, I mean a cause through which, by itself, its effect cannot be understood. II I say that we act when anything takes place, either within us or externally to us, whereof we are the adequate cause; that is (by the foregoing definition) when through our nature something takes place within us or externally to us, which can through our nature alone be clearly and distinctly understood. On the other hand, I say that we are passive as regards something when that something takes place within us, or follows from our nature externally, we being only the partial cause. III By emotion I mean the modifications of the body, whereby the active power of the said body is increased or diminished, aided or constrained, and also the ideas of such modifications. 284

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N.B. If we can be the adequate cause of any of these modifications, I then call the emotion an activity, otherwise I call it a passion, or state wherein the mind is passive. Part IV: Of Human Bondage, or the Strength of the Emotions2

PREFACE Human infirmity in moderating and checking the emotions I name bondage: for, when a man is a prey to his emotions, he is not his own master, but lies at the mercy of fortune: so much so, that he is often compelled, while seeing that which is better for him, to follow that which is worse. Why this is so, and what is good or evil in the emotions, I propose to show in this part of my treatise. But, before I begin, it would be well to make a few prefatory observations on perfection and imperfection, good and evil. When a man has purposed to make a given thing, and has brought it to perfection, his work will be pronounced perfect, not only by himself, but by everyone who rightly knows, or thinks that he knows, the intention and aim of its author. For instance, suppose anyone sees a work (which I assume to be not yet completed), and knows that the aim of the author of that work is to build a house, he will call the work imperfect; he will, on the other hand, call it perfect, as soon as he sees that it is carried through to the end, which its author had purposed for it. But if a man sees a work, the like whereof he has never seen before, and if he knows not the intention of the artificer, he plainly cannot know, whether that work be perfect or imperfect. Such seems to be the primary meaning of these terms. But, after men began to form general ideas, to think out types of houses, buildings, towers, &c., and to prefer certain types to others, it came about, that each man called perfect that which he saw agree with the general idea he had formed of the thing in question, and called imperfect that which he saw agree less with his own preconceived type, even though it had evidently been completed in accordance with the idea of its artificer. This seems to be the only reason for calling natural phenomena, which, indeed, are not made with human hands, perfect or imperfect: for men are wont to form general ideas of things natural, no less than of things artificial, and such ideas they hold as types, believing that Nature (who they think does nothing without an object) has them in view, and has set them as types before herself. Therefore, when they behold something in Nature, which does not wholly conform to the preconceived type which they have formed of the thing in question, they say that Nature has fallen short or has blundered, and has left her work incomplete. Thus we see that men are wont to style natural phenomena perfect or imperfect rather from their own prejudices, than from true knowledge of what they pronounce upon. Now we showed in the Appendix to Part I, that Nature does not work with an end in view. For the eternal and infinite Being, which we call God or Nature, acts by the same necessity as that whereby it exists. For we have shown, that by the same necessity of its nature, whereby it exists, it likewise works (I. xvi.). The 285

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reason or cause why God or Nature exists, and the reason why he acts, are one and the same. Therefore, as he does not exist for the sake of an end, so neither does he act for the sake of an end; of his existence and of his action there is neither origin nor end. Wherefore, a cause which is called final is nothing else but human desire, in so far as it is considered as the origin or cause of anything. For example, when we say that to be inhabited is the final cause of this or that house, we mean nothing more than that a man, conceiving the conveniences of household life, had a desire to build a house. Wherefore, the being inhabited, in so far as it is regarded as a final cause, is nothing else but this particular desire, which is really the efficient cause; it is regarded as the primary cause, because men are generally ignorant of the causes of their desires. They are, as I have often said already, conscious of their own actions and appetites, but ignorant of the causes whereby they are determined to any particular desire. Therefore, the common saying that Nature sometimes falls short, or blunders, and produces things which are imperfect, I set down among the glosses treated of in the Appendix to Part I. Perfection and imperfection, then, are in reality merely modes of thinking, or notions which we form from a comparison among one another of individuals of the same species; hence I said above (II. Def. vi.), that by reality and perfection I mean the same thing. For we are wont to refer all the individual things in nature to one genus, which is called the highest genus, namely, to the category of Being, whereto absolutely all individuals in nature belong. Thus, in so far as we refer the individuals in nature to this category, and comparing them one with another, find that some possess more of being or reality than others, we, to this extent, say that some are more perfect than others. Again, in so far as we attribute to them anything implying negation— as term, end, infirmity, etc., we, to this extent, call them imperfect, because they do not affect our mind so much as the things which we call perfect, not because they have any intrinsic deficiency, or because Nature has blundered. For nothing lies within the scope of a thing’s nature, save that which follows from the necessity of the nature of its efficient cause, and whatsoever follows from the necessity of the nature of its efficient cause necessarily comes to pass. As for the terms good and bad, they indicate no positive quality in things regarded in themselves, but are merely modes of thinking, or notions which we form from the comparison of things one with another. Thus one and the same thing can be at the same time good, bad, and indifferent. For instance, music is good for him that is melancholy, bad for him that mourns; for him that is deaf, it is neither good nor bad. Nevertheless, though this be so, the terms should still be retained. For, inasmuch as we desire to form an idea of man as a type of human nature which we may hold in view, it will be useful for us to retain the terms in question, in the sense I have indicated. In what follows, then, I shall mean by, “good” that, which we certainly know to be a means of approaching more nearly to the type of human nature, which we have set before ourselves; by “bad,” that which we certainly know to be a hindrance to

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us in approaching the said type. Again, we shall that men are more perfect, or more imperfect, in proportion as they approach more or less nearly to the said type. For it must be specially remarked that, when I say that a man passes from a lesser to a greater perfection, or vice versâ, I do not mean that he is changed from one essence or reality to another; for instance, a horse would be as completely destroyed by being changed into a man, as by being changed into an insect. What I mean is, that we conceive the thing’s power of action, in so far as this is understood by its nature, to be increased or diminished. Lastly, by perfection in general I shall, as I have said, mean reality—in other words, each thing’s essence, in so far as it exists, and operates in a particular manner, and without paying any regard to its duration. For no given thing can be said to be more perfect, because it has passed a longer time in existence. The duration of things cannot be determined by their essence, for the essence of things involves no fixed and definite period of existence; but everything, whether it be more perfect or less perfect, will always be able to persist in existence with the same force wherewith it began to exist; wherefore, in this respect, all things are equal.

DEFINITIONS I By good I mean that which we certainly know to be useful to us. II By evil I mean that which we certainly know to be a hindrance to us in the attainment of any good. (Concerning these terms see the foregoing preface towards the end.) III Particular things I call contingent in so far as, while regarding their essence only, we find nothing therein, which necessarily asserts their existence or excludes it. IV Particular things I call possible in so far as, while regarding the causes whereby they must be produced, we know not, whether such causes be determined for producing them. (In I. xxxiii. note. i., I drew no distinction between possible and contingent, because there was in that place no need to distinguish them accurately.) V By conflicting emotions I mean those which draw a man in different directions, though they are of the same kind, such as luxury and avarice, which are both species of love, and are contraries, not by nature, but by accident. VI What I mean by emotion felt towards a thing, future, present, and past, I explained in III. xviii., notes. i. and ii., which see. (But I should here also remark, that we can only distinctly conceive distance of space or time up to a certain definite limit; that is, all objects distant from us more than two hundred feet, or whose distance from the place where we are exceeds that which we can distinctly conceive, seem to be an equal distance from us, and all in the same plane; so also objects, whose time of existing is conceived as removed from the present by a longer interval than we can distinctly conceive, seem to be all equally distant from the present, and are set down, as it were, to the same moment of time.)

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VII By an end, for the sake of which we do something, I mean a desire. VIII By virtue (virtus) and power I mean the same thing; that is (III. vii), virtue, in so far as it is referred to man, is a man’s nature or essence, in so far as it has the power of effecting what can only be understood by the laws of that nature.

AXIOM There is no individual thing in nature, than which there is not another more powerful and strong. Whatsoever thing be given, there is something stronger whereby it can be destroyed.

PROPOSITIONS PROP. I. No positive quality possessed by a false idea is removed by the presence of what is true, in virtue of its being true. Proof.—Falsity consists solely in the privation of knowledge which inadequate ideas involve (II. xxxv.), nor have they any positive quality on account of which they are called false (II. xxxiii.); contrariwise, in so far as they are referred to God, they are true (II. xxxii.). Wherefore, if the positive quality possessed by a false idea were removed by the presence of what is true, in virtue of its being true, a true idea would then be removed by itself, which (IV. iii.) is absurd. Therefore, no positive quality possessed by a false idea, &c. Q.E.D. Note.—This proposition is more clearly understood from II. xvi. Coroll. ii. For imagination is an idea, which indicates rather the present disposition of the human body than the nature of the external body; not indeed distinctly, but confusedly; whence it comes to pass, that the mind is said to err. For instance, when we look at the sun, we conceive that it is distant from us about two hundred feet; in this judgment we err, so long as we are in ignorance of its true distance; when its true distance is known, the error is removed, but not the imagination; or, in other words, the idea of the sun, which only explains the nature of that luminary, in so far as the body is affected thereby: wherefore, though we know the real distance, we shall still nevertheless imagine the sun to be near us. For, as we said in II. xxxv. note, we do not imagine the sun to be so near us, because we are ignorant of its true distance, but because the mind conceives the magnitude of the sun to the extent that the body is affected thereby. Thus, when the rays of the sun falling on the surface of water are reflected into our eyes, we imagine the sun as if it were in the water, though we are aware of its real position; and similarly other imaginations, wherein the mind is deceived, whether they indicate the natural disposition of the body, or that its power of activity is increased or diminished, are not contrary to the truth, and do not vanish at its presence. It happens indeed that, when we mistakenly fear an evil, the fear vanishes when we hear the true tidings; but the contrary also happens, namely, that we fear an evil which will certainly come, and our fear vanishes when we hear false tidings; thus imaginations do not vanish at 288

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the presence of the truth, in virtue of its being true, but because other imaginations, stronger than the first, supervene and exclude the present existence of that which we imagined, as I have shown in II. xvii. PROP. II. We are only passive, in so far as we are apart of Nature, which cannot be conceived by itself without other parts. Proof.—We are said to be passive, when something arises in us, whereof we are only a partial cause (III. Def. ii.), that is (III. Def. i.), something which cannot be deduced solely from the laws of our nature. We are passive therefore, in so far as we are a part of Nature, which cannot be conceived by itself without other parts. Q.E.D. PROP. III. The force whereby a man persists in existing is limited, and is infinitely surpassed by the power of external causes. Proof.—This is evident from the axiom of this part. For, when man is given, there is something else—say A—more powerful; when A is given, there is something else—say B—more powerful than A, and so on to infinity; thus the power of man is limited by the power of some other thing, and is infinitely surpassed by the power of external causes. Q.E.D. PROP. IV. It is impossible, that man should not be a part of Nature, or that he should be capable of undergoing no changes, save such as can be understood through his nature only as their adequate cause. Proof.—The power, whereby each particular thing, and consequently man, preserves his being, is the power of God or of Nature (I. xxiv. Coroll.); not in so far as it is infinite, but in so far as it can be explained by the actual human essence (III. vii.). Thus the power of man, in so far as it is explained through his own actual essence, is a part of the infinite power of God or Nature, in other words, of the essence thereof (I. xxxiv.). This was our first point. Again, if it were possible, that man should undergo no changes save such as can be understood solely through the nature of man, it would follow that he would not be able to die, but would always necessarily exist; this would be the necessary consequence of a cause whose power was either finite or infinite; namely, either of man’s power only, inasmuch as he would be capable of removing from himself all changes which could spring from external causes; or of the infinite power of Nature, whereby all individual things would be so ordered, that man should be incapable of undergoing any changes save such as tended towards his own preservation. But the first alternative is absurd (by the last Prop., the proof of which is universal, and can be applied to all individual things). Therefore, if it be possible, that man should not be capable of undergoing any changes, save such as can be explained solely through his own nature, and consequently that he must always (as we have shown) necessarily exist; such a result must follow from the infinite power of God, and consequently (I. xvi.) from the necessity of the divine nature, in so far as it is regarded as affected by the idea of any given man, the whole order of nature as conceived under the attributes of extension and thought must be deducible. It would therefore follow (I. xxi.) that man is infinite, which (by the first part of this proof) is absurd. It is, therefore, impossible, that man should not undergo any changes save those whereof he is the adequate cause. Q.E.D. 289

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Corollary.—Hence it follows, that man is necessarily always a prey to his passions, that he follows and obeys the general order of nature, and that he accommodates himself thereto, as much as the nature of things demands. PROP. V. The power and increase of every passion, and its persistence in existing are not defined by the power, whereby we ourselves endeavour to persist in existing, but by the power of an external cause compared with our own. Proof.—The essence of a passion cannot be explained through our essence alone (III. Deff. i. and ii.), that is (III. vii.), the power of a passion cannot be defined by the power, whereby we ourselves endeavour to persist in existing, but (as is shown in II. xvi.) must necessarily be defined by the power of an external cause compared with our own. Q.E.D. PROP. VI. The force of any passion or emotion can overcome the rest of a man’s activities or power, so that the emotion becomes obstinately fixed to him. Proof.—The force and increase of any passion and its persistence in existing are defined by the power of an external cause compared with our own (by the foregoing Prop.); therefore (IV. iii.) it can overcome a man’s power, &e. Q.E.D. PROP. VII. An emotion can only be controlled or destroyed by another emotion contrary thereto, and with more power for controlling emotion. Proof.—Emotion, in so far as it is referred to the mind, is an idea, whereby the mind affirms of its body a greater or less force of existence than before (cf. the general Definition of the Emotions at the end of Part III.). When, therefore, the mind is assailed by any emotion, the body is at the same time affected with a modification whereby its power of activity is increased or diminished. Now this modification of the body (IV. v.) receives from its cause the force for persistence in its being; which force can only be checked or destroyed by a bodily cause (II. vi.), in virtue of the body being affected with a modification contrary to (III. v.) and stronger than itself (IV. Ax.); wherefore (II. xii.) the mind is affected by the idea of a modification contrary to, and stronger than the former modification, in other words, (by the general definition of the emotions) the mind will be affected by an emotion contrary to and stronger than the former emotion, which will exclude or destroy the existence of the former emotion; thus an emotion cannot be destroyed nor controlled except by a contrary and stronger emotion. Q.E.D. Corollary.—An emotion, in so far as it is referred to the mind, can only be controlled or destroyed through an idea of a modification of the body contrary to, and stronger than, that which we are undergoing. For the emotion which we undergo can only be checked or destroyed by an emotion contrary to, and stronger than, itself, in other words, (by the general Definition of the Emotions) only by an idea of a modification of the body contrary to, and stronger than, the modification which we undergo. PROP. VIII. The knowledge of good and evil is nothing else but the emotions of pleasure or pain, in so far as we are conscious thereof. Proof.—We call a thing good or evil, when it is of service or the reverse in preserving our being (IV. Deff. i. and ii.), that is (III. vii.), when it increases or diminishes, helps or hinders, our power of activity. Thus, in so far as we perceive that a thing 290

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affects us with pleasure or pain, we call it good or evil; wherefore the knowledge of good and evil is nothing else but the idea of the pleasure or pain, which necessarily follows from that pleasurable or painful emotion (II. xxii.). But this idea is united to the emotion in the same way as mind is united to body (II. xxi.); that is, there is no real distinction between this idea and the emotion or idea of the modification of the body, save in conception only. Therefore the knowledge of good and evil is nothing else but the emotion, in so far as we are conscious thereof. Q.E.D. PROP. IX. An emotion, whereof we conceive the cause to be with us at the present time, is stronger than if we did not conceive the cause to be with us. Proof.—Imagination or conception is the idea, by which the mind regards a thing as present (II. xvii. note), but which indicates the disposition of the mind rather than the nature of the external thing (II. xvi. Coroll. ii.). An emotion is therefore a conception, in so far as it indicates the disposition of the body. But a conception (by II. xvii.) is stronger, so long as we conceive nothing which excludes the present existence of the external object; wherefore an emotion is also stronger or more intense, when we conceive the cause to be with us at the present time, than when we do not conceive the cause to be with us. Q.E.D. Note.—When I said above in III. xviii. that we are affected by the image of what is past or future with the same emotion as if the thing conceived were present, I expressly stated, that this is only true in so far as we look solely to the image of the thing in question itself; for the thing’s nature is unchanged, whether we have conceived it or not; I did not deny that the image becomes weaker, when we regard as present to us other things which exclude the present existence of the future object: I did not expressly call attention to the fact, because I purposed to treat of the strength of the emotions in this part of my work. Corollary.—The image of something past or future, that is, of a thing which we regard as in relation to time past or time future, to the exclusion of time present, is, when other conditions are equal, weaker than the image of something present; consequently an emotion felt towards what is past or future is less intense, other conditions being equal, than an emotion felt towards something present. PROP. X. Towards something future, which we conceive as close at hand, we are affected more intensely, than if we conceive that its time for existence is separated from the present by a longer interval; so too by the remembrance of what we conceive to have not long passed away we are affected more intensely, than if we conceive that it has long passed away. Proof.—In so far as we conceive a thing as close at hand, or not long passed away, we conceive that which excludes the presence of the object less, than if its period of future existence were more distant from the present, or if it had long passed away (this is obvious) therefore (by the foregoing Prop.) we are, so far, more intensely affected towards it. Q.E.D. Corollary.—From the remarks made in Def. vi. of this part it follows that, if objects are separated from the present by a longer period than we can define in conception, though their dates of occurrence be widely separated one from the other, they all affect us equally faintly. 291

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PROP. XI. An emotion towards that which we conceive as necessary is, when other conditions are equal, more intense than an emotion towards that which possible, or contingent, or non—necessary. Proof.—In so far as we conceive a thing to be necessary, we, to that extent, affirm its existence; on the other hand we deny a thing’s existence, in so far as we conceive it not to be necessary (I. xxxiii. note. i.); wherefore (IV. ix.) an emotion towards that which is necessary is, other conditions being equal, more intense than an emotion that which is non—necessary. Q.E.D. PROP. XII. An emotion towards a thing, which we know not to exist at the present time, and which we conceive as possible, is more intense, other conditions being equal, than an emotion towards a thing contingent. Proof.—In so far as we conceive a thing as contingent, we are affected by the conception of some further thing, which would assert the existence of the former (IV. Def. iii.); but, on the other hand, we (by hypothesis) conceive certain things, which exclude its present existence. But, in so far as we conceive a thing to be possible in the future, we there by conceive things which assert its existence (IV. iv.), that is (III. xviii.), things which promote hope or fear: wherefore an emotion towards something possible is more vehement. Q.E.D. Corollary.—An emotion towards a thing, which we know not to exist in the present, and which we conceive as contingent, is far fainter, than if we conceive the thing to be present with us. Proof.—Emotion towards a thing, which we conceive to exist, is more intense than it would be, if we conceived the thing as future (IV. ix. Coroll.), and is much more vehement, than if the future time be conceived as far distant from the present (IV. x.). Therefore an emotion towards a thing, whose period of existence we conceive to be far distant from the present, is far fainter, than if we conceive the thing as present; it is, nevertheless, more intense, than if we conceived the thing as contingent, wherefore an emotion towards a thing, which we regard as contingent, will be far fainter, than if we conceived the thing to be present with us. Q.E.D. PROP. XIII. Emotion towards a thing contingent, which we know not to exist in the present, is, other conditions being equal, fainter than an emotion towards a thing past. Proof.—In so far as we conceive a thing as contingent, we are not affected by the image of any other thing, which asserts the existence of the said thing (IV. Def. iii.), but, on the other hand (by hypothesis), we conceive certain things excluding its present existence. But, in so far as we conceive it in relation to time past, we are assumed to conceive something, which recalls the thing to memory, or excites the image thereof (II. xviii. and note), which is so far the same as regarding it as present (II. xvii. Coroll.). Therefore (IV. ix.) an emotion towards a thing contingent, which we know does not exist in the present, is fainter, other conditions being equal, than an emotion towards a thing past. Q.E.D. PROP. XIV. A true knowledge of good and evil cannot check any emotion by virtue of being true, but only in so far as it is considered as an emotion. 292

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Proof.—An emotion is an idea, whereby the mind affirms of its body a greater or less force of existing than before (by the general Definition of the Emotions); therefore it has no positive quality, which can be destroyed by the presence of what is true; consequently the knowledge of good and evil cannot, by virtue of being true, restrain any emotion. But, in so far as such knowledge is an emotion (IV. viii.) if it have more strength for restraining emotion, it will to that extent be able to restrain the given emotion. Q.E.D. PROP. XV. Desire arising from the knowledge of good and bad can be quenched or checked by many of the other desires arising from the emotions whereby we are assailed. Proof.—From the true knowledge of good and evil, in so far as it is an emotion, necessarily arises desire (Def. of the Emotions, i.), the strength of which is proportioned to the strength of the emotion wherefrom it arises (III. xxxvii.). But, inasmuch as this desire arises (by hypothesis) from the fact of our truly understanding anything, it follows that it is also present with us, in so far as we are active (III. i.), and must therefore be understood through our essence only (III. Def. ii.); consequently (III. vii.) its force and increase can be defined solely by human power. Again, the desires arising from the emotions whereby we are assailed are stronger, in proportion as the said emotions are more vehement; wherefore their force and increase must be defined solely by the power of external causes, which, when compared with our own power, indefinitely surpass it (IV. iii.); hence the desires arising from like emotions may be more vehement, than the desire which arises from a true knowledge of good and evil, and may, consequently, control or quench it. Q.E.D. PROP. XVI. Desire arising from the knowledge of good and evil, in so far as such knowledge regards what is future, may be more easily controlled or quenched, than the desire for what is agreeable at the present moment. Proof.—Emotion towards a thing, which we conceive as future, is fainter than emotion towards a thing that is present (IV. ix. Coroll.). But desire, which arises from the true knowledge of good and evil, though it be concerned with things which are good at the moment, can be quenched or controlled by any headstrong desire (by the last Prop., the proof whereof is of universal application). Wherefore desire arising from such knowledge, when concerned with the future, can be more easily controlled or quenched, &c. Q.E.D. PROP. XVII. Desire arising from the true knowledge of good and evil, in so far as such knowledge is concerned with what is contingent, can be controlled far more easily still, than desire for things that are present. Proof.—This Prop. is proved in the same way as the last Prop. from IV. xii. Coroll. Note.—I think I have now shown the reason, why men are moved by opinion more readily than by true reason, why it is that the true knowledge of good and evil stirs up conflicts in the soul, and often yields to every kind of passion. This state of things gave rise to the exclamation of the poet: “The better path I gaze at and approve, The worse—I follow.”3 293

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Ecclesiastes seems to have had the same thought in his mind, when he says, “He who increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.” I have not written the above with the object of drawing the conclusion, that ignorance is more excellent than knowledge, or that a wise man is on a par with a fool in controlling his emotions, but because it is necessary to know the power and the infirmity of our nature, before we can determine what reason can do in restraining the emotions, and what is beyond her power. I have said, that in the present part I shall merely treat of human infirmity. The power of reason over the emotions I have settled to treat separately. PROP. XVIII. Desire arising from pleasure is, other conditions being equal, stronger than desire arising from pain. Proof.—Desire is the essence of a man (Def. of the Emotions, i.), that is, the endeavour whereby a man endeavours to persist in his own being. Wherefore desire arising from pleasure is, by the fact of pleasure being felt, increased or helped; on the contrary, desire arising from pain is, by the fact of pain being felt, diminished or hindered; hence the force of desire arising from pleasure must be defined by human power together with the power of an external cause, whereas desire arising from pain must be defined by human power only. Thus the former is the stronger of the two. Q.E.D. Note.—In these few remarks I have explained the causes of human infirmity and inconstancy, and shown why men do not abide by the precepts of reason. It now remains for me to show what course is marked out for us by reason, which of the emotions are in harmony with the rules of human reason, and which of them are contrary thereto. But, before I begin to prove my Propositions in detailed geometrical fashion, it is advisable to sketch them briefly in advance, so that everyone may more readily grasp my meaning. As reason makes no demands contrary to nature, it demands, that every man should love himself, should seek that which is useful to him—I mean, that which is really useful to him, should desire everything which really brings man to greater perfection, and should, each for himself, endeavour as far as he can to preserve his own being. This is as necessarily true, as that a whole is greater than its part. (Cf. III. iv.) Again, as virtue is nothing else but action in accordance with the laws of one’s own nature (IV. Def. viii.), and as no one endeavours to preserve his own being, except in accordance with the laws of his own nature, it follows, first, that the foundation of virtue is the endeavour to preserve one’s own being, and that happiness consists in man’s power of preserving his own being; secondly, that virtue is to be desired for its own sake, and that there is nothing more excellent or more useful to us, for the sake of which we should desire it; thirdly and lastly, that suicides are weak—minded, and are overcome by external causes repugnant to their nature. Further, it follows from Postulate iv., Part II., that we can never arrive at doing without all external things for the preservation of our being or living, so as to have no relations with things which are outside ourselves. Again, if we consider our mind, we see that our intellect would be more imperfect, if mind were alone, and could understand nothing besides itself. There are, then, many things outside 294

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ourselves, which are useful to us, and are, therefore, to be desired. Of such none can be discerned more excellent, than those which are in entire agreement with our nature. For if, for example, two individuals of entirely the same nature are united, they form a combination twice as powerful as either of them singly. Therefore, to man there is nothing more useful than man—nothing, I repeat, more excellent for preserving their being can be wished for by men, than that all should so in all points agree, that the minds and bodies of all should form, as it were, one single mind and one single body, and that all should, with one consent, as far as they are able, endeavour to preserve their being, and all with one consent seek what is useful to them all. Hence, men who are governed by reason—that is, who seek what is useful to them in accordance with reason, desire for themselves nothing, which they do not also desire for the rest of mankind, and, consequently, are just, faithful, and honourable in their conduct. Such are the dictates of reason, which I purposed thus briefly to indicate, before beginning to prove them in greater detail. I have taken this course, in order, if possible, to gain the attention of those who believe, that the principle that every man is bound to seek what is useful for himself is the foundation of impiety, rather than of piety and virtue. Therefore, after briefly showing that the contrary is the case, I go on to prove it by the same method, as that whereby I have hitherto proceeded. PROP. XIX. Every man, by the laws of his nature, necessarily desires or shrinks from that which he deems to be good or bad. Proof.—The knowledge of good and evil is (IV. viii.) the emotion of pleasure or pain, in so far as we are conscious thereof; therefore, every man necessarily desires what he thinks good, and shrinks from what he thinks bad. Now this appetite is nothing else but man’s nature or essence (Cf. the Definition of Appetite, III. ix. note, and Def. of the Emotions, i.). Therefore, every man, solely by the laws of his nature, desires the one, and shrinks from the other, &c. Q.E.D. PROP. XX. The more every man endeavours, and is able to seek what is useful to him—in other words, to preserve his own being—the more is he endowed with virtue; on the contrary, in proportion as a man neglects to seek what is useful to him, that is, to preserve his own being, he is wanting in power. Proof.—Virtue is human power, which is defined solely by man’s essence (IV. Def. viii.), that is, which is defined solely by the endeavour made by man to persist in his own being. Wherefore, the more a man endeavours, and is able to preserve his own being, the more is he endowed with virtue, and, consequently (III. iv. and vi.), in so far as a man neglects to preserve his own being, he is wanting in power. Q.E.D. Note.—No one, therefore, neglects seeking his own good, or preserving his own being, unless he be overcome by causes external and foreign to his nature. No one, I say, from the necessity of his own nature, or otherwise than under compulsion from external causes, shrinks from food, or kills himself: which latter may be done in a variety of ways. A man, for instance, kills himself under the compulsion of another man, who twists round his right hand, wherewith he happened to 295

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have taken up a sword, and forces him to turn the blade against his own heart; or, again, he may be compelled, like Seneca, by a tyrant’s command, to open his own veins—that is, to escape a greater evil by incurring, a lesser; or, lastly, latent external causes may so disorder his imagination, and so affect his body, that it may assume a nature contrary to its former one, and whereof the idea cannot exist in the mind (III. x.) But that a man, from the necessity of his own nature, should endeavour to become non—existent, is as impossible as that something should be made out of nothing, as everyone will see for himself, after a little reflection.

Notes 1 The original seventeenth-century title is ‘On the Origin and Nature of the Affects’. 2 The original seventeenth-century title is ‘Human Bondage, or the Power of the Affects’. 3 Ovid Metamorphoses VII.20, ‘Video meliora proboque, Deteriora sequor.’

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38 T HÉOP HRASTE RE NAUDOT (1585–1653), ANOTHER COLL ECT ION OF P H ILOSOPHICAL CON FERENCES OF T HE FRENCH VI RTUOS I U PON QUESTIONS OF ALL SO R TS FOR T HE IMPR OVI NG OF N ATURAL KNOWLEDG M ADE I N TH E ASSEMBLY OF THE BEAUX E SP R ITS AT PARIS BY THE M OS T IN G ENIOUS PERSONS OF THAT NATION Trans. G. Havers, Gent. & J. Davies (London: Thomas Dring and John Starkey, 1665), pp. 99–101 and 150–3

Théophraste Renaudot was a French physician and philanthropist. Under the patronage of the Cardinal de Richelieu, chief minister of King Louis XIII, Renaudot organized a series of academic conferences between 1633 and 1642, during which the participants would discuss and debate questions pertaining to a variety of themes. The proceedings of 240 of these conferences were printed in French, with English translations appearing in 1664 and 1665. Below are the proceedings of two such conferences, one revolving around the nature of Love and the other about happiness and unhappiness. …

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CONFERENCE CXIX. Of Love by Inclination, or Sympathy. ’TIs not only amongst the Poets that Love is blind, the obscurity of this causes evidencing him no less so amongst the Philosophers, who assign two sorts of it; one of Knowledge, which tends to a good known; the other of Inclination, whereby we love without knowing why. Indeed there is no love without ground, and some sort of knowledge; but yet, when the cause obliging us to love is manifest, it makes the former kind of love; when obscure, the latter: whereof we have many examples in nature, not only in the Symbolical qualities of the Elements, Electrical and Magnetical attractions of Stones, particular alliances of Metals, and all the amities of Plants and Trees, as of the female Palm which is said to lean towards the male, and those which are found amongst Animals; but especially in the particular inclinations of some Persons to others unknown and void of all recommendations to qualifie them for the same, and the emotions some have felt both in Soul and Body at the first sight of their unknown Parents: as also of a contrary effect, when a dead body bleeds upon the presence of its Murderer; which is a testimony of an antipathetical hatred contrary to the abovesaid Love, which we find in our selves almost upon all occurrences; as when two equally strangers play at Tennis, we wish that one may win and the other lose. For the first motions of Love, as well as of all other Passions, are not in our power, and afford not the Mind time to deliberate and make reflexion upon them. Hence oftentimes, Anger, Sadness, Panick fright, and such other Passions seise upon us without cause; and Love doth the like frequently, without any apparent reason. Yea, we may say, there is no Love of Knowledg but what took its first rise from that of Inclination, which presently makes us enamor’d of the proportions of a Face, which displeases another that understands the same as well as we, but without being any way affected therewith, because he finds not in it that correspondence and sympathetical resemblance that produces a Love of Inclination, which may also arise without any knowledge, as in that blind man who lov’d a Lass whom he had never seen; as also in Petrarch who made so many Verses upon his Lawra, whom he could never behold; The cause whereof I should attribute to the power of the Imagination, which fancies somthing of loveliness where there is none; or else to the sole action of the Will, which not able to remain neuter between love and hatred (since its action is to will, and to will is to love) when it meets no cause of hatred in an object, loves it; and hates it, when it finds nothing amiable therein. For if you assign the reason of this love to the transpiration of Spirits issuing out of the lov’d person’s body, their substance is too volatile to act so far off; and their issuing being never alike, (because the pores of the skin are more stopt at one time then at another) this love would be remarkably alter’d every moment. Besides, we many times love by an inclination an absent person for his merit; and many have been enamour’d of Beauties at the first sight of their Pictures; but love was never produc’d between two blind persons, notwithstanding any emission of sympathetical Spirits. Moreover, ’tis the Species and not the Spirits that are receiv’d by our Senses; and so none should ever love those they had not seen, but by a Prospective-glass. 298

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The Second said, That it imports not much to the causing of love, whether the object be really or only imaginarily good; and indeed our minds seem to interess themselves more in the pursute and preservation of the latter then the former, which maintains it self by its proper worth. Wherefore if Love of Inclination presuppose goodness in the object, the same must be apprehended either by the Imagination or by some other Faculty, to which it must therefore be approximated either immediately by it self, or by it self. So the sweetness of Honey makes it self perceptible to the Tongue by it self: but the proportion of a fair countenance cannot make it self known but by its species, which is the picture and representation of it. This way, is produc’d the Love of Inclination as well as that of Knowledge; only with this difference, that the Species which produce the former, act imperceptibly, and more suddenly then those that produce the latter, which is more deliberate and rational. The Third said, There are but two sorts of Love; one, improper and Metaphorical; the other, proper and formal. That precedes Knowledg, and is an Instinct inclining natural things to their proper good: This follows Knowledg as its guide, and is the first Expansion of the Heart, pleasing it self with the good it likes. And as that is diffus’d over all Creatures, so this is restrain’d only to the sensible and rational. The Appetite, whence the former proceeds, is immers’d and incorporated in the nature of every thing, and not distinguish’d from the faculties and powers they have to act. But the latter, ariseth from the Appetite properly so call’d, whose functions or motions are the eleven Passions, to which as many acts correspond in the Rational Appetite. The Question cannot be concerning that improper Appetite; for then Stones should have Love, as well as Instinct, towards their Centre; but of the true and proper Love subsequent to Knowledg, which gives Amability to good, as Light doth Visibility to colours. Wherefore they who talk of certain Spirits issuing out of the lov’d person’s body into the eyes of the Lover, and seising upon the heart, without falling under knowledge, seem ignorant of the nature of Love. For should such spirits arrive at the heart without being observ’d; yet they must come out thence again to be known before they can cause Love; as we cannot know any thing that is in the soul, unless it come first out thence and become sensible; since nothing is in the Understanding but what pass’d through the Sense. So a man cannot know his own face but by reflection from a Looking-glass without him. For the Soul at our Nativity is like a smooth table or white-sheet of Paper, and thence its primitive notions during this present state is by Phantasms supplied to us by our Senses. Now the essential reason of this dependance which keeps Love subject to Knowledg, is, that the Appetite, which is the Principle of Love, is only a Passion or Propriety of the thing wherein it is; but the Principle of Knowledge is an essential degree of Nature. Hence, Souls are distinguish’d by Cognition, not by Appetite: we call the Sensitive Soul, so, from the knowledg of Sense, which constitutes its essential difference; and the Rational Soul so, because Reason, the principle of Knowledg is a degree of Nature: but Appetite is a propriety which follows it. And being there is the same reason of Actions and their Principles; as the Appetite supposes a principle of Knowledg, so Love, which is the action of the Appetite, 299

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supposes actual and clear Knowledg. Hence, there is no love without knowledg. For that we have more phansie to the one of two persons playing then to the other, ’tis because we discern somthing in his face, gestures, or motion that pleases us better. Sympathy (pretended the cause of this love) may indeed be the foundation of it; inasmuch as we naturally love those like our selves; but it can never make us love till we have found in the thing some Je-ne-scay-quoy of lovely. It cannot be the sole cause of our love, since ’tis of it self imperceptible to our knowledg, and consequently cannot produce love till the effects of such sympathy, to wit, such an Air, such a Motion, and such a Deportment have pleas’d us. And whereas ’tis said that from eyes which behold us attentively we perceive something come forth that animates us; I answer, that oftentimes quick fix’d and sweet intuitions are tokens of love, from which ’tis no wonder if ours take rise and growth, as from its proper cause; since Love begets Love.

CONFERENCE CXXXV. Of Happiness and Unhappiness; and whether men are Happy or Unhappy, because they really are so, or because they think themselves so. THree sorts of effects are observ’d in Nature. Some arise always necessarily, as the vicissitudes of Days, Nights and Seasons, which depend upon the motion of the Stars, no more alterable without a miracle then the other effects of Universal Nature. Others come to pass often but not always; the particular nature which produces them being sometimes hindred by some accident, which makes it bring forth Monsters. The last happen neither always nor often but seldom; as all those which depend upon contingent causes, which are of two sorts. The first act by a necessity of nature, without any election: The second by a principle of liberty without choice or deliberation. Both, when they produce an effect contrary to their intention and primary design, are called fortuitous causes. And as those which act by natural necessity produce a casualty, as when a Stone falls upon the head of any one; so when those which operate by election and design, produce another thing then what they had propounded to themselves, they make fortune, or good and ill-luck, according to the good or evil arising thence by ways and springs, by us unforeseen: for in case the cause or motives be known, the effects are no longer fortuitous and contingent, because they have their manifest and certain cause. So when industry, labour, favour or friendship procure Riches, the effect is not to be ascrib’d to Fortune, no more then the losses which follow upon the luxury and profusions of a disorderly life: but Riches and Honours are fortuitous when they happen to persons altogether incapable thereof; as also poverty, infamy, and contempt also to brave men, whose constancy and resolution in undergoing all those disgraces hath made it be commonly said, That a wise man is above fortune, because he slights her stroaks by the strength of his reason; which being alone capable to render us happy, since Beasts destitute thereof have neither any share in good-luck or bad-luck, I conceive that both the one and the other depends intirely upon our fansie, and the reflection we make upon the condition of the 300

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thing possessed; which appearing sometimes good and sometimes bad, makes us accordingly judge our selves happy or unhappy. The Second said, Diversity is no where more apparent than in humane Actions, the incertainty and inconstancy whereof is such, that men rarely arrive at their proposed end, but oftentimes behold themselves either exalted to an unhoped degree of Felicity, or overwhelmed with the Misery which there was no ground to apprehend. Which diversity of accidents, induced Superstitious Antiquity, to set up a blind and flitting Deity, constant onely in her inconstancy, whom they held the cause of all such effects; thus betaking themselves to an imaginary canse, in regard they could not, or would not acknowledg the true; which I attribute to every ones temperament, by means of which is produced in the Soul a certain natural motion and impetuosity for obtaining some particular thing, without Reasons contributing thereunto; and according as a Man follows or resists these instincts and inclinations, so he proves either happy or unhappy. Thus he who finds himself disposed to Arms, if he embrace them, thrives better than in a soft and sedentary life, whereunto the Melaneholly person is more addicted, and prospers better herein. Now because dull spirits, fools, and thick-skull’d fellows, easily suffer themselves to be guided by those motions; therefore they commonly prove more fortunate than the wise, whose Prudence and Discretion causing them to make abundance of reflections upon what they undertake, causes them also to lose opportunities which never return. For I am not of their Opinion, who hold, That as there are Spirits which make the Celestial Orbes move, and, according to Averroes, an Intelligence presiding over natural Generations; so there is a particular one for the various events of life, which it makes to happen according to the different intentions of the First Mover: Since without recurring to such obscure and remote causes, we carry in our selves those of our Felicity and Infelicity, whereof we are the true Artificers; which to place in the Phansie alone, and not in reality, is to say, good is not Good; since goodness being an essential affection of real entity, is inseparable from it, and consequently true, not barely imaginary. The Third said, That Good being such onely upon account of its conveniency or sutableness to the Possessor, there is not in this world any Absolute Good or Happiness, but onely Relative and by Comparison, seeing what sutes well with one, doth not so with another. Riches, wherein most Men place their Felicity, were cast into the Sea by a Philosopher, that he might the better attend Contemplation. Honors and Pleasures, (charms, which most powerfully inveigle most of Man-kind) are crosses and torments to some others. Imprisonment, one of the hardest trials of Patience, is nevertheless sought by some, who prefer Solitude and perpetual Restraint, before the vanities of the world. To have no Friends is the greatest of infelicities; yet Timon made it his prime Pleasure. Life, the foundation of all goods, hath been so tedious to some, that to be deliver’d from it they have kill’d themselves; and the pains, afflictions, and diseases leading to death, are, in the Stoicks account, but imaginary Evils, making no impression upon the wise. The Fourth said, Since Happiness and Unhappiness seem to be the Elements, composing the Political Life of Men, and the two Poles of that Globe upon which 301

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the Antients plac’d Fortune, their Consideration may be taken two ways, either in their Cause, or in their Effect. As for the first, the Stoicks, who establisht a Fate governing All by a Series of necessary and determinate Events, were as impious as Democritus and Leucippus, who, on the contrary, maintain’d that all things were done by Chance in the Universe, which, they said, it self was made by the casual occourse of their Atoms; these denying the Providence of God, those his Power, by subjecting and tying him to the immutable Laws of Fatality. But without considering things in reference to God, to whom every thing is present and certain, we may distinguish them into two sorts. Some acting necessarily, have alwayes their necessary effects: others, which depend absolutely upon Man’s Will, which is free and indifferent, have accordingly Effects incertain and contingent. Thus the accidents of the Sea, (where the vulgar believes is the chief Empire of Fortune), natural deaths, the births of poor and rich, have regular and necessary Causes. On the contrary, Goods freely given, or acquir’d with little industry, or found, have contingent Causes; which being almost infinite, (for there is no Cause by it self, but may be a Cause by accident, by producing another thing than what was intended) they cannot fall within the knowledge of Humane Wit, which knows onely what is finite and terminate. Other Events have Causes mixt of Chance and Necessity, as the death of the Poet Aeschylus, hapning by a Tortoise which an Eagle let fall upon his bald Head. As for the second manner wherein Happiness may be consider’d, namely, Whether it render us happy in Reality or in Imagination; ’tis an accusing all Men of folly, to say that Felicity is imaginary and phantastical; since Nature, which hath given no Desire in vain, (as she should have done, if she had caus’d us to desire a thing that exists not) makes all Men aspire to the one, and fear the other. There must be an Absolute Happiness as well as an Absolute Good, namely, the possession of this Good, as that of Existence is, which being the foundation of all Goods, must be a Real and Absolute Good. Virtue and, the Honor attending it, being likewise true and solid Goods, their possession must adferr a semblable Felicity; the verity and reality is no more chang’d by not being equally gusted by all, than the savour of Meat, or the Beauty of Light, would be by not being perceiv’d by a sick or a blind person: Yea, as he that ha’s a rough Diamond is not less the possessor, or less rich for not knowing the value of it; so he that possesses some Good ought not to be accounted less happy, though he think not himself so. Moreover, ‘twould be as absurd to call a Man happy or unhappy because he thinks himself so; as to believe a fool is a King, or Rich, because he phansies himself to have Empires and Riches. The Fifth said, That Happiness, which is rather an Effect of our Genius, (as the examples of Socrates and Simonides prove) than of our Temperament, much less of the Stars and their influences, depends not onely upon the possession of some Good, or the belief a Man hath that he possesses it, but upon both together; namely, upon the reflexion he makes upon the Good which he really possesses; for want of which, Children, Fools, Drunkards, and even the Wise themselves, whilst they are a sleep cannot be call’d Happy.

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39 NICHOLAS M ALEBRANCHE (1638–1715), FATHER MA LEBRANCHE HIS TREATI S E C ONCERNING THE S EARCH A F TE R TRUTH THE WH OLE W ORK C OMP L ET E. TO WHIC H I S ADDED TH E AUTHOR’S TREATI S E OF NATURE AND GRACE Trans. T. Taylor (London: Thomas Bennet, T. Leigh and W. Midwinter, 1700), pp. 1–5 and 10–12

Born in France, Nicholas Malebranche was a Catholic priest and philosopher who sought to bring together the thought of Saint Augustine and Descartes in his work to demonstrate the active role of God in all aspects of the world. In Part V of his famous work The Search for Truth, first published in 1674–5, Malebranche examined the human emotions or passions. Inspired by Descartes, Malebranche perceived the passions as functional for the union of the soul and the mind but differed from the latter in his assessment of the direct experience of the soul. …

Tome II. Book V. Chapter I. Of the Nature and Original of Passions in general. The Mind of Man has two essential or necessary Relations extreamly different; the one to God, and the other to its Body. As mere Mind, it is essentially united to the Divine Word, the Eternal Wisdom and Truth; since it is only by that Union that ’tis capable of thinking, as is proved in the Third Book. As a humane Mind, it has an essential Relation to its Body, since it is by Virtue of that Union that it imagines 303

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and perceives by its Senses, as is explained in the First and Second Book. We call the Mind Sense or Imagination, when the Body is the natural or occasional Cause of its Thoughts: and we call it Understanding, when it acts by it self, or rather, when God acts in it, or his Light illuminates it several different ways, without a necessary Relation to what is done in the Body. It’s even so with the Will of man; as a Will, it essentially depends on the Love that God bears to himself, on the Eternal Law, and in short on the Will of God. It is only because God loves himself, that we love any thing; for if God did not love himself, or did not continually influence the Soul of man with a Love like his own; that is, with the Motion of Love, which a Man feels in himself for Good in general; we should love nothing, we should will nothing, and consequently should be destitute of Will; since Will is nothing else but that Impression of Nature that carries us towards Good in general, as hath been said several times. But the Will, considered as the Will of Man, essentially depends upon the Body, since it is by reason of the Motion of the Blood and Animal Spirits, that it feels its self affected with all its sensible Commotions. And therefore I have called Natural Inclinations all the Motions, which the Soul has common with pure Intelligences, together with some in which the Body hath a great Share, but of which it is only the indirect Cause and End, and I have explained them in the foregoing Book.— Here I understand by Passions, All the Motions which naturally affect the Soul, on occasion of the extraordinary Motion of the Blood and Animal Spirits. And so shall these sensible Commotions be the Subject of this Book. Though the Passions be inseparable from the Inclinations, and Men be only susceptible of a sensible Love and Hatred, because they are capable of a Spiritual Love and Hatred; however it was though fit to treat of them separately, in order to prevent Confusion. For if it be considered, That the Passions are far stronger and livelyer than the Natural Inclinations; that they have for the most part other Objects, and are always produced by different Causes: it will be granted, That we do not distinguish, without Reason, things that are inseparable in their own Nature. Men are capable of Sensations and Imaginations only because they are capable of pure Intellections, the Senses and Imagination being inseparable from the Mind; and yet none finds fault with those that distinctly treat of those Faculties of the Soul, which are naturally inseparable. Last of all, the Senses and Imagination differ not more from the pure Understanding, than the Passions from the Inclinations. And therefore as the three first Faculties use to be distinguished, so ought also the two last; that we may the better distinguish what the Soul receives from its Author, with Relation to its Body, from that which it also has from him, but without that Relation. The only Inconveniency that may grow out of the distinction of two things so naturally united, is the necessity of repeating some things that had been said before, as is usual in the like occasions. Man is one, though he be Compounded of several parts, and the union of those parts is so intimate, that one of them cannot be affected without a Commotion 304

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of the whole. All his Faculties are linked together, and so subordinated, that it is impossible to explain some of them, without touching upon the others. So that when we labour to find out a Method to prevent Confusion, we necessarily fall into Repetitions: but ’tis better to repeat, than not to be Methodical, because we ought above all to be plain and intelligible; and therefore whatever we can doe in this occasion, is to repeat, if possible, without wearying the Reader. The Passions of the Soul are Impressions of the Author of Nature, which incline us to love our Body and whatever is useful for its preservation: As the natural Inclinations are Impressions of the same Author, that principally move us to love him as the Sovereign Good. The natural or occasional Cause of these Impressions is the Motion of the Animal Spirits, which disperse through the Body, to produce and maintain in it a disposition suitable to the Object perceiv’d, that the Mind and Body may in that conjuncture mutually help each other. For ’tis the Institution of God that our Willings be attended with such Motions of our Body, as are fit to put them in execution; and that the Motions of our Body which Machinally rise in us, at the perception of some Object, be follow’d with a Passion of the Soul, that inclines us to will what seems at that time profitable to the Body. It is the continual Impression of the Will of God upon us, that keeps us so strictly united to a portion of matter; for if that Impression of his Will should cease but a moment, we should instantly be rid of the Dependency upon our Body, and all the Changes it undergoes. For I cannot understand what some people imagine, that there is a necessary Connection betwixt the Motion of the Blood and Animal Spirits, and the Commotions of the Soul. Some small Particles of Choler violently move in the Brain, must therefore the Soul be agitated with some Passion, and must that Passion be Anger rather than Love? What Relation can there be conceived betwixt the Idea of an Enemy’s Imperfections, the Passion of Contempt or Hatred, and the Corporeal Motion of some Particles of the Blood, that beat against some parts of the Brain? How they can imagine that the one depend upon the other, and that the Union or Connection of two things so distant, and so incompatible, as the Mind and Matter, can be caused and preserved any otherwise, than by the continual and Almighty Will of the Author of Nature, is to me unconceivable. Those that suppose that Bodies necessarily and by themselves communicate their Motion to each other, in the instant of their concourse, make but a probable supposition? neither is their prejudice altogether groundless, since Bodies seem to have an Essential Relation to Bodies. But the Mind and Body are two sorts of Beings so opposite, that those who think that the Commotions of the Soul necessarily follow upon the Motion of the Blood and Animal Spirits, do it without the least probability. For nothing but our own Consciousness of the Union of those two Beings, and the Ignorance of the continual Operations of God upon his Creatures, can make us imagine another Cause of the Union of our Soul and Body, than the Will of God. It is hard to determine, whether that Union or Connection of the thoughts of the Mind of Man, with the Motions of his Body, is a punishment of Sin, or a Gift of 305

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Nature. And some persons believe it a rash and imprudent Attempt to chuse one of these Opinions rather than the other. It is well known, that Man before his Sin was not a Slave, but absolute Master of his Passions, and that he could, merely by his Will, stop at his pleasure, the Agitation of the Blood that caused them. But we can hardly persuade our selves that the Body did not importune the Soul of the first Man to find out such things as were fit for the preservation of his Life: We can scarce believe but Adam before his Sin found Fruits pleasant to the sight and grateful to the Taste, if we rightly consider the words of the Holy Scripture; nor shall we come to think that the Oeconomy of the Senses and Passions, which is so wonderfully contrived and adapted to the preservation of the Body, is a Corruption of Nature, instead of its Original Institution. Doubtless Nature is at this present corrupted: the Body acts too violently upon the Mind: and whereas it ought only to make an humble Representation of its wants to the Soul, it domineers over her, takes her off from God, to whom she ought to be inseparably united, and continually applies her to the search of such sensible things, as tend to its preservation. She is grown as it were material and terestrial ever since her Fall; the Essential Relation and Union that she had with God being broken, that is to say, God being withdrawn from her, as much as he could be without her destruction and annihilation. A thousand disorders have attended the absence or departure of him that preserv’d her in Order; and without making a longer Enumeration of our Miseries, I freely confess that Man since his Fall is corrupted in all his parts. That Fall however has not quite destroyed the Work of God; for we can still discover in Man, what God at first put in him; and his immutable Will, that constitutes the Nature of every thing, was not changed by the Inconstancy and Fickleness of the Will of Adam. Whatever God has once will’d he still wills, and because his Will is efficatious, brings it to pass. The Sin of Man was indeed the Occasion of that Divine Will, that makes the Dispensation of Grace, but Grace is not contrary to Nature; neither do they destroy each other; since God is not opposed to himself, that he never repents, and that his Wisdom being without Limits, his Works will be without End. And therefore the Will of God, that constitutes the Dispensation of Grace, is superadded to that which makes the Oeconomy of Nature, in order to repair and not to change it. There are then in God but these two general Wills, and the Laws by which he governs the World depend on one or other of them. It will plainly appear, by what follows, that the Passions are very well order’d, if considered only in reference to the Preservation of the Body, though they deceive us in some very rare and particular Occasions, which the universal Cause did not think fit to remedy. Thence I conclude, That the Passions belong to the Order of Nature, since they cannot be ranked under the Order of Grace. ’Tis true, that seeing the Sin of the first man has deprived us of the Help of an always-present God, and always ready to defend us; It may be said, That Sin is the Cause of our excessive adhesion to sensible things, because Sin has estranged us from God, by whom alone we can be rid of our Slavery. 306

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But without insisting longer upon the Enquiry after the first Cause of the Passions let us examine their Extent, their particular Nature, their End, their Use, their Defects, and whatever they comprehend. Chapter II: Of the Vnion of the Mind with sensible things; or of the Force and Extent of the Passions in general. If all those who read this Work would be at the pains to reflect upon what they feel within themselves; it would not be necessary to insist upon our Dependency upon all sensible Objects. I can say upon this Head but what every one knows as well as I do, if he will but think on it; and was therefore very much inclined to pass it over. But Experience having taught me, That Men often forget themselves so far, as not to think or be aware of what they feel, nor to enquire into the Reason of what passes in their own Mind; I thought it fit to propose some Considerations that may help them to reflect upon it. And even I hope, That those who know such things will not think their Reading ill bestowed: for though we do not care to hear simply rehearsed what we very well know, yet we use to be affected with Pleasure at the hearing of what we know and feel together. The most honourable Sect of Philosophers, of whose Opinions many Pretenders boast still now a-days, will persuade us, That it is in our power to be happy. The Stoicks continually say, We ought only to depend upon our selves; we ought not to be vexed for the Loss of Dignities, Estates, Friends, Relations; we ought to be always calm and without the least Disturbance whatever happens; Banishment, Injuries, Affronts, Diseases, and even Death are no Evils, and ought not to be feared, and a thousand Paradoxes of that Nature, which we are apt enough to believe; both because of our Pride, that makes us affect Independency, as that because Reason teaches us that most part of the Evils, which really afflict us, would not be able to disturb us, if all things remained in good Order. But God has given us a Body, and by that Body united us to all sensible things: Sin has subjected us to our Body, and by our Body made us dependent upon all sensible things. It is the Order of Nature, it is the Will of the Creatour, that all the Beings that he has made should hang together: And therefore being united to all things, and the Sin of the first Man having made us dependent on all Beings, to which God had only united us: there is now none but he is at once united and subjected to his Body, and by his Body to his Relations, Friends, City, Prince, Country, Cloaths, House, Estate, Horse, Dog, to all the Earth, to the Sun, the Stars, and the Heavens. It’s then ridiculous to tell Men, that it is in their power to be happy, wise, and free: It is to jeer them, seriously to advise them they ought not to be afflicted for the Loss of their Friends or Estates. For as it were absurd to exhort Men not to feel Pain when they are beaten, or not to be sensible of Pleasure when they eat with an Appetite; so the Stoicks are either unreasonable, or not in good earnest, when they cry, That we ought not to be sorry for the Death of our Father, the Loss of our Goods, our Banishment, Imprisonment, and the like; nor to be glad of the happy 307

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Success of our Affairs: since we are united to our Country, Goods, Friends, &c. by a Natural Union, which at present has no dependence on our Will. I grant that Reason teaches us, we are to undergo Banishment without Sorrow: but the same Reason likewise teaches us we ought to endure the cutting off our Arm without Pain; because the Soul is superiour to the Body, and that, according to the light of Reason, her happiness or misery ought not to depend upon it: but ’tis ridiculous to argue against Experience, which in this occasion will convince us that things are not so, as our Reason intimates they ought to be. The Philosophy of the Christians is quite different from that; they deny not but Pain is an Evil, and that it is hard to be separated from those things to which Nature has united us, or to rid our selves from the Slavery Sin has reduc’d us to. They agree that it is a Disorder that the Soul shall depend upon her Body, but they own withall that she depends upon it, and even so much that she cannot free her self from that Subjection but by the Grace of our Lord. I see, saith St. Paul, another Law in my Members warring against the Law of my Mind, and bringing me into Captivity to the Law of Sin, which is in my Members. O wretched Man that I am! who shall deliver me from the Body of this Death? the Grace of God through Jesus Christ our Lord shall do it.1 The Son of God, his Apostles and all his true Disciples command us above all to be Patient, because they know that Misery must be the Expectation and Portion of the Righteous. In short, true Christians or true Philosophers, say nothing but what is agreeable to sound Reason and Experience; whereas all Nature continually impugns the proud Opinion and presumption of the Stoicks. The Christians know that to free themselves in some manner from the Subjection they are under, they must endeavour to deprive themselves of all those things that they cannot enjoy without Pleasure, nor want without Pain; it being the only means to preserve that Peace and Liberty of Mind, which they owe to their Deliverer’s Beneficence. On the contrary the Stoicks, following the false Notions of their Chimerical Philophy, imagine that they are wise and happy, and that they need but think upon Vertue and Independency, to become Vertuous and Independent. Sound Reason and Experience assure us, that the best way not to feel the smart of stinging is to shun the Nettle: but the Stoicks say, Sting me never so much, I shall by the strength of my Mind, and the help of my Philosophy, raise my self so high above my Body, that all your pricking shall not reach me. I can demonstrate that my Happiness depends not upon it, and that Pain is not an Evil; and you shall see by the Colour of my Face, and by the whole deportment of my Body, that my Philosophy has made me invulnerable. Their Pride bears up their Courage, however it hinders not but that they should suffer Pain with Vexation, and be really miserable; so that their Union with their Body is not destroyed, nor their Pain vanished; but all this proceeds from their Union with other Men, strengthened by the desire of their Esteem, which in some manner withstands the Union of their Soul with their Body. The sensible view of the Spectators, to whom they are united, stops the Course of the Animal Spirits that should follow upon the pain, and blots out the Impression they would make upon their Face; for was there no body to look on them, that Phantasm of 308

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Constancy and Liberty of Mind would presently vanish: So that the Stoicks do only in some degree withstand the Union of their Soul to their Body, by making themselves greater Slaves to other Men, to whom they are united by a drift of Glory. And ’tis therefore an undoubted truth, that all Men are united to all sensible things, both by Nature and their Concupiscence; which may sufficiently be known by Experience, and of which all the Actions of Mankind are sensible demonstrations, though Reason seems to oppose it. Though this Union be common to all Men, ’tis not however of an equal Extent and Strength in all; for as it proceeds from the Knowledge of the Mind; so it may be said that we are not actually united to unknown Objects. A Clown in his Cottage does not concern himself with the Glory of his Prince and Country, but only with the honour of his own and the Neighbouring Villages; because his Knowledge does not extend farther. The Union with such Objects as we have seen, is stronger than the Union to those we have only imagin’d, or heard relation of; because by Sensation we are more strictly united to sensible things, as leaving deeper Impressions in our Brain, and moving the animal Spirits in a more violent manner, than when they are only imagin’d. Neither is that Union so strong in those that continually oppose it, that they may adhere to the Goods of the Mind, as it is in those who suffer themselves to be carried away and inslav’d by their Passions, since Concupiscence increases and strengthens that Union. Last of all, the several Employments and States of this Life, together with the various dispositions of divers Persons, cause a considerable difference in that sensible Union which Men have with Earthly Goods: Great Lords have greater Dependencies than other Men, and their Chains, as I may call them, are longer. The General of an Army depends on all his Souldiers, because all his Souldiers reverence him. This Slavery is often the Cause of his Valour; and the desire of being esteem’d by those that are Witnesses of his Actions, often drives him to Sacrifice to it more sensible and rational desires. The same may be said of all Superiours, and those that make a great Figure in the World, Vanity being many times the Spur of their Vertue, because the love of Glory is ordinarily stronger than the love of Truth. I speak here of the love of Glory, not as a simple Inclination but a Passion, since that love may become sensible, and is often attended with very lively and violent Commotions of the Animal Spirits. Again the different Ages and Sexes are primary Causes of the difference of Passions. Children love not the same things as adult and old Men, or at least love them not with that Force and Constancy. Women depend only on their Family and Neighbourhood; but the dependencies of Men extend to their whole Country, because ’tis their part to defend it; and that they are mightily taken up with those great Offices, Honours and Commands, that the State may bestow upon them. There is such a variety in the Employments and Engagements of Men, that it is impossible to explain them all. The disposition of Mind in a Married Man is altogether different from that of a single Person; for the former is in a manner 309

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wholly taken up with the care of his Family. A Fryar has a Soul of another make, and depends upon fewer things than the Men of the World, and even than Secular Ecclesiasticks, but he is stronger fastned to those few things. One may argue in the same manner concerning the different States of Men in general, but the little sensible engagements cannot be explain’d, because they differ almost in every private Person; it often hapning that men have particular Engagements altogether opposite to those that they ought to have in reference to their condition. But though the different Genius and Inclinations of Men, Women, Old Men, Young Men, Rich, Poor, Learned, and Ignorant, in short of all the different Sexes, Ages and Conditions, might be fully treated of in general; yet they are too well known by those that are conversant with the World, and of all the thinking part of Mankind, to increase with them the Bulk of this Book; especially, seeing that our Eyes may afford us a very pleasant and solid Instruction of all such matters. But if any chuse to read them in Greek, rather than to learn them by his own reflection on what he sees, I refer him to the second Book of the Rhetoricks of Aristotle; which I take to be the Master-Piece of that Philosopher; because he says there few things, in which he can be mistaken; and that he seldom ventures to prove what he asserts. It is therefore evident that the sensible Union of the Mind of Men, with whatever has any Relation to the preservation of their Life, or of the Society of which they are Members, differs in different Persons; reaching farther in those that have more Knowledge, that are in a higher Station, and are indued with a larger Fancy; whereas that Union is stricter and stronger in those that are more sensible, that have a livelyer Imagination, and have more blindly given up themselves to the violence of their Passions. Such Considerations upon the almost infinite Bands that fasten Men to sensible Objects, are of an extraordinary Use; and the best way to become a great proficient in this sort of Learning, is the study and observation of our selves; since from the Inclinations and Passions, of which we are conscious in our selves, we can be fully assur’d of all the inclinations of other Men, and can make a good guess at a great part of the Passions they are subject to: to which adding the Information we can get of their particular Exgagements, and of the different Judgments that follow from every different Passion, of which we shall speak hereafter; it may perhaps not prove so hard a Task to guess most part of their Actions, as it is for an Astronomer to foretell an Eclipse. For though Men be free, yet it seldom happens that they make use of their Liberty, in opposition to their natural Inclinations and violent Passions. Before the Close of this Chapter I must observe, that it is one of the Laws of the Union of the Soul and Body, that all the Inclinations of the Soul, even those she has for Goods, that have no relation to the Body, should be attended with Commotions of the Animal Spirits, that render those Inclinations sensible; because Man being not a pure Spirit, it is impossible he should have any Inclination altogether pure, and without mixture of any Passion whatsoever. So that the love of Truth, Justice, Vertue, of God himself, is always attended by some Motion of the Animal Spirits that render that love sensible, though we be not aware of their 310

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sensibility, being then taken up with livelyer Sensations. Just as the Knowledge of Spiritual things is always accompanied with traces on the Brain, which indeed make that Knowledge more lively, but commonly more confused: ’Tis true we are frequently inapprehensive of the Imagining Faculty’s mixing in any manner with the Conception of an abstracted Truth. The Reason of it is, that those Truths are not represented by Images, or traces of Nature’s Institution, and that all the traces that raise such Ideas, have no Relation with them, but such as proceeds from Chance, or the Free-will of Men. For Instance, Arithmeticians and Algebraists, who apply themselves to very abstracted Objects, make however a very great use of their Imagination, in order to fix the view of their Mind upon these Spiritual Ideas. The Cyphers, the Letters of the Alphabet, and the other Figures which they see or imagine, are always join’d to those Ideas, though the traces that are wrought by these Characters have no proper Relation to those abstracted Objects, and so can neither change nor obscure them: Whence follows, that by a proper Use and Application of these Cyphers and Letters, they come to discover such remote and difficult Truths, as could not be found out otherwise. Since therefore the Ideas of such things as are only perceivable by the pure Understanding, can be connected with the traces of the Brain, and that the sight of Objects that are beloved, hated or fear’d by a Natural Inclination, can be attended with the Motion of the Animal Spirits; it plainly appears, that the thoughts of Eternity, the fear of Hell, the hope of an Eternal Happiness, though they be Objects never so insensible, can however raise in us very violent Passions. And therefore we can say that we are united in a sensible manner, not only to such things as relate to the preservation of our Life, but also to Spiritual things, with which the Mind is immediately, and by it self united. And even it often happens, that Faith, Charity, and Self-Love, make that Union with Spiritual things stronger, than that by which we are join’d to all sensible Objects. The Soul of the true Martyrs is more united to God, than to their Body; and those that suffer Death for asserting a false Religion, which they believe to be true, give us sufficiently to know, that the fear of Hell has more power upon them than the fear of Death. There is for the most part so much heat and obstinacy on both sides, in the Wars of Religion, and the defence of Superstitions, that it cannot be doubted but some Passion has a hand in it; and even a Passion far stronger and stedfaster than others, because it is kept up by an Appearance of Reason, both in such as are deceived, and in those that follow the Truth. We are then united by our Passions to whatever seems to be the Good or the Evil of the Mind, as well as to that which we take for the Good or Evil of the Body. Whatever can be known to have any relation to us can affect us, and of all the things we know, there is not one but it has some reference or other to us. We are somewhat concern’d even for the most abstracted Truths, when we know them; because there is at least that Relation of Knowledge betwixt them and our Mind, and that in some manner we look on them as our Property, by virtue of that Knowledge. We feel our selves as wounded when they are impugned; and if we be wounded, then surely we are affected and disturb’d. So that the Passions have 311

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such a vast and comprehensive Dominion, that it is impossible to conceive any thing in reference to which it may be said, that Men are exempt from their Empire. But let’s now see what is their Nature, and endeavour to discover whatever they comprehend. ...

Chapter IV. That the Pleasure and Motion of the Passions engage us in Errours, and false Judgments about Good; That we ought continually to resist them. How to impugn Libertinism. All those general Qualities and Effects of the Passions, that we have hitherto treated of, are not free, they are in us without our Leave, and nothing but the Consent of our Will is wholly in our Power. The View or Apprehension of Good is naturally followed with a Motion of Love, a Sensation of Love, a Concussion of the Brain, a Motion of the Spirits, a new Commotion of the Soul that encreases the first Motion of Love, a new Sensation of the Soul, that likewise augments the first Sensation of Love; and lastly, a Sensation of Satisfaction which recompenses the Soul for the Bodies being in a convenient State. All this happens to the Soul and Body naturally and mechanally; that is, without her having any part in it, nothing but her Consent being her own real Work. This Consent we must regulate, preserve, and keep free, in spite of all the Struggle and Attempts of the Passions. We ought to submit our Liberty to none but God, and to yield to nothing but to the Voice of the Author of Nature, to inward Evidence, and Conviction, and to the secret Reproaches of our Reason. We ought never to consent, but when we plainly see, we should make an ill Use of our Liberty, in with-holding our Consent. This is the principal Rule to be observ’d for the avoiding of Errour. God only makes us evidently perceive, That we ought to yield to what he requires of us; to him alone therefore we ought to devote our Services. There is no Evidence in the Allurements and Caresses, in the Threats and Frightnings caused in us of the Passions; they are only confused and obscure Sensations, to which we must never yield up our selves. We must wait till all those false Glimpses of the Passions vanish, till a purer Light illuminates us, till God speaks inwardly to us. We must enter within our selves, and there seek him that never leaves us, that always enlightens us. He speaks low, but his Voice is distinct; his Light is weak, but pure. But no, his Voice is as strong as ’tis distinct, and his Light is as bright and active as ’tis pure. But our Passions continually keep us from home, and by their Noise and Darkness, hinder us from being instructed by his Voice, and illuminated by his Light. He speaks even to those that ask him no Questions; and those, whom Passions have carried farthest from him, fail not yet many times to hear some of his Words, but loud, threatning, astonishing Words, sharper than a two-edged Sword, piercing into the inmost Recesses of the Soul, and discerning the Thoughts and Designs of the Heart. For all things are open to his Eyes, and he cannot see the unruly Actions of Sinners, without lashing them inwardly with smarting Reproofs. 312

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We must then re-enter into our selves, and approach near him; we must interrogate him, listen to him, and obey him; for by always listning to him, we shall never be deceived; and always obeying him, we shall never be subjected to the Inconstancy of the Passions, and the Miseries due to Sin. We must not, like some pretenders to Wit, whom the Violence of Passion has reduced to the Condition of Beasts; who, having a long time despised the Law of God, seem at last to have retained no Knowledge of any other than that of their infamous Passions: We must not, I say, imagine, as do those Men of Flesh and Blood, that it is following God, and obeying the Voice of the Author of Nature, to give up our selves to the Motions of Passions, and to comply with the secret Desires of our Heart: This is the utmost possible Blindness; ’tis, according to St. Paul, the temporal Punishment of Impiety and Idolatry, that is to say, the Desert of the most enormous Crimes. And herein indeed the greatness of this terrible Punishment consists, that instead of allaying the Anger of God, as do all the others in this World, it continually exasperates and encreases it, till that dreadful Day comes, wherein his just Wrath shall break out to the Confusion of Sinners. Their Arguings however seem likely enough, as being agreeable to common Sense, countenanc’d by the Passions, and such, I am sure, as all the Philosophy of Zeno could never overthrow. We must love Good, say they; Pleasure is the Sign which Nature has affix’d to it to make it known, and that Sign can never be fallacious, since God has instituted it to distinguish Good from Evil. We must avoid Evil, say they again; Pain is the Character which Nature has annex’d to it, and a Token in which we cannot be mistaken; since it was instituted by God for the distinguishing it from Good. We feel Pleasure in complying with our Passions, Trouble and Pain in opposing them; and therefore the Author of Nature will have us to give up our selves to our Passions, and never to resist them, since the Pleasure and Pain wherewith he affects us in those Cases, are the infallible Criterion of his Will. And consequently, it is to follow God, to comply with the Desire of our Hearts; and ’tis to obey his Voice, to yield to the Instinct of Nature, which moves us to the satisfying our Senses and our Passions. This is their way of Reasoning, whereby they confirm themselves in their infamous Opinions: And thus they think to shun the secret Reproofs of their Reason; and in Punishment of their Crime God suffers them to be dazzled by those false Glimpses; delusive Glarings, which blind them instead of inlightning them, and strike them with such an insensible Blindness, as they do not so much as wish to be cured of it. God delivers them to a reprobate Sense, he gives them up to the Desires of their corrupt Heart; to shameful Passions, to Actions unworthy of Men, as the Holy Scripture speaks, that having fatned themselves by their Debauches, they may to all Eternity be the fit Sacrifice of his Vengeance. But let us solve this Difficulty which they offer. The Sect of Zeno,2 not knowing how to untie the Knot, has cut it, by denying that Pleasure is a Good, and Pain an Evil: But that’s too venturous a Stroke, and a Subterfuge unbecoming Philosophers, and very unlikely, I am sure, to convert those who are convinc’d by Experience, That a great Pain is a great Evil. Since therefore Zeno, and all his Heathen 313

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Philosophy, cannot solve the Difficulty of the Epicures, we must have recourse to a more solid and inlightned Philosophy. ’Tis true, that Pleasure is Good, and Pain Evil; and that Pleasure and Pain have been join’d by the Author of Nature to the Use of certain Things, by which we judge whether they are Good or Evil, which make us persue the Good and fly from the Evil, and almost ever follow the Motions of the Passions. All this is true, but relates only to the Body, which to preserve, and keep long a Life much like to that of Beasts, we must suffer our selves to be ruled by our Passions and Desires. The Senses and Passions are only given us for the good of the Body; sensible Pleasure is the indelible Character which Nature has affix’d to the Use of certain Things, that without putting our Reason to the trouble of examining them, we might presently imploy them for the preservation of the Body; but not with intent that we should love them: For we ought only to love those Things which Reason undoubtedly manifests to be our Good. We are Reasonable Beings; and God, who is our Sovereign Good, requires not of us a blind, an instinctive, a compell’d Love, as I may say, but a Love of Choice, an enlightned Love, a Love that submits to him our whole Intellectual and Moral Powers. He inclines us to the Love of him, in shewing us by the Light that attends the Delectation of his Grace, that he is our Chief Good; but he moves us towards the Good of the Body only by Instinct and a confused Sensation of Pleasure, because the Good of the Body is undeserving of either the Attention of our Mind, or the Exercise of our Reason. Moreover, our Body is not our selves; ’tis something that belongs to us, and, absolutely speaking, we cannot subsist without it: The Good of the Body therefore is not properly our Good; for Bodies can be but the Good of Bodies. We may make use of them for the Body, but we must not be taken up with them. Our Soul has also her own Good, viz. the only Good that is superiour to her, the only one that preserves her, that alone produces in her Sensations of Pleasure and Pain: For indeed none of the Objects of the Senses can of themselves give us any Sensation of them; it is only God who assures us of their Presence, by the Sensation he gives us of them; which is a Truth that was never understood by the Heathen Philosophers. We may and must love that which is able to make us sensible of Pleasure, I grant it: But by that very Reason we ought only to love God, because he only can act upon our Soul; and the utmost that sensible Objects can do, is to move the Organs of our Senses. But what matters it, you’ll say, from whence those grateful Sensations come? I will taste ’em. O thou ungrateful Wretch! know the Hand that showres down Good upon thee. You require of a just God unjust Rewards: You desire he should recompence you for the Crimes you commit against him, and even at the very time of committing them; you make use of his immutable Will, which is the Order and Law of Nature, to wrest from him undeserved Favours; for with a guilty Managery you produce in your Body such Motions as oblige him to make you relish all sorts of Pleasures. But Death shall dissolve that Body; and God, whom you have made subservient to your unjust Desires, will make you subservient to his just Anger, and mock at you in his turn. 314

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’Tis very hard, I confess, that the Enjoyment of Corporeal Good should be attended with Pleasure, and that the Possession of the Good of the Soul should often be conjoin’d with Pain and Anguish. We may indeed believe it to be a great Disorder, by this Reason, that Pleasure being the Character of Good, and Pain of Evil, we ought to possess a Satisfaction infinitely greater in loving God, than in making use of sensible Things; since He is the true, or rather the only Good of the Mind. So doubtless will it be one Day, and so was it most probably before Sin entred into the World: At least, ’tis very certain, that before the Fall Man suffered no Pain in discharging his Duty. But God is withdrawn from us since the Fall of Adam; he is no more our Good by Nature, but only by Grace; we feel now no Delight and Satisfaction in the Love of him, and he rather thrusts us from, than draws us to him. If we follow him, he gives us a Rebuff; if we run after him, he strikes us; and if we be obstinate in our Persuit, he continues to handle us more severely, by inflicting very lively and sensible Pains upon us. And when, being weary of walking through the rough and stony Ways of Vertue, without being supported by the Repast of Good, or strengthned by any Nourishment, we come to feed upon sensible Things, he fastens us to them by the relish of Pleasure, as though he would reward us for turning back from him, to run after counterfeit Goods. In short, since Men have sinn’d, it seems, God is not pleas’d that they should love him, think upon him, or esteem him their only and sovereign Good. It is only by the delectable Grace of Christ our Mediator, that we sensibly perceive that God is our proper Good. For Pleasure being the sensible Mark of Good, we then perceive God to be our Good, when the Grace of our Redeemer makes us love him with Pleasure. Thus the Soul not knowing her own Good, either by a clear View, or by Sensation, without the Grace of Jesus Christ, she takes the Good of the Body for her own; she loves it, and closes to it with a stricter Adhesion by her Will, than ever she did by the first Institution of Nature. For Corporeal Good being now the only one left that is sensible, must needs operate upon Man with more Violence, strike his Brain livelier, and consequently be felt and imagined by the Soul in a more sensible manner: And the Animal Spirits receiving a more vehement Agitation, the Will by consequence must love it with a greater Ardency and Pleasure. The Soul might before Sin blot out of her Brain the too lively Image of Corporeal Good, and dissipate the sensible Pleasure this Image was attended with. The Body being subject to the Mind, the Soul might on a sudden stop the quavering Concussion of the Fibres of the Brain, and the Commotion of the Spirits, by the meer Consideration of her Duty: But she lost that Power by Sin. Those Traces of the Imagination, and those Motions of the Spirits, depend no more upon her; whence it necessarily follows, that the Pleasure, which by the Institution of Nature is conjoin’d to those Motions and Traces, must usurp the whole Possession of the Heart. Man cannot long resist that Pleasure by his own Strength; ’tis Grace that must obtain a perfect Victory; Reason alone can never doe it: None but God, as the Author of Grace, can overcome himself as the Author of Nature, or rather exorate himself as the Revenger of Adam‘s Rebellion. 315

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The Stoicks, who had but a confused Knowledge of the Disorders of Original Sin, could not answer the Epicures. Their Felicity was but Ideal, since there is no Happiness without Pleasure, and no Pleasure to be sensibly perceiv’d by them in Vertuous Actions. They might feel indeed some Joy in following the Rules of their phantastick Vertue; because Joy is a natural Consequence of the Consciousness our Soul has of being in the most convenient State. That Spiritual Joy might bear up their Spirits for a while, but was not strong enough to withstand Pain, and overcome Pleasure. Secret Pride, and not Joy, made them keep their Countenance; for when no body was present, all their Wisdom and Strength vanished, just as Kings of the Stage lose all their Grandeur in a Moment. It is not so with those Christians that exactly follow the Rules of the Gospel. Their Joy is solid, because they certainly know, that they are in the most convenient State: Their Joy is great, because the Good they possess through Faith and Hope is Infinite; for the Hope of a great Good is always attended with a great Joy; and that Joy is so much livelier, as the Hope is stronger; because a strong Hope representing the Good as present, necessarily produces Joy, as also that sensible Pleasure which ever attends the Presence of Good. Their Joy is not restless and uneasie, because grounded on the Promises of God, confirm’d by the Blood of his Son, and cherished by that inward Peace and unutterable Sweetness of Charity, which the Holy Ghost sheds into their Hearts. Nothing can separate them from their true Good, which they relish and take Complacency in by the Delectation of Grace. The Pleasures of Corporeal Good are not so great as those they feel in the Love of God. They love Contempt and Pain: They feed upon Disgraces, and the Pleasure they find in their Sufferings, or rather the Pleasure they find in God, for whom they despise all the rest, to unite themselves to him, is so ravishing and transporting, as to make them speak a new Language, and even boast; as the Apostles did of their Miseries and Abuses, when they departed from the presence of the Council, rejoicing that they were counted worthy to suffer shame for the Name of JESUS.3 Such is the Disposition of Mind in true Christians, when they are most basely affronted for the Defence of Truth. CHRIST being come to restore the Order which Sin had overthrown, and that Order requiring that the greatest Goods be accompanied with the most solid Pleasures; it is plain, that things ought to be in the manner we have said. But we may farther confirm and strengthen Reason by Experience; for ’tis known, that as soon as any Person has formed but the bare Resolution to despise all for God, he is commonly affected with a Pleasure or internal Joy, that makes him as sensibly and lively perceive that God is his Good, as he knew it evidently before. The true Christians assure us every Day, that the Joy they feel in an unmixt loving and serving God, is inexpressible; and ’tis but reasonable to believe the Relation they make of what happens within them. On the contrary, the Impious are perpetually vexed with horrible Disquietudes; and those that are shar’d betwixt God and the World, partake of the Joys of the Just, and of the Vexations of the Impious: They complain of their Miseries, and ’tis reasonable to believe that their Complaints are not groundless. God strikes Men to the Quick, and through the 316

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very Heart, when they love any thing besides him; and ’tis this Stroke that causes a real Misery. He pours an exceeding Joy into their Minds, when all their Adherencies are to him only, and that Joy is the Spring of true Felicity. The Abundance of Riches and Elevation to Honours being without us, cannot cure us of the Wound God makes; and Poverty and Contempt, that are likewise without us, cannot hurt us under the Almighty’s Protection. By what we have said, ’tis plain, That the Objects of the Passions are not our Good, that we must not follow their Motions, unless it be for the Preservation of Life; that sensible Pleasure bears the like Proportion to Good, as Sensations to Truth; and that as our Senses deceive us in Matters of Truth, so do likewise our Passions in point of our Good; that we ought to yield to the Delectation of Grace, because it evidently moves us to the Love of a true Good, is not followed with the secret Reproaches of Reason, as the blind Instinct and confused Pleasure of the Passions; but is always attended with a secret Joy, suitable to the good State we are in. Last of all, since God alone can operate upon the Mind of Man, he cannot find any Happiness out of God, unless we would suppose that God rewards Disobedience, or that he commands to love more, what less deserves to be loved.

Notes 1 Romans 7:23–4. 2 Zeno of Elea, an Ancient pre-Socratic Greek philosopher. 3 Acts 5:41.

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40 WILLIAM GREENW OOD, A ΠΟΓΡΑΦ Η ΣΤΟΡΓ ΗΣ , OR, A DE SCRIPT ION OF T HE PAS S I ON OF L OVE DEMONST RATI NG I TS OR IGINAL, CAUSES , EFFECTS , SIGNES, AND RE M EDI ES (London: William Place, 1657), pp. 103–27

Heavily influenced by Robert Burton’s work on melancholy, which he acknowledges in the introduction, William Greenwood’s description of the passion of love aimed to offer an exploration of that emotion “too much regent in this brittle age” and proffers supposed cures and remedies to the love-struck. In the following extract, Greenwood details the supposed “remedies” to love, which depended on the cause of love in the ‘sufferer’. …

The Remedies of Love. That we may use the Method of Art; To cure the effects, is first to take away the cause. Cessante causa, cessat effectus, take away the cause, and the effect ceaseth. It was the scope of our discourse in the second Section of this Treatise, to discover the Causes (those incendiaries and fomenters of this inordinate passion, or this intoxicating poyson) in the third Section we demonstrated the Effects arising from them; now in this last Section it is our purpose to treat of the Cure and Remedies of them. We will begin at the second cause, viz. the Stars (for the first cause instituted by the Creator was moderate and good.) As the minde hath its natural principles of knowledge, so the will hath her natural inclinations and affections from the influence of the Stars; for they do incline the will to love, but do not compell it; agunt non cogunt; of their own nature they are good, as they are taken from the first nature created of God; neither would they be at any time hurtfull, if there were not excesse in us proceeding from nature corrupted; which afterwards by the 318

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force of their influence, breed in us such inclinations and affections as are these passions. For God in the beginning made all things good; neither doth he forbid and condemn this love and affection in his Law, so far forth as it is ruled thereby, but approveth it being instituted in the Creation. But when this love and affection is disordered in us, and is inflamed, giving way to the power of the superiours to work together with it, it is not only vitious, but is as it were the originall and fountain of all vices, (for what vice, would a Man, whose reason is governed by will, and that will inclined by the Stars, leave unperpetrated to effect them?) whereas if it were well ordered, and ruled according to the will and institutes of God, it would be the original and well-spring of all vertues. Sapiens dominabitur astris; a wise man through grace, and the strength of reason can moderate and divert theit evill influences, and convert them into good seeds of virtue; but if they be not well ordered and ruled, they corrupt and degenerate. As if Venus be Lady of the Nativity, she giveth to the native a sanguine complexion, whose nature is bloud, and beareth greatest sway among the other humors and qualities; or if she be in a ☌, ✶, or △ of ♂, inclineth the native naturally to love; if this be not moderated and well guided by reason, but letteth the will receive their influence, and their work upon it without any obstruction, it easily passeth measure, and falleth into this foolish doting passion of Love. Therefore seek for grace of him that can give it, and that he will grant strength of reason to divert the influxious power of the superiours, and to moderate the vehement heat of this Idalian fire. Let us now remove the third cause, and that is, Education. (for to remove that which comes gradually from Parents we cannot, unlesse we seek to subvert Nature, and utterly extinguish the race of Man; but according to the old proverbe, That which is bred in the bone, will never out of the flesh.) If you finde that your Parents have been addicted to this folly, and that they brought you up delicately and idly, and that you feel in your self an inclination to the same passions; Corripite lora manu; take up the slackned rains in time, before you run your selves past recovery. Addict your selves to the study of good letters, flying idlenesse as a mortall enemy, reading of Love books, Comedies, looking upon immodest Pictures, feasts, private familiarities, loose company, and have in derision even the shadow of impurity. Love has no subject so apt to work upon as idlenesse, therefore handle the matter so, that he may alwayes finde you busied; for Vitia otii negotio discutienda sunt, the vices of idlenesse should be shaken off with businesse; and to this effect speaks the Poet1; Otia si tollas, frangis Cupidinis arcum. —An idle life forsake. What made thee love, a lover makes thee still: The cause of nourishment of that sweet ill, Shun idlenesse, and Cupids bow will break, His slighted flames flie out, disarm’d and weak. As Reeds in Marishes affect their site; 319

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As Poplars in the running brooks delight; So Venus joyes in sloth: Let Cupid be By action tam’d; live busie, and live free. Faint ease, long sleeps, which no cōmand controls, Time spent in sport, & drench’t in flowing bowls, Without a wound th’ enfeebled minde surprize: Then in unspi’d insidious Cupid flies. That sloth-affecting boy, doth toyle detest: Do something to imploy thy empty brest. Witty and proper was that elegant invention of Lucian, who faigned Cupid to invite the Gods to an amorous feast, prevailed with all of them to give way to Love, till he came to Pallas, but she was found conversing with the Muses, and would admit of no time to enter parley with Cupid. By this you may see that exercise draweth the minde from effeminacy; and remisnesse feeds the desire, and adds fuell to Loves fires. And no lesse occasion gives wanton discourse or lascivious books to the inraged affections of distempered youth. Therefore as Love is entertained with idlenesse and feasts, subdue him with austerity and exercise. He will fall upon some object, scatter and confound him. As he laboureth to finde out a loose and unbridled spirit, hold yours extended upon the study of some good science. He requires liberty, private places, and night, let him have witnesses, and enlighten him on every side. He will be governed by fantasie, keep him obedient both by admonition and menaces; so by this means you will banish the wanton Jack of Apes out of house and harbour. The bed being a sensitive nourishment, renders many lascivious fancies, therefore no sooner wake but arise, and expell such cogitations with pious meditations. I could advise Maides (as the only remedy for this passion) to walk early into the fields, and keep themselves continually both head and hand in motion in some good exercise; and not alwayes pricking a clout, for many times (their thought being gone a wool-gathering with Cupid) they chance to prick their fingers, and Cupid their hearts too if they be not aware. This sedentary life is the cause of the disease called the Greensicknesse, and it having seized upon their sloath affecting bodies, makes them laizie, and as quick as Snails in all their operations, and then it is more difficult to make them marry, then cure the disease. St. Cyptian found nothing more powerfull to conquer the temptations of Venus, then to turn the otherside of the medall. But above all it behoveth us to use the example of an Arabian, who presented to himself perpetually over his head, an eye which enlightened him, an ear which heard him, a hand which measured out all his deportments, and demeanors, and guards of chastity, which daily blunt a thousand arrowes shot against the impenetrable hearts of brave and undaunted champions: that you may not fall into the fire, it is good to avoid the smoke, not to trust our selves too much to petty dalliances, which under pretext of innocency, steal in with the more liberty: for to court and dally with beauty (as we shall hereafter declare) is an enterprise of danger; for some I have known, who upon their accesse to beauty have been free men, but at their return have become slaves. 320

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We now intend to extinguish the heat and vehemency of Love in the fourth cause, which is meer beauty, and the particulars of it. Be not so sensual as to love only the body, and to dote upon an outside, but look higher, and see something in the person loved of an Angelical nature; that is, a free and vertuous minde, which to an understanding soul appears to be of a divine essence, and to which he mingles his soul in love, which is (if really considered) a far more excellent and permament love, then that of an externall and fading beauty, and consequently much more pleasant. Do we not commonly see, that in painted pots of Apothecaries are contained the deadliest poyson? that the Cypresse tree bears a fair leaf, but no fruit? That the Estrich carryeth fair feathers, but rank flesh? How frantick then are those Lovers, who are hurried headlong with the gay glistering of a fine face? the beauty whereof is parched with the Suns blaze, and chapped with a Winters blast: which is of so short continuance, that it fadeth before we see it flourish; of so small profit, that it poysoneth those that possesse it; of so little value with the wise, that they account it a delicate bait with a mortall hook; a sweet Panther with a devowring panch, a tart poyson in a silver pot. But hark, one word with you, Love Symplicians. Let your humane imaginations think and assemble into one subject whatsoever is most beautiful and delicious in nature. Do you imagine a Quire of Sirens, and do you joyne in consort, both the harpe of Orpheus, and the voice of Amphion. Let Apollo and the Muses be there to bear a part; and do you search within the power of nature, rifle up her treasure, and all the extreme pleasures which it hath produced in the world hitherto, to charme our souls, and to ravish our spirits; what permanency and felicity do you finde in all these? They are meer Chimeraes, and as a vain Idea; a meer shadow of a body of pleasure in comparison of vertues, and those divine thoughts and pleasures which may be enjoyed in the contemplation of the Almighty, and his infinite beauty, glory, and love, and of the felicity of felicities which he hath prepared for them that love him. So that happy are those (but too few are they) who with wise Ithacus hudwink themselves, and stop their eares to those soul-tainting, and sin-tempting Sirens. What a great example of continency and neglect of beauty was that of Mahomet the great, towards the fair Greek, Irene; whom albeit he entirely loved; yet to shew to his Peers, a princely command of himself, and his affections; as he had incensed them before by loving her, so he regained their love by slighting her; whence the Poet, With that he drew his Turkish Cymeter, Which he did brandish o’re the Damsels head, Demanding of such Janizers were there, If ‘t were not pity she sh’d be slaughtered? Pity indeed; but I perforce must do That which displeaseth me, to pleasure you. Many such instances, ancient and modern Histories afford, but I must not insist on each particular lest I should enlarge my self too much, and swell that into a volume, which I intend but a Pamphlet. 321

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How many do we finde, who having their spirits possessed with other passions, one of Ambition, another of Avarice, another of Revenge, another of Envie, another transported by the solitude of a Law suite, and the turmoile of a family, who think very little upon Love? how many others are there, from whom study affaires, charges, (wherein they strive supereminently to transcend) free their mindes from all other thoughts, not suffering them to have any complements with Cupid? And how many Ladies do we see in the World, with countenances ever smiling, of humours cheerfull, and conversation most pleasing, who make love to wits and spirits, as Bees to flowers; but have with the body no commerce at all? The Author of the Theater of Nature, holdeth, that the Basilisk alone among Serpents cannot be enchanted: and I dare really affirm, that there are Men who have the like priviledge, and have their eyes love proof, and their hearts shut up and defended as with a palizado against the piercing darts of Cupid, and the fiery assaults of the Idalian flame. Democritus made himself blinde voluntarily, by stedfastly beholding the Sunbeams, to free himself from the charming beauties, and inticing opportunities of Women: And (seriously) I think he shut up two gates against Love, to open a thousand to his imagination. For some affirm that this malady or Love melancholy, is cherished by the presence of the party affected: and that the contrary, to wit, absence is the best remedy. And this they seem to prove by resembling our passions with Ecchoes: (but omne simile non est idem, every like is not the same thing) For (say they) do you not see the Ecchoes, the further you go from them, the lesse repercussion there is, they diminishing and losing themselves in the aire; so the affection which is caused by the reflexion of the countenance, which you dayly behold with so much entertainment, will quickly vanish by a little absence. But may I be so bold as to whisper my opinion in your ear, craving leave to insist a little upon this; To prove that absence doth more augment then decrease the heat of this passion. I will be brief. I confesse eyes may conceive and produce a green infant affection, but there must be something more solid and substantial to make it grow unto perfection; and that must be by the knowledge of the vertues, merits, (as well as beauty) and a reciprocall affection of the party loved. Now this knowledge doth take indeed its originall from the eyes, but it must be the soul which must afterwards bring it to the test of judgement, and by the testimonies both of the eyes and ears, and all other considerations concoct a verity, and so ground upon it. If this verity be to our advantage, then it produceth such thoughts, whose sweetnesse cannot be equalled by any other kind of contentment, then the effects of the same thoughts. If it be advantagious to the party affected, then doubtlesse it doth augment our affection; but yet with violence and inquietude; and therefore no question but absence doth augment love, so that it be not so long, as that the very image of the party loved be quite effaced; whether it be that an absent Lover never represents unto his fancy but only the perfections of the person loved; or whether it be that the understanding being already wounded will not fancy any thing but what pleaseth it; or whether it be that the very thought of such things does add much unto the perfections of 322

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the party loved: yet this is infallibly true, that he does not truly love, whose affection does not augment in absence from the party loved. For in absence nothing can content the reall Lover; not sweet harmony, not beautiful Gardens, or Groves, not pleasant Company, not eloquent tongues, not civill entertainment, but every sweetnesse is converted into sowrenesse, all ear-pleasing harmony is turned into an obstreperous jangling, and nothing can content but the wished object, which being far distant from their enflamed desires, do ingender a vehement grief in the heart, which cannot be expressed by them that prove it; much lesse by my pen which is not acquainted with such miseries. Now it is objected, That absence is the greatest and most potent and dangerous enemy that Love hath. But (with their favour) presence without comparison is much more, as we may dayly see by experience; for you may see a thousand loves change in presence for one in absence; for in presence, some imperfections may be found, which may cause a detestation, which absence could never do; and to illustrate and confirm this by example. The excellent Philosopher Raymund Lullius, was passionately enamoured of a Lady, wise, prudent and honest; she purposely to cure his frenzie, shewed him one of her breasts eaten and knawed through with a Canker, and extremely hideous to behold, Stay simple Man (said she) behold what you loved; he at that instant coming to himself uttered; Alas! was it for this I lost so many good houres, that I burned, became entranced, that I passed through fire and water? All Lovers would say the like if the scarffe were taken from their eyes. Consider that if one absent cease from loving (which is very rare) its cessation is without any violence or noise of strugling, and the change (through a long tract of time) is only because the memory is by degrees smothered with oblivion, as a fire is with its own ashes. But when Love breaks off in presence, it is never without a noise and extreme violence, and (which is a strange argument to prove my assertion) converts that love into a greater hatred then if love had never been: which proceeds from this reason; a Lover is always either loved or hated, or held in a degree of indifferency; if he be loved, as an abundance is apt to glut, so love being loadened in presence with too many favours, growes weary. If he be hated, then he meets with so many demonstrations of that hate every moment, as at length he is forced to ease himself. If he be in a degree of indifferency, and findes his love still slighted, he will at length, if he be a Man of any courage, make a retreat and resist the continual affronts which are put upon him; whereas in absence, all favours received, cannot by their abundance glut, since they do rather set an edge on desire, And the knowledge of hatred entering into our souls only by the eare, the blow smarts not so much as that which is received by sight; and likewise disdain and slight be more tolerable in absence, then presence; doubtlesse absence is then more fit to preserve affection, then presence; for there is a vast difference betwixt the love that is nourished by the eyes, and a love that is nourished by the understanding. As much as the soul is superiour to the body, so much is the understanding to be preferred before the eyes. And absence is so far from diminishing love, that it augments and begets fresh and violent desires to augment it; and the contemplation of a beauty, doth imprint it deeper in the fancy, then any eye can. Therefore (you Love simplicians) 323

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make a little resistance, cast away those idle toyes that afflict you; let not absence be so troublesome, that you must torture your bodies, vilifie your spirits, and yeeld up your reputations as preyes to slander. If you know what you desired, you would be ashamed of your selves, you would be amazed that so noble spirits should suffer themselves to be transported with such follies. Represent to your selves that a thousand undanted courages, have set themselves free, at liberty, and enjoyed tranquillity of spirit; and you for want of a little resolution, tumble and involve your selves faster and faster in these fetters. Will any man in his wits be thus deluded? can he be so silly as to consume himself in seeking such a toy? Do you call this Love, forsooth? may it not rather be called madnesse and folly? What, languish in the lap of an ungratefull Mistresse? fie, fie, it is an errour far unworthy of a man, that pretends unto any wisdom or courage. Put a stop to your passions, and couragiously contend against them. You shall no sooner have put the wedge of courage into the block, but it shall be done; you shall have your souls victoriously elevated over passion, which shall rejoyce amidst the trophies thereof. Never stay upon thoughts and imaginations of love; but so soon as it presents it self, chase it away, and extinguish it in your hearts, no otherwise then you should extinguish a hot Iron in a River. If it be in presenim restrain your eyes, for they are the windowes, the allurements, the snares and the conducts of Love. It buddeth in the eyes, that it may at leasure blossome in the heart; therefore divert your sight from objects which dart a sting into the minde apt to receive, and sensible of such penetrations. Likewise lest it get entrance at the ear, stop them against the inchanting melody of Sirens songs, and charming musick of their tongues, never open them to be auditors of any lascivious discourse. But if you be already tainted with these charmes, unloose your selves, stoutly take your selves off, dispute not any longer with your passions; flie from it, cut the Cable, weigh Anchor, spread sails, set forward, go, flie, look not for any more letters, regard not their pictures, no longer preserve favours, let all your endevours be to preserve your reason. I add one advice (which I think very essential) which is infinitely to fear a relapse after health, and to avoid all objects that may re-inkindle the flame. For Love oftentimes resembleth a Snake enchanted, cast asleep and smothered; which upon the first occasion awaketh and becomes more strong, and more outragious then ever. You must not only fortifie your bodies against it, but also your souls. But my discourse like Nilus overflowes, it shall return within its banks; concluding with this, that Terrestriall beauty is like a shadow, and therefore we are not to fix the eyes of our understanding upon it, but to turn them to that soveraign beauty which is permament and free from all change and passion. We will now indevour our selves to remove the cause of Money causing Love, which is meer Covetousnesse (the root of all evill) and to satisfie their own voluptuousnesse, having their only delights upon earth; who desire not the woman but her riches to make his houses the larger, to fill his chests fuller, being respectlesse of a virtuous Woman, and the supreme good wherein all happinesse consisteth. And this, he saith, is to raise a fortune for his (I say seldom thriving) posterity; studying how he may become an eternal affliction to himself. His minde is so 324

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fixed on money (not on the woman) as he findes no time to erect it to heaven. He employes so much time in getting and gathering of goods, as he reserves no time for doing good. He runs on still in desire (not of his Mistresse) labouring of a disease incurable till death cure him. He encreaseth his cares with his substance, (not his love to his Wife) and the more he adds to his estate, the more he detracts from his content, and love towards her. But consider (you Money-lovers) and seek for a remedy while it is to be had, lest you repent your delay when ’tis too late) How secure was the Rich-man (as he thought) when he invited his wretched soul to take her rest, having much goods laid up for many years! but this self-security, was the occasion of his succeeding misery; for that night was his soul to be taken from him. O how terrible will the approach of death seem to you, being to be divided from the staffe of your confidence, from thence to descend without the least hope of comfort to the land of forgetfulnesse; for as the Scorpion hath in her the remedy of her own poyson, a receipt for her own infection; so the evill and covetous carry alwayes with them the punishment of their own wickednesse, the which doth never leave (so incessant is the torment of a guilty conscience) to wound and afflict the minde, both sleeping and waking: so as to what place he betakes him, he cannot so privily retire, but fear and horrour will awake him; nor flie so fast, though he should take the wings of the morning, but fury and vengeance will overtake him. Consider this (I speak to both sexes) and let not money and riches be the sole object of your love; but look at that which is far more noble, that which is more permanent, that summum bonum, that chief good, which will direct you the way to all felicity. Before we proceed any further, we will (hoping such variety will prove the more pleasant) turn our discourse a little in particular to the female sex, such whose kinde hearts, like wrought Wax, are apt to receive any amorous impression. Therefore to you (loving souls) do I recommend these necessary cautions; which if carefully observed, will preserve you from the causes and consequently the effects of Love, and may make you wiser then you thought of; and to have a tender care of that, which before you had never minde of. The best preservative and soveraignest receipt is, to fortifie the weaknesse of your sex with strength of resolution, for the imagination of Love is strong, and works admirable effects on a willing subject. Give not power to an insulting Lover to triumph over your weakness, or which is worse, to work on the opportunity of your lightnesse. Ram up those portals which betray you to your enemy, and prevent his entry by your vigilancy. Keep at home, and let neither you nor your thoughts stray abroad, lest by gadding you incur Dinah’s fate. Check your madding, and to Love inclining fancy, and if it use resistance, curbe it with restraint; forbear to resort to places of publick meeting, till you have drawn up and sealed a Covenant with your eyes, to see nothing that they may lawfully covet. This will yeeld you more liberty then the whole worlds freedome can afford you. Be not too liberall in bestowing your favours, nor too familiar in publick converse. Presume not too much on the strength of a weak fort. Make a contract with your eyes, not to wander abroad, lest they be catch’d in coming home. Treat not of love too freely; 325

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be not too bold to play with the blinde boy; he hath a dangerous aime, though he hath no eyes; the Cat playes with the Mouse, but at last bites off her head; the Flie playes with the Candle, till at last her light wings are sindged. Sport not with him, that will hurt you; play not with him, that would play on you; your sports will turn to a bad jeast, when you are wounded in earnest. If this wanton frenzie hath never surpriz’d you; prevent the means, and it will never invade you; be not such foes to your selves as to purchase your own disquiet. If Love issue out in too violent a stream, it is to be cooled by a temperate expostulation with fancy, or else fix your eyes upon some more attractive object; divert the course of that madding passion, as Physitians do to their patients who having a violent efflux of bloud in one place, cut a vein in another to turn the course of it another way. Expostulate with fancy (as Brathwaite adviseth in his English Gent.) thus; How is it with me? me thinks it fares with me otherwise then it hath done formerly. A strange distemper I finde in my minde; and might seem to resemble Love, if I knew the nature of it. Love! can Virgin modesty return that accent and not blush? yes, why not? If the object I affect he worth loving. (If the party affected have more virtues then money, and not more money then virtues) And if not, what then? Is not the Lover ever blinde in affection towards his beloved? He who may seem a Thersites to another, may be a Paris in mine eye. Yea, but a little advice would do well. Art thou perswaded that this Non-parallel, thou thus affectest, hath dedicated his service only to thee? that his affection is really towards thee? that his protests, though delivered by his mouth, are ingraven in his heart? yea, his protests have confirmed him mine. That hour is tedious wherein he sees me not. His eye is ever fixed on me; his sole discourse is to me. These I must confesse are promising arguments of Love; yet these may deceive you, and consequently leave you in a miserable error. He may prove a false-hearted Jason, Demophoon, or Theseus, and leave you in the briers for all your confidence. You say his vowes and protests have confirmed him yours; and he hath attested heaven to bear record of his love. But take heed he play not the part of the Ridiculous actor in Smyrna, who pronouncing, O heavens, pointed with his finger to the ground. Therefore I wish you, ground your fancy with deliberation; and do not affect, before you finde ground of respect. Entertain not a Rhetoricall Lover, whose protests are formall complements, and whose promises are gilded pils, which cover much bitternesse. Many men are flattering Gnatho‘s, dissembling Chamelions, meer outsides, hypocrites that make a shew of great love, (but ’tis no more then from the teeth outwards) pretend honesty, zeal, modesty, with affected looks, and counterfeit gestures, full of lip-love, faigned vowes, stealing away the hearts and favours of poor silly soules, deceiving them, Specie virtutis & umbra, when as (in truth) there is no worth of honesty at all in them, no reality, but meer hypocrisie, subtilty and knavery. Therefore (Gentlewomen) trials in affairs of this nature, have ever a truer touch then protestations. For I am confident there are some (yea, I really know many) who make it their only study, how to tip their glozing tongues with Rhetoricall phrases, ear-charming Oratory, vowes, and protestations, purposely to gull credulous creatures, for the purchase of an unlawful pleasure; which obtained, they leave them to bewail their lost 326

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honour. I exhort you to sift him narrowly to see what bran there is in him, before you chuse him. Taske him before you take him. As thus; Hath his fair carriage got him estimation where he lives? Hath he never enured his tongue to play the hypocrite with his heart? Hath he kept a fair quarter, and been ever tender of his untainted honour? Hath he never boasted of young Gentlewomens favors, nor run descant on their kindnesse? Hath he ever since he vowed himself your servant, solely devoted himself yours, and not mixt his affection with forain beauties? If so, then chuse him, he well deserves your choise. Be like the Juniper tree, whose coal is the hottest, and whose shadow is the coolest; be hot in your affection, but cool in your passion. Set before your eyes the difference betwixt a wise and a wilde passion; the one ever deliberates before it love, and the other loves before it deliberate: therefore let your fancy be grounded with deliberation. If you be a Maid, ever fear to become a Woman, and cast not the garland of your Virginity under the feet of Hogs. Give not a hair of your head to those who promise you golden mountains, for such will deceive you, and when they most desire you in the quest of marriage, then is the time you must least be for marriage: for all you grant to their importunities, will be the subject of your disgrace; and when they shall have marryed you, though you should live as chast as Susanna, they will be jealous, and continually imagine you will be liberal to others of that whereof you were prodigal to them. If you desire to marry by fancy, rather pursuing your own wanton humors, then the reasonable commands of those to whom you owe your being; hold it as a crime the most capitall you can undertake, and confidently believe if so you do, you will open a floud-gate to a deluge of miseries and cares, which will flow upon you thorow all the parts of your life. Account the resolutions you make to this purpose, as treasons, and think whatsoever shall to you suggest the ex cution of them, will poison you by the eare to murther your chastity. But I fear (Reader) I have too much trespassed upon thy patience, in insisting so long upon this branch. And I know there are some Enamoratoes will account my precepts too difficult to be followed, and set my perswasions at nought; they will not desist from their melancholy thoughts, not want the least Idea of their Lovers, so much pleasure they take in it. Therefore I will instruct their friends, and see if they can withdraw their affection; the which take as followeth. The Arabians do advise us to take occasion to discourse of the party affected, in the patients hearing, and to enumerate all her imperfections and vices, makingthem more and more, and far greater then they really are; and to set out her perfections and virtues in the colours and shape of vices; and to labour by probable arguments to prove unto him, that that which he judgeth to be comely and handsome, is in the judgment of those that are more quick sighted, both ugly and deformed; telling him that Cupid is blind, and makes all enamoratoes so too. Endevour with what possibility you can, to convert his love either into hate of jealousie, by preswading him, that his Mistresse doth not love him so well as she makes him believe she doth, and that all her entertainments, favours, kisses, dalliances, and embraces, are only baits and enticements to keep him from slavery: but if the party be of the other sex, then may be pleaded the obsequiousnesse and 327

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dissembling of Men, (which is as frequently found in them, as inconstancy in Women:) The Parthians, to cause the youth to loath the alluring trains of Womens wiles, and deceitful inticements, had most exquisitely carved in their houses, a young Man blinde, besides whom was adjoyned a Woman so exquisite, that in some mens judgement, Pigmalions image was not half so excellent, having one hand in his pocket as noting her theft, and holding a knife in the other hand to cut his throat. Injuries, slanders, contempts, and disgraces are very forcible means to withdraw Mens affections; for Lovers reviled or neglected, contemned or abused, turn love into hate. Mr. Burton adviseth you to tell him she is a fool, an ideot, a slut, and many time so nasty that one cannot touch her with a pair of tonges, and that always against the time of his coming, she tricks and trimmes her self up to allure him, and will not be seen by him, but in an inticing dresse; that she is a scold, a devill incarnate; that she is come of a light heel’d kinde; or that he or she hath some loathsome incurable disease; that she is bald, her breath stinks, that he or she is mad and frenetick hereditarily; to tell her that he is an hermophrodite, an Eunuch, imperfect, impotent, a spendthrift, a gamester, a gull, his Mother was a Witch, his Father was hanged, that he will surely beat her, that he is a desperate fellow, and will stab his bedfellow, and that no body will lie with him. If she be fair and wanton, tell him she will make him a Cornuto, and to sing an April song. If she be virtuous, that it is but a cloak for her more secret vices, a meer outside, a whited Sepulchre. If he be enamoured on a Widow, that she will still hit him in the teeth with her first husband, that she hath cast her rider, and will endanger him too, and that a wife and children are a perpetual bill of charges. Endevour to divert the patients thoughts from his former Mistresse, by making him fall in love with another; upon whom when once his affection begins to take root, make him hate that, and fall in love with a third; following this course with him still, till at length he begins of his own accord to be weary of loving: for (Ile assure you) he that is in love with many Women at once, will never run mad for any of them; for the minde being thus disunited, the desires are lesse violent; so one love takes away the force of another. Love is of the nature of a burning-glasse, which kept still in one place fireth; but changed often it doth nothing, not so much as warm: or a kinde of glowing cole, which shifted from hand to hand, a man easily endures. A young man (saith Lucian) was pitifully in love, he came to the Theater by chance, and by seeing variety of objects there, was fully recovered, E theatro egressus hilaris, ac si pharmacum oblivionis bibisset; and went merrily home, as if the had drunk a dram of oblivion. A Mouse (saith the Fabulist) was brought up in a chest, and there fed with fragments of Bread and Cheese, thought there could be no better meat, till at last coming to feed on other varieties, loathed her former life: just so it is with a silly Lover, none so fair as his Mistresse at first, he cares for none but her; yet after a while when he hath compared her to others, he abhors her name, sight, and memory. If all this will do no good, let us see what may be done by Physicall means; Yet, some there are, who exclaim and cry with open throats against the Gods, for 328

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ordaining for every malady a medicine, for every sore a salve, for every pain a plaister; leaving only Love remedilesse, and then exclaiming with the Inventer of Physick Apollo. Hei mihi quod null is amor est medicalilis herbis!2 Did you (Oye Gods!) deem no man (say they) so mad as to be entangled with desire? or thought you them worthy to be tormented, that were so misled? have ye dealt more favorably with brute beasts then with reasonable creatures? No simple lovers you want not medicines to cure your maladies, but reason to use the means. Of Physicall means therefore we will treat as followeth. First, It is good to take away the superfluity of bloud, (if age and the strength of the patient will permit) by opening the Liver vein. I should have said, Vena hepatica, (but I speak as well to those that do not understand Latine, as them that do) in the right arme, let the quantity taken be according to the constitution and strength of the patient; and if you see cause, open the Saphaena or ankle vein; for phlebotomie maketh those that are dejected merry, appeaseth those that are angry, and makes Lovers come to themselves, and keep in their right mindes, amantes ne sint amentes: for (saith one) amantes & amentes iisdem remediis curentur; Lovers and madnen are cured by the self-same remedy: affirming that Love extended is meer madnesse. Aelian Montaltus saith, Love makes the bloud hot, thick and black (being converted into black choler and melancholy) and if the inflamation get into the brain, with continual meditation, it so dryes it up, that a madnesse followes, or they make away themselves, as divers in that case have done. Let him have change and variety of place, for that doth awaken the spirits of melancholy Lovers; let him not be without company and frequent conversation, for many times that diverts the minde of a doting Lover, and cheeres him up, making him see his errour. It is good for the Patient to be in a cold and moist aire; and not to use in his diet such things as do heat the bloud and provoke lust. Let him use to fast often, and feed often on bread and water: Sine Cerere & Baccho friget Venus3; Love takes not up his lodging in an empty stomach; but on the contrary Venus delights in dainties. Let him use these simples in his broath and sallads; • • • • • •

Purslane. Sorrell. Endive. Woodbine. Ammi. Succory. 329

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And Lettice, which is so soveraigne a remedy against this malady, that Venus desiring to forget all her unchast desires, buried her dear Adonis under a bed of Lettice. Likewise the syrup or conserve of Red-roses, or Province-roses; the same virtue is attributed to Mints. Let him also use to eat, • • • • • • •

Grapes. Mellons. Cherries. Plums. Apples. Pears. Cowcumbers, &c.

It is good to take sometimes, • • • • • • •

Hempeseed. Seed of water Lillies. Hemlock. Tutsan. Camphire. Cominseeds. Coriander seeds.

Agnus Costus, or the Chast tree, not only the seeds of it used and taken in what manner soever doth restrain the instigation to venery, which it doth by a specifick property, seeing it is of the same tēperature with Pepper, which worketh contrary effects. and therefore the Athenian Matrons in their Thesmophoria did use the leaves as sheets to lie on, thereby to preserve their thoughts (if it were possible) from impurity. Rue is an excellent remedy, but of different operation in Men and Women. One quality thereof commend I must, It makes Men chast, and Women fils with lust. Let his Sauces with his meat be, • • • • •

Vinegar, Orenges, Lemmons, Sorrell, Or Verdejuyce.

Let him abstain from all Aromaticall things, and all fryed or salt meats; because that salt by reason of its heat and acrimony, provokes to lust, those that use to eat it in any great quantity. 330

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Let him abstain from meats that are nutritive, hot, flatulent, and melancholy: as, • • • • • • • • •

Soft Egges. Partridges. Pigeons. Sparrows. Testicles of creatures. Quails. Rabbets. Hares. Greengeese especially.

Let him not eat, • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Pine nuts. Pistachoes. Small nuts. Artechokes. Turneps. Greenginger. Eringoes. Mustard. Coleworts. Rapes. Carrots. Parsnips. Chesnuts. Pease. Sweet Almonds. Satyrion. Onions. Water nuts. Rocket. Cich-pease. Beans. Syrrups. Electuaries.

Let him not lie upon a soft bed. Also from all manner of Fish, &c. And • • • •

Oysters. Prawnes. Lobsters. Crabs. 331

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• •

Muscles. Cockles, &c.

Let him exercise usque ad sudorem, till he sweat again; provided that the disease be not already grown to madnesse. Often bathes are good. Eye the heart, and be sure what ever you do, have a care to keep that on wheels, for all melancholy vapors afflict that especially. Therefore to fortifie that, take •

Conserve of • • • • •

• • • • •

Roses. Borrage flowers. Buglosse flowers. Rosemary flowers. Marigold flowers.

Saffron. Green walnuts preserved. Juniper berries. Bettony. Citron pils candied, &c.

Thebane Crates saith, there is no other remedy for Love then Time, and that must wear it out; if time will not, the last refuge (saith he) is an halter. And that’s a speedy and sure remedy, very quick of operation. But when all fails, apply that Cordiall salve to your corroding sore made by loves wounding weapon, that excellent remedy, that soveraign balme, that universal medicine, which if seasonably administred, will give you comfort when you are most distempered. The Recipe is, Divine Contemplation; for certainly those spirits which are truly raised to the study and knowledge of divine things, and do well know the art of celestiall contemplation, are elevated above all terrestrial pleasures, in as much as eternity is above time, and infinite felicities above vanities. And not finding any thing on earth worthy our desire, and to fix our affections upon, let the object of our love and felicities be in the Empyreall heaven. And while we are in these divine extasies, let our spirits be so strong, as they may be conquerors of our bodies; so heavenly, that they may esteem the chiefest pleasures of the body (as this of heroick love) but as dung and drosse, nay worse if worse may be, in comparison of those sublime and celestial pleasures we enjoy in our souls. And in such comparison we may rejoyce more in contemning these corporeal delights, and being above them, then in the fruition of them. Therefore in stead of placing our affections on terrene objects, let us seek after that fountain and well-spring of all love, lovelinesse, beauty, sweetnesse, and excellencies of the Creator; which is infinitely more permanent, and doth as much transcend all other beauties and excellencies in the world, if they were all united in one: so that 332

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when a soul is possessed with the beauty and love of God, it will have the eye of its imagination fixed on him, often soaring and mounting up to heaven as its center, on the wings of contemplation; and a sa vapor exhaled by the Sun, often gliding after its love, being thereunto attracted by the allurements of his most amiable, fair and divine lustre and lovelinesse; insomuch as it will be enlightened with glorious Ideas, touring apprehensions, ardent affections, and celestial raptures. We will conclude with that Poetical and Divine strain of the Nightingale of France. If wanton Lovers so delight to gaze On mortall beauties brittle little blaze; That not content with (almost) dayly sight Of those deer Idols of their appetite; Nor with th’ Ideas which the Idalian Dart Hath deep imprinted in their yielding heart; Much more should those, whose souls, in sacred love Are rapt with Beauties proto-type above. FINIS.

Notes 1 Ovid. The following is a quotation from his Remedia Amoris. 2 Ah me!, love cannot be cured by herbs (a quotation from the Roman poet Ovid). 3 ‘Without Ceres and Bacchus, Venus freezes’. A quotation from the Roman comedian Terence.

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41 T H OM AS WILLIS ( 1 6 2 1 – 1 6 7 5 ) , TWO DISCOURSES CONCERNI NG THE SOUL OF BRU TES W HI CH IS THAT OF T HE VI TAL AND SE N SIT IVE OF MAN. THE FI RS T IS PHY SIOL OGICAL , S HEW I NG TH E NATURE, PART S , POW ERS , A N D AFFECTIONS O F THE S AM E. TH E OT HER IS PAT HOLOGI CAL, WH ICH UNFOL DS TH E DI S EAS ES WHICH AFFECT I T AND I TS P RIMARY SEAT; TO W I T, THE B R AIN AND NERVO US S TOCK, A N D T REATS OF T HEI R CURES (London: Thomas Dring, 1683), pp. 45–9

Thomas Willis was an English doctor and a pioneer in neurology. Willis sought to formulate a description of human nature to reveal the connection between the mind and the body. Departing from Galenic humoral theories, Willis sought to demonstrate that the animal spirits played a crucial role in the connection between brain and body. His examination of the passions and their effects led him to conclude that the passions were in fact the direct result of processes within the brain and nervous system. In the eighth chapter of his work De Anima Brutorum (On the souls of brutes) Willis describes various ‘Passions or Affections’ of the corporeal soul and divides them into four basic types: Physical, Metaphysical, Corporeal and Moral. … 334

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Chapter VIII: Of the Passions of Affections of the Corporeal Soul in General. The whole Corporeal Soul, so long as she is quiet and undisturbed, she is fittted to her proper Body equally, as to a certain Chest or Cabbinet, and waters all its Parts gently, both with little Rivulets of Blood Circulating, and actuates and inspires them every where with a gentle falling down of the Animal Spirits; But it sometimes happens, that the whole Constitution of this same Soul, is so shaken and moved, that both the Blood being interrupted in its equal Circule, is compelled into irregular Excursions, and Recursions, and various Fluctuations; and also, that the Animal Spirits being snatched hither and thither, inordinately perform the Acts of their Functions: yea, the Animal Spirits themselves, whil’st being moved irregularly, do shake the Praecordia, and flow into them in an undue manner, cause the Course of the Blood more to be perverted. Further, from the Corporeal Soul being disturbed, not only the Animal Spirits, and Rivers of the Blood, are driven into disorders, but they induce alterations both to the other Humors, and to very many Parts and Members of the Body, and to the Rational Soul it self, in Man. As there are manifold Examples of these kind of Perturbations, by which, the Corporeal Soul being too much swell’d up, or Contracted, or otherways distorted, it becomes as it were unequal, and not Conformable to the Body, the Chief of them may be referred to these two Heads. To wit, First, Sometimes this Soul, as it were leaping forth, erects and stretches out it self beyond measure, and so dilating its Hypostasis, desires to reach it self beyond the bound of the Body: Hence the Animal Spirits, being respectively moved, in the Brain, enlarge the Sphear of their Irradiation, and as they so shake the Praecordia, by a more full inflowing, they Compel the Blood therefore to be snatched together, and to be poured forth more freely into all the Parts. Secondly, Sometimes on the contrary, this Soul being struck, is more narrowly Compressed within it self; so that being drawn inwardly, and sinking down within its wonted Compass of Emanation, becomes less than the Body; wherefore, the Animal Faculties wonderfully flagg, and their Acts are either sluggishly or perversly performed: Moreover, the Praecordia also being destitute of their due influx of Spirits, almost sink down, and suffer the Blood to stay too long there, and to stagnate oftentimes. There are besides some other Gestures of the aforesaid Soul, by which the same departing from its equal Expansion, becomes not Congruous to the Body; and in these kind of Cases, chiefly the Sensitive Power, according to the received Impressions, affects a new Species, and brings the Brain and Imagination into its Party: Then by and by, by the passage of the Nerves, it affects the Praecordia, as it were with a certain stroke, and determinates them after her measure; so that according to the Idea received from the Imagination, the Motion of the Blood is Composed, as it were after the measures of a Dance: we shall add anon Instances and Examples of these, when we shall treat of the Passions particularly. In the mean time, that we may inquire into the Causes of the Passions in general, it plainly appears from what hath been said, that the Corporeal Soul is found 335

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under a twofold state, to wit, either of Quiet or Commotion: That she is like a Calm Sea, with a smooth Superficies, and squared altogether gentle and serene; or she becomes troubled, like water shaken into various Circles, and wavings by the blasts of the Winds, or by some solid things cast into it. The former state of the Soul is perceived, not only in Sleep, when the Spirits are bound up, or lye quiet of themselves; but often in Waking, to wit, as often as objects or sensible things, being brought from without, or imaginary things conceived within, do import nothing of Good or Evil to us, and that we only know and apprehend them: for so, without any Trouble or Molestation, they pleasantly slide into the common Sensory and Imagination, and thence quickly pass away; but if the object is offer’d under the Species of Good or Evil, presently the Sensitive Soul prepares for the embracing or the avoiding it; and not only procures to its Endeavors the Animal Spirits, but also the Blood and Humors; yea, draws the solid Parts to help her. For as soon as the Imagination conceives any thing that is to be embraced or shuned, presently the Appetite is formed by the Spirits inhabiting the Brain, ordered into a Series; then by an impression sent to the Praecordia, as they are either dilated or contracted, the Blood is carried into various Motions of Fluctuations, and then by an instinct of the Appetite transmitted to the proper Nerves, the respective Motions are drawn forth: And upon these kind of Furnitures and Affection of the Spirits and Humors, and of the solid Parts, the Affections or Passions of the Mind wholly depend, we have elsewhere shewed, after what manner, and by what Trajection or Irradiation of the Spirits, within the Nervous Processes, such quick Commerces are made, between the Brain and the Praecordia, and between both these and other Motive Parts. But that we may yet more fully describe the Affections or Passions of the Corporeal Soul, as they are chiefly to be found in Man, it is here to be noted, That not every Species or Appearance of Good or Evil, does excite these Commotions of the Soul: because we behold undisturbed the prosperous or adverse things of others, not related to us: But further, ’tis requisite that the Goodness or the Malice of the Object belongs properly to a Man, althô what happens to our Friends or Relations, is as if it happened to our selves. Also besides, Good and Evil happen to the same Man after various ways, and under a diverse reason, both in respect of the Object, and also in respect of the Subject. Concerning the former we shall speak anon: As to the other, Good or Evil being brought to Man, either respect the Corporeal Soul by it self, and as it were abstracted from any other Relation; or they respect her as conjoyned to the Body, and intimately dear to her: Or lastly, they respect her, as subdued by the Rational Soul; so indeed, althô the Affection is continually poured into the Corporeal Soul, yet it respects Good or Evil, either of this, or that, or of another Subject, and is excited for the sake of that: And according to this threefold Relation of the Sensitive Soul, the Passions by which she is affected, are called either Physical, or Metaphysical, or Corporeal or Moral; we shall discourse singly, and a little more plainly of these. First, Therefore, as to the Passions merely Physical, we say, That the Sympathies and Antipathies of a diverse Kind, which are as it were proper and intimate 336

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Affections, seem to belong to the Corporeal Soul by it self, and abstracted from all Relation: Besides, the highly attractive Species of Beauty and Fairness, by the sight of which this Soul is wont to be insnared, most certainly; so that neglecting the Care of the Body, and laying aside the dictates of Reason, cleaves most closely to her Lover: Also sometimes less fair things which every whole Man would forsake, snatches this Soul, drawn as it were by Witchcraft, and leads it Captive; as indeed, lost Lovers, though they see better things and approve them, yet follow the worse; the reason of which is, that the Sensitive Soul enters into Friendships, of which the Affections are not knowing, with certain things in Secret, and inseparably and firmly loves them. Concerning Antipathies we meet with many things to be admired, as some sensible Objects, innocent of themselves, yea and grateful enough to many Men, and sought with delight, become most horrid to some others, and more Killing than the Head of Medusa at the sight only: So some abhor the presence of a Cat, others an Eel, or Toad, and others this or that Dish of meat made ready. Nor do they only fly things by the sight, but also received by the smell, yea, when they lye hid, and are not at all suspected, they suffer Swounings and Fainting of their Spirits, by their secret Influence: These Kind of Affections without doubt, proceed from occult Enmities of the Sensitive Soul; for when it happens this Systasis or Disposition of the Animal Spirits, by the meeting of some Object, to be driven into Confusion, it ever after that abhors the coming of the same, or its Contact by its Effluvia’s. Secondly, Sometimes the Sensitive Soul receives the Superior Rational Passions, which we call Metaphysical; and solicitously busying it self concerning their Good and Evil, it either draws forth or shortens the Compass of its Expansion. For indeed, the Rational Soul relying on the help and familiarity of the Spirits dwelling in the Brain, aspires to Metaphysical Notions, which having more fully learnt, it not only falls upon higher Speculations, but also exerts a certain Superior Appetite, to wit, the Will, and implicates it with certain Affections, as it were inspired of God; the exercise of which sort of Sacred Affections are not performed by the mere Conceptions of the Mind: But their Acts being delivered from the Rational Soul into the Sensitive, do first employ the Brain with the Phantasie, then being transmitted from the Brain into the Breast, there, for that they produce in the Heart and Blood variety of Motions, receive their Complement or Perfection: Wherefore, in the Worship of God, Piety and Devotion are attributed very much to the Heart: Hence Repentance, the Love of God, and Hate of Sin, Hope of Salvation, Fear of Divine Vengeance, and many other acts of Religion, are wont to be ascribed to the work and endeavour of the Heart. The reason of which seems to be, for as much as the whole Corporeal Soul is Commanded by the Rational Power, that in Adoring God, she should very much bow her self before the Deity, and as it were lye prostrate on the Ground; therefore, presently both Parts of it, viz. both the Sensitive and Flamy, do repress themselves, and restrain their wonted Emanations; hence plenty of Animal Spirits being drawn from the Phantasie, for the more full actuating the Organs of the Senses, they bestow the Operations of the Nerves on the Praecordia, which whil’st they are more straitly drawn together, 337

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and as it were constrain’d, cause the Blood to stay longer within the bosomes of the Heart; and so inhibit it, lest it should be too much inkindled within the Lungs, and lest being inkindled by the Heart, in the whole Body, and chiefly should be carried rapidly into the Brain. For indeed, the Blood containing Life as a most precious Jewel in it self, is not only heaped up more plentifully about the Praecordia, in all Fear and Danger, and is there lay’d up as it were for defence sake, that it might better preserve its Flame: But further, in devout Affections, whil’st the Rational Soul orders the Spirits inhabiting the Brain into sacred Conceptions and Notions; by the Influence of the same Spirits, the Bosomes of the Heart are also so affected, that they cause the Blood to Centre, and to be more fully drawn into them, and there longer retain it, as it were an Holocaust to be offered to God: so as often as we Pray most earnestly, we endeavour nothing less, than that our Life with the Blood, be laid upon the Altar of the Heart. For truely, almost every body experiences in himself that in strong Prayer, the Blood is more and more heaped up in the Bosomes of the swelling Heart: wherefore, that the Vacuities of the Lungs might be supplied, we breath deeply, and so the Air being more fully drawn in, the Muscles of the Breast, and the Diaphragma, are detained almost in a continual Systole, or more often iterated; to wit, for this end, that the Vital Blood, to be offered as it were a Sacrifice to God, should be there kept, nor suffer’d to go from thence, or to be inlarged, till as it were by a long immolation, together with Prayers, lieve may be had from the Godhead. Yea, ’tis to be observed, that those religiously affected, are apt at all times to call back the Blood towards the Praecordia, and to repress it from a more plentiful Excursion, which may give a loose to Delights or Mirth: Because ’tis just, that this Vital Humor should be Conserved, even Holy and Pure for God; and as it is so restrained in the Praecordia, lest it should grow too luxurious, nor be carried towards the Brain with too impetuous a Rapture, the Conceptions also of the Mind, without much heat and distraction of thoughts concerning Divine things: Hence it is, that Drinking of Wine, Banquetting, and every Kind of Dissolute Life, because they render the Blood lawless, and not able to be restrain’d or bridl’d, are said to make hard the Heart, and to obstruct the Duties of Religion. Further, not only the devout Acts of Religion, and Pious Affections, are attributed to the Breast and Praecordia; but also the sober Counsels of Wise men, yea, and the Exercises of Virtues and Moral Habits, are ordinarily ascribed by Philosophers to this Seat or Subject: Hence Wise men are said to be Cordati, Hearty, or sage of Heart; but when one that is unwise or plainly foolish, doth a thing, it is said, That there is nothing leaps in the left part of his Breast: The reason of which seems to be, that when as the Animal Spirits (which are the immediate Instruments of thoughts) are procreated altogether from the Blood, not only their more excellent disposition, but their right and timely Dispensation, depends chiefly on the Praecordia. For to these are owing, that the Blood be inkindled in its due manner, and also Eventilated, that it may give to the Brain firm and stable Animal Spirits, which however Subtil and Active, yet may not be volatile beyond measure; and hence the Solidity of the Mind, and the sharpness of Judgment are produced: When on the contrary, by reason of the 338

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Blood more slowly passing thorow the Praecordia, or more swiftly than it should do, the Animal Spirits become too fixed, or volatile above measure, and therefore either a stupidity or lightness of Mind arises. But in truth, Wisdom is much rather ascribed to the Heart, for as much as from thence reins are put upon the Blood, apt for fiercenesses and Impetuosities, lest that rushing into the Brain, with an inordinate rapture, should not only disturb its serious Cogitations, but stir up enormous Motions of the Appetite, and mad Lusts. For truely, whil’st the Spirits inhabiting the Brain, are disposed by the Intellect, from thence presiding within the Imagination, into Series and Orders of Notions, the Blood about to break forth from the Heart, ought very much to be restrained, lest that growing luxurious, it should confound all things by an importune evasion of the Brain, and should agitate the Spirits, called away from this work into Commotions, and various Fluctuations; wherefore, from the immoderate drinking of Wine, for as much as by it the Blood is made more head-strong, and will not be repressed or contained by the Heart, Men become not only unable for Exercising the Acts of Judgment and Reason; but are found very prone to all manner of Wickedness and most filthy Desires. As to the Moral Passions, or by us called Corporeal, we may observe, that the Sensitive Soul is more often and easilyer affected, by reason of Good or Evil, which is of its Subject, that is of its Body, which includes its good Habit. Altho also, she hath her proper and occult Loves and Aversations, and is bound to shew due obsequiousness to the Rational Soul; for as much as it is united to the Body, as it were by a Conjugal Compact; therefore, all other relations being lay’d aside, it minds only this; Concerning the Care of it ’tis mostly solicitous, and by reason of its prosperous or adverse Affairs, it is wont to be affected with Pleasure or Grief, and other Passions depending on either of these. For indeed (as we mentioned before) there are two Chief and Primary Gestures of the Sensitive Soul, as often as it is moved from its wonted and Natural State or Condition; to wit, either she stretches forth her self into a greater Compass, by profuse Pleasure, as if it affected to be dilated beyond the bounds of the Body: or being overthrown by Sorrow or Grief, she is contracted more narrowly, and runs her self within the wonted Sphear of her Emanations: from this twofold Affection of the Sensitive Soul, all the other Passions take their Origine. For truly Pleasure, or an Elation of the Soul, is its most pleasing Constitution, which desiring to gain for it self by any means, it follows all Objects promising it, with Love, Desire, Hope, Faithfulness, Boldness, and other means of getting it; On the contrary, Sadness or a Contraction or Dejection of this Soul, is a Gesture most ungrateful to it; what things then soever threaten or induce it, we endeavour to remove away far, by Fear, Hatred, Anger, Desperation, Shame, Pusillanimity, and other motions of shuning it. In the first place therefore, we will speak briefly of Pleasure and Grief, which are according to Aristotle, as it were a forked measure of the Sensitive Appetite, for the double Ladder of Affections, flowing thence, by which she is carried to this or that. First, Pleasure and Grief, because they bend or incline the whole Corporeal Soul after a diverse manner; therefore its two roots, to wit, the Brain and Praecordia, 339

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are chiefly affected. When the Soul is stretched forth in Pleasure, and is drawn to its utmost Sphear of Irradiation, the Animal Spirits being carried within the Brain, stir up most pleasant and pleasing Imaginations; and further, they actuating lively the Nervous System, Cause the Eyes, Face, Hands, and all the Members to shine, and as it were leap forth; Further, then more fully shaking also the Praecordia, by the Influence of the Brain, delivered by means of the Nerves, they thrust forth the Blood more rapidly, and as a Flame more brightly inkindled, they pour it forth with strength thorow the whole Body. On the contrary in Grief, whil’st the Soul sinks down, contracted into a more narrow space, the Spirits inhabiting the Brain, as it were struck down by flight, and troubled, put on only sad and fearful Imaginations, from whence the Countenance is cast down, the Limbs grow feeble, and the Praecordia being contracted or bound together, by reason of the Nerves carrying the same affection from the Brain, restrain the Blood from its due Excursion, which being therefore heaped up in the same place, with a weight, brings in a troublesome oppression of the Heart, and in the mean time, the Exterior Parts being deprived of its wonted afflux, languish and Contract a paleness. The aforesaid Affections of Pleasure and Sadness, which is wont, the Imagination being employed, to be poured from thence on the Praecordia, and by and by from that double Root into the whole Corporeal Soul; as to their first Originals, wholly depend upon the Sense. For from the beginning, Sensible Objects affect the Sensory with a certain sweetness or asperity, and there bring to the Spirits a certain Ovation or Triumph, or Confusion: from whence presently the Impression, like a waving of Waters, being Communicated to the Brain, excites the Spirits inhabiting it, into a consent either of the delight or trouble; and this Affection, being delivered from the Sensory to the Imagination, if it be short, there ends, and is not carried to the Praecordia: but if the stroke, being carried from the Sensible Object, is, like a more strong waving of Waters, impressed more vehemently, it reaches from the Sensory to the Brain, and presently thence to the Breast, that the Motions of the Heart and Blood, are intangled together with the disorder of the Animal Spirits, so as to the first Conceptions of the Affections, as well as Notions, there is nothing in the Imagination, or I may rather say, there is nothing in the Brain or Heart, that was not first in the Sense: But afterwards, when many Idea’s of Pleasures and Griefs, are impressed on the Phantasie and Memory; then very often without any previous Sense, or feeling of Pleasure or Sadness, the Imagination being repeated, is wont to excite a Passion of the pleasant or troublesome thing; for when at any time we conceive in our Mind Good or Evil things belonging to us, not only present, but also past, or to come, that Conception employs the Phantasie, and not rarely very much exercises it: Further, being thence transmitted to the Breast, it inordinately either Contracts or Dilates the Breast, and so pours forth the Affection, together with the disturbed Blood, on the whole Body. A Wise and Strong man easily moderates the passions of Pleasure or Grief, lest these being brought, either from the Sensories, or suggested from the Memory, should affect the Phantasie and the Praecordia, by too great a waving; For the Brain and Heart, which are the supports of the Soul, ought not to be moved much, by the 340

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more light Objects of the Senses; nor are these principal Powers, at leisure to be present at every small thing: Hence some have born the torture of the Body, or the cutting off a Member, beyond Stoical Patience, undisturbed; whil’st others (in whom the sensible Species, being above measure increased, vehemently shakes the Praecordia) the Skin scarce wounded, swoon away, or fall into fainting Fits. In like manner it is observed, that some are carried away by a most light Pleasure of the Senses into softness and Luxury, in the mean time others are scarce moved with any Pomp of Delights, or Exquisite Blandishments of Pleasures. It is observ’d in the fruition of a pleasing Object (which also holds of the appulse of a pleasant, or a painful sensible thing) there happens a certain reciprocation, between the Spirits of the Brain, and the Inhabitants of the Sensory. We imagine the Drinking of excellent Wine, with a certain Pleasure, then we indulge it; the Imagination of its Pleasure is again sharpned by the taste, and then by a reflected Appetite drinking is repeated: So as it were in a Circle, the Throat or Appetite provokes the Sension, and the Sension causes the Appetite to be sharpned, and iterated; this Kind of mutual reciprocation of the Animal Spirits from the Brain to the Sensory, and on the contrary, persists for some time, till the same, like waving of Water, either leisurely vanishes, or is obliterated, by the exciting of a new waving: So indeed, Passions and Desires wear out themselves, or are consumed by time, or they are blotted out by the coming of some other Passion. When the Animal Spirits, desiring too much a sensible Delight, do often, and for a long time iterate and intend the Appetite, and Act of the pleasurable Sension, there is need of Reason to come between, whereby they being changed into Sacred and Moral Meditations, may be called away from their Carnal Genius; which Avocation however, they obey not but difficultly and unwillingly; for as much as to be expanded, and to enjoy pleasing Objects, is the Recreation and Food of the Spirits; and to be restrained or kept in, and very much to be employed about the works of the Mind, is to them a Labour, and a difficult task.

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Part 6 ART AND CULTURE

Part 6 Art and Culture

Works of art and literature are key sources for the history of emotions as they were created with the intention of producing an emotional reaction from their viewers and readers. In Catholic Europe, baroque art devoted to religious themes sought to use emotions as a way to connect with the viewer and inspire religious devotion. Whether Catholic or Protestant, seventeenth-century painters were especially preoccupied with the rendering of emotions. The famous manual of Charles Le Brun, for example, sought to establish guidelines for how this could be achieved in visual art. Finally, the literature of the seventeenth century witnessed the start of the ‘cult of sensibility’ that would flourish in the eighteenth century.

42 VICENTE CARDUCHO (1576/78–1638), LA E XPULS I ÓN DE L OS MORISCOS

In 1609, after over a century of tensions and failed assimilationist policies, the government of King Philip III of Spain ordered the expulsion of the Moriscos from Spain. The Moriscos were the descendants of Muslims compelled to convert to Christianity at the start of the sixteenth century. The expulsion of hundreds of thousands of people who were, officially at least, Christians by Europe’s foremost Catholic monarch was highly controversial. In 1627, the Italian painter Vicente Carducho (1576/78–1638) produced a sketch for a painting commemorating the expulsion of the Moriscos from Spain. The sketch was created as a result of a competition between court painters to produce a painting that would celebrate the expulsion as an action undertaken by the King of Spain (Philip III) to defend the Catholic faith against crypto-Islamic heresy. The winner of the competition was the noted court painter Diego de Velázquez, whose painting was eventually lost in the fire that destroyed the royal palace in Madrid in 1734. Carducho’s sketch, however, has survived and is fascinating.1 Beyond the details, the observer’s empathy seems drawn entirely to the Morisco adults and children, movingly depicted in rags and in distress as they march towards a ship destined to convey them to North Africa under the watchful eye of Spanish soldiers. Perhaps it is not surprising that Carducho did not win the competition with a proposal for a painting that hardly seems celebratory.

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Figure 42.1 Vicente Carducho, La Expulsión de los Moriscos, 1627, Blue wash and pen on paper, Prado Museum, Madrid

Note 1 More details here: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:La_Expulsi%C3%B3n_ de_los_Moriscos.jpg, accessed 23/10/2020.

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43 C ARTE DU TENDRE: AN ALLEGORICAL MAP OF ‘THE LAND OF LOVE’

The Carte du Tendre (Map of Love) was an allegorical French map of an imaginary land called Love and represents the path towards love.1 The Map features a river (the ‘River of Inclination’), which flows directly from ‘New Friendship’ (Nouvelle Amitié) to Tendre-sur-Inclination (literally: Love on Inclination), intimating that mutual affections is the shortest way to love. The map shows that many lovers face a harder path but can find their way to Love. On either side of the river are various ‘villages’ like those Billet Doux (Love Letter), Petits Soins (Gestures of Attentiveness), Tendresse (Tenderness) or Respect. Depending on which villages the lovers decide to pass through, they will arrive at Tendre-surEstime (Love by Estime), the suitor having successfully convinced the lady of his worth or Tendre-sur-Reconnaissance (Love by Gratitude). However, if lovers stray from these routes and travel through such ‘villages’ as Méchanceté (meanness) or Oubli (forgetfulness) then they will end up either in the Mer D’Inimitié (‘Sea of Hostility’) or the Lac D’Indifférence (‘lake of Indifference’). The map was elaborated by several hands in the seventeenth century including the literary hostess Catherine de Rambouillet and seemingly inspired by the 1654 novel of Madeleine de Scudéry: Clélie, histoire romaine. The actual creation of the map is attributed to the engraver and artist François Chauveau.

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Figure 43.1 François Chauveau (1613–1676), Carte du Tendre: An Allegorical Map of ‘the Land of Love’, 1654–1661, engraving

Note 1 For more detail see here: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Carte_du_tendre_ 300dpi.jpg, accessed 26 November 2020.

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44 R E MBRANDT HARMENSZOON VAN RIJ N (1606–1 6 6 9 ) , SELF PORT RAIT IN A CAP LAUGHING, AND LAUGHING SOLDI ER

The Dutch artist Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn has been widely praised as a master of the naturalistic rendering of human ‘passions’ in his paintings and etchings. His etching ‘Self-Portrait in a Cap, Laughing’ and painting ‘Laughing Soldier’ were produced at roughly the same time.1 The Latin poet Horace in his work Ars Poetica and Paul’s Espitle to the Romans (12:15), works that Rembrandt would have known, both indicated that people respond to laughter or joy with laughter or joy and in these works Rembrandt invites the viewer(s) to rejoice, smile and laugh in response to these faces. The self-portrait in particular, reminds us of the pleasure that Rembrandt took in his art and the passion that he invested in his work.

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Figure 44.1 Rembrandt, Self Portrait in a Cap Laughing, 1630, etching on paper, courtesy of the Rijkmuseum, Amsterdam

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Figure 44.2 Rembrandt, Laughing Soldier, ca. 1630, oil, copper on panel, Mauritshuis, The Hague

Note 1 Figure 44.1 can be found here: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Self-portrait_ in_a_Cap,_Laughing_by_Rembrandt_RP-P-OB-687.jpg accessed 26 November 2020, and Figure 44.2 here: www.mauritshuis.nl/en/explore/the-collection/artworks/the-laughingman-598/, accessed 26 November 2020.

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45 GIAN LORENZO BERNI NI (1 598–1680), ECS TAS Y OF SAINT TERE S A

The Italian sculptor Gian Lorenzo Bernini was commissioned by the Venetian Cardinal Federico Cornaro (1579–1653) to produce religious artworks in marble, stucco and paint for his burial chapel in the church of Santa Maria della Vittoria in Rome. The centrepiece of the chapel is a stunning marble sculpture representing the ecstasy of Saint Teresa, which is described as an emblematic work of the High Baroque style and arguably Bernini’s most famous artwork.1 The subject is the Spanish Carmelite nun Saint Teresa of Avila (1515–1582), whose writings and bridal mysticism (the portrayal of communion with Jesus as a marriage) were famous across the Catholic world and who had been canonized in 1622. The sculpture represents her experience of religious ecstasy, as she had described it in her autobiography (Chapter XXIX; Part 17): ‘I saw in his hand a long spear of gold, and at the iron’s point there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart, and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God. The pain was so great that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish to be rid of it. The soul is satisfied now with nothing less than God. The pain is not bodily, but spiritual; though the body has its share in it. It is a caressing of love so sweet which now takes place between the soul and God, that I pray God of His goodness to make him experience it who may think that I am lying’. Bernini used white marble to depict Teresa lying on a cloud, swooning and experiencing an intense state of divine joy as an angel appears before her with a golden spear that he is about to thrust into Teresa’s heart. Art historians have long debated whether the intention of the sculptor was to give an erotic character to Teresa’s experience.

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Figure 45.1 Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, 1651, marble, Church of Santa Maria della Vittoria, Rome

Note 1 It can be viewed here: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/6b/Ecstasy_ of_Saint_Teresa_September_2015-2a.jpg, accessed 26 November 2020

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46 PE DRO DE M ENA ( 1 6 2 8 – 1 6 8 8 ) , VIRGIN OF SO RROW S

The Counter Reformation encouraged Catholic artists to emphasize the humanity, and therefore the emotions, of their religious subjects. The baroque Spanish sculptor Pedro de Mena produced this intensely naturalistic representation of the weeping Virgin (Mater Dolorosa), with painted flesh tones, glass eyes and teardrops and real hair eyelashes to strengthen the pathos of this work.1 Beyond saints and martyrs, the weeping virgin and the suffering Christ (Ecce Homo) became popular themes in seventeenth-century Catholic sculpture and art. The purpose of such an artwork was to aid religious devotion by helping the faithful focus on, and empathize with, the suffering of the Virgin Mary as she witnessed the suffering of Christ during the Passion and then mourned his death.

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Figure 46.1 Pedro de Mena, Virgin of Sorrows, c. 1675, polychromed wood, with glass eyes and tears, The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

Note 1 More details can be found here: www.fitzmuseum.cam.ac.uk/collections/sculpture/200915, accessed 26 November 2020.

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47 G AB RIEL J OS EP H DE LAVERGNE, V IC OM TE DE GUILLERAGUES (1628–1684 ) , F IVE L OVE-LETT ERS FROM A NUN TO A CAVALI ER (London: Henry Brome, 1678), pp. 1–31

In 1669, the Parisian publisher Claude Barbin printed a set of five letters supposedly written by a Portuguese nun named Mariana Alcoforado to her lover, a French officer serving in the Portuguese army. The work seems to be an epistolary fiction and its author has been identified as Gabriel Joseph de Lavergne, vicomte de Guilleragues, a minor French nobleman and diplomat. The letters became a sensation across Europe and their style of declamatory lovelorn despair seems to have appealed to a European readership that was fascinated by the inner lives of individuals and experiences in which the mental feelings of individuals are mingled with bodily sensation. … The first Letter. Oh my Inconsiderate, Improvident, and most unfortunate Love; and those Treacherous Hopes that have betray’d both Thee, and Me! The Passion that I design’d for the Blessing of my Life, is become the Torment of it: A Torment, as prodigious as the Cruelty of his Absence that causes it. Bless mee! But must this Absence last for ever? This Hellish Absence, that Sorrow it self wants words to express? Am I then never to see those Eyes again, that have so often exchang’d Love with Mine, and Charm’d my very soul with Extacy, and Delight? Those Eyes that were ten thousand worlds to mee, and all that I desir’d; the only comfortable Light of Mine, which, since I understood the Resolution of your Insupportable Departure, have Serv’d mee but to weep withall, and to lament the sad Approach of my Inevitable fate. And yet in this Extremity I cannot, me-thinks, but have some Tenderness, even for the Misfortunes that are of your Creating. My Life was vow’d to you the first time I saw you and since you would not accept of it as a Present, I am 358

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Content to make it a sacrifice. A Thousand times a day I send my Sighs to hunt you out: and what Return for all my Passionate Disquiets, but the good Counsel of my Cross fortune? that whispers me at every turn; Ah wretched Mariane! why do’st thou flatter, and Consume thy self in the vain pursuit of a Creature never to be Recover’d? Hee’s gone, hee’s gone; Irrevocably gone; h’as past the seas to fly thee. Hee’s now in France; dissolv’d in pleasures; and thinks no more of thee, or what thou suffer’st for his false sake, then if he had never known any such woman. But hold: Y’ave more of Honour in you then to do so ill a thing; and so have I, then to believe it, especially of a Person that I’m so much concern’d to justify. Forget me? ’Tis Impossible. My Case is bad enough at best, without the Aggravation of vain suppositions. No, no: The Care and Pains you took to make me think you lov’d me, and then the Joyes that That Care gave Me, must never be forgotten: and should I love you less this Moment, then when I lov’d you most, (in Confidence that you lov’d me so too) I were Ungratefull. ’Tis an Unnatural, and a strange thing methinks, that the Remembrance of those blessed hours should be now so terrible to me; and that those delights that were so ravishing in the Enjoyment, should become so bitter in the Reflection. Your last Letter gave me such a Passion of the heart, as if it would have forc’d its way thorough my Breast, and follow’d you. It laid me three hours sensless: I wish it had been dead; for I had dy’d of Love. But I reviv’d: and to what End? only to die again, and lose that Life for you, which you your self did not think worth the saving. Beside that there’s no Rest for me, while you’re Away, but in the grave. This fit was follow’d with other Ill Accidents which I shall never be without, till I see you: In the mean while, I bear them yet without repining, because they came from you. But with your Leave: Is this the Recompense that you intend me? Is this your way of treating those that love you? Yet ’tis no Matter, for (do what you will) I am resolv’d to be firm to you to my last gasp; and never to see the Eyes of any other Mortal. And I dare assure you that it will not be the worse for you neither, if you never set your heart upon any other woman: for certainly a Passion under the degree of mine, will never content you: You may find more Beauty perhaps elswhere (tho’ the time was when you found no fault with mine) but you shall never meet with so true a heart; and all the rest is nothing. Let me entreat you not to stuff your Letters with things Unprofitable, and Impertinent to our Affair: and you may save your self the trouble too of desiring me to think of you. why ’tis Impossible for me to forget you: and I must not forget the hope you gave me neither, of your Return, and of spending some part of your time here with us in Portugal. Alas! And why not your whole Life rather? If I could but find any way to deliver my self from this unlucky Cloyster, I should hardly stand gaping here for the performance of your Promise: but in defiance of all opposition, put my self upon the March, Search you out, follow you, and love you throughout the whole world. It is not that I please my self with this Project as a thing feasible; or that I would so much as entertain any hope of Comfort; (tho’ in the very delusion I might find pleasure) but as it is my Lot to be miserable, I will be only sensible of that which is my Doom. And yet after all this, I cannot deny 359

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but upon this Opportunity of writing to you which my Brother has given me, I was surpriz’d with some faint Glimmerings of Delight, that yielded me a temporary Respite to the horrour of my despair. Tell me I conjure you; what was it that made you so sollicitous to entangle me, when you knew you were to leave me? And why so bloudily bent to make me Unhappy? why could you not let me alone at quiet in my Cloyster as you found me? Did I ever do you any Injury? But I must ask your Pardon; for I lay nothing to your Charge. I am not in condition to meditate a Revenge: and I can only complain of the Rigour of my Perverse fortune. When she has parted our Bodies, she has done her worst, and left us nothing more to fear: Our hearts are Inseparable; for those whom Love has United are never to be divided. As you tender my soul let me hear often from you. I have a Right me-thinks to the Knowledg both of your Heart, and of your fortune; and to your Care to inform me of it too. But what ever you do, be sure to come; and above all things in the world, to let me see you. Adieu. And yet I cannot quitt this Paper yet. Oh that I could but convey my self in the Place on’t! Mad fool that I am, to talk at this Rate of a thing that I my self know to be Impossible! Adieu. For I can go no farther. Adieu. Do but Love me for ever, and I care not what I endure. The Second Letter. There is so great a difference betwixt the Love I write, and That which I feel, that if you measure the One by the Other, I have undone my self. Oh how happy were I if you could but judg of my Passion by the violence of your own! But That I perceive is not to be the Rule betwixt you, and me. Give me leave however to tell you with an honest freedom, that tho’ you cannot love me, you do very ill yet to treat me at this Barbarous Rate: It puts me out of my Wits to see my self forgotten; and it is as little for your Credit perhaps, as it is for my Quiet. Or if I may not say that you are Unjust, it is yet the most Reasonable thing in the World to let me tell you that I am Miserable: I foresaw what it would come to, upon the very Instant of your Resolution to leave me. Weak Woman that I was! To expect, (after this) that you should have more Honour, and Integrity then other Men, because I had unquestionably deserv’d it from you, by a transcendent degree of Affection above the Love of Other Women. No, no; Your Levity, and Aversion have overrul’d your Gratitude, and Justice; you are my Enemy by Inclination: whereas only the Kindness of your Disposition can Oblige me. Nay your Love it self, if it were barely grounded upon my Loving of you, could never make me happy. But so far am I even from that Pretence, that in six Moneths I have not receiv’d one sillable from you; Which I must impute to the blind fondness of my own Passion, for I should otherwise have foreseen that my Comforts were to be but Temporary, and my Love Everlasting. For Why should I think that you would ever content your self to spend your Whole Life in Portugal; and relinquish your Country, and your fortune, only to think of me? Alas! my sorrows are Inconsolable, and the very Remembrance of my past Enjoyments makes up a great part of my present pain. But must all my hopes be blasted then, and fruitless? Why may not I yet live to see you again within these 360

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Walls, and with all those Transports of Extacy, and Satisfaction, as heretofore? But how I fool my self! for I find now that the Passion, which on my side, took up all the faculties of my soul, and Body, was only excited on your part by some loose Pleasures, and that they were to live and die together. It should have been my Business, even in the Nick of those Critical, and Blessed Minutes, to have Reason’d my self into the Moderation of so Charming, and deadly an Excess; and to have told my self before-hand, the fate which I now suffer. But my Thoughts were too much taken up with You to consider my self; So that I was not in Condition to attend the Care of my Repose, or to bethink my self of what might poison it, and disappoint me in the full Emprovement of the most Ardent Instances of your Affection. I was too much pleas’d with you, to think of parting with you, and yet you may remember that I have told you now and then by fits, that you would be the Ruin of me. But those Phancies were soon dispers’d; and I was glad to yield them up too; and to give up my self to the Enchantments of your false Oaths, and Protestations. I see very well the Remedy of all my Misfortunes, and that I should quickly be at Ease if I could leave Loving you. But Alas! That were a Remedy worse then the disease. No, no: I’le rather endure any thing then forget you. Nor could I if I would. ’Tis a thing that did never so much as enter into my Thought. But is not your Condition now the worse of the two? Is it not better to endure what I now suffer, then to enjoy Your faint satisfactions among your French Mistresses? I am so far from Envying your Indifference, that I Pitty it. I defie you to forget me absolutely: and I am deceiv’d if I have not taken such a Course with you, that you shall never be perfectly happy without me. Nay perhaps I am at this Instant the less miserable of the two; in regard that I am the more employ’d. They have lately made me doorkeeper here in this Convent. All the people that talk to me think me mad; for I answer them I know not what; And certainly the rest of the Convent must be as mad as I, they would never else have thought me Capable of any Trust. How do I envy the good Fortune of poor Emanuel, and Francisco! Why cannot I be with you perpetually as they are? tho in your Livery too? I should follow you as Close without dispute, and serve you at least as faithfully; for there is nothing in this World that I so much desire as to see you; But however, let me entreat you to think of me; and I shall Content my self with a bare place in your Memory. And yet I cannot tell neither, whether I should or no: for I know very well that when I saw you every day I should hardly have satisfy’d my self within these Bounds. But you have taught me since, that whatsoever you will have me do, I must do. In the Interim, I do not at all repent of my Passion for you; Nay, I am well enough satisfi’d that you have seduc’d me; and your Absence it self tho’ never so rigorous, and perhaps Eternal, does not at all lessen the vigour of my Love: which I will avow to the Whole world, for I make no secret on’t. I have done many things irregularly ’tis true; and and against the Common Rules of good Manners: and not without taking some Glory in them neither, because they were done for your sake. My honour, and Religion are brought only to serve the Turn of my Love, and to carry me on to my lives end, in the Passionate Continuance of the Affection I have begun. I do not write this, to draw a Letter from you; wherefore never force 361

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your self for the Matter: for I will receive nothing at your hands; no not so much as any Mark of your Affection unless it comes of its own accord, and in a Manner, whether you Will or No. If it may give you any satisfaction, to save your self the trouble of Writing, it shall give me some likewise, to excuse the Unkindness of it; for I am wonderfully enclin’d to pass over all your faults. A French Officer, that had the Charity this morning to hold me at least three hours in a discourse of you, tell me that France has made a Peace. If it be so; Why cannot you bestow a visit upon me, and take me away with you? But ’tis more then I deserve, and it must be as you please; for my Love does not at all depend upon your Manner of treating me. Since you went away I have not had one Minutes Health, nor any sort of Pleasure, but in the Accents of your Name, which I call upon a Thousand times a day. Some of my Companions that understand the deplorable Ruin you have brought upon me, are so good as to entertain me many times concerning you. I keep as Close to my Chamber as is possible; which is the dearer to me even for the many Visits you have made me there. Your Picture I have perpetually before me, and I Love it more then my hearts bloud. The very Counterfeit gives me some Comfort: But oh the Horrours too! When I consider that the Original, for ought I know, is lost for ever. But why should it be possible, even to be possible, that I may never see you more? Have you forsaken me then for ever? It turns my Brain to think on’t. Poor Mariane! But my Spirits fail me, and I shall scarce out-live this Letter?—Mercy—Farwel, Farwel.

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48 C H AR LES LE BRUN ( 1 6 1 9 – 1 6 9 0 ) , TH E C ONFERENCE OF M ONS I EUR LE B RUN: CHEIF [ SIC ] PAI NTER TO THE FRENCH KING, UPON E X P RESSION, GENERAL AND PARTICUL AR

Charles Le Brun was a celebrated French painter, art theorist and physiognomist who became court painter to King Louis XIV of France. A very talented portraitist and draughtsman, Le Brun devoted considerable attention to the portrayal of human emotions in his work and published very popular works seeking to teach aspiring painters to convey the full range of emotional reactions in their own works. His work Méthode pour apprendre à dessiner les passions (1698) became hugely influential across Europe in the eighteenth century and was translated into numerous other languages. The extract below includes part of his introduction and samples of his advice for painters on the way to reproduce emotional reactions on a canvas, in this case Scorn, Horror, Sorrow and Laughter. … Gentlemen, At our last Assembly you were pleased to approve the Design which I then took to Entertain you upon Expression. It is necessary then in the first place, to know wherein it Consists. Expression, in my opinion, is a Lively and Natural Resemblance of the Things which we have to Represent: it is a necessary ingredient in all the parts of Painting, and without it no Picture can be perfect; it is that which describes the true Character of things; it is by that the different Natures of Bodies are distinguished; that Figures seem to have Motion, and that every thing therein Counterfeited appears to be Real. It is as well in the couloring, as in the Design; it ought also to be observed in the Representation of Landskip, and in the Composition of the Figures. This, Gentlemen, is what I have endeavoured to make you observe in my past Discourses; I shall now essay to make appear to you that Expression is also a part which marks the Motions of the Soul, and renders visible the Effects of Passion. 363

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So many Learned Men have treated of the Passions, that it is hardly possible to say any thing which they have not already written thereupon: And I should not take the pains to Report their Opinion in the Matter, if it were not the better to make you comprehend that which concerns our Art. It seems therefore necessary, that I should touch something upon it, in favour of the young Students in Painting, which I shall endeavour to do with the greatest Brevity I can. First. Passion is a Motion of the Soul, residing in the Sensitive Part thereof, which makes it pursue that which the Soul thinks for its good, or avoid that which it thinks hurtful to it: And for the most part, whatsoever causes Passion in the Soul, makes some Action in the Body. Being true then, that the greatest part of the Passions of the Soul produce Bodily Actions; it is necessary that we should know what those Actions of the Body are, they which express the Passions, and what Action is. Action is nothing but the Motion of some part; and this Alteration cannot be, but by an alteration of the Muscles, and they have no Motion, but by the extremities of the Nerves: which pass through them: The Nerves do not Act but by the Spirits which are contained in the Cavities of the Brain; and the Brain receives the Spirits from the Blood, which passing continually through the Heart, is thereby heated and rarefied in such manner, that it produces a certain subtil Air or Spirit, which ascends up to, and fills the Brain. The Brain thus filled, sends back these Spirits to the other parts, by the Nerves, which are as so many small Channels, or Pipes, that convey the Spirits into the Muscles, more or less, according as the Action requires, in which they are employed. So as that Muscle which is most in Action, receives the greatest quantities of Spirits, and consequently becomes more swell’d than the others, which are thereof depriv’d and by such privation seem more loose and more wasted or shrunk than the others. Although the Soul be joined to all parts of the Body, yet there are divers Opinions touching the place where it exercises its Functions more particularly. Some hold, that it is a small Gland in the middle of the Brain, because that only part is single, whereas all the others are double; and as we have two Eyes and two Ears, and as all the Organs of our Exterior Senses are double, it is necessary that there should be some place where the two Images which enter by the Eyes, or the two Impressions which come from one sole Object, by the two Organs of the other Senses, may be united together, before they come to the Soul, that they may not represent to it two Objects instead of one. Others say it is in the Heart, because in this part we feel the Passions. For my part, it is my Opinion, that the Soul receives the Impressions of the Passions in the Brain; and that it feels the Effects of them in the Heart. The exterior Motions I have observed, confirm me very much in this Opinion. The Ancient Philosophers having given two Appetites to the Sensitive part of the Soul, in the Concupiscible Appetite they place the simple and unmixt Passions, and the wildest and compounded in the Irascible Appetite: for they will have it, that Love, Hatred, Desire, Joy, and Grief, are contained in the former; and that Fear, Boldness, Hope, Despair, and Anger, reside in the later. Others add Admiration, 364

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which they place first, and after that Hatred, Desire, Joy, and Grief; and from these they derive the others which are compounded; as Fear, Boldness, Hope, etc. It will not be from our purpose to say something here of the nature of these Passions, the better to understand them, before we speak of their exterior Motions; and first, we’ll begin with Admiration. ADMIRATION is a Surprize, which makes the Mind conzider with Attention thoze Objects which seem rare and extraordinary: And this Surprize is sometimes so strong, as to drive the Spirits towards the place from whence the Impression of the Object is received; and being so much imployed in considering this Impression, that there remain no Spirits to pass through the Muscles, the Body thereby becomes immoveable as a Statue. This excess of Admiration causes Astonishment, and this Astonishment, may happen before we know whither the Object be agreeable to us or not. So that Admiration seems to be joyn’d to Esteem, or Scorn, according to the Grandeur or meanness of the Object: From Esteem proceeds Veneration; and from Simple Scorn, Dildain. But when any thing is represented as Good to us, that makes us conceive a Love for it; and when it is represented as Ill or Hurtful to us, that excites our Hatred. LOVE then is an Emotion of the Soul, caused by Motions which incite it voluntarily to join itself to such Objects as appear agreeable to it. HATRED is an Emotion of the Soul, caused by the Spirits which incite the Soul to desire a Separation from such Objects as are represented as hurtful to it. DESIRE is an agitation of the Soul, caused by the Spirits which dispose it to desire those things which seem agreeable to it; so we desire, not only the Presence of an absent Good, but the preservation of the prefent. JOY is a pleasant Emotion of the Soul, in which consists the enjoyment of a Good, which the Impressions of the Brain represent as hers. SORROW is an unpleasant Faintness, in which consists the inconveniency which the Soul receives from the Ill, or from the Defect which the Impressions of the Brain represent to it. The mixd. Passions. FEAR is an apprehension of an Evil to come, forerunning the Ills, with which we are threat’ned. HOPE is a strong Appearance or Opinion of obtaining that which one desires. Extream Hope becomes Security, and on the contrary, extream Fear is turned into Despair. DESPAIR is an Opinion of the impossibility to obtain what we desire, and makes us lose, even what we possess BOLDNESS is a Motion of the Appetite, by which the Soul is raised against the Evil, to resist it. ANGER is a turbulent Agitation excited in the Appetite by Grief and Boldness, by which the Soul is retired into itself, to avoid the injury received; and at the same time is raised against the cause of the Injury to be revenged of it. 365

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There are many others which i shall not here speak of, contenting my self only to how you fome Figure of them. ...

SCORN And Scorn is expressed by the Eye-brow frowning and drawn down by the side of the Nose, the other end thereof very much raised; the Eye very open, and the

Figure 48.1 Charles Le Brun, ‘Scorn and Hatred’, The Conference of Monsieur Le Brun, 1701, etching

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Eye-ball in the middle; the Nostrils drawn upwards; the Mouth shut, the Corners a little drawn down; and the under Lip thrust out beyond the upper.

HORROUR But if, instead of Scorn, the Object raises Horrour, the Eye-brow will be still more frowning than in the preceding Action; the Eye-ball, instead of being in the middle of the Eye, will be drawn down to the under Lid; the Mouth will be open, but closer in the middle than at the corners, which ought to be drawn back, and by this

Figure 48.2 Charles Le Brun, ‘Horror’, The Conference of Monsieur Le Brun, 1701, etching

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Figure 48.3 Charles Le Brun, ‘Terror’, The Conference of Monsieur Le Brun, 1701, etching

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Figure 48.4 Charles Le Brun, ‘Terrour’, The Conference of Monsieur Le Brun, 1701, etching

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Action makes Wrinkles in the Cheeks, the Colour of the Visage will be pale; and the Lips and Eyes something livid; this Action has some resemblance to Terrour.

SORROW As we have said, that Sorrow is an unpleasant Faintness, by with which the Soul receives the Inconveniencies of the Evil or of the Defect represented to it by the Impressions of the Brain; So this passion is represented by Motions which seem to mark the Inquietude of the Brain, and the Dejection of the Heart; the Eye-brows being more raied in the

Figure 48.5 Charles Le Brun, ‘Sorrow’, The Conference of Monsieur Le Brun, 1701, etching

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Figure 48.6 Charles Le Brun, ‘Sorrow and Dejection of the Heart’, The Conference of Monsieur Le Brun, 1701, etching

middle of the Forehead, than next the Temples: He that is troubled with this Passion hath his Eyeballs dull, the White of the Eye inclining to yellow, the Eye-lids hanging down, and something swells, black and livid round the Eyes, the Nostrils drawing downward, the Mouth open.

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LAUGHTER If to Joy succeed Laughter, this Motion is expressed by the Eye-brow raised about the middle, and drawn down next the Nose, the Eies almost shut; the Mouth shall appear open, and shew the Teeth; the corners of the Mouth being drawn back, and raised up, will make a wrinkle in the Cheeks, which will appear puffed up, and almost hiding the Eyes; the Face will be Red, the Nostrils open; and the Eyes may seem Wet, or drop some Tears, which being very different from those of Sorrow, make no alteration in the Face; but very much when excited by Grief.

Figure 48.7 Charles Le Brun, ‘Laughter’, The Conference of Monsieur Le Brun, 1701, etching

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