A voyage round the world, or, A pocket-library divided into several volumes ... : the whole work intermixt with essays, historical, moral, and divine, and all other kinds of learning / done into English by a lover of travels ...

CHAP. II.

My second Ramble into the World, and out on't, and in again, &c.

First mark how the Ban••ling to all outward appearing, When he first came to Life was as dead as a Herring.

NOW here am I most abominably puzled, and if my freedom lay upon't, could not for my Blood resolve what to do. I had, to confess the Truth, prepar'd a great many sparkling notions, plea∣sant Fancies, nea•• Thoughts, and whole Bushels of Flowers to welcom my coming into the World.

I had Collected many a fine passage, and well-turned Period, as concerning Life, and all the Conveniences, Inconveniences, Pleasure and Pain on't, which could not have fail'd of Ministring abundant Diversion and Profit to the well-disposed Reader.— But how to lug it in,—ay, there's all the Craft,—what's a Man the better for having—two Hogsheads at the Door; For look ye now, and do but consider my case,—I could cry I'm so pull'd and tormented—to talk of Life; and all those pretty things that I intended,—how I lookt abroad when I first saw the Light, found the B••bby, and all that (but first the Brandy-bottle) by the Light of Nature, and laugh∣ed in my Nurses Face: I say, to talk of this when one was Dead-born, looks a little like a Figure in Rhetorick called Nonsence,— and yet where to stick it in, if I ••lip this Opportunity, I can't

for my Life imagin: The Poet 'tis true has done both, and by a pretty Oximoron, expressed my Sence extreamly well:—When he first came to Life, was as dead as a Herring; but then he fastens that too with what goes before,—he was only so—to all outward appearing,—and that we know is fallacious;—but alas we Prose Au∣thors are ty'd up more strictly, and must write with greater Gravity, and clearer Consistency, or else Envy will be presently upon our Bones.—Ha, I have found the way,—I have it—I won't take Ten pound for my Thought; Mark—ye me, Mr. Reader, I'll suppose I was born alive—for you know a Man may suppose what he will;—I may suppose my self a Conjurer, or you a Rhi∣noceros: And upon that supposal, I can most handsomly and expeditiously drive in all the Ram∣bling thoughts I had a mind to,—supposing then, that I liv'd two or three hours after I was Dead-born, and then dy'd agen.

O Life! Life! What a whim thou art? Thou art a perfect Evander,— no body knows what to make of thee;—Thou art one tedious Ramble from nothing to something, tho' that something is next to nothing—Life is a troubled, troublesom, and tempestuous Sea, a meer Irish Ocean, we take Shipping at our Birth, with tears we Sail over it; with Care, Fear, Sorrow, Hope, (some∣times worse than all the other three,) the Whirlwinds that blow us thro' it, and at last with Sighs and Groans, we land at the Port of Death. Life is no better than the Drudge of Fate, and seems only sent into the World, to keep Death in Employment, and twist threds for the fatal Sisters, that they many n't want work to cut 'em off agen. That Rattle which Children cry for, and Men despise, which no Man but's fond of (such Children we are) and yet scarce

any but has wished to be rid on't. How often have I thought on the Advice of the Indians to their New-born Children: Infant! Thou comest into the World to suffer! Suffer and hold thy peace: How often with a sad Melancholy pleasure have I reflected on that Ingenious Poem, I have somewhere seen on this Subject.

I.

How soon doth Man decay! When Cloaths are taken from a Chest of sweets To Swaddle Infants whose young Breath Scarce knows the way, Those Clowts are little Winding-Sheets, Which do consign and spurt them on to Death.

II.

When Boys go first to Bed, They step into their voluntary Graves, Sleep binds them fast, only their Breath, Makes them not Dead. Successive Nights, like rolling Waves, Convey them quickly, who are bound for Death.

III.

When Youth is frank and free, And calls for Musick while his veins do swell, All day exchanging Mirth and Breath, In Company, That Music Summon•• to the Knell, That tolls his passage to the House of Death.

IV.

When Man grows Staid and Wise, Getting a House and Home, where he may move Within the Circle of his Bre••••h, Schooling his Eyes That dumb enclosure maketh Love Vnto the Coffin that attends his Death.

V.

When Age grows low and weak, Marking his Grave, and th••••ing every year, Till all do melt and drown his Breath When he would speak; A Chair or Litter, shows the Beer On which hee'll Travel to the House of Death.

VI.

Man e're he is aware, Hath wander'd quite through a Solemnity, And drest his H••rse, wh••••e he hath Breath As yet to spare. —Then, now so may we learn to dye, That all these dyings may be Life in Death.

Now the Reader will think me a meer T••ravian, thus to Celebrate my own Nativity with Tears.—But I cannot avoid it,—when e're I reflect what a nasty World I then came into, how crowded with Fools and Knaves; how much pain for a lit∣tle tast of what we can 〈◊〉〈◊〉—How the greatest part on't is an arrant cheat, and a mis∣chievous one besides,—how little a while we ge∣nerally

stay in ••t, and yet how unfit to go out on't;— all these Reflections are now so strongly imprint∣ed on my mind, that indeed I wonder how I could be perswaded to come abroad into Light; and had not the innate Sympathetical Love I had for Rambling even before I know what either that or my self was, toll'd me on; I might possibly have staid as long in my Mother's Lodgings, as the Physitians tell us the Child of a certain French Woman did, who went sixteen years before she was Delivered.

Yet all this Whineing, Whimpering, and hang∣ing an,—will do no good,—turn out I must; and abroad I Rambled on the 4th. day of May, A. D. 1659. Then, then was the time, when the good Women brought my Father the joyful News of a Son and Heir, after he had for five years de∣spaired of them both.

The Reader won't be so unconscionable sure, to think I should give him an account what plea∣sant sparkling Discourse pass'd among the Gossips and Midwi••e,— how they read my Fortunes, and gave their Judgments: How the Burnt-Claret Rambled about, and the poor groaning Cheese, Gam∣mons of Bacon, and Neats••Fongue suffered for't—no,—that I cant, nor won't do, for two Rea∣sons.

First, Because ••••were below the gravity of such a Discourse.

Secondly, Because they made such a hideous noise, I could not tell a word they said.

Thirdly, Because I had not my Pen and Ink about me, to take Notes (for I don't find i' the Register, that I was born with one in my Hand; though as you have been cold already, I think I've had one there almost ever since) and I ••are not

burden my Memory with so many passages, or write what I am n't assured of its Truth: But to omit six or seven and twenty Reasons between for Brevities sake; One and thirtiethly, beloved, be∣cause I was dead born, and can't remember one word on't to save my Life.

And what hurt would it be, while in this Con∣dition, if I entertain the Reader with a doleful Ditty or two on this my sudden departure before ever I came hither.

1.

So the Infant Day does rise, Guilding Hills, and painting Skyes; Till some envious pregnant Cloud, Does its blooming Glories shrow'd.

2.

So a short-liv'd Winters Sun, Sets almost as soon's begun: Weeping Heaven laments its fall, Mourning Earth its Funeral.

3.

So a Rose-bud does prepare, To Salute the calmer Air: Till some Envious Northern Gust, Rends and spreads it in the Dust.

4.

Such, bright Infant, was thy Birth! Such thy Parents Ioy and Mirth; Roses, Suns, and Days can be But a Meiosis of thee.

5.

Such fair being! if so fair, All thy Guardian Angels were. Hide their Wings, and they'll be stil'd, Brothers to the lovely Child:

Whilst if he had Wingedbin, All would think him Seraphim.

Humh! this Poetry and Flattery are inseparable, but Reader, there must be grains of allowance,—you must consider if I am called a Cherubim or Seraphim, he only means a mortal one, besides I had then never had the Small-Pox, which, you know, makes a considerable difference both in Beauty of Men and Women; and moreover, Age makes such odds in the same Face, that you'd swear it did not belong to the same person;—for in your thoughts now to compare the little muling Infant of an hour Old, and a span Long, little enough to be put every scrap of me into a Quart-pot, as I really then was: To compare that little Evander, and this great Evander, now the Cares of the World, Travel and Age has alter'd him, and he looks not so Cherubinically as he did then; you'd hardly believe He was he, and I my self am ready to cry out, when I look in the Glass and these Verses together, as Hellen did,—Ego non sum Ego. But there was an Epitaph made more merry, and less partial, only the two last Verses seem added by some latter Hand, or else the Poet had the gift of Prophesie;—they are these.

Here lyes a pretty little Knave, In's Cradle dressing room and Grave; Tho' over-small, not over-hot, For 'tis a Quort-pot.

He winks, while he bury'd lyes, Least dusty Dust fly into his Eyes: Which makes him ever since to wink, When he goes to drink.

Well, methinks I have bin dead an unreasonable while,— strike up Fidler, as in Rehearsal, for I can lye no—longer,—away Rambles my Nurse good Woman, Father and all to a certain Quackess in the next Parish.

Where he's Born in a Coach, for a Cart was not handy, And an old Woman fetcht him agen with good Brandy.

Yea,—I say in a Coach, for by Mr. Poets leave, a Cart was neither Handy nor Seemly,— I leave that for him, if there's occasion,—and so there's bob for bob,— not but that I honour and love the Gentleman with all my Heart;—but one good turn requires another,—hang him that won't be merry with his Friend, and such as give Joques, must take them:—So—I have Rambled out of the way my self, and almost lost Cart and Coach too.

So ho!—Coachman—stop and take up one of the Company,—well overtaken, now I'm in agen,—and away they carryed me as I was saying to the Learned old Woman at the next Pa∣rish, who claps her Bottle to my little muzzle; had I bin alive, I could nere ha' forgot how warm t'was with carrying it in her under-pocket, very near her painful Haunches; but to let that pass, it did the feat. I came peeping into the World agen, as brisk as a little Minew leaps up at a Fly in a Summers Evening; and soon fall a tugging at my Nurses brown Breasts, as hard as the Coun••ry fel∣lows do the Bell-ropes on a Holy-day▪ Methinks the sweet smack is hardly yet out of my Lips, and I've a great fancy I cou'd suck still. Sure I have seen somewhat extreamly like my greediness at that time,—O! I have it—just, just by the

Tail—upon the Tip of my Tongue, between my Teeth—here 'tis: 'Twas like a horrid gree∣dy fellow, I have somewhere seen eating Custards, or plum-porridg, I can't possibly tell which,—he had two Spoons, and large ones,—so on he falls, and lays about him like a Dragon, nor would so much as look, speak, or almost breath—ti•••• finding the Spoons too tedious a way, down he throws, and at it with both Hands—down runs the Custard over his Beard into the Dish, and up agen soon after,—Ay—let them laugh that see it; but he empties the platter, and fills his Belly before you could walk round the Room,—just so did I, and this so often and effectually at my Nurses Fair, Sweet, Snowey Bosom (though as I told you, the Snow lookt of a little dunnish Colour, as if t'had bin—trod upon) that I be∣gan to burnish apace, and thrive amain,—and had enough to let out as well as to keep there,—painting Maps in my Clouts almost every hour, of all those Worlds I should afterwards Ramble over.

Next I Rambled into my Chair with Wheels, then into my Leading strings, thence into Breeches, to the extravagant Joy of my trembling But∣tocks,—for now I thought my Father must say by your leave Son Evander, when he came to clench his Instructions at the wrong end: And what happened after this, you shall know if you will let me take Breath, and meet you agen at the next Chapter.