His wife's father dwelt nearest, being a citizen of Coventry, nor yet bearing any hatred towards him, and more likely to be entreated for his daughter's sake. His stepfather was better known to him, but more suspected. At last he resolved to go first to his wife's father, and in the meanwhile by letters to try whether his stepfather would receive him or not. His stepfather's answer was, That it seemed to him a hard condition, to take one into his house whom he knew to be guilty, and condemned for a capital offence; neither was he ignorant what hazard he should undergo in so doing; nevertheless, that he would shew himself a kinsman, and for that cause neglect his own danger. If he would alter his mind, he might come, on condition to stay as long as himself desired; but if he could not be persuaded to that, he should content himself with the shorter stay, and not bring him and his mother into hazard of their fortunes, who were ready to do any thing for his sake.

Mr. Foxe's state was at that crisis that he thought no condition ought to be refused; besides, he was underhand advised by his mother to come, and not fear his stepfather's severity; for that perhaps it was needful to write as he did, but when occasion should offer, he would make recompence for his words with his actions. The truth is, he had better entertainment with both of them than he any way hoped for; but so his business required, that he should rely long upon neither; and therefore, by often going to and fro from the one to the other, which carried with it some shew of business, he both deceived their diligence who inquired after him, and effected that neither of them grew weary of his company.

But, however, he by this means kept himself concealed; yet certain it is, that no time of his life passed more unknown to posterity than that; whether while he did but little, which is scarce credible, or whether it more concerned them who knew what he did, that it should be withheld than published abroad. For his own part he always forbore, with particular care, to speak of that story; lest where he had deserved so much, he might, by extolling a small courtesy, seem rather to upbraid the slenderness of the requital, than to shew himself thankful by remembering it. Afterwards he took his journey towards London; but from what motive is uncertain, unless we may imagine the convenience of the place enticed him thither; which being full of all classes of people, both inhabitants and strangers from all places, afforded him a better opportunity, either to conceal himself or to make known his abilities, or to get acquaintance with those of like inclina

tion.

By computation of times, I should think the chief cause of his going thither to have been, that about that time religion began at length a little to recover itself and gather strength, especially about the city; for he did not go to London till within a few years before king Henry departed this life; who, as I said before, though the kingdom were divided into factions, yet as long as his youth and strength remained, so ordered the matter, that, sometimes the power of each party being equalled, and sometimes one or other prevailing, by his authority both were retained in their obedience. But when he grew into years, perceiving his health every day impaired, and that his death could not be far off, he then began to consider with himself which side was most trusty, and which most to be doubted; and at what age he should expose his son to the raging hatred of the papists, who was yet, by reason of his youth, unfit to govern, and brought up in the discipline of a religion which they opposed.

He therefore, at last, resolved upon that which in reason seemed most wholesome, and in the end proved most fortunate; and having put the papist officers from their authority, by his will he appointed his son such tutors whose love to himself he had always found readiest, and by long trial of their fidelity thought likely to continue the same to his successor. This set the protestant religion again in safety, and the profes sors thereof, were thereby secured of their lives; yet

hence no public benefit or profit was afforded them : so that Foxe was still in as great want as before, having already spent all that either his friends had bestowed on him, or his own daily industry had acquired.

I should here forbear to speak of a marvellous accident, and great example of God's mercy, were not the matter so well known abroad, that it would be to no purpose for modesty's sake to be silent.

As Mr. Foxe one day sat in St. Paul's church, exhausted with long fasting, his countenance thin, and eyes hollow, after the ghastful manner of dying men, every one shunning a spectacle of so much horror, there came to him one whom he never remembered to have seen before, who, sitting by him and saluting him with much familiarity, thrust an untold sum of money into his hand, and bidding him be of good cheer; he added, that he knew not how great the misfortunes were which oppressed him, but suspected that it was no light calamity. He therefore requested him to accept in good part that small gift from his countryman, which common courtesy had forced him to offer; and he recommended him to go and nurse himself, and take all occasions to prolong his life; and in the mean time he informed him that within a few days his prospects would be improved, and a more certain condition of livelihood would be secured to him. Foxe could never learn who that man was, by whose seasonable bounty, in that extreme necessity, he had been relieved, though he ear. nestly endeavoured to find him out. Some who looked further into the event which followed that prophecy, believed that this man came not of his own accord, but was sent by some others, who very much desired Foxe's safety; and that it might perchance be through the servant's negligence, that he had suffered so much misery before any relief had been afforded. Certain it is, that within three days the issue seemed to make good the prediction, for there was a message sent from the duchess of Richmond, to invite him upon fair terms into her service. It had so fallen out, not long before, that the duke of Norfolk, the famous warrior and most renowned general of his time, together with his son, the earl of Surrey, a man, as far as may be imagined, of sincere meaning and good understanding, was committed to custody in the Tower of London, for what crimes is uncertain. While they were in prison, the earl's children were sent to the aforesaid duchess, their aunt, to be brought up and educated: Thomas, who succeeded in the dukedom; Henry, who was afterwards earl of Northampton; and Jane, afterwards countess of Westmoreland.

To these young lords was Foxe appointed tutor, to instruct them both in manners and learning; in which charge he deceived not the expectation which the duchess, a woman of great wisdom, had of him. For the two sons grew to that height of proficiency in their behaviour and scholarship, that, building in their riper years upon this foundation, the elder, Thomas, seemed to deserve more than the kingdom could bestow upon him; and the younger, Henry, came to that happiness, that he was able to measure his fortunes, not by the opinion of others, but by his own enjoyment.

The young lady Jane profited so wondrously in the Greek and Latin tongues, that she might well stand in competition with the most learned men of that time, for the praise of elegancy in both kinds.

There he dwelt during those golden days of felicity, not seen for a long time before, in the last years of king Henry's reign, and through the five years' reign of king Edward the Sixth, (a young prince incomparably hopeful, who, by perfecting the work begun by his father, surpassed all the acts of his predecessors,) till the begin. ning of queen Mary's sovereignty; who, coming to the crown, and turning the stream of religion, all things again yielded to the papists' authority; whence, not long after, that cruel tempest proceeded, the noise whereof hath come also to the ears of our age; many who suffered in that common shipwreck, swimming out to these peaceful times, as to safe harbours of everlasting tranquillity.

Among these Foxe made one, at that time sheltered by the protection of the duke, his scholar; yet not with

out the observance of many, who for hatred or envy narrowly watched him, and secretly laid wait for him. Among these was Doctor Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, who both saw something in him which he greatly feared, and also disdained much that the heir of one of the chiefest families in the kingdom, and nearest joined to himself in friendship, should by his company be depraved.

Of this man, because he was Foxe's greatest enemy, it will not be from our purpose to speak something further, that both their natures may the better be known.

The bishop of Winchester was a man famous in his youth, for of his birth or parentage I have no certainty, one that stood in the midway between good and bad; and always as he grew older, growing worse. Industry, wit, and eloquence, nature had bestowed on him; his pride, craftiness, and desire of bearing sway, he learned of cardinal Wolsey.

Hence his abilities qualified him for any employment, which he managed with exceeding diligence, to gain new honours; and having obtained them, he then put on boldness instead of industry, flattery for obedience; and instead of fidelity, deceit and compliments, and such like frivolous fashions of the court. He was, in bearing those honours which his virtue won to him, cruel and proud: in regaining any that he lost, able to weary any man with submission and humility. For in his fortunes also appeared as great diversity, as in his conditions. Some while he was pleasing to king Henry, and high in his favour; having by his pen maintained the king's authority against the pope: afterwards, when his prevaricating therein was understood, he was slighted by the king, and that he might be the less able to do hurt, stripped of his dignity. Under Edward VI, he was not only neglected, but imprisoned, and underwent the reproach of a mean estate. At length, in queen Mary's reign, he was set at liberty, and being again restored to his former honours, he exercised not so much command as tyranny: till even sick with envy, that cardinal Pole out-shone him in dignity, and with height of honours overshadowed his glory, having often, but still in vain tried to cure his malady by a cardinalship, anger at length exasperating his disease, he pined away.

After this manner began, and ended that man, commended for many excellences of mind, while he led a private life; but in his honours unbridled, and of no moderation: well might one say, nature had made him a worthy man, and fortune corrupted him.

Now Foxe, although he was cherished in the bosom of a most loving duke; yet after he saw all sorts of men troubled for their religion's sake, some imprisoned, and others burnt; in brief nothing on all sides, but flight, slaughter, and gibbets; and that the bishop of Winchester was the principal incendiary of all this, who for private respects was already his enemy; he then began to fear what might become of him, and to think of some speedy way for his departure thence. As soon as the duke knew his intent, gently chiding his fearfulness, he used many words to persuade him to leave all thought of going away; affirming it neither agreeable to honour or modesty, for him to suffer his tutor, so well deserving at his hands, at any time of his life to be taken from him: but that it should then be done, was not beseeming for him that desired it. Let him but think with himself, how great a burthen of hatred his scholar must needs bear, among those who were ignorant, whether he forsook him of his own accord, or were forsaken by him: yet that he entreated not to be excused from any hatred, which might light upon him, if at least he might do it for Foxe's advantage: but in flying, what misery would be wanting? banishment, poverty, contempt, and among those which knew him not, the reproach of a runagate. That he acknowledged was less evil than death; but that it was not yet come to such extremity; neither would he suffer it should: that he had yet wealth, and favour, and friends, and the fortune of his house: if the mischance prevailed further, himself would partake of the danger, and make the destruction common: that he remembered, with what precepts he had fortified his younger years; neither had he with more attention hearkened to his in

| structions, than he would with constancy put them in practice; only let him be of good courage, and so avoid the violence of his enemies, as not to be weary of his friend's company that this he spake, as hoping by his authority to prevail with him: but if that might not be obtained, he would then further him in the course he intended.

::

There was in the duke's speech the more credit, because it was known to proceed from the sincerity of his heart, and a most tender good will towards him and Foxe now grew ashamed, not so much in that he had done in asking leave, as that he had believed his request might have been granted: but his modesty excused him : his answer being, that the same care befitted not the lord and his servant: that it was indeed for the duke's honour, to defend his tutor from any injury; but his own part, to have a care, lest for his safety, the duke might incur apparent danger, or perpetual trouble: neither that his fear wanted all excuse. For though he well knew the duke could not be drawn from his promise and good intentions towards him; yet was he not ignorant, that by some wile or other, he might be circumvented and deceived.

For even at that time was the bishop of Winchester very intimate with the duke, relying upon the ancient friendship he had always used to that family, by whose credit he had increased his dignity. Thither he often resorted, to present his service to the duke; and at several times desired of him, that he might see his old tutor. At first the duke denied his request, one while alleging his absence, another while that he was ill at ease; still after feigning several delays, to put him off, at length it chanced, that Foxe (not knowing the bishop was within the house) entered the room where the duke and he were in discourse; and seeing the bishop, with a shew of bashfulness withdrew himself. The bishop, asking who that was, the duke answered, "his physician, who was somewhat uncourtly, as being newly come from the university." "I like his countenance and aspect very well," replied the bishop, "and when occasion shall be, will make use of him." The duke straight understood that speech, as the messenger of some approaching danger; and now he himself thought it high time for Foxe no longer to remain within the same city, or within the same see, against the force of a crafty, and then open deceiver; but by all means, the bishop being sick, must be prevented. From that time he caused all things necessary for his flight, with the least noise that might be, to be provided; sending one of his servants before to Ipswich haven, to hire a bark, and make ready all things needful for the voyage: and because it seemed scarce safe for Foxe to stay in any city, or place of resort, he chose out the house of one of his servants, a farmer, where he might with convenience wait a fair wind to put to sea. Thither Foxe went as secretly as he could, taking his wife as companion in his travels, then pregnant, but resolved to go with him, nor yielding to the entreaty of those who persuaded her to the contrary; and as soon as it was told him, his company expected him, he made haste to the port, and went on board.

Scarce had they weighed anchor, when suddenly a boisterous wind arose from the contrary shore, and which caused the waves to rage with such violence, that the stoutest mariners began to tremble: then followed a dark night, with continual showers, and a great multitude of clouds gathered together into a thick storm of rain and hail, which both hindered the seamen's work, and took away all possibility to direct their course by the compass any longer. That night, with much ado, they lay at anchor, and as soon as the day appeared, when the tempest seemed not likely to cease, they began to cast about, and make back again to the shore: so that the tide a little favouring them, at length with much difficulty they arrived in the evening at the same haven again, from whence they had loosed the day before. In the mean while that Foxe had been at sea, a pursuivant from the bishop of Winchester had broke open the farmer's house, with a warrant to apprehend him, wherever he might be found, and bring him back a prisoner to the city; but understanding he was gone already, after he had pursued

him even to the port, and there found that the ship he was embarked in was yet scarce out of sight, had returned back. Foxe, as soon as he came ashore, hearing by report of the people what had passed, although the news somewhat amazed him, yet, recollecting himself, presently took horse, and made as if he would have left the town; but the same night returning, he bargained with the master of the ship to set sail again with the first convenience of the winds; telling him that so his busi. ness required, nor did he much care what shore he landed at; only desiring him to go forward, and not doubt but that God would prosper so pious a work. Whether for reward or piety's sake, the pilot took upon him this venturous task, and performed it accordingly; for, loosing thence in the silence of the night, as soon as the tide turned, though the sea was rough and the weather blustering, within two days' time he landed Foxe and his company in safety at Newport-Haven, on the other side of the sea.

Whoever shall read this history, needeth not a more evident argument to force him to acknowledge either the certain course of providence or the uncertainty of all human forecast; when he may see the subtlest deliberations of the wisest heads oftentimes by errors come to no effect, often overthrown by sudden accidents, and now and then thwarted by contrary counsels; and that all this is done to teach men so to use their authority, as that the more power fortune hath conferred upon them, so much the less they should know they are able to do of themselves, and not despise those that are of meaner condition. For that God regardeth all men alike, having made them in nature equal, and distinguished them by degrees; not to puff up the one sort, or shame the other, but to exercise both their modesties, or his own justice, if they neglect their duty.

Foxe, when he had spent some days at Newport, in refreshing himself and his company, went to Antwerp, and from thence by easy journeys to Basil.

This city was at that time much spoken of, for the great friendship and courtesy showed to those of the English nation; for which cause many famous men, withdrawing themselves from the cruelty of the times, had escaped out of England thither. Of these, many were but of small fortune, who, some one way and some another, but the most part maintained their livelihood by reviewing and correcting the press: this place then surpassing all the cities of Germany for careful printing, and abounding with diligent and wealthy men in that profession, and preferring the industry of our men in that employment before any of their own countrymen.

To these men Foxe joined himself, and was so much the better liked, as, having been always inured to hardiness, and in his youth put to the trial of his patience, he had learned how to endure labour; and that which seemed the greatest misery to others-to suffer want, to sit up late, and keep hard diet-were to him but the sports of fortune. This perhaps may seem strange to many, who remember Foxe to have been all his life long but a slender-bodied man, and in his elder years somewhat sickly. But let no man compare his old age, worn out and eaten up with cares, and by the course of nature worn out, with the flourishing prime of his youth, which appears to have been most healthful: whether it be, that in those of indifferent size, an upright shape of the limbs and members may sufficiently serve for health, or that the mind, animated with desire of virtuous actions, being content with its own abilities to pursue those things it affecteth, needeth the less help from the body.

His industry may be from hence abundantly testified, that, being so full of employment at Basil, there, nevertheless, he began to write his History of the Acts and Monuments of the Church-a work by the title alone seeming beyond man's belief. At first it sufficed only to mark it out, and to draw the first lines or rudiments, or as it were to fasten the warp to the loom; the whole body of the history he added and interwove with it after he returned into his own country. First he wrote it in Latin, and sent the copy to Basil to be printed, where the work is still in great estimation, as also in divers other foreign nations, but among our own countrymen it

is hardly known; which shows that whilst we seek after and admire strangers, we, either through carelessness or envy, neglect our own countrymen. Shortly after, to gratify the unlearned, he wrote it in English. In the meanwhile the reformed religion began again to flourish in England, and the papist faction much to decline, by the death of queen Mary-a woman, while she followed her own inclination, every way excellent. and well worthy so royal parentage; but while she denied not any thing to some wicked counsellors, she obtained not that praise she had otherwise deserved; and if she be not ill spoken of, it may be attributed to the unwillingness of the succeeding age, to speak very freely of princes.

The whole christian world immediately felt some benefit by this change of the English government.

The neighbouring nations, now disburdened of the exiled Englishmen, rejoiced as much for the good fortune of their guests, as for their own. But at home what could be devised to assure their safety, or relieve their distresses, which they did not sooner enjoy than presume to hope for? They who had forsaken their houses, were now called home. They who had suffered imprisonment, were now released. They who by loss of goods were decayed, were now by gifts repaired. They who had been thrust from places of honour, were now restored to their former dignities. The unjust laws which had been enacted were in the mean while abrogated, and wholesome laws established in their places. Their minds were at quiet. Their consciences at liberty; all degrees at peace among themselves, and every man's goods without danger. For in such sort did queen Elizabeth, even in the infancy of her reign, dispose the affairs of the commonwealth, that whatsoever the long and prosperous government of other princes doth hardly produce in many years, at her very first entrance all at once broke forth, beyond the people's wish, as if some deity had diffused itself, and poured forth felicity upon the world. Of which incomparable, and most glorious queen, to make mention upon any occasion, and not to supply some further digression, let it be accounted for a capital crime among all writers of history.

She was born of the lady Anne Boylen, whom king Henry VIII, after his divorce from his first marriage, took to wife. From her she received, as a princely dowry, a true zeal for religion. As she grew older in years, so she increased in manners, knowledge and beauty, which as well make as beseem a princess. that both nature seemed to have boasted in her the master piece of her most absolute workmanship; and fortune to have raised her to as high a degree, as hope could ever aspire to.

So

It made her the more capable to bear so great a fortune, that she at first learned to obey; then to command, and to use that honour first to others, which was shortly after to be used by others to her; having in a private life had experience of the hatred, fatal to the successors of great empires, yet of a nobler spirit than to return the like upon those who were to succeed her. As soon as she came to the kingdom, her several virtues appeared at once in their brightest lustre; her mind descended not to an over-nice care of her body. The principles of her new sovereignty were, to acquaint herself with the public reasons of state; to seek fit men to bear part of her cares; to strengthen all parts of the kingdom with faithful ministers; to know the temper and abilities of those about her; and to search into the strength, councils and attempts of foreign princes; but all these qualities, if not well tempered, might have had, perhaps, no long continuance. Such therefore was her gravity, as nothing more pleasing. Such her severity, as nothing more gentle; and such her frugality, as nothing more bountiful. Only she knew no measure, in those excel lencies, whose glory is founded, not in the even ballancing of different virtues; but as it were in the throng of illustrious actions. So was the nobility of her birth heaped with desire of glory. Her religion was most sincere, and was seconded with zeal for a holy life. But when all these virtues brake forth into actions, what days of happiness we then enjoyed! What more cheerful,

which, whilst Foxe endeavoured to remove, and take away from himself, he could not avoid it, but was obliged to pass the lawful bounds of a history, by a new collection of matters and testimonies. And let us but by this judge of the industry of our author, that he not only gathered together so many things, as the materials of his work, from all distances of time or places, and through all counties of the kingdom, collected the acts of both courts, and the records of matters judged, but also alone by a most distracted kind of diligence searched out, examined, freed even from moth-eating, and afterwards reduced into convenient order those things themselves, being partly as it were rusty, and eaten out by antiquity, partly by hatred or flattery of authors corrupted, and partly hid in the rugged and short form of old writing. I find by the author's own notes, that in the eleventh year after he began to write it, the work was finished; and it is very probable, that the work shall live, which was so long in being brought forth: neither in all that time used he the help of any servant about his writing or other business: so much doth industry employed to one purpose, and gathered into itself, afford more useful assistance, than being scattered, and the mind divided into many cares at once, though it hath never so many helping hands.

Foxe, when he had for many years left no time free from his study, either not at all, or not seasonably affording himself what nature required, was at length brought to that condition, that his natural liveliness and vigour being spent, neither his friends nor kindred could by sight remember him. By this means he first fell into that withered leanness of body, in which many afterwards saw him, never again returning to that pleasing and cheerful countenance which he had before; but when he would not be persuaded to lessen his accustomed labours, or to lay aside his study, or to recreate himself, which was the cause of the debility which had been produced, the signs thereof did likewise remain.

From this time Foxe began to be much spoken of, for a good historian; the other virtues of his mind, as they were less known abroad, so were overshadowed by that which was known. Shortly after, he began also to wax famous for other endowments, not only as a learned man, but as one for his friendliness useful, and helpful to others. But modesty will not allow me, by way of journal, to rehearse the voluntary pains he took upon him: however, it will not be amiss, in general, to say something of it; and to show how, either by good advice, comfortable persuasions, or a charitable hand, he either relieved the wants, or satisfied the desires of innumerable persons; whereupon no man's house was in those times thronged with more clients than his. There repaired to him both citizens and strangers, noblemen and common people of all degrees, and almost all for the same cause; to seek some relief for a wounded conscience. At length, some who were likewise sick in body, would needs be carried to him; but this, to stop rumours, he would not suffer to be done. For, because they were brought thither, they were by some reported to be cured.

Thus spending the day at home in such like duties, frequently preaching abroad, and going to visit those who were not able to come themselves to him, he both fulfilled that, which, by the courtesy of his own disposition, was enjoined him, and neglected not the performance of that duty, which the office of his ministry had imposed upon him. That little time which his friends, either called away by other occasions, or ashamed of being too tedious, had left free to his own disposal, he bestowed not in sleeping, or taking his pleasure, but in prayer and studying; when he engaged in either of these exercises, he always retired into some private apartment, or made use of the night's silence for secresy, unless by chance sometimes the vehement groans he mingled with his prayers, being heard by some that were near the place, gave notice how earnest he was in his devotions. For at no time of the night could any man come to find his labours ended; but often hath the next morning's light seen the last of his night's care concluded.

Now, although these things be true, yet well I know there are many who will find fault, that I have so slightly

But

passed them over; and demand, why I produce not the matters themselves, as witnesses of his actions, or at least some particular example of each kind, that they may with more security give credit to the rest. many things there are which hinder me from so doing. First, that common civility forbiddeth us, to publish abroad that which the conscience of another hath committed to our secrecy; and a very ill example should he give, who should not rather by all means conceal, than make known to the world, the secrets of private houses, the jarrings of friends, and such private affairs in men's lives, whereof it may either shame, or repent them: next, that the matters themselves, which used to be attended to in the greatest privacy that might be, could by no means come to our knowledge; or, if by suspicion somewhat were gathered, and that I should instance in one or two particulars; yet what great assurance in the rest, could I draw from hence?

I will now bring the last argument, I know not whether I should say, of his ability or industry; that he, who so wholly had given himself to please his friends, that he had set apart no time, for his other occasions, yet wrote so much, as it might well have been believed, he had done nothing else.

I have here for their sakes, who may desire it, set down the titles of those books he wrote; which are these-Comediarum libri 2. Syllogisticon. Admonitio ad Parliamentum. De lapsis per errorem in Ecclesiam restituendis. Oliva Evangelica. De Christo gratis justificante. De Christo Crucifixo. Papa confutatus. Contra Osorium de Justitia. Meditationes supra Apocalypsim Rerum in Ecclesia gestarum Commentarii. The Acts and Monuments of the Church.

We are now come so far, as to be able from hence, to give the reader a full sight at once, of the rest of Foxe's life, which ought, I suppose, in like manner to please them, as we see those that travel, when they have been long tired with continual rugged ways and rough forests, and come at length into the plain and champaigne countries, are with the very change of soil not a little delighted and refreshed.

In this (as it were) sketch of his conditions, we shall first observe that which might well be thought the chiefest of his virtues; namely, a deliberate and resolved contempt of all things, which are in greatest esteem among men, and especially of pleasures: which disposition of his, whether inbred by nature, acquired by discipline, or infused by God, did of necessity give him great ability to perform with commendation whatever he chose to take in hand; there being nothing which can mislead the mind into errors, which would otherwise of itself hold the right way, but what proceedeth from some pleasure or other; lying in wait to entrap us in our journey. But so did Foxe hold play with these enemies, as one who desired not to save himself by flying, or shelter himself in some secret place of retirement; but by often skirmishing, and experience in the manner of fighting, to increase his own strength, and give to others an example of fortitude; using to say, That they did not great matter, who forsook business and employments in the world, lest they should suffer themselves to be allured and deceived by them. For, that the things were in themelves innocent, and then first of all grew hurtful, when they were overvalued and pursued with avaricious desire; which he that can beat back when it assaileth him, and striveth to break in upon him, is deservedly called temperate; but that he who was never in any temptation, may rather seem to have been good through want of occasion to be otherwise, than by his own virtue.

He never therefore declined the friendship of illustrious personages; not to gain honour to himself, but that thereby he saw his commendation would be more effectual, when he should desire favour on the behalf of others. The money, which sometimes rich men offered him, he accepted, returning it back to the poor. He likewise frequented the tables of his friends, not for his own pleasure, being of a spare diet; but from courtesy to keep them company, and lest any should imagine, he either feared or fled from the wrestling, and striving with

a