but a novelty.  When he happens to cure a small botch in an old author, he is as proud of it as if he had got the philosopher’s stone and could cure all the diseases of mankind.  He values things wrongfully upon their antiquity, forgetting that the most modern are really the most ancient of all things in the world, like those that reckon their pounds before their shillings and pence of which they are made up.  He esteems no customs but such as have outlived themselves and are long since out of use, as the Catholics allow of no saints but such as are dead, and the fanatics, in opposition, of none but the living.

A PROUD MAN

Is a fool in fermentation, that swells and boils over like a porridge-pot.  He sets out his feathers like an owl, to swell and seem bigger than he is.  He is troubled with a tumour and inflammation of self-conceit, that renders every part of him stiff and uneasy.  He has given himself sympathetic love-powder, that works upon him to dotage and has transformed him into his own mistress.  He is his own gallant, and makes most passionate addresses to his own dear perfections.  He commits idolatry to himself, and worships his own image; though there is no soul living of his Church but himself, yet he believes as the Church believes, and maintains his faith with the obstinacy of a fanatic.  He is his own favourite, and advances himself not only above his merit, but all mankind; is both Damon and Pythias to his own dear self, and values his crony above his soul.  He gives place to no man but himself, and that with very great distance to all others, whom he esteems not worthy to approach him.  He believes whatsoever he has receives a value in being his, as a horse in a nobleman’s stable will bear a greater price than in a common market.  He is so proud that he is as hard to be acquainted with himself as with others, for he is very apt to forget who he is, and knows himself only superficially; therefore he treats himself civilly as a stranger with ceremony and compliment, but admits of no privacy.  He strives to look bigger than himself as well as others, and is no better than his own parasite and flatterer.  A little flood will make a shallow torrent swell above its banks, and rage and foam and yield a roaring noise, while a deep, silent stream glides quietly on.  So a vain-glorious, insolent, proud man swells with a little frail prosperity, grows big and loud, and overflows his bounds, and when he sinks, leaves mud and dirt behind him.  His carriage is as glorious and haughty as if he were advanced upon men’s shoulders or tumbled over their heads like knipperdolling.  He fancies himself a Colosse, and so he is, for his head holds no proportion to his body, and his foundation is lesser than his upper storeys.  We can naturally take no view of ourselves unless we look downwards, to teach us how humble admirers we ought to be of our own values.  The slighter and less solid his materials are the more room they take up and make him swell the bigger, as feathers and cotton will stuff cushions better than things of more close and solid parts.