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JOHN EVELYN. 1620-1706. (Manual, p. 229.)

159. ST. Paul's Cathedral and the Fire of London.


At my return I was infinitely concern'd to find that goodly church St. Paules now a sad ruine, and that beautiful portico - for structure comparable to any in Europe, as not long before repair'd by the king →now rent in pieces, flakes of vast stone split asunder, and nothing remaining intire but the inscription in the architrave, showing by whom it was built, which had not one letter of it defac'd. It was astonishing to see what immense stones the heat had in a manner calcin'd, so that all ye ornaments, columns, freezes, and projectures of massie Portland stone flew off, even to ye very roofe, where a sheet of lead covering a great space was totally melted; the ruins of the vaulted roofe falling, broke into St. Faith's, which being filled with the magazines of bookes belonging to ye stationers, and carried thither for safety, they were all consum'd, burning for a weeke following. It is also observable that the lead over ye alter at ye east end was untouch'd, and among the divers monuments the body of one bishop remain'd intire. Thus lay in ashes that most venerable church, one of the most antient pieces of early piety in ye Christian world, besides neere 100 more. The lead, yron worke bells, plate, &c., melted; the exquisitely wrought Mercers Chapell, the sumptuous Exchange, ye august fabriq of Christ Christ, all ye rest of the Companies Halls, sumptuous buildings, archies, all in dust; the fountaines dried up and ruin'd, whilst the very waters remain'd boiling; the vorago's of subterranean cellars, wells, and dungeons, formerly warehouses, still burning in stench and dark clouds of smoke, so that in five or six miles, in traversing about, I did not see one load of timber unconsum'd, nor many stones but what calcin'd white as snow. The people who now walk'd about ve ruines appear'd like men in a dismal desart, or rather in some greate citty laid waste by a cruel enemy, to which was added the stench that came from some poore creatures bodies, beds, &c.

SAMUEL PEPYS. 1632-1703. (Manual, p. 229.) 160. MR. PEPYS QUARRELS WITH HIS WIFE. (Diary.)

May 11, 1667. - My wife being dressed this day in fair hair, did make me sɔ mad, that I spoke not one word to her, though I wa? ready to burst with anger. After that, Creed and I into the Park, and walked, a most pleasant evening, and so took coach, and took up my wife, and in my way home discovered my trouble to my wife for her white locks, swearing several times, which I pray God forgive me for, and bending my fist, that I would not endure it. She, poor wretch, was surprised with it, and inade me no answer all the way home'

but there we parted, and I to the office late, and then home, and with. out supper to bed, vexed.

12. (Lord's Day.) — Up and to my chamber, to settle some accounts there, and by and by down comes my wife to me in her night-gown, and we begun calmly, that, upon having money to lace her gown for second mourning, she would promise to wear white locks no more in my sight, which I, like a severe fool, thinking not enough, begun to except against, and made her fly out to very high terms and cry, and in her heat, told me of keeping company with Mrs. Knipp, saying, that if I would promise never to see her more-of whom she had more reason to suspect than I had heretofore of Pembleton - she would never wear white locks more. This vexed me, but I restrained myself from saying anything, but do think never to see this woman least, to have here more; and so all very good friends as ever. My wife and I bethought ourselves to go to a French house to dinner, and so inquired out Monsieur Robins, my perriwigg-maker, who keeps an ordinary, and in an ugly street in Covent Garden did find him at the door, and so we in; and in a moment almost had the table covered, and clean glasses, and all in the French manner, and a mess of potage first, and then a piece of bœuf-à-la-mode, all exceeding well seasoned, and to our great liking; at least it would have been anywhere else but in this bad street, and in a perriwig.

the pleasant and ready attendance that

desirous to please, and ingenious in the p Our dinner cost us 6s.




JOHN LOCKE. 1632-1704. (Manual, pp. 249-254.)


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Ch. 7.


Book II.

3. The infinitely wise Author of our being, having given us the power over several parts of our bodies, to move or keep them at rest as we think fit, and also, by the motion of them, to move ourselves and other contiguous bodies, in which consist all the actions of our body; having also given a power to our minds, in several instances, to choose, amongst its ideas, which it will think on, and to pursue the inquiry of this or that subject with consideration and attention, to excite us to these actions of thinking and motion that we are capable of, has been pleased to join to several thoughts and several sensations a perception of delight. If this were wholly separated from all our outward sensations and inward thoughts, we should have no reason to prefer one thought or action to another, negligence to attention, or motion to rest, and so we should neither stir our bodies nor employ our minds, but let our thoughts (if I may so call it) run adrift, without any direction or design, and suffer the ideas of our minds, like urregarded shadows, to make their appearances there, as it happened, without attending to them; in which state man, however furnished with faculties of understanding and will, would be a very idle, inactive creature, and pass his time only in a lazy, lethargic dream. It has, therefore, pleased our wise Creator to annex to several objec.s, and the ideas which we receive from them, as also to several' of our thoughts, a concomitant pleasure, and that in several objects, to sev eral degrees, that those faculties which he had endowed us with might Iot remain wholly idle and unemployed by us.

4. Pain has the same efficacy and use to set us on work that please has, we being as ready to employ our faculties to avoid that as to pur sue this; only this is worth our consideration, that pain is often produced by the same objects and ideas that produce pleasure in us. This their near conjunction, which makes us often feel pain in the

1 Distinct, or different; an obsolete use of the word several.

sensations where we expected pleasure, gives us new occasion of ad miring the wisdom and goodness of our Maker, who, designing the preservation of our being, has annexed pain to the application of many things to our bodies, to warn us of the harm that they will do, and as advices to withdraw from them. But he, not designing our preservation barely, but the preservation of every part and organ. in its perfection, hath in many cases annexed pain to those very ideas which delight us. Thus heat, that is very agreeable to us in one de ee, by a little greater increase of it proves no ordinary torment; and the most pleasant of all sensible objects, light itself, if there be too much of it, if increased beyond a due proportion to our eyes, causes a very painful sensation, which is wisely and favorably so ordered by nature, that when any object does, by the vehemency of its operation, disorder the instruments of sensation, whose structures cannot but be very nice and delicate, we might, by the pain, be warned to withdraw before the organ be quite put out of order, and so be unfitted for its proper function for the future. The consideration of those objects that produce it may well persuade us that this is the end or use of pain; for though great light be insufferable to our eyes, yet the highest degree of darkness does not at all disease them, because that, causing no disorderly motion in it, leaves that curious organ unharmed in its natural state. But yet excess of cold as well as heat pains us, because it is equally destructive to that temper which is necessary to the preservation of life, and the exercise of the several functions of the body, and which consists in a moderate degree of warmth, or, if you please, a motion of the insensible parts of our bodies, confined within certain bounds.1

1 It is worthy of remark that, in this passage, Locke clearly anticipates the recent doctrine that "heat is a mode of motion."

162. ISAAC BARROW. 1630-1677. (Manual, pp. 254–256.)


The first excellency peculiar to the Christian doctrine I observe to be this; that it assigneth a true, proper, and complete character or notion of God; complete, I mean, not absolutely, but in respect to cu condition and capacity; such a notion as agreeth thoroughly with what the best reason dictateth, the works of nature declare, anc'ent traditior doth attest, and common experience doth intimate, concern ing God; such a character as is apt to breed highest love and reverence in men's hearts towards him, to engage them in the strictest practice of duty and obedience to him. It ascribeth unto him all conceivable perfections of nature in the highest degree; it asserteth unto him all his due rights and prerogatives; it commendeth and justifieth to us all his actions and proceedings. For in his essence it represent eth him one, eternal, perfectly simple and pure, omnipresent, om

niscient, onnipotent, independent, impassible, and immutable; as also, according to his essential disposition of will and natural manner of acting, most absolute and free, most good and benign, most holy and just, most veracious and constant; it acknowledgeth him the maker and upholder of all beings, of what nature and what degree soever, both material and immaterial, visible and invisible; it attributeth to him supreme majesty and authority over all. It informeth us that he framed this visible world with especial regard to our use and benefit; that he preserveth it with the same gracious respect; that he governeth us with a particular care and providence, viewing all the thoughts, and ordering all the actions, of men to good ends, general or particular. It declareth him in his dealings with rational creatures very tender and careful of their good, exceeding beneficent and merciful towards them, compassionate of their evils, placable for their offences, accessible and inclinable to help them at their entreaty, or in their need, yet nowise fond or indulgent to them, not enduring them to proceed in perverse or wanton courses, but impartially just, and inflexibly severe towards all iniquity obstinately pursued; it, in short, describeth him most amiable in his goodness, most terrible in his Justice, most glorious and venerable in all his ways of providence.


To the question what the thing we speak of is, or what this face tiousness doth import? I might reply, as Democritus did to him that asked the definition of a man, 'Tis that which we all see and know: any one better apprehends what it is by acquaintance than I can inform him by description. It is indeed a thing so versatile and multiform, appearing in so many shapes, so many postures, so many garbs, so variously apprehended by several eyes and judgments, that it seemeth no less hard to settle a clear and certain notion thereof, than to make a portrait of Proteus, or to define the figure of a fleeting air. Sometimes it lieth in pat allusion to a known story, or in seasonable application of a trivial saying, or in forging an apposite tale: sometimes it playeth in words and phrases, taking advantage from the ambiguity of their sense, or the affinity of their sound: sometimes it is wrapped in a dress of humorous expression: sometimes it lurketh under an odd similitude: sometimes it is lodged in a sly question, in a smart answer, in a quirkish reason, in a shrewd imitation, in cunningly diverting, or cleverly retorting an objection: sometimes it is Louched in a bold scheme of speech, in a tart irony, in a lusty hyperbole, in a startling metaphor, in a plausible reconciling of contradictions, or in acute nonsense: sometimes a scenical representation of persons or things, a counterfeit speech, a mimical look or gesture passeth for it: sometimes an affected simplicity, sometimes a presumptuous bluntness, giveth it being: sometimes it riseth from a lucky hitting upon what is strange, sometimes from a crafty wresting obvious matter to the purpose: often it consisteth in one knows not

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