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PITZOSBORNE'S 
 
 LETTERS, 
 
 ON 
 
 SEVERAL SUBJECTS. 
 
 BY WILLIAM MELMOTH, ESQUIRE, 
 
 Translator of the Letters of Ciceroj &e. 
 
 WITH 
 
 THE DIALOGUE CONCERNING ORATORY. 
 
 TO WHICH IS PREFIXED, 
 
 A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR, 
 
 From the Twelfth London Edition. 
 boston: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY WELLS AND LILLY, AND CUMHINGS AND HILLIARS, 
 
 1815. 
 
WELLS AND LILLY, PRINTERS, 
 BOSTON. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The Proprietors of Mr. Melmoth's Works beg leave to 
 apprize the Publick, that a spurious and incomplete edi- 
 tion of these Letters is now in circulation. 
 
 In the copy here recommended to their notice, will be 
 found the celebrated Dialogue on the Rise and Decline of 
 Eloquence among the Romans, and an authentick and 
 interesting sketch of the Author's life and writings. The 
 Greek and Latin quotations, hitherto very incorrectly 
 printed, have also been revised with the greatest care. 
 
 These advantages, added to superiour elegance of print- 
 ing and embellishment, will, they trust, be amply sufficient 
 to ensure this edition a decided preference over every 
 ©ther. 1805. 
 
 That the confidence, reposed by the Proprietors in the 
 merits of their large edition of 1805, was not vain and 
 presumptuous, is verified by the necessity of another of 
 equal magnitude, even before the expiration of twelve 
 months. It is just to observe, and it is all they have now 
 respectfully to add, that the present differs in nothing 
 from the former edition, except in a single improvement, 
 which relates to the reformation of the " Memoir of the 
 Life and Writings of the Author." 1806. 
 

 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR, ix 
 
 LETTER I. To Clytander. — Concerning enthusiasm, » . 1 
 
 II. To Philotes. — On portrait painting, 3 
 
 III. To Palamedes. — Reflection son the Roman triumphs 6 
 
 IV. To Philotes.—Qn his travels, 10 
 
 V. To Clytander. — On the veneration paid to the an- 
 
 cients, 12 
 
 VI. To Orontes. — The character of Varus, ... 14 
 
 VII. To Hortensius. — Returning him thanks for a pre- 
 
 sent of brawn : with an account of the author's 
 manner of celebrating the feast, .... 1§ 
 
 VIII. To Clytander. — In favour of a particular Provi- 
 
 dence, 17 
 
 IX. To Timoclea. — A panegyrick upon riddles, . . 22 
 
 X. To Phidippus. — Reflections upon friendship, . 25 
 
 XI. To Hortensius. — Against modern Latin poetry, . 28 
 
 XII. To Jmaria.— With a tale, 31 
 
 XIII. To Philotes.— Written in a fit of the spleen, . 34 
 
 XIV. To Orontes. — Concerning the neglect of oratorical 
 
 numbers. Observations upon Dr. Tillotson's 
 style. The care of the ancient orators with 
 respect to numerous composition, stated and 
 recommended, 36 
 
 XV. To Cleora, 41 
 
 XVI. To Philotes. — Against cruelty to insects, . . 42 
 
 XVII. To the same. — Upon his marriage, .... 45 
 
 XVIII. To Hortensius, — Reflections upon the passion 
 
 of fame, 46 
 
 XIX. To CZeora.— Rallying her taste for mystical and 
 
 romance writers, 49 
 
 A* 
 
vi CONTENTS, 
 
 Page, 
 LETTER XX. To Euphronius. — Observations upon some pas- 
 sages in Mr. Pope's translation of the Iliad, 50 
 
 XXI. To Cleora, : . : . 57 
 
 XXII. To Palemon. — Against suicide, 59 
 
 XXIII. To Clytander. — Concerning his intentions to 
 marry. The character of Amasia, . . . 63 
 
 XXIV. To Orontes.— On metaphors, 65 
 
 XXV. To Philotes, 73 
 
 XXVI. To Phidippus. — Reflections on generosity, . 75 
 
 XXVII. To Sappho, a young lady of thirteen years 
 
 of age, 77 
 
 XXVIII. To Phidippus. — Reflections upon the senti- 
 ments of the ancients concerning friendship, 78 
 
 XXIX. To the same. — Upon grace in writing, . . 82 
 
 XXX. To Clytander.— Concerning the love of our 
 
 country, 84 
 
 XXXI. To Palamedes, 88 
 
 XXXII. To the same. — The author's resolutions to 
 continue in retirement, 89 
 
 XXXIII. To Palemon.— The character of Hortensia, 90 
 
 XXXIV. To Hortensius.— Concerning self-reverence, 95 
 
 XXXV. To Cleora. — With an ode upon their wedding- 
 day, 96 
 
 XXXVI. To Clytander. — Reasons for the author's re- 
 tirement : — a description of the situation of Ins 
 villa, 99 
 
 XXXVII. To Hortensius.— Concerning the style of 
 Horace in his moral writings, * . . . 102 
 
 XXXVIII. To the same.— Concerning the great vari- 
 ety of characters among mankind. The singular 
 character of Stilotes 108 
 
 XXXIX. To Phidippus. — Concerning the criterion of 
 taste, Ill 
 
 XL. To Palamedes.— The character of Mezentius, . 116 
 
CONTENTS. v ii 
 
 Page. 
 LETTER XLl. To Orontes. — The comparative merit of the 
 
 two sexes considered, 113 
 
 XLII. To Palemon. — Reflections upon the various 
 revolutions in the mind of man, with respect 
 both to his speculative notions, and his plans of 
 
 happiness, *. 121 
 
 XL11I. To Euphronius. — Objections to some passages 
 
 in Mr. Pope's translation of the Iliad, . . 123 
 XLIV. To Palamedes. — Against visiters by profession, 136 
 XLV. To Hortensius.— Reflections upon fame, with re- 
 spect to the small number of those whose appro- 
 bation can be considered as conferring it, . 137 
 XLVI. To Clylander.— Concerning the reverence due 
 
 to the religion of one's country, .... 138 
 
 XLVII. To Cleora, 142 
 
 XLVI 1 1. To Euphronius.— The publick advantages of 
 well-directed satire. The moral qualifications 
 
 requisite to a satirist, 143 
 
 XLIX. To Palamedes. — On his approaching marriage, 145 
 L. To Euphronius. — Upon good sense, . . . . 146 
 LI. To Palemon. — The author's morning reflections, . 148 
 LII. To Euphronius. — Some passages in Mr. Pope's 
 translation of the Iliad compared with the ver- 
 sions of Denham, Dryden, Congreve, and 
 
 Tickel, 152 
 
 LIII. To Orontes. — Reflections upon seeing Mr. Pope's 
 
 house at Binfield, 168 
 
 LIV. To Phidippus. — The character of Cleanthes, . 171 
 LV. To Euphronius. — Concerning weariness of life, . 172 
 LVI. To Tim )dea.— With a fable in the style of Spenser, 175 
 LVII. To Clytander. — Concerning the use of the an- 
 cient mythology in modern Poetry, . . . 181 
 iiVIII. To Euphronius. — Occasioned by the sudden 
 
 death of a friend, 185 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 LETTER LIX. To Hortensius.— On the delicacy of every au- 
 thor of genius, with respect to his own per- 
 formances, 187 
 
 LX. To Palemon. — An account of the author's happi- 
 ness in his retirement, ] 90 
 
 LXI. To Euphronius. — Reflections upon style, . . 191 
 LXII. To Orontes — The character of Timoclea, . . 194 
 LXIII. To the same. — Concerning the art of verbal cri- 
 ticism ; a specimen of it applied to an epigram of 
 
 Swift, 196 
 
 LXIV. To Philotes.— From Tunbridge, .... 199 
 LXV. To Orontes. — Concerning delicacy in relieving 
 
 the distressed, 201 
 
 LXVI. To Chora, 202 
 
 LXVII. To Euphronius. — On the death and character 
 
 of the author's father, ....... 204 
 
 LXVIII. To Philotes. — Reflections on the moral charac- 
 ter of mankind, 206 
 
 LXIX. To the same. — Concerning the difficulties that 
 attend our speculative inquiries. Mr. Boyle's 
 moderation instanced and recommended, . 208 
 LXX. To Pahxmedes. — In disgrace, :..... 212 
 LXXI. To Philotes. — The author's inability to do jus- 
 tice to the character of Eusebes, .... 214 
 LXXII. To the same. — The author's situation of mind 
 
 on the loss of a friend, 216 
 
 LXXIII. To Palamedes.— On thinking, 217 
 
 LXXIV. To Orontes. — Reflections on the advantages 
 of conversation : with a translation of the cele- 
 brated dialogue concerning the rise and decline 
 of eloquence among the Romans, . . ; : 221 
 
 A DIALOGUE CONCERNING ORATORY, 225 
 
MEMOIR 
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 It has frequently been remarked, that biographical 
 anecdotes rarely abound in the circle described by 
 literary characters, who, lost in the fascinating 
 wilds of speculation and fancy, or immersed in the 
 laborious investigations of science, avoid the tumul- 
 tuous business and pleasures of society, which alone 
 lend, in any great measure, to vary and chequer the 
 scenes of human life. That this was or was not the 
 case with the subject of the present memoir, we are 
 not prepared peremptorily to assert; but the rich 
 legacy which he has bequeathed to us, gives rise 
 most reasonably to the conclusion, that he was a man 
 devoted to letters, and a lover of the secretum iter. 
 If he had no humble and industrious, idolizing and 
 vigilant attendant, no Boswell to pursue his steps, 
 like a shadow, and to record all his weaknesses and 
 virtues, we have no reason to complain, for we have 
 something still better. — The best of an author is his 
 works, and these we possess. Here we have the 
 
X MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 gold without alloy. His writings are the temple of 
 the Graces, who, to use the language of an ingenious 
 commentator, " can give that certain happiness of 
 manner, which we all understand, yet no one is able 
 to express; which often supplies the place of me- 
 rit, and without which merit itself is imperfect." 
 
 William Melmoth, Esq. late of Bath, was the 
 eldest son of an eminent lawyer of the same name, 
 and member of the honourable society of Lincoln's 
 Inn. His father, who was born in the year 1666, 
 exercised his profession, as we learn, " with a skill 
 and integrity, which nothing could equal but the 
 disinterested motive that animated his labours. 
 He often exerted his distinguished abilities, yet 
 refused the reward of them, in defence of the widow, 
 the fatherless, and him that had none to help him. 
 His admirable treatise on The great Importance of 
 a religious Life, deserves to be held in perpetual re- 
 membrance. In a word, few ever passed a more use- 
 ful, none a more blameless life. He died in 1743." 
 
 Under the tuition of his venerable father, and 
 with the advantage of his good example, it is not 
 difficult to suppose that he greatly improved in every 
 estimable quality; and though we are deprived, 
 through his advanced age, of all information from 
 the companions of his earlier years, we may safely 
 conjecture, that they were so well husbanded, and 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. xi 
 
 sedulously applied to the acquisition of literature and 
 science, as to lay a solid foundation for that maturity 
 and distinction in taste and judgment, which he after- 
 wards displayed. He is said to have been as amiable 
 and engaging in his progress to manhood, as he cer- 
 tainly became respectable and even worthy of reve- 
 rence in the later stages of his protracted existence. 
 
 Of his juvenile and domestick habits, whether of 
 a grave or sprightly deportment, and whether his 
 education was publick or private, at what seminary 
 he studied, or to what particular master he owed 
 his classical taste, little is correctly known. The 
 first indications of his future excellence have proba- 
 bly perished with the friends of his youth, whom he 
 survived. The publick's principal acquaintance with 
 him, therefore, is through the medium of his works. 
 
 About five and twenty years have elapsed since 
 a publication entitled "Liberal Opinions" issued 
 from the press, under the assumed name of Courtney 
 Mehnoth, and was commonly ascribed to our author. 
 Their discernment, however, is not to be envied, 
 who could mistake the masterly and philosophical, 
 the refined and useful emanations of an enlightened 
 :sct, for the transient productions of that ano- 
 nymous author* 
 
 William Melmoth, Esq. so far from giving the 
 least countenance to the loose dogmas industriously 
 
xii MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 propagated by the modern school of infidelity. 
 asserts his belief of Christianity, in the genuine spirit 
 which she inspires, and honestly and unequivocally, 
 in severa 1 parts of his writings,* avows a preference 
 for the religious establishment of hs native country. 
 Our author, according to the best information, 
 was of Emanuel College, Cambridge; but how 
 loug he studied at that university, or whether he 
 took any degree, is uncertain. From one of his 
 letters f in this collection, it would appear, that his 
 life had commenced by mixing more or less with 
 the active world in a publick character, possibly in 
 the same profession which his father had previously 
 pursued with so much honour. His motives for 
 relinquishing this situation, and adopting one more 
 retired and consonant to his own inclinations and 
 habits, are briefly, but explicitly stated, and afford a 
 very satisfactory apology for his choice. "How, 
 " indeed," says he, " could a man hope to render 
 " himself acceptable to the various parties which 
 " divide our nation, who professes it as his princi- 
 " pie, that there is no striking wholly into the mea- 
 " sures of any, without renouncing either one's sense, 
 " or one's i ntegrity ; and yet, as the world is at 
 
 * See Laelius, or an Essay on Friendship, Remark 68, Page 318, and Letters 
 8 and 46 of Fitzoslxime. 
 f Letter 36. 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. xiii 
 
 " present constituted, it is scarce possible, I fear, to 
 " do any good in one's generation (in publick life I 
 " mean) without listing under some or other of those 
 cc various banners, which distinguish the several corps 
 " in these our political warfares." 
 
 In the same letter, as well as in others, he expa- 
 tiates with evident complacency on the peculiar 
 felicities, which arise from the possession and ex- 
 ercise both of the social and conjugal virtues. His 
 villa, which he has described with so much pictu- 
 resque taste and elegance, was probably the spot, 
 where his first nuptials took place, and he retreated 
 into the country, fortunately emancipated, as one 
 of his feelings must have conceived, from all the 
 turmoil and dissension incident to party contest. 
 His domestick comforts are not obscurely specified 
 in a preceding letter, where he breathes those manly 
 sentiments, which so well become the head of a fam- 
 ily. It is written, as we presume, on the anniversa- 
 ry of their marriage, and addressed to Mrs. Melmoth, 
 under the feigned name ofCleora. He there allude* 
 to several passages in his private history, which 
 none but such as knew it intimately can explain. 
 He speaks particularly of a musical instrument, for 
 the use of a young lady, whom he calls Teraminta ; 
 and probably his grand-niece, at that time, as it 
 would seem, recently entered on the practice of mu- 
 
 B 
 
xiv MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 sick, celebrates "the day by the composition of an 
 appropriate ode, and concludes with a rapturous 
 encomium on wedded love. 
 
 From this beautiful and romantick situation in the 
 vicinity of Shrewsbury, where he first selected his 
 rural sequestration, he removed, it would appear, 
 to Bath. Here he had the misfortune to lose Mrs. 
 Melmoth, of whom, in his letters, he frequently 
 speaks in such raptures, and to whom he repeat- 
 edly avows the strongest attachment. Soon after 
 her death, however, he married a Miss Ogle, of an 
 Irish family. It is reported that he was precipitated 
 into this match by a gigantick Hibernian cousin of 
 the lady, and that a scene in the Irish Widow origi- 
 nated in the incident. It is, notwithstanding, well 
 known, that she proved herself highly deserving of 
 his esteem, by an affectionate and dutiful attention 
 to him on every occasion. 
 
 He was grievously afflicted, even at a great age, 
 by violent attacks of the stone and gravel, which 
 rendered walking so painful to him, that he was 
 confined for several years to his own house, and ne- 
 ver went abroad but when carried in a sedan chair. 
 For ten or twelve years, however, before his death, 
 by persevering in the regular use of mephitick water, 
 he latterly recovered even an active use of his loco- 
 motive powers. It is not surprising that these 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. XV 
 
 dilapidations of nature, connected with a long series 
 of intense study, which wears the mind as much, at 
 least, as labour impairs the body, rendered him, in 
 old age, very petulant, and easily provoked. Yet 
 such were his domestick virtues and the goodness 
 of his heart, that though often cross, he was never 
 implacable, and generally retained his servants 
 until death put an end to their mutual dependance. 
 
 Mr. Melmoth resided in Bath for the last thirty 
 years of his life, and died at Bladud's Buildings, in 
 that city, in 1799, aged 89, full of years and good 
 works. He was of middle stature, and very thin. 
 His eyes were of a lively cast, and his face dis- 
 covered strong lines of thought. From a very 
 wrinkled countenance, occasioned, perhaps, by 
 much deep and intense thought, he exhibited, even 
 before he was an old man, extraordinary marks of 
 age. He was a person of exemplary piety, and stern 
 integrity, " incorrupta fides, nuddque Veritas /' and 
 his writings are not a greater ornament to literature, 
 than his whole life was honourable to human nature. 
 
 Happily circumstanced as he seems to have been 
 during the better part of the flower of his days ; far 
 from the noisy world, and richly stored with litera- 
 ture and science, he was not idle, though retired ; 
 nor lost that time in dissipation or luxury which he 
 denied to the pursuit of honour and ambition. His 
 
XVi MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 studies, indeed, manifestly prove that his life, if not 
 laborious, was dedicated to ingenious research and 
 fruitful contemplation. 
 
 Our author's literary debut appeared in an essay 
 On active and retired Life, in an Epistle to Henry 
 Coventry, Esq. which was printed in 1735. It 
 was afterwards inserted in Dodslexfs Collection, and 
 eontains some good passages, and many beautiful 
 lines. His versification, however, is not equal to 
 his prose : and, notwithstanding his youth when this 
 poem w 7 as published, he seems to have declined a 
 pursuit from which his good sense taught him to 
 expect no distinguished success. 
 
 Several passages in his Fitgosborne's Letters de- 
 monstrate that he was accustomed to canvass with 
 himself the difference between an active and retired 
 Life, and how much better he thought the one accom- 
 modated to his plan of happiness than the other, will 
 be seen by a reference to letters thirty-two and fifty. 
 
 English literature was not a little enriched, and 
 the history of Roman manners elucidated by his 
 elegant version of the Epistles of Pliny the younger, 
 which appeared in 1 753. The pupil of Quintilian 
 was the most polite and agreeable writer of his 
 time. He moved in the highest sphere of society ; 
 was intimate with all the most eminent men of that 
 period 5 possessed the readiest access to all circle^ 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. xvu 
 
 Stad citizens of every description, and with these 
 advantages, such powers of intelligence and obser- 
 vation as enabled him to make the best use of 
 whatever he heard or saw. None of his contem- 
 poraries appear to us so full of anecdote, or picture 
 the private as well as the publick life of the Romans 
 so accurately as Pliny. Although he wrote with 
 great purity, considering the date of his composi- 
 tions, he is still not free from that meretricious re- 
 finement, which then marked the degeneracy of 
 Roman taste, both in letters and manners. The 
 style of the translation of these Epistles would, on 
 the contrary, have passed the ordeal of the chastest 
 periods of our language, when Addison, Swift and 
 Bolingbroke fixed the standard of its simplicity and 
 elegance. The notes to this version are judicious r 
 learned, and amusing. 
 
 In the same, or about the beginning of the sub* 
 sequent year, followed his translation of Cicero's 
 familiar Epistles to several of his Friends, with 
 Remarks. With the critical, literary, and philo- 
 sophical excellencies of the former, they are far 
 more historical, political, and professional. Writ- 
 ten on the eve of a momentous revolution in the 
 empire of the world, and while the minds of men 
 were startled and laboured under repeated presages 
 of that stupendous event, they are replete with in- 
 
xviii MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR, 
 
 terest, observation, and instruction. The author 
 himself was a conspicuous actor in these important 
 scenes, in which his several correspondents also 
 performed their respective parts. Mr. Melmoth, 
 according to his advertisement, prefers them to those 
 particularly addressed to Atticus, " as they shew the 
 " author of them in a greater variety of connexions, 
 " and afford an opportunity of considering him in 
 " almost every possible point of view." His com- 
 ments on them few will read without profit, and 
 none without pleasure* 
 
 An elegant translation of Cato, or an Essay on 
 Old Age ; and Lcelius, or an Essay on Friendship, 
 both with Remarks, were produced successively, in 
 1777. Nothing was ever written in a style of more 
 exquisite reasoning, or more refined and animated 
 illustration, than these two incomparable perform- 
 ances. As far as the different genius of a dead and 
 living language would permit, it is allowed that 
 our translator has done him ample justice. The 
 Remarks on each, doubling the quantity of the ori- 
 ginal, are critical, biographical, and explanatory, 
 and disclose such a fund of Roman antiquities, as 
 must be eminently useful and acceptable to every 
 classical student. 
 
 Besides a few temporary productions, in verse 
 and prose, which were, as usual, anonymous and 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. xix 
 
 fugitive, his contributions to the World, in which, it 
 is said, he had some share, and the letters in this 
 volume, he published an answer to the attack of 
 Jacob Bryant, Esq. on the* opinion of our author 
 concerning the persecution of the Christians under 
 the emperour Trajan. He proves unexceptionably 
 that this circumstance, horrid as it was, originated 
 not in any antipathy conceived against the truths 
 which they believed, but in the laws of the consti- 
 tution or established police of the state, against 
 practices deemed by them indispensable to a general 
 profession of their religion. Memoirs of a late emi- 
 nent Advocate, which he doubtless intended as a tri- 
 bute of filial duty, was also written and edited by 
 him, at a very late period of life. Here we per- 
 ceive the same composure of mind and the same 
 unaffected simplicity which distinguished all his 
 preceding pieces; but, to use the language of Lon- 
 ginus, St%* *m <r<pcfyr»ros, the fire and genius of his 
 earlier exertions are no longer apparent. 
 
 # Fitzosborne's Letters, presented to the publick 
 in this elegant impression, we mention last, though 
 among the first of his works, as they form that 
 portion of them to which our Memoir more parti- 
 cularly belongs. He was probably pleased with 
 this disguise, under which he might with modesty 
 
 * First printed in 174& 
 
XX MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 speak familiarly of his own concerns, as well as' 
 of those of his friends. It divested him of feelingt 
 that would, otherwise, to a certain degree, have re- 
 pressed the freedom of his remarks, and laid him 
 under such a restraint as must have contracted his 
 conception, and cramped his expression. The fic- 
 tion was harmless, and he has rendered it useful. 
 These letters, treating chiefly of objects with which 
 the heart is most conversant, have always had their 
 admirers. The various domestick scenes, the tran- 
 quil felicities of private life, the harmonies of social 
 fellowship and concord, the occurrences of the day, 
 the interest we are all made to feel and participate 
 in the enjoyments of one another, and the inde- 
 finite number of nameless circumstances, to which 
 the affections of none are altogether insensible, are 
 the various strings on which these letters touch, and 
 with which our hearts are for ever in unison. These 
 delicacies, uniformly directed to the best moral pur- 
 poses, impart such a charm to all he utters, and 
 stamp such a value on his writings, as we rarely 
 meet with in the compositions of other men. One 
 of the best letters in the whole collection, though 
 merely introductory to our author's translation of 
 the celebrated, but, as he calls it, anonymous dia- 
 logue on oratory, is replete with observations of 
 great and publick importance. We are not aware 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. xxi 
 
 that this beautiful fragment of antiquity has been 
 transfused into English by any former writer, but 
 here it appears with peculiar elegance, and exhibits 
 specimens of the purest eloquence and the soundest 
 wisdom. The translator has, indeed, arranged his 
 letters in such a manner, as to render them alto- 
 gether imperfect without it ; and, to many readers 
 of a particular cast, it may probably be deemed the 
 most valuable part of the volume. The tract en- 
 titled de Oraioribus, sive de causis corruptae eloqum- 
 tiae dialogue, has been ascribed to Tacitus, Quintil- 
 ian, and Suetonius, but it was the opinion of Mr. 
 Melmoth that it was the production of Pliny the 
 younger, and it is to be lamented that his promise 
 " one day or other to attempt to prove it in form," 
 was never fulfilled. On this subject, Lipsius and M. 
 Brotier will be consulted with advantage. Mr. Mur- 
 phy, as much attached to Tacitus as Mr. Melmoth 
 to Pliny, gives it to his favourite, in the notes to 
 his version of the Dialogue. 
 
 Notwithstanding the constitutional diffidence and 
 reserve of this amiable writer, and his invincible re- 
 luctance to solicit publick attention, he was not en- 
 tirely overlooked even by the most fashionable and 
 celebrated literary characters of his day. We find 
 him an occasional visiter at the late Mrs. Mon- 
 tague's, who lost no opportunity of enhancing her 
 
xxn MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 own popularity by that of her guests. With other 
 wits, who sparkled at the levee of that lady, he was 
 also sometimes seen, and ail who knew or con- 
 versed with him there, or elsewhere, acknowledge 
 his politeness both as a gentleman and a scholar. 
 
 The silly flippancy with which Mrs. Piozzi men- 
 tions her dislike of him in a letter* to Dr. Johnson, 
 and the doctor's contumelious coincidence in his 
 reply, suo more et modo, reflect no credit on the 
 judgment or good manners of either, and rather 
 improve than detract from the reader's opinion of 
 the polished and unassuming genius of our author. 
 The reputation of Mr. Melmoth was not to be depre- 
 ciated by the scandal or jealousy of this presumptuous 
 school. The most respectable of his contemporaries 
 bore witness to his worth as a man, and his merit 
 as a writer. He is even mentioned by a celebrated 
 satirist, " whose charity exceedeih not? with com- 
 mendable veneration. "William Melmoth, Esq." 
 according to the Pursuits cf Literature, " a most 
 
 * See Boswell's Life of Johnson, Tol. 1. 457. u Yesterday evening," says 
 she, " was past at Mrs. Montague's. There was Mr. Melmoth. I do not like 
 " him though, nor he me. It was expected we should have pleased each other. 
 " He is, however, just tory enough to hate the bishop of Peterboro' for bis 
 t£ whigglsm, and whig enough to abhor you for toryism. Mrs. Montague 
 " flattered him finely ; so he had a good afternoon of it»" Johnson returned 
 this answer. ''From the author of Fitzosbome's Letters 1 cannot think myself 
 K in much danger. I met him only once, about thirty years ago, and, in some 
 ** small dispute, reduced him to a whistle. Having never seen him since, that 
 " is the last impression." 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. xxiii 
 
 u elegant and distinguished writer, near half an age, 
 ^ with every good man's praise. His translation of 
 " Cicero and Pliny will speak for him, while Ro* 
 " man and English eloquence can be united. Mr. 
 " Melmoth is a happy example of the mild influence 
 " of learning on a cultivated mind, I mean of that 
 " learning which is declared to be the aliment of 
 " youth, and the delight and consolation of declin* 
 " ing years. Who would not envy this ' Fortu- 
 " nate Old Man? his most finished translation and 
 " comment on Tully's Cato ? or rather, who would 
 "not rejoice in the refined and mellowed pleasures 
 " of so accomplished a gentleman and so liberal a 
 " scholar." 
 
 The traveller, Mr. Coxe, whose tour it would 
 seem was originally communicated to ^r author, 
 begins his work by addressing him in these respect- 
 ful terms. " I am persuaded that I shall travel with 
 " much greater profit to myself, when I am thus to 
 " inform you of all I have seen ; as the reflection 
 " that my observations are to be communicated to 
 " you, will be one means of rendering me more atten- 
 " tive and accurate in forming them." The conclu- 
 ding words of his last edition are still more affec- 
 tionate and emphatical. We forbear, however, to 
 transcribe them, as well as the honourable testimony 
 of many others, which it seems unnecessary to repeat. 
 
xxiv MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 He has long been removed from this bustling scene, 
 and is alike insensible to good or ill report. Were 
 it otherwise, his gratification must be great indeed, 
 since few writers continue to receive and deserve 
 so much commendation. Distinguished as he is in 
 all his labours, his talents are peculiarly prominent 
 in the letters here presented to the world. To the 
 composition of this delightful and instructive work, 
 he brought his genius in its happiest mood, and ex- 
 erted in its execution " the whole strength of his 
 " clear, unclouded faculties." But time and expe- 
 rience have given judgment in the case, and all 
 ©ur praise, however merited, is at best superfluous. 
 
 <% 
 
LETTERS 
 
 ON 
 
 SEVERAL SUBJECTS. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 TO CLYTANDER. 
 
 Sept. 1739. 
 I entirely approve of your design : but whilst I rejoice 
 in the hope of seeing Enthusiasm thus successfully at- 
 tacked in her strongest and most formidable holds, I 
 would claim your mercy for her in another quarter ; and 
 after having expelled her from her religious dominions, 
 let me entreat you to leave her in the undisturbed en- 
 joyment of her civil possessions. To own the truth, I 
 look upon enthusiasm, in all other points but that of reli- 
 gion, to be a very necessary turn of mind ; as indeed it is 
 a vein which Nature seems to have marked, with more 
 or less strength, in the tempers of most men. No matter 
 what the object is, whether business, pleasures, or the 
 fine arts ; whoever pursues them to any purpose, must do 
 so con amove ; and enamoratos, you know, of every kind, 
 are all enthusiasts. There is, indeed, a certain height- 
 ening faculty which universally prevails through our spe- 
 cies ; and we are all of us, perhaps, in our several favour- 
 ite pursuits, pretty much in the circumstances of the 
 renowned knight of La Mancha, when he attacked the 
 barber's brazen basin for Mambrino's golden helmet. 
 1 
 
2 LETTER I. 
 
 What is Tully's aliquid immensum infinitumque, which 
 he professes to aspire after in oratory, but a piece of 
 true rhetorical Quixotism ? Yet never, I will venture to 
 affirm, would he have glowed with so much eloquence, 
 had he been warmed with less enthusiasm. I am per- 
 suaded, indeed, that nothing great or glorious was ever 
 performed, where this quality had not a principal con- 
 cern; and as our passions add vigour to our actions, 
 enthusiasm gives spirit to our passions. I might add, 
 too, that it even opens and enlarges our capacities. Ac- 
 cordingly, I have been informed, that one of the great 
 lights of the present age never sits down to study till he 
 has raised his imagination by the power of musick. For 
 this purpose, he has a band of instruments placed near his 
 library, which play till he finds himself elevated to a 
 proper height ; upon which he gives a signal, and they in- 
 stantly cease. 
 
 But those high conceits which are suggested by enthu- 
 siasm, contribute not only to the pleasure and perfection 
 of the fine arts, but to most other effects of our action 
 and industry. To strike this spirit, therefore, out of the 
 human constitution, to reduce things to their precise phi- 
 losophical standard, would be to check some of the main 
 wheels of society, and to fix half the world in an useless 
 apathy. For if enthusiasm did not add an imaginary 
 value to most of the objects of our pursuit ; if fancy did 
 not give them their brightest colours, they would gene- 
 rally, perhaps, wear an appearance too contemptible ta 
 excite desire : 
 
 Weary'd we should lie down in death, 
 
 This cheat of life would take no more, 
 If you thought fame but empty breath, 
 
 I Phillis but a perjur'd whore. Pri&r. 
 
 In a word, this enthusiasm for which I am pleading, is 
 a beneficent enchantress, who never exerts her madck but 
 
LETTER II. 3 
 
 to our advantage, and only deals about her friendly spells 
 in order to raise imaginary beauties, or to improve real 
 ones. The worst that can be said of her is, that she is a 
 kind deceiver, and an obliging flatterer. Let me con- 
 jure you, then, good Clytander, not to break up her use- 
 ful enchantments, which thus surround us on every side ; 
 but spare her harmless deceptions in mere charity to 
 mankind. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 TO FHFLOTES. 
 
 I should not have suffered so long an interval to inter- 
 rupt our correspondence, if my expedition to Euphronius 
 had not wholly employed me for these last six weeks. I 
 had long promised to spend some time with him before he 
 embarked with his regiment for Flanders ; and, as he is 
 not one of those Hud ibras tick heroes who choose to run away 
 one day that they may live to fight another, I was unwil- 
 ling to trust the opportunity of seeing him to the very pre- 
 carious contingency of his return. — The high enjoyments 
 he leaves behind him, might, indeed, be a pledge to his 
 friends that his caution would at least be equal to his 
 courage, if his notions of honour were less exquisitely deli- 
 cate. But he will undoubtedly act as if he had nothing 
 to hazard ; though, at the same time, from the generous 
 sensibility of his temper, he feels every thing that his fam- 
 ily can suffer in their fears for his danger. I had an in- 
 stance, whilst I was in his house, how much Euphronia's 
 apprehensions for his safety are ready to take alarm upon 
 every occasion. She called me one day into the gallery, 
 to look upon a picture which was just come out of the 
 painter's hands ; but the moment she carried me up to it, 
 
4 LETTER H. 
 
 she burst out into a flood of tears. It was drawn at the 
 request, and after a design of her father, and is a perform- 
 ance which does great honour to the ingenious artist 
 who executed it. Euphronius is represented under the 
 character of Hector, when he parts from Andromache, 
 who is personated, in the piece, by Euphronia ; as her 
 sister, who holds their little boy in her arms, is shadowed 
 out under the figure of the beautiful nurse with the young 
 Astyanax. 
 
 I was so much pleased with the design in this uncommon 
 family-piece, that I thought it deserved particular men- 
 tion ; as I could wish it were to become a general fashion 
 to have all pictures of the same kind executed in some 
 such manner. If, instead of furnishing a room with sepa- 
 rate portraits, a whole family were to be thus introduced 
 into a single piece, and represented under some interesting 
 historical subject, suitable to their rank and character, 
 portraits, which are now so generally and so deservedly 
 despised, might become of real value to the publick. By 
 this means history-painting would be encouraged among 
 us, and a ridiculous vanity turned to the improvement of 
 one of the most instructive, as well as the most pleasing, 
 of the imitative arts. Those who never contributed a sin- 
 gle benefit to their own age, nor will ever be mentioned 
 in any after-one, might by this means employ their pride 
 and their expense in a way, which might render them en- 
 tertaining and useful both to the present and future times. 
 It would require, indeed, great judgment and address in 
 the painter, to choose and recommend subjects proper to 
 the various characters which would present themselves to 
 his pencil ; and undoubtedly we should see many enormous 
 absurdities committed, if this fashion were universally 
 to be followed. It would certainly, however, afford a glo- 
 rious scope to genius, and probably supply us, in due time 3 
 
LETTER II. 5 
 
 with some productions which might be mentioned with 
 those of the most celebrated schools. I am persuaded, at 
 least, that great talents hare been sometimes lost to this 
 art, by being confined to the dull, though profitable, la- 
 bour of senseless portraits ; as I should not doubt, if the 
 method I am speaking of were to take effect, to see that 
 very promising genius, who, in consequence of your gener- 
 ous offices, is now forming his hand by the noblest models 
 in Rome, prove a rival to those great masters whose works 
 he is studying. 
 
 It cannot, I think, be denied, that the prevailing fondness 
 of having our persons copied out for posterity, is, in the 
 present application of it, a most absurd and useless vanity ; 
 as, in general, nothing affords a more ridiculous scene, than 
 those grotesque figures which usually line the mansions of 
 a man who is fond of displaying his canvass-ancestry : 
 
 Good Heaven ! that sots and knaves should be so vain-, 
 
 To wish their vile resemblance may remain; 
 
 And stand recorded, at their own request, 
 
 To future times a libel or a jest. Dryden. 
 
 You must by no means, however, imagine that I abso- 
 lutely condemn this lower application of one of the no* 
 blest arts. It has certainly a very just use, when em- 
 ployed in perpetuating the resemblances of that part of 
 our species, who have distinguished themselves in their 
 respective generations. To be desirous of an acquaint- 
 ance with the person of those who have recommended 
 themselves by their writings or their actions to our es- 
 teem and applause, is a very natural and reasonable cu- 
 riosity. For myself, at least, I have often fourid much 
 satisfaction in contemplating a weil-chosen collection of 
 the portrait kind, and comparing the mind of a favourite 
 character, as it was either expressed or concealed in its 
 external lineaments. There is something, likewise, ex- 
 1 # 
 
6 LETTER III. 
 
 tremely animating in these lively representations of cele- 
 brated merit ; and it was an observation of one of the 
 Scipios, that he could never view the figures of his ances- 
 tors without finding his bosom glow with the most ardent 
 passion of imitating their deeds. However, as the days 
 of exemplary virtue are now no more, and we are not, 
 many of us, disposed to transmit the most inflaming mo- 
 dels to future times ; it would be but prudence, methinks, 
 if we are resolved to make posterity acquainted with the 
 persons of the present age, that it should be by viewing 
 them in the actions of the past. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER IIL 
 
 TO PALAMEDES. 
 
 July 4, 173& 
 Notwithstanding the fine things you allege in favour 
 of the Romans, I do not yet find myself disposed to be- 
 come a convert to your opinion : on the contrary, I am 
 still obstinate enough to maintain that the fame of your 
 admired nation is more dazzling than solid, and owing 
 rather to those false prejudices which we are early taught 
 to conceive of them, than to their real and intrinsick me- 
 rit. If conquest indeed be the genuine glory of a state, 
 and extensive dominions the most infallible test of nation- 
 al virtue, it must be acknowledged that no people in all 
 history have so just a demand of our admiration. But if 
 we take an impartial view of this celebrated nation, per- 
 haps much of our applause may abate. When we con- 
 template them, for instance, within their own walls, what 
 do we see but the dangerous convulsions of an ill-regu- 
 lated policy ? as we can seldom, I believe, consider them 
 with respect to foreign kingdoms, without the utmost 
 abhorrence and indignation. 
 
LETTER III. 7 
 
 But there is nothing which places these sons of Romu* 
 lus lower in my estimation, than their unmanly conduct 
 in the article of their triumphs. I must confess, at the 
 same time, that they had the sanction of a god to justify 
 them in this practice. Bacchus, or (as Sir Isaac Newton 
 has proved) the Egyptian Sesostris, after his return from 
 his Indian conquests, gave the first instance of this unge- 
 nerous ceremony. But though his divinity was confessed 
 in many other parts of the world, his example does not 
 seem to have been followed, till we find it copied out in 
 all its insolent pomp at Rome. 
 
 It is impossible to read the descriptions of these arro- 
 gant exhibitions of prosperity, and not to be struck with 
 indignation at this barbarous method of insulting the ca- 
 lamities of the unfortunate. One would be apt, at the 
 first glance, to suspect that every sentiment of humanity 
 must be extinguished in a people, who could behold with 
 pleasure the moving instances, which these solemnities 
 afforded, of the caprice of fortune; and could see the 
 highest potentates of the earth dragged from their thrones 
 to fill up the proud parade of these ungenerous triumphs. 
 But the prevailing maxim which ran through the whole 
 system of Roman politicks, was to encourage a spirit of 
 conquest ; and these honours were evidently calculated 
 to awaken that unjust principle of mistaken patriotism. 
 Accordingly, by the fundamental laws of Rome, no general 
 was entitled to a triumph, unless he had added some new 
 acquisition to her possessions. To suppress a civil insur- 
 rection, however dangerous ; to recover any former mem- 
 ber of her dominions, however important ; gave no claim 
 to this supreme mark of ambitious distinction. For it was 
 their notion, it seems, (and Valerius Max imus is my author- 
 ity for saying so) that there is as much difference between 
 adding to the territories of a commonwealth, and restoring 
 those it has lost, as between the actual conferring of a be- 
 
8 LETTER III. 
 
 nefit, and the mere repelling of an injury. It was but of a 
 piece, indeed, that a ceremony conducted in defiance of 
 humanity, should be founded in contempt of justice ; and 
 it was natural enough that they should gain by oppression, 
 what they were to enjoy by insult. 
 
 If we consider Paulus jEmilius, after his conquest of Ma- 
 cedonia, making his publick entry into Rome, attended by 
 the unfortunate Perseus and his infant family ; and at the 
 same time reflect upon our Black Prince, when he passed 
 through London with his royal captive, after the glorious 
 battle of Poictiers ; we cannot fail of having the proper 
 sentiments of a Roman triumph. What generous mind who 
 saw the Roman consul in all the giddy exultation of unfeel- 
 ing pride, but would rather, (as to that single circum- 
 stance) have been the degraded Perseus, than the trium- 
 phant /Emilius ? There is something indeed in distress that 
 reflects a sort of merit upon every object which is so situ- 
 ated, and turns off our attention from those blemishes that 
 stain even the most vicious characters. Accordingly, in the 
 instance of which I am speaking, the perfidious monarch 
 was overlooked in the suffering Perseus ; and a spectacle so 
 affecting checked the joy of conquest even in a Roman 
 breast. For Plutarch assures us, when that worthless, but 
 unhappy, prince was observed, together with his two sons 
 and a daughter, marching amidst the train of prisoners, na- 
 ture was too hard for custom, and many of the spectators 
 melted into a flood of tears. But with what a generous 
 tenderness did the British hero conduct himself upon an 
 occasion of the same kind ? He employed all the artful 
 address of the most refined humanity, to conceal from this 
 unhappy prisoner every thing that could remind him of 
 his disgrace ; and the whole pomp that was displayed 
 upon this occasion, appeared singly as intended to light- 
 en the weight of his misfortunes, and to do honour to the 
 vanquished monarch, 
 
LETTER III. 9 
 
 You will remember, Falamedes, I am only considering 
 the Romans in a political view, and speaking of them 
 merely in their national character. As to individuals, 
 you know, I pay the highest veneration to many that rose 
 up amongst them. It would not, indeed, be just to in- 
 volve particulars in general reflections of any kind : and 
 I cannot but acknowledge, ere I close my letter, that 
 though, in the article I have been mentioning, the Ro- 
 mans certainly acted a most unworthy part towards their 
 publick enemies, yet they seem to have maintained the 
 most exalted notions of conduct with respect to their 
 private ones. That noble (and may I not add, that 
 Christian) sentiment of Juvenal, 
 
 Semper et infirmi est animi exiguique voluptas> 
 Ultio— 
 
 was not merely the refined precept of their more improved 
 philosophers, but a general and popular maxim among 
 them : and that generous sentiment so much and so de- 
 servedly admired in the Roman orator ; Non poenztet me 
 mortales inimicitias, sempiternas amicitias, habere, was, as 
 appears from Livy, so universally received as to become 
 even a proverbial expression. Thus Sallust likewise, I 
 remember, speaking of the virtues of the ancient Romans, 
 mentions it as their principal characteristick, that, upon 
 all occasions, they shewed a disposition rather to forgive 
 than revenge an injury. But the false notions they had 
 embraced concerning the glory of their country, taught 
 them to subdue every affection of humanity, and extin- 
 guish, every dictate of justice which opposed that de- 
 structive principle. It was this spirit, however, in return, 
 and by a very just consequence, that proved at length the 
 means of their total destruction. Farewell. I am, &c. 
 
10 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 TO PHILOTE8. 
 
 July 4, 1743, 
 Whilst you are probably enjoying blue skies and cool- 
 ing grots, I am shivering here in the midst of summer. — 
 The molles sub arbore somni, the speluncae vivique lacus, 
 are pleasures which we in England can seldom taste but 
 in description. For in a climate, where the warmest season 
 is frequently little better than a milder sort of winter, the 
 sun is much too welcome a guest to be avoided. If ever 
 we have occasion to complain of him, it must be for his 
 absence : at least I have seldom found his visits trouble- 
 some. You see I am still the same cold mortal as when 
 you left me. But whatever warmth I may want in my 
 constitution, I w 7 ant none in my affections ; and you have 
 not a friend who is more ardently yours than I pretend to 
 be. You have indeed such a right to my heart from mere 
 gratitude, that I almost wish I owed you less upon that 
 account, that I might give it you upon a more disinterest- 
 ed principle. However, if there is any part of it which 
 you cannot demand in justice, be assured you have it by 
 affection ; so that, on one or other of these titles, you may 
 always depend upon me as wholly yours. Can it be ne- 
 cessary, after this, to add, that I received your letter 
 with singular satisfaction, as it brought me an account of 
 your welfare, and of the agreeable manner in which you 
 pass your time ? If there be any room to wish you an 
 increase of pleasure, it is, perhaps, that the three virgins 
 you mention, were a few degrees handsomer and younger. 
 But I would not desire their charms should be heightened, 
 were I not sure they will never lessen your repose ; for 
 
LETTER IV. 11 
 
 knowing your stoicism, as I do, I dare trust your ease with 
 any thing less than a goddess : and those females, I per- 
 ceive, are so far removed from the order of divinities, 
 that they seem to require a considerable advance before 
 I could even allow them to be so much as women. 
 
 It was mentioned to me, the other day, that there is 
 some probability we may see you in England by the win- 
 ter. When I consider only my private satisfaction, I 
 heard this with a very sensible pleasure. But as I have 
 long learned to submit my own interests to yours, I could 
 not but regret there was a likelihood of your being so soon 
 called off from one of the most advantageous opportuni- 
 ties of improvement that can attend a sensible mind. An 
 ingenious Italian author, of your acquaintance, compares 
 a judicious traveller to a river, which increases its stream 
 the farther it flows from its source ; or to certain springs, 
 which, running through ricii veins of mineral, improve their 
 qualities as they pass along. It were pity then you should 
 be checked in so useful a progress, and diverted from a 
 course, from whence you may derive so many noble ad- 
 vantages. You have hitherto, I imagine, been able to do 
 little more than lay in materials for your main design. — 
 But six months now, would give you a truer notion of what 
 is worthy of observation in the countries through which 
 you pass, than twice that time when you were less ac- 
 quainted with the languages. The truth is, till a man is 
 capable of conversing with ease among the natives of any 
 country, he can never be able to form a just and adequate 
 idea of their policy and manners. He who sits at a play 
 without understanding the dialect, may indeed discover 
 which of the actors are best dressed, and how well the 
 scenes are painted or disposed ; but the characters and 
 conduct of the drama must for ever remain a secret to 
 him. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
12 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 TO CLYTANDER. 
 
 If I had been a party in the conversation you mention, 1 
 should have joined, I believe, with your friend, in support- 
 ing those sentiments you seem to condemn. I will ven- 
 ture, indeed, to acknowledge, that I have long been of 
 opinion, the moderns pay too blind a deference to the an- 
 cients ; and though I have the highest veneration for se- 
 veral of their remains, yet I am inclined to think they 
 have occasioned us the loss of some excellent originals. 
 They are the proper and best guides, I allow, to those 
 who have not the force to break out into new paths. But 
 whilst it is thought sufficient praise to be their followers, 
 genius is checked in her flights, and many a fair tract lies 
 undiscovered in the boundless regions of imagination. — 
 Thus, had Virgil trusted more to his native strength, the 
 Romans, perhaps, might have seen an original Epick in 
 their language. But Homer was considered by that ad- 
 mired poet, as the sacred object of his first and principal 
 attention ; and he seemed to think it the noblest triumph 
 of genius, to be adorned with the spoils of that glorious 
 chief. 
 
 You will tell me, perhaps, that even Homer himself was 
 indebted to the ancients ; that the full streams he dispen- 
 sed, did not flow from his own source, but were derived 
 to him from an higher. This, I acknowledge, has been 
 asserted ; but asserted without proof, and, F may venture 
 to add, without probability. He seems to have stood 
 alone and unsupported ; and to have stood, for that very 
 reason, so much the nobler object of admiration. — Scarce, 
 
LETTER V. 13 
 
 ttideed, I imagine, would his works have received thai 
 high regard which was paid to them from their earliest 
 appearance, had they been formed upon prior models ; had 
 they shone only with reflected light. 
 
 But will not this servile humour of subjecting the pow- 
 ers of invention to the guidance of the ancients, account, 
 in some degree at least, for our meeting with so small a 
 number of authors who can claim the merit of being ori- 
 ginals ? Is not this a kind of submission, that damps the 
 fire, and weakens the vigour of the mind ? For the ancients 
 seem to be considered by us as so many guards to pre- 
 vent the free excursions of imagination, and set bounds to 
 iier flight. Whereas they ought rather to be looked upon 
 (the few, I mean, who are themselves originals) as encou- 
 ragements to a full and uncontrolled exertion of her facul- 
 ties. But If here or there a poet has courage enough to 
 trust to his own unassisted reach of thought, his example 
 does not seem so much to incite others to make the same 
 adventurous attempts, as to confirm them in the humble 
 disposition of imitation. For if he succeeds, he immedi- 
 ately becomes himself the occasion of a thousand models : 
 if^ he does not, he is pointed out as a discouraging instance 
 of the folly of renouncing those established leaders which 
 antiquity has authorized. Thus invention is depressed, 
 and genius enslaved : the creative power of poetry is lost, 
 and the ingenious, instead of exerting that productive 
 faeulty, which alone can render them the just objects of 
 admiration, are humbly contented with borrowing both 
 the materials and the plans of their mimick structures. I 
 am, &c. 
 
14 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 
 TO ORONTES. 
 
 March 10, 199H 
 There is nothing, perhaps, wherein mankind are more 
 frequently mistaken than in the judgments which they pass 
 on each other. The stronger lines, indeed, in every man's 
 character, must always be marked too clearly and distinct- 
 ly to deceive even the most careless observer ; and no 
 one, I am persuaded, was ever esteemed in the general 
 opinion of the world, as highly deficient in his moral or in- 
 tellectual qualities, who did not justly merit his reputa- 
 tion. But I speak only of those more nice and delicate 
 traits which distinguish the several degrees of probity and 
 good sense, and ascertain the quantum (if I may so express 
 it) of human merit. The powers of the soul are so often 
 concealed by modesty, diffidence, timidity, and a thousand 
 other accidental affections ,' and the nice complexion of 
 her moral operations depends so entirely on those internal 
 principles from whence they proceed ; that those who form 
 their notions of others by casual and distant views, must 
 unavoidably be led into very erroneous judgments. Even 
 Orontes, with all his candour and penetration, is not, I per- 
 ceive, entirely secure from mistakes of this sort ; and the 
 sentiments you expressed in your last letter concerning 
 Varus, are by no means agreeable to the truth of his cha- 
 racter. 
 
 It must be acknowledged, at the same time, that Va- 
 rus is an exception to all general rules : neither his head 
 nor his heart are exactly to be discovered by those indexes 
 which are usually supposed to point directly to the genius 
 
LETTER VI. 15 
 
 and temper of other men. Thus, with a memory that 
 will scarce serve him for the common purposes of life, 
 with an imagination even more slow than his memory, 
 and with an attention that could not carry him through 
 the easiest proposition in Euclid ; he has a sound and ex- 
 cellent understanding, joined to a refined and exquisite 
 taste. But the rectitude of his sentiments seems to arise 
 less from reflection than sensation ; rather from certain 
 suitable feelings which the objects that present themselves 
 to his consideration instantly occasion in his mind, than 
 from the energy of any active faculties which he is capable 
 of exerting for that purpose. His conversation is unenter- 
 taining : for though he talks a great deal, all that he ut- 
 ters is delivered with labour and hesitation. Not that his 
 ideas are really dark and confused ; but because he is 
 never contented to convey them in the first words that 
 occur. Like the orator mentioned by Tully, meiuens ne 
 vitiosum colligeret, etiam verum sanguinem deperdebat, he 
 expresses himself ill by always endeavouring to express 
 himself better. His reading cannot so properly be said 
 to have rendered him knowing, as not ignorant .it has 
 rather enlarged, than filled his mind. 
 
 His temper is as singular as his genius, and both equal- 
 ly mistaken by those who only know him a little. If you 
 were to judge of him by his general appearance, you 
 would believe him incapable of all the more delicate sen- 
 sations : nevertheless, under a rough and boisterous be- 
 haviour, he conceals a heart full of tenderness and hu- 
 manity. He has a sensibility of nature, indeed, beyond 
 what I ever observed in any other man ; and I have of- 
 ten seen him affected by those little circumstances, which 
 would make no impression on a mind of less exquisite 
 feelings. This extreme sensibility in his temper influ- 
 ences his speculations as well as his actions, and he hovers 
 
16 LETTER VII. 
 
 between various hypotheses without settling upon any, by 
 giving importance to these minuter difficulties which 
 would not be strong enough to suspend a more active and 
 vigorous mind. In a word, Varus is in the number of 
 those whom it is impossible not to admire, or not to de- 
 spise ; and, at the same time that he is the esteem of all 
 his friends, he is the contempt of all his acquaintance.— 
 Adieu. I am, &e. 
 
 LETTER VIL 
 
 TO HORTEXSIUS. 
 
 Your excellent brawn wanted no additional recommen- 
 dation to make it more acceptable but that of your com- 
 pany. However, though I cannot share it with my friend, 
 I devote it to his memory, and make daily offerings of it 
 to a certain divinity, whose temples, though now well- 
 nigh deserted, were once held in the highest veneration ; 
 she is mentioned by ancient authors under the name and 
 title of Diva Amicitia. To her I bring the victim yon 
 have furnished me with, in all the pomp of Roman rites. 
 Wreathed with the sacred vitta, and crowned with the 
 branch of rosemary, I place it on an altar of well-polished 
 mahogany, where I pour libations over it of acid wine, 
 and sprinkle it with flour of mustard. I deal out certain 
 portions to those who assist at this social ceremony, re- 
 minding them, with an hoc age, of the important business 
 upon which they are assembled ; and conclude the festi- 
 val with this votive couplet : 
 
 Close as this brawn the circling fillet hinds, 
 May friendship's sacred bauds unite our minds I 
 
 Farewell, I am, kc> 
 
If 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 
 TO CLYTANDER. 
 
 July 2, 1736= 
 You must have been greatly distressed, indeed, Clytan- 
 der, when you thought of calling me in as your auxili- 
 ary, in the debate you mention. Or was it not rather a 
 motive of generosity which suggested that design ? and 
 you were willing, perhaps, I should share the glory of a 
 victory which you had already secured. Whatever your 
 intention was, mine is always to comply with your request; 
 and I very readily enter the lists, when I am at once t > 
 combat in the cause of truth and on the side of my 
 friend. 
 
 It is not necessary, I think, in order to establish the 
 credibility of a particular Providence, to deduce it (as 
 your objector, I find, seems to require) from known and 
 undisputed facts. I should be exceedingly cautious in 
 pointing out any supposed instances of that kind ; as those 
 who are fond of indulging themselves in determining the 
 precise cases wherein they imagine the immediate inter- 
 position of the Divinity is discoverable, often run into the 
 weakest and most injurious superstitions. It is impossi- 
 ble, indeed, unless we were capable of looking through 
 the whole chain of things, and of viewing each effect in 
 its remote connexions and final issues, to pronounce of 
 any contingency, that it is absolutely and in its ultimate 
 tendencies either good or bad. That can only be known 
 by the great Author of nature, who comprehends the full 
 extent of our total existence, and sees the influence 
 which every particular circumstance will have in the gene- 
 ral sum of our happiness. But though the peculiar points 
 of divine interposition are thus necessarily, and from the 
 2 # 
 
IB LETTER VIII, 
 
 natural imperfection of our discerning faculties, extremely 
 dubious, yet it can by no means from thence be justly 
 inferred, that the doctrine of a particular Providence is 
 either groundless or absurd : the general principle may be 
 true, though the application of it to any given purpose be 
 involved in very inextricable difficulties. 
 
 The notion, that the material world is governed by ge- 
 neral mechanical laws, has induced your friend to argue 
 that " it is probable the Deity should act by the same 
 44 rule of conduct in the intellectual ; and leave moral 
 11 agents entirely to those consequences which necessarily 
 "result from the particular exercise of their original 
 " powers." But this hypothesis takes a question for 
 granted, which requires much proof before it can be ad- 
 mitted. The grand principle which preserves this system 
 of the universe in all its harmonious order, is gravity, 
 or that property by which all the particles of matter 
 mutually tend to each other. Now this is a power which, 
 it is acknowledged, does not essentially reside in matter, 
 but must be ultimately derived from the action of some 
 immaterial cause. Why therefore may it not reasonably 
 be supposed to be the effect of the divine agency, im- 
 mediately and constantly operating for the preservation 
 of tins wonderful machine of nature ? Certain, at least, it 
 is, that the explication which Sir Isaac Newton has 
 endeavoured to give of this wonderful phenomenon, by 
 means of his subtile ether, has not afforded universal satis- 
 faction : and it is the opinion of a very great writer, who 
 seems to have gone far into inquiries of this abstruse kind, 
 that the numberless effects of this power are inexplicable 
 upon mechanical principles, or in any other way than by 
 having recourse to a spiritual agent, who connects, moves, 
 and disposes all things according to such methods as best 
 comport with his incomprehensible purposes. 
 
LETTER nil. 19 
 
 But successful villany and oppressed virtue are deemed, 
 I perceive, in the account of your friend, as powerful in- 
 stances to prove that the Supreme Being remains an unin- 
 terposing spectator of what is transacted upon this theatre 
 of the world. However, ere this argument can have a de- 
 termining weight, it must be proved (which yet, surely, 
 never can be proved) that prosperous iniquity has all those 
 advantages in reality which it may seem to have in ap- 
 pearance ; and that those accidents which are usually es- 
 teemed as calamities, do, in truth, and in the just scale of 
 things, deserve to be distinguished by that appellation. 
 It is a noble saying of the philosopher cited by Seneca, 
 that " there cannot be a more unhappy man in the world 
 " than he who has never experienced adversity." There 
 is nothing* perhaps, in which mankind are more apt to 
 make false calculations, than in the article both of their 
 own happiness and that of others ; as there are few, I be- 
 lieve, who have lived any time in the world, but have 
 found frequent occasions to say with the poor hunted stag 
 in the fable, who was entangled by those horns he had 
 but just before been admiring : 
 
 O me infelicem ! qui nunc demum intelligo 
 
 Utilla mini profuerint quae despexeram, 
 
 Et quae laudaram, quantum luetus habuerint ! Phaed. 
 
 If we look back upon the sentiments of past ages, we 
 shall find the opinion for which I am contending has pre- 
 vailed from the remotest account of time. It must un- 
 doubtedly have entered the world as early as religion her- 
 self; since all institutions of that kind must necessarily be 
 founded upon the supposition of a particular Providence. 
 It appears, indeed, to have been the favourite doctrine 
 of some of the most distinguished names in antiquity. — 
 Xenophon tells us, when Cyrus led out his army against 
 the Assyrians, the word which he gave to his soldiers was. 
 
20 LETTER Till. 
 
 ZETS STMMAXOS kai HrEMflN, " Jupiter the defender 
 ** and conductor :" and he represents that prince as at- 
 tributing success, even in the sports of the field, to 
 Divine Providence. Thus, likewise, Timoleon, as the 
 author of his life assures us, believed every action of 
 mankind to be under the immediate influence of the gods : 
 and Livy remarks of the first Scipio Africanus, that he 
 never undertook any important affair, either of private or 
 publick concern, without going to the Capitol in order to 
 implore the assistance of Jupiter. Balbus, the stoick, in 
 the dialogue on the nature of the gods, expressly de- 
 clares for a particular providence : and Cicero himself, 
 in one of his orations, imputes that superiour glory which 
 attended the Roman nation, singly to this animating per- 
 suasion. But none of the ancients seem to have had a 
 stronger impression of this truth upon their minds, than 
 the immortal Homer. Every page in the works of that 
 divine poet will furnish proofs of this observation. I can- 
 not, however, forbear mentioning one or two remarkable 
 instances, which just now occur to me. When the Gre- 
 cian chiefs cast lots which of them should accept the 
 challenge of Hector, the poet describes the army as lifting 
 up their eyes and hands to heaven, and imploring the 
 gods that they would direct the lot to fall on one of their 
 most distinguished heroes : 
 
 Actoi, — &iot<Tl h X il i A S £Wr%ov, 
 pJe rtc U7re<r}uv, *<5a>v us guqslvov iv^vv' 
 Zw 4srcL<Tig ) <> a Aictyra. Xct%uvi n IvS&s viov> 
 H etvrov BcL<rixxct, <Grohv%(>vroio Mwww.* 
 
 * The people pray with lifted eyes and hands, 
 And vows like those ascend from all the bands : 
 Grant, thon, Almighty, in whose hand is fate. 
 A worthy champion for the Grecian state : 
 This task let Ajax or Tydides prove, 
 Or he. the king of kings, belov'd of Jove. Pope. 
 
LETTER VIII. 21 
 
 So likewise Antenor proposes to the Trojans the resti- 
 tution of Helen, as having no hopes, he tells them, that 
 any thing would succeed with them after they had broken 
 the faith of treaties : 
 
 VVV OeK& CfKTTSt 
 ^iucra/uiivoi fJUt^pfMer^rtf too OV VU VI Ki^iOV MpUV 
 
 And indeed Homer hardly ever makes his heroes succeed 
 (as his excellent translator justly observes) unless they 
 have first offered a prayer to heaven. " He is perpetu- 
 ally," says Mr. Pope, " acknowledging the hand of God 
 " in all events, and ascribing to that alone all the vic- 
 " tories, triumphs, rewards, or punishments of men. The 
 " grand moral laid down at the entrance of his poem, Aiqs 
 " cf' stsas/sto ficuxvy The will of God was fulfilled, runs through 
 " his whole work, and is, with a most remarkable care 
 " and conduct, put into the mouths of his greatest and 
 " wisest persons on every occasion." 
 
 Upon the whole, Clytander, we may safely assert, that 
 the belief of a particular providence is founded upon such 
 probable reasons as may well justify our assent. It would 
 scarce, therefore, be wise to renounce an opinion, which 
 affords so firm a support to the soul in those seasons 
 wherein she stands most in need of assistance, merely be- 
 cause it is not possible, in questions of this kind, to solve 
 every difficulty which attends them. If it be highly con- 
 sonant to the general notions of the benevolence of the 
 Deity (as highly consonant it surely is) that he should 
 not leave so impotent a creature as man to the single 
 guidance of his own precarious faculties ; who would 
 abandon a belief so full of the most enlivening console 
 
 * The ties of faith, the sworn alliance broke, 
 4ter impious battles the just gods provoke, flffa 
 
22 LETTER IX. 
 
 tion, in compliance with those metaphysical reasonings 
 which are usually calculated rather to silence, than to 
 satisfy, an humble enquirer after truth ? Who indeed 
 would wish to be convinced, that he stands unguarded by 
 that heavenly shield, which can protect him against all 
 the assaults of an injurious and malevolent world ? The 
 truth is, the belief of a particular providence is the most 
 animating persuasion that the mind of man can embrace ; 
 it gives strength to our hopes, and firmness to our resolu- 
 tions ; it subdues the insolence of prosperity, and draws 
 out the sting of affliction. In a word, it is like the gol- 
 den branch to which VirgiPs hero was directed, and af- 
 fords the only secure passport through the regions of 
 darkness and sorrow. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 TO TIMOCLEA. 
 
 July 29, 1748. 
 It is with wonderful satisfaction I find you are grown 
 such an adept in the occult arts, and that you take a lau- 
 dable pleasure in the ancient and ingenious study of mak- 
 ing and solving riddles. It is a science, undoubtedly, of 
 most necessary acquirement, and deserves to make a part 
 in the education of both sexes. Those of yours may by 
 this means very innocently indulge their usual curiosity 
 of discovering and disclosing a secret ; whilst such amongst 
 ours who have a turn for deep speculations, and are fond 
 of puzzling themselves and others, may exercise their fa- 
 culties this way with much private satisfaction, and with- 
 out the least disturbance to the publick. It is an art, in- 
 deed, which I would recommend to the encouragement of 
 both the universities, as it affords the easiest and shortest 
 
LETTER IX. 23 
 
 method of conveying some of the most useful principles 
 of logick, and might therefore be introduced as a very pro- 
 per substitute in the room of those dry systems, which 
 are at present in vogue in those places of education. For, 
 as it consists in discovering truth under borrowed appear- 
 ances, it might prove of wonderful advantage in every 
 branch of learning, by habituating the mind to separate 
 all foreign ideas, and consequently preserving it from that 
 grand source of errour, the being deceived by false con- 
 nexions. In short, Timoclea, this your favourite science 
 contains the sum of all human policy ; and as there is no 
 passing through the world without sometimes mixing with 
 fools and knaves ; who would not choose to be master 
 of the enigmatical art, in order, on proper occasions, to 
 be able to lead aside craft and impertinence from their 
 aim, by the convenient artifice of a prudent disguise ? It 
 was the maxim of a very wise prince, that "he who 
 *' knows not how to dissemble, knows not how to reign;" 
 and I desire you would receive it as mine, that " he who 
 " knows not how to riddle, knows not how to live." 
 
 But besides the general usefulness of this art, it will 
 have a further recommendation to all true admirers of 
 antiquity, as being practised by the most considerable 
 personages of early times. It is almost three thousand 
 years ago since Samson proposed his famous riddle so well 
 known ; though the advocates for ancient learning must 
 forgive me, if in this article I attribute the superiority to 
 the moderns : for if we may judge of the skill of the for- 
 mer in this profound art, by that remarkable specimen of 
 it, the geniuses of those early ages were by no means 
 equal to those which our times have produced. But, as a 
 friend of mine has lately finished, and intends very shortly 
 to publish, a most curious work in folio, wherein he has 
 fully proved that important point, I will not anticipate 
 
24 LETTER IX. 
 
 the pleasure you will receive by perusing his ingenious 
 performance. In the mean while let it be remembered 
 to the immortal glory of this art, that the wisest man, as 
 well as the greatest prince that ever lived, is said to have 
 amused himself and a neighbouring monarch in trying the 
 strength of each other's talents in this way ; several rid- 
 tiles, it seems, having passed between Solomon and Hiram, 
 upon condition that he who failed in the solution should 
 incur a certain penalty. It is recorded, likewise, of the 
 great father of poetry, even the divine Homer himself, 
 that he had a taste of this sort ; and we are told, by a 
 Greek writer of his life, that he died with vexation for not 
 being able to discover a riddle, which was proposed to 
 him by some fisherman at a certain island called lb*. 
 
 I am inclined to think, indeed, that the ancients in ge- 
 neral were such admirers of this art, as to inscribe riddles 
 upon their tombstones, and that, not satisfied with puz- 
 zling the world in their life time, they bequeathed enig- 
 matical legacies to the publick after their decease. My 
 conjecture is founded upon an ancient inscription, which I 
 will venture to quote to you, though it is in Latin, as your 
 friend and neighbour the antiquarian will, I am persuaded, 
 be very glad of obliging you with a dissertation upon it. 
 Be pleased then to ask him, whether he does not think 
 that the following inscription favours my sentiments : 
 
 VIATORES. OPTIMI. 
 
 HIS. NVGIS. GRYPHIS. AMBAGIBVSQVE. 
 
 MEIS. CONDONARE. POSCIMUS. 
 
 However this may be, it is certain that it was one of the 
 great entertainments of the pastoral life, and therefore, if 
 for no other reason, highly deserving the attention of our 
 modern Arcadians. You remember, I dare say, the riddle 
 which the shepherd Dametas proposes to Maenalcas, in 
 f)ryden's Virgil : 
 
LETTER X. 25 
 
 Say where the round of Heav'n, which all contauiSj 
 To three short ells on earth our sight restrains : 
 Tell that, and rise a Phoebus for thy pains. 
 
 This enigma, which has exercised the guesses of many a 
 learned critick, remains yet unexplained; which I mention 
 not only as an instance of the wonderful penetration which 
 is necessary to render a man a complete adept in this most 
 noble science, but as an incitement to you to employ your 
 skill in attempting the solution. And now, Timoclea, what 
 will your grave friend say, who reproached you, it seems, 
 for your riddling genius, when he shall find you are thus 
 able to defend your favourite study by the lofty examples 
 @f kings, commentators, and poets ? I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 TO PHIDIPPUS. 
 
 Hardly, I imagine, were you in earnest, when you re- 
 quired my thoughts upon friendship : for to give you the 
 truest idea of that generous intercourse, may I not justly 
 refer you back to the sentiments of your own heart ? 
 I am sure, at least, I have learned to improve my own 
 notions of that refined affection, by those instances which 
 I have observed in yourself; as it is from thence I have 
 received the clearest conviction, that it derives all its 
 strength and stability from virtue and good sense. 
 
 There is not, perhaps, a quality more iincommon in the 
 world, than that which is necessary to form a man for this 
 refined commerce : for however sociableness may be es- 
 teemed a just characteristick of our species, friendliness, I 
 am persuaded, will scarce be found to enter into its general 
 definition. The qualifications requisite to support and 
 conduct friendship in all its strength and extent, do not 
 3 
 
26 LETTER X. 
 
 seem to be sufficiently diffused among the human race, to 
 render them the distinguishing marks of mankind; unless 
 generosity and good sense should be allowed (what they 
 never can be allowed)' universally to prevail. On the con- 
 trary, how few are in possession of those most amiable of 
 endowments ? How few are capable of that noble eleva- 
 tion of mind, which raises a man above those little jealou- 
 sies and rivalships that shoot up in the paths of common 
 amities ? 
 
 We should not, indeed, so often hear complaints of the 
 inconstancy and falseness of friends, if the world in gene- 
 ral were more cautious than they usually are, in forming 
 connexions of this kind. But the misfortune is, our friend- 
 ships are apt to be too forward, and thus either fall off in 
 the blossom, or never arrive at just maturity. It is an 
 excellent piece of advice, therefore, that the poet Martial 
 gives upon this occasion : 
 
 Tu tantum inspice, qui novus paratur, 
 An possit fieri vetus sodalis. 
 
 Were T to make trial of any person's qualifications for 
 an union of so much delicacy, there is no part of his con- 
 duct I would sooner single out, than to observe him in his 
 resentments. And this not upon the maxim frequently 
 advanced, " that the best friends make the bitterest ene- 
 "mies;" but, on the contrary, because I am persuaded 
 that he who is capable of being a bitter enemy, can never 
 possess the necessary virtues that constitute a true friend. 
 For must he not want generosity (that most essential prin- 
 ciple of an amicable combination) who can be so mean as 
 to indulge a spirit of settled revenge, and coolly triumph 
 in the oppression of an adversary ? Accordingly there is 
 no circumstance in the character of the excellent Agrico- 
 la, that gives me a higher notion of the true heroism of his 
 
LETTER X. 2? 
 
 mind, than what the historian of his life mentions con- 
 cerning his conduct in this particular instance. Ex Ira- 
 eundia (says Tacitus) nihil supererat : secretum et silenti- 
 um ejus non timeres. His elevated spirit was too great to 
 suffer his resentment to survive the occasion of it ; and 
 those who provoked his indignation had nothing to appre- 
 hend from the secret and silent workings of unextinguished 
 malice. But the practice, it must be owned, (perhaps I 
 might have said the principle too) of the world runs 
 tstrongly on the side of the contrary disposition ; and thus, 
 in opposition to that generous sentiment of your admired 
 orator, which I have so often heard you quote with ap- 
 plause, our friendships are mortal, whilst it is our enmities 
 only that never die. 
 
 But though judgment must collect the materials of 
 this goodly structure, it is affection that gives the cement ; 
 and passion as well as reason should concur in forming a 
 firm and lasting coalition. Hence, perhaps, it is, that- 
 Hot only the most powerful, but the most lasting friend- 
 ships are usually the produce of the early season of ous 
 lives, when we are most susceptible of the warm and af- 
 fectionate impressions. The connexions into which we 
 enter in any after period, decrease in strength, as our pas> 
 sions abate in heat; and there is not, I believe, a single 
 instance of a vigorous friendship that ever struck root in 
 a bosom chilled by years. How irretrievable then is the 
 loss of those best and fairest acquisitions of our youth ? 
 Seneca, taking notice of Augustus Caesar's lamenting, 
 upon a certain occasion, the death of Maecenas and 
 Agrippa, observes, that he who could instantly repaiy 
 the destruction of whole fleets and armies, and bid Rome, 
 after a general conflagration, rise out of her ashes even 
 with more lustre than before ; was yet unable, during a 
 whole life, to fill up those lasting vacancies in his friend^ 
 
28 LETTER XI. 
 
 ship : a reflection which reminds me of renewing my soli- 
 citations, that you would be more cautious in hazarding a 
 life which I have so many reasons to love and honour.-— 
 For whenever an accident of the same kind shall separate 
 (and what other accident can separate) the happy union 
 which has so long subsisted between us, where shall I re- 
 trieve so severe a loss ? I am utterly indisposed to enter 
 into new habitudes, and extend the little circle of my 
 friendships, happy if I may but preserve it firm and un- 
 broken to the closing moment of my life ! Adieu. I am, &e. 
 
 LETTER XL 
 
 TO HORT£N3IUS, 
 
 August 12, I74& 
 If any thing could tempt me to read the Latin poen? 
 you mention, it would be your recommendation. But 
 shall I venture to own, that I have no taste for modem 
 compositions of that kind ? There is one prejudice which 
 always remains with me against them, and which I have 
 never yet found cause to renounce : no true genius, I am 
 persuaded, would submit to write any considerable poem 
 in a dead language. A poet, who glows with the genu- 
 ine fire of a warm and lively imagination, will find the 
 copiousness of his own native English scarce sufficient to 
 convey his ideas in all their strength and energy. The 
 most comprehensive language sinks under the weight of 
 great conceptions ; aud a pregnant imagination disdains 
 to- stint the natural growth of her thoughts to the con- 
 fined standard of classical expression. An ordinary ge- 
 nius, indeed, may be humbly contented to pursue words 
 through indexes and dictionaries, and tamely borrow 
 phrases from Horace and Virgil j but could the elevated 
 
LETTER XL 29 
 
 invention of Milton, or the brilliant sense of Pope, have 
 ingloriously submitted to lower the force and majesty of 
 the most exalted and nervous sentiments, to the scanty 
 measure of the Roman dialect? For copiousness is by 
 no means in the number of those advantages which at- 
 tend the Latin language ; as many of the ancients have 
 both confessed and lamented. Thus Lucretius and Se- 
 neca complain of its deficiency with respect to subjects of 
 philosophy ; as Pliny the younger owns he found it incapa- 
 ble of furnishing him with proper terms, in compositions 
 of wit and humour. But if the Romans themselves found 
 their language thus penurious, in its entire and most ample 
 supplies ; how much more contracted must it be to us, 
 who are only in possession of its broken and scattered 
 remains ? 
 
 To say truth, I have observed, in most of the modem 
 Latin poems which I have accidentally run over, a re- 
 markable barrenness of sentiment, and have generally 
 found the poet degraded into the parodist. It is usually 
 the little dealers on Parnassus, who have not a sufficient 
 stock of genius to launch out into a more enlarged com- 
 merce with the Muses, that hawk about these classical 
 gleanings. The style of these performances always puts 
 me in mind of Harlequin's snuff, which he collected by 
 borrowing a pinch out of every man's box he could meet, 
 and then retailed it to his customers under the pompous 
 title of tabac de millejleurs. Half a line from Virgil or 
 Lucretius, pieced out with a bit from Horace or Juvenal, 
 is generally the motley mixture which enters into com- 
 positions of this sort. One may apply to these jack-daw 
 poets, with their stolen feathers, what Martial says to a 
 contemporary plagiarist : 
 
 Stat contra, didtque tibi tua pagiqa : For e*. 
 
 3 * 
 
30 LETTER XL 
 
 This kind of theft, indeed, every man must necessarily 
 commit, who sets up for a poet in a dead language. — • 
 For, to express himself with propriety, he must not only 
 be sure that every single word which he uses is autho- 
 rized by the best writers, but he must not even venture 
 to throw them out of that particular combination in 
 which he finds them connected : otherwise he may run 
 into the most barbarous solecisms. To explain my mean- 
 ing by an instance from modern language : the French 
 words arene and rive, are both to be met with in their 
 approved authors ; and yet if a foreigner, unacquainted 
 with the niceties of that language, should take the liberty 
 of bringing those two words together, as in the following 
 verse, 
 
 Sur la rive du fleure amaisant de l'arene j 
 
 he would be exposed to the ridicule, not only of the cri- 
 ticks, but of the most ordinary mechanick in Paris. For 
 the idiom of the French tongue will not admit of the ex- 
 pression sur la rive du Jleuve, but requires the phrase sur 
 le bord de la riviere ; as they never say amasser de V arene 
 but du sable. The same observation may be extended to 
 all languages, whether living or dead. But as no reason- 
 ings from analogy can be of the least force in determining 
 the idiomatick proprieties of any language whatsoever; a 
 modern Latin poet has no other method of being sure of 
 avoiding absurdities of this kind, than to take whole 
 phrases as he finds them formed to his hands. Thus, in- 
 stead of accommodating his expression to his sentiment, 
 (if any he should have) he must necessarily bend his sen- 
 timent to his expression, as be is not at liberty to strike 
 out into that boldness of style, and those unexpected 
 combinations of words, which give such grace and energy 
 to the thoughts of every true genius. True genius, in- 
 deed, is as much discovered by style, as by any other 
 
LETTER XII. 31 
 
 distinction ; and every eminent writer, without indulging 
 any unwarranted licenses, has a language which he derives 
 from himself, and which is peculiarly and literally his 
 own. 
 
 I would recommend, therefore, to these empty echoes 
 of the ancients, which owe their voice to the ruins of 
 Rome, the advice of an old philosopher to an affected ora- 
 tor of his times : Vive moribus praeteritis, said he, loquert 
 verbis praesentibus. Let these poets form their conduct, 
 if they please, by the manners of the ancients ; but if 
 they would prove their genius, it must be by the lan- 
 guage of the moderns. I would not, however, have you 
 imagine, that I exclude all merit from a qualification of 
 this kind. To be skilled in the mechanism of Latin verse, 
 is a talent, I confess, extremely worthy of a pedagogue ; 
 as it is an exercise of singular advantage to his pupils. — 
 Adieu. I am, &e. 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 TO AMASIA. 
 
 July 8, 1744. 
 If good manners will not justify my long silence, policy 
 at least will : and you must confess, there is some pru- 
 dence in not owning a debt one is incapable of paying. 
 I have the mortification, indeed, to find myself engaged in 
 a commerce, which I have not a sufficient fund to sup- 
 port, though I must add, at the same time, if you expect 
 an equal return of entertainment for that which your let- 
 ters afford, I know not where you will find a correspon- 
 dent. You will scarcely at least look for him in the de- 
 sart, or hope for any thing very lively from a man who is 
 obliged to seek his companions among the dead. You 
 who dwell in a land flowing with mirth and good humour, 
 
32 LETTER XII. 
 
 meet with many a gallant occurrence worthy of record?" 
 but what can a village produce, which is more famous 
 for repose than for action, and is so much behind the 
 manners of the present age, as scarce to have got out of 
 the simplicity of the first ? The utmost of our humour 
 rises no higher than punch ; and all that we know of as- 
 semblies, is once a year round our May-pole. Thus un- 
 qualified, as I am, to contribute to your amusement, I am 
 as much at a loss to supply my own ; and am obliged to 
 have recourse to a thousand stratagems to help me off 
 with those lingering hours, which run so swiftly, it seems, 
 by you. As one cannot always, you know, be playing at 
 push-pin, I sometimes employ myself with a less philoso- 
 phical diversion ; and either pursue butterflies, or hunt 
 rhymes, as the weather and the seasons permit. This 
 morning not proving very favourable to my sports of the 
 field, I contented myself with those under covert ; and 
 as I am not at present supplied with any thing better for 
 your entertainment, will you suffer me to set before yos 
 some of my game ? 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 Ere Saturn's sons were yet disgrac'fl, 
 And heathen gods were all the taste, 
 Full oft (we read) 'twas Jove's high will 
 "To take the air on Ida's hill. 
 It ehanc'd. as once, with serious ken, 
 He view ? d from thence the ways of men, 
 He saw (and pity touch 'd his breast) 
 The world by three foul fiends possest. 
 Pale Discord thtr^, and Folly vain, 
 "With haggard Vice, upheld their reign. 
 Then forth he sent his summons high, 
 And cail'd a senate of the sky. 
 Round as the winged orders prest, 
 Jove thus his sacred mind expressM : 
 •* Say, which of all this shining train 
 #< Will Virtue's conflict hard sustain ? 
 
LETTER XH. 33* 
 
 w For see ! she drooping takes her flighty 
 
 * While not a god supports her right." 
 
 He paus'd — when, from amidst the sky. 
 
 Wit, Innocence, and Harmony, 
 
 With one united zeal arose, 
 
 The triple tyrants to oppose. 
 
 That instant from the realms of day, 
 
 With generous speed they took their ways' 
 
 To Britain's isle direct their car, 
 
 And enter'd with the ev'ning star. 
 
 Beside the road a mansion stood, 
 Defended by a circling wood. 
 Hither, disguis'd, their steps they benct 
 In hopes, perchance, to find a friend. 
 Nor vain their hope ; for records say 
 Worth ne'er from thence was turn'd away, 
 They urge the traveler's common chance, 
 And ev'ry piteous plea advance. 
 The artful tale that Wit had feign'd, 
 Admittance easy soon obtain'd. 
 
 The dame who own'd, adorn 'd the place; 
 Three blooming daughters added grace. 
 The first, with gentlest manners blest, 
 And temper sweet, each heart possest ; 
 Who view'd her, catch'd the tender flame ; 
 And soft Amasia was her name* 
 In sprightly sense and poMsh'<$air, 
 What maid with Mira might compare ? 
 While Lucia's eyes and Lucia's lyre, 
 Did unresisted love inspire. 
 
 Imagine now the table clear, 
 And mirth in ev'ry face appear : 
 The song, the tale, the jest went round, 
 The riddle dark, the trick profound. 
 Thus each admiring and admir'd, 
 The hosts and guests at length retir'd 
 When Wit thus spake her sister-train ; 
 f 5 Faith, friends, our errand is but vain-* 
 if Quick let us measure back the sky ; 
 " These nymphs alone may well supply 
 M Wit, Innocence, and Harmony.'* 
 
 You see to what expedient solitude has reduced me, 
 when I am thus forced to string rhymes, as boys do birds' 
 
34 LETTER XIIL 
 
 eggs, in order to while away my idle hours. But a gayer 
 scene is, I trust, approaching, and the day will shortly, I 
 hope, arrive, when I shall only complain that it steals away 
 too fast. It is not from any improvement in the objects 
 which surround me, that I expect this wondrous change ; 
 nor yet that a longer familiarity will render them more 
 agreeable. It is from a promise I received that Amasia 
 will visit the hermit in his cell, and disperse the gloom of 
 a solitaire by the cheerfulness of her conversation. What 
 Inducements shall I mention to prevail with you to hasten 
 that day ? Shall I tell you that I have a bower over-arched 
 with jessamine ? that I have an oak which is the favourite 
 haunt of a dryad ? that I have a plantation which flourishes 
 with all the verdure of May, in the midst of all the cold 
 of December ? Or, may I not hope that I have something 
 still more prevailing with you than all these, as I can with 
 truth assure you, that I have a heart which is faithfully 
 yours, &c. 
 
 LETTER XIIL 
 
 TO PHILOTES. 
 
 Among all the advantages which attend friendship', 
 there is not one more valuable than the liberty it admits 
 in laying open the various affections of one's mind, with- 
 out reserve or disguise. There is something in disclosing 
 to a friend the occasional emotions of one's heart, that 
 wonderfully contributes to sooth and allay its perturba- 
 tions, in all its most pensive or anxious moments. Nature, 
 indeed, seems to have cast us with a general disposition to 
 communication : though at the same time it must be ac- 
 knowledged, there are few to whom one may safely be 
 communicative. Have 1 uot reason, then, to esteem it- 
 
LETTER XIII. 35 
 
 as one of the most desirable circumstances of my life., 
 that I dare, without scruple or danger, think aloud to 
 Fhilotes ? It is merely to exercise that happy privilege, I 
 now take up my pen ; and you must expect nothing in 
 this letter but the picture of my heart in one of its sple- 
 netick hours. There are certain seasons, perhaps, in 
 every man's life, when he is dissatisfied with himself and 
 every thing around him, without being able to give a sub- 
 stantial reason for being so. At least I am unwilling to 
 think that this dark cloud, which at present hangs over my 
 mind, is peculiar to my constitution, and never gathers in 
 any breast but my own. It is much more, however, my 
 concern to dissipate this vapour in myself, than to discov- 
 er that it sometimes arises in others : as there is no dis- 
 position a man would rather endeavour to cherish, than a 
 constant aptitude of being pleased. But my practice will 
 not always credit my philosophy; and I find it much 
 easier to point out my distemper than to remove it. Af- 
 ter all, is it not a mortifying consideration, that the 
 powers of reason should be less prevalent than those of 
 matter ; and that a page of Seneca cannot raise the spirits, 
 when a pint of claret will ? It might, me thinks, somewhat 
 abate the insolence of human pride to consider, that it is 
 but increasing or diminishing the velocity of certain fluids 
 in the animal machine, to elate the soul with the gayest 
 hopes, or sink her into the deepest despair ; to depress 
 the hero into a coward, or advance the coward into a hero. 
 It is to some such mechanical cause I am inclined to 
 attribute the present gloominess of my mind : at the 
 same time I wiil confess, there is something in that very 
 consideration which gives strength to the fit, and renders 
 it so much the more difficult to throw off. For, tell me, 
 is it not a discouraging reflection to find one's self servile 
 (as Shakespeare expresses it) to every skyey influence, and 
 
36 LETTER XIV. 
 
 the sport of every paltry atom ? to owe the ease of one**? 
 mind not only to the disposition of one's own body, but' 
 almost to that of every other which surrounds us ? Adieu, 
 } am. &c. 
 
 XETTER XIV. 
 
 TO ORGNTE9. 
 
 The passage you quote is entirely in my sentiments* 
 I agree both with that celebrated author and yourself, 
 that our oratory is by no means in a state of perfection ; 
 and, though it has much strength and solidity, that it 
 may yet be rendered far more polished and affecting. — 
 The growth, indeed, of eloquence, even in those coun- 
 tries where she flourished most, has ever been exceeding- 
 ly slow. Athens had been in possession of all the other 
 polite improvements, long before her pretensions to the 
 persuasive arts were in any degree considerable ; as the 
 earliest orator of note among the Romans did not appear 
 sooner than about a century before Tully. 
 
 That great master of persuasion, taking notice of this 
 remarkable circumstance, assigns it as an evidence of the 
 superiour difficulty of his favourite art. Possibly there 
 may be some truth in the observation : but whatever the 
 cause be, the fact, I believe, is undeniable. Accordingly, 
 elequence has by no means made equal advances in our 
 own country, with her sister arts ; and though we have 
 seen some excellent poets, and a few good painters, rise 
 up amongst us, yet I know not whether our nation can 
 supply us with a single orator of deserved eminence. 
 One cannot but be surprised at this, when it is considered 
 that we have a profession set apart for the purposes of 
 persuasion ; and which not only affords the most animat- 
 
LETTER XIT. 37 
 
 itig and interesting topicks of rhetorick, but wherein a, 
 talent of this kind would prove the likeliest, perhaps, of 
 any other to obtain those ambitious prizes which were 
 thought to contribute so much to the successful progress 
 of ancient eloquence. 
 
 Among the principal defects of our English orators, 
 their general disregard of harmony has, I think, been the 
 least observed. It would be injustice indeed to deny 
 that we have some performances of this kind amongst 
 us, tolerably musical ; but it must be acknowledged, at 
 the same time, that it is more the effect of accident than 
 design, and rather a proof of the power of our language, 
 than of the art of our orators. 
 
 Dr. Tillotson, who is frequently mentioned as having 
 carried this species of eloquence to its highest perfec- 
 tion, seems to have had no sort of notion of rhetorical 
 numbers : and may I venture, Oroutes, to add, without 
 hazarding the imputation of an affected singularity, that 
 I think no man had ever less pretensions to genuine ora- 
 tory, than this celebrated preacher ? If any thing could 
 raise a fiame of eloquence in the breast of an orator, 
 there is no occasion upon which, one should imagine, it 
 would be more likely to break out, than in celebrating 
 departed merit ; yet the two sermons whieh he preached 
 upon the death of Mr. Gouge and Dr. Whichcote are as 
 cold and languid performances as were ever, perhaps, 
 produced upon such an animating subject. One cannot 
 indeed but regret, that he who abounds with such noble 
 and generous sentiments, should want the art of setting 
 them off with all the advantage they deserve ; that the 
 sublime in morals should not be attended with a suitable 
 elevation of language. The truth however is, his words 
 are frequently ill chosen, and almost always ill-placed ; 
 4 
 
3d LETTER XIV, 
 
 bis periods are both tedious and unharmonious ; as his 
 metaphors are generally mean, and often ridiculous. It 
 were easy to produce numberless instances in support of 
 this assertion. Thus, in his sermon preached before 
 Queen Anne, when she was Princess of Denmark, he 
 talks of squeezing a parable, thrusting religion by, driving 
 a strict bargain with God, sharking shifts, &c. and, speak- 
 ing of the day of judgment, he describes the world as 
 cracking about our ears, I cannot however but acknow- 
 ledge, in justice to the oratorical character of this most 
 valuable prelate, that there is a noble simplicity in some 
 few of his sermons, as his excellent discourse on sincerity 
 deserves to be mentioned with particular applause. 
 
 But to show his deficiency in the article I am consi- 
 dering at present, the following stricture will be sufficient, 
 among many others that might be cited to the same pur- 
 pose. " One might be apt," says he, " to think, at first 
 44 view, that this parable was over done, and wanted some- 
 " thing of a due decorum ; it being hardly credible, that 
 " a man, after he had been so mercifully and generously 
 " dealt withal, as upon his humble request to ha^e so huge 
 " a debt so freely forgiven, should, whilst the memory of 
 44 so much mercy was fresh upon him, even in the very 
 " next moment, handle his fellow-servant, who had made 
 44 the same humble request to him which he had done to 
 "his Lord, with so much roughness and cruelty for so 
 " inconsiderable a sum." 
 
 This whole period (not to mention other objections 
 which might justly be raised against it) is unmusical 
 throughout ; but the concluding members, which ought to 
 have been particularly flowing, are most miserably loose 
 and disjointed. If the delicacy of Tully's ear was so ex- 
 quisitely refined, as not always to be satisfied even when 
 he read Demosthenes, how would it have been offended 
 
LETTER XIV. 39 
 
 at the harshness and dissonance of so unharmoniolis a 
 sentence ! 
 
 Nothing, perhaps, throws our eloquence at a greater 
 distance from that of the ancients, than this gothick 
 arrangement; as those wonderful effects, which some- 
 times attended their elocution, were, in all probability, 
 chiefly owing to their skill in musical concords. It was 
 by the charm of numbers, united with the strength of 
 reason, that Tully confounded the audacious Catiline, and 
 silenced the eloquent Hortensius. It was this that de- 
 prived Curio of all power of recollection when he rose 
 up to oppose that great master of enchanting rhetorick : 
 It was this, in a word, made even Caesar himself tremble ; 
 Etay, what is yet more extraordinary, made Caesar alter 
 his determined purpose, and acquit the man he had re- 
 solved to condemn. 
 
 You will not suspect that I attribute too much to the 
 power of numerous composition, when you recollect the 
 instance which Tully produces of its wonderful effect. — 
 He informs us, you may remember, in one of his rheto- 
 rical treatises, that he was himself a witness of its influ- 
 ence, as Car bo was once haranguing to the people. When 
 that orator pronounced the following sentence, patris 
 dictum sapiens, temeritas filii comprobavit, it was aston- 
 ishing, says he, to observe the general applause which 
 followed that harmonious close. A modern ear, perhaps, 
 would not be much affected upon this occasion ; and, 
 indeed, it is more than probable, that we are ignorant 
 of the art of pronouncing that period with its genuine 
 emphasis and cadence. We are certain, however, that 
 the musick of it consisted in the dichoree with which it is 
 terminated : for Cicero himself assures us, that if the 
 final measure had been changed, and the words placed in 
 a different order, their whole effect would have been 
 absolutely destroyed. 
 
40 LETTER XIV. 
 
 This art was first introduced among the Greeks hj 
 'Tfcrasymachus, though some of the admirers of Isocrates 
 attributed the invention to that orator. It does not 
 appear to have been observed by the Romans till near 
 the times of Tully, and even then it was by no means 
 universally received. The ancient and less numerous 
 manner of composition, had still many admirers, who 
 were such enthusiasts to antiquity as to adopt her very 
 defects- A disposition of the same kind may, perhaps, 
 prevent its being received with us ; and while the arch- 
 bishop shall maintain his authority as an orator, it is not 
 to be expected that any great advancement will be made 
 In this species of eloquence. That strength of under- 
 standing, likewise, and solidity of reason, which is so 
 eminently our national characteristic^ may add some- 
 what to the difficulty of reconciling us to a study of this 
 kind ; as at first glance it may seem to lead an orator 
 from his grand and principal aim, and tempt him to make 
 a sacrifice of sense to sound. It must be acknowledged, 
 indeed, that in the times which succeeded the dissolution 
 of the Roman republick, this art was so perverted from 
 its true end, as to become the single study of their ener- 
 vated orators. Pliny, the younger, often complains of 
 this contemptible affectation ; and the polite author of 
 that elegant dialogue which, with very little probability, 
 is attributed either to Tacitus or Quintilian, assures us, 
 it was the ridiculous boast of certain orators, in the time 
 of the declension of genuine eloquence, that their ha- 
 rangues were capable of being set to musick, and sung 
 upon the stage. But it must be remembered, that the 
 true end of this art I am recommending, is to aid, not to 
 supersede reason ; that it is so far from being necessarily 
 effeminate, that it not only adds grace but strength to the 
 powers of persuasion. For this purpose Tully and Quier 
 
LETTER XV. 41 
 
 tllian, those great masters of numerous composition, have 
 laid it down as a fixed and invariable rule, that it must 
 never appear the effect of labour in the orator ; that the 
 tuneful flow of his periods naust always seem the casual 
 result of their disposition ; and that it is the highest 
 offence against the art, to weaken the expression, in order 
 to give a more musical tone to the cadence. In short, 
 that no unmeaning words are to be thrown in merely to 
 fill up the requisite measure, but that they must still rise 
 in sense as they improve in sound. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XV. 
 
 TO CLEORA. 
 
 August 11, 1733. 
 Though it is but a few hours since I parted from my 
 Cleora, yet I have already, you see, taken up my pen to 
 Write to her. You must not expect, however, in this, or 
 In any of my future letters, that I say fine things to you ; 
 since I only intend to tell you true ones. My heart is 
 too full to be regular, and too sincere to be ceremonious. 
 I have changed the manner, not the style of my former 
 conversations : and I write to you, as I used to talk to 
 you, without form or art. Tell me then, with the same 
 undissembled sincerity, what effect this absence has upon 
 your usual cheerfulness ? as I will honestly confess, on my 
 own part, that I am too interested to wish a circumstance, 
 so little consistent with my own repose, should be altoge- 
 ther reconcileable to yours. I have attempted, however, 
 to pursue your advice, and divert myself by the subject you 
 recommended to my thoughts : but it is impossible, I per- 
 ceive, to turn off the mind at once from an object which 
 it has long dwelt upon with pleasure. My heart, like a 
 4 # 
 
42 LETTER XVI. 
 
 poor bird which is hunted from her nest, is still return- 
 ing to the place of its affections, and after some vain ef- 
 forts to fly off, settles again where all its cares and all ita 
 tenderness are centered. Adieu. 
 
 LETTER XVI. 
 
 TO PHILOTSS. 
 
 August 20, 1139, 
 I fear I shall lose all my credit with you as a gardener, 
 by this specimen which I venture to send you of the pro- 
 duce of my walls. The snails, indeed, have had more 
 than their share of my peaches and nectarines this season : 
 but will you not smile when I tell you, that I deem it a 
 sort of cruelty to suffer them to be destroyed ? I should 
 scarce dare to acknowledge this weakness (as the gene- 
 rality of the world, no doubt, would call it) had I not ex- 
 perienced, by many agreeable instances, that I may safe- 
 ly lay open to you every sentiment of my heart. To 
 confess the truth, then, I have some scruples with re- 
 spect to the liberty we assume in the unlimited destruc- 
 tion of these lower orders of existence. I know not 
 upon what principle of reason and justice it is, that man- 
 kind have founded their right over the lives of every 
 creature that is placed in a subordinate rank of being to 
 themselves. Whatever claim they may have in right of 
 food and self-defence, did they extend their privilege no 
 farther than those articles would reasonably carry them, 
 numberless beings might enjoy their lives in peace, who 
 are now hurried out of them by the most wanton and un- 
 necessary cruelties. I cannot, indeed, discover why it 
 should be thought less inhuman to crush to death a 
 harmless fasect, whose single offence is that it eats that 
 
LETTER XVI. 43 
 
 food which nature has prepared for its sustenance : than 
 it would be, were I to kill any more bulky creature for 
 the same reason. There are few tempers so hardened 
 to the impressions of humanity, as not to shudder at the 
 thought of the latter ; and yet the former is universally 
 practised without the least check of compassion. This 
 seems to arise from the gross errour of supposing that every 
 creature is really in itself contemptible, which happens 
 to be clothed with a body infinitely disproportionate to 
 our own ; not considering that great and little are merely 
 relative terms. But the inimitable Shakespeare would 
 teach us, that 
 
 the poor beetle, that we tread upon* 
 in corporal suff 'ranee feels a pang as great 
 As when a giant dies. 
 
 And this is not thrown out in the latitude of poetical ima- 
 gination, but supported by the discoveries of the most 
 improved philosophy ; for there is every reason to be- 
 lieve that the sensations of many insects are as exquisite 
 as those of creatures of far more enlarged dimensions ; 
 perhaps even more so. The millepedes, for instance, 
 rolls itself round, upon the slightest touch ; and the 
 snail gathers in her horns upon the least approach of your 
 hand. Are not these the strongest indications of their 
 sensibility, and is it any evidence of ours, that we are not 
 therefore induced to treat them with a more sympathiz- 
 ing tenderness ? 
 
 I was extremely pleased with a sentiment I met with 
 the other day in honest Montaigne. That good-natured 
 author remarks, that there is a certain general claim of 
 kindness and benevolence which every species of crea- 
 tures has a right to from us. It is to be regretted that 
 this generous maxim is not more attended to, in the affab 
 
44 LETTER XYt 
 
 of education, and pressed home upon tender minds in it# 
 full extent and latitude. I am far, indeed, from thinking 
 that the early delight which children discover in torment- 
 ing flies, &c. is a mark of any innate cruelty of temper; 
 because this turn may be accounted for upon other prin- 
 ciples, and it is entertaining unworthy notions of the Deity 
 to suppose he forms mankind with a propensity to the 
 most detestable of all dispositions. But most certainly* 
 hy being unrestrained in sports of this kind, they may 
 acquire by habit, what they' never would have learned 
 from nature, and grow up into a confirmed inattention to 
 every kind of suffering but their own. Accordingly, the 
 supreme court of judicature at Athens thought an in- 
 stance of this sort not below its cognizance, and punished 
 a boy for putting out the eyes of a poor bird that had un- 
 happily fallen into his hands. 
 
 It might be of service, therefore, it should seem, in or- 
 der to awaken, as early as possible, in children, an exten- 
 sive sense of humanity, to give them a view of several 
 sorts of insects as they maybe magnified by the assistance 
 of glasses, and to shew them, that the same evident marksr 
 of wisdom and goodness prevail in the formation of the 
 minutest insect, as in that of the most enormous Levia- 
 than : that they are equally furnished with whatever is 
 necessary not only to the preservation but the happiness 
 of their beings, in that class of existence to which Pro- 
 yidence has assigned them : in a word, that the whole con- 
 struction of their respective organs distinctly proclaims 
 them the objects of the divine benevolence, and therefore 
 'that they justly ought to be so of ours. I am, &c. 
 
45 
 LETTER XVII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Feb. 1, 1738. 
 You see how much I trust to your good-nature and 
 your judgment, whilst I am the only person, perhaps, 
 among your friends, who have ventured to omit a con- 
 gratulation in form. I am not, however, intentionally 
 guilty ; for I really designed you a visit before now ; but 
 hearing that your acquaintance flowed in upon you from 
 all quarters, I thought it would be more agreeable to you, 
 as well as to myself, if I waited till the inundation was 
 abated. But if I have not joined in the general voice of 
 congratulation, I have not, however, omitted the sincere, 
 though silent wishes, which the warmest friendship can 
 suggest to a heart entirely in your interests. — Had I not 
 long since forsaken the regions of poetry, I would tell 
 you, in the language of that country, how often I have 
 said, may 
 
 all heav'n, 
 And happy constellations on that hour 
 Shed their selectest influence ! Milton* 
 
 But plain prose will do as well for plain truth ; and there* 
 is no occasion for any art to persuade you, that you have, 
 upon every occurrence of your life, my best good wishes. 
 I hope shortly to have an opportunity of making myself 
 better known to Aspasia. When I am so, I shall rejoice 
 with her, on the choice she has made of a man, from 
 whom I will undertake to promise her all the happiness 
 which the state she has entered into can afford. Thus 
 much I do not scruple to say of her husband to you ; the 
 rest I had rather say to her. If upon any occasion you 
 should mention me, let it be in the character which I 
 most value myself upon, that of your much obliged and 
 very affectionate friend* 
 
46 
 LETTER XVIII. 
 
 TO EORTENSIUS. 
 
 July 5, 1739. 
 
 I can by no means subscribe to the sentiments of your 
 last letter, nor agree with you in thinking that the loye 
 of fame is a passion which either reason or religion con- 
 demns. I confess, indeed, there are some who have 
 represented it as inconsistent with both ; and I remember, 
 in particular, the excellent author of The Religion of Na- 
 ture delineated, has treated it as highly irrational and ab- 
 surd. As the passage falls in so thoroughly with your own 
 turn of thought, you will have no objection, I imagine, to 
 my quoting it at large ; and I give it you, at the same 
 time, as a very great authority on your side. " In 
 " reality," says that writer, "the man is not known ever 
 " the more to posterity, because his name is transmitted 
 44 to them ; He doth not live because his name does. — 
 •' When it is said, Julius Caesar subdued Gaul, conquered 
 44 Pompey, &c. it is the same thing as to say, the con- 
 " queror of Pompey was Julius Caesar, i. e. Caesar and 
 14 the conqueror of Pompey is the same thing ; CaesaF 
 " is as much known by one designation as by the other. 
 " The amount then is only this : that the conqueror of 
 " Pompey conquered Pompey ; or rather, since Pom- 
 " pey is as little known now as Caesar, somebody con- 
 44 quered somebody. Such a poor business is this boasted 
 ct immortality ! and such is the thing called glory among 
 ** us ! To discerning men this fame is mere air, and what 
 *> they despise, if not shun." 
 
 But surely, 'twere to consider too curiously (as Horatio 
 says to Hamlet) to considet thus. For though fame with 
 posterity should be, in the strict analysis of it, no othep 
 than what is here described, a mere uninteresting propo* 
 
LETTER XVIII. 4F 
 
 sition, amounting to nothing more than that somebody 
 acted meritoriously ; yet it would not necessarily follow, 
 that true philosophy would banish the desire of it from 
 the human breast. For this passion may be (as most 
 certainly it is) wisely implanted in our species, notwith- 
 standing the corresponding object should in reality be very 
 different from what it appears in imagination. Do not 
 many of our most refined and even contemplative plea- 
 sures owe their existence to our mistakes ? It is but 
 extending (I will not say improving) some of our senses to 
 a higher degree of acuteness than we now possess them, 
 to make the fairest views of nature, or the noblest pro* 
 ductions of art, appear horrid and deformed. To see 
 things as they truly and in themselves are, would not 
 always, perhaps, be of advantage to us in the intellectual 
 world, any more than in the natural. But after all, who 
 shall certainly assure us, that the pleasure of virtuous fame 
 dies with its possessor, and reaches not to a farther scene 
 of existence ? There is nothing, it should seem, either 
 absurd or unphilosophical in supposing it possible, at least, 
 that the praises of the good and the judicious, that sweetest 
 musick to an honest ear in this world, may be echoed back 
 to the mansions of the next : that the poet's description of 
 Fame may be literally true, and though she walks upon 
 earth, she may yet lift her head into heaven. 
 
 But can it be reasonable to extinguish a passion which 
 nature has universally lighted up in the human breast, and 
 which we constantly find to burn with most strength and 
 brightness in the noblest and best-formed bosoms ? Ac- 
 cordingly, revelation is so far from endeavouring (as you 
 suppose) to eradicate the seed which nature has thus 
 deeply planted, that she rather seems, on the contrary, 
 to cherish and forward its growth. To be exalted with 
 honour, and to be had in everlasting remembrance^ are in 
 
48 LETTER XVIH. 
 
 the number of those encouragements which the Jewish 
 dispensation offered to the virtuous ; as the person from 
 whom the sacred author of the christian system received 
 his birth, is herself represented as rejoicing that all gene- 
 rations should call her blessed. 
 
 To be convinced of the gFeat advantage of cherishing 
 this high regard to posterity, this noble desire of an after- 
 life in the breath of others, one need only look back upon 
 the history of the ancient Greeks and Romans. What 
 other principle was it, Hortensius, which produced that 
 exalted strain of virtue in those days, that may well serve 
 as a model to these ? Was it not the consentiens laus bo- 
 norum, the incorrifpta vox bene judicantiv.m (as Tully calls 
 it) the concurrent approbation of the good, the uncorrupt- 
 ed applause of the ivm, that animated their most gene- 
 rous pursuits ? 
 
 To confess the truth, I have been ever inclined to think 
 it a very dangerous attempt, to endeavour to lessen the 
 motives of right acting, or to raise any suspicion concern- 
 ing their solidity. The tempers and dispositions of man- 
 kind are so extremely different, that it seems necessary 
 they should be called into action by a variety of incite- 
 ments. Thus, while some are willing to wed Virtue 
 for her personal charms, others are engaged to take 
 her for the sake of her expected dowry : and since her 
 followers and admirers have so little to hope from her 
 in present, it were pity, methinks, to reason them out 
 of any imaginary advantage in reversion. Farewell. I 
 am. &e. 
 
49 
 
 LETTER XIX. 
 
 TO CLEORA* 
 
 1 think, Cleora, you are the truest female hermit I 
 ever knew ; at least I do not remember to have met with 
 any among your sex of the same order with yourself; for 
 as to the religious on the other side of the water, I can 
 by no means esteem them worthy of being ranked in your 
 number. They are a sort of people who either have seen 
 nothing of the world, or too much: and where is the me- 
 rit of giving up what one is not acquainted with, or what 
 one is weary of ? But you are a far more illustrious re- 
 cluse, who have entered into the world with innocency, 
 and retired from it with good humour. That sort of life, 
 which makes so amiable a figure in the description of 
 poets and philosophers, and which kings and heroes have 
 professed to aspire after, Cleora actually enjoys : she 
 lives her own, free from the follies and impertinences, 
 the hurry and disappointments oi false pursuits of every 
 kind. How much do I prefer one hour of such solitude 
 to all the glittering, glaring, gaudy days of the ambitious ? 
 I shall not envy them their gold and their silver, their pre- 
 cious jewels, and their changes of raiment, while you per- 
 mit me to join you and Alexander in your hermitage. 
 I hope to do so on Sunday evening, and attend you to the 
 siege of Tyre, or the deserts of Africa, or wherever else 
 your hero shall lead you. But should I find you in more 
 elevated company, and engaged with the rapturous * * * *, 
 even then, I hope, you will not refuse to admit me of your 
 party. If I have not yet a proper gout for the mystick 
 writers, perhaps I am not quite incapable of acquiring one ; 
 and as I have every thing of the hermit in my composition 
 5 
 
50 LETTER XX. 
 
 except the enthusiasm, it is not impossible butl may catch 
 that also, by the assistance of you and * * * * I desire 
 you would receive me as a probationer, at least, and as 
 one who is willing, if he is worthy, to be initiated into 
 your secret doctrines. I think I only want this taste, and 
 a relish for the marvellous, to be wholly in your senti- 
 ments. Possibly I may be so happy as to attain both in 
 good time : I fancy, at least, there is a close connexion 
 between them, and I shall not despair of obtaining the 
 one, if I can by any means arrive at the other. But 
 which must I endeavour at first ? shall I prepare for the 
 mystick, by commencing with the romance, or would you 
 advise me to begin with Malbranche, before I undertake 
 Clelia ? Suffer me, however, ere I enter the regions of 
 fiction, to bear testimony to one constant truth, by as- 
 suring you that I am, &e. 
 
 LETTER XX. 
 
 TO EUPHRONIUS. 
 
 October 10, 1742. 
 I have often mentioned to you the pleasure I received 
 from Mr. Pope's translation of the Iliad : but my admira- 
 tion of that inimitable performance has increased upon 
 me, since you tempted me to compare the copy with the 
 original. To say of this noble work, that it is the best 
 which ever appeared of the kind, would be speaking in 
 much lower terms than it deserves ; the world, perhaps, 
 scarce ever before saw a truly poetical translation ; for, 
 as Denham observes, 
 
 Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, 
 
 That few, but those who cannot write, translate. • 
 
 Mr. Pope seems, in most places, to have been inspired 
 with the same sublime spirit that animates his original ; 
 
LETTER XX. 51 
 
 as he often takes fire from a single hint in his author, and 
 blazes out even with a stronger and brighter flame of 
 poetry. Thus the character of Thersites, as it stands in 
 the English Iliad, is heightened, I think, with more mas- 
 terly strokes of satire than appear in the Greek ; as many 
 of those similes in Homer, which would appear, perhaps, 
 to a modern eye too naked and unornamented, are paint- 
 ed by Pope in all the beautiful drapery of the most grace- 
 ful metaphor. With what propriety of figure, for instance, 
 has he raised the following comparison ! 
 
 H? dLQL <Tft>v two (uro<r<7i xovKrtr&xoc eoQ/ur aikkhq 
 Eg^c^gvay. II. iii. 10- 
 
 Thus from his flaggy wings when Euru» sheds 
 A night of vapours round the mountain-heads, 
 Swift gliding mists the dusky fields invade ; 
 To thieves more grateful than the midnight shade : 
 While scarce the swains their feeding flocks survey, 
 Lost and confusM amidst the thicken'd day ; 
 So wrapt in gath'ring dust the Grecian train, 
 A moving cloud, swept on and hid the plain. 
 
 When Mars, being wounded by Diomed, flies back to 
 heaven* Homer compares him, in his passage, to a dark 
 cloud raised by summer heats, and driven by the wind. 
 
 Oat <f at, viQtav egsCsvvw qcuversu awg, 
 
 KcLVfAATOe g|f CtVtfAOiO Sb<TAiOg OgVVfJUVQlO. II. V. 864. 
 
 The inimitable translator improves this image, by 
 throwing in some circumstances, which, though not in the 
 original, are exactly in the spirit of Homer : 
 
 As vapours, blown by Auster's sultry breath, 
 Pregnant with plague9, and shedding seeds of death, 
 
32 LETTER XX. 
 
 Beneath the rage of burning Sirius rise, 
 Choak the parch'd earth, and blacken all the skies 5 
 In such a cloud the god, from combat driven, 
 High o'er the dusty whirlwind scales the heaven. 
 
 There is a description in the eighth book, which Eu- 
 stathius, it seems, esteemed the most beautiful night* 
 piece that could be found in poetry. If I am not greatly 
 mistaken, however, I can produce a finer : and I am per- 
 suaded even the warmest admirer of Homer will allow 
 the following lines are inferiour to the corresponding 
 ones in the translation : 
 
 fi? <f' CT tV CVQ4LVU) Ct^Tga, QetUVW A/UKpt fiXHVM 
 
 ibctmr eigt7r^7riA y c<rg «r tirxtro vws^of eudflg, 
 
 Jl)t <T i<pCLV0V <&2KrcLl CK07TlCtt KdLl 4E'£»A)0y€£ OLKPOiy 
 
 Kat/ vst7ra.r ovgavoQiv cT *g wnqgLyn etffwrros ctifag, 
 IlfltvTat efe t tiSrreti eta-rgn' yiyvfyi cTs Tg <p£eva mvi/jim. 
 
 II. viii. db5. 
 
 As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night, 
 O'er heav'n's clear azure spreads her sacred light ; 
 "When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, 
 And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scenes 
 Around her throne the vivid planets roll, 
 And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole.* 
 O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, 
 And tip with silver every mountain's head ; 
 Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise* 
 A flood of glory bursts from all the skies ; 
 The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight, 
 Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light. 
 
 1 fear the enthusiastick admirers of Homer would look 
 upon me with much indignation, were they to hear me 
 speak of any thing in modern language as equal to the 
 strength and majesty of that great father of poetry. But 
 the following passage having been quoted by a celebrated 
 author of antiquity, as an instance of the true sublime* 
 
LETTER XX. 53 
 
 I will leave it to you to determine whether the translation 
 has not at least as just a claim to that character as the 
 original. 
 
 fi? eT on %itjuct^ot enrorst/u.ot Kttnr ogi<r<pt j>sovTSf, 
 
 E? jUliayafjtUetV 0-UfxCsiXKiTOV oCgtfJLOV V$tog, 
 Twfe Tt THKQtt £oU7rQV iV OV^itTlV ZX.WZ TS-Ql/UWV. 
 
 {Is <rcm fjuo-youzva>v yevero tcL%» <rg <po£os re. 
 
 As torrents roll, increas'd by numerous rills, 
 "With rage impetuous down their echoing hills, 
 Rush to the vales, and, pour'd along the plain, 
 Roar through a thousand channels to the main ; 
 The distant shepherd, trembling, hears the sound ; 
 So mix both hosts, and so their cries rebound. 
 
 There is no ancient author more likely to betray an 
 injudicious interpreter into meannesses, than Homer ; as 
 it requires the utmost skill and address to preserve that 
 venerable air of simplicity which is one of the characte- 
 rs tical marks of that poet, without sinking the expression 
 or the sentiment into contempt. Antiquity will furnish 
 a very strong instance of the truth of this observation, in a 
 single line which is preserved to us from a translation of 
 the Iliad by one Labeo, a favourite poet, it seems, of 
 Nero : it is quoted by an old scholiast upon Persius, and 
 happens to be a version of the following passage in the 
 fourth Book : 
 
 tl/UOV fii^OoBot? U^lCtjtXOV Tl^idLfJLQlO Tt <&dU<$dL$. 
 
 which Nero's admirable poet rendered literally thus : 
 
 Crudum nianduces Priamum Priamique pisinnos. 
 
 I need not indeed have gone so far back for my instance : 
 a Labeo of our own nation would have supplied me with 
 5 # 
 
54 LETTER XX. 
 
 one much nearer at hand. Ogilby or Hobbs (I forget 
 which) has translated this very verse in the same ridicu- 
 lous manner : 
 
 And eat up Priam and his children all. 
 
 But, among many other passages of this sort, I observed 
 one in the same book, which raised my curiosity to ex- 
 amine in what manner Mr. Pope had conducted it. — 
 Juno, in a general council of the gods, thus accosts Ju- 
 piter : 
 
 Aiy craft K^ovtStt, 
 
 Hag zQexug otxiov &eiv&t fsrovov, «<f ' Anxsa-roY 
 
 Aatov etyuepv<ns. TlgHt/un kclko,, rota ts /srat/^v— - 
 
 which is as much as if she had said, in plain English* 
 " Why surely, Jupiter, you won't be so cruel as to ren- 
 " der ineffectual all my expense of labour and sweat. — 
 " Have I not tired both my horses, in order to raise forces 
 "to ruin Priam and his family?" It requires the most 
 delicate touches imaginable to raise such a sentiment as 
 this into any tolerable degree of dignity. But a skilful 
 artist knows how to embellish the most ordinary subject ; 
 and what would be low and spiritless from a less masterly 
 pencil, becomes pleasing and graceful when worked up 
 by Mr. Pope's : 
 
 Shall then, O tyrant of th' etherial plain, 
 My schemes, my labours, and my hopes be vain ? 
 Have I for this shook Ilion with alarms, 
 Assembled nations, set two worlds in arms ? 
 To spread the war I flew from shore to shore, 
 Th' immortal coursers scarce the labour bore. 
 
 But, to shew you that I am not so enthusiastick an ad- 
 mirer of this glorious performance, as to be blind to its 
 
LETTER XX. 35 
 
 imperfections, I will venture to point out a passage or 
 two (amongst others which might be mentioned) wherein 
 Mr. Pope's usual judgment seems to have failed him. 
 
 When Iris is sent to inform Helen that Paris and Me- 
 nelaus were going to decide the fate of both nations by 
 single combat, and were actually upon the point of en- 
 gaging, Homer describes her as hastily throwing a veil 
 over her face, and flying to the Scaean gate, from whence 
 she might have a full view of the field of battle. 
 
 AuTiaet <f' dLgywvwi itdLto^&fAMH oBovtiTlv, 
 
 fl^/UclT 6X. dstXitpQtO, TSgSV KIT* <P±X£U %e0U<TOL. 
 
 Ovk. out' etfAct rriyz kai a,{/.q>i7roxot Sv STrovro, &C. 
 A/4* «f' e^e/8' ikavov, gBi ^Knidi tmjKcti nasty. 
 
 II. iii. 141. 
 
 Nothing could possibly be more interesting to Helen, 
 than the circumstances in which she is here represented : 
 it was necessary therefore to exhibit her, as Homer we 
 see has, with much eagerness and impetuosity in her mo- 
 tion. But what can be more calm and quiet than the at- 
 titude wherein the Helen of Mr. Pope appears ? 
 
 O'er her fair face a snowy reil she threw, 
 And softly sighing from the loom withdrew : 
 
 Her handmaid s ■ -wait 
 
 Her silent footsteps to the Scaean gate. 
 
 Those expressions of speed and impetuosity, which 
 oc°ur so often in the original lines, avi-tKn — us^ato — ±i-\* 
 imvov, would have been sufficient, one should h ive imagin- 
 ed, to have guarded a translator from falling into an 
 impropriety of this kind. 
 
 This brings to my mind another instance of the same 
 nature, where our English poet, by not attending to the 
 particular exoression of his author, has given us a picture 
 of a very different kind than what Homer intended. In 
 
56 LETTER XX. 
 
 the first Iliad the reader is introduced into a council of 
 the Grecian chiefs, where very warm debates arise be- 
 tween Agamemnon and Achilles. As nothing was likely to 
 prove more fatal to the Grecians than a dissension be- 
 tween those two princes, the venerable old Nestor is re- 
 presented as greatly alarmed at the consequences of this 
 quarrel, and rising up to moderate between them with a 
 vivacity much beyond his years. This circumstance 
 Homer has happily intimated by a single word : 
 
 TO/0"/ cfg NS0"T&>P 
 
 ANOPOT2E. 
 
 Upon which one of the commentators very justly ob- 
 serves — ut in re magna et periculosa, non placide assur- 
 gentem facit, sed prorumpentem senem quoque. A cir- 
 cumstance which Horace seems to have had particularly 
 in his view in the epistle to Lollius : 
 
 Nestor componere lites 
 Inter Peleiden festinat et inter Atreiden. Ep. i. 2, 
 
 This beauty Mr. Pope has utterly overlooked, and sub- 
 stituted an idea very different from that which the verb 
 Avo^m suggests : he renders it, 
 
 Slow from his seat arose the Pylian sage. 
 
 But a more unfortunate word could scarcely have been 
 joined with arose, as it destroys the whole spirit of the 
 piece, and is just the reverse of what both the occasion 
 and the original required. 
 
 I doubt, Euphronius, you are growing weary : will you 
 have patience, however, whilst I mention one observa- 
 tion more ? and I will interrupt you no longer. 
 
 When Menelaus and Paris enter the lists, Pope says, 
 
 Amidst the dreadful vale the chiefs advance, 
 
 All pale with rage, and shake the threat'ning lance. 
 
LETTER XXI. 67 
 
 In the original it is, 
 
 teivov JigKoptvot. II. iii. 341. 
 
 But does not the expression — all pale with rage — call up 
 a very contrary idea to favov foycopmt ? The former seems 
 to suggest to one's imagination, the ridiculous passion of 
 a couple of female scolds ; whereas the latter conveys 
 the terrifying image of two indignant heroes, animated 
 with calm and deliberate valour. Farewell. — I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXI. 
 
 TO CLEORA. 
 
 March 3, 1739. 
 
 After having read your last letter, I can no longer 
 doubt of the truth of those salutary effects which are said 
 to have been produced by the application of certain 
 written words. I have myself experienced the possibility 
 of the thing : and a few strokes of your pen have abated 
 a pain, which of all others is the most uneasy, and the 
 most difficult to be relieved ; even the pain, my Cleora, 
 of the mind. To sympathize with my sufferings, as Cleora 
 kindly assures me she does, is to assuage them ; and half 
 the uneasiness of her absence is removed, when she tells 
 me that she regrets mine. 
 
 Since I thus assuredly find that you can work miracles, 
 I will believe likewise that you have the gift of prophecy ; 
 and I can no longer despair that the time will come, when 
 we shall again meet, since you have absolutely pronounc- 
 ed that it will. I have ventured, therefore, (as you will 
 see by my last letter) already to name the day. In the 
 mean time, I amuse myself with doing every thing that 
 
58 LETTER XXL 
 
 looks like a preparation for my journey ; e gia apro k 
 braccia per stringervi qffettuosamente al mio senno. 
 
 The truth is, you are every instant in my thoughts, 
 and each occurrence that arises suggests you to my re- 
 membrance. If I see a clear sky, I wish it may extend 
 to you ; and if I observe a cloudy one, I am uneasy lest 
 my Cleora should be exposed to it. I never read an in- 
 teresting story, or a pertinent remark, that I do not long 
 to communicate it to you, and learn to double my relish 
 by hearing your judicious observations. I cannot take a 
 turn in my garden but every walk calls you into my mind. 
 Ah Cleora ! I never view those scenes of our former con- 
 versations, without a sigh. Judge then how often F sigh, 
 when every object that surrounds me brings you fresh to 
 my imagination. You remember the attitude in which 
 the faithful Penelope is drawn in Pope's Odyssey, when 
 she goes to fetch the bow of Ulysses for the suitors : 
 
 Across her knees she laid the well-known bow, 
 And pensive sat, and tears began to flow. 
 
 I find myself in numberless such tender reveries ; and 
 if I were ever so much disposed to banish you from my 
 thoughts, it would be impossible I should do so, in a 
 place where every thing that presents itself to me, re- 
 minds me that you were once here. I must not expect 
 (J ought not, indeed, for the sake of your repose, to wish) 
 to be thus frequently and thus fondly the subject of your 
 meditations : but may I not hope that you employ a few 
 moments at least of every day, in thinking of him whose 
 whole attention is fixed upon you ? 
 
 I have sent you the History of the Conquest of Mexi- 
 co, in English, which, as it is translated by so good a 
 hand, will be equally pleasing and less troublesome, than 
 reading it in the original. I long to be of this party in 
 
LETTER XXII. 59 
 
 your expedition to the new world, as I lately was in your 
 conquests of Italy. How happily could I sit by Cleora's 
 side, and pursue the Spaniards in their triumphs, as I 
 formerly did the Romans ; or make a transition from a 
 nation of heroes to a republick of ants ! Glorious days in- 
 deed ! when we passed whole mornings either with dic- 
 tators or butterflies ; and sometimes sent out a colony of 
 Romans, and sometimes of emmets ! Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXII. 
 
 TO PALEMON. 
 
 Dec. 18, 174d. 
 
 Though I am not convinced by your arguments, I am 
 charmed by your eloquence, and admire the preacher at 
 the same time that I condemn the doctrine. But there 
 is no sort of persons whose opinions one is more inclined 
 to wish right, than those who are ingeniously in the wrong ; 
 who have the art to add grace to errour, and can dignify 
 mistakes. 
 
 Forgive me, then, Palemon, if I am more than com- 
 monly solicitous that you should review the sentiments 
 you advanced, (I will not say supported) with so much 
 elegance in your last letter, and that I press you to re-con- 
 sider your notions again and again. Can I fail, indeed, to 
 wish that you may find reason to renounce an opinion, 
 which may possibly, one day or other, deprive me of a 
 friend, and my country of a patriot, while Providence, 
 perhaps, would yet have spared him to both ? — Can I 
 fail to regret, that I should hold one of the most valuable 
 enjoyments of my life upon a tenure more than ordinarily 
 precarious ; and that, besides those numberless accidents 
 by which chance may snatch you from the world, a 
 gloomy sky, or a cross event, may determine Palemon te 
 
60 LETTER XXII. 
 
 put an end to a life, which all who have been a witness to 
 must for ever admire ? 
 
 But, " does the Supreme Being (you ask) dispense his 
 " bounties upon conditions different from all other bene- 
 " factors, and will he force a gift upon me which is no 
 4i longer acceptable ?" 
 
 Let me demand, in return, whether a creature, so con- 
 fined in its perceptions as man, may not mistake his true 
 interest, and reject, from a partial regard, what would be 
 well worth accepting upon a more comprehensive view ? 
 May not even a mortal benefactor better understand the 
 value of that present he offers, than the person to whom 
 it is tendered ? And shall the supreme Author of all bene- 
 ficence be esteemed less wise in distinguishing the worth 
 of those grants he confers ? I agree with you, indeed, that 
 we were called into existence in order to receive happi- 
 ness : but I can by no means infer from thence, that we 
 are at liberty to resign our being whenever it becomes a 
 burden. On the contrary, those premises seem to lead to 
 a conclusion directly opposite ; and if the gracious Author 
 of my life created me with an intent to make me happy, 
 does it not necessarily follow, that I shall most certainly 
 obtain that privilege, if I do not justly forfeit it by my 
 own misconduct ? Numberless ends may be answered, in 
 the schemes of Providence, by turning aside or interrupt- 
 ing that stream of bounty, which our limited reason can in 
 no sort discover. How presumptuous, then, must it be, to 
 throw back a grant upon the hands of the great Governour 
 of the universe, merely because we do not immediately 
 feel, or understand, its full advantages ! 
 
 That it is the intention of the Deity we should remain 
 in this state of being, till his summons calls us away, 
 seems as evident as that we at first entered into it by his 
 command : for we can no more continue, than we could 
 
LETTER XXH. 61 
 
 begin to exist, without the concurrence of the same 
 supreme interposition. While, therefore, the animal 
 powers do not cease to perform those functions to which 
 they were directed by their great Author, it may justly, 
 I think, be concluded, that it is his design they should not. 
 
 Still, however, you urge, " That by putting a period to 
 " your own existence here, you only alter the modifica- 
 " tion of matter ; and how (you ask) is the order of Pro- 
 " vidence disturbed by changing the combination of a 
 " parcel of atoms from one figure to another ?" 
 
 But surely, Palemon, there is a fallacy in this reason- 
 ing : suicide is something more than changing the com- 
 ponent parts of the animal machine. It is striking out a 
 spiritual substance from that rank of beings wherein the 
 wise Author of nature has placed it, and forcibly break- 
 ing in upon some other order of existence. And as it is im- 
 possible for the limited powers of reason to penetrate the 
 designs of Providence, it can never be proved that this 
 is not disturbing the schemes of nature. We possibly 
 may be, and indeed most probably are, connected with 
 some higher rank of creatures : now philosophy will ne- 
 ver be able to determine, that those connexions may not 
 be disconcerted by prematurely quitting our present man- 
 sion. 
 
 One of the strongest passions implanted in human na- 
 ture is the fear of death. It seems, indeed, to be placed 
 by Providence as a sort of guard to retain mankind with- 
 in their appointed station. Why, else, should it so uni- 
 versally, and almost invariably, operate ? It is observable 
 that no such affection appears in any species of beings 
 below us. They have »o temptation, or no ability, to 
 desert the post assigned to them, and therefore it should 
 seem, they have no checks of this kind to keep them 
 6 
 
62 LETTER XXII. 
 
 within their prescribed limits. This general horrour, 
 then, in mankind, at the apprehension of their dissolution, 
 carries with it, I think, a very strong presumptive argu- 
 ment in favour of the opinion I am endeavouring to 
 maintain : for if it were not given to us for the purpose 
 I have supposed, what other can it serve ? Can it be 
 imagined that the benevolent Author of nature would 
 have so deeply woven it into our constitution, only to 
 interrupt our present enjoyments ? 
 
 I cannot, I confess, discover, how the practice of suicide 
 can be justified upon any principle, except upon that of 
 downright atheism. If we suppose a good Providence 
 to govern the world, the consequence is undeniable, that 
 we must entirely rely upon it. If we imagine an evil 
 one to prevail, what chance is there of finding that hap- 
 piness in another scene, which we have in vain sought 
 for in this ? The same malevolent omnipotence can as 
 easily pursue us in the next remove, as persecute us in 
 this our first station. 
 
 Upon the whole, Palemon, prudence strongly forbids 
 so hazardous an experiment as that of being our own ex- 
 ecutioners. We know the worst that can happen in sup- 
 porting life under all its most wretched circumstances : 
 and if we should be mistaken in thinking it our duty to 
 endure a load, which in truth we may securely lay down ; 
 it is an errour extremely limited in its consequences. They 
 cannot extend beyond this present existence, and possibly 
 may end much earlier : whereas no mortal can, with the 
 least degree of assurance, pronounce what may not be the 
 effect of acting agreeably to the contrary opinion. — 
 I am, &c. 
 
63 
 
 LETTER XXIII. 
 
 TO CLYTANDER. 
 
 Sept. 23, 1733. 
 I am by no means in the sentiments of that Grecian 
 of your acquaintance, who, as often as he was pressed to 
 marry, replied either that it was too soon or too late : and 
 I think my favourite author, the honest Montaigne, a 
 little too severe when he observes, upon this story, quHl 
 faut refuser V opportunity a toute action importune : for 
 
 higher of the genial bed by far 
 
 And with mysterious reverence I deem. Milton, 
 
 However, I am not adventurous enough to join with 
 those friends you mention, who are soliciting you, it 
 seems, to look out for an engagement of this kind. It is 
 an union which requires so much delicacy in the cement- 
 ing ; it is a commerce where so many nice circumstances 
 must concur to render it successful, that I would not 
 venture to pronounce of any two persons, that they are 
 qualified for each other. 
 
 I do not know a woman in the world who seems more 
 formed to render a man of sense and generosity happy in 
 this state, than Amasia : yet I should scarcely have cou- 
 rage to recommend even Amasia to my friend. You 
 have seen her, I dare say, a thousand times ; but I am 
 persuaded she never attracted your particular observa- 
 tion, for she is in the number of those who are ever over- 
 looked in a crowd. As often as I converse with her, 
 she puts me in mind of the golden age : there is an inno- 
 cency and simplicity in all her words and actions, that 
 equals any thing the poets have described of those pure 
 and artless times. Indeed the greatest part of her life 
 
64 LETTER XXIII. 
 
 has been spent much in the same way as the early inha- 
 bitants of the world, in that blameless period of it, used, 
 we are told, to dispose of theirs ; under the shade and 
 shelter of her own venerable oaks, and in those rural 
 amusements which are sure to produce a confirmed habit 
 both of health and cheerfulness. Amasia never said, or 
 attempted to say, a sprightly thing in all her life; but 
 she has done ten thousand generous ones : and if she is not 
 the most conspicuous figure at an assembly, she never en- 
 vied or maligned those who are. Her heart is all tender- 
 ness and benevolence : no success ever attended any of 
 her acquaintance, which did not fill her bosom with the 
 most disinterested complacency; as no misfortune ever 
 reached her knowledge, that she did not relieve or parti- 
 cipate by her generosity. If ever she should fall into the 
 hands of a man she loves, (and I am persuaded she would 
 esteem it the worst kind of prostitution to resign herself 
 into any other) her whole life would be one continued 
 series of kindness and compliance. The humble opinion 
 she has of her own uncommon merit, would make her so 
 much the more sensible of her husband's ; and those little 
 submissions on his side, which a woman of more pride 
 and spirit would consider only as a claim of right, would 
 be esteemed by Amasia as so many additional motives to 
 her love and gratitude. 
 
 But if I dwell any longer upon this amiable picture, I 
 may be in danger, perhaps, of resembling that ancient 
 artist, who grew enamoured of the production of his own 
 pencil : for my security, therefore, as well as to put an 
 end to your trouble, it will be best, I believe, to stop here. 
 I am, &c. 
 
65 
 
 LETTER XXIV. 
 
 TO ORONTES. 
 
 I was apprehensive my last had given you but too much 
 occasion of recollecting the remark of one of your ad- 
 mired ancients, that " the art of eloquence is taught by 
 " man, but it is the Gods alone that inspire the wisdom 
 " of silence." That wisdom, however, you are not willing 
 I should yet practise ; and you must needs, it seems, have 
 my farther sentiments upon the subject of oratory. Be 
 it then as my friend requires : but let him remember, it 
 is a hazardous thing to put some men upon talking on a 
 favourite topick. 
 
 One of the most pleasing exercises of the imagination, 
 is that wherein she is employed in comparing distinct 
 ideas, and discovering their various resemblances. There 
 is no single perception of the mind that is not capable of 
 an infinite number of considerations in reference to other 
 objects ; and it is in the novelty and variety of these un- 
 expected connexions, that the richness of a writer's genius 
 is chiefly displayed. A vigorous and lively fancy does 
 not tamely confine itself to the idea which lies before it, 
 but looks beyond the immediate object of its contempla* 
 tion, and observes how it stands in conformity with num- 
 berless others. It is the prerogative of the human mind 
 thus to bring its images together, and compare the several 
 circumstances of similitude that attend them. By this 
 means, eloquence exercises a kind of magick power ; she 
 can raise innumerable beauties from the most barren sub- 
 jects, and give the grace of novelty to the most common. 
 The imagination is thus kept awake by the most agreeable 
 motion, and entertained with a thousand different views 
 
66 LETTER XXIV, 
 
 both of art and nature, which still terminate upon the 
 principal object. For this reason I prefer the metaphor 
 to the simile, as a far more pleasing method of illustration. 
 In the former, the action of the mind is less languid, as it 
 is employed at one and the same instant, in comparing 
 the resemblance with the idea it attends ; whereas, in the 
 latter, its operations are more slow, being obliged to stand 
 still, as it were, in order to contemplate first the principal 
 object, and then its corresponding image. 
 
 Of all the flowers, however, that embellish the regions 
 of eloquence, there is none of a more tender and delicate 
 nature ; as there is nothing wherein a line writer is more 
 distinguished from one of an ordinary class, than in the 
 conduct and application of this figure. He is at liberty, 
 indeed, to range through the whole compass of creation, 
 and collect his images from every object that surrounds 
 him. But though he may be thus amply furnished with 
 materials, great judgment is required in choosing them : 
 for to render a metaphor perfect, it must not only be apt, 
 but pleasing ; it must entertain, as well as enlighten. Mr. 
 Dryden, therefore, can hardly escape the imputation of a 
 very unpardonable breach of delicacy, when, in the dedica- 
 tion of his Juvenal, he observes to the Earl of Dorset, 
 that " some bad poems carry their owner's marks about 
 " them — some brand or other on this buttock, or that ear, 
 " that it is notorious who are the owners of the cattle." 
 The poet Manilius seems to have raised an image of the 
 same injudicious kind, in that compliment which he pays 
 to Homer in the following verses: 
 
 cuj usque ex ore profusos 
 Omnis posteritas latices in carmine duxit. 
 
 I could never read these lines without calling to mind 
 those grotesque heads, which are fixed to the roof o the 
 
LETTER XXIV. 6f 
 
 old building of King's college in Cambridge : which the 
 ingenious architect has represented in the act of vomiting 
 out the rain, that falls through certain pipes most judi- 
 ciously stuck in their mouths for that purpose. Mr. Ad- 
 dison recommends a method of trying the propriety of a 
 metaphor, by drawing it out in visible representation. — 
 Accordingly, I think this curious conceit of the builder 
 might be employed to the advantage of the youth in that 
 university, and serve for as proper an illustration of the 
 absurdity of the poet's image, as that ancient picture 
 which iElian mentions, where Homer was figured with a 
 stream running from his mouth, and a group of poets 
 lapping it up at a distance. 
 
 But besides a certain decorum which is requisite to' 
 constitute a perfect metaphor ; a writer of true taste and 
 genius will always single out the most obvious images, 
 and place them in the most unobserved points of resem- 
 blance. Accordingly, all allusions which point to the 
 more abstruse branches of the arts or sciences, and with 
 which none can be supposed to be acquainted but those 
 who have gone far into the deeper studies, should be 
 carefully avoided, not only as pedantick, but impertinent ; 
 as they pervert the single use of this figure, and add nei- 
 ther grace nor force to the idea they would elucidate. — 
 The most pleasing metaphors, therefore, are those which 
 are derived from the more frequent occurrences of art or 
 nature, or the civil transactions and customs of mankind* 
 Thus, how expressive, yet at the same time how familiar, 
 is that image which Otway has put into the mouth of 
 Metellus, in his play of Caius Marius, where he calls 
 Sulpicius 
 
 That mad wild bull whom Marius lets loose 
 On each occasion, when he'd make Rome feel hira, 
 To toss our laws and liberties i' th' air .' 
 
68 LETTER XXIV. 
 
 But I never met with a more agreeable, or a more 
 significant allusion, than one in Quintus Curtius, which is 
 borrowed from the most ordinary object in common life* 
 That author represents Craterus as dissuading Alexander 
 from continuing his Indian expedition, against enemies 
 too contemptible, he tells him, for the glory of his arms ; 
 and concludes his speech with the following beautiful 
 thought : Citd gloria obsolescit in sordidis hostibus : nee 
 quidquam indignius est quam consumi earn ubi non potest 
 ostendi. Now I am got into Latin quotations, I cannot 
 forbear mentioning a most beautiful passage, which I 
 lately had the pleasure of reading, and which I will ven- 
 ture to produce as equal to any thing of the same kind, 
 either in ancient or modern composition. I met with it 
 in the speech of a young orator, to whom I have the 
 happiness to be related, and who will one day, I persuade 
 myself, prove as great an honour to his country as he is 
 at present to that learned society of which he is a mem- 
 ber. He is speaking of the writings of a celebrated 
 prelate, who received his education in that famous semi- 
 nary to which he belongs, and illustrates the peculiar 
 elegance which distinguishes all that author's perform- 
 ances, by the following just and pleasing assemblage of 
 diction and imagery : In quodcumque opus se parabat 
 [et per omnia sane versatile illius se duxit ingenium) 
 nescio qua luce sibi soli propria, id illuminavit ; haud 
 dissimili ei aureo Titiani radio, qui per totam tabulam 
 gliscens earn vere suam dmunciat. As there is nothing 
 more entertaining to the imagination than the produc- 
 tions of the fine arts ; there is no kind of similitudes or 
 metaphors which are in general more striking, than those 
 which allude to their properties and effects. It is with 
 great judgment, therefore, that the ingenious author of 
 the dialogue, concerning the decline of eloqueoce among 
 
LETTER XXIV. 69 
 
 the Romans, recommends to his orator a general ac- 
 quaintance with the whole circle of the polite arts. A 
 knowledge of this sort furnishes an author with illustra- 
 tions of the most agreeable kind, arid sets a gloss upon 
 his compositions which enlivens them with singular grace 
 and spirit. 
 
 Were I to point out the beauty and efficacy of meta- 
 phorical language, by particular instances, I should rather 
 draw my examples from the moderns than the ancients ; 
 the latter being scarcely, I think, so exact and delicate 
 in this article of composition, as the former. The great 
 improvements, indeed, in natural knowledge, which have 
 been made in these later ages, have opened a vein of 
 metaphor entirely unknown to the ancients, and enriched 
 the fancy of modern wits with a new stock of the most 
 pleasing ideas : a circumstance which must give them a 
 very considerable advantage over the Greeks and Ro- 
 mans. I am sure, at least, of all the writings with which 
 I have been conversant, the works of Mr. Addison will 
 afford the most abundant supply of this kind, in all its 
 variety and perfection. Truth and beauty of imagery is, 
 indeed, his characteristical distinction, and the principal 
 point of eminence which raises his style above that of 
 every author in any language that has fallen within my 
 notice. He is every where highly figurative ; yet, at the 
 same time, he is the most easy and perspicuous writer I 
 have ever perused. The reason is, his images are always 
 taken from the most natural and familiar appearances : as 
 they are chosen with the utmost delicacy and judgment. 
 Suffer me only to mention one out of a thousand I could 
 name, as it appears to me the finest and most expressive 
 that ever language conveyed. It is in one of his in- 
 imitable papers upon Paradise Lost, where he is taking 
 notice of those changes in nature, which the author of that 
 
70 LETTER XXIV. 
 
 truly divine poem describes as immediately succeeding 
 the fall. Among other prodigies, Milton represents the 
 sun in an eclipse ; and at the same time a bright cloud in 
 the western region of the heavens descending with a band 
 of angels. Mr. Addison, in order to shew his author's 
 art and judgment in the conduct and disposition of this 
 sublime scenery, observes, " the whole theatre of nature 
 " is darkened, that this glorious machine may appear in 
 "all its lustre and magnificence." I know not, Orontes, 
 whether you will agree in sentiment with me ; but I 
 must confess, I am at a loss which to admire most upon 
 this occasion, the poet or the critick. 
 
 There is a double beauty in images of this kind when 
 they are not only metaphors, but allusions. I was much 
 pleased with an instance of this uncommon species, in a 
 little poem entitled The Spleen. The author of that 
 piece (who has thrown together more original thoughts 
 than I ever read in the same compass of lines) speaking 
 of the advantages of exercise in dissipating those gloomy 
 vapours, which are so apt to hang upon some minds, 
 employs the following image : 
 
 Throw but a stone, the giant dies. 
 
 You will observe, Orontes, that the metaphor here is 
 conceived with great propriety of thought, if we consider 
 it only in its primary view ; but when we see it pointing 
 still farther, and hinting at the story of David and Goliah, 
 it receives a very considerable improvement from this 
 double application. 
 
 It must be owned, some of the greatest authors, both 
 ancient and modern, have made many remarkable slips 
 in the management of this figure, and have sometimes ex- 
 pressed themselves with as much impropriety as an honest 
 sailor of my acquaintance, a captain of a privateer, who 
 
LETTER XXV. 71 
 
 wrote an account to his owners of an engagement, " in 
 " which he had the good fortune," he told them, "of having 
 M only one of his hands shot through the nose." The great 
 caution, therefore, should be, never to join any idea to a 
 figurative expression, which would not be applicable to 
 it in a literal sense. Thus Cicero, in his treatise De Cla- 
 ris Oratoribus, speaking of the family of the Scipios, is 
 guilty of an impropriety of this kind : O generosam stir- 
 pern (says he) et tanquam inunam arborem plura genera, 
 sic in istam domum multorum insitam atque illuminatam 
 sapientiam. Mr. Addison, likewise, has fallen into an er- 
 rour'of the same sort, where he observes, " There is not a 
 " single view of human nature, which is not sufficient to 
 " extinguish the seeds of pride." In this passage he evi- 
 dently unites images together which have no connexion 
 with each other. When a seed has lost its power of ve- 
 getation, I might, in a metaphorical sense, say it is ex- 
 tinguished : but when, in the same sense, I call that dis- 
 position of the heart which produces pride the seed of 
 that passion, I cannot, without introducing a confusion of 
 ideas, apply any word to seed but what corresponds with 
 its real properties or circumstances. 
 
 Another mistake in the use of this figure is, when dif- 
 ferent images are crowded too close upon each other, or 
 (to express myself after Quintilian) when a sentence sets 
 out with storms and tempests, and ends with fire and 
 flames. A judicious reader will observe an impropriety 
 of this kind in one of the late essays of the inimitable au- 
 thor last quoted, where he tells us, " that women were 
 " formed to temper mankind, not to set an edge upon 
 u their minds, and blow up in them those passions which 
 * are too apt to rise of their own accord." Thus a cele- 
 brated orator, speaking of that little blackening spirit in 
 
T2 LETTER XXV. 
 
 mankind, which is fond of discovering spots in the bright- 
 est characters, remarks, that when persons of this cast 
 of temper have mentioned any virtue of their neighbour, 
 " it is well, if, to balance the matter, they do not clap 
 " some fault into the opposite srale, that so the enemy 
 t'may not go off rcith flying colours." Dr. Swift also, 
 whose style is the most pure and simple of any of our 
 classick writers, and who does not seem in general very 
 fond of the figurative manner, is not always tree from 
 censure in his management of the metaphorical language. 
 In his Essay on the Distentions of Athens and Rome, 
 speaking of the populace, he takes notice, that, " though 
 " in their corrupt notions of divine worship, they are apt 
 " to multiply their gods, yet their earthly devotion is 
 M seldom paid to above one idol at a time, whose oar they 
 " pull with less murmuring and much more skill, than when 
 "they share the lading, or even hold the helm" The 
 most injudicious writer could not possibly have fallen into 
 a more absurd inconsistency of metaphor, than this emi- 
 nent wit has inadvertently been betrayed into, in this pas- 
 sage. For what connexion is there between wor c hipping 
 and roiving, and who ever heard before of pulling the oar 
 of an idol ? 
 
 As there are certain metaphors which are common to 
 all language, there are others of so delicate a nature, as 
 not to bear transplanting from one nation into another. 
 There is no part, therefore, of the business of a transla- 
 tor more difficult to manage than this figure, as it re- 
 quires great judgment to distinguish, when it may, and 
 may not, be naturalized with propriety and elegance. — 
 The want of this necessary discernment has led the com- 
 mon race of translators into great absurdities, and is one 
 of the principal reasons that performances of this kind 
 are generally so insipid. What strange work, for instance. 
 
LETTER XXV. 73 
 
 would an injudicious interpreter make with the following 
 metaphor in Homer ? 
 
 Nwv y*% fa Tr&vrtwiv net tyepu to-vcvrtLi Mt t une. 
 
 II. x. 173. 
 
 But Mr. Pope, by artfully dropping the particular image 
 yet retaining the general idea, has happily preserved the 
 spirit of his author, and at the same time humoured the 
 different taste of his own countrymen. 
 
 Each single Greek, in this conclusive strife, 
 Stands on the sharpest edge of death or life. 
 
 And now, Orontes, do you not think it high time to be 
 dismissed from this fairy land? Permit me, however, 
 just to add, that this figure, which casts so much light 
 and beauty upon works of genius, ought to be entirely 
 banished from the severer compositions of philosophy. 
 It is the business of the latter to separate resemblances, 
 not to find them, and to deliver her discoveries in the 
 plainest and most unornamented expressions. Much dis- 
 pute, and, perhaps, many errours, might have been avoid- 
 ed, if metaphor had been thus confined within its proper 
 limits, and never wandered from the regions of eloquence 
 and poetry. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXV. 
 
 TO PHILOTES. 
 
 August 5, 1744. 
 Don't you begin to think that I ill deserve the pre- 
 scription you sent me, since I have scarce had the man- 
 ners even to thank you for it ? It must be confessed I 
 have neglected to honour my fhysician with the honour 
 7 
 
74 LETTER XXY. 
 
 due unto him : that is, I have omitted not only what I 
 ought to have performed by good-breeding, but what I 
 am expressly enjoined by my Bible. I am not, however, 
 entirely without excuse ; a silly one, I own ; neverthe- 
 less, it is the truth. I have lately been a good deal out 
 of spirits. But at length the fit is over. Amongst the 
 number of those things which are wanting to secure me 
 from a return of it, I must always reckon the company 
 of my friend. I have, indeed, frequent occasion for you ; 
 not in the way of your profession, but in a better : in 
 the way of friendship. There is a healing quality in that 
 intercourse, which a certain author has, with infinite pro- 
 priety, termed the medicine of life. It is a medicine 
 which, unluckily, lies almost wholly out of my teach ; 
 fortune having separated me from those few friends 
 whom I pretend or desire to claim. General acquaint- 
 ances, you know, I am not much inclined to cultivate ; 
 so that I am at present as much secluded from society as 
 if I were a sojourner in a strange land. Though retire- 
 ment is my dear delight, yet, upon some occasions, I 
 think I have too much of it ; and 1 agree with Balzac, 
 que la solitude est certainement une belle chose : mais il y 
 a plaisir d'avoir quelqu'un qui sache repondre ; k qui on 
 puisse dire de terns en terns, que la solitude est une belle 
 chose. But I must not forget, that, as I sometimes want 
 company, you may as often wish to be alone ; and that 
 I may, perhaps, be at this instant breaking in upon one 
 of those hours which you desire to enjoy without inter- 
 ruption. I will only detain you, therefore, whilst I add 
 that I am, &c. 
 
75 
 LETTER XXVI. 
 
 TO PHIDIPPUS. 
 
 May 1, 1745. 
 If that friend of yours, whom you are desirous to add 
 to the number of mine, were endued with no other quality 
 than the last you mentioned in the catalogue of his vir- 
 tues ; I should esteem his acquaintance as one of my most 
 valuable privileges. When you assured me, therefore, of 
 the generosity of his disposition, I wanted no additional 
 motive to embrace your proposal of joining you and him 
 at * *. To say truth, I consider a generous mind as the 
 noblest work of the creation, and am persuaded, where- 
 ever it resides, no real merit can be wanting. It is, per- 
 haps, the most singular of all the moral endowments. I 
 am sure, at least, it is often imputed where it cannot justly 
 be claimed. The meanest self-love, under some refined 
 disguise, frequently passes upon common observers for 
 this godlike principle ; and I have known many a popular 
 action attributed to this motive, when it flowed from ne 
 higher a source than the suggestions of concealed vanity. 
 Good-nature, as it has many features in common with this 
 virtue, is usually mistaken for it : the former, however, is 
 but the effect, possibly, of a happy disposition of the ani- 
 mal structure, or, as Dryden somewhere calls it, of a cer- 
 tain "milkiness of blood;" whereas the latter is seated 
 in the mind, and can never subsist where good sense and 
 enlarged sentiments have no existence. It is entirely 
 founded, indeed, upon justness of thought : which, per- 
 haps, is the reason this virtue is so little the characteris- 
 tick of mankind in general. A man, whose mind is warp- 
 <sd by the selfish passions, or contracted by the narrow 
 
76 LETTER XXVI. 
 
 prejudices of sects or parties, if he does not want honesty, 
 must undoubtedly want understanding. The same clouds 
 that darken his intellectual views, obstruct his moral 
 ones ; and his generosity is extremely circumscribed, be- 
 cause his reason is exceedingly limited. 
 
 It is the distinguishing pre-eminence of the Christian 
 system, that it cherishes this elevated principle in one of 
 its noblest exertions. Forgiveness of injuries, I confess, 
 indeed, has been inculcated by several of the heathen 
 moralists ; but it never entered into the established 
 ordinances of any religion, till it had the sanction of the 
 great Author of ours. I have often, however, wondered 
 that the ancients, who raised so many virtues and affec- 
 tions of the mind into divinities, should never have given 
 a place in their temples to Generosity ; unless, perhaps, 
 they included it under the notion of fides or honos. 
 But surely she might reasonably have claimed a separate 
 altar, and superiour rites. A principle of honour may 
 restrain a man from counteracting the social ties, who 
 yet has nothing of that active flame of generosity, which 
 is too powerful to be confined within the humbler boun- 
 daries of mere negative duties. True generosity rises 
 above the ordinary rules of social conduct, and flows with 
 much too full a stream to be comprehended within the 
 precise marks of formal precepts. It is a vigorous prin- 
 ciple in the soul, which opens and expands all her virtues 
 far beyond those which are only the forced and unnatu- 
 ral productions of a timid obedience. The man who is 
 influenced singly by motives of the latter kind, aims no 
 higher than at certain authoritative standards, without 
 ever attempting to reach those glorious elevations which 
 constitute the only true heroism of the social character. 
 Religion, without this sovereign principle, degenerates 
 into slavish fear, and wisdom into a specious cunning : 
 
LETTER XXVII. 77 
 
 learning is but the avarice of the mind, and wit its more 
 pleasing kind of madness. In a word, generosity sancti- 
 fies every passion, and adds grace to every acquisition of 
 the soul ; and if it does not necessarily include, at least 
 it reflects a lustre upon the whole circle of moral and 
 intellectual qualities. 
 
 But I am running into a general panegyrick upon gene- 
 rosity, when I only meant to acknowledge the particular 
 instance you have given me of yours, in being desirous of 
 communicating to me a treasure, which I know much 
 better how to value than how to deserve. Be assured, 
 thereiorerthough Euphronius had none of those polite ac- 
 complishments you enumerate, yet, after what you have 
 informed me concerning his heart, I should esteem his 
 friendship of more worth, than all the learning of ancient 
 Greece, and all the viriH of modern Italy. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXVII. 
 
 TO SAPPHO.* 
 
 March 10, 173!. 
 
 While yet no amorous youths around thee bow, 
 Nor flattering verse conveys the faithless vow ; 
 To graver notes will Sappho's soul attend, 
 And ere she hears the lover, hear the friend ? 
 
 Let maids less bless'd employ their meaner arts 
 To reign proud tyrants o'er unnumber'd hearts ; 
 May Sappho learn (for nobler triumphs born) 
 Those little conquests of her sex to scorn. 
 To form the bosom to each gen'rous deed ; 
 To plant the mind with ev'ry useful seed ; 
 
 * A young lady of thirteen years of age. 
 7 # 
 
7S LETTER XXVII. 
 
 Be these thy arts ; nor spare the grateful tori, 
 Where nature's hand has bless'd the happy soil. 
 So shalt thou know, with pleasing skill to blend 
 The lovely mistress and instructive friend : 
 So shalt thou know, when unrelenting time 
 Shall spoil those charms yet op'ning to their prime, 
 To ease the loss of beauty's transient flow'r, 
 While reason keeps what rapture gave before. 
 And oh ! whilst wit, fair dawning, spreads its ray, 
 Serenely rising to a glorious day, 
 To hail the growing lustre oft be mine, 
 Thou early fav'rite of the sacred Nine ! 
 
 And shall the Muse with blameless boast pretend, 
 In youth's gay bloom that Sappho call'd me friend ; 
 That urg'd by me she shunn'd the dang'rous way, 
 Where heedless maids in endless errour stray ; 
 That scorning soon her sex's idler art, 
 Fair praise inspir'd, and virtue warm'd her heart ; 
 That fond to reach the distant paths of fame, 
 I taught her infant genius where lo aim ? 
 Thus when the feather'd choir first tempt the sky, 
 And, all unskill'd, their feeble pinions try, 
 Th' experienc'd sire prescribes th' adventurous height, 
 Guides the young wing, and pleas'd attends the flight. 
 
 LETTER XXVni. 
 
 TO PHIDIPPUS. 
 
 Yes, Phidippus, I entirely agree with you ; the an- 
 cients most certainly had much loftier notions of friend- 
 ship than seem to be generally entertained at present. 
 But may they not justly be considered, on this subject, 
 
LETTER XXVIII. 79 
 
 as downright enthusiasts ? Whilst, indeed, they talk of 
 friendship as a virtue, or place it in a rank little inferiour, 
 I can admire the generous warmth of their sentiments ; 
 but when they go so far as to make it a serious question, 
 whether justice herself ought not, in some particular 
 cases, to yield to this their supreme affection of the 
 heart ; there, I confess, they leave me far behind. 
 
 If we had not a treatise extant upon the subject, we 
 should scarce believe this fact, upon the credit of those 
 authors, who have delivered it down to us : but Cicero 
 himself has ventured to take the affirmative side of this 
 debate, in his celebrated dialogue inscribed Laelius. He 
 followed, it seems, in this notion, the sentiments of the 
 Grecian Theophrastus,who publickly maintained the same 
 astonishing theory. 
 
 It must be confessed, however, these admirers of the 
 false sublime in friendship talk upon this subject with so 
 much caution, and in such general terms, that one is 
 inclined to think they themselves a little suspected the 
 validity of those very principles they would inculcate. 
 We find, at least, a remarkable instance to that purpose, 
 in a circumstance related of Chilo, one of those famous 
 sages who are distinguished by the pompous title of the 
 wise men of Greece. 
 
 That celebrated philosopher, being upon his death-bed, 
 addressed himself, we are informed, to his friends who 
 stood round him, to the following effect : . " I cannot, 
 " through the course of a long life, look back with uneasi- 
 " ness upon any single instance of my conduct, unless, 
 " perhaps, on that which I am going to mention, wherein, 
 " I confess, I am still doubtful whether I acted as I ought, 
 "or not. I was once appointed judge, in conjunction 
 "with two others, when my particular friend was ar- 
 4i raigned before us. Were the laws to have taken their 
 
80 LETTER XXVIIL 
 
 " free course, he must inevitably have been condemned 
 *' to die. After much debate, therefore, with myself, 
 " I resolved upon this expedient : I gave my own vote 
 " according to my conscience, but, at the same time, em- 
 " ployed all my eloquence to prevail with my associates 
 " to absolve the criminal. Now I cannot but reflect upon 
 " this act with concern, as fearing there was something of 
 " perfidy, in persuading others to go counter to what I 
 " myself esteemed right." 
 
 It does not, certainly, require any great depth of ca- 
 suistry to pronounce upon a case of this nature. And 
 yet had Tully, that great master of reason, been Chilo's 
 confessor, upon this occasion, it is very plain he would 
 have given him absolution, to the just scandal of the most 
 ignorant curate that ever lulled a country village. 
 
 What I have here observed will suggest, if I mistake 
 not, a very clear answer to the question you propose : 
 
 * Whence it should happen, that we meet with instances 
 
 * of friendship among the Greeks and Romans, far supe- 
 
 * riour to any thing of the same kind which modern times 
 " have produced ?" For while the greatest geniuses among 
 them employed their talents in exalting this noble affec- 
 tion, and it was encouraged even by the laws themselves ; 
 what effects might not one expect to arise from the con- 
 currence of such powerful causes ? The several examples 
 of this kind, which you have pointed out, are undoubted- 
 ly highly animating and singular : to which give me leave 
 to add one instance, no less remarkable, though, I think, 
 not so commonly observed. 
 
 Eudamidas, the Corinthian, (as the story is related in 
 Lucian's Toxaris) though in low circumstances himself, 
 was happy in the friendship of two very wealthy persons, 
 Charixenus and Aretheus. Eudamidas, finding himself 
 drawing near his end, made his will in the following 
 
LETTER XXVIII. 81 
 
 terms : " I leave my mother to Aretheus, to be main- 
 44 tained and protected by him in her old age. I bequeath 
 44 to Charixenus the care of my daughter ; desiring that 
 44 he would see her disposed of in marriage, and portion 
 44 her, at the same time, with as ample a fortune as his 
 44 circumstances shall admit ; and, in case of the death 
 " of either of these my two friends, I substitute the sur- 
 44 vivor in his place." 
 
 This will was looked upon, by some, as we may well 
 imagine, to be extremely ridiculous : however, the lega- 
 tees received information of it with very different senti- 
 ments, accepting of their respective legacies with great 
 satisfaction. It happened that Charixenus died a few 
 days after his friend, the testator : the survivorship, there- 
 fore, taking place, in favour ©f Aretheus, he, accordingly, 
 not only took upon himself the care of his friend's mo- 
 ther, but also made an equal distribution of his estate 
 between this child of Eudamidas, and an only daughter 
 of his own, solemnizing both their marriages on the same 
 day. 
 
 I do not recollect that any of the moderns have raised 
 their notions of friendship to these extravagant heights, 
 excepting only a very singular French author, who talks 
 in a more romantick strain upon this subject than even 
 the ancients themselves. Could you, Phidippus, believe a 
 man in earnest, who should assert that the secret one has 
 sworn never to reveal, may, without perjury, be discovered 
 to one's friend ? Yet the honest Montaigne has ventured 
 gravely to advance this extraordinary doctrine, in clear 
 and positive terms. But I never knew a sensible man in 
 my life, that was not an enthusiast upon some favourite 
 point ; as, indeed, there is none where it is more excusa- 
 ble than in the article of friendship. It is that which 
 affords the most pleasing sunshine of our days ; if, there- 
 
82 LETTER XXIX. 
 
 fore, we see it now and then break out with a more than 
 reasonable warmth and lustre, who is there that will not 
 be inclined to pardon an excess, which can only flow from 
 the most generous principles ? Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXIX. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 July 3, 1746. 
 
 When I mentioned grace as essential in constituting a 
 fine writer, I rather hoped to have found my sentiments 
 reflected back with a clearer light by yours, than ima- 
 gined you would have called upon me to explain in form, 
 what I only threw out by accident. To confess the 
 truth, I know not whether, after all that can be said to 
 illustrate this uncommon quality, it must not at last be 
 resolved into the poet's nequeo monstrare et sentio tantiim. 
 In cases of this kind, where language does not supply us 
 with proper words to express the notions of one's miud, 
 we can only convey our sentiments in figurative terms : a 
 defect which necessarily introduces some obscurity. 
 
 I will not, therefore, undertake to mark out, with any 
 sort ef precision, that idea which I would express by the 
 word grace : and, perhaps, it can no more be clearly 
 describe'd than justly defined. To give you, however, a 
 general intimation of what I mean, when I apply that 
 term to compositions of genius, I would resemble it to 
 that easy air, which so remarkably distinguishes certain 
 persons of a genteel and liberal cast. It consists, not 
 only in the particular beauty of single parts, but arises 
 from the general symmetry and construction of the whole. 
 An author may be just in his sentiments, lively in his 
 figures, and clear in his expression ; yet may have no 
 claim to be admitted into the rank of finished writers. 
 
LETTER XXIX. 83 
 
 Those several members must be so agreeably united as 
 mutually to reflect beauty upon each other : their ar- 
 rangement must be so happily disposed as not to admit of 
 the least transposition, without manifest prejudice to the 
 entire piece. The thoughts, the metaphors, the allusions, 
 and the diction should appear easy and natural, and seem 
 to arise like so many spontaneous productions, rather 
 than as the effects of art or labour. 
 
 Whatever, therefore, is forced, or affected, in the 
 sentiments ; whatever is pompous, or pedantick, in the 
 expression, is the very reverse of grace. Her mien is 
 neither that of a prude nor a coquet ; she is regular 
 without formality, and sprightly without being fantastical. 
 Grace, in short, is to good writing what a proper light is 
 to a fine picture ; it not only shews all the figures in 
 their several proportions and relations, but shews them 
 in the most advantageous manner. 
 
 As gentility (to resume my former illustration) appears 
 in the minutest action, and improves the most incon- 
 siderable gesture ; so grace is discovered in the placing 
 even of a single word, or the turn of a mere expletive. 
 Neither is this inexpressible quality confined to one 
 species of composition only, but extends to all the various 
 kinds ; to the humble pastoral as well as to the lofty 
 epick; from the slightest letter to the most solemn 
 discourse. 
 
 I know not whether Sir William Temple may not be 
 considered as the first of our prose authors, who intro- 
 duced a graceful manner into our language. At least 
 that quality does not seem to have appeared early, or 
 spread far amongst us. But wheresoever we may look 
 for its origin, it is certainly to be found in its highest 
 perfection in the essays of a gentleman, whose writings 
 will be distinguished so long as politeness and good 
 sense have any admirers. That becoming air which 
 
84 LETTER XXX. 
 
 Tully esteemed the criterion of line composition, and 
 which every reader, he says, imagines so easy to be imi- 
 tated, yet will find so difficult to attain, is the prevailing 
 characteristick of all that excellent author's most ele- 
 gant performances. In a word, one may justly apply to 
 him what Plato, in his allegorical language, says of 
 Aristophanes ; that the Graces having searched all the 
 world round for a temple wherein they might for ever 
 dwell, settled at last in the breast of Mr. Addison. 
 Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXX. 
 
 TO CLYTANDER. 
 
 Can it then be true, Clytander, that, after all the fine 
 things which have been said concerning the love of our 
 country, it owes its rise to the principles you mention, 
 and was originally propagated among mankind in order 
 to cheat them into the service of the community ? And 
 is it thus, at last, that the most generous of the human 
 passions, instead of bearing the sacred signature of nature, 
 can produce no higher marks of its legitimacy than the 
 suspicious impress of art ? The question is worth, at 
 least, a few thoughts ; and I will just run over the prin- 
 cipal objections in your letter, without drawing them up, 
 however, in a regular form. 
 
 That the true happiness of the individual cannot arise 
 from the single exercise of the mere selfish principles, is 
 evident, I think, above all reasonable contradiction. If 
 a man would thoroughly enjoy his own being, he must, of 
 necessity, look beyond it ; his private satisfactions always 
 increasing in the same proportion with which he promotes 
 those of others, Thus self-interest, if rightly directed, 
 
LETTER XXX. 85 
 
 flows through the nearer charities of relations, friends, 
 and dependents, till it rises, and dilates itself into gene- 
 ral benevolence. But if every addition which we make 
 to the welfare of others be really an advancement of 
 our own ; the love of our country must necessarily, upon 
 a principle of self-interest, be a passion founded in the 
 strictest reason ; because it is a disposition pregnant 
 with the greatest possible good, which the limited powers 
 of man are capable of producing. Benevolence, there- 
 fore, points to our country, as to her only adequate 
 mark : whatever falls short of that glorious end, is too 
 small for her full gratification : and all beyond is too 
 immense for her grasp. 
 
 Thus our country appears to have a claim to our af- 
 fection, as it has a correspondent passion in the human 
 breast : a passion, not raised by the artifices of policy, or 
 propagated by the infection of enthusiasm, but necessa- 
 rily resulting from the original constitution of our species, 
 and conducive to the highest private advantage of each 
 individual. When Curtius, therefore, or the two Decii, 
 sacrificed their lives, in order to rescue their community 
 from the calamities with which it was threatened, they 
 were by no means impelled (as you seemed to represent 
 them) by a political phrensy, but acted on the most solid 
 and rational principles. The method they pursued, for 
 that purpose, was dictated, I confess, by the most absurd 
 and groundless superstition : yet, while the impression of 
 that national belief remained strong upon their minds, 
 and they were thoroughly persuaded that failing, in the 
 manner we are assured they did, was the only effectual 
 means of preserving their country from ruin ; they took 
 the most rational measures of consulting their private 
 happiness, by thus consenting to become the publick vic- 
 8 
 
86 LETTER XXX. 
 
 tims. Could it even be admitted (what, with any degree 
 of probability, never, indeed, can be admitted) that these 
 glorious heroes considered fame as the vainest of shadows, 
 and had no hopes of an after-life in any other scene of 
 existence ; still, however, their conduct might be justified 
 as perfectly wise. For surely, to a mind that was not 
 wholly immersed in the lowest dregs of the most con- 
 tracted selfishness ; that had not totally extinguished 
 every generous and social affection ; the thoughts of hav- 
 ing preferred a mere joyless existence (for such it must 
 have been) to the supposed preservation of numbers of 
 one's fellow-creatures, must have been far more painful 
 than a thousand deaths. 
 
 I cannot, however, but agree with you? that this af- 
 fection was productive of infinite mischief to mankind, as 
 it broke out among the Romans, in the impious spirit of 
 their unjust conquests. But it should be remembered, 
 at the same time, that it is the usual artifice of ambition, 
 to mask herself in the semblance of patriotism. And it 
 can be no just objection to the noblest of the social pas- 
 sions, that it is capable of being inflamed beyond its na- 
 tural heat, and turned, by the arts of policy, to promote 
 those destructive purposes, which it was originally im- 
 planted to prevent. 
 
 This zeal for our country may, indeed, become irra- 
 tional, not only when it thus pushes us on to act counter 
 to the natural rights of any other community ; but, like- 
 wise, when it impels us to take the measures of violence 
 in opposition to the general sense of our own. For may 
 not publick happiness be estimated by the same standard 
 as that of private ? and as every man's own opinion must 
 determine his particular satisfaction, shall not the gene- 
 ral opinion be considered as decisive in the question con- 
 
LETTER XXX. 87 
 
 eerning general interest ? Far am I, however, from insi- 
 nuating, that the true welfare of mankind, in their col- 
 lective capacities, depends singly upon a prevailing fancy, 
 any more than it does in their separate ; undoubtedly, in 
 both instances, they may equally embrace a false interest. 
 But whenever this is the case, I should hardly imagine 
 that the love of our country, on the one hand, or of our 
 neighbour on the other, would justify any methods of 
 bringing them to a wiser choice, than those of calm and 
 rational persuasion. 
 
 I cannot at present recollect which of the ancient au- 
 thors it is that mentions the Cappadocians to have been 
 so enamoured of subjection to a despotick power, as to 
 refuse the enjoyment of their liberties, though gene- 
 rously tendered to them by the Romans. Scarcely, I 
 suppose, can there be an instance produced of a more 
 remarkable depravity of national taste, and of a more 
 false calculation of publick welfare : yet, even in this in- 
 stance, it should seem the highest injustice to have at- 
 tempted, by force, and at the expense, perhaps, of half 
 the lives in the state, the introduction of a more improved 
 system of government. 
 
 In this notion I am not singular, but have the authority 
 of Plato himself on my side, who held it as a maxim of 
 undoubted truth, in politicks, that the prevailing senti- 
 ments of a state, how much soever mistaken, ought by no 
 means to be opposed by the measures of violence : a 
 maxim, which if certain pretended or misguided patriots 
 had happily embraced, much effusion of civil blood had 
 been lately spared to our nation. Adieu. I am, &e. 
 
88 
 
 LETTER XXXI. 
 
 TO PALAMEDES. 
 
 Nov. 4, 1740. 
 
 The dawn is overcast, the morning lours, 
 And heavily with clouds brings on the day. 
 
 How then can I better disappoint the gloomy effects 
 of a louring sky, than by calling my thoughts off from the 
 dull scene before me, and placing them upon an object 
 which I always consider with pleasure ? Much, certain- 
 ly, are we indebted to that happy faculty, by which, with 
 a sort of magick power, we can bring before one's mind 
 whatever has been the subject of its most agreeable con- 
 templation. In vain, therefore, would that lovely dame, 
 who has so often been the topick of our conversations, 
 pretend to enjoy you to herself: in spite of your favour- 
 ite philosophy, or even of a more powerful divinity ; in 
 spite of Fortune herself, I can place you in my view, 
 though half a century of miles lies between us. But am 
 I for ever to be indebted to imagination only for your 
 presence ? and will you not sometimes let me owe that 
 pleasure to yourself? Surely you might spare me a few 
 weeks before the summer ends, without any inconveni- 
 ence to that noble plan upon which I know you are so in- 
 tent. As for my own studies, they go on but slowly : 
 I am, like a traveller without a guide in an unknown 
 country, obliged to inquire the way at every turning, and 
 consequently cannot advance with all the expedition I 
 could wish. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
89 
 LETTER XXXII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 August 10, 1745. 
 
 Forgive me, Palamedes, if I mistrust an art, which 
 the greatest of philosophers has called the art of deceiv- 
 ing, and by which the first of orators could persuade the 
 people that he had conquered at the athletick games, 
 though they saw him fall at his adversary's feet. The 
 voice of Eloquence should ever, indeed, be heard with 
 caution ; and she, whose boast it has formerly been, to 
 make little things appear considerable, may diminish ob- 
 jects, perhaps, as well as enlarge them, and lessen even 
 the charms of repose. But I have too long experienced 
 the joys of retirement, to quit her arms for a more lively 
 mistress ; and I can look upon ambition, though adorned 
 in all the ornaments of your oratory, with the cool in- 
 difference of the most confirmed stoick. To confess the 
 whole truth, I am too proud to endure a repulse, and too 
 humble to hope for success : qualities little favourable, I 
 imagine, to the pretensions of him who would claim the 
 glittering prizes, which animate those that run the race 
 of ambition. Let those honours, then, you mention, be 
 inscribed on the tombs of others ; be it rather told on 
 mine, that I lived and died 
 
 Unplac'd, unpension'd, do man's heir or slave. 
 
 And is not this a privilege as valuable as any of those 
 which you have painted to my view, in all the warmest co- 
 lours of your enlivening eloquence ? Bruyere, at least, 
 has just now assured me, that, " to pay one's court to no 
 ** man, nor expect any to pay court to you, is the most 
 
30 LETTER XXXIII. 
 
 " agreeable of all situations ; it is the true golden age," 
 says he, "and the most natural state of man." 
 
 Believe me, however, I am not in the mistake of those 
 whom you justly condemn, as imagining that wisdom is 
 the companion only of retirement, and that virtue enters 
 not the more open and conspicuous walks of life : but I 
 will confess, at the same time, that though it is to Tully 
 I give my applause, it is Atticus that has my affection. 
 
 "Life," says a celebrated ancient, " may be compared 
 " to the Olympick games : some enter into those assem- 
 " blies for glory, and others for gain ; while there is a 
 " third party (and those by no means the most contemp- 
 tible) who choose to be merely spectators." I need 
 not tell you, Palamedes, how early it was my inclination 
 to be numbered with the last ; and as nature has not 
 formed me with powers, am I not obliged to her for 
 having divested me of every inclination for bearing a 
 part in the ambitious contentions of the world ? Provi- 
 dence, indeed, seems to have designed some tempers 
 for the obscure scenes of life ; as there are some plants 
 which flourish best in the shade. But the lowest shrub 
 has its use, you are sensible, as well as the loftiest oak ; 
 and, perhaps, your friend may find some method of con- 
 vincing you, that even the humblest talents are not given 
 in vain. Farewell. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXXIII. 
 
 TO PALEMON. 
 
 May 28, 1748. 
 Is it possible you can thus descend from the highest 
 concerns to the lowest, and, after deliberating upon the 
 affairs of Europe, have the humility to inquire into mine ? 
 
LETTER XXXIII. 91 
 
 But the greatest statesmen, it seems, have their trifling 
 as well as their serious hours ; and I have read of a Ro- 
 man consul that amused himself with gathering cockle- 
 shells, and of a Spartan monarch who was found riding 
 upon a hobby-horse. Or shall I rather say, that friend- 
 ship gilds every object upon which she shines ? As it is the 
 singular character of Palemon to preserve that generous 
 flame in all its strength and lustre, amidst that ambitious 
 atmosphere, which is generally esteemed so unfavourable 
 to every brighter affection. 
 
 It is upon one or other of those principles alone, that 
 you can be willing to suspend your own more important 
 engagements, by attending to an account of mine. They 
 have lately, indeed, been more diversified than usual, and 
 1 have passed these three months in a continual succession 
 of new scenes. The most agreeable, as well as the far- 
 thest part of my progress, was to the seat of Hortensius ; 
 and I am persuaded you will not think my travels have 
 been in vain, since they afford me an opportunity of in- 
 forming you, that our friend is in possession of all that 
 happiness which I am sure you wish him. It is probable, 
 however, you have not yet heard that he owes the chief 
 part of it to female merit ; for his marriage was con- 
 cluded even before those friends, who are most frequently 
 with him, had the least suspicion of his intentions. But 
 though he had some reasons for concealing his designs, 
 he has none for being ashamed of them now they are 
 executed. I say not this from any hasty approbation, 
 but as having long known and esteemed the lady whom 
 he has chosen: and, as there is a pleasure in bringing 
 two persons of merit to the knowledge of each other, 
 will you allow me, in the remainder of this letter, to 
 introduce her to your acquaintance ? 
 
92 LETTER XXXFH. 
 
 Hortensia is of a good stature, and perfectly well pro- 
 portioned ; but one cannot so properly say her air is 
 genteel, as that it is pleasing : for there is a certain unaf- 
 fected carelessness in her dress and mien, that wins by 
 degrees rather than strikes at first sight. If you were to 
 look no farther than the upper part of her face, you 
 would think her handsome ; were you only to examine 
 the lower, you would immediately pronounce the reverse ; 
 yet there is something in her eyes which, without any 
 pretence to be called fine, gives such an agreeable liveli- 
 ness to her whole countenance, that you scarce observe, 
 or soon forget, all her features are not regular. Her 
 conversation is rather cheerful than gay, and more in- 
 structive than sprightly. — But the principal and most 
 distinguished faculties of her mind are her memory and 
 her judgment, both which she possesses in a far higher 
 degree than one usually finds even in persons of our sex. 
 She has read most of the capital authors both in French 
 and English ; but her chief and favourite companions of 
 that kind have lain among the historical and dramatick 
 writers. There is hardly a remarkable event, in ancient 
 or modern story, of which she cannot give a very clear 
 and judicious account ; as she is equally well versed in 
 all the principal characters and incidents of the most 
 approved stage compositions. The mathematicks is not 
 wholly a stranger to her ; and though she did not think 
 proper to pursue her inquiries of that kind to any great 
 length, yet the very uncommon facility with which she 
 entered into the reasonings of that science, plainly dis- 
 covered she was capable of attaining a thorough know- 
 ledge of all its most abstruse branches. — Her taste, in 
 performances of polite literature, is always just ; and 
 she is an excellent critick, without knowing any thing of 
 the artificial rules of that science. Her observations, 
 
LETTER XXIII. 93 
 
 therefore, upon subjects of that sort, are so much the 
 more to be relied upon, as they are the pure and unbiassed 
 dictates of nature and good sense. Accordingly Horten- 
 sius, in the several pieces which you know he has pub- 
 lished, constantly had recourse to her judgment ; and I 
 have often heard him, upon those occasions, apply with 
 singular pleasure, and with equal truth, what the tender 
 Propertius says of his favourite Cynthia : 
 
 Me jurat in gremio docta legisse puellae, 
 
 Auribus et puris scripta probasse mea : 
 Haec ubi contigeriut, populi eonfusa valeto 
 
 Fabula ; nam, doming judice, tutus ero. 
 
 But her uncommon strength of understanding has pre- 
 served her from that fatal rock of all female knowledge, 
 the impertinent ostentation of it ; and she thinks a reserve 
 in this article an essential part of that modesty which is 
 the ornament of her sex. I have heard her observe, that 
 it is not in the acquired endowments of the female mind, 
 as in the beauties of her person, where it may be suffi- 
 cient praise, perhaps, to follow the example of the virgin 
 described by Tasso, who, 
 
 Non copre sue bellezze, e non l'espose. 
 
 On the contrary, she esteems it a point of decency to throw 
 a veil over the superiour charms of her understanding : 
 and if ever she draws it aside, you plainly perceive it is 
 rather to gratify her good-nature than her vanity ; less in 
 compliance with her own inclinations, than with those of 
 her company. 
 
 Her refined sense and extensive knowledge have not, 
 however, raised her above the more necessary acquisitions 
 of female science ; they have only taught her to fill that 
 part of her character with higher grace and dignity. She 
 
34 LETTER XXXIH. 
 
 enters into all the domestick duties of her station with the 
 most consummate skill and prudence. Her economical 
 deportment is calm and steady ; and she presides over her 
 family like the Intelligence of some planetary orb, con- 
 ducting it in all its proper directions without violence or 
 disturbed efforts. 
 
 These qualities, however considerable they might ap- 
 pear in a less shining character, are but under parts in 
 Hortensia's ; for it is from the virtues of her heart that 
 she derives her most irresistible claim to esteem and 
 approbation. A constant flow of uniform and unaffected 
 cheerfulness gladdens her own breast, and enlivens that 
 of every creature around her. Her bchariour, under the 
 injuries she has received (for injuries even the blameless 
 Hortensia has received) was with all the calm fortitude 
 of the most heroick patience ; as she firmly relied, that 
 Providence would either put an end to her misfortunes, 
 or support her under them. And with that elevated 
 hope, she seemed to feel less for herself than for the 
 unjust and inhuman author of her sufferings, generously 
 lamenting to see one, so nearly related to her, stand 
 condemned by that severest and most significant of sen- 
 tences, the united reproaches of the world and of his 
 conscience. 
 
 Thus, Palemon, I have given you a faithful copy of an 
 excellent original ; but whether you will join with me in 
 thinking my pencil has been true to its subject, must be 
 left to some future opportunity to determine. I am, &c. 
 
95 
 LETTER XXXIV. 
 
 TO HORTENSIUS. 
 
 Dec. 10, 1739. 
 
 I have read oyer the treatise you recommended to me, 
 with attention and concern. I was sorry to find an au- 
 thor, who seems so well qualified to serve the cause of 
 truth, employing his talents in favour of what appears to 
 me a most dangerous errour. I have often wondered, in- 
 deed, at the policy of certain philosophers of this cast, 
 who endeavour to advance religion by depreciating human 
 nature. Methinks it would be more for the interest of 
 virtue, to represent her congenial (as congenial she surely 
 is) with our make, and agreeable to our untainted con- 
 stitution of soul ; to prove that every deviation from mo- 
 ral rectitude is an opposition to our native bias, and con- 
 trary to those characters of dignity which the Creator has 
 universally impressed upon the mind. This, at least, was 
 the principle which many of the ancient philosophers la- 
 boured to inculcate ; as there is not, perhaps, any single 
 topick in ethicks that might be urged with more truth, or 
 greater efficacy. 
 
 It is upon this generous and exalted notion of our spe- 
 cies, that one of the noblest precepts of the excellent Py- 
 thagoras is founded : Uctvrav <?$ /uAXicrrst (says that philo- 
 sopher) mcr^vyio o-cwrov. The first and leading dispo- 
 sition to engage us on the side of virtue, was, in that 
 sage's estimation, to preserve, above all things, a constant 
 reverence to our own mind, and to dread nothing so much 
 as to offend against its native dignity. The ingenious 
 Mr. Norris, I remember, recommends this precept as one 
 of the best, perhaps, that was ever given to the world. 
 May one not justly, then, be surprised to find it so sel- 
 
96 LETTER XXXV. 
 
 dom enforced in our modern systems of morality ? To 
 confess the truth, I am strongly inclined to suspect that 
 much of that general contempt of every manly principle, 
 which so remarkably distinguishes the present times, may 
 fairly be attributed to the humour of discarding this ani- 
 mating notion of our kind. It has been the fashion to 
 paint human nature in the harshest and most unpleasing 
 colours. Yet there is not, surely, any argument more 
 likely to induce a man to act unworthily, than to per- 
 suade him that he has nothing of innate worthiness in his 
 genuine disposition ; than to reason him out of every ele- 
 vated notion of his own grandeur of soul ; and to de- 
 stroy, in short, every motive that might justly inspire him 
 with a principle of self-reverence, that surest internal 
 guard heaven seems to have assigned to the human vir- 
 tues. Farewell. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXXV. 
 
 TO CLEORA. 
 
 Though it was not possible for me to celebrate with 
 you, as usual, that happy anniversary which we have so 
 many reasons to commemorate, yet I could not suffer 
 so joyful a festival to pass by me without a thousand ten- 
 der reflections. I took pleasure in tracing back that 
 stream to its rise, which has coloured all my succeeding 
 days with happiness ; as my Cleora, perhaps, was at that 
 very instant running over in her own mind those many 
 moments of calm satisfaction which she has derived from 
 the same source. 
 
 My heart was so entirely possessed with the senti- 
 ments which this occasion suggested, that I found my- 
 
LETTER XXXVL 97 
 
 self raised into a sort of poetical enthusiasm; and I 
 could not forbear expressing, in verse, what I have often 
 said in prose, of the dear author of my most valuable en- 
 joyments. As I imagined Teraminta would, by this 
 time, be with you, I had a view to her harpsichord in the 
 composition, and I desire you would let her know, I hope 
 she will shew me, at my return, to what advantage the 
 most ordinary numbers will appear, when judiciously ac- 
 companied with a fine voice and instrument. 
 
 I must not forget to tell you, it was in your favourite 
 grove, which we have so often traversed together, that I 
 indulged myself in these pleasing reveries ; as it was not, 
 you are to suppose, without having first invoked the 
 Genius of the place, and called upon the Muses in due 
 form, that I broke out in the fallowing rhapsody : 
 
 ODE FOR MUSICK. 
 
 AIR I. 
 
 Thrice has the circling earth, swift pacing, yuiij 
 And thrice again around the sun, 
 Since first the white-rob'd priest, with sacred hand, 
 Sweet union ! join'd us hand in hand. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 An heav'n, and eVry friendly pow'r, 
 Approv'd the vew and bless'd the hour. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 What though in silence sacred Hymen trod, 
 $Tor lyre proclaim'd, nor garland crown'd the God ; 
 What though nor feast nor revel dance was there, 
 (Vain pomp of joy the happy well may spare !) 
 Yet Love unfeign'd, and conscious Honour, led 
 The spotless virgin to the bridal bed ; 
 Rich, though despoiVd of all her little store ; 
 For who shall seize fair virtue's better dow'r ? 
 
 9 
 
98 LETTER XXXV. 
 
 AIR II. 
 
 Blest with sense, with temper blqst, 
 
 Wisdom o'er thy lips presides ; 
 Virtue guards thy gen'rous breast, 
 
 Kindness all thy actions guides. 
 
 AIR III. 
 
 Ev'ry home-felt bliss is mine, 
 Ev'ry matron grace is thine ; 
 Chaste deportment, artless mien, 
 Converse sweet, and heart serene. 
 
 Sinks my soul with gloomy pain ? 
 See, she smiles !— 'tis joy again I 
 Swells a passion in my breast ? 
 Hark, she speaks ! and all is rest. 
 
 Oft as clouds my paths o'erspread 
 (Doubtful where my steps should tread) 
 She, with judgment's steady ray, 
 Marks, and smooths, the better way. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Chief amongst ten thousand she, 
 Worthy, sacred Hymen ! thee. 
 
 While such are the sentiments which I entertain of 
 Cleora, can I find myself obliged to be thus distant fro 
 her, without the highest regret ? The truth, believe me 
 is, though both the company and the scene wherein I am 
 engaged are extremely agreeable, yet I find a vacancy in 
 my happiness, which none but you can fill up. Surely 
 those who have recommended these little separations as 
 necessary to revive the languor of the married state, have 
 ill understood its most refined gratifications : there is no 
 satiety in the mutual exchange of tender offices. 
 
 There seems to have been a time when a happiness of 
 this kind was considered as the highest glory, as well as 
 the supreme blessing of human life. I remember, when 
 
LETTER XXXVI. 99 
 
 I was in Italy, to have seen several conjugal inscriptions 
 upon the sepulchral monuments of ancient Rome, which, 
 instead of running out into a pompous panegyrick upon 
 the virtues of the deceased, mentioned singly, as the most 
 significant of encomiums, how many years the parties 
 had lived together in full and uninterrupted harmony. — 
 The Romans, indeed, in this, as in many other instances, 
 afford the most remarkable examples ; and it is an ob- 
 servation of one of their writers, that, notwithstanding 
 divorces might very easily be obtained among them, their 
 republick had subsisted many centuries, before there was a 
 single instance of that privilege ever having been exerted. 
 Thus, my Cleora, you see, however unfashionable I may 
 appear in the present generation, I might have been kept 
 in countenance in a former ; and by those too who had 
 as much true gallantry and good sense as one usually 
 meets with in this. But affections which are founded in 
 truth and nature stand not in need of any precedent to 
 support them ; and I esteem it my honour no less than 
 my happiness, that I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXXVI. 
 
 TO CLYTANDER. 
 
 Did you imagine I was really in earnest, when I talked 
 of quitting ***, and withdrawing from those gilded pros- 
 pects which ambition had once so strongly set in my 
 view ? But my vows, you see, are not in the number of 
 those which are made to be broken ; for the retreat I 
 had long meditated is now, at last, happily executed. To 
 say truth, my friend, the longer I lived in the high scenes 
 of action, the more I was convinced that nature had not 
 
100 LETTER XXXVI. 
 
 tbrmed me for bearing a part in them ; and though I was 
 once so unexperienced in the ways of the world, as to be- 
 Here T had talents, as I was sure I had inclination, to 
 serve my country, yet every day's conversation contri- 
 buted to wean me, by degrees, from that flattering delusion. 
 
 How, indeed, could a man hope to render himself ac- 
 ceptable to the various parties which divide our nation, 
 who professes it as his principle that there is no striking 
 wholly into the measures of any, without renouncing ei- 
 ther one's sense or one's integrity ? and yet, as the world 
 is at present constituted, it is scarce possible, I fear, to 
 do any good in one's generation, (in publick life I mean) 
 without listing under some or other of those various ban- 
 ners which distinguish the several corps in these our po- 
 litical warfares. To those, therefore, who may have cu- 
 riosity enough to enter into my concerns, and ask a rea- 
 son for my quitting the town, I answer, in the words of 
 the historian, Civitat is nwrum taedet pigetque. — But I am 
 wandering from the purpose of my letter, which was not 
 so much to justify my retreat, as to incline you to follow 
 me into it : to follow me, I mean, as a visiter only ; for I 
 love my country too well to call you off from those great 
 services you are capable of doing her. 
 
 I have pitched my tent upon a spot which I am per- 
 suaded will not displease you. My villa (if you will allow 
 me to call by that fine name, what, in truth, is no better 
 than a neat farm-house,) is situated upon a gentle rise, 
 which commands a short, though agreeable, view of about 
 three miles in circumference. This is bounded on the 
 north by a ridge of hills, which afford me at once both a 
 secure shelter and a beautiful prospect ; for they are as 
 well cultivated as the most fertile valleys. In the front 
 of my house, which stands south-east, I have a view of 
 the river that runs, at the distance of somewhat less thaa 
 
LETTER XXXVI. 101 
 
 a quarter of a mile, at the end of my grounds, and, after 
 making several windings and turnings, seems to lose itself 
 at the foot of those hills I just now mentioned. As for 
 my garden, I am obliged to nature for its chief beauties ; 
 having no other (except a small spot which I have allotted 
 for the purposes of my table) but what the fields and 
 meadows afford. These, however, I have embellished 
 with some care, having intermixed among the hedges all 
 the several sorts of flowering shrubs. 
 
 But I must not forget to mention what I look upon to 
 be the principal ornament of the place ; as, indeed, I do 
 not recollect to have seen any thing of the kind in our 
 English plantations. I have covered a small spot with 
 different sorts of ever-greens, many of which are of a 
 species not very usual in our country. This little planta- 
 tion I have branched out into various labyrinth-walks, 
 which are all terminated by a small temple in the centre. 
 I have a double advantage from this artificial wood ; for 
 it not only affords me a very shady retreat in summer, 
 but, as it is situated opposite to my library, supplies me 
 in winter with a perspective of the most agreeable ver- 
 dure imaginable. 
 
 What heightens ;my relish of this retirement, is the 
 company of my Cleora; as, indeed, many of the best im- 
 provements I have made in it are owing to hints which I 
 have received from her exquisite taste and judgment. — 
 She will rejoice to receive you as her guest here, and has 
 given it me in charge to remind you, that you have pro- 
 mised to be so. As the business of parliament is now 
 drawing to a conclusion, I may urge this to you without 
 any imputation upon my patriotism ; (hough, at the same 
 time, I must add, I make a very considerable sacrifice of 
 private interest, whenever I resign you for the sake of the 
 publick. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 9^ 
 
102 
 
 LETTER XXXVH. 
 
 TO HORTENSIUS. 
 
 Are you aware, Hortensius, how far I may mislead you, 
 when you are willing to resign yourself to my guidance, 
 through the regions of criticism ? Remember, however, 
 that I take the lead in these paths, not in confidence of 
 my own superiour knowledge of them, but in compliance 
 with a request, which I never yet knew how to refuse. — 
 In short, Hortensius, I give you my sentiments, because 
 it is my sentiments you require : but I give them, at the 
 same time, rather as doubts than decisions. 
 
 After having thus acknowledged my insufficiency for 
 the office you have assigned me, I will venture to confess 
 that the poet who has gained over your approbation, has 
 been far less successful with mine. I have ever thought, 
 with a very celebrated modern writer, that 
 
 Xe vers le mieux rempli, la plus noble pensee, 
 Ne peut plaire a l'esprit quand l'oreille est blessee. 
 
 hoileaq. 
 
 Thus, though I admit there is both wit in the raillery, 
 and strength in the sentiments, of your friend's moral 
 epistle, it by no means falls in with those notions I have 
 formed to myself concerning the essential requisites in 
 compositions of this kind. He seems, indeed, to have 
 widely deviated from the model he professes to have had 
 in view, and is no more like Horace, than Hyperion to a 
 Satyr. His deficiency in point of versification, not to 
 mention his want of elegance in the general manner of bis 
 poem, is sufficient to destroy the pretended resemblance. 
 Nothing, in truth, can be more absurd, than to write m 
 
LETTER XXXVII. 103 
 
 pseiical measure, and yet neglect fcarmony \ as, of all the 
 kinds of false style, that which is neither prose nor verse, 
 but I know not what inartificial combination of powerless 
 words bordered with rhyme, is far, surely, the most insuf- 
 ferable. 
 
 But you are of opinion, I perceive (and it is an opinion 
 in which you are not singular) that a negligence of this kind 
 may be justified by the authority of the Roman satirist : 
 yet surely those who entertain that notion, have not tho- 
 roughly attended either to the precepts or the practice of 
 Horace. He has attributed, I confess, his satirical compo- 
 sition to the inspiration of a certain Muse, whom he dis- 
 tinguishes by the title of the Musapedestris, and it is this 
 expression which seems to hare misled the generality of his 
 imitators. But though he will not allow her to fly, he bf 
 no means intends she should creep : on the contrary, it may 
 be said of the Muse of Horace, as of the Eve of Milton, 
 that 
 
 Grace is in all her steps. 
 
 That this was the idea which Horace himself had of her, 
 is evident, not only from the general air which prevails 
 in his satires and epistles, but from several express decla- 
 rations, which he lets fall in his progress through them. 
 Even when he speaks of her in his greatest fits of modesty, 
 and describes her as exhibited in his own moral writings, he 
 particularly insists upon the ease and harmony of her 
 motions. Though he humbly disclaims, indeed, all pre- 
 tensions to the higher poetry, the acer spiritus et vis, 
 as he calls it ; he represents his style as J*eing governed 
 by the tempora certa modosque, as flowing with a certain 
 regular and agreeable cadence. Accordingly, we find 
 him particularly condemning his predecessor, Lucilius, 
 for the dissonance of his numbers ; and he professes to 
 
104 LETTER XXVH. 
 
 have made the experiment, whether the same kind of 
 moral subject might not be treated in more soft and easy- 
 measures : 
 
 Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentet 
 Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negarit 
 Versiculos natura magis factos, et euntes 
 Mollius ? 
 
 The truth is, a tuneful cadence is the single prerogative 
 of poetry which he pretends to claim to his writings of this 
 kind : and so far is he from thinking it unessential, that he 
 acknowledges it as the only separation which distinguishes 
 them from prose. If that were once to be broken down, 
 and the musical order of his words destroyed ; there would 
 not, he tells us, be the least appearance of poetry re- 
 maining : 
 
 Non 
 
 Invenias etiam disjecti membra poetae. 
 
 However, when he delivers himself in this humble strain, 
 he is not, you will observe, sketching out a plan of this 
 species of poetry in general, but speaking merely of his 
 own performances in particular. His demands rise much 
 higher, when he informs us what he expects of those, 
 who would succeed in compositions of this moral kind. 
 He then not only requires flowing numbers, but an ex- 
 pression concise and unincumbered; wit, exerted with 
 good breeding, and managed with reserve ,• as, upon some 
 occasions, the sentiments may be enforced with all the 
 strength of eloquence and poetry ; and though, in some 
 parts, the piece may appear with a more serious and 
 solemn cast of colouring, yet, upon the whole, he tells 
 us, it must be lively and riant. This I take to be his 
 meaning in the following passage : 
 
LETTER XXXVII. 105 
 
 Est brevitate opus, ut currat senteatia, neu se 
 Impediat verbis lassas oneraatibus aures ; 
 Et serinone opus est, mod6 tristi, saep£ joeoso, 
 Defendente vicem modd rhetoris, atque poetae ; 
 Interdura urbani, parcentis viribus, atque 
 Exteuuantis eas consulto. 
 
 Such, then, was the notion which Horace had of this kind 
 of writing. And if there is any propriety in these his 
 rules, if they are founded on the truth of taste and art ; 
 I fear the performance in question^ with numberless others 
 of the same stamp, (which have not, however, wanted ad- 
 mirers) must inevitably stand condemned. The truth of 
 it is, most of the pieces which are usually produced upon 
 this plan, rather give one an image of Lucilius, than of 
 Horace : the authors of them seem to mistake the awk- 
 ward negligence of the favourite of Scipio, for the easy 
 air of the friend of Maecenas, 
 
 You will still tell me, perhaps, that the example of 
 Horace himself is an unanswerable objection to the no- 
 tion I have embraced ; as there are numberless lines in 
 his satires and epistles, where the versification is evident- 
 ly neglected, But are you sure, Hortensius, that those 
 lines which sound so unharmonious to a modern ear, had 
 the same effect upon a Roman one ? For myself, at least, 
 I am much inclined to believe the contrary ; and it seems 
 highly incredible, that he who had ventured to censure 
 Lucilius for the uncouthness of his numbers, should him- 
 self be notoriously guilty of the very fault, against 
 which he so strongly exclaims. Most certain it is, that 
 the delicacy of the ancients, with respect to numbers, was 
 far superiour to any thing that modern taste can pretend 
 to ; and that they discovered differences, which are to 
 us absolutely imperceptible. To mention only one re- 
 markable instance : A very ancient writer has observed 
 upon the following verse in Virgil, 
 
106 LETTER XXXVII. 
 
 Arma, virumque cano, Troja qui primus ab oris— 
 
 that if, instead of primus, we were to pronounce it primis, 
 (is being long, and us short) the entire harmony of the 
 line would be destroyed. But whose ear is now so ex- 
 quisitely sensible, as to perceive the distinction between 
 those two quantities ? Some refinement of this kind 
 might probably give musick to those lines in Horace, 
 which now seem so untuneable. 
 
 In subjects of this nature, it is not possible, perhaps, 
 to express one's ideas in any very precise and determi- 
 nate manner. I will only, therefore, in general, observe, 
 with respect to the requisite style of these performan- 
 ces, that it consists in a natural ease of expression, an 
 elegant familiarity of phrase, which, though formed of 
 the most usual terms of language, has yet a grace and 
 energy, no less striking than that of a more elevated dic- 
 tion. There is a certain lively colouring peculiar to 
 compositions in this way, which, without being so bright 
 and glowing as is necessary for the higher poetry, is, 
 nevertheless, equally removed from whatever appears 
 harsh and dry. But particular instances will, perhaps, 
 better illustrate my meaning, than any thing I can farther 
 say to explain it. There is scarce a line in the moral 
 epistles of Mr. Pope, which might not be produced for 
 this purpose. I choose, however, to lay before you the 
 following verses, not as preferring them to many others 
 which might be quoted from that inimitable satirist; 
 but as they afford me an opportunity of comparing them 
 with a version of the same original lines, of which they 
 are an imitation ; and, by that means, of shewing you, 
 at one view, what I conceive is, and is not, in the true man- 
 ner of Horace : . 
 

 LETTER XXXVII. 107 
 
 Peace Is my dear delight— not Fleury's more ; 
 But touch me, and no minister so sore : 
 Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time, 
 Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme ; 
 Sacred to ridicule his whole life long, 
 And the sad burthen of some merry song. 
 
 I will refer you to your own memory for the Latin pas- 
 sage, from whence Mr. Pope has taken the general hint 
 of these verses ; and content myself with adding a trans- 
 lation of the lines from Horace by another hand : 
 
 Behold me blameless bard, how fond of peace ! 
 But he who hurts me, (nay, I will be heard) 
 Had better take a lion by the beard ; 
 His eyes shall weep the folly of his tongue^ 
 By laughing crowds in rueful ballad «ung. 
 
 There is a strength and spirit in the former of these pas- 
 sages, and a flatness and languor in the latter, which 
 cannot fail of being discovered by every reader of the 
 least delicacy of discernment j and yet the words which 
 compose them both are equally sounding and significant. 
 The rules then, which I just now mentioned from Ho- 
 race, will point out the real cause of the different effects 
 which these two passages produce in our minds ; as the 
 passages themselves will serve to confirm the truth and 
 justice of the rules. In the lines from Mr. Pope, one of 
 the principal beauties will be found to consist in the 
 shortness of the expression ; whereas, the sentiments in 
 the other are too much incumbered with words. Thus, 
 for instance, 
 
 Peace is my dear delight, 
 is pleasing because it is concise ; as 
 
 Behold me blameless bard, how fond of peace I 
 
108 LETTER XXXVUI. 
 
 is, in comparison of the former, the verba lassas oneran* 
 tia aures. Another distinguishing perfection in the imi- 
 tator of Horace, is that spirit of gayety which he has dif- 
 fused through these lines, not to mention those happy, 
 though familiar, images of sliding into verse, and hitching 
 in a rhyme : which can never he sufficiently admired.— 
 But the translator, on the contrary, has cast too serious 
 an air over his numbers, and appears with an emotion and 
 earnestness that disappoint the force of his satire : 
 
 Kay, I will be heard, 
 
 has the mien of a man in a passion ; and 
 
 His eyes shall weep the folly of his tongue t 
 
 though a good line in itself, is much too solemn and tra- 
 gical for the undisturbed pleasantry of Horace. 
 
 But I need not enter more minutely into an examina- 
 tion of those passages. The general hints I have thrown 
 out in this letter will suffice to shew you wherein I ima- 
 gine the true manner of Horace consists. And after all, 
 perhaps, it can no more be explained, than acquired, by 
 rules of art. It is what true genius can only execute, and 
 just taste alone discover. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXXVIII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Nov. 7, 1730. 
 Your admired poet, I remember, somewhere lays it 
 down as a maxim, that 
 
 The proper study of mankind is man. 
 
 There cannot, indeed, be a more useful, nor, one should 
 imagine, a more easy science : so many lessons of this 
 
LETTER XXXVin. 109 
 
 kind are every moment forcing themselves upon our obser- 
 vation, that it should seem scarce possible not to be well 
 acquainted with the various turns and dispositions of the 
 human heart. And yet there are so few who are really 
 adepts in this article, that to say of a man, he knows the 
 world, is generally esteemed a compliment of the most 
 significant kind. 
 
 The reason, perhaps, of the general ignorance which 
 prevails in this sort of knowledge, may arise from our 
 judging too much by universal principles. Whereas 
 there is a wonderful disparity in mankind, and number- 
 less characters exist which cannot properly be reduced 
 to any regular and fixed standard. Monsieur Paschal 
 observes, that the greater sagacity any man possesses, the 
 more originals he will discern among his species : as it is 
 the remark of Sir William Temple, that no nation under 
 the sun abounds with so many as our own. Plutarch, if 
 I remember right, is of opinion, that there is a wider dif- 
 ference between the individuals of our own kind, than 
 what is observable between creatures of a separate order : 
 while Montaigne (who seems to have known human na- 
 ture perfectly well) supposes the distance to be still more 
 remote, and asserts that the distinction is much greater 
 between man and man, than between man and beast. 
 
 The comick writers have not, I think, taken all the 
 advantage they might of this infinite diversity of humour 
 in the human race. A judicious observer of the world 
 might single out abundant materials for ridicule, without 
 having recourse to those worn-out characters which are for 
 ever returning upon the stage. If I were acquainted with 
 any genius in this class of writers, I think I could furnish 
 him with an original, which, if artfully represented, and 
 connected with proper incidents, might be very success- 
 10 
 
110 LETTER XXXVILL 
 
 fully introduced into comedy. The person I have in view 
 is my neighbour Stilotes. 
 
 Stilotes, in his youth, was esteemed to have good sense, 
 and a tolerable taste for letters ; as he gained some repu- 
 tation at the university in the exercises usual at that 
 place. But as soon as he was freed from the restraint of 
 tutors, the natural restlessness of his temper broke out, 
 and he has never, from that time to this, applied himself 
 for half an hour together to any single pursuit. He is ex- 
 tremely active in his disposition ; but his whole life is one 
 incessant whirl of trifles. He rises, perhaps, with a full 
 intent of amusing himself all the morning with his gun: 
 but before he has got half the length of a field, he recol- 
 lects that he owes a visit, which he must instantly pay : 
 accordingly his horse is saddled, and he sets out. But in 
 his way he remembers that he has not given proper or- 
 ders about such a flower, and he must absolutely return, 
 or the whole economy of his nursery will be ruined. — 
 Thus, in whatever action you find him engaged, you may 
 be sure it is the very reverse of what he proposed. Yet 
 with all this quickness of transition and vivacity of spi- 
 rits, he is so indolent in every thing which has the air of 
 business, that he is at least two or three months before 
 he can persuade himself to open any letter he receives : 
 and, from the same disposition, he has suffered the divi- 
 dends of his stocks to run on for many years, without re- 
 ceiving a shilling of the interest. Stilotes is possessed of 
 an estate in Dorsetshire, but that being the place where 
 his chief business lies, he chooses constantly to reside 
 with a friend near London. This person submits to his 
 humour and his company, in hopes that Stilotes will con- 
 sider him in his will : but it is more than possible that 
 he will never endure the fatigue of signing one. How- 
 ever, having here every thing provided for him but 
 
LETTER XXXIX. Ill 
 
 clothes and pocket-money, he lives perfectly to his satis- 
 faction, in full employment without any real business ; 
 and while those who look after his estate take care to 
 supply him with sufficient to answer those two articles, 
 he is entirely unconcerned as to all the rest: though, 
 when he is disposed to appear more than ordinarily im- 
 portant, he will gravely harangue upon the roguery of 
 stewards, and complain that his rents will scarce main* 
 lain him in powder and shot half the partridge season. — 
 In short, Stilotes is one of the most extraordinary com- 
 pounds of indolence and activity that I ever met with; 
 and, as I know you have a taste for curiosities, I present 
 you with his character as a rarity that merits a place in 
 vour collection. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXXIX. 
 
 TO PHIDIPPUS. 
 
 } Tis well, my friend, that the age of transformation is 
 uo more ; otherwise I should tremble for your severe 
 attack upon the Muses, and expect to see the story of 
 your Metamorphosis embellish the poetical miracles of 
 some modern Ovid. But it is long since the fate of the 
 Pierides has gained any credit in the world, and you may 
 now, in full security, contemn the divinities of Parnassus, 
 and speak irreverently of the daughters of Jove himself. 
 You see, nevertheless, how highly the ancients conceived 
 of them, when they thus represented them as the off- 
 spring of the great father of gods and men. You reject, 
 I know, this article of the heathen creed : but I may 
 •venture, however, to assert, that philosophy will confirm 
 what fable has thus invented, and that the Muses are, in 
 strict truth, of heavenly extraction, 
 
112 LETTER XXXIX. 
 
 The charms of the- fine arts are, indeed, literally de- 
 rived from the author of all nature, and founded in the 
 original frame and constitution of the human mind. Ac- 
 cordingly, the general principles of taste are common to 
 our whole species, and arise from that internal sense of 
 beauty which every man, in some degree at least, evi- 
 dently possesses. No rational mind can be so wholly 
 void of all perceptions of this sort, as to be capable of 
 contemplating the various objects that surround him, with 
 one equal coldness and indifference. There are certain 
 forms which must necessarily fill the soul with agreeable 
 ideas ; and she is instantly determined in her approbation 
 of them, previous to all reasonings concerning their use 
 and convenience. It is upon these general principles that 
 what is called fine taste in the arts is founded ; and, con- 
 sequently, is by no means so precarious and unsettled an 
 idea as you choose to describe it. The truth is, taste is 
 nothing more than this universal sense of beauty, rendered 
 more exquisite by genius, and more correct by cultivation : 
 and it is from the simple and original ideas of this sort, that 
 the mind learns to form her judgment of the higher and 
 more complex kinds. Accordingly, the whole circle of the 
 imitative and oratorical arts is governed by the same 
 general rules of criticism ; and to prove the certainty of 
 these with respect to any one of them, is to establish their 
 validity with regard to all the rest. I will, therefore, con- 
 sider the criterion of taste in relation only to fine writing. 
 Each species of composition has its distinct perfections ; 
 and it would require a much larger compass than a letter 
 affords, to prove their respective beauties to be derived 
 from truth and nature ; and consequently reducible to a 
 regular and precise standard. I will only mention, there- 
 fore, those general properties which are essential to them 
 all, and without which they must necessarily be defective 
 in their several kinds. These, I think, may be compre- 
 
LETTER XXXIX. 113 
 
 bended under uniformity in the designs, variety and 
 resemblance in the metaphors and similitudes, together 
 with propriety and harmony in the diction. Now some 
 or all of these qualities constantly attend our ideas of 
 beauty, and necessarily raise that agreeable perception of 
 the mind, in what object soever they appear. The charms 
 of fine composition, then, are so far from existing only in 
 the heated imagination of an enthusiastick admirer, that 
 they result from the constitution of nature herself. And, 
 perhaps, the principles of criticism are as certain and 
 indisputable even as those of the mathematicks. Thus, 
 for instance, that order is preferable to confusion, that 
 harmony is more pleasing than dissonance, with some few 
 other axioms upon which the science is built, are truths 
 which strike at once upon the mind with the same force ot 
 conviction, as that the whole is greater than any of its 
 parts, or that, if from equals you take away equals, the 
 remainder will be equal. And, in both cases, the proposi- 
 tions which rest upon these plain and obvious maxims, seem 
 equally capable of the same evidence of demonstration. 
 
 But as every intellectual as well as animal faculty is 
 improved and strengthened by exercise, the more the soul 
 exerts this her internal sense of beauty upon any particular 
 object, the more she will enlarge and refine her relish 
 of that peculiar species. For this reason, the works of 
 those great masters, whose performances have been long 
 and generally admired, supply a farther criterion of fine 
 taste, equally fixed and certain as that which is immediate- 
 ly derived from nature herself. The truth is, fine writing 
 is only the art of raising agreeable sensations of the most 
 intellectual kind ; and, therefore, as by examining those 
 original forms which are adapted to awaken this percep- 
 tion in the mind, we learn what those qualities are which 
 constitute beauty in general ; so, by observing the pecu- 
 10 * 
 
114 LETTER XXXIX. 
 
 liar construction of those compositions of genius which 
 have always pleased, we perfect our idea of fine writing in 
 particular. It is this united approbation, in persons of 
 different ages, and of various characters and languages, that 
 Longinus has made the test of the true sublime ; and he 
 might with equal justice have extended the same criteri- 
 on to all the infer iour excellencies of elegant composition. 
 Thus, the deference paid to the performances of the great 
 masters of antiquity, is fixed upon just and solid reasons : 
 it is not because Aristotle and Horace have given us the 
 rules of criticism, that we submit to their authority ; it 
 is because those rules are derived from works which have 
 been distinguished by the uninterrupted admiration of all 
 the more improved part of mankind, from their earliest 
 appearance down to this present hour. For whatever, 
 through a long series of ages, has been universally esteemed 
 as beautiful, cannot but be conformable to our just and 
 natural ideas of beauty. 
 
 The opposition, however, which sometimes divides the 
 opinions of those whose judgments may be supposed equal 
 and perfect, is urged as a powerful objection against the 
 reality of a fixed canon of criticism : it is a proof, you 
 think, that, after all which can be said of fine taste, it 
 must ultimately be resolved into the peculiar relish of 
 each individual. But this diversity of sentiments will 
 not, of itself, destroy the evidence of the criterion ; since 
 the same effect may be produced by numberless other 
 causes. A thousand accidental circumstances may con- 
 cur in counteracting tbe force of the rule, even allowing 
 it to be ever so fixed and invariable, when left in its free 
 and uninfluenced state. Not to mention that false bias 
 which party or personal dislike may fix upon the mind, 
 the most unprejudiced critick will find it difficult to disen- 
 gage himself entirely from those partial affections in fa- 
 
LETTER XXXIX. 115 
 
 vour of particular beauties, to which either the general 
 course of his studies, or the peculiar cast of his temper, 
 may have rendered him most sensible. But as perfec- 
 tion, in any works of genius, results from the united 
 beauty and propriety of its several distinct parts ; and as 
 it is impossible that any human composition should pos- 
 sess all those qualities in their highest and most sovereign 
 degree ; the mind, when she pronounces judgment upon 
 any piece of this sort, is apt to decide of its merit, as 
 those circumstances which she most admires either pre- 
 vail or are deficient. Thus, for instance, the excellency 
 of the Roman masters, in_ painting, consists in beauty of 
 design, nobleness of attitude, and delicacy of expression ; 
 but the charms of good colouring are wanting. On the 
 contrary, the Venetian school is said to have neglected 
 design a little too much ; but at the same time has been 
 more attentive to the grace and harmony of well-disposed 
 lights and shades. Now it will be admitted, by all ad- 
 mirers of this noble art, that no composition of the pencil 
 can be perfect, where either of these qualities is absent ; 
 yet the most accomplished judge may be so particularly 
 struck with one or other of these excellencies, in prefer- 
 ence to the rest, as to be influenced in his censure or ap- 
 plause of the whole tablature by the predominancy or de- 
 ficiency of his favourite beauty. Something of this kind 
 (where the meaner prejudices do not operate) is ever, I 
 am persuaded, the occasion of that diversity of sentences 
 which we occasionally hear pronounced, by the most im- 
 proved judges, on the same piece. But this only shews 
 that much caution is necessary to give a fine taste its full 
 and unobstructed effect ; not that it is in itself uncertain 
 and precarious. I am, &c. 
 
116 
 
 LETTER XL. 
 
 TO PALAMEDES. 
 
 Your resolution to decline those overtures of acquaint- 
 ance which Mezentius, it seems, has lately made to you, is 
 agreeable to the refined principles which have ever in- 
 fluenced your conduct. A man of your elegant notions 
 of integrity will observe the same delicacy with respect 
 to his companions, as Caesar did with regard to his wife, 
 and refuse all commerce with persons even but of sus- 
 pected honour. It would not, indeed, be doing justice to 
 Mezentius, to represent him in that number : for though 
 his hypocrisy has preserved to him some few friends, and 
 his immense wealth draws after him many followers, the 
 world in general are hj no means divided in their senti- 
 ments concerning him. 
 
 But, whilst you can have his picture from so many bet- 
 ter hands, why are you desirous of seeing it by mine? 
 It is a painful employment to contemplate human nature 
 in its deformities ; as there is nothing, perhaps, more dif- 
 ficult, than to execute a portrait of the characteristical 
 kind with strength and spirit. However, since you have 
 assigned me the task, I do not think myself at liberty to 
 refuse it : especially as it is your interest to see him de- 
 lineated in his true form. 
 
 Mezentius, with the designs and artifice of a Catiline, 
 affects the integrity and patriotism of a Cato. Liberty, 
 justice, and honour, are words which he knows perfectly 
 well how to apply with address ; and having them always 
 ready, upon proper occasions, he conceals the blackest 
 purposes under the fairest appearances. For void, as In 
 truth he is, of every worthy principle, he has too much 
 policy not to pretend to the noblest ; well knowing, that 
 
LETTER XL. 11? 
 
 counterfeit virtues are the most successful vices. It is by 
 arts of this kind that, notwithstanding he has shewn him- 
 self unrestrained by the most sacred engagements of so- 
 ciety, and uninfluenced by the most tender affections of 
 nature, he has still been able to retain some degree of 
 credit in the world ; for he never sacrifices his honour to 
 his interest, that he does not, in some less considerable, 
 but more open instance, make a concession of his in- 
 terest to Ins honour ; and thus, while he sinks his charac- 
 ter on one side, very artfully raises it on the other. Ac- 
 cordingly, under pretence of the most scrupulous delica- 
 cy of conscience, he lately resigned a post which he held 
 under my lord Godolphin ; when, at the same time, he 
 was endeavouring, by the most shameless artifices and 
 evasions, to deceive and defraud a friend of mine in one 
 of the most solemn and important transactions that can 
 pass between man and man. 
 
 But will you not suspect that I am describing a phan- 
 tom of my own imagination, when I tell you, after this, 
 that he has erected himself into a reformer of manners, 
 and is so injudiciously officious as to draw the inquiry of 
 the world upon his own morals, by attempting to expose 
 the defects of others ? A man who ventures publickly to 
 point out the blemishes of his contemporaries, should, at 
 least, be free from any uncommon stain himself, and 
 have nothing remarkably dark in the complexion of his 
 own private character. But Mezentius, not satisfied 
 with being vicious, has at length determined to be ridicu- 
 lous ; and, after having wretchedly squandered his youth 
 and his patrimony in riot and dissoluteness, is contempti- 
 bly mispending his old age in measuring impotent sylla- 
 bles, and dealing out pointless abuse. Farewell. I am? 
 &c. 
 
118 
 
 LETTER XLL 
 
 TO ORONTES. 
 
 March 10, 1?3B. 
 
 What haughty Sacharissa has put you out of humour 
 with her whole sex ? For it is some disappointment, I sus- 
 pect, of the tender kind, that has thus sharpened the 
 edge of your satire, and pointed its invective against the 
 fairer half of our species. You were not mistaken, how* 
 ever, when you supposed I should prove no convert to 
 your doctrine ; but rise up as an advocate, where I pro- 
 fess myself an admirer. I am not, 'tis true, altogether of 
 old Montaigne's opinion, that the souls of both sexes sont 
 jettez (as he expresses it) en mesme monies : on the con- 
 trary, I am willing enough to join with you in thinking 
 that they may be wrought off from different models. Yet, 
 the casts may be equally perfect, though it should be al- 
 lowed that they are essentially different. Nature, it is 
 certain, has traced out a separate course of action for the 
 two sexes ; and as they are appointed to distinct offices 
 of life, it is not improbable that there may be something 
 distinct likewise in the frame of their minds ; that there 
 may be a kind of sex in the very soul. 
 
 I cannot, therefore but wonder that Plato should have 
 thought it reasonable to admit them into an equal share o* 
 the dignities and offices of his imaginary commonwealth ; 
 and that the wisdom of the ancient Egyptians should have so 
 strangely inverted the evident intentions of providence, as 
 to confine the men to domestick affairs, whilst the women, 
 it is said, were engaged abroad in the active and laborious 
 scenes of business. History, it must be owned, will sup- 
 ply some few female instances of all the most masculine 
 virtues : but appearances of that extraordinary kind are 
 too uncommon, to support the notion of a general equality 
 in the natural powers of their minds. 
 
LETTER XLI. 119 
 
 Thus much, however, seems evident, that there are 
 certain moral boundaries which Nature has drawn between 
 the two sexes, and that neither of them can pass over 
 the limits of the other, without equally deviating from 
 the beauty and decorum of their respective characters : 
 Boadicea, in armour, is to me, at least, as extravagant a 
 sight as Achilles in petticoats. 
 
 In determining, therefore, the comparative merit of the 
 two sexes, it is no derogation from female excellency, that 
 it differs in kind from that which distinguishes the male 
 part of our species. And if, in general, it shall be found, 
 (what, upon an impartial inquiry, I believe, will moskcer- 
 tainly be found) that women fill up their appointed circle 
 of action with greater regularity and dignity than men, 
 the claim of preference cannot justly be decided in our 
 favour. In the prudential and economical part of life, 
 I think it undeniable that they rise far above us. And 
 if true fortitude of mind is best discovered by a cheerful 
 resignation to the measures of Providence, we shall not 
 find reason, perhaps, to claim that most singular of 
 the human virtues as our peculiar privilege. There are 
 numbers of the other sex, who, from the natural delicacy 
 of their constitution, pass through one continued scene 
 of suffering, from their cradles to their graves, with 
 a firmness of resolution that would deserve so many 
 statues to be erected to their memories, if heroism were 
 not estimated more by the splendour than the merit of 
 actions. 
 
 But, whatever real difference there may be between 
 the moral or intellectual powers of the male and female 
 mind, Nature does not seem to have marked the distinc- 
 tion so strongly as our vanity is willing to imagine : and, 
 after all, perhaps, education will be found to constitute 
 the principal superiority. It must be acknowledged, at 
 
120 LETTER XLL 
 
 least, that in this article we have every advantage over 
 the softer sex, that art and industry can possibly secure 
 to us . The most animating examples of Greece and Rome 
 are set before us, as early as we are capable of any obser- 
 vation ; and the noblest compositions of the ancients are 
 given into our hands, almost as soon as we have strength 
 to hold them : while the employments of the other sex, at 
 the same period of life, are generally the reverse of every 
 thing that can open and enlarge their minds, or fill them 
 with just and rational notions. The truth of it is, female 
 education is so much worse than none, as it is better to 
 leave the mind to its natural and uninstructed suggestions, 
 than to lead it into false pursuits, and contract its views 
 by turning them upon the lowest and most trifling objects. 
 We seem, indeed, by the manner in which we suffer the 
 youth of that sex to be trained, to consider women agree- 
 ably to the opinion of certain Mahometan doctors, and 
 treat them as if we believed they have no souls : why else 
 are they 
 
 Bred only and completed to the taste 
 
 Of lustful appetence, to sing, to dance, 
 
 To dress, and troule the tongue^ and roll the eye ? 
 
 Milton, 
 
 -v This strange neglect of cultivating the female mind, 
 can hardly be allowed as good policy, when it is consider- 
 ed how much the interest of society is concerned in the 
 rectitude of their understandings. That season of every 
 man's life which is most susceptible of the strongest im- 
 pressions, is necessarily under female direction ; as there 
 are few instances, perhaps, in which that sex is not one of 
 the secret springs which regulates the most important 
 movements of private or publick transactions. What 
 Cato observed of his countrymen, is, in one respect, true 
 of every nation under the sun : "The Romans," said he, 
 
LETTER XLII. 121 
 
 " govern the world, but it is the women that govern the 
 «* Romans." Let not, however, a certain pretended Cato 
 of your acquaintance take occasion, from this maxim, to 
 insult, a second time, that innocence he has so often injured: 
 for I will tell him another maxim as true as the former, 
 that " there are circumstances wherein no woman has 
 " power enough to control a man of spirit." 
 
 If it be true, then, (as true beyond all peradventure it 
 is) that female influence is thus extensive ; nothing, cer- 
 tainly, can be of more importance, than to give it a pro- 
 per tendency, by the assistance of a well directed educa- 
 tion. Far am I from recommending any attempts to ren- 
 der women learned ; yet, surely, it is necessary they 
 should be raised above ignorance. Such a general tinc- 
 ture of the most useful sciences, as may serve to free the 
 mind from vulgar prejudices, and give it a relish for the 
 rational exercise of its powers, might very justly enter 
 into the plan of female erudition. That sex might be 
 taught to turn the course of their reflections into a proper 
 and advantageous channel, without any danger of render- 
 ing them too elevated for the feminine duties of life. In 
 a word, I would have them considered as designed by 
 Providence for use as well as shew, and trained up not only 
 as women, but as rational creatures. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XLII. 
 
 TO PALEMON. 
 
 May 5, 1746. 
 
 Whilst you are engaged in turning over the records of 
 
 past ages, and tracing our constitution from its rise 
 
 through all its several periods, I sometimes amuse myself 
 
 with reviewing certain annals of an humbler kind, and 
 
 11 
 
122 LETTER XLII. 
 
 considering the various turns and revolutions that have 
 happened in the sentiments and affections of those with 
 whom I have been most connected. A history of this 
 sort is not, indeed, so striking as that which exhibits kings 
 and heroes to our view ; but may it not be contemplated, 
 Palemon, with more private advantage ? 
 
 Methinks we should scarce be so embittered against 
 those who differ from us in principle or practice, were we 
 oftener to reflect how frequently we have varied from 
 ourselves in both those articles. It was but yesterday 
 that Lucius, whom I once knew a very zealous advocate 
 for the most controverted points of faith, was arguing, with 
 equal warmth and vehemence, on the principles of deism ; 
 as Bathillus, who set out in the world a cool infidel, has 
 lately drawn up one of the most plausible defences of the 
 mystick devotees, that, perhaps, was ever written. The 
 truth is, a man must either have passed his whole life 
 without reflecting, or his thoughts must have run in a very 
 limited channel, who has not often experienced many 
 remarkable revolutions of mind. 
 
 The same kind of inconstancy is observable in our pur- 
 suits of happiness as well as truth. Thus our friend Curio, 
 whom we both remember, in the former part of his life, 
 enamoured of every fair face he met, and enjoying every 
 woman he could purchase, has at last collected this dif- 
 fusive flame into a single point, and could not be tempted 
 to commit an infidelity to his marriage vow, though a 
 form as beautiful as the Venus of Apelies was to court 
 his embrace : whilst Apamenthes, on the other hand, who 
 was the nost sober and domestick man I ever knew, till 
 he lost his wife, commenced a rake at five and forty, and 
 is now for ever in a tavern or stew. 
 
 Who knows, Palemon, whether even this humour of 
 moralizing, which, as you often tell me, so strongly marks 
 
LETTER XLIIL 123 
 
 ray character, may not wear out in time, and be succeed- 
 ed by a brighter and more lively vein ? Who knows but 
 I may court again the mistress I have forsaken, and die at 
 last in the arms of ambition ? Cleora, at least, who fre- 
 quently rallies me upon that fever of my youth, assures 
 me I am only in the intermission of a fit, which will cer- 
 tainly return. But though there may be some excuse, 
 perhaps, in exchanging our follies or our errours, there 
 can be none in resuming those we have once happily 
 quitted : for surely he must be a very injudicious sports- 
 man, who can be tempted to beat over those fields again 
 which have ever disappointed him of his game. Fare- 
 well. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XLIIL 
 
 TO EUPHRONIUS. 
 
 July 2, 1742. 
 It is a pretty observation, which I have somewhere 
 met, that, ■* the most pleasing of all harmony arises from 
 " the censure of a single person, when mixed with the 
 "general applauses of the world." I almost suspect, 
 therefore, that you are considering the interest of your 
 admired author, when you call upon me for my farther 
 objections to his performance ; and are for joining me, 
 perhaps, to the number of those, who advance his reputa- 
 tion by opposing it. The truth, however, is, you could not 
 have chosen a critick (if acritick I might venture to call 
 myself) who has a higher esteem for all the compositions 
 of Mr. Pope ; as, indeed, I look upon every thing that 
 comes from his hands with the same degree of veneration 
 as if it were consecrated by antiquity. Nevertheless, 
 though I greatly revere his judgment, I cannot absolutely 
 renounce my own ; and since some have been bold enough 
 
124 LETTER XLIII. 
 
 to advance, that even the sacred writings themselves do 
 not always speak the language of the Spirit, I may have 
 leave to suspect of the poets what has been asserted of the 
 prophets, and suppose that their pens art not at all sea- 
 ions under the guidance of inspiration. But as there is 
 tomething extremely ungrateful to the mind, in dwelling 
 upon those little spots that necessarily attend the lustre of 
 all human merit; you must allow me to join his beauties 
 with his imperfections, and admire with rapture, after 
 having condemned with regret. 
 
 There is a certain modern figure of speech, which the 
 authors of The art of sinking in poetry have called the 
 diminishing. This, so far as it relates to words only, 
 consists in debasing a great idea, by expressing it in a 
 term of meaner import. Mr. Fope has himself now and 
 then fallen into this kind of the profound, which he has 
 with such uncommon wit and spirit exposed in the wri- 
 tings of others. Thus Agamemnon, addressing himself to 
 Menelaus and Ulysses, asks, 
 
 And can you, chiefs, without a blush, survey" 
 
 "Whole troops before you, laboring in the fray ? B. ir. 
 
 80 likewise Pandarus, speaking of Diomed, who is per- 
 forming the utmost efforts of heroism in the field of battle, 
 says, 
 
 some guardian of the skies, 
 Involved in crowds, protects him in the fray. V. 23$. 
 
 But what would you think, Euphronius, were you to hear 
 of the "impervious foam" and "rough waves" of 2i"brook?" 
 would it not put you in mind of that droll thought of the 
 ingenious Dr. Young, in one of his epistles to our author, 
 where he talks of a puddle in a storm ? yet, by thus con- 
 founding the properties of the highest objects with those 
 of the lowest, Mr. Pope has turned one of the most pleas- 
 ing similes in the whole Iliad into downright burlesque* 
 
LETTER XLIII. 125 
 
 As when some simple swain his cot forsakes, 
 
 And wide through fens an unknown journey takes ; 
 
 If chance a swelling brook his passage stay, 
 
 And/oa?n impervious cross the wanderer's way, 
 
 Confus'd he stops, a length of country past, 
 
 Eyes the rough waves, and tir'd returns at last. ▼. 734. 
 
 This swelling brook, however, of Mr. Pope, is in Homer 
 a rapid river, rushing with violence into the sea : 
 
 2&TM ITT ^KU^0G6 (tPCrtcLlAti! CLKoJi ttgOgiOVrl. V. 598. 
 
 It is one of the essential requisites of an epick poem, 
 and indeed of every other kind of serious poetry, that the 
 style be raised above common language ; as nothing takes 
 off so much from that solemnity of diction, from which 
 the poet ought never to depart, as idioms of a vulgar and 
 familiar cast. Mr. Pope has sometimes neglected this 
 important rule ,* but most frequently in the introduction 
 of his speeches. To mention only a few instances : 
 
 That done, to Phoenix Ajax gave the sign. ix. 291. 
 
 With that stern Ajax his long silence broke. ix. 735. 
 
 With that the venerable warrior rose. x. 150. 
 
 With that they stepped aside, &c. X. 415, 
 
 whereas Homer generally prefaces his speeches with a 
 dignity of phrase, that calls up the attention of the reader 
 to what is going to be uttered. Milton has very happily 
 copied his manner in this particular, as in many others : 
 and though he often falls into a flatness of expression, he 
 has never once, I think, committed that errour upon oc- 
 casions of this kind. He usually ushers in his harangues 
 with something characteristical of the speaker, or that 
 points out some remarkable circumstance of his present 
 ^situation; in the following manner : 
 
 Satan with bold words 
 Breaking the horrid silence, thus began. i. 82. 
 
 Him thus answer'd soon his bold compeer. i. 125« 
 
126 LETTER XLIII. 
 
 He ended, frowning : 
 
 On titie other side uprose 
 Belial, 
 And with persuasive accents thus begair. ii. 106# 
 
 If you compare the effect which an introduction of this 
 descriptive sort has upon the mind, with those low and 
 unawakening expressions which I have marked in the 
 lines I just now quoted from our English Iliad, you will 
 not, perhaps, consider my objection as altogether without 
 foundation. 
 
 All opposition of ideas should be carefully avoided in 
 a poem of this kind, as unbecoming the gravity of the he- 
 roick Muse. But does not Mr. Pope sometimes sacrifice 
 simplicity to false ornament, and lose the majesty of 
 Homer in the affectations of Ovid ? Of this sort a severe 
 critick would perhaps esteem his calling an army, march- 
 ing with spears erect, a moving iron wood : 
 
 Such and so thick th' embattled squadrons stood, 
 With spears erects a moving iron wood. 
 
 There seems also to be an inconsistency in the two parts 
 of this description; for the troops are represented as 
 standing still, at the same time that the circumstance 
 mentioned of the spears should rather imply (as indeed 
 the truth is) that they were in motion. But if the tran- 
 slator had been faithful to his autfior, in this passage, 
 neither of these objections could have been raised : for in 
 Homer it is, 
 
 Totsu 
 
 rmJKivsu xJvvvTO <pA\styyts 
 
 TfojCLVldUy (TAKiO-lV TS K&l iyKitTt fO^^lKVlAl. iV. 280. 
 
 Is there not likewise some little tendency to a pun, 
 in those upbraiding lines which Hector addresses to 
 Paris 1 
 
LETTER XLIII. 12? 
 
 For thee great linen's guardian heroes fall, 
 Till heaps of dead alone defend the wall. 
 
 Mr. Pope at least deserts his guide, in order to give us 
 this conceit of dead men defending a town ; for the origi- 
 nal could not possibly lead him into it. Homer, with a 
 plainness suitable to the occasion, only tells us, 
 
 Adiot (xif <p&mi8oucri 7regt (srroxtv, ett?ru ts t«;^o?, 
 Ma,£v*/u,evoi. vi. 327. 
 
 Teucer, in the eighth book, aims a dart at Hector, which, 
 missing its way, slew Gorgythion ; upon which we are told 
 
 Another shaft the raging archer threw ; 
 That other shaft with erring fury flew ; 
 (Prom Hector Phoebus turn'd the flying wound) 
 Yet fell not dry or guiltless to the ground. 
 
 A flying wound is a thought exactly in the spirit of 
 Ovid ; but highly unworthy of Pope as well as of Homer ; 
 and, indeed, there is not the least foundation for it in the 
 original. But what do you think of the shaft that fell 
 dry or guiltless ? where, you see, one figurative epithet 
 is added as explanatory of the other. The doubling of 
 epithets, without raising the idea, is not allowable in 
 compositions of any kind ; but least of all in poetry. It 
 is, says Quintilian, as if every common soldier in an army 
 were to be attended with a valet ; you increase your num- 
 ber, without adding to your strength. 
 
 But if it be a fault to crowd epithets of the same im- 
 port one upon the other, it is much more so to employ 
 such as call off the attention from the principal idea to be 
 raised, and turn it upon little or foreign circumstances. — 
 When iEneas is wounded by Tydides, Homer describes 
 Venus as conducting him through the thickest tumult of 
 the enemy, and conveying him from the field of battle. — 
 But while we are following the hero with our whole cojrh 
 
128 LETTER XLIIL 
 
 cern, and trembling for the danger which surrounds him 
 on all sides, Mr. Pope leads us off from our anxiety for 
 iEneas, by an uninteresting epithet relating to the struc- 
 ture of those instruments of death, which were every 
 where flying about him ; and we are coldly informed, 
 that the darts were feathered : 
 
 Safe through the rushing horse and feathered flight 
 
 Of sounding shafts, she bears him through the fight. r. 393, 
 
 But as his epithets sometimes debase the general image 
 to be raised, so they now and then adorn them with a 
 false brilliancy. Thus, speaking of a person slain by an 
 arrow, he calls it a pointed death, iv. 607. Describing 
 another who was attacked by numbers at once, he tells 
 us, 
 
 A grove of lanees glittered at his breast. iv. 621* 
 
 and representing a forest on fire, he says, 
 
 In blazing heaps, the grove's old honours fall, 
 And one refulgent ruin levels all. x. 201. 
 
 But one of the most unpardonable instances of this kind 
 is, where he relates the death of Hypsenor, a person who, 
 it seems, exercised the sacerdotal office : 
 
 On his broad shoulder fell the forceful brand, 
 Thence glancing downward lopt his holy hand, 
 And stain 'd with sacred blood the blushing sand. 
 
 To take the force of this epithet, we must suppose that 
 the redness which appeared upon the sand, on this occa- 
 sion, was an effect of its blushing to find itself stained 
 with the blood of so sacred a person : than which there 
 cannot be a more forced and unnatural thought. It puts 
 me in mind of a passage in a French dramatick writer, 
 who has formed a play upon the story of Pyramus and 
 Thisbe. The hapless maid, addressing herself to the 
 
LETTER XLin. 129 
 
 dagger, which lies by the side of her lover, breaks out 
 into the following exclamation : 
 
 Ah I voici le poignard qui du sang de son mattre 
 S' est souile lachement : il en roagit le traitre. 
 
 Boileau, taking notice of these lines, observes, toutes Us 
 glaces du Nord ensemble ne sont pas, & mon sens, plusfroides 
 que cette pensee. But of the two poefs, I know not whe- 
 ther Mr. Pope is not most to be condemned ; for what- 
 ever shame the poignard might take to itself, for being 
 concerned in the murder of the lover ; it is certain that 
 the sand had not the least share in the death of the 
 priest. 
 
 The ancient cri ticks have insisted much upon propriety 
 of language ; and, indeed, one may with great justice say, 
 what the insulted Job does to his impertinent friends, how 
 forcible are right words ? The truth is, though the senti- 
 ment must always support the expression, yet the expres- 
 sion must give grace and efficacy to the sentiment ; and 
 the same thought shall frequently be admired or con- 
 demned, according to the merit of the particular phrase 
 in which it is conveyed. For this reason J. Caesar, in a 
 treatise which he wrote concerning the Latin language, 
 calls a judicious choice of words, the origin of eloquence : 
 as, indeed, neither oratory nor poetry can be raised to 
 any degree of perfection, where this their principal root 
 is neglected. In this art Virgil particularly excels ; and 
 it is the inimitable grace of his words (as Mr. Dryden 
 somewhere justly observes) wherein that beauty princi- 
 pally consists, which gives so inexpressible a pleasure to 
 him, who best understands their force. No man was 
 ever a more skilful master of this powerful art than Mr. 
 Pope ; as he has, upon several occasions throughout this 
 translation, raised and dignified his style with certain 
 antiquated words and phrases, that are most wonderfully 
 
ISO LETTER XLIII. 
 
 iolemn and majestick. I cannot, however, forbear men- 
 tioning an instance, where he has employed an obsolete 
 term less happily, I think, than is his general custom. It 
 occurs in some lines which I just now quoted for another 
 purpose : 
 
 On his broad shoulder fell the forceful brand, 
 
 Thence glancing downward lopt his holy hand. v. 105. 
 
 Brand is sometimes used by Spenser for a sword ; and 
 in that sense it is here introduced. But as we still retain 
 this word in a different application, it will always be im- 
 proper to adopt it in its antiquated meaning, because it 
 must necessarily occasion ambiguity : an error in style of 
 all others the most to be ayoided. Accordingly, every 
 reader of the lines I haye quoted must take up an idea 
 very different from that which the poet intends, and which 
 he will carry on with him, till he arrives at the middle of 
 the second verse. And if he happens to be unacquainted 
 with the language of our old writers, when he comes to 
 
 Lopt his holy hand, 
 
 he will be lost in a confusion of images, and have abso- 
 lutely no idea remaining. 
 
 There is another uncommon elegance in the manage* 
 ment of words, which requires a very singular turn of 
 genius, and great delicacy of judgment to attain. As the 
 art I just before mentioned turns upon employing anti- 
 quated words with force and propriety, so this consists in 
 giving the grace of novelty to the received and current 
 terms of a language, by applying them in a new and 
 unexpected manner : 
 
 Dixeris egregi£, notum si callida verbum 
 Reddiderit junctura novum. Hor, 
 
 The great caution, however, to be observed in any at- 
 tempt of this kind, is so judiciously to connect the e*» 
 
LETTER XLIII. 131 
 
 pressions, as to remove every doubt concerning the signi- 
 fication in which they are designed : for as perspicuity is 
 the end and supreme excellency of writing, there cannot 
 be a more fatal objection to an author's style, than that 
 it stands in need of a commentator. But will not this 
 objection lie against the following verse? 
 
 Next artful Phereclus untimely fell. V. 75. 
 
 The word artful is here taken out of its appropriated ac- 
 ceptation, in order to express 
 
 But however allowable it may be (as indeed it is not only 
 allowable, but graceful) to raise a word above its ordi- 
 nary import, when the callida junctura (as Horace calls it) 
 determines at once the sense in which it is used : yet 
 it should never be cast so far back from its customary 
 meaning, as to stand for an idea which has no relation to 
 what it implies in its primary and natural state. This 
 would be introducing uncertainty and confusion into a 
 language ; and turning every sentence into a riddle. 
 Accordingly, after we have travelled on through the seve- 
 ral succeeding lines in this passage, we are obliged to 
 change the idea with which we set out ; and find, at last, 
 that by the artful Phereclus we are to understand, not 
 what we at first apprehend, a man of cunning and design, 
 but one who is skilled in the mechanical arts. 
 
 It is with a liberty of the same unsuccessful kind, that 
 Mr. Pope has rendered 
 
 Tov <&£ore£OQ <&go<r&i7r£ Avmlovog <tyx*os vhe, 
 
 Ver. 276. 
 Stern Lycaon's warlike race begun. 
 
 I know not by what figure of speech the whole race of 
 a man can denote his next immediate descendant : and, 
 
132 LETTER XLI1L 
 
 I fear no synecdoche can acquit this expression of non- 
 sense. The truth is, whoever ventures to strike out of 
 the common road, must be more than ordinarily careful, 
 or he will probably lose his way. 
 
 This reminds me of a passage or two, where our poet 
 has been extremely injurious to the sense of his author, 
 and made him talk a language, which he never uses ; the 
 language, I mean, of absurdity. In the sixth Iliad, Aga- 
 memnon assures Menelaus, 
 
 Ikiqv s%ct7ro\otcvr\ eucn^io-Toi. vi. 60. 
 
 But, in Mr. Pope's version, that chief tells his brother, 
 
 Hion shall perish whole, and bury all. 
 
 Perhaps it may be over-nice to remark, that, as the de- 
 struction of Troy is first mentioned, it has a little the ap- 
 pearance of nonsense to talk afterwards of her burying 
 her sons. However, the latter part of this verse directly 
 contradicts the original ; for Agamemnon is so far from 
 asserting that Ilion should bury all her inhabitants, that 
 he pronounces, positively, they should not be buried at 
 all : a calamity, in the opinion of the ancients, of all others 
 the most terrible. But possibly the errour may lie in the 
 printer, not in the poet ; and perhaps the line originally 
 stood thus : 
 
 Ilion shall perish whole, uriburifd all. 
 
 If so, both my objections vanish : and those who are con- 
 versant with the press, will not think this supposition im- 
 probable ; since much more unlikely mistakes often hap- 
 pen by the carelessness of compositors. 
 
 But though I am willing to make all the allowance pos- 
 sible to an author, who raises our admiration too often 
 not to have a right to the utmost candour, wherever he 
 
LETTER XLIIf. 133 
 
 fails ; yet I can find no excuse for an unaccountable ab- 
 surdity he has fallen into, in translating a passage of the 
 tenth book. Diomed and Ulysses, taking advantage of the 
 night, set out in order to view the Trojan camp. In their 
 way they meet with Dolon, who is going from thence to the 
 Grecian, upon an errand of the same kind. After having 
 seized this unfortunate adventurer, and examined him 
 concerning the situation and designs of the enemy ; Dio- 
 med draws his sword, and strikes off Dolon's head, in the 
 Very instant that he is supplicating for mercy : 
 
 (bfeyyo/tisvou cT ct£st <tcv yz x.*^ itcvivcriv i/ut^Qn. x. 457. 
 Mr. Pope has turned this into a most extraordinary mira- 
 cle, by assuring us that the head spoke after it had 
 quitted the body : 
 
 The head yet speaking, muttered as it fell. 
 This puts me in mind of a wonder of the same kind in the 
 Fairy Queen, where Corflambo is represented as blas- 
 pheming, after his head had been struck off by Prince 
 Arthur : 
 
 He smote at him with all his might and main 
 
 So furiously, that, ere he wist, he found 
 
 His head before him tumbling on the ground, 
 The whiles his babblir.g tongue did yet blaspheme, 
 
 And curs'd his God, that did him so confound. Book iv. 8. 
 
 But Corflambo was the son of a giantess, and could con- 
 quer whole kingdoms by only looking at them. We may, 
 perhaps, therefore allow him to talk, when every other 
 man must be silent : whereas there is nothing in the his- 
 tory of poor Dolon, that can give him the least pretence 
 to this singular privilege. The truth is, Mr. Pope seems 
 to have been led into this blunder by Scaliger, who has 
 given the same sense to the verse, and then with great 
 wisdom and gravity observes, fahum esc a pulmone caput 
 nvulsum loqui posse. 
 12 
 
184 LETTER XLIII. 
 
 
 The most pleasing picture in the whole Iliad, is, I think, 
 the parting of Hector and Andromache ; and our excel- 
 lent translator has, in general, very successfully copied 
 it. But in some places he seems not to have touched it 
 with that delicacy of pencil which graces the original ; 
 as he has entirely lost the beauty of one of the figures. — 
 Hector is represented as extending his arms to embrace 
 the little Astyanax, who being terrified with the unusual 
 appearance of a man in armour, throws himself back 
 upon his nurse's breast, and falls into tears. But though 
 the hero and his son were designed to draw our principal 
 attention, Homer intended likewise that we should cast a 
 glance towards the nurse. Accordingly, he does not mark 
 her out merely by the name of her office ; but adds an epi- 
 thet to shew that she makes no inconsiderable figure in the 
 piece : he does not simply call her tdm, but 3ftms ti0w». 
 This circumstance 3Ir. Pope has entirely overlooked : 
 
 CIS warm, cv ■-zinuS'oc q^atq ptLifi/uos Ext&£. 
 A-vj/ $ 3 tareUs ts-^c; koxttcv r.'^ov.io nbsw; 
 
 EkKIvQh iX-X^* 7r:tl 'Z S QthGU C-^lV fltTt^fls/fc 
 IcLgQwdLS %±?JCCV T2 /eTg XdpOV l7nrlG^etlTHVy 
 &HV0V CL7T* CtiCgGrcLTiiS KC^uBcS ViVGVTSi VDttf&Q. 
 Eft cT TyiKATO-l (GrdLTHg T5 $l\SS, X4J tmrvlct UHTYIg. 
 
 AvrtK CL7T0 K^zrcs ko^vB' tixzrc <psU<fi/uog EaTcrg, 
 
 ILOJ THV JJ&9 KZTZB-<;KZV IV I £05W ®' i | W ? :l '/ Wsl ' , • 
 
 vi. 466. 
 Thus having said, th' illustrious chief of Troy 
 Streteh'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy ; 
 The babe clung crying to his n urse's breast, 
 Scard by the dazzling helm and nodding crest : 
 With secret pleasure each fond parent smil'd, 
 And Hector hasted to relieve his child : 
 The glittering terrours from his head unbound, 
 And placM the beaming helmet on the ground* 
 
 I was going to object to the glittering terrours, in the last 
 line but one : but I have already taken notice of these 
 little affected expressions, where the substantive is set at 
 variance with its attribute. 
 

 LETTER XLIII. 135 
 
 It is the observation of Quintilian, that no poet ever 
 excelled Homer in the sublimity with which he treats 
 great subjects, or in the delicacy and propriety he always 
 discovers in the management of small ones. There is a 
 passage in the ninth Iliad, which will justify the truth of 
 the latter of these observations. When Achilles receives 
 Ajax and Ulysses in his tent, who were sent to him in the 
 name of Agamemnon, in order to prevail with him to re- 
 turn to the army, Homer gives a very minute account of 
 the entertainment, which was prepared for them upon 
 that occasion. It is impossible, perhaps, in modern lan- 
 guage to preserve the same dignity in descriptions of this 
 kind, which so considerably raises the original : and 
 indeed Mr. Pope warns his readers not to expect much 
 beauty in the picture. However, a translator should be 
 careful not to throw in any additional circumstances, 
 which may lower and debase the piece ; which yet Mr. 
 Pope has, in his version of the following line : 
 
 ITug <h MwitizSk cfsasv /ueyA, tfoQec? qa>c. is. 211. 
 
 Meanwhile Patroelus srveats, the fire to raise. 
 
 Own the truth, Euphronius : does not this give you the 
 idea of a greasy cook at a kitchen fire ? whereas nothing 
 of this kind is suggested in the original. On the contrary 
 the epithet sro&tos, seems to have been added by Homer, 
 in order to reconcile us to the meanness of the action, by 
 reminding us of the high character of the person who 
 is engaged in it ; and as Mr. Addison observes of Virgil's 
 husbandman, that " he tosses about his dung with an air 
 " of gracefulness ;" one may, with the same truth, say of 
 Homer's hero, that he lights his fire with an air of dignity. 
 I intended to have closed these hasty objections, with 
 laying before you some of those passages, where Mr. Pope 
 seems to have equalled, or excelled his original. — But I 
 perceive I have already extended my letter beyond a rea- 
 
136 LETTER XLIV. 
 
 sonable limit : I will reserve, therefore, that more pleas* 
 ing, as well as much easier task, to some future occasion. 
 In the mean time, I desire you will look upon those re- 
 marks, not as proceeding from a spirit of cavil (than which 
 I know not any more truly contemptible) but as an in- 
 stance of my having read your favourite poet with that 
 attention, which his own unequalled merit and your judi- 
 cious recommendation most deservedly claim. I am, &c; 
 
 LETTER XLIV. 
 
 TO PALAMEDES. 
 
 April 18, 1739. 
 I have had occasion, a thousand times since I saw 
 you, to wish myself in the land where all things are 
 forgotten ; at least, that I did not live in the memory of 
 certain restless mortals of your acquaintance, who are 
 visiters by profession. The misfortune is, no retirement 
 is so remote, nor sanctuary so sacred, as to afford a pro- 
 tection from their impertinence ; and though one were 
 to fly to the desert, and take refuge in the cells of saints 
 and hermits, one should be alarmed with their unmean- 
 ing voice, crying even in the wilderness. They spread 
 themselves, in truth, over the whole face of the land, and 
 lay waste the fairest hours of conversation. For my own 
 part, (to speak of them in a style suitable to their taste 
 and talents) I look upon them, not as paying visits, but 
 visitations ; and am never obliged to give audience to one 
 of this species, that I do not consider myself as under a 
 judgment for those numberless hours which I have spent 
 in vain. If these sons and daughters of idleness and folly 
 would be persuaded to enter into an exclusive society 
 among themselves, the rest of the world might possess 
 
LETTER XLV. 137 
 
 their moments unmolested : but nothing less will satisfy 
 them than opening a general commerce, and sailing into 
 every port where choice or chance may drive them. 
 Were we to live indeed, to the years of the antediluvians, 
 one might afford to resign some part of one's own time in 
 charitable relief of the unsufferable weight of theirs ; but, 
 since the days of man are shrunk into a few hasty revolu- 
 tions of the sun, whole afternoons are much too considera- 
 ble a sacrifice to be offered up to tame civility. What 
 heightens the contempt of this character, is, that they who 
 have so much of the form, have always least of the power 
 of friendship ; and though they will erase their chariot 
 wheels (as Milton expresses it) to destroy your repose, 
 they would not drive half the length of a street to assist 
 your distress. 
 
 It was owing to an interruption from one of these 
 obsequious intruders, that I was prevented keeping my en- 
 gagement with you yesterday ; and you must indulge me in 
 this discharge of my invective against the ridiculous occa- 
 sion of so mortifying a disappointment. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XLV. 
 
 TO HORTENSIUS. 
 
 May 8, 1757. 
 To be able to suppress my acknowledgments of the 
 pleasure I received from your approbation, were to shew 
 that I do not deserve it ; for is it possible to value the 
 praise of the judicious as one ought, and yet be silent under 
 its influence ! I can, with strict truth, say of you, what a 
 Greek poet did of Plato, who, reading his performance to 
 a circle where that great philosopher was present, and find- 
 ing himself deserted, at length, by all the rest of the com- 
 pany, cried out, " I will proceed, nevertheless, for Plato is 
 ** himself an audience." 
 12* 
 
138 LETTER XLVI. 
 
 True fame, indeed, is no more in the gift than in the 
 possession of numbers, as it is only in the disposal of the 
 wise and the impartial. But if both those qualifications 
 must concur to give validity to a vote of this kind, how 
 little reason has an author to be either depressed or elated 
 by general censure or applause ? 
 
 The triumphs of genius are not like those of ancient he- 
 roism, where the meanest captive made a part of the pomp, 
 as well as the noblest. It is not the multitude, but the 
 dignity of those that compose her followers, that can add 
 any thing to her real glory ; and a single attendant may of- 
 ten render her more truly illustrious than a whole train of 
 common admirers. I am sure, at least, I have no ambition 
 of drawing after me vulgar acclamations ; and, whilst I have 
 the happiness to enjoy your applause, I shall always consider 
 myself in possession of the truest fame. Adieu. I am, &e. 
 
 LETTER XLVI. 
 
 TO CLYTANDER. 
 
 Sept. 10, 1738, 
 You, who never forget any thing, can tell me, I dare say r 
 whose observation it is, that, " of all the actions of our life, 
 " nothing is more uncommon than to laugh or to cry with 
 "a good grace." But, though I cannot recollect the au* 
 thor, I shall always retain his maxim; as, indeed, every 
 day's occurrences suggest the truth of it to my mind. I 
 had particularly an occasion to see one part of it verified 
 in the treatise I herewith return you ; for never, surely, 
 was mirth more injudiciously directed, than that which, 
 ibis writer of your acquaintance has employed. To droll 
 upon the established religion of a country, and laugh at 
 the most sacred and inviolable of her ordinances, is as far 
 removed from good politicks, as it is from good manners. It 
 is; indeed, upon maxims of policy alone, that one cm 
 
LETTER XLVf. 139 
 
 reason with those who pursue the principles which this 
 author has embraced : I will add, therefore, (since, it 
 seems, you sometimes communicate to him my letters) 
 that to endeavour to lessen that veneration which is due 
 to the religious institutions of a nation, when they neither 
 run counter to any of the great lines of morality, nor op- 
 pose the natural rights of mankind, is a sort of zeal which 
 I know not by what epithet sufficiently to stigmatize : it is 
 attacking the strongest hold of society, and attemptiog to 
 destroy the firmest guard of human security. Far am I, 
 indeed, from thinking there is no other, or that the notion 
 of a moral sense is a vain and groundless hypothesis. But 
 wonderfully limited must the experience of those philo- 
 sophers undoubtedly be, who imagine, that an implanted 
 love of virtue is sufficient to conduct the generality of 
 mankind through the paths of moral duties, and supersede 
 the necessity of a farther and more powerful guide. A 
 sense of honour, likewise, where it operates in its true and 
 genuine vigour, is, I confess, a most noble and powerful 
 principle, but far too refined a motive of action, even 
 for the more cultivated part of our species to adopt in 
 general ; and, in fact, we find it much oftener professed, 
 than pursued. Nor are the laws of a community sufficient 
 to answer all the restraining purposes of government ; as 
 there are many moral points which it is impossible to 
 secure by express provisions. Human institutions can 
 reach no farther than to certain general duties, in which 
 the collective welfare of society is more particularly 
 concerned. — Whatever else is necessary for the ease and 
 happiness of social intercourse, can be derived only from 
 the assistance of religion ; which influences the nicer 
 connexions and dependencies of mankind, as it regulates 
 and corrects the heart. How many tyrannies may I 
 exercise as a parent, how many hardships may I inflict 
 as a master, if I take the statutes of my country for the 
 
140 LETTER XL VI. 
 
 only guides of ray actions, and think every thing lawful 
 that is not immediately penal ? The truth is, a man may 
 be injured in a variety of instances far more atrociously, 
 than by what the law considers either as a fraud or a 
 robbery. Now, in cases of this kind, (and many very 
 important cases of this kind there are) to remove the bars 
 of religion, is to throw open the gates of oppression : it 
 is to leave the honest exposed to the injurious inroads of 
 those (and they are far. perhaps, the greatest part of 
 mankind) who, though they would never do justice and 
 love mercy, in compliance with the dictates of nature, 
 would scrupulously practise both in obedience to the rules 
 of revelation. 
 
 The gross of our species can never, indeed, be influ- 
 enced by abstract reasoning, nor captivated by the naked 
 charms of virtue : on the contrary, nothing seems more 
 evident than that the generality of mankind must be 
 engaged by sensible objects ; must be wrought upon by 
 their hopes and fears. And this has been the constant 
 maxim of ail the celebrated legislators, from the earliest 
 establishment of government, to this present hour. It is 
 true, indeed, that none have contended more warmly 
 than the ancients for the dignity of human nature, and 
 the native disposition of the soul to be enamoured with 
 the beauty of virtue : but it is equally true, that none have 
 more strenuously inculcated the expediency of adding the 
 authority of religion to the suggestions of nature, and main- 
 taining a reverence to the appointed ceremonies of publick 
 worship. The sentiments of Pythagoras (or whoever he 
 be who was author of those verses which pass under that 
 philosopher's name) are well known upon this subject : 
 
 Tip*. 
 Many, indeed, are the ancient passages which might be 
 produced in support of this assertion, if it were nece&- 
 
LETTER XLVI. 141 
 
 Sary to produce any passages of this kind to you, whom I 
 have so often heard contend for the same truth with all 
 the awakening powers of learning and eloquence. Suffer- 
 me, however, for the benefit of your acquaintance, to 
 remind you of one or two, which I do not remember ever 
 to have seen quoted. 
 
 Livy has recorded a speech of Appius Claudius Cras- 
 sus, which he made in opposition to certain demands of 
 the tribunes. That zealous senator warmly argues against 
 admitting the plebeians into a share of the consular dig- 
 nity ; from the power of taking the auspices being origi- 
 nally and solely vested in the patrician order. " But* 
 " perhaps," says Crassus, " I shall be told, that the peek- 
 ing of a chicken, &c. are trifles unworthy of regard: 
 " trifling, however, as these ceremonies may now be 
 " deemed, it was by the strict observance of them that 
 " our ancestors raised this commonwealth to its present 
 14 point of grandeur." Parva sunt haec: sed parva ista 
 non contemnendo, majores nostri maximum hanc rem fe- 
 cerunt. — Agreeably to this principle, the Roman historian 
 of the life of Alexander, describes that monarch, after 
 having killed his friend Clitus, as considering, in his coo! 
 moments, whether the godf had not permitted him to be 
 guilty of that horrid act, in punishment for his irreligious 
 neglect of their sacred rites. And Juvenal* imputes 
 the source of that torrent of vice which broke in upon the 
 age in which he wrote, to the general disbelief that pre- 
 vailed of the publick doctrines of their established religion. 
 Those tenets, he tells us, that influenced the glorious con- 
 duct of the Curii, the Scipios, the Fabricii, and the Camil- 
 li, were in his days so totally exploded, as scarce to be 
 received even by children. It were well for some parts 
 of the Christian world, if the same observation might aot 
 
 * Sat. II. 149, 
 
142 LETTER XLVII. 
 
 with justice be extended beyond the limits of ancient 
 Rome : and I often reflect upon the very judicious remark 
 of a great writer of the last century, who takes notice, 
 that M the generality of Christendom is now well nigh 
 " arrived at that fatal condition, which immediately prece- 
 " ded the destruction of the worship of the ancient world ; 
 *' when the face of religion, in their publick assemblies, 
 ** was quite different from that apprehension which men 
 * had concerning it in private." 
 
 Nothing, most certainly, could less plead the sanction 
 of reason, than the general rites of pagan worship. Weak 
 and absurd, however, as they were in themselves, and, 
 indeed, in the estimation too of all the wiser sort ; yet, 
 the more thinking and judicious part, both of their states- 
 men and philosophers, unanimously concurred in support- 
 ing them as sacred and inviolable : well persuaded, no 
 doubt, that religion is the strongest cement in the great 
 structure of moral government. Farewell. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XLVII. 
 
 TO CLEORA. 
 
 Sept. J. 
 
 I look upon every day, wherein I have not some com-* 
 munieation with my Cleora, as a day lost ; and I take up 
 my pen every afternoon to write to you, as regularly as I 
 drink my tea, or perform any the like important article 
 of my life. 
 
 I frequently bless the happy art that affords me a 
 means of conveying myself to you, at this distance, and 
 by an easy kind of magick, thus transports me to your par- 
 lour at a time when I could not gain admittance by any 
 other method. Of all people in the world, indeed, none 
 
LETTER XLVIII. 148 
 
 are more obliged to this paper commerce, than friends 
 and lovers. It is by this they elude, in some degree, the 
 malevolence of fate, and can enjoy an intercourse with 
 each other, though the Alps themselves shall rise up 
 between them. Even this imaginary participation of your 
 society is far more pleasing to me than the real enjoyment 
 of any other conversation the whole world could supply, 
 The truth is, I have lost all relish for any but yours ; and, 
 if I were invited to an assembly of all the wits of the 
 Augustan age, or all the heroes that Plutarch has cele- 
 brated, I should neither have -spirits nor curiosity to be 
 of the party. Yet with all this indolence or indifference 
 about me, I would take a voyage as far as the pole to sup 
 with Cleora on a lettuce, or only to hold the bowl while 
 she mixed the syllabub. Such happy evenings I once 
 knew : ah, Cleora ! will they never return ? Adieu. 
 
 LETTER XLVIII. 
 
 TO ECJPHRONIU5. 
 
 I have read the performance you communicated to me, 
 with all the attention you required ; and I can, with strict 
 sincerity, apply to your friend's verses, what an ancient 
 has observed of the same number of Spartans who de- 
 fended the passage of Thermopylae ; nunqitam vidiphires 
 trecentos ! Never, indeed, was there greater energy of 
 language and sentiment united together in the same com- 
 pass of lines : and it would be an injustice to the world, 
 as well as to himself, to suppress so animated and so use- 
 ful a composition. 
 
 A satirist, of true genius, who is warmed by a generous 
 indignation of vice, and whose censures are conducted by 
 candour and truth, merits the applause of every friend to 
 
144 LETTER XL VIII. 
 
 virtue. He may be considered as a sort of supplement 
 to the legislative authority of his country ; as assisting 
 the unavoidable defects of all legal institutions for the 
 regulating of manners, and striking terrour even where the 
 divine prohibitions themselves are held in contempt. The 
 strongest defence, perhaps, against the inroads of vice, 
 among the more cultivated part of our species, is well- 
 directed ridicule : they who fear nothing else, dread to 
 be marked out to the contempt and indignation of the 
 world. There is no succeeding in the secret purposes of 
 dishonesty, without preserving some sort of credit among 
 mankind ; as there cannot exist a more impotent crea- 
 ture than a knave convict. To expose, therefore, the 
 false pretensions of counterfeit virtue, is to disarm it at 
 once of all power of mischief, and to perform a publick 
 service of the most advantageous kind, in which any man 
 can employ his time and his talents. The voice, indeed, 
 of an honest satirist, is not only beneficial to the world, 
 as giving alarm against the designs of an enemy so dan- 
 gerous to all social intercourse, but as proving likewise 
 the most efficacious preventative to others, of assuming 
 the same character of distinguished infamy. Few are so 
 totally vitiated, as to have abandoned all sentiments of 
 shame; and when every other principle of integrity is sur- 
 rendered, we generally find the conflict is still maintain- 
 ed in this last post of retreating virtue. In this view, 
 therefore, it should seem, the function of a satirist may 
 be justified, notwithstanding it should be true, (what an 
 excellent moralist has asserted) that his chastisements 
 rather exasperate than reclaim those on whom they fall. 
 Perhaps, no human penalties are of any moral advantage 
 to the criminal himself; and the principal benefit that 
 seems to be derived from civil punishments of any kind, 
 is their restraining influence upon the conduct of others. 
 
LETTER XLIX. 145 
 
 It is not every arm, however, that'is qualified to ma- 
 nage this formidable blow. The arrows of satire, when 
 they are not pointed by virtue, as well as wit, recoil back 
 upon the hand that directs them, and wound none but 
 him from whom they proceed. Accordingly, Horace rests 
 the whole success of writings of this sorjt upon the poet's 
 being Integer Ipse ; free himself from those immoral stains 
 which he points out in others. There cannot, indeed, 
 be a more odious, nor at the same time a more contempti- 
 ble character than that of a vicious satirist : 
 
 Quis coelum terns non miseeat et mare coelo, 
 
 Si fur displiceat Verri, homicida Miloiii ? Juv. 
 
 The most favourable light in which a censor of this spe- 
 cies could possibly be viewed, would be that of a publick 
 executioner, who inflicts the punishment on others, which 
 he has already merited himself. But the truth of it is, 
 he is not qualified even for so wretched an office ; and 
 there is nothing to be dreaded from a satirist of known 
 dishonesty, but his applause. Adieu. 
 
 LETTER XLIX. 
 
 TO PALAMEDES. 
 
 Aug. 2, 1734. 
 Ceremony is never more unwelcome, than at that sea- 
 son in which you will, probably, have the greatest share 
 of it; and, as I should be extremely unwilling to add to 
 the number of those, who, in pure good manners, may in- 
 terrupt your enjoyments, I choose to give you my con- 
 gratulations a little prematurely. After the happy office 
 shall be completed, your moments will be too valuable to 
 be laid out in forms ; and it would be paying a compli- 
 ment with a very ill grace, to draw off your eyes from the 
 13 
 
146 LETTER L. 
 
 highest beauty, though it were to turn them on the most 
 exquisite wit. I hope, however, you will give me timely 
 notice of your wedding day, that I may be prepared 
 with my epithalamium. I have already laid in half a 
 dozen deities extremely proper for the occasion, and have 
 even made some progress in ray first simile. But I am 
 somewhat at a loss how to proceed, not being able to 
 determine whether your future bride is most li!_«g Venus 
 or Hebe. That she resembles both, is universally agreed, 
 I find, by those who have seen her. But it would be 
 offending, you know, against all the rules of poetical 
 justice, if I should only say she is as handsome as she 
 is young, when, after all, perhaps, the truth may be, 
 that she has even more beauty than youth. In the mean 
 while, I am turning over all the tender compliments that 
 love has inspired, from the Lesbia of Catullus to the 
 Chloe of Prior, and hope to gather such a collection of 
 flowers as may not be unworthy of entering into a garland 
 composed for your Stella. But, before you introduce me 
 as a poet, let me be recommended to her by a much bet- 
 ter title, and assure her that I am yours, &c. 
 
 LETTER L. 
 
 TO EUPHRONIUS. 
 
 I am much inclined to join with you in thinking that 
 the Romans had no peculiar word in their language which 
 answers precisely to what we call good sense in ours. For 
 though prudentia, indeed, seems frequently used by their 
 best writers to express that idea, yet it is not confined to 
 that single meaning, but is often applied by them to sig- 
 nify skill in any particular science. But good sense is 
 something very distinct from knowledge ; and it is an in- 
 
LETTER L. 147 
 
 stance of the poverty of the Latin language, that she 
 is obliged to use the same word as a mark for two such 
 different ideas. 
 
 Were I to explain what I understand by good sense, I 
 should call it right reason ; but right reason that arises, 
 not from formal and logical deductions, but from a sort of 
 intuitive faculty in the soul, which distinguishes by imme- 
 diate perception : a kind of innate sagacity, that, in 
 many of its properties, seems very much to resemble in- 
 stinct. It would be improper, therefore, to say, that Sir 
 Isaac Newton shewed his good sense by those amazing 
 discoveries which he made in natural philosophy : the 
 operations of this gift of Heaven are rather instantaneous, 
 than the result of any tedious process. Like Diomed, 
 after Minerva had endowed him with the power of dis- 
 cerning gods from mortals, the man of good sense discovers, 
 at once, the truth of those objects he is most concerned to 
 distinguish, and conducts himself with suitable caution 
 and security. 
 
 It is for this reason, possibly, that this quality of the 
 mind is not so often found united with learning as one 
 could wish : for good sense being accustomed to receive 
 her discoveries without labour or study, she cannot so 
 easily wait for those truths, which being placed at a dis- 
 tance, and lying concealed under numberless covers, re- 
 quire much pains and application to unfold. 
 
 But though good sense is not in the number, nor always, 
 it must be owned, in the company of the sciences ; yet it 
 is (as the most sensible of poets has justly observed) 
 
 fairly worth the seven. 
 
 Rectitude of understanding is, indeed, the most useful, as 
 well as the most noble, of human endowments, as it is the 
 sovereign guide and director in every branch of civil and 
 social intercourse. 
 
148 LETTER LI. 
 
 Upon whatever occasion this enlightening faculty is 
 exerted, it is always sure to act with distinguished emi- 
 nence ; but its chief and peculiar province seems to lie in 
 the commerce of the world. Accordingly we may ob- 
 serve, that those who have conversed more with men 
 than with books, whose wisdom is derived rather from 
 experience than contemplation, generally possess this 
 happy talent with superiour perfection : for good sense, 
 though it cannot be acquired, may be improved ; and the 
 world, I believe, will ever be found to afford the most 
 kindly soil for its cultivation. 
 
 I know not whether true good sense is not a more un- 
 common quality even than true wit ; as there is nothing, 
 perhaps, more extraordinary than to meet with a per- 
 son, whose entire conduct and notions are under the 
 direction of this supreme guide. The single instance, at 
 least, which I could produce of its acting steadily and 
 invariably throughout the whole of a character, is that 
 which Euphronius, I am sure, would not allow me to men- 
 tion : at the same time, perhaps, I am rendering my own 
 pretensions of this kind extremely questionable, when I 
 thus venture to throw before you my sentiments upon a 
 subject, of which you are universally acknowledged so 
 perfect a master. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER LI. 
 
 TO PALEMON. 
 
 May 29, 1T43. 
 I esteem your letters in the number of my most 
 valuable possessions, and preserve them as so many pro- 
 phetical leaves upon which the fate of our distracted nation 
 is inscribed. But, in exchange for the maxims of a 
 patriot, I can only send you the reveries of a recluse, and 
 
LETTER LI. 149 
 
 give you the stones of the brook for the gold of Ophir. Never, 
 indeed, Palemon, was there a commerce more unequal 
 than that wherein you are contented to engage with me ; 
 and I could scarce answer it to my conscience to continue 
 a traffick, where the whole benefit accrues singly to myself, 
 did I not know, that to confer without the possibility of 
 an advantage, is the most pleasing exercise of generosity. 
 I will venture then to make use of a privilege which I have 
 long enjoyed ; as I well know you love to mix the medita- 
 tions of the philosopher with the reflections of the states- 
 man, and can turn with equal relish from the politicks of 
 Tacitus to the morals of Seneca. 
 
 I was in my garden this morning somewhat earlier than 
 usual, when the sun, as Milton describes him, 
 
 With wheels yet hov'ring o'er the ocean brim 
 Shot parallel to th' earth his dewy ray. 
 
 There is something in the opening of the dawn, at this 
 season of the year, that enlivens the mind with a sort of 
 cheerful seriousness, and fills it with a certain calm rapture 
 in the consciousness of its existence. For my own part, 
 at least, the rising of the sun has the same effect on me, 
 as it is said to have had on the celebrated statue of Mem- 
 non: and I never observe that glorious luminary breaking 
 out upon me, that I do not find myself harmonized for the 
 whole day. 
 
 Whilst I was enjoying the freshness and tranquillity of 
 this early season, and, considering the many reasons I had 
 to join in offering up that morning incense, which the poet 
 I just now mentioned, represents as particularly arising at 
 this hour from the earth's great altar ; I could not but 
 esteem it as a principal blessing, that I was entering upon 
 a new day with health and spirits. To awake with re- 
 cruited vigour for the transactions of life, is a mercy so 
 13* 
 
150 LETTER LI. 
 
 generally dispensed, that it passes, like other the ordinary 
 bounties of Providence, without making its due impression. 
 Yet, were one never to rise under these happy circumstan- 
 ces, without reflecting what numbers there are, (who, to 
 use the language of the most pathetick of authors) when 
 they said, My bed shall comfort me, my couch shall ease my 
 complaint, were, like him, full oftossings to and fro, unto 
 the dawning of the day, or scared with dreams, and terrified 
 through visions — were one to consider, I say, how many 
 pass their nights in all the horrours of a disturbed imagina- 
 tion, orall the wakefulness of real pains, one could not 
 find one's self exempt from such uneasy slumbers, or such 
 terrible vigils, without double satisfaction and gratitude. 
 There is nothing, indeed, contributes more to render a 
 man contented with that draught of life which is poured 
 out to himself, than thus to reflect on those more bitter 
 ingredients which are sometimes mingled in the cup of 
 others. 
 
 In pursuing the same vein of thought, I could not but 
 congratulate myself, that I had no part in that turbulent 
 drama which was going to be re-acted upon the great 
 stage of the world ; and rejoiced that it was my fortune 
 to stand a distant and unengaged spectator of those 
 several characters that would shortly fill the scene. This 
 suggested to my remembrance a passage, in the Roman 
 tragick poet, where he describes the various pursuits of 
 the busy and ambitious world, in very just and lively 
 colours : 
 
 II le superbos aditus regum 
 Durasque fores, expers somni, 
 Colit : Hie nullo fine beatus 
 Componit opes, gazis hihians, 
 Et congesto pauper in auro est. 
 Ilium populi favor attonitum, 
 Fluctuque raagis mobile vulgus, 
 Aura tumidum toll it inani 
 
LETTER LI. 151 
 
 Hie clamosi rabiosa fori 
 Jurgia vendens improbus, iras 
 Et verba locat. 
 
 and I could not forbear saying to myself, in the language 
 of the same author, 
 
 me mea tellus 
 Lare secreto tutoque tegat ! 
 
 Yet this circumstance, which your friend considers as so 
 valuable a privilege, has been esteemed by others as the 
 most severe of afflictions. The celebrated count de Bussy 
 Rabutin has written a little treatise, wherein, after having 
 shewn that the greatest men upon the stage of the world 
 are generally the most unhappy, he closes the account by 
 producing himself as an instance of the truth of what he 
 had been advancing. But can you guess, Palemon, what 
 this terrible disaster was, which thus entitled him to a rank 
 in the number of these unfortunate heroes ? He had com- 
 posed, it seems, certain satirical pieces which gave offence 
 to Lewis the XlVth ; for which reason that monarch ban- 
 ished him from the slavery and dependence of a court, to 
 live in ease and freedom at his country-house. But the 
 world had taken too strong possession of his heart, to suffer 
 him to leave even the worst part of it without reluctance ; 
 and, like the patriarch's wife, he looked back with regret 
 upon the scene from which he was kindly driven, though 
 there was nothing in the prospect but flames. Adieu. I 
 am, &c. 
 
152 
 
 LETTER LII. 
 
 TO EUFHRON1US. 
 
 Aug. 20, 1742. 
 
 Surely, Euphronius, the spirit of criticism has strangely 
 possessed you. How else could you be willing to step 
 aside so often from the amusements of the gayest scenes, 
 in order to examine with me certain beauties, far other 
 than those, which at present it might be imagined, would 
 wholly engage your attention ? Who, indeed, that sees 
 my friend over night supporting the vivacity of the most 
 sprightly assemblies, would expect to find him the next 
 morning gravely poring over antiquated Greek, and weigh- 
 ing the merits of ancient and modern geniuses ? But I 
 have long admired you as an elegant spectator formarum, 
 in every sense of the expression ; and you can turn, I know, 
 from the charms of beauty to those of wit, with the same 
 refinement of taste and rapture. I may venture, therefore, 
 to resume our critical correspondence without the form 
 of an apology ; as it is the singular character of Euphronius 
 to reconcile the philosopher with the man of the world, 
 and judiciously divide his hours between action and 
 retirement. 
 
 What has been said of a celebrated French translator, 
 may, with equal justice, be applied to Mr. Pope : "that 
 " it is doubtful whether the dead or the living are most 
 "obliged to him." His translations of Homer, and imi- 
 tations of Horace, have introduced to the acquaintance of 
 the English reader, two of the most considerable authors 
 in all antiquity ; as, indeed, they are equal to the credit 
 of so many original works. A man must have a very con- 
 siderable share of the different spirit which distinguishes 
 those most admirable poets, who is capable of representing 
 in his own language so true an image of their respective 
 
LETTER LII. 153 
 
 manners. If we look no farther than these works them- 
 selves, without considering them with respect to any at- 
 tempts of the same nature which have been made by 
 others, we shall have sufficient reason to esteem them 
 for their own intrinsick merit. But how will this uncom- 
 mon genius rise in our admiration, when we compare his 
 classical translations with those similar performances, 
 which have employed some of the most celebrated of our 
 poets ? I have lately been turning over the Iliad with this 
 view ; and, perhaps, it will be no unentertaining amuse- 
 ment to you, to examine the several copies which I have 
 collected of the original, as taken by some of the most 
 considerable of our English masters. To single them out 
 for this purpose according to the order of the particular 
 books, or passages, upon which they have respectively ex- 
 ercised their pencils, the pretensions of Mr. Tickel stand 
 first to be examined. 
 
 The action of the Iliad opens, you know, with the speech 
 of Chryses, whose daughter, having been taken captive by 
 the Grecians, was allotted to Agamemnon. This vene- 
 rable priest of Apollo is represented as addressing himself 
 to the Grecian chiefs, in the following pathetick simplicity 
 of eloquence : 
 
 Ar£ll$dU TS, KCLl AXKOl VJMHfJUfe AftMOt, 
 
 'EvjTrizp-a.i UptA/uoio <&o\tv, w <T qhloJ'' txio-Qar 
 UtttJet eTg fxoi Kvcrct<rQi <f>/Aw, Tat <T cL7roivcL efg;£S0-0S, 
 Ai^O/UiVOl AlOC vkv Stt«6oA<5V ATTOKhWdL. f. 17. 
 
 Great Atreus' sons, and warlike Greece, attend. 
 
 So may th' immortal Gods your cause defend, 
 
 So may you Priam's lofty bulwarks burn, 
 
 And rich in gather'd spoils to Greece return. 
 
 As, for these gifts, my daughter you bestow, 
 
 And rev'rence due to great Apollo shew, 
 
 Jove's fav'rite offspring, terrible in war, 
 
 Who sends his shafts unerring from afar. Ticket* 
 
154 LETTER LII. 
 
 That affecting tenderness of the father, which Homer has 
 marked out by the melancholy flow of the line, as well as by 
 the endearing expression of 
 
 Haifa S% fxct \vra<T$s tytxtV) 
 
 is entirely lost by Mr. Tickel. When Chryses coldly men- 
 tions his daughter, without a single epithet of concern or 
 affection, he seems much too indifferent himself to move 
 the audience in his favour. But the whole passage, as it 
 stands in Mr. Pope's Iliad, is in general animated with a 
 far more lively spirit of poetry. Who can observe the 
 moving posture of supplication in which he has drawn the 
 venerable old priest, stretching out his arms in all the af- 
 fecting warmth of entreaty, without sharing in his distress, 
 and melting into pity ? 
 
 Ye kings and warriours ! may your tows be erown'd, 
 
 And Troy's proud walls lie level with the ground : 
 
 ftfay Jove restore you, when your toils are o'er, 
 
 Safe to the pleasures of your native shore : 
 
 But oh ! relieve a wretched parent's pain, 
 
 And give Chryseis to these arms again. 
 
 If mercy fail, yet let my presents move, 
 
 And dread avenging Phoebus, son of Jove. Pope, 
 
 The insinuation with which Chryses closes his speech that 
 the Grecians must expect the indignation of Apollo would 
 pursue them if they rejected the petition of his priest, is 
 happily intimated by a single epithet : 
 
 And dread avenging Phoebus ; 
 
 whereas, the other translator takes the compass of three 
 lines to express the same thought less strongly. 
 
 When the heralds are sent by Agamemnon to Achilles 
 in order to demand Briseis, that chief is prevailed upon 
 to part with her : and, accordingly, directs Patroclus to de- 
 liver up this contested beauty into their hands : 
 
LETTER LIi: 155 
 
 Ek <T otyctyi kkktihs B£*trni£a, ncLKKi7reL(>yov, 
 
 H <T cLatou? cifjLa, tqiti yvvn MtV i. 345. 
 
 The beauty of Brisei's, as described in these lines, toge- 
 ther with the reluctance with which she is here repre- 
 sented as forced from her lord, cannot but touch the 
 reader in a very sensible manner. Mr. Tickel, however, 
 has debased this affecting picture, by the most unpoeti- 
 cal and familiar diction. I will not delay you with 
 making my objections in form to his language ; but have 
 distinguished the exceptionable expressions, in the lines 
 themselves : 
 
 Patroclus his dear friend obliged, 
 And usher d in the lovely weeping maid ; 
 Sere sighed she, as the heralds took her hand; 
 And oft look'd back, slow moving o'er the strand. TkkeL 
 
 Gur British Homer has restored this piece to its original 
 grace and delicacy : 
 
 Patroclus now th' mi willing beauty brought : 
 
 She, in soft sorrows, and in pensive thought, 
 
 Pass'd silent, as the heralds held her hand, 
 
 And oft look'd back, slow moving o'er the strand. Pope. 
 
 The tumultuous behaviour of Achilles, as described by 
 Homer in the lines immediately following, affords a very 
 pleasing and natural contrast to the more composed and 
 silent sorrow of Brisei's. The poet represents that hero 
 as suddenly rushing out from his tent, and flying to the 
 sea-shore, where he gives vent to his indignation : and, 
 in bitterness of soul, complains to Thetis, not only of the 
 dishonour brought upon him by Agamemnon, but of the 
 injustice even of Jupiter himself : 
 
 eturctp htyWivs 
 &*x.ev<reis, irtt^w tt<pctt> efero vo<rp Kitf&M, 
 
156 LETTER LII. 
 
 ©;v' sp 1 ttx&c aroxtoc, oepocv tm gumma GrcvTov. 
 IToXAat h (A^ngi <ptx» rpy<rAT0 X^i^a; ceeyvv$. 
 
 i. 348. 
 
 Mr. Tiekel, in rendering the sense of these lines, has 
 risen into a somewhat higher flight of poetry than usual. 
 However, you will observe his expression, in one or two 
 places, is exceedingly languid and prosaical ; as the epithet 
 he has given to the waves is highly injudicious. Curling 
 billows might be very proper in describing a calm, but 
 suggests too pleasing an image to be applied to the ocean 
 when represented as black with storms. 
 
 The widow'd hero, when the fair was gone, 
 
 Far from his friends, sat, bath' d in tears, alone. 
 
 On the cold beach he sat, andfix'd his eyes 
 
 "Where, black with storm s 5 the curling billows rise. 
 
 And as the sea, wide-rolling, he survey 'd, 
 
 With out-strttch'd arms to hisf^nd mother pray' d. Ticket. 
 
 Mr. Pope has opened the thought in these lines with 
 great dignity of numbers, and exquisite propriety of 
 imagery ; as the additional circumstances which he has 
 thrown in, are so many beautiful improvements upon his 
 author : 
 
 Not so his loss the fierce Achilles bore ; 
 
 But sad retiring to the sounding shore, 
 
 O'er the wild margin of the deep he hung, 
 
 That kindred deep from which his mother sprung : 
 
 Then bath'd in tears of anger and disdain, 
 
 Thus loud lamented to the stormy main. Pope* 
 
 Apollo having sent a plague among the Grecians, in re- 
 sentment of the injury done to his priest Chryses by de- 
 taining his daughter, Agamemnon consents that Chryseis 
 shall be restored. Accordingly a ship is fitted out under 
 the command of Ulysses, who is employed to conduct the 
 damsel to her father. That hero and his companions be- 
 ing arrived at Chrysa, the place to which they were bound, 
 
LETTER LH. 157 
 
 deliver up their charge ; and having performed a sacrifice 
 to Apollo, set sail early the next morning for the Grecian 
 camp. Upon this occasion Homer exhibits to us a most 
 beautiful sea-piece : 
 
 A« tots Mty.nerAV'TQ <&*%*. <urgj[AV.<rtdL vncc. 
 
 Kdi TOT Z7TUT CLVay'jVTG (JLiTcL PTgctTCV iVpVV A%£iW. 
 
 Tohtiv cT' tKfJLMV cvp-.y tit atzzpycs A7nhXM. 
 
 O* (T iTTOV <TTWX.Vt\ CLVCt & KT-ildL KWLSL <U?lTdL<j<Tciy % 
 EV <F tLVifJLOS Ttrp'/ICTiV /UiTOV t(TTtGV, CL(Jt.<pi Si XUfAd. 
 
 Irupyi fwoppjficv fJtryctK^ f'X^ v ' r0 ' *wW 
 
 H eT' S&eSl/ KZTSL KVfAA $L&7rpi)<T?QV<TCL KiKiuQa,. L 475. 
 
 If there is any passage throughout Mr. Tickel's translation 
 of tnis book, which has the least pretence to stand in 
 competition with Mr. Pope's version, it is undoubtedly 
 that which corresponds with the Greek lines just now 
 quoted. It would indeed be an instance of great par- 
 tiality not to acknowledge they breathe the true spirit of 
 poetry ; and I must own myself at a loss which to prefer 
 upon the whole ; though I think Mr. Pope is evidently 
 superiour to his rival, in his manner of opening the descrip- 
 tion : 
 
 At ev'ning through the shore dispers'd, they sleep 
 
 Hush'd by the distant roarings of the deep. 
 
 When now, ascending from the shades of night, 
 
 Aurora glow'd in all her rosy light, 
 
 The daughter of the dawn : th' awaken'd crew 
 
 Back to the Greeks encamp'd their course renew : 
 
 The breezes freshen : for, with friendly gales, 
 
 Apollo swell'd their wide-distended sails : 
 
 Cleft by the rapid prow the waves divide, 
 
 And in hoarse murmurs break on either side. Ticket, 
 
 'Twas night : the chiefs beside their vessel lie, 
 Till rosy mom had purpled o'er the sky : 
 Then launch, and hoist the mast ; indulgent gale*, 
 Supplied by Phcebus, fill the swelling sails ; 
 
 14 
 
158 LETTER LII. 
 
 The milk-white canvas bellying as they blow^ 
 
 The parted ocean foams and roars below : 
 
 Above the bounding billows swift they flew, &c. Pope. 
 
 There is something wonderfully pleasing in that judi- 
 cious pause, which Mr. Pope has placed at the beginning 
 of these lines. It necessarily awakens the attention of 
 the reader, and gives a much greater air of solemnity to 
 the scene, than if the circumstance of the time had been 
 less distinctly pointed out and blended, as in Mr. Tickel's 
 translation, with the rest of the description. 
 
 Homer has been celebrated by antiquity for those sub- 
 lime images of the Supreme Being, which he so often 
 raises in the Iliad. It is Macrobius, if I remember right, 
 who informs us, that Phidias being asked from whence 
 he took the idea of his celebrated statue of Olympian 
 Jupiter, acknowledged that he had heated his imagination 
 by the following lines : 
 
 H, Kcti MdLvtYicriv v? c<ppu<ri vzu<rz Y^ovtm' 
 
 i. 528. 
 
 But whatever magnificence of imagery Phidias might dis- 
 cover in the original, the English reader will scarce, I 
 imagine, conceive any thing very grand and sublime from 
 the following copy : 
 
 This said, his kingly brow the sire inclin'd, 
 The large black curls fell awful from behind, 
 Thick shadowing the stem forehead of the god : 
 Olympus trembled at th' almighty nod. Ticket. 
 
 That our modern statuaries, however, may not have an 
 excuse for burlesquing the figure of the great father of 
 gods and men, for want of the benefit of so animating a 
 mode , Mr. Pope has preserved it to them in all its origi- 
 nal majesty : 
 
LETTER LIL 159 
 
 He spoke, and awful bends his sable brows ; 
 Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod, 
 The stamp of fate, and sanction of the god : 
 High heaven with trembling the dread signal took, 
 And all Olympus to the centre shook. Pope* 
 
 I took occasion, in a former letter, to make some ex- 
 ceptions to a passage or two in the parsing of Hector and 
 Andromache, as translated by your favourite poet. — I 
 shall now produce a few lines from the same beautiful 
 episode, for another purpose, and in order to shew, with 
 how much more masterly a hand, even than Dryden him- 
 self, our great improver of English poetry has worked 
 upon the same subject. 
 
 As Andromache is going to the tower of Ilion, in order 
 to take a view of the field of battle, Hector meets her, 
 together with her son, the young Astyanax, at the Scaean 
 gate. The circumstances of this sudden interview are 
 finely imagined. Hector, in the first transport of his joy, 
 is unable to utter a single word ; at the same time that 
 Andromache, tenderly embracing his hands, bursts out 
 into a flood of tears : 
 
 vi. 404. 
 Dryden has translated this passage with a cold and unpo- 
 etical fidelity to the mere letter of the original : 
 
 Hector beheld him with a silent smile ; 
 
 His teiider wife stood weeping by the while ; 
 
 Press'd in her own, his warlike hand she took, 
 
 Then sigh'd, and thus prophetically spoke. Dryden, 
 
 But Pope has judiciously taken a larger compass, and, by 
 heightening the piece with a few additional touches, has 
 wrought it up in all the affecting spirit of tenderness and 
 poetry : 
 
160 LETTER LII. 
 
 Silent the warriour smil'd, and pleas'd, resign'd 
 
 To tender passions all his mighty mind : 
 
 His beauteous princess cast a mournful look, 
 
 Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke ; 
 
 Her bosom labour'd with a boding sigh, 
 
 And the big tear stood trembling in her eye. Pope, 
 
 Andromache afterwards endeavours to persuade Hector 
 to take upon himself the defence of the city, and not ha- 
 zard a life so important, she tells him, to herself and his 
 son, in the more dangerous action of the field : 
 
 Ttfv $* czut& <argQo%ii7n [Aiy'M KopvQ&iokoe 'EttTft^, 
 
 H Hctt e/uot <rd.fo turetvrct y.zxei, yvvat' clkko. pah 1 amis 
 
 A.'XS, KCtHOg &)?> VG(rpiV dL\V(TX.X?Od <&CM{AQIQ. vi. 44Q. 
 
 To whom the noble Hector thus replied : 
 That and the rest are in my daily care ; 
 But should I shun the dangers of the war, 
 * With scorn the Trojans would reward my pains, 
 And their proud ladies with their sweeping trains* 
 The Grecian swords and lances I can bear : 
 But loss of honour is my only care. Dryderu 
 
 Nothing can Ite more flat and unanimated than these 
 lines. One may say, upon this occasion, what Dry den 
 himself, I remember, somewhere observes, that a good 
 poet is no more like himself in a dull translation, than his 
 dead carcass would be to his living body. To catch indeed 
 the soul of our Grecian bard, and breathe his spirit into an 
 English version, seems to have been a privilege reserved 
 solely for Pope : 
 
 The chief replied : that post shall be my care ; 
 
 Nor that alone, but all the works of war. 
 
 How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown'd, 
 
 And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, 
 
 Attaint the lustre of my former name, 
 
 Should Hector basely quit the fields of fame ? Pope, 
 
 ^In the farther prosecution of this episode Hector pro- 
 phesies his own death, and the destruction of Troy § to 
 
LETTER LII. 161 
 
 which he adds, that Andromache should be led captive 
 into Argos, where, among other disgraceful offices, which 
 he particularly enumerates, she should be employed, he 
 tells her, in the servile task of drawing water. The dif- 
 ferent manner in which this last circumstance is express- 
 ed by our two English poets, will afford the strongest 
 instance, how much additional force the same thought 
 will receive from a more graceful turn of phrase : 
 
 Or from deep wells the living stream to take, 
 
 And on thy weary shoulders bring it back. Dryden. 
 
 or bring 
 The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring. Pope, 
 
 It is in certain peculiar turns of diction that the language 
 of poetry is principally distinguished from that of prose, 
 as indeed the same words are, in general, common to them 
 both. It is in a turn of this kind, that the beauty of the 
 last quoted line consists. For the whole grace of the 
 expression would vanish, if, instead of the two substan- 
 tives which are placed at the beginning 01 the verse, the 
 poet had employed the more common syntax of a sub- 
 stantive with its adjective. 
 
 When this faithful pair have taken their final adieu of 
 each other, Hector returns to the field of battle, at the 
 same time that the disconsolate Andromache joins her 
 maidens in the palace. Homer describes this circura-* 
 stance in the following tender manner : 
 
 Q$ cL^ct •ZicowcrcLs xopvb'' sikzro <pduS'i/tAQC E&<7ft>g 
 l7r7rovptv' ctKo^og <fs <plXn otKOvfe /Zz€:,xu 
 'EvTepTrdLKl&pvM) &d<teepv Kccrx, fiutpv %zov<r&. 
 
 'EkTCPOG CtvSpO<pOVOlQ' Kt^(t1J-X<T0 cf' SV^cQ/ (&0\\cl$ 
 
 AfA<pt7rohoug, ryxriv fo yoov (&*(?■* <tlv zva^osv. 
 
 At fxiv irt £W yoov 'Ekvc^* u> evt outa. vj. 494. 
 
 14* 
 
162 LETTER LIL 
 
 I will make no remarks upon the different success of our 
 two celebrated poets in translating: this passage ; but, 
 after having laid both before you, leave their versions to 
 speak for themselves. The truth is, the disparity between 
 them is much too visible to require any comment to 
 render it more observable : 
 
 At this, for new replies he did not stay, 
 
 But lac'd his crested helm, and strode away. 
 
 His lovely consort to her house retum'd, 
 
 And looking often back, in silence mourn'd : 
 
 Home when she came, her secret woe she vents, 
 
 And fills the palace with her loud laments ; 
 
 Those loud laments her echoing maids restore, 
 
 And Hector, yet alive, as dead deplore. Dry den. 
 
 Thus having said, the glorious chief resumes 
 
 His tow'ry helmet, black with shading plumes. 
 
 His princess parts with a prophetick sigh, 
 
 Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye, 
 
 That stream'd at ev'ry look : then moving slow, 
 
 Sought her own palace, and indulged her woe. 
 
 There, while her tears deplor'd the godlike man, 
 
 Through all the train the soft infection ran ; 
 
 The pious maids their mingled so:tow shed, 
 
 And mourn the living Hector as the dead. Pope* 
 
 As I purpose to follow Mr. Pope through those several 
 parts of the Iliad, where any of our distinguished poets 
 Jiave gone before him ; I must lead you on till we come 
 to the speech of Sarpedon to Glaucus, in the Xllth book : 
 
 EePgH TS, Jt£S£<T/V Tg, /efg <WXUGlS JWtfSTW, 
 
 Ev Awt*«> <&±v<tz$ Si-, 3"2cy? a;, eio-cgototri, 
 
 Km reuevoc vifAOfAto-B* /uey* Z&vQoio f&Ag o^Qcuc 
 
 KcLXOV, tyVTAKW KCtl Ct£CV£»S t&UgltygUO j 
 Tft> VVV %$>1 A.UKICKTI (LIZTA ^COTOKriV 6SVTflt? 
 
 TH<rraL t uev, rM {**%»? ** y 2 vr2/ §"? etvrtCohna'Ai* 
 0<p$± tic axf' emy Avx,iw <wvka StogAwrtLm , 
 
 Oy fJLAV AKKUttS AVKMV HAT AKQ I QAVtOVfiV 
 
LETTER LII. 163 
 
 Otvuv t' e^tirov. fj.iXU'ht' dCKh #g* km /? 
 HaS'Xr), inn AvKioicri uztcl t&gtoTcacr!, /u&^ovTttl. 
 
 Aim fit /uexxotfx&v Aynga> <r ABotvctroo <n 
 
 Efr^g^d-', OVTi KiV 1JT0C &i (WgtoTCKTt /UA^OlfAWj 
 
 Oure Kg crs <r<rzxxoiut pf/m es KuS'tctvu^Av' 
 
 Mjyxt, <*? ovk errt (p'jyeiv figonrov-, ovF C7rctxv^±t) 
 lofJLW te tm pj^o; o^ojuevy ne Tig viy.iv> xii. 310. 
 
 This spirited speech has been translated by the famous 
 author of Cooper's Hill : 
 
 Above the rest why is our pomp and pow'r ? 
 
 Our flocks, our herds, and our possessions more ? 
 
 Why all the tributes land and sea afford, 
 
 Heap'd in great chargers, load our sumptuous board ? 
 
 Our cheerful guests carouse the sparkling tears 
 
 Of the rich grape, whilst musick charms their ears. 
 
 Why, as we pass, do those on Xanthus' shore 
 
 As gods behold us, and as gods adore ? 
 
 But that, as well in danger as degree, 
 
 We stand the first : that when our Lycians see 
 
 Our brave examples, they admiring say, 
 
 Behold our gallant leaders I these are they 
 
 Deserve their greatness ; and unenvied stand, 
 
 Since what they act transcends what they command. 
 
 Could the declining of this fate, oh ! friend, 
 
 Our date to immortality extend, 
 
 Or if death sought not them who seek not death, 
 
 Would I advance, or should my vainer breath 
 
 With such a glorious folly thee inspire ? 
 
 But since with fortune nature doth conspire ; 
 
 Since age, disease, or some less noble end, 
 
 Though not less certain, does our days attend ; 
 
 Since 'tis decreed, and to this period led 
 
 A thousand ways, the noblest path we'll tread ; 
 
 And bravely on, till they, or we, or all, 
 
 A common sacrifice to honour fall. Denham. 
 
 Mr. Pope passes so high an encomium on these lines, 
 as to assure us, that, if his translation of the same passage 
 
164 LETTER LII. 
 
 has any spirit, it is in some degree due to them. It is 
 certain they hare great merit, considering the state of 
 our English versification when Denham flourished : but 
 they will by no means support Mr. Pope's compliment, 
 any more than they will bear to stand in competition with 
 his numbers. And I dare say, you will join with me in 
 the same opinion, when you consider the following ver- 
 sion of this animated speech : 
 
 "Why boast we, Glaucus, our extended reign, 
 Where Xanthus' streams enrieh the Lycian plain ? 
 Our num'rous herds, that range the fruitful field, 
 And hills where vines their purple harvest yield ? 
 Our foaming bowls with purer nectar crown'd, 
 Our feasts enhanc'd with musick's sprightly sound^? 
 Why on these shores are we with joy survey'd, 
 Admir'd as heroes, and as gods obey'd ? 
 Unless great acts supeiiour merit prove, 
 And vindicate the bounteous powers above ; 
 That when, with wond'ring eyes, our martial bands 
 Behold our deeds transcending our commands, 
 Such, they may cry, deserve the sov'reign state, 
 Whom those that envy dare not imitate. 
 Could all our care elude the gloomy grave, 
 Which claims no less the fearful than the brave, 
 For lust of fame I should not vainly dare 
 in fighting fields, nor urge thy soul to war. 
 But since, alas I ignoble age must come, 
 Disease, and death's inexorable doom ; 
 The life which others pay, let us bestow, 
 And give to fame what we to nature owe ; 
 Brave though we fall, and honour'd if we live, 
 Or let us glory gain, or glory give. Pope, 
 
 If any thing can be justly objected to this translation, it 
 is, perhaps, that in one or two places it is too diffused and 
 descriptive for that agitation in which it was spoken. In 
 general, however, one may venture to assert, that it is 
 warmed with the same ardour of poetry and heroism that 
 glows in the original : as those several thoughts, which 
 
LETTER LII. 165 
 
 Mr. Pope has intermixed of his own, naturally arise out 
 of the sentiments of his author, and are perfectly con- 
 formable to the character and circumstances of the 
 speaker. 
 
 I shall close this review with Mr. Congreve, who has 
 translated the petition of Priam to Achilles for the body 
 of his son Hector, together with the lamentations of An- 
 dromache, Hecuba, and Helen. 
 
 Homer represents the unfortunate king of Troy, as en- 
 tering unobserved into the tent of Achilles : and illus* 
 trates the surprise which arose in that chief and his 
 attendants, upon the first discovery of Priam, by the fol- 
 lowing simile : 
 
 £U </' ontv d.v£g urn f&ux,m xnCtiy oo-r' 1 m wetrgn 
 
 &06<T4. KltrcLKT&lVSlS, AKKOOV «£*JCSTfi £vtA0V, 
 
 Av<JW €? cL<pvzicu Sci/uCgc «P s%zt eio-OQGcevrcts' 
 
 xxiv. 480. 
 
 Nothing can be more languid and inelegant than the 
 manner in which Congreve has rendered this passage : 
 
 But as a wretch who has a murder done, 
 
 And seeking refuge, does from justice run ; 
 
 Ent'ring some house in haste where he's unknown, 
 
 Creates amazement in the lookers-ou : 
 
 So did Achiiles gaze, surpris'd to see 
 
 The godlike Priam's royal misery. Congreve* 
 
 But Pope has raised the same thought with his usual 
 grace and spirit : 
 
 As when a wretch, who, conscious of his crime, 
 Pursu'd for murder, flies lis native clime, 
 Just gains some frontier, breathless, pale, amaz'd ! 
 All gaze, all wonder : thus Achilles gaz'd. Pope, 
 
 The speech of Priam is wonderfully pathetick and af- 
 fecting. He tells Achilles, that, out of fifty sons he had 
 
166 LETTER LIL 
 
 one only remaining ; and of him he was now unhappily 
 bereaved by his sword. He conjures him, by his tender- 
 ness for his own father, to commiserate the most wretched 
 of parents, who, by an uncommon severity of fate, was 
 thus obliged to kiss those hands which were imbrued in 
 the blood of his children : 
 
 tov vuv etv% tKCtVOt vvi*s kyjiiw-) 
 AvcrofAtvos <z*r/§* o-yo, qe^w <f cL7recsi<ri ctTrotvd. 
 Au' niSiio 3-goy?, A^tXiu, ctvTov t iX&Hr y, 
 Mvno'AfJttvos crw <nr&<Tgos' sym <f iXiitvon^o? <s?*g, 
 
 E-TX«V cT 01 OV7TO0 <Tl£ &ri%BcVlOS fi^OTOg CLhAOC, 
 
 AvcTgof GrdufopMoto (Utqti (rTO/ua, yii£ c£?yi<r&cu. 
 
 v. 501, 
 
 These moving lines Mr. Congreve has debased into 
 the lowest and most unaffecting prose : 
 
 For his sake only I am hither come ; 
 
 Rich gifts I bring, and wealth, an endless svm ; 
 
 All to redeem that fatal prize you won, 
 
 A worthless ransom for so brave a son. 
 
 Fear the just gods, Achilles, and on me 
 
 With pity look ; think you your father see : 
 
 Such as I am, he is : alone in this, 
 
 I can no equal have in miseries ; 
 
 Of all mankind, most wretched and forlorn, 
 
 Bow'd with such weight as never has been borne ; 
 
 Reduc'd to kneel and pray to you, from whom 
 
 The- spring and source of all my sorrows come ; 
 
 With gifts to court mine and my country's bane, 
 
 And kiss those hands which have my children slain. 
 
 Congreve, 
 
 Nothing could compensate the trouble of labouring through 
 these heavy and tasteless rhymes, but the pleasure of be- 
 ing relieved at the end of them with a more lively pros* 
 pect of poetry : 
 
 For him through hostile camps I bent my way 
 For him thus prostrate at thy feet I lay j 
 
LETTER LII. 167 
 
 Large gifts proportion^ to thy wrath I bear ; 
 
 h.ar the wretched, and the gods revere ! 
 Think of thy father, and this face behold ! 
 See him in me, as helpless and as old ! 
 Though not so wretched : there he yields to me, 
 The first of men in sov'reign misery ; 
 
 Thus forc'd to kneel, thus grov'lling to embrace 
 
 The scourge and ruin of my realm and race : 
 
 Suppliant my children's murd'rer to implore, 
 
 Axid kiss those hands yet reeking with their gore* Pope* 
 
 Achilles having, at length, consented to restore the 
 dead body of Hec'or, Priam conducts it to his palace. It 
 is there placed in funeral pomp, at the same time that 
 mournful dirges are sung over the corpse, intermingled 
 with the lamentations of Andromache, Hecuba, and 
 Helen : 
 
 T/58Tfi/£ IV W)($i>T<rt &i<rctV) m-Agct & 6i<7CtV ctotfouc, 
 Gptvw z%*£X 0U S ol<ri PTovcitrcr si dLoiS^v 
 
 01 /UiV Ctg> ibpilV&OVi &TI <?9 O-TiVCt^OVTO yvvcUKic* v. 719. 
 
 There is something extremely solemn and affecting in 
 Homer's description of this scene of sorrow. A translator 
 who was touched with the least spark of poetry, could 
 not, one should imagine, but rise beyond himself, in copy- 
 ing after so noble an original. It has not, however, been 
 able to elevate Mr. Congreve above his usual flatness of 
 numbers : 
 
 then laid 
 With care the body on a sumptuous bed, 
 And round about were skilful singers plac'd, 
 "Who wept and sigh'd, and in sad notes express'd 
 Their moan : All in a chorus did agree 
 Of universal mournful harmony. Congreve. 
 
 It would be the highest injustice to the following lines 
 to quote them in opposition to those of Mr. Congreve : I 
 produce them, as marked with a vein of poetry much 
 superiour even to the original : 
 
168 LETTER LIII. 
 
 They weep, and place him on a bed of state 
 
 A melanchor. choir attend around 
 
 With plaintive s^hs, and musick's solemn sound: 
 
 Alternately they sing, alternate flow 
 
 Th' obedient tears, melodious in their woe ; 
 
 "While deeper sorrows gro l from each full heart, 
 
 And nature speaks at ev'ry pause of art. Pope, 
 
 Thus, Euphronius, I have brought before you some of 
 the most renowned of our British bards, contending, as it 
 were, for the prize of poetry : and there can be no debate 
 to whom it justly belongs. Mr. Fope seen s, indeed, to 
 have raised our numbers to the highest possible perfec- 
 tion of strength and harmony : and, I fear, all the praise 
 that the best succeeding poets can expect, as to their ver- 
 sification, will be, that they have happily imitated his 
 manner. Farewell. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER LIII. 
 
 TO ORONTES. 
 
 July 2, 1?4L 
 Your letter found me just upon my return from an 
 excursion into Berkshire, where I had been paying a visit 
 to a friend who is drinking the waters at Sunning-Hill. In 
 one of my morning rides over that delightful country, I 
 accidentally passed through a little village, which afforded 
 me much agreeable meditation ; as, in times to come, per- 
 haps, it will be visited by the lovers of the polite arts, 
 with as much veneration as Virgil's tomb, or any other 
 celebrated spot of antiquity. The place I mean is Bin- 
 field, where the poet to whom I am indebted (in common 
 with every reader of taste) for so much exquisite enter- 
 tainment, spent the earliest part of his youth. I will not 
 scruple to confess, that I looked upon the scene where 
 he planned some of those beautiful performances which 
 
LETTER LIIL 16& 
 
 first recommended him to the notice of the world, with a 
 degree of enthusiasm ; and could not but consider the 
 ground as sacred that was impressed with the footsteps of 
 a genius that undoubtedly does the highest honour to our 
 age and nation. 
 
 The situation of mind in which I found myself, upon 
 this occasion, suggested to my remembrance a passage in 
 Tully, which I thought I never so thoroughly entered into 
 the spirit of before. That noble author, in one of his 
 philosophical conversation-pieces, introduces his friend 
 Atticus as observing the pleasing effect which scenes of 
 this nature are wont to have upon one's mind : Movemur 
 enim (says that polite Roman) nescio quo pacto, locis ipsis, 
 in quibus eorum, quos diligimus aut admiramur, adsunt 
 vestigia. Me quidem ipsae illae nostrae Athenae, non tarn 
 operibus magnificis eocquisitisque antiquorum artibus delec- 
 tant, quam recordatione summorwm virorum^ ubi quisque 
 kabitare, ubi sedere, ubi disputare sit solitus. 
 
 Thus, you see, I could defend myself by an example of 
 great authority, were I in danger, upon this occasion, of 
 being ridiculed as a romantick visionary. But I am too 
 well acquainted with the refined sentiments of Orontes, 
 to be under any apprehension he will condemn the 
 impressions I have here acknowledged. On the contrary, 
 I have often heard you mention, with approbation, a cir- 
 cumstance of this kind which is related of Silius Italicus. 
 The annual ceremonies which that poet performed at 
 Virgil's sepulchre, gave you a more favourable opinion of 
 his taste, you confessed, than any thing in his works was 
 able to raise. 
 
 It is certain, that some of the greatest names of anti- 
 quity have distinguished themselves by the high reverence 
 they shewed to the poetical character. Scipio, you may 
 remember, desired to be laid in the same tomb with En- 
 nius : and I am inclined to pardon that successful madman 
 15 
 
1T0 LETTER LIU. 
 
 
 Alexander many of his extravagancies, for the generous 
 regard he paid to the memory of Pindar, at the sacking 
 of Thebes. 
 
 There seems, indeed, to be something in poetry, that 
 raises the possessors of that very singular talent far higher 
 in the estimation of the world in general, than those who 
 excel in any other of the refined arts. And, accordingly, 
 we find that poets have been distinguished by antiquity 
 with the most remarkable honours. Thus Homer, we 
 are told, was deified at Smyrna ; as the citizens of Myti- 
 lene stamped the image of Sappho upon their publick 
 coin : Anacreon received a solemn invitation to spend 
 his days at Athens, and Hipparchus, the son of Pisis- 
 tratus, fitted out a splendid vessel in order to transport 
 him thither : and when Virgil caine into the theatre at 
 Rome, the whole audience rose up and saluted him with 
 the same respect as they would have paid to Augustus 
 himself. 
 
 Painting, one should imagine, has the fairest preten- 
 sion of rivalling her sister art in the number of admirers ; 
 and yet, where Apelles is mentioned once, Homer is ce- 
 lebrated a thousand times. Nor can this be accounted for 
 by urging, that the works of the latter are still extant, 
 while those of the former perished long since : for is 
 not Milton's Paradise Lost more universally esteemed 
 than Raphael's cartoons ? 
 
 The truth, I imagine, is, there are more who are na- 
 tural judges of the harmony of numbers, than of the 
 grace of proportions. One meets with but few who have 
 not, in some degree at least, a tolerable ear ; but a judi- 
 cious eye is a far more uncommon possession. For as 
 words are the universal medium which all men employ 
 in order to convey their sentiments to each other, it 
 seems a just consequence that they should be more gene- 
 rally formed for relishing and judging of performances in 
 
LETTER LIV. 171 
 
 tliat way : whereas the art of representing ideas by means 
 of lines and colours, lies more out of the road of common 
 use, and is, therefore, less adapted to the taste of the 
 general run of mankind. 
 
 I hazard this observation, in the hopes of drawing 
 from you your sentiments upon a subject, in which no 
 man is more qualified to decide : as, indeed, it is to the 
 conversation of Orontes that I am indebted for the dis- 
 covery of many refined delicacies in the imitative arts, 
 which, without his judicious assistance, would have lain 
 concealed to me with other common observers. Adieu* 
 I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER LIV. 
 
 TO PHIDTPPUS. 
 
 I am by no means surprised that the interview you 
 have lately had with Cleanthes, has given you a much 
 lower opinion of his abilities than what you had before 
 conceived : and since it has raised your curiosity to know 
 my sentiments of his character, you shall have them with 
 all that freedom you may justly expect. 
 
 I have always then considered Cleanthes as possessed 
 of the most extraordinary talents ; but his talents are of 
 a kind, which can only be exerted upon uncommon oc- 
 casions. They are formed for the greatest depths of bu- 
 siness and affairs ; but absolutely out of all size for the 
 shallows of ordinary life. In circumstances that require 
 the most profound reasonings, in incidents that demand 
 the most penetrating politicks, there Cleanthes would 
 shine with supreme lustre. But view him in any situa- 
 tion iuferiour to these ; place him where he cannot raise 
 admiration, and he will, most probably, sink into con- 
 tempt. Cleanthes, in short, wants nothing but the addi- 
 
172 LETTER LV. 
 
 tion of certain minute accomplishments, to render him a 
 finished character : but, being wholly destitute of those 
 little talents which are necessary to render a man useful 
 or agreeable in the daily commerce of the world, those 
 great abilities which he possesses lie unobserved or ne- 
 glected. 
 
 He often, indeed, gives one occasion to reflect how 
 necessary it is to be master of a sort of under-qualities, 
 in order to set off and recommend those of a superiour 
 nature. To know how to descend with grace and ease 
 into ordinary occasions, and to fall in with the less im- 
 portant parties and purposes of mankind, is an art of 
 more general influence, perhaps, than is usually ima- 
 gined. 
 
 If I were to form, therefore, a youth for the world, I 
 should certainly endeavour to cultivate in him these se- 
 condary qualifications, and train him up to an address 
 in these lower arts, which render a man agreeable in 
 conversation, or useful to the innocent pleasures and 
 accommodations of life. A general skill and taste of 
 this kind, with moderate abilities, will, in most instances, 
 I believe, prove more successful in the world, than a 
 much higher degree of capacity without them. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER LV. 
 
 TO EUPHRONIUS. 
 
 July 17, 1730. 
 If the temper and turn of Timanthes had not long 
 prepared me lor what has happened, I should have re- 
 ceived your account of his death with more surprise ; but 
 I suspected, from our earliest acquaintance, that his 
 sentiments and disposition would lead him into a satiety 
 of life, much sooner than nature would, probably, carry 
 
Letter lv. 173 
 
 him to the end of it. When unsettled principles fall in 
 with a constitutional gloominess of mind, it is no wonder 
 the taedium vitae should gain daily strength, till it pushes 
 a man to seek relief against this most desperate of all 
 distempers, from the point of a sword, or the bottom of 
 a river. 
 
 But to learn to accommodate our taste to that portion 
 of happiness which Providence has set before us, is, of 
 all the lessons of philosophy, surely the most necessary. 
 High and exquisite gratifications are not consistent with 
 the appointed measures of humanity : and, perhaps, if 
 we would fully enjoy the relish of our being, we should 
 rather consider the miseries we escape, than too nicely 
 examine the intrinsick worth of the happiness we possess. 
 It is, at least, the business of true wisdom, to bring to- 
 gether every circumstance which may light up a flame of 
 cheerfulness in the mind : and though we must be in- 
 sensible if it should perpetually burn with the same un- 
 varied brightness, yet prudence should preserve it as a 
 sacred fire which is never to be totally extinguished. 
 
 I am persuaded this disgust of life is frequently in- 
 dulged out of a principle of mere vanity. It is esteemed 
 as a mark of uncommon refinement, and as placing a 
 man above the ordinary level of his species, to seem 
 superiour to the vulgar feelings of happiness. True good 
 sense, however, most certainly consists not in despising, 
 but in managing our stock of life to the best advantage ; 
 as a cheerful acquiescence in the measures of Providence 
 is one of the strongest symptoms of a well-constituted 
 mind. Self-weariness is a circumstance that ever attends 
 folly : and to contemn our being is the greatest, and, in- 
 deed, the peculiar, infirmity of human nature. It is a 
 noble sentiment which Tully puts into the mouth of 
 15 * 
 
174 LETTER LT. 
 
 Cato, in his treatise upon old age : Non lubet rnihi (says 
 that venerable Foman,) deplorare vitam, quod multi, etii 
 docti saepi fecemnt ; neque me viaisse poenitet: quoniam 
 ita vioci, ut non frustrft me natum existimem. 
 
 It is in the power, indeed, of but a very small propor- 
 tion of mankind, to act the same glorious part that 
 afforded such high satisfaction to this distinguished pa- 
 triot : but the number is yet far more inconsiderable of 
 those who cannot, in any station, secure to themselves a 
 sufficient fund of complacency to render life justly valu- 
 able. Who is it that is placed out of the reach of the 
 highest of all gratifications, those of the generous affec- 
 tions ; and that cannot provide for his own happiness by 
 contributing something to the welfare of others ? As 
 this disease of the mind generally breaks out with most 
 violence in those who are supposed to be endowed with 
 a greater delicacy of taste and reason, than is the usual 
 allotment of their fellow-creatures, one may ask them, 
 Whether there is any satiety in the pursuits of useful 
 knowledge ? or, if one can ever be weary of benefiting 
 mankind? Will not the fine arts supply a lasting feast to 
 the mind ? Or can there be wanting a pleasurable em- 
 ployment, so long as there remains even one advantage- 
 ous truth to be discovered or confirmed ? To complain 
 that life has no joys? -while there is a single creature 
 whom we can relieve by our bounty, assist by our coun- 
 sels, or enliven by our presence, is to lament the loss of 
 that which we possess, and is just as rational as to die of 
 thirst with the cup in our hands. But the misfortune is, 
 when a man is settled into a habit of receiving all his 
 pleasures from the mere selfish indulgencies, he wears 
 out of his mind the relish of every nobler enjoyment, at 
 the same time that his powers of the sensual kind are 
 growing more languid by each repetition. It is no won- 
 
LETTER LVI. 175 
 
 der, therefore, he should fill up the measure of his grati- 
 fications, long before he has completed the circle of his 
 duration ; and either wretchedly sit down the remainder 
 of his days in discontent, or rashly throw them up in 
 despair. Farewell. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER LVL 
 
 TO TIMOCLEA. 
 
 October I, 1743. 
 
 Certainly, Timoclea, you have a passion for the mar- 
 vellous beyond all power of gratification. There is not 
 an adventurer throughout the whole regions of chivalry, 
 with whom you are unacquainted; and have wandered 
 through more folios than would furnish out a decent library. 
 Mine, at least, you have totally exhausted ; and have so 
 cleared my shelves of knights-errant, that I have not a 
 single hero remaining that ever was regaled in bower or 
 hall. But, though you have drained me of my whole stock 
 of romance, I am not entirely unprovided for your enter- 
 tainment ; and have enclosed a little Grecian fable, for 
 your amusement, which was lately transmitted to me 
 by one of my friends. He discovered it, he tells me, 
 among some old manuscripts, which have been long, it 
 seems, in the possession of his family ; and, if you will 
 rely upon his judgment, it is a translation by Spenser's 
 own hand. 
 
 This is all the history I have to give you of the follow- 
 ing piece ; the genuineness of which I leave to be settled 
 between my friend and the cri ticks ; and am, &c* 
 
176 LETTER LVI. 
 
 THE TRANSFORMATION OF LYCON AND EUPHORMIUS. 
 
 I. 
 
 DEEM not, ye plaintive crew, that suffer wrong, 
 
 Ne thou, O man ! who deal'st the tort, misween 
 The equal gods, who heav'n's sky mansions throng 
 
 (Though viewless to the eyne they distant sheen) 
 
 Spectators reckless of our actions been. 
 Turning the volumes of grave sages old, 
 
 Where auncient saws in fable may be seen, 
 This truth I fond in paynim tale enroll'd 
 Which for ensample drad my Muse shall here unfold* 
 
 II. 
 
 What time Arcadians flowret vallies fam'd 
 
 Pelasgus, first of monarchs old, obey'd, 
 There wonn'd a wight, and Lycon was he nam'd, 
 
 Unaw'd by conscience, of no gods afraid, 
 
 Ne justice rul'd his heart, ne mercy sway'd. 
 Some held him kin to that abhorred race, 
 
 Which heav'n's high tow'rs with mad emprize assay 'd ; 
 And some his cruel lynage did ytrace 
 From fell Erynnis join'd in Pluto's dire embrace. 
 
 III. 
 
 But he, perdy, far other tale did feign. 
 
 And claim'd alliaunce with the sisters nine ; 
 And deem'd himself (what deems not pride so vain ?) 
 
 The peerless paragon of wit divine, 
 
 Vaunting that every foe should rue its tine. 
 Jtight doughty wight ! yet, sooth, withouten smart, 
 
 All pow'rless fell the losel's shafts malign : 
 Tis virtue's arm to wield wit's heav'nly dart, 
 Point its keen barb with force, and send it to the heart. 
 
 IV. 
 
 One only irape he had, Pastora hight, 
 Whose sweet amenaunce pleas'd each shepherd's eye : 
 
 Yet pleas'd she not base Lycon's evil spright, 
 Though blame in her not malice moten spy, 
 Clear, without spot, as summer's cloudless sky. 
 
LETTER LVI. 17? 
 
 Hence poets feign'd, Lycean Pan array'd 
 
 In Lycon's form, enflamed with passion high } 
 Deceiv'd her mother in the covert glade ; 
 And from the stol'n embrace ysprong the heav'nly maid; 
 
 Thus fabling they : meanwhile the damsel fai u 
 A shepherd youth remark'd, as o'er the plain 
 
 She deffly pac'd elong so debonair : 
 
 Seem'd she as one of Dian's chosen train, 
 Full many a fond txcuse he knew to feign, 
 
 In sweet converse to while with her the day, 
 Till love unwares his heedless heart did gain, 
 
 Nor dempt he, simple wight, no mortal may 
 
 The blinded God once harbour'd, when he list, foresay. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Now much he meditates if yet to speak, 
 And now resolves liis passion to conceal : 
 
 But sure, quoth he, my seely heart will break 
 If aye I smother what I aye must feel 
 At length by hope embolden'd to reveal. 
 
 The lab'ring secret dropped from his tong. 
 Whiles frequent singulis checR'd his falt'ring talej 
 
 In modest wise her head Pastora hong : 
 
 For never maid more chaste inspired shepherd's song. 
 
 VII. 
 
 What needs me to recount in long detail 
 
 The tender parley which these lemans held ? 
 How oft he vow'd his love her ne'er should fail ; 
 
 How oft the stream from forth her eyne outwell'd, 
 
 Doubting if constancy yet ever dwell'd 
 In heart of youthful wight : suffice to know. 
 
 Each rising doubt he in her bosome quell'd^ 
 So parted they, more blithsome both, I trow : 
 For rankling love conceal'd, me seems, is deadly woe. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Eftsoons to Lycon swift the youth did fare, 
 
 (Lagg'd ever youth when Cupid urg'd his way?) 
 And straight his gentle purpose did declare* 
 
IT 8 LETTER LVI. 
 
 And sooth the mount'naunce of his herds display, 
 Ne Lycon meant his suiten to foresay : 
 " Be thine Pastora (quoth the masker sly) 
 " And twice two thousand sheep her dow'r shall pay. 1 * 
 Beat then the lover's heart with joyaunce high ; 
 Ne dempt that aught his bliss could now betray, 
 Ne guess'd that foul deceit in Lycon's bosome lay* 
 
 So forthe he yode to seek his rev'rend sire 
 
 (The good Euphormius shepherds him did call) 
 How sweet Pastora did his bosome fire, 
 
 Her worth, her promis'd flocks, he tolden all. 
 
 u Ah ! nere, my son, let Lycon thee enthrall, 
 (Reply'd the sage in wise experience old) 
 
 " Smooth is his tongue, but full of guile withal, 
 In promise faithless, and in vaunting bold : 
 Ne ever lamb of his will bleat within thy fold." 
 
 With words prophetick thus Euphormius spake I 
 
 And fact confirm'd what wisdom thus foretold. 
 Full many a mean devise did Lycon make. 
 
 The hoped day of spousal to withhold, 
 
 Framing new trains when nought mote serve his old. 
 Nathlcss he vow'd, Cyllene, cloud-topt hill, 
 
 Should sooner down the lowly delve be roll'd, 
 Than he his plighted promise nould fulfill ; 
 But when, perdy, or where, the caitiff sayen nill. 
 
 XI. 
 
 "Whiles thus the tedious suns had journey'd round, 
 
 Ne ought mote now the lovers' hearts divide, 
 Ne trust was there, ne truth in Lycon found ; 
 The maid with matron Juno for her guide, 
 The youth by Concoi'd led, in secret hy'd 
 To Hymen's sacred fane : the honest deed 
 
 Each god approv'd, and close the bands were ty'd. 
 Certes, till happier moments should succeed, 
 No prying eyne they ween'd their emprize mote areefl. 
 
LETTER LVI. 179 
 
 But prying eyne of Lycon 'twas in vain 
 
 (Right practick in disguise) to hope beware. 
 He trac'd their covert steps to Hymen's fane. 
 
 And joy'd to find thera in his long-laid snare. 
 
 Algates, in semblaunt ire, he 'gan to swear, 
 And roaren loud as in displeasaunce high ; 
 
 Then out he hurlen forth his daughter fair, 
 Forelore, the houseless child of misery, 
 Expos 'd to killing cold, and pinching penury. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Ah ! whither now shall sad Pastora wend, 
 
 To want abandon'd, and by wrongs oppress'd ? 
 Who shall the wretched outcast's teen befriend ? 
 
 Lives mercy then, if not in parent's breast ? 
 
 Yes, Mercy lives, the gentle goddess blest, 
 At Jove's right hand, to Jove for ever dear. 
 
 Aye at his feet she pleads the cause distrest, 
 To sorrow's plains she turns his equal ear, 
 And wafts to heav'n's star-throne fair vertue's silent tear. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 'Twas SHE that bade Euphormius quell each thought 
 
 That well mote rise to check his gen'rous aid. 
 Though high the torts which Lycon him had wrought, 
 
 Though few the flocks his humble pastures fed ; 
 
 When as he learn'd Pastora's hapless sted, 
 His breast humane with wonted pity flows. 
 
 He op'd his gates, the naked exile led 
 Beneath bis roof; a decent drapet throws 
 O'er her cold limbs, and sooths her undeserved woe* 
 
 XV. 
 
 Now loud-tongu'd Rumour bruited round the tale •: 
 Th' astoned swains uneath could credence give, 
 
 That in Arcadia's unambitious vale 
 A faytor false as Lycon e'er did live, 
 But Jove (who in high heav'n does mortals prive, 
 
 And ev'ry deed in golden bal lance weighs) 
 To earth his flaming charet baden drive, 
 
 And down descends, enwrapt in peerless blaze, 
 
 To deal forth guerdon meet to good and evil ways. 
 
180 LETTER LVI. 
 
 Where Eurymanthus, crown'd with many a wood, 
 
 His silver stream through dasy'd vales does lead, 
 StT; tch'd on the flow'ry marge, in reckless mood, 
 
 Proud Lycon nought by charm of o ocund reed 
 
 To lull the dire remorse of tortious deed. 
 Him Jove accosts, in rtv'rend semblarnce dight 
 
 Of good Euphorrnius. and 'gan mild ai*eed 
 Of compact oft confirm r.'d, of fay yplight, 
 Qi nature's tender tye, of sacred rule of right. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 With lofty eyne, half loth to looke so low, 
 
 Him Lycon vkw'd, and with swoll'n surquedry 
 - Gan rudely treat his sacred old : When now 
 
 Forth stood the God confest that rules the sky, 
 
 la sudden sheen of drad divinity : 
 {; And know, false man," the Lord of thunders said, 
 
 " Not unobserv'd by Heav'n's all-present eye 
 ;{ Thy cruel deeds: nor shall be unappay'd i 
 " Go ! be in form that best beseems thy thews, array'd." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Whiles yet he spake, th' affrayed trembling wight 
 
 Transmew'd to blatant beast, with hidious howl 
 Rushed headlong forth, in well-deserved plight, 
 
 "Midst dragons, minotaurs, and fiends to prowlj 
 
 A wolf in form as erst a wolf in soul ! 
 To Pholoe, forest wild, he hy'd away, 
 
 The horrid haunt of savage monsters foul. 
 There helpless innocence is still his prey, 
 Thief of the bleating fold, and shepherd's dire dismay. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Then Jove to good Euphorrnius' cot did wend, 
 
 Where peaceful dwelt the man of vertue high, 
 Each shepherd's praise and eke each shepherd's friend, 
 In ev'ry act of sweet humanity, 
 Him Jove approaching in mild majesty, 
 Greeted all hail I then bade him join the throng 
 Of gl it 'rand lights that gild the glowing sky. 
 There shepherds nightly view his orb yhong, 
 Where bright he shines eteme 3 the brightest stars among. 
 
181 
 
 LETTER LVII. 
 
 TO CLYTANDER. 
 
 Feb. 8, 1739. 
 
 If there was any thing in ray former letter inconsis- 
 tent with that esteem which is justly due to the ancients, 
 I desire to retract it in this, and disavow every expres- 
 sion which might seem to give precedency to the mo- 
 derns in works of genius. 1 am so far, indeed, from en- 
 tertaining the sentiments you impute to me, that I have 
 often endeavoured to account for that superiority which 
 is so visible in the compositions of their poets ; and have 
 frequently assigned their religion as in the number of 
 those causes which probably concurred to give them this 
 remarkable pre-eminence. That enthusiasm which is so 
 essential to every true artist in the poetical way, was 
 considerably heightened and inflamed by the whole turn 
 of their sacred doctrines ; and the fancied presence of 
 their Muses had almost as wonderful an effect upon 
 their thoughts and language, as if they had been really 
 and divinely inspired. Whilst all nature was supposed 
 to swarm with divinities, and every oak and fountain 
 was believed to be the residence of some presiding deity ; 
 what wonder if the poet tvas animated by the imagined 
 influence of such exalted society, and found himself trans- 
 ported beyond the ordinary limits of sober humanity? 
 The mind, when attended only by mere mortals of su- 
 periour powers, is observed to rise in her strength ; and 
 her faculties opsn and enlarge themselves, when she acts 
 in the view of those, for whom she has conceived a more 
 than common reverence. But when the force of super- 
 stition moves in concert with the powers of imagination, 
 and genius is inflamed by devotion, poetry must shine out 
 in all her brightest perfection and splendour. 
 16 
 
182 LETTER LVII. 
 
 Whatever, therefore, the philosopher rnignt think of 
 the religion of his country, it was the interest of the poet 
 to be thoroughly orthodox. If he gave up his creed, he 
 must renounce his numbers ; and there could be no inspi- 
 ration where there were no Muses. This is so true, that 
 it is in compositions of the poetical kind alone, that the 
 ancients seem to have the principal advantage over the 
 moderns : in every other species of writing, one might 
 venture, perhaps, to assert, that these latter ages have, at 
 least, equalled them. When I say so, I do not confine 
 myself to the productions of our own nation, but com- 
 prehend, likewise, those of our neighbours : and with that 
 extent, the observation will possibly hold true, even with- 
 out any exception in favour of history and oratory. 
 
 But whatever may with justice be determined concern- 
 ing that question ; it is certain, at least, that the practice 
 of all succeeding poets confirms the notion for which I am 
 principally contending. Though the altars of paganism 
 have many ages since been thrown down, and groves are 
 no longer sacred ; yet the language of the poets has not 
 changed with the religion of the times, but the gods of 
 Greece and Rome are still adored in modern verse. Is 
 not this a confession, that fancy is enlivened by supersti- 
 tion, and that the ancient bards catched their rapture 
 fr m the old mythology? I will own, however, that I 
 think there is something ridiculous in this unnatural adop- 
 tion, and that a modern poet makes but an awkward fi- 
 gure with his antiquated gods. When the pagan system 
 was sanctified by popular belief, a piece of machinery of 
 that kind, as it had the air of probability, afforded a 
 very striking manner of celebrating any remarkable cir- 
 cumstance, or raising any common one. But now that 
 this superstition is no longer supported by vulgar opinion, 
 it has lost its principal grace and efficacy, and seems to 
 
LETTER LV1I. 183 
 
 be, in general, the most cold and uninteresting method in 
 which a poet can work up his sentiments. What, for in- 
 stance, can be more unaffecting and spiritless, than the 
 compliment which Boileau has paid to Louis XIV. on his 
 famous passage over the Rhine? He represents the 
 Naiads, you may remember, as alarming the god of that 
 river, with an account of the march of the French mo- 
 narch ; upon which the river god assumes the appear- 
 ance of an old experienced commander, and flies to a 
 Dutch fort, in order to exhort the garrison to sally out and 
 dispute the intended passage. Accordingly they range 
 themselves in form of battle, with the Rhine at their 
 head, who, after some vain efforts, observing Mars and 
 Bellona on the side of the enemy, is so terrified with the 
 view of those superiour divinities, that he most gallantly 
 runs aw T ay, and leaves the hero in quiet possession of his 
 banks. I know not how far this may be relished by cri- 
 ticks, or justified by custom ; but as I am only mentioning 
 my particular taste, I will acknowledge, that it appears to 
 me extremely insipid and puerile. 
 
 I have not, however, so much of the spirit of Typhoeus 
 in me, as to make war upon the gods without restriction, 
 and attempt to exclude them from their whole poetical 
 dominions. To represent natural, moral, or intellectual 
 qualities and affections as persons, and appropriate to 
 them those general emblems by which their powers and 
 properties are usually typified in pagan theology, may 
 be allowed as one of the mo9t pleasing and graceful figures 
 of poetical rhetorick. When Dryden, addressing himself 
 to the month of May, as to a person, says, 
 
 For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours, 
 
 one may consider him as speaking only in metaphor : and 
 when such shadowy beings are thus just shewn to the 
 
184 LETTER LVI1. 
 
 imagination, and immediately withdrawn again, they cer- 
 tainly have a very powerful effect. But I can relish them 
 no farther than as figures only : when they are extended in 
 any serious composition beyond the limits of metaphor, 
 and exhibited under all the various actions of real per- 
 sons, I cannot but consider them as so many absurdities, 
 which custom has unreasonably authorized. Thus Spen- 
 ser, in one of his pastorals, represents the god of love as 
 flying, like a bird, from bough to bough. A shepherd, 
 who hears a rustling among the bushes, supposes it to be 
 some game, and accordingly discharges his bow. Cupid 
 returns the shot, and after several arrows had been mu- 
 tually exchanged between them, the unfortunate swain 
 discovers whom it is he is contending with ; but as he is 
 endeavouring to make his escape, receives a desperate 
 wound in the heel. This fiction makes the subject of a 
 very pretty idyilium in one of the Greek poets, yet is ex- 
 tremely flat and disgusting as it is adopted by our British 
 bard. And the reason of the difference is plain : in the 
 former it is supported by a popular superstition ; whereas 
 no strain of imagination can give it the least air of proba- 
 bility, as it is worked up by the latter. 
 
 Quodcunque ostecdis mihi sic, incredulus odi. Hor. 
 
 I must confess, at the same time, that the inimitable 
 Prior has introduced this fabulous scheme with such un- 
 common grace, and has paid so many genteel compliments 
 to his mistress, by the assistance of Venus and Cupid, 
 that one is carried off from observing the impropriety 
 of this machinery, by the pleasing address with which. he 
 manages it ; and I never read his tender poems of this 
 kind, without applying to him what Seneca somewhere 
 says upon a similar occasion : Major Me est qui judicium 
 abstulit, quam qui meruit. 
 
LETTER LVIII. 185 
 
 To speak my sentiments in one word, I would leave the 
 gods in full possession of allegorical and burlesque poems : 
 in all others I would never suffer them to make their ap- 
 pearance in person, and as agents, but to enter only 
 in simile, or allusion. It is thus Waller, of all our poets, 
 has most happily employed them ; and his application of 
 the story of Daphne and Apollo will serve as an instance 
 in what manner the ancient mythology may be adopted 
 with the utmost propriety and beauty. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER LVIII. 
 
 TO EUPHRCmUS. 
 
 Aug. 8, 1741.1 
 
 I know not in what disposition of mind this letter may 
 
 find you : but I am sure you will not preserve your usual 
 
 cheerfulness of temper, when I tell you that poor Hydas- 
 
 pes died last night. 
 
 I will not at this time attempt to offer that consolation 
 to you, of which I stand in so much need myself. But 
 may it not somewhat abate the anxiety of our mutual 
 grief, to reflect, that however considerable our own loss 
 is, yet, with respect to himself, it scarce deserves to be 
 lamented that he arrived so much earlier at the grave than 
 his years and his health seemed to promise ? For who, 
 my friend, that has any experience of the world, would 
 wish to extend his duration to old age ? What, indeed, is 
 length of days but to survive all one's enjoyments, and 
 perhaps, to survive even one's very self? I have somewhere 
 met with an ancient inscription founded upon this senti- 
 ment, which infinitely pleased me. It was fixed upon a 
 bath, and contained an imprecation in the following 
 terms, against any one who should attempt to remove the 
 building : 
 
 16 * 
 
186 LETTER LVIIL 
 
 Q,VISQ,TIS. HOC. SVSTVLERIT, 
 
 AVT. IVSSERIT. 
 
 VLTIMVS. SVORVM. MORIATVR. 
 
 The thought is conceived with great delicacy and just- 
 ness, as there cannot, perhaps, be a sharper calamity to a 
 generous mind, than to see itself stand single amidst the* 
 -ruins of whatever rendered the world most desirable. 
 
 Instances of the sort I am lamenting, while the im* 
 pressions remain fresh upon the mind, are sufficient to 
 damp the gayest hopes, and chill the warmest ambition. 
 When one sees a person in the full bloom of life, thus 
 destroyed by one sudden blast, one cannot but consider 
 all the distant schemes of mankind as the highest folly. 
 
 It is amazing indeed that a creature such as man, with 
 so many memorials around him of the shortness of his 
 duration, and who cannot ensure to himself even the 
 next moment, should yet plan designs which run far into 
 futurity. The business however of life must be carried 
 on; and it is necessary, for the purpose of human affairs, 
 that mankind should resolutely act upon very precarious 
 contingencies. Too much reflection, therefore, is as 
 inconsistent with the appointed measures of our sta- 
 tion as too little ; and there cannot be a less desirable 
 turn of mind, than one that is influenced by an over- 
 refined philosophy. At least it is by considerations of this 
 sort, that I endeavour to call off my thoughts from pur- 
 suing too earnestly those reasonings, which the occasion 
 of this letter is apt to suggest. This use, however, one 
 may justly make of the present accident, that whilst it 
 contracts the circle of friendship, it should render it so 
 much the more valuable to ws, who yet walk within its 
 limits. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
187 
 
 LETTER LIX. 
 
 TO HORTENSIUS. 
 
 May 4, 1740. 
 If the ingenious piece you communicated to me re- 
 quires any farther touches of your pencil, I must ac- 
 knowledge the truth to be, what you are inclined to sus- 
 pect, that my friendship has imposed upon my judgment. 
 But though, in the present instance, your delicacy seems 
 far too refined, yet, in general, I must agree with you, that 
 works of the most permanent kind are not the effect of a 
 lucky moment, nor struck out at a single heat. The best 
 performances, indeed, have generally cost the most la- 
 bour ; and that ease, which is so essential to fine writing, 
 has seldom been attained without repeated and severe 
 corrections : Ludentis speciem dabit et torqaebitur, is a 
 motto that may be applied, I believe, to most successful 
 authors of genius. With as much facility as the num- 
 bers of the natural Prior seem to have flowed from him, 
 they were the result (if I am not misinformed) of much 
 application : and a friend of mine, who undertook to 
 transcribe one of the noblest performances of the finest 
 genius that this, or perhaps any age can boast, has often 
 assured me, that there is not a single line, as it is now 
 published, which stands in conformity with the original 
 manuscript. The truth is, every sentiment has its pe- 
 culiar expression, and every word its precise place, which 
 do not always immediately present themselves, and gen- 
 erally demand frequent trials before they can be proper- 
 ly adjusted ; not to mention the more important difficul- 
 ties, which necessarily occur in settling the plan, and 
 regulating the higher parts which compose the structure 
 of a finished work. 
 
188 LETTER LIX. 
 
 Those, indeed, who know what pangs it cost even the 
 most fertile genius to be delivered of a just and regular 
 production might be inclined, perhaps, to cry out, with 
 the most ancient of authors, Ok! that mine adversary 
 had written a book ! A writer of refined taste has the 
 continual mortification to find himself incapable of tak- 
 ing entire possession of that ideal beauty, which warms 
 and fills his imagination. His conceptions still rise above 
 all the powers of his art; and he can but faintly copy 
 out those images of perfection, which are impressed upon 
 his mind. Never was any thing, says Tully, more beau- 
 tiful than the Venus of Apelles, or the Jove of Phidias : 
 yet were they by no means equal to those high notions 
 of beauty which animated the geniuses of those wonder^ 
 ful artists. In the same manner, he observes, the great 
 masters of oratory imaged to themselves a certain per- 
 fection of eloquence, which they could only contemplate 
 in idea, but in vain attempted to draw out in expression. 
 Perhaps no author ever perpetuated his reputation, who 
 could write up to the full standard of his own judgment : 
 and I am persuaded that he, who, upon a survey of his 
 compositions, can, with entire complacency, pronounce 
 them good, will hardly find the world join with him in 
 the same favourable sentence. 
 
 The most judicious of all poets, the inimitable Virgil, 
 used to resemble his productions to those of that ani- 
 mal, who, agreeably to the notions of the ancients, was 
 supposed to bring her young into the world, a mere rude 
 and shapeless mass : he was obliged to retouch them 
 again and again, he acknowledged, before they acquired 
 their proper form and beauty. Accordingly, we are told, 
 that after having spent eleven years in composing his 
 jEneid, he intended to have set apart three more for the 
 revisal of that glorious performance. But being pre- 
 
LETTER LIX. 139 
 
 vented, by his last sickness, from giving those finishing 
 touches, which his exquisite judgment conceived to be 
 still necessary, he directed his friends Tucca and Varius 
 to burn the noblest poem that ever appeared in the Ro- 
 man language. In the same spirit of delicacy, Mr. Dry- 
 den tells us, that, had he taken more time in translating 
 this author, he might, possibly, have succeeded better ; 
 but never, he assures us, could he have succeeded so well 
 as to have satisfied himself. 
 
 In a word, Hortensius, I agree with you, that there is 
 nothing more difficult than to fill up the character of an 
 author, who proposes to raise a just and lasting admira- 
 tion; who is not contented with those little transient 
 flashes of applause, which attend the ordinary race of 
 writers, but considers only how he may shine out to pos- 
 terity : who extends his vie vrs beyond the present genera- 
 tion, and cultivates those productions which are to flou- 
 rish in future ages. What Sir William Temple observes 
 of poetry, may be applied to every other work, where 
 taste and imagination are concerned. " It requires the 
 " greatest contraries to compose it ; a genius both pene- 
 " trating and solid ; an expression both strong and deli- 
 " cate. There must be a great agitation of mind to in- 
 " vent, a great calm to judge and correct : there must 
 " be, upon the same tree, and at the same time, both 
 "flower and fruit." But though I know you would not 
 value yourself upon any performance, wherein these very 
 opposite and very singular qualities were not conspicu- 
 ous ; yet, I must remind you, at the same time, that 
 when the file ceases to polish, it must necessarily weaken. 
 You will remember, therefore, that there is a medium 
 between the immoderate caution of that orator, who was 
 three olympiads in writing a single oration, and the ex- 
 travagant expedition of that poet, whose funeral pile was 
 composed of his own numberless productions. Adieu. I 
 am, &c, 
 
190 
 
 LETTER LX. 
 
 TO PALEMOX. 
 
 May 28, 1739. 
 f write this while Cieora is angling by my side, under 
 the shade of a spreading elm, that hangs over the banks 
 of our river. A nightingale, more harmonious even than 
 StratiVs, is serenading us from a hawthorn bush, which 
 smiles with all the gayety of youth and beauty ; while 
 
 gentle gales, 
 Fanning their odoriProus wings, dispense 
 Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole 
 Those balmy spoils. Milton. 
 
 Whilst I am thus enjoying the innocent luxury of this 
 vernal delight, I look back upon those scenes of turbu- 
 lence, wherein I was once engaged, with more than ordi- 
 nary distaste : and despise myself for ever having enter- 
 tained so mean a thought as to be rich and great. One of 
 our monarchs used to say, "that he looked upon those to 
 " be the happiest men in the nation, whose fortune had 
 " placed them in the country, above a high-constable, 
 " and below the trouble of a justice of peace." It is in a 
 mediocrity of this happy kind that I here pass my life : 
 with a fortune far above the necessity of engaging in the 
 drudgery of business, and with desires much too humble 
 to have any relish for the splendid baits of ambition. 
 
 You must not, however, imagine that I affect the stoick, 
 or pretend to have eradicated all my passions : the sum 
 of my philosophy amounts to no more, than to cherish 
 none but such as I may easily and innocently gratify, and 
 to banish all the rest as so many bold intruders upon my 
 repose. I endeavour to practise the maxim of a French 
 poet, by considering every thing that is not within my 
 possession, as not worth having : 
 
LETTER LXI. 191 
 
 pour m' assurer le seul bien 
 Que 1' on doit estimer au monde, 
 Tout ce que je n' ai pas, je le compte pourrien. 
 
 Is it not possible, Palemon, to reconcile you to these 
 unaspiring sentiments, and to lower your flight to the 
 humble level of genuine happiness ? Let me, at least, 
 prevail with you, to spare a day or two from the certami- 
 na divitiarum (as Horace I think calls them,) from those 
 splendid contests in which you are engaged, just to take 
 a view of the sort of life we lead in the country. If there 
 is any thing wanting to complete the happiness I here 
 find, it is that you are so seldom a witness to it. Adieu. 
 I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER LXI. 
 
 TO EUPHRON1US. 
 
 July 3, 1744. 
 
 The beauties of style seem to be generally considered 
 as below the attention both of an author and a reader. I 
 know not, therefore, whether I may venture to acknow- 
 ledge, that, among the numberless graces of your late 
 performance, I particularly admired that strength and 
 elegance, with which you have enforced and adorned 
 the noblest sentiments. 
 
 There was a time, however, (and it was a period of the 
 truest refinements) when an excellence of this kind was 
 esteemed in the number of the politest accomplishments ; 
 as it was the ambi ion of some of the greatest names of 
 antiquity to distinguish themselves in the improvements 
 of their native tongue. Julius Caesar, who was not only 
 the greatest hero, but the finest gentleman, that ever, 
 perhaps, appeared in the world, was desirous of adding 
 this talent to his other most shining endowments ; and, 
 
192 LETTER LII. 
 
 we are told, he studied the language of his country with 
 much application, as we are sure he possessed it in its 
 highest elegance. What a loss, Euphronius, is it to the 
 literary world, that the treatise which he wrote upon this 
 subject is perished with many other valuable works of 
 that age ! But though we are deprived of the benefit of 
 his observations, we are happily not without an instance 
 of their effects ; and his own memoirs will ever remain as 
 the best and brightest exemplar not only of true general- 
 ship but of fine writing. He published tbem, indeed, 
 only as materials for the use of those who should be 
 disposed to enlarge upon that remarkable period of the 
 Roman story ; yet the purity and gracefulness of his style 
 were such, that no judicious writer durst attempt to touch 
 the subject after him. 
 
 Having produced so illustrious an instance in favour of 
 an art for which I have ventured to admire you, it would 
 be impertinent to add a second, were I to cite a less 
 authority than that of the immortal Tully. This noble 
 author, in his dialogue concerning the celebrated Roman 
 orators, frequently mentions it as a very high encomium, 
 that they possessed the elegance of their native language ; 
 and introduces Brutus as declaring, that he should prefer 
 the honour of being esteemed the great master and 
 improver of Roman eloquence, even to the glory of many 
 triumphs. 
 
 But to add reason to precedent, and to view this art 
 in its use as well as its dignity, will it not be allowed of 
 some importance, when it is considered, that eloquence 
 is one of the most considerable auxiliaries of truth ? No- 
 thing, indeed, contributes more to subdue the mind to 
 the force of reason, than her being supported by the 
 powerful assistance of masculine and vigorous oratory. 
 As, on the contrary, the most legitimate arguments may 
 
LETTER LXI. J 93 
 
 be disappointed of that success they deserve, by being 
 attended with a spiritless and enfeebled expression. Ac- 
 cordingly, that most elegant of writers, the inimitable 
 Mr. Addison, observes, in one of his essays, that " there 
 " is as much difference between comprehending a thought 
 " clothed in Cicero's language, and that of an ordinary 
 " writer, as between seeing an object by the light of a 
 M taper and the light of the sun." 
 
 It is surely then a very strange conceit of the cele- 
 brated Malbranche, who seems to think the pleasure 
 which arises from perusing a well-written piece, is of the 
 criminal kind, and has its source in the weakness and ef- 
 feminacy of the human heart. A man must have a very 
 uncommon severity of temper indeed, who can find any 
 thing to condemn in adding charms to truth, and gaining 
 the heart by captivating the ear : in uniting roses with 
 the thorns of science, and joining pleasure with instruction. 
 
 The truth is, the mind is delighted with a fine style, 
 upon the same principle that it prefers regularity to con- 
 fusion, and beauty to deformity. A taste of this sort is, 
 indeed, so far from being a mark of any depravity of our 
 nature, that I should rather consider it as an evidence, 
 in some degree, of the moral rectitude of its constitution; 
 as it is a proof of its retaining some relish, at least, of har- 
 mony and order. 
 
 One might be apt, indeed, to suspect, that certain wri- 
 ters amongst us had considered all beauties of this sort in 
 the same gloomy view with Malbranche : or, at least, that 
 they avoided every refinement in style, as unworthy a 
 lover of truth and philosophy. Their sentiments are sunk 
 by the lowest expressions, and seem condemned to the 
 first curse, of creeping upon the ground all the days of 
 their life. Others, on the contrary, mistake pomp for 
 dignity ; and, in order to raise their expressions above 
 vulgar language, lift them up beyond common apprehcn- 
 17 
 
194 LETTER LXII. 
 
 sions ; esteeming it (one should imagine) a mark of their 
 genius, that it requires some ingenuity to penetrate their 
 meaning. But how few writers, like Euphronius, know 
 to hit that true medium which lies between those distant 
 extremes ? How seldom do we meet with an author whose 
 expressions, like those of my friend, are glowing, but not 
 glaring, whose metaphors are natural, but not common, 
 whose periods are harmonious, but not poetical ; in a word, 
 whose sentiments are well set and shewn to the understanding 
 in their truest and most advantageous lustre. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER LXII. 
 
 TO ORONTES. 
 
 I intended to have closed with your proposal, and 
 passed a few weeks with you at * * * ; but some unlucky 
 affairs have intervened, which will engage me, I fear, the 
 remaining part of the season. 
 
 Among the amusements which the scene you are in af- 
 fords, I should have esteemed the conversation of Timo- 
 clea as a very principal entertainment ; and as I know you 
 are fond of singular characters, I recommend that lady 
 to your acquaintance. 
 
 Timoclea was once a beauty ; but ill health, and worse 
 fortune, have ruined those charms, which time would yet 
 have spared. However, what has spoiled her for a mis- 
 tress, has improved her as a companion ; and she is far 
 more conversable now, as she has much less beauty, than 
 when I used to see her once a week triumphing in the 
 drawing-room. For, as few women (whatever they may 
 pretend, will value themselves upon their minds, while 
 they can gain admirers by their persons, Timoclea never 
 thought of charming by her wit, till she had no chance of 
 
LETTER LXII. 195 
 
 making conquests by her beauty. She has seen a good 
 deal of the world, and of the best company in it, as it is 
 from thence she has derived whatever knowledge she 
 possesses. You cannot, indeed, flatter her more, than 
 by seeming to consider her as fond of reading and retire- 
 ment. But the truth is, nature formed her for the joys of 
 society ; and she is never so thoroughly pleased as when 
 she has a circle round her. 
 
 It is upon those occasions she appears to full advantage ; 
 as I never knew any person who was endowed with the 
 talents for conversation to a higher degree. If I were dis- 
 posed to write the characters of the age, Timoclea is the 
 first person in the world to whose assistance I should ap- 
 ply. She has the happiest art of marking out the distin- 
 guishing cast of her acquaintance, that I ever met with ; 
 and I have known her, in an afternoon's conversation, 
 paint the manners with greater delicacy of judgment and 
 strength of colouring than is to be found either in Theo- 
 phrastus or Bruyere. 
 
 She has an inexhaustible fund of wit, but if I may 
 venture to distinguish, where one knows not even how to 
 define, I should say it is rather brilliant than strong. 
 This talent renders her the terrour of all her female ac* 
 quaintance ; yet she never sacrificed the absent, or mor- 
 tified the present, merely for the sake of displaying the 
 force of her satire : if any feel its sting, it is those only 
 who first provoke it. Still, however, it must be owned, 
 that her resentments are frequently without just founda- 
 tion, and almost always beyond measure. But though 
 she has much warmth, she has great generosity in her 
 temper ; and, with all her faults, she is well worth your 
 knowing. 
 
 And now having given you this general plan of the 
 strength and weakness of the place, I leave you to make 
 jour approaches as you shall see proper. I am, &c. 
 
196 
 LETTER LXIII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 I look upon verbal criticism, as it is generally exer- 
 cised, to be no better than a sort of learned legerdemain, 
 by which the sense or nonsense of a passage is artfully 
 conveyed away, and some other introduced in its stead, 
 as best suits with the purpose of the profound juggler. 
 The dissertation you recommended to my perusal has but 
 served to confirm me in these sentiments : for though I 
 admired the ingenuity of the artist, I could not but greatly 
 suspect the justuess of an art, which can thus press any 
 author into the service of any hypothesis. 
 
 I have sometimes amused myself with considering the 
 entertainment it would afford to those ancients, whose 
 works have had the honour to be attended by our com- 
 mentators, could they rise out of their sepulchres, and 
 peruse some of those curious conjectures, that have been 
 raised upon their respective compositions. Were Horace, 
 for instance, to read over only a few of those number- 
 less restorers of his text, and expositors of his meaning, 
 that have infested the republick of letters, — what a fund 
 of pleasantry might he extract for a satire on critical eru- 
 dition ! How many harmless words would he see cruelly 
 banished from their rightful possessioas, merely because 
 they happened to disturb some unmerciful philologist I 
 On the other hand, he would, undoubtedly, smile at 
 that penetrating sagacity, which has discovered mean- 
 ings which never entered into his thoughts, and found 
 out concealed allusions in his most plain and artless ex- 
 pressions. 
 
 One could not, I think, set the general absurdity of 
 critical conjectures in a stronger light, than by applying 
 
LETTER LXin. 19? 
 
 them to something parallel in our own writers. If the 
 English tongue should ever become a dead language, and 
 our best authors be raised into the rank of classick writers, 
 much of the force and propriety of their expressions, 
 especially of such as turned upon humour, or alluded to 
 any manners peculiar to the age, would inevitably be 
 lost; or at best would be extremely doubtful. How 
 would it puzzle, for instance, future commentators to 
 explain Swift's epigram upon our musical contests ! I 
 imagine one might find them descanting upon that little 
 humorous sally of our English Rabelais, in some such 
 manner as this : 
 
 EPIGRAM ON THE FEUDS BETWEEN HANDEL AND BONONCINI. 
 
 Strange all this difference should be 
 'Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee ! 
 
 NOTES OF VARIOUS AUTHORS. 
 
 " Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee.] I am persuaded the 
 "poet gave it Twiddle drum and Twiddle key. To 
 "twiddle signifies to make a certain ridiculous motion 
 " with the fingers ; what word, therefore, could be more 
 " proper to express this epigram-writer's contempt of the 
 " performances of those musicians, and of the folly of 
 " his contemporaries in running into parties upon so ab- 
 surd an occasion? The drum was a certain martial in- 
 " strument used in those times ; as the word key is a tech- 
 " nical term in musick, importing the fundamental note 
 " which regulates the whole composition. It means also 
 " those little pieces of wood which the fingers strike against 
 " in an organ, &c. in order to make the instrument sound. 
 " The alteration here proposed is so obvious and natural, 
 " that I am surprised none of the commentators hit upon 
 "it before. L. C. D." 
 17 # 
 
198 LETTER LXIIL 
 
 " Tweedte-dum and Tjveedle-dee.'] These words have 
 " greatly embarrassed the criticks, who are extremely ex- 
 " pert in finding a difficulty where there is none. Tweedle- 
 " dum and Tweedle-dee are, most undoubtedly, the names 
 " of the two musicians ; and though they are styled by 
 " different appellations in the title of this epigram, yet 
 " that is no objection ; for it is well known that persons, 
 " in those times, had more surnames than one. S. M." 
 " Absurd ! here is evidently an errour of the press, for 
 " there is not a single hint in all antiquity of the family 
 41 of the Tweedle-dums and Tweedle-dees. The learned 
 "S. M. therefore nodded when he undertook to explain 
 "this passage. The sense will be very plain, if we 
 " read, with a small alteration, Wheedle -Tom, and Waddle- 
 " THE; THE being a known contraction for Theodore, 
 " as Tom is for Thomas. Waddle and Wheedle are like- 
 " wise classical words. Thus Pope : 
 
 u As when a dab-chick waddles through the copse. Dun. ii. S9. 
 u Obliquely waddling to the mark in view. lb. ii. 150. 
 
 " And though, indeed, I do not recollect to have met with 
 " the verb to wheedle in any pure author, yet it is plain 
 " that it was in use, since we find the participle wheedling 
 ;« in an ancient tragedy composed about these times : 
 
 u A laughing, toying, wheedling? wimp'ring she 
 
 " Will make him amble on a gossip's message, 
 
 a And hold the distaff with a hand as patient 
 
 " As e'er did Hercules." Jone Shore. 
 
 " Thomas and Theodore, therefore, were most certainly 
 " the christian names of these two musicians, to the con- 
 " tractions of which the words wheedle and waddle are 
 ♦' added as characteristical of the persons and disposi- 
 M tions of the men, the former implying that Tom was a 
 " mean sycophant, and the latter that THE had an awk- 
 " ward and ridiculous gait. F. J. Z." 
 
LETTER LXIT. 199 
 
 I know not, Orontes, how I shall escape your satire, for 
 venturing to be thus free with a science which is some 
 times, I think, admitted into a share of your meditations : 
 yet, tell me honestly, is not this a faithful specimen of the 
 spirit and talents of the general class of critick-writers ? 
 Far am I, however, from thinking irreverently of those 
 useful members of the republick of letters, who, with mo- 
 desty and proper diffidence, have offered their assistance 
 in throwing a light upon obscure passages in ancient au- 
 thors. Even when this spirit breaks out in its highest 
 pride and petulance of reformation, if it confines itself to 
 classical inquiries, I can be contented with treating it 
 only as an object of ridicule. But I must confess, when 
 I find it, with an assured and confident air, supporting re- 
 ligious or political doctrines upon the very uncertain 
 foundation of various readings, forced analogies, and pre- 
 carious conjectures, it is not without some difficulty I cast 
 suppress my indignation. Farewell. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER LXIV. 
 
 TO FHILOTES. 
 
 Tunbridge, Aug. 4. 
 F think I promised you a letter from this place : yet 
 have nothing more material to write than that I got safe 
 hither. To any other man I should make an apology for 
 troubling him with an information so trivial : but, among 
 true friends there is nothing indifferent ; and what would 
 seem of no consequence to others, has, in intercourses of 
 this nature, its weight and value. A by-stander, unac- 
 quainted with play, may fancy, perhaps, that the counters 
 are of no more worth than they appear ; but those who 
 are engaged in the game, know they are to be considered 
 at a higher rate. You see I draw my allusions from 
 
200 LETTER LXIV. 
 
 the scene before me : a propriety which the criticks, 
 I think, upon some occasions, recommend. 
 
 I have often wondered what odd whim could first in- 
 duce the healthy to follow the sick into places of this 
 sort, and lay the scene of their diversions amidst the most 
 wretched part of our species : one should imagine an 
 hospital the last spot in the world, to which those who 
 are in pursuit of pleasure would think of resorting. How- 
 ever, so it is, and by this means the company here fur- 
 nish out a tragi-comedy of the most singular kind. While 
 some are literally dying, others are expiring in metaphor ; 
 and, in one scene, you are presented with the real, and, 
 in another, with the fantastical pains of mankind. An 
 ignorant spectator might be apt to suspect, that each par- 
 ty was endeavouring to qualify itself for acting in the op- 
 posite character : for the infirm cannot labour more ear- 
 nestly to recover the strength they have lost, than the ro- 
 bust to dissipate that which they possess. Thus the dis- 
 eased pass not more anxious nights in their beds, than 
 the healthy at the hazard-tables ; and I frequently see a 
 game at quadrille occasion as severe disquietudes as a 
 fit of the gout. As for myself, I perform a sort of mid- 
 dle part in this motley drama ; and am sometimes dis- 
 posed to join with the invalids in envying the healthy, and 
 sometimes have spirits enough to mix with the gay in pi- 
 tying the splenetick. 
 
 The truth is, I have found some benefit by the waters ; 
 but I shall not be so sanguine as to pronounce with cer- 
 tainty of their effects, till 1 see how tiiey enable me to 
 pass through the approaching winter. That season, you 
 know, is the time of trial with me ; and if I get over the 
 next with more ease than the last, I shall think myself 
 obliged to celebrate the nymph of these springs in grate- 
 ful sonnet. 
 
LETTER LXV. 201 
 
 But let times and seasons operate as they may, there 
 is one part of me over which they will have no power : 
 and in all the changes of this uncertain constitution, my 
 heart will ever continue fixed and firmly yours. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER LXV. 
 
 TO ORONTES. 
 
 May 6, 1735. 
 
 Let others consider you for those ample possessions 
 you enjoy : suffer me to say, that it is your application of 
 them alone which renders either them or you valuable in 
 my estimation. Your splendid roofs and elegant accom- 
 modations 1 can view without the least emotion of envy : 
 but when I observe you in the full power of exerting the 
 noble purposes of your exalted generosity — it is then, I 
 confess, I am apt to reflect, with some regret, on the 
 humbler supplies of my own more limited finances. Ni- 
 hil habet (to speak of you in the same language that the 
 first of orators addressed the greatest of emperours)/orfa- 
 na tua majus, quam ut possis, nee natura melius, quhm ut 
 velis servare quamplurimos. To be able to soften the ca- 
 lamities of mankind, and inspire gladness into a heart 
 oppressed with want, is, indeed, the noblest privilege of 
 an enlarged fortune : but to exercise that privilege in all 
 its generous refinements, is an instance of the most un- 
 common elegance both of temper and understanding. 
 
 In the ordinary dispensations of bounty, little address 
 is required : but when it is to be applied to those of a su- 
 periour rank and more elevated mind, there is as much 
 charity discovered in the manner as in the measure of 
 one's benevolence. It is something extremely mortifying 
 to a well-formed spirit, to see itself considered as an ob- 
 ject of compassion ; as it is the part of improved huma^ 
 
202 LETTER LXVI. 
 
 nity to humour this honest pride in our nature, and to 
 relieve the necessities without offending the delicacy of 
 the distressed. 
 
 I have seen charity (if charity it might be called) in- 
 sult with an air of pity, and wound at the same time that 
 it healed. But I have seen, too, the highest munificence 
 dispensed with the most refined tenderness, and a bounty 
 conferred with as much address as the most artful would 
 employ in soliciting one. Suffer me, Orontes, upon this 
 single occasion, to gratify my own inclinations in vio- 
 lence to yours, by pointing out the particular instance I 
 have in my view ; and allow me, at the same time, t© 
 join my acknowledgments with those of the unfortunate 
 person I recommended to your protection, for the gene- 
 rous assistance you lately afforded him. 1 am, &c. 
 
 LETTER LXVI. 
 
 TO CLEORA. 
 
 Sept. 5, 1737. 
 Shall I own to you that I cannot repent of an offence 
 which occasioned so agreeable a reproof? A censure con- 
 veyed in such genteel terms, charms more than corrects, 
 and tempts rather than reforms. I am sure, at least, 
 though I should regret the crime, I shall always admire 
 the rebuke, and long to kiss the hand that chasteneth in 
 so pleasing a manner. However, I shall, for the future, 
 strictly pursue your orders ; and have sent you, in this 
 second parcel, no other books than what my own library 
 supplied. Among these you will find a collection of let- 
 ters ,* I do not recommend them to you, having never 
 read them ; nor, indeed, am I acquainted with their cha- 
 racters ; but they presented themselves to my hands as I 
 was tumbling over some others ; so I threw them in with 
 
LETTER LXVI. 203 
 
 the rest, and gave them a chance of adding to your amuse- 
 ment. I wish I could meet with any thing that had even 
 the least probability of contributing to mine. But, 
 
 forlorn of thee, 
 Whither shall I betake me, where subsist ? Milton. 
 
 Time, that reconciles one to most things, has not been 
 able to render your absence, in any degree, less uneasy 
 to me. I may rather be said to haunt the house in which 
 I live, than to make one of the family. I walk in and 
 out of the rooms like a restless spirit : for I never speak 
 till I am spoken to, and then generally answer, like Ban- 
 quo's ghost in Macbeth, with a deep sigh, and a nod. Thus 
 abstracted from every thing about me, I am yet quite 
 ruined for a hermit ; and find no more satisfaction in re- 
 tirement than you do in the company of ***. 
 
 How often do I wish myself in possession of that fa- 
 mous ring you were mentioning the other day, which had 
 the property of rendering those who wore it invisible ! I 
 would rather be master of this wonderful unique, than of 
 the kingdom which Gyges gained by means of it ; as I 
 might then attend you, like your guardian angel, without 
 censure or obstruction. How agreeable would it be to 
 break out upon you, like iEneas from his cloud, where 
 you least expected me ; and join again the dear compa- 
 nion of my fortunes in spite of that relentless power who 
 has raised so many cruel storms to destroy us ! But whilst 
 I employed this extraordinary ring to these and a thou- 
 sand other pleasing purposes, you would have nothing to 
 apprehend from my being invested with such an invisible 
 faculty. That innocence which guards and adorns my 
 Cleora in her most gay and publick hours, attends her, I 
 well know, in her most private and retired ones ; and she, 
 who always acts as under the eye of the Best of Beings, 
 has nothing to fear from the secret inspection of any 
 mortal. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
204 
 
 LETTER LXV1I. 
 
 TO EUPHROMUS. 
 
 May 5, 1743. 
 If you received the first account of my loss from other 
 hands than mine, you must impute it to the dejection of 
 mind into which that accident threw me. The blow, 
 indeed, fell with too much severity, to leave me capable 
 of recbllecting myself enough to write to you immediate- 
 ly ; as there cannot, perhaps, be a greater shock to a 
 breast of any sensibility, than to see its earliest and most 
 valuable connexions irreparably broken ; than to find it- 
 self for ever torn from the first and most endeared object 
 of its highest veneration. At least, the affection and 
 esteem I bore to that excellent parent were founded 
 upon so many and such uncommon motives, that his death 
 has given me occasion to lament not only a most tender 
 father, but a most valuable friend. 
 
 That I can no longer enjoy the benefit of his animating 
 example, is one among the many aggravating circum- 
 stances of my affliction ; and I often apply to myself, 
 what an excellent ancient has said upon a similar occa- 
 sion, Vereor ne nunc negligentiiis vivam. There is no- 
 thing, in truth, puts us so much upon our guard, as to act 
 under the constant inspection of one, whose virtues, as 
 well as years, have rendered venerable. Never, indeed, 
 did the dignity of goodness appear more irresistible in any 
 man : yet there was something, at the same time, so gen- 
 tle in his manners, such an innocency and cheerfulness 
 in his conversation, that he was as sure to gain affection 
 as to inspire reverence. 
 
 It has been observed (and I think by Cowley) " That 
 «' a man in much business must either make himself a 
 "knave, or the world will make him a fool." If there 
 
LETTER LXVII. 205 
 
 is any truth in this observation, it is not, however, with- 
 out an exception. My father was early engaged in the 
 great scenes of business, where he continued almost to 
 his Very last hour ; yet he preserved his integrity firm and 
 Unbroken, though all those powerful assaults he must 
 necessarily have encountered in so long a course of 
 action. 
 
 If it were justice, indeed, to his other virtues, to single 
 out any particular one as shining with superiour lustre to 
 the rest, I should point to his probity as the brightest part 
 of his character. But the truth is, the whole tenour of his 
 conduct was one uniform exercise of every moral quality 
 that can adorn and exalt human nature. To defend the 
 injured, to relieve the indigent, to protect the distressed, 
 was the chief end and aim of all his endeavours ; and his 
 principal motive both for engaging and persevering in his 
 profession was, to enable himself more abundantly to gra- 
 tify so glorious an ambition. 
 
 No man had a higher relish of the pleasures of retired 
 and contemplative life ; as none was more qualified to en- 
 ter into those calm scenes with greater ease and dignity. 
 He had nothing to make him desirous of flying from the 
 reflections of his own mind, nor any passions which his 
 moderate patrimony would not have been more than suf- 
 ficient to have gratified. But to live for himself only 
 was not consistent with his generous and enlarged senti- 
 ments. It was a spirit of benevolence that led him into 
 the active scenes of the world ; which, upon any other 
 principle, he would either never have entered, or soon 
 have renounced. And it was that godlike spirit which 
 conducted and supported him through his useful progress, 
 to the honour and interest of his family and friends, and 
 to the benefit of every creature that could possibly be 
 comprehended within the extensive circle of his bene- 
 ficence. 
 
 18 
 
206 LETTER LXVIII. 
 
 I well know, my dear Euphronius, the high regard you 
 pay to every character of merit in general, and the esteem 
 in which you held this most valuable man in particular. 
 I am sure, therefore, you would not forgive me, were I to 
 make an apology for leaving with you this private monu- 
 ment of my veneration for a parent, whose least and low- 
 est claim to my gratitude and esteem is, that I am in- 
 debted to him for my birth. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER LXVIII. 
 
 TO PHILOTES. 
 
 I am particularly pleased with a passage in Homer, 
 wherein Jupiter is represented as taking off his eyes, with 
 a sort of satiety, from the horrour of the field of battle, and 
 relieving himself with a view of the Hippomolgi, a people 
 famous, it seems, for their innocence and simplicity of 
 manners. It is in order to practise the same kind of ex- 
 periment, and give myself a short remission from that 
 scene of turbulence and contention in which I am en- 
 gaged, that I now turn my thoughts on you, Philotes, 
 whose temperance and moderation may well justify me in 
 calling you a modern Hippomolgian. 
 
 I forget which of the aneients it is that recommends 
 this method of thinking over the virtues of one's acquaint- 
 ance : but I am sure it is sometimes necessary to do so, 
 in order to keep one's self in humour with our species, 
 and preserve the spirit of philanthropy from being en- 
 tirely extinguished. Those who frequent the ambitious 
 walks of life, are apt to take their estimate of mankind 
 from the small part of it that lies before them, and consi- 
 der the rest of the world as practising in different and 
 under parts, the same treachery and dissimulation which 
 
LETTER LXVIIL 207 
 
 mark out the characters of their superiours. It is difficult, 
 indeed, to preserve the mind from falling into a general 
 contempt of our race, whilst one is conversant with the 
 worst part of it. I labour, however, as much as possible, 
 to guard against that ungenerous disposition ; as nothing 
 is so apt to kill those seeds of benevolence which every 
 man should endeavour to cultivate in his breast. 
 
 Ill surely, therefore, have those wits employed their 
 talents, who have made our species the object of their 
 satire, and affected to subdue the vanity, by derogating 
 from the virtues of the human heart. But it will be 
 found, I believe, upon an impartial examination, that 
 there is more folly than malice in our natures, and that 
 mankind oftener act wrong through ignorance than de- 
 sign. Perhaps the true measure of human merit is nei- 
 ther to be taken from the histories of former times, nor 
 from what passes in the more striking scenes of the pre- 
 sent generation. The greatest virtues have, probably, 
 been ever the most obscure ; and I am persuaded, in all 
 ages of the world, more genuine heroism has been over- 
 looked and unknown, than either recorded or observed. 
 That aliquid divinum, as Tully calls it, that celestial spark, 
 which every man who coolly contemplates his own mind, 
 may discover within him, operates where we least look 
 for it ; and often raises the noblest productions of virtue 
 in the shade and obscurity of life. 
 
 But it is time to quit speculation for action, and return 
 to the common affairs of the world. I shall certainly do 
 so with more advantage, by keeping Philotes still in my 
 view ; as I shall enter into the interests of mankind with 
 more alacrity, by thus considering the virtues of his honest 
 heart as less singular, than I am sometimes inclined to 
 suppose. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
208 
 LETTER LXIX. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Aug. 3, 17S5. 
 
 Let it not be any discouragement to you, Philotes, that 
 you have hitherto received but little satisfaction from 
 those noble speculations wherein you are employed. 
 * 4 Truth (to use the expression of the excellent Mr. Wol- 
 " laston) is the offspring of unbroken meditations, and of 
 " thoughts often revised and corrected." It requires, in- 
 deed, great patience and resolution to dissipate that 
 cloud of darkness which surrounds her ; or (if you will 
 allow me to go to an old philosopher for my allusion) to 
 draw her up from that profound well in which she lies 
 concealed. 
 
 There is, however, such a general connexion in the 
 operations of nature, that the discovery even of a single 
 truth opens the way to numberless others ; and when once 
 the mind has hit upon a right scent, she cannot wholly 
 pursue her inquiries in vain. 
 
 ...... Canes ut montivagae persaepe ferai 
 
 Naribus inveniunt intectas frcmde quietes, 
 Cum semel instkeriut vestigia certa via'i 
 Sic aliud ex alio per te tute ipse videre 
 ...in rebus poteris, caecasque latebras 
 Insiuuare omnes, et verum protrahere inde. Lucret. 
 
 It must be owned, nevertheless, that after having ex- 
 erted all our sagacity and industry, we shall scarce arrive 
 at certainty in many speculative truths. Providence does 
 not seem to have intended that we should ever be in pos- 
 session of demonstrative knowledge, beyond a very limited 
 compass ; though, at the same time, it cannot be supposed, 
 without the highest injustice to the benevolent Author of 
 
LETTER LXIX. 209 
 
 our natures, that he has left any necessary truths without 
 evident notes of distinction. But while the powers of the 
 mind are thus limited in their extent, and greatly fallible, 
 likewise, in their operations, is it not amazing, Philotes, 
 that mankind should insult each other for difference in 
 opinion, and treat every notion that opposes their own, 
 with obloquy and contempt ? Is it not amazing that a 
 creature, with talents so precarious and circumscribed, 
 should usurp that confidence which can only belong to 
 much superiour beings, and claim a deference which is 
 due to perfection alone ? Surely, the greatest arrogance 
 that ever entered into the human heart, is that which not 
 only pretends to be positive itself in points wherein the 
 best and wisest have disagreed, but looks down with all 
 the insolent superiority of contemptuous pity on those 
 whose impartial reasonings have led them into opposite 
 conclusions. 
 
 There is nothing, perhaps, more evident, than that 
 our intellectual faculties are not formed by one general 
 standard; and, consequently, that diversity of opinion is 
 of the very essence of our natures. It seems probable 
 that this disparity extends even to our sensitive powers : 
 and though we agree, indeed, in giving the same names 
 to certain visible appearances, — as whiteness, for instance, 
 to snow, — yet it is by no means demonstration, that the 
 particular body which affects us with that sensation, raises 
 the same precise idea in any two persons who shall hap- 
 pen to contemplate it together. Thus I have often heard 
 you mention your youngest daughter as being the exact 
 counter-part of her mother : now she does not appear to 
 me to resemble her in any single feature. To what can 
 this disagreement in our judgments be owing, but to a 
 difference in the structure of our organs of sight ? Yet as 
 justly, Philotes, might you disclaim me for your friend, 
 and look upon me with contempt for not discovering a 
 IB * 
 
210 LETTER LXIX, 
 
 similitude which appears so evident to your eyes-, as affy 
 man can abuse or despise another for not apprehending 
 the force of that argument which carries conviction to his 
 own understanding. 
 
 Happy had it been for the peace of the world, if our 
 maintainers of systems, either in religion or politicks, had 
 conducted their several debates with the full impression 
 of this truth upon their minds. Genuine philosophy is 
 ever, indeed, the least dogmatical ; and I am always in- 
 clined to suspect the force of that argument which is 
 obtruded with arrogance and sufficiency. 
 
 I am wonderfully pleased with a passage I met with the 
 other day, in the preface to Mr. Boyle's Philosophical 
 Essays : and would recommend that cautious spirit, by 
 which he professes to have conducted himself in his phy- 
 sical researches, as worthy the imitation of inquirers after 
 truth of every kind. 
 
 "Perhaps you will wonder,' ' says he, " that in almost 
 44 every one of the following essays, I should use so often 
 "perhaps, it seems, it is not improbable, as argue a diffi- 
 M dence of the truth of the opinions I incline to ; and that 
 44 1 should be so shy of laying down principles, and some- 
 44 times of so much as venturing at explications. But I 
 44 must freely confess, that having met with many things 
 44 of which I could give myself no one probable cause, and 
 44 some things of which several causes may be assigned, so 
 44 differing as not to agree in any thing, unless in their being 
 44 all of them probable enough, I have often found such 
 • 4 difficulties in searching into the causes and manner of 
 4< things, and I am so sensible of my own disability to sur- 
 44 mount those difficulties, that I dare speak confidently 
 44 and positively of very few things, except matter of 
 44 fact. And when I venture to deliver any thing by way 
 •* of opinion, I should, if it were not for mere shame, speak 
 
LETTER LXIX. 211 
 
 "yet more diffidently than I have been wont to do. Nor 
 " have my thoughts been altogether idle— in forming no- 
 " tions, and attempting to devise hypotheses. But I 
 " have hitherto (though not always, yet not unfrequently) 
 " found, that what pleased me for a while, was soon after 
 " disgraced by some farther or new experiment. And, 
 " indeed, I have the less envied many (for I say not all) 
 " of those writers, who have taken upon them to deliver 
 "the causes of things, and explicate the mysteries of na- 
 " ture ; since I have h^d an opportunity to observe how 
 " many of their doctrines after having been, for a while, ap- 
 " plauded, and even admired, have afterwards been con- 
 " futed by some new phenomenon in nature, which was 
 " either unknown to such writers, or not sufficiently con* 
 •* side red by them." 
 
 If positiveness could become any man, in any point of 
 mere speculation, it must have been this truly noble phi- 
 losopher, when he was delivering the result of his studies 
 in a science, wherein, by the united confession of the whole 
 world, he so eminently excelled. But he had too much 
 generosity to prescribe his own notions as a measure to the 
 judgment of others, and too much good sense to assert 
 them with heat or confidence. 
 
 Whoever, Philotes, pursues his speculations with this 
 humble, unarrogating temper of mind, and with the best 
 exertion of those faculties which Providence has as- 
 signed him, though he should not find the conviction, 
 never, surely, can he fail of the reward of truth. I 
 am, &c. 
 
212 
 
 LETTER LXX. 
 
 TO PALAMEDES. 
 
 If malice had never broke loose upon the world, till 
 it seized your reputation, I might reasonably condole with 
 you on falling the first prey to its unrestrained rage. But 
 this spectre has haunted merit almost from its earliest 
 existence : and when all mankind were as yet included 
 within a single family, one of them, we know, rose up in 
 malignity of soul against his innocent brother. Virtue, it 
 should seem, therefore, has now been too long acquainted 
 with this her constant persecutor, to be either terrified or 
 dejected at an appearance so common. The truth of it 
 is, she must either renounce her noblest theatre of action, 
 and seclude herself in cells and deserts, or be contented 
 to enter upon the stage of the world with this fiend in her 
 train. She cannot triumph, if she will not be traduced ; 
 and she should consider the clamours of censure, when 
 joined with her own conscious applause, as so many accla- 
 mations that confirm her victory. 
 
 Let those who harbour this worst of human disposi- 
 tions consider the many wretched and contemptible cir- 
 cumstances which attend it : but it is the business of him 
 who unjustly suffers from it, to reflect how it may be turn- 
 ed to his advantage. Remember, then, my friend, that 
 generosity would lose half her dignity, if malice did not 
 contribute to her elevation ; and he that has never been 
 injured, has never had it in his power to exercise the no- 
 blest privilege of heroick virtue. There is another conso- 
 lation which may be derived from the rancour of the world, 
 as it will instruct one in a piece of knowledge of the most 
 singular benefit in our progress through it : it will teach 
 us to distinguish genuine friendship from counterfeit. For 
 
LETTER LXX. 213 
 
 he only who is warmed with the real flame of amity, will 
 rise up to support his single negative, in opposition 
 to the clamorous votes of an undistinguishing multi^ 
 tude. 
 
 He, indeed, who can see a cool and deliberate injury 
 done to his friend, without feeling himself wounded in 
 his most sensible part, has never known the force of the 
 most generous of all the human affections. Every man, 
 who has not taken the sacred name of friendship in vain, 
 will subscribe to those sentiments which Homer puts into 
 the mouth of Achilles, and which Mr. Pope has opened 
 and enlarged with such inimitable strength and spirit : 
 
 A gen'rous friendship no cold medium knows, 
 
 Burns with one love, with one resentment glows : 
 
 One should our int'rests and our passions be ; 
 
 My friend must hate the man that injures me. ix. 609. 
 
 It may greatly also allay the pain which attends the 
 wounds of defamation, and which are always most se- 
 verely felt by those who least deserve them, to reflect, 
 that though malice generally flings the first stone, it is 
 folly and ignorance, it is indolence or irresolution* 
 which are principally concerned in swelling the heap. 
 When the tide of censure runs strongly against any par- 
 ticular character, the generality of mankind are too care- 
 less or too impotent to withstand the current ; and thus, 
 without any particular malice in their own natures, are 
 often indolently carried along with others, by tamely 
 falling in with the general stream. The number of those 
 who really mean one barm, will wonderfully lessen after 
 the deductions which may fairly be made of this sort : 
 and the cup of unjust reproach must surely lose much of 
 its bitterness, where one is persuaded that malevolence 
 has the least share in mingling the draught. For nothing, 
 perhaps, stings a generous mind more sensibly in wrongs 
 
214 LETTER LXXI. 
 
 of this sort, than to consider them as evidences of a ge- 
 nera] malignity in human nature. But, from whatever 
 causes these storms may arise, Virtue would not be true 
 to her own native privileges, if she suffered herself to 
 sink under them. It is from that strength and firmness, 
 which upright intentions will ever secure to an honest 
 mind, that Palamedes, I am persuaded, will stand supe- 
 riour to those unmerited reproaches which assault his cha- 
 racter, and preserve an unbroken repose amidst the little 
 noise and strife of ignorant or malicious tongues. Fare- 
 well. I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER LXXI. 
 
 TO PHILOTES. 
 
 April 9, 1740. 
 There is no advantage which attends a popular genius, 
 that I am so much inclined to envy, as the privilege of ren- 
 dering merit conspicuous. An author who has raised the at- 
 tention of the publick to his productions, and gained a whole 
 nation for his audience, may be considered as guardian 
 of the temple of Fame, and invested with the preroga- 
 tive of giving entrance to whomsoever he deems worthy 
 of that glorious distinction. But the praise of an ordinary 
 writer obstructs rather than advances the honour due to 
 merit, and sullies the lustre it means to celebrate. Im- 
 potent panegyrick operates like a blight wherever it falls, 
 and injures all that it touches. Accordingly, Henry the 
 IVth. of France, was wont humorously to ascribe his 
 early grey hairs to the effect of numberless wretched 
 compliments which were paid him by a certain ridicu- 
 lous orator of his times. But though the wreaths of folly 
 should not disgrace the temple they surround, they 
 wither, at least, as soon as received ; and if they should 
 
LETTER LXXI. 215 
 
 not be offensive, roost certainly, however, they will be 
 transient. Whereas those, on the contrary, with which 
 an Horace or a Boileau, an Addison or a Pope, have 
 crowned the virtues of their contemporaries, are as per- 
 manent as they are illustrious, and will preserve their co- 
 lours and fragrance to remotest ages. 
 
 If I could thus weave the garlands of unfading applause, 
 — if I were in the number of those chosen spirits, whose 
 approbation is fame, — your friend should not want that 
 distinguishing tribute which his virtues deserve, and yon 
 request. I would tell the world, (and tell it in a voice 
 that should be heard far, and remembered long) that Euse- 
 bes, with all the knowledge and experience of these later 
 ages, has all the innocence and simplicity of the earliest : 
 that he enforces the doctrines of his sacred function, not 
 with the vain pomp of ostentatious eloquence, but with 
 the far more powerful persuasion of active and exemplary 
 virtue : that he softens the severity of precept with the 
 ease and familiarity of conversation ; and, by generously 
 mingling with the meanest committed to his care, insinuates 
 the instructor under the air of the companion : that, whilst 
 he thus fills up the circle of his private station, he still 
 turns his regards to the publick, and employs his genius, his 
 industry, and his fortune, in prosecuting and perfecting 
 those discoveries, which tend most to the general benefit of 
 mankind : in a word, that whilst others of his order are con- 
 tending for the ambitious prizes of ecclesiastical dignities, 
 it is his glorious pre-eminence to merit the highest, with- 
 out enjoying or soliciting even the lowest. This, and yet 
 more than this, the world should hear of your friend, if the 
 world were inclined to listen to my voice. But though 
 you, perhaps, Philotes, may be willing to give audience to 
 my muse, 
 
 namque tu solebas 
 Meas esse aliquid putare nugas. Catuh 
 
216 LETTER LXXII. 
 
 can she hope to find favour, likewise, in the sight of the 
 puhliek ? Let me, then, rather content myself with the 
 silent admiration of those virtues, which I am not worthy 
 to celebrate ; and leave it to others to place the good 
 works of Eusebes, where they may shine forth before men, 
 I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER LXXtt. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Dec. 7, 1737. 
 The visits of a friend, like those of the sun at this 
 season, are extremely enlivening. I am sure, at least, 
 they would both be particularly acceptable to me at pre- 
 sent, when my mind is as much overcast as the heavens. 
 I hope, therefore, you will not drop the design your let- 
 ter intimates, of spending a few days with me, in your 
 Way to * * *. Your company will greatly contribute to 
 disperse those clouds of melancholy which the Joss of a 
 Very valuable friend has hung over me. There is some- 
 thing, indeed, in the first moments of separation from 
 those whom a daily commerce and long habitude of 
 friendship has grafted upon the heart, that disorders our 
 Whole frame of thought and discolours all one's enjoy- 
 ments. Let philosophy assist with the utmost of her 
 vaunted strength, the mind cannot immediately recover 
 the firmness of its posture, when those amicable props, 
 upon which it used to rest, are totally removed. Even 
 the most indifferent objects with which we have long been 
 familiar, take some kind of root in our hearts : and " I 
 "should hardly care" (as a celebrated author has with 
 great good nature observed) " to have an old post pulled 
 " up, which J remembered ever since I was a child." 
 
LETTER LXXIII. 21 7 
 
 To know how to receive the full satisfaction of a pre- 
 sent enjoyment, with a disposition prepared at the* same 
 time to yield it up without reluctance, is hardly, I doubt, 
 reconcileable to humanity : pain, in being disunited from 
 those we love, is a tax we must be contented to pay, if 
 we would enjoy the pleasures of the social affections. — 
 One would not wish, indeed, to be wholly insensible to 
 disquietudes of this kind ; and we must renounce the 
 most refined relish of our being, if we would, upon all oc- 
 casions, possess our souls in a stoical tranquillity. 
 
 That ancient philosopher, whose precept it was to 
 converse with our friends, as if they might one day prove 
 our enemies, has been justly censured as advancing a very 
 ungenerous maxim. To remember, however, that we 
 must one day most certainly be divided from them, is a 
 reflection, methinks, that should enter with us into our 
 tender connexions of every kind. From the present dis- 
 composure, therefore, of my own breast, and from that 
 share which I take in whatever may affect the repose of 
 yours, I cannot bid you adieu, without reminding you, at 
 the same time, of the useful caution of one of your poeti- 
 cal acquaintance : 
 
 lam, &c. 
 
 Quicquid amas 5 cupias non placuisse nimis. 
 
 LETTER LXXIII. 
 
 TO PALAMEDBS. 
 
 Feb. 13, 1741. 
 If one would rate any particular merit according to 
 its true valuation, it may be necessary, perhaps, to con- 
 sider how far it can be justly claimed by mankind in ge- 
 neral. I am sure, at least, when I read the very uncom- 
 19 
 
218 LETTER LXXIII. 
 
 mon sentiments of your last letter, I found their judi- 
 cious author rise in my esteem, by reflecting, that there is 
 not a more singular character in the world than that of a 
 thinking man. It is not merely having a succession of 
 ideas which lightly skim over the mind, that can with any 
 propriety be styled by that denomination. It is observ- 
 ing them separately and distinctly, and ranging them un- 
 der their respective classes ; it is calmly and steadily 
 viewing our opinions on every side, and resolutely tracing 
 them through all their consequences and connexions, that 
 constitutes the man of reflection, and distinguishes reason 
 from fancy. Providence, indeed, does not seem to have 
 formed any very considerable number of our species 
 for an extensive exercise of this higher faculty : as the 
 thoughts of the far greater part of mankind are necessa- 
 rily restrained within the ordinary purposes of animal 
 life. But even if we look up to those who move in much 
 superiour orbits, and who have opportunities to improve, 
 as well as leisure to exercise, their understandings, we 
 'shall find that thinking is one of the least exerted 
 privileges of cultivated humanity. 
 
 It is, indeed, an operation of the mind which meets 
 with many obstructions to check its just: and free direc- 
 tion ; but there are two principles which prevail more or 
 less in the constitutions of most men, that particularly 
 contribute to keep this faculty of the soul unemployed : 
 I mean pride and indolence. To descend to truth through 
 the tedious progression of well-examined deductions, is 
 considered as a reproach to the quickness of understand- 
 ing; as it is much too laborious a method for any but 
 those who are possessed of a vigorous and resolute acti- 
 vity of mind. For this reason, the greater part of our 
 species generally choose either to seize upon their con- 
 clusions at once, or to take them by rebound from others, 
 as best suiting with their vanity or their laziness. Ac- 
 
LETTER LXXIII. 219 
 
 cordingly Mr. Locke observes, that there are not so many 
 errours and wrong opinions in the world as is generally- 
 imagined. Not that he thinks mankind are by any 
 means uniform in embracing truth ; but because the ma- 
 jority of them, he maintains, have no thought or opinion 
 at all about those doctrines concerning which they. raise 
 the greatest clamour. Like the common soldiers in an 
 army, they follow where their leaders direct, without 
 knowing or even inquiring into the cause for which they 
 so warmly contend. 
 
 This will account for the slow steps by which truth has 
 advanced in the world, on one side ; and for those absurd 
 systems, which, at different periods, have had an univer- 
 sal currency on the other. For there is a strange dispo- 
 sition in human nature, either blindly to tread the same 
 paths that have been traversed by others, or to strike out 
 into the most devious extravagancies : the greater part of 
 the world will either totally renounce their reason, or 
 reason only from the wild suggestions of an heated ima- 
 gination. 
 
 From the same source may be derived those divisions 
 and animosities which break the union both of pubiick 
 and private societies, and turn the peace and harmony of 
 human intercourse into dissonance and contention. For 
 while men judge and act by such measures as have not 
 been proved by the standard of dispassionate reason, 
 they must equally be mistaken in their estimates both of 
 their own conduct and that of others. 
 
 If we turn our view from active to contemplative life, 
 we may have occasion, perhaps, to remark, that thinking 
 is no less uncommon in the literary than the civil world. 
 The number of those writers who can, with any justness 
 of expression, be termed thinking authors, would not 
 form a very copious library, though one were to take in 
 all of that kind which both ancient and modern times 
 
220 LETTER LXXIIL 
 
 have produced. Necessarily, I imagine, must one ex- 
 clude from a collection of this sort, all criticks, commen- 
 tators, modern Latin poets, translators, and, in short, all 
 that numerous under-tribe in the commonwealth of lite- 
 rature, that owe their existence merely to the thoughts 
 of others. I should reject, for the same reason, such 
 compilers as Valerius Maximus and Aulus Gellius : though 
 it must be owned, indeed, their works have acquired an 
 accidental value, as they preserve to us several curious 
 traces of antiquity, which time would otherwise have 
 entirely worn out. Those teeming geniuses, likewise, 
 who have propagated the fruits of their studies through a 
 long series of tracts, would have little pretence, I believe, 
 to be admitted as writers of reflection. For this reason, 
 I cannot regret the loss of those incredible numbers of 
 compositions which some of the ancients are said to have 
 produced : 
 
 Quale fuit Cass! rapido ferventius amni 
 Ingenium ; capsis quern fama est esse librisque 
 Ambustum propriis. Horace* 
 
 Thus Epicurus, we are told, left behind him three hun- 
 dred volumes of his own works, wherein he had not in- 
 serted a single quotation ; and we have it upon the au- 
 thority of Varro's own words,* that he himself composed 
 four hundred and ninety books. Seneca assures us, that 
 Didymus, the grammarian, wrote no less than four thou- 
 sand ; but Origen, it seems, was yet more prolifick, and 
 
 * This passage is to be found in Aulus Gellius, who quotes it from a treatise 
 which Varro had written concerning the wonderful effects of the number seven. 
 But the subject of this piece cannot be more ridiculous than the style in 
 which it appears to have been composed : for that most learned author of his 
 times (as Cicero, if I mistake not, somewhere calls him) informed his readers 
 in that performance, se jam duodecimam annorum hebdomadam ingressum 
 esse, et ad aim diem sefituaginta fcbdomadas librorum conscripmse. Au1« 
 Cell. iii. 10. 
 
LETTER LXXIV. 221 
 
 extended his performances even to six thousand treatises. 
 It is obvious to imagine with what sort of materials the 
 productions of such expeditious workmen were wrought 
 up : sound thought and well matured reflections could 
 have no share, we may be sure, in these hasty perform- 
 ances. Thus are books multiplied, whilst authors are 
 scarce ; and so much easier is it to write than to think ! 
 But shall I not myself, Palamedes, prove an instance that 
 it is so, if I suspend, any longer, your own more important 
 reflections, by interrupting you with such as mine ? Adieu. 
 I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER LXXIV. 
 
 TO ORONTES. 
 
 It is with much pleasure I look back upon that philo- 
 sophical week which I lately enjoyed at * * * ; as there is 
 no part, perhaps, of social life, which affords more real 
 satisfaction, than those hours which one passes in rational 
 and unreserved conversation. The free communication 
 of sentiments amongst a set of ingenious and speculative 
 friends, such as those you gave me the opportunity of 
 meeting, throws the mind into the most advantageous 
 exercise, and shews the strength or weakness of its opi- 
 nions with greater force of conviction, than any other 
 method we can employ. 
 
 That it is not good for man to be alone, is true in more 
 views of our species than one ; and society gives strength 
 to our reason, as well as polish to our manners. The 
 soul, when left entirely to her own solitary contempla- 
 tions, is insensibly drawn by a sort of constitutional 
 bias, which generally leads her opinions to the side of her 
 inclinations. Hence it is that she contracts those pecu- 
 19 # 
 
222 LETTER LXXIV. 
 
 liarities of reasoning, and little habits of thinking, which 
 so often confirm her in the most fantastical errours. But 
 nothing is more likely to recover the mind from this false 
 bent, than the counter- warmth of impartial debate. 
 Conversation opens our views and gives our faculties a 
 more vigorous play ; it puts us upon turning our notions 
 on every side, and holds them up to a light that discovers 
 those latent flaws, which would, probably, have lain con- 
 cealed in the gloom of unagitated abstraction. Accord- 
 ingly, one may remark, that most of those wild doctrines 
 which have been let loose upon the world, have generally- 
 owed their birth to persons whose circumstances or dis- 
 positions have given them the fewest opportunities of can- 
 vassing their respective systems, in the way of free and 
 friendly debate. Had the authors of many an extrava- 
 gant hypothesis discussed their principles in private cir- 
 cles, ere they bad given vent to them in publick, the ob- 
 servation of Varro had never, perhaps, been made (or 
 never, at least, with so much justice) that " there is no 
 " opinion so absurd, but has some philosopher or other to 
 " produce in its support." 
 
 Upon this principle, I imagine, it is, that some of the 
 finest pieces of antiquity are written in the dialogue man- 
 ner. Plato and Tully, it should seem, thought truth 
 could never be examined with more advantage, than 
 amidst the amicable opposition of well regulated con- 
 verse. It is probable, indeed, that subjects of a serious 
 and philosophical kind were more frequently the topicks 
 of Greek and Roman conversations, than they are of 
 ours ; as the circumstances of the world had not yet given 
 occasion to those prudential reasons, which may now, per- 
 haps, restrain a more free exchange of sentiments amongst 
 us. There was something, likewise, in the very scenes 
 themselves where they usually assembled, that almost 
 
LETTER LXXIV. 223 
 
 unavoidably turned the stream of their conversations 
 into this useful channel. Their rooms and gardens were 
 generally adorned, you know, with the statues of the 
 greatest masters of reason that had then appeared in 
 the world ; and while Socrates or Aristotle stood in their 
 view, it is no wonder their discourse fell upon those sub- 
 jects, which such animating representations would natu- 
 rally suggest. It is probable, therefore, that many of 
 those ancient pieces which are drawn up in the dialogue 
 manner, were no imaginary conversations invented by 
 their authors, but faithful transcripts from real life : and 
 it is this circumstance, perhaps, as much as any other, 
 which contributes to give them that remarkable advan- 
 tage over the generality of modern compositions, which 
 have been formed upon the same plan. I am sure, at 
 least, I could scarce name more than three or four of 
 this kind, which have appeared in our language, worthy 
 of notice. My lord Shaftesbury's dialogue, entitled The 
 Moralists ; Mr. Addison's upon Ancient Coins ; Mr. 
 Spence's upon the Odyssey ; together with those of my 
 very ingenious friend Philemon to Hydaspes, are almost 
 the only productions, in this way, which have hitherto 
 come forth amongst us with advantage. These, indeed, 
 are all master-pieces of the kind, and written in the true 
 spirit of learning and politeness. The conversation in 
 each of these most elegant performances is conducted 
 not in the usual absurd method of introducing one dis- 
 putant to be tamely silenced by the other, but in the 
 more lively dramatick manner, where a just contrast of 
 characters is preserved throughout, and where the seve- 
 ral speakers support their respective sentiments with all 
 the strength and spirit of a well-bred opposition. 
 
 But of all the conversation pieces, whether ancient or 
 modern, either of the moral or polite kind, I know not 
 
224 LETTER LXXIV. 
 
 one which is more elegantly written than the little anony- 
 mous dialogue concerning the rise and decline of elo- 
 quence among the Romans. I call it anonymous, though 
 I am sensible it has been ascribed not only to Tacitus 
 and Uuintilian but even to Suetonius. The reasons, 
 however, which the criticks have respectively produced, 
 are so exceedingly precarious and inconclusive, that one 
 must have a very extraordinary share of classical faith 
 indeed, to receive it as the performance of any of those 
 celebrated writers. It is evidently, however, a compo- 
 sition of that period in which they flourished ; and, if I 
 were disposed to indulge a conjecture, I should be in- 
 clined to give it to the younger Pliny. It exactly coin- 
 cides with his age ; it is addressed to one of his particu- 
 lar friends and correspondents ; it is marked with some 
 similar expressions and sentiments. But, as arguments 
 of this kind are always more imposing than solid, I recom- 
 mend it to you as a piece, concerning the author of which 
 nothing satisfactory can be collected. This 1 may, one 
 day or other, perhaps, attempt to prove in form, as I have 
 amused myself with giving it an English dress. In the 
 mean time, I have enclosed my translation in this packet ; 
 not only with a view to your sentiments, but in return to 
 your favour. I was persuaded I could not make you a 
 better acknowledgment for the pleasure of that conver- 
 sation which I lately participated through your means, 
 than by introducing you to one, which (if my copy is not 
 extremely injurious to its original) 1 am sure, you cannot 
 attend to without equal entertainment and advantage. 
 Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
225 
 
 DIALOGUE CONCERNING ORATORY.* 
 
 TO FABIUS. 
 
 You have frequently, my friend, required me to assign 
 a reason, whence it has happened, that the oratorical cha- 
 racter, which spread such a glorious lustre upon former 
 ages, is now so totally extinct among us, as scarce to 
 preserve even its name. It is the ancients alone, you 
 observed, whom we distinguish with that appellation; 
 while the eloquent of the present times are styled only 
 pleaders, patrons, advocates, or any thing, in short, but 
 orators. 
 
 Hardly, I oelieve, should I have attempted a solution 
 of your difficulty, or ventured upon the examination of a 
 question, wherein the genius of the moderns, if they can- 
 not, or their judgment, if they will not, rise to the same 
 heights, must necessarily be given up ; had I nothing of 
 greater authority to offer upon the subject, than my own 
 particular sentiments. But having been present, in the 
 very early part of my life, at a conversation between 
 some persons of great eloquence, considering the age in 
 which they lived, who discussed this very point, my me- 
 mory, and not my judgment, will be concerned, whilst I 
 endeavour, in their own style and manner, and according 
 to the regular course of their debate, to lay before you 
 the several reasonings of those celebrated geniuses : each 
 
 * It is necessary to inform those readers of the following dialogue, who 
 may be disposed to compare it with the original, that the edition of Heit- 
 xaannus, printed at Gottingen, 1719, has been generally followed. 
 
226 A DIALOGUE 
 
 of thein, indeed, agreeably to the peculiar turn and cha- 
 racter of the speaker, alleging different, though proba- 
 ble causes of the same fact ; but all of them supporting 
 their respective sentiments with ingenuity and good 
 sense. Nor were the orators of the present age without 
 an advocate in this debate : for one of the company took 
 the opposite side, and treating the ancients with much 
 severity and contempt, declared in favour of modern elo- 
 quence. 
 
 Marcus Aper and Julius Secundus, two distinguished 
 geniuses of our forum, made a visit to Maternus the day 
 after he had publickly recited his tragedy of Cato : a 
 piece, which gave, it seems, great offence to those in 
 power, and was much canvassed in all conversations. 
 Maternus, indeed, seemed, throughout that whole per- 
 formance, to have considered only what was suitable to 
 the character of his hero, without paying a proper re- 
 gard to those prudential restraints, which were necessary 
 for his own security. I was, at that time, a warm ad- 
 mirer and constant follower of those great men ; inso- 
 much, that I not only attended them when they were en- 
 gaged in the courts of judicature ; but, from my fond at- 
 tachment to the arts of eloquence, and with a certain 
 ardency peculiar to youth, I joined in all their parties, 
 and was present at their most private conversations. 
 Their great abilities, however, could not secure them 
 from the cri ticks. They alleged, that Secundus had by 
 no means an easy elocution ; whilst Aper, they pretend- 
 ed, owed his reputation, as an orator, more to nature than 
 to art. It is certain, nevertheless, that their objections 
 were without foundation. The speeches of the former 
 were always delivered with sufficient fluency ; and his 
 expression was clear, though concise : as the latter had, 
 most undoubtedly, a general tincture of literature. The 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 227 
 
 truth is, one could not so properly say he was without, as 
 above the assistance of learning. He imagined, perhaps, 
 the powers and application of his genius would be so 
 much the more admired, as it should not appear to de- 
 rive any of its lustre from the acquired arts. 
 
 We found Maternus, when we entered his apartment, 
 with the tragedy in his hand which he had recited the 
 day before. "Are you then," said Secundus, addressing 
 himself to him, " so little discouraged with the malicious 
 insinuations of these ill-natured censures, as still to cherish 
 this obnoxious tragedy of yours ? Or, perhaps, you are 
 revising it, in order to expunge the exceptionable pas- 
 sages ; and purpose to send your Cato into the world, I 
 will not say with superiour charms, but, at least, with 
 greater security than in its original form?" — "You may 
 peruse it," returned he, " if you please ; you will find it 
 remains just in the same situation as when you heard it 
 read. I intend, however, that Thyestes shall supply the 
 defects of Cato : for I am meditating a tragedy upon that 
 subject, and have already, indeed, formed the plan. I 
 am hastening, therefore, the publication of this play in 
 my hand, that I may apply myself entirely to my new 
 design." — " Are you then in good earnest," replied Aper, 
 " so enamoured of dramatick poetry, as to renounce the 
 business of oratory in order to consecrate your whole 
 leisure to — Medea, I think, it was before, and now, it 
 seems, to Thyestes ? when the causes of so many worthy 
 friends, the interests of so many powerful communities, 
 demand you in the forum : a task more than sufficient 
 to employ your attention, though neither Cato nor Do- 
 mitius had any share of it ; though you were not con- 
 tinually turning from one dramatick performance to an- 
 other, and adding the tales of Greece to the history of 
 Rome.'-? 
 
228 A DIALOGUE 
 
 "I should be concerned," answered Maternus, " at 
 the severity of your rebuke, if the frequency of our de- 
 bates, upon this subject, had not rendered it somewhat 
 familiar to me. But how," added he, smiling, " can you 
 accuse me of deserting the business of my profession, 
 when I am every day engaged in defending poetry against 
 your accusations ? And I am glad," continued he, looking 
 towards Secundus, " that we have now an opportunity of 
 discussing this point before so competent a judge. His 
 decision will either determine me to renounce all preten- 
 sions to poetry for the future, or, which I rather hope, 
 will be a sanction for my quitting that confined species of 
 oratory, in which, methinks, I have sufficiently laboured, 
 and authorize the devoting myself to the more enlarged 
 and sacred eloquence of the muses." 
 
 "Give me leave," interposed Secundus, "before Aper 
 takes exception to his judge, to say, what all honest ones 
 usually do in the same circumstances, that I desire to be 
 excused from sitting in judgment upon a cause, wherein I 
 must acknowledge myself biassed in favour of a party con- 
 cerned. All the world is sensible of that strict friendship 
 which has long subsisted between me and that excellent 
 man, as well as great poet, Saleius Bassus. To which let 
 me add, if the muses are to be arraigned, I know of none 
 who can offer more prevailing bribes." 
 
 " I have nothing to allege against Bassus," returned 
 Aper, " or any other man, who, not having talents for the 
 bar, chooses to establish a reputation of the poetical kind. 
 Nor shall I suffer Maternus (for I am willing to join issue 
 with him before you) to evade my charge, by drawing 
 others into his party. My accusation is levelled singly 
 against him ; who, formed as he is, by nature, with a most 
 masculine and truly oratorical genius, chooses to suffer so 
 noble a faculty to lie waste and uncultivated. I must 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 229 
 
 remind him, however, that, by the exercise of this com- 
 manding talent, he might at once both acquire and support 
 the most important friendships, and have the glory to see 
 whole provinces and nations rank themselves under his 
 patronage ; a talent, of all others, the most advantageous, 
 whether considered with respect to interest or to honours ; 
 a talent, in short, that affords the most illustrious means 
 of propagating a reputation, not only within our own 
 walls, but throughout the whole compass of the Roman 
 empire, and, indeed, to the most distant nations of the 
 globe." 
 
 If utility ought to be the governing motive of every 
 action and every design of our lives ; can we possibly be 
 employed to better purpose, than in the exercise of an art, 
 which enables a man, upon all occasions, to support the 
 interest of his friend, to protect the rights of the stranger, 
 to defend the cause of the injured ? that not only renders 
 him the terrour of his open and secret adversaries, but 
 secures him, as it were, by the most firm and permanent 
 guard? 
 
 The particular usefulness, indeed, of his profession is 
 evidently manifested in the opportunities it supplies of 
 serving others, though we should have no occasion to ex- 
 ert it in our own behalf : but should we, upon any occur- 
 rence, be ourselves attacked, the sword and buckler is 
 not a more powerful defence in the day of battle, than 
 oratory in the dangerous season of publick arraignment. 
 What had Marcellus lately to oppose to the united resent- 
 ment of the whole senate, but his eloquence ? Yet, 
 supported by that formidable auxiliary, he stood firm and 
 unmoved, amidst all the assaults of the artful Helvidius ; 
 who, notwithstanding he was a man of sense and elocu- 
 tion, was totally inexpert in the management of this sort 
 of contests. But I need not insist farther on this head ; 
 20 
 
230 A DIALOGUE 
 
 well persuaded, as I am, that Maternus will not controvert 
 so clear a truth. Rather let me observe the pleasure 
 which attends the exercise of the persuasive art : a plea- 
 sure which does not arise only once, perhaps, in a whole 
 life, but flows in a perpetual series of gratifications. What 
 can be more agreeable to a liberal and ingenuous mind, 
 formed with a relish of rational enjoyments, than to see 
 one's levee crowded with a concourse of the most illus- 
 trious personages, not as followers of your interest or your 
 power ; not because you are rich, and destitute of heirs ; 
 but singly in consideration of your superiour qualifications. 
 It is not unusual, upon these occasions, to observe the 
 wealthy, the powerful, and the childless, addressing 
 themselves to a young man (and probably no rich one) 
 in favour of themselves or their friends. Tell me now, 
 has authority or wealth a charm equal to the satisfac^ 
 tion of thus beholding persons of the highest dignity, 
 venerable by their age, or powerful by their credit, 
 in the full enjoyment of every external advantage, court- 
 ing your assistance, and tacitly acknowledging that, great 
 and distinguished as they are, there is something still 
 wanting to them more valuable than all their possessions ? 
 Represent to yourself the honourable crowd of clients con- 
 ducting the orator from his house, and attending him in his 
 return; think of the glorious appearance he makes in 
 publick, the distinguishing respect that is paid to him in 
 the courts of judicature, the exultation of heart when he 
 rises up before a full audience, hushed in solemn silence 
 and fixed attention, pressing round the admired speaker, 
 and receiving every passion he deems proper to raise ! Yet 
 these are but the ordinary joys of eloquence, and visible 
 to every common observer. There are others, and those 
 far superiour, of a more concealed and delicate kind, and 
 of which the orator himself can alone be sensible. Does 
 he stand forth prepared with a studied harangue ? As the 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 231 
 
 composition, so the pleasure, in this instance, is more 
 *olid and equal. If, on the other hand, he rises in a new 
 and unexpected debate, the previous solicitude, which he 
 feels upon such occasions, recommends and improves the 
 pleasure of his success ; as indeed the most exquisite satis* 
 faction of this kind is, when he boldly hazards the unpre- 
 meditated speech. For it is in the productions of genius, 
 as in the fruits of the earth ; those which arise sponta- 
 neously, are ever the most agreeable. If I may venture 
 to mention myself, I must acknowledge, that neither the 
 satisfaction I received when I was first invested with the 
 laticlave, nor even when I entered upon the several high 
 posts in the state ; though the pleasure was heightened to 
 me, not only as those honours were new to my family, but 
 as I was born in a city by no means favourable to my pre- 
 tensions : — the warm transports, I say, which I felt at 
 those times, were far inferiour to the joy which has glowed 
 in my breast, when I have successfully exerted my li-jm- 
 ble talents in defence of those causes and clients committed 
 to my care. To say truth, I imagined myself, at such 
 seasons, to be raised above the highest dignities, and in 
 the possession of something; far more valuable, than either 
 the favour of the great, or the bounty of the wealthy can 
 ever bestow. 
 
 " Of all the arts or sciences, there is no one which 
 crowns its votaries with a reputation in any degree com- 
 parable to that of eloquence. It is not only those of a 
 more exalted rank in the state, who are witnesses of the 
 orator's fame ; it is extended to the observation even of 
 our very youth of any hopes or merit. Whose example, 
 for instance, do parents more frequently recommend to 
 their sons ? Or who are more the gaze and admiration of 
 the people in general ? Whilst every stranger that arrives, 
 is curious of seeing the man, of whose character be has 
 
232 * A DIALOGUE 
 
 heard such honourable report. I will venture to affirm 
 that Marcellus, whom I just now mentioned, and Vibius 
 (for I choose to produce my instances from modern times, 
 rather than from those more remote) are as well known in 
 the most distant corners of the empire, as they are at Ca- 
 pua or Vercellae, the places, it is said, of their respective 
 nativity : an honour for which they are by no means in- 
 debted to their immense riches. On the contrary, their 
 wealth may justly, it should seem, be ascribed to their elo« 
 quence. Every age, indeed, can produce persons of genius, 
 who, by means of this powerful talent, have raised them- 
 selves to the most exalted station. But the instances I 
 just now mentioned, are not drawn from distant times : 
 they fall within the observation of our own eyes. Now 
 the more obscure the original extraction of those illustri- 
 ous persons was, the more humble the patrimony to which 
 they were born, so much stronger proof they afford of the 
 great advantage of the oratorical arts. Accordingly, 
 without the recommendation of family or fortune, without 
 any thing very extraordinary in their virtues (and one of 
 them rather contemptible in his address) they have for 
 many years maintained the highest credit and authority 
 among their fellow-citizens. Thus, from being chiefs in 
 the forum, where they preserved their distinguished em- 
 inence as long as they thought proper, they have passed 
 on to the enjoyment of the same high rank in Vespasian's 
 favour, whose esteem for them seems to be mixed even 
 with a degree of reverence : as indeed they both support 
 and conduct the whole weight of his administration. That 
 excellent and venerable prince (whose singular character 
 it is, that he can endure to hear truth) well knows that 
 the rest of his favourites are distinguished only as they are 
 the objects of his munificence ; the supplies of which he 
 can easily raise and with the same facility confer on others, 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 233 
 
 Whereas Crispus and Marcellus recommended themselves 
 to his notice, by advantages which no earthly potentate 
 either did or could bestow. The truth of it is, inscriptions 
 and statues, and ensigns of dignity, could claim but the 
 lowest rank, amidst their more illustrious distinctions. 
 Not that they are unpossessed of honours of this kind, any 
 more than they are destitute of wealth or power ; advan- 
 tages, much oftener affectedly depreciated, than sincerely 
 despised. 
 
 " Such, my friends, are the ornaments, and such the 
 rewards of an early application to the business of the fo- 
 rum, and the arts of oratory ! But poetry, to which Ma- 
 ternus wishes to devote his days (for it was that which 
 gave rise to our debate) confers neither dignity to her fol- 
 lowers in particular, nor advantage to society in general. 
 The whole amount of her pretensions is nothing more than 
 the transient pleasure of a vain and fruitless applause. 
 Perhaps what I have already said, and am going to add, 
 may not be very agreeable to my friend JVJaternus ; how- 
 ever, I will venture to ask him, what avails the eloquence 
 of his Jason or Agamemnon ? What mortal does it either 
 defend or oblige ? Who is it that courts the patronage, or 
 joins the train of Bassus, that ingenious (or if you think 
 the term more honourable) that illustrious poet ? Emi- 
 nent as he may be, if his friend, his relation, or himself, 
 were involved in any litigated transactions, he would be 
 under the necessity of having recourse to Secundus, or, 
 perhaps, to you, my friend :* but by no means, however, 
 as you are a poet, and in order to solicit you to bestow 
 some verses upon him : for verses he can compose him- 
 self, fair, it seems, and goodly. — Yet, after all, when he 
 has at the cost of much time, and many a laboured lucubra- 
 
 * Maternus. 
 
 20 & 
 
234 A DIALOGUE 
 
 tion, spun out a single canto, he is obliged to traverse the 
 whole town in order to collect an audience. Nor can he 
 procure even this compliment, slight as it is, without 
 actually purchasing it : for the hiring a room, erecting 
 a stage, and dispersing his tickets, are articles which 
 must necessarily be attended with some expense. And 
 let us suppose his poem is approved : the whole admira- 
 tion is over in a day or two, like that of a fine flower 
 which dies away without producing any fruit. In a word, 
 it secures to him neither friend nor patron, nor confers 
 even the most inconsiderable favour upon a single crea- 
 ture. The whole amount of his humble gains is the fleet- 
 ing pleasure of a clamorous applause ! We looked upon 
 it, lately, as an uncommon instance of generosity in Ves- 
 pasian, that he presented Bassus with fifty thousand ses- 
 terces.* Honourable, I grant, it is, to possess a genius 
 which merits the imperial bounty : but how much more 
 glorious (if a man's circumstances will admit of it) to ex- 
 hibit in one's own person an example of munificence and 
 liberality ? Let it be remembered, likewise, if you would 
 succeed in your poetical labours, and produce any thing 
 of real worth, in that art, you must retire, as the poets 
 express themselves, 
 
 To silent grottoes and sequester'd groves : 
 
 that is, you must renounce the conversation of your 
 friends, and every civil duty of life, to be concealed in 
 gloomy and unprofitable solitude. 
 
 "If we consider the votaries of this idle art with re- 
 spect to fame, that single recompense which they pretend 
 to derive, or, indeed, to seek, from their studies, we shall 
 find they do not, by any means, enjoy an equal proportion 
 of it with the sons of oratory. For even the best poets 
 fall within the notice of but a very small proportion ef 
 
 * About four hundred pounds of our money. 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 235 
 
 mankind : whilst indifferent ones are universally disre- 
 garded. Tell me, Maternus, did ever the reputation of 
 the most approved rehearsal of the poetical kind reach 
 the cognizance even of half the town ; much less extend 
 itself to distant provinces ? Did ever any foreigner, up- 
 on his arrival here, inquire after Bassus ? or if he did, it 
 was merely as he would after a picture or a statue ; just 
 to look upon him, and pass on. I would in no sort be 
 understood as discouraging the pursuit of poetry in those 
 who have no talents for oratory ; if happily they can, by 
 that means, amuse their leisure, and establish a just cha- 
 racter. I look upon every species of eloquence as vene- 
 rable and sacred ; and prefer her, in whatever guise she 
 may think proper to appear, before any other of her sis- 
 ter arts : not only, Maternus, when she exhibits herself 
 in your chosen favourite, the solemn tragedy, or lofty 
 heroick, but even in the pleasant lyrick, the wanton elegy, 
 the severe iambick, the witty epigram, or in one word, in 
 whatever other habit she is pleased to assume. But (I 
 repeat it again) my complaint is levelled singly against 
 you ; who, designed as you are, by nature, for the most 
 exalted rank of eloquence, choose to desert your station, 
 and deviate into a lower order. Had you been endued 
 with the athletick vigour of Nicostratus, and born in 
 Greece, where arts of that sort are esteemed not unwor- 
 thy of the most refined characters ; as I could not pa- 
 tiently have suffered that uncommon strength of arm, 
 formed for the nobler combat, to have idly spent itself 
 in throwing the javelin, or tossing the quoit : so I now call 
 you forth from rehearsals and theatres, to the forum, and 
 business, and high debate : especially, since you cannot 
 urge the same plea for engaging in poetry which is now 
 generally alleged, that it is less liable to give offence 
 than oratory. For the ardency of your genius has al- 
 
238 A DIALOGUE 
 
 ready flamed forth, and you have incurred the displeasure 
 of our superiours : not, indeed, for the sake of a friend ; — 
 that would have been far less dangerous ; but in support 
 truly of Cato ! Nor can you offer, in excuse, either the 
 duty of your profession, justice to your client, or the un- 
 guarded heat of debate. You fixed, it should seem, upon 
 this illustrious and popular subject with deliberate design, 
 and as a character that would give weight and authority 
 to your sentiments. You will reply (I am aware) 4 it 
 
 * was that very circumstance which gained you such uni- 
 6 versal applause, and rendered you the general topick of 
 
 * discourse.' Talk no more, then, I beseech you, of se- 
 curity and repose, whilst you thus industriously raise up 
 to yourself so potent an adversary. For my own part, at 
 least, I am contented with engaging in questions of a 
 more modern and private nature ; wherein, if in defence 
 of a friend, I am under a necessity of taking liberties un- 
 acceptable, perhaps, to my superiours, the honest freedom 
 of my zeal will, I trust, not only be excused, but applaud- 
 ed." 
 
 Aper having delivered this with his usual warmth 
 and earnestness, "I am prepared," replied Maternus, in 
 a milder tone, and with an air of pleasantry, " to draw 
 up a charge against the orators, no less copious than my 
 friend's panegyrick in their behaif. I suspected, indeed, 
 he would turn out of his road, in order to attack the 
 poets : though I must own, at the same time, he has some- 
 what softened the severity of his satire, by certain con- 
 cessions he is pleased to make in their favour. He is 
 willing, I perceive, to allow those whose genius does not 
 point to oratory, to apply themselves to poetry. Never* 
 theless, I do not scruple to acknowledge, that, with some 
 talents, perhaps, for the forum, I choose to build my re- 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 237 
 
 putation on dramatick poetry. The first attempt I made 
 for this purpose was by exposing the dangerous power of 
 Vatinius : a power which even Nero himself disapproved, 
 and which that infamous favourite abused, to the profa- 
 nation of the sacred muses. And I am persuaded, if I 
 enjoy any share of fame, it is to poetry, rather than to 
 oratory, that I am indebted for the acquisition. It is my 
 fixed purpose, therefore, entirely to withdraw myself 
 from the fatigue of the bar. I am by no means ambi- 
 tious of that splendid concourse of clients, which Aper 
 has represented in such pompous colours, any more than 
 I am of those sculptured honours which he mentioned ; 
 though, I must confess, they have made their way into my 
 family, notwithstanding my inclinations to the contrary. 
 Innocence is, now at least, a surer guard than eloquence ; 
 and I am in no apprehension I shall ever have occasion 
 to open my lips in the senate, unless, perhaps, in defence 
 of a friend. 
 
 " Woods, and groves, and solitude, the objects of 
 Aper's invective, afford me, I will own to him, the most 
 exquisite satisfaction. Accordingly, I esteem it one of 
 the great privileges of poetry, that it is not carried on in 
 the noise and tumult of the world, amidst the painful 
 importunity of anxious suitors, and the affecting tears of 
 distressed criminals. On the contrary, a mind ena- 
 moured of the muses, retires into scenes of innocence and 
 repose, and enjoys the sacred haunts of silence and con- 
 templation. Here genuine eloquence received her birth, 
 and here she fixed her sacred and sequestered habitation. 
 'Twas here, in decent and becoming garb, she recom- 
 mended herself to the early notice of mortals, inspiring 
 the breast of the blameless and the good : here first the 
 voice divine of oracles was heard. But she of modern 
 growth, offspring of lucre and contention, was born in 
 
238 A DIALOGUE 
 
 evil days, and employed (as Aper very justly expresses 
 it) instead of weapons: whilst happier times, or, in the 
 language of the muses, the golden age, free alike from 
 orators and from crimes, abounded with inspired poets, 
 who exerted their noble talents, not in defending the 
 guilty, but in celebrating the good. Accordingly, no cha- 
 racter was ever more eminently distinguished, or more 
 augustly honoured : first by the gods themselves, to whom 
 the poets were supposed to serve as ministers at their 
 feasts, and messengers of their high behests, and after- 
 wards by that sacred offspring of the gods, the first vene- 
 rable race of legislators. In that glorious list we read 
 the names, not of orators, indeed, but of Orpheus, and 
 Linus, or, if we are inclined to trace the illustrious roll 
 still higher, even of Apollo himself. 
 
 " But these, perhaps, will be treated by Aper as he- 
 roes of romance. He cannot, however, deny, that Ho- 
 mer has received as signal honours from posterity as De- 
 mosthenes ; or that the fame of Sophocles or Euripides is 
 as extensive as that of Lysias or Hyperides ; that Ci- 
 cero's merit is less universally confessed than Virgil's ; or 
 that not one of the compositions of Asinius or Messalla 
 is in so much request as the Medea of Ovid, or the 
 Thyestes of Various. I will advance evt;n farther, and ven- 
 ture to compare the unenvied fortune, and happy self- 
 converse of the poet, with the anxious and busy life of 
 the orator ; notwithstanding the hazardous contentions of 
 the latter may possibly raise him even to the consular dig- 
 nity. Far more desirable, in my estimation, was the 
 calm retreat of Virgil : where yet he lived not unhonour- 
 ed by his prince, nor unregarded by the world. If the 
 truth of either of these assertions should be questioned, 
 the letters of Augustus will witness the former; as the 
 latter is evident from the conduct of the whole Roman 
 people, who, when some verses of that divine poet were 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 239 
 
 repeated in the theatre, where he happened to be pre- 
 sent, rose up to a man, and saluted him with the same 
 respect that they would have paid to Augustus himself. 
 But, to mention our own times, I would ask whether 
 Secundus Pomponius is any thing inferiour, either in dig- 
 nity of life, or solidity of reputation, to Afer Domitius ? 
 As to Crispus or Mareellus, to whom Aper refers me for 
 an animating example, what is there in their present ex- 
 alted fortunes really desirable ? Is it that they pass their 
 whole lives either in being alarmed for themselves, or in 
 striking terrour into others ? Is it that they are daily 
 under a necessity of courting the very men they hate ; 
 that, holding their dignities by unmanly adulation, their 
 masters never think them sufficiently slaves, nor the peo- 
 ple sufficiently free ? And, after all, what is this their so 
 much envied power ? Nothing more, in truth, than what 
 many a paltry freed-man has frequently enjoyed. But — 
 
 * Me let the lovely muses lead,' (as Virgil sings) ' to si- 
 
 * lent groves and heavenly-haunted streams, remote from 
 
 * business and from care ; and still superiour to the painful 
 ' necessity of acting in wretched opposition to my better 
 
 * heart. Nor let me more, with anxious steps and dan- 
 
 * gerous, pursue pale fame amidst the noisy forum ! May 
 ' never clamorous suitors, nor panting freed-man with 
 ' officious haste, awake my peaceful slumbers ! Uncer- 
 
 * tain of futurity, and equally unconcerned, ne'er may I 
 
 * bribe the favour of the great ; by rich bequests to ava- 
 ' rice insatiate ; nor accumulation vain ! amass more 
 Mvealth than I may transfer as inclination prompts, 
 
 * whenever shall arrive my life's last fatal period : and 
 ' then, not in horrid guise of mournful pomp, but crowned 
 ' with chaplets gay, may I be entombed ; nor let a friend, 
 
 * with unavailing zeal, solicit the useless tribute of posthu- 
 'jnous memorials !* " 
 
240 A DIALOGUE 
 
 Maternus had scarce finished these words, which he 
 uttered with great emotion, and with an air of inspiration, 
 when Messalla entered the room ; who, observing much 
 attention in our countenances, and imagining the conver- 
 sation turned upon something of more than ordinary im- 
 port : M Perhaps," said he, " you are engaged in a consul- 
 tation ; and, I doubt, I am guilty of an unseasonable in- 
 terruption.' ' — " By no means," answered Secundus : " on 
 the contrary, I wish you had given us your company 
 sooner ; for I am persuaded, you would have been ex- 
 tremely entertained. Our friend Aper has, with great 
 eloquence, been exhorting Maternus to turn the whole 
 strength of his genius and his studies to the business of 
 the forum ; while Maternus, on the other hand, agree- 
 ably to the character of one who was pleading the cause 
 of the muses, has defended his favourite art with a bold- 
 Bess and elevation of style more suitable to a poet than 
 an orator." 
 
 44 It would have afforded me infinite pleasure," replied 
 Messalla, " to have been present at a debate of this kind. 
 And I cannot but express my satisfaction, in finding the 
 most eminent orators of our times, not confining their 
 geniuses to points relating to their profession ; but can- 
 vassing such other topicks, in their conversation, as give 
 a very advantageous exercise to their faculties, at the 
 same time that it furnishes an entertainment of the most 
 instructive kind, not only to themselves, but to those who 
 have the privilege of being joined in their party. And 
 believe me, Secundus, the world received, with much ap- 
 probation, your history of J. Asiaticus, as an earnest that 
 you intend to publish more pieces of the same nature. On 
 the other side," continued he, with an air of irony, "it is 
 observed, with equal satisfaction, that Aper has not yet 
 bid adieu to the questions of the schools, but employs his 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 241 
 
 leisure rather after the example of the modern rhetori- 
 cians, than of the ancient orators." 
 
 "I perceive,' ' returned Aper, "that you continue to 
 treat the moderns with your usual derision and contempt, 
 while the ancients alone are in full possession of your es- 
 teem. It is a maxim, indeed, I have frequently heard you 
 advance, (and, allow me to say, with much injustice to 
 yourself, and to your brother) that there is no such thing 
 in the present age as an orator. This you are the less 
 scrupulous to maintain, as you imagine it cannot be 
 imputed to a spirit of envy ; since you are willing, at 
 the same time, to exclude yourself from a character, 
 which every body else is inclined to give you." 
 
 "I have, hitherto," replied Messal la, " found no rea- 
 son to change my opinion, and I am persuaded, that even 
 you yourself, Aper, (whatever you may sometimes affect 
 to the contrary,) as well as my other two friends here, join 
 with me in the same sentiments. I should, indeed, be glad, 
 if any of you would discuss this matter, and account for so 
 remarkable a disparity, which I have often endeavoured iu 
 my own thoughts. And what to some appears a satisfacto- 
 ry solution of this phenomenon, to me, I confess, heightens 
 the difficulty : for I find the very same difference prevails 
 among the Grecian orators ; and that the priest Nicetes, 
 together with others of the Ephesian and Mytilenean 
 schools, who humbly content themselves with raising the 
 acclamations of their tasteless auditors, deviate much 
 farther from iEschines or Demosthenes, than you, my 
 friends, from Tully or Asinius." 
 
 " The question you have started," said Secundus, "is a 
 very important one, and well worthy of consideration. 
 But who so capable of doing justice to it as yourself? who, 
 besides the advantages of a fine genius and great literature, 
 have given, it seems, particular attention to this inquiry. " 
 21 
 
242 A DIALOGUE 
 
 — " I am very willing," answered Messalla, " to lay before 
 you my thoughts upon the subject, provided you will assist 
 me with yours as I go along."— " I will engage for two of 
 us," replied Maternus : " Secundus, and myself, will speak 
 to such points as you shall, I do not say omit, but think 
 proper to leave us. As for Aper, you just now informed 
 us, it is usual with him to dissent from you in this article : 
 and, indeed, I see he is already preparing to oppose us, and 
 will not look with indifference upon this our association in 
 support of the ancients." 
 
 " Undoubtedly," returned Aper, " I shall not tamely 
 suffer the moderns to be condemned, unheard and unde- 
 fended. But first let me ask, whom is it you call ancients ? 
 What age of orators do you distinguish by that designa- 
 tion ? The word always suggests to me a Nestor, or an 
 Ulysses, men who lived above a thousand years since : 
 whereas you seem to apply it to Demosthenes and Hype- 
 rides, who, it is agreed, flourished so late as the times of 
 Philip and Alexander, and, indeed, survived them. It ap- 
 pears, from hence, that there is not much above four hun- 
 dred years distance between our age and that of Demosthe- 
 nes : a portion of time, which, considered with respect to 
 human duration, appears, I acknowledge, extremely long : 
 but, if compared with that immense era which the philoso- 
 phers talk of, is exceedingly contracted, and seems almost 
 but of yesterday. For if it be true, what Cicero observes 
 in his treatise inscribed to Hortensius, that the great and 
 genuine year is that period in which the heavenly bodies 
 return to the same position, wherein they were placed 
 when they first began their respective orbits ; and this 
 revolution contains 12,954 of our solar years ; then Demos- 
 thenes, this ancient Demosthenes of yours, lived in the 
 same year, or rather, I might say, in the same month, with 
 ourselves. But to mention the Roman orators : I presume, 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 243 
 
 you will scarcely prefer Menenius Agrippa (who may, with 
 some propriety, indeed, be called an ancient) to the men 
 of eloquence among the moderns. It is Cicero, then, I 
 suppose, together with Coelius, Caesar, and Calvus, Brutus, 
 Asinius, and Messalla, to whom you give this honourable 
 precedency : yet I am at a loss to assign a reason, why 
 these should be deemed ancients rather than moderns. 
 To instance in Cicero : he was killed, as his freedman 
 Tiro informs us, on the 28th of December, in the consul- 
 ship of Hirtius and Pansa, in which year Augustus and 
 Pedius succeeded them in that dignity. Now, if we take 
 fifty-six years for the reign of Augustus, and add twenty- 
 three for that of Tiberius, about four for that of Caius, 
 fourteen apiece for Claudius and Nero, one for Galba, 
 Otho, and Vitellius, together with the six that our present 
 excellent prince* has enjoyed the empire, we shall have 
 about one hundred and twenty years from the death of 
 Cicero to these times : a period to which it is not impos- 
 sible that a man's life may extend. I remember, when 
 I was in Britain, to have met with an old soldier, who as- 
 sured me, he had served in the army which opposed Cae- 
 sar's descent upon that island. If we suppose this per- 
 son, by being taken prisoner, or by any other means, to 
 have been brought to Rome, he might have heard Caesar 
 and Cicero, and likewise any of our contemporaries. I 
 appeal to yourselves, whether at the last publick donative 
 there were not several of the populace who acknowledged 
 they had received the same bounty, more than once, from 
 the hands of Augustus ? It is evident, therefore, that these 
 
 *From this passage Fabricius asserts, that this dialogue was written in the 
 6th year of Vespasian's reign ; but he evidently mistakes the time in which 
 the scene of it is laid, for that in which it was composed. It is upon arguments 
 not better founded, that the criticks have given Tacitus and Quintilian the hon- 
 our of this elegant performance. VicL Fabi-ic. Bib, Lciu V. L 559* 
 
244 A DIALOGUE 
 
 people might have been present at the pleadings both of 
 Corvinus and Asinius : for Corvinus was alive in the mid- 
 dle of the reign of Augustus, and Asinius towards the latter 
 end. Surely, then, you will not split a century, and call 
 one orator an ancient, and another a modern, when the 
 very same person might be an auditor of both ; and thus 
 as it were render them contemporaries. 
 
 " The conclusion I mean to draw from this observa- 
 tion is, that whatever advantages these orators might de- 
 rive to their characters, from the period of time in which 
 they flourished, the same will extend to us : and, indeed, 
 with much more reason than to S. Gaiba, or to C. Car- 
 bonius. It cannot be denied that the compositions of 
 these last are very inelegant and unpolished performances ; 
 as I could wish, that not only your admired Caivus and 
 Coelius, but I will venture to add too, even Cicero him- 
 self (for I shall deliver my sentiments with great freedom) 
 had not considered them as the proper models of their 
 imitation. Suffer me to premise, however, as I go along, 
 that eloquence changes its qualities as it runs through 
 different ages. Thus, as Gracchus, for instance, is much 
 more copious and florid than old Cato, so Crassus rises 
 into a far higher strain of politeness and refinement than 
 Gracchus. Thus, likewise, as the speeches of Tully are 
 more regular, and marked with superiour elegance and 
 sublimity, than those of the two orators last mentioned; 
 so Corvinus is considerably more smooth and harmonious 
 in his periods, as well as more correct in his language, 
 than Tully. I am not considering which of them is most 
 eloquent : all I endeavour to prove at present is, that 
 oratory does not manifest itself in one uniform figure, but 
 is exhibited by the ancients under a variety of different 
 appearances. However, it is by no means a just way of 
 reasoning, to infer, that one thing must necessarily be 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 245 
 
 worse than another, merely because it is not the same : 
 Yet such is the unaccountable perversity of human na- 
 ture, that whatever has antiquity to boast, is sure to be 
 admired, as every thing novel is certainly disapproved. 
 There are cri ticks, I doubt not, to be found, who prefer 
 even Appius Caecus to Cato ; as it is well known that 
 Cicero had his censurers, who objected that his style was 
 swelling and redundant, and by no means agreeable to 
 the elegant conciseness of attick eloquence. You have 
 certainly read the letters of Calvus and Brutus to Cicero. 
 It appears, by those epistolary collections, that Cicero 
 considered Calvus as a dry, unanimated orator, at the 
 same time that he thought the style of Brutus negligent 
 and unconnected. These, in their turn, had their objec- 
 tions, it seems, to Cicero : Calvus condemned his ora- 
 torical compositions, for being weak and enervated ; as 
 Brutus (to use his own expression) esteemed them feeble 
 and disjointed. If I were to give my opinion, I should 
 say, they each spoke truth of one another. But I shall 
 examine these orators separately hereafter ; my present 
 design is only to consider them in a general view. 
 
 " The admirers of antiquity are agreed, I think, in ex- 
 tending the era of the ancients as far as Cassius Severus ; 
 whom they assert to have been the first that struck out 
 from the plain and simple manner, which, till then, pre- 
 vailed. Now I affirm that he did so, not from any defi- 
 ciency in point of genius or learning, but from his su- 
 periour judgment and good sense. He saw it was neces- 
 sary to accommodate oratory, as I observed before, to 
 the different times and taste of the audience. Our an- 
 cestors, indeed, might be contented (and it was a mark 
 of their ignorance and want of politeness that they were 
 so) with the immoderate and tedious length of speeches, 
 which was in vogue in those ages ; as, in truth, to be 
 21* 
 
246 A DIALOGUE 
 
 able to harangue for a whole day together was itself 
 looked upon, at that illiterate period, as a talent worthy 
 of the highest admiration. The immeasurable introduc- 
 tion, the circumstantial detail, the endless division and 
 subdivision, the formal argument drawn out into a dull 
 variety of logical deductions, together with a thousand 
 other impertinencies of the same tasteless stamp, which 
 you may find laid down among the precepts of those 
 driest of all writers, Hermagoras and Apollodorus, were 
 then held in supreme honour. And, to complete all, if 
 the orator had just dipped into philosophy, and could 
 sprinkle the harangue with some ef the most trite maxims 
 of that science, they thundered out his applauses to the 
 skies. For these were new and uncommon topicks to 
 them ; as, indeed, very few of the orators themselves had 
 the least acquaintance with the writings either of the phi- 
 losophers or the rhetoricians. But in our more enlight- 
 ened age, where even the lowest part ef an audience have 
 at least some general notion of literature, eloquence is 
 constrained to find out new and more florid paths. She 
 is obliged to avoid every thing that may fatigue or offend 
 the ears of her audience ; especially as she must now ap- 
 pear before judges, who decide, not by law, but by au- 
 thority ; who prescribe what limits they think proper to 
 the orator's speech : nor calmly wait till he is pleased to 
 come to the point, but call upon him to return, and 
 openly testify their impatience whenever he seems dis- 
 posed to wander from the question. Who, I beseech you, 
 would, in our days, endure an orator, who should open 
 his harangue with a tedious apology for the weakness of 
 his constitution ? Yet almost every oration of Corvinus 
 sets out in that manner. Would any man now have pa- 
 tience to hear out the five long books against Verres ? or 
 tfeose endless volumes of pleading in favour of Tully, 9v 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 247 
 
 Caecina ? The vivacity of our modern judges even pre- 
 vents the speaker ; and they are apt to conceive some 
 sort of prejudice against all he utters, unless he has the 
 address to bribe their attention by the strength and spirit 
 of his arguments, the liveliness of his sentiments, or the 
 elegance and brilliancy of his descriptions. The very 
 populace have some notion of the beauty of language, and 
 would no more relish the uncouthness of antiquity in a 
 modern orator, than they would the gesture of old Roscius 
 or Ambivius in a modern actor. Our young students too, 
 who are forming themselves to eloquence, and for that 
 purpose attend the courts of judicature, expect not merely 
 to hear, but to carry home something worthy of remem- 
 brance : and it is usual with them, not only to canvass 
 among themselves, but to transmit to their respective 
 provinces, whatever ingenious thought or poetical orna- 
 ment the orator has happily employed. For even the 
 embellishments of poetry are now required : and those 
 too, not copied from the heavy and antiquated manner of 
 Attius or Pacuvius, but formed in the lively and elegant 
 spirit of Horace, Virgil, and Lucan. Agreeably, there- 
 fore, to the superiour taste and judgment of the present 
 age, our orators appear with a more polished and grace- 
 ful aspect. And most certainly it cannot be thought that 
 their speeches are the less efficacious, because they soothe 
 the ears of the audience with the pleasing modulation of 
 harmonious periods. Has eloquence lost her power, be- 
 cause she bas improved her charms ? Are our temples less 
 durable than those of old, because they are not formed 
 of rude materials, but shine out in all the polish and 
 splendour of the most costly ornaments ? 
 
 " To confess the plain truth, the effect which many of 
 the ancients have upon me, is to dispose me either to 
 laugh or sleep. Not to mention the more ordinary race of 
 
248 A DIALOGUE 
 
 orators, such as Canutius, Arrius, or Furnius, with some 
 others of the same dry and unafiecting cast ; even Calvus 
 himself scarce pleases me in more than one or two short 
 orations : though he has left behind him, if I mistake 
 not, no less then one and twenty volumes. And the 
 world in general seems to join with me in the same opi- 
 nion of them : for how few are the readers of his invec- 
 tive against Asinius or Drusus ? Whereas, those against 
 Vatinius are in every body's hands, particularly the se- 
 cond, which is, indeed, both in sentiment and language, 
 a well written piece. It is evident, therefore, that he 
 had an idea of just composition, and rather wanted ge- 
 nius than inclination, to reach a more graceful and ele- 
 vated manner. As to the orations of Coelius, though they 
 are by no means valuable upon the whole, yet they have 
 their merit, so far as they approach to the exalted ele- 
 gance of the present times. Whenever, indeed, his com- 
 position is careless and unconnected, his expression low« 
 and his sentiments gross, it is then he is truly an ancient ; 
 and I will venture to affirm, there is no one so fond of 
 antiquity as to admire him in that part of his character. 
 W^e may allow Caesar, on account of the great affairs in 
 which he was engaged, as we may Brutus, in consideration 
 of his philosophy, to be less eloquent than might other- 
 wise be expected of such superiour geniuses. The truth 
 is, even their warmest admirers acknowledge, that, as 
 orators, they by no means shine with the same lustre 
 which distinguished every other part of their reputation. 
 Caesar's speech, in favour of Decius, and that of Brutus, 
 in behalf of king Dejotarus, with some others of the same 
 coldness and languor, have scarcely, I imagine, met with 
 any readers ; unless, perhaps, among such who can relish 
 their verses. For verses, we know, they writ, (and pub- 
 lished too,) I will not say with more spirit, but undoubted- 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 249 
 
 ly with more success, than Cicero, because they had the 
 good fortune to fall into much fewer hands. Asinius, one 
 would guess, by his air and manner, to have been con- 
 temporary with Menenius, and Appius : though, in fact, 
 he lived much nearer to our times. It is visible he was 
 a close imitator of Attius and Pacuvius, not only in his 
 tragedies, but also in his orations ; so remarkably dry and 
 unpolished are all his compositions ! But the beauty of 
 eloquence, like that of the human form, consists in the 
 smoothness, strength, and colour of its several parts. 
 Corvmus I am inclined to spare, though it was his own 
 fault that he did not equal the elegant refinements of mo- 
 dern compositions, as it must be acknowledged his ge- 
 nius was abundantly sufficient for that purpose. 
 
 " The nest I shall take notice of is Cicero ; who had 
 the same contest with those of his own times, as mine, 
 my friends, with you. They, it seems, were favourers 
 of the ancients, whilst he preferred the eloquence of his 
 contemporaries ; and, in truth, he excels the orators of 
 his own age in nothing more remarkably, than in the so- 
 lidity of his judgment. He was the first who set a polish 
 upon oratory ; who seemed to have any notion of deli- 
 cacy of expression, and the art of composition. Accord- 
 ingly, he attempted a more florid style ; as he now and 
 then breaks out into some lively flashes of wit ; particu- 
 larly in his later performances, when much practice and 
 experience (those best and surest guides) had taught him 
 a more improved manner. But his earlier compositions 
 are not without the blemishes of antiquity. He is tedious 
 in his exordiums, too circumstantial in his narrations, and 
 careless in retrenching luxuriances. He seems not easily 
 affected, and is but rarely fired ; as his periods are sel- 
 dom either properly rounded, or happily pointed ; he has 
 nothing, in fine, you would wish to make your own. His 
 
250 A DIALOGUE 
 
 speeches, like a rude edifice, have strength, indeed, and 
 permanency ; but are destitute of that elegance and 
 splendour, which are necessary to render them perfectly 
 agreeable. The orator, however, in his compositions, as 
 the man of wealth in his buildings, should consider orna- 
 ment as well as use ; his structure should be, not only 
 substantial but striking ; and his furniture not merely 
 convenient, but rich, and such as will bear a close and 
 frequent inspection : whilst every thing that has a mean 
 and awkward appearance ought to be totally banished. — 
 Let our orator, then, reject every expression that is ob- 
 solete, and grown rusty, as it were, by age : let him be 
 careful not to weaken the force of his sentiments by a 
 heavy and inartificial combination of words, like our dull 
 compilers of annals : let him avoid all low and insipid 
 raillery ; in a word, let him vary the structure of his 
 periods, nor end every sentence with the same uniform 
 close. 
 
 " I will not expose the meanness of Cicero's conceits, 
 nor his affectation of concluding almost every other pe- 
 riod with, as it should seem, instead of pointing them with 
 some lively and spirited turn. I mention even these with 
 reluctance, and pass over many others of the same inju- 
 dicious cast. It is singly, however, in little affectations 
 of this kind, that they who are pleased to style them- 
 selves ancient orators, seem to admire and imitate him. 
 I shall content myself with describing their characters, 
 without mentioning their names ; but, you are sensible, 
 there are certain pretenders to taste who prefer Luciiius 
 to Horace, and Lucretius to Virgil ? who hold the elo- 
 quence of your favourite Cassus or Nonianus in the ut- 
 most contempt, when compared with that of Sisenna or 
 Varro : in a word, who despise the productions of our 
 modern rhetoricians, yet are in raptures with those of 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 251 
 
 Calvus. These curious orators prate in the courts of 
 judicature after the manner of the ancients , (as they call 
 it) till they are deserted by the whole audience, and are 
 scarce supportable even to their very clients. The truth 
 of it is, that soundness of eloquence, which they so much 
 boast, is but an evidence of the natural weakness of their 
 genius, as it is the effect alone of tame and cautious art. 
 No physician would pronounce a man to enjoy a proper 
 constitution, whose health proceeded entirely from a stu- 
 died and abstemious regimen. To be only not indispos- 
 ed, is but a small acquisition ; it is spirits, vivacity, and 
 vigour that I require : whatever comes short of this, is 
 but one remove from imbecility. 
 
 " Be it then (as with great ease it may, and, in fact, is) 
 the glorious distinction of you, my illustrious friends, to 
 ennoble our age with the most refined eloquence. It is 
 with infinite satisfaction, Messalla, I observe, that you 
 single out the most florid among the ancients for your 
 model. And you, my other two ingenious friends,* so 
 happily unite strength of sentiment with beauty of ex- 
 pression : such a pregnancy of imagination, such a sym- 
 metry of ordonnance, distinguish your speeches ; so co- 
 pious or so concise in your elocution, as different occa- 
 sions require ; such an inimitable gracefulness of style, 
 and such an easy flow of wit, adorn and dignify your com- 
 positions : in a word, so absolutely you command the pas- 
 sions of your audience, and so happily temper your own, 
 that, however the envy and malignity of the present age 
 may withhold that applause which is so justly your due, 
 posterity, you may rely upon it, will speak of you in the 
 advantageous terms which you well deserve." 
 
 * Matemus and Seeundus. 
 
252 A DIALOGUE 
 
 When Aper had thus finished : "It must be owned," 
 said Maternus, " our friend has spoken with much force 
 and spirit. What a torrent of learning and eloquence has 
 he poured forth in defence of the moderns ! and how com- 
 pletely vanquished the ancients with those very weapons 
 which he borrowed from them ! However," continued he, 
 applying himself to Messalla, "you must not recede from 
 your engagement. Not that we expect you should enter 
 into a defence of the ancients, or suppose (however Aper 
 is pleased to compliment) that any of us can stand in 
 competition with them. Aper, himself, does not sincerely 
 think so, I dare say; but takes the opposite side in the 
 debate, merely in imitation of the celebrated manner of 
 antiquity. We do not desire you, therefore, to entertain 
 us with a panegyrick upon the ancients : their well-estab- 
 lished reputation places them far above the want of our 
 encomiums. But what we request of you is, to account 
 for our having so widely departed from that noble species 
 of eloquence which they displayed : especially since we 
 are not, according to Aper's calculation, more than a hun- 
 dred and twenty years distant from Cicero.'* 
 
 " I shall endeavour," returned Messalla, " to pursue the 
 plan you have laid down to me. — I shall not enter into 
 the question with Aper, (though, indeed, he is the first 
 that ever made it one) whether those who flourished 
 above a century before us, can properly be styled ancients. 
 I am not disposed to contend about words ; let them be 
 called ancients, or ancestors, or whatever other name he 
 pleases, so it be allowed their oratory was superiour to ours. 
 I admit too, what he just now advanced, that there are 
 various kinds of eloquence discernible in the same period; 
 much more in different ages. But, as among the attick 
 orators, Demosthenes is placed in the first rank, then 
 JEschines, Hyperides next, and, after him, Lysias and 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 253 
 
 Lycurgus ; an era which, on all hands, is agreed to have 
 been the prime season of oratory : so amongst us, Cicero 
 is, by universal consent, preferred to all his contempora- 
 ries ; as, after him, Calvus, Asinius, Caesar, Coelius, and 
 Brutus, are justly acknowledged to have excelled all our 
 preceding or subsequent orators. Nor is it of any impor- 
 tance to the present argument, that they differ in manner, 
 since they agree in kind. The compositions of Calvus, it 
 is confessed, are distinguished by their remarkable con- 
 ciseness ; as those of Asinius are, by the harmonious flow of 
 his language. Brilliancy of sentiment is Caesar's charac- 
 teristick : as poignancy of wit is that of Coelius. Solidity 
 recommends the speeches of Brutus ; while copiousness, 
 strength, and vehemence are the predominant qualities 
 in Cicero. Each of them, however, displays an equal 
 soundness of eloquence ; and one may easily discover a 
 general resemblance and kindred likeness run through 
 their several works, though diversified, indeed, according to 
 their respective geniuses. That they mutually detracted 
 from each other, (as it must be owned there are some 
 remaining traces of malignity in their letters) is not to 
 be imputed to them as orators, but as men. Calvus, 
 Asinius, and even Cicero himself, were liable, no doubt, 
 to be infected with jealousy, as well as with other human 
 frailties and imperfections. Brutus, however, I will 
 singly except from all imputations of malignity, as I am 
 persuaded he spoke the sincere and impartial sentiments 
 of his heart : for can it be supposed that He should envy 
 Cicero, who does not seem to have envied even Caesar 
 himself? As to Galba, Laelius, and some others of the 
 ancients, whom Aper has thought proper to condemn ; I 
 am willing to admit that they have some defects, which 
 must be ascribed to a growing and yet immature elo- 
 quence. 
 
 22 
 
254 A DIALOGUE 
 
 After all, if we must relinquish the nobler kincf of ora* 
 tory, and adopt some lower species, I should certainly 
 prefer the impetuosity of Gracchus, or the incorrectness 
 of Crassus, to the studied foppery of Maecenas, or the 
 childish jingle of Gallio : so much rather would I see elo- 
 quence clothed in the most rude and negligent garb, than 
 decked out with the false colours of affected ornament ! 
 There is something in our present manner of elocution, 
 which is so far from being oratorical, that it is not even 
 manly ; and one would imagine our modern pleaders, by 
 the levity of their wit, the affected smoothness of their 
 periods, and licentiousness of their style, had a view to 
 the stage in all their compositions. Accordingly, some 
 of them are not ashamed to boast (which one can scarce 
 even mention without a blush) that their speeches are 
 adapted to the soft modulation of stage-musick. It is this 
 depravity of taste which has given rise to the very inde- 
 cent and preposterous, though very frequent expression, 
 that such an orator speaks smoothly, and such a dancer 
 moves eloquently. I am willing to admit, therefore, that 
 Cassius Severus (the single modern whom Aper has 
 thought proper to name) when compared to these his 
 degenerate successors, may justly be deemed an orator ; 
 though, it is certain, in the greater part of his composi- 
 tions, there appears far more strength than spirit. He 
 was the first who neglected chastity of style, and propriety 
 of method. Inexpert in the use of those very weapons 
 with which he engages, he ever lays himself open to a 
 thrust, by always endeavouring to attack ; and one may 
 much more properly say of him, that he pushes at ran- 
 dom, than that he comports himself according to the just 
 rules of regular combat. Nevertheless, he is greatly supe- 
 riour, as I observed before, in the variety of his learning, 
 the agreeableness of his wit, and the strength of his genius, 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 255 
 
 to those who succeeded him : not one of whom, however, 
 has Aper ventured to bring into the field. I imagined, 
 that after having deposed Asinius, and Coelius, and Calvus, 
 he would have substituted another set of orators in their 
 place, and that he had numbers to produce in opposition 
 to Cicero, to Caesar, and the rest whom he rejected ; or, 
 at least, one rival to each of them. On the contrary, 
 he has distinctly and separately censured all the ancients, 
 while he has ventured to commend the moderns in general 
 only. He thought, perhaps, if he singled out some, he 
 should draw upon himself the resentment of all the rest: 
 for every declaimer among them modestly ranks himself, 
 in his own fond opinion, before Cicero, though, indeed, 
 after Gabinianus. But what Aper was not hardy enough 
 to undertake, I will be bold to execute for him ; and draw 
 out his oratorical heroes in full view, that it may appear 
 by what degrees the spirit and vigour of ancient eloquence 
 was impaired and broken." 
 
 " Let me rather entreat you," said Maternus, inter- 
 rupting him, " to enter, without any farther preface, upon 
 the difficulty you first undertook to clear. That we are 
 inferiour to the ancients, in point of eloquence, I by no 
 means want to have proved ; being entirely of that opin- 
 ion ; but my present inquiry is how to account for our sink- 
 ing so far below them ? A question, it seems, you have 
 examined, and which I am persuaded you would discuss 
 with much calmness, if Aper's unmerciful attack upon 
 your favourite orators had not a little discomposed you." 
 "I am nothing offended," returned Messalla, " with the 
 sentiments which Aper has advanced ; neither ought you, 
 my friends, remembering always that it is an established 
 law in debates of this kind, that every man may, with en- 
 tire security, disclose his unreserved opinion." — " Proceed 
 then, I beseech you," replied Maternus, " to the examina-* 
 
256 A DIALOGUE 
 
 tion of this point concerning the ancients, with a free- 
 , dom equal to theirs : from which I suspect, alas ! we 
 have more widely degenerated, than even from their elo- 
 quence." 
 
 "The cause," said Messalla, resuming his discourse, 
 " does not lie very remote : and, though you are pleased 
 to call upon me to assign it, is well known, I doubt not, 
 both to you and to the rest of this company. For is it 
 not obvious that eloquence, together with the rest of 
 the politer arts, has fallen from her ancient glory, not for 
 want of admirers, but through the dissoluteness of our 
 youth, the negligence of parents, the ignorance of pre- 
 ceptors, and the universal disregard of ancient manners ? 
 evils which derived their source from Rome, and thence 
 spread themselves through Italy, and over all the pro- 
 vinces ; though the mischief, indeed, is most observable 
 within our own walls. I shall take notice, therefore, of 
 those vices to which the youth of this city are more pecu- 
 liarly exposed ; which rise upon them in number as they 
 increase in years. But before I enter farther into this 
 subject, let me premise an observation or two concerning 
 the judicious method of discipline practised by our ances- 
 tors, in training up their children. 
 
 " In the first place, then, the virtuous matrons of those 
 wiser ages did not abandon their infants to the mean 
 hovels of mercenary nurses, but tenderly reared them up 
 at their own breasts ; esteeming the careful regulation of 
 their children, and domestick concerns, as the highest 
 point of female merit. It was customary with them, 
 likewise, to choose out some elderly female relation, of 
 approved conduct, with whom the family in general en- 
 trusted the care of their respective children, during their 
 infant years. This venerable person strictly regulated, 
 not only their more serious pursuits, but even their very 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 257 
 
 amusements; restraining them, by her respected pre* 
 sence, from saying or acting any thing contrary to de- 
 cency and good manners. In this manner, we are in- 
 formed, Cornelia, the mother of the two Gracchi, as also 
 Aurelia and Attia, to whom Julius and Augustus Caesar 
 owed their respective births, undertook this office of fa- 
 mily education, and trained up those several noble youths 
 to whom they were related. This method of discipline 
 was attended with one very singular advantage r the minds 
 of young men were conducted sound and untainted to 
 the study of the noble arts. Accordingly, whatever pro- 
 fession they determined upon, whether that of arms, elo- 
 quence, or law, they entirely devoted themselves to that 
 single pursuit, and, with undissipated application, pos- 
 sessed the whole compass of their chosen science. 
 
 44 But, in the present age, the little boy is delegated to 
 the care of some paltry Greek chamber-maid, in con- 
 junction with two or three other servants, (and even those 
 generally of the worst kind) who are absolutely unfit for 
 every rational and serious office. From the idle tales 
 and gross absurdities of these worthless people, the ten- 
 der and uninstructed mind is suffered to receive its ear- 
 liest impressions. It cannot, indeed, be supposed, that 
 any caution should be observed among the domesticks; 
 since the parents themselves are so far from training their 
 young families to virtue and modesty, that they set them 
 the first examples of luxury and licentiousness. Thus out 
 youth gradually acquire a confirmed habit of impudence* 
 and a total disregard of that reverence they owe both to 
 themselves and to others. To say truth, it seems as if a 
 fondness for horses, actors, and gladiators, the peculiar 
 and distinguishing folly of this our city, was impressed 
 upon them even in the womb ; and when once a passion 
 22* 
 
258 A DIALOGUE 
 
 of this contemptible sort has seized and engaged the 
 mind, what opening is there left for the noble arts ? 
 
 " All conversation in general is infected with topicksof 
 this kind ; as they are the constant subjects of discourse, 
 not only amongst our youth, in their academies, but even 
 of their tutors themselves. For it is not by establishing 
 a strict discipline, or by giving proofs of their genius, that 
 this order of men gains pupils : it is by the meanest com- 
 pliances and most servile flattery. Not to mention how 
 ill-instructed our youth are in the very elements of lite- 
 rature, sufficient pains are by no means taken in bringing 
 them acquainted with the best authors, or in giving them 
 a proper notion of history, together with a knowledge of 
 men and things. The whole that seems to be considered 
 in their education, is to find out a person for them called 
 a rhetorician. I shall take occasion, immediately, to 
 give you some account of the rise and progress of this 
 profession in Rome, and shew you with what contempt it 
 was received by our ancestors. But it will be necessary 
 to lay before you a previous view of that scheme of dis- 
 cipline which the ancient orators practised; of whose 
 amazing industry, and unwearied application to every 
 branch of the polite arts, we meet with many remarkable 
 accounts in their own writings. 
 
 " I need not inform you, that Cicero, in the latter end of 
 his treatise entitled "Brutus," (the former part of which 
 is employed in commemorating the ancient orators) gives 
 a sketch of the several progressive steps by which he 
 formed his eloquence. He there acquaints us, that he 
 studied the civil law under Q. Mucius ; that he was in- 
 structed in the several branches of philosophy by Philo 
 the academick, and Diodorus the stoick ; that, not satisfied 
 with attending the lectures of those eminent masters, of 
 which there were, at that time, great numbers in Roine< 
 
CONCERN ING ORATORY. 259 
 
 he made a voyage into Greece and Asia, in order to en- 
 large his knowledge, and embrace the whole circle of sci- 
 ences. Accordingly he appears, by his writings, to have 
 been master of logick, ethicks, astronomy, and natural phi- 
 losophy, besides, being well versed in geometry, musick, 
 grammar, and, in short, in every one of the fine arts. — 
 For thus it is, my worthy friends, from deep learning and 
 the united confluence of the arts and sciences, the resist- 
 less torrent of that amazing eloquence derived its strength 
 and rapidity.^ 
 
 " The faculties of the orator are not exercised, indeed, 
 as in other sciences, within certain precise and determi- 
 nate limits : on the contrary, eloquence is the most com- 
 prehensive of the whole circle of arts. Thus, he alone 
 can justly be deemed an orator, who knows how to em- 
 ploy the most persuasive arguments upon every question, 
 who can express himself suitably to the dignity of his 
 subject with all the powers of grace and harmony ; in a 
 word, who can penetrate into every minute circumstance, 
 and manage the whole train of incidents to the greatest 
 advantage of his cause. Such, at least, was the high idea 
 which the ancients formed of this illustrious character. — 
 Tn order, however, to attain this eminent qualification, 
 they did not think it necessary to declaim in the schools, 
 and idly waste their breath upon feigned or frivolous 
 controversies. It was their wiser method to apply them- 
 selves to the study of such useful arts as concern life and 
 manners, as treat of moral good and evil, of justice and 
 injustice, of the decent and the unbecoming in actions. 
 And, indeed, it is upon points of this nature that the bu- 
 siness of the orator principally turns. For example, in 
 the judiciary kind, it relates to matters of equity ; as in 
 the deliberate it is employed in determining the fit and 
 the expedient : still, however, these two branches are 
 not so absolutely distinct, but that they are frequently 
 
260 A DIALOGUE 
 
 blended with each other. Now it is impossible, when 
 questions of this kind fall under the consideration of an 
 orator, to enlarge upon them in all the elegant and enli- 
 vening spirit of an efficacious eloquence, unless he is per- 
 fectly well acquainted with human nature ; unless he un- 
 derstands the power and extent of moral duties, and can 
 distinguish those actions which do not partake either of 
 vice or virtue. 
 
 "From the same source, likewise, he must derive his 
 influence over the passions. For if he is skilled, for in- 
 stance, in the nature of indignation, he will be so much 
 the more capable of soothing or enflaming the breasts of 
 his judges : if he knows wherein compassion consists, and 
 by what workings of the heart it is moved, he will the 
 more easily raise that tender affection of the soul. An 
 orator trained up in this discipline, and practised in these 
 arts, will have full command over the breasts of his audi- 
 ence, in whatever disposition it may be his chance to find 
 them : and thus furnished with all the numberless powers 
 of persuasion, will judiciously vary and accommodate his 
 eloquence, as particular circumstances and conjunctures 
 shall require. There are some, we find, who are most 
 struck with that manner of elocution, where the argu- 
 ments are drawn up in a short and close style : upon 
 such an occasion, the orator will experience the great ad- 
 vantage of being conversant in logick. Others, on the 
 contrary, admire flowing and diffusive periods, where the 
 illustrations are borrowed from the ordinary and familiar 
 images of common observation : here the Peripatetick 
 writers will give him some assistance ; as, indeed, they 
 will, in general, supply him with many useful hints in all 
 the different methods of popular address. The Acade- 
 micks will inspire him with a becoming warmth : Plato 
 with sublimity of sentiments, and Xenophon with an easy 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 261 
 
 and elegant diction. Even the exclamatory maimer of 
 Epicurus, or Metrodorus, may be found, in some circum- 
 stances, not altogether unserviceable. In a word, what 
 the Stoicks pretend of their wise men, ought to be verified 
 in our orator, and he should actually possess all human 
 knowledge. Accordingly, the ancients who applied them- 
 selves to eloquence, not only studied the civil laws, but 
 also grammar, poetry, musick, and geometry. Indeed, 
 there are few causes (perhaps I might justly say there 
 are none) wherein a skill in the first is not absolutely ne- 
 cessary ; as there are many in which an acquaintance 
 with the last mentioned sciences is highly requisite. 
 
 " If it should be objected, that ' eloquence is the single 
 4 science requisite for the orator ; as an occasional re- 
 
 * course to the others will be sufficient for all his pur- 
 
 • poses,' I answer : in the first place, there will always 
 be a remarkable difference in the manner of applying 
 what we take up, as it were, upon loan, and what we pro- 
 perly possess ; so that it will ever be manifest, whether 
 the orator is indebted to others for what he produces, or 
 derives it from his own unborrowed fund. And in the 
 next, the sciences throw an inexpressible grace over our 
 compositions, even where they are not immediately con- 
 cerned ; as their effects are discernible where we least 
 expect to find them. This powerful charm is not only 
 distinguished by the learned and the judicious, but strikes 
 even the most common and popular class of auditors ; 
 insomuch that one may frequently hear them applauding 
 a speaker of this improved kind, as a man of genuine eru- 
 dition; as enriched with the whole treasures of elo- 
 quence ; and, in one word, acknowledge the complete 
 orator. But I will take the liberty to affirm, that no 
 man ever did, nor, indeed, ever can, maintain that ex- 
 alted character, unless he enters the forum supported by 
 
262 A DIALOGUE 
 
 the full strength of the united arts. Accomplishments, 
 however, of this sort, are now so totally neglected, that 
 the pleadings of our orators are debased by the lowest 
 expressions ; as a general ignorance both of the laws of 
 our country and the acts of the senate is visible through- 
 out their performances. All knowledge of the rights and 
 customs of Rome is professedly ridiculed, and philoso- 
 phy seems at present to be considered as something that 
 ought to be shunned and dreaded. Thus eloquence, like 
 a dethroned potentate, is banished her rightful dominions, 
 and confined to barren points and low conceits : and she, 
 who was once mistress of the whole circle of sciences, 
 and charmed every beholder with the goodly appearance 
 of her glorious train, is now stripped of all her attend- 
 ants, (I had almost said of all her genius) and seems as 
 one of the meanest of the mechanick arts. This, there- 
 fore, I consider as the first, and the principal reason of 
 our having so greatly declined from the spirit of the an- 
 cients. 
 
 " If I were called upon to support my opinion by au- 
 thorities, might I not justly name, among the Grecians, 
 Demosthenes ? who, we are informed, constantly attend- 
 ed the lectures of Plato : as, among our own countrymen, 
 Cicero himself assures us, (and in these very words, if I 
 rightly remember) that he owed whatever advances he 
 had made in eloquence, not to the rhetoricians, but to the 
 academick philosophers. 
 
 " Other, and very considerable reasons might be pro- 
 duced for the decay of eloquence. But I leave them, my 
 friends, as it is proper I should, to be mentioned by you ; 
 having performed my share in the examination of this 
 question : and with a freedom, which will give, I imagine, 
 as usual, much offence. I am sure, at least, if certain of 
 our contemporaries were to be informed of what I have 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 268 
 
 here maintained, I should be told, that in laying it down 
 as a maxim, that a knowledge both of law and philosophy 
 are essential qualifications in an orator, I have been fondly 
 pursuing a phantom of my own imagination.' ' 
 
 " I am so far from thinking," replied Maternus, " you 
 have completed the part you undertook, that I should 
 rather imagine you had only given us the first general 
 sketch of your design. You have marked out to us, in- 
 deed, those sciences wherein the ancient orators were in- 
 structed, and have placed in strong contrast their suc- 
 cessful industry, with our unperforming ignorance. But 
 something farther still remains ; and, as you have shewn 
 us the superiour acquirements of the orators in those more 
 improved ages of eloquence, as well as the remarkable 
 deficiency of those in our own times, I should be glad you 
 would proceed to acquaint us with the particular exer- 
 cises by which the youth of those earlier days were wont 
 to strengthen and improve their geniuses. For I dare 
 say you will not deny that oratory is acquired by practice 
 far better than by precept : and our other two friends 
 here seem willing, I perceive, to admit it." 
 
 To which, when Aper and Secundus had signified their 
 assent, Messalla, resuming his discourse, continued as 
 follows : 
 
 " Having, then, as it should seem, disclosed to your sa- 
 tisfaction the seeds and first principles of ancient elo- 
 quence, by specifying the several kinds of arts to which 
 the ancient orators were trained, I shall now lay before 
 you the method they pursued, in order to gain a facility 
 in the exertion of eloquence. This, indeed, I have, in 
 some measure, anticipated, by mentioning the prepara- 
 tory arts to which they applied themselves : for it is im- 
 possible to make any progress in a compass so various and 
 so abstruse, unless we not only strengthen our knowledge 
 
264 A DIALOGUE 
 
 by reflection, but improve a genera! aptitude by frequent 
 exercise. Thus it appears that the same steps must be 
 pursued in exerting our oratory, as in attaining it. But 
 if this truth should not be universally admitted ; if any 
 should think that eloquence may be possessed without 
 paying previous court to her attendant sciences ; most 
 certainly, at least, it will not be denied, that a mind duly 
 impregnated with the polite arts, will enter with so much 
 the more advantage upon those exercises peculiar to the 
 oratorical circus. 
 
 " Accordingly, our ancestors, when they designed a 
 young man for the profession of eloquence, having previ- 
 ously taken due care of his domestiek education, and sea- 
 soned his mind with useful knowledge, introduced him to 
 the most eminent orator in Rome. From that time, the 
 youth commenced his constant follower, attending him 
 upon all occasions, whether he appeared in the publick 
 assemblies of the people, or in the courts of civil judica- 
 ture. Thus he learned, if I may use the expression, the 
 arts of oratorical conflict in the very field of battle. The 
 advantages which flowed from this method were consi- 
 derable : it animated the courage and quickened the 
 judgment of youth, thus to receive their instructions in 
 the eye. of the world, and in the midst of affairs, when no 
 man could advance an absurd or a weak argument, with- 
 out being rejected by the bench, exposed by his adver- 
 sary, and, in a word, despised by the whole audience. — 
 By this method they imbibed the pure and uncorrupted 
 streams of genuine eloquence. But though they chiefly 
 attached themselves to one particular orator, they heard, 
 likewise, all the rest of their contemporary pleaders, in 
 many of their respective debates. Hence, also, they had 
 an opportunity of acquainting themselves with the various 
 sentiments of the people, and of observing what pleased 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 265 
 
 or disgusted them most in the several orators of the fo- 
 rum. By this means they were supplied with an ins true- 
 ter of the best and most improving kind, exhibiting, not 
 the feigned semblance of eloquenee, but her real and 
 lively manifestation : not a pretended, but a genuine ad- 
 versary, armed in earnest for the combat ; an audience, 
 ever full and ever new, composed of foes as well as 
 friends, and where not a single expression could fall un- 
 censured or unapplauded. For you will agree with me, 
 I am well persuaded, when I assert, that a solid and last- 
 ing reputation of eloquence must be acquired by the cen- 
 sure of our enemies, as well as by the applause of our 
 friends ; or rather, indeed, it is from the former that it 
 derives its surest and most unquestioned strength and 
 firmness. Accordingly, a youth thus formed to the bar, 
 a frequent and attentive hearer of the most illustrious 
 orators and debates, instructed by the experience of 
 others, acquainted with the popular state, and daily con- 
 versant in the laws of his country, to whom the solemn 
 presence of the judges, and the awful eyes of a full au- 
 dience, were familiar, rose at once into affairs, and was 
 equal to every cause. Hence it was that Crassus, at the 
 age of nineteen, Caesar at twenty-one, Pollio at twenty- 
 two, and Calvus when he was but a few years older, pro- 
 nounced those several speeches against Carbo, Dola- 
 bella, Cato, and Vatinius, which we read to this hour 
 with admiration. 
 
 " On the other hand, our modern youth receive their 
 education under certain declaimers, called rhetoricians : 
 a set of men who made their first appearance in Rome, a 
 little before the time of Cicero. And that they were by 
 no means approved by our ancestors, plainly appears 
 from their being enjoined, under the censorship of Cras- 
 sus and Domitius, to shut up their schools of impudence. 
 23 
 
266 A DIALOGUE 
 
 as Cicero expresses it. — But I was going to say, we are 
 sent to certain academies, where it is hard to determine 
 whether the place, the company, or the method of in- 
 struction is most likely to infect the minds of young peo- 
 ple, and produce a wrong turn of thought. For nothing, 
 certainty, can there be of an affeetiog solemnity in an 
 audience, where all who compose it are of the same low 
 degree of understanding ; nor any advantage to be re- 
 ceived from their fellow-students, where a parcel of boys 
 and raw youths of unripe judgments, harangue before each 
 other, without the least fear or danger of criticism. And 
 as for their exercises, they are ridiculous in their very 
 nature. They consist of two kinds, and are either decla- 
 matory or controversial. The first, as being easier and 
 requiring less skill, is assigned to the younger lads : the 
 other is the task of more mature years. But, good gods ! 
 with what incredible absurdity are they composed ! The 
 truth is, the style of their declamations is as false and 
 contemptible, as the subjects are useless and fictitious. 
 Thus, being taught to harangue, in a most pompous dic- 
 tion, on the rewards due to tyrannicides, on the election 
 to be made by deflowered virgins,* on the licentiousness 
 of married women, on the ceremonies to be observed in 
 times of pestilence, with other topicks of the same uncon- 
 cerning kind, which are daily debated in the schools, and 
 scarce ever at the bar ; • they appear absolute novices in 
 4 the affairs of the world, and are by much too elevated 
 *for common life.' " 
 
 4 f Here Messalla paused : when Secundus, taking his 
 6 turn in the conversation, began with observing, that' 
 
 * It was one of the questions usually debated in these rhetorick schools, 
 whether the party who had been ravished should choose to marry the violator 
 of her chastity, or rather have him put to death. 
 
 t The latter part of Messalla's discourse, together with what immediately 
 followed it io the originalj is lost ; the chasm, however, does not seem to be st 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 267 
 
 the true and lofty spirit of genuine eloquence, like that 
 of a clear and vigorous flame, is nourished by proper fuel, 
 excited by agitation, and still brightens as it burns. " It 
 was in this manner," said he, " that the oratory of our 
 ancestors was kindled and spread itself. The moderns 
 have as much merit of this kind, perhaps, as can be ac- 
 quired under a settled and peaceable government : but far 
 inferiour, no doubt, to that which shone out in the times 
 of licentiousness and confusion, when he w r as deemed the 
 ablest orator, who had most influence over a restless and 
 ungoverned multitude. To this situation of publick affairs 
 was owing those continual debates concerning the Agra- 
 rian laws, and the popularity consequent thereupon; 
 those long harangues of the magistrates, those impeach- 
 ments of the great, those factions of the nobles, those 
 hereditary enmities in particular families ; and, in fine, 
 those incessant struggles between the senate and the 
 commons ; which, though each of them prejudicial to the 
 state, yet most certainly contributed to produce and en- 
 courage that rich vein of eloquence which discovered it- 
 self in those tempestuous days. The way to dignities lay 
 directly through the paths of Eloquence. The more a 
 man signalized himself by his abilities in this art, so much 
 the more easily he opened his road to preferment, and 
 maintained an ascendant over his colleagues, at the same 
 
 great as some of the commentators suspect. The translator, therefore, Jhas 
 ventured to fill it up in his own way, with those lines which are distinguished 
 by inverted commas. He has, likewise, given the nest subsequent part of the 
 conversation to Secundus ; though it does not appear in the original to whom 
 it belongs. It would be of no great importance to the English reader to justify 
 this last article : though, perhaps, it would not be very difficult, if it were 
 
 To save the reader the trouble of turning to a second note upon a like 
 occasion, it is proper to observe in this place, that he will find the same 
 inverted commas in page 272. The words included between them are also an 
 addition of the translator's j and for the same Teason as that just now men^ 
 tioned. 
 
268 A DIALOGUE 
 
 time that it heightened his interest with the nobles, his 
 authority with the senate, and his reputation with the 
 people in general. The patronage of these admired ora- 
 tors was courted even by foreign nations ; as the several 
 magistrates of our own endeavoured to recommend them- 
 selves to their favour and protection, by shewing them 
 the highest marks of honour whenever they set out for 
 the administration of their respective provinces, and by 
 studiously cultivating a friendship with them at their re- 
 turn. They were called upon, without any solicitation on 
 their own part, to fill up the supreme dignities of the state. 
 Nor were they even in a private station without great 
 power, as, by means of the persuasive arts, they had a 
 very considerable influence over both the senate and the 
 people. The truth is, it was an established maxim in 
 those days, that, without the oratorical talents, no man 
 could either acquire or maintain any high post in the go- 
 vernment. And, no wonder, indeed, that such notions 
 should universally prevail ; since it was impossible for any 
 person, endued with this commanding art, to pass his 
 life in obscurity, how much soever it might be agreeable 
 to his own inclinations ; since it was not sufficient merely 
 to vote in the senate, without supporting that vote with 
 good sense and eloquence ; since, in all publick impeach- 
 ments or civil causes, the accused was obliged to answer 
 to the charge in his own person ; since written deposi- 
 tions were not admitted in judicial matters, but the wit- 
 nesses were called upon to deliver their evidence in open 
 court. Thus our ancestors were eloquent, as much by 
 necessity as by encouragements. To be possessed of the 
 persuasive talents, was esteemed the highest glory ; as 
 the contrary character was held in the utmost contempt. 
 In a word, they were incited to the pursuit of oratory, by 
 a principle of honour, as well as by a view of interest. 
 They dreaded the disgrace of being considered rather as 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY, 269 
 
 clients than patrons ; of losing those dependents which 
 their ancestors had transmitted to them, and seeing them 
 mix in the train of others ; in short, of being looked upon 
 as men of mean abilities, and consequently either passed 
 over in the disposal of high offices, or despised in the ad- 
 ministration of them. 
 
 "I know not whether those ancient historical pieces, 
 which were lately collected and published by Mucianus, 
 from the old libraries where they have hitherto been pre- 
 served, have yet fallen into your hands. This collection 
 consists of eleven volumes of the publick journals, and 
 three of epistles ; by which it appears that Pompey and 
 Crassus gained as much advantage from their eloquence, 
 as their arms ; that Lucullus, Metellus, Lentulus, Curio, 
 and the rest of those distinguished chiefs, devoted them- 
 selves with great application to this insinuating art ; in a 
 word, that not a single person, in those times, rose to 
 any considerable degree of power, without the assistance 
 of the rhetorical talents. 
 
 " To these considerations may be farther added, that 
 the dignity and importance of the debates in which the 
 ancients were engaged, contributed greatly to advance 
 their eloquence. Most certain, indeed, it is, that an 
 orator must necessarily find a great difference with respect 
 to his powers, when he is to harangue only upon some 
 trifling robbery, or a little paltry form of pleading ; and 
 when the faculties of his mind are warmed and enlivened 
 hy such interesting and animating topicks as bribery at 
 elections, as the oppression of our allies, or the massacre 
 of our fellow-citizens. Evils these, which, beyond all 
 peradventure, it were better should never happen ; and 
 we have reason to rejoice that we live under a govern- 
 ment where we are strangers to such terrible calamities ; 
 still it must be acknowledged, that wherever they did 
 happen, they were wonderful incentives to eloquence, 
 23* 
 
270 A DIALOGUE 
 
 For the orator's genius rises and expands itself in propor- 
 tion to the dignity of the occasion upon which it is ex- 
 erted, and I will lay it down as a maxim, that it is im- 
 possible to shine out in all the powerful lustre of genuine 
 eloquence, without being inflamed by a suitable impor- 
 tance of subject. Thus the speech of Demosthenes against 
 his guardians, scarcely, I imagine, established his charac- 
 ter ; as it was not the defence of Archias, or Quinctius, 
 that acquired Cicero the reputation of a consummate 
 orator. It was Catiline, and Milo, and Verres, and Mark 
 Anthony, that warmed him with that noble glow of elo- 
 quence, which gave the finishing brightness to his un- 
 equalled fame. Far am I from insinuating, that such 
 infamous characters deserve to be tolerated in a state, in 
 order to supply convenient matter of oratory : All I 
 contend for is, that this art flourishes to most advantage 
 in turbulent times. Peace, no doubt, is infinitely pre- 
 ferable to war ; but it is the latter only that forms the 
 soldier. It is just the same with Eloquence : the oftener 
 she enters, if I may so say, the field of battle, the more 
 wounds she gives and receives ; the more powerful the 
 adversary with which she contends, so much the more 
 ennobled she appears in the eye of mankind. For it 
 is the disposition of human nature always to admire what 
 we see is attended with danger and difficulty in others, 
 how much soever we may choose ease and security for 
 ourselves. 
 
 "Another advantage which the ancient orators had over 
 the moderns, is, that they were not confined in their 
 pleadings, as we are, to a few hours. On the contrary, 
 they were at liberty to adjourn as often as they thought 
 proper : they were unlimited as to the number of days 
 or of counsel, and every orator might extend his speech 
 to the length most agreeable to himself, Pompey, in his 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 271 
 
 third consulship, was the first who curbed the spirit of 
 eloquence : still, however, permitting all causes to be 
 heard, agreeably to the laws, in the forum and before the 
 praetors. How much more considerable the business of 
 those magistrates was, than that of the centumvirs, who, 
 at present, determine all causes, is evident from this cir- 
 cumstance, that not a single oration of Cicero, Caesar, or 
 Brutus, or, in short, of any one celebrated orator, was 
 spoken before these last, excepting only those of Pollio 
 in favour of the heirs of Urbinia. But then it must be 
 remembered, that these were delivered about the middle 
 of the reign of Augustus, when a long and uninterrupted 
 peace abroad, a perfect tranquillity at home, together 
 with the general good conduct of that wise prince, had 
 damped the flames of eloquence as well as those of 
 sedition. 
 
 " You will smile, perhaps, at what I am going to say, 
 and I mention it for that purpose ; but is there not some- 
 thing in the present confined garb of our orators, that has 
 an ill effect even upon their elocution, and makes it ap- 
 pear low and contemptible ? May we not suppose, like- 
 wise, that much of the spirit of oratory is sunk, by that 
 close and despicable scene wherein many of our causes 
 are now debated ? For the orator, like a generous steed, 
 requires a free and open space wherein to expatiate ; 
 otherwise, the force of his powers is broken, and half 
 the energy of his talents is checked in their career. 
 There is another circumstance also exceedingly prejudi- 
 cial to the interest of eloquence, as it prevents a due at- 
 tention to style : we are now obliged to enter upon our 
 speech whenever the judge calls upon us ; not to men- 
 tion the frequent interruptions which arise by the exa- 
 mination of witnesses. Besides, the courts of judicature 
 are, at present, so unfrequented, that the orator seems to 
 
272 A DIALOGUE 
 
 stand alone, and talk to bare walls. But eloquence re- 
 joices in the clamour of loud applause, and exults in a 
 full audience, such as used to press round the ancient 
 orators, when the forum stood thronged with nobles ; when 
 a numerous retinue of clients, when foreign ambassadors, 
 and whole cities assisted at the debate ; and when even 
 Rome herself was concerned in the event. The very ap- 
 pearance of that prodigious concourse of people, which 
 attended the trials of Bestia, Cornelius, Scaurus, MiJo, 
 and Vatinius, must have inflamed the breast of the cold- 
 est orator. Accordingly, we find, that of all the ancient 
 orations now extant, there are none which have more 
 eminently distinguished their authors, than those which. 
 were pronounced under such favourable circumstances. 
 To these advantages we may farther add, likewise, the 
 frequent general assemblies of the people, the privilege 
 of arraigning the most considerable personages, and the 
 popularity of such impeachments ; when the sons of ora- 
 tory spared not even Scipio, Sylla, or Pompey ; and when, 
 in consequence of such acceptable attacks upon sus- 
 pected power, they were sure of being heard by the peo- 
 ple with the utmost attention and regard. How must 
 these united causes contribute to raise the genius, and 
 inspire the eloquence of the ancients! 
 
 4 Maternus, who, you will remember, was in the midst 
 4 of his harangue in favour of poetry, when Messalla first 
 4 entered into the room, finding Secundus was now silent, 
 4 took that opportunity of resuming his invective against 
 4 the exercise of the oratorical arts in general.' " That 
 species of eloquence," said he, " wherein poetry is con- 
 cerned, is calm and peaceable, moderate and virtuous : 
 whereas, that other supreme kind which my two friends 
 here have been describing, is the offspring of licentious- - 
 ness (by fools miscalled liberty) and the companion of se^ 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 273 
 
 dition ; bold, obstinate, and haughty, unknowing how to 
 yield, or how to obey, an encourager of a lawless popu*- 
 lace, and a stranger in all well-regulated communities. 
 Who ever heard of an orator in Lacedaemon or Crete ? 
 Cities which exercised the severest discipline, and were 
 governed by the strictest laws. We have no account of 
 Persian or Macedonian eloquence, or, indeed, of that of 
 any other state which submitted to a regular administra- 
 tion of government. Whereas, Rhodes and Athens (places 
 of popular rule, where all things lay open to all men) 
 swarmed with orators innumerable. In the same manner, 
 Rome, whilst she was under no settled policy ; while she 
 was torn with parties, dissensions, and factions ; while 
 there was no peace in the forum, no harmony in the se- 
 nate, no moderation in the judges ; while there was nei- 
 ther reverence paid to superiours, nor bounds prescribed 
 to magistrates — Rome, under these circumstances, pro- 
 duced, beyond all dispute, a stronger and brighter vein of 
 eloquence ; as some valuable plants will flourish even in 
 the wildest soil. But the tongue of the Gracchi did no- 
 thing compensate the republick for their seditious laws ; 
 nor the superiour eloquence of Cicero make him any 
 amends for his sad catastrophe. 
 
 " The truth is, the forum (that single remain which 
 now survives of ancient oratory) is, even in its present 
 situation, an evident proof that all things amongst us are 
 not conducted in that well-ordered manner one could 
 wish. For, tell me, is it not the guilty or the miserable 
 alone, that fly to us for assistance ? When any communi- 
 ty implores our protection, is it not because it either is 
 insulted by some neighbouring state, or torn by domestick 
 feuds ? And what province ever seeks our patronage, till 
 she has been plundered or oppressed ? But far better it 
 surely is, never to have been injured, than, at last, to be 
 redressed. If there was a government in the world free 
 
274 A DIALOGUE 
 
 from commotions and disturbances, the profession of 
 oratory would there be as useless, as that of medicine to 
 the sound : and, as the physician would have little prac- 
 tice or profit among the healthy and the strong, so nei- 
 ther would the orator have much business or honour 
 where obedience and good manners universally prevail. 
 To what purpose are studied speeches in a senate, where 
 the better and the major part of the assembly are already 
 of one mind ? What the expediency of haranguing the 
 populace, where publick affairs are not determined by the 
 voice of an ignorant and giddy multitude, but by the 
 steady wisdom of a single person ? To what end volunta- 
 ry informations, where crimes are unfrequent and incon- 
 siderable ? or of laboured and invidious defences, where 
 the clemency of the judge is ever on the side of the ac- 
 cused ? Believe me, then, my worthy (and, as far as the 
 circumstances of the age require, my eloquent) friends, 
 had the gods reversed the date of your existence, and 
 placed you in the times of those ancients we so much ad- 
 mire, and them in yours : you would not have fallen short 
 of that glorious spirit which distinguished their oratory, 
 nor would they have been destitute of a proper tempera- 
 ture of moderation. But, since a high reputation for elo- 
 quence is not consistent with great repose in the publick, 
 let every age enjoy its own peculiar advantages, without 
 derogating from those of a former." 
 
 Maternus having ended, Messalla observed, that there 
 were some points which his friend had laid down, that 
 were not perfectly agreeable to his sentiments : as there 
 were others, which he wished to hear explained more at 
 large : "but the time is now," said he, "too far advanced." 
 — " If I have maintained any thing," replied Maternus, 
 " which requires to be opened more explicitly, I shall be 
 ready to clear it up in some future conference :" at; the 
 
CONCERNING ORATORY. 275 
 
 same time, rising from his seat and embracing Aper : 
 "Messalla and I," continued he, smiling, " shall arraign 
 you, be well assured, before the poets and admirers of 
 the ancients." — " And I, both of you," returned Aper, 
 " before the rhetoricians." Thus we parted in mutual 
 good-humour. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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