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learned tongues.

But since God has called all men to the knowledge of the truth, and, therefore, not many wise, not many learned, but the industriously humble, as well as the extraordinarily knowing,


From the middle of the seventeenth century until the accession of the Georges, with many good people, including Archbishop Tillotson, "the book next to the Bible" was "The Whole Duty of Man." It came out anonymously, but there is now little reason to doubt that it was the work of Lady Packington,* and it must therefore be added to the theological literature which we owe to the laity. It is a book deplorably awanting in all the more vital elements, but it is plain and unaffected, and full of those good advices which even those who have not taken them to themselves like to give to their sons and their servants.

On Temperance in Sleep.

1. The third part of temperance concerns sleep. And temperance in that also must be measured by the end for which sleep was ordained by God, which was only the refreshing and supporting of our frail bodies, which being of such a temper that continual labour and toil tires and wearies them out, sleep comes as a medicine to that weariness, as a repairer of that decay, that so we may be enabled to such labours as the duties of religion or works of our calling requires of us. Sleep was intended to make us more profitable, not more idle; as we give rest to our beasts, not that we are pleased with their doing nothing, but that they may do us the better service.

* See Pickering's edition of 1842, and "Notes and Queries," vol. ix. p. 292.



2. By this, therefore, you may judge what is temperate sleeping; to wit, that which tends to the refreshing and making us more lively and fit for action, and to that end a moderate degree serves best. It will be impossible to set down just how many hours is that moderate degree, because, as in eating, so in sleep, some constitutions require more than others: every man's own experience must in this judge for him, but then let him judge uprightly, and not consult with his sloth in the case; for that will still, with Solomon's sluggard, cry, "A little more sleep, a little more slumber, a little more folding of the hands to sleep" (Prov. xxiv. 33); but take only so much as he really finds to tend to the end forementioned.

3. He that doth not thus limit himself falls into several sins under this general one of sloth: as first, he wastes his time, that precious talent which was committed to him by God to improve, which he that sleeps away, doth like him in the Gospel, "hides it in the earth" (Matt. xxv. 18), when he should be trading with it; and you know what was the doom of that unprofitable servant, " Cast ye him into outer darkness" (verse 30): he that gives himself to darkness of sleep here, shall there have darkness without sleep, but with "weeping and gnashing of teeth." Secondly, he injures his body: immoderate sleep fills that full of diseases, makes it a very sink of humours, as daily experience shews us. Thirdly, he injures his soul also, and that not only in robbing it of the service of the body, but in dulling its proper faculties, making them useless and unfit for those employments to which God hath designed them; of all which ill husbandry the poor soul must one day give account. Nay, lastly, he affronts and despises God himself in it, by crossing the very end of his creation, which was to serve God in an active obedience; but he that sleeps away his life directly thwarts and contradicts that, and when God saith, "Man is born to labour," his practice saith

the direct contrary, that man is born to rest. Take heed, therefore, of giving thyself to immoderate sleep, which is the committing of so many sins in one.

4. But, besides the sin of it, it is also very hurtful in other respects; it is the sure bane of thy outward estate, wherein the sluggish person shall never thrive, according to that observation of the wise man, "Drowsiness shall cover a man with rags" (Prov. xxiii. 21), that is, the slothful man shall want convenient clothing; nay, indeed it can scarce be said that the sluggard lives. Sleep you know is a kind of death, and he that gives himself up to it, what doth he but die before his time? Therefore, if untimely death be to be looked upon as a curse, it must needs be a strange folly to choose that from our own sloth which we dread so much from God's hand.


ON the spot where the mansions of Sir Robert Peel, the Duke of Buccleuch, and others of our aristocracy, now stand, there grew a goodly orchard in the reign of Charles I. On the one side it skirted Whitehall Palace, on the other it was bounded by the Thames; and there were an iron postern and a stair, by which the august occupants were wont to reach their barge of state when they promenaded on the river, or went to visit their most reverend neighbour at Lambeth, or their own splendid mansion at Greenwich. John Henry, the Welsh gardener, derived a considerable portion of his income from the gratuities of distinguished visitors who went and came by the gate of which he was official guardian; an ingenious arrangement which once obtained in great houses, and in virtue of which every post was expected to keep its own keeper. But at last the emoluments of office ceased. The voice of harpers and musicians fell silent in the banquet-hall, and the young princes no longer romped through the bird-cage walks, and the avenues of box and privet. Ship-money had ripened into civil war; and one winter day, as he looked from his lodge in the leafless orchard, the loyal Church-of-England-man was appalled by the sight of that scaffold on which his royal master was doomed to die.

But it was in 1631, and in the days of undisturbed prerogative, that John Henry's son was born. The Countess of Salisbury, the Earl of Carlisle, and Philip, Earl of Pembroke, stood sponsors to the babe. The little Philip grew up, as befitted such a birth-place and such godsires, a graceful and fair-spoken child. The Princes Charles and James were about his own age, and he used often to share their sports. They presented

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him with books and pictures, and told him what great preferment he should have at court as soon as he was old enough; and, although his destiny was altered by a higher Hand, these early influences were not without their use. A gainly suavity marked the demeanour of PHILIP HENRY all his days, and the memories of his boyhood mingled with the convictions of his manhood, and, without changing his creed, softened his spirit. When a Presbyterian and a Puritan he still remembered Whitehall; how he used to run and open the water-gate to Archbishop Laud, and how his father took him to visit the Primate in the Tower, and how the captive prelate gave him some pieces of new money. He recollected the crowd which assembled before the palace that dismal 30th of January, when a king of England lost his head. He treasured up the keepsakes which the royal children had given him; and even after Charles had broken out into the shameless profligate, and James's Popery was no longer concealed, he did not cease to pray for the princes whose playfellow he had been in the old times of Whitehall Gardens.

His mother was a pious woman, who took great pains with her children, and instructed them carefully in "Perkins' Six Principles," and similar lesson-books, for as yet there was no Shorter Catechism. When dying, she said, "My head is in heaven, and my heart is in heaven; it is but one step more, and I shall be there too." For her only son she sought, first of all, the kingdom of heaven. She taught him, to her best ability, the elements of saving knowledge; and when he went to be a scholar at Westminster School, she begged old Dr Busby that he would allow her son to attend her favourite Puritan preachers. Of these the chief was Stephen Marshall—a man mighty in the gospel; and his clear and powerful expositions lit up in the mind of the young scholar the hope full of immortality. From that period religion became with this schoolboy his main business and his pleasure. The Westminster

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