172 Life of the Duchess of Newcastle 



as much pains in those arts, both by study and practice, as 

 chymists for the philosopher's-stone, yet he hath this advantage 

 of them, that he hath found the right and the truth thereof 

 and therein, which chymists never found in their art, and I 

 believe never will. Also here creates himself with his pen, 

 writing what his wit dictates to him, but I pass my time rather 

 with scribbling than writing, with words than wit. Not that 

 I speak much, because I am addicted to contemplation, unless 

 I am with my Lord, yet then I rather attentively listen to what 

 he says, than impertinently speak. Yet when I am writing 

 any sad feigned stories, or serious humours, or melancholy 

 passions, I am forced many times to express them with the 

 tongue before I can write them with the pen, by reason those 

 thoughts that are sad, serious, and melancholy are apt to con- 

 tract, and to draw too much back, which oppression doth as 

 it were overpower or smother the conception in the brain. But 

 when some of those thoughts are sent out in words, they give 

 the rest more liberty to place themselves in a more methodical 

 order, marching more regularly with my pen on the ground of 

 white paper ; but my letters seem rather as a ragged rout than 

 a well-armed body, for the brain being quicker in creating than 

 the hand in writing or the memory in retaining, many fancies 

 are lost, by reason they ofttimes outrun the pen, where I, to 

 keep speed in the race, write so fast as I stay not so long as to 

 write my letters plain, insomuch as some have taken my hand- 

 writing for some strange character, and being accustomed so 

 to do, I cannot now write very plain, when I strive to write 

 my best ; indeed, my ordinary handwriting is so bad as few 

 can read it, so as to write it fair for the press ; but however, 

 that little wit I have, it delights me to scribble it out, and dis- 

 perse it about. For I being addicted from my childhood to 

 contemplation rather than conversation, to solitariness rather 

 than society, to melancholy rather than mirth, to write 

 with the pen than to work with a needle, passing my 

 time with harmless fancies, their company being pleasing, 

 their conversation innocent (in which I take such pleasure 

 as I neglect my health, for it is as great a grief to leave 

 their society as a joy to be in their company), my only trouble 

 is, lest my brain should grow barren, or that the root of my 

 fancies should become insipid, withering into a dull stupidity 

 for want of maturing subjects to write on. For I being of a 



